‘You cheap—’
‘It must have been just before it happened. The timing’s about right.’
She covered her mouth with her hand, didn’t want to think about what might have happened.
‘Thank God you decided not to be so tight. You might have been in there when it happened. It could have been you who got shot, playing the hero.’
‘That doesn’t sound like me.’
He was trying to make light of it but she knew that’s exactly what would have happened if he’d been there. A shiver went through her.
‘Try to remember you’re on vacation, okay?’
‘You know what they say—no rest for the wicked.’
She laughed, such honest pleasure in the sound he had to smile.
‘If that was true, you could sell your bed, you’d never need it again. Come on, let’s go in. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.’
They climbed out and he got their bags from the trunk, took them through into the lobby, a tasteful mix of old world charm and modern convenience. Off to the side a log fire crackled in a massive stone fireplace, comfortable chairs flanking it, a faded antique rug on the floor.
‘Mr. And Mrs. Guinea Pig checking in,’ Evan said to the clerk on reception.
Gina kicked him. The clerk was polite and well-trained enough to pretend he hadn’t heard. He introduced himself as Luca Ebersold, he was Swiss, and he was actually the manager. They were operating on a skeleton staff on account of there being so few guests.
‘Who else is here?’ Gina asked.
‘Just one other couple. And their daughter.’
Gina raised an eyebrow.
‘There were two other lucky couples,’ Luca explained, putting particular emphasis on the lucky, ‘but one of them cancelled.’
‘Really?’
Luca shrugged like he couldn’t understand it either.
‘Then Mr. Harris called and asked if they could bring their daughter, Emily. She’s seven. I thought, why not? We’ve got more than enough space.’
It sounded as if Luca wasn’t as thrilled as he tried to make out at having an excited seven-year-old running around his newly-renovated luxury hotel. Like he’d thought of a dozen good reasons why not, but he’d been overruled. He made the word seven sound like she’d contracted rabies. Gina glanced around and noticed a number of expensive looking antiques tastefully placed around the lobby.
‘She must absolutely love it here.’
Luca smiled and Gina wondered how much training was needed before you could smile like that when a guest just said something that annoyed the hell out of you.
‘She does. And so will you.’
He passed a key across.
‘I’ve put you in the Treetop Suite. Don’t worry, it’s not a tree house suite’—he gave a small, professional smile—‘but we call it that because it’s located on the top floor of the main lodge. It’s got stunning views of the forest, the lake and the mountains. The windows wrap around the entire suite.’
‘It sounds amazing.’
She took the key, a proper old-fashioned thing you put in a lock, not a piece of plastic.
‘We might well spend the whole weekend in the room,’ she added for Evan’s benefit.
‘I think he put us up there because he’s worried you’ll make too much noise,’ Evan whispered as they started up the magnificent oak staircase. ‘Doesn’t want little Emily saying Mummy, why’s that lady screaming? Is somebody hurting her?’
The room was everything Luca had said and then some.
‘Look at this.’
Gina ran her hand over the massive antique four poster bed that seemed to grow out of the floor, the intricate carvings still well-defined.
Evan gave it a shake.
‘Solid too. At least we won’t disturb little Emily.’
He noticed some strange scarring on the wooden posts. Made him wonder what people had been getting up to.
‘Damn,’ he said, trying to keep his face deadpan.
‘What?’
‘I left the rope in the car.’
His mouth froze, still half-open. He tried a stupid grin. Too late he realized his mistake. The last time she’d been tied to anything it was to a wooden chair in a deserted warehouse. There’d been a sexual undercurrent running through that experience as well, just not so wholesome or playful as what he had in mind.
He needn’t have worried.
Her forehead creased into a frown before she understood what he was saying. She rolled her eyes, shook her head—men!
But she didn’t make the connection.
Or, if she did, she didn’t let him know it.
‘There’s a fire too.’
She walked over to the wood-burning stone fireplace and turned her back to it, warming herself.
‘By the time we finish in front of the fire here, all you’ll be good for in bed is sleeping.’
‘You reckon? I like a challenge.’
He grinned at her, opening the French doors that led onto a private covered balcony. He stepped out and looked down, over the pristine snow-covered lawn to the boathouse and frozen lake beyond, and the mountains beyond that. He brushed an inch of snow off the wooden railing, drew the clean, crisp air deep into his lungs. It made him want to leap over the railing and slide down the roof, roll in the perfect snow. He ought to live somewhere like this, in the mountains, where a missing cow was front-page news and nothing bad ever happened.
‘Aren’t you going to shut that?’ she said, when he finally came back inside, leaving the door slightly open.
‘No. Fresh air’s good for you. And it helps the fire draw.’
She pretended to shiver.
‘You better come over here and find some other way to keep us warm.’
Chapter 3
GINA WOKE LATE THE second time. The first time was when Evan got up and headed out into the woods some place to get in an hour or two of tai chi before breakfast.
He’d asked if she wanted to tag along, and she’d replied she had things to do—like rolling over into the warm patch he’d just left and going back to sleep.
Like all normal people would.
