Deadfall (21 page)

“Fill in for me, Buck. I’ll be back in a couple.”

A fat-faced rowdy on the barstool beside Jensen suddenly nudged him with a shoulder and looked up in distaste.

“You want I should get rid of this guy for you, Mary Lou?”

She didn’t take her eyes off Jensen.

“No, thanks, Rick. I can handle it.”

Raising the hinged section of the bar that doubled as setup space for the barmaids, she slipped through the opening and stalked toward a door in the rear.

The troopers followed close behind her into the alley that ran behind the building, where she whirled and confronted them again, angrily.

“All right. Now
…what?
”

“How’s it going, Mary Lou?” Jensen asked her quietly.

“None of
your
fuckin’ damn business how it’s going. What do you want?”

“Well, I understand you’ve got a friend who’s gone missing for a few days.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“
Spike
is what I’m talking about. Where is he, Mary Lou?”

Stubbornness filled her narrowed eyes as she half smiled without humor and cocked her head to one side.

“Who?”

Alex shook his head. “Don’t bother. We know you’re sharing living space with Jones and that your roommate’s been missing for a week or more. Where is he?”

“How should I know?”

Taking a cigarette from a package she had brought with her from the bar, she lit it with a match from a book tucked
under its cellophane and blew smoke laconically in his direction. Then she tossed her luxurious dark hair back over her shoulders and glanced at Becker, who was following her part of the conversation with interest.

“Hi, honey.”

Embarrassed, he took a step back, which provoked a sardonic smile as she returned her attention to Jensen.

“You know,” he told her.

“Prove it. He was gone when I got home from here a week ago Friday. Haven’t seen him since. Why? You got some special reason to be looking for him?”

There was a stillness and a strange, attentive satisfaction in her expression that alerted Jensen and worried him.

“Reason enough. Give it up, Mary Lou. What else?”

She allowed her animosity to show again, glared at him in defiance, tossed the cigarette to the dirt, and ground it out with a vicious twist of her foot. A tattooed line of blue and red flowers encircled her slender ankle.

“You got nothing, pig. I don’t know where he is, and wouldn’t tell you if I had him stashed behind the bar—which I don’t. Now I’m going back to work. Any problem with that?”

Turning contemptuously, she wrenched open the door and disappeared, with a flounce of her dark hair, back into the Aces.

Jensen shook his head in resignation and disgust as Caswell moved to follow her.

“Let her go. She knows exactly where Jones is, but we’re not going to get a thing out of her. I think we’d better get a fast trace going on her boyfriend. I don’t like the feel of this.”

J
essie lay silently in the thorny thicket of devil’s club and salmonberry runners, listening intently. The rustle and moan of the wind in the trees and the crash of the surf were all she could hear, but she knew that somewhere in the fury of sound and motion the stalker would be searching for her, focused on recapturing her, not willing to lose his prey. Where the hell was he?

She tensed at an unexpected sharp screech, but it was only the inanimate protest of one tree trunk rubbing against another somewhere on the hill above. Had she left evidence of her fall down the slope, marks on the ground? Would he see and recognize them, and track her to this hiding place? She waited, holding Tank close, hand on his muzzle. He squirmed, attempting to free himself.

“No. Stay,” she whispered, and the wriggling stopped. Thank God it wasn’t one of the Darryls, who would have assumed she was playing a game and continued to struggle against her.

The rain rat-a-tat-tatted in large drops on her rain gear, a sound that, from inside, seemed loud as a drumroll—a giveaway—but she hoped it would not be any louder to someone else than the rest of the storm’s cacophony against leaves or the metal roof of the shed on the hill. There was nothing else to hear. Water collected, overbalanced, and poured off one the broad leaves of the devil’s club onto her head, but she dared not move away from it or put on the sou’wester, without losing her already limited ability to hear. Water ran down her face and dripped off her chin.

Suddenly there was a thrashing in the brush on the hill. Peering carefully through a small opening between the leaves, she caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing perhaps twenty feet above, looking carefully across the meadow that lay beyond her to the west. Deep in Tank’s chest, under her arm, she felt a vibration, the beginning of a hostile growl.

“Sh-h-h,” she hissed in his ear, and the growl subsided.

Her hair. Could he possibly spot her light hair in the thick foliage?

Careful not to shake the foliage, with one hand she slowly pulled the dark sou’wester onto her head over her dripping hair, then laid her face down on her arm, against the wet sleeve of her waterproof coat, to conceal its pale color, and waited, barely breathing. Nothing happened. For a long, tense period of perhaps five minutes she waited, frozen, before venturing a quick look. The figure was not visible where she had seen it, but where had he gone?

