The Search

Eleven

Two days later, Fiona started her day with a call on a missing elderly man who’d wandered out of his daughter’s home on San Juan Island.

She alerted her unit, checked her pack, added the necessary maps and, choosing Newman, was on her way to Deer Harbor and Chuck’s boat. With Chuck at the helm she briefed the unit while they carved through the passage.

“The subject is Walter Deets, eighty-four. He has early-onset Alzheimer’s and lives with his daughter and her family on Trout Lake. They don’t know what time he left the house. The last time anyone saw him was before he went to bed at about ten last night.”

“There’s a lot of wooded area around the lake,” James put in.

“Do we have any information on what he’s wearing?” Lori rubbed Pip’s head. “It’s pretty chilly out.”

“Not yet. I’ll talk to the family when we get there. Mai, you’ll be working with Sheriff Tyson.”

“Yeah. We’ve worked with him before. Is this the first time he’s wandered off ?”

“Don’t know yet. We’ll get all that. The search began just after six, and the family notified the authorities by six-thirty. So they’ve been searching for about ninety minutes.”

Mai nodded. “Tyson doesn’t waste time. I remember from before.”

“They’ve got a couple of volunteers picking us up, driving us to the location.”

By the time they got to the lake, the sun had burned away the mist. Tyson, brisk and efficient, greeted them.

“Thanks for the quick response. Dr. Funaki, right? You’re base?”

“Yes.”

“Sal, show Dr. Funaki where she can set up. The son-in-law and his boy are out on the search. I’ve got the daughter inside. He got dressed—brown pants, blue shirt, red cotton jacket, navy Adidas sneakers, size ten. She says he’s wandered once or twice, but hasn’t gone far. He gets confused.”

“Is he on any meds?” Fiona asked him.

“I had her make a list for you. Physically, he’s in good shape. He’s a nice guy, used to be sharp as a tack. Taught my father in high school. History. He’s five-ten, about a hundred and sixty-five pounds, full head of white hair, blue eyes.”

He led her inside a spacious, open-floor-plan house with killer views of the lake.

“Mary Ann, this is Fiona Bristow. She’s with Canine Search and Rescue.”

“Ben—Sheriff Tyson—said you’d need some things of Dad’s—for the dogs to smell. I got his socks, and his pajamas from last night.”

“That’s good. How was he feeling when he went to bed last night?”

“Fine. Really fine.” Her hand fluttered to her throat and away again. Fiona could hear barely controlled tears in her voice. “He’d had a good day. I just don’t know when he left. He forgets, and gets confused sometimes. I don’t know how long he’s been gone. He likes to take walks. Keep fit, he says. He and my mother walked miles every day before she died last year.”

“Where did they like to walk?”

“Around the lake, some light hiking in the woods. Sometimes they’d walk over to see us. This was their house, and after Mom died and when Dad started having trouble, we moved here. It’s bigger than our house, and he loves it so much. We didn’t want him to have to leave his home.”

“Where was your house?”

“Oh, it’s about three miles from here.”

“Could he have gotten confused? Tried to walk there to find you?”

“I don’t know.” She pressed her knuckles to her lips. “We’ve lived here for nearly a year now.”

“We checked Mary Ann’s old place,” Tyson added.

“Maybe he and your mother had a favorite spot, or route.”

“They had so many. Even five years ago he’d have been able to find his way through the woods around here in the dark, blindfolded.” Her eyes teared up. “He taught Jarret—our son—how to hike and camp and fish. He’d declare Hook and Line Day—hook school and drop a line so he and Jarret could—Oh God, wait.”

She dashed away.

“How’s his hearing?” Fiona asked Tyson.

“He wears a hearing aid—and no, he didn’t take it. He’s got his glasses, but—”

He broke off when Mary Ann rushed back. “His fishing gear. He took his fishing gear, even his old fishing hat. I didn’t think—I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Armed with data, Fiona worked with her unit on strategy.

“He had three favorite fishing spots.” She marked the map Mai had posted. “But he also tended to try others, depending on his mood. He’s both physically fit and physically active. So while his mental condition may bring on confusion, turning him around, disorienting him, he could overdo it. He takes meds for high blood pressure and, according to the daughter, tends to get emotional and upset when he can’t remember things, and he’s starting to have some trouble with his balance. He needs a hearing aid and isn’t wearing it.”

The problem, as Fiona saw it, as she assigned sectors, was that Walter might not, as small kids and the elderly tended to, take the paths of least resistance. He’d tax himself, she thought, facing steep climbs rather than easy slopes.

He’d probably had a purpose and a destination when he started, she thought as she gave Newman the scent. But along the way, it was very likely he’d become confused.

How much worse to be lost, to look around and see nothing familiar, when you once knew every tree, every path, every turn?

Newman was eager and scented along a drainage. The air would rise upslope, and the chimney effect, the rise of the tree lines, would disperse the scent in several directions. When they moved into an area of heavy brush she looked for signs—a bit of torn clothing in the briars, bent or broken branches.

Newman alerted, then chose a path that challenged the quadriceps. When it leveled, she stopped to give her partner water and drink some herself.

She checked her map, her compass.

Could he have detoured, backtracked or looped away from the fishing spot, angled toward his daughter’s old house? Going for his grandson after all? The Hook and Line Day?

Pausing, she tried to see the trees, the rocks, the sky, the paths as Walter would see them.

For him, she imagined, getting lost here would be like getting lost in his own home. Frightening, frustrating.

He might become angry and push himself, or scared, only more confused and wander in aimless circles.

She gave Newman the scent again. “This is Walt. Find Walt.”

She followed the dog as he clambered over a pile of rocks. Veering toward Chuck’s sector, she noted, and called her position in.

When they headed downhill, Newman alerted, strongly, then pushed his body through brush.

She pulled out her tape to mark the alert. “What’ve you got?” She used her flashlight, switching it on to chase away those green shadows.

She saw the disturbed ground first, the depressions, and got a picture in her mind of the old man taking a spill, catching himself by the heels of his hands, his knees.

Briars pulling and tearing, she thought. And, playing the light, she saw a few strands of red cotton snagged on thorns.

“Good boy. Good boy, Newman. Base, this is Fee. I’m about fifty yards from my west boundary. We’ve got some red threads on briars and what looks like signs of a fall. Over.”

“Base, this is Chuck. We just found his hat. Fee, Quirk’s alerting in your direction. We’re moving east. My boy’s got something. I’m going to—Hold on! I see him! He’s down. Ground falls off here. We’re going down to him. He’s not moving. Over.”

“I’m heading your way, Chuck. We’ll assist. Over. Newman! Find Walt. Find!”

She ignored the radio chatter as they continued west, until Chuck re ported again.

“We’ve got him. He’s unconscious. Pulse is thready. He’s got a head wound, a lot of scratches—face, hands. He’s got a gash on his leg, too. We’re going to need some assistance getting him out. Over.”

“Copy that,” Mai said. “Help’s on the way.”

Tired, but fortified with the hot dog she’d grabbed in Deer Harbor, Fiona turned toward home. They’d done their job, she thought, and well. Now she had to hope Walter’s physical stamina would hold the line against his injuries.

“We did what we could, right?” She reached over and gave Newman a pat. “It’s all you can do. You need a bath after all that...”

She trailed off, stopped the car. A second dogwood stood pretty as a picture across from the first. And both, she noted, were tidily mulched.

“Uh-oh,” she said as her heart sighed. “Direct hit.”

Peck and Bogart, thrilled to see her, raced to her car, back to the house as if to say, Come on! Come on home!

Instead, she followed impulse, got out and opened the back. “Let’s go for a ride.”

They didn’t have to be asked twice. While her dogs greeted one another, and the stay-at-homes explored all the fascinating scents Newman brought back from the search, she turned her car around.

On the porch of his shop, Simon sanded a table. The warm day, the sweet air had tempted him outside. With the care and precision of a surgeon, he smoothed the sleek walnut legs. He’d leave this one natural, he decided, and play up that beautiful grain with clear varnish. If somebody wanted uniform, they’d have to buy something else.

“Don’t even think about it,” he ordered as Jaws tried to belly up for the sandblock Simon used for larger areas. “Not now,” he said when the dog bumped his arm with his nose. “Later.”

Jaws scrambled off the porch to choose a stick from the piles of other sticks, balls, chew toys and assorted rocks he’d dumped together in the past ninety minutes.

Simon stopped long enough to shake his head. “When I’m finished.”

The dog wagged his tail, danced in place with the stick clamped in his jaw.

“That’s not going to work.”

Jaws sat, lifted a paw, tilted his head.

“Still not going to work,” Simon muttered, but he felt himself weakening.

Maybe he could take a break, throw the damn stick. The problem was, if he threw it once, the dog would want him to throw it half a million times. But it was kind of cool he’d actually figured out that if he brought it back and dropped it, he got to chase it again.

