by Lisa Gardner
“The militias haven’t ‘sprung’ from the earth as everyone seems to think. They’ve grown slowly and carefully over time, fertilized by the fear of our decay, and as with most movements, powered by a deeply buried kernel of truth.”
He paused, realizing suddenly everything that was pouring out and wondering if he’d said too much. His hands loosened on the wheel. He forced his shoulders straight. For six years, in the oppressive solitude of his jail cell, he’d turned over these issues in his mind, replaying his childhood like a movie reel that should have lost its color, as he sought to understand what of his upbringing he could accept and what he had to reject. He’d thought it would be a simple matter. He hadn’t realized how easily and tightly natural fears and rampant paranoia could mesh.
Now Cain forced his voice to sound light. “Well, at any rate. My mother found herself married to a husband who’d transformed himself from Bob the accountant to Zechariah the sermonizing militia leader, and she spent the rest of her days in a one-room cabin, hand-pumping water from a well and dressing fresh-killed deer.” And she’d grown old too fast, worn too fast. The only time he’d ever seen her faded eyes light up was when his father was gone and Abraham out. Then she’d sit down Cain, and tell him her one good story—the time she’d gone to Boise before he was born. Then her face would become animated once more as she described the wonders of the city, the crush of the people, the flavor of the streets. She only shared this story with him. It was their little secret, this quiet longing to leave the mountains and see what else was out there. To maybe live a little bit more.
“Oh,” Maggie said. Her face had paled again. “That . . . that must have been . . . very interesting.”
He smiled and forced himself back to attention. “You’re a lousy liar, Maggie.”
She nodded readily. Then as if following his lead for light conversation, offered, “It’s the fresh-killed deer thing. I don’t like blood. I can’t even buy hamburger from the grocery store because it makes me too sad.”
“Hamburger makes you sad?”
“Yes. Haven’t you ever seen a cow?”
“I’ve seen a cow,” he agreed slowly and with something akin to fatalism.
“But have you ever really looked at one?” She leaned forward earnestly, peering at him with those soulful blue eyes, and he had a hell of a time keeping his attention on the road. “They’re such gentle creatures, you know. You can scratch them behind the ears—they love to lick salt off your fingers. And their eyes . . . they have such huge liquid brown eyes and they are so trusting. Can you imagine turning that into hamburger?”
“Ah . . .” he said weakly, “no.”
She sat back with a sigh. “Exactly my point. But please, don’t tell my grandmother I said all that. She’s a farmer. She doesn’t really approve of overromanticizing animals. I once took one of the beautiful Swiss heifers for a pet—Maple—and the year she went dry, Grandma sent her out to get butchered along with the other dry cows. It didn’t matter that she had a name—it didn’t matter that I trained her to come when I called—”
“She trotted over whenever you called her name?”
“Oh yes. Just like Lassie.”
“Of course.”
“But then they butchered her.” Her face had gone pale with just the memory and she looked at him with troubled eyes. “Can you believe they had Maple one night for dinner?”
“No,” he said, honestly feeling a little queasy at the mere thought—and he was a man who appreciated a good steak. “But I’m beginning to understand how you ended up with a three-legged cat.”
“Exactly,” she said and slapped her knee. “Would you believe no one would give her a home just because she was missing her hind leg? I mean, she was born without it and she didn’t seem to miss it. If she could be so well-adjusted about it, why couldn’t the rest of us?”
“Of course,” he murmured and suddenly had this image of himself being slowly and methodically snowed under. “Why couldn’t the rest of us?”
“You’re not just humoring me, are you?” she asked abruptly, her voice suspicious.
“Maggie,” he said sincerely, “I wouldn’t do that.”
She relaxed again, and appeared satisfied, her gaze going back out to the windows and the verdant line of towering trees.
He stifled a yawn, then another, then figured he would have to bring it up sooner or later. “I have a project for you, Maggie,” he said lightly in the companionable silence.
