by Lisa Gardner
Brandon blinked startled eyes at that. Maggie beamed proudly. “So you’re in?”
“Of course,” Brandon grumbled. He gave her another once-over, then submitted with a sigh. “You know we worry about you.”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Maybe I’ve let you worry too much. Maybe it’s time for me to stop letting you fight my wars.”
“Maggie, you know we don’t see it like that—”
She held up a silencing hand, then gave up and stepped forward enough to catch her brother’s hand. “But I saw it like that, Brandon. I did. And now I’m twenty-seven years old and I want to stand on my own two feet. I know you still don’t believe me, but Cain is innocent. Once you’ve spoken to him, once you realize what kind of man he is, you’ll know he couldn’t have committed murder. You’ll like him, Brandon. He’s so much like you.”
“You’ve only known him for twenty-four hours,” Brandon warned softly.
Her expression settled. She looked at him levelly. “And how long did you know Julia before you realized she was the one?”
His face tightened spasmodically, that ache slashing through his eyes and hurting her because she knew she’d inflicted the pain by mentioning Julia’s name. Maggie had never seen Brandon happier than the day he’d stood at the altar with the sassy, irreverent Julia at his side. And she’d never seen him so lost as the day he stood shell-shocked beside his lovely wife’s grave.
He didn’t say anything now. She hadn’t thought that he would. But his fingers squeezed hers and that was enough.
She turned enough for her gaze to include C.J. “All right,” she said quietly. “We need a plan.”
• • •
The sky was growing dark when Maggie and C.J. crept back up the hillside. It was only two o’clock, but storm clouds were gathering and another spring downpour seemed imminent. They’d sent Brandon into town to purchase supplies, including any surveillance equipment possible. In the meantime, Maggie and C.J. had retrieved the field first-aid kit C.J. had brought with him from the trunk of the rental car and they were off to find Cain. Of course, C.J. had suggested he go alone and Maggie attend to some vague duty such as “keeping others occupied.” She’d set him straight in a hurry—she was going up that hill to help Cain.
There weren’t many officers to keep busy anymore anyway. Most were merrily encircling Bend after Maggie had told them Cain planned backtracking and holing up for a spell. Only Joel and Detective McDougal remained, and that was because ostensibly they had more questions for Maggie. She’d informed them she needed a nap first and she would come find them when she woke up. Really, these covert activities weren’t as difficult as she would have guessed.
Now, the stark red hillside was barren and quiet. The wind whipped at her cheeks, pressing the light cotton of her new khaki pants against her legs. The black baseball cap covered her hair and she still wore the too-big T-shirt, though Brandon had brought fresh clothes for her. The cap and T-shirt tied her to Cain, and she didn’t want to lose those ties.
C.J. paused in front of her, finally twisting his flattened body enough to peer back at her.
“I think I see the ravine. Is he armed?”
“Yes.”
“Is he going to shoot me?”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe I should go first.”
C.J.’s expression clearly stated what he thought of that idea. She ignored him and scurried forward impatiently.
“If he was going to shoot me,” she informed her distrusting brother sourly, “he would’ve done it already.”
“I don’t like this,” C.J. stated for the record.
“Just keep moving, MacNamara,” she retorted defiantly and crept stealthily forward.
She could see the ravine now, as well. Her footsteps quickened and she would have clambered up to run if not for C.J.’s hissed warnings to keep her butt down. She kept her eyes on the ravine and slithered forward as rapidly as possible.
“Hang in there, Cain,” she murmured. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Had he passed out by now? Was he delirious from blood loss and pain? Would he forgive her for taking so long to return?
She wanted so desperately to see his face again so she’d know for herself that he was all right.
The ravine cracked open, its depths protected by an inky blackness. She glanced back one last time. C.J. was on her heels, Beretta in hand, but other than that the hillside was clear. They’d made it.
“Put the gun away,” she commanded her overactive brother.
