The Complete Mackenzie Collection

by Linda Howard

  Joe had changed overnight; it was a subtle change, but one that made Mary ache inside. In repose, his young face held a grimness that saddened her, as if the last faint vestiges of boyhood had been driven from his soul. He’d always looked older than his age, but now, despite the smoothness of hiss kin, he no longer looked young.

  She was a grown woman, almost thirty years old, and the attack had left scars she hadn’t been able to handle alone. Cathy and Pam were just kids, and Cathy had to handle a nightmare that was far worse than what Mary and Pam had undergone. Joe had lost his youth. No matter what, that man had to be stopped before he damaged anyone else.

  When Wolf and Joe left the house, Mary gave them plenty of time to get far enough away so they wouldn’t hear her car start, then hurried out of the house. She didn’t know what she was going to do, other than parade through Ruth on the off chance that her presence might trigger another attack. And then what? She didn’t know. Somehow she had to be prepared; she had to get someone to keep watch so the man could be caught. It should have been easy to catch him; he’d been so careless, attacking out in the open and in broad daylight, making stupid moves, as if he attacked on impulse and without a plan. He hadn’t even taken the simplest precautions against getting caught. The whole thing was strange. It didn’t make sense.

  Her hands were shaking as she drove into town; she was acutely aware that this was the first time since the day she’d been attacked that she was without protection. She felt exposed, as if her clothing had been stripped away.

  She had to get someone to watch her, someone she trusted. Who? Sharon? The young teacher was her friend, but Sharon wasn’t aggressive, and she thought the situation called for aggressiveness. Francie Beecham was too old; Cicely Karr would be too cautious. She discounted the men, because they would get all protective and refuse to help. Men were such victims to their own hormones. Machismo had killed a lot more people than PMS.

  Pam Hearst sprang to mind. Pam would be extremely interested in catching the man, and she’d been aggressive enough to kick him in the mouth, to fight him off. She was young, but she had courage. She’d had the courage to go against her father and date a half-breed.

  Conversation ceased when she walked into Hearst’s store; it was the first time she’d been seen since the end of school. She ignored the thick silence, for she had what she suspected was a highly accurate guess as to the subject of the conversation she’d interrupted, and approached the checkout counter where Mr. Hearst stood.

  “Is Pam at home?” she asked quietly, not wanting her question to be heard by the entire store.

  He looked as if he’d aged ten years overnight, but there was no animosity in his face.

  He nodded. The same thing had happened to Miss Potter, he thought. If she could talk to Pam, maybe she could take that haunted look out of his baby girl’s eyes. Miss Potter had a lot of backbone for such a little thing; maybe he didn’t always agree with her, but he’d damn sure learned to respect her. And Pam thought the world of her.

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d talk to her,” he said.

  There was an odd, almost militant expression in her soft bluish eyes. “I’ll do that,” she promised, and turned to leave. She almost bumped into Dottie and was startled into a gasp; the woman had been right behind her.

  “Good morning,” Mary said pleasantly. Aunt Ardith had drilled the importance of good manners into her.

  Strangely, Dottie seemed to have aged, too. Her face was haggard. “How are you doing, Mary?”

  Mary hesitated, but she could detect none of the hostility she was accustomed to from Dottie. Had the entire town changed? Had this nightmare brought them to their senses about the Mackenzies? “I’m fine. Are you enjoying the vacation?”

  Dottie smiled, but it was merely a movement of her facial muscles, not a response of pleasure. “It’s been a relief.”

  She certainly didn’t look relieved; she looked worried to a frazzle. Of course, everyone should be worried.

  “How is your son?” Mary couldn’t remember the boy’s name, and she felt faintly embarrassed. It wasn’t like her to forget names.

  To her surprise, Dottie went white. Even her lips were bloodless. “W—why do you ask?” she stammered.

  “He seemed upset the last time I saw him,” Mary replied. She could hardly say that only good manners had prompted the question. Southerners always asked after family.