“What’s that?”
“I’m getting very tired and it’s too dangerous to risk encountering my brother exhausted. We need to stop for the night so I can sleep. How should we manage that?”
“Night? Sleep?” she asked weakly. “Ah!”
“Exactly.”
Chapter 6
Brandon stood in the middle of the luxurious suite in the Waldorf Hotel looking conspicuously out of place in his ripped-up jeans, battered wool sweater, filthy T-shirt and boot-encased feet. He hadn’t shaved in two weeks. He hadn’t bathed in four days—sunken bathtubs were a little hard to find when hiking around the volcanoes of Indonesia. As a result, the concierge maintained a careful distance of ten feet and even then wrinkled his nose at the pervasive odor of sulfur.
Brandon didn’t blame him. He’d hiked the live volcanoes for nearly a month, the steaming ground pulsing and popping beneath his feet, and if he never smelled sulfur or ate a fried banana and hard-boiled egg sandwich again, he wouldn’t be sorry. Now he tipped the concierge generously, closed the door behind the man and started stripping off his clothes where he stood.
He’d never been out of shape or slovenly, but even so he barely recognized his body anymore. Whatever executive softness had existed had disappeared in the past two years, melting away slowly and surely as he hiked the complete length of the Appalachian Trail, scuba dived in Samui, went snowboarding in the Alps. He’d also rearranged a few joints and limbs along the way. Maybe men who grew up in private boarding schools weren’t meant to be rough and rugged after all.
He padded naked into the huge, gold-marbled bathroom and filled the tub. A suite was incredibly extravagant and just the right thing for a man bound and determined to lose money. Then again, he would gladly have paid a million dollars just for the deep, jet-propelled bathtub. With a groan and a grimace, he eased his aching body down, sinking into the wonderful heat, closing his eyes and letting the steam seep into his pores.
You’re back in New York, Brandon. What are you going to do now?
He’d avoided the city for two years. He’d thought it would be too much, that every place would remind him of her, that though he’d survived a freak blizzard on the AT and a startled encounter with two poisonous snakes in Samui, Central Park might still break him. Even now, through the rising sulfur-soaked steam, he thought he smelled his wife’s perfume and it was as beautiful and god-awful as ever. She’d loved cheap fragrances. She’d loved anything cheap and tacky. He’d proposed with a diamond, but she would have been just as thrilled with a paste ring from a gum ball machine.
He was right after all. New York still hurt.
He got out of the tub, dried off his whip-lean body and, knowing there was no point of returning to civilization without at least contacting it, called in to his answering service with the white bath towel roped around his bronzed flanks.
The first message was from his broker. The stock he’d bought in a failing company had just doubled—some white knight had come in unexpectedly and bailed the company out. Industry experts were thrilled, and Brandon, who had dedicated himself to losing his money, had just made fifty grand.
“Damn.”
The next message was from his mother, wanting to know why she had received only a lousy postcard for Mother’s Day and not a phone call. And where was he anyway and why was he so hard to get hold of? He was just as cold and insensitive and unfeeling as his father. . . .
Brandon skipped over the rest of the message.
The last message was fr
om C.J. Brandon replayed it twice, then calmly recradled the phone and got dressed while he buzzed the concierge. Two minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Brandon was already prepared.
“I’m leaving,” he announced without preamble. “Please take my bags downstairs and hail a cab.”
“But, sir, you just arrived—”
“Don’t worry. It’s nothing personal—the suite is as beautiful and overpriced as always.” He picked up his briefcase. “I reserved the whole week. Bill me for it.”
“That won’t be nece—”
“No, no, I insist.” Brandon smiled grimly, already striding out the door. “After all, it’s only money.”
