ROCKY MOUNTAIN REVENGE

by CINDI MEYERS

  Jake opened the door on the far side of the room and looked in. “Bedroom,” he announced, then checked the second door on an adjacent wall. “Bathroom—or at least a toilet and sink.”

  “The water’s probably shut off for the winter so the pipes don’t freeze,” she said. She turned her attention to the empty woodstove that squatted between the front room’s two windows. “There should be some firewood out back,” she said.

  He left, and returned with an armload of wood. She laid a fire, building a bed of small sticks and crumpled paper, then adding split pieces of wood. When she touched a match to the paper, it caught, and smoke curled up the chimney. After she was sure the fire was blazing, she closed the stove door. “It will be warmer in a little bit.”

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  “I’ve learned a lot of things since coming here.” The instinct to survive was a powerful teacher. She made sure the curtains were pulled shut over the windows, then checked the contents of the two cupboards in the kitchen. “There’s coffee and hot chocolate, and some canned soup and stews. We won’t starve.”

  “Do you know who owns this cabin?” Jake asked. He slid onto a stool at the small breakfast bar.

  She filled a kettle from a ten-gallon bottle of water on a stand beside the old-fashioned round-top refrigerator. The refrigerator was propped open by sticks held in place with bungee cords. “According to the county land records, it belongs to a man in Minneapolis. He inherited it from his parents. I don’t think he comes down here very often—the cabin was empty every time I checked this last year.”

  “And the other cabins?”

  “They belong to summer people. That’s what everyone around here calls them. They live somewhere else and they come here every summer for a few weeks to hang out in nature.”

  “But we’re on Forest Service land?”

  “That’s right.” She lit a burner on the gas stove. “The cabins were here before the land was taken as National Forest, so the families were allowed to keep them and use them, but they’re not allowed to make any changes without government approval—so no insulation, no electricity, no modernization, except ten years or so ago they made everyone fill in their outhouses and install flush toilets. Water comes from cisterns or a pump dropped in the creek down there.”

  “A creek that is frozen this time of year.”

  “Right. So we won’t be using the indoor toilet. The cabins weren’t designed for winter use, only as summer retreats.”

  “How did you ever find this place?” he asked.

  “I came hiking with Maggie and her husband, Ty, not too long after I moved here. She told me all about the cabins. A few weeks later I came back on my own to check them out.”

  “And you brought your camera.”

  “I thought it would be a good idea to have a plan—someplace to go if I needed to hide. Even in the summer many of the cabins are empty, but if someone had asked, I could have posed as a friend of the guy who owns the cabin, using it for the weekend, or something like that.”

  “That was good thinking. But then, I’m not surprised. You were always one of the smartest people I knew.”

  She busied herself finding cups and spooning cocoa into them, afraid if she looked at him he would see how pleased she was by the compliment, and how uncomfortable that made her now. It reminded her too much of one of the things she had loved about him, before: he didn’t think that because she was beautiful, she was dumb. The other men in her life—her father and brother and her father’s friends—dismissed women as empty-headed dolls.

  “What’s the rest of the plan now that we’ve made it here?” he asked.

  She poured boiling water over the cocoa and slid a cup toward him. “I suppose I wait for Patrick—Marshal Thompson—to take me someplace new where I can start over again.”

  “Does that bother you?” He looked thoughtful as he stirred the cocoa. “I mean, how many times will you have to start over before you forget who you are? Or before your father stops looking for you?”

  “My father will never stop looking.” He could make all the speeches he wanted about her being dead to him, but until she was actually dead, and he had proof of it, her betrayal would eat at him like a cancer. “I’ve heard that hate is another side of love. As much as my father loved me, I think he hates me that much now.” She would be his obsession, as other enemies had been. He had destroyed the others, every one. He wouldn’t let her be his one failure. “The Marshals tell me they can protect me, that they’ve protected thousands of other people.”

  “They haven’t done a very good job keeping you hidden so far,” he said.

  “No. You found me.”

  “I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

  Patrick hadn’t been so sure about that. He thought Jake was out for revenge; maybe so, but he seemed willing to keep her safe as long as he thought she might help him find her father. “The problem with the Marshals is that too many people know who I am and where I am. They can talk about how secure their system is, but there are always leaks.”

  “True. But what other choice do you have?”

  “I could head out on my own, go to Denver or Los Angeles or some other big city. I can buy a passport with another name and leave the country.”

  “You know how to get a fake passport?” He sounded skeptical. “But then, I guess you are your father’s daughter.”

  “Don’t judge me. I know how to do what I need to do to stay alive.”

  “I wasn’t judging you.” His tone softened. “You have another choice.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Work with me to find your father. See him arrested again and locked up for good. With him out of the picture, you’ll be safe. You won’t have to hide.”

  She stirred the chocolate, the spoon hitting the side of the cup with a tinkling melody. “He escaped before. He can escape again.”

