The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 5

by Nora Roberts

  “This would be romantic,” Fiona decided, “if we had a bigger tent, were doing this for fun, and there was a nice bottle of wine involved.”

  “The dog’s snoring.”

  “Yes, he is, and he will. He worked hard tonight.” She only had to turn her head a fraction to kiss him. “So did you.”

  “You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

  “No. I’m fine.”

  “You’re shaking,” he repeated.

  “I just need to settle down. I have a problem with closed-in or tight spaces.”

  “You . . .” It struck him immediately, and he cursed himself for an idiot. She’d been bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of a car, heading for death. “Jesus, Fiona.”

  “No, don’t.” She grabbed on to him when he started to move. “Just stay right here. I’m closing my eyes, and it’ll pass.”

  He felt it now, the way her heart beat against him, as violently as the rain. “We should’ve gone back for the night.”

  “No, it wastes time and energy. Plus I’m too tired for a full-blown panic attack.”

  What the hell did she call the shivering and heart-banging? He drew her closer, wrapping his other arm around her to stroke a hand up and down her back. “Is that better or worse?”

  “It’s better. It’s nice. I just need a minute to adjust.”

  Lightning slashed wildly, illuminating the tent. He saw her cheeks were pale, her eyes closed. “So, is Tyson banging the vet?”

  “I don’t think it’s progressed to banging, Mr. Romance. I think they’re just starting to get to know each other on a personal level.”

  “Banging’s personal, if you do it right.”

  “I’m sure she’ll let me know if banging becomes part of the arrangement.”

  “Because you’ve told her we’re banging.”

  “I suspect she could’ve come to that conclusion all on her own, but yes, of course I told her. And in specific and minute detail. She wishes you’d banged her first.”

  “Huh. An opportunity lost.” Her heartbeat was slowing, just a bit. “I could backtrack and make it up to her.”

  “Too late. She’d never have sex with you now. We have codes and standards. You’re no longer on the menu when it comes to any of my friends or relations.”

  “That doesn’t seem fair when you consider you’re friends with everybody on the island.”

  “That may be, but rules are rules.” She tipped her face again, touched her lips to his. “Thanks for taking my mind off my neurosis.”

  “You don’t have any neuroses, which is annoying. You have quirks, which make up for it a little. But you’re mostly irritatingly stable and normal. You’re still not my type.”

  “But you’re still going to bang me.”

  “At every opportunity.”

  She laughed, and he felt her fully relax against him. “You’re rude, socially stunted and cynical. But I intend to be available for said banging whenever possible. I’m not sure what that makes us, but it seems to be working.”

  “You’re who I want to be with.”

  He wasn’t sure why he’d said it—maybe the forced intimacy of the tent, the rain beating its fists down on it, his concern for her even as her trembling ceased. Whatever the reason, he thought, it was truth.

  “That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmured. “Even more, given the current circumstances.”

  “We’re warm and we’re dry,” he pointed out. “And they’re not,” he added, echoing her thoughts.

  “No, they’re not. It’s going to be a terrible night for them.”

  This time he turned his head and brushed his lips over her hair. “Then we’d better find them in the morning.”

  PART THREE

  Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this great thing?

  THE BIBLE

  TWENTY-ONE

  She woke in solid dark, unable to move or see or speak. Her head throbbed like an open wound, while nausea churned choppy waves in her belly. Disoriented, terrified, she struggled, but her arms remained pinned behind her back; her legs felt paralyzed.

  She could do no more than worm, buck and struggle to breathe.

  Her eyes, wide and wild, wheeled in her head. She heard the hum, steady, forceful, and thought—fresh panic—she was in the cave of some wild animal.

  No, no. An engine. A car. She was in a car. In the trunk of a car. The man. The man on the jogging path.

  She could see it all so clearly, the bold morning sun, the dreamy blue sky like a canvas against the rich hues of fall. That hint of autumn spice on the air like a flavor on her tongue.

  Her muscles had warmed. She’d felt so loose, so limber. So powerful. She’d loved that feeling, the heady rush of being alone in a world of color and spice. Just her and the morning and the freedom to run.

