Hunted

by Jo Leigh

  Mike got up and followed them.

  Sam had backed up all the way to the front door. Becky pounced. The squeal was loud and high, filled with anguish and glee.

  “Dad, help me!” Sam struggled to get away from his mom. “Dad!” he said, but an octave higher.

  Mike laughed. It felt strange and wonderful, like a long-lost friend had come to call. He moved toward the wriggling twosome. “Here I come,” he said, in an awful imitation of Dudley Do Right. “I'll protect you.”

  He grabbed Becky around the waist. She yelped as he lifted her into the air. Sam broke free and ran across the room, then fell in a laughing heap on the couch.

  Becky tried to get out of his grasp, but he didn’t budge.

  “Mike, put me down.”

  “Never!” He looked at Sam. But his boy wasn’t smiling any more. He was staring at his mother’s face. All the laughter had gone.

  “Mike, put me down. Please.”

  He heard her this time. He did as she asked. The second her feet touched the floor, he let go and backed away.

  “It’s time for bed, Sam,” she said.

  Mike couldn’t see her face, but her posture said enough. Her back was stiff and straight. Her arms were crossed, hugging her waist. She hated that he’d touched her.

  Sam didn’t argue with her. He looked from his mother to Mike with wide, sad eyes. He didn’t even say good-night. He just walked up the stairs.

  Becky turned around slowly. Her cheeks were still flushed. “It’s late,” she said. “We all need some sleep.”

  He couldn’t speak. He’d let down his guard for one split second, and look what had happened. She couldn’t have hurt him worse if she’d picked up his gun and shot him.

  * * *

  Mike listened to the storm as he stretched his legs in front of him. It was late, after midnight, but he couldn’t get up and put himself to bed. He stared at the dying embers of the fire and thought about the night.

  She’d fooled him. She’d smiled and made jokes. Even laughed. For a while there, he’d thought she’d forgiven him. But it had all been a pretense for Sam’s benefit. She deserved an Academy Award.

  “Mike?”

  He turned abruptly, startled by Becky’s quiet voice. He figured she would have been sound asleep by now. “What are you doing up?”

  “I can’t sleep,” she said, as she walked down the stairs. “I thought I would make myself some hot milk. Do you want some?”

  “No, thank you.” He stretched as he stood, trying to ease the stiffness in his back. Now seemed like a really good time to go to bed.

  “Please?”

  He almost said no. In fact, he wasn’t really sure why he didn’t walk right past her. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded.

  Becky led him to the kitchen. She’d changed from her jeans and sweater into her bathrobe. Her hair was loose and tousled, falling below her shoulders. God, how he used to love to see her when she’d just gotten out of bed.

  The kitchen seemed too bright and cold. He thought about getting his jacket, but he just sat down. He yawned and rubbed his face with his hands, the stubble of his chin scratchy and uncomfortable. When he looked up again, Becky was standing over the stove, pouring milk into a pan.

  The bathrobe was the one he’d given her for Mother’s Day three years ago. It was pink terry cloth and it made her look soft. She wore socks, big thick white ones. Her feet were always cold. She used to warm them on his back. Or he would lift them on his lap and rub them until she was comfortable.

  His gaze traveled up slowly, but instead of seeing the bulky robe, he pictured what was underneath. The length of her thighs and the swell of her hips. He was a fool for thinking about that. Especially now. Hadn’t she made it perfectly clear she didn’t want anything to do with him? That she couldn’t even stand to have him touch her? It seemed to be an apt punishment, knowing what was under her robe, remembering how good it had been.

  The moment before she raised her hand, he knew she was going to push a lock of hair behind her ear. Because she always did that. Even when there was no hair on her cheek. It was just her way.

  He stared at her hands, the short oval fingernails unadorned and all the more beautiful for it. There was something intoxicating about her hands, even when they did something as mundane as pour milk. He’d always loved her hands. He could still remember the feel of them when she ran them over his body as they made love. When they finished, he always lifted her palm to his lips and kissed her.

