Sam nodded slowly. “That’s a good question, Stella.”
“And here, when he’s the center of attention, no matter how low-key he is, how do you think he really feels, Sam, when you’re good at everything you do, and you might very well be one of the ghosts who stole his thunder back in the day? You drifted into his town, a dirtbag, one of the ones who just comes to climb and then moves on, but you didn’t move on. You stayed and you’re good at everything, and even though you’re low-key, everyone takes notice. Even Bale and his crew back down around you.”
He leaned down and brushed a kiss over her trembling lips. “I see where you’re going, sweetheart, and in the end, it doesn’t matter what kind of trap Denver is setting. It only matters that I find him. I’ve got my friend Rafe waiting in your rig to take you and Bailey to Shabina’s. The other women will all be there. I’m walking you back to the house, you’re going to pack a bag and I’ll walk you to the 4Runner.”
“Sam.” She wondered if he’d already thought of every one of her points. Probably.
“We’re not arguing about this. You’ve done your part, you have to let me do mine.”
Stella wanted to argue, but she didn’t see any other solution, and she wasn’t the type of woman to argue for argument’s sake. She couldn’t help Sam, and what he was doing was his field of expertise. He obviously had a plan and she didn’t. She could only hope he was as good as he seemed to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Denver stood up slowly in the middle of his camp. It was impossible to find him. He had avoided every single place he had ever been. He didn’t go near a hunting, fishing or empty cabin. He’d covered his rig with branches. The paint was special, impossible to see the way it blended into the leaves and brush even from the air, especially when concealed the way he’d done. He hadn’t used a campfire or anything that might draw attention to his position. His clothes blended into the brush around him. Still . . . his gut told him he wasn’t alone.
He put his hand on the hunting knife in the scabbard at his side. He was more than good with a knife. Very carefully, and very slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself when he was hidden in the circle of brush, he looked around. He had excellent vision. Far better than most people, and also good hearing. The insects were still droning on and on. There had been no break in their incessant noise. Squirrels ran up a tree, fighting with one another, trying to get a few last nuts for storage for winter. Birds flitted from tree to tree. Life went on in the forest even as the needles and leaves fell to the ground in preparation for the coming season.
A frisson of awareness went down his spine. A chill. He’d never had that before. Was it actually fear? He didn’t feel fear. He felt . . . excitement. He’d entered a game. This was his game. He didn’t feel fear. Still his legs shook. There was a tremor in his hands. He didn’t even know why. If all around him the lizards slid through the rotting vegetation and the insects droned without breaking even for a split second, then nothing was stalking him. Why did he feel as though he had a target centered right between his shoulder blades? Or between his eyes? Or over his heart? Each spot itched for a moment and then that itch moved to his throat. He was going crazy. He refused to accept that diagnosis.
Swearing under his breath, he caught up his two large water bottles and moved to the small entrance of his camp. He had only to wait a couple of hours before he put his plan into action. Right now, he needed to get fresh water. It was the only thing he hadn’t managed to get enough of, but he’d set up camp near the top of the tall waterfall running over rocks. The water fell a good forty feet to a churning pool below. He could purify the water easily.
Denver stepped out of the tight circle of brush he’d created using actual plants, and made his way along the deer trail to the falls. It wasn’t far to go and he was careful to walk lightly, not brushing leaves or snapping off twigs to show his passing along the way. The sound of the water rushing over the rocks was loud as he approached the waterfall, drowning out his ability to hear anyone sneaking up on him. He had to rely on his warning system and his gut.
Just like the deer he hunted, before he stepped out of the heavy brush he stopped again and sniffed the air, head up, doing his best to catch the scent of any enemy hunting him. The insects and birds continued their chatter. The wind touched his face and there was nothing to indicate an adversary was close, yet his hands had gone cold. Clammy even. His heart accelerated until it was pounding, making his mouth dry.
Denver stood at the mouth of the deer trail, peering out into the open like a wild animal, frozen with genuine fear for the first time in his life. He didn’t know why. There was nothing there. It was broad daylight. The sun was shining on the water. Birds were actually singing. He tried to draw in air, but his lungs had seized, and terror clawed at his gut until he was light-headed and feeling faint.
He stood there for several minutes, fighting for control. No myth was going to beat him. He wouldn’t allow that to happen. This was his game. His rules. He wouldn’t lose. He was superior. He repeated his mantra, the words that had saved him so many times in his life. After a few more minutes he managed to take several deep breaths, pushing the fear and dread away and gaining back control.
Holding out his hand, he waited until it wasn’t shaking before he smiled, showing his perfect, white teeth. “If you’re out there, Sam, looking for me, you don’t scare me. You can’t possibly find me. The forest is too big and I’m too good at what I do. I’ll take away the one thing in this world that matters to you and we’ll see how good you are when you’re thrown off your game.”