  “There’s something you ought to know about his escape,” he said. “Something I uncovered in my research that was hushed up at the time. Maybe knowing the whole story will help you make up your mind.”

  Chapter Seven

  Anne glared at him, anger growing. “Jake, I’m tired and I’m stressed and I don’t like playing games,” she said. “If you have something to say, come straight out with it.”

  “First, tell me what you were told about your father’s escape.”

  “Patrick met with me in person, before it was even in the news.” She’d only been in Rogers a month then, so he’d arranged to meet her in a mall in Grand Junction, where they’d purchased tickets to an afternoon matinee, then ducked into an empty auditorium. “He told me my father’s lawyers petitioned for a transfer to a different prison unit. No one in law enforcement expected the request to be granted—my father was too much of a risk. But the transfer was granted. The officers transporting him to the new facility were ambushed and overwhelmed and my father got away. By the time authorities discovered what had happened, hours had passed and there was no trace of my father.”

  “It all sounds very convenient, doesn’t it?” Jake asked. “At the very least, it sounds as if someone paid off the judge to grant the transfer, and then pulled other strings to delay the reporting of the escape.”

  “Patrick said it took place in a remote area. They thought my father got away via helicopter.”

  “Did he also tell you the FBI suspected your father had help from higher up?”

  “Higher up? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t have any proof, but my friends in the Bureau tell me they think a prominent politician pulled strings and paid off some guards to look the other way.”

  “Because my father paid him?” Sam had said once that he could make anyone do what he wanted if he waved enough money under their nose.


  “Either that or he was connected to Sam in some way that he didn’t want to come out.”

  “Maybe so,” she said. “But how is knowing this going to help me decide whether to go back into WitSec or stay and help you?”

  “Because my friends in the Bureau say they’re closing in on the people who helped Sam escape. They’re going to make an arrest soon. Your father won’t have so many friends to rely on next time.”

  She shook her head. “You make it sound so simple. But I don’t have any idea where my father is.”

  “I think he’s near here. I don’t think DiCello had to travel all that far to find you in Rogers.” He reached into his pocket and took out a piece of paper. She recognized the lift ticket that had been on DiCello’s coat. “This is from Telluride. Dated yesterday,” Jake said.

  “Maybe DiCello stole the coat.”

  “Or maybe he went skiing. Does your father ski?”

  She hesitated. She didn’t want Jake to be right; she didn’t want her father to be so close. “Yes. Every winter when I was a kid we took a family ski vacation.” For one week every winter they’d been like any other family, renting a condo, riding up the lifts together, racing down the mountains. They drank cocoa and went for sleigh rides and gathered around bonfires. Just like ordinary people, as long as you ignored the beefy bodyguards who accompanied her father everywhere. When they were very young, her mother had taught Anne and her brother to call the men “uncle.” Uncle Ramon and Uncle Frankie and Uncle Tiva. Four-year-old Sammy had asked once why there were so many uncles but no aunts, and her father had repeated the joke over and over for weeks, always to uproarious laughter.

  “Did you ever come to Telluride?” Jake asked.

  She shook her head. “Mostly we went to Europe or Canada. Once to California, but never Colorado.”

  “Getting out of the country might be tough for your father right now. He’s at the top of the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list. Does he know anyone in Telluride? Any friends?”

  “I don’t know. He had connections all over the country. All over the world.”

  “Search your memory. Maybe he’s combining a little vacation with business.”

  The business of hunting down his own daughter. She shuddered.

  “Do you have any idea how DiCello knew where you were?” he asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” She pushed aside the cooling cocoa. “Maggie told me my picture was on the front page of the Telluride paper yesterday. I was helping with a fundraising booth at the Winter Carnival and a reporter took a picture without my knowledge. Someone who knew me before might have recognized me.”

  “I think that’s a pretty strong indication that your father is in Telluride. It’s not that far from here, right? I saw a brochure at my hotel in Rogers.”

  “It’s about an hour away. But all that lift ticket tells us was that DiCello was in Telluride. Maybe he was on vacation.”

  “We could go there tomorrow and find out.”

  “I’m supposed to call Patrick tomorrow. We’re going to arrange to meet somewhere.”

  “You can meet him in Telluride.”

  She opened her mouth to say no—to tell him she didn’t care if her father was in Telluride or Timbuktu. But as much as she could lie about other things, she couldn’t lie to herself. Not about this. She wanted to know if her father was nearby; she needed to know.

  “Maybe I could arrange to meet Patrick in Telluride.”

  “We can go in the morning. When are you supposed to check in with Thompson again?”

  “We didn’t set a time.”

  “Then leave your phone off and call him when we reach Telluride. After we’ve had a chance to look around.”

  He didn’t press or plea, just waited for the answer he probably already knew she would give. “All right,” she said. “I can do that.”

