Terror Stash

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  She started hugging the wattle trees, sliding through their outer foliage with her head averted to avoid getting scratched on the face.

  Her one consolation was that Bob was no better a bush craftsman than she. His known-facts sheet said he’d been a cleric in various cities in Syria, Iraq and even Saudi Arabia for a time.

  She seemed to get along a bit faster when pushing through the wattle and she managed to keep Bob in sight. Every now and again she stopped to listen for the sounds he was making. The crunch and crack of twigs would bounce back to her and she would move on, reassured.

  After seventy minutes, they crossed a narrow ribbon of bitumen, barely a couple of car-widths wide, with a line of white dashes down the middle. There wasn’t a single car in either direction—not when Bob crossed, nor while Montana approached the road, checked carefully and scurried across herself. It stayed utterly empty.

  Five minutes later the nature of the bush changed. She notice almost immediately because the wattle stopped. It was an almost perfect demarcation line. On one side, gum trees and lots and lots of wattle. On the other side, nothing but the wide trunks of monster-sized karri trees. She could see nothing but tree trunks going back for a quarter mile until the dim light under the canopy turned everything into indistinct shade.

  She saw Bob far ahead, moving fast and easily through this new territory. She hurried after him, trying to orient herself. Given the huge karri trees, it was more than likely they were into the Boranup Forest now. It ran like a long finger parallel to the coast, slightly southwest of the Margaret River township.

  The forest of tree trunks made it more dangerous now. Bob stood out easily amongst the series of black vertical lines the forest consisted of. If he did, then she must surely do the same.

  After a few steps, she realized she wasn’t crackling with each step and looked down. Leaf litter. It was a small blessing, under the circumstances. She hurried on.

  Another half mile, then she stepped out into open space that ran like spaghetti in both directions, winding around the trees. An old, unused roadway.

  Alarmed at the sudden exposure, she skipped back behind a tree and waited for her heart to settle again. Then she risked looking out.

  The road was unsealed. Grass and small saplings were taking over the edges. It must have once been used for logging trucks but had long since been abandoned. Logging had halted here when the federal government had declared the area a national park, although the industry had been dying for a decade before that. Australian houses were most often made of bricks and mortar, not timber.

  Bob was a long way ahead, using the road to make fast time. That was both good and bad. She must keep a long way back, now, but his direction was certain. Although if he stepped off the road there was a good chance she’d miss it.

  She mopped sweat from her neck with the sleeve of her sweatshirt and moved off in a fast walk. The going was much easier on the road and she kept worrying that she would catch up with him. Every bend in the road was alarming, too. She rounded them slowly, watching the way ahead with eagle eyes, hoping she wouldn’t come around the bend and find him waiting for her.

  Every now and then she stopped, head down, to listen for his progress, but there wasn’t much to hear on the road. When she stopped for the fifth time to listen, however, she heard the distinct crunch and pop of undergrowth. He’d moved off the road. Only where? And in what direction?

  “Goddammit!” she whispered and hurried after him, her eyes peeled, her head moving from left to right, trying to spot him in amongst the trees.

  The forest was changing again. She saw wattle trees and slowed. That would explain why she had heard Bob’s footsteps crunching. Somewhere close, then....

  The sun was shining through the canopy somewhere up ahead. She could see beams of light slanting down amongst the trees, flies and dust motes floating in the beams. The ground beneath her feet was changing, too. The dark loam was becoming rockier, dryer. It was changing to a light, sandy soil.

  A crack of a branch, sounding like a rifle shot, echoed from her right, making her jump. But it gave her a direction again and she moved off the road, plunging into the wattle once more. Bob was somewhere ahead, far ahead, but she hadn’t lost him.

  She had taken barely a dozen steps away from the road when a hand slapped over her face and another crossed her chest. She was yanked her off her feet and dragged backwards.

  She’d been caught.

  Chapter Eleven

  The hand over her mouth was huge. The arm across her throat, holding her against the unyielding bole of a tree, was relentless. Just a little more pressure and she would be unable to breathe. The eyes staring from six inches away were fully black—irises and pupils both.

  Caden Rawn.

  “How interesting,” he said. “I figured Abdul there would lead me to the money man and look who I find.”

  She tried to speak around his hand.

  “Shh....” he breathed. “Slow and steady, slow and steady. I know exactly how much pressure I have on your throat. If you get hysterical and hyperventilate, you won’t get enough oh-two and you’ll pass out. Understand?” His eyes were totally black, unyielding and emotionless.

  She tried to swallow back her fear but it was a runaway engine, pounding in her brain, her heart and her ears. She nodded her understanding.

  His eyes narrowed a little. “No, you don’t understand,” he said slowly, as if she were a small child. “You’re right on the edge. If I take my hand away, if I give you back the power of speech, you’re going to get pissed at me for scaring you. Your voice is going to rise and get louder and nothing moves so far and fast in this place like sound does. So do as I say. Deep breath. In. Go on.”

