The Rivals (18 page)

Drew stood, holding his breath, and watched as a man with a red-beamed flashlight marched two persons, one tall, one short, ahead of him back toward the water.

“It's—” Brooke began.

Drew clamped a hand across Brooke's mouth again as he recognized her two brothers in the faint red glow. He strained to see who was holding the light, but to no avail. What he did see was the outline of a handgun.

“…right back into the water,” a male voice said.

Drew realized that whoever had caught the two boys was marching them right back to the river—to drown them. He tried to think of a way he could save them without putting Brooke at risk. The underbrush would make a lot of noise if he tried to intercept them. But what other choice did he have?

“Lie down,” he told Brooke. “I want you out of the line of fire if he starts shooting.”

“But—”

“Do it!”

As soon as she was down, he shouted, “Police! Drop your gun! We have you surrounded.”

As soon as he said it, he realized how much it sounded like a bad TV script, but to his amazement, it had the exact effect he'd hoped it would. The man with the flashlight turned toward the sound of his voice, and with the light off of them, he heard the two boys take off running.

Unfortunately, the light found him, and the instant the man realized Drew wasn't the police, and that the kids had taken off running, he made a growling sound and shot at Drew.

Drew had anticipated the shot, and the bullet that would have hit him in the heart only tugged at his sleeve as he dove to the ground. Drew wondered if the noise of the shot had carried to the police still in the house, or whether the wind had carried it away or the noise of the river had drowned it out.

An instant later the flashlight went out and Drew heard the sound of someone running back toward the houses on shore.

Drew wanted very badly to go after him, but Brooke grabbed at his ankle and cried, “Don't leave me!”

As he turned to help her up, he heard Nate calling, “Is that you, Brooke?”

“Yes, it's me!” she called back. “Are you and Ryan okay?”

Drew watched as the siblings fell into each other's arms, Ryan and Brooke crying, Nate trying very hard not to cry.

“We need to get the hell out of here,” Drew said. “Before that guy comes back with help.”

“We can't leave,” Nate said. “They'll move Dad if we do.”

“What?” Drew said.

“When Ryan and I came ashore, we saw a light in the brush ahead of us. We walked in that direction and that's when we saw them. They were digging up a body.”

“
They
were digging?” Drew said. “That guy
is
going for help. Let's—”

“How do you know it's Daddy they were digging up?” Brooke interrupted.

“I saw his shirt in the light. That blue-and-white-

and-green plaid one he was wearing the day he disappeared,” Nate said.

Brooke turned to Drew and said, “We can't leave, Drew. If that is our dad, we have to—”

“I'm sorry if that was your dad they were digging up, Brooke, but those guys mean business. We need to get out of here now, while we still can. They're not going to want witnesses.”

“We're not going,” she said, her teeth chattering from fear as much as the cold, Drew believed. She turned to Nate and said, “Do you think you could find your way back to…there?”

“Sure. Let's go.”

Drew watched as Sarah's children took off in the same direction the man with the gun had taken. They were holding hands to stay together in the dark, single-minded in the pursuit of their father's corpse.

“Sonofabitch,” Drew muttered as he hurried after them. He understood why Sarah's children were determined to go on. He just hoped like hell he could protect them from whatever danger lay ahead.

 

Sarah didn't know what woke her. Some premonition? Mother's intuition? She sat up with a start, knowing something was wrong. She eased open the drawer in the chest beside her bed where she kept her Glock and slowly chambered a round. Then she rose soundlessly from the bed and headed on tiptoe down the hall.

She had kept night-lights in plugs around the house since Ryan was a baby, so she could see without turning on an overhead light. There was also a surprising amount of moonlight.

She reached the boys' room first, eased the open door wide—and gasped when she saw the two empty beds.

She whirled and hurried down the hall to Brooke's room. She shoved open her stepdaughter's door to discover her bed not only empty, but unslept-in.