He didn’t whisper. There was no need. None. He was alone and he knew he was. He was absolutely certain of it. He had left no tracks. He had outsmarted anyone trying to figure out where he would go. The Inyo National Forest was far too large for anyone to find him. He had skills beyond even the rangers who had worked there for several years. He’d quietly gone about studying the area through hunting, fishing and his search-and-rescue efforts. He’d hiked and camped and climbed. He was familiar with most of the trails. He had waited for this time and prepared for it.
How Stella ever realized his intent, he would never know. That was the most shocking, and exhilarating and depressing, moment of his life, when he stared into her eyes and realized she knew. Someone saw him. The real man. All of him. That moment was one he took out over and over and examined from every angle. How had she known? What had tipped her off? He savored that recognition even as he despised it.
Had it been Sam? Had he realized what Denver was and told Stella? No, she’d been so happy to see him. That greeting had been genuine. Something he’d said or Jason had said had been the catalyst, but that would mean she knew about the others, and that just didn’t make sense. Had she been hunting him since the fiasco at the lake when he’d nearly killed Sam? He would probably never know.
Once more filled with confidence, he waded into the fast-moving water. Anchored by the rocks, he took one look at the view, just the way he always did before he filled his two bottles. Standing right on top of the powerful waterfall, high above the trees and the creatures making their home there, he always felt invincible.
He’d been drawn to this spot for a reason. It was his place of power. His center. He felt the wind on his face, felt it tug playfully at his clothing while it swirled in eddies over the water running toward the rocks just before it disappeared over the edge to make the long drop.
He had the bottles around his neck on a cord. He unscrewed the lid to the first bottle and bent to dip it into the fast-running water off the opposite side of the rock where it would normally drop into space to descend. The bottle filled quickly and he straightened to screw on the lid tight and unscrew the other lid.
The wind seemed to pick up, blowing harder, pushing against him, tugging at his shirt and retreating only to rush back, teasing at the hairs on his neck. As he bent once more to fill the water bottle, the wind
whispered to him, a low, familiar voice. One that was always gentle. Never raised. The ghost found you.
Then he was falling. Headfirst. Tumbling. Out of control. His body hitting something hard over and over. The pain was excruciating. Freezing water soaked him as he hit jagged rocks sticking out of the cliff on his way down, his back, his legs, his head, his shoulders. He knew bones broke, smashed, as he struck those rocks, and then he landed hard on the jagged mass of rocks sticking up in the river. The current pulled at him immediately. He had landed on his side, driving his ribs into his lung. He felt the burst of his lung collapsing and then it was nearly impossible to breathe. But after hitting on his side, his body had been flung to a second mass of rocks by the force of the water, and one pierced his back low, just as surely as a dagger would have.
Denver lay gasping for air on the top of the rocks, desperately trying to see without turning his head. That way lay even more pain. If he moved from the rock, the current would surely get him, but he couldn’t stay there, he would die. His back was broken in several places. He had a head injury. His left arm was broken. Both legs. His ribs were caved in and one lung was collapsed. That wasn’t the worst of it. He had somehow, when he landed, punctured his kidney. He was bleeding and it was severe.
He needed medical attention immediately. He was a doctor and he knew for certain he didn’t have long, not with his injuries. He had to stay right there, with the rock in his body, because if he lifted himself off it, he would bleed out very fast. The rushing water was trying to force him off the rock, and each push at his body was pure agony.
He looked up at the sky. The sun was bright and he had to squint. A shadow fell across him and his heart leapt. Someone was there. On the bank not more than a foot or so away. They could help. He forced his head to turn a scant inch in spite of the pain. He blinked to clear his blurry vision.
Sam was crouched there, looking at him dispassionately, as if Denver was nothing, less than an insect crawling on the ground. There was no expression on his face. All along, even though he’d told Stella Sam was a ghost, Denver hadn’t believed it.
“Ghost,” he croaked, or tried to. He could barely breathe, let alone talk.
“You got a few things wrong, Denver, when you were warning Stella away from me. The government doesn’t hunt down and kill us. We’re too valuable to them. They like us around so we can do jobs for them when they need them done. Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize a sociopath? Stupid move making a decision to go after my woman.”
He couldn’t possibly know. No one knew. “How?” He coughed up blood. That wasn’t a good sign, and every movement hurt.
Sam stood up. “It doesn’t matter.”
“She’ll know you did this,” he choked out.
“I don’t lie to her. In any case, the world is going to know you for what you are. You left behind a detailed account of your superiority—encrypted, of course—on your computer. The world and all your friends need to know how you planned in such detail to be a far better killer than your father and uncle, and you had set the stage so carefully, unlike them.”
Horrified, Denver tried to protest. He would never make such a mistake. Only bubbles of blood and spittle came out of his mouth and trickled down his chin. Shadows slid over him and he looked up at the sky and could only see the blurred images of circling birds, high overhead. Terror mixed with agony.
He coughed again and more blood spewed out. He blinked. Sam wasn’t there. His heart nearly exploded. He despised Sam, but the man couldn’t leave him there to die alone. Had he even been there? Had his mind played tricks on him? No one could have known what he’d planned. He’d been so careful. Taken years to perfect his plans. Found the perfect cover. Everything was going dark and the cough grew worse. He couldn’t get any air and he was choking. Where was Sam?
