Eye of a Hunter

by Sylvie Kurtz

  Not just any photographer. Abbie. These were Abbie’s photographs. Even without the discreet description he would have known her work.

  “Diane Arbus said something to the effect of, ‘A photograph is a secret about a secret.’” Abbie’s voice startled him out of his musing. The shy, soft look in her eyes as she sat behind the computer took him back to summer afternoons at the quarry, when she’d practiced flirting and fired his teenage hormones into overdrive. She could still turn him on with just a look. After thirteen years that ability should’ve faded.

  “I can see the secrets in the faces,” he said before he could stop himself. Heat rushed up his neck, and he quickened his step to the window. What would she see in him? What would her camera catch? Would her picture reveal the truth he hid with shades, the secret he was doing his best to hide from her—from himself? “You caught something in every one that isn’t obvious at first glance. You do good work.”

  “I did.” Pain darkened her eyes, and she sliced her attention back to the computer.

  His hands fisted. He wanted to wrap them around Vanderveer’s neck until it cracked for putting the hurt in Abbie’s eyes.

  “You will again.” If nothing else, he could give her back that part of her life. Echo Falls and her studio.

  His gaze scanned the grounds growing darker by the minute as clouds swallowed the moon. He searched deep into the shadows for signs of Pamela. Abbie belonged on her father’s grand estate. She belonged in her studio making magic. She belonged in the small town that held her heart. If she’d come with him, if she’d left her world behind to follow him, would her photos exude so much soul? Saying no had been the right thing for her to do.

  A growl of thunder rumbled in the distance. The crickets and frogs ended their concert, as if a conductor’s baton had cut them off midbar, and a weight of expectation hung in the air. The spiders at his neck went crazy. Was the sudden silence marking the approaching storm or Pamela’s arrival? “Are you almost done?”

  Her top teeth scraped at her bottom lip as she adjusted the brightness level of the merged layers of her composite. She leaned back, a pleased expression on her face. The smile lit her eyes and warmed his insides. “There. What do you think?”

  He bent toward the screen, knocked a little off cen ter again by her sweet scent. There right in front of him in full, perfect color, Raphael Vanderveer stood shaking hands with a uniformed Russian general. He couldn’t help it, he leaned his temple against hers. He wanted more, but this would have to do. “Wow! That’s great.”

  Would it be enough? Perception. Face value. Too many people judged things that way. But illusion still made for a dangerous pawn.

  Lightning strobed at a distance. A roll of thunder grumbled in return. A slow pelt of rain knocked at the window. Was Pamela out there, waiting for them to come out?

  “The ball’s in your court,” Abbie said as she transferred a copy of her masterpiece onto the flash drive. “How do we get this to al-Khafar?”

  By racking up a heavy debt. If this didn’t pay off, he was burning bridges he could never rebuild. “I call Kingsley.”

  THE PHONE NUMBER KINGSLEY had given him was no doubt untraceable. It rang nineteen times before someone answered with a curt, “Yeah.”

  “Marko al-Khafar?”

  No answer.

  Adrenaline tripping through his veins, Gray kept his tone quiet and even. “Vanderveer is setting you up.”

  “And who are you that I should trust your word?” the voice scoffed.

  “A friend.”

  “A man in my position has no friends.”

  “Ask yourself how I could get this number except through your contact himself.”

  Silence strained the connection. “Who are you?”

  “It’s safer not to say.”

  “For who?”

  “Both of us.”

  Another pause jacked up the tension knotting Gray’s muscles.

  “Why are you calling?” the voice asked.

  Perspiration oozed from his pores as if he were in a sauna, but Gray kept his voice smooth. Never let them see you sweat. “This man you call an ally has no intentions of selling you anything except a long trip to a maximum-security prison. The U.S. Marshals Service plans on escorting him from his jail cell to your rendezvous at the warehouse. A task force’ll be waiting there to cuff you.”

  “How do I know you tell the truth?”