  Montana realized that his voice was a low, deep rumble, spoken close to her ear so the sound wouldn’t travel. She took in as deep and controlled a breath as she could. She knew what he was trying to make her do. A fresh supply of oxygen and the act of slow, deep breathing was one of the fastest ways to pour endorphins into the human system and endorphins were the body’s natural form of happy pills.

  She took deep breaths, bringing them low into her diaphragm. Calm returned.

  He was right, she had been very close to the edge of all-out panic. If he’d let her go, she would have screamed. She’d thought Ghenghis Bob had caught her. She had been braced to fight for her life.

  The whole time she breathed deeply, Caden Rawn watched every breath she took, measuring her, judging her.

  Finally, she nodded.

  He considered for a moment, then nodded, too. “Okay, then.”

  But really, it wasn’t okay at all. She wanted to slap him silly for the scare. She wanted to do something to indicate her fury. Yes, she wanted to scream at him, but she could neither scream nor slap. Both sounds would ricochet in here.

  So she drove her hand up from her side, palm up, fingers curled back. She pistoned the ball of her hand into the soft flesh of the underside of his chin, driving her hand upwards with every pound of body weight she could muster.

  She felt his body lift off his feet. His head snapped backwards and he staggered back half a step before his legs went out from under him and he sprawled in the dirt and leaves, while Montana stared at him, shocked to stillness at the effectiveness of the blow. She had never thought it would work so well.

  She had to remember this moment and consider it later.

  Barely before his body hit the dirt he was back up, cat quick. She was slammed back against the tree again, her head thudding hard against the wood. His arm came swinging over his shoulder and she caught a glint of metal before it was rammed into the bark beside her temple. His knuckles on the serrated hunting knife were white.

  Silence. She could hear wind in the treetops.

  She made herself look him in the eye. “That was for scaring me.” She kept her voice low, just as he had, but she was back to trembling again. Mostly, it was because of how close he was standing. She could almost feel the heat of his b
ody bathing her. Pressed up against the trunk, she had no room to move.

  He was breathing hard. Very hard. Slowly, controlling every word, he said, “Do not force me to think of you as an enemy.”

  “Then don’t get in my way.”

  “Your way?”

  “Your voice is rising,” she said.

  His eyes widened. Surprise. And his mouth quirked. Almost a smile. He had full lips, unexpectedly soft and generous on a man so hard and dangerous. Montana caught her breath. The idea of Caden Rawn kissing her spread a languorous wave of longing that rushed through her. She would barely object if he bent his head and pressed his lips against hers, his body against hers. She wouldn’t object at all, really.

  Even as her mind painted the sensuous moment in full detail, she fought her attraction to the idea and to Caden Rawn. This was not a man to play with.

  “Goddamn, you’re a strong one,” he said, his voice soft and filled with admiration. The admiration was surprising and instantly killed her budding resistance to him.

  She stared up at him, willed herself to look him in the eye. “Not that strong,” she said. Whispered.

  The arm against her throat slid aside. He rested his hand against the trunk, beside her head. The other still rested on the hilt of the knife jammed in the trunk beside her temple. The movement brought him very close to her. Her heart picked up pace, thundering in her temples and her mouth, hammering against her chest. She couldn’t speak a word.

  “You like playing with the bad boys, then.” He seemed almost disappointed.

  She shook her head. “You scare me. Not in a good way.”

  “I scare you? You were following a man who’d rip your heart out of your chest and watch you die, just because you don’t believe what he does. You’ve got your priorities screwed up if I’m the one that scares you.”

  “He scares me, too.”

  Caden tipped his head to one side, studying her. “Then why were you following him?”

  “Because everyone thinks you killed Rabbit.” She bit her lip. “You know that Rabbit is dead, don’t you?”

  His gaze shifted, focusing inwards for a moment. Then he refocused on her. “Thank you.” And he smiled. It was like watching the sun come out. His whole face took on an unexpected radiance and good cheer.

  “Thank you for what?”

  “For not assuming I killed the son of a bitch.” He straightened, pulling out the knife, which shifted him away from her by a half pace. But he was still close enough so that he didn’t have to lift his voice above a murmur. He shoved the knife into a sheath on the back of his hip. “If I scare you so much, why are you here?”

  “I told you. Everyone thinks you killed Rabbit.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “I know.”

  His gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing, as he studied her. “Everyone except you,” he murmured, as if he were finishing the second half of a thought aloud. “You’re following Abdul because you know I didn’t do it and you think he did.”

  She nodded.

  “What did you think you were going to do with him when you caught him?”

  “I wanted to find out where he camped.”

  “Why?”

  She licked her lips, suddenly wary about giving away the farm.

  He cocked his head. “Why?” he repeated, with a bit more force.

  She let her gaze drop from his face. She couldn’t help it, even though she knew how telling the movement would be.

  She heard his tiny hitch of breath. “I don’t believe it,” he growled. “You’re trying to get them off my back, aren’t you?”

  “It’s not just me,” she said quickly. “Steve Scarborough, at the Margaret River police station—he knows you didn’t do it, too.”

  “But you’re here. Following Abdul.” He stared at her, his expression one of warmth and amusement...and something more. He stepped forward the half pace he had taken away from her, bringing him very close. “Strong and principled.” His black eyes seemed to reach into her, scooping out everything of any importance. “Sexy,” he added, his voice a rumble that she could actually feel.

