True Lies
True Lies
Ingrid Weaver
To Melanie, George and Karl— three truly amazing people.
Contents
Chapter 1
B
ruce Prentice hadn’t used the tourist disguise in years, but it was one of his favorites. This time he wouldn’t need to risk the inconvenience of a fake beard, since his own scruffy blond stubble had reached a length that buried his distinctive chin and jawline. The wads of gauze that he held against his gums effectively filled the lean hollows of his cheeks.
He flicked a quick, assessing glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror, then allowed himself a tight quirk of a smile as he noted the way the contacts turned his eyes a nondescript brown. Subtle props were the easiest to work with, like the padding that expanded his stomach four sizes and the baggy jacket that would allow him to curl his shoulders forward. The loose clothes had another advantage—they effectively concealed the gun that nestled in the custom-made holster at the small of his back.
He spotted the mailbox, a rusty red one that leaned on a post beside the ditch, half hidden by the swaying grass at the side of the road. He put down the clutch and let the van coast to a stop as he checked the name.
“Emma Cassidy,” he read aloud, trying out the slightly nasal twang that he had decided to use. Bruce had learned that unsophisticated accents tended to put people at ease, making them more cooperative, and making the actual timbre of his voice less memorable. That was only one of the hundreds of tricks he had learned during the years he’d been working at the job.
The job. That’s what he called it, when he took the time to think about it, even though it had long ago gone beyond the bounds of merely a way to make a living. He seldom concerned himself with money. He hadn’t taken a vacation in four years. What he did became who he was, and who he was varied from day to day. A month ago he had been a homeless vagrant. A year ago he had been a priest. He was a tourist this time because it gave him a valid reason for nosing around these woods.
Through the open window floated an acrid trace of wood smoke, along with the sharp scent of the spruces that loomed over the road. Silence rolled back at him as the dark trees absorbed the last echoes of the engine. He pocketed his keys, giving himself a moment to observe his surroundings. Bruce was more accustomed to working the streets of Chicago, but Emma Cassidy had chosen to conduct her business at the end of a sparsely populated dirt road on the outskirts of Bethel Corners. The quaintly tiny Maine town was an unlikely setting, he thought, but there was no mistake. The trail he had been following for weeks had led him here.
He swiveled from his seat, then stooped over to walk to the back of the van and squatted down to unzip his camera bag. With quick, economical movements he snapped a telephoto lens in place, slipped the padded camera strap over his shoulder and opened the rear door. At the sudden squeak of metal, a squirrel chattered maniacally from the concealment of a bushy pine. Bruce stepped to the road, easing the door shut behind him.
The driveway that led into the woods was little more than a rutted track. In the damp depression beside a basketball-size boulder were the traces of wide, deep-treaded tires. Automatically Bruce swung the camera up, focused, and recorded the pattern. These tracks would be from the blue four-wheel-drive pickup that had rattled past five minutes ago. If she was going to town, she would be gone for forty minutes, thirty minimum. If he was lucky, only the squirrels would witness the brief reconnaissance foray he’d planned. Still, with a caution learned from long experience, he maintained his stooped posture and shuffling gait as he made his way through the shadows that dappled the drive.
At the crest of a hill the trees abruptly gave way to an open expanse of rock and low bushes. A small bungalow-size log cabin perched on a rise that faced a sparkling blue lake. To one side was a neatly stacked crib full of firewood and an open shed that was probably used as a garage, to the other side was a round cement well and a fenced-in rectangle with rows of mounded dark earth and trembling green sprouts. Bruce cataloged it all. Shelter, fuel, water and food—she was practically self-sufficient here. She could hole up for days, maybe weeks at a time. A good place to hide, he decided, glancing behind him toward the road that was already lost to sight.
He angled his baseball cap to shade his eyes as he turned in a slow circle. The cabin was isolated, not only by its location, but by the tight-lipped, mind-your-own-business yankee character of the locals. A twinge of interest nibbled at his mind. Perhaps she was smarter than he had thought.
Walking forward, he took several shots to record the layout, then pointed the camera toward the shore of the lake. As good as binoculars, the long lens gave him a clear view of the gleaming white plane that bobbed gently at the end of a wooden dock.
That’s how she did it, of course. A float plane didn’t need to use runways. Or official border crossings. With hundreds of miles of rugged bush between here and the St. Lawrence, a skilled pilot could rendezvous in the black of night, make a pickup, and bring the cargo back to this picturesquely peaceful lake with no witnesses except the moose and the muskrat.
Beneath the scruffy beard his jaw clenched. People in Cassidy’s business were well paid for the risks they ran. Bruce had long ago stopped trying to figure out why they did it. There was no explaining human greed, no justifying the misery that resulted from even one midnight run. Getting rid of a link like this would only interrupt the flow, not stop it. But this was one way to get to the source. And before he was finished with Miss Emma Cassidy, he intended to make her useful, whether she wanted to cooperate or not.
The fine hairs at the back of his neck tingled. Although he couldn’t identify any sound that had alerted him, suddenly Bruce knew that he was no longer alone. Careful to keep his movements casual, he swung the camera in a slow arc, scanning the dark forest, the rocky hillside, the cabin, the drive....
A lone woman stood on the crest of the hill, the sun at her back, her slim body braced against the breeze. Leather boots laced past her ankles, black denim clung to her long legs. The loose white shirt she wore fluttered, flattening briefly against compact but generous curves. Her face was shadowed by a broad-brimmed canvas hat, so he had only a quick impression of a delicate jaw and a dimpled chin before he clicked the shutter and lowered the camera.
