The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  “Having an argument,” she mumbled. “That’s what it looks like to me.”

  There was something aggressive and angry in the woman’s stance, and when she jabbed her finger at the man, Reece let out a low whistle.

  “Oh yeah, you’re pissed off. Bet you wanted to stay at a nice hotel with indoor plumbing and room service, and he dragged you out to pitch a tent.”

  The man made a gesture like an umpire calling a batter safe at the plate, and this time the woman slapped him. “Ouch.” Reece winced, and ordered herself to lower the binoculars. It wasn’t right to spy on them. But she couldn’t resist the private little drama, and kept her glasses trained.

  The woman shoved both hands against the man’s chest, then slapped him again. Reece started to lower the glasses now as the nasty violence made her a little sick.

  But her hand froze, and her heart jolted when she saw the man’s arm rear back. She couldn’t tell if it was a punch, a slap or a backhand, but the woman went sprawling.

  “No, no, don’t,” she murmured. “Don’t. You both have to stop now. Just stop it.”

  Instead, the woman leaped up, charged. Before she could land whatever blow she’d intended, she was thrust back again, slipping on the muddy ground and landing hard.

  The man walked over, stood over her while Reece’s heart thumped against her ribs. He seemed to reach down as if to offer her a hand up, and the woman braced herself on her elbows. Her mouth was bleeding, maybe her nose, but her lips were working fast. Screaming at him, Reece thought. Stop screaming at him, you’ll only make it worse.

  It got worse, horribly worse when he straddled the woman, when he jerked her head up by the hair and slammed it to the ground. Not aware that she’d leaped to her own feet, that her lungs were burning with her own screams, Reece stared through the glasses when the man’s hands closed over the woman’s throat.

  Boots beat against the ground; the body bucked and arched. And when it went still, there was the roar of the river and the harsh sobs ripping out of Reece’s chest.

  She turned, stumbling, slipping and going down hard on both knees. Then she shoved herself to her feet, and she ran.

  It was a blur with her boots slithering on the path as she took the downhill slope at a crazed speed. Her heart rammed into her throat, a spiny ball of terror while she stumbled and slid around the sharp switch-backs. The face of the woman in the red coat became another face, one with staring, baby-doll blue eyes.

  Ginny. It wasn’t Ginny. It wasn’t Boston. It wasn’t a dream.

  Still it all mixed and merged in her mind until she heard the screams and the laughter, the gunshots. Until her chest began to throb, and the world began to spin.

  She slammed hard into Brody, struggled wildly against his hold.

  “Stop it. What are you, crazy? Suicidal?” Voice sharp, he shoved her back against the rock face, bracing her when her knees gave way. “Shut it down, now! Hysteria doesn’t help. What was it? Bear?”

  “He killed her, he killed her. I saw, I saw it.” Because he was there, she threw herself against him, buried her face against his shoulder. “I saw it. It wasn’t Ginny. It wasn’t a dream. He killed her, across the river.”

  “Breathe.” He drew back, gripped her shoulders. He angled his head down until her eyes met his. “I said breathe. Okay, again. One more time.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m okay.” She sucked air in, pushed it out. “Please help me. Please. They were across the river, and I saw them, with these.” She lifted her binoculars with a hand that simply wouldn’t steady. “He killed her, and I saw it.”

  “Show me.”

  She closed her eyes. Not alone this time, she thought. Someone was here, someone could help. “Up the trail. I don’t know how far I ran back, but it’s up the trail.”

  She didn’t want to go back, didn’t want to see it again, but he had her arm and was leading her.

  “I stopped to eat,” she said more calmly. “To watch the water, and the little falls. There was a hawk.”

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “It was beautiful. I got my binoculars. I thought I might see a bear or a moose. I saw a moose this morning at the lake. I thought…” She knew she was babbling, tried to draw it back inside. “I was scanning the trees, the rocks, and I saw two people.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “I…I couldn’t see very well.” She folded her arms over her chest. She’d taken off her jacket, spread it on the rock where she’d had lunch. To soak up the sun.

