Clinching it tight, I raised the line to my teeth, using my front incisors to snip away the excess.
The knot was known as a basic fisherman’s knot, a simple overhand clinch affair used by anglers the world over. Having done it no less than a thousand times, it was completely second nature to me.
Perhaps even more so than watching clients get their lines tangled or lose flies as they attempted fly fishing for the first time.
The only difference between this time and most others was that usually the clients said thanks. Or at least pretended they were interested. Or that they wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world.
The client was a thin, balding man named Greg Gentry, a moniker I knew because he had spent most of the time since our arrival in the park screaming it into his phone, demanding that somebody on other end recognize who he was and start doing as he demanded. His son was named Preston, the sort of pretentious handle that a man like him wouldn’t think twice about saddling his child with.
The trip, as best I could tell, was meant to be a bonding vacation, though thus far I had seen little beyond open hostility or muted brooding between the two.
If I were forced to guess, I would say a divorce was either imminent or in the not-too-distant past, though I knew better than to pry.
Dressed in the latest L.L. Bean attire, Gentry cocked an eyebrow as he glanced down to the fly laying in the rocks by his feet before looking up to me. Smirking slightly, his mouth opened, the comment on his tongue cut short by the sound of a phone chirping to life.
On cue, whatever he was thinking seemed to pass from mind, his features going slack as he looked to either side, his hands rising to waist-height.
“My phone. Where’s my phone?”
“Relax,” I replied, recognizing the ringtone instantly, “it’s not yours.”
Leaving him along the riverbank, I ambled over the stone toward my tent, my gear already packed, ready to move on soon.
“You have reception up here?” Gentry asked, his tone incredulous.
“Sat phone,” I said, not bothering to turn back as I moved ahead. “Nobody has reception here.” Lowering my voice to nothing more than a grumble, I added, “That’s why we come here.”
Underfoot, the ground shifted from river stone to rocky soil, packed tight from years of being buried beneath the annual snowfall. Tufts of sage grass poked up at odd intervals, bending under my weight as I stepped to my pack and unzipped the side pocket, grabbing the sat phone and sliding it free.
Not bothering to glance at the screen, I moved further down the bank, letting it continue to ring, hoping that the park would excuse the noise intrusion for the sake of further agitating my client.
Only once I was out of range for him to eavesdrop did I accept the call, knowing the only person in the world that would be using it. Pressing it to my face, I said, “Hey, Kaylan.”
Kaylan Quick served as the office manager, greeter, scheduler, jack-of-all-trades, and indispensable partner for my guide business, Hawk’s Eye Tours. The point of contact for almost everything involved short of actually going out into the park, she was the veritable face of the establishment.
Which, given my disdain for haircuts or shaving, was a good thing.
“Oh Lord, sounds like your morning is already going as well as mine.”
Lifting my left wrist, I saw that it was just past eight o’clock. For me to be having a rough go dealing with a prick wasn’t uncommon. For her to even be awake wasn’t nearly as usual.
“Yeah? What’s going on?”
“Some woman has been blowing us up,” Kaylan replied. “She’s left three messages at the office and sent two emails to the general info account, all within the last hour.”
Turning to glance over my shoulder, I could see Gentry glancing my way, the fly I had just tied for him still lying on the ground by his feet. A little way down, Preston sat on a rock staring out over the water, his hands still thrust in his pockets.
Family bonding, at the bargain price of eight hundred dollars a day.
“Pissed off client?” I asked.
“Ran her through the database,” Kaylan replied, “never been here before.”
Raising my chin slightly, I said, “Someone trying to get in a late-season run?”
“Are you going to let me talk here or what?”
A bemused expression crossed my face as I glanced to the ground. Using the toe of my boot, I nudged a rock free from the soil and swung my foot at it, sending it skittering through the weeds.
“My apologies. Please continue.”
“Thank you,” Kaylan said, a bit of huff in her voice. “Anyway, I called the lady back this morning and she sounded all kinds of hysterical. Said it was absolutely vital she talk to you immediately.”
Of the people in the world that would find it that necessary to get me on the phone, I could only think of a small number that were women. Of those, each one had my direct number already or knew that if they couldn’t get through I was likely out here.
“She say what it was about?”
“No,” Kaylan replied. “All she said was to tell you it was Amber, you’d know who it was.”
Chapter Seventeen
The inside of the room stunk. Like a combination of body odor and bong water, it had first settled into Elyse Denman’s nostrils the moment she was pushed inside.
Every moment since it had grown more pronounced, just one more piece of the worst eight hour stretch in her life.
It was clear the place was never meant to be used as a holding chamber. Small and square, it was roughly eight feet in either direction. The carpet on the floor was tan, heavy stains of various origin splashed across it. The walls were made of dark paneling, random shards of posters and papers hanging at odd angles.
A sheet of plywood had been inserted over the single window, faint light seeping in around the edges, providing the only illumination in the room.
