Primal Obsession

by Susan Vaughan

  It took a moment for her lungs to function. She pushed up on her elbows, spit out a mouthful of dirt. Her knees and hands stung. Too dark to see the scrapes. Maybe that was a good thing. The tumble shook every bone in her body. When she tested her limbs, they functioned.

  Bloodied, but not broken. Damn you, Mother Nature. You got me again.

  She twisted around to sit up. All was quiet. No chirps or rustlings disturbed the silent gloom. The flashlight lay at an angle, its beam spotlighting the moonless sky. When she reached for the flashlight, she saw she’d fallen in a hole.

  What in the blue-eyed world could this be? It wasn’t here yesterday, she was certain. The forest floor had been a litter of leaves, twigs, and stones, not soft dirt.

  The beam showed a shallow trench, as long as a—

  Nooooo! Her heart lurched into high gear.

  The beam glinted on something at the far end of the ditch. When she saw the reflection’s source, she bicycled in frantic retreat. A scream rose from her belly, but caught in her constricted throat.

  ***

  Sam had to be dreaming. Annie’s voice drifted to him through the cottony cloud of sleep. She’d come to him after all. No and never hadn’t lasted long. No figuring women’s minds. A jolt of anticipation shot to his groin, and his sleeping bag heated up unbearably.

  “Sam! Let me in, for God’s sake!”

  She sounded desperate. Yeah, oh yeah. He shook his head, trying to clear his sleep-drugged brain.

  When he managed to unzip the flap, she collapsed panting inside the tent.

  He gathered her into his arms. “Sweetheart, I’d about given up on you.” He chafed the gooseflesh on her slender arms.

  “Sam... out there,” she whispered breathlessly. “He’s here. I... he...” Her voice gave out on a sob.

  Instead of her usual sweet-tart fragrance, she smelled of forest loam and fear. Her strangled tone and shaky limbs finally penetrated his murky brain. She hadn’t come for sex, but for safety. His erection could hold up a damn tent. Bad timing. He willed it to subside and flicked on his battery-powered lantern.

  The lantern’s glow showed tears streaking muddy trails down her delicate cheekbones. Black dirt plastered her chin and oversized t-shirt. The shredded knees of her dark tights displayed bloodied skin daubed with more grime.

  “What is it? You look like you’ve slid into second a few too many times.”

  Giggling nervously, she leaned against him. “Oh, Sam, only you could make me laugh at a time like this.”

  “Let’s get you cleaned up. I want a look at those cuts while you tell me what happened.” He poured water from his canteen onto a washcloth.

  She pushed away his arm when he dabbed at her face, ashen beneath the filth. “No, you have to listen. It’s just a few scrapes. They can wait.”

  At the fear in her eyes, he backed off. “Tell me.”

  “I was coming back from the latrine, and I fell in a hole.” She inhaled deeply. Her eyes were wide as an owl’s. “Dear God. A shallow grave, just like the ones he—the Hunter—buried the murdered women in.”

  Damn. Their saboteur. Or worse? How could it be possible? He rubbed her shoulders. “A grave? Are you sure? Maybe an animal dug a burrow.”

  Anger snapped her chin up. “I know a grave when I see one. Dammit, I should have known you wouldn’t understand.” She narrowed her eyes, looking more tempting than ever. “You want it to be nothing. Well, so do I. But it’s not. Not any ordinary prank. Whether it’s Carl or he followed us, it’s the Hunter.”

  Sam’s scars itched, an omen he couldn’t ignore. “How can you be so sure?”

  Her chin wobbled. “Be-because there are a few... facts the cops wouldn’t let the media release. On each woman’s grave, he left a marker. Sometimes a stick, sometimes a strip of birch bark, but always with a single word scratched on it—PREY.”

  The fine hairs on the back of Sam’s neck rose. “This... hole has one?” Maybe it was a trick of the flashlight and shadows. Keep that thought.

  She shivered. “You have to see it.”

  Had to be either a prank or an animal’s doing. If he checked it out, he could prove it to her. To himself. He jammed on a sweatshirt and pants. “I’ll be right back. Where did you say this damn thing is?”

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m not staying here alone.” She scooted toward the tent opening.

