by Sandra Brown
“Tierney.”
“Not that asshole,” he said impatiently, “the police chief.”
“Burton. Dutch Burton.”
“Right. Isn’t there a story there?”
“He was formerly with Atlanta PD,” Hoot explained. “Outstanding homicide detective. Commendations. Flawless record. Then he went round the bend, started drinking heavily.”
“How come?”
“Family problems, I believe.”
“Whatever, he got his ass fired. I remember now.” Begley had been gathering up personal items, including his cell phone, the framed photograph of his wife of thirty years and their three children, and his Bible. He yanked his overcoat from the coat tree and pulled it on.
“Bring all that with you.” He indicated the case files stacked in Hoot’s lap. “I’ll read them on the way while you drive.”
Hoot stood up and cast a wary glance out the window, where darkness was closing in over the city. “You mean you want . . . We’re going tonight?”
“We’re going right fucking now.”
“But, sir, the forecast.”
He got the undiluted, full-out nutcracker treatment.
He didn’t cringe, but he cleared his throat before continuing. “They’re predicting record freezing temperatures, ice and snow and blizzard conditions, especially in that part of the state. We’d be driving straight into it.”
Begley pointed to the corkboard. “Do you want to venture a guess as to what happened to those ladies, Hoot? What sort of sicko torture do you think this jerk-off puts them through before he kills them?
“I know, I know, we don’t know with absolute certainty that they’re dead, because no bodies have turned up yet. I’d like to think we’ll find them alive and intact, but I’ve had thirty-plus years of dealing with this kind of shit.
“Let’s face it, Hoot, the odds are good that we’re going to locate bones, and that’ll be all that’s left of those ladies who had futures, dreams, and people who loved them. Now, can you look at the faces in those pictures and still whine about a little bad weather? Hmm?”
“No, sir.”
Begley turned and strode out the door, saying as he went, “I didn’t think so.”
• • •
Tierney had pulled the watch cap from his head in one swift motion. Lilly had been standing by with a towel. That had been fifteen minutes ago, and his scalp wound was still bleeding. The towel was almost saturated. “Scalp wounds always bleed a lot,” he said when she expressed concern. “All those capillaries up there.”
“Here’s a fresh towel.” As she passed it to him, she reached for the bloody one.
He withheld it. “You don’t have to touch that. I’ll take it into the bathroom. I assume it’s through there?” He indicated the door leading into the bedroom.
“To your right.”
“I’m going to wash the blood out of my hair. Maybe the cold water will help stanch the bleeding.” As unsteady as a drunk, he walked toward the bedroom, where he braced himself against the doorjamb and turned back. “Keep filling up every available container with water. Pipes will freeze soon. We’ll need drinking water.”
He disappeared into the room, and the light in there came on. He’d left a smear of blood on the doorjamb, she noticed.
When he’d said, “Praise be. I’m back to being Tierney,” he’d smiled in the relaxed, easy fashion that she remembered from last summer. It had dispelled her rash of awkwardness, which seemed rather silly and juvenile now.
She didn’t know much about him, but he wasn’t a total stranger. She’d spent an entire day with him. They’d talked. They’d laughed. Since then she’d read his articles and had learned that he was a well-respected writer who was published often.
So why had she acted like such a dolt?
Well, for one thing, this was a bizarre situation. Misadventures such as this happened to other people. One heard about remarkable survival experiences in the media. They did not happen to Lilly Martin.
Yet here she was, scrounging through a kitchen that no longer belonged to her, searching for containers to fill with life-sustaining water for her and a man she barely knew, with whom she could be marooned in very close quarters for several days.
And, she had to admit that, if Tierney weren’t quite so attractive, so vitally masculine, she probably wouldn’t be this jittery about being isolated with him. If they hadn’t shared that day on the river last summer, being confined in close quarters might actually be less awkward.
“Water still running?”
She jumped slightly when he spoke from close behind her. “Yes, luckily.” She turned away from the sink, where she was filling another cook pan with water. Tierney was holding a towel against the back of his head. His hair was wet. “How is it?”
“It hurt while the water was running over it, partially because the water is so cold. But I think the cold actually numbed it.” He removed the towel. It was stained with fresh blood, but the amount had decreased substantially. “Helped the bleeding, too. Mind taking a look?”
“I was about to insist.”
He straddled one of the bar stools, facing its back. She set the first-aid kit on the bar, then moved behind him and, after a moment’s hesitation, gently parted his hair just below the crown of his head.
“Well?” he asked.
The gash was wide, long, and deep. To her inexpert eyes, it looked bad. She exhaled through her lips.
He gave a short laugh. “That bad?”
“You’ve seen overripe watermelons whose rinds have split?”
“Ouch.”
“There’s a lot of swelling around it.”
“Yeah, I felt that as I was washing it.”
“I’d say you could use a dozen stitches, at least.” He’d draped the blood-spotted towel around his neck. She took a corner of it and gingerly dabbed at the wound. “The good news is, it’s not pumping blood any longer. Just leaking it.”
