Captive Star

by Nora Roberts

  fingers on the dash. “This is it, coming up. I’m almost sure.”

  He downshifted, bore right. The road rose and curved. Beside it fences were being slowly smothered by honeysuckle, and behind them cows grazed.

  “I think this is right.” She gnawed on her lip. “All the damn roads back here look the same. Fields and rocks and trees. How do people find where they’re going?”

  “Did you stay on this road?”

  “No, she turned again.” Right or left? M.J. asked herself. Right or left? “We kept heading deeper into the boonies, and climbing. Maybe here.”

  He slowed, let her consider. The crossroads was narrow, cornered on one side by a stone house. A dog napped in the yard under the shade of a dying maple. Concrete ducks paddled over the grass.

  “This could be it, to the left. I’m sorry, Jack, it’s hazy.”

  “Look, we’ve got a full tank of gas and plenty of daylight. Don’t sweat it.”

  He took the left, cruised along the curving road that climbed and dipped. The houses were spread out now, and the fields were crammed with corn high as a man’s waist. Where fields stopped, woods took over, growing thick and green, arching their limbs over the road so that it was a shady tunnel for the car to thread through.

  They came to the rise of a hill, and the world opened up. A dramatic and sudden spread of green mountains, and land that rolled beneath them.

  “Yes. Bailey almost wrecked the car when we topped this hill. If it is this hill,” she added. “I think that’s part of the state forest. She was dazzled by it. But we turned off again. One of these little roads that winds through the trees.”

  “You’re doing fine. Tell me which one you want to try.”

  “At this point, your guess is as good as mine.” She felt helpless, stupid. “It just looks different now. The trees are all thick. They just had that green haze on them when we came through.”

  “We’ll give this one a shot,” he decided, and, flipping a mental coin, turned right.

  It took only ten minutes for them to admit they were lost, and another ten to find their way out and onto a main road. They drove through a small town M.J. had no recollection of, then backtracked.

  After an hour of wandering, M.J. felt her patience fraying. “How can you stay so calm?” she asked him. “I swear we’ve fumbled along every excuse for a road within fifty miles. Every street, lane and cow path. I’m going crazy.”

  “My line of work takes patience. I ever tell you about tracking down Big Bill Bristol?”

  She shifted in her seat, certain she’d never feel sensation in her bottom again. “No, you never told me about tracking down Big Bill Bristol. Are you going to make this up?”

  “Don’t have to.” To give them both a breather, he swung off the road. There was a small pulloff beside what he supposed could be called a swimming hole. Trees overhung dark water and let little splashes of sun hit the surface and bounce back. “Big Bill was up on assault. Lost his temper over a hand of seven-card stud and tried to feed the pot to his opponent. That was after he broke his nose and knocked the guy out. Big Bill is about six-five, two-eighty, and has hands the size of Minneapolis. He doesn’t like to lose. I know this for a fact, as I have spent the occasional evening playing games of chance with Big Bill.”

  M.J. smiled winningly. “Gosh, Jack, I just can’t wait to meet your friends.”

  Recognizing sarcasm when it was aimed at him, he merely slanted her a look. “In any case, Ralph fronted his bond, but Big Bill found out about a floating game in Jersey and didn’t want to miss out. The law frowns, not only on floating games, but on bail-jumping, and his bail was revoked. Bill was on the skip list.”

  “And you went after him.”

  “Well, I did.” Jack rubbed his chin, thought fleetingly about shaving. “It should have been cut-and-dried. Find the game, remind Bill he had to have his day in court, bring him back. But it seemed Bill had won large quantities of money in Jersey, and had moved on to another game. I should add that Bill is big, but not in the brain department. And he was on a hot streak, moving from game to game, state to state.”

  “With Jack Dakota, bounty hunter, hot on his trail.”

  “On his trail, anyway. A lot of it his back trail. If the jerk had planned to lose me, he couldn’t have done a better job. I crisscrossed the Northeast, hit every game.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Not enough to talk about.” He answered her grin. “I got into Pittsburgh about midnight. I knew there was a game, but I couldn’t bribe or threaten the location out of anyone. I’d been on Bill’s trail for four days, living out of my car and playing poker with guys named Bats and Fast Charlie. I was tired, dirty, down to my last hundred in cash. I walked into a bar.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “I’m telling the story,” he said, tugging her hair. “Picked it at random, no thought, no plan. And guess who was in the back room, holding a pair of bullets and bumping the pot?”

  “Let’s see…. Could it have been…Big Bill Bristol?”

