by Kim Baldwin
“She came in here a couple of weeks ago. Three weeks, maybe. She was around a couple of days, waiting for a general delivery package.” He paused and felt another jab from the knife. “The name was Mary Green, I think. She got tired of waiting, told me to forward it on when it arrived. I did, couple of days later. Some place farther north of here.” The words rushed out. He was sweating profusely.
“Where exactly?” she urged, still only inches from his face. She pressed the knifepoint against his jugular.
“I really don’t remember,” the man shrieked.
Scout could taste his panic. “You will.”
*
Two hours later, in a small run-down motel called the Vagabond, Scout relaxed on room seven’s queen-sized bed. Her back, cushioned by worn pillows, rested against the headboard, and her legs were stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles. She was eating takeout Chinese food with chopsticks. Beside her, a laptop computer displayed pictures of quaint log cabins for rent, each equipped with a fireplace, kitchen, and hot tub.
It took her about an hour of searching the Internet to find what she was looking for, and her final choice had nothing to do with amenities. She unplugged the phone line from her laptop and replaced it in the phone, then picked up the receiver and dialed.
“Star View Cabins,” a female voice on the other end answered.
“Hey there,” Scout responded with a convincing Southern drawl. “I’d like to reserve a cabin for my husband Boots and I for a second honeymoon. I’m fixin’ to surprise him. Y’all got somethin’ available right away?” As she spoke, Scout cracked open her fortune cookie. People find it difficult to resist your persuasive manner. A grin spread across her face.
“As a matter of fact, we do. We had a snowmobile group just cancel.”
Scout glanced at the laptop. “I read on your Web site that your cabins are really secluded, is that right?”
“Yes, indeed. All the cabins are well away from each other, and the resort is accessible only by snowmobile this time of year. Will you be bringing your own or would you like me to arrange transportation out of Tawa for you?”
“We’ll have our own, thanks. I’d like to reserve your most remote cabin for two weeks, starting tomorrow night. And can you lay in a supply of groceries and put a note on my booking that we don’t want to be disturbed? Just charge everything to my credit card.” Scout’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I’m gonna make Boots unplug his pager and I’m leaving the cell phone at home.”
“That’s no problem at all. May I have the number on your credit card?”
“You bet. The name is Douglas Dunn.” She read off the number. Serves him right, Scout thought. What idiot leaves credit card receipts in his glove compartment?
She hung up the phone, humming happily to herself. You’re mine, Hunter. All mine. Wherever you’re hiding, I’ll find you.
Chapter Three
A chorus of tympanis pounded away in her head as she came awake. Stop that infernal drumming. I can’t think. She tried to remember where she was and what had happened to her. Feels like I’ve been dropped off a cliff and then run over.
Bits and pieces came to her. She’d been hurt. The voice. I remember the voice. A warm, reassuring voice had taken care of her. Made her feel safe. She longed to hear it again.
She fought to open her eyes. One swollen lid obeyed and cracked open enough for her to see she was in a darkened room. A bedroom, unfamiliar. Light spilled in through a half-open door opposite the bed. Where am I? What is this place? She tried to turn her head to look around, but the effort amplified the insistent throbbing behind her eyes. She took a deep breath and a stabbing pain cut into her side.
“Ow! Damn!”
The woman heard a yawn from somewhere off to her right, close by, and then came the rich, low voice she remembered. “Are you all right? Where does it hurt?”
The voice was a tonic. She had to see the face behind it. She tried again to turn her head. But the pain was unbearable, and she slumped back against the pillow. “My head is killing me,” she rasped out, wincing in pain. She heard a drawer open and the sound of water being poured. “Who are you?”
“I’m going to help you take some ibuprofen,” the voice said, ignoring her question. “Try to drink as much of the water as you can.”
A hand slipped beneath her neck, then moved to support the back of her head. It was a large hand, strong, but it cradled her with caring gentleness. Another hand came into her narrow field of vision. Two long fingers and a thumb held small brown tablets to her lips.
