Spirit of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  “Shouldn’t you be out dancing with that pretty blonde I saw you eyeing at the church?” Sabriel asked, putting off the inevitable, hating to drag anyone else into his personal business.

  “Yeah, I was just getting ready to put on my big move when some jerk called for intelligence.”

  Leaning against a tree, Sabriel laughed, taking the jibe in the playful spirit it was meant and gave back in turn. “You know that cool deejay ploy doesn’t work.”

  He imagined Kingsley in his court, as they jokingly called the command center. Computers, monitors and a myriad of electronic gadgetry jammed every inch of desk and wall space, and Kingsley conducted them all like an accomplished maestro.

  “Ah,” Kingsley said, “but this was a really sick set. She was falling deeper in love with me with every song.”

  “You’ve got to get a life, man.”

  Kingsley snorted. “Like you’re one to talk.”

  “Me, I’ve been places, done things. You’re too young to be a lonely old man spending all your time in basements.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  But the prickly tone told Sabriel he’d hit a nerve. “When was the last time you went out with friends?”

  “I have friends.” A grunt. “What’s with all the concern, anyway? I didn’t know you had that many words in you.” Kingsley’s chair squeaked. “Besides, I was just e-mailing a friend in Seattle before you called.”

  “Bill Gates?”

  The sound of flesh hitting flesh smacked through the line. “Whoa, hold the presses. Mercer told a joke.”

  “Ha, ha.” Sabriel’s lips quirked, knowing that the rest of the Seekers saw him as a stone. But his smile fell as a shadow crossed the lone window of the shack. Nora. She’d stacked Anna’s clothes on the dusty table and was now peeling the dirt-smudged sweater from her body.

  Turn away, he ordered himself. But mesmerized by the play of mellow light on pale skin, he couldn’t seem to pry his gaze from the sight. She pulled the neck of the sweater over her head, making his palm itch to skate down the inviting slope of her back. The gold in her hair gleamed like pyrite as it cascaded back down her shoulders. He sucked in a breath at the imagined feel of silk against his skin.

  “You okay?” Kingsley asked.

  “Fine.” Yeah, just great. He was ogling Tommy’s wife like a regular Peeping Tom. Ex-wife, he reminded himself. Not that it mattered. She was the one woman on earth he needed to stay away from.

  Biting back a curse, he tore his gaze to the night and focused on the information he needed from Kingsley. “Got anything on the Colonel’s employees?”

  “Yeah, with a little scanning, firewalking and banner grabbing, I was able to get through in five minutes.”

  Sabriel grunted. “That’s so comforting.”

  Kingsley chuckled. “Isn’t it, though?”

  “I’m looking specifically for something on Boggs and Hutt.”

  Computer keys clacked in a toccata. “Two of the dozen ex-Army Camden has working security for him, both at home and at the lab. Melvyn Boggs is head of security. Been there for nine years. An ex-Ranger like you.”

  They’d gotten their gold and black tabs in the same class, but that didn’t mean they were pals. Boggs might be persistent, focused, driven, confident and determined, but as far as Sabriel was concerned, he’d failed the humble, honest and selfless portions of the Ranger doctrine.

  “Dane Hutt started two years ago,” Kingsley continued. “Ex-infantry. Both have clean records. No arrests. No convictions. Nothing to say they aren’t upstanding members of the community. Fits the rest of the team. All angels as far as the law is concerned.”

  Like all the Colonel’s dirty business. “Sanitized?”

  Kingsley made a noise that was a cross between annoyance and anticipation. “That’s going to require more digging.”

  Sabriel couldn’t help himself. He glanced back at the shack’s window. Nora, clad in Anna’s fleece jacket, sat on the chair and was pulling on Anna’s socks.

  He didn’t know why he’d kept the clothes. Maybe because the Colonel had made such a big deal about wanting every stitch that had belonged to Anna after her death. She’d last worn them on their honeymoon—almost twelve years ago. A hike in the mountains, just the two of them and all that endless space. Waking up next to her with the sunlight painting the sky pink and purple and the song of nature around them had seemed like heaven.