  “Oh. He—he’s all right. He hardly ever leaves the house. He doesn’t like going out.” Dottie looked around, then blurted “Excuse me,” and left the store before Mary could say anything else.

  She looked at Mr. Hearst, and he shrugged. He thought Dottie had acted a bit strange, too.

  “I’ll go see Pam now,” she said.

  She started to walk to the Hearst house, but the memory of what had happened the last time she’d walked through town made chills run up her spine, and she went to her car. She checked the back seat and floorboard before opening the door. As she started the engine, she saw Dottie walking swiftly up the street, her head down as if she didn’t want anyone to speak to her. She hadn’t bought anything, Mary realized. Why had she been in Hearst’s store, if not to make a purchase? It couldn’t be browsing, because everyone knew what every store in town carried. Why had she left so suddenly?

  Dottie turned left down the small street where she lived, and abruptly Mary wondered what Dottie was doing walking around alone. Every woman in town should know better. Surely she had enough sense to be cautious.

  Mary drove slowly up the street. She craned her neck when she reached the street where Dottie had turned and saw the woman hurrying up the steps of her house. Her eyes fell on the faded sign: Bay Road.

  Bay Road was where Wolf thought the rapist had dodged into a house. It made sense that he wouldn’t have entered a house that wasn’t his home, unless he was a close friend who came and went just like a family member. That was possible, but even a very close friend would give a yell before just walking into someone else’s house, and Wolf would have heard that.

  Dottie was certainly acting odd. She’d looked as if she’d been stung by a bee when Mary had asked about her son…. Bobby, that was his name. Mary was pleased that she’d remembered.

  Bobby. Bobby wasn’t “right.” He did things in a skewed way. He was unable to apply logic to the simplest of chores, unable to plan a practical course of action.

  Mary broke out in a sweat and had to stop the car. She’d only seen him once, but she could picture him in her mind: big, a little soft-looking, with sandy hair and a fair complexion. A fair, freckled complexion.

  Was it Bobby? The one person in town who wasn’t totally responsible for himself? The one person no one would ever suspect?

  Except his mother.

  She had to tell Wolf.

  As soon as the thought formed, she dismissed it. She couldn’t tell Wolf, not yet, because she didn’t want to put that burden on him. His instincts would tell him to go after Bobby; his conscience would argue that Bobby wasn’t a responsible person. Mary knew him well enough to know that, no matter which decision he made, he would always have regrets. Better for the responsibility to be hers than to push Wolf into such a position.

  She’d call Clay. It was his job, after all. He’d be better able to deal with the situation.

  Only a few seconds passed as her thoughts rushed through her mind. She was still sitting there staring at Dottie’s house when Bobby came out on the porch. It took him a moment, but suddenly he noticed her car and looked straight at her. A distance of less than seventy-five yards separated them, still too far for her to read his expression, but she didn’t need a close-up for sheer terror to spurt through her. She stomped on the gas pedal and the car shot forward, slinging gravel, the tires squealing.

  It was only a short distance to the Hearst house. Mary ran to the front door and banged her fist on it. Her heart felt as if it would explode. That brief moment when she had been face-to-face with him was almost more than sh
e could stand. God, she had to call Clay.

  Mrs. Hearst opened the door a crack, then recognized Mary and swung it all the way open. “Miss Potter! Is something wrong?”

  Mary realized that she must look wild. “Could I use your phone? It’s an emergency.”

  “Why—of course.” She stepped back, allowing Mary inside.

  Pam appeared in the hallway. “Miss Potter?” She looked young and scared.

  “The phone’s in the kitchen.”

  Mary followed Mrs. Hearst and grabbed the receiver. “What’s the number of the sheriff’s department?”

  Pam got a small telephone book from the countertop and began flipping through the pages. Too agitated to wait, Mary dialed the number for Information.

  “Sheriff’s department, please.”

  “What city?” the disembodied voice asked.

  She drew a blank. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember the name of the town.

  “Here it is,” Pam said.

  Mary disconnected the call to Information, then dialed as Pam recited the number. The various computer clicks as the connection was made seemed to take forever.

