Читать книгу Deadly Christmas Secrets - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 12

THREE

Amelia.

She was all Harper could think about as she paced her bedroom, the sound of voices drifting up through the floorboards. Logan’s voice. The higher-pitched voice of his coworker, Stella Silverstone. She’d arrived three hours ago, striding into the cabin as if she owned the place. She’d made tea, fed Picasso, acted as if it wasn’t any of her concern if Harper didn’t want twenty-four-hour protection at the cabin.

“It’s her business,” Stella had said when Logan and Sheriff Hunter insisted that Harper shouldn’t stay in the cabin alone. “If she wants to die before she finds out if her niece is alive, what’s it to you?”

That was it.

All it took.

That one thought, that one little hope that Amelia was alive was enough to make Harper put up with anything or anyone.

Amelia alive...

Her pulse raced at the thought, her throat tight with dozens of memories—her niece’s birth, all the little and big moments that had happened after it.

There’d been times during the past few years when she’d wondered if Amelia was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Now the possibility seemed real. That little piece of blanket, the newspaper article—had they been hints? Clues designed to pull Harper closer to the truth, closer to her niece?

Or bring her closer to her death?

She shuddered.

She’d kept to herself for years, had separated herself from her old life. She’d put the past behind her, and now it was in front of her again.

Why now?

For what purpose?

She needed to talk to Gabe. She’d called him, left a message on his machine. He hadn’t returned her call. He’d probably make her wait a few days. That was the way he was. The way he’d always been. Everything in his time frame. He and Lydia had been late or early to social events on his whim. They hadn’t even made it to Harper’s college graduation because Gabe had decided that they needed to go over the household budget.

A joke, because Lydia had no control over their finances. She hadn’t even been told how much her husband made. She’d known about the heirloom jewelry he kept in his wall safe, though, and she’d figured out the combination. When Lydia had wanted something, she’d figured out how to get it. She hadn’t really wanted to attend Harper’s graduation. She hadn’t wanted to leave her cheating husband because that would mean giving up the fancy house, the nice clothes, the cash allowance.

Whatever anyone said, whatever anyone believed, Harper had always thought that had cost Lydia her life.

Harper shut the thought off, pulling back the curtains and looking out into the growing darkness. Night fell early this time of year, but there were still a few golden rays of sun glinting on the horizon. In the distance, she could see Snowy Vista, the lights from the town gleaming through the trees. Soon the place would be decorated for Christmas. Every door would have a wreath, every window colorful lights. Trees would be decked out with garland, and yards would boast Nativity scenes and snowmen. She didn’t have anyone to shop for, but every year, she went to town the week before Christmas. Every year, she walked Main Street, looked at all the Christmas decorations, listened to the carols drifting from shops and watched the people walking up and down the street. It was a small town, but near the holidays, people came in from Baltimore and DC, or traveled down from Lancaster and York, just to see the Christmas displays.

That was the kind of town Snowy Vista was. Not a place most people stayed. Not even for a night. Just a place to pass through, to admire in the way one would look at a bouquet of flowers or a snowy mountain peak.

“It’s pretty, though. If I wanted to live around people again, it wouldn’t be a bad place to settle,” she said, and Picasso huffed his agreement, his cold nose touching her hand.

A light flashed in the trees and she frowned, leaning closer to the glass, trying to see if someone was out there. Sheriff Hunter’s men hadn’t found the sedan or its driver yet. The guy would be a fool to return, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

Another flash, and she stepped away from the window, watching as the light flashed again. A signal of some sort? Should she tell Logan? She headed toward the door and was nearly there when it flew open.

Stella strode in. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Away from here,” she responded, grabbing Harper’s hand and dragging her out of the room.

“For how long? Because if we’re going to be gone for more than a few hours—”

“Less talking, more moving,” Stella interjected, her short red hair bouncing as she hurried Harper down the stairs and into the kitchen. It was dark there. No light spilling in from the living room or from the office that jutted off the back of the house.

“What’s going on?” she whispered, afraid to speak too loudly, afraid that if she did, whatever was causing them to rush from the cabin would find them.

