"Are you trying to leave a trail?"
"I wouldn't want you to get lost trying to find your way out."
He laughed then. "How thoughtful of you. Do you really think someone's going to find you?"
She reached her hand out and grabbed another twig, just to annoy him. "Maybe, eventually." But it would be too late.
They walked in silence, Amanda concentrating on taking in the landmarks, such as they were. They were deep in the woods now, far from the lane they'd driven in on, walking along a narrow, pine-needle-covered path. She stumbled often on the uneven ground, the two inch heels of her leather boots sinking into the forest floor, slipping on the soggy leaves. The snow was still falling, but much of it must have accumulated on the canopy above them, because on the ground the coverage was sporadic, like the fur on a panda bear. Dark here. White there.
She could hear Mark's voice in her head as she walked to her own grave. Don't panic, the voice said. Take in the space around you. Be ready when the opportunity presents itself. Don't rush—you only have one shot to get away.
It was interesting that Amanda was hearing Mark's voice, but she decided to savor it instead of analyze it. His voice in her head was the only thing keeping her sane right now. Maybe Alan was right. Maybe she really was crazy, and the voice in her head proved she'd snapped. And who could blame her? Her marriage had fallen apart. A man she'd been attracted to turned out to be a crazy person helping the monster who wanted her dead. Of course she'd snapped, because the voice was telling her not to panic, and the only reasonable response was to panic.
She fingered the pepper spray. She was ready. She was itching to use it and run.
Wait, the voice said. Be patient. The opportunity will come. And keep him talking.
"How did you find me?" she asked, obeying the voice.
"Find you? I never lost you."
"What do you mean?"
"I've known where you were all along. I knew when you transferred from Plymouth to Johnson and Wales."
"How?"
"I kept tabs on you, of course. When I tried to reach you at Plymouth and your number was disconnected, I made some calls. I cajoled a student in the admin office to tell me where you'd transferred to, told her I was in love with you. People are so trusting.
"It was amusing to watch you try to hide from me. An unlisted phone number? Really, Amanda, so amateurish. As if something like that could have kept me from you if I'd wanted you." A branch had grown across the path, and Gabriel held it back with his left arm, shovel dangling beneath it, so they could pass. Such a gentleman. "But the fact is, I no longer wanted you. I knew as soon as you started college, you'd be done with me. Otherwise, do you think I would have proposed? Did you really think I was going to throw away my family for you?"
The words stung. Somehow, she'd always believed he cared for her. What an idiot she was. He was about to murder her. Of course he didn't care for her. She'd been wrong about Alan, wrong about Mark, and wrong about him. She'd been wrong about everything.
"But I kept tabs on you anyway, just in case you decided to start talking. It was a stroke of luck, though, that Alan worked for the company that published your cookbook. I asked him to let me know if you submitted anything else for publication. At first, I only told him you were an old friend. I would never violate doctor-patient confidentiality."
She'd forgotten Alan had worked for Mercury-Concord. So he'd told Sheppard about the memoir before she'd ever made the trip to New York.
Sheppard continued. "I knew when you got engaged, and then when you got married. I remember when your first daughter was born. Sophia, isn't it? Beautiful name. And then Madison. That one looks like you. I may have to look her up in a few years."
Nausea churned in her stomach until she could taste bile in her mouth. "You stay away from my daughter!"
"Or what? Are you going to haunt me?"
"I won't have to. You'll never get the chance to touch my daughter, because my husband will kill you. You might not get arrested for my murder, but Mark will know, and he'll hunt you down."
"Do you really think he'd be willing to risk a life sentence to avenge your murder after you filed for divorce?" Sheppard chuckled darkly. "You have a strong sense of your own power, Amanda."
"He loves me." Amanda froze. Her breath whooshed out of her, and she pulled it back in. Mark loved her. The truth fell on her like a heavy blanket, both comforting and constricting. Of course Mark loved her. He'd always loved her, and she'd been so stupid. So, so stupid.
