Throwing back the covers, Jules looked down at her bandaged, swollen feet. She tried to wiggle her toes, to see how much pain she could endure, but she cried out.
“Come on,” she said, gritting her teeth and staring at them. “You gotta be tougher than that. You gotta stay with me. Give me what you can.”
The floor below was a good three feet onto wood. If she simply rolled out, she could land on an elbow or rib and break any number of bones. She took the pillows and blanket and tossed them over the side, next to the bed. They would at least somewhat break the fall.
With one more prayer to God, she rolled herself over the edge.
Her body hit the ground with a loud thud, and a pillow slipped, causing her to hit her head on the floor. She winced, grabbing it and feeling it start to swell right under her fingers. Her mother had always said, “If it’s swelling outwardly, that’s a good sign.”
A throbbing headache formed, but she couldn’t stop now. She tried to get up on all fours and crawl, but even that movement was too intense for her feet. She dropped to her belly, then used her hands to move the blanket under her thighs and below.
She was right—it helped her slide and kept the friction off the top of her feet. They still hurt like the dickens, but she had to push the pain out of her mind right now.
Once she got to the door, she used the wall to crawl her way up to the doorknob. As soon as it turned, she dropped to the floor again, pouring sweat and nauseous from the pain. Using her forearms, she shimmied herself over the wood floors and down the hallway.
The cabin was pitch-black. Not even a night-light on.
“Patrick?” she called, this time in a whisper. “Are you in here?”
Silence.
The wind whistled and pushed against the cabin walls. Coyotes howled distantly.
“Patrick?”
She was alone. She could feel it.
Near the fireplace, Jules spotted the poker. She dragged herself over there. Her ankles were throbbing so intensely it felt as if the pain were nearly audible. She gritted her teeth and groaned with every motion.
She managed to get the poker into her hand, though she tipped all the fireplace tools over and they came crashing down, making a deafening racket. Jules covered her mouth, trying not to scream in frustration.
Then another noise.
Something she hadn’t heard in days.
A car door shut.
Chris crept forward, gun drawn, trigger-happy, he knew, by the way he was jerking the weapon toward anything that moved. Surprisingly, that was a lot of things. Branches. Owls. Leaves.
“Get ahold of yourself,” he said quietly. His gun steadied.
The road that would’ve barely been big enough for his truck made a slight curve. He followed it off-path, hiding behind each tree he could. But as he rounded the curve, he spotted it.
The cabin.
It was hard to see in the dark. Not a single light was on, not even a porch light. The cabin was small and looked to be built at the edge of a cliff because he could see that some snow seemed to continue to fall past the ground in the distance.
An SUV was parked to the side, near what looked like a shed. Firewood sat neatly bundled against one of its log walls. Nearby an ax was sticking out of a stump.
The shadows around him were still and somber as if asleep. He was still having a hard time seeing. A small flashlight was tucked in his waistband, but whether or not he should pull it out was up for debate.
Chris stood for a moment, shielded by a tree, and tried to get a sense of the cabin’s layout. There was a door in front with windows on either side—the only way in or out, if he was correct and the cabin was built at the edge of the cliff.
Snap.
The sound of a limb cracking jerked his gaze to the left, but after a moment, he was pretty sure it was his own footstep that had done it when he’d leaned forward to get a better angle. He listened. No other sounds.
The place looked deserted. What if he was wrong? What if Jules wasn’t with Patrick Reagan after all? He’d spent so much time chasing this lead . . . If she wasn’t here, he’d lost valuable time figuring out where she really was.
He was going to have to get a closer look. A few more trees stood in his way to the cabin. After that it was clear, which wasn’t a good thing. He liked the idea of having something to hide behind. He cautiously moved forward, treading lightly, holding his breath so he could listen for other sounds.
At the last tree before the clearing now, he stopped for a moment, his senses on alert for anything unusual. His hair was already wet from the snow, and his exposed skin was paying the price. He couldn’t linger out here much longer.
“Don’t you move.”
The words were so close that Chris could feel the breath in his ear. Something sharp pressed against his throat, with an arm squeezed tightly below it. Chris struggled to breathe, trying to stay still.
“Drop your weapon.”
Chris opened his hand and the gun dropped into the snow. The grip loosened a bit and he gasped for air.
“I knew you were coming,” the voice whispered. “I know what you’re coming for. You can’t have it. Or her.”
CHRIS FOUGHT to keep himself still and calm. If he was going to get out of this, he couldn’t afford a mistake. And right now, it seemed that there was a chance he could underestimate the strength of the man with a knife to his neck. One wrong move and his throat could be sliced right open, even unintentionally. But he had a feeling whoever this was, he was very intentional.
He couldn’t be sure it was Patrick Reagan, but the chances were good. He had a low, rumbling voice, like a powerful motor under the hood of a Mustang, and it ordered him to pull his second gun out of his ankle holster.
“I’m not here to harm her,” Chris said carefully. As he spoke, he felt the blade of the knife press into his skin again. “I came to find her. She’s missing. People are worried about her. Is she okay?”
“Shut up.”
“I can’t do that. I have to make sure she’s okay.”