“Someone’s out in the woods making a nice little circle of the property. Logan thinks it’s best if we clear out for a while.”

“And go where?”

“Does it matter?” Stella opened the front door, pulled her to a cherry-red SUV and opened the car door. “Get in.”

“Picasso!” she called as she climbed in.

The dog skidded outside and bounded toward the SUV, and then he stopped. Dead still. Every muscle in his body taut, he eyed the dark woods at the edge of the property, growled and then raced toward the tree line.

“Picasso,” she called again, but Stella had already slammed the door and jumped into the driver’s seat.

“I can’t leave my dog,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

“Logan will get him.”

“Logan doesn’t know he’s missing!” she protested, but they were already racing along the gravel road. There were no streetlights out this far. No moonlight glimmering from the steely sky. Stella didn’t turn on her headlights, and the road was shadowy, the trees looming up on either side. Anything could be lurking out there, anyone.

A light flashed, and the SUV shuddered, swerving toward the trees, then back toward the road again. Harper could feel the thump of a flat tire. Someone was firing at them, and one tire had already been shot out.

Stella didn’t slow down, just kept speeding through the darkness.

“Get down!” she shouted, jerking the wheel to the left. Seconds later, the back window exploded, shards of glass flying through the air, falling on Harper’s hair, her hands, her arms. She could see them shimmering in the dashboard lights. She could feel the awful thud of her heart, the rapid pulse of the blood through her veins.

She’d been scared earlier. Terrified, even, but she’d thought the danger was over. She had wanted to believe that the man who’d been driving the sedan had disappeared—gone for good.

She’d been wrong.

If she hadn’t allowed Logan and Stella to stay...

What?

Would Picasso have warned her in time? Would Harper have been able to load the shotgun? Protect herself from the threat?

“Something is burning,” Stella said so calmly, the words didn’t register with Harper.

The smell did—the sharp scent of gasoline, the acrid smell of smoke.

“Must have hit the gas line and sparked. We need to get out, but we need to be smart about it,” Stella continued as if she were talking about the color of the sky or the temperature of the air.

“Smart? Smart would be getting out while we have the chance,” Harper exclaimed, grabbing her door handle.

“Smart would be staying alive. The likelihood this car is going to explode is little to none. The likelihood one of us is going to be shot dead by the guy who’s after you? That’s higher. You get out your side, and you’ll be in the middle of the road. We’re getting out on my side. Back door, because it’s right up against the trees. You go over the seat first. I’ll follow.”

Harper scrambled over the seat, the scents of gasoline and smoke getting stronger. She didn’t see flames, but she was sure the interior of the SUV was growing hotter.

She reached the door and jerked at the handle. She scrambled for the lock, her fingers shaking as she tried to find it.

“Calm down,” Stella barked so close to her ear, she jumped. “Panicking gets people nowhere really fast.”

She reached past Harper and unlocked the vehicle.

“Let’s go,” she urged, pressing close as Harper stepped into the scratchy embrace of a spruce. The scent of evergreen needles mixed with gasoline and smoke, and she gagged, pushing deeper into the trees, the blackness nearly complete there.

She knew the woods like the back of her hand, knew every inch of her property, but they’d gone beyond that, traveling a few miles down the gravel road. She thought she was heading toward the creek. Branches scratched at her face, pulled at her hair and ripped at her clothes, but she kept a steady pace, heading deeper into the woods, and hopefully farther away from the danger.

She thought she heard the creek up ahead and was heading for that when something crashed through the brush beside her, the sound bringing to life every nightmare she’d ever had, every secret fear.

Stella said something, but she didn’t hear. She was too busy running, sprinting through the woods as if it was an open field, everything inside telling her to go and keep going.

She slammed into something.

Not a tree. A man. His chest hard, his body tall and firm.

She tried to jump back, but strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her in. She struggled against the hold, tore at the arms, used every fighting tactic she’d learned as a kid growing up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in DC, because she wasn’t going to die in the woods. Not before she found out the truth about Amelia.

* * *

“Calm down,” Logan said, grabbing Harper’s fist just before it connected with his jaw. “It’s me.”

“Logan?” She stilled, her arms dropping to her sides, her eyes wide in the darkness.

