Cornered

by Turner, Linda; Weaver, Ingrid; Miller, Julie

  While Rowdy Trent secured the basket to the log fence surrounding the platform, Rafe untied the basket’s door and looked inside. He jumped back just as quickly, startled, sickened, angry. “Damn.”

  “Rafe?” That was Hannah, concerned for him. Curious.

  Her voice was enough of an anchor for him to move past the image of frozen blue eyes and a swollen tongue.

  “It’s Natalie,” he announced. Amidst the cries and curses, Rafe went back inside the basket to untangle the rope from around Natalie’s pale neck and feel for a pulse. He straightened with a silent curse of his own. “She’s dead.”

  “Natalie?” Dick Copperfield lurched to his feet, looking ashen beneath his tan. Hannah tried to grab him before he stumbled down the incline. Instead of staying put, she slid after him. “That can’t be.”

  He knelt in front of the slumped figure and picked up Natalie’s cold, stiff hand. “Oh, Nat. Sweetie.” He was crying now. “This can’t be right. We’ve been through so much together.”

  Hannah slipped in beside him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Dr. Copperfield.”

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He looked right at Hannah. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

  Hannah frowned and lifted her gaze. Rafe shrugged, wondering the same question she did. What wasn’t supposed to happen?

  “I can tell you right now, Mr. Kincaid, my wife and I are not riding on that thing.” Charles Defoe seemed to have little sympathy for the president’s distress.

  “Make yourself useful, Defoe.” Whether it was arrogance or fear that fueled the wealthy man’s lack of compassion, Rafe wasn’t going to let him dictate who did what on this rescue mission. “Come get your buddy here and calm him down.”

  Though Lydia was the one who actually huffed at her husband being given an order, Defoe reluctantly picked his way down the slope, stuck his handkerchief in Copperfield’s hand and led him back to the relatively level path.

  “Oh, man, I can’t take this. We’re all gonna die. All this Shakespeare and Chaucer and Latin crap. We’re gonna die.” Rowdy grabbed his gut and doubled over. For all his physical strength, the shaggy grad assistant had a weak stomach.

  Rafe nodded toward Keith Robinson. “Get him out of here, too.”

  Irene Sharp came down to help get Rowdy up to the trail. Ed Butler opened his canteen and gave the young man a drink. “Do you think we’re all targets?” Butler asked, starting an inevitable debate with his professorial rival.

  Robinson snatched the canteen to take a drink for himself. “That witch probably deserved what she got.” Cold. But no one argued with him. “Do you honestly think Copperfield is smart enough to doctor the books on his own? As soon as he made president, she became his right hand.”

  “And his bed partner.”

  “Exactly. There’s something hinky about having departmental funding cut while Copperfield and his mistress shack up in a new mansion together.”

  “Sounds like motive to me.”

  “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Keith. Ed.” Irene tried to shush them. “You’re filling the air with negative energy.”

  “Oh, come on, you looney…”

  Thunder rumbled overhead, rolling across the sky like the fusillade of battle in the distance. As Mother Nature’s sounds faded, the bombardment of words behind them increased. But it all disappeared into another world when Rafe heard Hannah mumbling softly at his feet. “…accused of taking money from the school, but never proven. Rumors suggest Professor Hawthorne let his wife die by withholding her medicine. Couldn’t prove a mercy killing.”

  Rafe went down on his haunches beside her and touched her shoulder. “Kansas?”

  He quickly realized she was thinking out loud. “Look at the note pinned to her blouse.”

  Like the other two bodies, Natalie had been left with a message. Mors ultima ratio. “Is that Latin? Mine’s even rustier than my English lit.”

  “Mors is death. Ultima means last or final.”

  “Does ratio have to do with numbers?”

  She nodded. “You could translate it as accounting. Natalie was the chief accountant for the school. ‘Death is the final accounting.’ It’s an old Latin proverb.”

  “She was killed because she was an accountant?”

  “Natalie was killed because someone thinks she got away with taking money from the school.”