“Like hell,” he informed her. “Locked, cocked and ready is the only way a Marine makes an entrance.”
“Rambo,” she muttered.
He grinned charmingly. “Rambo was a wimp, Maggie—an army man.”
Maggie gave up on him and rolled her eyes. “Cain?” she whispered instead. “Cain?”
She thought she heard the soft echo of her voice bounce through the snaking ravine. Other than that, she heard nothing. She took another step forward, then another. C.J. was pressed to her side, his ribs against her shoulder. She could feel the tension radiate from him and see the dark shadow of the gun held poised against his chest.
“You’re making me nervous,” she whispered, and true to her words, her voice held an unsteady warble.
“Call his name again,” C.J. ordered. Compared to her he sounded like steel.
She did. She called Cain’s name again and again. She walked deeper into the ravine. She searched the shadows. She reached out her hands as if that would make him materialize once more in her arms.
But he was nowhere to be found. Nowhere at all.
“I don’t understand!” she cried at last, and C.J. finally lowered his gun, wrapping his arms around her trembling shoulders instead.
“You only knew him twenty-four hours,” he said softly.
She beat her fists against his hard belly. “It’s not like that!” she insisted. “It’s not like that at all! You don’t understand. He’s a good man. He’s not like . . .”
“He’s not like Max,” C.J. said quietly. “At least you hoped not.”
He cradled her head and she began to cry. She couldn’t believe he’d left her. She’d been so sure he wouldn’t do something like that. He was supposed to trust her as she trusted him.
At last, she forced herself to stand away, stubbornly wiping the tears from her cheek. “He had a good reason,” she insisted tremulously. “Maybe the dogs were on his tail, or the helicopters got too close. . . .” She looked at C.J. for confirmation. “Do you think?”
“We should go back to town, now,” C.J. said quietly. “How long has it been since you’ve slept, Maggie?”
“I’m not leaving the area.”
“Maggie—”
“I’m not leaving.”
C.J. took a deep breath. “Listen, the town is just at the bottom of the hillside. We’ll check into the hotel. You can get some rest. Brandon and I will continue looking for Cain.” C.J. held up a hand against her automatic protest. “I swear to you Brandon and I will behave ourselves. No rampant death and destruction. We’ll be perfectly nice vengeful relatives. I promise.”
Maggie thought she should argue more, but suddenly the trauma and exhaustion caught up to her and she would have fallen if not for C.J.’s arm suddenly gripping her shoulder. He looked at her with so much compassion, she almost burst into tears again.
“We’ll help you,” he whispered and his fingers rubbed her neck lightly. “You know we’d give our eyeteeth to make you happy.”
“I want to fight,” she whispered soggily.
“In a few hours,” he assured her. “Even G.I. Joe requires rest.”
He took her hand and led her out of the ravine. The wind slapped them immediately, ripping through the stubby brush and howling its growing rage. Night seemed to have descended in just five minutes, the storm clouds reaching full boil.
C.J. shook his head once more, and when he looked at her his eyes were knowing. “Ug
ly night, Maggie,” he murmured. “Ugly night.”
• • •
Joel paced the tiny room three more times, then gave up. He scowled at Detective McDougal, but the older man could only shrug. Maggie had said she’d ring them when she woke up, but that had been two hours ago. Of course, the poor woman was exhausted so who knew how long she’d sleep.
Joel felt more frustrated than ever before. “I’m going to Bend,” he snapped at last.
Once again, McDougal shrugged. Joel was on personal time; he could go wherever the hell he chose. Still disgruntled and restless, Joel finally stalked out to his four-by-four and started up the engine.
He’d just put it in gear when the gun was pressed against his ear.
“Joel,” Cain said quietly.
The young man’s eyes widened in the rearview mirror; then just as abruptly his face split into a snarl.
“No!” Cain pressed the gun hard to remind the rash young man of all the things at stake. “Don’t do anything stupid now. That won’t help Kathy.”
“Don’t you say her name. You haven’t the right to say her name!”
