Mask of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  “I have to find Felicia.” And in her voice he heard a familiar note of shame. He clamped back a curse. He didn’t want to feel anything for her, especially not understanding.

  “Kingsley will be her contact,” Falconer continued. “She’s not going to interfere with your work.”

  “Yeah.” Ace crossed his arms over his chest. That he had to see. He’d bet his last five hundred that she’d have half of Summersfield ticked off at her before the end of the day. Curious women always caused trouble.

  Rory slanted him the coldest smile he’d ever seen. “I’ll pretend you don’t exist.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” The ice, he realized, was a poor mask for the fire still burning hot somewhere in that lean body. Like the suit that did its best to hide the curves in the right places, she was damping back her true nature. That ignited a spark of curiosity he quickly snuffed. Don’t get involved. She was just one more problem in a whole vipers’ nest of them.

  Kingsley, the electronics wizard who ran the Seekers’ command center, knocked and poked his head through the door. With his red suspenders and easygoing nature, Kingsley reminded Ace of a golden retriever. “I have the parts you wanted.” He held out a box with the rocker covers Ace was supposed to be picking up for his classic Indian.

  On his way out, Kingsley gave Rory the once over, and Ace had to laugh. “Forget it, pal. She’ll burn you before she gives you the time of day.”

  It wasn’t until he grabbed his gloves and sunglasses that he remembered there was a good reason he hadn’t become a firefighter. Fire made him choke, and he was partial to breathing. “Give me a chance to get back before you send her out.”

  “Candace will call the Division Child, Youth and Family if I don’t get there before her shift.” Rory scraped her chair back and collected her belongings.

  For a second, the image of kindling flashed across his mind, and he sighed silently. “If she knows you’re coming, she’ll wait.”

  “How do you know?”

  He slid the sunglasses over his eyes. “Because I deal with people, not names on a computer screen.”

  He could feel the scorch of her gaze long after he’d fired up the Indian and opened the throttle as far as it would go. That couldn’t be good. Not at all.

  Chapter Two

  The instant Rory saw her niece, a pool of guilt filled her to near drowning. Why hadn’t she come to visit in the past nine months? Why hadn’t she dragged Felicia and Hannah home with her? Why had she let all the painful memories stored in the granite bed of this state turn her into a coward?

  Across the cramped living room, Hannah sprawled in a mesh-sided travel crib swaddled in a pair of pink footed pajamas. Her arms were splayed at her sides, and her loose fists showed off smooth palms and tiny fingers. A nine-patch quilt in shades of pink lay beside one hand. One corner looked gummed as if Hannah had used it as a pacifier. Flyaway curls of a soft brown with red highlights surrounded her face. A face that, in sleep, spelled innocence and vulnerability, and at once made Rory feel as needed as a calculus book in a poetry class.

  She was used to order, to things done her way, to being the master of her days. This baby, who didn’t look much bigger than a library edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, actually had her pulse skittering as if she were facing an armed madman demanding she produce plans for a nuclear device. She swallowed hard. “I don’t know anything about babies.”

  She hadn’t realized she’d spoken out loud until Candace’s voice grated against her ears. “Hannah’s an easy baby.”

  Which meant next to nothing to Rory. Easy was an instruction manual, and she didn’t see one lying conveniently around. She let her tapestry tote bag slip from her shoulders to the rust-carpeted floor and peered farther over the edge of the crib at the creature sleeping there. What did Hannah eat? How long did she sleep? How did one entertain a nine-month-old child? Then there were diapers and baths and tears. The responsibility of it all gave her legs the sturdiness of wet sponges. She’d never worn helplessness well. “Tell me about her routine.”

  Candace, dressed in black stretch pants and a light-blue sweatshirt with a sledding snowman printed on the front, finished tidying up the coffeemaker in the kitchenette and moved to the tiny living room where a soap opera played on the television. “Felicia usually covers the breakfast and lunch shifts at the diner, so Hannah goes to the sitter’s around 5:00 a.m. and gets picked up around 3:00 p.m.”