It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out where her children had gone. Both Nate and Brooke had overheard her discussion with Drew about the possibility of their father being buried on Bear Island. What she couldn't understand was why they would have taken Ryan with them. He was just a baby!

Sarah's heart leapt to her throat when she realized her children would probably attempt to reach the island from the river. Ryan had only learned to swim late last summer. Surely Nate and Brooke wouldn't put him in a boat without a life jacket!

And where were they going to find a boat to get them to the island? Sarah tried to think of anyone her children knew who might have a canoe or a fishing boat or a raft, but couldn't think of anyone who wasn't a seasonal resident.

Maybe they hadn't been daring enough to borrow—or steal—a boat. Then she thought of Nate's recent theft of antlers from the town square. He was certainly bold enough to do something as stupid as this.

Sarah felt her cheeks grow hot, as the blood rushed to her face. She was furiously angry with her children. And terrified by the possibility of what might happen to them alone on the river at night.

She'd slept in her long johns, and she hurried back to her bedroom to pull on jeans, a wool sweater and hiking boots. She debated whether to call on one or more of her fellow officers to help her find her children and then realized Nate would certainly end up in trouble with the juvenile authorities if he had indeed “borrowed” someone's boat without asking.

Nate had spent enough time with friends rafting down the Snake during the summer to be good on the water, and Brooke swam like a fish. But the water would be frigid. If they had an accident…

As Sarah gunned the engine on her Chevy Tahoe, she remembered that Drew had said he would be going to the island tonight. She pulled out her cell phone and called his home number. And got his answering machine.

“This is Sarah. If you're there, Drew, please pick up. My kids are missing. I think they've gone to Bear Island. If you get this message, call me.”

She didn't have Drew's cell phone number and she wasn't sure how she could get it. She hoped that the reason he hadn't answered his phone was that he had, in fact, gone to the island, and that if her kids showed up there, he would take good care of them and make sure they got home all right.

Which presumed her kids would run into Drew, and not someone bent on doing bad things.

Sarah glanced down the street to where the pickup had been parked earlier that night. It was gone. She swore under her breath as she headed straight to the house where the murder had occurred.

Police had “frozen” the scene, preserving it until the arrival of special agents from the Wyoming DCI in Cheyenne. Sarah drove up to the house and parked but didn't join the cluster of deputies outside. She took her heavy-duty lantern from the Tahoe, made sure her Glock was loaded and walked around the house toward the footbridge that led onto Bear Island.

The area of the island closest to the houses had been cleared as a picnic site, but Sarah walked past it and onto the part of the island that had been left as natural habitat. There were no paths here, and the footing was uneven and treacherous.

She cursed when she caught her foot on a root and fell onto her hands and knees. The lantern tumbled out of her hand and the light went out. She hadn't realized how the trees overhead would block out the moonlight. She groped around with her gloved hands in the area where she thought the lantern had gone when it flew out of her grasp, but all she felt was frozen marsh.

“Damn, damn, damn!” she muttered. She stood up and kicked the underbrush with her boot, but no luck. Sarah was debating whether to go back to her Tahoe for a flashlight when she heard an echo of sound running downwind. A gunshot?

Sarah froze. She looked around, wondering if the police at the house had heard the shot, but realized the wind had carried most of the sound in the opposite direction.

She pulled her portable radio from the pocket of her coat and said to the dispatcher, “Shots fired. Officer needs assistance. Bear Island—the actual island. Bring lights. It's dark as hell out here. And hurry!”

She wanted to run, but she didn't have enough light to see where to put her feet. She retrieved her Glock, made sure a round was chambered and began moving through the tangled growth as quickly as she could. Her eyes were intent, the eyes of a predator.

“I'm coming, my darlings. Just hang on until I get there.”

Drew caught up to Brooke and said, “Don't you think it would be better not to subject Ryan to the sight of his father's rotting body? Come to think of it, you and Nate ought not to be looking at it either.”

His intent was to shock her into a realization of what it was they were doing, but Brooke never broke stride.

