by Nora Roberts
“There’s a lot of wooded area around the lake,” James put in.
“Do we have any information on what he’s wearing?” Lori rubbed Pip’s head. “It’s pretty chilly out.”
“Not yet. I’ll talk to the family when we get there. Mai, you’ll be working with Sheriff Tyson.”
“Yeah. We’ve worked with him before. Is this the first time he’s wandered off?”
“Don’t know yet. We’ll get all that. The search began just after six, and the family notified the authorities by six-thirty. So they’ve been searching for about ninety minutes.”
Mai nodded. “Tyson doesn’t waste time. I remember from before.”
“They’ve got a couple of volunteers picking us up, driving us to the location.”
By the time they got to the lake, the sun had burned away the mist. Tyson, brisk and efficient, greeted them.
“Thanks for the quick response. Dr. Funaki, right? You’re base?”
“Yes.”
“Sal, show Dr. Funaki where she can set up. The son-in-law and his boy are out on the search. I’ve got the daughter inside. He got dressed—brown pants, blue shirt, red cotton jacket, navy Adidas sneakers, size ten. She says he’s wandered once or twice, but hasn’t gone far. He gets confused.”
“Is he on any meds?” Fiona asked him.
“I had her make a list for you. Physically, he’s in good shape. He’s a nice guy, used to be sharp as a tack. Taught my father in high school. History. He’s five-ten, about a hundred and sixty-five pounds, full head of white hair, blue eyes.”
He led her inside a spacious, open-floor-plan house with killer views of the lake.
“Mary Ann, this is Fiona Bristow. She’s with Canine Search and Rescue.”
“Ben—Sheriff Tyson—said you’d need some things of Dad’s—for the dogs to smell. I got his socks, and his pajamas from last night.”
“That’s good. How was he feeling when he went to bed last night?”
“Fine. Really fine.” Her hand fluttered to her throat and away again. Fiona could hear barely controlled tears in her voice. “He’d had a good day. I just don’t know when he left. He forgets, and gets confused sometimes. I don’t know how long he’s been gone. He likes to take walks. Keep fit, he says. He and my mother walked miles every day before she died last year.”
“Where did they like to walk?”
“Around the lake, some light hiking in the woods. Sometimes they’d walk over to see us. This was their house, and after Mom died and when Dad started having trouble, we moved here. It’s bigger than our house, and he loves it so much. We didn’t want him to have to leave his home.”
“Where was your house?”
“Oh, it’s about three miles from here.”
“Could he have gotten confused? Tried to walk there to find you?”
“I don’t know.” She pressed her knuckles to her lips. “We’ve lived here for nearly a year now.”
“We checked Mary Ann’s old place,” Tyson added.
“Maybe he and your mother had a favorite spot, or route.”
“They had so many. Even five years ago he’d have been able to find his way through the woods around here in the dark, blindfolded.” Her eyes teared up. “He taught Jarret—our son—how to hike and camp and fish. He’d declare Hook and Line Day—hook school and drop a line so he and Jarret could—Oh God, wait.”
She dashed away.
“How’s his hearing?” Fiona asked Tyson.
“He wears a hearing aid—and no, he didn’t take it. He’s got his glasses, but—”
He broke off when Mary Ann rushed back. “His fishing gear. He took his fishing gear, even his old fishing hat. I didn’t think—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”
ARMED WITH DATA, Fiona worked with her unit on strategy.
“He had three favorite fishing spots.” She marked the map Mai had posted. “But he also tended to try others, depending on his mood. He’s both physically fit and physically active. So while his mental condition may bring on confusion, turning him around, disorienting him, he could overdo it. He takes meds for high blood pressure and, according to the daughter, tends to get emotional and upset when he can’t remember things, and he’s starting to have some trouble with his balance. He needs a hearing aid and isn’t wearing it.”
