Eye Of A Hunter

Chapter Four

The need to hurry and get back to Abbie pressed at Gray’s back like a mugger’s knife. He’d left her at the convent guarded by a police officer. MacAllister would keep her busy while taking down her statement. Gray headed toward the patch of woods where the intruder had shot at Abbie. Simms, the chief of police—a scrappy goat of a man as weatherworn as the island—followed at Gray’s heels.

A platinum sky met a stirred-up sea of pewter. The scent of rotting kelp, peaty forest floor and rain-heavy spruce boughs filled the morning air. His suit—what was left of it—and shoes weren’t exactly the best equipment for this task, but his travel bag was stuck in the trunk of his Corvette on the mainland. The plan had been simple—get Abbie and get off the island.

He should’ve known. When it came to Abbie, nothing was simple.

“With the storm last night, we aren’t too likely to find anything,” Simms said when Gray bent closer to the ground for a better look.

“Won’t know unless we try.”

The ground was saturated from the rain, squishing moisture into his shoes with every step. He ignored the discomfort and concentrated on his task. The faster he found the trail, the faster he could get back to Abbie.

Spotting indentations in the ground, he stopped. Boots. Army boots. The real thing or purchased off the shelf? One person. That was a relief.

“Watch your step,” he told the chief. “I’ve got something.” Careful not to displace the track, Gray placed his foot alongside one particularly good boot mark. The print was narrower, smaller than his. The stride was shorter, too, with the toes pointed slightly inward. A short man? A woman?

Using the camera Sister Bertrice had loaned Abbie, Gray snapped a picture of the track and one with his foot placed next to it for comparison. Maybe Kingsley could come up with an identifier. Simms took his turn at photographing the evidence.

Picking his way along the trail, Gray looked for disturbed vegetation, broken twigs and turned-over rocks. Along the top edge of the bluff, near the spruce Abbie had been photographing when he’d found her, he noted light prints. Suddenly the prints moved backward, dragging heel and toe. A retreat when Abbie had clambered up the rocks?

He touched the imprint of Abbie’s shoe running away from him. But he knew the outcome of that trail, so he followed the other. It led to a boulder where the intruder had knelt and used the rock’s flat top to prop his weapon. The knee prints were smaller than he’d expect from a man, less deep. Would someone like Vanderveer entrust such an important job to a woman? That didn’t fit the bully profile. Bullies needed to elevate themselves by putting others down. And for a man like Rafe, a woman would make a prime target.

Yet what better way for Rafe to fool the people charged with watching his every move?

And there was Abbie in a convent full of sisters. Could one of the nuns be toting a weapon in the folds of her skirt? He itched to get back, but to protect Abbie, the professional in him had to learn as much as he could about his adversary.

Now the prints showed the intruder running. His prints chased hers. But in clear daylight he could see what he’d missed in the fog. He spirited the threads of Steeltex caught in the bark into his pocket before the cop could see them. As far as he knew, the project was still classified.

“Looks like your shooter rested here,” the chief said, stroking his close-cropped beard as he studied the scene. His navy windbreaker flapped in the wind.

In her camouflage suit, the shooter had blended well. “I breezed right by her without seeing her.”

“Her?”

“That’s what the trail says.”

The cop shrugged. “Could be a teenager. You said both shots missed.”

“Could be.” But not wearing Steeltex and not zeroing in on Abbie. Vanderveer wasn’t that desperate yet.

Gray climbed down the opposite side of the bluff to the eastern shore of the island. The rocks mostly hid the shooter’s tracks until he studied the few inches of mucky beach. There he found a slip mark above the high-tide line. Scuffs of navy paint streaked a rock, and the rainbow slick of gasoline staining shone on another.

“Looks like your shooter came with his own power.” The chief bent down and studied the paint, then photographed the marks. “I’ll take a paint sample and see what we can come up with. But I expect he’s gone and won’t come back.”

If she’d actually left the island. The ragged shore was full of little coves. His guess was that she’d stick to Abbie like a shadow.

The chief finished collecting his evidence and taking his notes, then joined Gray at the edge of the water. “Nothing much to do for kids around these parts, so they go out and shoot targets. First time for Retreat, but it happens all the time on the smaller islands.”

Probably just as well the chief didn’t seem too disturbed about last night’s events. He would get their statements and they’d be out of here in less than two hours. Gray planned on hitching a ride back with the cops. They’d be safe enough on the water.

But on the highway, Corrine, his red vintage Corvette, would make them sitting ducks.

IN THE PILOTHOUSE OF THE police patrol boat, Abbie sat stiffly while MacAllister stood at the controls. Her restless fingers clasped and unclasped the buckle of the small leather bag in her lap. Here she was again, in a small enclosed space, surrounded by cops. What if one of them died because of her?

The chop of tarnished-silver water bounced the boat around. Wind whipped her hair. She scraped the flailing locks back into a ponytail and tied them with an elastic band she found in the pocket of her polar-fleece vest. She scanned the horizon for another boat, another threat, another sniper’s rifle seeking her out.

Gray leaned against the railing at the prow, looking—even without a shirt under his suit jacket—like a carefree tourist. But his shoulders betrayed tension and his gaze swept the water as if his glasses were X-ray devices able to spot the skeleton of a would-be assassin.

He meant well, of course. He didn’t realize that this wasn’t just another scrape. That this situation had dire consequences. Mostly for those around her. Maybe he even thought he was keeping her safe just for old times’ sake. Because Bryn was her friend and that was the only way he could show his sister he cared.