  “I have proof. Do you have an e-mail address?”

  “I want nothing from you.”

  “You’ve heard of Vladimir Soldatov.”

  Silence again. Then a curse and a spit.

  “Vanderveer sold you defective technology. Water short-circuits the conductive fibers. The recent fix, he saved for Soldatov.”

  “I’ll give you one chance to prove yourself.”

  Clutching the phone between his jaw and shoulder, Gray snatched the pencil and paper Abbie handed him.

  The voice rattled off an e-mail address, then hung up.

  “What did he say?” Abbie asked, eyes wide and anxious.

  “To send our proof. Use one of your remailer accounts. I don’t want your friend caught up in this.”

  She nodded and got to work. “What do you want me to say in the e-mail?”

  He tapped the back of her chair. “Get up for a second.”

  She stood and hovered, then mumbled something.

  Gray finished the message, then clicked the send button.

  The message-sent pop-up had barely flashed on the screen when a spear of lightning crazed the sky. The answering crack of thunder ripped open the seam, shaking ground and glass in a sonic boom. Power died, instantly dropping the room into pitch-black darkness. Lightning and thunder struck again simultaneously like woolly mammoths butting heads on top of the building. The sulfur scent of spent ozone charged the air.

  Then underneath came an updraft with the undertones of something stronger.

  He snatched a Maglite from the desk. Searching for the source, Gray stood, angled the light to the floor and flashed it around the gallery’s perimeter. All those damned wall panels shook and rattled like ghosts on their chains. Stairs to the attic. Front door. Bathroom door. Back door. Darkroom door. Supply closet door. Photography chemicals were flammable, and Abbie had said Serena dabbled in the craft.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  Before he could move, a loud whomp did a three-sixty around the gallery. The red glow of flames flashed across the windows of all four walls, chomping on the fuel of dry barn wood like a starved beast. The sudden light blinded him. Heat poured around every opening, swamping the room.

  Pamela.

  Every instinct in him screamed, Run! Then his hand reached back and caught nothing but air. “Abbie!”

  No answer.

  “Abbie!” Where the hell was she? She’d been right there beside him before the power had gone out.

  His heart pounded in his chest. Acrid smoke irritated his lungs, stung his eyes. Had Pamela nabbed her during the commotion of the primary explosion? “Abbie!”

  How long before someone noticed the flames to sound the alarm? In the middle of a thunderstorm, what was one more explosion?

  A tiny voice reached him from up above. “Abbie?”

  Another mewl, like a kitten in distress. What the hell was she doing up in the attic?

  He charged up the stairs two by two. Heat clambered up right behind him and flames chased him. He slammed the door on both, shutting off all light.

  “Abbie!” He coughed and brought his T-shirt up to cover his nose and mouth.

  “Here!” She choked on her words. “I’m stuck.”

  Gray took the penlight from his pocket and frantically flashed it across the attic. He spotted her hunkered down beside an old trunk, one leg swallowed by the floor to midthigh. He sprinted to her. “What the hell are you doing up here?” Fear for her sharpened his voice. “What was worth your life?”

  Beside her the canvas tote bulged with a camer
a, flash and lens.

  “This is the first camera I bought myself with my own money. Serena borrowed it. You made me give up everything else. I wanted something that was mine. How did I know lightning was going to strike the building?”

  “Not lightning. Pamela.” Lightning would’ve hit one spot, not sparked the whole perimeter of the building. He shoved the flashlight in Abbie’s hand. “Hold it steady so I can get you out.”

  As he worked furiously to free Abbie’s leg, his breathing rasped in his ears. Sweat drenched his face and back. Scouts of smoke slinked from the cracks between the planks of the floor. Flames stretched greedy fingers under the attic door.

  “Give it a go,” he said, putting pressure against a board he couldn’t dislodge.

  Teeth gritted, she pulled on her leg. Denim ripped on the snags of splintered wood, but she kept tugging until she was free.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. Clear rivers of tears streamed across sooty cheeks. He smeared the wetness with the back of one hand. “I’m sorry, Abbie.”