She got out of bed, wrapped herself in the thick robe from the bathroom and stood at the French doors, staring out at the clear, pale blue sky. Below her, a line of footprints ran through the six-inch covering of snow on the lawn leading down to the lake and then off into the woods. Evan would have found somewhere peaceful without having to look too hard. He usually performed his tai chi set barefoot. She wondered whether he’d give himself a break today and keep his boots on. You probably got thrown out of the club for that sort of behavior. It made her shiver just thinking about it.
They’d banked the fire the previous night and now she added some fresh logs and kindling. She prodded it with the poker and soon it was crackling away in the fireplace. What she needed now was coffee. Being such an up-market sort of place there wasn’t a coffee machine in the room, you were supposed to call for room service. She wondered just how skeletal the skeleton staff really was. Would Luca be covering that duty as well?
She dialed the front desk anyway but there was no reply. She’d have to go down and find some herself. It would give the fire time to get the room nice and cozy for when Evan came back. The French doors were still slightly open, the cold air helping the fire get going as Evan had said. Smartass knew everything.
Earlier, he’d gone out onto the balcony to see if he could do his set there, but he’d pronounced it far too small. She smiled to herself. They both knew the real reason was because he didn’t like it when she giggled as he went through his moves. She couldn’t help it, he took it so seriously.
She pulled on jeans and a sweater, slipping her feet into the heavy hiking boots he’d insisted she bring along. She automatically picked up her cell phone, then remembered there was no signal. The hotel had free Wi-Fi but it had gone down in the storm last night. She dropped the phone back down on the dresser next to Evan’s. He
never kept his with him when he was doing his tai chi thing. He’d never allow modern day technology to interfere with his arcane, medieval Chinese activities.
His precious Zippo lighter sat on the dresser next to his phone. That was strange, he never went anywhere without it—even though he wasn’t a smoker.
She’d never asked him about it, got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it. It wasn’t a problem, it was just a lighter after all. It had most likely belonged to his father, as he wasn’t old enough to have fought in Vietnam himself. Whatever it was, it was important to him.
She picked it up and read the verse engraved on the worn, pitted metal.
We the unwilling
Led by the unqualified
To kill the unfortunate
Die for the ungrateful
She shivered as she read it and it wasn’t from the draft. That a man chose those words in the full knowledge he was likely to join those who died for the ungrateful made her swallow thickly. If those emotions had flowed down into Evan’s genes, she could understand why he was driven the way he was. And why he sometimes acted like it was him against the whole world.
Trouble was, he was keeping it all bottled up inside. One day soon the lid was going to come off. She wasn’t sure she wanted to be there when it did. Last night, he’d been tossing and turning, crying out in his sleep. Names she didn’t recognize—Adamson, Crow—and one she pushed to the back of her mind.
But it was the phrase he kept on repeating over and over that stuck in her mind.
None so lost.
The words sounded so forlorn. She lay there half-asleep, half-awake with the covers pulled up under her chin, the cold draft from the open French doors chilling her bones. Her pulse was racing, her mind more so, as she imagined faceless men with hands as cold as death climbing in from the balcony. She saw them standing at the foot of the bed, watching her, then carrying her off as Evan slumbered unawares.
She eventually fell asleep to the sound of the mumbled words, meaning to ask him about it in the morning. But when morning came, she was scared to ask. In the cold light of day, the words were like a harbinger of heartache to come.
Besides, she knew him well enough already to know he’d accuse her of dreaming it or make a joke about it, saying she’d drunk too much wine. You only got to find out something about him when he was ready for you to.
It wouldn’t be an easy conversation if they ever had it. She wasn’t about to risk spoiling the weekend. She put the lighter back carefully, wishing she hadn’t picked it up in the first place, and headed off in search of coffee.
The loud clumping of her boots on the stairs was the only sound as she made her way downstairs. The lobby was deserted, the roaring fire of the previous night dead. Not everyone was as good a Boy Scout as Evan. The room didn’t feel nearly so inviting without it. Luca was nowhere in sight. Maybe he was cooking breakfast. The rug that stretched from the front doors to the reception desk was sodden, water pooling on the wooden floor, as if somebody—a whole herd of people from the look of it—had tramped snow in from outside not caring how much mess they made.
It hadn’t been like that last night—and they’d been the last to arrive. No more guests were expected.
An uncomfortable burning sensation started building strength in her chest, a buzz of trepidation rippling through her stomach. Something wasn’t right. Where the hell was Luca? How could someone like him, who got bent out of shape about a seven-year-old child just staying in the place, put up with a mess like that. Times like this, she wished she didn’t watch so much TV. Scenes from the movie The Shining filled her mind, made her wish Evan would hurry up and get back. Trouble was, she knew once he got into his routine he could lose himself for hours.
Wet footprints tracked across the polished wood floor from the rug to behind the reception desk. She followed them, more convinced with every step that she was about to find out exactly where Luca was, find out why he didn’t give a damn about the mess in his lobby. She imagined him lying on his back behind the desk, mouth open, his neck bent at an impossible angle, a pool of blood congealing behind his head.
He wasn’t there.
