Eye of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  Gray’s face floated in the mist of her mind, joining the parade of ghosts already haunting her conscience. She refused to give up. She had to have the chance to tell Gray all the things she’d been afraid to say last night.

  With one last jab at the screw, she freed her wrists. She ripped off the mouth tape, winced and gulped in air. Then she attacked her ankles.

  Now what? Now you prepare for action.

  Deciding that the illusion of captivity might buy her an extra second of response time, she restuck the tape around the hem of her jeans and the cuffs of her sweatshirt. If she coupled her wrists and ankles, whoever opened the trunk would think her still tied. Seeing her like that, he’d likely put his weapon away because he’d need both hands to haul her out.

  Rafe wouldn’t kill her. Not right away. Not until he got the flash drive. Her hand reached for the slim stick hiding beneath her T-shirt. She couldn’t let him get it.

  Hands more mobile now, she tried to orient herself. On Oprah, she’d once heard of a woman who’d escaped her captor by kicking out the taillight and catching another driver’s attention. Patting her way around the edge of the trunk, she located the taillights on the passenger’s side. A hard metal piece housed the mechanism. She swore. This wasn’t fair. Why was the car too old for a trunk-release handle but too new for a flimsy taillight housing?

  So, you’re going to give up. Just like that?

  She kicked at the metal housing, imagining Rafe’s face with each blow.

  The driver began a side-to-side movement that tossed her around like a rag. Because of the noise? Still, she fought for some sort of purchase and kicked until the housing caved. The dent had popped off a piece of the plastic light, bringing in a shaft of day. With a swallowed yes! of victory Abbie yanked the flash drive from the chain and dropped it through the hole, praying for a miracle. She stuck one finger as deeply into the hole as she could and wriggled it, hoping it would attract another driver’s attention.

  Maybe nobody would find the flash drive, but it wouldn’t end up in Rafe’s hands either. And if she was lucky, then someone would turn it in to the police.

  Sweat slicked her body. Her arm, twisted in an odd position, ached.

  Was no one else out there on the road? How long had they been moving? How far were they going? She closed her eyes and relived Gray’s hand being ripped from hers, falling, the whole world bursting white, then vanishing into black. Gray had to be all right. Tears climbed up her throat once more. If you’re going to do Gray any good, you have to stay strong. She sniffed back the tears and concentrated on her plan.

  In her head she rehearsed every step, seeing herself perform with calm and power. When the car slowed, she would position herself on her back so that when the trunk opened, she could punch at her captor with her legs. A self-defense instructor on some television talk show had once said that women’s legs were their strongest point. Her captor would fall to the ground. As he tried to scramble up, she would run, fast and far. She saw it all executed like a perfect ballet.

  Ironic really that the hours she’d spent watching television, retreating from the nightmare of the past year, were now going to help save her.

  This time she was going to win. This time, Rafe would be the one getting hurt.

  The road under the tires bumped more roughly. A sharp turn unbalanced her and threw her against the sides as if she were a loose bag of groceries. Bracing her hands against one side, she rode out the bumps that jostled her up and down and side to side.

  The car slowed, then stopped. She rolled onto her back. Her heart jumped in her chest. The driver turned off the engine. Her blood whooshed in her ears. The driver’s door creaked open. Her pulse went haywire.

  This was it. Breath held, heart boomeranging inside her chest, she bent her knees and waited for the trunk to open.

  STILL STRUGGLING WITH disorientation, Gray grabbed the cell phone and punched in Kingsley’s number. His weapon was gone. Abbie was gone. “He’s got Abbie.”

  “Who’s got Abbie?”

  “Vanderveer. He set off flash-bangs to knock me down and kidnapped her right under my nose while I was flopping like a fish. He’s got her. He’s got her!”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll find her. I’ve got to let Falconer in on this. We’ll find her.”