  Now she was so cold. Into-the-bone cold.

  “But she had long hair. Dark hair, and she had a red coat and cap. She had sunglasses on. His back was to me.”

  “What was he wearing?”

  “Um. A dark jacket, and an orange cap. Like hunters wear. He…I think…Yes, I think he had sunglasses, too. I didn’t see his face. There, there’s my pack. I left everything and ran. Over there, it was over there.” She pointed, and quickened her pace. “They were over there, in front of the trees. They’re gone now, but they were there, down there. I saw them. I have to sit down.”

  When she lowered herself to the rock, he said nothing, but took the binoculars from around her neck. He trained them below. He saw no one, no sign of anyone.

  “What exactly did you see?”

  “They were arguing. I could tell she was pissed off by the way she was standing. Hands on her hips. Aggressive.” She had to swallow, focus, because her stomach was starting to roil. And shivering, she picked up her jacket and put it on. Wrapped it tight around her. “She slapped him, then she shoved him back and slapped him again. He hit her, knocked her down, but she got up and went after him. That’s when he hit her again. I saw blood on her face. I think I saw blood on her face. Oh God, oh God.”

  Brody did no more than flick a glance in Reece’s direction. “You’re not going to get hysterical again. You’re going to finish telling me what you saw.”

  “He got down, and he grabbed her by the hair and he slammed her head down, I think. It looked like…he strangled her.” Replaying it, Reece rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth, prayed she wouldn’t be sick. “He strangled her, and her feet were beating the ground, and then they weren’t. I ran. I screamed, I think, but it’s so loud with the rapids, it’s loud.”

  “It’s a long distance, even with the glasses. You’re sure about this?”

  She looked up then, her eyes swollen and exhausted. “Have you ever seen someone killed?”

  “No.”

  She pushed herself up, reached for her pack. “I have. He took her somewhere, carried her body away. Dragged her away. I don’t know. But he killed her and he’s getting away. We have to get help.”

  “Give me your pack.”

  “I can carry my own pack.”

  He pulled it away from her, sent her a pitying look. “Carry mine, it’s lighter.” He shrugged out of it, held it out to her. “We can stand here and argue about it. I’ll still win, but we’ll waste time.”

  She put on his pack, and of course he was right. It was considerably lighter. She’d brought too much, but she’d just wanted to be sure…

  “Cell phone! I’m an idiot.”

  “That may be,” he said as she dug into her pocket. “But the cell phone won’t do you any good here. No signal.”

  Though she kept walking, she tried it anyway. “Maybe we’ll hit a spot where it’ll get through. It’s going to take so long to get back. You’d make it faster alone. You should go ahead.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Who’d you see killed before?”

  “I can’t talk about it. How long will it take to get back?”

  “Until we get there. And don’t start that are-we-there-yet crap.”

  She nearly smiled. He was so brusque, so brisk, he pushed her fear away. He was right. They’d get there when they got there. And they’d do what they needed to do when they did.

  And the way his stride ate up the ground, they’d be t
here in half the time it had taken her to do the trail in the first place. If she managed to keep up with him.

  “Talk to me, will you? About something else? Anything else. About your book.”

  “No. I don’t talk about works in progress.”

  “Artistic temperament.”

  “No, it’s boring.”

  “I wouldn’t be bored.”

  He shot her a look. “For me.”

  “Oh.” She wanted words, his, her own. Any words at all. “Okay, why Angel’s Fist?”

  “Probably for the same reason as you. I wanted a change of scene.”

  “Because you got fired in Chicago.”

  “I didn’t get fired.”

  “You didn’t punch your boss and get fired from theTribune ? That’s what I heard.”

  “I punched what could loosely be called a colleague for cribbing my notes on a story, and since the editor—who happened to be the asshole’s uncle—took his word over mine, I quit.”

  “To write books. Is it fun?”

  “I guess it is.”

  “I bet you killed the asshole in the first one you wrote.”