“I have more right than you think,” Cain said softly. He risked a glance around the parking lot. The first fat raindrops plastered the windshield, providing him with more cover. Still, his thigh felt as if it were on fire and he was growing woozier. His original plan of running to Idaho to search for evidence had already come and gone.
Now he was down to hours and minutes. Now he was making it up as he went along and hoping he didn’t pass out before it was over. He didn’t want a confrontation. He didn’t want to shoot his brother or any more violence. He just wanted the truth.
Heaven help him.
“Shoot me,” Joel snarled from the front seat, his nostrils flared impressively with his rage. “Shoot me or get the hell out of my vehicle!”
And Cain felt the weariness press down against him. He wanted to slap this young man silly and tell him to stop being so stupid. Life was more precious than that. Survival more important. As long as you were alive, you always had a chance.
Maggie.
He kept his voice steady, though his vision was starting to swim. “I know you don’t believe me, Joel, but I didn’t kill Kathy. I know who did, though, and you’re going to help me catch him. I’ll give you justice, Joel. Grant me two hours and I will give you justice.”
Joel still gnashed his teeth, but when Cain finally demanded the CB, he complied. At Cain’s instructions, he issued the call code for Ham, broadcasting it over several frequencies.
Abruptly there was a click across the crackling airwaves as one of the frequencies finally found their target and Abraham responded.
“Hello, Ham,” Cain said simply. “We need to talk.”
“I won’t talk about that bi—”
“We’re not going to talk about her,” Cain overrode steadily. He looked at Joel, taking in the young man’s dark gaze, filled with so much rage. He thought of Ham and just how lethal his older brother could be. Knight to rook two. Winner takes all.
It was the last gambit he had. “I want to meet,” he repeated. “No guns, no outsiders. Just you and me.”
“I’ve got nothing to say—”
“Yes, you do. We’re going to talk about Dad, Abraham. Dad. Because it may have taken me a bit, but I finally know everything.”
• • •
Maggie left C.J. in the small lobby and walked to her room on shaking legs. The thought of sinking down into the black void of sleep was suddenly so appealing she could barely get her key into the lock.
She’d just finally slipped it in when she heard the footsteps behind.
“I’m fine, C.J.,” she said reflexively and half turned to throw her overprotective brother a reassuring glance.
And for one moment, she thought the man was Cain and her gaze had already begun to melt.
But he wasn’t Cain. Her gaze picked up too many discrepancies. His face was too dark and weather-beaten. His blue eyes were not calm, but glowed with a bone-deep purpose that made her shake. He was outfitted for the hunt, and in less than five seconds she realized that made her the prey.
Abraham. He had to be Abraham.
“The hostage woman,” he murmured. “The police told me your hair was on fire.”
He took one step forward and with a rapid move she couldn’t even follow, he grabbed her arm and twisted it cruelly behind her back.
“We got an appointment,” he said simply in her ear, and slapped his other hand over her mouth before she could scream. “No noise and maybe I’ll let you live. Don’t know yet.”
He dragged her effortlessly down the hall and held her too tightly to even struggle.
• • •
C.J.’s feet popped off the coffee table in the motel lobby and hit the floor with a dull thud. “What the hell?”
His gaze peered out into the dark, dense rainfall and the two figures moving toward an old pickup truck. Visibility was shot, but there was no mistaking that red hair.
“Damn!”
He was up out of the chair and already pulling out his gun while the lobby receptionist gasped and dove for cover. Brandon picked that minute to walk down the hallway from his room, saving C.J. the inconvenience of having to break down his door.
“Move,” C.J. commanded and Brandon didn’t blink. He recognized the grim edge of his brother’s voice and he moved.
“Cain?” Brandon yelled above the rainfall as they bolted from the lobby toward C.J.’s rental car. Both of their gazes had picked up the blue truck that was already pulling out of the parking lot.
“Who else?”
