by Sue Henry
She hesitated.
There was a lot he was asking her that had nothing to do with the formal questions, and they both knew it. It was clear that she wanted to answer what he asked her, no more. But there was more. He watched as she turned her head to look at the young man—the boy, really—in the wheelchair, and made the choice, because of him, to tell this trooper what she knew—or suspected. He didn’t imagine her husband had told her much.
“Mrs. Wynne?”
She looked back at him and, if possible, sat up even straighter in her chair as she spoke in a soft monotone.
“For the last two weeks he’s told me he was working on a special project in Palmer. He’s been gone out there a lot. He said it was just a one-time job that would be over soon and he wouldn’t have to go back. He said he was cleaning up someone else’s sloppy work and putting the books in order. When he left Sunday, he said he had to go down the Kenai Peninsula to finish up part of it and would be back sometime midweek.”
“Why did you wait till today to tell Mr. Peters what your husband told you to say about J. B. Moule using the computer at the job site?”
“It seemed an unnecessary complaint. We need this job. It’s the best one we have.”
“Do you know where and how to reach your husband? If there was an emergency…”
“No. He hasn’t called—didn’t leave me a number.”
Something shifted in her eyes and Alex could see that she was deeply concerned and vulnerable in her suspicions.
“Is that usual?”
“No. He always leaves me one, in case…” She glanced at her son in explanation. “I never know when…Michael…sometimes has seizures.”
As if this confession had shattered something essential, her expression slowly crumpled into an aspect of appalling anguish, but there were still no tears. She brought her hands up and for a long moment covered her face. When she took them away, she was once again in control, but there was no pride left in her posture. It was her responsibility to ransom what could be salvaged for her son, so she couldn’t afford pride—but there was an honorable kind of dignity on her face.
“Ross…isn’t really a vengeful man, Sergeant. He’s just a broken one. He loved…was so proud of Michael. We couldn’t have other children, so he invested everything—his whole life—in Michael. It cost him too much, when his only…only son was…destroyed…this way. It might have been better if…” She stopped, couldn’t finish the thought—but he understood.
“And because Moule was the cause of that destruction and got away with it, your husband couldn’t let it go.”
“No. But he…couldn’t help it. It tore him apart.”
Alex nodded and for the moment didn’t ask her any more questions. It wasn’t necessary. The details could wait.
He knew that Ross Wynne had told his wife a lie about Moule’s use of the computer, why he had, and where they would find him. What he didn’t know was how Wynne had found out where Jessie was—and he could only pray they weren’t too late.
26
Jessie desperately looked around for a way to escape as she listened to the sounds of whoever was hurrying around the building in her direction. A window opened onto the roof of the single-story sauna, but there was no way to conceal herself and she would still have to find a way to the ground. Could she wait to see which of the two doors the stalker entered and slip out the other to the stairway? No. They were too close together and she would easily be caught, if she tried. All she could do was put as much space between him and herself as possible.
Frantic, she went back into the kitchen, checking everywhere for a possible third escape route. On the west side of the room was a door that was never used. It opened into midair high above the shop doors where the builder had intended to add another flight of stairs leading down, but had changed plans after the door was installed. It was secured by sliding bolts but Jessie could not remember it ever being opened. It might be nailed shut to keep anyone from accidentally falling from it to the ground below.
Crossing to examine it, she jerked back the lower bolt, stiff from lack of use. The upper one was not so easy. It moved, but stuck halfway, still holding the door shut. Grabbing a skillet from the counter, she used the edge to hit it once, hard. It snapped open. Not nailed, the door to nowhere flew open at her shove, but its hinges let out a squeal of protest.
The sound of fact pounding on the lower stairs added impetus to her movements. Tossing the pillowcase away from the building, with its collection of supplies, she quickly lowered herself to hang by her hands from the doorway and dropped the ten feet to the ground, rolling to her feet, unhurt. Looking up, she could just make out her husky staring down at her and knew he would never jump so far, even with encouragement. There was only one alternative.
“Here, Tank. Come on, boy. Come here.”
He did what she expected, turned back into the apartment. The door by the stairs crashed open and she could hear the sound of steps, as the person from the sauna entered the farthest room.
“Where are you? Hey—mutt. Dammit. What the hell?”
Grabbing the pillowcase, she dashed to the corner of the shop in time to hear her dog coming fast down the steps. He bounded up to her and they both ran west, away from the building, into the cover of some brush, heading toward the beach.
Whoever was in the apartment would have to come back down the stairs before he could follow. She had an encouraging thought. If the person, in supreme confidence, had been using the sauna for its intended purpose, he had likely undressed to do so and would have to put something on before pursuing her out into the dark and rain. She just might have a head start.
Several other ideas followed. There must be two people involved, both looking for her. If the one on the hill had been caught by the trap, then this must be another, for the footsteps she had heard had not sounded like those of an injured man. If this was the man who had taken Rudy hostage—and it had certainly sounded like his voice and attitude—then where was Rudy? Could he have been imprisoned in the beach house on the other cove? Could she possibly reach and rescue him before her pursuer caught up with her? It was worth a try, she decided, and altered her course up the hill to the trail she had not yet used—the one that ran along the cliff, high above the beach.
