Linda Howard

by Cover of Night

  Cate read them their story, which lulled them to sleep within five minutes. She kissed them good night, then tiptoed out of the room.

  Sheila saw the tears in her eyes and hugged her. “You’ll be all right, I promise. Just wait until the first day of school; that’s when you’ll cry your eyes out.”

  Through her tears Cate had to laugh. “Thanks, Mom, that’s such a comfort to know.”

  “Yes, but if I told you it wouldn’t bother you at all, when the day came you’d know I’d lied and you wouldn’t trust me again. Of course,” Sheila said thoughtfully, “I didn’t cry at all when Patrick started school. As I remember, I turned handsprings on the lawn.”

  Sheila continued to reminisce about Patrick, keeping Cate smiling, until they went to bed. As soon as Cate told her mother good night and closed her bedroom door, however, her eyes filled and her chin wobbled. The boys had never been away overnight before. She was devastated by the prospect. They’d be so far away; if anything happened it would take her hours and hours to get to them. She wouldn’t be able to hear them playing during the day, their shouts and squeals and laughter, the pounding of their feet as they raced around. She wouldn’t be able to hug them tight, feel their little bodies close to her own and know they were okay.

  Bitterly she wished she’d kept her mouth shut about them going home with her mother, but at the time she’d been panic-stricken—which had been a perfectly normal reaction to having had a gun pointed at her. Her only thought had been to get her children away from any possible danger.

  She hadn’t known cutting the apron strings would be so difficult. Nor had she intended to cut them now. When they were five would have been about right. Or six. Maybe even seven.

  She had to laugh at herself, a watery gurgle that caught in a hiccup. Part of her had wanted them to be more independent, because being a single parent of two active little boys wasn’t easy. She felt as if she never had any downtime, as if she had to be alert every minute of every day, because they could get into trouble in a second. If they were older, more responsible, she could relax a little. She just didn’t want them to be older and more responsible right now.

  Giving herself pep talks didn’t help; neither did reasoning with herself. She cried herself to sleep, already missing the boys so much she ached.

  The next morning Cate got up even earlier than usual so she could help her mother get the boys and their stuff loaded in the SUV, as well as do her normal morning cooking. She made hot oatmeal for the boys, because the predawn air was downright cold, but they were too sleepy to eat more than a few bites. Knowing they’d never last all the way to Boise without getting hungry, she prepared each of them a zippered plastic bag of cereal, and sent along two apples just in case.

  Dawn hadn’t yet arrived when they shepherded the boys outside. Even the cold air didn’t rouse them very much. They climbed into their seats, looking adorable in their jeans and sneakers, their little flannel shirts left unbuttoned over their Tshirts. They had resisted wearing jackets, so Cate had gone outside and started the SUV ahead of time, turning the heater on high, and the interior was nice and warm. They settled in, each clutching a chosen toy. Cate kissed each of them, told them to have fun and that they should do what Mimi told them to do, then hugged her mother. “Have a safe trip,” she managed to say without her voice quivering too much.

  Sheila hugged her in return, patting her back just as she had when Cate was little. “You’ll be fine,” she said soothingly. “I’ll call when we get home, and I’ll call or e-mail every day.”

  Cate didn’t want to mention the word homesick where the boys might hear her—she didn’t want to plant a seed, in case they knew what the word meant—so she said, “If they get teary—”

  “I’ll handle it,” Sheila interrupted. “I know you agreed to this when you were scared and then nothing happened and you’re thinking you were worried for no reason, but…tough. You agreed, and I’m holding you to it. I don’t like cutting my visit short, but I’ll get the rest of my time when I bring the boys home.”

  Nothing like some of her mother’s no-nonsense commentary to brighten her world, Cate thought, laughing as she got in another hug. Then her mother got behind the wheel, and Cate leaned down for a last look at the boys. Tucker was already asleep. Tanner looked drowsy, but he gave her an impish smile and blew her a kiss. Cate pretended to be staggered by the impact and he giggled.