“Okay, okay, but I’m only giving you ten minutes, then—Hey!”

Annoyed, after he’d decided to play, he watched Jaws race away. Seconds later, Fiona’s car made the curve toward the house.

When she got out, Simon cursed under his breath as Jaws bunched to jump. Hadn’t they been working on that for two damn days? She countered, had him sit, then accepted the stick he offered, hurled it like a javelin.

When she opened the back of her car, it became dog mania.

Simon went back to sanding. If nothing else, maybe she’d keep his dog out of his hair until he finished the job. By the time she’d made it to the porch, Jaws had mined his pile for three more sticks.

“Treasure trove,” she said.

“He’s been trying to con me by dumping stuff there.”

She bent down, chose a bright yellow tennis ball, then threw it high and long.

More mania.

“You brought me another tree.”

“Since you decided to plant the first one where you did, it skewed the balance. It bothered me.”

“And you mulched them.”

“No point in going to the trouble to plant something if you don’t do it right.”

“Thank you, Simon,” she said primly.

He spared her a glance, noted her eyes laughed. “You’re welcome, Fiona.”

“I’d have given you a hand if I’d been home.”

“You were out early.”

She waited, but he didn’t ask. “We had a Search and Rescue on San Juan.”

He paused, gave her his attention. “How’d it go?”

“We found him. An elderly man, with early-onset Alzheimer’s. He’d wandered out, took his fishing gear. It looks like he got confused, maybe had a little visit to the past in his head and just headed out to one of his fishing holes. More confusion and, from the tracking, he got turned around and tried to hike to his daughter’s old house to get his grandson. They live with him now. He did a lot of circling, backtracking, walked miles, we think. Wore himself out, then he took a bad fall.”

“How bad?”

“Gashed his head and leg, concussion, hairline fracture on his left ankle and a bunch of bruises, lacerations, dehydration, shock.”

“Is he going to make it?”

“He’s got a strong constitution, so they’re hopeful, but boy, he took a beating. So, you’re glad you found him, satisfied the unit did the job and concerned you might’ve been too late anyway.” She picked up another stick. “That looks like it’s going to be a nice table. Why don’t I thank you for the tree by playing with your dog while you finish?”

He passed the sandblock from hand to hand as he studied her. “Did you come over to play with my dog?”

“I came over to thank you, and since Syl took my morning classes and I don’t have my last class of the day until five-thirty, I decided to thank you now, in person.”

“What time is it?”

She arched her eyebrows, glanced at her watch. “Three-fifteen.”

“That’ll work.” He tossed the sandpaper down, then stepped off the porch to take her arm and pull her toward the house.

“Are we going somewhere?”

“You know damn well.”

“Some might attempt at least a little warming up before—”

He swung her around, crushed his mouth to hers while his hands streaked down to mold her ass.

“You’re right, that’ll work. I want to say I’m not normally this easy, but—”

“Don’t care.” This time his hands streaked under her jacket, her shirt, up her bare back.

“Me either. Outside.”

“I’m not doing this outside with all these dogs around.”

“No.” She choked out a laugh, struggled to stay on her feet as they groped each other. “I’m telling the dogs to stay outside.”

“Good thinking.” He dragged her onto the back deck, through the door.

He yanked off her jacket, shoved her against the wall. As desperation spiked, she dragged at his shirt.

“Wait.”

“No.”

“No, I mean—I know you’re happy to see me, but I really think that’s an actual hammer pressing into my... Oh God.”

He pulled back, glanced down. “Shit. Sorry.” And unstrapped his tool belt, dumped it on the floor.

“Just let me—” She shoved his unbuttoned work shirt aside, then pulled up the T-shirt he wore beneath. “Oh, mmm,” she said as she pushed her hands up his chest. “Too long,” she managed when his mouth clamped on the side of her neck. “Need to hurry.”

“Okay.” With that he tore her shirt open, popping buttons into the air.

She should’ve been shocked, possibly annoyed—it had been a decent shirt—but the sound of ripping cloth followed by the rough hands on her breasts shot her within a hairbreadth of the edge.

She shuddered, grinding against him, urgent sounds humming in her throat as she fumbled with his zipper. He tugged hers down, one quick, impatient motion, then slid his hand in, down, over. He watched her face, watched those calm eyes glaze like blue glass as she erupted against him. Then he took her mouth again and drove her until she went limp.

“No, you don’t,” he murmured when she started to slide down the wall.

The simplest solution was to toss her over his shoulder and find the handiest flat surface. He dumped her on the dining room table, shoved debris aside. Whatever crashed and shattered could be replaced.

Because he wanted her naked, he pulled off her boots. “Your belt, undo it.”

“What? Oh.” Like a shock victim, she stared at the ceiling while she unhooked her belt. “Am I on the table?”

He pulled her pants down her legs by the hems.

“Am I naked on the table?”

“Not quite yet.”

But close enough. He wanted his hands on every inch that was, every inch that wasn’t. He dealt with his own boots, pants, then climbed on to straddle her.

“Handy,” he decided when he noted the front hook of her bra. He flipped it, then simply lowered to devour.

“Oh. God.” She arched, her hands fisting on the table before she dug her fingers into his back. “Thank God. Don’t stop. Just don’t stop.”

He used his teeth, and she thought she’d go mad. Too much, too much, this tidal wave of needs and pleasures and demands. And yet her body consumed them, starved for more.

She heard cloth ripping again and realized he’d torn her panties away.

She was being ravished, she thought as she gasped for air—and the little kernel of shock only added to the wild thrill.

She tried to say his name, to slow things down—just enough to breathe—or to give back. But he shoved her knees back and drove into her. Hard as steel, fast as lightning. And she could only cry out and ride the storm.

She closed around him when she came, squeezing like a fist. The sensation only whipped him on. He’d wanted her, and that want had sharpened over the last days. But now, with that long, tight body quaking under his, those surprising and sexy muscles taut under his hands, that want turned its keen edge inside him.

He took until she went lax, then took more until that edge sliced through him and emptied him out.

She heard music. Angels singing? she thought, dizzy. It seemed odd for angels to sing after table sex. She managed to swallow on a throat wildly dry.

“Music,” she murmured.

“My phone. In my pants. Don’t care.”

“Oh. Not angels.”

“No. Def Leppard.”

“Okay.” She managed to find the energy to lift her hand, stroke it down his back. “Once again, I have to say thank you, Simon.”

“No problem.”

She let out a rusty laugh. “That’s good because I don’t think I did much of the work.”

“Am I complaining?”

She smiled, closed her eyes and kept stroking his back. “Where are we, exactly?”

“It’s the dining-room-slash-downstairs-office area. For now.”

“So we had sex on your dining-room-slash... workstation.”

“Yeah.”

“Did you make the table?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s very smooth.” A giggle tickled her throat, then escaped. “And remarkably sturdy.”

“I do good work.” He lifted his head then, looked down at her. And smiled. “It’s cherry with a birch inlay. Pedestal style. I was going to sell it, but now—maybe not.”

“If you change your mind, I’d like first bid.”

“Maybe. Obviously it suits you.”

She touched a hand to his cheek. “Can I get some water? I feel like I climbed Mount Constitution without a bottle.”

“Sure.”

She lifted her eyebrows when he rolled off the table and strode, naked, out of the room. She was pretty comfortable with her own body, but she couldn’t see herself walking around her house naked.

Still, he looked damn good doing it.

She sat up, took a breath, started to stretch with a huge smile on her face. Then stopped in shock. They’d just had crazed sex on the dining room table, in front of open, uncurtained windows. She could see the dogs romping, his drive, her own car.

Anyone could’ve driven up, hiked up from the beach, out of the woods.

When he walked back in with a bottle of water, already uncapped and half empty, she pointed. “Windows.”

“Yeah. Table, windows, ceiling, floor. Here.” He passed her the bottle. “I started it, you can finish it off.”

“But windows. Daylight, open.”

“It’s a little late to get shy now.”

“I didn’t realize.” She took a long drink, then another. “It’s probably for the best. But next time—if you’re interested in next times.”

“I’m not done with you yet.”

“That’s a very Simon way to put it.” She took another, slower drink. “Next time I think we should try for a little more privacy.”

“You were in a hurry.”

“I have no argument.”

He smiled at her again. “You make a hell of a centerpiece. All I need is a picture of you, sitting there in the middle of the table, your hair catching just the right amount of sun, all messy around your face, and those long legs drawn up right below those very pretty breasts. I could get a freaking fortune for that table.”

“No dice.”

“I’ll give you thirty percent.”

She laughed, but wasn’t entirely sure he was joking. “And still no. I wish I didn’t have to, but I need to get dressed and go.”

He took her hand, turned her wrist to check the time. “We’ve still got an hour.”

