Always Look Twice (15 page)

He’d cleaned and bandaged the wound, then done something totally unprofessional and totally out of character for him. He had leaned over and kissed it better.

Caught up in the memory, he bent his head to repeat the action. Annabelle swayed, closed her eyes, and shuddered. ‘‘Don’t, Mark. Please.’’

Her voice broke the spell. He let go of her arm and stepped away. Clearing his throat, he said, ‘‘I’ll go look for a bandage. He’s bound to have some in his bathroom.’’

‘‘Thanks.’’

Mark exited the kitchen and headed straight for the stairs, avoiding the great room, where his friend’s body lay, and using the time to wrestle his thoughts back under control. Being with Annabelle was playing havoc with his head. He needed to focus on matters at hand—like how they’d get off this damned mountain with their car out of commission.

He found a tube of antibiotic cream, a bottle of aspirin, and a box of Band-Aids in Stanhope’s bathroom medicine cabinet. Returning to the kitchen, he impersonally treated the gash and never once took a look at her breasts.

Okay, maybe he sneaked one quick look, but she didn’t catch him at it.

He turned away as she slipped her injured arm back into her blouse, and scanned the kitchen for a key rack. ‘‘Stanhope has a truck in his garage. You want to help me look for the keys?’’

‘‘Sure.’’ Her manner was crisp and businesslike, and the sexual tension that had hummed between them seeped away.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

She located keys in the mudroom, and they entered the garage. Mark eyed the ceiling and spied the automatic door opener. Good. That made this just a little easier. They’d been inside for less than five minutes and he did believe the shooter had decamped, but he’d rather be ready to roll the minute the door lifted just in case.

They climbed into their seats; then he asked, ‘‘You ready?’’

‘‘Yes. Definitely. I’ve had all this place I care for.’’

‘‘Me, too.’’ He motioned toward the garage-door remote hanging on the visor. ‘‘When I say go, hit that button.’’

He turned the key, and the motor . . . clicked. He tried again. Nothing. Gritting his teeth, he yanked the hood release and climbed out of the car. When he opened the hood, he let out a string of curses. The hoses and exposed wires had all been cut.

Annabelle walked up beside him. ‘‘This truck isn’t going anywhere, is it?’’

‘‘Not anytime soon.’’

‘‘Lovely. Just wonderful.’’ She blew out a heavy breath, then glanced back toward the door that led into the cabin. ‘‘Callahan, I’m not spending the night here. Not with two dead bodies.’’

‘‘Won’t have to. We have a spare and so does Rocky.’’

Twenty minutes later as Mark tightened the lug nuts on the second wheel, Annabelle said, ‘‘Uh . . . Callahan? Something’s dripping. Look.’’

He rolled back on his heels and looked toward where she pointed. His stomach sank. ‘‘Brake fluid. Bullet must have nicked the line.’’

‘‘We can’t drive down this mountain without brakes,’’ Annabelle said, stating the obvious. ‘‘Can you fix it?’’

Mark stared at the plate-sized puddle on the ground and considered the hairpin turns that awaited them. ‘‘I could jury-rig something, but I don’t know that I’m willing to trust our lives to it. We’re better off hiking down the mountain.’’

Annabelle pursed her lips. ‘‘We won’t make it before dark. We’ll have to camp.’’

‘‘Rocky is sure to have equipment we can use.’’

‘‘All right, then. Let’s do it. Honestly, after the past few days, a walk in the woods sounds like heaven.’’

Heaven? Mark smothered a snort. Obviously, the woman hadn’t thought it through. They wouldn’t make it down the mountain before dark. They’d have to camp overnight. Just the two of them, all alone, beneath a starry sky. He and his ex-wife. Emphasis on the
ex.

It would be a long, lonely night.

Sounded like hell to him.

Chapter Seven

Two hours into the hike, Annabelle paused and rearranged the pack on her back. It was a man-sized rig and didn’t fit her properly, so the weight kept shifting. She rolled her shoulders, then murmured, ‘‘At least it’s mostly downhill.’’

‘‘And we don’t appear to have a gunman on our asses,’’ Mark responded.

