Hunted Page 4

  Chapter 3

  Sam had 124,000 points. Becky had 345. She tried to concentrate and shoot down the little triangles, but she kept thinking she heard the snowmobile. It was hard not to shush Sam, to keep smiling, to do anything but run downstairs and wait by the door. Every little noise made her jump. She was tense, and she could feel the beginning of a headache. If only Mike would come back.

  “Mom, can’t you move faster? You have to keep hitting the button all the time, that’s why you keep getting zapped. Look.” He held up his joystick so she could see his nimble fingers at work.

  “Give me a break,” she said. “I'm new at this.”

  He lowered his hand and concentrated on his battle. In seconds, he’d wiped out a whole battalion of space monsters. She kept hitting the buttons, but she turned her attention from the game to her son.

  He chewed on his lower lip while he struggled against the forces of evil. His brown eyes skittered across the screen with absolute concentration. She envied him. She wished she could find something that would swallow her up so completely. God knows she tried. Despite her work at the hotel, the PTA, the city council and everything else she could fit into her life, she still managed to have too much time to think.

  She heard another sound and listened as hard as she could. It wasn’t an engine. It was the wind, and she sagged with disappointment. Her back started to hurt from sitting at an angle on the bed. She shifted a bit, then forced herself to look at the game again. Explosions filled the screen as Sam moved faster and faster. She stopped pressing her buttons and just watched him.

  The need to protect him surged through her. He was her baby, her only living child, and she would do anything to keep him safe. The only problem was, her best might not be enough. It hadn’t been for her daughter.

  Night after night, she’d begged a silent God to give her the cancer and leave Amy alone. Her prayers had not been answered, and she’d been forced to sit by and watch as her little girl died. There was nothing on earth worse than that feeling of helplessness, and now it was back. The only thing she had learned from Amy’s death was the uselessness of asking why. It had taken her far too long to learn it was an unanswerable question.

  She remembered the hospital room, the single bed with the heavy guard rails on the side. The smell of disinfectant. The squeak of rubber shoes on the linoleum. Mostly she remembered how tiny Amy had looked. How every whimper had slashed through her like a knife.

  She stood up, nearly knocking the computer from Sam’s lap.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, honey. You're going to have to finish this game alone. Daddy’s going to be back any second, and I haven’t put away the groceries yet.”

  His hands stilled on the joystick as he stared up at her. “Can’t you do that later?”

  She reached out and touched his cheek, the skin so soft it nearly made her weep. “When your father comes back, I bet he'll play with you.”

  Sam nodded, and she thought she heard him sigh. He put the joystick down, and typed on the keyboard.

  “You don’t want to finish? You were doing great.”

  “It’s no fun alone.”

  She felt terrible. She debated sitting down again, but she just couldn’t. She had to move and do something or she would scream. Where the hell was Mike?

  “You can come down and help me,” she said.

  Sam shook his head. He kept his eyes on the computer screen. “No, thanks.”

  “Okay. I'll call you as soon as your dad gets here.”

  Becky walked slowly down the stairs. She promised herself that she would spend time with him tonight. They wouldn’t play on the computer, though. She hated it, and he loved it too much. She wouldn’t forbid him to use the thing, but she would encourage other activities. If only he could go outside, she thought. He needed to be with Mike doing guy stuff in the snow.

  Before going into the kitchen, she stole a quick look out the front window. Nothing but the branches moved outside. Everything looked clean and beautiful and peaceful. It should have been relaxing, but all she could think of were the hundreds of places Mojo could hide. The house across the street. Any of the houses. How hard would it be to break into a summer cabin?

  She let go of the drape and hurried into the kitchen. The grocery bags were still on the countertops. She would put away the things that needed refrigeration, but that was all. It was getting dark out, and she needed to fix something for dinner. Why wasn’t Mike back yet?