She opened her mouth, extending the tip of her tongue, and felt the tablets placed there. She saw the hand withdraw briefly, and then it was back with a glass of water, the fingers guiding the straw into her mouth. She downed most of the contents of the glass. Her mind urged the voice to speak again. As she relaxed and released the straw, it did.
“Well done. Think you can manage some soup? You need to get your strength back.”
“Yes. Hungry,” she answered. She was shrugging off the haze. Her mind was becoming clearer, and the water hitting her stomach seemed to bring it back to life.
“That’s a good sign. Rest for a bit. I’ll be back and wake you when it’s ready. Chicken noodle okay?”
“Yes, thanks,” she managed, absently adding, “My favorite.”
She heard the squeak of a chair cushion beside her, and then she saw the retreating back of the woman behind the soothing voice. Her caretaker reached the door and pulled it open, pausing to turn back for another look. For an instant she was silhouetted in the doorway.
She had long legs, a lean, athletic build, and she was tall. Broad shoulders tapered to a thin waist and trim but shapely hips. She was somehow bigger than life. A presence. The woman in the bed involuntarily sucked in a deep breath at the sight. She ignored the pain the movement caused in her side. The door closed, plunging the room into darkness again.
Nice. Very nice, she thought. Great voice and incredible body.
She dozed.
The next thing she knew she felt that hand under her head again. A strong enfolding arm followed the hand; this time she was brought slowly up to a half-seated position. Pillows were jammed behind her back, but the arm remained around her shoulders, supporting her weight. She could feel the presence of her rescuer beside and slightly behind her, but she was unable to turn to look her in the face. She wanted to, very much.
The room was still darkened, but enough light came in through the open doorway to allow her to see that a small rectangular tray had been placed over her lap. It held a bowl of soup, spoon, and napkin, and a mug of weak tea. As she sat up, the blanket slipped down a bit, exposing her upper chest to cool air. She shivered. She realized for the first time she was naked, and the knowledge sent a faint flush to her cheeks. How long have I been out? she wondered. And how long has she been taking care of me?
She went to cover herself and only then realized that her left arm was in a splint. It screamed in protest when she tried to move it. She gasped.
Her caretaker reached around her and pulled the blanket back up, tucking it around her chin. “I’ll feed you,” the voice said softly, so close to her ear that she could feel the warm breath of the words move her hair.
“Who are you?” the woman asked again, as the napkin was tucked beneath her chin.
“Eat first, then we’ll talk.”
Neither spoke for several minutes while the injured woman sipped the soup. She could see just a bit out of her other eye now, and was glad for the return of her depth perception.
She studied the hand as it fed her. Long fingers, tanned skin. Short fingernails. No polish, no jewelry. A handsome hand, she thought.
After the tea was gone, and near the end of the bowl of soup, she broke the silence, asking between spoonfuls, “Will you tell me again what happened? I can’t seem to remember.” She felt much more lucid now, despite the persistent pain in her head. It was easier to talk, and she could f
eel her strength returning.
The body she was leaning against stiffened, and there was a pause before the low voice spoke again.
“You were in a car accident. I saw it happen, got you out, and brought you to my home. We’re a long way from a town or doctor.”
“A car accident? Did I hit something?”
“No, your car went off the road and flipped over. You were going pretty fast, and the road wasn’t plowed. What’s the last thing you recall?”
She closed her eyes. She’d been trying to remember. Her brow creased in concentration. “Where am I?” she asked. “I mean, what state is this?” She was still having a hard time conjuring up anything about the accident.
“You’re in Michigan. The Upper Peninsula, near Lake Superior. You don’t remember that?”
She tried to focus. Everything she remembered seemed inconsequential. She liked chicken noodle soup, for one thing. It’s my favorite. I know that. The thought consoled her a little.
