Spirit Of A Hunter

She unclamped her stiff finger from the steering wheel, shoved open the door and unhooked the chain. She drove through, then stared at the heavy links in her hands. Should she hook the chain back up or leave it down? What did it say about the state of her mind that simple decisions required a Herculean effort?

This was all Tommy’s fault. Why did he have to take Scotty? Maybe everything wasn’t perfect at the estate, but they were safe.

She dropped the chain with a snort of disgust and let it lie like a dead boa constrictor. Leaving it down would save Sabriel time, and they could get going faster.

Back in the car, her gaze flitted from the thick pines lining the winding gravel drive to the shadows shifting like black ghouls searching to devour light. One thing was sure: the Colonel would never find her there. And that gave her a measure of confidence.

At the top of the drive, half a dozen cabins that looked too rustic to provide comfort or fun flanked a main lodge with a green roof and time-silvered logs. She parked by the hitching post to the left of the lodge.

The place looked deserted, and the oppressive quiet pressed on her chest, making her want to scream at the world. Stop it, stop it, stop it! How could the earth keep turning, the birds singing, the water lapping when Scotty was missing? She wrapped her arms over her chest, feeling the void of her son’s small body.

As she took in the scene, she realized Scotty would have loved it there—the woods to explore, the lake to swim, the campfire to tell stories. Tommy had talked about taking Scotty camping overnight last summer. But the Colonel had stamped the request “refused.”

“Why is the Colonel so mean?” Scotty had asked, pouting.

Nora had no answer. Not then. Not now.

As her gaze searched the grounds, she wrung her hands in her lap. Where were the outdoorswomen? Wasn’t someone supposed to meet her? There were no other vehicles. No voices. Nothing. No one.

She couldn’t just sit there and wait. She’d go crazy.

Clothes. You need outdoor clothes. Sabriel would arrive soon. And if she was ready, he’d have to take her to the mountains and help her find Scotty.

She rammed the car door open and headed for the lodge. Away from the car’s heater, the air chilled her through her sweater down to the skin. Her knock on the lodge door brought only a fading echo.

She curved a hand to the window and peeked through the glass. No movement. “Hello? Anybody there?”

The stubborn knob resisted her attempts to turn it. Was the camp closed for the winter? Why hadn’t Sabriel mentioned he was sending her to a deserted place?

On the other side of the hitching post, two A-frames groaned under the burden of red kayaks—three on each side. The grating ratchetlike calls of blue jays in a nearby oak jangled her already frazzled nerves. With halting footsteps she followed the path through the trees that would lead her to the cottages. Maybe all the Amazons were out hiking. Maybe they’d left some spare clothes behind.

The trail curved around a narrow strip of beach. The cloud-leached sun eked out pale light that barely scratched at the surface of the water. Pulling out her cell phone, she paced the length of a bench made from a fallen log placed around the dead fire in the stone pit. She was too worried to care if the Colonel had access to her call records. Biting her lower lip, she listened to the incessant ringing of Tommy’s phone.

She growled when Tommy’s voice mail kicked on. “Tommy, please. Call me. I need to know Scotty’s okay.”

How many messages had she left him? At least a dozen. What if something had happened? What if that was why Tommy hadn’t called to reassure her?

Scotty’s with his father, who loves him, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. It wasn’t as if a stranger had kidnapped him and was holding him for ransom in some dark hole. Tommy wouldn’t let any harm come to their son.

Unless Tommy was off his meds.

Her hand strangled the phone and she gulped in air. Scotty was fine. Tommy was fine. They were both perfectly fine. To think otherwise would push her over the brink into insanity. And she couldn’t afford that. Scotty was depending on her.

The mountains loomed on the other side of the lake, taunting her with their nearness, with her helplessness to find one little boy in their midst.

She slammed the phone shut. There was no one else to call. No Amazons to the rescue. Only Sabriel.

Adrenaline ants scurried through her limbs, goading her to take action. With an irrationality bordering on mania, she wanted to turn over rocks, climb trees, ford rivers—anything to find Scotty. She whirled away from the tormenting mountains and jogged toward the cabins.

