“Didn’t want to warn him off.” He frowned. “How was the body I.D.’d then? He had no face, not enough fingers left to fingerprint. Scars?”
She shook her head to clear the swirling confusion. “I didn’t see the body. Dental work. The dental records matched a bridge on his upper teeth.” Impossible. She couldn’t accept it.
“He and his drug pals probably found some poor homeless slob to take his place. I wouldn’t put it past them to smash in the guy’s face and put Santerre’s bridge in his mouth. Maybe they counted on the fish and the rocks to take care of the fingerprints. Or maybe they—”
“No more. I refuse to listen to this.” She lay against the contoured seat and willed herself to ignore his foolish talk. Why was he doing this? Beneath lowered lashes, she peeked at him to fathom his motivation.
He glanced in the rearview mirror, frowned, then squinted into the side mirror. As if in the Indy 500, he stomped on the accelerator, and the vehicle leapt forward.
“Claire, fasten your seat belt. This could be rough.”
Suddenly the Cherokee swerved around a sharp curve. The torque threw her against the door. Claire struggled with her shoulder harness while trying to ascertain what had happened. In the right-hand outside mirror she saw a dark blue Explorer following close behind them. Too close. And gaining.
“Mon Dieu, what is it, Michael?”
“Raoul. I should have known,” he muttered between his teeth. Into his small black hand-held police radio, he barked, “Cruz, where the hell are you? Come in, dammit.” When he received no response, only static, he tossed the instrument down in disgust.
Claire gripped the dashboard in an effort to steady herself. They whipped along the narrow road and through curves. The giant snowflakes, like a child’s folded paper cutouts, continued to fill the air and whiten the road.
“Why?” she asked. “Do they think I have the ledger with me?”
“They were trying to kill you before they knew about the ledger. Maybe they want to grab you instead.”
She gasped. “Make me a hostage? To get the ledger?”
“Who knows? Maybe it has something to do with Santerre.” A jaw muscle jerked.
Her chest constricted in fear. What did it mean if Paul still lived?
“I don’t intend to let them get close enough to find out.” He accelerated and wrenched them around another curve.
Claire’s heart clattered like a speeding train, and blood roared in her ears. She fought back the terror that threatened to immobilize her. In spite of their differences, she trusted Michael to get them out of this situation. He would do everything he could to protect her. Both their lives were on the line.
A quick glance at the terrain determined that they were not traveling the road back to Weymouth. Evergreens, spruce and white pines formed thick walls on either side of the road. Here and there dirt lanes led off to the right, marked by private-road signs.
And still the dark SUV pursued them. Though the Cherokee’s interior had adequate heat, chills of fear shivered through her. “We’re heading north, Michael. Do you realize where you’re going?”
“I have more horsepower than they do. We can keep ahead. As long as this damn snow doesn’t get any worse.” His grim voice matched his expression. At a sharp turn, he slowed, the powerful engine downshifting automatically, and then he sped up on the straightaway. “No, I don’t know where the hell this road goes. I was just driving so we could talk.”
A sudden bang and a hard jolt sent Claire’s purse flying off her lap. “What was that?” she gasped.
Once again Michael accelerated. Claire twisted to see the Explorer drop back a few feet.
“They rammed us.”
The Cherokee roared ahead, out of the tree cover. The tires spun on a broad turn, the vehicle swerving in a semicircle. Deftly, Michael steered into the slide and they moved forward.
On their left rose a steep granite slab of cliff. On the right, a slender metal guardrail stood as the only barrier between them and the rolling pewter waters of Casco Bay.
“The Cliff Road,” Claire said, breathless with alarm. The accumulating snow obscured the road edges. Michael leaned forward over the steering wheel. “Up ahead is—”
“Suicide Curve.” Where Jonathan’s car crashed over the cliff, she finished silently. They both knew the hazards of this road. She didn’t need to voice them.
“Take the radio,” Michael said. “See if you can raise Cruz.”
The instrument had a confusing array of dials and buttons. Gamely, Claire followed Michael’s concise directions.