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “We can’t go down the way we came in.” Not the way the flames had chased him up the stairs. He took the flashlight from her and swept it around the walls.

  “There’s a window on the road side of the building.”

  With a strong and steady grip she guided his hand. He almost shouted with relief when he spotted the gleaming panes of glass. Shutters battened down the window.

  “Hands and knees,” he said, leading the way. “Follow in my track.”

  If the floor held his weight, it would hold hers. He made his way across the rickety attic, knocking over a light on a tripod stand, cursing Pamela and Vanderveer. He unlocked the window latch and pushed against the sash to open it. It wouldn’t budge. No time for finesse.

  If Pamela had orchestrated this incident, then she was waiting outside, admiring her work. She’d see them escape. No getting around it. But alive and on the run was much better than fried and dead.

  “Cover your head,” he said. With a series of swift kicks he blew out both the glass and the shutters. Damp air poured into the opening and he gulped it in. Flashlight pointed to the ground outside, he studied his landing area.

  First the motel, now the studio. “You’re sure making me jump through hoops today.”

  Her laugh beside him was rocky with terror. “That’s it, Gray. You’ve finally caught on to me. I’ve been wanting you to catch me since I was thirteen. Why do you think I kept diving off that quarry ledge?”

  His heart did a flip. Really? “Well, today you’re getting your wish. Twice. Let me get down to the ground, then, just like at the motel, go out the window and let go. Don’t think. Just do it as fast as you can.”

  Weapon drawn, he climbed out the window, let himself drop and hit the wet grass rolling. Without taking time to catch his breath, he crouched and searched for Pamela by the fire’s glow.

  As Abbie hooked her canvas tote over her shoulder and clambered out the window, he positioned himself to catch her. Coughing, she let go.

  He stopped breathing and prayed like he’d never prayed before. And when she landed square in his arms, he clung to her hard so she wouldn’t feel his arms shaking. “I’ve got you, Abbie.”

  “I never doubted you would.”

  The trust in her golden eyes had him thinking he could move any mountain. Until a shot blew out the barn wall behind them. He shielded Abbie’s body with his and nudged her forward. “Let’s go.”

  A sick sensation slithered through Gray’s gut as he led Abbie deeper into the dark. This hit had been close—too close.

  They rounded the corner of the barn and made it to the car. Gray fired the engine, then punched the accelerator. “Get down and stay down. It’s going to get nasty.”

  The car swerved in the mud slick caused by the rain. He straightened it out and found the driveway.

  Rain had neutralized the cloaking quality of the Steeltex, and Pamela stood in the middle of the driveway, framed by two stone pillars, like cowboy at a showdown, weapon drawn and pointed straight at them. He flicked on the high beams and aimed square at her. Right below the mirror a bullet punched through the windshield.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They were out in the middle of nowhere. They were out of gas. They were out of cash. Rain poured down the windshield like a silver curtain and dripped onto the dashboard through the hole blown in by Pamela’s bullet—just before Gray had clipped her with his fender as she’d tried to jump out of the way. After hitting her he’d called 9-1-1, but he hadn’t stopped to help her and felt not even a twitch of remorse about it.

  Technically they weren’t lost. Gray knew exactly where he was. They were west of 91 and a few miles out from Green Goose Lake—much too near Echo Falls for comfort.

  “What do we do now?” Abbie asked, apparently fascinated by the spreading pool of water on the black dashboard.

  Gray drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Didn’t Coach Beasley own a cabin on Green Goose Lake?”

  Abbie brightened. “Yes, she does. Remember, she took the whole track team there for a cookout after M.J. Cooper won the state championship banner for the mile my freshman year? And there’s still a week of school, so it’s likely empty.”

  His gaze zeroed in on the dark stain her blood had spread around the gash of denim on her thigh. “Are you up to walking?”