I’ve been to Paris. She could see sidewalk cafes, and patisseries with glass display cases filled with delicate desserts. I had a puppy when I was small. But she couldn’t recall the dog’s name. I make a mean Bundt cake, and I drink way too much coffee. Someone is always kidding me about that, but who? Who? It hit her. Her name.
She felt her stomach drop suddenly as the realization struck home. Who am I? A sudden panic washed over her. Oh, my God, I can’t remember my name. Her breathing accelerated. Or where I live. She searched her mind for some solid bit of information. Her home, her family. Nothing.
“What is it?” the voice said. The arm that supported her tightened its hold. “You’re hyperventilating. Try to slow your breathing.”
She wanted to comply, but it was several moments before she calmed enough to speak. “I don’t remember...anything. Nothing important, anyway. Why can’t I remember my name?” Saying the words, admitting it aloud, increased the sense of panic. Her eyes welled with tears. She tried to turn her body, forgetting for a moment about her injuries. The shooting pain in her head stopped her cold. “Who am I? Do you know who I am?”
The woman supporting her shifted position, and she was soon enfolded in strong arms.
“No, I’m sorry,” the voice whispered beside her ear, as a hand gently petted her back. “But don’t worry. You’ll remember, or we’ll find out somehow.”
She began to cry, burying her face into her rescuer’s soft cotton pullover. It was too much to absorb at once. Too overwhelming to think that the memories of her life had been wiped out. The only thing that was keeping absolute terror at bay was this kind Samaritan who had taken her in.
“Everything will be all right, you’ll see.”
She had no reason to believe the words, but she wanted to, desperately. She clung to the voice and the arms that embraced her, weeping softly until a more urgent need asserted itself.
“I have to...use the bathroom,” she whispered. She felt the embrace loosen, and then she was lowered back to the bed.
“I’ll help you,” the voice said, out of her range of view. “I have a pan for you to use. You’ll need to help me get it under you...but try not to put weight on your left leg. Your knee got banged up in the accident.”
Cool air hit her body as the blanket was peeled back, and she put her weight mostly on her right leg, lifting her hips so the shallow plastic pan could be placed beneath her. Mortified by her vulnerable position, she took a moment to empty her bladder. Soon it was over, the pan was removed, and the blanket tucked again around her. She had kept her eyes closed throughout most of the process in her embarrassment.
Her exertions and full stomach made her suddenly very tired. She yawned.
“Sleep now, I’ll be back to check on you in a while.”
She was nearly there when a last conscious thought occurred to her. Wait, what’s your name? she wanted to ask, but she was already asleep.
*
Hunter returned to her computer to see if there was anything more from Kenny, particularly about the people who were after her. Intuitively, she believed that her patient’s apparent amnesia was no act.
Kenny’s reply was immediate. Otter is in Michigan, don’t know where. Got a little on the woman. She’s short, blond, pretty. Did a recent hit in the Mideast. Has a thing for knives, uses lots of identities. No one knows her real name.
Hunter bristled. Nah, it couldn’t be. She could spot an assassin at a hundred yards. She’d know if one were lying in her bed. Wouldn’t she?
What’s happening to me?
Hunter had very large “personal space” requirements and was far from the nurturing sort. She rarely allowed anyone within her reach, unless she was initiating the contact. And that contact was usually either violent or for the rare purpose of quick, anonymous sexual gratification. She had always been a solitary individual and had resigned herself to the fact she would always stand apart from the rest of the world.
But something was different now. She had thought herself incapable of the sorts of things she was now doing and feeling. But she’d not only readily embraced the woman—she’d enjoyed it. Very much. Enjoyed the physical closeness. The act of comforting another human being.
And something else. Her libido had made itself known again, stirring up the mental image of the naked body beneath the sheets.
Hunter wasn’t yet ready to try to articulate what it all meant. She felt a little out of control. But it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant experience.