  “Sheriff’s office.”

  “Deputy Armstrong, please. Clay Armstrong.”

  “One moment.”

  It was longer than one moment. Pam and her mother stood tensely, not knowing what was going on but reacting to her urgency. Both of them had dark circles under their eyes. It had been a bad night for the Hearst family.

  “Sheriff’s office,” a different voice said.

  “Clay?”

  “You looking for Armstrong?”

  “Yes. It’s an emergency!” she insisted.

  “Well, I don’t know where he is right now. You want to tell me what the trouble is—hey, Armstrong! Some lady wants you in a hurry.” To Mary, he said, “He’ll be right here.”

  A few seconds later Clay’s voice said, “Armstrong.”

  “It’s Mary. I’m in town.”

  “What the hell are you doing there?”

  Her teeth were chattering. “It’s Bobby. Bobby Lancaster. I saw him—”

  “Hang up the phone!”

  It was a scream, and she jumped, dropping the receiver, which dangled from the end of its cord. She flattened against the wall, for Bobby stood there, inside the kitchen, with a huge butcher knife in his hand. His face was twisted with both hate and fear.

  “You told!” He sounded like an outraged child.

  “Told—told what?”

  “You told him! I heard you!”

  Mrs. Hearst had shrunk back against the cabinets, her hand at her throat. Pam stood as if rooted in the middle of the floor, her face colorless, her eyes locked on the young man she’d known all her life. She could see the slight swelling of his lower lip.

  Bobby shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as if he didn’t know what to do next. His face was red, and he looked almost tearful.

  Mary strove to steady her voice. “That’s right, I told him. He’s on his way now. You’d better run.” Maybe that wasn’t the best suggestion in the world, but more than anything she wanted to get him out of the Hearsts’ house before he hurt someone. She desperately wanted him to run.

  “It’s all your fault!” He looked hunted, as if he didn’t know what to do except cast blame. “You—you came here and changed things. Mama said you’re a dirty Indian-lover.”

  “I beg your pardon. I prefer clean people.”

  He blinked, confused. Then he shook his head and said again, “It’s your fault.”

  “Clay will be here in a few minutes. You’d better go.”

  His hand tightened on the knife, and suddenly he reached out and grabbed her arm. He was big and soft, but he was faster than he looked. Mary cried out as he twisted her arm up behind her back, nearly wrenching her shoulder joint loose.

  “You’ll be my hostage, just like on television,” he said and pushed her out the back door.

  Mrs. Hearst was motionless, frozen in shock. Pam leaped for the phone, heard the buzzing that signaled a broken connection and held the button down for a new line. When she got a dial tone, she dialed the Mackenzies’ number. It rang endlessly, and she cursed, using words her mother had no idea she knew. All the while she leaned to the side, trying to see where Bobby was taking Mary.

  She was just about to hang up when the receiver was picked up and a deep, angry voice roared, “Mary?”

  She was so startled that she almost dropped the phone. “No,” she choked. “It’s Pam. He has Mary. It’s Bobby Lancaster, and he just dragged her out of the house—”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Pam shivered at the deadly intent in Wolf Mackenzie’s voice.

  Mary stumbled over a large rock hidden by the tall grass and gagged as the sudden intense pain made nausea twist her stomach.

  “Stand up!” Bobby yelled, jerking at her.

  “I twisted my ankle!” It was a lie, but it would give her an excuse to slow him down.

  He’d dragged her across the small meadow behind the Hearsts’, through a thick line of trees, over a stream, and now they were climbing a small rise. At least it had looked small, but now she knew it was deceptively large. It was a big open area, not the smartest place for Bobby to head, but he didn’t plan well. That was what had thrown everyone off from the beginning, what had never seemed quite right. There had been no logic to his actions; Bobby reacted rather than planned.

  He didn’t know what to do for a twisted ankle, so he didn’t worry about it, just pushed her along at the same speed. She stumbled again, but somehow managed to retain her balance. She wouldn’t be able to bear it if she fell on her stomach and he came down on top of her again.

