Hollow

by Maggie Shayne

  “Well, yeah. What’s the point of a fireplace, otherwise?”

  “Point taken.”

  "Will we be here long?"

  "I don't know. I need to call in, update our... people."

  "And check on Anita—Kelly, I mean," she said quickly, recalling the image of the housekeeper being skewered by a bullet. "I hope she's all right." She blinked then. "She wasn't really a housekeeper at all.”

  He lowered his head, digging a hand into his pocket.

  "She worked with you... with us, didn’t she?"

  Michael pulled out a key and handed it to her. "Why don't you go on in, take a look around the place while I get an armful of firewood?"

  She knew he was trying to obey the dictates of her doctors, trying not to fill her in on things she would be better off remembering on her own. And she could tell it wasn't easy for him. So she stopped pushing and took the key, went to unlock the door, and stepped into the cabin.

  The entire place smelled of pine and cedar, and she inhaled deeply and let that scent tickle memories to life.

  She saw herself at some distant time in her murky past, pacing this very floor, back and forth over the wood, and the old-fashioned braided oval rug that covered most of it; back and forth in front of the huge fieldstone fireplace. She remembered that she’d stopped at the picture window on the far side to stare down toward the lake where Michael had been relaxing on the dock with a beer in one hand and a fishing pole in the other. She heard herself mutter, "How can he be so content to just sit there?" Then as she’d watched, he turned toward the house, almost as if he could feel her there looking at him, and he blew her a kiss. Her heart went soft in her memory, and she smiled a goofy smile, grabbed her jacket, and headed out to join him, thinking she could bear even this godforsaken wilderness, if he was with her.

  For just a moment, the emotion she had felt then came alive in her heart. For just an instant, she was filled to bursting with an overwhelming love so powerful it rocked her. She pressed a hand to her chest, as if to calm her suddenly racing heart, and turned slowly when she heard him come inside.

  He met her eyes over the stack of firewood in his arms. "You okay?"

  She nodded. "Yeah."

  He didn't look as if he believed her. Crossing the room, he set the armload of wood into a metal rack made to hold it, which stood beside the fireplace. Then he straightened and brushed off his jacket before taking it off.

  "We were... close," she said softly. Her heart was still racing, her stomach in knots. "Our marriage, it was a good one."

  He moved toward her, touched her shoulders. "The best."

  She closed the space between them, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. "This must have been so hard on you."

  "Nothing compared to what it's been for you, Kira." He returned her embrace, gently rubbing her back with one hand, stroking her hair with the other. "Just keep taking it easy. Letting the memories come on their own is working, and coming here seems to be shaking more things loose.”

  "I’d feel better if my brain wasn’t being so damn stubborn." She sighed and closed her eyes.

  He held her a little tighter. "I have to make that phone call. And I don't know about you, but I'm starved."

  "Me, too." She loosened her grip, stepped away, but not without a twinge of regret. It felt right, being in his arms, nestled against his chest with his breath in her hair. It felt perfect. "I'll go see what I can find in the kitchen while you make your call."

  "All right."

  Kira headed through the large room and into the kitchen off one side. There was a room off the other side, too, she recalled as she stepped into the kitchen. She thought it was a bedroom, with a bath attached, but she wasn't sure if that was a guess or a memory. An instant later, she knew it was a memory, because it came back full force. Her and Michael, limbs entangled, on a bed whose four posts were knotty pine logs.

  She stood still in the middle of the kitchen, assaulted by a hunger that had nothing to do with food. It was a hunger for the man in the next room. Her husband.

  Chapter 10

  Michael wasn’t kidding when he said the place was stocked. The kitchen had a big chest freezer packed full of meats and vegetables and more, and the cupboards held enough canned goods to last a year. Perishable items were sadly lacking, so she grabbed a couple of frozen pot pies that looked somehow irresistible to her, and popped them into the microwave. Inspecting the drawers, she located one that held paper, pens, tape, and batteries, and took out a notepad and a pen, then sat down at the little hardwood table and started making notes while the pot pies rode the oven’s carousel.

