Hunted

by Jo Leigh

  “I want you to quit the bureau. Sam needs a father he can count on.”

  He crossed the distance between them, and held her by the shoulders. “What do you need?” Then he kissed her, hard. His fingers dug into her flesh as he crushed her lips with his own.

  She brought her hand between them and pushed him back. “No,” she said, as he let her go. “I need to know you'll come home at night. I can’t live the rest of my life in fear.”

  He stared at her for a long time. When he spoke, the words came slowly. “I love you and I love Sam. But I can’t quit. It’s all I know.”

  She closed her eyes as the disappointment washed through her. Why had she let herself hope? When she looked at him again, he had turned toward the door of the kitchen. She followed his gaze. Sam was standing just inside.

  “You're not coming home, are you?” he asked, staring at his father.

  Mike looked back at Becky for a quick second, then turned back to face his son. “No.”

  The word hung in the air. Sam’s face changed into an angry mask. “Then why did you come get us?” He was yelling, the hurt so raw it was like an open wound. “We were fine at home. We don’t need you.”

  She went for him, but Mike was quicker. He grabbed Sam’s arms and pulled him close. “I love you, Sam. Nothing can change that.”

  Sam twisted out of Mike’s hands. “You don’t! You love your job better.” He ran past him, and she knelt to catch him.

  “That’s not—”

  She looked up, instantly frightened at the way Mike was staring past her to the kitchen window. He rushed past her, as her heart thudded in her chest. “What is it?”

  He moved the curtain an inch to the right. Becky felt a scream building inside her.

  Then he let the curtain drop and he turned toward her. “Witherspoon’s snowmobile. It’s parked outside. But he’s not on it.”

  Chapter 15

  Witherspoon must have ridden over on the snowmobile during the night. It was the only explanation Mike could find for not hearing the engine. Something had stopped the old man from coming to the cabin door. Something, or someone.

  “Get the food,” he snapped at Becky. “Sam, get upstairs. Mommy will be up in a second. Do just what she says. Be quick.”

  Becky still held Sam tightly. They both looked terrified. He fought back the urge to yell at them to move. That wouldn’t help anything. He knelt so he could be eye-level with Sam. “It’s going to be okay if we just use our heads. Becky, I want you to take the food upstairs. Sam, I want you to go up ahead of her and get inside the closet. Just like we practiced. When Mommy gets there, she'll make sure you're comfortable, and that you're not alone.”

  Neither of them moved. He touched Sam’s cheek, brushing it with the back of his fingers. “I need you to help me, Samson. I'm counting on you to watch out for your mom while I'm down here. Can you do that?”

  Sam nodded. Becky’s eyes closed and Mike reached over and touched her hand. When she finally looked at him, he could see she didn’t want to leave him.

  “You can do this,” he whispered.

  She nodded, then stood. “Come on, kiddo. Let’s move it.”

  Mike got up, too. “Don’t forget the gun,” he said.

  Becky went to the table and picked it up. She checked the safety, then slipped it into the shoulder holster.

  “The ammunition is in the closet beneath the stairs,” he said. “Take a few boxes with you. Now go.”

  Becky grabbed the large paper bag filled with food and drink. “I'll be right behind you, honey.”

  Sam ran then. He darted out of the room without a look back. Mike wanted to race after him, to hold him close and tell him he’d been wrong. He didn’t give a damn about his job. Only his family.

  He picked up his rifle. When he turned back, Becky was already on her way out.

  “I won’t let him hurt you,” he said.

  She looked at him one last time. “I know.”

  He watched her go, praying this wasn’t the last time he would ever see her. Dammit, why had he said he wasn’t going home to them? All he wanted was for Becky and Sam to be safe, and to be with them. The bureau had lots of jobs that wouldn’t put him in the line of fire. For the first time in two years, it mattered that he might die. That he might not be around to watch Sam grow up.

  Forcing his mind to clear, he went back to the window above the sink and moved the curtain so he could see outside. Nothing much had changed, except the level of the snow. It was really coming down. God, the whole world would be covered with white soon. Witherspoon’s snowmobile was completely blanketed now, a lump to match the other two vehicles.

