by Alicia Scott
So much he'd learned, forced himself to understand. And now he was in the big vast open again, the sky bluer than he'd realized, the dirt redder, the air sweeter. God, it was good and it was overwhelming. He wanted to spread his arms and embrace it. He wanted to wrap his arms around his head and curl up in a ball because outside was so big and suddenly he felt so small.
Prison did strange things to a man. Made it so he didn't even know himself anymore.
Cain shrugged away the sensation, the vague fear. He had to know himself. Certainly no one else ever had.
He forced his feet to move and willed the agoraphobia away.
He drove the truck to the cinema a few blocks away from the hotel. There, he parked the big blue machine in the middle of the other vehicles, toward the front. It blended in nicely, as Bend boasted almost more trucks than people. Since it was toward the front, maybe late at night the police would assume it belonged to someone working in the theater.
That mission accomplished, Cain found a drugstore for supplies. One heavy-duty flashlight, one roll of duct tape and one bungee cord, because those things always came in handy. Next he bought a water canteen, a pack of small chocolate pieces for instant energy, then a backpack for everything to go in. He spent fifteen minutes contemplating hair dyes, had a beautiful young salesclerk offer him blushing advice and then gave up on the whole dyeing concept. He bought disposable razors and shaving cream instead.
Then he visited a gun and ammunition store.
Bend saw its fair share of hunters and the rifle selection made him pause. But you had to have a license and a permit to buy a gun, so Cain settled for simply buying more ammunition for the .357 Magnum tucked in the waistband of his jeans. The .357 wouldn't be enough if Abraham found him, but it was all he had to work with.
Next, he cashed in five dollars for change at the pharmacy. Then he began plugging the pay phone. His father's cabin didn't used to have a phone. But then a cell site was installed in the area. The other hunters started carrying cell phones in case of emergency. Zechariah decided maybe he should have one, too. In case of trouble, in case anyone ever ambushed his place. Lines of communication were important in war.
The phone started ringing. Was it sitting on the old, hand-carved table? Suddenly Cain could picture the cabin of his childhood too clearly. The receiver trembled in his hands.
"I knew you would call."
Cain paused. For a minute, his knuckles whitened on the phone and his mouth went dry and he felt a little dizzy. Nearly ten years since he'd heard that voice. Ten years of wanting to forget and not quite being able to. Ten years of trying to figure out where that voice ended and Cain began, what beliefs that voice had that Cain could accept, and what beliefs that voice had that Cain must reject.
"Hello, Zechariah," Cain said at last to his father. He raised his wrist and glanced at his watch. No more than sixty seconds, for the call might be traced.
Remain in control, Cain.
"You brought them here," Zech accused, his rusty voice low and vehement. "The hills and the valley are crawling with state troopers and federal sheriffs like the locusts in Egypt. Years they've been waiting for any sort of excuse to invade our land. And you gave it to them. You gave it to them!"
Cain felt his lips twist in spite of himself. Cool Cain. Rational Cain. Don't get lost in the hatred. He's never understood your beliefs any more than you've understood his hate. Cain said anyway, "Happy to be of service."
And his father hissed with outrage in his ear.
"Has Ham left already?" Cain continued levelly, trying to get the conversation back on line, though the shortened name generally raised his family's hackles. Ham's full name was Abraham, but Cain had nicknamed his white supremacist brother Ham after one of Noah's sons—the one biblical scholars believed was the forefather of the black race.
"You are a traitor."
"And Kathy? What sin had Kathy committed to deserve the slaughter?" He wanted to recall the words the moment they were spoken. He didn't have time for accusations and emotion. He knew why Abraham had killed Kathy. Dear God, he knew. And found himself stating from someplace deep inside his gut, "I don't want to kill him … Dad. He is my brother. But he murdered her and if it comes down to that … if it comes down to that then I guess I'm no better than either of you after all, because I will pull the trigger."
