The Search

by Nora Roberts

  longer risk two or three days with her as he’d hoped. It left him little time for their collaboration on the book.

  He’d need to do the lion’s share of that himself as he had to start the next phase sooner than originally planned.

  He studied her, shrugged. Really, there wasn’t much more he wanted to do with her.

  He decided he’d study his maps again, then get a few hours’ sleep, fry up a good breakfast. He’d want to get started well before dawn.

  As he went out, he decided it was a good thing he’d broken her fingers instead of her toes. He didn’t want to carry her the whole way.

  SIMON KEPT HIS MUSIC turned off and found work he could do on the shop porch. That way he could see, and hear, who came and went.

  Just something else he owed Eckle, he thought. The fact that he couldn’t focus on his work, couldn’t blast his music.

  He’d already decided to give it one more week, then whatever Fiona’s schedule, he was taking her away for a while. Nonnegotiable. They’d go visit his parents in Spokane, which would kill two birds as his mother would stop nagging him about meeting Fiona every time they talked on the phone or e-mailed.

  He’d already selected the hammer to drive home that nail. He’d sacrifice his dog’s balls. Fiona wanted Jaws neutered—and kept leaving information about it all over the house. He’d give her that; she’d give him this.

  Sorry, pal, he thought.

  Then they’d drive—the whole pack of them if she wanted—to Spokane. He’d rent a damn van if he had to. Driving took time, the more the better as far as he was concerned.

  If Tawney and Mantz couldn’t run Eckle to ground by the time they got back, they didn’t deserve their badges.

  He glanced up at the sound of a car, then set aside the brush he’d been using to stain a pair of bar stools when he saw the police cruiser.

  He hoped to hell it was good news.

  “Davey.” Fiona stepped out of the house. “You’ve got the timing down. My last clients left ten minutes ago. The next aren’t due for twenty.” She pressed her knuckles between her breasts where the breath wanted to stick. “Is she alive?”

  “They haven’t found her yet, Fee.”

  She just sat down where she stood, on the porch steps. Her arms went around dogs as they crowded around her.

  “They sent us a picture. The best they could get from the two witnesses at the motel. I brought you a copy.”

  He took it from the file he carried, offered it.

  “It hardly looks like him—or like he did. The eyes, I guess. The eyes do.”

  “The witnesses were shaky there. They’ve done a composite.”

  “His face looks . . . beefier, and he looks younger without the beard. But . . . the cap covers a lot, doesn’t it?”

  “The night clerk was next to useless—that’s the word we got. The other guy, he did his best. But he barely saw Eckle. He left prints in the motel room—Eckle did. They matched them with prints from his apartment. He’s not biting on the e-mail again, at least not so far.”

  He nodded to Simon as Simon walked up. “They don’t think he will now so they’re releasing his name and this sketch to the media this afternoon. It’s going to be all over the TV and the Internet in a couple of hours. Somebody’s going to make him, Fee.”

  Simon said nothing but took the sketch out of Fiona’s hand to study it.

  “We’re going to plaster those on the ferries, at the docks,” Davey continued. “Starr’s paper’s offering a quarter-million reward for information that leads to her or Eckle. It’s blowing open in his face, Fee.”

  “Yes, I think it is. I only hope it blows hot and fast enough to save Starr.”

  HE’D MADE HER WALK. Even with the speed and the protein drink he forced down her throat it took a full three hours. She fell often, but that was fine. He wanted to leave a good trail. He dragged her when he had to, and enjoyed. He knew where he was going and how to get there.

  The perfect spot. Brilliant, if he said so himself.

  By the time they stopped, her face was filthy, purpled with bruises, hatchmarked with scrapes and nicks. The clothes he’d washed and put back on her were little more than rags.

  She didn’t cry, didn’t fight when he lashed her to the tree. Her head just fell forward, and her bound hands lay limp in her lap.

  He had to slap her several times to bring her around.

  “I have to leave you here awhile. I’ll be back, don’t worry. You may die of dehydration or exposure, infection.” He lifted his shoulders in a what-can-you-do? gesture. “I hope not because I really want to kill you with my own hands. After I kill Fiona. One for Perry, one for me. Jesus, you smell, Kati. All the better, but phew. Anyway, when this is done, I’m going to write the story for you, send it in, in your name. You’ll get that Pulitzer. Posthumously, but I think you’re a shoo-in. See you soon.”

  He popped one of the black pills himself—he needed the kick—and started off in a brisk jog. Without the dead weight, he calculated he could make it back in under half the time it had taken to drag her pitiful ass alone. He’d be back at the cabin before dawn, or just after.

