Hostage (7 page)

“And . . . and Daniel?”

Hollis rubbed one forearm absently, glancing down to see what she felt: no goose bumps or fine hairs standing on end, and no sense of that strange wave of cold sweeping through her, the three things that almost always happened whenever she was in the presence of spirits.

All had existed the whole time Jamie had been visible. She was still vaguely aware of spiritual energy around her, but it was distant, on the periphery of her senses. All of her senses.

Something new.

“I’m afraid the door’s closed for the moment,” she said, hoping it was because she was abruptly conscious of being very, very tired. Physically and emotionally. And cold in a different way; she was only barely able to stop herself from shivering.

DeMarco spoke up then to say, “It might not show so much, Anna, but this takes a lot out of Hollis, a lot of her own energy. She needs to rest before she tries to contact your husband.”

“I’ll be happy to come back tomorrow,” Hollis offered, not about to argue with her partner, since she wanted to take a very hot shower and then curl up and take a nap. For about twelve hours.

Anna was clearly disappointed but spoke quickly to say, “There’s absolutely no sense in you two making that long drive from town twice. You can stay the night here. In fact, you’re welcome to stay as long as you feel it’s necessary. It might even help,” she added with more than a touch of pleading in her voice. “If you spend more time in his house, it might be easier for you to contact Daniel.”

“Oh, but—”

“Please, the guest rooms are always ready, and there are two connected by a little sitting room on the second floor that I’m sure will suit you.”

Which, Hollis thought, neatly resolved their hostess’s potentially awkward dilemma as to whether to ask if her unmarried guests needed one bedroom or two. Before she could gather her thoughts to form a refusal, she heard her partner smoothly accepting the invitation.

“Thank you, Anna. You’ve saved me a long drive back to town with Hollis snoring in the passenger seat.”

“I would not,” Hollis said somewhat indignantly. “Snore
or
sleep. Besides, we didn’t even bring luggage.”

“Yes, we did. Since we hadn’t unpacked at the hotel, I put both our bags in the car while you were . . . discussing . . . with the hotel manager the remarkable lack of high-speed Internet.”

“His sign
said
Wi-Fi was available,” Hollis said irritably. “Not just high speed, but
wireless
. The sign didn’t say a thing about it being available apparently only during a blue moon that happened to fall on a Thursday. In December.”

“Point made,” DeMarco murmured.

“Truth in advertising. There ought to be consequences.”

“Trust me, he knows that now.”

Anna said brightly, “So that’s settled. I’ll have Thomas show you to your rooms and have your luggage brought up. You two can rest and freshen up, and we’ll have dinner around eight thirty. Is that all right?”

Hollis wanted to argue, but she was just too tired. And cold. Maybe a hot shower would help, or maybe she’d take a little nap before dinner. At any rate, despite her misgivings, she admitted to herself that either was infinitely preferable to getting back into the car and heading back to that odd little town, especially since that odd little hotel in that odd little town didn’t offer room service. And she had a strong hunch they rolled up the sidewalks in that town somewhere around sundown.

Supper would be out of a vending machine if they didn’t stay here and take advantage of the Alexanders’ hospitality.

“Thank you,” she said with a little sigh. “That would be wonderful, Anna.”

Whether the spirits of the mansion would disturb her was only a faint and passing thought.

FOUR

Luther Brinkman realized he was waking up even before he could force his eyelids to open, because he smelled coffee. It smelled wonderful.

He had no idea how long he’d been out, but his stomach felt empty and when he was finally able to open his eyes, the lids practically scraped across his corneas.

He’d been out a while. Quite a while.

“More than twenty-four hours. It’s around dawn. On Wednesday.”

He blinked several times, staring up at rough-hewn beams, turning her voice over in his mind.

Ah. The woman in the woods. The one with the shotgun.

Suddenly wary, he began to push himself up onto his elbows, biting back a sound of pain as his leg throbbed a protest. He was covered with a blanket but could feel the constriction of a bandage around his upper thigh.

A pillow was stuffed behind his head and shoulders, and a steaming cup placed in his hand. “You shouldn’t move very much just yet. You’d already lost a lot of blood, and I had to dig pretty deep to get that bullet out.”

She had to dig?

“You’re lucky, though. The bullet was right up next to bone but hadn’t damaged it as far as I could tell. And, luckily, it missed the femoral artery.”

When he was able to focus, he found her back to him as she poured herself a cup of coffee. All he could tell was that she wasn’t nearly as tall as he remembered but was nevertheless a tall woman, was slender in a thin, ribbed sweater and close-fitting jeans, and had long, very pale hair almost silver in color.

Tearing his gaze from her, he looked around to find himself in what appeared to be the main room of a log cabin that was less rustic than one might expect out here in these woods. He could see a hallway, so assumed a bathroom and probably a bedroom. A couple of oil lamps as well as battery-powered lights scattered around testified to the absence of electricity. This main room was on the small side and was divided by a long, narrow table into roughly two halves: cooking/dining and a comfortable living room.

Luther was on the couch. A comfortable couch.