  Candace headed to a pile of knitting on the seat of a faded lime-green armchair. She stuffed the balls of light-blue yarn and steel needles into a yellowing canvas bag with a Summersfield town centennial logo. Then hands on hips, she frowned at the floor as if she were looking for something. “Other than that, Hannah pretty much leads the way. She still takes a couple of naps a day, but sleeps through the night. She’s a good eater. It doesn’t take much to keep her happy.”

  With a humph, Candace bent at the waist and picked up a glossy magazine, featuring a snowflake sweater and a rosy-cheeked pre-schooler, that had somehow strayed beneath the armchair. The map of lines on the older woman’s face placed her age on the strong side of fifty. Her short, bristle-stiff hair was still brown, although gray roots showed. Rory had not seen her stand in place for longer than a second since she’d arrived—and even then, her knitting needles had clicked like an old-fashioned typewriter manned by manic fingers. There was nothing soft or sweet about her, yet there was a spirit of generosity Rory found hard to ignore.

  “Thanks for waiting for me.” She could handle Hannah on her own. Felicia had done it. So could she. How hard could it be?

  Candace humphed again as she grabbed her black Mary Poppins handbag from the half wall separating the narrow kitchenette from the living room. “She’s a good kid.”

  Rory wasn’t sure if she meant Felicia or Hannah. “Have you heard from Felicia?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  Candace slid the handles of the canvas knitting bag over her shoulders. “I learned a long time ago to mind my own business.”

  “But—”

  “Summersfield ain’t no Currier and Ives postcard, honey. It’s all I know, and I don’t want to cause myself any grief. Felicia, well, she made some decisions that are hard to undo. And if you want my advice—although somehow I doubt you’ll take it—I’d wrap that pretty baby up and take her away.”

  “I have to find Felicia.” For all her faults her sister had finally done something right.

  “It ain’t going to change anything.”

  “You think she’s…hurt?” Rory could not bring herself to say dead out loud.

  Frowning, Candace rummaged through her bag. “What I think don’t matter.”

  “If Felicia’s in danger, I have to help her.”

  Out came a purple bear with one ragged ear. Candace handed the plush toy to Rory. “Have you ever thought that maybe it’s too late to help her?”

  Rory blinked in surprise. “No, I hadn’t.”

  Not really.

  At least she’d discounted that dire possibility. She still thought of Felicia as the headstrong kid who had a knack for checking out when the going got tough. She’d run away from school on a regular basis. She’d run from summer camp. She’d run from home. Rory had thought Hannah’s arrival had changed Felicia…and on the trip up to New Hampshire, she’d talked herself into believing this was just another one of Felicia’s disappearing acts that would resolve itself within a few days. Once she worked herself out of the quagmire of her emotions, Felicia usually returned.

  Except that Candace’s phone call asking her to come get Hannah had spooked Rory. It was so premeditated an action for a girl like Felicia who lived for the moment. Sebastian’s assertion that Felicia was working undercover for the ATF hadn’t helped. That, too, was out of character. It just didn’t make sense. Felicia would never have done that. Not after what had happened to their parents.

  Except maybe for a chance to stay with Hannah. />
  Rory kneaded at the tension hiking her shoulders to her ears.

  Then when Ace—really, what kind of name was that for a grown man?—had brought up his theory that Felicia was hiding, she’d jumped at the saving grace of the probability that she wasn’t too late. Because if something had happened to Felicia, then that long-haired Italian pirate with his show-off muscles was right, and Rory had waited too long to find her courage. And if she’d failed Felicia when Felicia needed her most, Rory wasn’t sure she could live with the guilt.

  Felicia was alive. Scared, but alive. Rory had to believe that.

  Candace jerked her head toward the kitchenette. “My number’s on the memo board on the fridge. Penny Webster sits for Hannah. She’s right upstairs. Her number’s there, too, if you need her. So’s the number of Hannah’s doctor.”

  “Thank you for all you’ve done.” Rory rubbed her arms against a core-deep chill that shivered through her in spite of the warm afternoon sunlight pouring through the bay window.

  Candace wrung the doorknob and yanked the door open. “She’d have done the same for me.”