“I've known Daddy was dead for a long time,” she replied. “He would have come home to us if he were alive.”

Drew was surprised by the certainty in her voice. “I still think—”

“I'd rather see him, and know that he's dead, than wonder forever what happened to him,” she said.

“Brooke's right,” Nate said. “This is something we have to do.”

“Why not let the police take care of this?” Drew suggested. “Your mother—”

“Mom doesn't care,” Brooke said. “She wouldn't even come here looking for Daddy.”

“She explained that,” Drew said, rising to Sarah's defense. “She needs probable cause to—”

“How about someone shooting at us?” Nate interrupted angrily. “You think that's probable cause something hinky is going on around here?”

“If these guys were digging up a body, it was only because they want to move it somewhere else,” Drew said. “They're going to be highly pissed off if you get in the way.”

“We already have,” Brooke pointed out. “We're still alive and they're gone.”

“That doesn't mean they won't come back,” Drew argued. “We should be running as fast as we can in the other direction.”

“We're not turning around,” Brooke said.

“Then at least be careful,” Drew warned.

“We're going to look before we leap,” Nate assured him.

“But we
are
going to look,” Brooke said.

“I'm cold,” Ryan said through chattering teeth.

Drew realized he was still wearing his dry overcoat, while all three kids were wet. So much for protective paternal instincts. He unzipped his parka and pulled it off.

“Hold up a minute,” he said. He stuffed Ryan's small arms into his coat and zipped it up.

“Thanks,” Ryan said. “This is warm.”

Drew quickly realized that the boy's hands were caught mid-elbow in the sleeves of the parka and that the hem nearly dragged the ground. Afraid the boy might trip, he scooped him up into his arms.

“Hey!” Ryan said. “I'm not a baby.”

“No, you're not,” Drew replied. “But your legs aren't as long as ours, and with danger lurking, we may need to move fast.”

“Danger?” Ryan said, his eyes wide.

Drew cursed inwardly. He hadn't meant to scare the boy, but obviously Ryan hadn't been paying attention to the conversation he'd been having with Brooke and Nate. “There's at least one man out there somewhere with a gun. If we have to run, I don't want you to get left behind.”

“Me, neither,” Ryan agreed. “Okay,” he said. “You can carry me.”

Drew tried to think of the last time he'd carried a child like this. He'd carted one of his female cousins across Bitter Creek at a Christmas get-together at the Blackthorne ranch when he was twelve. But that was a long time ago.

The boy's arms circled his neck and after another minute of slogging their way through the thick underbrush, Ryan laid his head on Drew's shoulder. Drew gradually became aware that he was holding dead weight and realized the little boy must have fallen asleep. He shifted Ryan's weight and tightened his hold to make sure the child would be safe in his arms.

“There it is,” Nate whispered at last, pointing toward a shallow grave that had been partially excavated. Moonlight shone in a clearing on the newly dug soil. “Dad's grave.”

“You can't know that without taking a closer look,” Drew said.

“I…I don't think I want to do that,” Nate admitted.

“I will,” Brooke said.

Drew handed Nate the sleeping boy and stepped in front of Brooke. “I'll do it.”

“How will you recognize Daddy?” Brooke said. “You've never met him.”

“I saw a picture of him and your mom on the piano in your living room,” Drew said. He'd been looking at a more youthful, happier Sarah, but he hadn't missed seeing Tom. “You've told me he was wearing a blue-and-white-and-green plaid shirt.” Which he needed to know, because there likely wasn't much of Tom Barndollar's face left to identify. “You guys wait here where you can't be seen. And be quiet.”

Drew moved toward the grave site as quietly as he could. He'd done enough hunting to know how to stalk prey, but he'd never been the object of the hunt. He felt his neck hairs hackle and stopped dead.

Someone was out there.

