“By boat?” Hope flickered. They'd have to leave Spirit Lake and the transfer to land could give her a chance to be rescued.
“Not by boat, silly mermaid. I'm taking us across Spirit Lake. Got a hidden spot to land all picked out. Then we'll hike over to Deer Creek Gorge. We'll catch the train and head west into the mountains. You ever see the mountains?"
“No.” She wasn't getting on any train. She bulged every piece of her fiber against the bonds but they wouldn't give. If only she had Cole's knife. “How can I hop on when I'm tied like this?” She imagined running like a deer as soon as the bonds came off.
From around the edge of the seat, a pistol barrel appeared. “You will do whatever I say."
Like a fog, a chill blanketed her. “Hopping a train is dangerous. I'll need help."
He swiveled to look down on her with his swarthy face. The gleam in his eyes tortured her. Then, he showed her his other wrist. She saw the rope knotting it. He'd tethered himself to her!
“I hop on first,” he cackled, “and you either get on with me, or the train's wheels suck you under, splicing both you and the rope, setting me free in that unfortunate event. I have no problem with the plan. Do you?"
Laurel shook her head, hope draining away.
* * *
Chapter 16
AT THE CABIN, Cole raced like a madman looking for Laurel. Not finding her, he flung himself back out the front door, where he saw Buzz trundling down the driveway. An ambulance and second squad car pulled in behind him in the distance.
From the other direction, Sheriff Petski hurried up from Laurel's dock after racing over in one of his patrol boats.
Cole demanded, “You see her out on Spirit Lake?"
“No, but there's so many tourists out there fishing and water-skiing that I might have missed her."
“What route did you take?"
“I followed the north shore, since that's where we thought the body came from. Most criminals tend to go back to their hideouts for something."
“Like he'd go pack for a honeymoon with her?” Cole spun, raking his hair in anger. “He had to be here only moments ago. That deputy's wound is fresh. Do your job, sheriff!"
“Get a grip, son. You haven't cornered the market on fear."
“Sorry,” Cole gasped. “I checked the cabin and shed. A broken window in the breezeway. Looks like he plucked her up out of her nap, where I put her.” A lump rose in his throat. “I never should have left her alone."
John's big hand squeezed his shoulder. “The guy probably has a weapon. If he's the kind to plant bombs on your boat to kill your brother, there's no telling what he showed up with here."
“Bombs.” Cole's heartbeat thudded into his stomach. “Don't let anybody back in that place until it's checked out. If anything happens to her animals—"
Another squeeze to his shoulders and John said, “Nothing's going to happen. The FBI should be here any minute."
“I thought you said they were supposed to be planted in the woods before this?"
“They're still not sure this guy is Rojas. They think we've only got a nut case on our hands."
“Like a woman being kidnapped isn't important?” Cole's insides burned with anger.
“Until she crosses state lines, the FBI boys don't think it's their jurisdiction."
“Then you and I better saddle up."
He propelled himself down the lawn's slope toward the sheriff's boat.
John hurried after him. “They're sending a chopper. It'll be here any minute. You can't do much chasin’ with that leg anyway."
Cole was already unwinding the nylon rope from the post at the dock. “I don't care if my leg drops off if it means Laurel comes back alive."
“Don't go out there alone. Wait for the chopper."
He blinked at the sheriff's stricken face under the hot sun. “Damn it all, John, Laurel was the mother of my son. Do you really believe I can wait around for a helicopter ride? And for what? What if we spot her being dragged into the trees by Rojas and we can't land? That would be hell for me to watch if I thought I could have prevented it."
Cole climbed into the boat.
John stepped back. “I'll check the old church and get somebody around to Flora's mansion ASAP."
“Thanks.” With a nod, Cole backed the patrol boat against the currents of the bay, despising its sluggish surge. He longed for his hydroboat back in The Keys. To get to Laurel faster.
* * * *
CRACK!
Laurel's blood froze at the rifle retort. Broderick floored the small runabout. She pitched against the seatback, smashing her nose. Blood stained the vinyl.
She hoped the rifle shot meant Cole and the sheriff were closing in.