  He tossed her a sweatshirt. A few moments later, they trekked through the silent camp. His lantern and her puny flashlight lighted their way, but caused the shadows to weave and leap like inky spirits.

  Shit, he was letting her fright spook him.

  She wasn’t a small woman, but the Fenway Park sweatshirt drooped to her knees, though she rolled up the sleeves three times. In his shirt, she looked small and vulnerable and all too sexy. But more comforting had to wait until she saw that her “grave” was some animal’s digging.

  When they reached her tent, she pointed. “It’s about a dozen feet behind the cleared tent space. I heard scratching when I woke up, but I thought it was an animal. Mother Nature and I have been feuding for years, but this wasn’t her.”

  “A porky can be quite a digger.” Sam held out the lantern, expecting to see a burrow or the indent where a porcupine in search of grubs had overturned a rotting log. Maybe a strip of bark that looked like a message to Annie.

  She stood beside him, her fists pressed to her mouth.

  What the steady glow showed him was an even, six-foot-long trench that no animal had scraped out. A human had dug it with a shovel.

  A grave. A freaking grave. No other word for it. A ball of tension twisted in his gut. “Damn.”

  “Look at the far end,” Annie whispered.

  What he saw knotted the tension tight as a noose. His knife. His missing Buck knife, four of the six inches of its razor-sharp blade plunged into the humus. At the hilt, it pierced a strip of bark, like a small roll of parchment, with that one ominous word scrawled on it.

  PREY

  He slumped for a beat before heat rolled through him in a tidal wave. He clenched his fists at his sides. “The bastard! What the hell’s he trying to do?”

  Annie’s ashen features and terror-stricken eyes told him that he didn’t need an answer to that question. She answered him anyway. “If he’s trying to frighten me, he’s doing one hell of a terrific job.” Her chin trembled before she firmed it. “But I doubt fear is all the Hunter has in mind.”

  Sam pulled her close. “I hate it but I have to admit you were right. This Hunter has followed you somehow. He’s harassed us all and maybe injured Ray. But this time, sweetheart, he made a mistake. He announced himself. It’s time to end this.”

  “What are you going to do?” Her voice was muffled in his windbreaker, and her warm breath on his chest reassured him.

  “Get help. But first, let’s check on the others.” He released her. After retrieving his knife, he kicked the pile of excavated dirt and leaves into the pit to cover its obscene presence. Cops wouldn’t approve, but he’d bet the Hunter left no fingerprints on the knife anyway.

  They paused outside the other tents. A gentle snoring emitted from the first tent. As they passed Carl’s, Sam detected the sound of the man turning over on his inflated pad. He nodded to Annie, who stuck to him like bark on a sugar maple.

  A few moments later, back in his tent, he handed her the flask of brandy he kept for emergencies. “A belt will take the edge off,” he told her as he searched through his duffel.

  She nodded, but winced at the strong liqueur.

  “Now let me see your cuts.” He forced himself to restrict his hands to cleansing. Not exactly the way he’d anticipated getting his hands on her.

  Antibiotic cream soothed the scrapes. She had a few more calluses after their days of canoeing. Her nails were short and unpolished. Gone was her city war paint. As promised, a Wylde didn’t wimp out. She’d bitched and moaned on the first bushwhack, but he’d heard no word of protest since. The woman had more grit th
an he’d imagined.

  When he was finished, she smiled her thanks, but remained pale and shaky. She must be in shock, realizing the Hunter meant to kill her. Not if he could help it.

  “What are you looking for?” Annie whispered.

  “The radio.” He rummaged in his shaving kit. Where the hell was it? “I keep it in my duffel bag, but it’s not there.”

  “You’ve had a radio all this time? A working radio? I could’ve checked in with my brother about the Hunter, and you didn’t tell me?” The pitch of her voice rose with every irate word. Nothing like irritation to overshadow fear.

  “Ease up, princess. It’s not much of a unit. I doubt you could raise the cops on it. But I can call my brother.”

  Still huffing her indignation, she aimed her flashlight at the back corner of the tent. “What’s that?”

  The radio. “How the hell—” He shook his head and flicked the switch. “Moosewoods 2 calling Moosewoods 1. Over.”

