скачать книгу бесплатно
Its wide door, stained the same dark brown as the house, creaked in a gust of wind.
She draped the towel over her shoulders and stepped off the dock onto a path of gravel and sharp stones that she’d avoided on her run down from the house. As a kid, she wouldn’t have even noticed the stones under her bare feet.
She heard a rustling sound in the brush between the shed and the shoreline and stopped, peering into the tangle of small birches and pines, thigh-high ferns, blackberry vines and invasive Japanese barberry so thick with thorns, nothing could get through it.
Wild turkeys? A squirrel?
Behind the shed were woods laced with paths that led to favorite spots along the lake, connected with trails that eventually snaked up into the mountains.
Mackenzie listened for a few seconds, but when she heard nothing more she draped her towel over one shoulder and reached for the shed door.
A guttural sound—a low growl—came from the brush. She turned quickly, just as something leaped out of the bushes, coming at her.
A man. Dark hair, a beard.
Mackenzie jumped back, but he was diving for her, slashing at her.
A knife.
She reacted instantly, adrenaline flooding her senses, and hooked her beach towel around her right arm to block another slash of his knife. Quickly, she grabbed his wrist, pointing the knife to the dirt path, and simultaneously locked his elbow in place with her other hand. She gave his wrist a sharp, hard twist away from her.
He groaned in pain, but still gripped the knife.
With the side of her foot she delivered a quick, hard kick to the inside of his knee.
The knife dropped from his hand, and he screamed in pain, sinking to the dirt.
Maintaining her hold on his forearm, Mackenzie kicked the knife into the brush. Her attacker smelled of rancid sweat, and his beard was unkempt. His hair was wild, dirty, streaked with gray. He wore scarred hiking boots, lightweight khaki-green pants and a sweat-stained tan T-shirt.
White-flecked pale eyes stared up at her.
Those eyes…
She’d seen him before.
She felt something warm oozing down her left side but didn’t let herself look.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, grinning at her. “I cut you.”
He wasn’t lying. She could feel the pain now, searing, overtaking the adrenaline that had protected her in the first seconds of injury. But the wound couldn’t be deep. Her counterattack had prevented him from stabbing her in her kidney, killing her on the spot. Instead, he’d cut a five-inch gash in her side, just above her hip.
Spit formed at the corners of her attacker’s mouth and sparkled on his beard. “You’re going to pass out, Deputy Stewart. Think about what I’m going to do to you then.”
He knew her name—he knew he’d just assaulted a federal agent.
Pain pierced through her. She needed to disable him, make sure he didn’t get up even if she did pass out. Just one good chop to his neck. But she could feel the warm blood from the slice on her side mingling with the cool lake water on her skin. Her grip on him slackened, and her towel slid off her arm onto the ground.
He seized the advantage and surged up, pushing her backward. She blocked his move, and managed to stay on her feet as he grunted, spun around and ran, crashing through the brush, swearing like a madman.
Did he have another weapon hidden in the woods?
Mackenzie knew she couldn’t charge after him. She was barefoot and injured. She’d had one chance to nail him, and she’d failed. She needed to get to her gun, a telephone. Put on some dry clothes.
Her heart jumped. Carine.
Her friend was up on the road with her baby. What if she ran into this bastard?
What if she already had?
Mackenzie pressed her forearm against the wound on her side to provide compression. She didn’t want to pick up her towel and risk passing out.
The shed door was still open. Had her attacker come out of there? Or had he been on his way into it, but saw her emerging from the water and ducked into the brush?
She had to check the shed for any other victims. If her attacker had an accomplice, he’d have surfaced by now. In her pink tankini, she was an easy target for two men.
Nothing was out of place in the shed. There was nowhere for a person to hide—the old canoe was upright, the lightweight kayaks leaned against a wall. Mackenzie grabbed a crowbar from among the tools hanging on hooks and nails, planning to use it as a makeshift weapon. But its weight pulled on her cut side, the resulting pain dropping her to one knee. The crowbar clattered to the cement floor, landing inches from an old stain—her father’s blood, still there after twenty years.