There were only four disinfectant pads in the kit, each sealed in its own envelope. Lilly tore open one of them and withdrew a square of gauze that was soaked with an antibacterial solution. It wasn’t much larger than a saltine cracker. However, if the smell indicated the strength of the solution, it was going to sting. The thought of applying it to the raw wound caused her stomach to somersault.
“Brace yourself,” she said, unsure whether she was cautioning Tierney or herself.
He gripped the back of the stool and propped his chin on the backs of his hands. “Ready.”
But the instant she touched the gauze to the open flesh, he flinched. His breath hissed on a quick intake. In the hope of distracting him, she began talking. “I’m surprised you weren’t carrying a first-aid kit in your backpack. Being the seasoned hiker you are.” He’d dropped the backpack on the floor when they arrived at the cabin and hadn’t touched it since except to push it beneath an end table out of their way.
“Gross oversight. I won’t be without one next time.”
“Anything else in your backpack?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Something useful?”
“No, I was traveling light today. Energy bar. Bottle of water. Both consumed.”
“Then why did you bring it from the car?”
“Sorry?”
“Your backpack. If there’s nothing useful in it, why did you bring it along?”
“God forbid you think I’m a sissy,” he said, “but are you about finished? That’s burning like hellfire.”
She blew gently on the wound, then leaned away from him and surveyed it. “I covered all of it with the antiseptic. It looks very angry.”
“It feels angry.” He picked up the first-aid kit and inspected the meager contents. “I’ll toss you for the aspirin tablets.”
“They’re yours.”
“Thanks. Do you have one of those little sewing kits? Like a matchbook. For emergencies like a button falling off.”
Her stomach clenched. “Please don’t
ask me to do that.”
“What?”
“Sew up the wound.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“I don’t have a sewing kit.”
“Lucky you. Manicure scissors?”
“Those I have.”
While he swallowed the two aspirin tablets, she took her makeup bag from her purse and produced a small pair of scissors.
“Good,” he said. “By the way, that pan is full.”
She exchanged the cook pan beneath the faucet with a plastic pitcher. He peeled the wrapper off a Band-Aid. “We’ll cut strips of the sticky part. Lay them like cross ties across the gash. It’s not stitches, but maybe that’ll help close it.”
His fingers wouldn’t fit into the holes of the tiny scissors. “Here, let me.” She took the Band-Aid and scissors from him, cut strips of the adhesive, and applied them to the wound as he instructed. “It’s barely bleeding at all now,” she said when she was finished.
“Cover it with one of those bandages.”
As gently as possible she patted one of the sterile gauze bandages from the kit into place over the wound. “It’s going to pull your hair when we take it off.”
“I’ll live.” Then in an undertone, he added, “I hope.”
CHAPTER
7
STARTLED BY HIS GRIM EXPRESSION, SHE ASKED, “Why do you say that? Do you have injuries I don’t know about?”
“Maybe. The whole left side of my body is bruised and sore. Ribs feel like someone’s tried to pry them apart with a crowbar, but I don’t think I have any broken bones.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, but something on the inside may be busted. Kidney, liver, spleen.”
“Wouldn’t you know if you were bleeding internally?”
“You’d think. But I’ve heard that people can die of internal hemorrhage before it’s discovered. If my belly starts to balloon, that’ll be a good indicator that it’s filling up with blood.”
“Have you noticed any distention, tenderness?”
“No.”
She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. “If there’s a chance you’re bleeding, should you have taken the aspirin?”
“The way my head feels, it was worth the risk.” He eased himself off the bar stool, went to the kitchen sink, and removed the pitcher that had been filling. “Assuming I live, we’re going to need drinking water for an indefinite period of time. What other containers have you got?”
Together they searched the cabin and began filling anything that would hold water. “Too bad you only have a shower,” he said. “We could use a bathtub.”
Once they’d filled all the pots and pans, even the mop bucket, they began thinking of other matters. “What’s the source of your heat, electricity?” he asked.
“Propane. There’s an underground tank.”
“When was it last filled?”
“As far as I know, last winter. Because I was selling the place, I didn’t order it to be refilled this past fall. To my knowledge Dutch didn’t either.”
“So it could run out.”
“I suppose. Depending on how much Dutch used it when I wasn’t here.”
“How long since you were here?”
“Until this week, it had been months.”
“Did you stay up here this week?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dutch?”
Suddenly the emphasis of their conversation had shifted away from the amount of propane remaining in the tank.
“That’s an inappropriate question, Tierney.”
“Meaning he did.”
“In fact he didn’t,” she said testily.
He held her gaze for several beats, then turned away and walked to the thermostat on the wall. “I’m going to set the temperature lower so the propane will last longer. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“If the tank empties, we’ll have to rely strictly on the fireplace. I hope you’ve got more wood than what’s on the porch.”