There was no way to tell. She lay back down, holding Tank, who tucked his nose inside her coat. Either the bastard was still looking and would find her, or he had given up and gone back to Rudy. She hated to think of the kind old man as a captive of this brutal, malicious stranger. There was nothing more she could do either way, so she
did
nothing,
moved
nothing,
thought
of nothing—remained as still as a part of the hillside and made her mind a blank, became a pair of ears and a
heart hammering in her throat and chest, and waited—for a very long time.

A trickle of rain running down the hill pooled against the dam of her coat sleeve and spilled cold water onto her wrist, its small additional discomfort bringing Jessie back to life. Peering up cautiously through the brush, she saw no one. Nothing moved. Would he have waited this long in such weather? She hoped not, but he had exhibited exceptional patience before.

Tank shifted against her, still alert. Slowly, vigilantly, she reached up to move one of the large, flat leaves aside for a better look. Nothing. The hillside above was empty, but what if he was hiding, too, and still waiting—watching for her to come out? She would have to chance it—couldn’t stay where she was.

With infinite care, she rose slowly, cautiously parting the broad leaves for an even better look. Nothing. She got to her feet, wincing at the chilled ache of her body. Intentionally or not, this guy was causing her some serious physical pain. There was no sign of anyone on the ridge above her. Turning slowly in a circle, she examined everything in sight. No one. Now to get away, as far as possible, as quickly and surreptitiously as she could.

The back of one cold hand felt on fire, pincushioned with needlelike thorns from the devil’s club through which she had fallen. A knee and one elbow—pounded against something in her tumble down the hill—protested with pain as she flexed them. Wiping the rain from her face, she noticed blood on her benumbed hand and discovered a deep scratch on one cheek. The tape on the bridge of her nose seemed intact, but her two injured fingers throbbed more than the rest of her and she hoped they had not been rebroken.

What should she do? Where should she go? The most important thing was to make sure she was not caught off guard again and taken prisoner by this person, whoever he was. He? Was it a he? The voice had been mid-range and sounded like a man, hadn’t it? But not so terribly low that it couldn’t have
been a woman, she thought. Well, she would assume it was a man until she found out. But now she had to find a place to hole up where he would not find her, where she could not be surprised. Where?

The A-frame was clearly out of the question. He had almost certainly caught up with Rudy there, or on his way to the beach house for breakfast. And what about Rudy? Had he been caught? Was there anything she could do to gain his release? Not now. Not before she settled herself in some protected spot where she could think clearly and plan. Perhaps then she could find out how and where he was, assess the situation, and formulate some effective strategy to rescue him.

Jessie did not stand still as she contemplated her predicament, but made her way out of the thicket of thorns as fast as she could and, drifting quietly north, slipped into the denser woodland away from the shed and beach house, taking Tank with her. It immediately grew darker as trees closed in on all sides, but there was some small shelter from the rain that continued to fall in torrents. With care, warily observing everything around them, they progressed up and beyond the hillside and into the wilder part of the forest. The going was somewhat easier in the shelter of the trees, where there was less brush and the miserable, aptly-named devil’s club.

She paused in a small open space to pick out as many of the thorns in her hand as she could, though some had broken off, leaving sharp bits beneath the skin that would soon begin to fester painfully. At the same time she examined her elbow and knee and found no breaks in the skin. She could ignore them for now, since there were more important things to claim her attention and, tender or not, they seemed to work adequately. Their discomfort and the growing pain in her broken fingers reminded her that all the pain pills the doctor had prescribed, along with her own bottle of Advil, were still in the beach house, unreachable. Too bad, but she’d have traded them all for the cell phone.

A crash and a thump ahead startled her and brought her
to her knees on the damp spruce needles that covered the earth and helped to muffle the sounds of her passage. She froze, acid terror rising in her throat. A dead limb, soaked with water, had fallen from a tree, striking a rotten stump on its way to the ground. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, Jessie consciously thrust her fears from her mind and went on up the hill, evaluating her alternatives, feeling more confident now that she was away from the beach house and its open ground.

In all likelihood, she was more familiar with Niqa, its layout and resources, than her stalker. She had been there often, walked most of the habitable areas and some of the wilderness that surrounded them. This would give her an edge. What else could she think of that would add to her advantage?

She wished again for the cell phone and shotgun she had left in her hurried escape from the beach house. Both were now in the hands of the stalker, but perhaps he would think the shotgun was her only weapon, not realizing she also had the handgun. He was no fool, however, so she doubted he would assume anything. She did not like the idea that he had two guns—the shotgun and the one of his own that she had seen before she ran. There was also the knife he had held at Rudy’s throat. Damn. Poor Rudy. She could do him no immediate good, so she purposely shifted her thoughts away from the old man. Later, when it was possible, she had to think of something.

In the buildings at the other cove, as well as Millie’s beach house, there were all kinds of things that could help her. Food was one thing she must have to keep up her strength, especially outdoors in this kind of weather. She realized that, having missed breakfast in her wait for Rudy, she was hungry, and thirsty as well.

