24

Isaac tried the phone first. He knew it wasn’t likely that the police could make it to his cabin before whatever was about to happen went down. Lincoln was a sparsely populated county, with only a few small towns. Sheriff’s deputies not concentrated in Libby, the county seat, were spread out. Myles lived closest, but even Myles’s house was a fifteen-minute drive, and fifteen minutes sounded like an eternity when Isaac had Claire to worry about. It wasn’t as if he could go one-on-one with whoever was out there. He had to keep her with him or risk losing her, and he wasn’t prepared to let that happen. Fearing she’d been killed yesterday when he’d searched for hours and hadn’t been able to find her was bad enough.

But calling for help wasn’t among his options. The person who’d shot out the light had already cut the phone line.

“Claire?” He didn’t speak loudly. The urgency in his voice would probably be enough to wake her—if the gunshot hadn’t done so.

“I’m here.” She stood in the doorway. “What’s going on? What was that noise?”

“A gunshot. Get down and stay down. We’ve got company.”

“Oh, God.”

That was his reaction, too. He’d never expected anything this bold. He’d brought her here believing that would keep her safe.

“Do you have any idea who it is?” she breathed.

“I can make a good guess.” She probably could, too.

“We should call Myles.” The floor creaked as she moved closer, presumably to do just that, but he stopped her.

“Stay down! Phone’s dead.” He was afraid they would be, too, if this didn’t go right.

Silence fell as they listened for more noises from outside.

Isaac couldn’t hear a thing, had no way of knowing what their visitor was doing.

“What’s next?” Claire whispered, beside him now.

His heart pounded against his rib cage as if he’d just run a forty-yard dash. “He can’t shoot us from where he’s at. He’s got to get inside.”

“Which way—” her voice shook but she paused, obviously attempting to control it “—do you think he’ll come in?”

Isaac opened his mouth to answer, but the floodlight in back popped on and he hurried to the window instead. He hoped to catch a glimpse of the culprit, get some idea of what he was up against—at least establish whether he was facing one man or two. If he had to place a bet, he’d say there was only one, and it was Les Weaver. But he couldn’t be sure.

No one stood in the clearing. The bastard was circling the cabin under cover of the trees, throwing pieces of wood or rocks to trip the sensors and make the lights switch on so he could shoot them out.

Within ten minutes, he’d destroyed all four.

 

Claire could feel the tension in Isaac’s body. He’d rearranged the furniture to create various barriers and had her sandwiched, with him, between the leather love seat and the couch. But she didn’t like waiting. She felt as if they were sitting ducks. With no help coming, they could be trapped for a long time.

“Maybe we should slip out into the forest. Make a run for it,” she whispered.

“Too dangerous.” His words, clipped and authoritative, brooked no argument, but she launched one, anyway.

“We know this area better than anyone else.”

“I couldn’t even make it safely from here to your mother’s studio running in the dark. It’s pitch-black out there. And we can’t take flashlights without drawing him right to us.”

He had a point, but it was so tantalizing to think of reaching the next cabin, where they could get help. “We might have more of a chance than in here.”

“It’d be a gamble. At least here we have some cover.”

“So what do we do?”

“I have a gun. We wait until I have something to shoot at.”

“But I don’t have a gun. Do you have a rifle?”

“No.”

“Should I get a knife?”

“And give someone the chance to turn it on you? Forget it. You’ll just have to rely on me.”

In about any other cabin on this mountain Claire was willing to bet she’d find a whole stash of guns. But unlike most men in this part of the state, Isaac didn’t care for that sort of thing. He owned expensive cameras and video equipment, which was probably the reason he’d bothered to install the floodlights—to protect the money he’d invested in his career, not to protect himself. Or her. If she had her guess he’d never expected he’d have to do either.

“You sorry we’re friends yet?” she muttered.

“You told me you loved me. That’s a bit more than friends.”

She could tell he was teasing, trying to put her at ease, but there wasn’t much that could relieve her fear with a gunman outside.

“You didn’t say anything in return,” she pointed out.

There was a slight pause during which he grew serious. “I care about you.”

He spoke as if that was a major confession but she had to laugh at his hesitancy. “Thanks. That almost made me cry.”