It was more uneven than the trail through the upper forest, full of the large roots of trees, and hollows that made her stumble and lose her balance. Wet branches slapped at her, tore at her hair, impeding her progress. Reaching into the pillowcase for the flashlight as she continued to flounder along the trail, she pulled out a sticky hand. The jar of jam had broken when she threw the bag from the second-story door of the apartment. It now coated most of the items she had collected and had scattered broken glass into the mixture of canned food and supplies.
Dammit.
She thought she could not bring herself to put her fingers back into the bag to sort through those razor edges in the dark. Pausing, and taking one deep breath before she could think more about it, she gingerly reached in and soon located the box of matches. In the glow of one hand-cupped match, avoiding the shards of glass, she found the flashlight, wiped it off on the pillowcase, and turned it on. It put out just enough light to give her an impression of the trail, as she went rapidly on toward the west cove, and lasted for perhaps ten minutes, until she reached the most difficult spot where the cliff, continuously caving off over the years, had created a rock fall, partially consuming the path. There the light finally died, leaving her in the dark again.
Halting until she could gain a little night vision, she heard the waves crashing on the rocks as the returning tide groped its way back up the beach. It had not yet reached the foot of the cliff. The wind had come up again and was howling through the trees, showering her and Tank with almost as much water as fell from the sky. The storm was back to batter Niqa Island and the rest of Kachemak Bay. It would be a horrible night to spend outdoors.
As soon as she could differentiate between the shap
es of the trees around her, Jessie continued, though more slowly and carefully. Successfully maneuvering around the top of the rock fall, she gained a little speed and finally came out on the hill above the east end of the cove. There was a wooden stairway, but she was already well beyond it and didn’t want to waste time going back. Millie’s house stood halfway around the cove’s curve, so, knowing she would make better time on the beach than in the trees above it, she clambered down the bank to make her way along the highest, sandy section.
In the open, the storm struck her with strong gusts of windblown rain and spray from the wild sea. It was just light enough to see the foam of giant waves crashing on the rocks, and she could-smell the pungent scent of salt water that filled the air. About halfway to Millie’s, Tank suddenly stopped, then dashed forward, as a large, dark shape left the water and moved swiftly over the rocks, coming up the beach. Before he could intercept it, it vanished into the brush beyond a pile of logs.
An otter, Jessie realized, relaxing a little from an instant moment of panic and resuming her hurried hike. It was not one of the sea otters—strong swimmers that floated in beds of kelp, raising their young at sea, subsisting on clams, urchins, clams, and fish—but a large land otter that couldn’t be bothered by a storm, familiar with and at home in water, but spending most of its time ashore. She remembered that one had killed and gobbled up most of a flock of geese Millie had raised on the island one summer, and was relieved to see Tank come trotting back to join her, obviously feeling he had routed the intruder.
The house was totally dark and silent when she reached the beach in front of it. Hesitating, she wondered about a trap or ambush of some kind. Stashing the pillowcase near a log where she could find it easily, she moved carefully around to the back door. It was open. She went in. The fire was out and had been for some time, for the large, dark room was cold as well as vacant. A quick search through the rest assured her it was empty.
Where was Rudy? Where had the bastard taken him?
Disappointed, Jessie felt a frustrated concern for her piano-playing friend, whose brave action had allowed her to escape. Could he have also been in the sauna and shop building? Had she crossed the island away from him in her rescue attempt? It didn’t seem likely that the stalker would take him along for a hot steam, encumber himself with guarding the older man. Where would he secure his prisoner? Or—her stomach lurched—would he have decided holding him was unnecessary and…He had helped her get away, after all. As she thought about it, she looked around, hoping to locate the shotgun, but it was missing.
Then she remembered the radio. Could she use it to call Alex or the Homer authorities? The cell phone hadn’t worked, but would this stronger, battery-powered equipment allow her to contact someone?
Crossing the room, she hunted through the items on a shelf above the radio and found a flashlight. Good. This would go with her when she left—as would the extra batteries she found with it. Turning to the radio, her shoulders sagged in disappointment and frustration. It was there, but smashed beyond use. The stalker had made sure she had no way to summon help from the outside world. As she turned angrily away, the light picked up fragments of something shiny on the floor. He had also broken the cell phone, crushing it into bits of plastic and wires.
As she switched off the light and dropped it in her pocket, there was a thud and the sound of someone running down the trail behind the house, barely discernible over the roar of the storm. It hadn’t taken him long to race across the island and catch up with her. Almost cetainly he had seen her light. Could she escape before he circled the house to intercept her?
Moving swiftly out the back door, she dashed around to the beach, retrieved her makeshift bag of supplies with a grab, and raced back in the direction she had come, Tank at her heels. At the hill that led up to the trail above the beach, she paused and looked back, listening for sound that could be heard over the howling of the wind. Tank whined, and through the fog of flying spray she made out a figure coming along the sand, following the depressions her feet had left.
The stalker was closer than she would have believed he could be, and coming fast. As she whirled, something thumped the log beside her, sending small splinters of wood flying. A shot. He had shot at her.