  He looked around the cabin. “We should be safe enough alone here tonight.”

  His words were innocent enough, but they struck a chord deep inside her. The last time she’d spent the night alone with Jake they’d been lovers. They’d slipped away to his apartment and celebrated like honeymooners, oblivious to the rest of the world and its problems.

  Only two days later that world had come crashing down around them. They weren’t the same people they’d been in that apartment so long ago—how could they be? But the memory of all she’d felt for him rose up in her. She didn’t love Jake anymore—she couldn’t, after the way he’d lied to her, and all he’d put her through. But that didn’t stop her from wanting that kind of love again. She just needed to remember the difference between the fantasy and the reality and not make the mistake of confusing the two.

  “You take the bed,” he said. “I can bunk on the sofa.”

  “All right.” The sofa was really a love seat, too short for him. He’d be pretty uncomfortable, but it wouldn’t kill him for one night. In the morning they’d drive to Telluride and find nothing to alarm them. She’d call Patrick and arrange to meet him somewhere nearby. She’d say goodbye to Jake and probably never see him again. The thought brought a lump to her throat and she had to turn away.

  * * *

  JAKE HAD GIVEN ANNE a lot to mull over and she was obviously upset—not to mention dealing with the shock that someone had really tried to kill her, which was probably just now beginning to hit her. “Give me the keys and I’ll get your overnight bag from the car,” he said. She’d probably appreciate a few moments alone to pull herself together.

  Stepping outside was like stepping into a cave—dark and bitingly cold. Trees blocked the stars, and there probably wasn’t another occupied house for miles in any direction. He stood on the steps of the cabin, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness and listening to his own breathing. He had never been anywhere so dark and silent and remote.

  Click. The sound, like metal striking against a stone, rang loud in the stillness. Jake froze, one hand on the switch of the flashlight he’d brought from the cabin, the other on the gun in his pocket. Nothing.

  He waited, until his feet grew numb and he could no longer feel his nose, but he heard nothing. Maybe an animal had made the noise, or the wind rubbing tree branches together. Moving slowly, placing each foot silently in the snow, he made his way to the car. He switched on the flashlight and aimed the beam low, shielding it with his body. The beam illuminated a confusion of footprints in the snow—his and Anne’s steps, when they’d arrived at the cabin.

  When he opened the car door the dome light came on. He crouched down behind the door, trying to stay out of sight of anyone who might be watching. Of course, no one was out there, but he couldn’t shake the sensation that he wasn’t alone.

  He retrieved Anne’s bag from the backseat, then opened the glove box and pulled out a map of Colorado. He wanted to study it, to figure out where they were now, and to determine the best route to Telluride tomorrow.

  He switched off the flashlight and slammed the car door, plunging himself into darkness once more. Retracing his steps to the front door by memory, he opened and shut the door, but remained outside. Then he stood very still, waiting in the deepest shadows beside the steps.

  He counted off a full three minutes before he heard the faint crunch of footsteps in the snow, the creak of a car door opening and the quiet thunk of it closing again. Then an engine roared to life. None of the sounds were close—the car was probably a quarter of a mile away or more. Sound carried farther out here in this profound silence.

  “Jake?” A strip of light fell across the snow as the door to the cabin opened a few inches and Anne peered out. “Jake, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” He stepped out to where she could see him.

  “What have you been doing out here so long?” she asked.

  He debated whether to tell her; he could worry enough for
both of them. But maybe she’d have a simple explanation for the sounds—a neighbor he didn’t know about or something like that.

  “Let me come inside and I’ll tell you,” he said. “I’m frozen.”

  She opened the door to let him in. He dropped her bag on the table, then stripped off his coat and stood in front of the fire, warming his hands. “I thought I heard something,” he said.

  “What, exactly?”

  “Someone walking around out there—not too far away, maybe up by the road. I pretended to go inside, then I stood in the dark and waited. After a few minutes, I heard footsteps again, then a car door opening and someone driving away.”

  She frowned. “What time is it now?”

  He slipped his phone from his pocket and checked the display. “Twelve minutes after one.”

  “Kids come out here to party sometimes, but not in the winter, and not on a weeknight,” she said. “And when we drove in, I didn’t see any sign that anyone else had been here, not since the last snow at least.”

  “Maybe I should walk up to the road and check.” He didn’t relish the idea of venturing out into that cold blackness again, but he would if he had to.

  “And then what?” She began to pace, arms folded across her chest. “So someone drove in here, then turned around and drove out. It might not mean anything.”

  “Or it might mean you were followed.”

  “I wasn’t followed. I was watching and I’m sure of it. And if someone had followed and they wanted to harm us, why leave, having done nothing?”

  “I’ll feel better checking.”

  “Fine. Go check.”

  “I don’t like the idea of leaving you here alone.” Maybe whoever it was wanted to lure him away, so they could get to Anne when she was more vulnerable.