Wed To A Stranger?

by Jule McBride

  And that was when he’d killed the unidentified man who’d been found in the river.

  “SNOOPING AROUND my property room again?”

  Detective Sam Giles nodded, glancing at the sergeant manning the desk, then at the countless gray metal shelves that held all the Washington, D.C., police department’s vouchered evidence. Lifting a partitioned plastic tray from a shelf, Sam glanced at the transparent plastic bags inside each compartment. They contained all the forensic evidence from the Katie Darnell murder site.

  A year had passed since her murder. But just looking at the scalpel and monogrammed gold cuff link, Sam couldn’t help but visualize the poor dead blond woman—sprawled across a cold tile floor in her blood-stained lab coat with her knees bent as if she’d been running. Was D.F. Katie Darnell’s murderer?

  Heading toward the front desk, Sam snagged a second plastic tray, this one containing evidence from the site of a double murder. Sam shook his head. It was just dumb luck that he’d gotten the call this morning, a year after the murders had taken place. A lab tech had discovered that clothing fibers from this murder site matched some found on Katie Darnell’s lab coat. The murders had occurred on the same night.

  Sam stopped at the desk.

  “Sign here and the trays are yours,” the desk sergeant said.

  Good, Sam thought, scrawling his signature into a ledger.

  Within the hour, he was hunkered over his desk with all the evidence and two case files. The first file contained his own report on Katie Darnell’s murder, including color photos and a list of bagged evidence—the chemicals in the room, the cuff link and bloodied scalpel. The blood on the scalpel was type AB and had not belonged to the victim; the chemicals had various uses—some were used to develop photographs, for instance—but none had to do with testing water. The phone number Katie Darnell called had been traced to a defunct pager registered under the. name Bill Walker. No man by that name was ever found, so it seemed probable that Katie Darnell had misdialed while trying to get help.

  In the second file were photos of two white male murder victims. They’d been shot at close range, which meant they’d probably known their killer, and there were signs of struggle, indicating they’d realized what was happening before they died. The murders had occurred in the Hamilton Hotel, a rundown fleabag in a dicey section of town.

  There were no witnesses. Both men were registered at the hotel under aliases—Mo Dorman and Al Woods—and had not been otherwise identified. There was a marginal notation that an investigative journalist for the Washington Post, Stan Steinbrenner, had shown a great interest in the case.

  Sam frowned. There was no new information here.

  Remembering the federal government types who’d been at the scene of Katie Darnell’s murder, Sam picked up the phone. He had contacts all over town. He’d start with Stan Steinbrenner. A relentless news hound, Stan undoubtedly had a hypothesis to offer.

  Even if he didn’t, a link had been established between three murder victims—Katie Darnell, Mo Dorman and Al Woods. Probably, they’d all been killed by the same vicious man. A man with the initials D.F.

  FRITZI FLED, HER HEART pounding with exertion and fear. Raw cold stung her cheeks while her gogglecovered eyes scanned the dark snowy mountainside. Time after time, she stabbed her poles deep into the snow, racing on. She’d been a fool to venture into this whiteout. It could kill her.

  And if it didn’t, a murderer might.

  Because he was out here somewhere.

  She tried not to think of the sculpted, haunting face of Nathan Lafarge.

  Reaching the rustic porch of the only abandoned trapper’s cabin she hadn’t yet searched on the mountain, Fritzi pulled down her goggles and unlatched Abby’s skis. Her lungs burned from the frigid air, and her mind spun paranoid scenarios: Had Nathan followed her? Would he go inside Abby’s and try to take the baby?

  No, Mitch swore he wouldn’t let him, Fritzi reminded herself. And Nathan hadn’t seemed very concerned about Malcolm. He’d let her take him inside Abby’s, after all. Besides, if there was trouble, Abby would radio Joe Tanook. Fritzi’s mouth set in a grim line. No doubt the sheriff would listen to the natives, she thought bitterly, wishing he’d helped her.

  Instead, he’d accused her of murder. Even worse, Fritzi had wound up telling a dangerous lie. And now she’d been released into the custody of a man who was probably a killer. She’d had no idea she’d be forced to leave the detention center with him. Now she had nowhere to turn, except to Abby and Mitch. And no one she could really rely on but herself.