Drew was well aware that if anything happened to him, Sarah's kids would be sitting ducks. Imagining Sarah's devastation if anything happened to one of her children made his stomach churn. There was no room here for error. Precious lives were at stake. He remained motionless, straining to see movement in the dark.

The grave site appeared to be abandoned.

Drew didn't want to look at a decomposed body, but he'd promised Sarah's kids he would determine whether or not their father was buried in the disturbed dirt. He moved forward cautiously, his eyes and ears alert for any sign that the man who'd shot at him had returned.

He heard nothing.

Drew let his gaze roam the area for a long time before he moved out of the concealing underbrush toward the mound of dirt and debris and the shovel that lay beside it. He knelt and saw the bones of a human hand. It was a grave all right. He released a soughing breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

“Stay where you are,” a voice commanded.

Drew felt every muscle in his body tense.

“Stand up, but don't turn around,” the voice ordered. “I have a gun aimed at your back, so don't try to run.”

Drew knew he was a dead man if he didn't run, so running made a whole lot more sense than staying where he was. What he needed was something to distract the man with the gun, to give him a fighting chance to escape.

Then he spied the shovel.

The shovel was pointed, but more importantly, it had a long wooden handle. If he could reach it, he could swing it to some effect. He might injure or disarm, and would certainly distract the man with the gun, so he could make a run for it.

“Hey, mister!” he heard Nate shout from the bushes.

Drew cursed the kid for exposing himself and at the same time rose and whirled with the shovel in his hands, swinging it in a death-dealing arc.

Unfortunately, the man with the gun was too far away for the shovel to make contact. When Drew let go and the shovel took off, the gunman merely jerked aside, and the shovel flew by without even scratching him.

He stood there, gun in hand, moonlight reflecting off teeth that were bared in a horrific grin. “Game's up,” he said.

“You're right about that,” a female voice said from behind him. “Don't move. You're—”

Drew dove for the bushes as the gunman pivoted and fired at the voice behind him. Drew heard the explosion of a second shot in almost the same instant. When he looked back, the gunman lay crumpled on the ground.

And Sarah stepped into the moonlight.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded. “And where the hell are my kids?”

“Mom!” Nate shouted as he crashed through the undergrowth toward her, Ryan awake and wailing against his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” Brooke cried, rushing toward her mother.

Drew saw the shock and relief on Sarah's face as she enfolded her children in her arms, like a mother hen gathering chicks.

Only this hen was still holding a smoking Glock.

He rose and checked the pulse of the man Sarah had shot.

“How is he?” she asked as Nate transferred Ryan into her arms.

“Dead,” Drew replied. He was amazed at how calm she seemed, how unperturbed that she'd just killed a man. Then she tipped her head up and he got a better look at her eyes in the moonlight. Stark. Agonized. And he saw how her jaw was clamped. She wasn't as unaffected as she wanted him to believe.

He rose and slid an arm around her and felt her slump against him. He hadn't been wrong then. She needed a strong shoulder to lean on. His shoulder.

For a few moments, they all simply huddled together, gathering warmth and comfort. Then Sarah lifted her head and asked, “Why was he pointing a gun at you?”

He met Sarah's gaze over her children's heads. “He was digging up a body.” He glanced down significantly at the half-covered plaid shirt revealed in the moonlight. “And we caught him at it.”

In the distance Drew heard shouts and saw bobbing lights in the crackling underbrush. “Sounds like the cavalry has arrived.”

“I called for help. I'll need to stay here to answer questions. Can you take the kids—“

“Mom, we found Daddy,” Brooke said in a choked voice.

Drew watched as tears welled in Sarah's eyes. She threaded the fingers of her free hand through Brooke's tangled hair and pulled her stepdaughter close enough to kiss her brow. “I know, baby. I know.”

“That sonofabitch killed him.” Nate turned and kicked the dead body and then burst into unmanly tears. Drew pulled the boy to him and Nate clutched him tight, muffling his sobs against Drew's shoulder.

Sarah met Drew's gaze and said, “Can you get the kids checked out at the hospital?”