“Who are you? A cop?”
He said cop with heavy disdain. Chris took a moment, trying to decide how to answer.
“I’m a friend. I was her husband’s best friend.”
The man let out a small laugh. “Yes, well, I’ve seen what Jason’s friends have done to him.”
Chris tried not to swallow. The knife, just above his Adam’s apple, was very close to cutting him. How did Patrick Reagan, if this was him, know about Jason?
He spoke slowly, carefully. “That’s why I’m here. I found out what happened to Jason. And there are men willing to silence me. By any means possible.”
“Not men. Cops.”
“Yes. I don’t know how many are involved. But I’m not one of them.”
“How do I know that?”
Chris stared forward, into the snowy darkness, locking eyes on the cabin. “Look, when I began investigating Jules’s disappearance, I came across some information at Jason’s house. Information that led me to realize he knew something was going on. I found a piece of a boat hull. And a box full of information on the boats that were being stolen. That led me to a phone number, which eventually led me to an informant named Roy Fletcher.”
Suddenly the knife left his neck and he was pushed to the ground. His cheek hit a small stick that scraped his skin. Blood trickled over his chin. He quickly flipped onto his back. The man was now pointing a shotgun at him. Chris recognized him as Patrick Reagan. Though it was dark, his eyes had adjusted enough to see that Patrick’s eyes were lit with adrenaline. He looked a far cry from the stoic picture in his publicity photos.
Chris lifted his hands into the air. “I’m Chris Downey. Jules knows who I am. She can vouch for me. Is she here?”
“Tell me what you know about this informant.”
“He’s in prison. He claims he was set up by the cops. Had cocaine planted on him. They knew that once he was convicted for drug possession, his testim
ony was going to be worthless.”
“You talked to him?”
“Yes. He told me the entire story, how he’d been working with Jason to bring down this theft ring, only to be persuaded by the other side to shut up and tell them who he was working for. The cops weren’t stealing the boats. They were given kickbacks every time they looked the other way. Thugs murdered Jason, but the cops involved knew that an investigation could lead back to them. So they did what they could to cover it up, including closing the investigation on Jason and shutting down the informant by putting him in prison.”
Patrick stared at him through the darkness. Jason could see puffs of frozen breath rapidly blowing out of his mouth. His own body was turning cold and he shivered.
“Is Jules okay?”
“She needs medical attention,” Patrick said solemnly. “She got frostbite trying to . . .”
Chris nodded. “Okay. Then let me take her off this mountain.”
Patrick kept the gun pointed directly at Chris’s head. “She knows. At least some of it.”
“About Jason?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know? Is that why you took her?”
Then, faster than Chris could process what happened, a shot blasted through the night’s silence and Patrick Reagan dropped to the ground. The gun fell from his hand, just a few feet from Chris. Chris crawled through the snow, grabbing at the cold metal of his own gun, which lay right under Reagan’s hip. Another shot was fired, coming from behind him. He reached up and shot twice into the darkness, the sound shattering the still, cold night. He turned back to Patrick, who’d been shot through the leg.
“They’re here,” Patrick whispered, wincing in pain. “Don’t let them get to her.”
Chris randomly fired into the trees where he thought the shots came from. “Where is she?”
“Inside. In the west bedroom.”
Patrick began trying to crawl to take cover behind the stump with the ax. Another shot was fired, but this time it sounded like it came from a rifle.
“There’s more than one!” Chris yelled.
Patrick squeezed his eyes shut and gasped through the pain. “One’s on our side. The one with the rifle. Go. Go!”
Chris tossed him the gun that had been at his ankle. “Cover me.”
Patrick nodded. He pulled himself completely behind the stump, and Chris stumbled after him, crouching behind the firewood. “Who else is out there?”
Patrick peeked over the stump. “A friend. On the count of three. One . . . two . . .”
Chris prepared to run, but then Patrick said, “Wait.”
“What?”
“She’s going to be scared. And she gets irrational when she’s scared.”
“Okay.”
“Stay in the cabin until we can take care of things out here.”
“I can’t promise that. My number one priority is to get Jules out of here safely. Whatever that takes.”
Patrick raised his gun. “Three.”
Jules cried out in pain with each movement, but she had to know what was happening. Patrick was out there somewhere in the dark, and now there were gunshots. Lots of them. Scooting over to the door that led outside, she managed to pull herself to her knees to see through the small window next to it. From what she could make out, everything looked quiet.
Then movement. A shadowy figure darted into a grouping of trees. The build was tall and thin. She knew it wasn’t Patrick. Her stomach turned and any hope she felt drowned in utter dread. How was she going to defend herself? She’d have to hide. It was her only hope.
Jules ducked below the window at the sound of a shot firing and grabbed the poker. Where could she hide? She didn’t know the cabin well enough to get creative.
Another shot. She was going to have to move quickly, which was the one thing she couldn’t do.
Chris ran, firing simultaneously, until he reached the door. He grabbed the knob, turning it easily. As fast as he could, he slipped in and slammed the door shut. He wondered if he should lock it. Patrick might need to get in. But that would leave access to whoever was out there. He couldn’t take a chance. He turned the lock and it clicked.