Just a day before, she could imagine it had been a bedroom, the place gone through in a hurry, every personal item that had once adorned the place cleared out. In their wake, the room had a faux sterile look to it, as if the owner was looking to hide something.
What that might be, Elyse didn’t want to even speculate on.
After pulling into the warehouse the night before, she was ordered to change cars. No part of her wanted to give up the BMW, the last vestige of her own life, the sole shred of connection she had to her family, but there was no way she could dare protest. Not with Ronell standing over her, gun in hand.
Not with his two friends peering over his shoulder, almost hoping she would do something foolish.
Acting as instructed, she had climbed into the front seat of the other car, a dingy Honda that looked and smelled even worse than the room she was now in. Once seated behind the front seat, the men had tied a cloth around her eyes, neither saying a word throughout the duration of the drive.
Twenty minutes later, the car had stopped and she was ordered out. Her hands were tied behind her back and she was marched inside, every warning sign and defense mechanism she possessed pinging at once.
Much like Ronell, the other two were definitely older than her. They were also from a much different class than she, each leering at her like hungry animals over a steak.
Time after time throughout the drive she had imagined what they had in mind. She had tried to concoct ways she might be able to fight them off, attempted to force her frightened mind to recall the slightest object in the car that might be used as a weapon.
But there was decidedly nothing. Only her fear, the emotion so strong it bordered on paralyzing. Every breath was forced, every step an exercise in fighting her body’s natural defenses.
Defenses that only grew more heightened as she was led into the bedroom and the blindfold was removed.
Standing on the threshold of the small space, seeing the unmade bed along the wall, the bare desktop sitting perpendicular to it, every terrible image she had conjured rushed back t
o the fore. Tears spilled over her cheeks as her breathing ceased, standing rigidly on the carpet, waiting for the inevitable.
Only to her surprise, it never came.
The only thing that was said was, “Don’t bother looking for a way out because there isn’t one. You’ll only piss us off.”
Adding nothing more, the door swung closed behind her, not to be opened since. Throughout the house, she had been able to pick up muffled voices. She had heard sounds of movement. But nobody came for her.
Left alone, she had settled onto the bed. Leaning against the wall, her hands still bound at the small of her back, she sat with her feet flat, her knees tented upward. Her skull rested against the wall, her gaze on the ceiling, watching the faint shadows from the cracks around the window dance upon the textured surface.
Existing in a state bordering on catatonic, she sat and stared without seeing. Attempting to detach from the moment, she tried not to think about her brother. Or where she might be. Or even what lay ahead for her.
Hovering in a different place, her mind blank, she barely registered the knock at the door. Barely managing to flick her gaze to the side, it wasn’t until it cracked open, a vertical sliver of light pouring in, that she blinked herself back into the present.
Jerking her body into movement, she dug her feet into the loose bedding, pushing herself tight against the wall. Her eyes went wide, heart rate climbing upward, as a head popped through the opening.
One of the two men she had gotten into the Honda with the night before, his face was thick and fleshy, a mop of curls encasing it. The one she’d heard referred to as Joey.
“Brought you breakfast,” he said, pushing the door the rest of the way open to reveal a small tray in his hands. On it sat a paper plate with two pieces of toast and a banana, a plastic cup of milk beside it.
No utensils of any kind.
A look that bordered on shyness crossed his face as he glanced her way before crossing the room and setting the tray down on the desk. Looking over at her again, he attempted a smile before adding, “Sorry, I know it’s not much. Not usually up this time of day.”
Her eyes wide with terror, Elyse remained silent. She stared at the guy, taking him in for the first time, able to truly regard him in the light spilling in from the opposite room.
While he was older than her, it wasn’t by nearly as much as the night before had indicated. Hovering somewhere around twenty, he seemed to still be carrying a bit of extra baby fat. Wearing a t-shirt and shorts, both were baggy and ill-fitting. A smell similar to the one she’d been enduring all night clung to him, hanging like a thin cloud around his every movement.
“Hope you’re hungry.”
She wasn’t – not even a little bit – but she wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. Swallowing hard, hoping it would clear the lump in her throat enough to speak, she managed, “I need my hands.”
Color flushed Joey’s cheeks as he motioned with his head. “Right. Turn over onto your side and I’ll untie you.”
For a moment, Elyse remained exactly where she sat. She simply stared at him, trying to gauge his instruction, the potential wisdom in following it.
Ronell or Jamal, there was no way. She would have thought they were just trying to get her off balance, that they wanted to humiliate her or worse.
With this one, she didn’t sense the same sort of underlying animosity.
Fighting to keep her features neutral, Elyse rolled over a few inches, exposing her wrists. Clenching tight, she prepared to lash out with her heel if necessary, feeling his skin brush against hers as he tugged on the rope pinning her hands together.
An instant later, it was gone, Joey taking a step back, the binding in hand. “Sorry about all that, couldn’t be too careful.”
Not sure what the trio of men might have been concerned with from her, Elyse said nothing. She drew her hands in front of her, thankful to be free of the strain on her shoulders. Glancing down to her wrists, she could see red skin irritation encircling them both, though she refused to let him see her rub them.