  Her frozen gloved fingers flicked on a flashlight, shining it toward an outhouse-in the distance, then at the rusty latch of the rough-hewn cabin door. Suddenly, she noticed that the cabin’s windows had all been blacked-out. Maybe so lights inside wouldn’t be visible from White Wolf Pass. She stared at the closed door.

  Was someone inside?

  Ever so cautiously Fritzi pushed—and the door opened, creaking on its hinges. Then, all at once, it was wrenched from her grasp. She drew in a sharp breath, air knifing to her lungs. Just as the door banged against the interior wall, she realized the culprit had been the wind, not a human hand.

  Getting ahold of herself, she shone the flashlight around the cold, dark room. She couldn’t see much, but the place seemed empty. She inched inside, and when she shut the door against the snow, she could still hear the wind raging outside. It circled the cabin like a wild animal, howling. Ignoring it, Fritzi crept forward, shining her light.

  Someone had been living here.

  Probably Nathan Lafarge. She could almost smell him. And something else—a vaguely familiar scent she couldn’t quite place. It was acrid—chemicals, maybe.

  Ever so slowly, she paced the room.

  David’s missing jeans were folded on a chair. Wood and kindling, probably from Hannah’s back porch, were stacked near a wood-burning stove. The food supplies—mostly canned goods—had been stolen from her cabinets and were arranged near stacked aluminum pans. On an old iron cot was a bedspread she recognized from Hannah’s linen closet.

  With a start, Fritzi averted her gaze from the cot, but not before she remembered Nathan’s lips—their shape, their heat, their demanding pressure.

  So this was where he’d been staying.

  Her heart wrenched, tears stinging her eyes. What did you realty expect to find here? she wondered furiously. David?

  Oh, she felt like a fool. But yes, she’d hoped she might find him or some answers—in this raging storm on the windswept mountain, in this lonesome trapper’s cabin. Lord, she could almost hear David’s footsteps. Just as she could feel her heart breaking. Would she ever see her son’s father again?

  But he wasn’t here. There was only evidence of the stranger who was claiming to be her husband. The dangerous stranger who’d usurped David’s place—wearing his clothes, kissing her in the dark. If for no other reason, Fritzi knew she would hate Nathan Lafarge because of that.

  And fear him.

  Thinking of David’s soothing nature, Fritzi’s heart wrenched again. And for an instant she actually thought she could kill Nathan.

  After all, he was a liar and a thief. That much she knew for certain. And probably a murderer. When she’d accused him of killing the man found in the river, he hadn’t even bothered to deny it.

  She shuddered. And then she began to tear the place apart. There had to be something useful here—maybe evidence that could link Nathan to the murder of the man she’d seen in the morgue. Something that would make Joe Tanook listen to her.

  Under the cot, she found a manila envelope identical to the one that had contained the doctored photos of her and Nathan. For a moment she merely stood there, her trembling fingers hovering over the clasp, fear and fury warring within her. Nathan had tampered with her pictures, airbrushing himself into David’s place. That meant Fritzi would never see those pictures again.

  “I swear I’ll kill Nathan Lafarge,” she said.

  Unless he
kills me first.

  The thought got her moving again. Unclasping the envelope, she quickly withdrew the contents—and choked. Grisly color photographs of murder victims were in her hands! Stunned, she dropped them—and they scattered across the floor in a trail of blood and carnage.

  There were blood-stained carpets. Men with obliterated faces lying in pools of blood. Overturned chairs in a cheap hotel. And a young blond woman—about Fritzi’s own age—in a lab coat, her vacant, dead blue eyes staring right at Fritzi!

  She clapped a hand over her mouth, bile rising in her throat as she staggered backward. All these people were dead! Clearly murdered in cold blood! Dear God, had Nathan Lafarge killed them all and kept pictures of his handiwork?

  And there was more. When her flashlight caught the words Hamilton Hotel penned on one of the photos, Fritzi’s mind raced. Was it the Hamilton Hotel in Washington? If so, what was Nathan Lafarge’s connection to that region?