  “Yeah, right, thanks.” Kingsley was right, of course. Panicking wouldn’t get him any closer to Abbie. He had to use his strength. Outside he oriented himself, looking for what was left behind. Shoes. Men’s shoes. Not boots. Not Pamela. The tracks moved awkwardly toward the road, twin trails dragging behind them. Abbie? Unconscious? Dead? Don’t go there. She was alive. He would know if she was dead. He would feel it. He rubbed at the ache in his chest and kept deciphering the track. He followed the trail to a thicket of trees two cottages down. They ended where tire tracks began.

  “Where are you?” Kingsley asked.

  “Green Goose Lake.”

  “I’ll send Mercer down to pick you up.”

  Gray stalked the tire tracks to the main road, where they turned south.

  “Where would someone with an alphabet soup of law enforcement after them go?” Gray asked more to himself than because he expected Kingsley to come up with an answer.

  “He’d stick to side roads,” Kingsley said.

  “He’d have a safe house ready and waiting.”

  “Somewhere with options. Somewhere not easily visible.”

  “Yeah, murder’s a private thing.”

  “Somewhere along 91, where he could head north to Canada or south to Connecticut or even escape by boat if he had to.”

  “That’s over two hundred miles of territory. There has to be an easier way.”

  Gray examined the lake road. Its mouth opened on Route 10. He and Abbie had left the beater he’d bought with what was left of their money along Route 10.

  “Pamela,” Gray said. “I clipped her good. I didn’t play Good Samaritan, but I dialed 9-1-1. If she broke a leg, she couldn’t have gotten away before the ambulance reached her.”

  “I’ll call up hospitals around Shelburne Falls and see if any woman was admitted with a leg or hip injury from a car accident.”

  “She might not use her real name.”

  “I figured as much. Mercer’s on his way.”

  If Pamela had gone to the hospital, her car was still near the Serendipity Gallery. Gray started running. “Tell him I’m on my way to Shelburne Falls.”

  “What for?” Kingsley asked.

  “Answers.” Because he couldn’t just sit here and wait while Abbie was in danger. He had to find her.

  Gray had gone into every job knowing that the violent people he chased might turn on him and something might go wrong. He put himself on the line and accepted the odds because he was driven to do so. But not Abbie. She hadn’t signed on for this. His stomach knotted at the thought of Vanderveer getting his hands on her. If Vanderveer hurt one hair on her head, if Gray lost his second chance with Abbie because of that piece of garbage, he swore Vanderveer would pay. Big-time.

  SOMEONE TURNED THE KEY ON the lock of the trunk. As sunlight crept into the opening, Abbie blinked but kept her aim centered at the black shadow in the middle. As soon as the trunk clearance gave her enough space, she thrust her legs out and connected with air.

  Something hard pounded against her temple. Pain exploded, scrambling her brain and making her see stars.

  “We’ll have no repeat of that, shall we?” Rafe said as he yanked her out of the car by her hair.

  Pain tore through her skull, pounded. She couldn’t quite balance on her feet and sagged. Rafe wrenched her up again. Gray’s face floated on a wave of dizziness. His smile encouraged her. She couldn’t pass out. She had to keep fighting.

  Kick. Do something. Don’t just take it like a sitting duck.

  But brain and body couldn’t seem to coordinate their messages, and all her effort gained her was a floundering of arms and legs.

  Rafe’s hand grabbed her neck and squee
zed, lifting her until her vision went hazy and her breath raspy. “Enough of that, do you understand?”

  Wheezing, she nodded.

  Hand still wrapped around her windpipe, Rafe jerked her toward the house, forcing her to scuttle beside him with her head at an awkward angle. Her hands couldn’t punch effectively. Her legs couldn’t kick without tightening the squeeze.

  For a second as they headed to the cottage she thought all they’d done was drive in one long circle around Green Goose Lake. This cabin could be a twin of the one they’d borrowed. Then the details focused. A twin with nicer clothes. The house was bigger. The lake was wider. The lot was spacier and more wooded. From here she couldn’t see the road, which also meant no one could see her at the mercy of a madman. He could do whatever he wanted with her and no one would see or hear.