The problem, as Fiona saw it, as she assigned sectors, was that Walter might not, as small kids and the elderly tended to, take the paths of least resistance. He’d tax himself, she thought, facing steep climbs rather than easy slopes.
He’d probably had a purpose and a destination when he started, she thought as she gave Newman the scent. But along the way, it was very likely he’d become confused.
How much worse to be lost, to look around and see nothing familiar, when you once knew every tree, every path, every turn?
Newman was eager and scented along a drainage. The air would rise upslope, and the chimney effect, the rise of the tree lines, would disperse the scent in several directions. When they moved into an area of heavy brush she looked for signs—a bit of torn clothing in the briars, bent or broken branches.
Newman alerted, then chose a path that challenged the quadriceps. When it leveled, she stopped to give her partner water and drink some herself.
She checked her map, her compass.
Could he have detoured, backtracked or looped away from the fishing spot, angled toward his daughter’s old house? Going for his grandson after all? The Hook and Line Day?
Pausing, she tried to see the trees, the rocks, the sky, the paths as Walter would see them.
For him, she imagined, getting lost here would be like getting lost in his own home. Frightening, frustrating.
He might become angry and push himself, or scared, only more confused and wander in aimless circles.
She gave Newman the scent again. “This is Walt. Find Walt.”
She followed the dog as he clambered over a pile of rocks. Veering toward Chuck’s sector, she noted, and called her position in.
When they headed downhill, Newman alerted, strongly, then pushed his body through brush.
She pulled out her tape to mark the alert. “What’ve you got?” She used her flashlight, switching it on to chase away those green shadows.
She saw the disturbed ground first, the depressions, and got a picture in her mind of the old man taking a spill, catching himself by the heels of his hands, his knees.
Briars pulling and tearing, she thought. And, playing the light, she saw a few strands of red cotton snagged on thorns.
“Good boy. Good boy, Newman. Base, this is Fee. I’m about fifty yards from my west boundary. We’ve got some red threads on briars and what looks like signs of a fall. Over.”
“Base, this is Chuck. We just found his hat. Fee, Quirk’s alerting in your direction. We’re moving east. My boy’s got something. I’m going to—Hold on! I see him! He’s down. Ground falls off here. We’re going down to him. He’s not moving. Over.”
“I’m heading your way, Chuck. We’ll assist. Over. Newman! Find Walt. Find!”
She ignored the radio chatter as they continued west, until Chuck reported again.
“We’ve got him. He’s unconscious. Pulse is thready. He’s got a head wound, a lot of scratches—face, hands. He’s got a gash on his leg, too. We’re going to need some assistance getting him out. Over.”
“Copy that,” Mai said. “Help’s on the way.”
TIRED, BUT FORTIFIED with the hot dog she’d grabbed in Deer Harbor, Fiona turned toward home. They’d done their job, she thought, and well. Now she had to hope Walter’s physical stamina would hold the line against his injuries.
“We did what we could, right?” She reached over and gave Newman a pat. “It’s all you can do. You need a bath after all that . . .”
She trailed off, stopped the car. A second dogwood stood pretty as a picture across from the first. And both, she noted, were tidily mulched.
“Uh-oh,” she said as her heart s
ighed. “Direct hit.”
Peck and Bogart, thrilled to see her, raced to her car, back to the house as if to say, Come on! Come on home!
Instead, she followed impulse, got out and opened the back. “Let’s go for a ride.”
They didn’t have to be asked twice. While her dogs greeted one another, and the stay-at-homes explored all the fascinating scents Newman brought back from the search, she turned her car around.
ON THE PORCH of his shop, Simon sanded a table. The warm day, the sweet air had tempted him outside. With the care and precision of a surgeon, he smoothed the sleek walnut legs. He’d leave this one natural, he decided, and play up that beautiful grain with clear varnish. If somebody wanted uniform, they’d have to buy something else.
