The sketching, however, had done little to take his mind off his situation. In fact, it only served to remind him of the work and the life he no longer had back in Chicago.
Mitch lowered the pad and pencil at last. He checked his watch: almost 11:00 p.m. The living room lay in shadows, the only light coming from the fireplace and the lamp next to the wing chair he’d occupied for the past several hours. The classical CD on the stereo had finished long ago, and the entire house seemed to have been swallowed by the silence of the surrounding wilderness.
He might not have heard the neighbor’s German shepherd otherwise. But there was no mistaking the anxious bark from the next lot. Mitch set his sketches on the coffee table and moved across the dimly lit room. He approached the east window with caution and fingered open one of the shutters to peer into the darkness.
It was the thin beam of a flashlight through the thick, swirling snow that caught Mitch’s eye first. With such low cloud cover, the night was black, but he could just make out the silhouette of the figure behind the flashlight. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman who struggled through the mounting snow, but there was no mistaking the person’s seemingly determined route—straight down the drive toward the front door.
Maybe it was paranoia, but the name Sergio Sabatini jumped to the front of his mind. It was too late at night for lost or stranded tourists, and even if it was just some hapless soul, Barb’s was certainly not the first—and definitely not the most obvious—house along the lakeshore road.
It was that thought and a renewed sense of self-preservation that spurred Mitch away from the window and into action.
MOLLY COULDN’T PUT a finger on the bad feeling that had started in the pit of her stomach from the moment she’d seen Barb Newcombe’s name on the mailbox, but the feeling had risen steadily with each step she took toward the virtually unlit house. A dim but warm light slipped through the shuttered windows of a single downstairs room, flickering through the driving snow. The only other light came from the front porch.
As she mounted the steps, Molly switched off her flash-light and shoved it into a pocket of her anorak. She brushed herself off, removing one glove and wiping at the melted snow on her face while she stared at the set of double front doors.
The bad feeling moved up from her stomach and clutched at her lungs. She took a deep breath to try to calm it.
It wasn’t like the feeling she would sometimes get while working a case, moments before something went very wrong. And it was different from the kind that had saved her skin on more than a couple of occasions in the line of duty. But it was definitely a “feeling.”
Maybe she was tired.
Then again, maybe she was just worried, Molly rationalized. Worried about the kind of reception she might receive from Mitch after all these years.
She lifted a hand to one door and knocked solidly.
She waited.
Nothing happened.
Again she knocked. And again, nothing. The cold, black silence of the night, so different from the bright lights of Chicago, only added to her sense of unease as she reached for the door’s brass handle.
And that unease intensified when the latch moved freely and the door swung open. Maybe it was one of those gut feelings she was having, Molly thought as she took the first tentative step into the house and lowered her knapsack to the floor. Something definitely felt wrong.
What if Sabatini had gotten to Mitch first? The thought sent a hot prickle of fear along her skin. Lifting the bottom edge of her anorak, she unclipped the holster at her hip and removed her duty weapon. The Glock’s grip was cold, and her fingers shivered along the icy nickel as she drew back the slide.
She refused the urge to call out Mitch’s name. If Sabatini’s men had already found the house, there was the chance they were still on the premises. She certainly couldn’t afford to announce herself, she thought, taking another step into the dimly lit foyer and nudging the door closed behind her.
Vaguely, she was aware of the interior, the predominance of pine, the spaciousness of what had initially appeared to be a small house, and the tasteful, expensive decor including huge plants that thrived in the abundance of natural light that undoubtedly flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the several skylights overhead during the day. The curved staircase reached up toward a darkened second floor, and to her right was the living room.
A warm glow flickered across the hardwood floors from the blazing fireplace. The only other light was a reading lamp beside an empty chair. As Molly moved cautiously through the room, she spotted the sketches on the coffee table. Architectural sketches.
Mitch was here. Or, at least, he had been.
Molly tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and looked to the hearth. If Sabatini’s men had found Mitch, it had been very recently. She’d not seen any headlights in her long walk from where the Jeep had finally run out of gas, and the fire had been recently stoked. So maybe they were still here.
Like a sixth sense, the bad feeling gripped her again. It shivered its warning along her spine and caused the fine hairs at the back of her neck to bristle. Tightening her grip around her weapon, she started down the shadow-filled hallway to what she guessed was the kitchen.
But Molly didn’t get far. Barely two steps through the arched doorway, a blinding pain stopped her in her tracks—a pain that seared along the base of her skull and pitched her to her knees. For one wavering moment, Molly was aware of the floor’s ceramic tile, cool against her cheek. And in the next, blackness swallowed her.
ALL OF A SUDDEN the chunk of firewood in his hands seemed unbearably heavy—heavier than it had before he’d swung it high and felt its reverberating, almost sickening contact with the woman’s skull. With a small twinge of guilt, Mitch set the makeshift weapon down next to the body sprawled across the kitchen floor. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy when he’d taken up the piece of firewood and slipped into the kitchen before the first knock at the door.
His grip had tightened around the wood as he’d listened to her move through the front hall, then the living room. And when she’d rounded the corner to the kitchen, stepped through the doorway past his hiding spot, and he’d seen the light from the living room glint along the metal of the gun she held in her hand, he’d needed no more incentive. Mitch had swung.
Maybe he’d brandished the log a little too hard, though, he mused now as he turned on the kitchen lights and knelt beside her unmoving body. Thankfully there was no blood, but what if he’d broken her neck?
Part of him knew he shouldn’t care; after all, she’d come here to kill him. If he hadn’t attacked her first, she would have turned that gun on him. Still, she was a woman, and he had just struck her with a blow beyond anything he’d considered himself capable of inflicting on another human being.
Mitch slipped his hand beneath the collar of the woman’s anorak to the soft skin along her throat. Relief swept through him. There was a pulse.
In the harsh glare of the kitchen’s overhead fluorescents, Mitch was surprised at her small stature. When he’d seen her shadowed figure come through the arched doorway, her back to him, she’d looked bigger somehow. Or maybe it was the gun that had made her appear more formidable. But now, with her face turned away and her arm splayed out across the tiles as though she were reaching for him, she looked almost fragile.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, Mitch reached for her. He grasped her shoulders in his hands and slowly eased her limp body over.
He wasn’t certain what came out of his mouth first: a curse or her name. But as he stared into her face, disbelief washing over him, there was no stopping the string of expletives that escaped his lips.
Her complexion seemed pale—almost frighteningly so—and Mitch felt for her pulse again.
“Come on,