“During which I have to get home, clean up. Dogs are... very sensitive to scent.”

“Got it. They’ll smell the sex.”

“In indelicate terms, yes. So I need a shower. I also need a shirt. You ripped mine.”

“You were—”

“In a hurry.” She laughed and, despite the uncurtained windows, was tempted to leap up and do a happy dance on the table. “But I still need to borrow a shirt.”

“Okay.”

When he walked out naked again, she shook her head. After sliding off the table, she pulled on her pants, her bra.

Just as casually, he walked in and tossed her the shirt she’d recently yanked off him.

“Thanks.”

He tugged his work pants on while she pulled on her boots. Though she felt a little dreamy, she matched his easy tone when she stepped over, touched his face again.

“Next time, maybe we’ll have dinner first.” She kissed him lightly. “Thanks for the tree, and the use of the table.”

She walked out, called up her dogs and gave Jaws a body-scrub good-bye. It pleased her to see Simon standing out on the deck, shirtless, his hands in the pockets of his yet to be buttoned jeans, watching her as she drove away.

Twelve

Francis X. Eckle completed the last of his daily One Hundred. A hundred push-ups, a hundred crunches, a hundred squats. He performed these, as always, in the privacy of his motel room.

He showered, using his own unscented shower gel rather than the stingy sliver of motel soap. He shaved, using a compact electric razor that he cleaned meticulously every morning. He brushed his teeth with one of the travel brushes in his kit, which he then marked with an X for future disposal.

He never left anything personal in the motel waste can.

He dressed in baggy sweatshorts and an oversized white T-shirt, nondescript running shoes. Under the T-shirt he wore a security belt holding cash and his current ID. Just in case.

He studied himself in the mirror.

The clothes and the bulk of the belt disguised the body he’d sculpted to mean and muscular perfection, and gave the illusion of an ordinary man, a bit thick in the middle, about his ordinary morning. He studied his face—brown eyes, long, bladed nose, thin, firm mouth, smooth cheeks—until he was satisfied with its pleasant, even forgettable expression.

He kept his brown hair close-cropped. He wanted to shave it for ease and cleanliness, but though a shaved head had become fairly common, his mentor insisted it drew more attention than ordinary brown hair.

This morning, as every morning over the past weeks, he considered ignoring that directive and doing what suited him.

This morning, as every morning, he resisted. But it was becoming harder as he felt his own power grow, as he embraced his new self, to follow the lesson plan.

“For now,” he murmured. “But not for much longer.”

Over his head, he fit a dark blue cap with no logo.

There was nothing about him to draw the eye, to earn a glance by a casual observer.

He never stayed in the same hotel or motel more than three nights—two was better. He sought out one with a gym at least every other stop, but otherwise looked for the lower-end type of establishment where service—and the attendant attention—was all but nonexistent.

He’d lived frugally all of his life, dutifully pinching pennies. Before he’d begun this journey he’d gradually sold everything he owned of value.

He could afford a great many cheap motel rooms before the journey’s end.

He slipped his key card into his pocket and took one of the bottles of water from the case he’d brought in himself. Before leaving the room, he switched on the camera hidden in his travel alarm by his bedside, then plugged in the earbuds for his iPod.

The first would assure him housekeeping didn’t poke through his things; the second would discourage conversation.

He needed the gym, needed the weights and machines, and the mental and physical release they provided. Since he’d converted, the days without them left him tense and angry and nervous, clouded his mind. He’d have preferred to work out in solitude, but traveling required adjustments.

So with his pleasant expression in place he walked outside and across to the tiny lobby and the tiny health club.

A man walked with obvious reluctance on one of the two treadmills, and a middle-aged woman rode a recumbent bike while reading a novel with a bright cover. He timed his gym visit carefully—don’t be the first or the only.

He chose the other treadmill, selected a program, then switched off the iPod to watch the news on the TV bracketed in the corner.

There would be a story, he thought.

But as the newscasters reported on world events, he started his run and let his mind focus on the latest correspondence from his mentor. He’d memorized every line before destroying it, as he had all the others.

Dear friend,

I hope you’re well. I’m pleased with your progress to date, but want to advise you not to push yourself too fast, too soon. Remember to enjoy your travels and your accomplishments, and know you continue to have my support and my gratitude as you prepare to correct my foolish and disappointing mistake.

School your body, your mind, your spirit. Maintain your discipline. You are the power, you are the control. Use both wisely and you will amass more fame, more fear, more success than any who have come before you.

I look forward to hearing from you, and know that I am with you, in every step of your journey.

Your Guide

Fate had taken him to that prison, Eckle thought, where George Allen Perry had unlocked the cell he’d been trapped in all of his life. He’d toddled like a child with those first steps of freedom, then had walked, then had run. Now, now he craved the heady taste of that freedom like breath. Craved it until he’d begun to twitch at the rules, the regulations, the absolutes Perry asked of him.

He was no longer the soft, awkward boy desperate for approval and hounded by bullies. No longer the child passed from hand to hand because of a selfish whore of a mother.

No longer the pimply, overweight teen ignored or laughed at by girls.

All of his life he’d lived inside that cage of pretense. Stay quiet, tolerate, obey the rules, study and take whatever was left when the stronger, the more attractive, the more aggressive took theirs.

How many times had he seethed in silence when passed over for a promotion, a prize, a girl? How many times had he, alone, in the dark, plotted and imagined revenge against coworkers, students, neighbors, even strangers on the street?

He’d begun these travels, as Perry had explained to him, before they’d met—but he’d carried the cage with him. He’d worked to discipline his body, pushing through pain and frustration and deprivation. He’d sought and found a rigid internal control, and still had failed in so many ways. Because he’d still been locked in that cage. Unable to perform with women when, at last, one deigned to sleep with him. Forced to humiliate himself with whores—like his mother.

No longer. Perry’s creed preached that the act of sexual intercourse diminished a man’s power, gave that power to the woman—who would always, always use it against him. Release could be gained in other, more potent ways. Ways only a relative few dared practice. With that release power and pleasure rose.

Now that the cage was open, he’d discovered in himself both an aptitude and an appetite for that release, and the power that charged through it.

But with the power came responsibility—and that, he could admit, he found difficult to navigate. The more he gained, the more he wanted. Perry was right, of course. He needed to maintain his discipline, to enjoy the journey and not rush it.

And yet...

As he pushed up the speed and resistance on the treadmill, Francis promised himself and his absent mentor he would refrain from seeking his next partner for at least two weeks.

Instead he would travel a bit more—meandering. He would allow his power to recharge, feed his mind with books.

He wouldn’t head north, not yet.

And while he recharged and fed, he’d monitor Perry’s disappointing mistake through her blog, her website. When it was time, he would correct that mistake—the only payment Perry asked of him, the price for tearing down the cage.

He looked forward, like a child to a parent’s applause, to Perry’s approval when he took, strangled and buried Fiona Bristow.

Bringing her image into his mind pushed him through the next mile while sweat ran down his face, his body. His reward came when the news-caster reported on the discovery of a young woman’s body in the Klamath National Forest.

For the first time that morning, Eckle smiled.

On Sunday, Mai and her dogs came for a visit. Saturday night’s rain left the air cool and fresh as sorbet and teased out a haze of green on the young dogwoods flanking the bridge. In the field the grasses sparkled with wet while the creek bubbled busily and the dogs romped like kids in a playground.

On the scale of lazy Sunday mornings, Fiona rated this one a solid ten. With Mai, she relaxed on the porch with the mochaccinos and cranberry muffins the vet had bought in the village.

“It’s like a reward.”

“Hmm?” Slumped down, eyes half open behind the amber shades of her sunglasses, Mai broke off another piece of her muffin.

“Mornings like this, they’re like a reward for the rest of the week. All the get-up, get-going, get-it-done mornings. This is the carrot on the stick, the brass ring, the prize at the bottom of the cereal box.”

“In my next life I’d like to come back as a dog because, really, in the great scheme? Every morning is the prize at the bottom of the cereal box for a dog.”

“They don’t get mochaccinos on the porch.”

“True, but toilet water would taste just as wonderful.”

Fiona studied her coffee, considered. “What kind of dog?”

“I think a Great Pyrenees, for the size, the majesty. I think I deserve it after being short in this life.”

“It’s a nice choice.”

“Well, I’ve given it some thought.” Mai yawned, stretched. “Sheriff Tyson called me this morning to let me know they upgraded Walter’s condition to stable. He’s going to be in the hospital for another few days, but if he stays level, they’ll let him go home. The daughter and her family are making arrangements for a visiting nurse.”

“That’s good news. Do you want me to pass it along?”

“I let Chuck know, so I figure he’ll take care of that. Since I was heading over, I thought I’d just tell you in person. By the way, I really like your trees.”

