Blind Faith (13 page)

Her chest grew tight, burning with the lack of oxygen. Twenty seconds, she told herself, starting an internal countdown. If he's not back up in twenty seconds, nineteen, eighteen—

The water parted with a loud splash. Hal hauled himself back to his rock and leaned against it, waves crashing against his back, as he gasped for breath. Water sluiced off his helmet and down the sides of his face. "Think I got it. You take the top, I'll take the bottom. We'll float him up, then roll him onto the bag."

"It's a plan." Sarah had to get her other foot wet, balancing on a submerged tree limb to get in position. Icy water filled her boot. Her foot screamed with pins and needles and her balance was precarious at best as she fought the current. Hal drew in several deep breaths, preparing to submerge again when a voice called down from above.

"Hey, Chief!" Gerald Merton's bellow bounced from the cliff walls.

"What?" Hal shouted back.

Gerald held a radio over the edge, waving with it. "There's a lady calling. Says she has to talk to you right away."

"Sonofa—" Hal sputtered, his face tightening. "I'm a little busy here, Gerald."

"I told her. She says it's important."

"It will have to wait," Hal shouted, his voice taking on an angry edge Sarah had never heard before. Hal never lost his cool. Never. The muscle at his jaw began to knot then twitch.

"She says she's with the FBI."

Sam stared through his binoculars down at the house that had once been his. It was only a little past two, he'd made good time coming down the mountain. He leaned deeper into the shadows of the pin oak, the tree's bark rough against his skin. He'd debated driving the whole way into town, but there was no way he could do that, not without being seen.

Even a sleepy town like Hopewell would notice a dead man walking.

He slid his hand across his shaved scalp, slicking away sweat born more of nerves than heat or humidity. Only one chance to get this right—and Lord knew, his track record wasn't in his favor.

No one at home. He returned the binoculars to his pack and brought out his bug detector. He knew from previous expeditions that Alan had every room covered except for the attic and the bathrooms. Hopefully he hadn't decided to invest in more of the motion-sensitive cameras.

Sam hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and crept through the foliage until he was directly behind his house. He hesitated. It was always so painful, coming home and being unable to speak with Sarah, leaving her behind. But it was too dangerous. He had to think of Josh.

Now, thanks to Korsakov's release, he no longer had the luxury of playing it safe.

An expanse of open lawn spread out between the forest and the bathroom window that was his target.

He stood still, listening. No cars approaching. He sprinted through the grass until he reached the cluster of lilac bushes outside their bedroom windows. Dead blooms still clung to the branches. He rubbed one between his fingers, inhaling deeply. Sarah always slept with the window open, loved smelling the lilacs in the spring and the peonies and roses in the summer.

Sam duck walked along the foundation of the house until he reached the bathroom window. He activated the small palm-sized surveillance detector. The screen glowed green. Good to go.

He pried the screen loose and pushed the window up. The pack went in first, then Sam followed, swinging his leg over the windowsill. He used his foot to drop the toilet lid down, wincing at the sudden clang of porcelain in the empty house. Nothing happened. No one came. The house was silent. He eased himself the rest of the way inside.

Because of Alan's surveillance cameras he was confined to the bathroom. Even in this cramped and crowded room, he still felt Sarah's presence. The cobalt blue tiles they had chosen and laid themselves, the scent of her shampoo—honey and almonds—the way her robe hung from the door, inviting him like an old friend.

He couldn't resist, nuzzling his face deep into the folds of the soft material, pretending it was Sarah who caressed him. Soon, soon, he promised himself.

The old railroad clock in the front hall chimed the hour. Three o'clock. Josh would be coming off the bus from day camp, and for the first time in ages Sam wouldn't be there to meet him.

He blew his breath out in frustration. It would be worth it when Josh was reunited with Sarah. He leaned forward, pouring himself a glass of water from the small pedestal sink. The gun resting at the small of his back nudged him, a not so subtle reminder that you can't outrun fate.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to a car's arrival. He stood near the window, listening. The carport was on the other side of the house. He strained to hear footsteps on the porch that ended at the kitchen door Sarah always used. Nothing.

"Sarah!" A man's voice bellowed from the front room.

