This time Hilda’s pause was long enough to heighten Rosie’s uneasiness another notch.
‘‘Annmarie,’’ she finally said.
The name wound through Rosie’s chest, leaving behind a gaping ache. No wonder Hilda hadn’t wanted to tell her. Memories washed over Rosie, the events of five years ago nearly as painful now as then. Three people alive knew the whole story—Rosie, her sister Lily and their mutual best friend since childhood, Hilda.
‘‘At least, that’s what it sounded like,’’ Hilda added. ‘‘The man had an accent, and he might have been saying Annie.’’
‘‘It’s probably just a stupid coincidence.’’
‘‘Yeah. Talk to you in a few.’’ Hilda broke the connection.
Rosie replaced the receiver on the phone and stared through the darkness for a moment. Lily’s daughter wasn’t the only Annmarie in the world. If there was ever a protective mother who wouldn’t have lost a child for the better part of a day, it was her sister Lily. Further, Lily’s husband had died two years ago, so no man would have lost her, either, accent or not.
Rosie padded through her dark house, Sly walking along beside her, his nails clicking against the hardwood floor. Rosie opened the front door and stepped onto the porch.
The air was chilly, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms to banish the goose bumps. A hundred yards away the inlet glistened beneath a bright canopy of stars flung across the sky. She inhaled deeply, loving the scent of the rain-washed air. This simple pleasure was one of the reasons she had come to Kantrovich Island in the Alaskan inside passage just over three years ago. In the solitude she had found herself again and had regained a sense of purpose in her life.
To her surprise the dog didn’t step off the porch to do his usual middle-of-the-night thing, but stood next to her, his head cocked to one side, his nostrils twitching. The last traces of sleepiness left Rosie. This was Sly in his working stance. Someone was out there.
Even though she had seen him like this dozens of times since the two of them had embarked on this vocation two years ago, she still felt a thrill of appreciation. A novice at search and rescue herself, she had the luck of a great dog and a good teacher. Sly was no prize to look at, resembling a cross between a basset hound and a Border collie. His uncertain parentage had given him intelligence, acute hearing, a keen sense of smell and incredible perseverance. Most of all, he had uncanny instincts. Qualities that made him ideal as a search-and-rescue dog. Qualities she completely trusted.
She scanned the property from the inlet to the greenhouse to the nursery beyond, wishing daybreak was another hour closer. In the darkness her yard had an aura of mystery, reminding her that a couple of times yesterday she’d had the odd sense of being watched. Now, as then, she shook her head against that disquieting thought.
The night sounds were all ordinary. The barest rustle of a breeze through the trees, the faint lap of water at the shoreline. Next to her Sly sat with utter stillness, his nose lifted, twitching. A sense of urgency and deep uneasiness filled her, and she decided she couldn’t wait for daybreak.
Within ten minutes she was ready to go, dressed in jeans, a couple of layers of shirts, a waterproof jacket and flexible hiking boots. In the kitchen she clipped the radio onto her belt, picked up a backpack and slung it over her shoulder without checking the contents. She already knew it held everything she needed to administer basic first aid or even to survive in the forest for a couple of days, if it came to that.
Uncharacteristic indecision swept through her as she pulled the door closed behind her. The only time she locked the house was when she left the island—a deliberate habit she had cultivated as carefully as one of her fragile seedlings—proof that here she had nothing to fear.
Hers wasn’t an opinion shared by the man who’d built the house during the height of the cold war. The house was complete with a bomb shelter and a secret passage—whether to get in or get out without being seen, Rosie had never been sure.
Reclaiming control over her imagination, she deliberately stepped off the porch without locking the door and gave Sly a single command. ‘‘Search.’’
His long ears flapping, he took off at an easy lope toward the line of trees separating her meadow from the inlet. She loved working with the dog and knew that he wouldn’t stop searching until he had found his quarry. Who did he smell? The child? Someone else?
Rosie shook her head at the uneasiness that filled her over the mere thought of the name Annmarie. Before the day was over she would call, assure herself that her sister and Annmarie were just fine.
Rosie followed Sly closely, his black-and-brown coat making him nearly invisible in the predawn light, except for the flash of white at the tip of his bushy tail. Why had these people waited so long before reporting their daughter lost? Rosie wondered. She followed Sly past her nearest neighbor’s house, the Eriksens, a retired couple who had gone stateside a couple of weeks ago to visit their kids in Seattle.
The dog continued to follow the shoreline where the forest was generally thinner. Gradually the bright stars faded, and the eastern horizon began to lighten. The black of night gave way to a gray-predawn gloom.
Ahead she saw Sly sniffing about. A moment later he took off at a dead run, and she knew they were getting close.
Two minutes later he bayed, and she adjusted her direction. For the first time since leaving the house, he left the shoreline. Rosie followed, picking her way more slowly, wishing it were daylight. She whistled for him, and seconds later he reappeared. He briefly wagged his tail, then took off again in the direction he had come from.
The trees and undergrowth opened suddenly onto a clearing, near the road that led to town. Sly ran toward a dark mound that was unmistakably human.
Too large to be a child, Rosie thought as she hurried forward. Sly sniffed at the form sprawled on the ground, then moved away, his nose still to the earth. Rosie’s focused on the man.
He lay on his stomach, one arm flung above his head, nothing of his profile visible to tell her who he was. His clothes were wet, a sure sign he had been caught in the storm that had come through hours earlier. Though winter was over, hypothermia was still a real concern. Rosie knelt next to him, sliding her backpack off her shoulders and setting it on the ground. She touched her fingers to the man’s neck, checking for a pulse, relieved to find his skin warm.
The man exploded into action. One moment Rosie knelt next to him. In the next he grabbed her wrist and flipped her onto her back.
Her instant of surprise was followed by terror and by unbearable memories.
His knees straddled her hips. He loomed over her. The fury in his eyes terrified her.
Her terror gave way to unreasoning, instantaneous anger. Once she would have been paralyzed. No more.
Instinctively she scissored her legs up and over his shoulders and pushed. Hard. He groaned, then fell back. She slammed her fist into his crotch.
He crumpled to the ground and cried out, a high awful sound, telling her she had hurt him as effectively as she had intended. She twisted away from him, half surprised her counterattack had worked so well. Fleetingly she mentally thanked the self-defense instructor who had taught her the move.
Grabbing her backpack, she stood and backed away from the man. Shaking, she took in a giant breath and glanced around the clearing. She spotted Sly on the far side of the clearing, and her attention returned to the man.
Curled on his side, he gasped for air.
Fight dirty, fight hard, scream and run. Screaming would do her no good since her nearest neighbors were gone. The adrenaline rush made her legs too shaky to run. She inhaled another shuddering breath, so furious she was half tempted to kick the man just for good measure.
How dare he attack her when all she was trying to do was help. Whoever he was, whatever he was doing in the woods this time of night, let