When again there was no response, he clenched his jaw. “Talk, anyway. Tell him the situation. Tell him we need backup.”
As clearly as she could, Claire described where they were and explained about their pursuers.
“Here they come again,” Michael said. He gripped the wheel and shifted. They headed into a blind curve.
Directly ahead loomed the water.
In horrified silence, Claire watched the Explorer’s hood approach ominously in the side mirror. The magnification made it appear larger than life. A vicious heavy metal alien charged them. And they were its prey.
The Explorer’s bumper rammed their left rear fender. The shocking force sent the Cherokee into a fishtail spin. Toward the steep cliff on the right.
Claire clasped both hands over her mouth. She bit back a scream. She watched helplessly as Michael struggled to turn out of the spin. He accelerated and wrenched the wheel to the left. Momentum propelled them uncontrollably sideways on the ice-spotted road.
With a parting growl of increasing speed, the Explorer passed them and disappeared ahead into the curtain of snow.
“Hold on,” Michael bit out. “This might work.”
He stomped on the brakes and yanked on the emergency brake at the same time. Almost imperceptibly, their slithering progress slowed. With a whine of metal, they stopped.
The jarring stop shook every bone in Claire’s body and slammed her shoulder against the car door. Wincing at the pain, she glanced at Michael. He slumped over the wheel, but he was breathing.
“Michael, are you all right?” To her ears, her voice sounded shaky and thin. “You did it. You stopped the car. We’re safe.”
“Not yet, babe,” he said. “We have to get the hell out of here. This damn thing could take a dive.”
Not until then did she notice the cant of her seat and the continuing whine of stressed metal. She couldn’t help but stare out her window. Only the tarnished-silver sky and sea came into view, not the road. The Cherokee tilted at a crazy angle, its nose on the roadbed and its right rear tire hanging over the cliff. Suspended on the edge, they teetered dangerously.
Only a severely strained guardrail held them back from an icy, wet death.
“I want you to remove your seat belt and slide toward me.” Michael sat slowly upright and unsnapped his belt. Blood dripped onto his parka.
“You’re hurt! What is it?” She reached toward him.
He caught her hand. “I’m okay. A cut on my forehead. It’s nothing.” Above his right eye bloomed an ugly gash and a purpling bruise, where he’d apparently struck the steering wheel.
For a second, she thought he was going to kiss her hand, but he released it with a gentle squeeze. Warm tingles spread up her arm from the contact. Dazed by the aching awareness and by the wreck, she averted her gaze and gingerly worked the belt’s catch.
“Okay, now slide slow and smooth to me, and we’ll go out my side. It’ll be tricky since we’re tilted at least twenty degrees.” After zipping the police radio into a pocket, he lifted the door handle and gave a gentle push.
Levering herself up and over with both arms, Claire slid onto the center console. Her long legs made the move tight going.
With a shriek of protesting metal, Michael popped the driver’s door. He shoved it up and open wide.
Violent paroxysms shook the Cherokee. It lurched downward.
Through the windshie
ld, Claire saw another guardrail support yanked from its cement bed. Like a rubber band stretched to its limit, the narrow metal rail twisted and thinned. Its harsh cry of protest whined on the wind.
With a tearing sound, rocks pulled loose and tumbled into the frost-tipped waters below.
Shock waves of panic ripped through Claire. A scream tore from her throat.
Their precarious slide halted, but the metallic cry of the guardrail complained at the added weight. With the tilt increased, the Cherokee could tumble over the side at any minute and take them with it.
Michael hauled Claire against him and, with a powerful lunge, surged up and through the open door.
She felt herself cradled in his arms as they hurtled through the air. They hit the snow-covered pavement with a painful thud. He rolled, protecting her with his big body.
A few minutes later, chilled and wet, Michael sagged with relief when he was able to raise Cruz on the radio. He briefly stated their plight. “I tried to contact you twice earlier. What happened to you, man?”