Stopping for a moment, she tipped her head back and let rain fall into her open mouth, but this was unsatisfactorily slow. Looking around, she spotted a tiny pool caught in the half-fold of a devil’s club leaf. Delicately, she tipped the leaf and
let the single swallow of water run into her mouth. Several more were sufficient for the moment, but she knew she should find something that would hold enough water to carry with her from one of the creeks.

Tank sat down and watched this odd procedure with a cocked head that made Jessie smile.

“You’re going to be hungry, too, buddy,” she said softly, “though you, at least, got a good breakfast.”

There would be food—and, probably, medicine—in the storage of the kitchens and pantries of the houses on the other cove, if she could reach it without being caught. The beach house was probably out of the question, but the others might provide. She reached into her jacket pocket for the keys, but found only a wadded tissue along with the box of ammunition she had put in earlier. Well, a win—and a loss. A search through the rest of her pockets yielded nothing more, and with a sinking feeling she remembered laying the keys on the chest by the bed the night before, where she could easily find them. Damn! Well, windows could be broken if necessary. There were other ways to gain entry to what she would need, but they would be less efficient and more obvious to anyone looking.

When she estimated that she was perhaps a quarter of a mile from the beach house, she started toward the other side of the island, having decided to move to the area above the second cove, find a place to hide, and wait for darkness. Her knowledge of the island would be a larger advantage in the dark, when she might not be seen or shot at from a distance. Hungry or not, she would wait for it.

Tucking her hand with its injured fingers inside her coat, she tried to protect and warm it, hoping it would ease the pain. Instead, the throbbing increased as the chill receded, until she gritted her teeth and took it out again to let the cold rain anesthetize it. What had the fall done? Had she broken the fingers again? Removing the tape and splints in the shelter of her coat so they wouldn’t get wet, she examined the site
of the break in each finger. They seemed fine, with no additional swelling. Then she felt each joint and found that the ring finger—the one that throbbed most—was dislocated in the knuckle nearest her palm. Dammit. What now?

With the knowledge of similar accidents she had witnessed in other dog sled drivers, she knew it should, and could, be put back in place. But would it hurt less if it was relocated? She knew the process was painful, but had never done it, or had it done, herself. Frowning, she thought it over. How hard could it be? Either she could do it or she would find out quickly that it was impossible. It hurt a lot anyway and was, she decided, worth a try.

Gripping the finger just above the dislocation and below the break, so she could hold on without causing further injury, with a quick, firm motion she pulled hard on it.

Fierce, stabbing pain knifed immediately through her finger, hand, and arm, sharp enough to make her gasp, cry out, and almost let go, but she kept up the tension, sucking air in through her teeth as the agony continued. Tank whined softly at her feet at the sounds she was making, knowing something was wrong. She ignored him, focusing completely on what she was doing—and its result.

Suddenly, with a small audible pop, the bone and cartilage slipped back into place and the intense pain was less—not gone, but transformed into the ache and hurt of distress instead of its former torture. Moaning in both anguish and relief, she cradled her hand against her stomach, gulping great lungfuls of damp air, and waited for the discomfort to fade.

There—that hadn’t been so bad, now, had it? Yes, dammit, it had, she thought. Worse than bad, but…Her last groan turned to what was almost a chuckle, as, amused at herself and still holding her arm against her body, she went on through the woods, forcing her concentration back to the problem of retaining her independent strength and freedom.

A few hundred feet farther east, she stepped across a tiny creek, but, moving on, she suddenly stopped and broke a
medium-sized branch from the willow that grew beside it. Peeling the bark from some of the smaller twigs, she broke it up and put it in her mouth, recalling that this part of the willow supposedly contained a natural painkiller that might ease what was left of her aches and pains. If she had been able to boil water, she could have steeped the leaves. She hiked on, chewing the rather bitter mass that she was glad to find also seemed to make her feel a little less hungry, though she thought longingly of the sausage she had meant to cook that morning, and the thick slices of homemade bread she had sliced for toasting.

Tank stayed close beside her as they crossed the island, and she was grateful for his company. The pit of her stomach had tightened into its familiar week-old knot. Breathing deeply to retain her calm, Jessie refused to think about it, knowing she would need all her wits, skills, and best response time if she was to keep from falling into the hands of this horrible person. Better to keep thinking of what could be done than to fall into a
what if
mentality.

Without help from Alex and Cas, she had only herself and Tank to depend on. That would somehow have to be enough—she would have to
make
it so.

Where was the stalker now? What was he doing—planning? Would he anticipate her moves? Could he? Of course. He could easily anticipate her priorities—escape, safety, food, water, shelter. It was almost pathetically simple and he would guess that she would try to avail herself of as many of these as possible.