Left To Die (17 page)

“So I’m Sleeping Beauty, he or she”—Jillian pointed the rubber tip of her crutch at the spaniel mix—“is Harley.” The dog growled again. “So, that leaves you.”

“I’m Zane MacGregor, and, for the record, Harley’s a he.”

“How long have I been here, MacGregor?” she demanded.

“Three days.”

“Three days?” she repeated, horrified. She’d known, of course, that time had passed. But three days? She’d lost
seventy-two hours
of her life?

“Storms have been rolling in ever since. Roads are impassable. Electricity out. It’s a mess.”

She was stunned, still trying to piece together what had happened, while MacGregor took off his ski cap and mask and unwound a scarf that covered his neck. His hair, black, glossy and curling slightly, stuck up in weird-looking tufts, and three or maybe four days’ growth of whiskers covered what she thought was a tight, strong jaw. His eyes, beneath thick dark brows, were an intense shade of gray. “You plannin’ on smackin’ me with that?” he asked, nodding toward the crutch.

“Maybe.”

One of his thick eyebrows cocked, as if the idea was insane, as if he could rip the damned thing from her hands before she got in a blow. “Hear that, Harley? She’s going to try and whack me.”

The dog cocked his head, waiting for another command. One side of his face was black, the other white, his coat mottled and rough.

“Watch out, she might have it in for you, too,” MacGregor warned the dog as he walked to the fire, pulled the screen away and, on one knee, tossed in a few pieces of wood. Flames crackled and licked at the moss. The dog didn’t move. “How are you feeling?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to be up.”

“I needed to use the bathroom. And I feel like hell. I think I should be in a hospital.”

“I know you should.”

“Then why—?”

“Couldn’t get you to one. Believe me, I wanted to.” He glanced over his shoulder. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m not really set up here as a hospital ward.” His gaze moved from her face to lower and she felt suddenly naked. He hitched his chin at her ankle. “You should be in bed.”

“Sounds like I’ve been in bed a while.”

“But you need to lie down, keep the ankle elevated, protect your ribs.”

“So now you’re a doctor?”

He grabbed a poker from a nearby stand and pushed the pieces of fir around until he was satisfied and the room was brighter, gold shadows moving against the walls. “Medic. First Gulf War. When I got out, I became an EMT for a while.”

“But you gave it up?”

He slid her a glance. “Until three days ago.” He seemed slightly irritated, but she didn’t care. For all she knew he was a lying dog. He then flashed her a smile that was surprisingly engaging. His teeth weren’t perfect, just the slightest bit crooked, enough to give him character, which, she thought, was probably an illusion.

Don’t trust him. Do not!

“Harley,” he said. “Let’s have dinner.”

The Lab mix, who had seemed so ferocious only minutes earlier, jumped to his feet and started prancing and heading to the kitchen, all the while keeping his head turned so that he could watch MacGregor as the big man walked through the archway. “Hungry?”

Harley gave out a loud, excited bark.

So much for the murderous guard dog.

“I thought so,” MacGregor said as Jillian inched along the table until she could see through the doorway and watch as he found a bag of dry dog food in the cupboard. He rattled the bag and Harley went into an exhilarated spin.

“What do you do, starve him?”

“Hardly.” MacGregor measured food into one of the two stainless-steel bowls that were on the floor by the back door, bowls she hadn’t noticed when she’d first explored the kitchen. “But don’t ask him. He’d eat twenty-four seven if I let him.”

Jillian made her way to the archway separating the rooms and brought the conversation back to information she wanted, information she needed. “So you brought me here because it was closer than a hospital or clinic. That means the accident happened nearby?”

“About a mile and a half or two miles west.” As the dog gobbled down his kiblets, MacGregor folded the top of the sack of dog food over itself, creased it carefully and returned it to the shelf, which was as neat as if he expected an inspection from his commanding officer. “The nearest town is Grizzly Falls. About ten miles in the other direction. Unfortunately I haven’t been able to get out that far.” He bent down and picked up Harley’s water dish, then tossed out what remained in the bottom of the bowl and refilled it at the sink. “Trust me, I’ve tried.”

