Molly battled tears from the moment she’d left Garrett’s car behind. She’d not sent her silent plea for help clearly enough for him to pick up on it when he’d approached. He’d probably thought she was being snooty, especially after she’d practically run from him at the coffee shop. It might be the last mistake she ever made, not telling Garrett Wolfe the truth.
Porter Stone imprisoned her with one arm looped around the driver’s headrest, long fingernails digging into her chin. In the other hand was the knife, still pressed to her throat. The skin under her jaw stung where the blade had bitten. A shallow cut, but if he exerted a little more pressure...
Ten years before her brain would have denied what she was experiencing. This couldn’t be happening, didn’t happen to normal everyday people. But all those years ago, Stone upended her happy life with the suddenness of a devastating earthquake. When he murdered her father, he’d taught her a terrible lesson—everything could be stripped away in a moment.
She forced a question through her quivering lips. “You were arrested. How’d you escape?”
“Oh, I’m real good at that. You should know, right?”
“Where are we going?”
“To a private spot where we can get some things straight.”
Somehow, she kept her shaking leg on the gas pedal as they drove the softly winding road to a graveled turnoff. Should she try to wreck the car? Leap out? But when she slowed, he upped the pressure of the knife against her windpipe. The slightest movement on her part and he’d bury the blade in her throat. He was a killer, that much he’d already proven.
More tears pricked her eyes but she blinked them back. No time for that. She needed her wits about her because she was certain of only one thing: he would not get whatever he desired of her. Period.
“What do you want?” Her voice was high, unrecognizable even to herself.
“I’ll tell you when it suits me.” His breath smelled of cigarettes. “What’s the matter? Anxious? Doesn’t feel good to be on the run, does it? Any idea the kind of dives I’ve lived in for the past ten years? But I’m not going to jail and I’m not running anymore. I’m done.”
Not running and not going to jail. What choice did that leave?
The terror was dizzying.
She knew what was about to unfold. She’d taken the self-defense classes that stressed over and over never to allow yourself to be taken to a secondary location, especially an isolated one. But the road had grown steep, the drop-off into the trees such that she doubted she would survive if she managed to drive them off the road.
What do I do?
She could think of nothing. Yet. The route he demanded took them to a spot she’d visited as a teen when they’d come to town to see Uncle Orson, a quiet, serene stretch of tree-studded ground where a small bridge crossed a mountain fed river. It was gushing now, from the recent rain, loud and rumbling. The ground was soggy and it was a cool and cloudy spring day, not attractive for hikers. All those facts made it a perfect spot to kill someone without risking witnesses.
You’re not dead yet.
“Stop here,” he commanded.
She rolled onto a rutted patch of wet ground. One moment was all she needed. She’d leap out and run. The quick view in her mirror gave her the impression that Stone was stocky and didn’t look to be in great shape. She had abject terror, a flood of adrenaline and arduous gym workouts to fuel her speed.
He kicked open the rear passenger door, and while he was climbing free, she saw her chance.
She flung herself out. The trees. Make for the trees and hide.
But he must have anticipated that because he swept out a foot and caught her ankle. She crashed on hands and knees to the ground, rocks flaying her palms.
“Get up,” he snapped.
Knees protesting, she stood. Keep watching. Another chance will come. It had to. They were parked on a narrow ribbon of ground that tumbled away on one side with a mountain butted up to the road on the other. Ahead was the slender wooden pedestrian bridge, reminding her that her daredevil sister had walked the railing like it was a tightrope in their growing-up years when they’d visited their uncle.
Would someone come along in spite of the weather?
A committed hiker or fisherman who could help?
She darted a look at her captor. Stone was surprisingly clean-shaven for a fugitive, wearing too-tight clothes that hugged his ample waist, hair cut close to the scalp. How had he escaped custody?
He moved closer, blocking any escape route. She scanned for an opportunity to kick out, but he kept his body angled away. She tried to rub off the feel of his hand on her windpipe. All he had to do was squeeze or slash. No one would hear. They’d find her body at some point, too late to help. Her throat throbbed from the slight cut he’d given her at the light, along with the order to drive on. He didn’t deserve to have power over her, or anyone, ever again. She tried to formulate another plan.
