Obsession Falls (9 page)

In the attic, she found a dusty pair of snowshoes with one broken binding. With the worn jump rope tossed nearby, she could make these work. She packed food; the unopened jar of peanut butter was her blue-ribbon prize. And then … and then good luck caught up with her. While rummaging through the master bedroom closet, looking for long underwear or warm, thick socks or a pair of ski gloves, she pulled down an old-fashioned, padded hatbox and found … a pistol.

She stared at it. And stared at it. Questions chased through her mind. Why was it here? Had someone hidden it from a curious child? Had someone feared the violence it evoked? Maybe. That made sense. Would a shot from this stop a charging bear? No.

Would it stop Dash?

Yes. Yes, it would.

Cautiously she put the box on the floor and knelt. She picked up the pistol and turned it over and over. It was cold. Sleek. Black.

When she was a child, she had fired a pistol. Her father had taught her how. Up here, a pistol would be helpful. So helpful. And maybe, with this in her grip, her constant, gnawing fear of Dash would ease.

A side holster and two boxes of bullets were stored with the pistol.

She made her decision. She took the pistol, the holster, and one box of bullets. If that many bullets didn’t kill Dash, she wouldn’t need the second box.

Before she returned to the wilderness, she did check the weather report … and knew she had to save herself now, because a storm was closing in.

She trekked the mountain, found the stony overhang that she’d marked as a possible winter shelter if she discovered nothing better, and set up camp. And lived through her first winter storm.

On the first day, she plotted her strategy to contact Kennedy McManus without revealing her identity.

On the second day, she plotted again, taking notes on everything she could do and everything that could go wrong.

On the third day, her flashlight failed. She needed more batteries. Or an LED flashlight. She lay in the dark and considered how best to explain to Kennedy McManus what had happened and why she was involved.

By day four, she was sick of peanut butter and crackers, of groping in the dark, of her own company. She didn’t care about Kennedy McManus anymore, or the kidnapping. Instead she planned, feverishly, her next raid on the Wildrose Valley homes. She wanted books. Novels. Anything to take her mind away from the constant sound of the wind and her own gibbering fear she was going to die. She wanted
People
magazine, packed with interviews of vacuous celebrities and photos of beautiful people. She wanted, needed, to feel connected to the world.

Then, in the night, the branch she used as a substitute for the missing tent stake broke under the weight of the snow, and she no longer cared about reading. She cared about being buried alive. She kicked and screamed until she had knocked most of the snow off the tent, and sat up for hours, holding the tent up from the inside, until her arms ached and warm tears trickled down her cold face.

She wanted to go back down into the valley, but first she had to pack everything to carry with her. While she was doing that, the snow began to fall again.

At the end of that storm, she built a fire, caught a fish, warmed her last can of soup, and ate gratefully and hurriedly. And the snow fell.

That storm was the worst of all.

After five straight days of wind and bleak cold, Taylor woke to hear a dripping sound. She couldn’t figure out what it was. All she knew was that she was hot. She unzipped the sleeping bag and kicked it off.

What had she done? Hibernated through the whole winter? She could hear the world melting. She stuck her head out of the tent. It was … warm.

Not really, but above freezing—and dawn hadn’t even begun to lighten the sky.

What was going on? It was October. Wasn’t it?

She checked the date on her watch.

Yep. October. October thirtieth, to be exact.

“Trick or treat,” she said out loud. “Well, almost.” She pulled her clothes up from the foot of the sleeping bag—storing them there kept them warm—and scrambled out of her tent.

The hunter’s moon was huge and orange, peeking through the trees as it set in the west.

She didn’t exactly know what to do with this unexpected gift.

Yes, she did. She needed supplies. Lots of them.

Her gut tightened at the thought of breaking into another home. But she didn’t have a choice. She needed a real winter tent. She needed food. Another storm, and what would she have done?

Starved to death.

