Deadfall (19 page)

“Sit down, Moule. I want you on the floor and away from the wall.”

He complied resentfully and sat awkwardly while Jensen read him his rights, and, still carefully guarding his prisoner, turned to the next steps in the arrest.

“Will you go call for some backup and the investigation team, Cas? I want them to take this room apart—and whatever vehicle he’s driving. And bring me a large evidence bag for these boots, okay? We’ll take them on over to John.

“I think your arrogance has finally caught up with you, Moule. The weapons alone are parole violation enough to put you back inside. That and some new charges should keep you there for a long, long time. And you must know there are a lot of people who won’t be the least bit sorry—starting with me.”

“New charges? What new charges? You got nothin’ on me.”

“Don’t count on it. We’ll talk when we get you to Cook Inlet Pretrial.”

J.B.’s father, who had remained in the living room, was visibly shaken as he watched his son—still tossing curses in his direction—removed to the back of the patrol car that had quickly appeared. But he said nothing, and Jensen thought that, along with the distress in the man’s eyes as he silently watched the arrest take place, he detected a shred of relief.

A
t six o’clock Monday morning, Jessie awakened to a world gone berserk.

Fastening aside the blankets that covered the front windows, she looked out into nature’s chaos. The storm had increased to major proportions, battering the island with rain that pounded from heavy, dark clouds, barely visible through roiling mist and wind-driven salt spray. Huge waves assaulted the beach, crashing upon rock and driftwood, hurling foam into the air. Though it had turned and was on the ebb, the tide was high enough to make her appreciate two enormous logs, half sunk into the sand between the beach and the house, that deflected most of the waves and prevented them from washing closer. Everything outdoors was so wet it was impossible to tell which was seawater and which was rain.

She made a dash to the outhouse and came back streaming water that had blown through every possible opening in the slicker she had worn. Changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, she
hung her partially soaked sweats by the new fire and grinned ruefully at Tank, who had also been out and now lay steaming, as close to the heat as be could comfortably tolerate.

“Not much reason to wash my face this morning, is there, guy? Couldn’t get much wetter.”

Nevertheless, she heated water and luxuriated in its warmth, while coffee brewed. Whatever was happening with the weather, it felt good to be clean.

A gust of wind, heavy with ocean spray, hit and drenched the front windows with a crash, startling her and making her wonder momentarily if they would hold or shatter. Then she remembered that they had endured for many years, and was awed at the resilience of glass.

The beach house had never been intended as solid shelter against inclement weather. Constructed primarily of uninsulated planks, it was rife with tiny cracks that allowed heat to be snatched away. The most comfortable spot to be found was next to the woodstove in the fire pit, where she could hear the wind howl resentfully down the chimney pipe, a giant bellows encouraging the flames. Settling by it, with a sweater around her shoulders and a mug of coffee between her hands, she watched the turmoil and commotion of the gale that swept around her drafty refuge.

Intensely powerful, almost menacing, the results of the storm were also extremely beautiful, especially the waters of the cove. Each deep wave that threw itself furiously upon the beach inspired a low rumble that was more vibration than sound as the stones, large and small, growled and shifted under the water’s weight. From each incoming crest, spray was whipped by the wind into spume that flew out horizontally like smoke. Jessie could understand why this extreme churning reminded others of galloping horses with manes streaming in the current of their forceful passing, the thunder of their hooves in the pounding of the breakers. But to her, the wild surf seemed more closely related to the swift running of raven
ous gray wolves through an Arctic blizzard of fiercely flying snow.

The rhythm of the sea was fascinating and strangely hypnotic. Jessie watched for over an hour, refilling her coffee and making toast, replacing the sweater with a wool shirt that she pulled on over her sweatshirt when she grew cool. She added more wood to the fire periodically, but always returned to her observation.

At eight, she tried to call Alex and swore when the fury of the storm resulted in nothing but static on the line. Assuming he would check and realize that the absence of a call was the fault of the weather in the bay, she was not terribly concerned, but would have felt more satisfied had she been able to reach him. She wanted to relate her encounter with Rudy the night before and assure him that she had successfully solved the mystery of the island’s intruder, let him know that the older man was no threat.