  What did she know?

  She knew that she and Michael had worked together for the DEA. She guessed Kelly/Anita had been working with them. She knew that she and Michael had both been in Africa, that they'd been secretly married at the time. And she knew that Peter had been there, too, and she’d been engaged to him.

  And Dad.

  She closed her eyes. Yes. Her father had been there, too. That is, the man she’d thought was her father. He'd died there. But why?

  Could the bombing have been about them and their mission? Could they have been the targets?

  She wrote these questions down, then tapped the pen on the pad, making little dots of ink. "Peter's a bad guy," she muttered. Apparently, she and Michael had been investigating him for some crime. She knew that much just from the things Peter had said when he'd been holding them captive. Drugs made sense. They were DEA, so drugs had to be the thing

  But why was it that after the explosion, after the coma, Kira's own mother had introduced Peter to her as her fiancé? It made no sense.

  And why were she and Michael keeping their marriage secret?

  And where was her wedding ring?

  She set the pen down, frowning as she got to her feet, and returned to the big front room where Michael was holding a cell phone. He hadn't had one earlier. If he had, Peter and his goons would have surely taken it from him. "Where did that come from?" she asked him.

  He nodded toward an open door into what looked like a closet on the far side of the living room, and she went toward it, reached inside to flick on a light switch, then stood in the doorway, gaping. The small room was lined in weapons. Shotguns, rifles, handguns, and holsters hung from racks that covered three walls. A counter sat low on one wall, and it held several sets of walkie-talkies, a half dozen cell phones, spotlights, ammunition, and stacks of batteries.

  "I guess this place is fully stocked," she muttered.

  "And then some." He reached past her to flick the light off again, then closed the door, which vanished when shut, appearing to be just another part of the log cabin's wall.

  "That's ingenious."

  "Thanks. I thought of it myself." He was smiling, a teasing light in his eyes.

  "How did your phone call go?"

  His smile faded. "They haven't located Peter yet. We're to stay put until he's picked up."

  "Is that really necessary?"

  Michael nodded. "Peter doesn't like being fooled, Kira. You made him fall in love with you when you were actually married to me. He's furious and out for blood. Our blood."

  Lowering her head, she nodded. "It was all part of a case. You and I were investigating him for... something. Drugs. He’s some kind of drug lord."

  Michael nodded slowly, but said nothing. He wanted to; she could see that he wanted to, but he held it back.

  “What about the bombing that killed my father and took my memory? Was that him, too?”

  “His connection was meeting him in Africa,” he said. “One of the most wanted men in the world. We were going to arrest him at the reception. But they must’ve realized it was trap.”

  She thought about the carnage at her would-be wedding. “My mother must be worried sick.”

  "It's been taken care of. And I just now confirmed that she's been temporarily relocated, in case anyone gets the notion of using her to get to u
s."

  “Oh.” She hadn’t even thought of that.

  “She'll be okay, Kira. And so will we. No one knows about this place, not even within the agency. We're safe here.”

  "I never thought otherwise."

  "But... you still have questions. I know it's frustrating, but—"

  "Just one question. For now. And I think it's one you can answer without making my head explode."

  One corner of his mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Okay, shoot"

  "Where is my wedding ring?"

  His half-smile faded. A look of longing replaced it as his eyes searched her face. He lifted a hand to his neck and tugged a silver chain from underneath his shirt. A gold band dangled from the end of it, spinning slowly and catching the light of the fire she hadn't even noticed he'd started in the hearth.

  "I've been keeping it close. Do you want it back?" he asked.

  He was holding his breath, awaiting her answer. She could see it, even though she had no idea what to say. If she said she wanted it back, would he take that to mean she wanted more? How could she come up with an answer that wouldn't mislead him or hurt him? She opened her mouth, thinking she had to say something. Anything.

