“Stay back a minute,” he said, but Paige had already peered around him and they both saw Jack Pollock at the same time.
He was in his pajamas and slippers, and it appeared he’d been attacked by a maniac with a hatchet. There was so much blood it was hard to see what the man had once looked like. The car was gone, leaving tire tracks of red against the cement.
Paige was unnaturally silent and John looked down at her with concern. Her mouth was open, her eyes shut, as though she was lost in a cacophony of silent screams that ricocheted inside her head.
He pulled on her once again. “Come with me,” he said, closing the door behind them. They quickly retraced their path in the snow, both of them looking around as they moved for some sign they weren’t alone. This time John shuffled his feet, obliterating any of their clear footprints.
“Someone murdered them and stole their car,” Paige mumbled.
“Yes.”
“I should have called the police from their phone,” she said as they reached the car. Without discussing it, she handed John the keys.
“They’re way past needing immediate attention,” he said, opening her door for her.
“But we can’t just leave them—”
“Yes, we can,” he said gently.
He closed her door and went around to his own side, slipping behind the wheel.
“John, you know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.
“I probably didn’t hurt the guy up at the park, yeah, I know.”
“Someone else—”
“Some kind of maniac,” he interrupted.
“Yes. I want to leave the mountains. Now.”
“Right now?”
“As soon as I get my computer. I can’t leave that behind. All my work is on it. You can come with me if you want, but I can’t stay here. Not after…not after this.”
His gut twisted as he stared at her swollen eyes and pale face. In some illogical way, he knew he was responsible for what was going on. He could feel it in his bones.
“Let’s just hurry,” he said at last. “I don’t think those murders happened all that long ago.” He paused to look down the street and back the way they’d come. He saw no movement that suggested the killer hovered nearby, but threat seemed to hang in the air like cold, damp fog.
“I’ll be quick,” she said, her voice shaky. Tears ran down her cheeks and she flicked them away with her fingertips. He fought the urge to comfort her by starting the car. He didn’t dare touch her. He wanted it far too much and he wasn’t sure why, but the feeling their fates were interconnected had grown strong in the past few hours and the thought that whoever had done that to the Pollocks could do the same to Paige was more awful than he could bear contemplating.
“I’ll leave the mountains with you,” he told her. “For better or worse, we’re in this together.”
She covered her face with her hands.
He let her cry in peace.
* * *
BACK AT THE CABIN, PAIGE dumped her coat on the bed and threw her belongings into her bag. She and John split up the rest of the chores, with John hauling things out to her car. She worked fast, although a combination of nerves and the vivid images of the Pollocks’ bloodied bodies made her clumsy.
John was outside packing the trunk when she took a last check of the kitchen. Might as well take things to eat on the road. As she grabbed a few apples and a chunk of cheese, she heard the back door open.
“John?” Closing the fridge door, she turned, intending to ask him to help her carry the last load out to the car.
It wasn’t John.
The cheese slid from her grasp and hit the wood floor at her feet with a clunk.
“Who are you?” she gasped, but she already knew.
The man filling the doorway six feet away had shaggy black hair streaked with white, and small, mean eyes. Though he wasn’t as tall as John, he was built like a bull, with strong-looking shoulders and big hands with a band of black and gold on the right ring finger. His face was etched with deep lines, his lips thick and curled in a sneer. The bulky jacket with a fur collar that he wore stretched tight across his chest and pulled at the one button he’d managed to secure.
Paige’s stomach flipped as she recognized the coat. It had belonged to Jack Pollock. Thin, wiry Jack Pollock. That’s why the coat was too tight for this man. The revulsion she felt was nothing compared with the horror that filled her as the light from the one weak bulb hanging from the ceiling glanced off the thick, curved blade of a dagger he held down by his leg....
This was the man who had attacked and killed the Pollocks—she knew that as surely as she knew anything, and would have even if their blood hadn’t stained his shoes, even if he didn’t carry that knife or wear that jacket. She could see it in his eyes. She could smell it. He was a predator and he was ruthless.
And from the look on his face, she was his next victim.
Terror momentarily drained her, anchoring her to the floor. And then just as quickly, the instinct to flee melted indecision.
She threw the apples at his face, turned and ran.
Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him react way faster than she’d expected. She screamed John’s name as she raced into the living room. The door seemed a mile away. She screamed again. Where was John? Had this beast already killed him?
The man’s heavy footsteps pounded right behind hers. He caught her hair and pulled her back against him right as the door flew open and John appeared.
Their gazes locked.
He held his gun, but he had to know, as did she, that it was empty.
What good was an unloaded gun against a monster?
Chapter Four
“Mr. Cinca,” the man said in a thickly accented voice that sounded as if it came from inside a fish tank.
John winced. How did this guy know his name? “Who are you?” he asked.
“Come now. Don’t play coy with me.” He smiled—if you could call it that—and added, “You look surprised to see me again. You thought you got away. But what is a waterfall to man like me? I walk down long way when I hear shot, but I arrive in one piece. Now put down gun. The chase is over. No more games. Anatola Korenev has won.”
The guy’s accent nudged itself against the void of John’s missing memory. For the first time since waking up on the riverbank, he felt close to grabbing on to something about himself, but the feeling had no sooner blossomed than it wilted away.
“How did you know I was here in this cabin?” John asked, biding for time. He had to figure out where Paige had put the ammo clip. He should have collected it the minute they got back here. What was wrong with him?
“I followed you from old people’s house. Good luck for me I see you. You are losing your touch. Maybe rocks bang you on head too hard.”
“Maybe,” John said, swearing silently at himself. He’d known better than to agree to come back here, but he’d been so moved by Paige’s grief he’d allowed sentiment to get in the way of survival. And now it looked as though they were both going to pay for it.
He’d been trying hard not to meet Paige’s gaze, afraid he’d weaken if he saw her fear. When he finally did, he found anger burning behind the terror. And then she glanced at the desk drawer and back at him. She’d