She’d come barreling out of the woods as if a couple of bears were chasing after her, but he couldn’t hear anything but the quiet burble of the creek and the soft rasp of her breath.

“You nearly scared the life out me,” she said, stepping away from him, her voice a little shaky.

“Where’s Stella?” he asked, because there was no way his coworker had left Harper to fend for herself. Not if she were capable of anything else.

“Right here,” Stella responded, stepping through the thick trees to his right. “With the dog. If the perp is still around, I haven’t seen him. Not since he destroyed my brand-new car.”

“I took a shot at him after he hit your fuel line. I was a little out of range, but I think I might have hit him.”

“That explains why he didn’t wait around for us to get out of the SUV,” Stella responded drily.

“He’s heading east. Straight toward the highway.”

“That’s five miles away,” Harper commented, her hand on Picasso’s head. She looked smaller in the darkness, her body diminished by the vast forest surrounding them.

“Five miles isn’t all that far,” Stella responded. “Not for someone who’s desperate, and he is. He sticks around here and the police are going to catch him. Or one of us will.”

“One of us is planning to,” Logan said, pulling a Maglite from his coat pocket. He hadn’t used it before, but now that the perp was on the run, he’d take every advantage he could to hunt the guy down before he made it to the highway.

“Are you going to try to track him?” Stella asked. She’d let him take the lead on this. That was the way Stella was. No fuss. No muss. If it wasn’t her assignment, she took a backseat, followed orders, made herself as much of an asset to the team as she could.

“He’s heading for his escape vehicle. I want to get to him before he reaches it.”

“The police could do the job as easily,” she remarked. No judgment in the words. Just a statement of fact. “And you know how Chance is—he likes to let the local PD handle their problems.”

“This isn’t their problem. This is my problem. I was hired to—”

“Find Harper. Which you’ve done.”

True, but finding Harper had put her in danger. He felt responsible for that, which made him responsible for her. Whether Chance thought so or not. And whether Harper did or not.

And he didn’t think she did.

She hadn’t wanted twenty-four-hour protection, had seemed determined to go on the way she had before he’d showed up with a gunman on his tail. She’d finally conceded when Stella had mentioned her niece.

Amelia seemed to be the key to all of this, and she seemed to be the key to getting Harper to accept protection and help.

“I’m right here,” Harper muttered. “I’ve been found.” She sounded tired, and he wondered what it must feel like to go from a peaceful and quiet existence to chaos and trouble.

“And now you’re in danger.”

“Not because of you,” she responded. “So let’s all go back to my place and wait for the police. They can do what they need to, and we can decide the best way to proceed.”

That wasn’t going to happen.

He wanted this guy, and if he waited for the police to show up, he wasn’t going to get him.

He glanced at Stella. “I’ll meet you back at the cabin. Can you call the sheriff? Ask him to have someone on the road, searching for the perp? He might want to notify the local hospital, too.”

“But—”

“No sense arguing,” Stella said, cutting off Harper’s protest. “He’s stubborn as a mule.” She grabbed Harper’s arm and dragged her back the way they’d come.

Picasso followed, silent for once. The dog probably sensed the tension in the air, the danger that seemed to lurk just out of sight.

Logan flashed his light on the ground, studying the leaves and foliage for signs that someone had passed that way. Minutes went by, the forest coming to life—small animals scurrying through underbrush, an owl calling from a nearby tree. Thick flakes of snow tumbled through the tree canopy, dancing in the beam of his light. If he didn’t hurry, the trail would be lost, the guy gone.

In the distance, sirens were screaming, the police racing in. Hopefully with their K-9 team. The dogs had come up empty earlier, but the scent would be easier to find this time, the area they’d be searching a lot smaller.

His light bounced across the ground, glowing on dead leaves, moist earth and a slick wet splotch halfway hidden by pine needles.

He moved closer and studied the spot.

Blood for sure. A drop that was just beginning to dry. The guy wasn’t that far ahead. Maybe the injury was slowing him down, keeping him from escaping to the road.

Or maybe he wasn’t running.

Maybe he was waiting in the underbrush, hoping for another chance to strike.