by Kylie Brant
Zach rolled his eyes. But his mood abruptly darkened in the next moment when the man made a grab for Caitlin’s arm. She deflected his grasp easily enough by throwing up a forearm and stepping aside. Pushing away from the tree, he was striding toward the couple before he had the conscious thought to move. “You about done down there, Cait?”
The guy froze, his eyes widening at the sight of Zach. “Ah . . . I was just asking her if she needed any help.” He gave a weak laugh, his gaze moving between the two of them and back again. “I see now that she doesn’t so I’ll just . . . ah . . .” He jerked a thumb back toward the tub and inched away.
Zach simply stared until the guy flinched a little. “Yeah. Why don’t you do that?”
Cheesedick started to turn but got no more than a few steps before he slipped and began to fall backward. Swiftly Cait took a few steps in the stream toward him and caught his arm to steady him, but the momentum of his fall had her losing her balance, as well. She went down hard on one knee, bracing herself with one hand in the water, but managed to keep the guy semi-upright until he regained his footing.
“Geez, I’m sorry. Really. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Cait was on her feet again, wiping her hand on the leg of her jeans.
The guy had turned to her once again, his expression sheepish. “Now you’re wet, after all.” He nodded to her half-soaked pant leg. “I’ve got a towel up by the tub.”
“I’m okay.” Her tone was polite, but she was already making her way back up the slight embankment.
Cheesedick looked like he was about to say something else, but then he happened to glance Zach’s way again. “Well, thanks again.” He made his way carefully back toward the tub, where hopefully sheer embarrassment would have him thinking twice before tossing lame lines at the next woman who happened by. Zach wondered if the man was capable of realizing that the female he’d just tried to accost likely could have kicked his ass with very little effort. He’d gotten off lucky.
Cait appeared to have already forgotten about the incident. She was back on her haunches taking more soil samples and carefully labeling each clear container before moving several feet away to repeat the process.
Zach found a nearby fir to prop his shoulder against and prepared to wait. And to wonder what hot springs had to do with the skeletons he’d found in that cave.
“Where to next?”
“Terwilliger is closest, isn’t it?”
Without answering he nosed his Trailblazer out of the Springs Resort parking lot and headed out of town. Since there wasn’t a damn thing to do except drive her around and watch her, he kept his mind busy trying to figure out just what the hell she was doing. She hadn’t just taken soil samples in various areas around the springs; she’d waded in, too. Not taking water samples. Just looking.
Problem was, since answers weren’t forthcoming, he’d settled on just looking, too. At her. It sure as hell was no hardship.
She didn’t exactly downplay her looks, but she didn’t do a lot to call attention to them, either. Her hair was usually pulled back like today, discounting the time she’d loosened it to taunt him. Her casual clothes hadn’t been selected to turn heads. Trouble was, she was the type to turn heads regardless, and he couldn’t quite figure out whether she was just used to it so didn’t pay it any attention or whether she just didn’t give a damn. Given her attitude, he was beginning to suspect the latter.
He lifted a hand to return Jodie Paulsen’s nod of greeting as the man wrestled a trough into the back of his pickup. Probably had had the thing welded again for Tim Jenkins, the farmer Jodie did chores for. Most people would have bought a new feed trough years ago, but no one pinched a dime tighter than the miserly Jenkins.
As he headed toward Highway 126, he noticed the woman beside him swiping her hand down the leg of her jeans. And the streak it left behind.
“What’d you do?”
With one eye on the road, he leaned over and opened up the glove box. Grabbing a handful of fast-food napkins, he shoved them at her before closing the compartment again.
“Scraped it on a rock helping that idiot out of the water.”
One side of his mouth kicked up at her irritated response, but the smile faded when he glanced over again. “Jesus, don’t bleed all over my car.” Though she’d wadded up the napkins against the wound, it was oozing too fast to be a mere scrape.
“Nice bedside manner, Sharper. Ever consider the medical field? You’d be a natural in a trauma.”