“You—” He stopped. Footsteps came across the wooden porch, moving toward the front door. “He’s coming.”

Claire squeezed her eyes shut—she couldn’t see anything, anyway, and she couldn’t do a whole lot without a weapon.

Isaac shifted. She sensed that he was turning toward the door, taking aim in case whoever it was managed to break in. But their assailant didn’t even try. The footsteps stopped. Then they heard the kind of pounding done with a hammer.

“What the hell?” Isaac murmured. “Stay here.” He got up and crept closer. Claire guessed he planned to get off a shot, if he could, but there was little chance that a bullet from a handgun would penetrate the solid-core door, as well as the outer screen, with enough force to injure the person on the other side. Not only that, but he’d already missed his opportunity. The footsteps had started up again, were moving away from them at a run.

“We could be in trouble,” Isaac said.

What they heard a couple of minutes later—more hammering, this time at the back door—seemed to confirm it.

“Son of a bitch!”

“What’s he doing?” Claire asked.

“He’s not trying to get in. He’s trying to make sure we can’t get out.”

“What?”

“Come here! Now!”

She scrambled toward him as he opened the front door. It swung in easily enough. The cool outside air gave her hope of escape and survival. Provided the man who’d shot out the lights was acting on his own, only the screen door stood between them and freedom, because they could hear their visitor was pounding elsewhere.

She hadn’t expected to have any trouble with the screen door. It wasn’t as substantial as the real one. But it wouldn’t swing out.

“He hammered it shut,” she said. It was too dark to see the exact problem, but she’d heard pounding and now the door wouldn’t open. Still, she thought they should be able to break through. Isaac must’ve thought so, too. He threw himself against the screen door several times—with no luck.

“Damn it! He must’ve used a couple two-by-fours. Come on, we have to get out, even if it means taking him on.” They made a dash for the only other exit. Suddenly it didn’t matter that they might come face-to-face with a gunman. He was no longer their worst fear. Claire was beginning to guess what their visitor had in store for them—she could tell Isaac had figured it out, too—and knew they had only a short time to escape.

They reached the back door as the pounding stopped.

No! They were already too late. That screen door wouldn’t open, either. And when their assailant took a shot at them while they were trying to bust it, Isaac pulled her to the floor and slammed the heavier door shut.

“A window?” she suggested.

“There’s no way we can both get through fast enough,” he replied. “He’ll hear the breaking glass and be there to shoot us as we tumble out.”

But they had to do something. She could already smell wood burning.

 

Isaac couldn’t believe how quickly smoke was filling the cabin. He’d always known fire would be a very bad thing; he owned an all-wood house. The forest was in danger, too, but at the moment the trees he loved seemed like a lesser concern.

“I’m going to get this bastard if it’s the last thing I do,” he yelled, but he wasn’t sure Claire even heard him. The flames crackled and popped, the noise far louder than he’d ever dreamed it could be, and she seemed entranced by the shifting light reflecting off the windows as the flames licked higher and higher.

Isaac smelled gasoline, knew it must’ve been poured all around the foundation for the fire to turn into such an all-consuming blaze almost instantly.

After shoving the gun in his waistband, he grabbed two towels, thrust them in the bathroom sink and soaked them both. Then he gave one to Claire to wrap around her head and did the same as he pulled her to the ground and began to guide her to his bedroom. For all he knew, the flames were as bad or worse in there, but they had to choose a window before they died of smoke inhalation, and his bedroom was closest to where he’d parked his truck. He didn’t have time to get his keys, but he kept a Hide-a-Key attached to the undercarriage. If they could get to that, they might survive…?.

Claire didn’t argue or try to resist. He’d told her they could be shot while coming out of a window, but she seemed perfectly willing to take her chances against a bullet if it meant avoiding death by fire, and he felt the same.

As they crawled through the smoke filling the house, he remembered thinking, when the first light had been shot out, that someone was trying to send them a message. Back off. Leave the past alone. The person who’d followed her to the cabin hadn’t meant her any harm, or she wouldn’t be alive today. Considering the destruction of her personal property, the person who’d ransacked her house—whether it was the same person or a different one—seemed more aggressive, but even then Isaac got the impression that he was more interested in recovering the files than anything else.