  There was writing, too. She forced herself to edge closer and scan a ripped, stained scrap of paper. It was signed by a detective, Sam Giles, and it looked like a fragment of a police report. Fritzi’s terrified eyes glimpsed snatches of text. “The victim was a female Caucasian,” she read, “approximately age thirty. She was found—”

  Behind Fritzi, something creaked. Gasping, she whirled around.

  No one was there.

  Or were they? Her eyes darted to the windows, but they were blacked-out. For sanity’s sake, she shone her flashlight into all the room’s corners. Was Nathan Lafarge outside—silently circling this dark, isolated cabin, stalking his prey?

  Stalking her?

  “He killed them,” she whispered. Why else would Nathan Lafarge have such pictures? Dread gripped her throat like an unseen hand and cut off her breath. She had to get out of here! Dropping to her knees, Fritzi forced herself to touch those vile photographs, her shaking hands wadding the pictures, stuffing them into the envelope. Then she ran for the door—unzipping her parka and snowsuit and shoving the envelope against her sweater.

  Outside, there was less visibility than before. Just sheets of snow. Fritzi rammed her feet into the skis, Nathan’s face filling her mind. The man who possessed these disgusting photos had been following her…watching her.

  Entering her bedroom!

  And she had nowhere to turn. What could she do? Panic buffeted her body like the winds. And then, near the cabin door, the small circle of her flashlight landed on a dark stain in the snow.

  Adrenaline shot through her. A rush of terror so strong it nearly knocked her off her feet. As she pushed off hard on the skis, the flashlight flew from her hand and her ankle wrenched. But she didn’t stop—couldn’t. She was already flying downhill, with pain shooting from her ankle to her thigh. Crying out, she kept going.

  Blood.

  She’d seen crimson blood in the snow!

  She had to get to Malcolm—to hold him tight. She had to get out of Alaska. She had to keep going faster and faster—to put distance between herself and the chilling photos. But they were right here—inside her snowsuit, against her sweater, almost rubbing right against her skin.

  She was far away from the cabin—and going way too fast. Her goggles were around her neck and trees and thickets loomed ahead in the dark. She screamed from the pain in her ankle, vainly trying to stop before she smacked into the trees.

  Suddenly her bad foot swung from beneath her, a ski wrenched from her foot, and she lunged headlong into the snow.

  She’d been insane to come out here in a blizzard. She’d never make it back to Abby’s.

  Already, cold was seeping so deep into her bones that mere movement wouldn’t warm her. There was no dry wood in sight, she had no matches. And she was turned around, with no clue as to her direction.

  Somehow, she had to get back to Malcolm alive. Using her remaining ski as a cane, Fritzi rose, the pain in her ankle now unbearable. Her heartbeat felt erratic, her eyes darted right and left, trying to penetrate the snow and darkness.

  Limping blindly forward, she wended by feel through the trees. If she just headed downhill, maybe she’d find something familiar—a river or the lights of White Wolf Pass.

  Maybe she’d collapse and freeze to death.

  But she kept going—even after she knew she was hopelessly lost. Hours passed. She was no longer sure whether she was going uphill or down. The snow got deeper, the dark got darker, and the caws and howls of animals came closer. The snow lessened, blocked by the forest. But now she felt glinting yellow eyes follow her through the trees.

  She’d skied out here, propelled by maternal instincts, determined to protect herself and Malcolm. She’d meant to find her husband, David. Or to find out what Nathan Lafarge wanted. But all she’d found were pictures of murders. And now she was going to die.

  Her ankle twisted again.

  Her knees buckled. And she fell facedown into the snow.

  Heaven help her, but it was a relief. That cold snow numbed her whole leg, blotting out the pain. Her breathing began to slow. And the snow started feeling warm.

  Then something rolled her over—so forcibly she was sure a grizzly had found her. Life returned for a moment and her eyes flickered—and she found herself staring into the darkest, meanest, most murderous eyes she’d ever seen.

  They were the eyes of Nathan Lafarge.