  She’d liked it, too. There had been a time when she’d begged him to touch her. To make love with her.

  She brought the small pot and the glass to the table and sat next to him. She waited a minute or so, then poured the warm liquid so she could drink it.

  He held himself still, afraid that if he moved, she would see what he was thinking. He watched her through half-open eyes and tried to ignore the ache between his thighs.

  She put both hands around her glass, then brought the milk to her mouth. He watched her lips part, and her tongue touch the rim of the glass just before she drank. It seemed to take forever. His heartbeats grew farther apart, the seconds stretched. She placed the glass on the table, sighed, then turned to look into his eyes, all in slow motion.

  “I shouldn’t have reacted that way,” she said. “I know you were just having some fun. I didn’t mean to spoil everything.”

  “You don’t have to apologize.”

  “Yes, I do. You really tried hard tonight with Sam. You were good with him. I haven’t seen him laugh like that in a long time.”

  So it was all about Sam. He should have figured. “It was no big deal.” He had to stop looking at her. He kept thinking about old times. About making up after fights.

  “He loves you so much, Mike.”

  “I love him, too.”

  “You need to tell him that.”

  He stared at his hands, then his gaze slid across the table to hers. She rubbed one finger along the side of her glass.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “If you want me to tell him, I will.”

  She didn’t respond. He heard the trees outside, whipping in the wind. Then she moved the hand that wasn’t on the glass. She moved it closer to him. Just an inch. Before he could think, he leaned forward and slipped his open hand beneath hers. He knew she would pull away from him. It was obvious she hated his touch. But somehow, for some reason, her small fingers slipped between his. He didn’t look at her. If he did, she would see what he wanted, she would realize what she was doing.

  Still, she didn’t pull away. She gripped him tightly, moving her thumb so it rubbed the back of his hand. Something stirred inside him, something stronger than the physical need. It was an emptiness so deep he felt hollow inside. He’d tried to fill that hole, packing his days with work and exercise until he could barely move. Now, as he felt her beating pulse with his fingertips, he knew the emptiness had won a long time ago.

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze.

  She was exquisite. Her mouth opened slightly, showing the edges of her even, white teeth. Her breaths were deep and slow, her chest rising and falling beneath the pink robe. Her gaze met and held his. He saw something he’d thought he would never see again. She wanted him.

  “I've missed you,” he said.

  She nodded. “I know.”

  “Do you?” He leaned forward, never letting go of the connection of her gaze. “Do you know what I think about most? Waking up next to you. Not sex, although that’s there, too, but about feeling you next to me when I first open my eyes. Turning over in bed to see your hair on the pillow. Sometimes I would wake up and you would be in my arms. I wouldn’t remember how you got there. I would just be grateful.”

  She sighed and looked down. “I think about you sometimes, too.”

  He squeezed her hand, wanting her to look at him again. “I know I can’t have you back,” he said. “I know that. I would never even ask.”

  She did look at him, then. He saw the tears in her eyes.r />
  Then he was standing, and he pulled her up and into his arms. He stopped the trembling of her lips with his own.

  The shock of his kiss took Becky’s breath away. He breathed for her—filling her with memories she’d tried for two years to forget.

  She knew his lips, soft and smooth even while his mouth was hard and demanding. She knew the velvet of his tongue as it touched the corner of her mouth in a wordless plea. She felt the bristle of his beard on her skin, and she didn’t care. Mostly, she knew the smell of him, the combination of soap, sweat and skin that now, as always, aroused in her a primal yearning that had no name.

  Without her willing it, her lips parted and she tasted him. Then, as if the kisses were not enough, he moved his arm around her back and brought her closer so that she was flush against him from chest to knee. His body was different, leaner, more muscled, yet still achingly familiar. She lifted her arms and brought her hands to the back of his neck, her fingers threading through his thick, dark hair.