"When God asked Abraham to take his only son, Isaac, to the mountains of Moriah and sacrifice him there as a burnt offering, did Abraham ask why?" Zechariah sermonized in a vibrant baritone. "Did Abraham say, 'Why should I believe in you, Lord? Why should I accept your command and why should I do as you bid?' Did Abraham say, 'But it isn't logical'? You have no faith, Cain. You have no belief—"
"I only asked for a reason to hate—" Forty-five seconds.
"But your brother has faith," Zechariah continued as if he hadn't heard his youngest son. "Abraham accepts God's bidding and the Lord shall guide his hand."
Five seconds remaining. Cain said quietly, "Then I hope Mom will guide mine."
He hung up the phone, cutting off his father's outraged gasp. Cain stood there for a moment, his forehead pressed against the cold metal pay phone, the sun hammering down on his back. Somewhere inside himself, he felt like a little kid again, standing on the mountain, being told God had created such beauty, but only for the chosen few to enjoy. By right of birth, Cain was one of those chosen.
And instead of being grateful, instead of being filled with divine rapture over his Aryan birthright, Cain had turned to his father and asked, "Why?"
His father hadn't answered his questions; he'd beaten him instead.
Cain took a deep breath. He glanced at his watch. Four forty-five. He was tired now. Very tired. He turned, attended to the last errand, then walked back to the hotel.
She was sleeping soundly, not even stirring as he shut the door quietly behind him. The remote control had been placed on the floor. Now she was curled up into a ball, sleeping in the only position the handcuffs made feasible.
He placed the pizza on the dresser. She still didn't stir. He sat on the edge of the bed across from her. She remained sleeping.
Funny how he'd thought she was meek and invisible when he'd first kidnapped her. He'd glanced over once and seen a wallflower, a red-haired shadow. Now he found his gaze lingering on her full lips, on her unblemished cheek as white as virgin snowfall. Her hair framed her lushly, deep red satin pooling around her face.
He wanted to touch her. He knew he shouldn't. He fisted his hand to keep it on his knee.
She was beautiful, he could see that now. Beautiful in a special way few women could achieve. She was strong, she just didn't know it. If you put her in a burning building, she wouldn't scream, she wouldn't cower. She'd seek out other people and save them. She cared in a way he hadn't thought people bothered to care anymore. In this day and age, it seemed like everyone was a cynic, everyone was tough enough.
Except Maggie. She tried, she bruised, she tried again anyway. And when she asked him questions, her gaze was open and curious, as if she truly did want to understand, as if she truly wanted to see the best in him.
If a tree falls in the wilderness and there's no one to hear, does it make a sound?
If a man says he's innocent and there's no one who believes him…?
He found himself reaching out and brushing a single strand of her hair from her cheek. She stirred in her sleep, murmured a single, soft syllable of nonsense, then snuggled down deeper into the pillow. He touched her cheek, then her lips. His thumb traced her chin.
And her lips gently parted. Her breath came out with a sigh. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing deep, sleep-soaked pools.
He was lost. So lost. Control slipped.
He bent down and kissed her.
The sensation was soft, featherlight, like rose petals tickling her lips. She opened them wider, seeking the heat of something she couldn't name. And then his tongue slid between her lips, filling her, consuming her, and she groaned low
in her throat with the pure delight of it.
The pressure increased. Her stomach contracted. Dimly she was aware of the assault on her senses. Sandpapery beard rasped her cheek, callused fingers stroked her hair. Soap and pine tingled her nose. He murmured soft noises and angled her head to deepen the kiss.
Fire exploded in her belly.
Suddenly it wasn't soft anymore. She arched back her own neck and she demanded him. She feasted on his tongue, grappled with his shirt with her free hand. He was hot and solid, masculine and overwhelming and she wanted to consume him, she wanted to draw him so deeply inside her he would become part of her, fill her, hold her, need her.
She wanted, she wanted, she wanted. The kiss became huge, two tongues dueling and desperate for more. His fingers bracketed her head, pinning her into place so he could gnaw her chin and ravage her lips.
It still wasn't enough. She whimpered low in her throat with the frustration.
And then it was just over.