  “Why did you have to tell?” he groaned.

  “You hurt Cathy.”

  “She deserved it!”

  “How? How did she deserve it?”

  “She liked him—the Indian.”

  Mary was panting. She estimated they’d gone over a mile. Not a great distance, but the gradual uphill climb was telling on her. It didn’t help that her arm was twisted up between her shoulder blades. How long had it been? When could she expect Clay to arrive? It had been at least twenty minutes.

  Wolf made it off his mountain in record time. His eyes were like flint as he leaped from the truck before it had rocked to a complete stop. He and Joe both carried rifles, but Wolf’s was a sniper rifle, a Remington with a powerful scope. He’d never had occasion to try a thousand-yard shot with it, but he’d never missed his target at closer range.

  People milled around the back of the house. He and Joe shouldered their way through the crowd. “Everybody freeze, before you destroy any more tracks!” Wolf roared, and everyone stopped dead.

  Pam darted to them. Her face was streaked with tears. “He took her into the trees. There,” she said and pointed.

  A siren announced Clay’s arrival, but Wolf didn’t wait for him. The trail across the meadow was as plain to him as a neon sign would have been, and he set off at a lope, with Joe on his heels.

  Dottie Lancaster was terrified, and nearly hysterical. Bobby was her son, and she loved him desperately no matter what he’d done. She’d been sick when she’d realized he was the one who had attacked Cathy Teele and Mary; she’d almost worried herself into an early grave as she wrestled with her conscience and the sure knowledge that she’d lose her son if she turned him in. But that was nothing compared to the horror she’d felt when she discovered he’d slipped from the house. She’d followed the sounds of a disturbance and found all of her nightmares coming true: he’d taken Mary, and he had a knife. Now the Mackenzies were after him, and she knew they would kill him.

  She grabbed Clay’s arm as he surged past her. “Stop them,” she sobbed. “Don’t let them kill my boy.”

  Clay barely glanced at her. He shook her loose and ran after them. Distraught, Dottie ran, too.

  By then some of the other men had gotten their rifles and were joining the hunt. The
y’d always felt sorry for Bobby Lancaster, but he’d hurt their women, and there was no excuse for it.

  Wolf’s heartbeat settled down, and he pushed the panic away. His senses heightened, as they always did when he was on the hunt. Every sound was magnified in his ears, instantly recognizable. He saw every blade of grass, every broken twig and overturned rock. He could smell every scent nature had left, and the faint acrid, coppery tang of fear. His body was a machine, moving smoothly, silently.

  He could read every sign. Here Mary had stumbled, and his muscles tightened. She had to be terrified. If he hurt her—she was so slight, no match at all for a man. The bastard had a knife. Wolf thought of a blade touching her delicate, translucent skin, and rage consumed him. He had to push it away because he couldn’t afford the mistakes rage could cause.

  He broke out of the tree line and suddenly saw them, high on the side of the rise. Bobby was dragging Mary along, but at least she was still alive.

  Wolf examined the terrain. He didn’t have a good angle. He moved east, along the base of the rise.

  “Stop!”

  It was Bobby’s voice, only faintly heard at that distance. They had halted, and Bobby was holding Mary in front of him. “Stop or I’ll kill her!”

  Slowly, Wolf went down on one knee and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He sighted through the scope, not for a shot, but to see how he should set it up. The powerful scope plainly revealed the desperation on Bobby’s face and the knife at Mary’s throat.

  “Bobbeee!” Dottie had reached them, and she screamed his name.

  “Mama?”

  “Bobby, let her go!”

  “I can’t! She told!”

  The men had clustered around. Several of them measured the distance by eye and shook their heads. They couldn’t make the shot, not at that range. They were as likely to hit Mary as Bobby, if they hit anything at all.

  Clay looked down at Wolf. “Can you make the shot?”

  Wolf smiled, and Clay felt that chill run up his spine again at the look in Wolf’s eyes. They were cold and murderous. “Yeah.”