  He held up a hand. "No. I shouldn't be asking you things like that. It's not fair. I'm sorry, Kira. You've got enough to deal with. Here." He took the chain from around his neck and draped it carefully around hers. "You can wear it under your blouse, or tuck it into a drawer. I'll never know the difference. No pressure, okay?"

  She couldn't take her eyes off his face. The conflicting emotions in his eyes, which he carefully kept from showing anywhere else. "Were you always this considerate of my feelings?"

  "When you let me be."

  "Sounds like I didn't always."

  He shrugged. "Not recently, no. You developed an aversion to letting anyone help you with anything. Said it was a sign of weakness."

  "Guess getting my brain scrambled in Africa was an instant cure. I've been nothing but dependent since I came out of the coma."

  "Not on me," he said. And it sounded a little sad.

  She lifted her brows. "I don't see anyone else around here."

  The smile returned to his face. "I hadn't thought of that. Does that mean you're going to let me wait on you hand and foot while we're here?"

  She shook her head. "No. But I'll let you show me how to use some of the weapons in that nifty little closet over there."

  He tipped his head to one side. "You didn't have any trouble back at the uh... wedding."

  "If you asked me how I did what I did back there, I couldn't tell you. And I'd rather not rely on my faulty memory or gut instinct if it comes down to life or death."

  "Your gut instinct is flawless, Kira. Always has been. But yeah, I'll show you."

  "Good." She smiled. "Pick out something simple. I'll go check on our pot pies."

  He lowered his head, laughing softly.

  "What?" she asked, frowning. "Did I say something funny?"

  He met her eyes, his shining. "Pot pies. You always loved those things."

  "I did?"

  He reached out a hand to cup her nape, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin there and sending delicious shivers down her spine. "It's coming back to you, Kira. It's all coming back."

  "I hope it hurries," she said, and her voice came out soft. "I want to remember you, Michael."

  He started to lean closer to her, then stopped himself. Kira slid her hands over his shoulders and pulled him toward her until his lips brushed hers. It was a light touch, but it lit a fire inside her. She linked her hands around his neck and pressed her mouth to his, felt him tremble as he pulled her tighter to him.

  The rapid-fire beat of her heart grew louder—and when the windows blew out of the cabin, she realized it wasn't her heart at all, but gunfire.

  In the next heartbeat, she was pressed to the floor with Michael's body covering hers. "Stay down." He growled the words into her ear. "Dammit, how did they find us?"

  She couldn't speak, overwhelmed with the surge of adrenalin pumping through her body, itching to get up, to do something. "Duke. It had to be goddamn Duke. I left him alone in the car. He must have done something."

  "Probably stuck a tracking device on it," Michael said.

  “God, why didn’t I just shoot him?”

  “Come on, but stay low.” He rolled off her.

  On hands and knees, they made their way to the little hidden room. Michael opened its door, urged her inside ahead of him, then closed it again behind him. Once it was closed, he got to his feet.

  She heard him moving around as she crouched in the darkness. He never turned on a light, not even a flashlight but she knew he was gathering weapons, ammunition. She jumped upright when she heard the cabin's front door crashing open, and then the sounds of heavy steps inside the house. Michael drew her body flush to his. "It's okay," he whispered, his lips touching her ear, moving with the words. "Just stay quiet. It's okay."

  She nodded against the side of his face, then felt him moving, sliding a belt over her head, and around one shoulder, then another on the other side, so the two crossed at her chest. She felt a familiar, reassuring weight at her hips, moved her hands to her sides to caress the smooth grips of handguns and wondered at the flood of confidence that rushed through her as he fastened the buckles and made slight adjustments.

  Then Michael took her by the hand and led her toward the back of the tiny room, where he knelt. And moments later, he was guiding her through an opening in the floor and down a ladder into the earth. "Wait at the bottom," he told her.