  Hannah turned, bracing her hand on his knee. Despite the instant frisson of awareness that seeped through soaked denim and skin, the fear in those deep-gray eyes cut right through him. “I think I’ve figured this out. We all have secrets. What if that’s the connection? There have been rumors and accusations surrounding each of us on this retreat. None of which have ever been proven.”

  Someone meting out retribution on the faculty and staff of Randolph College? Rafe took her by both shoulders and tried to nudge her out of that dangerous train of thought. “What kind of crime could someone like you have committed?”

  “Beyond being a huge disappointment to my family?” She swiped at a wet curl that had fallen loose from her cap and was dripping into her eye. “I don’t know. Dr. Copperfield’s always resented that I’ve never used my family connections to bring money into the college. I could have offended someone somewhere along the line. Failed a student. Stuck my nose in where it wasn’t welcome.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She pushed at the annoying curl again, tucking it behind her ear and holding it there—exposing the purplish bruise that marred her smooth cheek and giving her an air of such vulnerability that Rafe had to fight the urge to sweep her into his arms. She still needed to talk, and he had a feeling he needed to listen. “What if someone thinks they know the truth? That we’re being punished for getting away with murder or embezzlement or some other crime?”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Her voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper. “Ed Butler has been accused of sexual harassment more than once, supposedly even trading sex with students for grades. But the charges never stuck. Keith was accused of stealing the research for a series of national articles he published. Though he claims it was a joint project, the graduate assistant he allegedly stole from dropped out of school and hasn’t been heard from since.”

  That curl sprang free and bobbed against the earpiece of her glasses. With shaky fingers, she tried to bat it away. Rafe could see there was more nervousness than discomfort in the repetitive gesture. He reached up and brushed it aside himself, cupping her wounded cheek to warm the chill on her skin that might not be due entirely to the rain, either.

  “I read that in the report. Nothing has been substantiated. There is no proof.”

  “What report?”

  “I ran a background check on all of you before heading up here.”

  Hannah pushed her glasses squarely in front of her eyes and squinted. “You spied on us? Isn’t that illegal?”

  Hell. He was trying to reassure her, not raise more worries. Yeah, he had a real tender touch with women. “I’ve got the clearance to do it legally. With Frank’s murder, I wanted to know what I was getting into before I came up here.”

  “What kind of clearance are you talking about? Are you a detective?”

  How did he talk his way out of this one? The Watchers weren’t public knowledge. In fact, they’d been disbanded and disavowed until Homeland Security came into being, and the need for a covert group to handle security, rescue and retrieval situations without the government being officially involved had arisen. “It’s a complicated story.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We have other priorities right now.”

  Raindrops splashed her upturned face and ran down her cheek in rivulets that caught where his fingers still cupped her jaw. The smell of ozone had long since been washed from the air, leaving the earthy scents of mud and pinewood and Hannah herself rising between them.

  Rafe waited and watched and inhaled as she debated their hush
ed conversation inside her head.

  “Am I stupid to trust you?” The soft husk of her voice reached deep inside him, crumbling the last vestiges of personal detachment into dust.

  He framed her face in his big hands. “Would I tell you if you were?”

  She arched her brow and tapped a finger against his chest. “Don’t be logical with me, Rafe. My gut says you’re a good guy. But then my gut doesn’t have much experience.”

  Oh, hell. He closed the distance between them and kissed her. Long enough to feel her soft lips move against his, to feel them part and shyly invite him inside—not long enough to stake a claim the way he ached to. Long enough to feel her palm brace against his chest and her fingers dig into sweater and skin and muscle beneath—not long enough to pull her into his arms and feel her whole body pressing just as urgently against him. He kissed her long enough to drop his guard and let her into the secret places inside him—not long enough to admit how close she’d gotten to his heart.

  It was a tender taste of heaven. A welcome. A promise. When Rafe pulled away, he couldn’t seem to move his hands from her face. And it took every ounce of his will to catch a normal breath and lift his gaze from those sweet, pliant lips to her clear, questioning eyes.

