by Alicia Scott
"What's that?"
"I'm getting very tired and it's too dangerous to risk encountering my brother exhausted. We need to stop for the night so I can sleep. How should we manage that?"
"Night? Sleep?" she asked weakly. "Ah!"
"Exactly."
Chapter 6
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Brandon stood in the middle of the luxurious suite in the Waldorf Hotel looking conspicuously out of place in his ripped-up jeans, battered wool sweater, filthy T-shirt and boot-encased feet. He hadn't shaved in two weeks. He hadn't bathed in four days—sunken bathtubs were a little hard to find when hiking around the volcanoes of Indonesia. As a result, the concierge maintained a careful distance of ten feet and even then wrinkled his nose at the pervasive odor of sulfur.
Brandon didn't blame him. He'd hiked the live volcanoes for nearly a month, the steaming ground pulsing and popping beneath his feet, and if he never smelled sulfur or ate a fried banana and hard-boiled egg sandwich again, he wouldn't be sorry. Now he tipped the concierge generously, closed the door behind the man and started stripping off his clothes where he stood.
He'd never been out of shape or slovenly, but even so he barely recognized his body anymore. Whatever executive softness had existed had disappeared in the past two years, melting away slowly and surely as he hiked the complete length of the Appalachian Trail, scuba dived in Samui, went snowboarding in the Alps. He'd also rearranged a few joints and limbs along the way. Maybe men who grew up in private boarding schools weren't meant to be rough and rugged after all.
He padded naked into the huge, gold-marbled bathroom and filled the tub. A suite was incredibly extravagant and just the right thing for a man bound and determined to lose money. Then again, he would gladly have paid a million dollars just for the deep, jet-propelled bathtub. With a groan and a grimace, he eased his aching body down, sinking into the wonderful heat, closing his eyes and letting the steam seep into his pores.
You're back in New York, Brandon. What are you going to do now?
He'd avoided the city for two years. He'd thought it would be too much, that every place would remind him of her, that though he'd survived a freak blizzard on the AT and a startled encounter with two poisonous snakes in Samui, Central Park might still break him. Even now, through the rising sulfur-soaked steam, he thought he smelled his wife's perfume and it was as beautiful and god-awful as ever. She'd loved cheap fragrances. She'd loved anything cheap and tacky. He'd proposed with a diamond, but she would have been just as thrilled with a paste ring from a gum ball machine.
He was right after all. New York still hurt.
He got out of the tub, dried off his whip-lean body and, knowing there was no point of returning to civilization without at least contacting it, called in to his answering service with the white bath towel roped around his bronzed flanks.
The first message was from his broker. The stock he'd bought in a failing company had just doubled—some white knight had come in unexpectedly and bailed the company out. Industry experts were thrilled, and Brandon, who had dedicated himself to losing his money, had just made fifty grand.
"Damn."
The next message was from his mother, wanting to know why she had received only a lousy postcard for Mother's Day and not a phone call. And where was he anyway and why was he so hard to get hold of? He was just as cold and insensitive and unfeeling as his father…
Brandon skipped over the rest of the message.
The last message was from C.J. Brandon replayed it twice, then calmly recradled the phone and got dressed while he buzzed the concierge. Two minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Brandon was already prepared.
"I'm leaving," he announced without preamble. "Please take my bags downstairs and hail a cab."
"But sir, you just arrived—"
"Don't worry, it's nothing personal—the suite is as beautiful and overpriced as always." He picked up his briefcase. "I reserved the whole week. Bill me for it."
"That won't be nece—"
"No, no, I insist." Brandon smiled grimly, already striding out the door. "After all, it's only money."
They came down the other side of the mountain, catching up with the river and running alongside like its mate. Cain rolled down the window all the way, resting his arm on top of the door and feeling the fresh spring sun soak into his prison-white skin. The trees were greener than he remembered, the sky even more blue. The river fascinated him, looking like a mischievous child as it raced gleefully over stone boulders and fern-lined banks. Sometimes it plunged into full-fledged lakes, sometimes it thinned down to a babbling brook, but it never gave up completely, and Cain admired that a great deal.