He interrupted her train of thought with a question. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“Antonia,” he sneered, “your darling sister. Where is she?”
Molly swallowed. There was no way she would give up her sister no matter what he did. “Why do you want to know? So you can kill her too? Dad wasn’t enough?”
His nostrils flared. “I loved Antonia. She was supposed to be my girl.”
She gaped. “After you killed our father? She should be in a relationship with a murderer who destroyed our family?”
Quick as a serpent, he darted a hand into her pocket and pulled out the phone, backing her against the car so he could keep the knife at her throat while he snaked a look at it. “Unlock it.”
Sweat beaded his forehead. He looked young, always had that boyish face, but the mischievous eyes were flat now, filled with hatred, the skin pouched and puckered underneath. One of his front teeth was chipped. He’d been living hard. Well, so had she and her family. What had she ever done to Stone? What had Antonia or her father done?
She glared at him. “You’re so smart, unlock it yourself.”
“Do it,” he shouted, the knife dancing on her skin. Another trickle of warmth told her he wasn’t bluffing. With trembling fingers she keyed in the code. Her texts were all deleted, a practice she’d scrupulously maintained. Except the most recent string from Antonia. The last one said it all.
He’s escaped.
Stone laughed when he read it, awkwardly tapped a text with one hand and sent it.
He darted a look toward the narrow road. The knife blade moved back a fraction from her throat. “Took me so long to figure it out.”
“Figure out what?”
His red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “I ask the questions.”
“The cops are looking for you, aren’t they? They’ll catch you. You’d better run. Right now.”
He grimaced. “Oh, no. I’m not going anywhere until I get back everything I lost.”
Everything. Including her sister. Stone had always been infatuated with Antonia. The feeling wasn’t mutual, which had fueled his rage, she had no doubt.
Anger flamed inside her. “You’re not taking anything else from my family.” Then she slammed his arm aside with her wrist and kicked out with all her strength. She’d aimed for his knee, but instead connected with his upper thigh. He reeled back, swearing.
She dove for the car. The keys were still in the ignition. One more second and she’d...
He grabbed at her arm and wrenched her away.
She spun, falling onto her back, kicking at him with all her strength. Her heel caught him in the jaw and snapped his head back. Her phone clattered to the ground but she scrambled up, grabbing it as she went. He was getting to his feet, blood streaming from his mouth. He was between her and the car so she turned and ran.
Her mind fired conflicting commands at her. Get to the bridge. The road. Hide. Call for help. She made it only a few yards before he grabbed her jacket, jerking her back, twisting. She fell hard, the breath driven from her lungs, rocks grinding against her stomach.
Again she felt the knife, this time poised between her shoulder blades.
Garrett knew Stephanie would get help faster than he could. He’d finished texting her his SOS and freed the weapon from the under-seat lockbox by the time Molly had stepped from her car. As soon as he saw that, he began his stealthy creep toward them using the trees for cover. Pinkerton was in silent mode, surprisingly quiet for a 110-pound animal. Not a protection dog, but his bark was as startling as an air-raid siren. Garrett planned to leverage that fact.
He glimpsed a man through the branches and his heart plummeted. Garrett was still digesting the news he’d gotten five minutes earlier in a call from his cop buddy while he was following Molly. Porter Stone had escaped police custody twenty-four hours prior during a transfer from one jail to another and he’d been spotted near Whisper Valley. A dragnet was in place, community bulletins issued, and it was likely a matter of time before he’d be captured. Mind boggling. Porter was a fugitive once again, an even more desperate one no doubt, and now Garrett was within shouting distance of him. But why had he targeted Molly Hartman? Molly broke away, running, with Stone in pursuit.
“Down, Pink,” he whispered.
Pinkerton sank unhappily onto the pine needles.
Stone was crouched over Molly, who’d sprawled stomach first on the ground. Garrett sprinted over the hump of the slope and bellowed his command. “Drop it, Stone.”