“Who is it?” she yelled up at Broderick.
“Like I care, sweet thing? Came from that old three-story butt ugly house, but we've left him for good."
The mansion! Cole? The sheriff? But the shot had missed, and she was the new “girlfriend” of a maniac.
But they weren't off Spirit Lake yet! There were people out here who could help her. If they could see her. She pushed harder against the ropes, ignoring the blood.
* * * *
WHEN COLE spotted a zigzagging runabout, his heart leapt. The crazy driver had to be Laurel's kidnapper. Nobody would speed on this crowded lake unless they needed to. Other boaters, fishers and canoeists scattered like bowling pins in the renegade's wake.
With his guts grinding, Cole pushed the patrol boat to a faster speed. Plumes of lakewater shadowed him.
The kidnapper's runabout ripped an ugly U-turn, almost flipping the boat. Cole wished it had overturned because he could have scooped up Laurel, just as he'd done with fellow racers a thousand times when a boat hydroplaned to disaster. Just as he'd done for Mike. He shouldn't have been in the boat that exploded. They shouldn't have argued. Now, the parallel to Laurel tore at Cole. She shouldn't be out here. The memory of the fiery explosion burst inside Cole's brain, driving him in a fever of terror.
The renegade boat used a line of sleek boats anchored off shore as a shield, turning to head back toward the abandoned mansion. Cole hoped the boat would ride directly into the gun of the waiting sheriff.
Just as he pressed the patrol boat into a clear straight-away, a ski boat darted out from behind the lip of a cove and Cole had to abort his speed and swerve. He lost sight of his quarry.
He circled away from the boaters and into the middle of the lake, losing valuable time.
An angry hunger slammed about inside him, a hunger like that of a hawk spying someone raiding his nest and harming his mate. He had no future without Laurel. His fingers coiled like sharp talons. Wild instinct to pounce jetted through his veins.
He drove for the clear, more treacherous and shallower water near the shoreline. On a sharp turn, water sprayed across his face. Narrowing his gaze, he scoped the lake and land everywhere at once. Where was she? The hawk spotted nothing.
Faster, go faster. The boat's engine grunted. Cole zipped in and out of coves, narrowly dodging rocks and submerged logs.
Just around a finger of land crowded with trees, his boat suddenly snapped up, flung into the air by a powerful jolt.
Clinging to the wheel, Cole flew with the boat as it sailed at a crazy angle before coming back down with a smack!
The boat rumbled, its motor complaining. Then a thin geyser sprayed the back of Cole's neck. Whatever he hit had gouged a small hole through the fiberglass behind the seats.
Where was the sheriff? The helicopter? He saw nothing in the sky but sunshine and birds.
Savage instinct drove him.
Save my Laurel Lee.
With the lakewater spraying in, he glanced around for another option. He spotted three boats about a hundred yards away, tethered together for a party in the middle of the lake. He slammed the gas pedal, but the engine protested again. He hurried for a quick look at the prop, but the engine wouldn't tip up from the damage. Through the frothy water, he saw bra
nches, weeds, twine—all sorts of lake junk trailing off the prop.
With no time to clean it, he sloshed back to the front of the boat and gunned the engine on and off, reverse and forward, to see if he could dislodge the junk.
Laurel needs you!
On the fourth try, the boat moved forward, but at a slow, deliberate speed. Somehow, Cole reached the partiers before the patrol boat became too waterlogged. He jumped onto the deck of a glittery new boat, calling out, “Get off! I'm taking this!"
When a muscle man holding a beer objected, Cole ripped the pistol out and pointed it at him.
Everyone screamed. Cole ordered, “Get your tanned asses off the boat! Now!"
They scattered onto the two other boats, and Cole commandeered the new tri-hull.
Skimming the top of the water, Cole whipped in and out, dodging debris, looking for the runabout.
He spotted it in a thin crescent of red sand shoreline leading into the pine forest. From his vantage point, the boat appeared empty. An ache stabbed through him.
Storming for shore, he rammed onto the sand next to the small runabout and looked down inside it, pointing the pistol. Laurel was gone. His heart busted into pieces.