“How could you possibly travel that far in the snow?”

“The same way I brought you here. By snowmobile.”

That she believed. She had a few splintered, jarring memories of the ride.

“So you live here,” she said. “In the middle of nowhere.”

He replaced the bowl on the floor. “I think a lot of Montanans might take offense to that.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yep. You’re talking about God’s country.”

He was making light of the situation? When she was injured, trapped here with him and his damned dog, while a serial killer was on the loose and a blizzard raged outside?

He snagged a towel hanging from the stove and dried his hands. “I’m serious, you should lie down.”

Though she was tired, her face, chest and ankle all dull aches, she wasn’t ready to be shepherded back into the bedroom, not until she learned more. “I have a few questions first.”

“Shoot.”

The single word caused her heart to drop, but she tried to keep focused despite the pain in her body, despite the fact that this stranger and his dog rattled her, made her nervous. “This place”—she motioned toward the interior with her free hand, nearly dropping the damned knife in the process but somehow holding onto the hilt, keeping the blade tucked up her sleeve—“is too far from a hospital, or clinic or any kind of civilization.”

“You wrecked in a pretty isolated part of the country.”

“Speaking of which,” she said, “I think my tire was shot.”

His head snapped up and his face was instantly tense. “Shot?”

The dog had finished eating and he also lifted his head, sensing the change in atmosphere, the sudden tension in his master. Harley turned intelligent, suspicious eyes in her direction.

Maybe she shouldn’t have told him; if he was the serial killer, she’d be better off playing dumb. But it was too late to call the words back. “I heard a rifle crack just a second before I lost control. It sounded like someone shot something—my tire, I think—because then the car went over the cliff and I kinda blacked out….”

MacGregor’s jaw became rock hard, he tossed the towel onto the counter. “You’re sure about that?”

“No, I’m not sure. That’s the trouble. I’m not sure of anything.” Tamping down her fear, her urge to break down all together, she added, “And the truth of the matter is, I don’t know if I can trust you. I don’t know you from Adam and I end up here alone with you…or does anyone else live with you?”

“Harley.”

“Well…great.” She paused, then decided if she was in for a penny, she was in for a pound. “I think I remember that several women were killed up here. It made the news in Seattle.”

He nodded, a muscle working in his jaw.

Had she hit a nerve with him? Above the throbbing in her ankle and chest and the headache returning behind her eyes, she wasn’t as sharp as she should be, couldn’t read the unspoken innuendoes. Was he angry? Or afraid? A little of both?

“I haven’t been into town in a few days, obviously,” he said, making his way into the living area again, the dog on his heels. She moved out of the archway as quickly as possible and was surprised when Harley passed without so much as looking at her. “All communication has been out, but yeah, there have been women found out in the wilds, tied up to trees, I believe. Their cars were located separately, wrecked, a distance from where the bodies were discovered.”

Fear skittered down her spine and inside she was suddenly as cold as death. Her fingers, clenched around the hidden knife, began to sweat, and her heart was trip-hammering out of control. What did she know about this man?

Nothing but what he’s told you.

It could be a pack of lies.

It could be the truth.

But he’s all you’ve got, Jillian.

Be he saint or sinner, he’s all you’ve got.

“Were their tires shot out?” she asked, her voice a whisper that seemed to echo off the rafters high overhead.

He shook his head, but his skin had paled slightly and she couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or lying through his teeth. “I don’t know. But maybe. The police always hold back details, in case some nutcase claims responsibility.” His eyes darkened a bit, his nostrils flaring. He rubbed his chin as he walked to the windows and glared through the panes. “To weed the goats from the sheep.”

“The sheep being a killer in this case?” she asked, barely able to force the words past her teeth.

“Yeah. I guess so.” He was dead serious when he asked her, “Do you think you were targeted by this guy?”

“I don’t know.” How much could she tell this man, a virtual stranger?

He still looked through the window, his eyes thinning, as if he were trying to see further into the blizzard, catch a view beyond the pale. “Why the hell were you driving up on that ridge in the storm?”