Sarcasm he could handle. And it almost, almost pushed aside the images her words had conjured.
The blast of the explosion flinging them backward. The horrible realization that the body parts raining down all around him came from Drummy and Simms.
And Becker . . . there’d been nothing left of Becker but pink mist.
He kicked that mental door shut and brought himself back to the here. The after.
The napkins were doing little to staunch the flow. After a brief hesitation he slowed, pulled over to the shoulder, and put the vehicle in park. “Let me see.”
He half expected to see little more than a scratch, even with the copious amount of blood staining the napkins. But the wound in her palm—a palm she relinquished only grudgingly—was about two inches long, and deep. “You did this when you helped cheesedick?”
“Cheese—” Her lips quirked. “Catchy. And oddly fitting. Yeah. I slapped a Band-Aid over it under my glove so I could finish up my samples. But I could use some Steri-Strips.” She looked at him hopefully. “You don’t happen to have any in your bag, do you?”
“You need stitches,” he said flatly. More Band-Aids would be useless, and that’s about all he had in the first aid kit in his pack. “I think there’s a physician’s assistant staffing the medical clinic here most days.”
“That’ll take hours. Just find me a store where I can buy Steri-Strips, and we can be on our way.”
He sat contemplating her, ignoring her discreet tugs to release her hand. It occurred to him that he should have noticed her injury sooner. But after a while he’d just focused on not watching her. Seemed smarter that way.
Reaching a decision, he put the Trailblazer into gear and checked the mirrors before pulling a U-turn to head back into town. “The General Store isn’t going to have what you need. Maybe you can talk the PA out of stitches, but the clinic is the only place to get what you need.”
“I’m not going to the doctor.”
The words sounded like they’d been issued through gritted teeth. Ignoring them, he turned at the corner and drove the two blocks west to the small boxlike building that held the town’s clinic. And uttered an oath when he saw the overflowing parking lot.
“Like I said, I’m not wasting the rest of the day. Just forget it.” She was bent over the bag she had wedged between her feet and was rummaging through it with her good hand. “I can rig something else up that’ll work until I get back to Eugene this evening.”
“You need to wash the wound out.” Years of experience had taught him the wisdom of avoiding infection. The obvious solution occurred, was firmly rejected. He had what she needed at home, but everything inside him rebelled at the thought of taking her there. Guests were rarely invited. And by no stretch of the imagination did Caitlin Fleming qualify as that.
“I’ve got some sanitary towelettes in here somewhere,” she muttered, her head still bent over the bag. “Just head over to Terwilliger. We’ve wasted enough time already.” She pulled a small wrapper from her pack, ripped it open and removed a couple moist wipes. As she pressed them to her palm, they immediately darkened with blood.
Deliberately, he headed for the highway again. The gash was on the fleshy part of her palm. The wound would ooze heavily, but it wasn’t like she was in danger of bleeding out, for cris sakes. If it wasn’t important enough for her to want to see a doctor, why the hell should he waste time worrying about it?
There was a rustle of paper. He flicked a glance in her direction and saw her taking h
er wrapped sandwich out of its plastic bag and filling the bag instead with the bloody napkins and wipes.
“Shit,” he muttered. There wasn’t a conscious decision. He just found himself turning off at the next corner. Heading for the isolated drive a couple miles down the road that would lead to his heavily wooded piece of property.
And he tried to ignore the clutch in his belly that warned him he was about to make a very big mistake.
“This is your house?” Vaguely stunned, Cait opened the door of his Trailblazer to jump out and stare up at the mass of angled cedar and glass. The drive to this place had to have been at least a mile long, every inch of it lined with trees that canopied overhead. No fewer than three times Zach had had to get out of the Trailblazer to unfasten a chain blocking the way. It didn’t surprise her that he was a man that didn’t relish company.