  As she folded an empty bag, she remembered she hadn’t finished the laundry. After she put the milk in the fridge, she went downstairs. It only took a few minutes to transfer the wet sheets to the dryer. She didn’t like being in the basement. It was too far away from Sam. The single overhead light bulb wasn’t bright enough, and shadows filled the room. She kept thinking she saw something move, but then she’d turn and nothing was there. She finished as quickly as she could and went back upstairs. As she shut the door, she heard the snowmobile. She froze, afraid she’d conjured the sound, but no. It really was Mike.

  Relief flooded through her, and only then did she understand how frightened she’d been of being alone. How was she going to get through days of this? The second Mike was inside, she would insist that he call his office. Maybe they’d caught Mojo.

  The engine noise got louder as she went to the staircase. “Sam,” she called. “Daddy’s back.” She went to the kitchen and waited by the door. Mike parked the snowmobile by the Bronco. When he reached the porch, she unlocked the dead bolt.

  A wave of déjà vu washed over her. She was in her old house, and Mike was coming home from yet another dangerous night in the field. Fear and anger roiled inside her, battling for dominance.

  The memory slipped away, but the feelings didn’t. She’d spent so much of her life worrying about him, thinking he’d been killed. The night she’d left him, she’d sworn never to go through that again.

  She opened the door, and the freezing air entered before he did. Mike’s parka was dotted with snow. He took off his heavy gear as she slipped the dead bolt closed.

  When she turned around, he was peeling off his gloves as he headed for the living room.

  “Everything okay?” he asked.

  “No,” she said, following him. She hated that he sounded so calm. “I thought you said it would only be a few minutes.”

  He tossed his gloves on the couch, alongside his parka and face mask. “I was as quick as I could be. Witherspoon’s cabin is over a mile away.”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “You're not leaving us alone again. Not until Mojo is caught.”

  He walked closer to her. His hair was a mess from the snow gear. His skin should have been chapped from the cold, but it wasn’t. Even with practically no sleep, and being out in the freezing weather, he looked rugged and sexy. It was absurd to think about that now, but when he was this close, it was hard to ignore.

  “I'm going to have to go out one more time,” he said. “But that’s all. I promise.”

  “Tonight?” The panic started low in her stomach. “Why?”

  He shook his head. “Tomorrow morning. I have to make sure I know the back way out of here. According to the old man, there’s a fire access road that leads to the highway, but he hasn’t been on it this winter. I have to make sure we can make it out of here if we have to.”

  “Take us with you.”

  “I can’t. I'll be on the snowmobile.”

  “If only one of us can fit on it, what good is it? If Mojo gets here, we all have to leave.”

  “I know. Witherspoon has another one in his garage. I'll get that one, too. If it comes down to that, Sam will ride with me, and you'll take the second one.”

  “I've never driven one before.”

  “You'll do fine. There’s nothing to it. If you want, you can practice on it in the morning.”

  “All I want is for this to be over. Can you call and find out if they've caught him yet?”

  “Sure,” he said, as
he ran a hand through his hair. “Did you tell Sam I'm back?”

  She nodded.

  “Why don’t you go check on him while I call Cliff?”

  He probably didn’t want her listening in. Well, she wasn’t going to argue. All she needed to know was that Mojo was caught...or dead.

  * * *

  Mike swore into the phone. “What the hell happened?”

  “We lost him in Limon. He ditched his car. We're pretty sure he had help from the outside.”

  “Do you have men covering Becky’s house?”

  “Two.”

  “Go there yourself, Cliff. That’s where you'll find him.”

  His partner didn’t say anything for a minute. “I don’t think so, buddy.”

  “Why?”

  “There was a map in the car. He’s headed to Canada.”

  Mike stood up and walked to the bedroom door, checking the lock one more time. He didn’t want Becky or Sam to come in now. “You can’t believe he’s stupid enough to leave a map? That’s a plant. He wants you to think he’s going to Canada.”

  “We're not eliminating that as a possibility, but I can’t make the chief commit all the guys just on your hunch. They believe he’s trying to get out of the country.”