  Dead air.

  He tried again. Nothing. “Middle of the night. Ben probably doesn’t have the radio on.”

  “You’re sure it works?”

  Now she was being snippy, behaving more normally. He leveled a sardonic gaze at her. “I replaced the batteries before the trip. Can’t hurt to check.”

  The radio felt oddly light. He scratched at his scarred hand, itching deep as the marrow. He turned over the rectangular black instrument and slid open the battery compartment door.

  Leaning forward, Annie aimed her flashlight in it.

  No batteries. In their place, a tangle of shredded wires.

  “Damn it to hell!” He slammed down the ruined radio.

  Annie clutched his arm. “The Hunter! What will we do? Do you have a gun?”

  “No gun.” He shook his head, shook it again, hoping to jar loose an answer, a plan, an idea. Hell, sports hadn’t prepared him to face a fucking human predator. He was no warrior.

  Should he wake everyone else up and gather them together for safety around the campfire? They didn’t seem to be in danger—yet. Annie was the one the Hunter wanted. No, Sam had to devise a game plan first. “You stay here tonight.”

  “No argument. You couldn’t pay me enough to go back to my tent alone.”

  He skimmed off his windbreaker before arranging the extra-large sleeping bag so she could crawl in. It would be tight, but that was all right with him.

  She scooted inside and stretched out beside him. “But Sam, no sex.”

  “You’re safe from me tonight, sweetheart. Just let me hold you.” They’d ward off the nightmares together. The real nightmare awaited them in the darkness. He turned down the lantern, but left it glowing for safety. Turning on his side, he tucked her close.

  He’d protect her. He had to.

  She backed up against him, her butt in his lap. “Tomorrow, what can we do?”

  Once again, she was counting on him to have a solution. They all had to count on him, whether they knew it or not. They had no choice. In spite of his efforts to take this trip all the way, he had no choice. He had to end it before someone got killed.

  “We’ll do what a baseball manager does when the starting pitcher’s luck has run out. Call in the reliever. In the morning, we’ll go back to Wolfe’s to call for help. Everyone’s in danger.”

  She rolled over to face him. He couldn’t see her, but he felt the puff of her warm breath. “But what if it’s Carl? You’ll tip him off.”

  “If I tip him off,” he said, “it’s too damn bad.” She sucked in a breath, but he stopped her protest with a finger to her lips. “Relax, sweetheart. Carl can’t be the killer.”

  “Because...” Challenge edged her voice.

  He loved that she never gave an inch. And she didn’t bite his finger. “If you were a killer, would you rely on stolen weapons? Wouldn’t you come prepared with something like a pistol or a blade bigger than a Swiss Army Knife?”

  “How do you know—” He could almost hear the gears whirring in that quick brain of hers. “Oh. His bags.”

  “You got it.” Carl’s duffel and sleeping bags had leaked when the canoe had taken on water. Once they made camp, everyone helped him spread his belongings out to dry. “No weapons, nothing suspicious in his stuff. Unless you count red bikini briefs.”

  “Remember? We agreed Carl couldn’t have caused Ray’s accident. Ironic, isn’t it?” she said, her voice sleepy, soft. Her fragrance drifted to him from her silky hair. “After all Ray’s desire for real-life adventure, he’s safely away now that our troubles have escalated from petty to desperate.”

  “He got more real life than he bargained for. But that leaves him out of the running to be the Hunter.”

  She went rigid. “Does it? Does it leave him out? You insisted there was no way anyone could follow us to Gomagash without our seeing a plane.”

  “But his injury...”

  “I saw a scrape and his knee jammed through that hole in the canoe. He moaned like a dying bagpipe, but do you remember the knee swelling like a sprain should?”

  “You’re suggesting he faked it?” Frowning, he stared into the darkness. “His injury came at a damned opportune time. Carl was in the stern and couldn’t see exactly what happened.”

  “We couldn’t come to their rescue until afterward.”

  “He would’ve had opportunity to pull the other stunts as well,” he said, warming to the idea. “If he’s the Hunter, he knows how to make a small animal snare and mess with compass readings.”