The place was spare, but rather cheery, with a brisk fire in the big stone fireplace and thick, colorful rugs scattered on the wide-planked wood floor. Plain linen curtains covered a couple of small windows. A hunting trophy, the head of a ten-point buck, was mounted above the fireplace, but it was the only sign this might be a hunter’s cabin. On other walls, innocuous prints of peaceful mountain landscapes provided the decor.

Beyond the table where his rescuer stood, he could see a compact kitchenette that looked clean and well organized. Something that smelled good enough to make his mouth water bubbled in a pot on a gas stove. Stew, maybe, or soup. Whatever it was, his stomach growled a longing.

Remembering the coffee cup in his hand, he lifted it and took a cautious sip. As he savored the strong taste he preferred, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye and turned his head.

A dog lay on a thick rug near the door, watching him fixedly.

A very big black-and-tan dog, heavily muscled.

A Rottweiler.

“His name is Cesar,” she said. “You should thank him. From here, it’s an almost continuous climb to Jacoby’s cabin. I never could have gotten you back down here without him. He’s trained to pull a litter.”

Luther thought the dog could probably have pulled a semi, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he looked at the woman, now facing him.

There was something curiously . . . unreal . . . about her. The pale hair that wasn’t platinum blond or gray or white but truly silver, almost metallic. The heart-shaped face with delicate features, not beautiful but somehow infinitely memorable. Dark, dark eyes. Hypnotic, those eyes.

He guessed she was in her early thirties, less because the few lines in her face hinted at maturity than because there was a curious stillness and serenity about her that could only have come with a certain amount of years and experience.

“I snooped while you were out,” she said, her voice calm and as unremarkable as her face was remarkable. “Checked your ID, assuming it’s real.”

“It is.”

“Okay, Luther Brinkman, your wallet and gun are in the drawer of that end table beside the couch. Your jeans are soaking in the washtub; I managed to get them off without doing any more damage than the bullet had already done, but they were blood-soaked all the way down to the hem.”

Luther, suddenly very conscious of being in a T-shirt and shorts, tried not to think about her stripping his unconscious form. She had, after all, taken care of his wound—undoubtedly her only concern.

“With this chilly weather and without a dryer, those jeans won’t be wearable anytime soon; I usually go to the Laundromat in town no more than once a week, and I went a couple of days ago. Luckily for you there’s a trunk packed with an assortment of clothing kept here, and I think there are some things that’ll fit you well enough.

“My name is Callie Davis. My family built this place about thirty years ago; a lot of them liked to hunt. I don’t like to hunt, even though I can handle guns.” She paused, studying him for a moment, then went on. “With a very stressful job, breaks are a good idea. I come up here for the solitude. The month of October is generally very peaceful and uneventful. This year, not so much.”

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“Well, you didn’t start the trouble, as far as I can tell. It appears that Cole Jacoby started the trouble, when he took up residence in that rented cabin and promptly began going berserk whenever anyone got within a hundred yards of the place.”

“So that’s why . . .”

“Why I went out so late yesterday to check and see if he’d shot somebody? It seemed a wise thing to do. You’re the first he’s actually hit with a bullet, as far as I know, but he peppered a couple of surprised hunters with buckshot a few days ago when they were just hiking past to get where the hunting’s legal. And had his dogs chase them far enough to make his point.”

“Nobody called the cops?”

“Out here? We take care of our own problems. He wants to be left alone, and he’s made sure everyone in the area knows it. So he’ll be left alone. Future hunters will be warned to give the area a wide berth. No fuss, no bother.”

“And if he’s dangerous?” Luther asked.

* * *

COLE JACOBY WIPED
his nose with the back of one hand and stared at the blood. “I can’t do this,” he muttered.

You can. You have to.

“She’ll know. I’m almost sure she knew before.” His head was pounding so hard he felt dizzy.

She won’t know. Not if you’re careful. Not if you push in just the right place.

“But I’m not sure where to push. How. There are . . . She’s not alone. And I’m so tired.”

Reach down deep. That’s what you have to tap into.

Jacoby found a paper towel to hold to his nose and fought to control the dread sweeping over him. “There? The dark place? I don’t want to go there again. Please don’t make me.”

That’s why they want you, Cole. Why they’ll hunt you. Why they won’t leave you alone. Because you can go to the dark place. Because you can use the power you find there. You can use it against them, use it to defeat them. We all know that.

“Then I’ll stay away. Leave the dark place alone. And they won’t care about it anymore.”

Cole . . . Cole. They’ll care as long as you’re out here. As long as you aren’t under their control. Locked up in their prison. You know that. We all know that.

There was a pause. Cole wondered vaguely if his nose was still bleeding but didn’t remove the paper towel to check. He was tired. He was so tired, and his head still pounded, and he just wanted to be left alone.

You know you aren’t alone, Cole. You’re never alone now.

“But I want to be,” he whispered. “I need to rest. Can’t I rest for a little while?”

A little while, Cole. But not for long. You have too much to do.

Cole was hungry and thirsty, but he was more tired than anything else. He sat down on his cot and prepared to curl up, taking a moment to reassure himself that he’d fed his dogs hours before, that they were safely in their beds for the night.