  She could barely breathe for the tension twisting in her belly and grabbing at her chest. She could almost read his thoughts and feel the same tension in him. His gaze had focused on her lips. Despite every yearning corpuscle in her body, she found the air she needed to speak and said, “Don’t you dare kiss me.”

  The moment stretched, throbbing.

  “And smart.” He straightened and stepped back. The moment was abruptly broken. “Very smart,” he added, taking a deep breath that lifted his shoulders, his chest. He let it out slowly and carefully.

  Montana gulped air. The constriction in her chest lifted. She pushed away from the bole of the tree and stepped carefully around Caden. She peered into the false dusk cast by the trees. Striving for a casual tone, she murmured, “You’re the last person I expected. They tried to arrest you in Yallingup. What are you doing here?”

  There was a pause before he answered. “Not being arrested.” His casual tone matched hers.

  Slowly, her heartbeat subsided. “Here is at least forty miles from there.”

  “I have feet.”

  “I got a good long look at the bottom of them just then, when you were lying on the ground. Good tread on those boots, by the way.” She dared to look at him.

  Caden put his hands on his hips, considering her. “You’re a really crappy diplomat, you know?”

  “You made me lose track of Ghenghis Bob. You want me to pin a medal on you?”

  “You would have lost him anyway, about two hundred yards from here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Starving, but don’t change the subject. What do you mean I would have lost him? I was doing just fine to this point.”

  He stood with his head down, as if he was listening. Then, very slowly, he turned on his heel. A full circle, back to face her. “I guess you are a diplomat, after all. You talk too much. Come on, I’ll buy you dinner. It’s too crowded here.”

  * * * * *

  Caden Rawn’s camp was two miles from where he had waylaid her. It was hidden in a deep gully. Over the years, trees had died and fallen, some of them across the gully and two of them close enough together that the gradual accumulation of shed branches and leaves had created a roof about four feet wide, stretching right over the gully. It was also an area of wattle and gum trees. No one could approach the gully without warning.

  Right underneath the roof, Rawn had cleared a small circle in the dirt for a fire. Hanging from the underside of the roof were several shopping bags. He reached into one of them, withdrew a box of Redhead matches and set about lighting a fire, using a tiny collection of twigs and small branches.

  He looked up at Montana where she stood calf-deep in dry leaves and patted the side of the gully. “Dig a little shelf for your ass and take a seat. It’s better than sitting in the leaves.” His tone was friendly and completely neutral, just as his manner had been as he had guided her to his camp.

  Montana shrugged. “Why not just push all the leaves aside so you can sit next to the fire?”

  “Yeah and anyone that swings by is going to know I’m here.”

  “You’re expecting company out here?”

  He blew gently on the pile of twigs and added a few more before he answered and when he did, he held up a finger. “One, the police are looking for me.” Another finger. “Two, I’m not the only one out here.” He stood up, reached inside another bag and extracted a can of French onion soup. With his other hand, he pulled out his hunting knife, flipped it over and caught it in mid-air, then hunkered down with the knife and the can and began to work at the lid.

  She took a step up the side of the gully and worked her way under the roof, looking for a seat. An irregular row of small grass tussocks was the beginning of one. She dug deeper into the hill behind them, widening the seat, and settled herself down.

&
nbsp; “Have you been following Abdul?” she asked.

  “Trying to. Slippery sucker keeps fading on me.” He was concentrating on the can.

  “You’re following him because you think he killed Rabbit?”

  “No.” Short and flat with sincerity. She could see his frown even as he bent over the can. He looked up at her. “And not because I’m trying to find evidence that will prove I didn’t do it.”

  “I know you didn’t do it. So does Steve. But neither of us can prove it.”

  “I could have killed Connie. I had plenty of reason to.”

  “Sunday night is the reason I know you didn’t.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Sunday night,” he growled. “That stupid little shit trying to dump his hired guns on me pissed me off, but not enough to kill the runt. You roll with dogs like that, you end up with fleas trying to jump you, so I’m not going to complain about having to use flea powder once in a while.” He went back to levering up the lid of the soup can. “No, Rabbit and I go back a long way. Before your time.”

  “Clearly. But Rabbit’s five fleas didn’t slow you down Sunday night. If they didn’t slow you down, not much else would. You could have killed Rabbit any time you wanted.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The worst time to kill him is straight after he sent five armed men after you. The cops put it together in five seconds. You don’t strike me as being particularly stupid. You wouldn’t set yourself up that way.”

  He placed the can in amongst the flames, added more twigs and stood up. “Question is, who did set me up?”

  “You don’t live here, do you?”

  He spread his hands a little, to indicate the camp. “Here? No.”

  “I mean Western Australia. People here know you, but say you haven’t been around for a few years. I’m figuring you live in eastern Australia, or another country.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I just want to know why you haven’t run back there. The local cops know you from the last time you and Rabbit had it out. Now this. Yet you haven’t left town, which most sane people would have done straight after the bar fight.”