• • •
They came down the other side of the mountain, catching up with the river and running alongside like its mate. Cain rolled down the window all the way, resting his arm on top of the door and feeling the fresh spring sun soak into his prison-white skin. The trees were greener than he remembered, the sky even more blue. The river fascinated him, looking like a mischievous child as it raced gleefully over stone boulders and fern-lined banks. Sometimes it plunged into full-fledged lakes, sometimes it thinned down to a babbling brook, but it never gave up completely, and Cain admired that a great deal.
The red-laced granite cliffs soaring up on his left, the snowcapped mountains beckoning out front, the blue, crisp water racing on his right. White and yellow daisies waved merrily from the protective shade of trees, and deep pink foxgloves rose up regal and serene above them, nodding in the wind like approving matrons supervising young, impetuous charges. Golden dandelions swept beneath it all, adding dazzling touches of sunlight to a pulsing, populated forest floor.
After six years of concrete walls, concrete floors and iron bars, the lush grandeur of the Cascades was almost enough to make him pull over the truck and roll in the carpet of moss, pine needles and wildflowers just to make sure it was real.
He’d been born in the mountains, then left them for the city. He’d been lying to himself all along. The trees were in his blood. He didn’t want to leave them again.
And his fertile mind ran away from him that quickly, drawing vast, impressive images of a two-story log cabin with towering panes of glass to let in the sky and two layers of decks for barbecue, and a four-wheel-drive vehicle for the winters and two German shepherds for company. He saw himself fishing along the riverbank, hunting deep in the forests, and skiing along the mountaintops.
He cut off the pictures before they grew roots and planted too firmly in his mind. The future was a luxury for innocent men. He had the police behind him and Ham ahead of him.
If you make it to Idaho, Cain, if you do find Ham, what will you do then?
Shoot him? Or get shot? And how do either of those options help you?
“Are you woolgathering?” Maggie asked at last, her gaze curious on his face.
“No. Playing chess.”
• • •
The Cascades surrendered to central Oregon. The sun grew fierce, the air unbearably dry. Moist greens gave way to a resilient brush of straggling pines and tumbling sagebrush. Red dust swirled along the side of the road, and while green rolling hills and white-topped mountains lined the horizon, they might have been just a mirage compared to the immediacy of red dirt and sun-bleached grass.
Cain’s eyes became dirty and gritty. He’d driven almost two hundred miles under intense stress and strain, and he was beginning to feel each moment as an oppressive heaviness pushing his body deeper and deeper into the seat. He approached Sisters, and the stark red landscape gave way to vast, cultivated fields where white, brown, and black llamas poised prettily with the snowcapped North and Middle Sisters mountains behind them. Next came the stables, with wooden corrals and sturdy Thoroughbreds already waiting at posts in Indian blankets and Western saddles. Finally came the town itself, small and charming with a single main street lined by Old West storefronts. Ice cream parlors. Saloons. Indian jewelry.
In a blink of an eye, Sisters was gone and the red, endless brush took over once more. Cain rubbed his weary eyes and knew he’d had enough. Bend loomed ahead of them, large, modern and easy to get lost in.
It was good enough for him.
“We’re stopping,” he said thirty minutes later when the outskirts of the city abruptly burst out of the land.
“Lunch?” Maggie asked hopefully, but her voice was already wary.
“Bed.”
Her face paled instantly. “It’s only four. The sun is still out.”
“Good. Then we can get up and drive again during the night.”
“But . . . but . . . my cats.”
“Are doing just fine. It’s one night, Maggie. You can handle it.”
She smiled weakly and flattened against her side of the truck.
Cain drove through the outskirts of town and finally selected a hotel that was close to the center, a long, two-story wooden structure tucked off the road alongside the river. It seemed to do plenty of business, the kind of place where two new people could pass unnoticed.
After turning off the ignition, he contemplated his options. Leave Maggie in the car handcuffed to the steering wheel, or take her in with him to get the room? He glanced over at her. She looked nervous and wary once more, as if she’d give anything to disappear. It would be too dangerous to leave her in the truck, he decided, let alone inhumane.