  Then the man, jogging toward her. No big deal. They’d pass, he’d be gone, and the world would be hers again.

  But . . . did he stumble, did he fall, did she stop for a second to help? She couldn’t remember, not exactly. All blurred now.

  But she could see his face. The smile, the eyes—something in those eyes—an instant before the pain.

  Pain. Like being struck by lightning.

  It spun in her head as the rhythm beneath her changed and the floor vibrated under her. Rough road, she thought in some dizzy corner of her brain.

  She thought of her uncle’s warnings, and Greg’s. Don’t run alone. Keep the panic button handy. Stay alert.

  So easily dismissed. What could happen to her? Why would anything happen?

  But it had. It had. She’d been taken.

  All those girls—the girls she’d seen in the paper. The dead girls she’d felt sorry for—until she’d forgotten them and gone on with her life.

  Was she going to be one of them, one of the dead girls in the paper, on the news reports?

  But why? Why?

  She wept and struggled and screamed. But the sounds drowned against the tape over her mouth, and the movements only cut the bands into her skin until she smelled her own blood and sweat.

  Until she smelled her own death.

  SHE WOKE IN THE DARK. Trapped. The scream burned up her throat only to be bitten back when she felt the weight of Simon’s arm tossed over her, when she heard the steady breathing—his, the dog’s.

  But the panic was spiders skittering inside her chest, under her skin.

  So the scream stayed in her head, piercing.

  Get out! Get out! Get out!

  She shoved herself toward the flap, fought it open and crawled out where the cool, damp air slapped at her face.

  “Hold on. Hey. Hold on.”

  When Simon gripped her shoulders she pushed at him. “Don’t. Don’t. Just need to breathe.” Hyperventilating—she knew it but couldn’t stop it. A boulder pressed on her chest, and her head began to swim in long, sick waves. “Can’t breathe.”

  “Yes you can.” He tightened his grip, yanked her up to her knees and gave her a quick, shocking shake. “Breathe. Look at me, Fiona. Right here. Breathe! Now!”

  She sucked in air on a short, shaky gasp.

  “Let it out. Do what I tell you. Let it out, take it in. Slow it down. Slow it the hell down.”

  She stared at him, wondered at him. Who the hell did he think he was? She shoved at his chest, met an unmoving wall even as he shook her again.

  And she breathed.

  “Keep going. Bogart, sit. Just sit. In and out. Look at me. In and out. Better, that’s better. Keep it up.”

  He let her go. Focused on inhaling, exhaling, she sank back to sit on her heels as Bogart nudged his nose against her arm. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

  “Drink. Slow.” Simon cupped her hands around a water bottle. “Slow.”

  “I know. I’ve got it. I’m okay.” She blew out a long breath first, then sipped carefully. “Thanks, sorry, whatever altogether. Wow.” She sipped again. “I guess I wasn’t too tired for that panic attack after all.
I had a flashback. It’s been . . . God, a really long time since I had one, but I guess the circumstances were pretty fertile ground.”

  Breathing steadier, she draped her arm around Bogart’s neck. “You were mean,” she said to Simon. “And exactly what I needed to snap me out before I passed out. You could give lessons.”

  “You scared the fuck out of me. Goddamn it.”

  Before she could speak he held up a hand to stop her, then spun away to pace over the soggy ground. “Goddamn it. I’m not any good at this kind of thing.”

  “Beg to differ.”

  He whirled back. “I like you better tough.”

  “Me too. Panic attacks and hyperventilating to the edge of unconsciousness are embarrassing moments.”

  “It’s not a damn joke.”

  “No, it’s reality. My reality.” She swiped her arm over her clammy face. “Fortunately, it’s not something I have to deal with regularly anymore.”

  “Don’t,” he said when she started to rise. “You’re white as a sheet. If you try standing by yourself, you’ll fall on your face.”

  He moved to her, took her hands to help her up. “You’re not supposed to be pale and fragile,” he said quietly. “You’re bright and bold and strong.” He pulled her close. “And this makes me want to kill him.”