  With that, Candace was gone, and Hannah was all hers. Rory slanted a glance at the sleeping baby and gulped. She reached into her tote bag for her laptop. First things first. She needed information on nine-month-old children, and she needed it fast: www.parenting.com. Then she could worry about Ace Lyon and Mike Fletcher and the illegal activities that hid behind the illusion of New England small-town charm in Summersfield.

  RORY WAS STRUGGLING with a spoonful of mashed carrots when the roar of a motorcycle peeling around the town common snapped her out of her concentration and Hannah, who was strapped to her high chair, into a wail. Whatever Felicia lacked in proper nutrition for herself, she’d made sure Hannah would not run out of junior meat sticks, vegetables and fruits any time soon. There were enough jars in the cupboard to feed an entire daycare class for a year. Rory had spent the last half hour trying to interest Hannah in chicken sticks, mashed carrots and green beans. Finger eating might encourage dexterity, but it sure didn’t make for a neat meal. Armed with a baby spoon she waved like a baton, Hannah had seemed more interested in decorating Rory’s hair with carrots than eating them.

  Until the motorcycle.

  What kind of idiot races down a main road where children could be playing? Rory picked up the bawling Hannah and headed for the bay window facing the street.

  The black-and-chrome steel monster stopped below. When the bearded Viking looked up, she swallowed hard. Was it too late to douse the lights and pretend no one was home? She recognized him, of course. Felicia had sent pictures. Even in the Christmas family portrait that was supposed to show tight bonds, there was something cold and empty about Mike’s eyes that had her questioning what Felicia saw in him.

  Mike shut off the engine and leaned the monster bike on its stand. Hannah’s wail subsided to sniffles, and she promptly mashed her tear-streaked face into Rory’s hair. Had she packed shampoo? Patting Hannah’s diaper-padded rear, Rory kissed the crown of the baby’s head. “It’s okay, little angel. I won’t let him touch you. I don’t care if he is your father.”

  Rory’s heart pounded to the rhythm of the heavy boots tromping on the stairs. Wanting to prevent his entry into the apartment, she inched the door open. Night air with an edge of frost swirled around her legs.

  “Well, hello there, little girl.” His voice had a certain seductive edge to it—if you were into snakes. He didn’t look at Hannah, but straight at her. It set Rory’s teeth on edge, but she swallowed her sarcastic retort. If she wanted to get information out of him, she could not start on adversarial ground.

  His green eyes widened with appreciation as his gaze slid down her body, making her wish for steel armor.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Mike asked as Hannah’s tears hiccupped to new heights. His shaggy blond hair brushed his shoulders. His slightly darker beard could use a trim. He wore the standard biker gear of black engineer boots, denim jeans with a chain securing a wallet from his belt to a rear pocket, a black jacket with Mike tooled into the leather, and a gray T-shirt with the words Graberbootie & Pinch printed in darker gray on its front. Bits of various tattoos showed at the collar of the T-shirt and the cuffs of his jacket sleeves. Most disturbing of all, he carried a Buck Knife at his belt. Wasn’t that illegal for a felon?

  “She misses her mother.” Rory placed a protective hand over the baby’s tender head. Maybe she wasn’t totally devoid of motherly instincts after all because the last thing she wanted was this hulk to place his greasy hands on Hannah’s soft skin.

  “Well, she should feel right at home then.” His oily gaze settled on her chest. Rory shifted Hannah to cover the objects of his interest. “You look just like her with all that red hair.”

  Had he even noticed that Felicia’s eyes were blue not amber? Or was his interest stuck on breasts even for the woman he supposedly loved? “What can I do for you, Mike?”

  He leaned against the doorframe and hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “I heard you were here and wanted to make sure you settled in okay.”

  “Do you know where Felicia is?”

  He shrugged. “Not a clue.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Nah, it’s just like her to skip out like this. Ask anyone. We had a disagreement. Give a couple of days, and she’ll be back.”

  Before Hannah, before the ATF thing, Rory might have agreed with him. But now, seeing Mike so calm and indifferent, an icy premonition skated down her back. Facts, Rory, look for facts. Emotions never got you anything but hurt. “A disagreement about what?”

