Spirit of a Hunter (4 page)

He pulled into the dirt drive leading to his half-finished log cabin in Harrisville in less than fifteen minutes. A record, even for him. He changed into hiking gear and grabbed the rucksack he kept at the ready.

Wait for me, Anna
. The remembered plea in his voice was smoke in his brain. A slap of nausea rammed his shoulder into the wall, stopping his mad dash, leaving him panting. Anna, studying the sea, appeared on the screen of his mind. Her long blond hair whipped over her face in a silky veil. Always a little part of her hidden from him, just out of reach…

“I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“There’s a storm coming in,” she said, and he could hear tight despair in her voice. “I need to get the dive in before the rain hits. The sponsors—”

“Can damn well wait. I’m your safety diver.”

“I’ve got a whole crew to take care of me.”

The nausea swelled, lacing his throat with acid.

This wasn’t Anna. He wasn’t half a world away. He’d get to Tommy in time.

Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just do
.

Swallowing down the bitter bile, he pushed himself off the wall. From a temporary metal pantry he extracted
enough freeze-dried meals to last a week. As he filled his water bladder, his thoughts drifted to Nora’s call.

He couldn’t place the fear-sharpened voice on the phone with the beaming face of the woman who’d walked down the aisle on Tommy’s arm and made him look happier than Sabriel had ever seen him. Watching Nora spin around the dance floor with Tommy, her brown hair with its golden light flying around her, her bright laughter more melodious than the music playing in the background, Sabriel could see why Tommy had fallen for her, and he’d been glad for his friend. And when he’d noticed the old-soul scars in Nora’s golden-brown eyes, he’d wished them both the happiness they deserved.

Sabriel stashed the water bladder in its rucksack pocket. He knew about Scotty, knew about the divorce, knew about the peace Tommy had found as an outfitter for a local resort from yearly birthday e-mails. But they hadn’t talked to each other since the wedding. Too much pain. Too much guilt.

He booted up the computer in search of a weather update and a bird’s-eye view of the mountains. Snow wasn’t unheard of at this time of the year, and he wanted to be prepared. The rain had broken, for now, but another wave was due by the end of the week. How long could it take to track down Tommy? No more than a day or two. The kid had to slow him down.

Sabriel figured that Tommy had gone to one of three places—Goose Neck Mountain, Mount Storm or Pilgrim’s Peak. But if Tommy was smart, he’d avoid the
obvious and head for new territory. The Colonel still had trackers at his bellow, and like an elephant, he never forgot. The mountains would be the first place he’d look for Tommy, especially Mount Storm, where his trackers had found them at the end of their stolen summer.

Clicking over to the White Mountain National Forest site, Sabriel wondered for the millionth time what he could have done differently. As always, the stack of possibilities clashed against a blank wall of reality.

He forced himself to focus on the loading Web page. Heavy rain in the past week had swollen streams and saturated the soil. Water crossings, trails and gravel roads could be difficult or dangerous to negotiate, according to the hiker’s warning on the home page.

Was Tommy off his meds? Was his judgment impaired? Taking a sick kid on such a rough hike, what was he thinking?

The only way to know Tommy’s ultimate destination was to follow the clues he’d left behind. The Smiling Moose was a café halfway between Camden and I-93. 66 was 6.6 miles past the café to the trailhead off White Mountain Road where the Flint River took a sharp jog out of the mountains. And Graceland was the whole damned White Mountain National Forest—780,000 acres of pure wilderness.

Sabriel loaded his biodiesel-powered Jeep and smiled at the memory of Tommy at fifteen, so eager to be free. When Will Daigle—the mountain man who’d taught him and Tommy to survive invisibly in the mountains—had told them about the songlines many ancient
navigators used to orient themselves, Tommy had mistaken the meaning and fallen back on his vast knowledge of music to keep track of his place in the woods. Their shared joke would help keep the Colonel’s men stranded for a while. That should give Sabriel a chance to find Tommy before he got himself killed.

But just because he was willing to trek after Tommy, didn’t mean he’d let an inexperienced hiker tag along. Nora would slow him down and speed was of the essence. He’d get the kid’s medicine, make her see that he’d get to Tommy faster if he tracked alone, then stash her at the Aerie—Seekers, Inc.’s headquarters—where Falconer and Liv could keep an eye on her.