  Without waiting, she grabbed her canvas tote and scrambled out the passenger’s side. “I’m up for anything that puts distance between us and Pamela.”

  With Abbie’s help Gray pushed the car off the road and hid it as best he could in the trees. With daylight someone would notice it, but tracing it back to him would be next to impossible. And if the gods were smiling on him, Pamela was in no shape to follow them.

  He shouldered the duffel with their belongings and wrapped his free arm around Abbie. Too late to keep her dry. But this was more for him than for her. He needed to touch her to reassure himself she was okay.

  “Do you think she’s dead?” Abbie asked in a hushed voice as they hiked up the road. Rain slicked her too-blond hair close to her head and pasted her clothes to her skin, making her look small and fragile.

  “I hope so.” One less worry.

  She shivered. “I know that’s horrible, but I hope so, too.”

  “It’s not horrible. She wants to kill you. Scum like that deserves to have her civil liberties deprioritized to the maximum.”

  Abbie shrugged. “She’s still a person.”

  That was Abbie, always thinking there was something good in everyone. Even him. Who was going to watch out for her once the trial was over?

  COACH BEASLEY’S CABIN WAS just as Gray remembered it. Not the King’s Arms Hotel, but the A-frame was dry, the kitchen pantry was stocked with nonperishables and, once he turned on the pump and water heater, the water was hot and running.

  The open loft upstairs held three sets of bunk beds. No way he was going anywhere near those beds with her. He’d sleep guard downstairs. The couch was long enough to accommodate his height. Better if he wasn’t too comfortable anyway.

  The bottom half of the building consisted of a kitchen separated from the living room by a butcher-block counter. A mudroom off the back side of the house next to the entrance camouflaged the door to a long, narrow bathroom complete with shower stall and washer and dryer.

  Given how they’d just missed being fricasseed by Pamela, he opted to skip building a fire in the stone fireplace. Instead he lit the thick jar candles on the counter and coffee table. Their scent of clean cotton would soon take care of the damp, closed-up smell. He heated canned soup and rounded up some crackers while Abbie showered. For one night he’d like to give her the illusion she was safe.

  She came out of the bathroom wearing a baby-blue sweat suit that had to belong to Coach Beasley. The sleeves and pants were a few inches t
oo short, showing off small wrists, defined calves and arched feet and making her look once more like the gangly teen he’d lusted after.

  Still lusted after.

  “I made soup,” he said, proud he could pour the chicken and noodles straight into the bowl, given the tight fit of his damp jeans.

  “I’m not really hungry.”

  “Eat anyway. To fight Vanderveer you need your strength.”

  “You’re right.” She accepted the bowl and spoon he gave her but made no move to actually eat the soup. “I’m going to run a load of laundry later. Let me know if you want to throw stuff in there, too.”

  It seemed intimate somehow, mixing laundry. Not trusting himself to speak, he escaped to the shower. When he came out, she was sitting on the plaid couch, the empty soup bowl on the side table and a cup of tea steaming in her hands.

  He wasn’t going to touch her, he told himself as he crossed the room wearing only the sweatpants he’d found on the dryer. He was just going to get close enough to reassure himself she was okay. That she wasn’t reliving the trauma of the fire at the gallery. She already had enough ghosts peopling her conscience; she didn’t need any more. Especially not Pamela’s.

  For now they were at a standstill. Vanderveer’s rendezvous with al-Khafar wasn’t until dawn. They’d done their best to foil the meet. If Gray was lucky, Pamela was dead. At the very least that clip had to have broken bone. Seeking medical attention would slow her down. “You’re safe here tonight.”

  “I know.” Abbie sipped from her cup, frowning as if the contents displeased her. “Do you ever wonder how things might have turned out?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you and me.”

  All the time. Too often. He crouched beside her, heart knocking hard inside his chest. But how could he admit this weakness to her? She needed someone strong right now, not a guy who was still hanging on to a fantasy decades old. “I—”