Cain spun away. From far away, she could hear his low, vehement curse, then the hard sound of his foot slamming against the floor. She blinked twice and the world slowly came into focus.
She was still lying on the bed. Her hand was cuffed to the headboard. Her senses were filled with him.
He'd kissed her. She'd kissed him.
Oh my! She bolted upright, the bind of the handcuff promptly yanking her off balance. With a little yelp, she fell off the edge of the bed onto the brown carpet, landing in a little puddle with her arm suspended over her head.
"Are you all right?" Cain inquired, coming over immediately. He didn't reach a hand down though. He had them both pushed safely into his pockets.
Belatedly, she realized her skirt was now bunched around her waist and that her lips were still bruised from one highly enthusiastic kiss. Holy smoke, she'd practically rearranged his mouth! Blushing three shades of red, she popped back up, then swayed as the blood left her head too fast and made her dizzy. Instantly, Cain's hand was beneath her elbow.
"Easy," he said. "Just take it one step at a time."
He guided her into a sitting position on the edge of her bed, then whisked back his hand as if she'd burned him. The silence stretched out taut and awkward. He shoved his hand back into his pocket. Then he pivoted away from her and began pacing.
"I didn't mean to do that," he said abruptly. "I had no right. I'm sorry."
"I…" She didn't know what to say.
He pivoted sharply and met her gaze. "I want you to know that I would never force you," he said bluntly. "I want you to know you don't have to fear that from me. I wouldn't do that to you, Maggie. I know given the circumstances that's hard to believe, but for what it's worth, I give you my word."
"It's … it's … I believe you," she said abruptly. Maybe that made her a fool, but she did believe him. He was strong, he was powerful, but to date he hadn't harmed her and God knew she'd given him a few excuses. She couldn't imagine him forcing a woman—he didn't seem that petty or cruel. Of course, she couldn't imagine him killing anyone either. It just … didn't seem to fit. Not for a man with so much control and so much … restraint, she supposed. He had a lot of restraint.
"Here," he said. He crossed close enough to produce the key. She was surprised to see that his hand was trembling slightly. He swallowed, then went about unlocking the cuff. He pulled it off gently. Her wrist sported an angry red welt.
"Do you mind?" he asked.
"No," she whispered.
He massaged her wrist tenderly. It was amazing to her that fingers so strong, so big, could move over her skin like that, soft and smooth. His thumb rubbed small circles and for one moment, she allowed her eyes to drift shut.
She wasn't exactly sure when he stopped. Her eyes took longer to open.
He was standing before her once more and she could see fresh tension in his stance. His jaw was clenched, his fingers fisted. He didn't move.
"I … uh … I brought you a pizza."
"A pizza?" Sure enough, she inhaled deeply and the scent of sizzling cheese pervaded her senses. Pizza, hot pizza. Her stomach rumbled on cue. "That's perfect!"
"I'll get you a slice." He crossed the room quickly. "I had them put mushrooms and green peppers on it. Vegetables don't make you sad, do they?"
"I like vegetables." She looked at him speculatively, her head cocked to the side. A vegetarian pizza after she'd told him that hamburger made her cry. "You're very considerate for a kidnapper," she pointed out softly.
His lips simply twisted, his composure obviously returning. "Dinner is served." He delivered one generously cut slice, then tossed a pile of napkins at her. "There are no plates or silverware, but plenty of extra napkins."
He picked up a small bag and shook out more napkins. She heard the clink of glass.
"Beer?" she asked, her voice sharper than she intended, her hand pressed unconsciously against her stomach. What if he was an alcoholic or something? What then?
He glanced back at her, already shaking his head. "Iced tea. I don't drink."
"Oh," she said with perfect stupidity. She gave up and shook her head. She just didn't get him. He was definitely intelligent and honorable in his own way. He could be perfectly charming when he chose and he didn't seem slovenly or drunken or even mean. In fact, he was better behaved than most men she knew. What did that say about the freed male population when they were put to shame by a convicted murderer?