  Chapter Five

  In the deep darkness of the cottonwood forest, the man looked larger than life, nearly mythic. His long, sleek raven hair blew wildly behind him, wet with glistening snow, and his brooding eyes were even more raging than the night storm. Fritzi lay in the snow and he towered over her—wearing snowshoes and glaring down, looking as powerfully untamed as the forces of nature all around them. His lips were pressed into a firm line, his face contorted into a barely controlled mask of fury.

  Was he going to kill her now?

  All Fritzi knew for certain was that his mere presence had generated enough kinetic heat in this frigid landscape to rouse her from unconsciousness, but her perceptions were still confused by hypothermia. With all her might, she tried to roll over and run, but her head merely wobbled, then sank onto the soft, freezing pillow of snow again. “Please…” Fritzi managed to say. Please don’t hurt me.

  He leaned forward. And Fritzi knew she’d lost her mind—because she suddenly recalled the searing heat of his lips. For a second, she felt like Snow White. Imprisoned in a glass coffin in the pure white snow, she’d slept the sleep of death, and now he was about to bring her to life again with a kiss.

  Or kill me. And bury me in the glass coffin. so I’ll sleep forever.

  Nathan did neither. His strong arms suddenly gripped her, so tightly she could barely breathe, and as he lifted her, Fritzi panicked, remembering the pictures from the cabin.

  She tried to bat Nathan away, to beg for his mercy. But her arms—languidly wrapped around his neck just nights before—were now too weak to move. And her lips—once swollen from his kisses—were now too frozen to even part. She could only wish he’d come to rescue her. But the rage in his eyes said he was more a hell-bent devil than a guardian angel, more a killer than a savior. Yes, his eyes said, she was lucky to be alive—for the moment.

  Not that she could bolt. She couldn’t even feel her own frozen body, or the envelope tucked inside the snowsuit she’d borrowed from Abby. All sensation was gone—the blood had drained from her limbs, leaving them limp and lifeless and numb.

  “What are you doing out here?” he thundered.

  Running from you. Trying to protect myself and get my baby. When she spoke, her voice cracked. “My baby…”

  “He’s still at your friend’s.”

  Fritzi decided to believe him because she wanted to, needed to.

  Murderous rage still in his eyes, Nathan turned abruptly, sweeping her in a semicircle. Heedless of the storm, he took long, sure strides down the mountain. His eyes seemed capable of piercing the darkness, allowing him to wend easily between heavy, snow-laden thickets
and tree boughs. Even dangerous gales seemed to push them from behind, bowing to his command. Through the deepest snowdrifts, he moved fast, never stumbling. Above the wind’s scraping and howling, his breath remained even, so unlabored he could have been carrying a child.

  But she was all woman. And against her will, she became aware of him as she slowly warmed—aware of the straining forearms circling her shoulders and knees, of the hot breath stroking her cold skin and the wild wisps of hair that trailed down her cheeks. A pine-smoke scent clung to her nostrils. Horrified, she realized she’d curled against this man’s flat, clenched belly and hard chest.

  But God only knew where this man was taking her! Mustering all her strength, she wrenched in Nathan’s arms. Her voice was barely audible. “Put me down….”

  He didn’t bother to respond, only gripped her tighter.

  Shutting her eyes and concentrating, Fritzi raised her fists and swung at his chest. As the feeble blows rained onto his parka, he kept moving. He was holding her so tight now she couldn’t turn in his arms and could barely breathe.

  Snow fell against her face, a shiver suddenly shook her shoulders, and then everything grayed out. Her heavy eyelids drifted shut and her cheek sank against his chest. Vaguely, she wondered if she hadn’t felt like this—nearly dead, just going through the motions—for the whole past year since David left. Wasn’t it true that only her love for Malcolm had kept her going? And my love for him will keep me going now, she thought.

  Some time passed. Fritzi didn’t know how long. She drifted in and out of consciousness, forgetting everything—even the strong arms of the man who was carrying her. And then she shivered again—realizing that, by degrees, her body was awakening and numbness was becoming pain. Her joints tensed and ached. Frostbitten toes and fingers started to sting. She tried to clench her teeth, but they chattered uncontrollably while prickly chills broke over her in showers.

  “There now,” he said softly.