This, however, went well beyond a mere message. Whoever had set the fire wanted them dead.

Claire coughed as she hurried to keep up. His lungs burned, making it difficult to breathe, but he was fairly certain they’d have enough air to reach the window. Whether they could get out was the bigger question. If the arsonist was smart, he’d be out there, waiting…?.

But you couldn’t set a fire like that and assume it would go unnoticed, even in the mountains. From the outside, it had to look like an inferno. The speed with which the cabin had gone up had probably surprised even him.

Hopefully, fear of discovery had sent the son of a bitch running for his vehicle.

Picturing attorney Les Weaver losing his practiced calm as he barreled down the mountain, Isaac breathed too deeply and had to cough, but he urged Claire on. Either way, they were taking the chance that their assailant had left—because that was the only chance they had.

 

Claire’s skin felt as if it would melt off. The tremendous heat drove her back, made it all but impossible to continue advancing toward the flames. If Isaac wasn’t so damn insistent, wasn’t half dragging her, she would’ve faltered, doubted herself and searched for another way out, even though logic said this was their best bet. Considering how fast the cabin was turning to cinders, they’d probably have only one chance, and even that would depend on whether the surrounding trees had already caught fire. They couldn’t bear the heat or the smoke much longer…?.

Flames leaped as high as the window. She could see the flickering orange and gold through the glass, a wall of fire. Again, she wanted to find a safer exit, but Isaac yelled that the other walls were the same. They were hemmed in, surrounded, and the person who’d set this fire meant it to be that way. He’d left them no escape.

Claire wasn’t sure how Isaac planned to break the window. He yelled at her to keep her head down, as close to the floor as possible. Then he let go of her for the first time since they’d found the back screen hammered shut.

Panic slithered down her spine as he disappeared into the smoke. She’d felt a sense of purpose as long as he was with her, but now she had the terrifying thought that she might never see him again. She lifted her head to keep track of him, if she could, and paid for it with a lung-searing intake of smoke.

“Head down! Head down!”

There was the sound of breaking glass, then Isaac grabbed hold of her arm. Dimly, she wondered if he’d been cut. He didn’t act as though he’d been injured, but if his adrenaline was pumping like hers she doubted he would. As soon as he pulled her to her feet, he swung her into his arms and tossed her through the jagged hole he’d created in the window as if she was no heavier than a sack of potatoes.

She sailed toward the flames, thought she might land in the middle of them, but she didn’t. She hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud that rattled her teeth, even stunned her for a few seconds. She lay there, blinking as the cabin continued to burn, distantly marveling at the blinding brightness—until the cool air brought her to her senses and she realized Isaac hadn’t come out yet.

She sat up, waiting for him to leap through the window. He should’ve been right behind her…?.

But he wasn’t. She couldn’t see him anywhere.

The sharp pain she’d felt when she’d first tried to move seemed to disappear as fear for his well-being overcame everything else. Shaking her head to clear it, she got to her feet and staggered closer to the building. If she was pregnant, this couldn’t be good for the baby. The heat threatened to singe off her eyelashes and eyebrows, but she didn’t care. Where was he? Why hadn’t he made it out? Had he succumbed to smoke inhalation? Her lungs felt bloody and raw, and she wasn’t the one who’d been doing the real work.

Tears streamed down her face as she imagined him crumpled on the floor inside. Was he still alive? Even if he was, how would she get him to safety?

“Isaac!” If the man who’d set this fire heard her screaming, she was a dead woman. But that didn’t matter, either. All she cared about was seeing the man she loved.

The jagged rocks, pinecones and bristles that made the forest floor so unfriendly to bare feet cut into her soles as she ran to the right, then to the left, looking for some way to get back into the house. She was pretty sure their arsonist was gone. She didn’t see anyone. But she wasn’t looking into the forest; she was looking for Isaac. Her eyes remained fixed on the inferno in front of her as she tried to figure out how to rescue him.

She’d just grabbed the heavy rubber floor mat out of his truck and was beating back the flames at his bedroom window so she could climb through it when he jumped out, nearly tackling her as he landed.