She gave up on understanding life and attacked her pizza instead.
Halfway through the second piece, her fingers smeared with grease, her face beaming with a satisfied smile, she mumbled through a mouthful of cheese, "Hey! This is your first meal as a free man. Or at least, a pseudo-free man."
He paused with his mouth poised around the end of his third piece of pizza. "I guess it is." He ravaged the end.
"Is there good pizza in prison?"
He shrugged. "Ever eat cafeteria food?"
She nodded, though it had been in a private school with its own in-house chef.
"Take that, make it three times worse, and that's prison food."
"Wow," she said, clearly impressed. "I'm surprised you didn't want to stop for food first thing."
His lips twisted dryly. "I had other things on my mind." His hands wrapped around the big glass bottle of iced tea and raised it to his lips. He drank gustily, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow, and Maggie stared, completely mesmerized by the act. He lowered the bottle, empty at last, and sighed. Belatedly, he became aware of her rapt attention.
"Did I spill something?" he asked immediately, gazing down at his shirtfront.
"No," she said and dropped her gaze hastily, focusing it on the carpet instead. Her stomach was all tight again. She took several deep breaths and searched for something normal to say. "Umm, going to have more pizza?" Oh, she was definitely a brilliant conversationalist.
Cain shook his head, already rising to his feet. "Eating too much makes you slow."
Maggie gazed at her hand already reaching for a third piece and promptly snatched it back. "Of course."
"We can take the rest with us."
"With us?"
He turned and from halfway across the room, his hands tucked in the back pockets of his jeans, he said steadily, "We'll sleep for four hours. That's it. Then I want to be on the road again."
"Four hours? But … but you look so tired."
He smiled wryly. "Worried about me, Maggie?"
She flushed instantly, flustered and not knowing what to say. She was, but she shouldn't be. He did look tired, but she shouldn't care … oh, darn! She just wasn't cut out for this hostage business.
"Why don't you go wash your hands, Maggie, and get ready for bed?"
She blanched immediately. He shook his head at her response, and for a minute looked genuinely haggard.
"Don't worry. Sex makes a man sluggish, too, and as we've already established, I can't afford to be slow. I did give you my word."
"I … well I … I'm go
ing to go wash my hands," she announced at last.
"What a good idea."
She came out five minutes later, twisting her hands in front of her and looking more nervous than a sixteen-year-old on her first date. Cain had already closed the curtains and the room was swathed in darkness.
Dimly, her eyes made out his form. He was already in the other bed, the covers pulled up to his chin. She passed by the end of the bed with legs that trembled. He didn't say anything. He didn't try anything.
She felt as if her stomach had turned inside out and left her with nothing but a gaping hole. With her hands, she felt her way to her bed.
She pulled back the covers, she crawled in. She pulled the covers up to her shoulders, then lay perfectly still in the darkness. She could hear his breathing now In and out. but not relaxed.
He was aware of her, she thought. As aware of her as she was aware of him. He still didn't move.
Finally, she whispered in the dark, "Did you love her a great deal?"
"Who?"
"Your girlfriend. Did you love her that much, and that's why her betrayal drove you to murder?"
A ponderous moment passed. Finally, his voice cut through the darkness. "How much can I blame her, Maggie? I introduced her to Ham. I helped bring them together."
"But—"
"Good night, Maggie."
And minutes later, she could tell from his breathing that he'd fallen asleep.
Chapter 7
« ^ »
"Maggie. Maggie, wake up."
From deep within the dark, comforting cocoon of sleep, she heard the voice calling to her. Wake up? The voice was nuts. She'd just fallen asleep.
"Maggie," it persisted.
She batted at it with her hand. "Go away. Tired."
"Maggie."
Her hand beat more emphatically. "Tired!"
The voice backed off. She snuggled back into the warm abyss.
"Meow."
Huh?
"Meow," the voice tried again, sounding like a cat with laryngitis. "I'm a three-legged cat," it insisted. "And I want to be fed."
One eye reluctantly cracked open, letting the light flood in. "Whuh?"