  Then they’d had to get back to the real world, where the Colonel had pushed and pushed and pushed until Anna had cracked.

  “Can you tap into medical records?” Sabriel asked, turning his back on the window once more.

  “Illegal.”

  “But not impossible.”

  Kingsley’s sly smile came through in his voice. “There’s always a way to formulate need-to-know.”

  Sabriel hated to breach Tommy’s trust, but he needed to know the state of Tommy’s mind. “Thomas Prescott Camden the Fourth. I need to know if he’s kept up with his medical care for his bipolar disorder.” If Tommy was off his meds and delusional, or stone-cold sane. Each would require different tracking tactics.

  “Do you know who’s treating him?”

  “A Dr. Montgomery at the Whiteside Clinic.”

  He glanced Nora’s way again. She sat, hands in her lap, and stared out the window. Though she couldn’t see him out here surrounded by darkness, it seemed as if she were looking right at him and, for an instant, she struck him as utterly lost.

  He swallowed a growl. She was getting to him, and he couldn’t let that happen.

  He finished his call to Kingsley and stalked toward the gate and Will’s visitor-deterrent contraption.

  Nora’s helplessness wasn’t his fault. Neither was Tommy’s illness. Or the situation they’d jammed their son into.

  So why did he feel so frigging guilty?

  Because he hadn’t watched Tommy’s back. Because Anna was dead. Because the Colonel had cornered Nora, and there was no way in hell she’d win a showdown against him. The fight wasn’t fair—an ant against an elephant. She’d get squashed.

  Just like Anna.

  His beautiful mermaid who’d chosen her own path and soothed his restless spirit. She’d made him feel—for a little while, anyway—as if he could do anything. But even the peace she’d found freediving couldn’t quite unshackle her from the Colonel’s soul-stealing noose. In the end, she’d chosen death over life. The Colonel over him.

  Nora, with her soft skin and tender heart, wouldn’t stand a chance.

  * * *

  A HALF HOUR later, back inside old Will’s shack, Sabriel primed the ancient pump bolted to the floor with water from his pack, then hand-cranked it until water flowed clear into the bucket that served as a sink.

  The scent of must and neglect thickened the inside air. A woolly blanket of dust covered the makeshift counter, the lone chair and the table. Mazes of spiderwebs hung from the corners and mice had done a good job of shredding the cot mattress to bits. But otherwise the place had held up well, considering.

  He filled the Jetboil’s bowl with water and let the flame heat it up while he located the freeze-dried meal pouches he’d stowed in the bear bag in his pack.

  Looking at Nora hurt.

  All shriveled up on the handmade chair like a discarded doll, watching him with her big, brown eyes as if he were a wolf ready to eat her up. He couldn’t deny the hunger was there, but hell, he wasn’t in the habit of taking what wasn’t offered. He wasn’t about to start now. Not with her.

  “Is this where Tommy started?” Nora asked.

  Sabriel wasn’t used to having to explain his every move, and he couldn’t say why he stubbornly kept his uncertainties about this mission’s tactics to himself. “You need food.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Food is fuel. I’m not going to carry you.”

  “I’m a big girl. I can walk on my own.”

  “We eat. We rest. We plan.”

  Before she cou
ld insist he share those unformed plans, he grabbed the sorry excuse for a broom Will had left behind and, while the hot water rehydrated their dinner, he swept the floor just enough so they wouldn’t spend the night sneezing up dust.

  Tommy’s plan had been simple enough. The note he’d left Nora had told Sabriel Tommy planned on leaving signs with embedded messages—a code they’d perfected as kids. But Tommy had failed to take two things into consideration: Nora’s determination and the Colonel’s men. Boggs especially would prove a challenge.

  Alone, Sabriel could have followed Tommy, erased his signs and left precious little of his own. But with Nora tagging along, he might as well have marked their trail with neon paint. Keeping her safe while tracking and countertracking wasn’t going to be an easy task.

  She’d shown spine, though, and she had a high motivation factor. She wouldn’t quit on him.