  A brick grill sat on the deck. Fairy lights ringed the stairs and the railing. A patio table of redwood with six matching chairs and a hunter-green umbrella waited as if a party was just about to start. All that was missing was the people.

  No witnesses. Just the way Rafe liked to do murder.

  Her father had died for her, for the town he loved. But she wasn’t ready to sacrifice her life. Not while she could still fight.

  She was going to wait for an opportunity. She was going to get Rafe. Then she was going to make him pay for all he’d done to her, her family and her town. She’d make Rafe suffer until he wished he was dead.

  Her anger gave her courage, and she desperately tried to hang on to it and let it cover her fear.

  She tripped on a stair and gagged when Rafe’s grip on her throat didn’t loosen. She grabbed onto his white dress shirt so she wouldn’t hang herself on the noose of his fingers, and he dragged her up the rest of the way. Once inside, he shoved her to the ground. She skidded on a bruised hip until the floor of polished maple slats gave way to terra-cotta kitchen tile and her head cracked against a kitchen cabinet.

  Hands clutching at her throat, she gasped for air and coughed, unable to do anything to defend herself against the monster standing at her feet.

  “Where is it?” Rafe asked, hands on hips, looking down at her as if she were vermin.

  Her throat worked, but only a strangled sound came out.

  He made a great show of putting on latex gloves, as if he were dealing with something dirty and he had to keep contamination to a minimum. He dumped the contents of her canvas tote onto the counter and started rifling through the items, discarding things with a careless swipe of his hand. She pushed herself up only to have Rafe’s foot shove her back down.

  “The question is simple, Abrielle. Where is the photo?”

  Her tongue felt too thick. Blood seemed to coat her throat. Her words spit out in an unintelligible tangle. All the while she frantically searched for something to use as a weapon. The knife block was too high. The decorative stone painted with a curled-up fox was too far. Even the ceramic dog bowl was out of her reach. Her hand splayed on the tile and she used the suction to pull herself up and away from her tormentor.

  Rafe grasped the hose attachment on the kitchen sink and turned it on full blast into her mouth and up her nose. She sputtered, trying vainly to scramble out of the way. “Last chance, Abrielle. Where is that photo?”

  “Studio,” she croaked, choking and backhanding the water dripping from her face.

  “See, now, that wasn’t so hard.” He crouched beside her and laid a hand on her shoulder as if he were a benevolent uncle. Then he started pinching the clavicle and scapula. The right shoulder. The clavicle he knew she’d already broken. “Now tell me, where is the photo?”

  “Studio.” Teeth jamming her lips tight, she fought his grip and the spreading panic the thought of more pain unleashed. “I don’t have it with me. It’s at my studio.”

  “Now, what did I tell you, Abrielle? I want the truth. I had your studio searched and it wasn’t there.”

  She worked her throat against the pain of bone near its cracking point, lubricating her lie so it would sound like the truth. “Hidden.”

  “Where?”

  “Please let go.”

  “Answer first.”

  “I’ll have to show you. You’ll never find it.”

  “No, sorry.” A little more pressure and the bone bowed. “Tell me.”

  “It’s in a hidden panel. Under the floor. I’ll show you.”

  He eased up, loosening his grip so fast that Abbie actually felt the clavicle spring back into place. She rubbed at the bruise, willing the nausea back down.

  “Okay,” he said, his dark, dead eyes piercing hers. There was nothing there. No emotions. “We’ll move on to question number two. Remember that the truth will save you a lot of pain, and I’ve learned the art of pain this past year. Are we understood?”

  Afraid to speak, she nodded.

  “What did you send al-Khafar?”

  “I tell you, you kill me.”

  “You don’t tell me, you die anyway.”

  She gulped. Not yet. She had to stretch her time here with Rafe. Give the task force hunting Rafe a chance to find him. Either way, Rafe wasn’t getting out of this alive.

  “Studio,” she said. “I can show you what I did there.”

  He patted her cheek, and she gritted her teeth against his touch. “You must think me stupid.”