  He had a lot of work to do before he made the return trip.

  SIMON WATCHED HER push herself through her next class, and decided enough was enough. When he’d done what he needed to do, he waited until the last car pulled away and she walked back into the house.

  He found her in the kitchen running a cold can of Diet Coke over her forehead. “Hot today.” She lowered the can, popped it. “It feels like the sky’s dropped down a few thousand feet so the sun’s pressing against the tops of the trees.”

  “Go take a shower, cool off. You’ve got time,” he said before she could answer. “Sylvia’s coming over to take your last two classes.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you look like hell and probably feel worse. You got fuck-all for sleep last night, and I know because I was the one trying to sleep beside you. You’re wound up and worn out. So take a shower, take a nap. Brood, if you need to, as long as I’m not around. I’ll order some dinner in a couple hours.”

  “Just hold it.” She set the can aside, very deliberately. “My classes, my business, my decision. You don’t get to decide when I’m capable of running my business or when I need a goddamn nap. You’re not in charge.”

  “You think I want to be? You think I want to take care of you? I damn well don’t. It’s a pain in the ass.”

  “Nobody asked you to take care of me.”

  He grabbed her arm, dragged her out of the kitchen.

  “If you don’t let go of me I’m going to deck you.”

  “Yeah, you do that.” He shoved her in the powder room, pushed her in front of the mirror. “Look at yourself. You couldn’t deck an unconscious toddler. So be as pissed off as you want because I’m right there with you. And I’m bigger, I’m stronger and I’m meaner.”

  “Well, excuse the hell right out of me for not looking my best. And thanks so much for not sparing my feelings and letting me know I look like warmed-over crap.”

  “Your feelings aren’t my priority.”

  “Oh, there’s news. You do your work, and I’ll do mine, and I’ll do you a favor. When I’m done I’ll take myself off to your slobfest of an excuse for a spare room and sleep there so I don’t disturb your beauty sleep.”

  He recognized by the pitch of her voice she jiggled midway between fury and a crying jag. It damn well couldn’t be helped.

  “If you try to run this next class I’ll make a scene and you’ll lose every client in it. Believe me, I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” She shoved him with considerably more strength than her pale face advertised. “Giving me ultimatums, threats, blackmail. Who the hell do you think you are?”

  “I’m the one who loves you. Goddamn it.”

  “Don’t use that on me.”

  “It’s what I’ve got.” Stupid, he realized. He’d let t
emper bump aside sense—and strategy. This wasn’t the way to handle her, and he knew it. “I can’t stand it.” He gave her the truth, harder for him than the threats. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.” He pulled her in. “You need a break. I’m asking you to take a break.”

  “You weren’t asking.”

  “Okay. I’m asking now.”

  She sighed, hugely. “I look like shit.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I can’t handle my work, or that you get to call in the reserves without asking me.”

  “We’ll make a trade.”

  “What?” She pulled back. “A trade?”

  “You take the break, Mai gets to cut off Jaws’s balls.” An ace in the hole, Simon figured, needed to be used sooner rather than later.

  “Oh! That’s ridiculous. That’s wrong. That’s . . .” She fisted her hands at her temples. “Low. You’re using my belief in responsible pet ownership.”

  “A couple hours down for you, a lifetime of never knowing the thrill of a woman for him. You get the shiny end on this.”

  She shoved him back, strode out of the bathroom. Then she turned and scowled at him as he leaned against the doorjamb. “You’re going to do it anyway.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Part of me figures he ought to at least have a shot at a couple of willing bitches first. A guy should have some memories.”

  “You’re stringing me.” But he only shrugged, let the silence hang. “Damn it. You’ll call Mai now, today, make an appointment?”

  He opened his mouth and swore he felt his own balls shrink up. “No. You do it.”

  “Okay, but no backing out.”

  “What do you want, a pinkie swear? A deal’s a deal. Go take a shower.”

  “I will, after I call Mai—and give Sylvia the roundup for the classes she’s taking.”

  “Fair enough. You know how they have those weird-ass dog spas and dog salons and boutiques?”

  She huffed, struggling to settle . . . somewhere. “Not everyone thinks they’re weird-ass, but yes.”

  “They ought to have dog bordellos for times like this. A guy could at least have a bang before he becomes a eunuch.”

  “You ought to look into that. There are enough people who think like you do that you’d probably make a fortune.” She glanced toward the front door as the dogs gave the alert. “That’s Syl now.”

  He moved to the door ahead of her, checked for himself.

