Hunted

by Jo Leigh

  “Who’s coming Dad?”

  Mike whipped around and saw Sam standing by the couch. “Get upstairs. Now.”

  Sam took a step back. His eyes widened until they seemed to take over his face. But he didn’t move.

  “Go on, Sam. Get upstairs.”

  “Is it that guy?”

  “Do what I tell you.” Mike looked back outside. The snowmobile was nearly at the house. “Becky!” he yelled. “Get out here and take Sam upstairs.”

  He heard her come, but he didn’t take his eyes off the man in the parka. It wasn’t the jacket Witherspoon had worn yesterday. That one had been blue. This one was white.

  Behind him, Becky told Sam to come with her, then Mike heard their footsteps on the stairs. He’d scared her, too.

  It had to be Witherspoon. Mojo would be a fool to make such a blatant entrance. But Mike wasn’t willing to take any risks. He eased the safety off as he lifted his .45 to his shoulder. The weight of the weapon was reassuring. He held his breath as the rider pulled up near the porch. When the engine cut off, Mike could hear the wind whip the trees. He stared at the man as he walked toward the door, but he couldn’t see past the fur-lined hood that surrounded his face.

  Two steps more, and he would be at the door. One.

  It was Witherspoon.

  The old man’s weathered face looked red and cold. Mike released his breath, swore, then called up to Becky that everything was okay. He slipped the safety on, and tucked his gun into his waistband in the back.

  He moved quickly to the door and opened it. The wind pushed him back. Snow came in first, then the old man, padded and covered from head to toe in an Arctic suit. Mike shoved the door closed while his guest stomped the snow off his boots.

  “Morning,” he said.

  Mike nodded. “Morning.”

  “Came by to check the house, and to finish up with the snowmobiles like I promised. This storm is going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

  “You were supposed to call.”

  “Couldn’t. My phone’s on the blink. Happens a lot, what with the weather in such a snit. Lines go down, no one up here to put 'em back up. Then there’s the mice problem. They do get at the wires. That’s why I came with this.” He held up a coiled length of cable. “I thought it was more important for you folks to have phone service, so I saddled right up. I've got my ham radio, see, so I'm okay. But if it’s the lines, the wire won’t be of much use.”

  Mike walked to the end table and picked up the phone. He heard the reassuring hum of the dial tone. “It’s working fine,” he said.

  Witherspoon nodded. “If you don’t mind, I'll still take a look-see downstairs before we head out.”

  “Sure, no problem.” Mike went to the base of the stairs. The old man’s story about the wires bothered him. Not that the weather could knock out the phones, that made sense. But so selectively? If the wires went down, wouldn’t the whole mountain be without service?

  As soon as Witherspoon went downstairs, he intended to make a few phone calls. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to the phone company and get some answers.

  Becky and Sam hadn’t come down, and he was concerned that they hadn’t heard him before. “Becky. It’s all right. Mr. Witherspoon is here.”

  He waited for her and Sam to appear. A moment later, they opened the door and started downstairs. Sam held Becky’s hand tightly, and both of them seemed pale. After Mike’s call to the phone company, he would call Cliff. This waiting and not knowing was torture. For all of them.

  “Becky, this is Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “How do you do.” Becky’s voice was steady and casual, but Mike thought that was for Sam’s benefit. So was her smile.

  Witherspoon nodded. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  Becky, still clutching Sam’s hand, walked next to Mike. “This is crazy,” she whispered. “Can’t you do something? Call someone?”

  He turned to Becky. Her eyes pleaded with him to go, now, to the phone. “Right away,” he said. Then he looked down at Sam.

  The poor kid was holding on to Becky for dear life. He’d really scared him. What could he do, though? Pretend nothing was wrong? He lowered himself down to eye-level with his son and placed his hands on Sam’s small shoulders. He stared into his wide, frightened eyes. “How about we go upstairs and play a couple of games on the old computer after I get back? I still owe you from yesterday.”

  Sam nodded. “Sure,” he said, but there was no enthusiasm in his voice. Not like there would have been before this whole mess had started.

  “It’s all right, kiddo. I was just being careful. Okay?” He smiled at his boy, hoping like hell he looked confident, because he sure didn’t feel it.

  Sam smiled. Not a great smile, but it was better than nothing.

  Mike reached over and tousled his hair, then stood up, facing Becky. She seemed a little calmer now, too. He wanted to tell her he was sorry about last night. That he was sorry about so much. He reached out and touched her arm.

  Her gaze followed his hand. She didn’t flinch or move aside. She touched his arm, very lightly with her fingers. Such a little move, almost nothing. But the connection made him feel a hell of a lot better.

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly, then gave him a small smile. “It’s okay,” she said, very softly, then turned to Witherspoon. “I've got hot coffee in the kitchen.”

  Mike was sorry to let her go.

  Witherspoon had taken off his parka, revealing a red flannel shirt and a tool belt around his waist. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said. He dropped his gloves on top of his coat and headed for the kitchen.

  Becky looked at her son. “Go on and finish your breakfast.”

  Sam turned and walked toward the kitchen, and they were alone.

  “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she said. “I was thinking about what I said to you, how I've been acting.”