  She shook her head. “No, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

  His finger skimmed the underside of her jaw. A lecherous smile oiled his lips. “Everything?”

  She stared at him, not daring to answer.

  He hauled her up by the front of her sweatshirt and dumped her unceremoniously into a kitchen chair.

  Using duct tape he tied her legs to the chair legs and cuffed her hands behind her back. He dragged the chair to the edge of the wall and left her there like a naughty child. “Don’t move.”

  He turned away and reached for a cell phone, pacing the length of the counter separating the kitchen area from the living room.

  Keeping half her attention on Rafe, she scanned the living room. She struggled to free her hands, but the tape was wound too tight. Each time she turned her head, a searing pain lanced up and down the sides of her abused neck. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t run. All she could do was bend forward. But she wasn’t going to just sit there and wait for Rafe to kill her.

  Pay attention, Abbie. Look. There has to be something you can use.

  To her right, on a shelf unit filled with paperbacks, a stereo system and a pile of board games, she spied a small digital camera. If she could reach it, she could do to Rafe what he’d done to her and Gray—blind him with light. Would that be enough to reach for the gun tucked in his waistband?

  Rafe had a lot riding on the two photographs burned onto the flash drive. The one of him killing her father wouldn’t make or break his case—just make it more difficult. The one of him with the Russian general could cost him a lot more.

  If she didn’t show him how she’d done the composite, he would have no proof he hadn’t betrayed his contact. She edged the chair until she could slip her bound hands through the back bars. Stretching her shoulders and arms as far as they would go, she reached for the small camera on the shelf. Too far. She rolled her shoulders back until the strained clavicle threatened to pop out of its socket. The bruise on her right side throbbed. Breathing in short, shallow pants, she managed to work through the pain.

  Her fingertips finally brushed against the chrome body. Millimeter by millimeter she drew it closer. She tried for a side scoop. Her tense arm jerked, knocking the camera off the shelf.

  No, not now. Not when I’m this close. She rounded her spine backward and forced her hands down farther, catching the end of the cord with the crook of one finger.

  Breath held, she glanced at Rafe, who was still engrossed in his conversation.

  Then excruciatingly slowly she wound the strap around her fingers until the body lay square in her palm.

  Rafe cut his call and turned to face her. Keepi
ng unflagging eye contact with Rafe, she held on tight to the camera.

  “We’re going back to Echo Falls.” He caressed her cheek and bent down for a kiss. At the last second she swerved sideways. And while his lips seared her cheek, she skewed her bound hands to one side as if catching her balance and slipped the camera into the kangaroo pouch of the overlarge sweatshirt she wore. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, my sweet. No one will be looking for us there. They’re all chasing their shadows hundreds of miles away, thanks to your old friend Phil Auclair.”

  Phil? Phil was the one who’d betrayed her? She’d trusted him. Bared her soul to him. Who better, then, to know what would hurt most.

  With one gloved hand Rafe squashed her cheeks and forced her glance to meet his. “It’s only fitting, after all, that you should die where both your parents did. You were such a close little family.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gray found Pamela’s car parked not far from what was left of the Serendipity Gallery, nose out, ready for a quick departure.

  Plain brown on the outside, it nevertheless packed a lot of horses under the hood and housed enough electronics on the dash to give a pilot cockpit envy.

  As he sat in the driver’s seat, the empty holster at his side seemed to mock him. If his own bullet killed Abbie, Gray could never forgive himself. A helpless, savage anger roared through him. Abbie would not die. Not on his watch. He redoubled his effort to learn all he could from what Pamela had left behind.

  The painfully neat car gave up nothing other than the bank of electronics. He stared at the various screens. Most were dark, but a few showed LED readings. He punched Kingsley’s number into his phone. “I found Pamela’s car. It was still parked near the gallery.”

  “I’ll give Mercer your location. He’s on his way to Brattleboro Memorial in Vermont. It’s nineteen miles from Shelburne Falls. You were right—she’s listed as Lara Bancroft. Broken hip and leg, bruised ribs.”