Jumping overboard, he fell to his knees in soft, squishy sand with stabbing pain. He swore, thinking how he wished he'd listened to Laurel and taken better care of the leg instead of being so bullheaded—his macho act to keep her at arm's length. Everything had backfired on him. His health, his plan to catch Rojas on his own, even his heart. And it hurt far more than his leg. Laurel was his lifeblood. To lose her would be to lose it all. Even Tyler would never forgive him for this. Nor would Jonathon, looking down, and Cole wanted to believe in angels right now.
Picking himself up, he searched for tracks.
He soon found red stains littering the sand. His breathing grew labored. The bloody trail led off into the thick underbrush.
Cole stumbled onward, the ache welling up inside him at every red, grainy splotch already drying under the baking sun.
“Laurel Lee!"
Only the breeze moaned back through the pines. Throwing himself at the thick brush, he entered the deep shadows, but his leg immediately gave way to a searing jab in the muscles that were still healing. Gritting his teeth, he dragged the leg along, forcing it to function.
* * * *
SHE TROTTED ALONG in fits through the underbrush, with the man called Broderick yanking relentlessly on the rope tethered to her bound wrists. She was forced to taste her own blood filling her mouth as she sucked for air.
It appalled her that he carried her father's rifle. To see the beautiful wood stock polished to a mirror by her father now gripped in this scum's clutches sent waterfalls of ice into her stomach. He had some other sawed-off thing tucked in his belt.
Branches whipped at her face, the lacerations stinging while she spied every whichway hoping to see Cole lurking in the woods. The nylon rope sawed at her flesh, burning.
“Broderick, please, I can't go on."
He pulled harder. She stumbled, but he dragged them across lichen-etched rocks and through thick ferns. An occasional spot of sunshine up ahead gave her hope that it was the road where perhaps a car would rescue her. But each ray of hope disintegrated into splintered emerald shadows and thick understory.
Could Cole remember this woods enough to find her?
This portion of the woodland was virgin forest preserve, a place left pristine for growing populations of bears and wolves. It stretched into ravines, cliffs and caves, rolling hills, a stream that cut under the road and led to Deer Creek Gorge beyond civilization. Laurel feared that nobody would find her. Ever.
Broderick kept on, manhandling her when she stumbled.
“We can't do this,” she gasped hoarsely. “We won't be able to get on the train. Stop, Broderick, stop!"
He thrashed ahead, using her father's rifle like a machete to part briars. “The train'll take us to paradise. You'll do it."
“But the ropes. I can't grab on like this.” Brambles clawed at her T-shirt and bare arms. Beads of blood sprouted.
“I'll pull you up, like a fish on a line."
Crack! A rifle shot echoed through the trees.
Laurel ducked instinctinvely.
Crack! Then a sharp pain jerked her to the ground.
* * * *
COLE HAULED UP short against a tree, his breathing ragged. After the two shots, the forest grew silent.
Like a cancer, despair spread through him. He tamped it down. Stay focused. Laurel Lee needs you. If she was still alive.
Don't think it.
Guessing at the rifle shot's origin, Cole crossed a small ravine, dragging his numbing leg up the next incline. With the flesh swelling against his snug bluejeans, the leg moved with all the élan of a pirate's pegleg.
Still, he forged on, desperate to beat the odds. The forest floor smelled dank, like death.
Don't think it.
Branches pushed back, unyielding. He slipped on mossy rocks, getting swallowed up under arching ferns. He wished for the sound of the sheriff's search helicopter, but knew how useless it probably was for spotting anyone in this foliage.
On a rock outcropping, Cole spotted a wide patch of blood. Agony ripped through him. It hurt to breathe the innocent air.
With fists curled around the pistol and the knife hidden at his side, he traveled on.
Beyond a felled oak tree, he stumbled ... over a body.
His toe was snagged by the cuff of the jeans on the form sprawled half-hidden in the leaves and twigs. Taking one look brought him to his knees, where it took all his strength to swallow back the bile. He forced himself to look again.
It wasn't Laurel. A man he'd never seen before—Rojas's new right-hand man?—lay with half his face blown away, staring with one crazed eye up at the sky.