Forcing herself to stand up, she chose a hammer—it wasn’t nearly as heavy as the crowbar—and stepped out of the shed, squinting in the bright sunlight. The breeze made her teeth chatter.
I can’t pass out.
“Mac.”
What?
She blinked, trying to focus, trying to keep her head from spinning. She had to be hallucinating. She just couldn’t be this unlucky. Attacked out of the blue, stabbed, humiliated…and now Andrew Rook, special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, black-haired, black-eyed and humorless, had materialized in front of her?
His gaze narrowed on the blood dripping down her side. He was controlled, focused. “What’s happened?”
“I was attacked. Not by a shark, either.” She pointed behind the shed with her bloody hand. “The man who sliced me is in the woods. He doesn’t have a big head start. You can catch him.”
“You need a doctor.”
She shook her head. “My friend Carine is up on the road with her baby. I can’t go after her myself.” She coughed—a mistake; the pain was so intense, she saw white and almost dropped her hammer. “Go, okay?”
Rook reached into his jacket pocket. “I’ll call the police.”
“Your cell phone won’t work out here. There’s a phone in the house. I’ll call, you go.” Mackenzie raised her eyes as she held her bloodied side and tried to keep from shivering. “Why are you here, anyway?”
He sighed through clenched teeth. “Later.” He drew a pistol from his belt holster and held it out to her. “I’ll go after your friend. Take this.”
“It’s not necessary.” She raised her hammer. “I’m all set.”
“Take the damn gun, Mac.” He plucked the hammer from her and pressed the 9 mm into her hand. “I’ve got another.”
She didn’t argue and straightened, suddenly aware again that she was in pink, a bright pink tankini.
Hell.
She started toward the house, but after two steps her stomach lurched. She went still, feeling dizzy, her thoughts jumbled. How had this happened? She’d been swimming on a beautiful summer day, and now here she was, woozy, knifed and arguing with the man she’d come to New Hampshire to get out of her mind.
“He knew my name,” she said, letting the wave of nausea pass.
She thought she heard Rook swear under his breath. “Keep compression on your wound and get warm. Don’t risk hypothermia.”
She glanced back at him. “Are you trying to piss me off or are you just oblivious?”
Rook ignored her and took off into the woods.
Hanging on to his Browning, Mackenzie staggered to the porch and into Bernadette’s kitchen. She found the land line and dialed 911, pushing back her pain—her concern for Carine—as she told the dispatcher everything she knew.
“Notify the teams hunting for the missing hiker that the man who attacked me could have found her first.”
“Ma’am, you need to get off your feet and find a safe place—”
She’d forgotten to identify herself as a federal agent. She did so now and provided Gus’s name as a contact.
When she hung up, she found a clean dish towel and pressed it to her wound, which was still bleeding freely, as she pushed around bags of hamburger buns and chocolate bars in search of Carine’s car keys. She would drive up the road, go after Carine herself.
She was shaky and sweating, and her knees were unsteady beneath her. “I hate this,” she said under her breath, slipping into her flip-flops, the dish towel pressed against her wound.
With Rook’s gun in her free hand, she charged back to the porch. She wouldn’t pass out and drive into a tree. She refused.
But when she reached the gravel driveway, Mackenzie knew she wasn’t getting into Carine’s car. She wasn’t driving anywhere. Never mind the risk to herself—she’d end up running over someone. Rook, maybe.
She tensed to keep her teeth from chattering. Based on what she’d told the dispatcher, she had a fair idea of the array of cops that would be en route to the lake. She couldn’t have them show up while she was standing there with chattering teeth. No cop would get away with it, not with a relatively superficial wound like hers.
And no one with any sense—cop or not—would get behind a wheel, dripping blood and clad only in a cold, wet swimsuit.
She had to trust Rook to get Carine and her baby boy back safely.
Six
Jesse Lambert hocked a loogie onto the side of the quiet, narrow dirt road that encircled the picturesque lake. He wondered if the cops would swab it for their forensics lab, or if it’d be dry before they got out here. No matter—he’d be long gone.