“Aren’t they great?” Just looking at them made Fiona smile. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. Now I’m thinking maybe I should plant something splashy at the far end of the drive. Like an entryway. It’d be a kind of landmark for new clients, too. Turn at the drive with the... whatever I decide on.”

Mai tipped down her glasses to peer at Fiona over the tops. “Moving out of the low-key stage? And I worried you’d put a gate up.”

Sipping her coffee, Fiona watched the dogs troop around the yard in what she thought of as The Peeing Contest. “Because of Vickie Scala?” she said, referring to the latest victim. “A gate wouldn’t do me much good if... and it’s a big if.”

But like Mai and her next life as a dog, she’d given it some thought.

“It makes me sick to think about those girls, and their families. And there’s nothing I can do, Mai. Nothing at all.”

Mai reached over, squeezed Fiona’s hand. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s on my mind. How could it not be? And I’m scared. You’re probably the only one I can say that to, just flat-out.” Fiona held on to Mai’s hand a moment, steadied by the contact. “I’m scared because if. I’m scared because there’s nothing I can do. I’m scared because it took them years to catch Perry, and I don’t know how I’ll cope if the pattern repeats. If I said that to Syl or my mother, they’d turn themselves inside out with worry.”

“Okay.” Tone brisk, Mai shifted to face Fiona. “I think you’d be stupid not to be scared, and why the hell would you be stupid? I think if it wasn’t on your mind, you’d be hiding in denial, and what good would that do? And I think if you didn’t feel sick and sorry about those girls, you’d be heartless, and how could you be?”

“And there,” Fiona said on a wave of relief, “is why I could say it to you.”

“Now, on the other end of the scale, on the solid reasons not to freak—scared, yes, freaked, no—you have the dogs, and you have people who’re going to be checking on you with such annoying regularity you’ll be tempted to tell them to butt the fuck out. Oh, and don’t bother to tell me to butt the fuck out,” she added. “I’ll just kick your ass. Short, yes, but mighty.”

“Yes, you are. I also know we’re sitting here drinking mochaccinos and watching our dogs play because you’re checking on me. And I appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I want you to plant your splashy whatever at the end of your drive, Fee, if it makes you happy. But I want you to be careful, too.”

“Part of me wonders if I’ve ever really stopped being careful since the day Perry grabbed me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I stopped running, and God, Mai, I used to love it. Now I use a treadmill, and it’s not the same rush. But I settle because I feel safer. I haven’t gone anywhere alone in years.”

“That’s not...” Mai paused. “Really?”

“Really. You know, it didn’t occur to me until this started that I never go anywhere without at least one of the dogs—and part of the reason is what happened to me. I wait for movies to come out on DVD or cable instead of going to the movies because I don’t want to leave one of the dogs in the car that long—and more, I only take all three of them, leaving the house unguarded, when it’s for training or when I’m taking them into your office.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No, and I’m okay with it—I just didn’t realize the underlying reason for it. Or didn’t admit it. I leave my door open a lot. I rarely lock it—until recently—because the dogs give me the sense of security I need. I haven’t actively thought about all that happened, not really, in the last year or two, but I’ve protected myself, or at least my sense of security, all this time.”

“Proving you have a smart unconscious.”

“I like to think so. My conscious is also doing some target practice. I haven’t done any shooting in a couple years either. So...” She shook it all off. “I’m doing whatever I can, which includes not obsessing about it. Let’s talk about the spa.”

Enough, Mai decided. She hadn’t come to drag Fiona into the stress but to help ease it. “We could, and we should, but first I could tell you about my date for drinks this evening.”

“You have a date?” This time Fiona lowered her sunglasses. “With who?”

“With Robert. He’s a psychologist, with his own practice in Seattle. Forty-one, divorced, with a nine-year-old daughter. He shares custody. He has a three-year-old Portuguese water dog named Cisco. He likes jazz, skiing and travel.”

“You used HeartLine-dot-com.”

“I did, and I’m taking the ferry over and meeting him for drinks.”

“You don’t like jazz, or skiing.”

“No, but I like dogs, I like to travel when I can, and I like kids, so it balances out.” Stretching out her legs, Mai studied the toes of her shoes. “I like ski lodges, with roaring fires and Irish coffee, so that’s half a point. Besides, I have a date, which means I’m going to put on a nice outfit, fuss with my makeup and go have a conversation with someone I haven’t met. And if there’s no zing, I get on the ferry, come home and try again.”

“I’d be nervous. Are you nervous?”

“A little, but it’s a good nervous. I want a relationship, Fee, I really do. It’s not just the dry spell, because, hello, Stanley. I want someone I care enough about to want to spend time with, be with, fall in love with. I want a family.”

“I hope he’s wonderful. I hope Robert the psychologist is freaking amazing. I hope there’s zing and common ground and palpitations and laughs. I really do.”

“Thanks. The best part is, I’m doing something for myself. Taking a chance, which I haven’t done, not really, since the divorce. Even if there’s zing, I’m going to take it slow. I want to get a feel for how this whole thing works before I jump into the pool.”

Feeling the vibes of Mai’s good nerves and anticipation, Fiona sat silently a minute. “Well, speaking of zing, I guess I have to tell you I’ve lost the contest.”

“The—You had sex?” Mai scooted around in her chair, whipped off her sunglasses. “You had sex and didn’t tell me?”

“It was only a couple of days ago.”

“You had sex a couple of days ago and didn’t immediately call me? Who—Well, shit, why would I even ask? It has to be Simon Doyle.”

“It could’ve been a new client I was suddenly hot for.”

“No, it was Simon—who actually is a new client you’re hot for. Details. The nitty and the gritty.”

“He gave me the trees.”

“Oh.” Mai sighed, turned to look at them. “Oh,” she sighed again.

“I know. The first one was part of a deal, a trade for this stump he wanted.”

“The stump sink. I heard about it.”

“I said maybe I should get another, and he got it, planted it—when we were out on the search. I came home, and there it was—planted, mulched, watered. I got the other dogs and went over to thank him. And I guess I thanked him by having sex with him on his dining room table.”

“Sweet magnetic Jesus on the dashboard. On the table?”

“It just sort of happened.”

“How does it happen that trees lead to table sex?”

“One minute we’re outside talking, then he’s pulling me to the house. Then we’re all over each other and pulling and dragging each other toward the front door.”

“This is the flaw in the Stanley system—the lack of pulling and dragging. Then what?”

“And when we got there, I’m up against the wall, actually telling him to hurry. So he dumped me on the table, shoved things off and wow. Wow.”

“A moment to recover, please.” Sitting back, Mai waved a hand in front of her face. “Obviously this wasn’t crappy sex.”

“I almost hate to say it because it might make it more than it might be, but it was, it really was the best sex of my life. And I loved Greg, Mai, but this? It was outrageously stupendous sex.”

“Are you going to see him again that way?”

“Definitely.” Fiona laid a hand on her heart, did a pat-pat. “Plus or moreover or first and foremost, I like him. I like the way he is, the way he looks, the way he is with his dog. And you know, I like that I’m not his type—at least according to him—but he wants me. It makes me feel... powerful, I guess.”

“That much like could get serious.”

“It could. I guess, like you, I’m doing something for myself, and taking a chance.”

“Okay. Here’s to us.” Mai lifted what was left of her coffee. “Adventurous women.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Seeing as you had sex on the dining room table, it probably feels better to you. But yeah, it feels good.”

They both glanced over as the dogs sounded the alert.

“Well, well, lookie here,” Mai murmured as Simon drove over the bridge. “Is your table cleared off ?”

“Ssh!” Fiona strangled a laugh. “Either way,” she muttered, “I’ve got the first of my Sunday sessions in about twenty minutes.”

“Just enough time to—”

“Cut it out.” She watched Simon get out and Jaws leap after him. Jaws raced for her dogs, then stopped to sniff and wag at and around Mai’s. “No aggression,” she commented, “no shyness. He’s a damn happy dog.”

Simon walked over, held out a collar. “The one I borrowed before. Dr. Funaki.”

“Mai. Nice to see you, Simon, and with such good timing as I have to go. But first. Jaws, come here. Here, Jaws.”

The pup reacted with joy, bulleting over and onto the porch. Mai held her hand out, palm first, as he bunched to leap. He shivered, so obviously dying for just one jump, but stayed down.

“What a good dog.” She stroked, rubbed, smiled up at Simon. “He reacts well to a group, is cheerfully friendly, and he’s learning his manners. You’ve got a winner here.”

“He’s stealing my shoes.”

“The chewing stage can be a problem.”

“No, he’s not chewing them—anymore. He just steals them and hides them. I found my boot in the bathtub this morning.”

“He’s found a new game.” Mai ruffled his ears while the other dogs came up to bump and squeeze in for attention. “Your shoes carry your scent, obviously. He’s attracted to and comforted by your scent. And he’s playing with you. Aren’t you clever?” She gave Jaws a kiss on the nose, then rose. “It’s time to think about neutering.”