* * *
—
Stella sat on the end of the pier staring out over the icy, sapphire-colored water, waiting for the sun to rise just as she had every morning for the past week. Seven days Sam had been gone, doing only heaven knew what as payment for favors owed to someone she didn’t want to think about. The promise of snow was in the early morning air. It wasn’t that far off now. She’d handled snow alone many times over the years and she could do it again. She just needed to know Sam was safe. Unfortunately, when he was in the field somewhere, he couldn’t text her and her messages didn’t go to the phone he carried with him—for her safety, not his. At least that was what he’d told her before he left.
The mountain rivers feeding Sunrise Lake were already dumping water into the lake fed by the storms in the mountains. The wind tugged at the few stubborn leaves remaining on the trees overlooking the pier, determined to drag them onto the planks with the rest of the golden and red vegetation.
Waves lapped at the shore and rocks as well as the pier supports, creating a kind of song. She’d always loved listening to the early morning insects, birds and frogs as they called to one another, along with the sound of the water in the background. It always brought peace to her chaotic mind.
She hadn’t slept very well in the last week without Sam, and sitting on the pier, watching the sun come up, helped lessen the strain of fearing for him. Bailey curled close to her, the way he always had, as if nothing had happened to him and he hadn’t endured stab wounds and stitches just a few short weeks earlier.
A hand gripped her shoulder without warning and she nearly threw herself off the pier, but the arm locking around her waist prevented her from going off the edge. She recognized Sam’s touch. Bailey didn’t look up but he wagged his short tail.
Not daring to breathe, she turned her head to look over her shoulder at the man crouching behind her. Sam, she tried to say, but no actual sound came out.
He looked the way he always did—tough, angles and planes, arctic-cold eyes that warmed for her and that bluish jaw that she found terribly attractive. She blinked rapidly to keep tears from her eyes. She cleared her throat several times to remove the large lump threatening to choke her. “You’re back.”
“I’m back, Satine.”
“It was a long week.”
“It was.”
He sat down, sliding his long legs around her, giving her his chest to rest against. Dropping his chin on her shoulder, he locked his arms around her waist. “We don’t need any more excitement around here for a long time, woman.”
She kept her gaze on the lake. The sun was beginning to rise, spilling colors over the water. Today, due to the mist from the breath of snow, the colors were shades of blues and lavenders and purples. It happened rarely, but when it did, the phenomenon was beyond beautiful. Stella had captured the misty rise of the sun on film, but she’d never been able to paint it the way it really looked because the painting didn’t seem real enough.
“As it turned out, man, I was not the reason for the excitement. That was you. In any case, talk has died down in Knightly. I stopped going into town because I didn’t want to talk about serial killers anymore. I think everyone who knew Denver feels that way.” She kept her gaze on the sun rising slowly into the sky. The higher it went, the wider the blues and purples spread across the lake’s surface. “Are you going to have to leave again?”
He nuzzled her hair off her neck with his chin and then kissed her right over her pulse. “No, it was a one-time payback. I asked my former handler for a pretty big favor and in return he asked me to take care of a little problem for him. It took a little longer than I expected, but it’s over and I won’t have to go back for any reason.”
She dropped one of her hands over his. “It wasn’t a little job, or one of his other men would have taken care of it already.”
“That’s true, Stella, but it’s over now, and I’m not going back.”
She was silent, watching the colors expand over the surface of the lake. “You don’t get to trade your life for mine, Sam. Essentially, that was wha
t you were doing. By trading a favor like that, you knew what they were going to ask of you. It was already dangerous enough hunting Denver.”
Sam rubbed his chin on top of her head, the silk of her hair catching in his seven-day growth. “Sweetheart, I’d trade my life for yours every time. Every single time, Stella, so we’re going to keep the drama around here to a minimum.”
She loved Sam. She had to take him the way he was. She tipped her head back and gave him a half smile. “You’re the one with the father wanting to come to holiday dinner and bring his new girlfriend. Dinner is at Shabina’s. She said they could come if you gave the okay. He said three, because he needs his own bodyguard. Shabina’s security wasn’t enough for him. That’s considered drama, isn’t it?”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “That’s considered being a male diva. Believe me, Stella, if he moves here, you haven’t seen anything.”
“Maybe having him come to dinner will be a good thing since Denver won’t be with us this year. He can help get us through this first year,” she ventured.
“Oh, he’ll definitely provide the entertainment. He’ll boss everyone and make certain everyone’s attention is entirely centered on him. And his new lady? Once he gets wind of Shabina’s cooking, he might toss his new woman over on the spot and propose.”
Stella laughed, happy with the sun rising over her lake and her friends once again planning a dinner with or without Sam’s father. She thought dinner with his father sounded like a lot of fun though.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Christine Feehan is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of many novels, including the Carpathian series, the GhostWalker series, the Leopard series, the Torpedo Ink series, and the Shadow Rider series.
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