She disliked his implication that she was still sleeping with her ex-husband, but cooped up together as they were, there was no room for anger. She let the matter drop. “More firewood is stored in a shed,” she replied, motioning in the general direction. “There’s a path to it through—”
“I know where it is.”
“The shed? You do?” The small structure had been built of weathered wood and positioned so it wouldn’t be visible from either the road or the cabin. It blended seamlessly into the environment and was virtually invisible. Or so she had thought.
“How did you know about this cabin, Tierney?”
“You told me about it last summer.”
She remembered specifically what she had told him because, since then, she’d replayed their conversations in her head a thousand times. “I told you I had a cabin in the area. I didn’t say where it was.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“So, tonight, how did you know?”
He gave her a long look, then said, “I’ve hiked all over this mountain. One day I came upon the cabin, and the shed, without realizing I was on private property. I suppose I was trespassing, but not on purpose. I saw the For Sale sign and, because I liked the look of the place, contacted the realtor. I learned that it belonged to you and your husband, but because of a pending divorce, you were selling.” He raised his arms at his sides. “That’s how I came to know the location of your cabin.”
He gave her a look that practically dared her to question him further. Then he said, “Now, how much wood is in the shed? A cord?”
Although she wasn’t quite ready to relinquish the matter of his knowing so much about her, she didn’t see any advantage to pursuing it and creating ill will. “No way near a cord,” she replied.
“Well, hopefully we’ll be rescued before we have to start breaking up the furniture and burning it.”
“How long do you think that might be? Until we’re rescued, I mean.”
He sat down on the sofa, where a towel now covered the bloodstain on the back cushion, and laid his head against it. “Probably not tomorrow. Possibly the day after. Depending on the storm and the amount of ice accumulation, it could be longer.”
She recalled the winter before last, when an ice storm had closed the mountain road for days. People in remote areas were stranded without electricity because of downed lines. In some cases, it had taken weeks for the service to be restored and the communities returned to normal. The storm raging outside now was predicted to be much worse and longer lasting than that one.
Lilly sat down on the opposite sofa and pulled the throw over her legs and feet, very glad that Tierney had thought of the extra socks. She’d hung the wet ones over the back of one of the barstools to dry. The legs of her trousers were still damp, but she could live with that so long as her feet were dry and reasonably warm.
“What did you set the thermostat on?” she asked.
“Sixty.”
“Hmm.”
“I realize it’s not exactly toasty,” he said. “You should put on that other turtleneck for extra insulation. Keep in your body heat.”
She nodded but made no move to get up. “What do you think the outdoor temperature is?”
“Windchill is subzero,” he replied without hesitation.
“Then I’m not going to complain about sixty.” She glanced at the fireplace. “A fire would be nice though.”
“It would. But I honestly think—”
“No, no, you’re right about conserving the fuel. I was just wishing out loud. I love the ambience of a fireplace.”
“Me too.”
“Makes any room seem cozier.”
“Yeah.”
After a moment, she asked, “Are you hungry?”
“My stomach’s still queasy. But if you’re hungry, don’t be polite. Eat something.”
“I’m not really hungry either.”
“Don’t think you have to sit up with me,” he said. “I can keep myself awake
. If you’re tired or sleepy—”
“I’m really not.”
No way would she go to sleep and risk his slipping into unconsciousness and possibly a coma. He needed to stay awake for a few more hours before it would be safe for him to sleep. Besides, her nap that afternoon had been long enough to keep her from being sleepy now.
She’d been talking to fill the silence. Now that they’d stopped, the only sounds were those of the wind, tree limbs knocking against the eaves, and the sleet pattering on the roof. Their eyes drifted around the room, which had been stripped of everything except the furniture. There was little to look at, so eventually they looked at each other. When their gazes connected, the emptiness of the room closed in around them, creating a taut intimacy.
Lilly was the first to look away. She noticed her cell phone lying on the coffee table between them. “If Dutch got my message, he’ll be working out a way to get someone up here.”
“I shouldn’t have said what I did. About the two of you staying here together.”
With a gesture she indicated that an apology was unnecessary.
“I’d just like to know how involved you still are with him, Lilly.”
She thought of contesting his need to know but then decided to lay the issue to rest once and for all. Apparently he was going to continue bringing it up until she did. “I called Dutch tonight because he’s the chief of police, not because of any lingering personal involvement. Our marriage is over, but he wouldn’t leave me to freeze to death any more than I would turn my back on him in a life-or-death situation. If it’s at all possible, he’ll rescue us.”
“He’d rush to your rescue,” Tierney said. “I doubt he’d rush to mine.”
“Why do you think that?”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“Again, what makes you think so?”
“It’s nothing he’s done, really. More what he hasn’t. I’ve bumped into him on occasion. He’s never gone out of his way to introduce himself.”
“Maybe it just hasn’t been convenient.”
“No, I think there’s more to it than that.”
“Like what?”