  They would be okay, she thought as she watched the taillights disappear down the gravel road. She had doubts about herself.

  From his observation point, Teague watched the SUV slow as it approached the bridge, then pick up speed. The lights from the dashboard showed a middle-aged woman behind the wheel. The passenger seat was empty.

  The logical supposition was that, leaving this early, the woman had a flight to catch. He couldn’t imagine why a lone woman would come to the middle of nowhere for a solitary vacation, but maybe she was some high-powered executive who just wanted to get away from everything, and Trail Stop was certainly a good place to do that.

  During the wee hours he’d reconnoitered the community. Two rental vehicles had been parked on the far side of the B and B, meaning just one was left now. He’d watch for it. Slipping among the houses, he’d looked at angles, deciding the best positions his men could take for the most effective lines of fire. A couple of dogs had barked, but he was very good at clandestine movement and neither of them had taken real alarm; no lights had come on, so he guessed the inhabitants were accustomed to the occasional bark.

  These people wouldn’t roll over and play dead. They would fight back as well as they could, and probably every house had some sort of weapon in it. Out here, with bears and snakes and other wildlife, it paid to keep at least a pistol handy. He wasn’t worried about the pistols; they wouldn’t have the distance. Ditto the shotguns. It was the rifles that would give him problems, and it was a sure thing that some of the men would hunt deer, so they’d have powerful weapons that shot powerful rounds.

  He marked the buildings from which the locals would be able to effectively return fire, which, if he positioned his men right, would be few. The houses were too spread out, with a lot of open ground that they couldn’t safely cross. There were maybe thirty, thirty-five buildings total. The road angled to the left side of the roughly comma-shaped area, putting most of the houses on the river side, on the right, which was good because it clustered people on the side where they had literally nowhere to go. Not only was there a seventy-foot bluff on that side, but the river itself was an effective barrier.

  Any escape attempts would necessarily come from the left, where there were fewer houses for cover. The mountains on that side were mostly impassable, but before he started this dance, he intended to explore them himself, looking for possible escape routes. These people would know their own backyard; there might be an abandoned mine that cut all the way through a fold of the mountain. If there was, he wanted to know about it.

  Then the next step would be to locate Joshua Creed.

  13

  WHEN TEAGUE OPENED THE PORCH DOOR INTO THE B AND B’S dining room, the delicious aroma of fresh baking assailed him. He paused, inhaling deeply. The room was big but filled with small tables and with people, some of whom stood around with a cup of coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other, instead of taking a seat—not that there were many vacant seats.

  He took a good look around, marking one or two faces that looked familiar. He could put a name to one face, that of Walter Earl, who owned the little hardware store here. In all likelihood, that meant Earl could put a name to Teague’s face, which in turn meant he had to be extra careful not to do or say anything suspicious, and when the plan actually came down, he couldn’t let any of the locals see him.

  The buzz of conversation died down as his presence was registered and everyone got a good look at him, not being shy about it, either. Some even turned around in their chairs to eye him. Probably whatever dustup the two city boys had caused made the l
ocals a little antsy, not that they would ever have been shy about looking over an outsider.

  Their interest died fairly fast. The city boys would have stood out like sharks in a pool of guppies—though they’d found out pretty quick that these guppies had teeth. Teague, on the other hand, looked like one of them, because he was one of them. He was wearing old boots, jeans worn white from years of use, and a faded flannel shirt against the sudden chill the weather had taken. On his head was a green John Deere cap, definitely not new. He could have been any one of them.

  A woman came into the dining room, bearing a tray containing muffins and butter that she unloaded on one of the tables, deftly placing a muffin-filled plate in front of each person while the butter went in the middle. Each table already bore an assortment of jams and jellies. She smiled at Teague in passing, saying, “I’ll be right with you.”