She breathed again, felt her stomach drop back into place, saw something that surprised her. An empty bottle of Old Crow Bourbon. Surely the impeccable Luca wasn’t a secret drinker. Then something else caught her eye only because it was exactly what her over-active mind was expecting to see—a blood-soaked Kleenex dropped on the floor.
She told herself he’d most likely had a nose bleed. It was the dry, cold air, everybody knew that. Apart from the little voice at the back of her mind, of course. Seemed it didn’t know shit.
She told it to shut up, went and looked in the dining room. Empty. It hadn’t even been set for breakfast.
The feeling in her stomach intensified, moving downwards into her legs. The scar from when she’d been shot throbbed insistently, as if it was anticipating some company.
Damn it.
She never used to be like this. But ever since the events of two month ago, the slightest thing turned her into a nervous wreck. She wished she’d never come down. But coffee was coffee after all.
There was a murmur of voices coming from the far end of the dining room. She guessed that’s where the kitchen was. She immediately felt better. Felt stupid in fact for worrying over nothing. She clumped towards the kitchen doors in her heavy boots, the thick rug underfoot absorbing the sound of her footsteps.
The voices in the kitchen were louder now—too loud, as if people were arguing.
The feeling in her gut came back with a vengeance.
She crept forward, suddenly aware of the sound of her heavy boots, despite the thick rug.
There were double doors, each with a round, porthole window. She’d take a peek first, before going in. Maybe the argument was nothing, maybe Luca had burned the toast and the chef was chewing him out. She was being stupid, but better safe than sorry. She stepped up to the doors, keeping her head to the side of the windows.
There was a sudden flurry of activity behind her, a rapid scampering of feet and something slammed into her legs.
She let out a loud shriek, her heart thudding wildly in her chest. She fell forwards into the double doors, knocking them open, tumbling into the kitchen. Emily, the Harris’ seven-year-old daughter tumbled in after her, laughing with glee.
She saw Luca and another guy she hadn’t seen before, wearing black and white chef’s pants. They were both red in the face as if they’d been arguing before she burst in so unexpectedly. Relief flooded through her. What the hell was wrong with her?
Then she saw the trickle of blood at the side of Luca’s mouth. His nose was bloody too. Did the chef hit him? Sure, chefs are volatile, but how upset can you get over a burned breakfast?
‘What’s going—’
There was a noise behind her. Somebody stepped up and put a hand on her back, shoved her roughly into the middle of the room. She stumbled and fell into Luca who tried to catch her. The guy who pushed her grabbed Emily, pulling her into his body with his free hand, a sawed-off shotgun in the other.
A second, leathery-faced man stepped across from the other side of the double doors, a small black pistol in his large hand. With his V-neck sweater over a shirt and tie, he looked like a retired insurance salesman—except the only thing he’d be selling today was death benefits. He gave Gina a long look, stopped just short of licking his lips.
‘Uh-oh.’
‘What?’ the guy with sawed-off said.
‘You’re going to have trouble keeping junior in check with this one around.’
‘Yeah, well, maybe I won’t even try.’
Emily squirmed in his grip as he talked, but he held her tighter, making her snivel. He clamped his hand over her mouth. She bit it.
‘Ow!’
He jerked his hand back. She twisted away, but the other guy caught hold of her before she got far.
‘For Christ’s sake, Todd. Can’t you
even hold onto a five-year-old kid?’
‘I’m not five, I’m seven. I want my mommy.’
She bit him too.
‘What was that, Mason?’ Todd laughed, as Mason shook his hand.
‘I want my mommy.’
Mason pushed her towards Gina.
‘Jeez, you can have her. Remind me never to have kids.’
But Emily turned and made a dash for the doors. Todd caught her again, tucked her up under his arm, a frown on his face.
‘So you’re not mommy?’ he said to Gina.
Gina didn’t answer.
The double doors flew open again and another guy, a lot younger than the other two, came in. Like them, he had a gun in his hand.
‘Hey junior, look what we got for you,’ Mason said.
‘Will you quit calling me that . . .’
His voice trailed off as he looked Gina up and down, the irritation twisting his face slipping away to be replaced by a leering grin.
‘Junior, Sonny, what’s the difference?’ Mason said.
But Sonny wasn’t listening any more.
Chapter 4
GINA STARED IN HORROR at the scrawny kid they called Sonny. She shuddered at the sight of his bad skin and lank hair that looked like he styled it by sticking his head in the toilet bowl and flushing. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering openly on her breasts. Unlike the older one, Mason, this one licked his thin lips as he stared at her.
Something foul lived behind his bright, mean eyes that you didn’t want to look at. It made her feel dirty. It was obvious, just from looking at him, that he wasn’t quite right. Anything could happen when he was around.
Instinctively she knew he enjoyed hurting people.
He trotted across the room towards her like a hyena that had spotted a wounded calf. He grabbed her roughly by the jaw. His fingers dug into her cheeks, untrimmed nails sharp on her skin. He turned her head from side to side as if he was inspecting her, like she was a horse he might buy. Letting go of her chin, he grabbed her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her head backwards, exposing her throat
‘Mmm, mmm, mmm.’
He leaned in close, nuzzled her neck, the patchy stubble on his chin scratching her. A shiver of revulsion rippled through her, made her legs weak.
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 90