  Mojo could be hiding behind anything. The snowmobiles, the Bronco, a tree, the woodpile. All Mike knew for sure was that Mojo would have a plan. He wouldn’t just shoot his way in, using force as his weapon. No, the man was too vain, too proud of his insights into Mike’s character to do anything so gauche. Mojo would do something with a little finesse.

  Mike left the kitchen after checking the lock one more time. The living room was cold and empty, but nothing had been tampered with. The dead bolt was firmly locked, the windows were all intact. He pushed the drapes aside, just enough so he could see out. Great swirling masses of snow and ice and wind flew into the glass.

  No one was coming to help. He knew that. Sully might try, but he was only human. Hopefully, he’d found a snowplow, but that would take God knows how long to clear a path all the way to the cabin.

  Mike heard a thump from above, and in seconds he was on the stairs, taking two at a time, racing almost as quickly as his heart.

  The bedroom door was open and when he went inside, he found Becky standing outside the closet, holding the .45 in her hand.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head. “I dropped this.” She lifted the gun. “I'm sorry, it was clumsy of me.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Mike went to the window and checked the lock. Mojo could climb the tree, he supposed, but it would be tough with his bum leg. He looked down, but it was a useless gesture.

  He turned back to Becky. She had pushed the sliding door all the way to the right and was crawling into the closet, moving aside pillows and blankets. He caught a glimpse of Sam, sitting cross-legged with a sleeping bag on his lap.

  Becky settled in, camouflaging her position with the linens. When she was through, he could see bits of her, an elbow, a knee. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the best they could do. If Mojo really looked for them, he would find them.

  So he wouldn’t get up here. Period.

  It was time to go back downstairs. He checked the closet one more time, closing it a little more. “It’s going to be fine,” he said. “Just stay put. No matter what. I don’t want you two leaving this closet. You got that?”

  He heard a muffled “Yes” from Becky. There was nothing more for him to do up here, but he hated to leave them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sam’s computer. It was still plugged in near the bed. He went over and picked it up. It had a battery that would run for several hours. No reason Sam couldn’t have it with him. He unplugged the cord and took the machine to the closet. He slid the door fully open and bent over, moving aside a pink quilt until he saw Sam’s face. “I think you forgot this,” he said.

  Sam reached out and took the computer. The grateful look he gave Mike didn’t quite hide the fear. Then the quilt fell again, and Mike couldn’t see Sam’s face anymore.

  “Listen up, guys,” he said. “When this is all over, things are gonna be different around here. No more of this every-other-weekend crap. Becky, we'll talk about the job, okay? We'll work something out. Sam, you're more important that anything, buddy. Don’t you ever forget that.” He quickly slid the closet door three-quarters shut and left them.

  He would be back.

  * * *

  Becky didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She believed him. He would make changes, they both would. There was a real chance they
could be a family again. If they got out of here alive.

  She shifted in the tight cocoon of blankets so that her hip was against Sam’s. She was sitting cross-legged, like him. There was really no other choice in the cramped space. But she wanted him to feel her there next to him. To take comfort in her company. It was a small comfort, she knew that, but it was all she had available.

  God, they had to get out of this. It was too cruel, too unthinkable that their future could be snatched away just when it was looking so bright.

  She thought about the first night they’d spent in this cabin. How she had barely been able to talk to Mike, how trapped he’d been on his island of bitter regrets. They’d gone through a lifetime of changing in the past few days.

  Mike had found his heart again, and it had given him life. He’d seen, all on his own, that his family was what really mattered. That watching Sam grow, teaching him, loving him, was the greatest gift he could ever receive.

  Something else had changed. Finally, after two years of denial and misspent grief, she was able to say goodbye to Amy. Of course, her little girl would always be with her, but now, and forever more, Becky would be able to remember the good times, the sweet moments.

  Sam bumped her with his elbow and she looked down at him. He’d opened his computer on his lap. While she watched, the screen came alive as his swift fingers ran across the keyboard. She moved an afghan behind her neck, which not only felt better, but let her see the screen.

