“What do you mean?”
“She’s a loose end. It doesn’t seem smart to leave her running free. Would you have shot her?”
Clarence huffed as he adjusted the barrel on his rifle. “You’ve got this wrong. Just give me a minute and let me explain.”
A disembodied voice rose from the altar. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
How do you know what I think? Spence had never been known for his calm, patient attitude, and he sure as hell didn’t need advice from some dumber-than-dirt thug. It was time to take control of this situation.
Disarming Clarence would be a piece of cake; the old guy wasn’t exactly in peak condition. The tricky part would be to avoid getting shot by the armed thug. Spence coiled his long legs beneath him. With one well-placed leap, he went into the aisle between the pews. With a pivot, he launched himself off the organ and smashed into the pastor’s broad chest.
Clarence went down with a thud. Flat on his back, he didn’t bother struggling. As Spence fastened his wrists with a zip tie, Clarence said, “There should have been an easier way to do this.”
“Explain.”
“First, an introduction,” Clarence said. “The dark and scary character who escaped the SWAT team is my nephew, Trevor MacArthur. Help us out, Trev. Turn on the sanctuary lights.”
The shadowy figure that had been lurking behind the altar went to the edge of the sanctuary and flipped a couple of switches. Lights blazed in the nave.
A young man with curly brown hair and a beard strolled to the front of the sanctuary. “There’s one more thing you ought to know, Spence.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m FBI, working undercover.”
Trust no one. Her father had always advised her to be suspicious and, as always, Dad was right. Angelica had been fool enough to accept the pastor and Trudy as the kindly, elderly couple they appeared to be. So wrong!
Frozen in place, she stood in front of the dresser in the upstairs bedroom of the cabin, where every wall was hung with photos and every flat surface held knickknacks. Her gaze stuck on a five-by-seven photograph of a young man in a football uniform. His face and his dark, floppy hair appeared in many other photos scattered around the room.
At first glance, he’d looked familiar, and she wondered if they’d gone to the same school. She’d grown up in this area, and he might be somebody she’d met before or had known. Slowly, she’d circled the room, prowling, taking time to study each photo as the man aged from a skinny kid in baggy shorts to full adulthood. His grin was mischievous, with a twist on the left side. A tiny scar bisected his left eyebrow.
Like a lightbulb snapping to life, her inability to remember vanished. The darkness cleared. She knew him.
This young man was one of the thugs in the van—a kidnapper, a traitor or something worse.
Trudy called out from downstairs. “How are you doing, Angelica? Can I help?”
She moved to the top of the staircase. Her throat was still raw and her voice hoarse. “Changing clothes. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Would you like more lemon tea?”
“No, thank you,” she said politely.
Her thoughts were far less civil. Dear, sweet Trudy might decide to poison her with lemon-scented bleach. Though it seemed impossible that the kindly choir director was involved with thugs and traitors, the dozens of photos were proof. Trudy knew this man, knew him well.
Unfortunately, there was no chance that Angelica was mistaken in her identification. The memory was crystal clear. His face—with the lopsided grin—had peered down at her several times when she was curled up on the floor in the back of the van. He’d rubbed her upper arm as though he wanted to make her warm, but he’d been the one who insisted to the others that they leave her outside, alone in the van, to possibly freeze.
She needed to tell Spence, and he’d have to arrest these two lovely people who had saved her life. Though Angelica had been trained as an agent, she wouldn’t be cool about taking Clarence and Trudy into custody.
Fully dressed and wearing her warm boots, she descended the staircase to find Trudy nestled into a corner of the sofa. Though Angelica had said no, two mugs of tea and a small plate of fragrant banana bread rested on the coffee table.
“Where’s Spence?” Angelica asked.
“He and Clarence went running off to chase a bad guy.”
Angelica gasped. The bad guy was very likely the man pictured in Trudy’s bedroom. And Spence was probably counting on Clarence the Traitor for backup. “I need to find them, right away.”
“You shouldn’t go out,” Trudy said. “We’ve barely got you warmed up. The last thing you need is to go out in the cold again.”
The very thought of snow sent a raft of shivers down her spine, but she couldn’t abandon a man she cared about to an uncertain fate. And she’d never been a quitter. This job was important. “I need a gun.”
“The men took all of their weapons.”
Angelica stalked into the kitchen. Yanking a butcher knife from the chopping block seemed ridiculous. If she managed to get close enough for a knife attack, the bad guy would likely overpower her.
But she couldn’t just sit here. At the very least, she needed to warn Spence. Back in the front room, she zipped her Patagonia jacket that appeared lightweight but was surprisingly toasty. “I’m going.”
“I’m not strong enough to stop you.” Trudy folded her skinny arms below her breasts and sank back on the sofa. “But I wish you’d wait.”
“Until the pastor drags Spence back here by his heels like a field-dressed deer?”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“I think you know.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
The truth. She pinched her lips together to keep from blurting out accusations. Attacking Trudy wasn’t going to do any good. She needed to help Spence.
On the front porch, the cold sliced through her like a blade, and she was tempted to dash back inside to wait. But the danger to Spence might be real. And she cared about him. More than friends, they had a relationship. If she closed her eyes, even for a few seconds, she felt the imprint of his embrace as he held her against his muscular chest. She remembered the deep rumble of his voice and the wood-and-leather scent of his favorite aftershave.
Looking down from the porch, she saw tracks leading from the front of the cabin toward the church next door, where lights blazed through the stained glass windows. Was she too late? Fearing the pastor and the thug had ganged up on Spence, she leaped from the porch. The snow was as deep as her knees, and she hated getting her jeans wet. But she had to warn Spence.
Slogging clumsily forward through the crisp, icy layers that glistened in the moonlight, she made her way across the front of the house to a clump of aspens and evergreens. The snow-covered boughs provided shelter from the brisk wind that swirled the icy flakes like a kaleidoscope. When she inhaled a deep breath, her lungs wheezed. She exhaled a gush of vapor. The pinpricks of frostbite returned to her toes and fingers.
She saw three men walking from the church. The pastor and Spence flanked a tall guy with floppy hair, the thug. Either he’d fooled Spence into thinking he wasn’t a danger or Spence was on his side. Could he be working with the bad guys? Trust no one. That mantra, that perfect bit of wisdom