Would Mackenzie Stewart pass out before she could call for help? He didn’t know how badly he’d cut her.
What if he’d just nicked her and she was after him now?
He liked that idea. Being back in the mountains exhilarated him. A few weeks of hiking would sharpen his mind, body and spirit, dulled somewhat by result of the lifestyle he led in Washington, D.C. He’d be back in top-notch shape in no time. But he didn’t have a few weeks, not right now.
His knee ached where the freckled girl deputy had kicked him.
Bitch.
But he’d been energized by the conflict between them, her fight, her spirit. He hadn’t expected her. It must have been fate, he thought, that had brought her there.
“New Hampshire…it’s the only place I can think of where Cal might have stashed your money…”
Poor Harris, trying to make good on one last gamble. But New Hampshire was a reasonable answer, and Jesse had flown in late last night, crafting a bold but well-structured plan. He’d considered Cal and Harris both associates—they’d profited from their relationship with him. How had they returned the favor? They’d double-crossed him.
First thing this morning, he’d set out into the mountains.
His mountains. They comforted him, soothed him. He was never more at peace than when he was in the White Mountains. He would never live here; to do so would diminish their power to restore him. But after a violent outburst, he would always return to them.
The gurgling cry of a baby snapped him out of his thoughts.
A woman came around a bend in the road, a baby in a little red hat bouncing in a pack on her back. She gave a start, then smiled. “Oh, hello. I didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
This, Jesse thought, was crap. Seeing how she held a fist-size rock in one hand. She had to have heard him or spotted him. These women up here. She must have heard him in the woods. Meeting her eyes, he felt recognition dawn.
“Nice afternoon for a walk,” he said conversationally.
She drew a shallow breath. “Definitely. I’m meeting a friend—”
“You’re Carine Winter, right? The photographer?”
Her hand tightened visibly on the rock. What was she going to do, bash him over the head with it? She had a baby with her, and she was thinking about beating a man to death. Him.
But she gestured vaguely up the road. “I’m running late.”
“Sure. No problem.” Jesse stepped into the shade of an oak on the edge of the road, letting her pass. “I ran into Mackenzie Stewart a few minutes ago. She scared the hell out of me. I was just hiking, and all of a sudden, she was there.”
Without saying a word, Carine picked up her pace. She had to have all sorts of questions about him, but wasn’t going to linger and ask any of them. Jesse watched the baby’s red hat bob up and down as his mother hurried on, moving as fast as she dared without hurting her son or drawing attention to her fear.
She was a Winter, and all Winters in the White Mountains were legendary hard-asses.
Mackenzie Stewart was the one who’d shocked him.
Jesse kept his tone mild as he called to Carine, “Tell your redheaded friend that I didn’t mean to hurt her. I was scared. Just scared.”
The marshals, the FBI, the state cops, the local cops—they would run everything he said and did past their experts, and they’d figure he was some kind of a head case.
That was all part of his plan, and suited him just fine.
He raised his voice a notch so Carine could still hear him. “I bought one of your calendars. Really like the picture of the loons.”
In fact, he had bought one of her calendars. It hung in his house in Mexico. She was an accomplished nature photographer who knew the White Mountains as well as he did—and had captured their soul in her pictures.
He thought he heard a car engine down the road, and quickly ducked under the oak, revived now, a fresh surge of adrenaline pumping through his bloodstream. He knew every inch of the maze of trails that snaked into the mountains. Within the hour, he would be a needle in a haystack. Even with search dogs, the police would never find him.
He pictured Mackenzie Stewart’s dark red curls, her compact, sexy shape and the crimson blood running down the smooth, creamy skin of her upper thigh.
She was so damn pretty.
Barefoot and soaking wet in her pink bathing suit, she’d still managed to disarm him and come damn close to kicking his ass. He’d had to use every bit of his willpower to get back on his feet and bolt into the woods.
His attraction to her was unexpected, as potent and as visceral as his urge to stab her. In that split second of decision followed by action, when he’d jumped out of the brush at her, he had fully meant to kill her, not just cut her. If she hadn’t stopped him, disarmed him, she’d be dead right now.