He kept his back against the door and felt for a light switch but couldn’t find one. He looked right, toward what should be the west bedroom. It was even darker in the cabin, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust well enough that he could see the outlines of furniture.
“Jules? It’s Chris. Jules?” He listened for sound. An answer. There was nothing.
Outside, another round of shots was fired.
Quickly he scooted against the wall toward the hallway that supposedly led to the bedroom. He tripped over the edge of a rug and hit his knee on a windowsill but kept going. “Jules? It’s Chris.” It had been a while. Too long. “Downey. Chris Downey. I’m here to get you, to get you out of here safely. Call out to me.”
Nothing.
If she knew what Patrick knew, she might be leery of him, too. He wasn’t sure how he was going to convince her he was on her side, but first he had to find her.
Once in the hallway, he was only a few feet from a closed door, which he assumed was the bedroom.
He grabbed the doorknob.
Then he heard it. The front door he’d just come through opened with a loud crack, like it had been kicked in.
Chris Downey? That’s what she thought she’d heard. His voice was muffled by the doors that stood between them. But it sounded like Chris. What was he doing here? Was he here to help her? Or kill her?
If he’d made it this far, either he’d gotten past Patrick, by some awful means, or Patrick had let him in. There was no way of telling. Before, she could’ve never believed Chris capable of something like this. He was Jason’s best friend. He would’ve never hurt Jason or been involved in a cover-up.
But now she didn’t know. Everything she thought was true turned out not to be.
Besides, why would Chris be up here? Why would he be looking for her? She’d sent him away a long time ago after he’d reached out to her. She’d been bitter and angry and hadn’t wanted any reminders of Jason. It had ended with her yelling at Chris to get out of her house. They hadn’t spoken since.
And her father . . . well, he wouldn’t be capable of finding her if he tried. He’d been drinking more than ever lately. There was a good possibility he didn’t even know she’d been missing.
She heard her name called again. This time it sounded closer. She pushed herself farther back in the closet and pulled the small piece of luggage in front of her. It didn’t completely hide her, but in the darkness she’d be hard to see.
“Jules?”
This time the voice was closer.
Her head swirled with dizziness from the pain. It was getting worse. But adrenaline could do amazing things. She could hold on. She had to—
A loud sound from the front of the cabin startled her into clarity. She gasped, covering her mouth. A scream desperately wanted to escape.
And then gunfire. But this time it was very close. She heard a thud, right outside the closet.
Jules squeezed her eyes shut and prayed as loudly as silent prayer would allow.
The bullet struck his shoulder, burning as it tore through his muscle. Chris heard it hit the wall behind him and knew it had gone straight through. The force of it threw him back. He stumbled, then fell, hitting his head against the edge of the bed, which was thankfully just the mattress. He collapsed onto the ground. His gun hit the floor and slid to the other side of the bedroom. He started to scramble for it, but his arm buckled underneath him. And then a foot stomped on his hand.
“Not so fast.”
Chris looked up. Through the darkness, Jeff Walker was pointing a gun at him.
“You . . .”
Walker smiled a little. “Yeah. Me. Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She was supposed to be in this bedroom but she’s not here.”
Walker slowly lifted his foot off Chris’s hand,
then stepped toward Chris’s gun while keeping his own pointed at Chris.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Walker said.
“Yeah. Because I’m the one doing stupid things.”
Walker smirked. “Now you’re going all self-righteous on me.”
“You’re responsible for Jason’s death. His blood is on your hands.”
“We didn’t kill Jason,” Walker said, frowning. “We didn’t know that was going to happen. Jason was snooping around and got himself killed.”
“You might as well have pulled the trigger yourself.”
“I sleep fine at night.”
“You have no honor.”
“Yes, well, I have a house in Aspen, so I’m doing okay.”
Then, at the same time, they both heard it. A small bumping noise coming from the nearby closet.
Walker’s face expressed delight. “Juliet,” he called, “it’s Detective Jeff Walker. I need you to come out of the closet right now before someone really gets hurt.”
Silence again. Chris tried to think of what to do. Walker was thinking just as fast. He moved to a wall and found the light switch, but when he flipped it, nothing happened. Patrick must’ve cut the power.
Walker cursed. “Juliet, I don’t want anybody to get hurt! Get out here now!”
“Don’t!” Chris said.
“Shut up, Downey, or you’re going to get both of you killed.”
“What’s your plan, Walker?” Chris said, trying to stall him from going to the closet. “How are you going to get this all cleaned up? They’re going to find us eventually.”
Walker smirked again. “Really? Because as far as I can tell, this place is off the map.”
“You found it. How?”
“I followed you. Had Maecoat put a tracking device on your truck. Sold it with an ‘It’s for his protection.’ Nice, by the way. Handcuffing your partner to your coffee table.”
“You’re not going to get away with this. You know it. What’d you do with Patrick? Do you think it’s going to go unnoticed that a famous novelist is missing or dead?”
“I think I’m going to be able to sell the idea that he went completely out of his mind.”
Misery Loves Company Page 22