Thank God for that. She’d had all the gunfire she wanted for today, thank you very much. And while she wished she had a pack that fit, her comment was more whine than complaint. A blue sky stretched above them, the temperature hovered in the fifties, and Mark had found insect repellent with the camping supplies, so she didn’t have to worry about chiggers. Her bullet wound stung slightly, but didn’t really bother her. All in all, she considered herself a lucky woman.

Shortly after leaving the cabin, Mark had found the spot where the shooter had parked her car. Footprints in the dirt pegged her as a woman and 9mm shell casings suggested they had indeed found their assailant. Confirming that the shooter had left the immediatearea had taken a huge weight off Annabelle’s shoulders.

The exercise and clean mountain air had proved to be just what she’d needed to shake off the tension that lingered following the day’s events. The farther they traveled from Rocky’s cabin, the lighter her mood grew.

Annabelle was an outdoor girl at heart. She still liked hiking and fishing and cooking over a campfire. Between their own suitcases in the SUV and the supplies they’d found in Rocky’s cabin, they had managed to equip themselves quite well for the hike back to civilization. The idea of spending the night in the woods sleeping in a tent didn’t bother her in the least.

Well, except for the fact that they had only one tent.

One small tent.

That’s okay,
she told herself, trying to think positively as she stopped to observe a pair of squirrels scampering from tree to tree. After all, the side of a mountain wasn’t a hotel. Hotels were what got her and Mark in trouble. They needed a bed to be bad. Or at least a wall. A shower. A bathtub. A floor. A beach. She’d never forget that night on the private beach in New Zealand.

They wouldn’t be sleeping on a white sand beach tonight. They would be sleeping on dirt. Moist, rich, fertile soil.

Fertile. Annabelle frowned and scowled at Mark Callahan’s back. All of a sudden she didn’t feel so chipper.

They continued their march down the mountain, mostly following the road, but taking a wilder route upon occasion as they headed toward what they both recalled as being the closest sign of life—a ranch house positioned a little more than halfway between Telluride and Rocky’s cabin.

Every fifteen minutes or so, Mark dragged his cell phone from his pocket and looked for a signal. Annabelleknew he was wasting his time. She also knew better than to point that out.

The man was acting strange. Jittery. Antsy. Similar behavior in another man would earn the term ‘‘nervous.’’ Mark Callahan didn’t get nervous, so what was up with him? Did he know something she didn’t? Was he hiding something important from her?

Or was he suffering from the same malady as she? Was he thinking about the coming night? Remembering all the nights gone by?

Was Mark Callahan being led down the hill by the divining rod in his pants? Or, to use one of his terms, the Top Gun? The Heavy Artillery? The Seven-Star General?

‘‘Why is it that men feel compelled to name their penises?’’ she muttered.

A short distance in front of her, Mark tripped over a rock. ‘‘What did you say?’’

‘‘It’s just stupid. It’s childish.’’ And it had nothing to do with that old joke about men wanting to be on a first-name basis with the brain that made most of their decisions.

‘‘Do you need to stop, Annabelle?’’ He watched her warily.

‘‘I’m fine.’’

‘‘Are you drinking your water?’’

‘‘I’m
fine.
’’

He scowled at her, but kept on walking.

Annabelle followed along behind him, trying to regain her pleasure in the day. Curse him for being antsy. Curse him for making her think about his penis. Curse him for making her think about how lonely she’d been since that day in New York.

She frowned at his back, then got distracted by his buns. The man did wonders to a pair of jeans.

Luckily, Mark paused in the trek long enough to make an observation that jerked her mind back where it belonged. ‘‘You know, Annabelle, I’ve been thinking. Rocky and the woman were killed with a forty-five. The shots fired at us were nine-millimeter. What if we’re dealing with two different shooters here?’’

‘‘You don’t think the woman from the gallery killed Rocky?’’

‘‘I don’t know. I’m just thinking aloud. If Radovanovic—’’

‘‘Stop!’’ She wanted to scream, but instead she put her hands on her hips and declared, ‘‘You are trying to fit a square Croat into a round hole. Quit trying to force Boris Radovanovic into these crimes.’’

‘‘Okay, forget Rad. I’m just wondering, why use such a different methodology for these murders than with Russo and the others?’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘Someone went to a lot of effort to make Russo’s death look like an accident. Anderson’s ‘suicide’ and Hart’s climbing accident—those were subtle take-downs.’’