  “In the flesh. Patience and logic had gotten me to Pittsburgh, but it was instinct that had me walking into that game.”

  “How’d you get him to go back with you?”

  “There I had a choice. I considered hitting him over the head with a chair. But more than likely that would have just annoyed him. I thought about appealing to his good nature, reminding him he owed Ralph. But he was still on that hot streak, and wouldn’t have given a damn. So I had a drink, joined the game. After a couple of hours, I explained the situation to Bill, and appealed to him on his own level. One cut of the cards. I draw high, he comes back with me, no hassle. He draws high, I walk away.”

  “And you drew high?”

  “Yeah, I did.” He scratched his chin again. “Of course, I’d palmed an ace, but like I said, brains weren’t Big Bill’s strong suit.”

  “You cheated?”

  “Sure. It was the clearest route through the situation, and everybody ended up happy.”

  “Except Big Bill.”

  “No, him, too. He’d had a nice run, had enough of the ready to pay off the guy whose skull he’d cracked. Charges dropped. No sweat.”

  She cocked her head. “And what would you have done if he’d decided to welsh and not go back with you peacefully?”

  “I’d have broken the chair over his head, and hoped to live through it.”

  “Quite a life you lead, Jack.”

  “I like it. And the moral of the story is, you just keep looking, follow logic. And when logic peters out, you go with instinct.” So saying, he reached into his pocket, drew out the stone. “The second stone is knowledge.” His eyes met hers. “What do you know, M.J.?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You know your friends. You know them better than I know Big Bill, or anyone else, for that matter.” He could come to envy her that, he realized. And would think on it more closely later. “They’re part of what you were, who you are, and, I guess, who you will be.”

  Her chest went tight. “You’re getting philosophical on me, Dakota.”

  “Sometimes that works, too. Trust your instincts, M.J.” He took her hand, closed it over the stone. “Trust what you know.”

  Her nerves were suddenly on the surface of her skin, chilling it. “You expect me to use this thing like some sort of compass? Divining rod?”

  “You feel that, don’t you?” It was a shock to him, as well, but his hands stayed steady, his eyes remained on hers. “It’s all but breathing. You know the thing about myths? If you reach down deep enough inside them, you pull out truth. The second stone is knowledge.” He shifted back, put his hands on the wheel. “Which way do you want to go?”

  She was cold, shudderingly cold. Yet the stone was like a sun burning in her hand. “West.” She heard herself say it, knew it was odd for a city woman to use the direction, rather than simply right or left. “This is crazy.”

  “We left sanity behind yest
erday. No use trying to find that back trail. Just tell me which way you want to go. Which way feels right.”

  So she held the stone gripped in her hand and directed him through the winding roads sided with trees and outcroppings of rock. Along a meandering stream that trickled low from lack of rain, past a little brown house so close that its door all but opened into the road.

  “On the right,” M.J. said, through a throat dust-dry and tight as a drum. “You have to watch for it. We passed it, had to double back. Her lane’s narrow, just a cut through the woods. You can barely see it. She doesn’t have a mailbox. She goes into town and picks it up when she’s here. There.” her hand trembled a bit as she pointed. “Just there.”

  He turned in. The lane was indeed narrow. Branches skimmed and scraped along the sides of the car as he drove slowly up, over gravel, around a curve that was sheltered by more trees.

  And there, in the center of the lane, still as a stone statue, stood a deer with a pelt that glowed dark gold in the flash of sun.

  It should be a white hind, Jack thought foolishly. A white hind is the symbol of a quest.

  The doe watched the lumbering approach, her head up, her eyes wide and fixed. Then, with a flick of the tail, a quick spin of that gorgeous body, she leaped into the trees on thin, graceful legs. And was gone with barely a rustle.

  The house was exactly as M.J. remembered. Tucked back on the hill, above a small, bubbling creek, it was a neat two stories that blended into the backdrop of woods. It was wood and glass, simple lines, with a long front porch painted a bold blue. Two white rockers sat on it, along with copper pots overflowing with trailing flowers.

  “She’s been busy,” M.J. murmured, scanning the gardens. Flowers bloomed everywhere, wildly, as if unplanned. The flow of colors and shapes tumbled down the hill like a river. Wide wooden steps cut through the color, meandered to the left, then marched down to the lane.

  “At the house in Potomac she hired a professional landscaper. She knew just what she wanted, but she had someone else do it. Here, she wanted to do everything herself.”

  “It looks like a fairy tale.” He shifted, uncomfortable with his own impressions. He wasn’t exactly up on his fairy tales. “You know what I mean.”

  “Yeah.”