  From Goss’s description, he knew this was the owner. Funny how Toxtel and Goss had given such different descriptions. Toxtel had shrugged and said, “She’s nothing extra. Brown hair, brown eyes. Average.” Goss, on the other hand, had smiled and said, “She’s got a great ass, like an athlete. Round and muscular. Small tits. Lanky build, except for that ass. Like a runner, maybe. Long, wavy hair, and this funny-looking, kissable mouth.” Toxtel had snorted at that, but Goss had ignored him. The difference told Teague as much about each man as it did about the B and B owner.

  Her name was Cate Nightingale. Dumb name, Nightingale. What kind of a name was that? He’d done some checking, so he knew she wasn’t a local. How had she ended up at Trail Stop? If you weren’t born here, why would anyone come to Trail Stop? The few little businesses had to be barely hanging on, providing service to the community and the neighboring ranches, but God knows, they couldn’t be making much. Still, for the folks born here, this was home and a few of them had stayed when common sense said they should have moved on years ago.

  Having finished delivering the tray full of muffins, she came back to him. “What can I get you? A muffin, or just a cup of coffee?”

  She had a nice voice. She didn’t look like someone who would take what didn’t belong to her, but that wasn’t his problem.

  As if suddenly remembering his manners, he grabbed the cap off his head and stuck it in his back pocket. “Uh—I’m looking for Joshua Creed, but those muffins do look good. One, please, and a cup of coffee.”

  “Coming right up.” She looked around. “Take any seat you like; we’re very informal here. Just ask any of the men about Mr. Creed, and if one person doesn’t know where he is, someone else will.”

  He nodded and she whipped through the door into the kitchen, where he glimpsed another woman working. No sign of a kid, though, and in his experience a kid made its presence known. If there was one, it was probably old enough to be in school, and would be home this afternoon.

  One of the tables was occupied by a group he recognized by their clothes as outsiders. Climbers, he thought, catching enough of their conversation to confirm his guess. And from the way they were dressed, they weren’t going out climbing. Were they going home today? The weekend was just starting, but maybe they had a climb planned at another location. They bore watching, to see if their vehicle was packed up when they left.

  He approached the table where Walter Earl was sitting, and gravely nodded his head in acknowledgment. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but do any of you know where I can find Joshua Creed?”

  “Don’t I know you?” Walter Earl asked with a slightly puzzled expression.

  Teague pretended to study him. “Maybe. Your face looks familiar. My name’s Teague.” Lying wouldn’t be smart, because Earl might remember his real name later.

  Walter’s face cleared. “That’s it. You’ve been in the store a time or two, haven’t you?”

  Once, to get some shotgun shells, but in a place like this people tended to remember anyone they didn’t normally see every day. “I have,” Teague said. Maybe it was good the old man remembered him; it placed him in the others’ minds as someone who belonged.

  “Josh took a client deer hunting,” Walter offered. “Monday, wasn’t it?” He looked at the others for confirmation.

  There were several nods. “Sounds right,” another man said. “I don’t remember when he said he’d be back.”

  “Should be today or tomorrow, though; he usually keeps his hunts to four or five days. Says that’s about his limit on tolerating most of them.”

  “In that case, he should have brought this one back yesterday,” another man said, and they all laughed.

  Teague allowed himself a small smile, to go along. “A bad one, huh?”

  “Let’s just say he thought highly of himself. Isn’t that right, Cate?” Walter said as the Nightingale woman approached with Teague’s muffin and coffee.

  “Isn’t what right?”

  “This last client of Josh’s, the one who was in here with him on Monday, was a real likable guy.”

  She snorted. “Yeah, I just loved the geography lesson he gave us.” She turned to Teague. “Where’re you sitting?”

  “I’ll just stand,” he said, taking the plate and cup from her. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She smiled and whisked away. He watched her take note of the level of coffee in every cup she passed and then go straight to the coffeemaker, where she lifted a pot off the heating plate and then went around the room providing warm-ups. Because he was a man, he also watched her ass. Like Goss said, it was an eye-catcher.