  “Are you that worried?” she asked him.

  “I don’t see any reason to take chances. Meg’s with her.”

  “Oh.” She stepped out. “Hi. First, sorry, second, thanks.”

  “First, don’t be sorry. Second, you’re welcome. It was my afternoon off, and Meg and I were doing a garden exchange. I’m overrun with daylilies and she’s got extra purple coneflowers.”

  “So, I tagged along.” Meg spoke with calculated cheer. “You’ve got co-instructors.”

  “And Simon’s right. Honey, you do look tired.”

  “So I’ve been told,” Fiona said, shooting him one burning stare, “in less tactful terms. Come on in. I’ll give you the overview for the classes—and we’ve got some sun tea.”

  “Sounds good.” Sylvia walked onto the porch, rose to her toes and kissed Simon on the cheek. “Good job.”

  He smirked at Fiona over Sylvia’s head.

  “Don’t encourage him.” Fiona went inside. “The first is a beginners’ class, and we’re working on the basics. You’re going to want to keep the sheltie mix away from the Goldendoodle. He’s determined she’s the love of his life, and he’ll hump her every chance he gets. There’s a border collie,” she continued as they reached the kitchen. “She’s honor-bound to try to spend the entire class herding everyone.”

  “Any snappers?” Sylvia asked while Fiona got out glasses.

  “No. They run in age from around three to six months, so there’s short attention span and some screwing around, but pretty good temperaments. In fact there’s . . . Meg?”

  Fiona paused when she caught the stunned look on Meg’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “This is him.” She pressed a finger to the sketch on the counter. “The guy in our cabin. This is Frank.”

  The glass started to dissolve in Fiona’s hand. She set it down before she dropped it. “Are you sure? Meg, are you sure?”

  “It’s him. It’s not perfect, but it’s him. The eyes, the shape of the face. I know this is him. It’s a police sketch, isn’t it? Oh my God.”

  “This is a police composite of what Eckle looks like now?” Sylvia’s voice was utterly calm and seemed to come from inside a wind tunnel. “Fee!”

  “Yes. Yes. Davey brought it over earlier. Tawney sent it in to the sheriff.”

  “Meg, go out and get Simon. Right now. Right now. Fee, call Agent Tawney. I’m calling the sheriff.”

  But before she called the FBI, Fiona went upstairs and got her gun.

  WHEN SHE CAME DOWN she’d found her calm, and ignored the quick look of distress on Sylvia’s face when her stepmother saw the gun strapped to her belt.

  “The sheriff’s on his way.”

  “So’s the FBI. They’ll coordinate with the sheriff en route. Everything’s under control.” Fiona laid a hand on Meg’s shoulder as her friend sat at the counter.

  “I was alone with him in that cabin. I showed him through it last spring, chatted with him. And yesterday . . . Oh sweet Jesus, that poor woman was in the trunk while I was making small talk. That’s why Xena kept sniffing all around it. I should’ve known—”

  “Why? How?” Fiona demanded. “Let’s just be grateful you’re okay, and you’re here, and you recognized the sketch.”

  “I shook his hand,” Meg murmured, staring at her own. “And that makes me feel . . . God, I have to call Chuck.”

  “I already did.” Sylvia moved behind Meg and began to rub her shoulders. “He’s coming.”

  “You may have saved that reporter’s life,” Fiona pointed out. “You may have saved mine. Think of that. Simon.” She walked out of the kitchen to the living room, kept her voice low. “I know what you want to do. I can see it. You want to go over there, drag him out of that cabin and beat him to a pulp.”

  “The thought crossed. I’m not stupid,” he said before she could speak. “And not willing to risk even the slim chance that he’d get away from me. I know how to wait.”

  She took his hand, squeezed it. “He doesn’t. Not like Perry. It was wildly stupid to come here like this, and to bring her—he must’ve brought her.”

  “Stupid, yeah, but if he got away with it? A big splash if they found the reporter dead all but in your goddamn backyard. Perry just wanted to kill. This guy wants to be somebody.”

  “He’ll never get away.” Still, she rubbed her arms to warm them as she checked through the front window again. “He won’t get off the island. But he’s had her for two days now. She may already be dead.”

  “If she’s got a chance, it’s because of you.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re not stupid. He brought her here to unravel you, to hurt you. He’s boxed himself in, and he may have hurt you, but he hasn’t unraveled you.”

  “I like having you around.”

  “It’s my house. I have you around.”

  She didn’t think she could laugh, but he brought it out of her. And with it she put her arms around him and held on until the sheriff pulled into the drive.