  His gaze narrowed, and its warning hit home as surely as if he’d used the knife. Don’t mess with me or I’ll mess with you. “Man and woman things.”

  That didn’t sound good. “Where do you think she went?”

  “Who knows?”

  Rory made a mental note to ask Sebastian to check on Felicia’s credit-card and bank-account activity. “Take a guess.”

  His gaze strayed to the horizon, copper against the jagged silhouette of the row housing and brick shops surrounding the town common. A car horn tooted below and a pair of swishing headlights accentuated the harsh lines of Mike’s face. “Sometimes she goes to her friend Karla’s place and they have a pity party.”

  And left Hannah behind? And a cryptic message to Candace to call Rory if she didn’t show up for her shift? It didn’t make sense. “Does Karla have a last name?”

  “Leach.”

  “Where does Karla live?” Why did this feel as if she were pulling worms out of a carcass?

  “Manchester, I think.” He shrugged again. “Sometimes Felicia goes on benders and holes up in a motel.”

  Not since Hannah. Rory would bet her last dollar on that. As if she agreed, Hannah tugged on Rory’s hair and babbled a few watery syllables. “Well, thanks. I’ll start with that.”

  “It’s best if you just let her work things out.” He said this as if Felicia were a bad dog who’d run away and would surely return when she got hungry enough.

  “She has a baby to take care of.”

  “She left the kid in good hands.”

  “Candace has to work.”

  He jerked his head toward the apartment upstairs where the soft strains of Enya trickled through the open window. “That’s why she’s got the sitter lined up.”

  “A baby needs structure, routine.”

  He gave her another slimy once-over. “A stranger looking after her sure won’t give her that. She knows Penny.”

  “You’re right. But I’m family, so she might as well get used to me.”

  He pushed himself off the doorframe. “If you need anything, you let me know.”

  Because you’ve been so helpful already? “Thank you.”

  He took two steps onto the narrow deck, then turned. “Hey, there’s a party at the clubhouse next Saturday. Why don’t you come? Who knows, Felicia might show up. She was always up for a good
party.”

  Rory’s hold on Hannah, who busily gummed a strand of Rory’s hair while she mouthed nonsense syllables, tightened. Felicia was missing and he wanted her to go to a party? What kind of prehistoric slime was he? “Hannah—”

  “I’ll pay for the sitter.”

  As if that was going to make a difference. Don’t worry, Hannah, I’m not going to leave you.

  The chain to Mike’s wallet jingled, catching Hannah’s attention. A wet strand of her own hair stuck against Rory’s cheek as Hannah reached a chubby hand down toward the chain. Mike didn’t seem to notice his daughter’s interest in him. He peeled three twenties from the wad, then handed them to Rory. When she didn’t free her hands to accept his gift, he stuffed the bills in the pocket of her linen pants, copping a feel as he released the cash.

  “Uh, well, thanks.” She did her level best not to flinch. “I’ll think about it.”

  His lecherous grin made her queasy. “You do that.”

  They’re going to be all over you. Are you ready for that? Ace was right. She wasn’t ready for this. Not one bit.

  FINDING TROUBLE had taken her longer than Ace thought. But his money was still safe. She’d found the jackpot before the sun had fully set. Was he going to have to blow his cover to keep Mike’s meat hooks off her on day one? He’d told Falconer this wasn’t a good idea, but had his boss listened? No. What pull did Rory have to make Falconer put an operation in jeopardy? Couldn’t be sex. The man didn’t see past his wife.

  Ace melted into the shadows on the side of the wood-framed New England triple-decker, trying to keep tabs on the conversation between his target and his albatross. The thing about this old turn-of-the-century hurry-up housing was that it was built cheaply. Walls were thin and sound carried.

  And of course, she was handling this all wrong. The tone of her voice was too uppity. He could almost see her looking down her dainty nose at Mike—even though she was a good eight inches shorter. That was going to go over real well. She didn’t even try to engage him in the usual polite conversation. No, the firebrand went straight to meaty questions that sounded like barely couched accusations. And what was she doing to the kid to have her bawling like that? Probably had the diaper on too tight or the pajamas on backwards. There wasn’t a maternal bone in that electric body.