“What are you two, a tag team?”

“Read the literature I gave you. We’ll talk soon,” she said to Fiona. “Oh, cleavage or legs?”

“Legs, save the girls for round two.”

“That’s what I thought. Bye, Simon. Come on, babies! Let’s go for a ride.”

“You won’t ask,” Fiona said as she waved Mai and her dogs off, “so I’ll just tell you. She has a date—a first date—and was asking which asset to highlight.”

“Okay.”

“Men don’t have to worry about that particular area of dating ritual.”

“Sure we do. If it’s cleavage we still have to look you in the face and pretend not to notice.”

“You’ve got a point.” Since he stood on the steps, she laid her hands on his shoulders, leaned in for an easy kiss. “So, I’ve got a class in a few minutes. Did you time this visit to check up on me?”

“I returned the collar.”

“So you did. If you want you can stay for the class. It might be good for Jaws to interact with another set of dogs. It’s a small group, and we’re going to work on some basic search skills. I’d like to see how he does.”

“We’ve got nothing else going on. Teach him something else.”

“Now?”

“I need a distraction. I’ve been thinking about getting you naked since I got you naked. So teach him something else.”

She slid her hands up, brushed them over his cheeks. “You know, that’s oddly romantic.”

“Romance? I’ll pick a couple wildflowers next time I think about getting you naked. And this isn’t distracting me, so... where the hell is he?”

Simon scanned the porch, turned. “Oh, shit.”

Fiona grabbed his arm as he braced to run.

“No, wait. He’s fine.” She studied Jaws as he climbed up the ladder of the sliding board after Bogart. “He wants to play with the big guys. If you run or call out, you’ll break his focus and balance.”

Jaws climbed to the top, tail waving like a flag, but unlike Bogart, who pranced his way down the short slide, he slipped at the top, belly-flopped, then did a slow header into the soft ground below.

“Not bad,” Fiona declared as Simon snorted out a laugh. “Get your treats.” She walked over, calling out praise and approval in a cheerful voice. “Let’s try it again, want to try it again? Climb,” she said, adding a hand signal. “He does well on the ladder,” she said as Simon joined her, “and that’s generally the most difficult. It’s open and it’s vertical. He’s agile, and he’s watched the other dogs do it. He’s figured out how to go up. So... there we are, good boy.”

She took a treat from Simon, rewarded the dog when he reached the top. “You just need to give him a little help figuring out how to walk down, keep his footing. Walk. That’s it. Good balance. Good, good job.” She rewarded him again at the bottom. “You do it with him so... What?” she demanded when she looked up to find him staring at her.

“You’re not beautiful.”

“There you go again, Mr. Romance.”

“You’re not, but you grab hold. I haven’t figured out why.”

“Let me know when you do. Take him up and down.”

“And I’m doing this because?”

“He’s learning how to navigate unstable footing. It gives him confidence, enhances his agility. And he likes it.”

She stepped back, watched the two of them play the game a few times. Not beautiful, she thought. The observation, and the fact that he just said it, should’ve been a flick to the ego—even though it was perfectly true. So why had it amused her, at least for the few seconds between that and his next comment?

You grab hold. That made her heart flutter.

The man incited the oddest reactions in her.

“I want him,” Fiona said when Jaws all but swaggered down the slide.

“You’ve got your pronouns confused. Me. You want me.”

“I admire your ego, but I meant him.”

“Well, you can’t have him. I’m getting used to him, and besides, my mother would be seriously pissed if I gave him away.”

“I want him for the program. I want to train him for S-and-R.”

Simon shook his head. “I’ve read your website, your blog. When you say train him, you mean us. Those crazy pronouns again.”

“You read my blog?”

He shrugged. “I’ve skimmed it.”

She smiled. “But you have no interest in S-and-R?”

“You have to drop everything when a call comes in, right?”

“That’s pretty much right.”

“I don’t want to drop everything, or whatever.”

“That’s fair enough.” She took a little band out of her pocket, bound her hair back with a couple of quick twists. “I could train him as an alternate. Just him. He responds to me, obviously. And any S-and-R dog needs to respond to other handlers. There are times one of our dogs is unable—sick, maybe, injured.”

“You have three.”

“Yes, because, well, I want three, and yes, because if someone else’s dog is unable, one of mine can go as backup. I’ve been doing this for years now, Simon, and your dog would be good. He’d be very good. I’m not giving you the pitch to join the unit, just to train your dog. On my own time. If nothing else, you’ll end up with a dog with superior skills and training.”

“How much time?”

“Ideally, I’d like to work with him a little every day, but at least five days a week. I can do it at your place and stay out of your way while you’re working. Some of what I teach him you’ll want to follow up on.”

“Maybe. We can see how it goes.” Simon glanced over to where Jaws was engaged in one of his favorite activities: chasing his own tail. “It’s your time.”

“Yeah, it is. Clients coming,” she announced. “You can sit this one out if you want. I can work with him solo.”

“I’m here anyway.”

It was interesting, Simon decided, and semi-distracting. Fiona called it The Runaway Game, and it involved a lot of running—dogs and people—in the field across her bridge. The class worked in pairs, or with Fiona as a partner—one dog at a time.

“I don’t get the point,” he said when Jaws was up. “He’s going to see where I’m going. He’d have to be an idiot not to find me.”

“It teaches him to find you on command, and to use his scenting skill—that’s why we’re running against the wind, so our scent goes toward the dog. Anyway, he’s going to find me. You need to get him excited.”

He looked down at the dog, whose tail chopped the air like a Ginsu knife. “He gets excited if somebody glances in his direction.”

“Which is to his advantage. Talk to him, be excited. Tell him to watch me when I run away. Watch Fee! Then the minute I drop down behind the bush, tell him to find and release him. Keep telling him to find me. If he gets confused, give him a chance to catch my scent. If it doesn’t work the first time, I’ll call him, give him an audio clue. You need to hold him, keep him with you while I get his attention, and run. Ready?”

He finger-combed his breeze-ruffled hair out of his face. “It’s not brain surgery.”

She gave Jaws a rub, let him lick and sniff at her before she straightened. “Hey, Jaws! Hey.” She clapped her hands. “I’m going to run. Watch me, Jaws, watch me run. Tell him to watch me. Use my name.”

She took off at a dash.

She hadn’t exaggerated, Simon noted. She was fast.

And he’d been wrong. When she moved, she was beautiful.

“Watch Fee. Where the hell’s she going, huh? Watch her. Jesus, she’s like an antelope. Watch Fee.”

She dropped down, out of sight, behind a bush.

“Find her! Go find Fee.”

The pup tore across the field, expressing his excitement with a couple happy barks. Not as fast as the woman, Simon thought, but... Then he felt a quick surge of surprise and pride as Jaws homed straight in.

A couple of the other dogs had needed the hider to call out, and one had required the visual clue of the hider waving a hand beside the bush.

But not Jaws.

Across the field he could hear Fiona laughing and praising even as his temporary classmates applauded.

Not half bad, Simon thought. Not bad at all.

She ran back with the dog happily chasing her.

“We do it again, right away. Praise first, reward, then we go again.”

“Heaced it,” Simon murmured when the class was over. “Three times in a row, different hiding spots.”

“He’s got the knack. You can work with him at home, with objects. Use something he likes, that he knows the name of—or work to teach him the name. Show it to him, then make him sit/stay and go hide it. Easy places at first. Go back, tell him to find. If he can’t find it, guide him to it. You want success.”

“Maybe I should tell him to find my tennis shoe. I don’t know where the hell he put it.” He looked at her, a long, thorough look that had her raising her eyebrows. “You run like the fucking wind, Fiona.”

“You should’ve seen me run the four-hundred-meter hurdles in college. I was amazing.”

“Probably because you have legs up to your ears. Did you wear one of those skinny little uniforms—aerodynamic?”

“I did. Very flattering.”

“I bet. How long before the next class?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Long enough.” He began to back her toward the house.

She kept her eyes on his, and he saw the laugh in them, a sparkle on the serene blue. “No ‘Would you like to?’ or ‘I can’t resist you’?”

“No.” He clamped her waist, lifted her up the porch steps.

“If I said I’m not in the mood?”

“I’d be disappointed, and you’d be lying.”

“You’re right about the lying. So...” She pulled the door open, tugged him inside.

But when she backed toward the steps, he shifted directions.

“Couch is closer.”

It was also softer than the dining room table, at least until they rolled off and hit the floor. And it was, Fiona thought when she lay beside him trying to regain her breath and the path to coherent thought, every bit as exciting.

“Eventually we might make it to a bed.”

He trailed, very lightly, a fingertip over her breast. “Cancel the class and we’ll go up now.”

“It’s a shame I’m a responsible woman—and one who barely has time to take a shower.”