But this surprised her. The home looked like it would pass for a small hotel itself, surrounded by thick stands of firs and junipers as far as the eye could see. There were no curtains or shades at the windows that she noted. Why would he need them? With the woods surrounding him, privacy was practically guaranteed.
“It was my grandfather’s property.” His voice was brusque as he headed toward the house at a rapid clip. She could tell he was already regretting bringing her. “There was a resort here at one time, before it burned down when I was a kid. He left it to me and I’m rebuilding, on a smaller scale.”
Belatedly, she noted the signs of construction in progress. The four-car garage lacked doors, and lumber and power tools were stacked neatly inside. As she followed him up to the planks that served as a walkway to the house, she noticed that only the front had the polished glazed cedar siding, while the other sides were unfinished. There was far more to be done here, but what was completed was nothing short of magnificent.
And about as far removed as possible from what she would imagine for him.
She stopped while he unlocked a side door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. Without waiting for an invitation, she followed.
Things were even less finished here. She ignored his brusque order to stay put and wandered freely around the lower level while he headed toward the back of the house. Obviously the kitchen wasn’t a high priority, since he had little more than the plumbing, gas pipes, saw horses dotting the area and a decades-old fridge. But the room was large, with a wall of windows that would open it up to the outside. Make a person feel like they were a part of nature.
The great room was next, and Zach must spend some time there, as it was furnished with soft dark leather couches and chairs and the prerequisite—for a man anyway—big-screen TV. The room ran the width of the house, with gleaming wood floors and two walls of glass on opposite sides. In front of one large window that showed flashes of the river between the dense pines was a card table and chair. Obviously his dining needs were simple. Her gaze lingered on the lone chair. And solitary.
He came out from what must be a bathroom with a handful of supplies, and seeing her farther inside, scowled. “You don’t follow orders very well.”
“I don’t follow orders at all,” she corrected absently. At least not Sharper’s. But she trailed after him when he went to the card table to dump the supplies he’d gathered and took the wet washrag he handed her. As awkward as it was to work one-handed, she much preferred that to leaving herself to Sharper’s tender mercies. Not that he’d offered.
Right now he was surveying her with a closed impassive expression that was all too familiar. No doubt it melted most women into a pile of quaking nerves.
Cait rarely quaked. And it would take more than an ill-tempered male to make her nervous. She took her time cleaning the wound and applying anti-bacterial spray that—damn him—stung like a bitch. The gash was still oozing sullenly, but once she closed it up, it should be little enough problem, as long as she kept it clean. Hopefully she wasn’t going to be doing any more rock climbing in the near future.
When it came time to apply the Steri-Strips, she said, “Help me out here, will you?”
Silently he took the adhesive she was holding and ripped its package. Then, while she held the wound closed he fixed the strips into place. He worked swiftly until he had four strips applied, finally pausing to survey his handiwork. “Slap a Band-Aid over it and you’ll be fine. Gonna leave a scar, though.”
She picked up a large square Band-Aid from the pile of supplies and used her teeth to open it. “I’ve got worse.” His eyes flared in what she took for interest, but if he was curious he didn’t speak it. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that Sharper wasn’t one to probe.
Of course, he might just not give a damn. And given his personality, she thought that was equally likely.
After fitting the Band-Aid over the strips, she began picking up the mess. “Thanks for the first aid.”
“Leave it,” he said shortly. “I’ll get it later.” Turning, he headed toward the door. Since she had no idea where a trash container might be, Cait set the wrappers down and went to follow him. He couldn’t have made it more obvious that he was anxious to get her out of his house.
Trailing behind him, she took one last look around. A person’s home often revealed a lot about the individual. Sharper’s disclosed only that he liked nature and valued his privacy, neither fact exactly earthshaking.
Nosiness was part of her job. So she blamed that trait for wanting to lag behind and poke around more. After all, Sharper was not only the person who’d found the skeletons.
From her recollection of the maps, there could be hot springs somewhere on this property.