He pocketed his cell phone, a hunting knife and, as an afterthought, climbed to the loft and retrieved the 9mm Beretta he’d stashed in a locker beneath the camp cot. He turned the weapon over in his hand, heavy with potentiality, black like death.

Once when Sabriel was twelve, he’d complained to Grandpa Yamawashi that he couldn’t hold his ground against his bigger, stronger brothers, and wished he had a gun or a knife to up his odds. Grandpa had said, “The greatest warrior is one who never has to use his sword.”

In the Army, an unspoken but understood position was that the winner carried the bigger gun. The Colonel and his men lived by that belief. Risking a showdown unarmed was suicide.

And as much as guilt was a noose around his conscience, he wanted to face death on his terms, not the Colonel’s.

Sabriel holstered the pistol and strapped it on. The alien weight jarred his gait. He added two extra fifteen-round magazines to his rucksack, fervently hoping he’d find Tommy before he had to draw.

* * *

T
HOMAS
P
RESCOTT
C
AMDEN
III stood at the window of his office and surveyed his realm. His chest puffed up at the sense of history and achievement spread out before him. Generations had turned this parcel of rocky land into a showpiece, with its artful gardens, manicured lawn and hand-stacked granite wall.

One fist balled at his side.

What an ungrateful grandson he had. How could he turn his back on all the advantages that had been laid at his feet? Didn’t he know men would kill for what was handed to him on a golden platter?

Nora’s fault, of course. She was too soft on the boy, always coddling him, petting him, hugging him. How was the boy supposed to grow a spine that way?

Thomas, like all Camdens, had been raised in a heritage of ambition, success and expectations. Camden men went to West Point. Camden men joined the Army and shone through Ranger school. Camden men retired from stellar military service to their country after twenty years, then, with pride, took over the helm of Camden Laboratories, and continued their service to their brothers at arms by developing products and supplements that would ease a soldier’s hard life.

Camden men had founded this town—which bore their name—over a hundred years ago. There they were
kings, respected by all. Producing a male heir to follow in their footsteps was a Camden man’s duty and honor.

Thomas had followed the preordained path. He’d lived up to and surpassed every expectation. He’d done everything right.

A too-familiar rumble growled in his chest. To have his son prove a failure and his daughter die before she could give him a grandson was hard enough to take. But to have this
woman
—a street urchin, no less—ruin his last chance to pass on his legacy galled him to no end.

She’d destroyed Tommy’s bright future, and now she was using Tommy to steal away his only grandchild. The balled fist rattled the window frame. He refused to let her win this battle.

His narrowed gaze zeroed in on the bronze of the original Thomas Prescott Camden, sword raised in victory, and Thomas’s fist unclenched.

The boy’s weakness would disappear once his smothering mother was out of the way. All the boy needed was a firm hand, the right training, some toughening up. There was still time to save him from Tommy’s unfortunate fate. Tommy had failed because of his own feckless character, not because of a transfer of defective genes.

And Anna? What else could you expect from a woman? They weren’t meant for the battlefield of business. That she’d crumpled at the first sign of conflict wasn’t a surprise. It was his error in judgment for thinking that Camden blood made her different.

As for Nora, she needed to learn that, when it came
to Camden family business, his word was law. She’d defied him for the last time.

Thomas spun on a perfectly polished heel to face Melvyn Boggs, who stood at attention before the original Colonel’s desk. Boggs was his greatest success story. Thomas had handpicked him right out of Ranger School—the same class his son had failed so miserably.

At thirty-six the soldier’s body was harder and fitter than most men a decade younger in this spoiled generation. Only the lean, sun-baked face betrayed the hours of training in the harsh elements. The man had nerves of steel and a mind as sharp as the keenest of blades. The experiment that had corrupted Tommy’s gray matter had enhanced Boggs’s fine instrument. No mission was too stressful. No task too arduous. No environment too severe. Boggs would follow orders without question.

“Find her,” Thomas said. “Make sure she has an accident. Then bring the boy back to me. Unharmed.”

Thomas strode to the wall-mounted topographical map of the area and circled Mount Storm with his index finger. “This is where Tommy’s headed.”

