Hunting Eve (13 page)

Rio Grande Forest
Colorado

THREAT. DANGER.

Doane!

Eve’s eyes flew open, jarred from sleep!

Yes, Doane!

He was coming toward her, slowly, creeping through the forest to catch her off guard.

And he
had
caught her off guard. She had allowed herself just a few hours to nap and regain strength.

Too long. Too long.

He couldn’t be more than fifteen feet away from her.

Run!

She jumped to her feet and bolted.

He was right behind her, his hand grabbing her shoulder. “Oh, no, Eve. I had you. You’re not going to—”

Her elbow lashed backward, plowing into his stomach.

He grunted, bending double with pain.

His grasp on her shoulder loosened.

She pulled free and ran.

So close.

She could hear him behind her.

Keep running.

He had not caught her though she had been helpless in those first few moments.

Instinct. Self-preservation. Bonnie.

Whatever had caused her to sense him and wake had saved her. She was making mistakes, but she was learning.

She was not helpless now. She had will and determination and the strength of her body and mind.

And she would not let him catch her.

“How long do you think you can hold out, Eve?” Doane’s voice was mocking behind her. “I almost got you this morning, didn’t I? But I managed to grab your duffel with all those treasures that are helping you to survive.”

Eve ran harder.

She’d not had a chance to think about that loss. She had been forced to leave her duffel, blanket … and that spear she had made from the branch.

They
were
treasures. She had planned on using that spear and maybe distracting Doane enough to get hold of his gun.

Or give him a karate chop that would kill the son of a bitch.

She had never thought she would plan to deliberately kill a human being. It had to be self-defense. It was always a last resort.

But this was beginning to feel like a last resort. The hours of being hunted and the sound of his voice telling her that he was going to kill her had taken their toll.

She would not let him kill her.

She would not be captured and forced to deal with that hideous skull that had sometimes seemed as if it filled her world.

Keep running. She had seen a vine-covered ravine up ahead where she could perhaps become lost in the heavy foliage.

He thought she was getting weaker, that he was wearing her down.

He was wrong. Perhaps that should have been the result of his stalking, but it had the opposite effect. She was feeling stronger, her body was becoming more agile, the muscles toned, her senses sharper. The berries and plants she’d found to eat had not been sufficient, but they’d warded off weakness. The worst enemy had been the cold and the early-morning frost, but she’d been able to withstand that, too. It would be harder now that she no longer had the blanket and extra clothing, but she’d get through it.

So that she could be hunted another day?

Sudden anger tore through her at the thought.

No way.

It was time she stopped being on the defensive and turned hunter herself.

She would find another branch, make another weapon, find another opportunity.

She would not let him beat her.

Even if she had to kill him.

CHAPTER

6

Goldfork, Colorado

THE SUN WAS GOING DOWN
when Kendra pulled up in front of the small house in a suburb that seemed to be composed of similar houses on every street. It had taken her almost as long to drive from the Denver Airport to Goldfork as it had to fly all the way from Atlanta. The town was located in a rural area just an hour from the Wyoming border, and it seemed an ordinary town and the people she saw on the streets also very ordinary. A typical American town in the beautiful state of Colorado.

It went right along with the story Joe had told her about Doane and his five-year stay in this safe house. He had taken on the coloration of the place and his neighbors like a chameleon and lulled everyone into thinking he was a good guy and good neighbor and not the psychopath he had hidden so well.

A young, uniformed police officer stood in front of Doane’s house, leaning against his gold-and-white patrol car. He waved her toward a patch of gravel that had obviously been used as a parking lot for other vehicles in the previous few days. Kendra stopped her rental car and climbed out. She took a deep breath, taking in the aroma of dozens of plants in the subalpine woods surrounding the subdivision.

“May I help you?” The officer stepped toward her.

“I’m Kendra Michaels. I was told you’d be expecting me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Can I see your badge or official ID?”

She showed him her California driver’s license. “I’m afraid this is as official as it gets.”

He checked her name against a list in a pocket notebook. “Thank you. They told me you’d be coming.” His smile revealed a front tooth that was a shade browner than the others. “I’m Officer Tim Rollins, Goldfork PD. I was told to extend every courtesy to you.”

“Police? Isn’t this an FBI investigation?”

“It is. We’re just providing assistance and support to secure the scene.”

“Have there been a lot of people through here?”

“Yes, ma’am. Pretty near every forensics specialty, K-9 units, bomb squad, you name it.”

“Did they find anything?”

“I don’t think so. I heard more than one agent say it was a waste of time to come here.”

“Just what I need to hear after eight hours of traveling.”

“Maybe you’ll do better.” He handed her a pair of evidence gloves and two disposable polypropylene surgical shoe covers. “Please put these on to avoid contaminating the scene.”

“Sure.” Kendra smiled as she pulled the booties over her shoes. “Boy or girl?”

“Ma’am?”

“Your baby. Boy or girl?”

He hesitated before replying. “Boy. Five months.”

“Congratulations. How successful have you been keeping him on an organic diet?”

“That’s my wife’s thing, not mine.” He wrinkled his brow. “Do you mind if I ask you how—”

“There’s a bright orange spot on your belt buckle of a shade and texture of Gerber’s baby food organic carrots. No artificial coloring or flavoring, or added starch or salt, which gives it a different appearance and odor than other foods. And your child spit up on your left shoulder when you were holding him this morning.”

He pulled on the shoulder of his uniform shirt. “Aw, man. I thought I got it all off.”

“You did. I can’t see it.”

“Then how did you—”

“I can smell it. Don’t worry, I don’t think most other people can. He spit up his formula, but it’s a brand I’m not familiar with.”

“Parent’s Choice.”