Sheppard pushed her forward. She stumbled but continued walking as tears prickled behind her eyes. Now she would never have the chance to make things right with him. She would die without ever telling Mark how much she loved him.
No, she would survive. She squeezed the pepper spray in her pocket, sniffed, and blinked back the tears. "He loves me," she repeated, angry at the way her voice cracked when she said it. She continued, making the next statement as powerful as she could. "And he will kill you."
"Perhaps," Gabriel said with a shrug. "I think Mark will decide he should stay out of prison to raise his girls. But you may be right. In which case, I'll have to handle it. I'm not afraid. I don't think your little soldier can outsmart me."
Her temper flared. Stay calm, the voice said. Not yet.
But he could stop at any time, and then it would be too late. They'd already been walking for ten minutes. How far into the woods did he intend to go? Tell me when, she prayed, hoping someone was listening. Show me what to do.
They angled around a wide curve, and she saw an old, dead tree had fallen across the path about fifteen yards in front of them, a tangle of branches and twigs blocking their way. He saw it, too, and slowed his pace as they approached. This was it—he'd kill her now. She had to act.
He looked over her head into the woods beside her, then into the woods on the other side. He walked slowly forward. His attention was diverted. Maybe he wouldn't notice the thick root that poked out of the ground in their path. Gripping the pepper spray, finger on the trigger, she stepped over the root and prayed he'd stumble.
He did, and in that moment she whipped the pepper spray out of her pocket, aimed it at his face, and pressed the button. But Sheppard must've seen movement. He turned his face away, dropped his grip on her arm, and lifted his hand to protect himself.
He shouted an angry curse, let go of the shovel, and covered his face with both hands. She turned and bolted into the forest. Just a few feet in, her heel caught on a root, and she fell, loosening her grip on the pepper spray. It rolled a few feet away. She wanted to grab it, but Gabriel was right behind her, screaming, one hand covering his face, the other reaching out for her. She yanked her foot from his blinded grip, climbed to a crouch, and shot into the thick forest.
His arrogant demeanor gone, Gabriel screamed and swore while she bolted through the woods. Small, bare bushes filled the space between the trees, grabbing at her clothes. Gabriel was following her. She could hear him. She must have missed his face when she'd aimed the pepper spray. It should have stopped him for a few minutes at least, but he was still moving. From the pain in his voice, she knew at least some of the chemicals had hit him. But not enough—not nearly enough.
At least she'd slowed him down, and that gave her the opportunity to put some distance between them. She crashed between two pine trees only to land in a thorn bush. Ignoring the sharp stabs of pain on her hands, she yanked the branches from where they'd stuck on her wool coat and backed away, turning to her right, aiming only to be away from him. She avoided the clumps of snow as best she could, hoping he wouldn't be able to see her footprints on the moist bracken in the dim light.
She chanced a look behind her. He was not far.
"You'll never get away from me, Amanda." The arrogance was missing from his voice now, and she heard what was hiding beneath it. Cold hatred.
"I will hunt you down, and I will kill you. I was going to make it quick and painless, but after this . . ."
&n
bsp; She ran faster. She was afraid to look as panic rose in her chest and threatened to erupt in a scream. She pushed it down, told herself he wasn't as close as he sounded, expecting to feel his hand on her at any moment. The fear spurred her on. She had to find a place to hide.
"You'll pay for what you've done!"
Her eyes scanned the woods. Forest in every direction, but it seemed to drop off up ahead and to the left. She aimed in that direction and prayed she'd find a place to hide. Sure enough, about twenty yards ahead, the ground descended into a small depression. She ran, scurried down the hill, and looked behind her. She couldn't see him.
A tree had fallen across the hole. Its upturned roots formed a thick, chaotic ceiling over the opposite side. She picked her way to it, grabbing slippery tentacles for support. As she'd hoped, the overturned tree created a good hiding place. If she could stay hidden until the sun went down—it couldn't be long now—maybe she could escape in the darkness.