  “You haven’t done anything wrong. I was out of line.”

  “Wait. Let me finish. After I went to bed, I tried to remember the last time we talked. Really talked. Not about Sam, but about us. What happened to us?”

  She studied his face as if she were seeing something different about him. “There was a time we could talk, when there was nothing we couldn’t say to each other. Remember?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t think we can ever get that back, but I know we can do a lot better than we have. And we owe it to each other to try.”

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “A lot has happened.” He wanted to tell her he would try. But she’d asked him not to lie. “I'm not that man anymore, Becky. I don’t think I'll ever be that man again.”

  “So talk to me about who you are now.”

  He shook his head. “Why? We'll be out of here soon. You'll go back to your life, and I'll go back to mine.”

  “We're stuck here, at least for a little while. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could get along? Maybe not like we used to, but we could learn to be friends again, couldn’t we?”

  “You'll only be disappointed.”

  “Let me be the judge of that, okay?”

  He reached over and brushed her soft cheek with the back of his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  She rewarded him with a smile. “All I'm asking is that we try. Now, go call Cliff. Tonight we'll see if we can remember some of the old words, okay?”

  He nodded and let his hand drop. He wanted to say something reassuring. To tell her he still knew how to be her friend. But he wasn’t sure it was true. “You keep Witherspoon in the kitchen. I'll call from here.”

  He watched her walk into the kitchen. She wore beige stretch pants that disappeared inside her ankle boots. Her legs were long and slim, and he liked the way the pants hugged her. The sweater was beige, too, and bulky with knitted flowers. She’d put up her hair—a French braid, he thought. He’d watched her do that one night, fascinated by the dexterity of her fingers, and amazed that she could make something so pret
ty just by touch.

  Mike forced himself to forget about her, for now at least. He turned to the telephone and dialed the Denver office of the FBI. The phone rang four times. It took a few minutes for the switchboard operator to locate Cliff. He listened to an old Beatles' song and then a few more rings.

  “Mike.” Cliff’s voice was tinny. He was on the cellular phone.

  “Tell me something good, Cliff.”

  “You were wrong about him. He never showed up at Becky’s.”

  Mike swore. “That makes no sense.”

  “Ten to one he’s heading for Canada. Damned if I know how, though. We had road blocks up. His picture has been plastered all over the television. Every police agency in three states has been notified. The man has vanished.”

  Mike walked around the couch and sat down. “Tell me about the nurse.”

  “His hostage.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was pretty new at the prison. She got hired about five weeks ago, but she’d worked in prison hospitals before. Single, no kids. Good at her job, from what the doctors say. Not too talkative.”

  “They haven’t found her body yet?”

  “Nope. He’s still got her.”

  “If Mojo still has her, then she’s no hostage. She’s an accomplice. She got him out of there.”

  “We already thought of that. We couldn’t...”

  The phone line filled with static for a moment, then settled down again.

  “...known her.”

  “I didn’t catch that.”

  “There was no way he could have known her. He’d never been to the infirmary before that night.”

  “It doesn’t matter. She’s working with him. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Find out what other prisons she’s worked for. I'll bet you Mojo’s path crossed hers somewhere along the road.”

  “Nope. We checked that. The only time they've been in the same state was this last year, when he was already in prison. Her record is spotless.”

  “Still, she’s not dead.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “If he’d killed her, he would have dumped her by the side of the road. He did it with the banker’s family, and he did it in California. Why would he change his MO now?”

  “Maybe because the whole world is looking for him.”

  Mike could tell Cliff was getting impatient with him. Mike could picture him, fidgeting with his necktie, tugging at his collar. Cliff was only comfortable when he was in sweats and a T-shirt, sitting in front of a football game, drinking a diet soda. He got the “itchies” when he was bored, or when, like now, he felt outfoxed.

  Dammit, Mike knew he was right about Mojo. “He used the nurse to get him out of prison. He’s on his way here. I'm not wrong about this.”

  “That’s what you said about Becky’s house.”

  “So he skipped that step. That doesn’t mean he’s leaving the country.”

  “How would he know where you are? No one but me knows about the cabin, and I haven’t talked to the man. Besides, even if he did know where you were, he couldn’t get to you. Not with that storm. According to the weather service, that’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. The only thing you need to worry about is staying warm.”

  Mike rubbed his eyes. He suddenly felt bone weary. He wanted to go back to bed and sleep for two or three days. “You're gonna have to believe me on this one, buddy. Forget what you think, what you know. Just trust me. Morris Jones is on his way here. He'll find a way to get through the storm. It’s all he cares about. He’s a smart son of a bitch and he’s made me a promise.”

  Cliff didn’t say anything, and all Mike heard was static. When the line cleared, his partner said, “I believe you, Mike. But I don’t know how much good that’s gonna do. I don’t call the shots around here.”

  “Do whatever it takes. I mean it. Get up here and bring as many men as you can. You're gonna feel like a jerk if I turn up dead.”

  Cliff laughed, a short, rueful retort. “You would haunt me, wouldn’t you?”

  Mike wasn’t smiling. “Till the end of time.”