“What the heck!” He coughed as he retrieved the computer tower he’d dropped. “What are you doing? Get in the truck!”

Bursting into a full-blown sob, she grabbed him. “I thought you weren’t coming out!”

He gave her a squeeze, then he shoved her into the passenger seat, dumped his equipment in the bed of the truck and ran around to get behind the wheel.

The fire was beginning to spread into the forest.

 

“It’s noon! Where’ve you been?”

It always frightened Jeremy when Hank glared up at him. Hank was small but he could talk and move very fast.

“I’ve been calling and calling your house,” his boss went on. “I almost took off my apron and drove over there.”

Jeremy couldn’t look Hank in the eye. He hated disappointing him, tried to make sure that never happened, but this morning…everything had taken longer than he’d planned. Blood was the ickiest liquid in the world. He’d cleaned and dug and buried, but those tasks weren’t even the worst of it. The worst of what had happened was the way Jeremy felt inside. Instead of being relieved that his father was gone, he felt…sick, lonely, lost. And knowing Claire might be dead, too, only made it worse. He wanted to ask if she’d been found, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it through the day if she hadn’t, so he kept his mouth shut. One thing at a time. Hank told him that whenever he got upset.

He pretended Hank had just said it now, but really he’d snapped his fingers. “Are you listening to me?”

Jeremy needed to respond, but he was having trouble forming sentences. They were all mixed up in his head. “Of course. I…I overslept, that’s all. I’m sorry.” With that, he tried to skirt past Hank, but Hank caught his arm.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago, Jeremy, and you’re never late. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He lowered his voice. “You didn’t get into another fight with your dad, did you?”

“Oh, no. He’s fine. He’s doing better. We didn’t fight.” Jeremy didn’t like lying to Hank any more than he liked disappointing him. Because it was suddenly even harder to look at him, he stared down at his hands—and, to his horror, saw blood beneath his nails and around his cuticles. He’d been so worried about the wall and the couch, he’d somehow missed what was on his own fingers.

Shoving his hands into his pockets so Hank wouldn’t see, he prayed that his boss would let him go. He had to visit the restroom and wash up, but Hank wasn’t done with him yet.

“Let me take a look at you.” He stared up into Jeremy’s face, studying it closely.

All Jeremy could think about was his hands until Hank, at last, stepped back, seemingly satisfied. “You’re a little pale but…I don’t see any bruises.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. Again, he almost asked about Claire but shied away. He didn’t want to hear “no,” didn’t want to accept what “no” would mean.

“If you’re really fine, I’m pissed off that you’re late. Start flipping burgers. We’re busy today.”

Wincing at the “pissed off” part, even though Hank hadn’t said it as if he was serious, Jeremy apologized again.

“Forget it. I can’t stay mad at you. That’d be like holding a grudge against my Saint Bernard.”

Jeremy stopped him. “What’d you say?”

“Nothing. Get going before you cost me business.”

“But I’m not Sigmund.”

Hank had already turned away. “What?”

“Your dog.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I said I’m not a dog.” The connection upset him. Why did this keep coming up?

“Of course you’re not. That’s not what I meant.”

Then what did he mean? And what had his father meant? “Do you know Lennie?”

Hank’s bushy eyebrows came together. “Who?”

“Lennie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me, neither,” he said.

“Whatever, Jeremy.” Smiling, he reached up to squeeze Jeremy’s shoulder. “Work, remember?”

First, Jeremy went into the restroom. He wanted to wash his hands, but froze when he saw the image of himself in the mirror. He looked exactly like his father; he was just a bigger version. Everyone said it, but he could see it now, too.

His father was gone, and there was blood on his hands.

Someone pounded on the door, startling him. “Hey, come on! I gotta get in there!”

It was Millie, the girl who worked the register. Jeremy had once begged Hank to let him try being up front, taking orders, and had made a mess of everything. He hadn’t asked since. He didn’t want to fail. When Hank wasn’t around, Millie teased him. Barely sixteen, she’d only started at Hank’s Burger Joint the first of June while Jeremy had been working there for years, but she thought she was so smart.

“You big dummy!” she’d mutter, and roll her eyes whenever he made a mistake.