“Hi, there,” he called, using the voice he had chosen.
In response she moved forward. She walked with the easy stride of an athlete, each step a study in fluid grace. Without slowing down, she lifted her arms and unslung the weapon that she had been carrying on her back.
Despite the years of training and the countless times he had met the unexpected, Bruce couldn’t help the tickle of surprise he felt as he realized what she held. It was a hunting bow. Its sleek curves gleamed in the sunlight, its long, narrow stabilizers bristled outward. The pulley-enhanced bowstring promised swift, silent penetration. There was something primitive about the way her fingers wrapped around the carved grip and casually clutched its deadly potential, something almost...sensual.
Bruce felt his pulse thud as blood coursed heavily through his gut. He couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced this sudden thrill of anticipation before a job. She would be a worthy adversary, an entertaining prey.
“Was that your van at the foot of my driveway?” she asked. Her voice was low and steady, filled with an emotion that could have been anger.
The sun was still at her back. He couldn’t see her eyes, so he kept his gaze on her hands, alert for any movement that might indicate her intentions. “You must be Miss Cassidy.” He wiped his palm on his baggy multipocketed pants and stuck out his hand. “I'm Bruce Prendergast. I heard in town that I could find you out here.”
She halted about six yards away, bracing her feet apart and pulling an arrow from the quiver at her waist with a controlled, insolent motion. “What do you want, Bruce Prendergast?”
He assessed the ease with which she handled her weapon. Chances were he wouldn’t be able to get to his gun before she nocked the arrow, so the best course of action would be to play out his cover. It was too soon for a confrontation. That wasn’t what he had planned.
Letting the hand he offered drop awkwardly to his side, he maintained his pose of amiable harmlessness. “I wanted to talk to you about hiring your plane.”
Beneath the flowing white shirt her bow arm flexed. An oblong leather guard was strapped above the wrist, molding a suggestion of smooth muscle. “What would a reporter want with my plane?”
He cleared his throat, feigning a nervousness he didn’t feel. Adrenaline was surging through his body. His muscles tingled with the urge to move, to act, to wrest control of the situation. He wouldn’t be able to reach his gun, but if he dived to his left, away from the bow, and did a few quick rolls, he could probably take her down to the ground. She appeared to be around five foot six, more than half a foot shorter than his real height. He outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, so he wouldn’t have any trouble subduing her if it came to physical contact. He’d keep the option in mind. “Reporter? I'm not a reporter, I'm an accountant. I'm just here to do some—”
“Then why the camera?”
“This?” He glanced down at the object in his hand as if he had forgotten he still held it. “Oh, heck. I always take tons of pictures when I'm on vacation. I've taken two rolls just since New Hampshire—it’s beautiful country around here. I'm not much good at it, though. Taking pictures, I mean.”
A gust of wind rippled her white shirt, pulling the open collar to one side. For the space of a heartbeat, sunlight slid over the upper curve of her breast before the supple fabric fell back into place. “This is private property, Mr. Prendergast.”
He nodded quickly, then flapped a hand toward the plane behind him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to trespass. The fella at the gas station told me that you might be willing to fly me in to some of the lakes to the north of here, so I thought, why not?”
“Who sent you? What’s the name of this fella you talked to?”
Within the concealment provided by his loose coat he slouched a little more. She had sounded suspicious, not only of what he had said, but of the way he had said it. Oh, yes. She would be a worthy adversary. “Hugh something. I don’t know his last name. He sold me a bunch of fishing tackle from that shop he’s got in the back.” He crinkled his nose in a smile consistent with the inoffensive cowardice of his persona. “Uh, ma'am, that bow is making me nervous. Would you mind pointing it somewhere else?”
Her mouth twitched—was that a smirk? Instead of putting the weapon away, she began circling slowly to her left. “Do I really make you nervous, Bruce?”
She was doing it deliberately, he realized with a start. She thought she was frightening him, and she was playing her advantage to the maximum. The steady thud of his pulse was loud in his ears as the anticipation he felt heightened. He still couldn’t see her eyes, so he couldn’t be sure what she would do. The way she was moving would make it more difficult for him to take her—did she realize that? “Uh, ma'am?”
The fingers that held the shaft of the arrow were long and slender. Absently she ran her thumb over the trio of stubby feathers that were set into the blunt end. “Which lake were you interested in?”
“Uh, any lake as long as it has fish.”
“You're a fisherman?”
He affected a nervous chuckle. “I'm not much good at that, either, but I've heard there’s terrific fishing toward the Quebec border. While I was in the neighborhood, so to speak, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to try my luck.” He attempted another smile. “Please, do you think you could put that bow away, now? If we're going to be doing business together—”
“That hasn’t been established, yet.” Her fingers moved over the arrow as she ran a fingertip along the smooth wooden shaft. It was a slow, unconsciously suggestive movement.
He watched her hand warily, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Hugh from the gas station said that you often fly parties of fishermen to some of the lakes that don’t have road access,” he said, adding a whine to his twang. “What’s your usual rate?”
“I'm not a professional pilot. I've only got my recreational certificate, so all I can charge is the cost of the fuel. Accepting a fee is against the rules, and I wouldn’t want to do anything illegal, now, would I?”
Her scruples had to be as phony as his potbelly, but he was willing to play her game. “Well, heck. That doesn’t seem fair. How much does the fuel usually cost?”