  He ran his hands over her back, touching her as if he’d never felt her before. Eager and insistent, his fingers explored through the fabric of her robe, then stilled at the base of her spine. He pulled his mouth away before she was ready, but then his lips were on her neck, just below her ear. His hot breath made her gasp.

  His hands moved down and cupped her buttocks, holding her steady as he pressed himself against her stomach.

  She knew that part of him, too. She’d dreamed of him too many nights to forget. No matter that she’d banished thoughts of him during the day, he always managed to sneak up on her in sleep.

  He moved, and she moved with him. He sighed and kissed her, and she kissed him back. She was falling, slowly, sinking. Losing herself. Losing control.

  Then she snapped, like a branch in the storm, awake and aware of who she was and where she was and why she was in his arms. She pulled away and turned her head away from his kiss. “No.”

  He released her quickly, as if she were fire and he’d been scorched. “Remembered who I was, huh?”

  She stepped back until her heel touched the bottom of the cabinet. “No. It’s not like that. I'm sorry. I should never had done that.”

  He stared at her, wounded and angry. More than that, he was lonely. She’d never guessed it was this bad. His eyes seemed black and empty. His cheeks hollow, his smile gone forever. There was no life to him at all. Her heart broke in a brand new place. “Mike,” she said as she reached for him.

  He winced, and turned his head, stepping back and away from her as quickly as he could. “Go to bed, Becky. It’s late.”

  “But—”

  “You were right. I should never have touched you. Now go on.”

  “It’s just that I can’t go back to the way it was when we were married, Mike. I can’t live like that again.”

  “I'm not asking you to.”

  “My life is calm and peaceful, and I don’t lie awake at night anymore wondering if you'll be alive in the morning. I don’t worry every time I hear a siren. I've finally gotten control over things, don’t you see? If I let go, it will all unravel. Don’t ask me to give up what I've worked so hard for. I can’t do it. I lose myself when I'm with you, and there’s nothing left over. Not for me or for Sam, and he needs me so much. I can’t invest everything in you, when I can’t trust you to be there.”

  “I'm going to check the house and make sure it’s locked up,” he said calmly, as if she’d never spoken.

  She moved to the door and blocked his way. “Were you listening? Did you hear me?”

  He wouldn’t look at her. His face was rigid, his mouth set in a thin line. “I won’t touch you again,” he said, his voice a low whisper, void of emotion. “I won’t mess up your life. As soon as this is over, we'll go right back to the way we were. I give you my word.”

  She shouldn’t let him go like this. She’d seen what was behind his eyes. He was dying inside, and he needed her. But how could she go to him when the price was so high?

  She moved to the door, and when she was very close to him, she touched his face. He closed his eyes. He didn’t move or shake her off, but it was clear her touch was painful. She dropped her hand. “I have to put the milk away,” she whispered. “I'll go up in a minute.”

  He left without another word.

  She went to the table and sat down again. Her milk was cold, but she didn’t want it anyway. Lord, she was tired. Maybe if she got some sleep she could figure out what all this meant. Right now, all she felt was confused and sad. The only thing she had to hold on to was the life she’d built for herself and her son. That life did not include Mike.

  She would bury the ache inside her. She’d done it before; she could do it again. If he just kept his word, and he didn’t touch her again, she would be all right.

  He would be all right, too. He would go back to his job and to talking to Sam on the computer. Mostly, he would go back to that island he’d lived on for so long. She couldn’t let herself believe that what she’d seen tonight made any difference. It was a quirk, a mistake. She’d spent too much of her life trying to figure out who was behind Mike’s mask to believe she’d seen the truth in an isolated cabin in the middle of the night so very far from home.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up quickly, collecting her glass and putting it in the sink. It was time she went to sleep and stopped thinking. She turned off the light and went into the dark living room. There were still embers in the fire, but they would soon die. The unfamiliar shadows made her uneasy.

  As she stepped on the stairs she saw a wide band of light from Mike’s room. She wondered if he was going to come back out to the living room, but after a few moments it was clear he wasn’t. She retied the belt on her robe, and walked over to his room. It wouldn’t hurt to make sure he was okay. She’d been pretty brutal with him.

