Primal Obsession (22 page)

Tavani flipped to a new page. “He might not’ve fooled them all. The former director mentioned the librarian had expressed concern that young Smith checked out so many gun and hunting magazines.”

“Preparing himself for his future avocation,” Justin said. He tightened his fist around the ruined stem, then tossed it to the ground. “Anything else?”

“There’s a gap of a few years, but Smith surfaced again in the Virginia suburbs of D.C. about ten years ago. That’s the same time as the unsolved Appalachian Trail murders. He worked as tech support like he was doing in Portland and belonged to a local sporting club.” Finished, Tavani set his papers on the railing. “On that end, agents are investigating Smith’s possible connection to the Virginia murders.”

“So for over ten years,” Justin mused, “Holden Smith has been systematically hunting and murdering young women. He’s smart, glib, sometimes charming, a good shot, and skilled in the woods. As you said before, he switched to assassin mode with one target in mind, wherever she is in this damned wilderness. That doesn’t help us much in stopping him now.”

“You’re not going to like what else Quantico said.” Tavani spread a map on a wicker table. He gestured at their surroundings. “The much-touted high-tech equipment won’t work here. Too many trees and hills with no high point to set up a tower. The only way to find the suspect is the old-fashioned way. Send in teams from all directions and close in on him. In my estimation, overhead scanning with helicopters has two problems. Dense trees make spotting anyone near impossible. And the noise would only alert him.”

He paused, his gaze on Justin, his usual dour expression even more solemn. “If he hasn’t already killed his target—” he swallowed “—knowing we were onto him might set him off. He could kill them all.”

Justin rubbed his eyes. “The Feds searched the Carolina hills for months and months looking for that guy eventually convicted of bombing abortion clinics.”

“True. But he’d grown up there, knew its terrain, its caves. Smith’s in unknown territory here.” Tavani pointed to the Gomagash Wilderness on the map. “And no caves. We have better odds.”

“Dammit, we’re wasting time. He’s hunting my sister, may have found her for all we know. I want that fucker’s head on a plate. I don’t care how many men it takes, we’ll get him.” He snatched up his radio and punched the On button.

“One more thing, Wylde.” Tavani touched a finger to the map. “When things got hot for Smith in Virginia, he headed north. He may pull that again. How far is the Canadian border?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Annie felt like a marinated mushroom—wet and slimy. The downpour had caught them mid-afternoon, and she’d layered the poncho over her drenched clothing. That storm arrived without bluster, soaking them as they slogged along. A steady rivulet dripped from her poncho and hat. Mud and water weighed down her sneakers and socks. Her sodden tee and bra clung to her in a clammy second skin. The breeze on her soaked slacks and panties added the final chill on her butt.

“Hot damn, there it is,” Sam exclaimed with an unmistakable air of pride. He halted so suddenly that she ran into the solid wall of his back.

“What the heck is it?” She peered around him at a small structure. If she sounded petulant, he ought to damned well understand.

Either he did or he was oblivious. “Home, sweet home. At least for tonight. Come on.” He grabbed her hand and swept her along toward the plank-sided shed. “It’s a hunting camp. Basic, but dry.”

While he poked behind the single wooden step, Annie stood shivering. Trees marched right up to the lone cabin, leaving only the barest minimum of clearing around it.

She’d assumed from the start of their hike that she and Sam would be sharing the confines of a tent that night. She’d reveled in the closeness of their chaste huddles the previous nights, but was too exhausted and too frightened to feel anything but comfort.

Tonight would be different.

Isolation and comfort in each other, not the cabin, made the difference in that shift. Sam wanted her as much as she wanted him. His kiss earlier had dissolved her knees to pudding. He exploded her senses like no one before. Other than their cooperative escape from the Hunter, they had little in common. Granted, he made her laugh, dare, and move beyond herself. But there could be nothing between them beyond the moment.

She was teetering on the brink of love with him already. Taking the next leap would send her off the cliff.

He was a man with demons to exorcise. Their lives were poles apart. Acting on their attraction would be dangerous for her heart. She had to resist the pull of his sensuality, the intimacy of the cabin, the desire that arced between them.