  Gaze averted from her clothes—Anna’s clothes—he handed her a pouch of beef stew and a titanium spork. He wanted to bury his nose into the navy fleece, drink in what little of Anna’s scent was left in the folds of the material before it evaporated. But he was smart enough to resist. She wasn’t Anna, but she was a Camden, and that could only bring disaster. “Eat.”

  Without saying a word, she obeyed.

  He shoved aside the mice-eaten mattress, sat on the cot’s rusty springs and dug into his stew. He had to give her credit. She was staying true to her word. She wasn’t complaining.

  In the glow of the oil lamp, she looked both wired and exhausted. The spinning of her mind and the race of her pulse tattooed into him like a Morse code SOS, prodding his tension up another notch.

  He wanted her to nag, damn it. He wanted to have a reason to dislike her. He didn’t want to care. He couldn’t afford to let this get personal. But there she was, all porcelain skin and doe eyes, and all he wanted to do was scoop her up and put her under bulletproof glass.

  Instead, he speared a chunk of potato from the pouch and concentrated on chewing. You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Tommy. I wouldn’t do this for just anybody.

  Sabriel’s appetite vanished, but he forced himself to finish his meal. The mountain had no mercy for weakness.

  He cleaned up while she used the outhouse, then handed her a sleeping bag when she returned. “Get some sleep. We’re leaving early in the morning.”

  “What about a plan?”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his gaze, the brown irises swirling with panic. “But they’ll get ahead.”

  “Tommy’ll have to stop for the boy.”

  “We could catch up.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “With you stumbling over your feet in dark and unfamiliar territory?”

  “The Colonel’s men—”

  “Are still looking for the starting point.”

  She frowned. “How do you know?”

  He didn’t, but she was too tired to go on. She’d need all her strength for tomorrow’s hike. “They’re chasing us.”

  She gulped. “We’re safe here?”

  He offered her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Old Will had a few tricks up his sleeve to keep unwanted visitors out. We’ll hear them coming and be gone before they get to us.”

  “If you’re sure.” She spread out the sleeping bag on the floor and zipped it up around her. Using the bundled outer layer of fleece as a pillow, she rolled to her side. “It’s cold out there.”

  Sabriel blew out the oil lamp. Half a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Beaten, scared, but still fighting for her son if not for herself. “Scotty’ll be fine. Tommy knows these mountains. He’ll keep him snug.”

  She made a sound that fell short of agreement. “I could help you plan.”

  “I need to think.” No need to scare her with his worries about Boggs.

  Sabriel rolled out his sleeping bag on the opposite side of the table and climbed in. The ragged pull of her breaths, the restless rustle of fleece on nylon, filled the darkness with a warm intimacy he’d forgotten. He turned toward her, arms aching at the memory she stirred of Anna.

  He missed her. Missed sleeping next to her most of all. Burying his nose in her hair. Spooning heated flesh against heated flesh. The slow pulse of breath and heart a soothing lullaby that had given him the most restful nights of sleep he’d known and allowed him to forget—if only for a bit—his failures.

  When had the shift happened?

  Dead leaves swished against the tin roof in mocking whispers.

  With a decisive roll toward the wall, he turned his back on Nora.

  Stay focused.

  The voice of his take-no-bull RI from Ranger School came back to him. What’s really important here? Set your expectations.

  Find Tommy. Find the boy. Get back alive.

  He couldn’t afford to feel sorry for Nora. He couldn’t afford to feel anything at all.

  Chapter Six

  Getting out of a warm sleeping bag and into the darkness before dawn was like jumping naked into an icy lake. When they’d hiked as kids, Sabriel had preferred to linger until sunlight warmed the air before venturing out, while Tommy had been the early riser, popping up to catch the first crack of light breaking over the mountains.

  Sabriel whipped off the sleeping bag and forced himself into the shack’s cold air. Finding Tommy would mean backtracking toward Camden, and for that, they had to be ready to meld into the landscape.

  Foliage was just past peak and the yellows of the oaks and the reds of maples had dulled to russet and brown. The throngs of leaf peepers had thinned, but the cars of those who’d miscalculated their reservations would still choke I-93, the Kancamagus Highway and various secondary highways that ringed the White Mountain National Forest and the surrounding state parks. With the sun looking as if it would make an appearance today, Sunday drivers and hikers would come out in droves.