The red-laced granite cliffs soaring up on his left, the snowcapped mountains beckoning out front, the blue, crisp water racing on his right. White and yellow daisies waved merrily from the protective shade of trees, and deep pink foxgloves rose up regal and serene above them, nodding in the wind like approving matrons supervising young, impetuous charges. Golden dandelions swept beneath it all, adding dazzling touches of sunlight to a pulsing, populated forest floor.
After six years of concrete walls, concrete floors and iron bars, the lush grandeur of the Cascades was almost enough to make him pull over the truck and roll in the carpet of moss, pine needles and wildflowers just to make sure it was real.
He'd been born in the mountains, then left them for the city. He'd been lying to himself all along. The trees were in his blood. He didn't want to leave them again.
And his fertile mind ran away from him that quickly, drawing vast, impressive images of a two-story log cabin with towering panes of glass to let in the sky and two layers of decks for barbecue, and a four-wheel-drive vehicle for the winters and two German shepherds for company. He saw himself fishing along the riverbank, hunting deep in the forests, and skiing along the mountaintops.
He cut off the pictures before they grew roots and planted too firmly in his mind. The future was a luxury for innocent men. He had the police behind him and Ham ahead of him.
If you make it to Idaho, Cain, if you do find Ham, what will you do then?
Shoot him? Or get shot? And how do either of those options help you?
"Are you woolgathering?" Maggie asked at last, her gaze curious on his face.
"No. Playing chess."
The Cascades surrendered to central Oregon. The sun grew fierce, the air unbearably dry. Moist greens gave way to a resilient brush of straggling pines and tumbling sagebrush. Red dust swirled along the side of the road, and while green rolling hills and white-topped mountains lined the horizon, they might have been just a mirage compared to the immediacy of red dirt and sun-bleached grass.
Cain's eyes became dirty and gritty. He'd driven almost two hundred miles under intense stress and strain, and he was beginning to feel each moment as an oppressive heaviness pushing his body deeper and deeper into the seat. He approached Sisters, and the stark red landscape gave way to vast, cultivated fields where white, brown, and black llamas poised prettily with the snowcapped North and Middle Sisters mountains behind them. Next came the stables, with wooden corrals and sturdy Thoroughbreds already waiting at posts in Indian blankets and Western saddles. Finally came the town itself, small and charming with a single main street lined by Old-West storefronts. Ice cream parlors. Saloons. Indian jewelry.
In a blink of an eye, Sisters was gone and the red, endless brush took over once more. Cain rubbed his weary eyes and knew he'd had enough. Bend loomed ahead of them, large, modern and easy to get lost in.
It was good enough for him.
"We're stopping," he said thirty minutes later when the outskirts of the city abruptly burst out of the land.
"Lunch?" Maggie asked hopefully, but her voice was already wary.
"Bed."
Her face paled instantly. "It's only four. The sun is still out."
"Good. Then we can get up and drive again during the night."
"But … but … my cats."
"Are doing just fine. It's one night, Maggie. You can handle it."
She smiled weakly and flattened against her side of the truck.
Cain drove through the outskirts of town and finally selected a hotel that was close to the center, a long, two-story wooden structure tucked off the road alongside the river. It seemed to do plenty of business, the kind of place where two new people could pass unnoticed.
After turning off the ignition, he contemplated his options. Leave Maggie in the car handcuffed to the steering wheel, or take her in with him to get the room? He glanced over at her. She looked nervous and wary once more, as if she'd give anything to disappear. It would be too dangerous to leave her in the truck, he decided, let alone inhumane.
He produced the key and wordlessly took off the handcuffs. If anything, Maggie looked even warier. Slowly, she massaged her slim wrist. "Now what?"
"We go into the lobby and reserve a room."
"One room?" Her voice was so faint he could barely hear it.
"One room, two beds."