Taking another step back, retreating toward the door, Joey gestured toward the tray. “Anyway, you should eat. You’ll need it. We’re going to see Big Man soon.”
Chapter Eighteen
Amber is not a terribly uncommon name. It’s not Jennifer or Sarah or Tiffany, but it’s not unheard of. For someone to call and say nothing more than that might be a stretch to some people.
I knew instantly who was on the other end of the line. I believed that they had called three times and emailed twice that morning. I had no doubt they were a strong enough reason to be why Kaylan now sounded like her morning was off to a rocky start.
What I didn’t know was why in the hell Amber was calling me.
My head was raised toward the jagged horizon of the Absarokas, though I didn’t see a thing. My eyes were glazed over, deep in thought, already steeling myself for the conversation ahead.
“Did she leave a number?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Kaylan replied, rattling it off in short order. “Who’s Amber?”
I ignored the question, instead repeating the number twice to myself, committing it to memory.
“Hawk, who the hell is Amber?” Kaylan asked again, annoyance plain in her voice.
Which, if past interaction was any indicator, was about to be the least of my concerns.
“My sister-in-law,” I replied, cutting the line off without another word. I knew that doing so would only further piss Kaylan off, but there was no way I was going to sit and answer all her questions.
Not when I had so many of my own.
Shifting once more, I checked to make sure Gentry was still well on down the bank before turning back to the phone. Taking a few steps, I put a little extra distance between us, entering the number into the phone and staring down at the string of digits spread across it.
Twice, I took a deep breath, considering my next move.
Finally, I hit send.
The call was snatched up after a single ring. Nobody replied for a moment, nothing but muffled sounds coming over the receiver, before a voice I hadn’t heard in six years came on the line.
“Hawk?”
A single pulse pushed through my chest. Just hearing the sound of it, my core seized tight, a bit of air sliding through my lips.
“Hawk, are you there?”
More than half a decade had passed since I heard that voice. The tone was much different than our last conversation, but I would know the sound anywhere.
“I’m here,” I managed, the words low and stilted, relaying exactly the amount of uncertainty I felt. Dropping my face toward the ground, I dislodged another rock, sending it flying out into the water. Ripples traveled across a small eddy, making it more than three feet before being swept up by the current.
Again, I heard muffled movement, as if she was covering the mouthpiece. Where she was or who she was trying to keep from listening in, I hadn’t a clue.
“Listen,” she said, the words coming out in a rapid cadence, “where are you?”
I could feel a crease form between my brows as I considered the question. A quick glance around me confirmed I was standing along the Gibbons River, that I was in the middle of a valley there was no chance she had ever heard of.
But somehow, I doubted that’s what she meant.
“Yellowstone,” I replied.
“Yellow-“ she began, letting her voice trail off. “How fast can you get to Tennessee?”
The crease between my brows disappeared as they spread wide, shooting up my forehead. My eyes grew round as well, surprise setting me back an inch.
The last time we had spoken was in the wake of my wife and daughter’s passing. Killed because of my work with the DEA by members of a faction I was tracking, Amber had made it very clear she held me personally responsible for the death of her sister and niece.
She also held no bones in her assessment of me, as a husband and a father.
“What?”
I asked, the single word all I could manage.
“Look,” she said, a tiny bit of the hostility of a moment before bleeding out. In its place remained the previous tension, tinged with something vaguely sounding like desperation. “Don’t make me beg. I need your help.”
My initial reaction was to bristle. There were only a handful of legitimate reasons that she would be calling like this, almost all of them handled by someone far more capable than I.
More likely, she was trying to lure me in. She had figured out some form of trap – whether it be judicial or financial or something else – and she just needed me nearby.
She wanted me in the state to serve me notice of an impending civil suit. There were family assets that had been passed to her sister that she wanted returned.
“Look, Amber,” I began.
“No, you look,” she inserted, cutting me off. “This isn’t about me and you. If it was, I wouldn’t have called. I remember the arrangement. We stay here, you stay away, never the two cross.”
It was an extremely sanitized version of the way she had framed it the last time we talked. In this telling, only the punchline remained the same.
“The kids...” she started, her voice breaking. Again, I heard the sound of the mouthpiece being covered.
For the first time since placing the call, the trepidation I felt peeled back. My focus shifted, winnowing in on the words being shared.
Amber Denman was not above hitting me with a lawsuit or wishing me dead.
But she would never, ever bring her kids into it.
“I’m at the hospital now. Eric’s been shot. Elyse is missing. Please, I need your help.”
Chapter Nineteen
The room was small and cramped. Designed to originally have been office space for an attending physician, the flooring was light gray, the walls plain white. Along one side was a plain beige loveseat, white end tables on either end. A window along the back allowed plenty of mid-day sun to stream in, giving the place an almost ethereal glow.
Home Fire: A Suspense Thriller (A Hawk Tate Novel Book 5) Page 6