  Sabriel poked into Anna’s cedar-lined chest. He brought out a knit cap to cover Nora’s hair and fingered the soft wool. The contents of this chest were all he had left of Anna. Her ashes had gone to her beloved sea. And brought another blast of revenge from the Colonel. No Camden—disowned or not—had been buried outside the family plot in over a hundred years.

  Heart heavy, Sabriel redistributed the contents of his pack so that Nora could carry a light load with Anna’s pack. Then he went out to the shed and dusted off the old Ford truck Tommy kept tuned and tanked for old-time’s sake. He found the key under a rock just inside the entrance and drove the truck out to the shack, then stowed the Jeep, with its recognizable back-end damage, in the shed.

  He boiled water for oatmeal, then knelt beside Nora and hesitated, loathe to wake her up. She’d tossed and turned most of the night, begging, imploring, appealing for something he couldn’t quite make out—most likely her son. He’d wanted to wrap her in his arms to calm her distress, but knew it would take more than that to soothe her. Just before dawn, she’d finally stumbled into a peaceful corner of her mind and slept deeply, allowing him to catch an hour of needed rest.

  For a moment, he just watched her, unable to pull his gaze from her face. A crease of worry pleated her forehead in sleep. Long lashes twitched against the fatigue-bruised skin under her eyes. Her lips moved in silent prayer, and he caught himself wanting to kiss them still.

  Yeah, like that’d be a brilliant move. Divorced or not, she was still Tommy’s girl—and a Camden. Operating low on sleep was obviously screwing with his mind. Which didn’t bode well for the upcoming trek.

  Control. Discipline. Focus. Grandpa Yamawashi and Will Daigle had patiently instilled the concepts. The Army and Ranger School had reinforced them. The Colonel and his influence had tested them to their limits.

  And Nora, with her sweet almond scent, soft skin and big, brown eyes, was demolishing the careful training without even trying. Not her fault he hadn’t invited a woman into his bed for far longer than was healthy.

  How could he be attracted to her? A Camden? A woman who’d lead him
inevitably to another showdown with the Colonel?

  Your timing sucks, man.

  Annoyed with himself, he reached down to her shoulder and gently shook her. “Time to get up.”

  She jacked upright as if he’d used a cattle prod on her, the daze of confusion clouding her eyes. “Scotty?”

  “That’s the plan.” He pulled away before he did something stupid like hug her and tell her everything was going to be okay. “Breakfast is ready. I want to get going as soon as possible.”

  Questions stirred through the deep brown of her eyes, reeling him in like a hapless fish. Good thing she kept them at bay until he steered Will’s truck onto a dirt track that led away from the entrance gate or he might have snapped at her just because he was mad at himself.

  “Where are we going now?” Nora asked, worry underlying the careful nonchalance of her voice.

  “Neighbor’s drive. It’ll pop us out of the backside of the lake.”

  “There’s a lake?”

  He chuckled. “Not much of a lake, I’ll admit. But there is one. We’ll take the back way to White Mountain Road.”

  And if the Colonel’s goons came poking around, Will’s visitor deterrent would greet them. Finding four new tires in the middle of nowhere should keep them busy for a bit. And, with any luck, he and Nora would have disappeared into the mountains, their tracks lost among the thousands of previous boot prints that had worn the Fever Trail.

  “White Mountain Road?” Nora’s eyes widened to full moons. “But we can’t go back that way. The Colonel—”

  “It’s where Tommy’s trail starts. Six point six miles from the Smiling Moose Café.”

  She sucked in a breath and murmured, “Route 66.”

  He nodded.

  “The rest? What did it mean?”

  She watched him as if he were an oracle, her breath hanging on his ability to divine, and he couldn’t help the tiny surge of pleasure that he could offer her some answers. “‘Band on the Run’ means he’s running with Scotty—which you already figured out. The trailhead spears three trails. ‘Deep Water’ is the trail that follows the Flint River. And ‘Graceland’ is the White Mountain National Forest.”