At nine, she went out again twice into the driving rain: once to refill a two-gallon water container from the stream near the back door, and a second time to retrieve eggs and sausage from the cooler behind the house. She returned only damp around the edges, having donned waterproof pants, slicker, boots, and a sou’wester hat in anticipation. These, however, dripped pools onto the floor by the door when she hung them up to dry. She took the food to the counter by the propane stove, where she grated potatoes for browning, cut fat slices from another of the loaves she had baked the week before, made a second pot of coffee, and set out a skillet ready for use when Rudy appeared.

But Rudy did not appear. By ten o’clock, she was growing concerned. By eleven, convinced something was wrong, she considered the options and decided on a trip across the meadow that had once been a lagoon, to see if the weather had somehow caused the A-frame to collapse, trapping him in the rubble.

As Jessie got back into her rain gear and rubber boots,
Tank remained unmoving in his place beside the warm stove, giving her a look that told her he was not excited by the idea of another trip outdoors.

“Come on,” she told him with a grin, checking that her Smith and Wesson .44 was on her hip, and slipping the box of ammunition into her pocket. She debated, then decided not to carry along the cell phone, since it was impossible to use at the moment and would undoubtedly remain so until the storm abated. Leaning the shotgun against the bench near the stove, she leaned over to give the husky a pat or two of encouragement.

“Come on, guy. You won’t melt. We’ve had lots worse, and colder, on the Iditarod.”

Reluctantly, he got to his feet, stretched, and started to pad slowly across the room. Halfway to the door, he stopped suddenly, listening intently to something she couldn’t hear.

Oh, good, she thought, it’s Rudy…finally.

As she reached to unbar the rebar slides she had installed, the husky stopped her with a growl that reverberated deep in his chest, rising until the warning of it tensed his muzzle, exposed his teeth, and raised his hackles, along with her anxiety. Bracing his feet, he lowered his head and stared past her at the wooden door, as if he could see through it and what he saw on the other side aroused animosity.

“What the hell…?”

A pounding rattled the door on its hinges, leaving her no time to think.

“Who is it? Rudy? Is that you?”

A moment of silence. Then his voice.

“Yes…it’s me, Jessie. But don’t—”

An odd sort of thud interrupted what he had been about to say.

He’s hurt, Jessie thought. That damn A-frame’s tumbled down, or he’s fallen and hurt himself somehow.

Tank still growled menacingly.

“Stop it, Tank. It’s Rudy. Be quiet.”

She worked the slides, one of which hung up for a second or two before it slipped from the hole she had drilled in the frame. Pressing the latch, she pushed the door to let Rudy come in, and gasped as it was snatched away from her and swung wide.

In the opening Rudy stood, white-faced, wearing the slicker she had loaned him, a smear of blood on one side of his face, injured and, from his expression, frightened and sorry as well. It was obvious that he had been given no choice in persuading her to open the door and the blood told her he’d been hit. Behind him, holding a long, sharp knife in a fist that rested on Rudy’s shoulder near his throat was another man—a stranger that Jessie knew, as surely as if he had introduced himself, was her stalker.

She was suddenly cold all over and aware that her heart was thudding like a hammer in her chest as fear made her instinctively step away from the door. How the hell had he found her? How could he have known? Who was he? Oh, God—what did he want? What would he do now?

He was of average height, but taller and larger than Rudy’s small frame. She could not see his face, for he wore a dark green ski mask that revealed only his eyes. But it was the eyes that caught and held Jessie’s attention—sharp, intelligent, resentful eyes of no particular color—gray-brown-greenish. Full of anger, determination, and something else she couldn’t quite identify…hesitation? They narrowed at the sight of her, but a flicker of satisfaction gleamed in them briefly.

“Hello, Jessie,” he said in a mild mid-range voice, with no accent, no specific inflection, almost a monotone. “Yes, I think we’ll come in, thank you. Take care of the dog, or I will—and you already know I have no love for dogs.”

He nodded as Tank snarled and rumbled hostility. The dog stood his ground, but was confused by the sight of Rudy. Backing farther into the room, Jessie caught his collar in one hand and admonished him to silence with a single sharp word, never taking her eyes from the men. They stepped into the
house and the man in the mask pulled the door shut behind them.

Once inside, he shoved Rudy forward into the kitchen space and out of his way. Jessie considered the .44 under her coat, but, reaching into a pocket, he took out a handgun as he unzipped the green rain slicker he wore and lifted a black sweatshirt, sliding the knife into a sheath that hung on the belt to a pair of loose fitting jeans.

Rudy turned to face him and backed up against the stove.