  “It’s probably wrong, but God, I appreciate that. Still, Perry’s worse off than dead.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion. But maybe beating him half to death would be more satisfying.”

  His heart, she realized, beat harder and faster than her own. And that, she realized, was another kind of comfort.

  “Well, if you want violence, I broke his nose kicking him in the face when he opened the trunk.”

  “Let me focus on that a minute. It’s good. Not complete, but not bad.”

  She eased back. “Are we okay?”

  He stroked her cheek, his eyes intense on hers. “Are you?”

  “Yes. But I’m glad it’s nearly dawn, because I’m not going back in that tent. If you could get my pack, I’ve got some bouillon cubes we can heat up.”

  “Bouillon at dawn?”

  “Breakfast of champions, especially when you add a power bar.” Better, she thought, so much better to focus on what came next than what had happened before. “Once we eat and break camp, I’ll call in to base for the status, and a weather report.”

  “Fine. Fiona? On the off chance I ever do this with you again, we’re getting a bigger tent.”

  “Bet your ass.”

  The bouillon was bland, but it was warm. As far as her nutrition bars, or whatever the hell you called them, Simon vowed if he ever came out again, he’d bring Snickers.

  She broke camp as she did everything else, he noted. In an organized and precise fashion. Everything had to be put away exactly where it had come from.

  “Okay, the forecast is good,” she announced. “Sunny, low seventies for a high—and we won’t reach that until this afternoon—light winds from the south. We’re moving into the northern section of the wilderness area. It’s not too rough. We’ll have some hills, slopes, some rocky ground. The understory may get thick in places, especially off the marked trails. I’m guessing after the hike they’d already put in, they wouldn’t choose the more mountainous terrain, or have kept going southeast into the higher elevations and rougher ground.”

  “I can’t figure out why the hell they’d have come as far as this.”

  “Again, I’m guessing, but he’s competitive, he’s pushing. Even if he was a little turned around, he probably wouldn’t admit it at first. And that type wouldn’t take the easier ground—wouldn’t necessarily head downhill instead of uphill.”

  “Because he’s got something to prove.”

  “More or less. I asked the woman they’re traveling with if he was the type who’d stop and ask directions—and she laughed. Nervous laugh, but a laugh. He’d drive to hell before he’d ask for directions. So you figure by the time he, or they, realized they were seriously screwed, it was just too late.”

  “A lot of space out here to get lost in.” Which would he have done, he wondered, uphill or down, call for help or push on?

  He wasn’t altogether sure, and hoped he wouldn’t ever have to find out.

  “And if you’re not familiar with it, one fir or hemlock looks like the other hundreds. Anyway, we’re expanding the search area.” She glanced up. “Do you want me to show you on the map?”

  “Do you plan on ditching me in the wilderness?”

  “Only if you piss me off.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Then we saddle up.” She shrugged on her pack, gave Bogart the scent and juiced him up for the game.

  Watery sunlight sparkled on mists and filtered through to shine on leaves that shed their rainwater from the night’s storm. Simon couldn’t say what Bogart smelled, but for him, it was clean and damp and green.

  The ground roughened and rose, and still wildflowers, tiny stars of color, carved their way through cracks to bask or ranged themselves along skinny streams like waders about to dip their toes.

  A downed tree, hollowed out by weather, tooth and claw, had him crossing over.

  “Do you see something?”

  “A bench,” he muttered. “Curve the seat, just like that. Back and arms, all out of one log. Carve a mushroom motif maybe on the base.”

  He surfaced to see both her and Bogart waiting for him. “Sorry.”

  “Bogart needed water anyway.” She offered the bottle to Simon. “I could use a bench.”

  “Not that one. Too solid, too hefty for you. It wouldn’t—”

  “Suit me. Got it.” Shaking her head, she checked in with base.

  Despite the strengthening sun, Fiona continued to use her flashlight, running the beam over brush and trail as the dog trotted along.

  “He’s picked it up. The rest did him good.”