“Sorry,” Cruz replied. “The guy stopped his truck and ran into the woods. When I chased him, the radio must have fallen from my pocket. By the time I found it, he had circled back around and driven away.”
“Bad luck. Any idea who it was?”
“I feel like a damn amateur, but at least I got the license. A newer model Nissan. I think it’s our target.”
At those words, Michael’s nerves screamed, and a stony ache tightened in his gut. So Santerre had been at the funeral, had taken the monumental risk of being recognized. And for what? To spy on Claire? To meet her? To protect her from Raoul? The possibilities battered his tired brain.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Cruz finished.
Before he signed off, Michael advised him to call a wrecker, too. Without their body weight, the guardrail was strong enough to hold the Cherokee on the cliff edge for a while longer. If the sickening slide continued into the bay, it might be next summer before it got fished out. Probably totaled, anyway, he thought morosely.
He turned to Claire. Disheveled, wet and hatless, she’d pulled up her hood. She huddled beside him at the roadside and massaged her right shoulder with her left hand. Once again, her courage and spirit touched him. She’d been scared but hadn’t allowed panic to rule. And she’d trusted him to save them.
Warmth and tenderness mingled with a leap of desire and the need to hold her. But she wasn’t his. Couldn’t be his, with Santerre alive. He pounded back twin surges of protectiveness and jealousy. Nothing to be gained by examining that too closely.
She was safe for the time being. In spite of his stupidity in driving a lonely country road with no backup, he’d managed to pull it off. Barely.
But he hadn’t managed to convince her that her husband was still alive. That issue was crucial to her safety. And that of others. Santerre being the damn stalker had a hell of a lot of implications. After they traced the tan Nissan truck, he’d have more evidence.
“Here comes someone,” Claire said tiredly, her face ashen inside her black hood. “Have they come back to finish us?”
“It’s Cruz,” he said. “I recognize the car’s sound.” True, the government sedan had a distinctive engine ping. He let himself relax a fraction, but his nerves still jangled.
A tow truck sporting the painted logo Reggie’s Reck ’n’ Rescue followed closely. Police sirens whooped in the distance. The more the merrier.
After that, he had no privacy with Claire. The Weymouth police’s extracting the details of the chase and crash occupied them both. Once the police examined the SUV, Reggie hooked his winch onto the rear bumper and towed the vehicle to safety. Clucking his tongue, he pronounced it a goner. The undercarriage was crimped like a paper fan.
Michael retrieved his belongings and gave them to Cruz to stow in the sedan. Cruz started the engine. Reggie drove away with what was left of the Cherokee. Michael would call his insurance company, but that would have to wait.
As the cops prepared to leave, Michael saw Claire slide into a cruiser. “Claire,” he said, “we’re ready to take you home. You don’t need to go with the cops.”
Her lips spread in a facsimile of a smile. “That’s all right, Quinn. These officers have offered me a ride.”
All he could do was stand and watch them drive her away. He’d failed again.
“I can get some guys to watch her house,” Cruz offered.
Michael nodded. “Keeping that woman safe is harder than climbing Mount Washington in the winter. She won’t cooperate.”
Cruz clapped him on the back. “You got both of you out of that Tilt-A-Whirl, didn’t you?”
“Raoul clipped us a good one, then zoomed out of sight. Thank God he didn’t wait around to see whether we went over or not.”
“His employer must question his ability to finish a job.” Cruz shook his head and brushed snow from a parka lapel. “Now that you’ve saved her life, maybe she’ll listen to you. Give her a chance to rest and think about it. Go see her later. I’ll even lend you a little of my natural charm.”
“It’s worth a try. She hasn’t accepted my warnings so far.”
“Come on, Quinn. Let’s get that dig on your forehead patched up. You’ll have matching scars front and back.”
That evening when Michael rolled into Claire’s driveway in the sedan, the only vehicle he saw was Elisha Fogg’s ancient truck. In the house, lights illuminated the living room window and one upstairs bedroom, Claire’s.