  Easier said than done, she thought, when she couldn't even see where the bottom was. Still, she made her way down a ladder into inky blackness, and there she waited. Only seconds ticked by before he joined her there. She had drawn one of the weapons, held it ready at her side. And her eyes were turned upward toward the ceiling, where she could see nothing at all. But she could still hear the men stomping through the house, searching for them.

  Michael slid an arm around her shoulders, started leading her forward, and she was surprised when they didn't run into a wall. "How are you doing?"

  "Pissed," she muttered. "I didn't get my pot pie."

  He squeezed her closer. "That's my girl."

  She wanted to be. The thought danced through her mind without her permission. "Where does this lead?"

  "Out," he said.

  "Well, hell, I assumed that much."

  "Comes out about a hundred yards from the house, pretty deep in the woods. The exit's camouflaged. There's no way they could have spotted it."

  "Like there was no way they could find us at the cabin?" She felt him tense, and quickly added, "I'm not blaming you for it Michael. Hell, it was my fault for leaving Duke alone in the car. I'm just saying... how do we know there's not a thug with an AK standing outside that entrance, ready to pop us when we come out?"

  "Because," he said. "They want us alive."

  "That's not exactly reassuring."

  "I know. Just stay behind me, and if anything happens, I'll hold 'em off and you make a run for it."

  The voice that answered was an absolute mingling of the old Kira and the knew when it said, "The hell I will."

  Chapter 11

  Kira held her breath as Michael climbed to the top of another set of makeshift ladder-steps. She saw the sliver of gray twilight as he pushed the trapdoor upward and peered out, then sucked in a sharp breath when the door opened wider. Michael moved through it, and she started up behind him, only to have the trapdoor close almost on her head.

  Frowning, she scooted up higher, put her hands on the door and shoved upward, only to meet resistance.

  Hell, was Michael standing on it?

  "Well now, where the hell did you come from?" a man's voice asked.

  Kira froze. That wasn't Michael's voice.

  "Like I'd tell you."

  There was a terrible sound, a grunt of pain. Anger surged in Kira, and she shoved harder at the trapdoo
r.

  "Don't!" Michael yelled. Then more softly. "I'll talk, just take it easy.”

  “You’re damn right you will. What are you doing out here?”

  “I was out gathering firewood when I heard you guys shooting up the place. Decided it might be best to lay low till you left."

  "And where's the little woman?"

  "Relocated, for her protection. I couldn't tell you where if I wanted to, and that's the truth."

  Kira closed her eyes. Damn him, he was determined to protect her.

  "Bullshit," another man said. Oh, God there were two of them. "You brought her here with you."

  "No," he said. "I didn't. You really think I'd have stayed out here hiding if Kira was under fire at the cabin?"

  The men were quiet for a moment, seeming to mull that over.

  "Doesn't matter," Michael said. "She's no threat to you. She's got no memory, doesn't even know what this is all about."

  "Search the woods, just in case," one of the men said. "I'll take this one back to the boss, figure out how he wants to proceed."

  "I'm telling you, she's not here. You're wasting your time.”

  "If she is, we'll find her."

  "I wish she was lurking around here someplace,” Michael said. “You can bet she'd have sense enough to lay low ‘til you’re long gone. She'd know she was my only chance. But as it is, I guess I'm screwed."

  Kira closed her eyes, heard the message he had meant for her to hear. She had to stay quiet, stay safe, and rescue her husband from a band of armed killers. Again.

  For more than an hour, she crouched in the darkness, underground. Eventually, she couldn't bear it any longer. She had no way of knowing if Peter's thugs still lurked outside, but she had to move. It was too easy to imagine what they might be doing to Michael.

  She crept up the ladder and shoved at the trapdoor. It gave easily this time, and she peered out, saw nothing, then reminded herself that Michael hadn't seen anything either before stepping into the open and being spotted. So she wriggled her way out of the earth on her belly, pushing the trapdoor up only as much as she had to. When she was clear of it, she lay still on the ground, one gun in her hand, and she listened with every part of her. Carefully, she lifted her head, looked at the dark forest all around her.