  He glanced at her again, and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. Eyes of such an interesting green. “You’d be right. Beat him to death with a shovel. Very satisfying.”

  “I used to like to read thrillers and mysteries. I haven’t been able to…for a while.” She ignored the protesting muscles in her legs as they continued the descent.

  She was supposed to walk differently now, going down inclines. Keeping the weight forward, stepping onto her toes rather than her heels. As Brody was.

  “Maybe I’ll try one of yours.”

  He gave that disinterested shrug again. “You could do worse.”

  6

  THEY WALKED AWHILE in silence, across the meadow, around the marshy pond. She’d seen ducks, she remembered, and the heron. And the poor, doomed fish. Her body felt numb, her mind hazed.

  “Brody?”

  “Still right here.”

  “Will you go with me to the police?”

  He stopped to drink, then offered her the water bottle. His eyes were cool and calm on hers. Green eyes. Dark, like the leaves in late summer.

  “We’ll call from my place. It’s closer than going all the way around the lake into town.”

  “Thanks.”

  Relieved, grateful, Reece continued to put one foot in front of the other in the direction of Angel’s Fist.

  To keep centered, she ran through recipes in her head, visualizing herself measuring, preparing.

  “Sounds pretty good,” Brody commented, and jerked her out of the visual.

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re making in there.” He tapped a finger to his temple. “Grilled shrimp?”

  No point, she decided, absolutely no point in being embarrassed. She was way beyond that. “Brined grilled shrimp. I didn’t know I was talking to myself.” She kept her gaze straight ahead. “It’s a problem I have.”

  “I don’t see a problem, except now I’m hungry, and shrimp’s not in big supply around here.”

  “I just need to think about something else. About anything else. I just need—oh boy, oh crap.” Her chest went tight and her breath short. The anxiety attack simply whipped out a hand to squeeze her throat. As her head went light with it, she bent from the waist, gasping. “Can’t breathe. Can’t.”

  “Yes, you can. You are. But if you keep breathing like that you’re going to hyperventilate and pass out on me. No way I’m carrying you back, so cut it out.” His tone was flat and matter-of-fact as he hauled her up straight. Their eyes locked. “Cut it out.”

  “Okay.” There were gold rims around his pupils, around the outer verge of his irises. It must be what made his eyes so intense.

  “Finish cooking the shrimp.”

  “The what?”

  “Finish cooking the shrimp.”

  “Ah, um. Add half the garlic oil to the bowl of grilled shrimp, toss. Transfer to a platter, garnish with lemon wedges and divided bay leaves, and serve with grilled ciabatta bread and the rest of the garlic oil.”

  “If I get my hands on some shrimp, you can pay me back for this and make me a plate of that.”

  “Sure.”

  “What the hell is ciabatta bread?”

  She couldn’t have said why that made her laugh, but her head cleared while they walked. “Also called Italian slipper bread. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

  “Probably. You planning on fancying up Joanie’s?”

  “No. It’s not my place.”

  “Did you have one? Your own place? Restaurant? The way you handle the kitchen, it’s obvious you’ve handled one before,” he added when she said nothing.

  “I worked in one. I never had my own. I never wanted my own.”

  “Because? Isn’t that the American dream? Having your own?”

  “Cooking’s art. Owning the place adds business. I just wanted to…” She’d nearly said create, but decided it sounded too pompous. “To cook.”

  “Wanted?”

  “Want. Maybe. I don’t know what I want.” But she did, and as they walked through the cool forest, she decided just to say it. “I want to be normal again, to stop being afraid. I want to be who I was two years ago, and I never will be. So I’m trying to find out who I’m going to be for the rest of my life.”

  “The rest is a long time. Maybe you should figure out who you’re going to be for the next couple weeks.”

  She glanced up at him, then away. “I might have to start with the next couple of hours.”

  He only shrugged as he dug for his cell phone. The woman was a bundle of mystery wrapped in nerves. It might be interesting to peel off some of the layers and get to the center of it. He didn’t think she was as fragile as she believed herself to be. A lot of people wouldn’t have managed the long hike back without breaking down after seeing what she’d seen.