She admitted to herself that no matter how much she was drawn to the stranger, nothing would likely happen between them. She was what she was, after all. Who could care about me, with the life I’ve led and the things I’ve done? And there were far too many unknowns about her guest. She knew there was no future in it. Still, she found an unusual peace with her unexpected company. She’d enjoy what she had, as long as she could.
She thought some more about the questions that were sure to come up the next time the woman woke up, and the answers she would give.
With that thought, she heard the woman’s voice call out tentatively from the other room.
“Hello?”
Chapter Four
Two days earlier
Tawa was a small tourist town, catering to a year-round stream of outdoor types. Springtime brought bird-watchers, and summer invited campers, hikers, and boaters. Fall drew deer hunters, and winter heralded the arrival of snowmobile and cross-country ski crowds.
As a result, Tawa was well equipped with a number of small motels and cabins, some well away from the town itself. It was toward one group of such cabins that a brand new Ski-doo snowmobile now raced.
Scout tried to dissipate her growing frustration. She’d spent the last three days trying to pick up some trace of Hunter. There were a lot of places to check, and so far she’d found no one who remembered seeing her quarry. She’d questioned all the clerks at the local post office, and none recalled seeing the woman in the photograph or a package addressed to Mary Green.
She was certain that Hunter would isolate herself. So she concentrated her search on the more remote inns and cabins around Tawa. She’d put a lot of miles on the snowmobile she bought at a small dealership in town, once again charging it to the sedan owner’s credit card. But her stakeouts had turned up no sign of Hunter, and she began to wonder if her target had moved on. She didn’t think so—Hunter had this destination in mind, she was sure. For the first time, it occurred to Scout that maybe Hunter had a permanent place in the area.
She eased back on the snowmobile’s throttle as she approached the isolated cabin she’d been staying in, then braked in front of the door and shut off the engine. When she did, she could hear the faraway sound of a helicopter. Her eyes scanned the sky. The sound was coming nearer, but the trees around the cabin prevented her from seeing it. The sound changed, becoming constant, then abruptly stopped. It’s at the lodge. She started up the snowmobile again and headed off in that direction.
When her snowmobile emerge
d from the woods about a half mile away, she spotted the helicopter. It was parked in a small clearing just outside the log-and-stone lodge that served as the central office for the Star View resort.
Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw three men carrying supplies from the helicopter to the lodge. That’s how they supply these remote places—with helicopters. There can’t be more than a couple of them at most out here in this godforsaken place. She watched from some distance away, the snowmobile engine idling. The men finished with their task and went into the lodge. Not a good time to talk to the pilot. But soon, very soon.
Scout headed back to her cabin to plot her next move. She was closing in on Hunter. She could feel it.
Chapter Five
When Hunter’s patient awoke again, she tried to stretch and winced at a dull pain in her knee. The throbbing behind her ear was tolerable, and she could move her head without the shooting pain she had experienced earlier. Her eyes felt crusty and swollen, but she could see well enough to take in her surroundings. The room was still dim, illuminated only by a shaft of light coming in through the open door.
She looked toward the dark leather easy chair where her benefactor had been seated. A small sigh of disappointment escaped her lips as she realized she was alone.
Her eyes began to take in the rest of the room. There were no windows. She was in a comfortable antique bed that sat quite high off the floor. Oak, in a simple Shaker style she found very pleasing. There was a matching table next to the bed. It had two drawers and a shelf full of books. She couldn’t read the titles in the dim light. On the table were a lamp, a pitcher and glass, and assorted first aid supplies, neatly arranged: ointments and gauze, tape and scissors, a bottle of ibuprofen.
A large dresser that also matched the bed completed the furniture in the room. There was nothing on the dresser—no photographs or knickknacks. The walls held a few large framed pictures. Photographs, she thought, but she couldn’t see any of them clearly. Except for the pictures, the room had a Spartan, impersonal feel to it. Like a hotel room.