“Why were you?” she responded.

He turned quickly, but his expression was hard as ever. “I was trying to find an alternate way to town for supplies. I was on my snowmobile and the storm was getting worse, but I did hear something.” He shook his head and rubbed a hand around his neck as he let out his breath and walked to the fire.

He’s hiding something
, Jillian sensed, and her skin prickled in dread.
He’s playing the same kind of cat-and-mouse game with you as you are with him.

She felt her heart drop.

“I thought…I mean, it was hard to hear because the engine on my Arctic Cat is pretty loud, but I thought I heard a rifle shot. Didn’t sound like a car backfiring.” His eyes found hers and she saw something in their gray depths, something dark and secret. She remembered someone near her car at the accident, a dark figure hovering nearby.

He walked to the fire again, his legs blocking the view of the flames, causing the room to darken. To shrink. While the wind never let up. Just kept shrieking.

“Okay,” she said quietly, not wanting to irritate him. “So you heard the shot, then what?”

For a second he didn’t answer and the soft hiss of the fire slipped through the room. “Then,” he finally said, “there was the sound of the crash, breaking limbs, groaning metal, someone screaming.”

Her throat turned to sand. Memories of the car’s horrific spin and plunge through the gaping white canyon cut through her mind. “Yes,” she said hoarsely.

He came a little closer, closing the distance between them. “Do you think you were a target?” he asked again.

She wanted to lie, but didn’t dare. He was too close. Her fingers squeezed around the crutch handle as well as the knife. “I…yeah, I think so.”

“And who would be out in the middle of the worst storm in a decade, lying in wait with a rifle, ready for target practice?”

She tensed inside. Wondered if she were talking to the very man who had taken aim at her, a sharpshooter who had intentionally shot at her.

“Tell me, Jillian,” he insisted, near enough now that she could feel the heat of his body, see the pores of his skin, notice the cruel turn of his lips. “Who do you think would want to kill you?”

Chapter Eleven

MacGregor’s question hung in the air between them while the dog, at last having given up bristling all over, turned in a circle in front of the hearth before settling onto a rag rug near the heat.

Her heart was pounding.

He was so damned close.

She thought about whipping out the knife, of telling him to back off, but she didn’t, not yet. Best to hold the weapon in reserve, she thought.

“I have no idea who would want to kill me,” she stated.

“Really?” MacGregor didn’t bother to hide his disbelief, but he backed up a couple of steps, giving her some space, allowing her to let out her breath and hear something more than the pounding of her heart in her eardrums. “You don’t have any enemies?”

“None that would want to murder me.”

“You’re certain of that?”

“Yes.” But was she? Dear God, the man was making her paranoid.

“Someone took a shot at you.” He unzipped his coat and slid his arms out of the sleeves, as if he’d finally warmed up. Something jangled in his pocket. Coins? Keys? A metal dog whistle?

“Or they were taking potshots at cars. I don’t think it was intentional. At least, not at me.”

“No?” Again, he was openly sarcastic and she felt a dread as cold and sharp as the icicles hanging from the eaves of this cabin.

Just who the hell was he?

It could be that he’s part of some kind of elaborate plot to kidnap or even kill you, and so far it’s working, isn’t it?
She reined in her thoughts in a hurry. She’d never been one to believe in conspiracy theories and wasn’t about to start now.

But Aaron had been.

He’d always been certain someone, probably some kind of government agent, had been out to get him. He’d believed that John F. Kennedy had been killed by a group affiliated with Russia, Castro or the mafia, and he had been certain that D. B. Cooper, the skyjacker who had jumped out of a plane in the Northwest in the early seventies, had received help and somehow miraculously survived. Jillian, though, had always been a realist.

Until now.

Until she was trapped by a snowstorm with a stranger in the wilds of Montana.

Until she might possibly be the victim of a killer in this frigid killing ground. Had this man shot out her tire then “rescued” her, only to eventually murder her? It took all her restraint not to slide a glance toward his gun cabinet, though she wondered what kind of rifles were locked inside.

She clasped her hands together tightly. “You think someone was trying to kill me? Me, personally?”