She burrowed beneath the tree, enduring a sharp pain to her head as a branch caught her hair. She yanked her scalp away and settled in the moist dirt, bending her knees to hide her feet, not knowing if she succeeded. The hole was so small, once inside, she couldn't move her head. She stared upward into the darkness between the thick roots, which twisted from the tree's violent downfall and curled around her head like a noose.
And then she waited. And prayed.
Thirty
After double-checking the map on his phone, Mark turned left, adjusting the wheel as his back tires slid on the snow-covered road before finding purchase. He was close now. He'd been off the highway for a few miles, picking his way along deserted back roads. In the summertime, these streets would be crowded with tourists. But it was off-season. Not another car in sight.
The road narrowed, the few homes on both sides hundreds of yards apart. He glanced at his map, peered toward the left, and searched for the driveway. It had to be here somewhere.
There, on the left. The brown mailbox had a half-inch of snow resting on top of it and blended in with the forest, but he could read the name painted on its side in bright white—Morass. Mark had almost missed the narrow snow-covered drive and decelerated slowly to keep his wheels from sliding. He turned into the driveway and stopped just a few feet from the road, shifting the truck into park.
Dialing Chris, he climbed out and walked to the front of his truck.
"You there?" Chris asked.
"Yeah. This is the place. But . . ." His heart plummeted as he studied the road in the fading light. "No tire tracks. If they're here, they didn't come this way." He looked around, listened, sniffed the air. That worked in Afghanistan—with the heat in the desert, you could smell lingering body odor. All he smelled was somebody's fireplace. He leaned against his truck and dropped his head. "They're not here. I've lost her."
"Knock that crap off."
Mark pushed off from the truck and stood straight. "Yes, sir."
"West of the driveway maybe twenty-five yards, there's a path. Maybe a road—I can't tell from the satellite image."
"Okay." Mark jumped into the truck. "On my way."
"Meanwhile, I'm going to call the police, have them head in your direction."
"I don't want them barreling in. If he's here, that'll spook him."
"I understand. Still, you might need them. I'll have them send a cruiser but wait at a distance."
"Yes, sir. Thanks." Mark hung up the phone, slipped it into his jeans' pocket, and backed onto the street. He forced himself not to go too fast, barely touching the gas, peering to his left. Chris was right. He couldn't let his fear take over. Emotions would only cloud his judgment and hinder his instincts. He had to focus.
There. A narrow interruption in the trees. Very narrow—his truck wouldn't fit. He parked beyond the path, grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment, and climbed out. It wasn't completely dark yet, but with the deep cloud cover, the swirling snow and setting sun, he was having a hard time focusing on the ground. Approaching the front of the truck, he shined the light on the ground.
Tire tracks in the snow. Fresh tire tracks—Amanda was here.
He blew out the breath he'd been holding as he ran to the passenger side door and yanked it open. The marine in him had stored his knife and its sheath in the glove box. He cursed himself for taking his gun back to the safe deposit box. Nothing to do about it now. He clipped the black nylon sheath onto his belt.
He grabbed his fleece jacket from the backseat. Black. The best camouflage he could find at the moment. He slipped it over his gray sweatshirt. At least he'd be hidden in the dark. And Amanda might need the warmth of the coat when he found her.
If he found her.
He shook his head. Focus.
With his flashlight in his left hand, he closed the door and sprinted up the winding lane. A silver sedan was parked a quarter mile up the road. Mark approached it silently, eyes scanning the forest around him. No sounds. No movement except the soft flutter of snow. He approached the car and swept the beam of his flashlight along the ground.
Huge footprints littered the snow on the driver's side. Someone—most likely Sheppard—had opened the back door. Deep ridges. Boots. He'd come prepared.
Mark studied another mark in the snow—a crescent about five inches long.
The marks had been left by the sharp edge of a shovel's blade. He swallowed the nausea. He had to stay sharp.
Behind the car, different footprints appeared. She was here. Alive. She'd been in the trunk.