Sam jumped, gagging on the water. He carefully returned his glass to the sink top, his hand trembling with fury as he recognized the voice. Alan.

He drew his gun, hating the weight in his hand, but no longer feeling clumsy with the semi-automatic. It had been a learning process, one that had cost him some blood before he figured out how to work the slide without catching the skin between his thumb and finger, but he'd eventually become a half-decent shot. Nowhere near as good as Sarah or the Colonel, but he sure as hell could shoot the stuffing out of a hay bale from twenty yards.

Edging the door open a crack, he held the gun ready, the acrid smell of gun cleaner replacing Sarah's scent in his nostrils. Alan called Sarah's voice again, then pushed open the bedroom door. His footsteps echoed from the oak floorboards. Then Sam saw the man himself.

His teeth ground together and he wondered how Alan could not hear it from where he stood not six feet away. Alan stood in front of Sarah's mirror, combed one hand through his hair, then sat down on the bed. Sam watched, his finger stroking the gun's trigger guard. Alan stretched a hand beneath Sarah's pillow, pulled out a small, velvet-covered journal.

"'Where would Damian have taken them?'" Alan mimicked Sarah's voice, using a high-pitched whine that was nothing at all like what she really sounded like. "'I'll find them. I have to.'" A thunk sounded as Alan hurled the book across the room, hitting the side of the dresser. It landed on the floor mere inches beyond the bathroom door. "Bitch! You're meant to be thinking about me. I'm the man right here in front of you! What have you gone and done now?"

The bedsprings creaked as Alan leaned back and reached for the telephone on the nightstand. "Colonel Godwin? Hi, it's Alan. Yeah, I know I wasn't supposed to get home from my meeting until tomorrow, but I just missed Sarah so much, that—"

Sam cringed at the other man's tone of sincerity. Hell, he'd believe him—if he didn't know the real Alan, if the man hadn't sent an assassin to kill Sam and his son.

"She's where? Up on the mountain and she found a body? Who is it?" Alan sat up, sliding off the bed and back onto his feet. "No, don't tell her I called. I want to surprise her. Yeah, maybe tonight's the night. Thanks, sir, I appreciate that."

He hung up and moved toward the bathroom. Sam tensed, held his breath. He knew he should stop looking through the cracked door, turn away to avoid detection. But the desire to confront the man who had destroyed his life, to have an opportunity to maybe even kill him, was too strong.

Alan stepped closer. Sam gripped the doorknob, really to explode into action. If Alan took one more step, if he reached for the door, if he looked up and saw Sam's eye in the tiny slit watching him...

Scenarios flew through Sam's mind faster than his pulse pounded. A bead of sweat slid from his forehead into his eye, stinging. He blinked hard, his gaze never leaving the tiny sliver that was his view into the bedroom. Just one more step.

Alan saved himself by stopping in front of the mirror, addressing his favorite audience, his own reflection. "Son of a bitch! First I have Korsakov breathing down my neck, now the cops will be crawling all over the place if that's Leo Richland they found."

He banged the bedroom door open and stalked from the room before Sam could hear any more.

Leo Richland was dead? How? When? Sam sat on the toilet and stared at his gun. Probably Alan had killed him. He raised the gun, sighted it on the roses that covered the shower curtain. Could still kill Alan now, one less person to worry about. He'd be picked up on the cameras, but who really cared if it kept Sarah and Josh safe?

He jerked his hand as if a bullet really were zooming through the gun barrel, causing it to recoil. No, he couldn't kill Alan, not until he had Sarah safe. It would raise too many questions, alert Korsakov.

But he had to get a message to her—and he couldn't risk Alan blundering into him while he was stuck here in the bathroom. He glanced around, trying to think of a way to leave a message that Alan wouldn't see. Then his gaze settled on the mirror. When he was a kid, he used to leave nasty messages for his sisters to find when they came out of the shower.

Stupid kid's trick, but it would work. Sarah always liked to take a shower after a hike, definitely before bed.

He stood and leaned over the sink, exhaling his breath onto the mirror. It wasn't the way he'd planned this, but then again nothing was.

Sarah helped Hal wrestle the awkward package of decomposed remains through the scrub and back to the road. Gerald Merton lagged behind, wheezing as he carried the rest of their equipment and yelping every time a branch snapped back in his face.