  “Trust your gut, Kansas. I won’t hurt you.” He swept his thumbs across her lenses, making sure she could see the true depth of his vow. “And I’ll be damned if I let anyone else hurt you.”

  Her shaky nod humbled him. “Okay. I’ll try to keep the faith.” She smoothed her palm across his chest, and though he imagined she was straightening his sweater, it felt like a caress. “It might seem pretty lame, but I’ll do my best not to let anyone hurt you, either.”

  He might have laughed if he hadn’t seen how serious she was. Imagine—a buxom brainiac like her protecting a man like him. He’d never imagined himself needing protection from anyone. He was too strong, too well-trained, too well-educated in the game of survival. But he liked the idea of Hannah watching his back. He liked the idea of Hannah taking an interest in him, period.

  But there were others to consider. And they still had miles to go. Rafe pressed a quick kiss to the arch of Hannah’s brow and pulled her to her feet as he stood. “Now go on up with the others. Let me wrap Natalie’s body like I did Frank and William’s. Then we can move out.”

  “I can help.”

  Was there any challenge this woman wouldn’t face? Rafe relented. He’d feel safer with her close by his side, anyway. “Can we use your sleeping bag?”

  With a quick nod, she hurried to retrieve it. By the time they had Natalie’s body securely wrapped and hung back out in the basket to protect it from scavengers and the elements, the others had cooled their jets to a simmering suspicion of the world and each other. But they were ready to take orders if it meant getting back to civilization.

  “We have to go back up and down along that ridge.” Rafe pointed to the tree-crowned slope above them. “There’s a rope bridge we can cross about a mile downstream.”

  “A bridge made out of rope?” Keith Robinson sounded skeptical enough for all of them. “What if it’s been tampered with, too?”

  “The drop-off’s less steep down there,” Rafe explained. “If we can’t use the bridge, it’ll be easier to climb down and ford the river.” He shouldered his pack and instructed the others to do the same. “I don’t know if Miss Flanders wandered away from camp, making herself an easy target for the killer, or if she was specifically singled out and then brought to this place so we’d be sure to find her and the sabotaged crossing. But from now on, we stick together. No one goes off by themselves. Not even to take a whiz. Understood?”

  Robinson nodded. The others chimed in with agreements of their own.

  “All right, then. Let’s move out.”

  He took Hannah by the hand and pulled her up to walk beside him. The others fell into step behind them, single file.

  This time, even Butler and Robinson didn’t argue.

  “Oh, God, I don’t think I can do this.”

  Hannah eyed the white-knuckled grasp of the woman in front of her on the rope bridge. “Lydia, you can’t stop now.”

  Twenty feet above the winding Osprey River, Hannah could feel the spray of water, chilled even in summer by snow melting at higher altitudes. As Rafe had said, this crossing was a lot easier in the acrophobic department, but there was also nothing to prevent her from looking down to see the current sweeping beneath her feet, swirling into eddies where it caught against rocks before roaring on downstream.

  Lydia was looking down, too. “Should I tell you now that I don’t know how to swim?”

  All the more reason to hurry across. Hannah swallowed the panicked retort and took a deep breath. If Lydia couldn’t get her nerve back, then Hannah was stranded with her. The single rope they walked on, with V-shaped supports on either side didn’t allow any room to walk around a person.

  Not that she could abandon Lydia, anyway. She tried a little encouragement first. “Lydia, look at Charles on the shore already.” She glanced ahead to the graveled clearing amongst the trees where everyone except Rafe waited. He’d crossed over first to check the bridge’s reliability, then come back to be the last one over to ensure they all made it safely. “You’re halfway there already. Don’t give up now.”

  “But the water just hit me in the face. What if I fall in?”

  Hannah unclipped the security line that hooked her belt to the bridge’s guide rope.

  “Kansas, what are you doing?” That was Rafe behind her. The sharp clip of his voice, though gruff, betrayed his concern.

  “I’m helping Lydia.” Trusting her shaky balance and the security of the bridge, she walked the rustic tightrope until she stood right behind the frozen older woman, and reclipped her line to the same section with Lydia. “I’m right behind you,” she cautioned.