  A shiny blue pickup truck was parked at the end of the lane. But there was no sign of the car Grace would have driven to her country home. No dusty rental car announcing Bailey’s presence.

  They’ve just gone to the store, M.J. told herself. They’ll be back any minute.

  She wouldn’t believe they’d come this far, found the house, and not found Grace and Bailey.

  The minute Jack pulled up beside the truck, she was out and dashing toward the house.

  “Hold it.” He gripped her arm, skidded her to a halt. “Let’s get the lay of the land here.” Gently he uncurled her fingers, took the stone. When it was tucked back in his pocket, he took her hand. “You said she leaves the truck here?”

  “Yes. She drives a Mercedes convertible, or a little Beemer.”

  “Your pal has three rides?”

  “Grace rarely owns one of anything. She claims she doesn’t know what she’s going to be in the mood for.”

  “There’s a back door?”

  “Yeah, one out the kitchen, and another on the side.” She gestured to the right, fought to ignore the weight pressing against her chest. “It leads onto a little patio and into the woods.”

  “Let’s look around first.”

  There was a gardening shed, neatly filled with tools, a lawn mower, rakes and shovels. Where the lawn gave way, stepping-stones had been set, with springy moss growing between. More flowers—a raised bed with blooms and greenery spilling over the dark wall, and the cliff behind growing with ivy.

  A hummingbird hovered at a bright red feeder, its iridescent wings blurred with speed. It darted off like a bullet at their approach, its whirl the only sound.

  He spotted no broken windows or other signs of forced entry as they circled around the back, passed an herb garden fragrant with scents of rosemary and mint. Brass wind chimes hung silently near the rear door. Not a leaf stirred.

  “It’s creepy.” She rubbed her arm. “Skulking around like this.”

  “Let’s just skulk another minute.”

  They came around the far side with the little patio. There, a glass table, a padded chaise, more flowers in concrete troughs and clay pots. Just beyond was a small pond with young ornamental grasses.

  “That’s new.” M.J. paused to study. “She didn’t have that before. She talked about it, though. It looks fresh.”

  “I’d say your pal’s done some planting this week. You think there’s a plant or flower in existence she’s missed?”

  “Probably not.” But M.J.’s smile was weak as they came back around to the front. “I want to go in, Jack. I have to go in.”

  “Let’s take a look.” He climbed the porch steps, found the front door locked. “She got a hidey-hole for a key?”

  “No.” Despite the miserable heat, she rubbed her hands over her chilled arms. Too quiet, was all she could think. It was much too quiet. “She used to keep an extra for the Potomac house, in this flowerpot outside the door, but her cousin Melissa found it and made herself at home while Grace was in Milan. Really ticked her off.”

  He crouched, examined the locks. “She’s got good ones. Simpler to break a window.”

  “You’re not breaking one of her windows.”

  He sighed, rose. “I was afraid you’d say that. Okay, we do it the hard way.”

  While she frowned, he went back to his car, popped the trunk. Inside, it was loaded with tools, clothes, books, water jugs and paperwork. He pushed around, selected what he needed.

  “Does she have an alarm system?”

  “No. Not that I know of, anyway.” M.J. studied the leather pouch. “What are you going to do?”

  “Pop the locks. It may take a while, I’m rusty.” But he rubbed his hands together, anticipating the challenge. “You could go around, check the other doors and windows, just in case she left something unlocked.”

  “If she locked one, she locked them all. But okay.”

  She circled around again, pausing at each window, tugging, then peering in. By the time she’d made a complete circuit, Jack was on the second lock.

  Intrigued, she watched him finesse it. It was cooler here than in the city, but the heat was still nasty. Sweat dampened his shirt, gleamed on his throat.

  “Can you teach me to do that?” she asked him.

  “Ssh!” He wiped his hands on his jeans, took a firmer hold on his pick. “Got it.” He stood, swiped an arm over his brow. “Cold shower,” he murmured. “Cold beer. I’ll kiss your pal’s feet if she’s got both.”

  “Grace doesn’t drink beer.” But M.J. was pushing in the door ahead of him.

  The living area was homey, tidy but still lived-in, with its wide striped sofa, the deep chairs that picked up the rich blue tones. In the brick fire-place, a lush green fern rose out of a brass spittoon.

  M.J. moved quickly through the rooms, over wide-planked chestnut floors and Berber rugs, into the sunny kitchen, with its forest green counters and white tiles, through to the cozy parlor Grace had turned into a library.

  The house seemed to echo around her, as she raced upstairs, looked in the bedrooms, the baths.