Stone started so violently at Garrett’s arrival that Molly scrambled to her knees, crawling away a few paces. Excellent. Garrett aimed his pistol. Cop rule: never draw a gun unless you’re prepared to use lethal force. He was resigned to do exactly that to protect the terrified woman who’d skidded to a stop. Tears formed glistening trails down her dusty cheeks.
“Come over here, Molly,” Garrett said evenly. He could see that her legs were trembling. She inched toward him uncertainly.
Stone gripped a knife, close enough to lunge at them both. His nose bled, his lined face almost unrecognizable from the young man Garrett had known a decade before. Back then Stone had been a lover of animals, an avid bowler, able to quote a movie line to fit every occasion. This was not that person, not anymore.
“You’re surrounded, Stone.” If surrounded could consist of one ex-cop and a very large dog. “There’s no way out.”
Stone looked around, calling his bluff. “Yeah? Don’t see any backup.”
Garrett eased his gun to one hand and lowered the other to his waist—the signal.
Pinkerton, watching from his perch, saw the cue and began to bark madly. The sound bounced and echoed against the rocks, vibrating in his eardrums.
“See? Second unit and they brought the dogs. No need to make this hard on yourself. Drop your knife and you walk out of here without getting hurt.”
Stone stood frozen, his face stark. Garrett had seen the expression before, the one that meant there was nothing left to lose. Was there anything more dangerous than desperation? His stomach dropped, weapon still aimed. “I don’t want to hurt you, Porter.”
“That right? ’Cuz you’re some kind of friend?” He shook his head. “You said you believed in me, Garrett. Remember? Even at the arraignment you wanted to try and help me.”
“I did try and you bolted.”
“I was going to jail. That’s where you’ll put me again, soon as I let go of this knife.”
“I’m not here to arrest you. I left the force. Not a cop anymore.”
“Oh, I heard. Some fancy detective now. I’ve been living like a rat all this time while you and the sisters here enjoyed your nice cars and fat bank accounts.”
The sisters here...
Molly craned her neck in his direction, posture rigid with fear. The unusual tint of her eyes, the darkest of blues, like the morning shadows on Mt. Shasta.
He got it. Not Molly Hartman.
She was Catherine Hart.
He pictured her sister, Antonia, and their father murdered by Porter Stone. He swallowed. “It’s not like that. Let her go and we’ll talk about it, you and me, okay?”
“You’re an investigator now, big shot. Have been for years? And there’s nothing you could have done for me in all that time?”
Garrett’s pinprick of guilt widened to a fist. He’d believed in Stone’s innocence back in the day. Then he was brought back to earth. Hard. He flicked his head toward Catherine. “You attacked this woman. Must have been tracking her, right? Innocent people don’t do that. You proved I was wrong to believe you.”
Stone shook his head slowly. “I should’ve known.”
Garrett wasn’t going about this correctly. He needed more time for the cops to show. Stall. Build rapport, don’t antagonize. “I’m sorry. We got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again. Come on, man. We know each other. Your dad and my dad were fishing buddies. You can tell me what’s going on here and we can straighten it out. It’s not too late.”
Stone shook his head. “Yeah, it is. It’s too late for anything but laying down the hurt.”
He kept his tone calm. “Your dad’s a good guy. He wouldn’t want...”
“Shut up,” Stone snapped, the knuckles around the knife clenched white. “Don’t talk about my father.”
Garrett was about to switch strategies when there was noise from the other end of the bridge, the cheerful chatter of approaching hikers. Bystanders, oblivious to what they were walking into. A cop’s nightmare.
Stone realized his opportunity. He smiled and backed up until he was centered in front of the bridge approach. He knew Garrett couldn’t shoot, not without risking injury to the people behind him.
“People on the bridge,” Garrett shouted. “Stay where you are.”
The hikers did not hear or didn’t understand. Two men with bulging backpacks appeared, water bottles in their hands, bewildered at seeing a man with a gun facing another clutching a knife, and a bleeding woman between them.
They stopped a few paces behind Stone.
“What’s—” one of them began.
Stone eased sideways and gestured to them with his knife. “Keep going. Slowly.”