  She was glad Mike had thought to give the computer to Sam. It would distract him. Her, too. God knew how long they would be shut up in here.

  The thought of Mike downstairs, of what he might have to face, hit her again with the force of a blow. She strained to hear him, but it was useless. The pillows, blankets and sleeping bags cut off the rest of the world. It was just the two of them, in this strange little cave.

  Sam was typing again. Only he wasn’t playing a game. He was writing a note. Becky put the gun in her left hand and flexed her right for a moment, then gripped it again. Only when the barrel was pointing straight out in front of her did she lean a bit to her left to see what had Sam so interested.

  It was only one sentence. A simple question.

  “Are we going to see Amy in heaven?”

  * * *

  If he was Mojo, how would he break into this house? That’s the question Mike pondered as he stood by the staircase. He could see the front door from here, and the kitchen door, too.

  The easiest way would be to break a window and climb through. If he was careful and patient, there wouldn’t be much noise, only the crack of broken glass for a second. If Mike was in the kitchen, with this wind howling, he wouldn’t hear glass break in the living room.

  Okay, so which window? The living room? Too obvious. Mojo would assume Mike would be there. The kitchen? No good. He would have to climb over the sink. He wouldn’t do that. The bedroom? That was a good choice. But not the best.

  If he was trying to break into this cabin, he would go straight to the basement. The window was easy to get to from outside, and big enough to let a slim man slide through. The drop was an easy one, and the room itself was dark and cut off from the rest of the house.

  He made the decision that fast, and went toward the kitchen. Just as he reached the door to the basement, the lights went out. He froze.

  Either Mojo was in the basement already, or he was still outside near the power line. Mike looked up, as if he could see through the ceiling to where Becky and Mike sat in the closet. Did they know the electricity was gone? He tried to remember if they’d left a light on in the bedroom, but he couldn’t. Maybe they didn’t know. Please, God, they didn’t.

  He took some slow breaths, consciously slowing his rapid pulse. He listened hard, struggling to hear a shoe fall, a box being dragged, anything. But all he heard was the infernal wind.

  He grabbed the doorknob with his left hand, keeping the rifle poised in his right. Slowly, patiently, he opened the door and moved toward the steps. One more second, and he could get through.

  The shot shattered the doorframe an inch from his temple.

  He hit the floor, his lower half still in the kitchen, his left arm braced on the second step, the only thing stopping him from taking a header down the stairs. Pain shot from his hand to his shoulder, red and blinding, but he had no time for that now. At least his question had been answered.

  Mojo was in the basement.

  It was dark down below. Another shot, this one slamming into the wall behind him, was only a few inches off the mark. Ambient light from the kitchen was acting like a spotlight, giving Mojo plenty of time to get his aim right. Mike had to move. Now.

  He pulled his legs in, until he was hunched over in a crouch. Thankfully, the door swung shut behind him, but not before Mojo got off one more shot. This one hit the stairs, and Mike felt a sharp sting on his cheek. It had to be a splinter. How big, he had no idea. He was bleeding, but he could still see and move, so it made no difference.

  Now the darkness was more even. The only gray area was a shaft of dull light from the broken window high on the other side of the room. The only thing illuminated was a barren patch of concrete floor. Mike tried to see into the shadows, to see the glint off the gun or a blur of movement. Nothing.

  He had to get down the steps. Even without light, Mojo knew where he was. It was only a matter of target practice until he found the bull’s-eye.

  Keeping a tight grip on the rifle, Mike shifted slowly until he’d reversed his position, and his legs were below him on the steps. At least he wasn’t upside down anymore. He didn’t sit for long. He squeezed as tightly as he could next to the wall, and eased his butt over the edge of one stair to the next. Sam used to do this when he was learning to walk. He used to sit at the top of the stairs and ride his bottom all the way down to the ground floor.

  Mike waited before he moved again. The wind was louder in here and a steady stream of billowing snow flew into the dark room. He thought it must be cold, but he didn’t feel it.