  “Cate’s a sweet woman,” Walter said, and Teague looked around to find all the occupants of the table watching him with various levels of aggression. Protective of her, were they?

  “No need to look at her like that,” an old man who looked close to ninety said. “She’s spoken for.”

  What was up that they felt the need to warn him away from Cate Nightingale? Teague manufactured another smile, which was about his limit, and lifted one hand. “I was just about to say she reminds me of my daughter,” he lied. He didn’t have a daughter, but these old farts didn’t know that.

  It worked. They all relaxed, and the smiles came back out. Walter leaned back in his chair and returned to the original subject. “Josh might come in here when his client leaves, might not. He’s not a regular like the rest of us. Did you leave a message on his answering machine?”

  “No, I didn’t bother. Someone told me I might find him here,” Teague answered. “This guy I know is trying to find a guide for some important client who decided out of the blue he wanted to go hunting, so I thought of Creed. Since the guy needs someone pronto, no need to leave a message. I’ll just tell him to move on to the next name on the list.” He paused. “Unless Creed has a satellite phone, maybe?”

  Walter rubbed his jaw. “If he does, he’s never mentioned it. Can you call a satellite phone from a regular phone?”

  “Have to be able to; otherwise there’s no point in ’em,” the old man said testily.

  “Guess you’re right,” Walter admitted. He looked back at Teague. “Josh is the best guide there is, no doubt about it. His clients bag trophies more often than anyone else. Too bad your friend missed him.”

  “His loss,” Teague said briefly. Holding his coffee in one hand and balancing the plate on top of the cup, he lifted the muffin and took a big bite. His taste buds exploded with delight. He could detect walnuts and apple, cinnamon, and something else he couldn’t identify. “Damn,” he muttered, and took another bite.

  Walter laughed. “Cate bakes a mean muffin, doesn’t she? Every time I have one I think, no way can her scones top her muffins—but then on Scone Day I wish she’d make scones more often.”

  Teague had heard of scones, but he’d never tasted one, and wasn’t really certain what one was. He hated fancy food, and usually wouldn’t even touch a muffin, but he was glad he’d taken this one. Assuming Ms. Nightingale lived through Toxtel’s plan for Trail Stop, Teague thought he might have to stop by the B and B again; these muffins were tasty.

  He
’d found out what he needed to know about Creed, so there was nothing else to do now except keep watch and see what happened. Did a kid show up after school? Did the climbers leave? Did anyone else come to stay at the B and B? And if Creed didn’t come to Trail Stop often enough to be considered a regular, then Teague would have to come up with some way to neutralize him, which could get messy.

  After the breakfast bunch had cleared out and she and Sherry had cleaned up, Cate checked out her climbing group and saw them on their way. She didn’t have anyone else coming in until the following weekend—another group of climbers—which she now realized wasn’t good. With the boys gone, she would have preferred to stay busy.

  Sherry left after the cleaning was finished, and Cate was alone in the house.

  The silence was painful.

  Because no one was arriving immediately, she didn’t have to hurry to clean up all the rooms, but she threw herself into it with a vengeance. After stripping the beds and getting started on the mound of laundry, she cleaned the bathrooms, vacuumed, dusted, and even cleaned the windows.

  Then she got started on the boys’ room, which might or might not have been a good idea. It really needed cleaning, but being in there—putting away their toys, cleaning out their closets, and straightening their clothing—reminded her of their absence. She tried not to watch the clock, but she kept glancing at her watch anyway, trying to gauge where they were by the time. It was impossible, of course; she didn’t know if the plane had been delayed for an hour or two, though she hoped her mother would have called her in that case, knowing she’d be worried if she didn’t receive their safe-arrival call on time.

  She didn’t pause for lunch, because preparing something just for her didn’t seem worth the effort. Several times she had to sniff back tears. This felt like grief, which was silly; she knew what grief really was. Still the feeling of having lost part of herself persisted, even though her apron strings hadn’t been cut, just stretched a little…if several hundred miles could be considered “little.”