At the memory of their last night together, the familiar flash of desire streaked through him. Claire had needed him. In her distress, she’d wanted his support. Then later, she’d craved the release of making love with him.
Even after what they had experienced together today, he doubted she’d let him through the door. That concern revived the pain centered in his forehead. He raised a hand to the bandage. Only three stitches this time.
Elisha Fogg emerged from the house. He closed the door and stood in the circle of the porch light. Squinting at the vehicle in the darkened drive, he waved a hand.
“What the hell’s he doing here this time of night?” Michael muttered to himself. Heart racing, he leapt from the driver’s seat and jogged up the walk.
“Evenin’, Mr. Quinn,” the old man said. “You get a new car? Not a good ’un in the snow, I ’spect.”
“No, I, uh, had a slight accident. Elisha—”
“Surprised to see you. Miz Claire said you left.” The old man settled a threadbare cap on his grizzled head.
“I, uh, came back. Elisha, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, I come to set up timers on some o’ the lights, so’s the house’d look lived in.” He winked at Michael. “For safety’s sake, ayuh.”
“So it would look lived in?” Apprehension prickled up Michael’s spine. “Where the hell is Claire?”
“Gone, didn’t you know? She packed up and left town late this afternoon.”
Chapter 13
Claire awoke the next morning to a soft, rumbling murmur in her left ear. Opening one eye, she spied her alarm.
“Spook, you climbed out of your box!” She scooped up the black furball and propped him on her chest.
At the sound of her voice, Alley left her cushion and leapt onto the bed. Claire thought that because of the strange setting, they’d all be happier in the same room. Le bon Dieu knew it comforted her to have their companionship and love. It might be the only love permitted her.
A few moments later, Claire rose and pulled on a bathrobe. She hadn’t expected to rest, but after arriving so late at the Caribou Peak cabin, she’d tumbled into a dreamless sleep immediately upon hitting the mattress.
She’d objected to Paul’s buying the cabin, another of his status symbols, but being in its rustic isolation now soothed her jangled nerves. After a stop in the bathroom, she shuffled in her slippers along the balcony that formed a loft above the living and kitchen areas.
She opened the other be
droom door to air out the room, closed since last winter. Odd that the place didn’t smell musty. The caretaker must have opened windows occasionally and done some cleaning. As she descended the stairs she noted that she’d have to check on that.
The animals scampered down with her.
“After that big, formal house, this place is cozy, isn’t it, little ones?” While the coffee brewed, she reflected on the warm ambience of the log walls and the rustic character of the fieldstone fireplace. The sofas and chairs, faithful to the picturesque setting, had wooden arms and plaid upholstery. A smattering of colorful braided rugs completed the tableau.
“Perhaps I’ll keep this place. Move here after I sell the big house. This suits me better. For now, I think we’ll stay a few days to clear our heads.” She wrinkled her nose at the attentive faces, waiting for their breakfasts. “My head.”
Ah, but clearing Michael from her head might take longer than she had. A lifetime. Unlike the old Broadway musical song, she couldn’t wash that man out of her hair. Or her heart. If she had one left.
Learning of his betrayal had ripped her heart from her body, leaving her a hollow, brittle shell. Yesterday she’d had to depend on his skills and quick thinking to save them from certain death on Suicide Curve. Many people would have thought it a fitting end if she’d died exactly like Jonathan. But that experience proved she needed to flee far away from Michael. Again, death menaced him because of her.
In spite of his duplicity and his strange assertions about Paul’s being alive, she still loved Michael. Too much to endanger him any further. She could face existence alone if it cost no more lives.
She would survive, as she’d survived before. Amazing how many blows a person could absorb and keep going. The fresh air in these mountains and exercise would surely help.
After a breakfast of croissants and jam, she prepared for a cross-country ski. The clock read seven-thirty, barely daylight, and the ski lifts wouldn’t start until nine. Cross-country trails wove like French braids through the woods and fields on both sides of the ski slopes. Normally, she skied her side of the mountain, but this early, she could easily cross the downhill slopes to the other side.
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