They were all looking at him, he realized dimly. In their beds but not asleep, not even resting. They were wide awake, staring at him alertly. Almost watching him. They looked tense. In fact, he thought Ace’s fur was standing up all along his spine.

Cole wanted to calm them, reassure them somehow. But he was confused about why they would be tense. He’d raised them from pups, an abandoned mixed-breed litter some bastard had tied up in a burlap sack and tossed off a bridge into a river. Luckily, Cole had seen it happen. Had been able to rescue the pups before they drowned, dry their small, shivering, terrified bodies. Feed them what had seemed their first meal in days, at least.

Except for the months in jail, he had taken care of the dogs all during the three years since that day, and all three had rewarded him with their absolute devotion. He’d been a responsible pet owner: they’d been properly socialized as pups and were obedience trained. Lucy and Cleo had been spayed, Ace neutered, and all of them were current with their vaccinations and flea and heartworm prevention. The friend who had kept them for Cole while he’d been inside all those months had been well paid but was also an animal lover like Cole and had kept meticulous records detailing any necessary vet visits as well as routine care.

Cole had always wanted them to feel safe and loved. He kept them clean and well groomed, and they ate a high-quality dog food. He was good to them, kind to them. He loved them.

Why were they all looking at him like that?

Or maybe it was the others they were afraid of?

Too tired to keep wondering about it, he lay down on his cot, the paper towel still held to his nose. He didn’t even take off his shoes or draw the thin blanket up around himself, just curled up on his side, drawing his knees up and huddling inside his jacket.

Tired. Just so tired.

But at least
they
were finally—

We’re still here, Cole. We’re always with you. And we’ll never leave you. Never.

He pressed part of the paper towel to his mouth but still heard the whimper escape.

And looking across his single-room cabin in the faint, flickering light of the dying fire, he was absolutely sure that the eyes of his watching dogs all glowed red.

* * *

“IF HE’S DANGEROUS?”
Luther repeated when the silence had stretched a good minute. “What then?”

In a deliberate tone, Callie Davis said, “Bears are dangerous. Snakes can be dangerous. Escaped felons—assuming he’s the one you’re after—are quite likely dangerous. Private investigators who carry guns are probably dangerous.” Her shoulders lifted and fell in a faint shrug. “This is a dangerous place. Most of us like it that way. Living with danger can make you feel alive in a way nothing else can.”

Luther happened to agree with that but wasn’t quite ready to delve into the subject. Something was nagging at him, some question, but he couldn’t seem to find it in the fuzziness of his mind.

Callie didn’t seem to notice—or just wasn’t bothered by—his silence. She merely said, “I thought it best to let you sleep, but you must be starving by now, and the stew is ready. You should eat, then probably sleep some more. Give your body time to heal. The sun will be up in a bit. Cesar and I have been out a few times to check on Jacoby, and to judge by his lack of follow-up, it would appear he’s forgotten all about you.”

“Seriously?”

“It would be in character, at least as I’ve judged it in the last week or so. As long as no one gets close to that cabin, he keeps to himself. No sign he’s ventured far from it, and when I backtracked, it was clear he made no effort to get out and try to find you yesterday, in daylight; the only tracks between here and there were ours.”

Luther wished that made sense to him.

“I thought he might have decided to wait until night and clear out, in case he’d killed you. So I took Cesar and went out a couple of hours ago, and got a bit closer, close enough to check on Jacoby’s cabin without attracting his notice. He’s still there, dogs inside and quiet, no sign of life except the dying fire in his fireplace, and his Jeep is parked in its usual spot. If he’s your escaped felon, he sure isn’t acting like he cares whether he’s been found. Or even that he shot someone who could be dead or dying in the woods.”

“He has a Jeep?”

“Yeah. You actually approached his cabin from the more difficult direction, given the terrain; over the rise behind his cabin is something that used to be an old logging road. Not on any of the maps. It’s still usable—if you have a major four-wheel-drive and serious all-terrain tires. Jacoby does.”

“Then he didn’t come from town.”

“No, not directly. In fact, I haven’t talked to anyone who saw him there. Or up here, for that matter.” She shrugged. “There’s a series of old logging roads and mining roads all through these mountains, and most cabins built up here are within a fairly short walk to one of them. We have to bring up supplies, after all, and hiking with a propane tank or fuel for a generator isn’t exactly smart, never mind awkward and exhausting. My Jeep is parked at the end of one of the logging roads only about fifty yards from here.”

Luther frowned. “Do the forestry people know about the roads?”

“Of course.” Her tone was patient.

“Then why couldn’t they follow one to Jacoby?”

“You have to know where you’re going in these mountains, or the roads just take you in circles. Assuming Jacoby was smart enough to leave the main roads miles before he got near any town, let alone ours, and then used a few tricks to throw off trackers following him from Virginia, I imagine any search parties sent after him would probably have been about two mountains north of here and wouldn’t have a clue in which direction to aim their teams. There was no way in hell they were going to find him using a traditional search. Which, I gather, is why you’re here.”

“You think one man on foot is better than teams of forestry people and other trained searchers with dogs?”