“Jeremy? Is that you in there?”

Her voice brought him back to the present. “Who else could it be?” he replied. Only four people worked at the burger joint. Hank, his wife, Reva, who did the “books,” whatever that meant, and filled in when it got busy, him and Millie. If Hank and Reva were working, he had to be the one in the restroom, right? He felt like telling her she was a dummy, but that was mean, and he wasn’t mean like her.

“Coming!” He turned on the faucet so he could wash the blood away. But even with Millie right outside the door, he hunched over the sink and watched the water until it disappeared down the drain, taking the last of his father with it.

When he opened the door, Millie had her arms folded and was tapping her toe. “Took you long enough. What were you doin’ in there, anyway? Jackin’ off?”

“I would never do that at work.”

“You’re serious.” Her eyes widened and she barked a laugh, but Hank got her moving again.

“Millie! We need you out here.”

“Tell that to your friendly giant,” she grumbled. “I couldn’t get him out of the flippin’ bathroom.”

Afraid he’d upset Hank even more if he didn’t get where he was supposed to be, Jeremy took over for Reva, who stood at the grill. “Sorry I’m late,” he said.

She gave him a kind smile. She could get ornery with Millie. He got the impression she didn’t really like Millie. But she never snapped at him. “That’s okay, Jeremy. We were afraid you’d heard about the fire and were too upset to come in, that’s all. You had us worried.”

He blinked at her. “Fire? What fire?”

“Two fat boys, one skinny mama and a bucket of fries,” Hank called back.

Reva reclaimed the spatula she’d handed over and turned the burgers on the grill. She had ten half-pounders, or “fat boys,” already coming and three “skinny mamas.” “You haven’t heard?” she said. “Isaac Morgan’s house burned to the ground last night. It’s the saddest thing. The fire destroyed several acres of forest, too. The fire crews are still up there, trying to put it out.”

He’d been about to toast some buns but couldn’t even do that. “Fire? But…how’d it get started?”

She lowered her voice so he could hardly hear her above the sizzle of meat. “It was arson, honey. In the middle of the night someone hammered two-by-fours across both doors so no one could get out, poured gasoline around the foundation and tossed a match.”

But…Isaac could’ve died in there. “How do you know?”

Taking the buns from him, she dropped them face-down on one corner of the grill. “Isaac told the sheriff. But I bumped into Deputy Clegg at the coffee shop this morning. With all the activity in town, I could tell there was a ruckus going on, and he explained it.”

“So…was Isaac in the cabin?”

“He was. And Claire, too. But don’t worry, they both got out.” She winked at him. “I know you’re kind of sweet on her.” She motioned to the deep fryer. “Can you put down a fresh batch of fries? We’re getting low.”

He didn’t react to the request, couldn’t process so many things at once. “Wait—” he grabbed her arm “—did you say Claire’s okay?”

With a tolerant smile, she slid out of his grasp and put the fries down herself. “Yes, she had to go to the hospital to get checked out, but word has it they’re both fine.”

That meant his father hadn’t killed her as Jeremy had feared. So why was Don so upset when Jeremy asked about her yesterday? Was he afraid Claire knew something that would bring out the truth, after all this time? Was that why he shot himself?

That sounded right. But then…who set the fire? If it happened in the middle of the night, his father couldn’t have done it.

“Give me a mozzarella melt, another fat boy and some chicken fingers.” Apparently, Millie was back at the register. She called in the order, and Reva acted on it because Jeremy couldn’t.

“So where was she yesterday?” he asked.

“I hear she was with Joe Kenyon.”

“But…they don’t even like each other.”

She handed him the spatula. “I guess they’ve worked out their differences. Are you okay here? Because you’re not acting like yourself.”

“I’m okay,” he said. “I got it.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Great, because I’m going to turn it over to you now.”

He stared after her as she went into the small back room she used as an office. Claire wasn’t missing. She’d almost died in a fire, but she’d gotten out. That made him feel better. Last night had been terrible. Today wasn’t much of an improvement. But Claire was okay…?.

“Who set the fire?” he called after Reva.

“No one knows yet,” she called back.

But once Jeremy had a chance to think about it, he was pretty sure he could guess.