  She reached his door and looked inside. At first, she didn’t see him, but a movement from the closet caught her attention. Mike was pulling himself up on a chinning bar that had been mounted in the doorway. His shirt was off, and the body she saw shocked her. It wasn’t his. Not her Mike. Every bit of softness was gone. He was muscled and hard. She could see his ribs as he pulled himself up, his biceps bulging and straining. Even from this distance she heard the rhythm of his deep breathing.

  His jeans rode low on his waist; they didn’t fit this new body. The only thing familiar about his chest was the dark, curly hair that tapered to a thin line at his waist and below. His legs were together, slightly angled in front. He wore no shoes, and even his feet showed tight lines of sinew and muscle. He let himself down again, him, not gravity. He controlled the move and made it slow and specific. She stared at his right arm, the swelling muscle, the cords of steel beneath the skin. He paused, and she looked up again. He caught her gaze.

  His face was as finely chiseled as his chest. Hard lines and curves, as if he were made of granite instead of flesh and bone. His eyes were hardest of all. Unblinking, steady, unforgiving.

  He lifted himself again, his chest expanding with his breath. His gaze never moved from her face. He went up slowly, inch by inch, with the control of a machine. A machine. That’s what he’d become and why she couldn’t love him. It had begun the night Amy died, bit by bit, piece by piece. He was the Tin Man. And everyone knew the Tin Man had no heart.

  Chapter 5

  Mike reached for his bag and took out the stack of letters. A drop of water from his still-wet hair fell onto the upper right corner of the page, and he wiped it away with his thumb.

  It was nearly nine. He’d had a lousy night’s sleep. He didn’t remember his dreams; only the feelings of loss lingered. He’d gotten out of bed when he heard Becky and Sam in the kitchen.

  He didn’t want to see her. What he wanted was to be in the field, tracking down Mojo. Doing something he knew how to do. Instead, he would have to go through another day of watching Becky, remembering when she was his.

  For his own sanity, he had to concentrate on finding
Mojo, and all he had were the letters. As far as he knew, the bastard was still free and heading this way. Cliff would have called if they’d caught him. The letters would tell him something, reveal a weakness. Mike had no delusions about Mojo. He knew if he made it to the cabin, he would try to kill them all. So Mike had to stop him first.

  He unfolded the top page. Same stationery. Same typewriter.

  Dear Mike,A priest came to me today. An old man with bad teeth. He asked me if I wanted to confess my sins. It’s never too late to get God’s forgiveness. At least that’s what he said. I don’t know about that. I don’t believe that some things can be forgiven. But who knows, eh? What if all it takes is one good session on your knees to be absolved? Of course, I can’t kneel, you took care of that, and what kind of a God would listen to a man who wasn’t kneeling?

  Have you been absolved, Mike? Did God forgive you for your sins? No, of course not. You know what I think? I think we're going to see each other in hell. Keep the light on for me, would you?

  Ah, the dinner bell is about to ring. I wouldn’t think of missing the world-class cuisine of the State Penitentiary system.

  That son of a bitch had no business talking about absolution. He was the one who killed at random. Mike had been doing his job, that’s all. Trying to stop Mojo from hurting more people. Gordon’s death was an accident, dammit. Isn’t that what everyone said?

  Mike folded the paper and put it on the bottom of the stack. As he opened the next letter, he heard a high-pitched engine outside. He dropped the packet and grabbed his gun. A snowmobile. It was probably Witherspoon, but the old man had said he would phone. Mike had stressed the point. He wanted no surprises. Witherspoon wasn’t the only one with access to a snowmobile.

  He ran from his bedroom to the living room and pulled the drapes aside. Snow pelted the window, making it hard to see. The drifts against the house were knee-high now, and building. The engine was louder in here, coming from down the road. His breath fogged the window and he wiped it clean with the arm of his shirt. There it was. He couldn’t make out who was riding it.