“Thanks. I’ll remember that.” That inability to place it had been bugging her since she had gotten close enough to the officer to detect the scent. It had been the only reason she had bothered to initiate the baby questions. She usually avoided the necessity for explanations if she could do it.

The officer half smiled. “Why would you remember something like that?”

“Because that’s what I do.”

She pulled on the gloves and walked over the stone pavers to the front door. The house was nestled in a thick clump of trees, almost as if the space had been hollowed out for the two-story structure. Kendra opened the front door and stepped inside.

Her first impression was that the house was very dark, despite the fact that every lamp and light fixture was turned on. The dense foliage outside blocked most of the sunlight, and the dark brown walls kept light reflections to a minimum. The dark Brazilian wood floors leached much of the remaining illumination.

She had read much of Doane’s case file at the Atlanta Airport and knew that he lived alone. Indeed, there were none of the subtle clues that indicated there was more than one sensibility at work in the décor and arrangement of personal items.

The half-open drawers and slightly askew furniture were easy tip-offs of other recent searches of the house; but otherwise, things seemed to be in order.

Perhaps in too much order, she thought. As she glanced through the drawers, there was no mail, personal papers, or anything that left behind any real imprint of the man who had lived there. Did he really live this way, or had he deliberately swept away his footsteps behind him?

She climbed the narrow wooden stairs to the upper level, which contained only two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a loft area that overlooked the main floor. Doane had obviously used the loft as an office, with a desk, keyboard, printer, copier, and a stand for what probably held a laptop computer. Either Doane had taken it away himself, or the Feds’ computer forensics teams were combing the hard drives in a lab.

Kendra walked into the master bedroom, which was furnished only by a bed, a chest of drawers, and a television cabinet. Kendra tugged on the front door of the TV cabinet and peered inside.

No TV. Something else.

She swung the door open wide and just stared for a long moment. Instead of a television set, the cabinet held a veritable shrine. Centered in the middle was a large portrait of a young, handsome man with the coldest eyes Kendra had ever seen. It had to be Kevin, Doane’s son. The picture had obviously been taken during Kevin’s military career. Surrounding it were news clippings, military badges, and award certificates, some dating all the way back to high school.

Kendra found herself recoiling at the sight of Kevin’s flashing smile and those blue eyes that should have been attractive but were instead glittering with a kind of icy arrogance. It wasn’t just because she’d been told what he had done, she realized. There was something intrinsically evil about that face, that expression.

Shake it off.

She had come face-to-face with bad people before, people capable of the most horrifying atrocities. Why should this simple photograph inspire anything other than revulsion?

Yet it did. And she was fiercely relieved that Kevin was no longer alive to inflict pain and suffering on so many children and their families.

But as long as his father was out there with Eve as his captive, Kevin’s horrible legacy would continue.

Detach. Scan. Analyze.

Her eyes flicked from one item to the next, trying to pick up anything that could help complete the father/son picture forming in her mind. Kevin had been left-handed, like his father. They had vacationed at least three times in Salt Lake City, twice in some ghost town, and Kevin never owned anything other than an American-made car. Doane dabbled as a carpenter, farmer, and auto mechanic, and his son was an amateur musician, a guitarist, probably self-taught and not very good, judging from the placement of his hands. Both were avid hunters and fishermen and comfortable with firearms. The son favored handguns, the dad liked rifles.

She studied the display a moment longer. There had to be something more here. Maybe in one of the photos, the newspaper stories or—

The cabinet itself. It was something Doane had probably made himself, she realized. It was similar in style and construction to pieces shown in photos of Kevin’s home, including a coffee table Doane gave him on his birthday. Both featured a signature flourish of Doane’s, a lathe-cut spiral design on the corners.

This cabinet appeared relatively new, Kendra thought. Where had he made it? She hadn’t seen a workshop. Had he rented a place somewhere?

She closed the cabinet door, happy finally to be hiding Kevin’s face from view. She stepped into the closet and immediately realized that a small suitcase had been taken, judging from the footprint left on the dusty floor. She scanned the hanging clothes, taking special notice of the few empty hangers. Doane had probably taken enough clothing to last him for at least a week.

She left the room and descended the stairs, this time stopping to look out the tall windows that lined the back of the house.

There, in the distance, was what appeared to be a small toolshed.

Which might be the answer as to where Doane carried out his woodworking projects. She reached the bottom of the stairs and quickly exited the back door. She crossed the large unfenced backyard and approached the toolshed, which was actually larger than it had appeared from the house. It was almost the size of a one-car garage though there was no easy automobile access on the uneven ground.

Kendra stopped. The toolshed’s latch had been recently broken, and the door was ajar. The FBI’s handiwork? Possibly, but not likely. The FBI was much more efficient. It would have been a simple matter to cut the lock, which was how they usually handled a padlocked door.

She pulled open the door. It groaned on its weather-beaten hinges.

She felt inside for a switch, flipped up, and …

Nothing. No power, or the bulbs were shot.

Fine. She was comfortable in the darkness. Sometimes she still preferred it. And she had her phone’s illuminated screen to help her.

She turned on her phone, which gave her a view of only a few feet ahead of her. Her footsteps echoed enough to let her know that the structure was largely empty, with perhaps a few scattered pieces.

Up ahead. A shadow on the right. Table saw. Next to it, a short stack of lumber.

She squinted and made out a series of saw blades hanging on a peg board.

Something moved in the corner.

She stopped short.

A rodent? No, bigger.

Breathing. Low, rhythmic.

Not an animal.

Human.

Kendra switched off her phone and quickly moved several paces to the right.

More movement. Footsteps.

Heading toward her.

Kendra called out. “Who’s there?”

The footsteps drew closer.

Kendra stooped and picked up a large, wooden dowel. “Stop, or I’ll blow you away.”

The footsteps stopped. But the quiet, shallow breathing was even clearer now.