  Was Mojo behind the dryer? Or had he moved underneath the staircase, so he could point his gun straight up?

  It was torture to be still. To hunt the dark recesses with inadequate eyes. To play this deadly game of chicken. He had to win, because if he didn’t, Mojo was going to climb another set of stairs, open a closet door, and—

  He couldn’t think about that. Not now. He had to be smarter than the man waiting for him. More patient.

  Mojo would grow tired. He would shoot again, and this time Mike would see where the shot came from. All he had to do was wait. He started counting his heartbeats and waiting for act two.

  * * *

  Becky bit her lower lip so hard she tasted the salt of her own blood. Sam had grabbed her arm when they’d heard the first shot. His grip had tightened, and now she heard the quivering short breaths that told her he was crying.

  “It’s okay, honey,” she said, as loudly as she dared. “Daddy’s going to come up here real soon and get us. You'll see. He’s fine.”

  She could see the bottom half of Sam’s face in the eerie blue-green light of the computer monitor. She’d thought it would go out when the electricity went off, but then she’d realized it was running on batteries. Not that he had any attention for his games now.

  She had to do something to take his mind off the long stretches of silence, and the more horrifying bursts of gunfire. But how could she, when her own fear had her by the throat?

  “Did I ever tell you about the day Daddy and I found out you were going to be born?”

  He didn’t answer her. She didn’t want to let go of the gun, but she forced herself to loosen her left hand. It was stiff from squeezing so hard for so long, and she had to flex her fingers for a minute. Then she turned just a bit toward Sam and put her arm around his shoulder.

  He fell against her, and she felt his trembling as if it were her own.

  “It was a Tuesday. Wintertime, like now. Daddy didn’t have a clue that
I had such a big surprise for him. See, I’d gone to the doctor that afternoon. I’d had a hunch. Dr. Richman said I was pregnant. I couldn’t wait to get home.”

  Sam turned his head a little more, burying his face in her side. The computer tilted, but didn’t fall. Now, the light illuminated his shirt.

  “I baked a cake. Vanilla with chocolate icing. And I cooked him his favorite meal. You know what it was?”

  She waited, but didn’t really expect him to respond. After a moment, she said, “It’s your favorite meal, too. Lasagna. When we get home, I'm going to make a big pan of lasagna for my two favorite guys. Anyway, I made a big fancy dinner, with salad and garlic bread. I even bought wine. For him, you know. I couldn’t drink that anymore. Not with you inside me.”

  She moved her hand until she felt his soft hair beneath her fingers. She petted him, over and over, trying to calm him—and herself. There hadn’t been another shot for... She had no idea how long. It could have been five minutes or two hours. They were in some kind of dark limbo, where time and space had no meaning.

  “We lived in an apartment then. Off Pearl Street. Anyway, Daddy was due home in a half hour. So I went and took a shower, because I wanted to be pretty for him. When I got out, I smelled something funny. I wrapped myself in a big towel, and went into the living room. That’s when I saw the smoke.”

  Sam had calmed down a bit. He wasn’t shaking anymore, at least not so much. His breathing was more even and steady. Oh, if he could only sleep. Perhaps that was too much to hope for.

  “The whole kitchen was on fire. I got so scared. I tried to put it out, but it was already too big. So I raced into the bedroom and put on my robe. I grabbed my pillow and the photo album and I got downstairs at the same time the fire engines pulled up in front. When Daddy came home, instead of the wonderful dinner I’d planned, he saw everything we owned go up in flames. I thought I’d started the fire, you know, with the oven or something. I was crying pretty hard. Daddy took me in his arms and said he didn’t care. Not one bit.”

  She squeezed him tight. “That’s when I told him about you. He was so happy, he lifted me in the air and spun me around. I was in my bathrobe, with a big old fire department blanket around my shoulders, but he didn’t care. He just whooped and hollered, and he gave me a big fat kiss. Then he told me that this baby, that you, were going to be lucky your whole life. Anyone who started out with this much of a ruckus was bound to be the luckiest kid in the whole world.”