"Gee, thanks." She squeezed her eyes shut and a small shudder rippled through her.
He reached over and picked up her hand. "Just a little bit longer," he said steadily. "Think of it as your first Hathaway Red big adventure."
"Harold wasn't a convicted murderer," she muttered.
Cain just smiled.
He popped open the door. She followed glumly, her head lowered and her red hair cascading down his arm. It felt cool and silky, but the color promised deeper fires. He turned his mind quickly from that direction. This woman and her fires or lack thereof were not his concern. Remember that, Cain. Remember that.
He led her to the lobby, his grip firm on her wrist.
"How many rooms, sir?" the attendant asked politely.
"One," Cain said, not taking his eyes off Maggie. Her blue eyes had latched on the dark green carpet. Now they swept up slowly, steadily homing in on the attendant. Cain's body tensed. Was she going to try something? Unconsciously, he gripped her hand more tightly. Immediately, her gaze plummeted to the floor.
"Smoking or nonsmoking, sir?"
"Nonsmoking."
"A king-size bed, sir?"
"Two beds."
"Twin-size or queen?"
"Would you just give me a damn room!" The explosion of temper made Maggie jump and the attendant blanch. For a minute, Cain just stood there, unable to think. He'd never lost his cool before. He couldn't afford to lose his cool. Stay in control just a few minutes longer, dammit. Don't do anything stupid now.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. His left hand slid into his pocket and pulled out the cash. That got the attendant's attention. "Sorry," Cain forced out more calmly. "It's been a long day. We'd like one room, with two beds, whatever size you have available."
The attendant stared at his screen for a minute, then braved another direct glance at Cain. "We have one room, nonsmoking, two queen-size beds overlooking the river."
"The river? Perfect."
The attendant rattled off the price and Cain began peeling off bills. He needed some sleep. A long, hot shower, and a deep, deep slumber.
"Look," he said five minutes later with forced bravado, "two beds, just like the man said."
Maggie nodded with the stricken expression of a woman dancing on a tightrope. She half walked, half tiptoed into the blue-and-beige-colored room, looking like a skittish colt and careful to keep at least five feet between them at any given time.
Taking a deep breath, he sat down on the edge of the bed closest to the door. That made her dance back five more steps. "Maggie," he said at last, his tone a bit dry, "I'm a murderer, not a rapist."
"Oh goody. I'd forgotten."
"Are you becoming hysterical?"
"Why would I do a thing like that?" She was definitely becoming hysterical.
There was no good way of doing this. If he'd been a compassionate man, he would have just let her go. But he couldn't do that. Not just yet. Sooner or later, when Ham was closer, the decisions would become more difficult. For now, the immediate danger was the police, and she was his only bargaining chip. In chess, maneuvering was critical, but so was the strategic sacrifice of key pieces.
He rose off the bed and picked up the handcuffs. Her blue eyes widened. "What are you going to do?"
"Don't worry, it's only for a short bit."
"Wh-what?" She was already too late. He slipped the handcuff over her wrist, then with one deft move, attached the other end to the bedpost.
"I have to go run some errands," he said calmly. "I'll try to be back as soon as possible."
"You can't just leave me like this!"
He picked up the remote control and handed it to her. "Entertainment." His lips twisted. "Welcome to prison life."
She simply stared at him. "You are so cold."
"Yes. What would you like for dinner, fried chicken, pizza or hamburger? You can choose." He tried smiling, but it felt weak and dispirited on his face.
"Dinner?" she whispered. "You handcuff me to the bed and then you ask me about dinner?"
He couldn't help himself. He reached out and touched her cheek with his thumb. She cringed instantly and he accepted that. It was the least he deserved.
"I'll be back in one hour."