“Oh yeah, the obligatory shower. I could use one.”

“Doubling up would only lead to shower sex.”

“Damn straight.”

“Which, while fun, I have no time for. Besides, you and Jaws can’t do the next class. It risks overtraining. But you could—” She broke off when the dogs announced visitors. “Oh hell, oh shit!” Scrambling, she grabbed her shirt, her pants, bundled them in front of her as she hunched toward the window.

“It’s James, and oh God, Lori. It’s James and Lori and I’m naked in the living room on a Sunday afternoon.” She glanced back. “And you’re naked on the floor.”

She looked so sexily flustered, a little wild in the eye and pink from her toes to her hairline.

Delicious, he thought. He could’ve lapped her up like ice cream. “I like it here.”

“No! No! Get up!” She waved her hands, dropped her shirt, grabbed it again. “Up, get something on. Go... go tell them I’ll be out in five minutes.”

“Because you’re taking an after-sex shower?”

“Just... get your pants on!” Still hunched, she sprinted for the stairs.

Grinning—she looked even more interesting running naked—he tugged on his pants, tossed on his shirt and, grabbing his socks and boots, strolled out onto the porch.

James and Lori stopped greeting the dogs. James’s eyes narrowed. Lori flushed.

“She’ll be out in a couple minutes.” Simon sat to put on his socks and boots. Jaws instantly made a lunge for a boot. Simon swung it out of reach, said, “Cut it out.”

“Nice-looking dog. How’s his training coming?”

“It’s coming. We just took in a class.”

James’s eyes stayed narrowed. “Is that what you just did?”

Simon laced up his boot, smiled coolly. “Among other things. Is that a problem for you?”

Lori patted frantically at James’s arm. “We just dropped by to see if Fiona wanted to grab some dinner after her classes. You could join us.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got to get on. See you around.” He walked to his truck. Jaws danced in place, obviously torn, then ran after Simon, leaped into the cab of the truck.

“I don’t know about this,” James muttered.

“It’s not our business—exactly.”

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, practically. It’s daylight.”

“Prude.” Lori elbowed him and laughed.

“I’m not a prude, but—”

“People make love in the daylight, James. Plus I like knowing he’s around, spending time with her. Didn’t you say we should come by just to check on her?”

“Yeah, but we’re her friends.”

“I think Fee and Simon are pretty friendly. Just a wild guess. I’m sorry if you’re jealous, but—”

“I’m not.” Genuinely surprised, he stopped scowling after Simon and turned to her.

“I know you and Fee are close,” Lori began, lowering her lashes.

“Wow. No. Not that way.”

The lashes lifted again. “At all?”

“At all, as in never. Jeez, do people actually think... ?”

“Oh, I don’t know about people. I guess I just thought you were, or had been or maybe hoped to.” She managed an embarrassed laugh. “I’ll shut up now.”

“Listen, Fee and I are... we’re like family. I don’t think about her that way. I don’t think that way.” He paused until she looked at him, looked in his eyes. “About Fee.”

“Maybe you think that way about somebody else?”

“All the time.”

“Oh.” She laughed again. “Thank God.”

He started to touch her; she started to let him. And Fiona rushed out of the house.

“Hey! Hi. It’s my day for pals. Did Simon leave?”

James let out a long breath. “Yeah, he said he had to go.”

“Sorry,” Lori put in. “Lousy timing.”

“Actually, it could’ve been worse. Or much more embarrassing for all. Let’s just close the door on all that. So.” She offered a big, bright smile. “What are you two up to?”

Thirteen

“Organic milk.” Fiona unloaded the items she’d picked up for Sylvia. “Free-range eggs, goat cheese, lentils, brown rice and one shiny eggplant. Mmm, yummy.”

“I shudder to think what you’ve got in the car.”

“Besides Bogart? You’re better off not knowing.”

“Fat, salt, starch and sugar.”

“Maybe, but also a couple of very pretty apples. And look what I got for you,” she said to Oreo, “because you’re so cute.”

She pulled out a squeaky toy, gave it a squeeze and sent the little dog into a quiver of delight. “Sylvia,” she said when she offered the toy, and Oreo pranced off with it. “I’m having an affair.” With a laugh she turned two quick circles. “I’m closing in on thirty, and I’ve never been able to say that before. I’m having a hot, steamy, crazy affair.”

With the one shiny eggplant in her hand, Sylvia smiled. “It’s certainly giving you a relaxed, happy glow.”

“Is it?” Fiona laid her hands on her own cheeks. “Well, I am relaxed and happy. You know it was never an affair with Greg. It was friendship and a crush and a relationship one after another, or altogether. But a slow build. And this? This has been pow! Explosive.”

She leaned on the kitchen counter, grinned. “I’m having scorching, no-strings sex, and it’s fabulous.”

“Do you want to keep it that way?” Sylvia gave Fiona’s hair, loose today, swinging, a quick stroke. “The no strings?”

“I’m not thinking about that yet.” Fiona lifted her shoulders, let them fall in a kind of internal hug. “I like this phase of not thinking about it.”

“Exciting. A little dangerous. Unpredictable.”

“Yes! And that’s all so unlike me. No plans, no checklist.”

“And all glow.”

“If it keeps up, I may turn radioactive.” Charged, she broke a sprig of glossy green grapes from the bunch in the bowl on the counter and began popping them into her mouth. “I’ve been training Jaws one-on-one. Over a week now, which means either I go over there or Simon brings the dog to me. And we don’t always... There isn’t always time, but there’s always heat.”

“Don’t you ever go out? I mean, wouldn’t you like to go have dinner or catch a movie?”

“I don’t know. That all seems...” She whisked a hand through the air. “Outside right now. Maybe we will, or maybe it’ll burn off. But right now, I feel so involved, so excited, so—cliché time—alive. I’m a walking buzz. Did you ever have one? A hot, steamy affair?”

“Yes, I did.” After tucking the eggs away, Sylvia closed the refrigerator. “With your father.”

Fiona patted a hand to her throat as a grape threatened to lodge. “ Seriously?”

“I think we both decided it was just sex, just a fast, exciting ride—during that no-thinking phase.”

“Hold on a minute, because I want to hear this but I don’t want to get a picture in my head. That’s too weird. Okay, okay.” She squeezed her eyes shut, nodded. “No video. You and Dad.”

Sylvia licked her fingertip, made a hissing sound. “Scorching. I was managing Island Arts in those days. I have many, many fond memories of the stockroom.”

“I must say... wow. Dad in the stockroom.”

“Exciting, a little dangerous, unpredictable.”

“Like you,” Fiona murmured. “Not so much like him—or my perception of him.”

“We were like teenagers.” She sighed, smiled. “God, he made me feel that way. Of course, I was much too unconventional to consider marriage, so I imagined we’d just continue as we were, until we stopped. And then, I don’t know, Fee, how or when or why, not specifically, but then I couldn’t imagine my life without him. Thank God he felt the same.”

“He was so nervous the first time he took me to meet you. I know I was young, but I knew he loved you because he was so nervous.”

“He loved us both. We were lucky. Still, when he asked me to marry him, I thought, Oh no, absolutely not. Marriage? Just a piece of paper, just an empty ritual. I thought absolutely not, but I said yes—and stunned myself. My heart,” she murmured, laying her hand over it. “My heart wouldn’t say no.”

Fiona ran those words through her mind on the drive home. My heart wouldn’t say no.

She thought it lovely, and at the same time felt relief that, at the moment, her heart kept silent. A speaking heart could break—she knew that very well. As long as hers remained content, she’d stay relaxed and happy.

Spring was beginning to show her face as field and hill and forest steeped in green, sprinkled by the bold yellow of wild buttercups, like grains of shaken sunlight. Maybe there was a dusting of snow high up on Mount Constitution, but the contrast of white peaks against soft blue only made the shy blooms of the early white fawn lilies more charming, the three-note call of the sparrow more poignant.

Right at the moment, she felt like the island—coming alive, blooming, busy with the business of being.

Classes and clients and work on her blog packed her days, while her unit and training added the spice of satisfaction. Her own three dogs gave her love, entertainment, security. Her very hot neighbor kept her excited and aware—and had a dog she believed she could mold into a solid, even superior, Search and Rescue dog.

The police didn’t have any news—not that they were sharing, in any case—on the three murdered women, but... There’d been no more abductions reported in two weeks.

As she rounded a curve she caught sight of the iridescent blur of a hummingbird zipping along a clump of red-flowering currant.

If that couldn’t be taken as a good omen, she mused, what could?

“No bad news, Bogart, just the—what is that song?—the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees. Hell, that’s going to stick in my head.”