C.J. hopped into the car, gunned the engine and barely gave Brandon time to close his door. One second later and they were peeling off in pursuit, the rain hammering against their vehicle.
“I’m going to kill him,” C.J. promised simply.
“Me first,” Brandon murmured.
“You never used to be so bloodthirsty, Brandon.”
Brandon didn’t reply.
• • •
The world was spinning. Sometimes it righted itself enough for him to pinpoint the brown carpet and gold bedspread of a truly hideous motel room. But mostly the world spun and Cain was beginning to realize that his venture was truly just a pipe dream. He was going to pass out cold and that would be the end of it.
He struggled for lucidity, forcing himself to sit up in the threadbare wingback chair. He couldn’t feel his left leg anymore. No more pain, just a curious numbness and pinpricks of coldness he figured were bad signs.
He’d made it here, though. He had the room registered in Ham’s name so his brother would be sure to find it. He even had Joel handcuffed in the bathroom, serving as a living tape recorder of the events about to unfold since Cain didn’t have the time or money for electronic devices. No doubt the junior officer was digging through the complimentary toiletry items with his toes, searching for tools to pick the handcuff lock while inventing new ways of killing Cain once he was free.
At least the pieces were assembled on the board. Cain had made it that far.
It had been two hours since he’d contacted Ham by radio. Ham had said he would need that long to get to the chosen hotel. Cain didn’t know where his brother was at the time of the call to confirm that one way or the other. The two-hour delay had been painful, though, putting him at a further disadvantage. He was growing weaker and weaker. If Ham didn’t get here soon, the end would be very anticlimactic. Ham breaking down the door, Cain already passed out cold.
Fight the pain. Dammit, Cain, fight it!
He placed his gun in the bedside drawer, not completely out of reach, but not conspicuous. He’d told Ham to come unarmed but didn’t believe for a minute that that would be the case. Still, Cain wanted to avoid a standoff or shootout as long as possible. In his opinion, a hail of bullets was definitely a worst-case scenario. Whether he died or Ham died, the effect would be the same—the truth would never be told. Cain needed the truth
.
But what about Ham’s point of view on the subject? Cain had always done a poor job of anticipating Ham’s actions. Did his older brother hate him enough to kill him? As a child, Cain had never understood why Ham seemed to resent him. After all, Ham had been the oldest son and their father’s favorite. Of course, the Old Testament didn’t put much stock in oldest sons, and in fact seemed to favor younger siblings. Thus Abel was chosen above Cain, Jacob over Esau, Joseph above his brothers.
But even if Ham was worried about Cain someday usurping his place, surely when Cain left the state that would have quieted such fears. Instead, Ham had come after him. Ham had hunted him down even though Cain had not spoken to him in five years. And when Ham had appeared, he’d known so much about Cain’s life.
That should have been Cain’s first clue.
He heard footsteps in the hallway. With a deep breath, he fought back the darkness once more and dimly managed to grasp a last hold on reality. Just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer.
Sharp rapping on the door.
He sat up and dug his teeth into his lower lip as the pain lanced through him sharply. “It’s open,” he called out, his fingers squeezing the armrests for support. “Come in.”
The door opened slowly. Cain was already holding himself stiffly, gritting his teeth through the swirling madness and preparing himself for Ham’s lean, lanky form.
He wasn’t ready at all for a pale, stumbling woman with glowing red hair.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “Oh no.”
Maggie stumbled into the room, her face drawn and frightened, her shoulders slumped. His first thought was to pretend ignorance. To dismiss Maggie out of hand as nothing more than a pawn he’d already discarded, as if he couldn’t care less what happened to her.
But he took one look at her and knew Ham would never believe him. Already her face was transforming. She had simply to see him and suddenly she blossomed. Her spine stiffened; her shoulders straightened. She rose in the dimly lit room and her face took on the glowing radiance of a woman in love. This was his Maggie, the fighter, the rebel. She was probably thinking she’d dance the lambada in a black lace scarf to rescue him.