Then he saw the sleek wood sticking out from under the man. Recognition flickered. There was no mistaking the fancy rifle that had been pointed at him once. Gripping the stock, he pulled the gun from under the dead man. Though scratched up, the rifle looked in usable shape. He pulled the bolt and checked the chamber. It was loaded, but with only one round left. One bullet. A chance.
Anger spiked down Cole. The rifle shot that killed this goon must have come within inches of Laurel. Rojas could have killed her, too, but had chosen not to. Bile threatened his throat again.
A ferocity of spirit, of destiny, whipped through him. He would take Rojas in his bare hands, then squeeze his traitorous, slimy neck just to hear the man whimper for mercy. Rojas had gone insane for sure. He was a madman, but Cole could match that now.
He breathed fire. Blood for blood. Justice in the end.
Then Cole heard the far-off, long, moaning call of a train. He suddenly feared where Rojas's game would take him.
* * * *
LAUREL KNEW HE was Marco Rojas, despite the ugly dye job on his hair to disguise himself. She saw it in the sick smile. He was like a cat about to play with its catch before crunching its bones and swallowing it, leaving not a trace.
“You're prettier than I expected,” he said, leaning toward her face with curled lips. They sat hidden by a boulder to catch their breaths. “Mr. Sanchez Wescott's taste is finally matching my own. Perhaps my plan will need to change, seeing how beautiful you are. Que bonita."
“What plan?” she said, her mind reeling.
“To kill him while we make love."
Her stomach lurched. “You're sick."
The flesh at the corners of his eyes jerked, his gaze shrinking to hauntingly dark under the cap of spiked yellow hair. A rabid wolf was handsomer. “Not sick,” he growled. “Only in control. Not like Wescott. How can he do this to you? To allow Broderick to hurt you like this?"
“Let me go."
The tic at his eyes returned. His gaze lowered to her bound and raw wrists. “I do not care for imperfections, my querida."
“Then take me to the hospital in Dresden."
“Ah, but you
are a fiery one. I like that. No, I will take you with me, to my ranch in Venezuela. It is time I leave this country and do other things with my life."
Her bones quivered. “No airline would take a screaming woman aboard."
This time he laughed. The thick foliage muffled the sounds. “My querida, I have any number of private planes at my disposal. And besides, you will want to come live with me. If you fight me, I will send someone to visit your mother."
Laurel's chest grew tight. The air so stale. “You'd murder my mother? If I don't go with you?"
His nod was like a match, igniting terror in her.
After he stood, securing his rifle in one hand and the rope connected to her in the other, she had no choice. She got up, put one foot in front of the other, submerging into the deep forest.
* * * *
HE WASTED NO time in getting his prey to Deer Creek Gorge. Laurel's legs ached from running and her cheeks stung from the branches they'd whipped through. A faint whistle sounded in the distance toward Dresden. A fist tightened in her stomach.
They skirted the woodland, following the railroad bed. Laurel shuddered at the acrid smell of the sun-heated creosote ties and the shiny tracks where tons of steel promised to slide over.
Rojas, with a firm hand clamping her elbow, hurried her over the Deer Creek trestle, then down the hillside toward the creek and flat marshland. They splashed through the icy springwater swirling by, then stumbled along the bank until stopping under an ancient oak tree where the land leveled out near the rail line.
Her wrists aching in their bonds, she looked around for any mode of escape.
Fidgeting with the cocked rifle, Rojas winced and wriggled his shoulder around. Was he hurting? What if he dropped the rifle? Could she run? But he kept the end of her rope twisted in his other fist. Her wrists pulsated, the fingers turning blue.
Looking him in his weasel eyes, she said, “See my fingers? If I fall, it'll be another murder on your hands. You won't have me to serve your every whim."
“If you fall,” he growled, “it'll be your fault."
Something snapped inside her. She'd taken enough. She knew her life might be ending and she couldn't let him get away with it. “Like it was Broderick's fault he fell into your bullet? Like it was that Texas woman's fault? You killed her. She was spotted on your yacht and she was found dead after that."
Spirit Lake Page 24