He thumped his glossy black tail, so she sang it again. “I don’t know the rest—before my time, you know. Anyway, errands are done, we’re nearly home. And you know what? Maybe I’ll give Jaws’s daddy a call, see if he wants to come over for dinner. I could cook. Something. It might be time we had ourselves a date—and a sleepover. What do you say? Do you want Jaws to come over and play? Let’s get the mail first.”

She turned into the drive, parked and walked over to the box on the side of the road. She tossed the mail into one of the grocery bags. “We’d better get this stuff put away so I can see if I actually have anything to make for dinner—the sort you make when somebody comes over.”

As she carried bags inside she wished she’d had the idea earlier. Then she could’ve picked up something, put together an actual adult menu.

“I could go back,” she mused, stowing frozen dinners, cans. “Pick up a couple of steaks. You know what?” She tossed the mail on the table, put away the cloth bags Sylvia had given her for grocery runs. “I could just call the pizza place and sweet-talk them into a delivery.”

Considering the options, she picked up the mail. “Bill, bill, oh, and, surprise, bill.” She lifted the padded mailing bag. “Not a bill. Hey, guys, maybe this is some pictures from one of our graduates.”

Her former clients often sent her photos and updates. Pleased to have something that wasn’t a bill, she zipped open the bag.

The gauzy red scarf fell onto the table.

She stumbled back, revulsion and panic rising in her throat like burning reflux. For a moment the room spun around her, gray at the edges so the snake coil of the scarf boiled red. Pain crashed into her chest, blocking her breath until the gray swam with white dots. She groped behind her, clamped one white-knuckled hand on the counter as her legs liquefied.

Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint.

Bearing down, she sucked in air, hissed it out, and forced her quivering legs to move. Even as she reached for the phone, the dogs milling around her in concern went on alert.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.” She gasped it out as hammers of panic slammed against her ribs. She swore she heard the strike of them cracking her bones like glass.

Fiona grabbed the phone with one hand, a carving knife with the other.

“Damn it, Fiona, you left the door open again.”

Simon strode in, annoyance in every line. Faced with a woman, pale as wax, holding a very large knife and guarded by three dogs who all growled a low warning, he stopped short.

“You want to tell them to stand down?” he asked. Coolly, calmly.

“Relax. Relax, boys. Friend. Simon’s a friend. Say hi to Simon.”

Jaws galloped in with a rope, ready to play. Simon walked to the back door, opened it. “Everybody out.”

“Go on out. Go outside. Go play.”

Still watching her, Simon closed the door behind the rush of bodies. “Put down the knife.”

She managed another breath. “I can’t. I can’t seem to let go of it.”

“Look at me,” he ordered. “Look at me.” His eyes on hers, Simon put a hand on her wrist and used the other to release the vise of her fingers on the handle of the knife. He shot it back into the slot on the cutting board.

“What happened?”

She lifted a hand, pointed at the table. Saying nothing, he walked to the table, stared down at the scarf, the open bag.

“Finish calling the cops,” he told her, then turned when she didn’t speak, didn’t move. He took the phone.

“Speed dial one. Sheriff’s office. Sorry. I need to just...” She slid down, sat on the floor and dropped her head between her knees.

His voice was a vague buzz under the thunder of her heart in her ears. She hadn’t fainted, she reminded herself. She’d armed herself. She’d been ready.

But now, now all she wanted to do was come apart.

“Here. Drink.” Simon took her hand, wrapped it around a glass of water. “Drink it, Fiona.” Crouching, he guided the glass to her lips, watching her steadily.

“Your hands are hot.”

“No, yours are cold. Drink the water.”

“Can’t swallow.”

“Yes you can. Drink the water.” He nudged it on her, sip by slow sip. “Davey’s on his way.”

“Okay.”

“Tell me.”

“I saw a hummingbird. I saw a hummingbird, and I stopped to get the mail. It was in the mail. I picked up the mail, brought it in with the groceries. I thought it might be pictures of one of my dogs—students. I get them sometimes. But...”

He rose, took the bag by the corner with two fingers, flipped it over. “It’s postmarked Lakeview, Oregon. There’s no return address.”

“I didn’t look. I just opened it—right before you came in. Right before.”

“I couldn’t have walked in and scared you if you hadn’t left your door open.”

“You’re right.” The knot at the base of her throat wouldn’t loosen. The water wouldn’t wash it away, so she focused on Simon’s face, the rich tea color of his eyes. “That was careless. Comes from being relaxed and happy. Stupid.” She pushed to her feet, set the glass on the counter. “But I had the dogs. I had a weapon. If it hadn’t been you, if it had been...”

“He’d have a hard time getting by the dogs. Odds are he wouldn’t. But if he did, goddamn, if, Fiona, he’d have taken that knife away from you in two seconds.”

Her chin came up; so did her color. “You think so?”

“Look, you’re strong, and you’re fast. But grabbing a weapon you have to use close in, and can be used against you, isn’t a smart alternative to running.”

Her movements jerky, she yanked open a drawer, pulled out a spatula. The knot dissolved, with anger and insult in its place. “Take it away from me.”

“For Christ’s sake.”

“Pretend it’s a knife. Prove your point, goddamn it.”

“Fine.” He shifted, feinted with his right hand, then reached for her arm with his left.

Fiona changed her leg base, grabbed his reaching arm and used his momentum to drag him by. He had to slap a hand against the wall or run face-first into it.

“Now I’ve just stabbed you in the back with the knife—or if I’d been feeling less murderous, I’d have kicked you in the back of the knees and taken you down. I’m not helpless. I’m not a victim.”

He turned toward her. Fury shone on her face now, infinitely preferable to fear.

“Nice move.”

“That’s right.” She nodded sharply. “That’s goddamn right. Do you want to see another? Maybe the one where I kick your balls up against the back of your teeth, then beat you into a coma when you’re on the ground writhing in pain.”

“We can skip that one.”

“Being scared doesn’t make me weak. Being scared means I’ll do anything and everything I have to do to defend myself.” She heaved the spatula into the sink. “Couldn’t you show some compassion, some understanding instead of jumping down my throat?”

“You’re not sitting on the floor shaking anymore. And I’m feeling less inclined to punch my fist through the wall.”

“And that’s your method?”

“I haven’t been in a situation like this before but apparently, yes, that’s my method.” He took the spatula out of the sink, shoved it back in the drawer. “But if you want the strong male to blubbering female, we can go with that.”

“Blub—God! You piss me off. Which is,” she said after a righteous breath, “exactly the goal. Well, bull’s-eye for you.”

“It makes me crazy.”

She pushed her hands over her face, back into her hair. “What?”

“Seeing you like that. Have you ever seen yourself when you’re seriously scared, seriously sad? You lose every drop of color in your face. I’ve never seen anybody still breathing get that white. And it makes me crazy.”

She dropped her hands again. “You’re damn good at leashing the crazy.”

“Yeah, I am. We can talk about that some other time. Don’t think—” He broke off, shoved his own hands in his pockets. “Don’t think you don’t matter. You do. I just haven’t—Now, see?” he said with raw frustration. “The minute I stop pissing you off you start crying.”

“I’m not crying.” She blinked desperately at the tears welling in her eyes. “And what’s wrong with crying? I’m entitled. I’m entitled to a jag of major proportions, so be a man, damn it, grow a pair and suck it up.”

“Crap.” He yanked her against him, chained his arms around her.

She felt the sob flood her throat. Then he eased her back, skimmed his fingers down her cheek, laid his lips on her brow.

The tenderness shocked her eyes dry, killed the sob before it released. Instead she let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned on him.

“I don’t know how to take care of people,” he muttered. “I’m barely able to take care of a damn dog.”

You’re wrong about that, she thought. So wrong about that.

“You’re doing okay,” she managed. “I’m okay.” Still she jolted when the dogs barked the alert. “That’ll be Davey.”

“I’ll go let him in.” He stroked his hand down her hair once, twice. “Sit down or something.”

Sit down or something, Fiona thought as Simon walked out. Then she took his advice and made herself sit at the kitchen table.

Simon walked out onto the porch. “She’s inside, back in the kitchen.”

“What—”

“She’ll fill you in. I need about twenty minutes, and I need to know you’ll be here that long.”

“All right.”

Simon headed to his truck, ordered Jaws to stay, then drove away. Calmer, Fiona thought, she was much calmer when Davey came in. “I haven’t touched it since I opened it,” she began. “I don’t guess that’s going to matter.” She looked over his shoulder, frowned. “Where’s Simon?”

“He had something to do.”

“He—Oh.” The pressure on her chest returned, just for a moment. “Fine. It was in the mail. It’s got an Oregon postmark.”

He sat first, took her hands. Just took her hands.

“Oh God, Davey. I’m scared senseless.”

“We’re going to look out for you, Fee. If you want it, we’ll have somebody parked outside the house twenty-four hours a day until they catch this bastard.”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. Yet. It could come to it.”