Or am I fooling myself? Or cheating myself?
She frowned, banishing the tiny inner voice that sounded a lot like Emma.

“Now we can get in.” He held up a glass jar containing the key to the rusty padlock securing the heavy wooden door. “Universal’s pampered execs keep this place for when they feel like roughing it. So they can say they’ve spent time in the woods, lived close to the land.” He laughed, a husky, deep rumble that warmed more than one part of her. “It’s the original hunting camp built by the wily old Mainer who sold all this acreage to Universal in the forties.”

“Did that wily old Mainer retire rich, or did they leave him as bare as the clear cuts I saw from Boomer’s plane?” She spied an outhouse a few yards away and the rain-gray ribbon of the Eagle River the other direction.

The cabin looked like only one room. It had a window either side of the door and a metal chimney poking through the tin roof. A stove? Oh boy, heat.

“You’re too skeptical. I heard his heirs are still living off his investments.” He wrenched off the padlock, and the door creaked inward. “Let’s get inside where it’s dry.”

Dry was the kindest thing to say about the interior. One room, yes. A scarred wooden floor with no rugs. On her left, a linoleum-covered counter with a porcelain sink, a few cabinets, and a gas cook stove passed for a kitchen. Against the right and back walls, two sets of metal bunk beds sagged, empty of bedding. Mattresses and pillows hung on coat hangers from the ceiling. Protection against mice nesting in them, she supposed.

Rustic wooden furniture—a plank table, two paint-blotched straight-backed chairs, a rocking chair, and an unpainted settee faced a small cast iron woodstove. Even more primitive than the camp her family had on Crawford Pond.

The cabin, long closed up, smelled of mildew and mice. What did she expect—a condo with a Jacuzzi? The place was dry and solid. A fire would create cozy.

She followed Sam’s example and dumped her pack on the floor. Only then did she realize her teeth were chattering. Some July weather! “Sam, do we dare build a fire? Would he see or smell our smoke?”

“A fire is
my
game plan. We’ll be safe here until tomorrow. Smoke should blow east, away from him, and the rain will help screen us.” He slipped off his poncho and dropped it on the floor. A stack of yellowed newspapers, kindling, and some logs filled a box near the stove.

Crumpling newspaper, he said, “He might not realize we’re gone until the others make camp. If he does, the rain will have wiped out any tracks we left. Even your spectacular slide down the hill.”

“Don’t remind me. I knew Mother Nature wasn’t finished with me yet.” She returned his grin. His humor and steady confidence in her was somehow dissipating her nature-phobia. Her feud with the old gal didn’t bother her as much as it used to. “So you don’t think he’ll know where we are?”

Sam shook his head as he arranged kindling and logs on the newspaper. “He might figure we’re headed for the river, but he won’t know where we left the others.”

“Won’t he deduce we came to this camp?
You
led us here.”

She tried not to register the way his biceps bulged as he worked, or the way his wet trousers hugged his taut butt. Just staring at him heated her blood. She peeled off her outer garments and hung them on hooks beside the door. When the cool air hit her damp shirt, she shivered all over again.

Sam hung his poncho beside hers. “I’m damned lucky I remembered where it was. This camp isn’t on any map I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t know of its existence."

He hoisted a Coleman lantern from a hook in the kitchen. “It’ll be dark soon. I’ll see if I can find fuel for this baby while you change into dry clothes. Then we’ll fix up the bunks.” His back remained to her while he rummaged in the cabinets.

“Who knew you’d be such a gentleman?” From her pack she pulled dry jeans, socks, and a sweatshirt.

“I may not be able to unglue my eyes from your tight little nipples, sweetheart, but I don’t take advantage of shivering women.” He located the fuel and appeared to occupy himself with the lantern.

Her cheeks flamed and she hurried to change. She didn’t normally fluster so easily, but Sam had a knack.

He did say bunks, plural, didn’t he?
No, she wouldn’t think about that.

When she finished dressing, she could barely contain a sigh at the pleasurable feel of soft, dry garments.

She turned her back for him to do the same, although trousers were his only wet item. They hung the dripping clothes on a line behind the stove.