He produced the key and wordlessly took off the handcuffs. If anything, Maggie looked even warier. Slowly, she massaged her slim wrist. “Now what?”
“We go into the lobby and reserve a room.”
“One room?” Her voice was so faint he could barely hear it.
“One room, two beds.”
“Gee, thanks.” She squeezed her eyes shut and a small shudder rippled through her.
He reached over and picked up her hand. “Just a little bit longer,” he said steadily. “Think of it as your first Hathaway Red big adventure.”
“Harold wasn’t a convicted murderer,” she muttered.
Cain just smiled.
He popped open the door. She followed glumly, her head lowered and her red hair cascading down his arm. It felt cool and silky, but the color promised deeper fires. He turned his mind quickly from that direction. This woman and her fires or lack thereof were not his concern. Remember that, Cain. Remember that.
He led her to the lobby, his grip firm on her wrist.
“How many rooms, sir?” the attendant asked politely.
“One,” Cain said, not taking his eyes off Maggie. Her blue eyes had latched onto the dark green carpet. Now they swept up slowly, steadily homing in on the attendant. Cain’s body tensed. Was she going to try something? Unconsciously, he gripped her hand more tightly. Immediately, her gaze plummeted to the floor.
“Smoking or nonsmoking, sir?”
“Nonsmoking.”
“A king-size bed, sir?”
“Two beds.”
“Twin-size or queen?”
“Would you just give me a damn room!” The explosion of temper made Maggie jump and the attendant blanch. For a minute, Cain just stood there, unable to think. He’d never lost his cool before. He couldn’t afford to lose his cool. Stay in control just a few minutes longer, dammit. Don’t do anything stupid now.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. His left hand slid into his pocket and pulled out the cash. That got the attendant’s attention. “Sorry,” Cain forced out more calmly. “It’s been a long day. We’d like one room, with two beds, whatever size you have available.”
The attendant stared at his screen for a minute, then braved another direct glance at Cain. “We have one room, nonsmoking, two queen-size beds overlooking the river.”
“The river? Perfect.”
The attendant rattled off the price and Cain began peeling off bills. He needed some sleep. A long, hot shower, and a deep, deep slumber.
• • •
“Look,” he said five minutes later with forced bravado, “two beds, jus
t like the man said.”
Maggie nodded with the stricken expression of a woman dancing on a tightrope. She half walked, half tiptoed into the blue-and-beige-colored room, looking like a skittish colt and careful to keep at least five feet between them at any given time.
Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the edge of the bed closest to the door. That made her dance back five more steps. “Maggie,” he said at last, his tone a bit dry, “I’m a murderer, not a rapist.”
“Oh goody. I’d forgotten.”
“Are you becoming hysterical?”
“Why would I do a thing like that?” She was definitely becoming hysterical.
There was no good way of doing this. If he’d been a compassionate man, he would have just let her go. But he couldn’t do that. Not just yet. Sooner or later, when Ham was closer, the decisions would become more difficult. For now, the immediate danger was the police, and she was his only bargaining chip. In chess, maneuvering was critical, but so was the strategic sacrifice of key pieces.
He rose off the bed and picked up the handcuffs. Her blue eyes widened. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry. It’s only for a short bit.”
“Wh-what?” She was already too late. He slipped the handcuff over her wrist, then with one deft move, attached the other end to the bedpost.
“I have to go run some errands,” he said calmly. “I’ll try to be back as soon as possible.”
“You can’t just leave me like this!”
He picked up the remote control and handed it to her. “Entertainment.” His lips twisted. “Welcome to prison life.”
She simply stared at him. “You are so cold.”
“Yes. What would you like for dinner, fried chicken, pizza or hamburger? You can choose.” He tried smiling, but it felt weak and dispirited on his face.
“Dinner?” she whispered. “You handcuff me to the bed and then you ask me about dinner?”
He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and touched her cheek with his thumb. She cringed instantly and he accepted that. It was the least he deserved.