People tended to follow the path of least resistance. In moments of stress, they turned to points of comfort. And for Tommy that was the mountains. Even in this vast area, Tommy—like the animal he’d become—had staked out territory over the years. He’d track through familiar trails, and an ace like Boggs would have no trouble following his trace.

“What about Tommy?” Boggs asked.

Tommy was a failure beyond redemption. “Put him out of his misery.”

Chapter Three

The discreet hand-carved wooden sign announced the Lemire Adventure Camp and promised women the opportunity to learn outdoor skills with like-minded sisters.

Maybe Nora didn’t need a hero after all. Maybe these outdoorswomen would guide her through the mountains to track down Scotty. Sure beat waiting around.

The cinnamon gum she’d popped to calm the sea of acid swirling in her stomach turned to modeling clay in her mouth.

She discarded the gum into the ashtray and the car’s clock flashed over another precious minute. Where was Scotty now? How much farther away from home? How many minutes could she waste and still find him alive and well?

A rusty chain barred the gravel drive. Her heart tip-tapped with uncertainty. Was she supposed to wait there or drive on up? Sabriel should have given her better instructions. Didn’t he know the stakes? Didn’t he know that one mistake could take her son away from her forever?

Breathe, Nora
. She forced in a breath and streamed it out in one long run, tamping back the frayed edge of her anxiety.
Hold yourself together. You won’t help Scotty by going ballistic
.

Logic. A plan. That would help her find Scotty, not blind panic. Her gaze slid through the car’s mirrors. Her white boat of a car would make too big a target on the narrow lane. She couldn’t park there.

She unclamped her stiff finger from the steering wheel, shoved open the door and unhooked the chain. She drove through, then stared at the heavy links in her hands. Should she hook the chain back up or leave it down? What did it say about the state of her mind that simple decisions required a Herculean effort?

This was all Tommy’s fault. Why did he have to take Scotty? Maybe everything wasn’t perfect at the estate, but they were safe.

She dropped the chain with a snort of disgust and let it lie like a dead boa constrictor. Leaving it down would save Sabriel time, and they could get going faster.

Back in the car, her gaze flitted from the thick pines lining the winding gravel drive to the shadows shifting like black ghouls searching to devour light. One thing was sure: the Colonel would never find her there. And that gave her a measure of confidence.

At the top of the drive, half a dozen cabins that looked too rustic to provide comfort or fun flanked a main lodge with a green roof and time-silvered logs. She parked by the hitching post to the left of the lodge.

The place looked deserted, and the oppressive quiet
pressed on her chest, making her want to scream at the world.
Stop it, stop it, stop it!
How could the earth keep turning, the birds singing, the water lapping when Scotty was missing? She wrapped her arms over her chest, feeling the void of her son’s small body.

As she took in the scene, she realized Scotty would have loved it there—the woods to explore, the lake to swim, the campfire to tell stories. Tommy had talked about taking Scotty camping overnight last summer. But the Colonel had stamped the request “refused.”

“Why is the Colonel so mean?” Scotty had asked, pouting.

Nora had no answer. Not then. Not now.

As her gaze searched the grounds, she wrung her hands in her lap. Where were the outdoorswomen? Wasn’t someone supposed to meet her? There were no other vehicles. No voices. Nothing. No one.

She couldn’t just sit there and wait. She’d go crazy.

Clothes. You need outdoor clothes
. Sabriel would arrive soon. And if she was ready, he’d have to take her to the mountains and help her find Scotty.

She rammed the car door open and headed for the lodge. Away from the car’s heater, the air chilled her through her sweater down to the skin. Her knock on the lodge door brought only a fading echo.

She curved a hand to the window and peeked through the glass. No movement. “Hello? Anybody there?”

The stubborn knob resisted her attempts to turn it. Was the camp closed for the winter? Why hadn’t Sabriel mentioned he was sending her to a deserted place?

On the other side of the hitching post, two A-frames groaned under the burden of red kayaks—three on each side. The grating ratchetlike calls of blue jays in a nearby oak jangled her already frazzled nerves. With halting footsteps she followed the path through the trees that would lead her to the cottages. Maybe all the Amazons were out hiking. Maybe they’d left some spare clothes behind.