The meal wasn’t much. Just a cheese sandwich and soup. But he fussed with the tray the way he remembered his mother doing when he was sick. Presentation was everything.
Carefully he headed to the cellar door, shooing Iron Man, one of his Himalayans, out of the way. He set the tray on a nearby shelf while he unlocked the dead bolt, hand on the butt of the pistol tucked into his waistband. He needed to be ready for the remote chance there was a nasty surprise waiting for him on the other side of the door.
But the entrance to the basement was empty except for shadows.
Cheerfully, he flicked on the lights, replaced the pistol to pick up the tray, and headed down the steep steps. At one time, the cellar had been little more than an earthen dugout. But he’d reinforced the walls with cement blocks and poured a concrete floor. Then carefully laid thick insulation to provide further soundproofing. He was good with his hands and details like that rarely escaped him.
He passed through his workroom downstairs and again set the tray down, on his desk this time, his hand on his weapon as he unlocked the door to the inner chamber. The door swung open, revealing his newest guest.
The woman sat slumped in the lawn chair he’d provided, her wrists shackled to the heavy rings he’d drilled into the walls. Of course she was naked. They always were. How else would they relieve themselves, with their hands bound like that?
Because he was a gentleman, he averted his eyes. It had been a long time since he’d been attracted to anyone except Sweetie. A pang of guilt stabbed him, but he nudged it away. The other didn’t count. A man had needs. And he and Sweetie . . . well . . . that was complicated.
“Dinnertime.” He set the tray on the floor close enough for the woman to reach, but remembered to stay well out of the way of her unbound feet. “You’ll have to use the straw for the soup, too. But I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. Take just a tiny sip at first. You don’t want to burn your mouth.” He crossed to the shelves on the far walls, turned on the CD player.
“Please.” Her voice was hoarse, and it served her right, with all the screaming she’d done over the last few days. He’d told her—he always told them—that screaming wouldn’t help. None of them listened.
He hated to use duct tape to silence them. It seemed disrespectful somehow. Luckily it was rarely necessary. The inner chamber was so well insulated, he could barely hear the screaming when he was worki
ng in the very next room.
“I swear if you let me go I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just let me go. I want to go home.” Her voice ended on a whimper.
“Are you in the mood for jazz or oldies?” She’d told him her favorites the very first night. They always told him whatever he asked at the beginning. He was a very good listener. Everyone said so. He slipped in a disc of Benny Goodman and turned to smile at her. “I’ll empty your chamber pot while you eat. Enjoy your meal.”
“Let me go!” The chains rattled as she lunged for him. And he didn’t feel a bit sorry when they stopped her progress, yanking her back by the wrists with a force that would surely leave bruises. “You monster! You fucking son of a bitch! Let me go-o-o-o . . .”
He swung the door shut behind him, immune, almost, to her cursing. It was a shame she was upset because her screeching was going to drown out the music he’d arranged for her.
His guests could be so ungrateful. It was enough some days to make him wonder why he bothered.
Chapter 5
“This is fucking lame.”
Cait was so preoccupied that it took her a moment to shift her attention from the solution she was studying to the voice of her assistant. Without looking up she murmured, “You owe me a buck.”
“Put it on my tab.” Kristy’s voice held a yawn. “How come you get the sexy work? Detecting latent fingerprints on bone is fucking cutting edge. And what do I get to do? I get to look at mother-fucking dirt.”
“Keep it up and you’ll be buying me lunch.” Cait carefully poured the solution she’d prepared over the pulverized bone fragment she’d extracted from female C. “I’m not going to get around to testing for latents today anyway. These tests will take hours. Although I may be able to get the visual examination done with the alternate light source, so at least that step would be completed.”
With the advances made in the missing persons databases recently, she couldn’t overlook the possibility that DNA would ultimately identify one of their victims. And samples for those tests had to be gathered prior to testing for fingerprints the UNSUB may have left on the bones or even before cleaning the skeletal remains.