He’d seen WITSEC from the deputy’s viewpoint. He’d gotten to go home most nights and sleep in his own house, in his own bed. He’d gotten to keep his name, his past—himself. He couldn’t know what it was like to lose yourself piece by piece, to live in fear that at any moment a bullet would shoot through some window and destroy what was left of you.

She tore her gaze away from Gray’s face and tried to focus on the instrument panel as complicated as any jetliner’s. It didn’t work. The red lines reminded her of blood and dead deputies. She rubbed her hands against the thigh of her slacks but couldn’t stop the flow of cold sweat. How long before they got to shore? How long before she was out of this tin-can target? How long before she could get away?

Since high school she’d gained a certain sense of self, of who she was and what her duties and obligations were. She’d embraced both her public goodwill image at Holbrook Mills and her unofficial role as ambassador for Echo Falls. She’d also cultivated a personal passion to capture a person’s truth on film. She loved catching kids. Life hadn’t tainted them yet and there was such purity in all their expressions.

Until Rafe had taken over his father’s role as partner.

He’d chipped at the gleaming facade that was her life and broken it all apart until she’d wondered about her choices, about her values and about the meaning of her life.

Not exactly what Rafe had had in mind. He’d hoped that his remarks would make her as soft and as pliable as the parachute nylon the mill produced. What he forgot was that Holbrook fabric was not as fragile as it looked.

Even though there was nothing left of what she once was, she still wanted that life back. She loved Echo Falls. She loved the mill. She loved the people who made up both.

Rafe had meant to distance her from her environment and had instead brought her closer to her roots.

By now she was supposed to have married him. And what was hers was supposed to be his. She shuddered.

At first he’d charmed her with his polished manners, his dazzling smile and his smooth bass voice. She’d almost fallen under the spell of his persona. Until the press conference, when Holbrook Mills had announced its new contract with the Army. As was her custom, she’d photographed the event. When she’d processed the film, something in Rafe’s eyes had shivered dread down her spine. She’d thought it was a trick of the light. But the look of pure evil she’d frozen on film had surfaced again, both at her home and at his office, when he’d thought no one was looking. He’d shown his true colors the day he’d murdered her father.

Because she’d seen his soul, he had to destroy her. He had to destroy everything she cared for.

Against her will, her gaze once again sought Gray. The stubble-shadowed jaw took nothing away from the clean-cut looks he’d sculpted out of the clay of his dirt-poor youth. A leaden weight dragged at her heart.

Her father would approve of the man Gray had become. They shared a deep sense of ethics and the values of honor and loyalty. Bryn probably wouldn’t agree, but Bryn tended to forget she was the one who’d slammed shut that particular door. Abbie had seen the letters from Gray that Bryn had discarded unopened. Gray was the one who’d arranged and paid for his mother’s stay at the hospice when liver disease had made staying at home impossible. He’d offered to pay for Bryn’s college education, too, but pride had made her refuse.

Seeing him again, so strong and solid, so determined to act as her protector, spiked her heart with a quick jump. She wished for one of his smiles that made her feel as if all was right with the world.

She was tired of constantly looking over her shoulder. She was tired of being afraid. She was so marrow-deep tired that she was actually considering letting Gray take her to Seekers, Inc., letting him take care of her. Letting Rafe test just how high-security Seekers’ safety bunker was.

The last few weeks of bloody horror were making her weak.

You’re as strong as Steeltex.

Sneering, she shook her head and opened the small leather bag that contained the few changes of clothes Bryn had provided her and the camera Bert had loaned her. She took out the Nikon and loaded a fresh roll of film.

She wanted nothing more than to go to sleep, to slide into darkness and stay there until the trial was over. Until someone could assure her that the shackles around Rafe were so tight and so solid, he could never again rally allies to do the dirty work he was denied.

“We’ll find him, you know,” MacAllister said, slanting her a look that came too close to pity for comfort. “Something like this, the perp always comes to light.”

“Of course.” She raised the camera and searched through the magic frame.

“He won’t be able to keep the secret. It’ll itch at him and itch at him till he bursts and has to tell someone else about the deed. Small town like this, a secret like that won’t stay quiet too long.”

“Thanks.”

His fresh-scrubbed face was still eager and filled with idealism. How long would it take for lines to carve dispassionate grooves around his eyes and mouth like those that etched Simms’s face? “Can I take your picture?”

“Me? What for?”

“I like the look in your eye.” She wanted to capture the youthful passion shining lighthouse bright on his face. As a reminder that some parts of the world were still worth looking at.

He grinned. She snapped.

MacAllister slowed the boat as he approached the dock. “We’re almost there.”

One hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle, he twisted around to face her. He opened his mouth as if to add something more. She adjusted the focus ring. Surprise rounded his eyes. Glass shattered. The report of a gun cracked through the sudden rev of the boat’s engine. MacAllister crumpled, taking her down with his dead weight.

“CAN WE STOP?” ABBIE ASKED as Gray’s Corvette burned up I-95. Red streaked the sky, reminding her yet again of MacAllister’s blood all over the patrol boat deck. Another dead cop. Because of her. Her stomach was a tangle of greasy knots, her mind a maddened beehive and her determination would capitulate into a white flag of surrender if she didn’t do something soon. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

His fingers touched her knee in concern and racked up her guilt another notch. “There’s a rest stop up ahead. Can you hang on for another few minutes? I don’t want to pull off on the shoulder.”

“Just hurry.” Would he leave her alone? She searched her memory for the layout of the bathroom but couldn’t remember if there was a back exit or not. Gray had changed into khakis, a polo shirt and running shoes. She wished he’d kept on his slippery leather shoes. Then she’d have half a chance at losing him.

“You holding up?” Gray asked as they passed a sign announcing their upcoming exit.

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