In the light of the setting hunter’s moon, she gathered her equipment and started down the mountain.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The abrupt break in the frigid weather had made the snow soft, and even in snowshoes, Taylor sank with every step. Before long, she wished she’d taken the time to eat, and by the time she spotted her next mark, a small, one-story log cabin, she had lost her reservations and hotfooted it to the front porch. The place was dark and quiet, with no outside furniture and no tracks in the driveway.

She knocked. If anyone opened the door, she was going to tell them her car got stuck in a ditch, ask them to call the authorities, then disappear on a search for her mythical vehicle.

But no one answered. She laughed briefly, leaned her head against the door in thankfulness, and, like a hopeful fool, tried the knob.

It turned. The door opened.

She stared at the five-inch vertical crack that led into a darkened room, and crazy thoughts leaped through her brain.

Someone had already broken into the house and was inside.

The family that owned this place had been murdered and she was going to find them.

It was a trap. Dash was inside, waiting for her.

She pulled her pistol and pushed the door open the rest of the way. She could see the dark shapes of furniture. She took a cautious step inside and groped for the light switch. The overhead came on.

No ghosts, no bodies. No Dash. Just a leather couch, rustic wood coffee table with ring marks left by beer cans, elk heads, deer heads, antler curtain rods. The television filled one wall. The computer was antiquated and relegated to a spot on the floor in the corner. Every surface was covered with hunting magazines and camping gear. A full box of dried rations spilled over on the ottoman. A two-man tent was set up in the corner. It was like an episode of
Hoarding for Tough Guys.
Best of all, a thick layer of dust covered everything. She didn’t know where this dedicated outdoorsman was, but he was not here.

She sidled toward the kitchen.

More equipment: a camp stove and three lanterns on the table, bottled water and canteens in the pantry. She popped the top on a bottle and swallowed every drop of the lukewarm water. She grabbed a package of granola bars, ate one, and went back to the living room. She tiptoed toward the closed door on the other side of the room.

She pulled her pistol from its holster, held it the way she’d seen the television police hold pistols when they searched a house: shooting hand supported by the other hand, barrel pointed straight out. “Hello?” she called, and opened the door.

Master bedroom. No one there. No one was in the house.

On the bedside table, she saw a scattering of broken glass; she found a photo of a handsome couple smiling at the camera.

The picture frame was smashed. A divorce. Bitter, she’d say. That explained a lot. And this place explained the divorce.

She shut the front door, shut the bedroom door, returned to the kitchen, and as soon as her belly was full, she looked around at all the equipment, and wondered how much she dared to take. This guy had fishing gear, lots of it, knives and axes and … it was like being lost in the sporting goods store of her dreams.

She chose a compass, a new, sturdier one-man tent, a survival guide from its place on the back of the toilet. She almost wept with joy when she discovered four different backpacks for hiking. One fit her well—his wife’s? It held a lot more equipment than Cissie’s school backpack, and with that in mind, Taylor made her selection of freeze-dried foods.

Then she found a weapon that fit perfectly into her hand.

A sling. Not a slingshot, not metal and plastic tubing, but a length of braided leather with a pouch in the middle. Put a round stone in that pouch, and she was David, and anyone who tried to harm her was Goliath.

Memories stirred. Once before she had been lost up here, truly lost. She was nine, almost ten, and as the sun set, her father had found her. He had wrapped her in his coat, then sternly lectured her about wandering so far afield. When she miserably stared at him, remembering how her mother had shouted at him, how he had shouted back, how angry they had been, he saw the truth.

She couldn’t stay home. Not in that place of unhappiness and rancor.

So he said, “If you’re going to go out, I’d better teach you how to hunt, and how to defend yourself.” One of the things he had taught her was to use a sling. He showed her how to take both ends in one hand, and with a swift underhanded swing, to propel a stone through the air and into a target.

She loved it. She practiced for a week, got pretty good.

Then her mother packed up and moved them to Baltimore. She said it was because Taylor was running wild, and if they stayed, she would get herself killed.