  Grace’s gleaming brass bed was tidily made, the handmade lace spread she’d purchased in Ireland accented with rich dots of colorful pillows. A book on gardening lay on the nightstand.

  The bathroom was empty, the ivory shell of the sink scrubbed clean and shining in its powder blue counter. Towels were neatly folded on the shelves on a tall wicker stand.

  Knowing it was useless, she looked in the bedroom closet. It was ridiculously full and ruthlessly organized.

  “They’re not here, M.J.” Jack touched her shoulder, but she jerked away.

  “I can see that, can’t I?” Her voice snapped out, broke like a
rigid twig. “But Grace was here. She was just here. I can still smell her.” She closed her eyes, drew in the air. “Her perfume. It hasn’t faded yet. That’s her scent. Some fragrance tycoon who fell for her had it designed for her. I can smell her in here.”

  “Okay.” He caught the scent himself, classy sex with wild undertones. “Maybe she ran into town for supplies, or took a drive.”

  “No.” She walked away from him, toward the window as she spoke. “She wouldn’t have locked the house up for that. She always says how lovely it is not to worry about locking up out here. She only does when she closes the place up and heads somewhere else. Bailey isn’t here. Grace isn’t here, and she’s not planning on coming back for a while. We’ve missed her.”

  “Back to Potomac?”

  She shook her head. The tightness in her chest was unbearable, as if greedy hands were squeezing her heart and lungs. “Not likely. She’d avoid the city on the Fourth. Too much traffic, too many tourists. That’s why I was sure she’d stay through until tomorrow at least. She could be anywhere.”

  “Which means she’ll surface somewhere.” He started toward her, caught the gleam on her cheek and stopped dead, like a man who’d run facefirst into a glass wall. “What are you doing? Are you crying?” It was an accusation, delivered in a voice edged with abject terror.

  M.J. merely wrapped her arms over her chest and hugged her elbows. All the excitement, the tension, the frustration, of the search fell away into sheer despair.

  The house was empty.

  “I want you to stop that. Right now. I mean it. Sniveling isn’t going to do you any good.” And it certainly wasn’t going to do him any good. It terrified him, left him feeling stupid, clumsy and annoyed.

  “Just leave me alone,” she said, and her voice broke on a muffled sob. “Just go away.”

  “That’s just what I’m going to do. You keep that up, and I’m walking. I mean it. I’m not standing around and watching you blubber. Get a grip on yourself. Haven’t you got any pride?”

  At the moment, pride was low on her list. Giving up, she pressed her brow to the window glass and let the tears fall.

  “I’m walking, M.J.” He snarled at her and turned for the door. “I’m getting a drink and a shower. So when you’ve got yourself in order, we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  “Then go. Just go.”

  He made it as far as the threshold, then, swearing ripely, whirled back. “I don’t need this,” he muttered.

  He hadn’t a clue how to handle a woman’s tears, particularly those from a strong woman who was obviously at the end of her endurance. He cursed her again as he turned her into his arms, folded her into them. He continued to swear at her as he picked her up, sat with her in a wide-backed chair.

  He rocked and cursed and stroked.

  “Get it over with, then.” Kissed her temple. “Please. You’re killing me.”

  “I’m afraid.” Her breath hitched as she turned her face into his shoulder. His strong, broad shoulder. “I’m so tired and afraid.”

  “I know.” He kissed her hair, held her closer. “I know.”

  “I couldn’t stand for anything to happen to them. I just can’t bear it.”

  “Don’t.” He tightened his grip, as if he could strangle off those hot, terrifying tears. But his mouth skimmed up her cheek, found hers, and was tender. “It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be all right.” He brushed at her tears clumsily with his thumbs. “I promise.”

  Eyes brimming, she stared into his. “I was just so sure they’d be here.”

  “I know.” He brushed the hair back from her face. “You’ve got a right to break down. I don’t know anyone else who’d have made it this far without a blowout. But don’t cry anymore, M.J. It rips me up.”

  “I hate to cry.” She sniffled, knuckled tears away. “I’m glad to hear it.” He took her hands, kissed them both this time, without that moment of surprise. “Think about this. She was here to day, maybe as little as an hour ago. She’s tidied up, locked up. Which means she was just fine when she left.”

  She let out an unsteady breath, drew in another. “You’re right. I’m not thinking straight.”

  “That’s because you need a break. A decent meal, a little rest.”

  “Yeah.” But she laid her head against his shoulder again. “Can we just sit here for a little while. Just sit like this?”

  “Sure.” It was easy to wrap his arms around her, hold her close. And just sit.