  Cliff wasn’t laughing anymore, either. “Okay. I'll be there.”

  “Hey, I need you to do something else.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Check on the phone service up here, would you? See if it’s possible for Witherspoon’s phone lines to be down, when this phone works just fine. I don’t like his explanation.”

  “Witherspoon’s all right, Mike. I've known him for years.”

  “Well, check anyway. For me.”

  Cliff sighed. “Anything you say.”

  “Thanks. And listen, pal, Mojo doesn’t care if he dies. I think he wants to die. But he won’t go before he tries to get me. And my family.”

  * * *

  Becky poured Witherspoon a second cup of coffee. She overfilled the cup and a little of the hot liquid spilled on the table. “I'm sorry,” she said, as she put down the pot and reached for a sponge.

  “No harm done.”

  She wiped up the spill, still trying to hear what Mike was saying. It was useless. The sounds of the storm were too loud. She hated the storm, the noise, the frantic beating of the branches on the windows. If she had to listen to it all day, she knew she would go mad.

  Sam ate his cereal. He used a soup spoon which was too big for him, so he strained to get the flakes in his mouth. He seemed to enjoy the challenge though, so she didn’t give him a teaspoon. If only she could concentrate that hard on something other than Mojo. Or Mike.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down next to Mr. Witherspoon. “It must be lonely up here, all by yourself,” she said.

  The old man shrugged. “I'm used to it. Doesn’t bother me much. I've got my ham radio friends. I talk to them from all over the world. Even Russia.”

  She smiled and tried to work up some enthusiasm, or at least think of some questions for him. She wanted so desperately to go to the living room and find out what Mike had heard that it was hard to keep still. But she didn’t want to scare Sam anymore this morning. “That must be fascinating.”

  Witherspoon nodded. “I came up here nearly twenty-two years ago. With my wife and boys. They used to love it up here. The boys loved to ski in the winter. They loved the boating in the summer. You really should try and come again in season, you know. You can’t tell about this place when it snows like this.”

  “Where are the boys now?” Becky took a sip of coffee and brushed some loose hair behind her ear.

  “I'm the only one left,” he said, his voice soft with tenderness. “Ted and Roy were killed eighteen years ago. Car accident.”

  Becky’s heart sank. She lowered her cup slowly, then looked at the old man. “I'm so sorry,” she said. “I know how hard it is to lose a child.”

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. He just looked at her with his pale blue eyes. Then he reached over and patted her hand. “It’s not so bad,” he said. “They're still with me. So’s my wife. She passed on two years ago. But they're all right here.” He tapped his temple. “Every day. I can hear them laughing and arguing, and I can see them sleeping. It gives me comfort.” He gave her a gentle smile. “Truth be known, I won’t mind at all when it’s my time. Nope. I won’t mind seeing them again at all.”

  Becky had to look away. She checked on Sam, worried that he might be upset. However, he was still working on his cereal, and busy reading the back of the box. He didn’t look troubled.

  “I couldn’t leave, you see. I've got too many memories here,” Witherspoon said.

  Becky tried to smile back at him, but she couldn’t. His words had taken her to a place that had no smiles. “I envy you,” she said. “My memories aren’t so sweet.”

  “Lost someone close, did you?”

  She nodded, and glanced again at Sam. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk about that right now.”

  “I don’t mind,” Sam said. He put down his spoon and looked at Witherspoon. “My little sister died.
She had cancer. She was four.”

  Witherspoon smiled. “I bet she was pretty.”

  Sam shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You miss her?”

  “I don’t remember her very well. I was only six and a half, you know. When she died.”

  Becky stood up. She couldn’t listen to this. “Sam, are you finished with breakfast? Why don’t you scoot upstairs, huh? I think Mr. Witherspoon has some business with Daddy.”

  Sam looked up at her, puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?”

  She shook her head, and tried to calm her rapid pulse. It was hard to speak with the lump in her throat. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t say anything wrong. But I still think you’d better go upstairs.”

  Sam pushed back his chair and stood up. He took his empty cereal bowl in both hands and walked over to the sink.

  Becky watched every move, her heart aching and heavy. He didn’t remember Amy. He would grow up not knowing how special his little sister had been. He wouldn’t teach her to ride a bike, or help her with her homework. He wouldn’t fight with her or laugh with her, or tell her all his secrets. It wasn’t right, she thought. It wasn’t fair. Dammit, it wasn’t fair.

  He turned from the sink and walked to the door. He didn’t look her way or say anything more.

  “I'm sorry if I stirred up trouble.”

  She heard Witherspoon, but she didn’t answer him. She couldn’t. He didn’t press it, and for that she was grateful.

  “I'll just go downstairs and check the wires,” he said.

  She heard the scrape of his chair, the shuffle of his booted feet. She even heard the basement door open and close. But all she saw was her daughter’s face.

  Chapter 6

  Mike stopped cold when he saw Becky standing in the middle of the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”

  She moved her head slowly until she met his gaze. Her eyes were so filled with pain that he stopped breathing. He walked to her, and took her arm. “Becky, what happened?”

  “He doesn’t remember Amy. He was too little.”

  “Are you talking about Sam?”