Fingers of wind rustled through the fallen leaves in the woods and reminded her of chattering teeth. The shifting shadows of trees creeped her out—as if eyes were watching her from behind every trunk, following her, waiting to pounce. She half expected a pack of rabid wolves, yellow teeth bared, red tongues lolling, fiery eyes glowing, to spring out at her. Never mind that there weren’t any wolves in these parts.

Her pace faltered. Oh, God, what if Tommy and Scotty were attacked by a bear? Or charged by a moose? Or pounced on by a bobcat?

Up ahead, a cottage creaked. The haunting wail of its misery lingered in the brittle air. Nora froze. Her breath chugged in ragged bursts.

“Hello?” Her voice fractured like a teen scream-queen’s. “Is anyone there?”

No answer but the lamenting sough of wind.

Her gaze scoured the woods. Never before had she felt so isolated. Alone like this, she made a perfect target. What if something happened to her? No one to see her. No one to hear her. No one to fight for Scotty. The last time she’d felt this vulnerable, she’d been sixteen. Pressure built behind her eyes and her throat worked itself raw.

She almost wished she were back at the estate, letting the Colonel take charge.

Don’t talk crazy. Keep moving. Find clothes. Be ready.

She hesitated at the cottage door, knocked, then wrenched the knob. It turned in her hand. The door squealed open, blasting her less-than-moral intentions to break-and-enter to the world.

She wasn’t stealing; she was borrowing. She’d give everything back once she’d found Scotty.

Two bunk beds held up the narrow walls of the cabin. Weather-resistant mattresses lined each bunk. One bench crouched beneath the lone window. The smell of must and the bite of wood smoke lingered in the air. No clothes. No boots. Nothing of use at all.

Maybe the next one would prove more fruitful.

Nora made her way to each of the cottages in turn, finding each as empty as the first. An overwhelming sense of powerlessness knocked her to her knees. Head in her hands, the edge of despair threatened to turn her into a sobbing mess. She sniffed back at the thrust of tears. If she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop.

Images of Scotty spun a tornado of memories that tormented her. What if they were all she had left of her son?

No! I refuse! She reared back with a roar. She would not collapse. She would stay strong. Scotty was counting on her, and she wouldn’t let him down.

Hiking clothes didn’t matter. Her cashmere sweater was warm, especially when moving around. The good wool of her slacks was as tough as any material. And her fashion boots sported soles made to grip the sidewalk. She’d handle an afternoon out in the woods just fine. The important thing was to find Scotty before the Colonel did—before dark.

As she scrambled to her feet, the crunching of tires on gravel echoed from the bottom of the drive. Sabriel. Her heart lightened, and she raced down the path, back toward the lodge.

She was about to burst out of the tree-lined trail when she spotted the black Hummer creeping up the drive. Instinct shot her down to a crouch. Three men scuttled out of the vehicle like beetles. Boggs, all six feet of intimidation and testosterone, and two more of the Colonel’s muscle with their close-cropped hair, black battle-dress uniforms and black jungle boots.

Impossible. How had they found her?

The sink of letdown knocked her off balance. She grabbed a pine bough and steadied her stance.

Sabriel. He’d betrayed her. Led her like some Marie Antoinette to the guillotine—right where the Colonel could make her head, her whole body disappear.

Voices came at her, bouncing around the woods as if she were surrounded on all sides by a radio not quite tuned in. An angry whisper. A tinny mumble. A conversation where the words made no sense, but sent crawls of warning shivering down her spine.

The blue jays stopped jabbering. The trees no longer swayed. Even the waves on the water lapped at the rocks on the shore in near silence. She couldn’t let the thugs corner her. Not until she’d found Scotty.

The Hummer’s cooling engine pinged, giving her a start. She scrunched down farther, then inched backward, away from the Colonel’s men.

A hand, big and rough, clamped over her mouth. A steel-strapped arm banded across her chest and dragged her backward. A scream tore from her throat, but the vise of a hand securing her mouth muffled it. She fought, twisting and kicking, and worked to free her lips to bite the offending fingers. But the body clinched tight against hers had no give and the flesh might as well have been granite. Her left hip bruised against the hard outline of a holster. Her peripheral vision caught a blur of black and panic ran rampant.