"Is that a promise or a threat?" she cried miserably. Her eyes were accusing. He understood that. One hour before, she'd been telling him the stories of her family. He'd even told her some of the stories of his family. For a woman like her, that had probably seemed like something. Friendship, maybe. A mutual understanding. She'd lost her father, he'd lost his mother. Both came from families where they didn't feel they belonged. When he was still a boy, he used to lie in bed at night and wonder why his father hated him so much. He used to wonder, if he was smarter, a better chess player, a faster shot, would that make the difference. By the time his mother died, he'd come to terms with the fact he and his father would never bridge the gap. He'd even chosen his own path, as a boy must to become a man. But sometimes, he still remembered those nights and the hollowness in his stomach, the rusty taste of despair.
He'd never told anyone that—that little Cain had once honestly loved his father and wished that his father would love him back.
He thought if he told that to Maggie now, she would understand. More than anyone, she would understand.
Stop it, Cain. You're growing maudlin, and you're never maudlin. You are exhausted and under incredible stress. You're not thinking clearly. She is the hostage. You are the escaped felon. Now get out of this room and attend to matters before Ham does it for you.
"I'll bring you dinner," he said quietly and turned away from the image of her sinking down on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched and face forlorn.
He picked up the baseball cap on his way out and was very careful not to look back. She didn't make a sound as he closed the door, but he could feel her betrayed gaze on his back anyway.
It was still daylight. Cool, with the wind blowing off the mountains, but the sun was warm on his face and the clear blue sky endless. Cain stopped without really meaning to, standing like an idiot in the middle of the parking lot and simply inhaling deeply. The air tasted better than the finest wine or the sweetest woman. His lungs seemed to expand fully for the first time in six years.
In the beginning, he'd been allowed out into the prison yard with the general population. In medium security, inmates received both a morning and afternoon break. But the Aryan Brotherhood agent hadn't lied to Cain. Prisoners comprised four gangs—the Bloods for the blacks, the Mexican Mafia and Nuestra Familia for Hispanics, and the Aryan Brotherhood for the whites. The invitation process was mandatory. Unless you were deranged, weak or a religious fruitcake, the gangs demanded your participation.
Once Cain made his rejection clear, life began to quickly unravel. First there were the drugs found in a hole punched in his wall and plastered over with toothpaste. The first guard who'd followed procedure and skimmed the wall with his fin
gertips had found the stash and disciplined Cain. Then there were the razor blades slipped into his pillowcase. Finally, the antifreeze added to his coffee. Cain hadn't drunk the whole cup, but he'd consumed enough to spend five days in the infirmary wishing that he had died.
After that, the prison officials agreed his life was in jeopardy. They moved him to protective custody, where the rapists, child molesters and prison narcs were kept. The "snitches and bitches" section, they called it. Cain got a new room with a roommate serving fifteen years for touching small children.
Cain didn't like that arrangement much. After careful analysis of his situation, he'd seen only one option. He became a discipline problem, a true big-D problem. He put razor blades beneath his bunk so that the first guard stupid enough to check the bed rim for drugs with his fingertips and not a mirror got his fingers sliced up. Then he missed roll call and stopped observing lights-out. One day in a stroke of pure genius, he'd added plaster of Paris from the infirmary to the morning pancakes. The prison warden had so loved pancakes.
Cain got what he wanted—solitary confinement. The Discipline Board reviewed his case and put him in solitary. Cast in the maximum-security wing, he finally had his own cell where no one came in and no one could touch him. He roomed alone, he ate alone, he lived alone, a mountain man reduced to a six-by-eight-foot existence—concrete, concrete, concrete. In the beginning, he thought he might go nuts. His one hour outside came and went so fast, five minutes lost just to the luxury of showering. He had to learn to forget the mountains of Idaho and the waterfront of Portland. He had to learn to forget the misty mornings, lying in the trail, bone cold and hunting-focused, inhaling the grass, inhaling the mist. Sinking into the ground and becoming part of the forest, squeezing down his breathing and heartbeat until he was no more than a blade of grass, lying on the ground, waiting for the deer to appear.
He gave up all that. He learned to live in his mind. He learned to play chess in the black and white spaces of his memory. He learned to be the trapped animal and not gnaw off his own limb to ease the pain.