"If you’d hurry it up, you’d catch them," Hal yelled over his shoulder, his tone harsh.

Sarah jerked to a stop, the foot of the vinyl body bag almost slipping from her hands. It wasn’t like Hal to lash out like that. Hal said nothing, merely turned his glare from Gerald to her. His face was red, sweat rolling off his nose and brow. He made a noise of disgust when Gerald stumbled on a root, then started up the trail again, pulling her along as she tried not to disturb their delicate cargo.

Sarah wasn’t exactly enjoying the grisly task, even though she was certain the body didn’t belong to Sam, but Hal was more upset than she’d ever seen him before. Not just upset. Angry. As if the dead man had chosen an especially inconvenient time to surface. With the anniversary of Lily's death tomorrow, she guessed he had.

They transferred the bag into the back of Gerald’s Excursion. He fussed a bit about the smell and water, but Hal cut his whining short by stomping away to peel off his wetsuit and change back into jeans and his uniform shirt.

"Geez, who put a rattler in his cornflakes?" Gerald asked as he and Sarah packed rolled up blankets around the corpse to keep it from sliding around the rear of the Excursion. "Never seen him so antsy. Not even when…" he trailed off, his gaze darting from the body bag to her.

"When we pulled Lily out of Snakebelly," she finished for him, her voice low and solemn. Lily's body had been so battered and bruised, she'd rolled around inside the body bag like a rag doll. They'd lowered one of the Search and Rescue's wire mesh stretchers down and strapped Lily into it for fear of doing more damage as they hoisted her up. But still, Hal had insisted on zipping open the bag, unwrapping the plastic shroud and looking for himself.

Shuddering as she remembered the unearthly cry of despair that was the only sound Hal had uttered that long day, Sarah glanced over her shoulder. Hal was behind his GMC Jimmy, one arm rising up in the air as he tugged his t-shirt over his head. She was glad it was her rope they had left behind in case they needed to search Snakebelly further—and she'd do her best to be sure it wasn't Hal who returned to do the searching.

"Lily. Yeah, right," Gerald muttered, slamming the door on the anonymous dead man and their conversation. "Tell him I’ll get everything ready and meet him down the mountain."

He drove off, giving the large SUV too much gas and fishtailing over the rutted logging road. Sarah watched the cloud of dust in his wake until she heard the chime of Hal opening the Jimmy’s door.

"You coming?" he called as the engine kicked over with a low snarl. She grabbed her pack and jumped into the passenger seat. They headed down the narrow, twisting dirt road. "Want me to drop you home?"

"No, the Rockslide will be fine."

"Suit yourself."

They jostled over the road in silence for several minutes. Even Hal’s driving seemed changed—sloppy, careless, over-compensating for curves, almost dropping one wheel off the edge of the road several times. Sarah gripped the side of her seat and pumped an imaginary brake pedal with her foot.

"You and Alan should still take off, get out of here for a long weekend," he surprised her by saying.

"What’s so special about this weekend that everyone is trying to get rid of me?" she asked, trying to make a joke of it.

"I'm asking the Colonel for a town council meeting tomorrow. It’s past time they knew how I really feel about how things have been running around here lately."

He was hunched forward over the steering wheel as if ready to wrestle it from the dash. His teeth were clamped so tight she could see the muscle spasming at the corner of his jaw. Then it hit her—Friday, tomorrow, was June 21st.

"Hal, wait for another day. Not tomorrow."

He shook his head, his gaze riveted on the road ahead. "No. It has to be tomorrow."

"But tomorrow is the anniversary of when—" She choked on her words as he turned to stare at her, ignoring the hairpin curve ahead of them. "When Lily died."

They almost spun off the road before he corrected their trajectory. Sarah bounced forward, into the dash, bracing both hands against it.

"That's why it has to be tomorrow," he finally said. "And why I don't want you around to get caught in the middle." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, twice. "At first I was angry, real angry. When Sam came and told me the insurance wouldn't pay up, that I was going to lose the house after all—"

"It wasn't his fault," Sarah protested. "No company will pay on a…when someone takes their own life. He tried to help you."

"I don't need charity!"