Hands flung up, they obeyed. Stone kept the hikers between himself and Garrett. Five steps were all Stone needed to draw next to the open driver’s side door of Catherine’s car. In a flash, he hopped into the driver’s seat, started the engine and pulled a squealing U-turn. The hikers scrambled back onto the bridge.
Garrett had only a moment to grab Catherine’s arm and haul her to the trees before the car plowed toward them. The front bumper shaved bark off the trunk of one where they’d sheltered and Garrett spun her deeper into the trees. Stone jerked the wheel and drove away.
“Pinkerton,” Garrett called.
The bloodhound churned up in a flurry of flapping ears and scrabbling paws. “Watch,” he said.
Pinkerton plopped himself at Catherine’s feet. No one would come near her without a canine ruckus.
“It’s okay now. Stay here with Pinky for a minute.” He took her shaking hand and placed it on Pinkerton’s glossy flank. Immediately she began to stroke him. Comfort that only a dog could provide.
He went to meet the hikers, this time with his private investigation ID out and his gun stowed under his shirt.
“Cops are arriving soon.” He kept a distance from them since they were obviously still spooked.
“You’re one of those bloodhound private eyes, aren’t you?” the shorter man asked. “I saw your dogs at the K-9s for Cops show.”
And what a show that had been, ending in the kidnapping of his brother Roman’s now-wife. “Yes.”
“So that guy,” he continued. “The one with the knife. Who was he? Why was he after that lady?”
Exactly what he didn’t want to attempt to explain.
Pinkerton’s bark made him whirl around.
Catherine was lurching away, Pinkerton’s ears whipping his face as he confusedly looked between her and Garrett. “Watch” typically meant staying with a stationary person or object. So what was she doing? Garrett had no better idea than the dog.
“You two stay here until the cops arrive.” Without waiting for a reply, he ran after her.
She was unsteady in her movements, but still she’d made it down the slope to his car by the time he caught up. He stopped to suck in a breath as she slid behind the wheel, Pinkerton whining and barking when she didn’t open the rear door for him.
Hands on hips, Garrett watched her.
She checked the ignition, then yanked down the sun visors. Finally she bent, presumably to search the glove box.
“Catherine.”
She swung a look at him, her dark hair coming loose from the elastic.
“You’re safe. Police are coming and Security Hounds too. You don’t have to run.”
Her mouth twitched. “I need the keys.”
He arched an eyebrow. “No, you don’t.”
She smacked a hand on the wheel. “Garrett, I need the keys. I can’t explain but I have to go right now.”
“You’re in shock. You’ve just suffered a—”
“Now,” she commanded.
They stared at each other. This wasn’t a trauma-driven reaction. She was scared, but not irrational.
“Tell me,” he said simply.
She paused. “You worked on my father’s murder case.”
“Yes—”
She cut him off. “You never believed Porter Stone was a killer.” Her tone was hard as diamond, the accusation clear. “He almost killed me just now so maybe that’s enough to finally convince you. If I don’t get out of here, he’ll kill again. I need the keys.”
Her eyes burned holes in him. He’d been wrong about Stone. What had it cost this woman? Her family? He pulled the key ring from his pocket. “Not until you tell me where.”
She thrust the phone at him. “Stone sent this text pretending to be me. To my sister.”
He leaned close, noting the trembling of her fingers.
The little screen lit up.
It’s okay. Just heard the cops got him again. All safe.
And her sister’s reply:
What a relief. See you at Uncle O’s.
“I’ve texted, but she isn’t replying.”
Stone would know the address. Everyone in Whisper Valley and the region beyond did. Orson lived in a beautiful house at the top of a ridge, visible for miles.
He was already texting his sister. “We’ll alert the cops. They’ll roll a unit to—”
“Garrett.” Her tone cut him to the bone. “My father’s dead. I’ve spent a decade living a lie. My sister and uncle are all I have left.” She shoved a palm at him. “Keys. Now.”
“The police...”
“How did they help me before?”
The question hung there in the air.
She might as well have said, “How did you help me before?”
The system had failed her—he’d failed her. If Stone got to her sister and uncle before the cops did...
“One condition,” he said as he moved. “I’m driving.”