Читать книгу Rocky Mountain Rescue - Cindi Myers, Cindi Myers - Страница 11

Chapter Five

The scent of Stacy’s perfume—something expensive and floral—lingered in her hotel room. Patrick stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene, searching for anything that might provide a clue as to the identity of Carlo’s kidnappers. The double bed still bore the indentations where mother and son had slept, and a single strand of white-blond hair glinted on the pillow. Patrick studied the hair and thought of the woman who had left it behind—such a compelling mix of strength and frailty, reserve and openness. She refused to cooperate in letting him protect her, and that only served to make him more determined to keep her from harm.

He turned away from the bed and examined the dull-brown carpeting, which was worn and matted, especially in front of the door. But a fresh smear of mud caught his eye. He knelt and with the tip of a pen, pried up a quarter-size fragment of the still-pliable clay. He sniffed it and caught the definite odor of manure—from horses? Cows?

He found an envelope in the desk drawer and slid the mud sample inside. He could have someone analyze it to narrow down the probable source, but dirt alone wouldn’t be enough to find a man who didn’t want to be found.

He searched the rest of the room and the bathroom and closet and came up empty-handed. Stacy had come here with nothing but the clothes on her back. What had she planned to do? Where would she have gone from here?

He would ask her, but he doubted she’d tell him. She definitely kept things to herself. I know how to keep quiet and stay out of the way, she’d said. Is that how she’d survived in the Giardino household—by being invisible? He’d known women like that, who suppressed every opinion and action and feeling in order to survive living with an abuser. In the end, they almost always ended up hurt anyway. Anger flared at the thought that Stacy had been forced to live that way.

He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. He was turning toward his own room when a muffled sound made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He waited and the sound came again, very faint, from up the walkway and around the corner.

The rough brick of the building scraped against his jacket as he flattened himself against it, his gun drawn and held upright against his chest. He moved sideways, one silent step at a time, toward the corner. A quick glance down this side of the motel revealed nothing incriminating. Then he spotted the darkened niche that held trash cans and a fire extinguisher. Nothing moved within that shadowed space, yet his heart raced in warning. He cocked his weapon, then slid a mini Maglite from his pocket and directed the beam into the darkest recesses of the alcove.

And into the terrified eyes of Stacy.

“Drop the gun or she’s dead!” barked a man’s voice.

Patrick carefully uncocked the weapon and let it fall to the sidewalk. “Who are you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

A man, middle-aged and bulky with muscle and layers of clothing, moved out of the niche, dragging Stacy with him. Her gray eyes were wide with fright, all color drained from her face. But the bright red blood that beaded where the blade of her captor’s knife met her neck stood out against her pale skin. The wound made Patrick see red of a different kind, and he sucked in a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain calm.

“Stay there,” the bulky man ordered. “My friend will be along in a minute to take care of you.”

Patrick ignored the threat. Whether it was real or not, he needed to focus on the man in front of him and learn all he could about him in order to know how to defeat him. This guy didn’t look like the one who’d taken Carlo; he was shorter and stockier. He wore dark slacks and a black overcoat and a stocking cap, but no mask.

“Where are you taking me?” Stacy asked, her voice quavering.

“Shut up!” the man said, and a fresh trickle of blood leaked from beneath the blade of the knife.

Stacy’s eyes widened, but she kept talking. “Are you taking me to Carlo?” she asked. “If you’re taking me to my son, I’ll go willingly.”

“My boss wants to see you.” Like too many people, Stacy’s captor apparently couldn’t follow his own advice about keeping quiet.

“Who is your boss?” Patrick asked.

“One more word out of you and I cut her throat.” He jerked Stacy more tightly against him and she gasped. Her eyes widened again, but not in pain this time. Patrick whirled around in time to see a second, thinner man move toward him. His knees slammed into the concrete walkway as he dropped to the ground and air reverberated with the sound of the shots that sailed over his head.

Stacy screamed and fought wildly against the man who held her. Patrick was torn between trying to save her and dealing with the second man, who had lowered his weapon to fire again. Stacy distracted them both as her heel connected hard with the stocky man’s kneecap and sent him reeling. Patrick dived for his gun, rolled and came up firing as the second man let loose another volley of shots. The man fell back, shot in the chest, and Patrick leaped to his feet and pointed his weapon at the stocky man.

But Stacy’s attacker was already running away across the parking lot. Patrick took off after him, pounding across the pavement, but the stocky man’s bulk was deceiving; he quickly outpaced the marshal and was swallowed up in darkness.

Breathing hard from the exertion and the altitude, Patrick returned to Stacy. She stood with one hand to her throat, staring down at the wounded man, who lay inert, blood seeping from the chest wound. “Are you all right?” Patrick touched her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Some of the terror had receded, replaced by the weariness of someone who had seen too much to process.

“I’m okay.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t know about him, though.” She indicated the man on the ground.

Patrick knelt beside him. “Who sent you?” he asked.

The man gave no answer; he appeared unconscious.

“I’ve called 911.” The desk clerk, wide-eyed and breathless, raced up to them. “I heard the shots.” He gaped at the man on the ground. “Who is he? Is he dead?”

Patrick searched the man’s pockets and found a wallet and a driver’s license. “This says his name is Nathan Forest.”

“What happened?” The clerk turned to Stacy. “You’re bleeding! I should have asked for an ambulance.”

Patrick replaced Forest’s wallet and stood. “This man and his companion tried to mug Ms. Jackson.” He took Stacy’s arm. “We’d better go.”

She nodded, and didn’t try to pull away when he turned her toward his room.

“Shouldn’t you wait for the police?” the clerk asked.

“You can tell them everything they need to know.” Patrick hurried with Stacy down the walkway and into his room, where he shut and locked the door. Then he led her into the brightly lit bathroom. “Tip your head back and let me have a look,” he said, one finger under her chin.