“I’m sorry, Jessie. I—”

“Shut it, old man.” The flat tone was cold, but Jessie thought it also contained a hint of nervousness. “I don’t need you now that I’m in, so you’ll be better off if you keep quiet, right?”

Rudy fell silent, staring miserably at the floor, after a glance of apology at Jessie.

Sou’wester in one hand, Tank’s collar in the other, she, too, froze, waiting to see what would come next.

It was very quiet, except for the howl of the wind around the house and the crashing of the stormy surf on the beach. The man in the mask stood without moving or speaking, watching her thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said in a minute or two, “no questions. You seem to know who I am.”

Then she was angry as well as afraid, but very cautious. Who was this arrogant bastard? There was nothing about him that she recognized, though she could see little.

“You’re the shit who’s been harassing me,” she spat out. “You hurt my dog and wrecked my truck, almost killed us. What do you want? What did I ever do to you?”

Behind the dark green mask, he made a strange, half-choking, half-chuckling sound.

“Easy, Jessie. There’s no hurry—no hurry at all. We’re going to spend quite a lot of time together, you and I. Maybe I’ll even keep the old man around, if he behaves—and if you do. There’s nothing else you need to know at this point.”

She ventured a glance at Rudy and saw that he was looking at her with eyes that had lost their humility and were full of something else. He blinked rapidly and very slightly twitched his head toward the back of the house.

Quickly she returned her gaze to the masked man.

What was Rudy trying to tell her?

The stalker reached once more into his slicker pocket and took out a roll of duct tape.

“Just so we can all relax and stop watching each other so carefully, I think you should sit down. Now—where?”

As he looked over the furniture in the room, assessing each chair and bench, Jessie glanced again at Rudy.

In a flash, she knew what he was going to do, for as the stalker looked away, Rudy had reached to the stove behind him and taken firm hold of the coffee pot that was still on a low flame.

Oh, Rudy, no…it’s too big a risk, she thought, and almost spoke, but bit back the words and kept silent, afraid the gun would be turned on her friend.

“I think that one will do nicely.”

Having settled on the captain’s chair near the front windows, the man in the mask began to turn back.

“Now, Jessie, I want you to—”

Rudy hurled the pot directly into the masked face, hitting the man’s forehead with a thump, splashing hot liquid into his eyes and soaking the mask and coat front.

“Run, Jessie. Go. Go.”

His thin shout combined with a howl of pain from the stalker.

She spun and sprinted toward the back of the house, snatched at the shotgun as she passed it, but missed and knocked it to the floor, where she was forced to leave it. She could hear Tank scrambling beside her and the sound of Rudy’s following steps—through the curtain into the storage room, past the bunks, to the rear door. Fearful of not having time to unbar it, she was both relieved and chagrined to find
she had neglected to refasten it after carrying in the water from the stream. Well, somebody loves me, she thought as she took advantage of her error. Throwing the door open, she leaped through it into the storm, trying to decide in an instant which direction to flee.

There was really no choice. At high tide, the storm made the beach an impossibility, and she could not go east around the house on either side without being seen and caught if the stalker came out the other door, so she ran up the hill toward the shed that housed the library and shop. A crash from behind made her risk a quick look back.

Rudy was struggling to get up from where he had fallen on the step at the back door of the beach house. He saw her hesitate.

“Don’t stop,” he called. “Run. I’m okay.”

He wasn’t, and Jessie knew it—had seen him testing a knee that must have slammed painfully into the ground. But he was right—what good would it do if they both were caught? She was already ten yards away and aware that the stalker would follow almost immediately. What if he shot Rudy? But, she knew, there wasn’t time for anything but escape, if she could manage it. Reasoning out a plan of action would come later.

She chose—and ran on up the hill, past the back of the shed, and into the trees and brush beyond it. Going over the crest, she heard a wordless yell behind her. Her heart sank at the sound of a shot fired, but a thud hitting the trunk of a nearby tree told her Rudy had not been the target. Then she knew she had dropped out of sight, going down the steeper western side of the hill, slipping and sliding into a thicket of devil’s club as she stumbled, fell, and rolled almost to the bottom. Going to ground within the dense clump of the thorny stalks tangled with ragged berry runners, she lay still, trying to silence her gasping breath, knowing he would listen for the sounds of her passage and presence, and use them, if possible, to track her down. Thrashing through the brush would only advertise her path of escape—as she had followed Rudy’s the
night before. But the storm would cover most of any small sound she made from this hiding place, as effectively as it would keep her from hearing the direction from which her pursuer would come.