  “Should get a signal from here,” he said and punched in some numbers. “It’s Brody. I need the sheriff. No. Now.”

  She wouldn’t have argued with him, Reece decided. There was steely authority in his tone simply because it held no urgency or desperation. She wondered if she’d ever regain even a portion of that kind of control and confidence.

  “Rick, I’m with Reece Gilmore, just about a quarter mile from my place on Little Angel Trail. I need you to meet us at my cabin. Yeah, there’s trouble. She witnessed a murder. That’s what I said. She can fill you in on that. We’re nearly there.”

  He closed the phone, shoved it back in his pocket. “I’m going to give you some advice. I fucking hate advice—giving or getting.”

  “But.”

  “But. You’re going to need to stay calm. You want to get hysterical again, cry, scream, faint, wait until after he’s finished taking your statement. Better, wait till you’re out of my cabin altogether because I don’t want to handle it. Be thorough, be clear and get it done.”

  “If I start to lose it, will you stop me?” She actually felt his scowl before she glanced up to see it. “I mean interrupt me, or knock over a lamp. Don’t worry, I’ll pay for it. Anything to give me a minute to pull myself back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I can smell the lake. You can just see it through the trees. I feel better when I see water. Maybe I should live on an island, except I think that might be too much water. I have to babble for a minute. You don’t have to listen.”

  “I’ve got ears,” he reminded her, then veered off to take the easiest route to his cabin.

  He approached it from the rear where it was tucked in the trees and sagebrush. She imagined he could see the ring of mountains from any window.

  “It’s a nice spot. You have a nice spot.” But her mouth went dry as he opened the back door. He hadn’t locked it. Anyone could come in through an unlocked door.

  When she didn’t follow him in, he turned. “You want to stand outside and talk to Rick? The sheriff?”

 
“No.” Screwing up her courage, she stepped through the doorway behind him.

  Into the kitchen. It was small, she noted, but laid out well enough. He cleaned like a man. A terrible generalization, she thought, but most of the men she knew who weren’t in the business cleaned kitchen surfaces only. Do the dishes—maybe—swipe the counters and you’re done.

  There were a couple apples and an overripe banana in a white mixing bowl on the stone gray counter, a coffeemaker, a toaster that looked older than she was and a notepad.

  Brody went immediately to the coffeemaker, filling the tank, measuring the grounds before he’d taken off his jacket. Reece continued to stand just inside the door as he flipped it onto brew, then reached in a cupboard for a trio of white stoneware mugs.

  “Um, do you have any tea?”

  He shot a drily amused glance over his shoulder. “Oh sure. Let me just find my tea cozy.”

  “I’ll take that as a no. I don’t drink coffee; it makes me jittery. More jittery,” she amended when he cocked a brow at her. “Water. Water’d be fine. Do you leave the front door unlocked, too?”

  “No point in locks out here. If somebody wanted in, they’d just kick the door down or break a window.” When she actually paled, he angled his head. “What? You want me to go check the closet, look under the bed?”

  She simply turned away from him to unshoulder his backpack. “I bet you’ve never been afraid a day in your life.”

  Got a rise out of her, he thought, and preferred the edge of insult and anger in her tone to the shakes and quivers. “Michael Myers.”

  Confused, she turned back. “Who? Shrek?”

  “Jesus, Slim, that’s Mike Myers. Michael Myers. The creepy guy in the mask.Halloween? I saw it on tape when I was about ten. Scared the living shit out of me. Michael Myers lived in my bedroom closet for years after that.”

  Her shoulders relaxed a little as she pulled off her jacket. “How’d you get rid of him? Didn’t he keep coming back in the movies?”

  “I snuck a girl into my room when I was sixteen. Jennifer Ridgeway. Pretty little redhead with a lot of…energy. After a couple hours in the dark with her, I never gave Michael Myers another thought.”