The trunk was open, her red scarf the only evidence she'd been there. He could picture his wife's tiny body scrunched up in there.
Sheppard was going to die.
Mark crouched down and studied Amanda's footprints. Long narrow triangles punctuated with a round indentation. Boots, but not the hiking kind. The leather kind. He pictured them, knew which ones she wore, and swore softly. At least two inches high, she had no chance of escaping Sheppard in those boots.
At least she'd be warm.
A picture filled his mind. Amanda lying at the bottom of a shallow grave wearing her wool coat, dark blue jeans, and sticking out beneath them, those boots. Her eyes were open but unseeing. Dirt and snow rained down on her from above.
No. There was no time for thinking. Only action.
Her boot prints were like exclamation points, each one pointing toward the thick woods. Each step a scream for help.
Yet, they were also proof she was alive, or at least had been when Sheppard and Amanda arrived.
He followed the tracks like he'd followed so many hostiles in the desert. But this wasn't a hostile.
I'm coming, honey. I'm right behind you.
The path was very narrow, almost nonexistent. If not for the footprints they'd left in the snow, he may not have found it. Deeper in the woods, the snow cover became sporadic, the pine needles swallowed up the footprints, and after a few yards Mark wondered if he'd lost the trail.
Then he saw a broken twig, about waist-high, on the right side of the path. And another, a few feet further down. She'd left markers for him.
Good girl.
His heart did a wrenching twist, knowing Amanda had believed he'd find her. And he would. God help him—he had to find her.
He ran silently along the soft path, watching for signs of her, trying to recreate the marine he'd been. This was just another mission. Find the target, take him out. End of story.
Right.
Sporadic footprints, occasional broken twigs led the way. He'd been jogging for five minutes when he stopped. Up ahead, a fallen tree blocked the path. He shined his flashlight on it—no freshly-broken twigs or bent branches here, and it would have been impossible to cross this without leaving some trace. They hadn't made it this far. He turned and walked back, studying the woods to his left and right. There was the shovel. It had fallen into the brush and was almost fully hidden off the path. Amanda had been on Sheppard's right—the broken twigs told him that. So if she'd gotten away, she woul
d have run in that direction, away from Sheppard.
Sure enough, shining his flashlight into the woods, he saw a disturbance on the forest floor, a small area where the leaves and needles were overturned, revealing their dark undersides. He stepped over a trampled bush and swept the flashlight across the bracken. Something reflected in the light of his flashlight's beam. He picked it up.
Pepper spray.
What had happened? If Amanda sprayed Sheppard with pepper spray, then he would be nearby, blinded and writhing in pain. But he wasn't. Either she'd forgotten the pepper spray and it had simply fallen here—unlikely. Or she had sprayed him and missed.
But she'd gotten away. If Sheppard had caught her, he would have retrieved his shovel. Unless he'd killed her already and was carrying her through the forest right now. That could also explain the dropped shovel. He'd simply dump her body and return for the shovel at his leisure.
No.
He swept the area with his flashlight. Saw footprints, a trail. No waist-high, purposely broken twigs this time. This trail was left by crashing into bushes, brushing against thorns, and squeezing between trees. He caught a glimpse of one of her exclamation-point footprints, saw its depth and shape, and knew she'd been running.
Escaping.
He stopped and listened. The woods were silent. No sounds, human or otherwise, interrupted the falling snow. But they were out there—somewhere.
Footsteps. Soft, accompanied by the snapping of twigs, the rustling of wet leaves. He was closing in on her.
Amanda heard a thump. So deep in the hole, she had no idea which direction the noise had come from, nor how far away it was.
And then she heard his voice, deep and terrifying. And close. "I'm going to find you, Amanda. And when I do, I'm going to punish you for this."
She sucked in a breath, held it.
"I know you're here, somewhere." His voice was confident, soothing. "It's just a matter of time now."
He was coming closer. Any minute and he would find her. She wanted to shift, to tuck her feet in deeper, but she was afraid he'd see the movement.
Finding Amanda Page 27