“Don’t even think about it,” he ordered as Jaws tried to belly up for the sandblock Simon used for larger areas. “Not now,” he said when the dog bumped his arm with his nose. “Later.”
Jaws scrambled off the porch to choose a stick from the piles of other sticks, balls, chew toys and assorted rocks he’d dumped together in the past ninety minutes.
Simon stopped long enough to shake his head. “When I’m finished.”
The dog wagged his tail, danced in place with the stick clamped in his jaw.
“That’s not going to work.”
Jaws sat, lifted a paw, tilted his head.
“Still not going to work,” Simon muttered, but he felt himself weakening.
Maybe he could take a break, throw the damn stick. The problem was, if he threw it once, the dog would want him to throw it half a million times. But it was kind of cool he’d actually figured out that if he brought it back and dropped it, he got to chase it again.
“Okay, okay, but I’m only giving you ten minutes, then—Hey!”
Annoyed, after he’d decided to play, he watched Jaws race away. Seconds later, Fiona’s car made the curve toward the house.
When she got out, Simon cursed under his breath as Jaws bunched to jump. Hadn’t they been working on that for two damn days? She countered, had him sit, then accepted the stick he offered, hurled it like a javelin.
When she opened the back of her car, it became dog mania.
Simon went back to sanding. If nothing else, maybe she’d keep his dog out of his hair until he finished the job. By the time she’d made it to the porch, Jaws had mined his pile for three more sticks.
“Treasure trove,” she said.
“He’s been trying to con me by dumping stuff there.”
She bent down, chose a bright yellow tennis ball, then threw it high and long.
More mania.
“You brought me another tree.”
“Since you decided to plant the first one where you did, it skewed the balance. It bothered me.”
“And you mulched them.”
“No point in going to the trouble to plant something if you don’t do it right.”
“Thank you, Simon,” she said primly.
He spared her a glance, noted her eyes laughed. “You’re welcome, Fiona.”
“I’d have given you a hand if I’d been home.”
“You were out early.”
She waited, but he didn’t ask. “We had a Search and Rescue on San Juan.”
He paused, gave her his attention. “How’d it go?”
“We found him. An elderly man, with early-onset Alzheimer’s. He’d wandered out, took his fishing gear. It looks like he got confused, maybe had a little visit to the past in his head and just headed out to one of his fishing holes. More confusion and, from the tracking, he got turned around and tried to hike to his daughter’s old house to get his grandson. They live with him now. He did a lot of circling, backtracking, walked miles, we think. Wore himself out, then he took a bad fall.”
“How bad?”
“Gashed his head and leg, concussion, hairline fracture on his left ankle and a bunch of bruises, lacerations, dehydration, shock.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“He’s got a strong constitution, so they’re hopeful, but boy, he took a beating. So, you’re glad you found him, satisfied the unit did the job and concerned you might’ve been too late anyway.” She picked up another stick. “That looks like it’s going to be a nice table. Why don’t I thank you for the tree by playing with your dog while you finish?”
He passed the sandblock from hand to hand as he studied her. “Did you come over to play with my dog?”
“I came over to thank you, and since Syl took my morning classes and I don’t have my last class of the day until five-thirty, I decided to thank you now, in person.”
“What time is it?”
She arched her eyebrows, glanced at her watch. “Three-fifteen.”
“That’ll work.” He tossed the sandpaper down, then stepped off the porch to take her arm and pull her toward the house.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“You know damn well.”
“Some might attempt at least a little warming up before—”
He swung her around, crushed his mouth to hers while his hands streaked down to mold her ass.
“You’re right, that’ll work. I want to say I’m not normally this easy, but—”
“Don’t care.” This time his hands streaked under her jacket, her shirt, up her bare back.
“Me either. Outside.”
“I’m not doing this outside with all these dogs around.”
“No.” She choked out a laugh, struggled to stay on her feet as they groped each other. “I’m telling the dogs to stay outside.”
“Good thinking.” He dragged her onto the back deck, through the door.