  “Did you tell them about the last letter?”

  “Yep. Don’t get me wrong. They're taking his threats seriously. They just can’t be sure he’s headed toward Boulder.”

  “Then screw 'em. You go to Becky’s place. I know he'll show up there. He has to.”

  Mike heard Cliff sigh. “You think you could keep me away? Buddy, you just tell me where, and I'm there.”

  Mike swallowed. “I know, Cliff.”

  “I'll talk to you.” Cliff hung up.

  Mike put down the phone. He hadn’t realized how much he’d counted on them catching Mojo quickly. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d assumed this would all be over by now. Wishful thinking. Every moment Mojo was on the loose was dangerous. Thank God they were listening to him about the letter. He would feel better if the whole force was going to Becky’s, but he trusted Cliff to make sure there would be enough men. If there ever could be enough men to stop Morris Jones.

  He went over to his duffel bag and pushed his clothes out of the way until he found the stack of papers on the bottom. There were twenty-two letters, each one a window into a madman’s mind. The way to catch Mojo was right here in his hand. He just had to be clever enough to figure it out.

  He sat on the bed and listened to the wind outside. It sounded stronger than it had when he’d been on the snowmobile. Witherspoon had said a storm was coming.

  Mike unfolded the top page. The first one. White paper, no lines. No watermark. Prison stock. The typewriter was old, and the o’s and t’s blurred, but it was legible.

  Dear Mike,I feel as if I know you well enough to call you Mike. I mean, shooting someone creates a bond, don’t you think? And how is the wound, you ask? Not healing well, my friend. Not well at all.

  But, this letter is not about me.

  I've been hearing things about you, Mike. You have many friends, it seems. Most, sadly, behind bars, but then that is your specialty. I've been trying to understand what it is that makes you feel the need to hide behind your badge. I considered the small man complex, Napoleon’s cross, but you're quite a big fellow, so that doesn’t fit. Then, of course, there is the, how shall I say it, “inadequate” man’s syndrome—the urge to substitute a long weapon for... Need I spell it out? If that’s the case, there’s really nothing I can do to help.

  Regardless, friend, I do think about you. Your face is never far from my dreams, your death is my tonic. Why didn’t you pull the trigger when you had the chance?

  The knock on the door startled him and he dropped the letter. “Yeah?”

  “Mom needs you in the kitchen, Dad.”

  “I'll be right out.”

  He picked up the paper and folded it in thirds, then put it with the others. He would read the rest tonight, after Becky and Sam were in bed. He was positive there was something in those words that would point the way to Mojo’s capture.

  For now, though, he would go out and be with his son. He would act as if there was nothing in the world to worry about. If he were lucky, Becky would buy it, too.

  He made his way into the kitchen, and stopped when he saw her at the stove. Her back was to him, and she was pouring something into a pot. Her head tilted to the right, and he knew she had captured her lower lip in her teeth. She always did when she concentrated. He used to sit and watch her when she worked at the house. He’d memorized that move, the little bite on her bottom lip. He’d tried like hell to erase that image, that and a hundred others. But every time he looked at her, it all came back, pouring over him like floodwaters.

  She turned, and studied his face. “What did they say?”

  He looked around for Sam.

  “He’s upstairs.”

  Mike turned back to her. “They don’t have him yet.”

  She leaned against the sink as if her legs couldn’t hold her. He moved to help her, but she waved him away.

  “Do they know where he is?”

  He debated whether he should tell her everything, but looking at her, vulnerable, scared to death, he just couldn’t. “Yeah. They'll have him soon.”

  She pushed her hair behind her ear. “I want to believe you,” she said. Her gaze met his in a silent plea. But he had no reassurance, no promise that would make her feel better. After a long, quiet moment, she let her gaze drop. “Would you set the table please?” She pointed to a drawer by the sink. “Silverware is in there. Make sure they're clean.”