  “Lydia, darling, what’s wrong?” Charles called to his wife now. “Keep walking.”

  “I can’t!” Her bright red fingernail polish seemed to be the only color on her trembling body.

  “You need to breathe,” Hannah coached her as calmly as she could. Lydia was shaking so badly that Hannah could feel the tremors through the ropes at her hands and feet. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. You don’t want to pass out up here.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ll fall!”

  “You won’t fall.”

  Over the rain and the water, she heard the methodic rustle and clicks of Rafe attaching his gear. “I’m coming to get you.”

  “No!” Hannah shouted over her shoulder, not risking turning completely around. “You said two people on the bridge at a time. You’ll be too heavy.”

  “Dammit, Kansas—”

  “Stay back!”

  After sparing a moment to wipe her glasses clean and take a steadying breath, Hannah spoke gently but succinctly to Lydia. “I’m going to take your hand. We’re going to move it forward a few inches on the rope, and then we’re going to take the next step together.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Lydia, we’re both soaked to the bone. It might be sixty degrees out here, but I’m cold. I want to get to the other side so we can make camp and start a fire. Don’t you?”

  Lydia nodded. Creature comforts had always appealed to her. “I want to be warm.”

  “Okay, then.” Hannah slowly reached out and wrapped her hand around Lydia’s chilled fingers. “Let go of the rope and hold on to me.”

  “Lydia?” Charles was frantic with his wife’s predicament.

  “Just listen to my voice,” Hannah reminded her. “Take my hand.”

  With a cold, stiff grip, Lydia twisted her fingers and latched on to Hannah with a tight fist. Her nails dug into Hannah’s skin, but Hannah ignored the pinch of pain and moved their hands forward, wrapping them around the guide rope.

  “Let’s do your right hand now.” They repeated the process on the other side. Lydia had drawn blood across Hannah’s knuckles, but the woman was m
oving. “Now your right foot.” She nudged the back of Lydia’s boot. “Now your left.” Hannah moved up behind her. Six inches. A snail would have zipped across faster than this, but Lydia was moving.

  “C’mon, Kansas.” She thought she heard the words through the cacophony of Mother Nature’s noise. The gruff encouragement schooled her patience and kept her calm.

  They repeated the process. Two steps. Three.

  “This is taking too long!” Hannah glanced across to see Charles pacing the opposite shore. The others had gathered around, waiting anxiously.

  “You’re doing great, Lydia.” They’d covered five feet now. She unclipped their anchor lines. “I’m going to reconnect us to the next section. Here we go. Next step.”

  “Darling, I’m coming to get you.” The bridge lurched beneath Hannah’s feet and she nearly lost her footing.

  “Charles?” Lydia reeled backward.

  Hannah grabbed her flailing arm and lunged to reclaim a grip on the ropes. “Hold on!”

  “Defoe, no!” Rafe shouted from behind her. But Charles was striding out onto the bridge. It swayed. It bounced. “Defoe, secure your line!”

  It was too late. Charles’s eagerness to help his wife had doomed them all. Lydia tumbled, taking Hannah with her. They swung out, freefalling until her belt jerked at her waist, cutting off her air. Their security lines had caught and held, but they dangled over the river like twisting, swirling bait.

  Lydia’s screams drowned out Rafe’s commands. “Charles! Charles!”

  The rebound of lost tension on the lines quivered down the length of the bridge. Charles Defoe toppled from his perch and plunged into the icy river below.

  Chapter 6

  Hannah blinked her dizzy eyes into focus. Like Hector, storming through the Greek battle lines of the Trojan War, Rafe snapped his anchor line to the bridge and charged toward her.

  In an extraordinary feat of strength and balance, he looped his anchor line around hers and pulled her in. He pulled her right up against his body, his hand on her butt, her hips wedged against his. Then his arm and chest wound around her somehow and she was crushed against him, her nose buried in the damp warmth of his collar, his mouth brushing against her temple.