He yanked off her jacket, shoved her against the wall. As desperation spiked, she dragged at his shirt.
“Wait.”
“No.”
“No, I mean—I know you’re happy to see me, but I really think that’s an actual hammer pressing into my . . . Oh God.”
He pulled back, glanced down. “Shit. Sorry.” And unstrapped his tool belt, dumped it on the floor.
“Just let me—” She shoved his unbuttoned work shirt aside, then pulled up the T-shirt he wore beneath. “Oh, mmm,” she said as she pushed her hands up his chest. “Too long,” she managed when his mouth clamped on the side of her neck. “Need to hurry.”
“Okay.” With that he tore her shirt open, popping buttons into the air.
She should’ve been shocked, possibly annoyed—it had been a decent shirt—but the sound of ripping cloth followed by the rough hands on her breasts shot her within a hairbreadth of the edge.
She shuddered, grinding against him, urgent sounds humming in her throat as she fumbled with his zipper. He tugged hers down, one quick, impatient motion, then slid his hand in, down, over. He watched her face, watched those calm eyes glaze like blue glass as she erupted against him. Then he took her mouth again and drove her until she went limp.
“No, you don’t,” he murmured when she started to slide down the wall.
The simplest solution was to toss her over his shoulder and find the handiest flat surface. He dumped her on the dining room table, shoved debris aside. Whatever crashed and shattered could be replaced.
Because he wanted her naked, he pulled off her boots. “Your belt, undo it.”
“What? Oh.” Like a shock victim, she stared at the ceiling while she unhooked her belt. “Am I on the table?”
He pulled her pants down her legs by the hems.
“Am I naked on the table?”
“Not quite yet.”
But close enough. He wanted his hands on every inch that was, every inch that wasn’t. He dealt with his own boots, pants, then climbed on to straddle her.
“Handy,” he decided when he noted the front hook of her bra. He flipped it, then simply lowered to devour.
“Oh. God.” She arched, her hands fisting on the table before she dug her fingers into his back. “Thank God. Don’t stop. Just don’t stop.”
He used his teeth, and she though
t she’d go mad. Too much, too much, this tidal wave of needs and pleasures and demands. And yet her body consumed them, starved for more.
She heard cloth ripping again and realized he’d torn her panties away.
She was being ravished, she thought as she gasped for air—and the little kernel of shock only added to the wild thrill.
She tried to say his name, to slow things down—just enough to breathe—or to give back. But he shoved her knees back and drove into her. Hard as steel, fast as lightning. And she could only cry out and ride the storm.
She closed around him when she came, squeezing like a fist. The sensation only whipped him on. He’d wanted her, and that want had sharpened over the last days. But now, with that long, tight body quaking under his, those surprising and sexy muscles taut under his hands, that want turned its keen edge inside him.
He took until she went lax, then took more until that edge sliced through him and emptied him out.
She heard music. Angels singing? she thought, dizzy. It seemed odd for angels to sing after table sex. She managed to swallow on a throat wildly dry.
“Music,” she murmured.
“My phone. In my pants. Don’t care.”
“Oh. Not angels.”
“No. Def Leppard.”
“Okay.” She managed to find the energy to lift her hand, stroke it down his back. “Once again, I have to say thank you, Simon.”
“No problem.”
She let out a rusty laugh. “That’s good because I don’t think I did much of the work.”
“Am I complaining?”
She smiled, closed her eyes and kept stroking his back. “Where are we, exactly?”
“It’s the dining-room-slash-downstairs-office area. For now.”
“So we had sex on your dining-room-slash . . . workstation.”
“Yeah.”
“Did you make the table?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s very smooth.” A giggle tickled her throat, then escaped. “And remarkably sturdy.”
“I do good work.” He lifted his head then, looked down at her. And smiled. “It’s cherry with a birch inlay. Pedestal style. I was going to sell it, but now—maybe not.”