  He got busy, and they fell into silence. He was acutely aware of just how small the kitchen was. He stood right next to her, trying to reach for the glasses. He caught her soft scent, and everything else was forgotten. “You're wearing that rose perfume.”

  She didn’t step away. She just kept stirring the pasta. “I had it on last night.”

  “Before I came over?” He tried to catch her gaze, but she wouldn’t look at him.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He didn’t believe her. He touched her shoulder, and when she didn’t back away, he moved his fingers to the back of her neck. The feel of her skin was familiar, like coming home. She wore the roses for him. She always had. The perfume had been a gift. Not for any special occasion. Just because.

  If he moved closer, she would know what the smell of her and the touch of her were doing to him. He closed the distance between their bodies, moving his hand to her cheek.

  “No.” She stepped away, breaking the contact between them. “Don’t.”

  Where he was and who he was crashed in on him with those two words. He backed off quickly, angry that he’d gotten so carried away. He fought to bring his body under control. He had no right to touch her. No right at all.

  She turned to look at him. Her gaze was so filled with pain and confusion, it ripped at his insides.

  “Is the guy that’s after us the one on the news?”

  Mike spun around. Sam was standing just inside the kitchen door.

  “What?”

  “Some people were talking about it on the bulletin board. They said some guy deluded capture. That he escaped from prison and he’s real dangerous.”

  “Eluded,” Mike said, trying hard to get his bearings. He glanced at Becky, but she’d already turned back to the stove.

  “Is he?” Sam walked to the table and sat down.

  Mike shoved his feelings aside and concentrated on his son. The last thing he wanted to do was scare him, but he needed Sam to be ready in case the worst should happen. “The man doesn’t know where we are,” he said, moving away from Becky and the roses. “No one does. He can’t find us here.”

  “Why does he want to hurt us?”

  Mike sat down next to Sam. It was all he could do not to steal another glance behind him. “He’s sick, Sam.”

  Sam’s eyebrows came together. “He
’s crazy, so he wants to hurt us?”

  Becky walked over with the salad. When she put it on the table, she shot Mike a look. No words were needed; he got the message. Tread softly.

  “Sam, we're going to be fine. I promise.” What was one more lie? he thought. Who knows, maybe this one would turn out to be true. Even if it didn’t, Sam would sleep well tonight. That had to count for something.

  Mike kept his eyes on his son, waiting to see if he believed the words. Sam started eating, the worry gone from his face. At least for now.

  Becky put the rest of the food on the table. Before she sat down, she got the glasses Mike had forgotten and poured them each some milk. The kitchen table was so small the plates and dishes covered it from one end to the other. Mike was reasonably sure something would end up on the floor before the meal was over.

  Becky sat to his right. She didn’t look upset anymore, but she avoided his gaze. “How about after dinner, we start on a puzzle, Sam?”

  Sam shrugged. “I don’t care.” He continued eating without looking up at his mom.

  “Well I think it would be fun,” Becky said. “We can have a fire. I bought marshmallows. We can roast some for dessert.”

  That caught his attention. He smiled. Mike realized it was the first smile he’d seen since he’d showed up at Becky’s. A pang of guilt hit him in the chest. Had he done one thing to make his kid smile?

  He leaned forward to reach for the pasta, and his knee touched Becky’s leg. She pulled away from him as if he’d burned her.

  He didn’t think it was possible to feel worse, but that did it. He wanted to be back at his apartment, back in his life. He’d let his guard down for one moment with Becky, and look what happened. He should never have touched her, dammit.

  He served himself some food, and they all concentrated on eating. Except for the sounds of a fork on a plate or a glass put down on the table, the room was quiet. Mike couldn’t help remembering meals from the past, when food had grown cold while they’d talked about everything from work to politics to books. But that was a long time ago, and he’d grown accustomed to the silence. He didn’t think he would know how to talk like that anymore. Or that he could make someone laugh, the way Becky had once laughed at his jokes.