‘‘Nothing subtle about what we found at Rocky’s cabin.’’

‘‘Exactly. This shooter committed out-and-out murder and included a nonteam member to boot. It would have been fairly easy to make Stanhope’s death look like murder-suicide or a lovers’ triangle gone bad, but this killer didn’t even try. It’s different from the others. Why?’’

‘‘Because the killer knows we’ve made the connection to the team, so now he’s in a hurry.’’ Annabelle stepped carefully over a fallen log. ‘‘Or maybe Stanhope’s killing isn’t connected to the others.’’

‘‘No, they’re connected. Otherwise, why the interview at the gallery? Look. I believe the team is being targeted by either someone with a grudge or someone who thinks we know something they don’t want us to know.’’

Annabelle had reached that conclusion, too. ‘‘I agree.’’

‘‘But what if it’s both?’’

‘‘Two killers?’’ She gave a pinecone lying on the forest floor a kick. ‘‘That’s a stretch, Callahan. Kinda like Rad being one of the players here.’’

Mark shifted his backpack to redistribute the weight, then continued. ‘‘I know it’s a stretch. This theory might be all wet, but as we look into the other deaths and disappearances, I think we should keep it in the back of our minds. If we have one killer and the killer is the woman from the gallery, then why all the questions?’’

‘‘Maybe she asked the others questions before she killed them, too. She certainly intended to kill us at the cabin. Nothing subtle about that. It fits the ‘someone who thinks we know something’ scenario.’’

‘‘Yeah. But that business inside the cabin . . . sure had the feel of a grudge killing to me.’’ Mark took a sip of water from his canteen, then silently offered her a sip. While she drank, he mused. ‘‘We need an ID on Gallery Gal. At least we have somewhere to start now.’’

‘‘This whole thing makes my head hurt, Callahan.’’ She shoved her fingers through her hair, pushing it away from her face as weariness washed over her. Too much had happened over the past few days. Too much uncertainty still existed. While it generally wasn’t in her nature, this time she wouldn’t mind making like an ostrich and burying her head in the sand. ‘‘Maybe we should just stay up here on this mountain. It’s nice. It’s peaceful. The wildlife doesn’t carry guns.’’

‘‘Obviously you don’t watch
The Hillbilly Bears
on the cartoon channel,’’ Mark said with a snort. He glanced up at the western horizon, then added, ‘‘Speaking of bears, we’d best see about picking out a campsite. It’ll be dark before we know it.’’

Annabelle turned her head and listened hard. ‘‘I hear running water. You want to head that way?’’

A few minutes later, they found a burbling mountain stream, which they followed downhill until they discovered the perfect spot for a campsite. The flat, packed-dirt area was about the size of a small bedroom and shielded by a rock wall on two sides; the forest bounded the third, and the stream the fourth. Mark pitched the tent while Annabelle gathered wood for a campfire. Once she had it burning brightly, crackling and popping and throwing off cedar-scented smoke, she fished in her backpack for the freeze-dried meal pouches she’d taken from Rocky’s pantry.

‘‘Do you want beef stew or chicken teriyaki?’’ she asked, though she knew him well enough to know he’d choose the beef.

‘‘The stew sounds good. Maybe if I get lucky, we can have trout for breakfast.’’

She glanced over to see him standing beside the creek, a collapsible fishing pole extended and baited with a fly, his expression alight with anticipation. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She’d seen this man fish in spots all over the world. Tag Harrington used to say that Mark would fish in a dog’s water bowl if given the chance. ‘‘Sounds good.’’

She sat on a rock and watched him work the fly line while she ate her chicken and rice. The man moved beautifully, his motions practiced and precise and . . . sensual. Lulled into relaxation by the music of a burbling mountain stream, the pleasing scent of burning wood, the fatigue of well-used muscles, and the comfort of a full stomach, Annabelle lowered her defenses and lost herself in the moment.

She allowed herself to feel.

Desire flowed through her, warm and thick and real. In a moment of brutal honesty, she admitted that she wanted him. She’d never stopped wanting him. Mark Callahan was a fever in her blood that neither distance nor divorce had doused.

She’d tried. Lord knew she’d tried. Up until now, she’d thought she’d made real strides toward putting him behind her. Apparently, she’d been lying to herself.