“They won’t be clean,” she said, stretching to clip a one of her sneakers to the line, “but dry is all I ask.”

“A few more days and you’ll be clean and dry—and safe—back in Portland.” Settling into the rocker, he looked away. His mouth formed a grim seam. “You’ll be away from all this.”

And away from you.

He would remain hidden in his wilderness, and she’d be off in search of... something. Portland didn’t have the appeal it once did. Neither did New York. After this ordeal ended, she’d consider a change. Sam was right. She’d been too obsessed with the Hunter. What Rissa would think of this turn of events, she couldn’t imagine.

The efficient cast iron heated the small room in no time, eddying the cooked-cotton scent of drying laundry around the room.

“Rain’s let up,” Sam said. “I’ll go fetch a bucket of water from the river. Boiling and a few iodine tabs will make it safe enough for drinking. We could do with a hot meal.”

Fear flickered at the thought of his leaving her alone. What if he was wrong about the Hunter not knowing where they were? What if he didn’t come back? “Can’t you just get it from the sink?”

“Sweetheart, you go have a look at it.” He slid his poncho on over his head. “Drain, but no faucet. You’re smack in the middle of the wilderness, remember?”

“How could I forget, Mr. Maine Guide?”

He must have perceived the fear on her face or the edge in her voice because he said, “It’s all right. We’re safe here for now. Why don’t you check out the fine china supply?”

She surveyed the kitchen amenities, such as they were. “Plates and silver in the cupboards.” Both the plastic dishes and the scratched porcelain sink contained tiny deposits. “First thing to do is rinse away mouse turds.”

“You can be in charge of that. Then I’ll get those mattresses down from the ceiling. We’ll make up a bed. Or two.” With a waggle of his mustache, he slipped out the door.

“Mattresses,” she mused, gazing at the hanging ticking. She snatched the broom leaning against the wall and attacked the dirty floor around the stove. “A bed or two.”

Sam was obviously leaving the sleeping arrangement open. She eyed the bunks, which were little more than glorified cots with naked coils for support. Barely wide enough for one adult, let alone two in the throes of passion, supposing she considered sweeping away caution with the dust.

A ribbon of awareness curled through her at the memory of Sam’s heated kisses, his mouth on her breast, at the thought of his hard body covering hers. She squeezed her eyes closed.

Maybe having no future together was an advantage. Maybe she could do lust and not do falling for him. No hang-ups, no strings, no chance for heartbreak. Just the present.

If the Hunter caught up to them, today might be all they ever had.

TWENTY-EIGHT

All her fault.
Her
fault his hand was on fucking fire.
Her
fault bits of his scorched hair fell in his face whenever he touched it. His right sleeve hung in shreds.

Her
fault the beautiful Remington was fused into a twisted mess. Useless. He flung it into the weeds.

The bitch’s fault. And the fucking guide’s. If they hadn’t headed off alone—

He scrambled up the rain-slick ridge. At the top, he shrugged off his backpack and withdrew a first-aid kit. Shaking, mouth contorted with pain, he unclenched his right hand and extended it for the rain to wash. Blisters on his right palm. Painful but not serious.

If the lightning had struck him directly instead of the tree beside him, he’d have more than a couple of singes. The rifle’s stock had conducted the heat to his hand for only a second. Long enough to blister him. Second-degree burns required a sterile dressing, but a gauze bandage would be soaked in minutes.

The lightning strike was a sign.

A challenge.

That was it. He wasn’t meant to hunt her with a gun. Only his blade.

With his left hand, he slid the custom-made, four-inch skinning knife from its sheath and tested the sharpness. The burned hand would make no difference in the outcome of his hunt. After replacing the knife, he moved the sheath to his left side.

Being ambidextrous had its advantages.

Pain? The Hunter refused pain.

His mind would cast out the pain. The injury would heal.

And
she
would pay.

He squinted through the late-afternoon rain. Too thick to see smoke from a chimney. Soon it would be dark. No matter. He knew where they must be headed.

He hooked his arms into the backpack and headed down the east side of the ridge.