  “But Ray was so friendly and helpful, conciliatory even. He, even more than Carl, seemed to be exactly what he said—a computer expert who created games. You heard those debates with Frank. All Urdu or Swahili to me, but the kid ate up every word. Like that, none of this makes sense.”

  “It does, if you think about it. Carl’s so full of bluster that you always know where he is. Ray’s quiet and invisible. Sometimes he blended into the background so that he could wander off by himself and return before we missed him. He sure as hell could’ve arranged that whole play with the cooler just like Carl accused him.”

  “I know it was my idea, but I hate it. I liked Ray.” She sighed against his chest.

  The puff of her warm breath tightened his nipples. He had to stifle his body’s reaction to having her tucked in with him like this. They were all in danger. But this was murder.

  Murder. God, no. “If Ray is the Hunter, he wouldn’t let himself be airlifted to any hospital. I have a bad feeling about Ted Wolfe.”

  “Dammit, you’re right. The sooner we get back to his cabin, the better.”

  “Try not to think about it any more tonight. We need rest if we’re going to paddle upstream tomorrow.” He draped his right arm around her and stared into the dark. Snuggling closer, she drew his hand beneath her chin. Before he realized what she was doing, he felt her soft, warm mouth on his knuckles.

  She kissed his scars. “‘Night, Sam.”

  He swallowed. Hard. “‘Night, Annie.”

  Her breathing slowed, evened out. She slept, but he doubted he would.

  Damn. The woman trusted him. A woman he cared for more than was good for him. Or for her.

  Was returning to Wolfe’s the right thing to keep everyone safe? He had no fucking idea.

  TWENTY

  Annie opened her eyes to find Sam gently shaking her shoulder. She lay on her stomach, close enough to his furnace-hot body to feel the rhythm of his heart, absorb the earthy masculine scent she was beginning to know. She longed to stay put, safe and warm, until the Hunter threat vanished like the nightmare he was.

  “I thought you’d want to get back to your tent before the others get up,” he murmured.

  “Okay.” She pushed up on her elbows to clear the sleep from her brain. Her hair fell forward, curtaining her face. She flung it back and looked at Sam in the pale light of dawn.

  He lay on his back, one arm across his forehead. His upper torso was naked, and though she’d seen him like that often during the day, this wa
s much more intimate. She’d slept in his arms for part of the night. The thought sent tingles through her. Slept. Just slept. No sex. He’d agreed without argument, though she’d felt his erection against her back more than once.

  His eyes were closed. His tawny hair and moustache were ruffled. Did men brush or comb their facial hair? She almost reached out to smooth the moustache, but discretion curled her fingers. No crossing that threshold. Stubble covered his jaw, darkened the indent of his dimples. His corded arms and powerful shoulders were no less impressive in repose.

  Merely looking at him kicked up her pulse and melted her thighs. She was in deep trouble.

  She scrambled into her sneakers and out of the tent as fast as she’d tumbled in last night.

  Later as Carl groused about their breakfast of cereal and reconstituted milk, Annie struggled to keep her composure, to behave normally, as if she hadn’t snuggled in Sam Kincaid’s arms all night. As if she hadn’t found her own grave in the woods. As if she didn’t want to scream that the Hunter was stalking her.

  Sam had kept watch over her trek to her tent until she waved to assure him she was safe inside. How he planned to tell the others, she hadn’t a clue. He’d simply said he’d take care of it. She might not trust Sam with her heart, but she trusted his wilderness savvy. Returning to the caretaker’s cabin was their only recourse.

  She glanced at him, seated diagonally from her at the picnic table. No zombie-headed start for him today, no jokes about roughing it or bass pancakes or fish and cereal for breakfast. He radiated tension like a satellite beacon.

  She probably looked just as ragged. She cast a surreptitious glance beyond the clearing. Was the Hunter watching them from the cover of trees as dense as bargain hunters at a Macy’s clearance?

  Nora started collecting dishes for cleaning up.

  “Hold on, Nora,” Sam said. “We’ll do that later. We have a change in our game plan. Hell, there’s no easy way to do this.”

  “Let me, Sam.” The cereal Annie had force-fed herself sat like glue in her stomach. Her nerves buzzed like flies on a window. “It’s me he’s after. I should tell them.”