  “Isn’t the world basically a banquet of smells for a dog? How come he doesn’t get distracted? Hey, a rabbit! Or whatever. Jaws’ll chase a blowing leaf.”

  “It’s training, practice, repetition. But basically, that’s not the game. The game’s to find the source of the scent I gave him.”

  “The game’s moving off the trail,” Simon pointed out.

  “Yeah.” She followed the dog, climbing the rough slope, maneuvering through brush. “They made a mistake here. Bogart may not get distracted, but people do. They left the marked trail, maybe they saw some deer or a marmot, or wanted to take a photo. Maybe they decided they’d try for a shortcut. There’s a reason the trails are marked, but people veer off anyway.”

  “If the dog’s right, so were you. Competitive Kevin would go up instead of down.”

  Bogart slowed down for the humans as they negotiated the climb. “Maybe they figured they’d get a cool view if they went up this way. But . . . Wait. Bogart! Hold!”

  She turned her light on a berry bush. “He caught his jacket,” she murmured, and gestured to a tiny triangle of brown cloth. “Good dog. Good job, Bogart. Flag the find, will you?” she asked Simon. “I’m going to call this in to base.”

  She’d shown him how to mark the finds early on the search when they’d come across tracks or other signs. Once he’d tied the flag, he gave Bogart water, took some for himself while she shouted for Kevin and Ella.

  “Nothing yet. But this understory sucks up the sound. It’s warming up, and the wind’s still light, still good for us. He wants to go. He’s got a good scent. Let’s find Kevin and Ella. Go find!”

  “What’s the longest you’ve ever been on a search?”

  “Four days. It was brutal. Nineteen-year-old boy, pissed off at his family, walked away from their campsite after they’d bedded down for the night. Got lost, wandered in circles and took a bad fall. High summer—heat, bugs, humidity. Meg and Xena found him. Unconscious, dehydrated, concussed. He’s lucky he made it.”

  Bogart zigzagged now, moving east, then west, turning back to the north.<
br />
  “He’s confused.”

  “No,” Fiona corrected, watching Bogart’s body language. “They were.”

  Ten minutes later Simon spotted the cell phone—or what was left of it—in a huddle of rock. “There.”

  He quickened his pace to reach Bogart, who stood at alert.

  “Good eye,” Fiona said. “It’s cracked.” She crouched to pull it out. “Broken. Look here. Bandage wrappers on the ground, and this looks like blood—the rain didn’t wash it all off in here.”

  “So one of them fell? Hit the rock, phone dropped, hit the rock?”

  “Maybe. Only a couple bandages, so that’s a plus.” She nodded as he took out a flag without her asking. Once again, she cupped her hands and shouted. “Damn it. Damn it. How much farther would they go after this? I’ll call it in.”

  “And eat something.” He dug into her pack himself. “Hey, you’ve got Milky Ways.”

  “That’s right. Quick energy.”

  “And I ate that crap bar. Sit down for five minutes. Eat. Drink.”

  “We’re close. I know it. He knows it.”

  “Five minutes.”

  She nodded and, sitting on the rocks, ate a candy bar while she talked to Mai.

  “We’re realigning the search. We’ve hit two finds, and Lori hit one that indicates this direction. Air search will sweep this way. It’s a red phone, and I’m betting hers. Mai’s going to check on that, but I don’t see Kevin with a bright red phone.”

  “So that’s probably her blood.”

  “Probably. He’s nuts about her, according to the friends. Just nuts about her. She’s hurt, he’d panic a little. Or maybe a lot, considering. You panic, you make it worse most of the time.”

  “He could’ve called for help from right here.”

  Fiona pulled out her cell. “Nope. Dead zone. That’s why they call it the wilderness. He probably tried to find a signal, ended up more lost, more off any kind of trail.”

  They headed out again. Bogart was deep into the “game,” Simon concluded, trotting ahead, sending what could only be impatient looks over his shoulder as if to say, Hurry the hell up!

  “Lost,” Fiona said half to herself. “Scared now—not an adventure anymore. One of them injured, even if it’s minor. Tired. New boots.”