“Mom, we're fine,” Brooke protested. “Just cold.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “Freezing cold! That's what I'm worried about.”

“Cripes, it's gotta be forty-five degrees out here,” Nate said. “That's not freezing.”

“All we need is a warm bath,” Brooke argued.

“I can see you're both shivering,” Sarah said.

“I'll be fine when I get out of these wet clothes,” Nate said. “I'm not going to the hospital. And that's final.”

Drew's throat was tight as he watched Sarah draw her children close and kiss each one. He swallowed hard and said, “I'll take them home, if you want.”

Then he remembered how he'd arrived on Bear Island. “As long as someone can give us a ride.”

He saw the moment Sarah realized she was still holding her gun. She stuffed it into her holster, dug into her coat pocket and handed him a set of keys. “Take my Tahoe.”

“But, Mom, no one's allowed—”

“This is an emergency, Nate,” Sarah said, cutting him off. “I'll be home as soon as I can get there. I need to stay here a while and explain…” Sarah's voice trailed off and Drew heard her swallow hard.

He stepped closer and said for her ears only, “Are you all right?”

“I'm a little shaken,” she admitted. “I've never shot anyone before.”

He could feel her hands trembling as she transferred Ryan into his arms. He slid an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close enough to give her the comforting kiss on the forehead she'd conferred on each of her children. “Don't worry about the kids. I'll make sure they get warmed up and into bed.”

Sarah looked up at him, her eyes shining in the moonlight, and said, “Thank you, Drew.”

He felt his heart swell. “You're welcome, Sarah.”

Then, as though he'd done it all his life, Drew turned to the two older children and said, “Let's go, kids. We've got a little hike ahead of us. When we get home, I want you all to take a hot shower and get right into bed.”

He looked down when Brooke grabbed his crooked arm, but she was staring straight ahead, ignoring him. Nate strode along beside him, excited, now that it was all over, and rhapsodizing about how his mother had gotten the draw on the bad guy. Ryan wrapped his arms around Drew's neck, laid his head on Drew's shoulder and fell soundly asleep.

 

Unable to sleep, Libby had turned on the TV a little after two in the morning, staring transfixed as she heard the news of Clay's arrest on CNN. She made a phone call to the captain of the Teton County Jail, who was a friend, asking him if she could talk to Clay Blackthorne, since the girl he'd supposedly murdered had also been a missing person, like her daughter Kate. When he said yes, she threw on some clothes and raced into town.

Libby didn't need the heater in her Outback. Her body felt hot, flushed with anger. The man she'd considered making love to had ended up in bed with another woman the same evening. And the woman—only a girl, really—had ended up dead.

Libby couldn't believe Clay was guilty, but what was he doing in bed with some woman when he was supposed to be focused on helping her hunt for their daughter? And why hadn't he called to let her know what had happened?

She gnawed her cheek. Reporters, print and television alike, were surely swarming the Teton County Jail by now, hoping for some juicy tidbit to feed the ravenous public. Once they started looking into Clay's background, asking the locals questions, digging for dirt, they might connect Clay to Kate, might even find pictures of the two of them together.

Libby shuddered to think of what kind of media frenzy it would create if they discovered a young woman who'd visited Clay whenever he was in Jackson Hole had disappeared within the past forty-eight hours. That much attention focused on Kate could get her killed.

On the way into town, she heard Kate's name being spoken on the radio. She turned up the volume and heard the female reporter say that Kate was the third local girl to be reported missing over the past fifteen months. She explained how a Nevada runaway was found dead several months ago in the nearby mountains. How the first local working girl reported missing was still missing. And how a second missing local girl, Lourdes Ramirez, had now turned up murdered. And finally, speculated about what Kate's fate might be.

“Oh, God.” The words slipped out. A prayer. A plea. Libby had tried very hard to believe Kate would come home safe and sound. Every hour her daughter was gone with no word, Libby had sunk deeper into a well of terror.