Taylor said she ran to get away from her mother.

Not surprisingly, that hadn’t helped.

In Baltimore, Taylor had been pitifully out of place, unsophisticated, friendless, afraid. She had taken the sling and tied it around her waist, wearing it as a belt every day, practicing as often as she could. Knowing she could defend herself, knowing she had something of her father’s—that comforted her.

On her thirteenth birthday, she took it off and put it away in a drawer. She had adapted. She fit in now. Her friends made fun of her for wearing such an unfashionable belt … but mostly, her father had not sent her a card or a present. Again. And she hated him for forgetting her so easily.

Looking back, she realized her mother probably intercepted anything he sent. And the sling had disappeared in the move to her stepfather’s house, and been forgotten. But by God, she remembered now. The homeowner even had some round steel balls to use as projectiles.

She thought of Dash.

Yeah, it was David and Goliath all over again.

She tied the sling around her waist, and at last, she sat down and turned on the computer. The poor thing wheezed as it started up; she wiped the dust off the intake vent and when the monitor lit, she sighed. No Internet. Of course not. Mr. Sporting Goods wouldn’t bother to connect to the modern world.

“Thanks a lot, mister,” she said, and headed back into the hills with her ill-gotten gains.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

That afternoon, Taylor practiced with her sling, and swiftly discovered she was not as good as she had once been. But she could learn. She
would
learn.

As the sun set, she settled down to a celebration. She caught two trout, cleaned them, built a huge fire in her fire pit, put them on a spit and roasted them until the skin crackled. She ate one with a package of freeze-dried vegetables, which tasted marvelous even if the carrots never did get soft. Then she closed her eyes and wished for a shot of good Irish whiskey served in a Waterford glass. Too bad she hadn’t been able to convince herself that liquor was necessary to her survival, and steal a bottle from one of the homes she had visited.

Of course, she could always indulge in a smoke of Cissie’s weed.

Her eyes popped open. She hadn’t smoked marijuana since she graduated from college. She’d never been a big fan. She hated the taste. She hated the fact she ate her own weight in crackers afterward. But she had liked the way weed made her feel.

Really, what difference would it make if she indulged? No one was here. And … by God, she deserved to celebrate saving that kid, living through a murder attempt, and surviving two months up here in the mountains. So before she could talk herself out of it, she found Cissie’s baggie, pulled out a joint and lit up, and sat by the fire and relaxed. And … relaxed.

She was getting pretty good at this survival thing. Fish … she could survive on fish if she had to. Restaurants paid good money for fresh Idaho trout, and she was getting it for no more than the price of ten frozen fingers. As long as the storms stayed away, every day she’d be out by the stream with her hook in the water. As long as the storms stayed away.

She glanced up to check on the sky, and realized stars were falling, detaching themselves from black eternity to fling themselves into her fire, and then rise again as sparks.
This weed has been dusted with something.

Then her father showed up, sitting across the fire from her, watching her with a wise affection that both warmed and calmed her.

“Daddy,” she said.

Smoke wreathed his head, his cowboy hat, his rugged features. Smoke cloaked his long leather duster, his worn jeans and his cowboy boots. Only his hands were clear to her: long fingers, strong veins, blunt nails, with a lit cigarette (
tobacco,
she knew the scent) between two fingers.

“Daddy,” she said again. “Mother said you were dead.”

I am. Doesn’t mean I’m gone. I’m a Summers. This is where I belong.

Her eyes filled with tears. She nodded. “Yes. Wildrose Valley is where I always thought you would be. But she said … she said they’d buried you in Wyoming.”

Doesn’t matter where that old carcass is in the ground. Besides, someone’s got to watch out for you. You’re asking for trouble out here on your own.
He pulled his pack of tobacco and his papers out of his pocket, and as the first cigarette burned down to a nubbin, he rolled another and lit it from the glowing end of the first.
Do you not remember what the winters are like up here?