She groped for her own .44, but thought better of it. A duel on open ground would not be wise; he hadn’t missed by much. Dodging around logs, she ran toward the hillside, but a short distance farther along the beach was the flight of steps that would be faster and easier to climb—if she could reach it in time.
She couldn’t. As she hurdled onto the second step, another bullet hit the handrail a foot from her hand and a third thudded into a step above her. Leaping from the stairs, she looked around wildly for an alternative.
Where the sand and rocks of the beach ended there was a prominence of dark stone, too high and sheer to climb, that jutted out toward the open waters of the cove. Around it, on the other side, east of the cove and the threat of her stalker, was the long rocky section that lay below the cliff and was only exposed at low tide. When the tide was in, it lapped the cliff, a few feet deep, leaving nowhere to go and stranding anyone careless enough to be caught between the coves. With the force of the storm, she could anticipate that the waves would do more than lap. They would come crashing in against the cliffs like battering rams. Though the tide was coming in, it was her only chance.
As she hesitated, another bullet chipped fragments from the rock, which flew through the air to sting her face and left hand. If he was shooting at her, he was a remarkably bad shot. But, with a sinking feeling, she realized that he wasn’t trying to hit her.
Unless she refused to move, his intention was to drive her around the rock to the dangerously narrowing area below the cliffs, where she would have nowhere to go as the tide came in. He wanted to drown her. It would seem an accident, when and if anyone found her body—the result of bad judgment in attempting to cross between the coves in a place she should have known was unsafe, especially with the storm driving waves in far above their normal high tide level. Still, what could she do? If she refused, and forced him, he probably would shoot her and make sure her body was washed out to sea.
She chose the cliffs. There, at least, she might have some kind of chance. Staying where she was meant certain capture, or death if he shifted his aim. Grabbing Tank by the collar, she hurried around the rock, flattened herself against its far side, drew the .44, and waited to see if he would follow. He did not.
After a few minutes she ventured a look around the rock and, rewarded with another rock-chipping bullet, realized that she was visible against the pale waves breaking dimly behind her. But she had seen the brief hot flash of his gun and knew where he was. Among the logs of driftwood, high on the beach, he had settled to wait—either for high tide, which would undoubtedly sweep her into the sea, or until she grew desperate enough to try to make it back onto safe ground and make herself a target for his gun. Neither choice was in her favor.
Who the hell are you? she wanted to shout at him. What do you want from me?
As she leaned into the protection of the rock, the first waves began to splash over rocks that had fallen from above and lay scattered among the sand. The smaller stones growled as they shifted uneasily in their beds, and swirling froth drew uneven lines of foam that the wind caught and tossed away. Spray flew like a waterfall to drip from Jessie’s waterproof coat, hit and pricked her face like icy needles.
Slipping the handgun back into the holster at her waist, she turned and, lugging the pillowcase with its borrowed supplies, started in the only direction left to her—east along the slender corridor between the water and the cliffs. Then, suddenly, she was furious. No one deserved such malevolent, spiteful, hateful manipulation.
By God, he hasn’t got me beat in this yet—and he won’t, she thought. She simply couldn’t let him. There had to be a way to get herself out of the danger in which she now found herself. If she couldn’t contact anyone for help, then she wo
uld simply have to help herself.
Lighter, sandy spaces between the rocks began to disappear, until she was clambering through the dark over piles of stone that were treacherously slippery with heaps of tide-swept kelp that covered large barnacles sharp enough to slice shoe leather, let alone rubber boots. Soon she could feel cold water seeping in through the damaged soles to soak her feet.
Behind her, Tank whined, and she realized that the pads of his feet were even less well protected than hers. She picked him up and, stumbling, carried him until she reached a small, isolated space of sand and pebbles. There she put him down and carefully examined each of his paws with her fingers. Except for one fairly shallow cut that oozed a little onto her hand, they seemed all right.
Suddenly she felt completely exhausted and discouraged. The adrenaline rush that had sustained her from the trap on the hill through her near encounter with the gunman at the cove had ebbed and left her feeling weak and depressed.
I’m hungry, she thought. Carrying this food and starving. Dumb. I’m not thinking straight.
“Come on, guy. We’ll find a drier place and eat some of this stuff I’m dragging around.”
As she walked away from the thrashing surf and wind, she saw that she had reached the place where the cliff had caved off into the steep slide of huge rocks, tumbled like giant blocks. It had created a deep cut in the vertical wall that extended at least thirty feet before it was blocked by fallen rubble. Still it would provide a partial shelter from the wind and rain.
Finding another small, open sandy spot, she sat down cross-legged, back against a rock, opened the pillowcase, and dumped its contents out in front of her. Cautiously locating Millie’s flashlight, she made a tent of her rain coat by pulling it over her head, and switched the light on. Avoiding the pieces of the broken jam jar, she separated her limited collection from the shattered glass and most of the jam. The items were sticky, but could now be scrubbed off in the sand and rain with little danger of cutting her fingers. She buried the glass shards deep in the sand and set a rock on top of them.