“Have you gotten any unusual calls, any hang-ups? Anything troubling on your website or blog?”

“No. This is the first thing. And I know it might not be from him. It’s probably not. It’s from some vicious person who read that damn article, got my address. That’s just as likely.”

“Maybe it is.” He released her hands, took out two evidence bags. “I’m going to take these in. We’ll do what we can. There’s a federal task force on this now, and we’ll probably need to turn these over to them. Fee, it’s likely they’re going to send someone out to talk to you.”

“I’m okay with that.” Wouldn’t be the first time, she thought bitterly. “I’m good with that.”

“We’ll be reaching out to the police in Lakeview. I know this is hard for you, but maybe it’s a break. We might get prints or DNA off the stamp. Something from the handwriting, or we’ll trace the scarf.”

Investigations, routines, procedures. How was it all happening again?

“What about Perry? He might have paid somebody to send it to me.”

“I’m going to see what I can find out, but I have to think they’ve talked to Perry. They’d monitor his contacts, his visitors, his mail. We’re not really in the loop, Fee, but after this the sheriff’s going to push that. Maybe this was just some asshole’s idea of a nasty joke, but everybody’s going to take it seriously. I can bunk on the couch.”

He would, she thought, for as long as she needed. “You’ve got a family. I have the dogs.”

He leaned back. “Do you have anything cold to drink?”

She cocked her head. “Because you’re thirsty, or because you don’t want to leave me alone?”

He gave her a hard stare. “You can’t spare a cold drink for a hardworking civil servant?”

She got up, opened the fridge. “You’re lucky I just hit the market. I have Coke, OJ, bottled water and V8 Splash. Beer, too, but as you’re a hard-working civil servant on duty—”

“I’ll take the Coke.”

“Ice and lemon?”

“Just hand over the can, Fee. Why don’t we take it out on the porch, take advantage of the weather?”

She got out a second can. “I’m all right on my own, Davey. I’m scared,” she added as they walked toward the front door, “but I feel safer and more secure in my own place than I would anywhere else. I’m carrying my cell phone in my pocket. I’ve done some practicing with my gun—and believe I’ll do more before dark. And you’ll be happy to know that when Simon walked in while I was having my freak-out, the dogs warned him back until I released them.”

“All good, Fee. I’d just be happier if you had somebody staying with you. Why don’t you call James?”

The fact that she considered doing just that told her she was shakier than she’d realized. “I don’t know. Maybe—”

The dogs alerted when they reached the door. Davey nudged her to the side, opened it himself. And nodded when Simon drove back up. “I guess I’ll get going.”

She’d been tag-teamed, she realized.

“What about the cold drink and taking advantage of the weather?”

“I’m taking the drink with me.” He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze before walking out to meet Simon.

Fiona waited where she stood while the two of them had a brief conversation. Davey got in his car, and Simon slung a small knapsack over his shoulder.

“I thought you went home.”

“I did. I had to take care of a couple things and get some stuff. I need some of my stuff since I’m staying over tonight.”

“You’re staying over tonight?”

“Yeah.” He took the can of Coke from her, downed some. “If you’ve got a problem with that, too damn bad.”

Her insides softened as another woman’s might if a man read her a love sonnet. “I guess you’ll expect sex and a hot meal?”

“Yeah, but you can pick the order.” He handed her back the Coke.

“I’m a lousy cook.”

“Luckily you’re good in bed—or wherever.” He shrugged. “Don’t you have any frozen pizza?”

Still scared, she realized, but she didn’t feel like crying anymore, didn’t have to fight off trembling anymore.

“I do, but I also have a menu from Mama Mia’s. They’ll deliver for me.”

“That works.” He started to move by her, into the house, but she turned, stepped into his arms, held hard.

“Simon.” She murmured it as she relaxed against him. “I have no idea why, but you’re exactly what I need right now.”

“I don’t know why either.” He tossed the duffel through the open door, then stroked a hand down her back. “You’re really not my type.”

“That’s because I defy typing.”

He studied her face when she laughed and leaned back. “Yes, you do.”

“Let’s take a walk before we order dinner. I need to shake off the last of the jitters.”

“Then I want a beer.”

“You know what, so do I. Two walking beers coming up.”

Later, they sat on the sofa with a second beer, the fire chasing the evening chill, with a pepperoni pizza in the delivery box between them. Fiona crossed her ankles on the coffee table.

“You know, I keep telling myself I’m going to start eating like an adult.”

“We are eating like adults.” Simon blocked Jaws’s attempt to scoot under his legs for a stab at the pie. “Get lost,” he told the dog. “Kids have to eat when and what they’re told,” he continued. “We get to eat when and what we want. Because we’re adults.”

“That’s true. Plus, I love pizza.” She bit into her slice. “There’s no food to match it. Still, I was actually thinking before... before you came by that I’d ask you over to dinner.”

“Then how come I paid for the pizza?”

“You got out your wallet; I let you. I was going to ask you over to dinner that I cooked.”

“You’re a lousy cook.”

She jabbed him with her elbow. “I was going to make an attempt. Besides, I can grill. In fact, I’m superior on the grill. A couple of good steaks, Idahos wrapped in foil—some vegetable kabobs as a nod to a balanced meal. That’s where I rule.”

“You cook like a guy.” He picked up a second slice. “I admire that.”

“I guess I owe you a steak dinner, since you paid for the pizza, and you’re keeping me company tonight. Tell me about leashing the crazy.”

“It’s not that interesting. Why don’t you have a TV down here?”

“Because I never watch TV down here. I like to watch it in bed, all sprawled out or nested in. The living room’s for company and conversation.”

“The bedroom’s for sleeping and sex.”

“Until recently sex wasn’t that much of a factor, and watching TV in bed helps me fall asleep.” She licked sauce off her thumb. “I know when you’re changing the subject, and it won’t work. I’m interested.”

“I’ve got an ugly temper. I learned how to keep it under control. That’s it.”

“Define ugly temper.”

He took a pull on his beer. “Fine. When I was a kid and something, someone pissed me off, tried to push me around, I’d go off. Fighting was my answer, the bloodier the better.”

“You liked to brawl.”

“I liked to kick ass,” he corrected. “There’s a difference. Brawl? There’s something good-natured about that word. I wasn’t good-natured about it. I didn’t pick fights, I didn’t bully other kids, I didn’t look for trouble. But I could find a reason to swing, I could find trouble, no problem. Then the switch would go off.”

He turned the beer around, idly read the label. “Seeing red? That can be literal. And I’d wade in, and when I waded in, it was to do damage.”

She could imagine him wading in—his build, those big, hard hands, the hard line of heat she caught in his eye now and then. “Did you ever hurt anyone seriously?”

“I could have. Probably would have eventually. I got hauled down to the office in school more times than I can count.”

“I never did. Not bragging,” she added when he turned his head to eye her. “I sort of wish I hadn’t been such a good girl all the damn time.”

“You were one of those.”

“Sadly, yes. Keep going. Bad boys are so much more interesting than good girls.”

“Depends on the girl, and what it takes to bring out the bad.” He reached over, released the top two buttons of her shirt until her bra peeked out. “There you go. Pizza slut. Anyway,” he continued when she laughed, “I got in some trouble, but I never started the fight—and there were always people around to back me up on that. My parents tried different things to channel it. Sports, lectures, even counseling. The thing was, I got decent grades, didn’t smart-mouth teachers.”

“What changed?”

“Junior year in high school. I had a rep—and there are always going to be the type who need to challenge the rep. New guy comes along—tough guy. He goes after me; I take him down.”

“Just like that?”

“No. It was vicious, on both sides. We hurt each other. I hurt him more. A couple weeks later, he and two of his buddies jumped me. I was with a girl, making out in the park. Two of them held me while he took his shots. She’s screaming for them to stop, screaming for help, and he’s laughing and beating me until I don’t even feel it anymore. At some point I blacked out.”

“Oh my God, Simon.”

“When I came to, they had her on the ground, holding her down. She’s crying, begging. I don’t know if they’d have raped her. I don’t know if they’d have gone that far. But they didn’t get the chance. I went crazy, and I don’t remember any of it. I don’t remember getting up off the ground and going after them. I beat two of them unconscious. The third ran off. I don’t remember any of it,” he repeated, as if it still troubled him. “But I remember coming out of it, out of that red zone, and hearing the girl—a girl I was half in love with—crying and screaming and begging me to stop. I remember the look on her face when I pulled in enough to see her. I’d scared her as much as the ones who jumped me and nearly raped her.”

Then she was a wimp, in Fiona’s opinion. Instead of screaming and crying, she should’ve run for help. “How badly were you hurt?”

“Enough for a couple days in the hospital. Two of the three who came at me spent longer. I woke up in the hospital—a world of hurt. I saw my parents sitting together across the room. My mother was crying. You had to practically cut her arm off with a hatchet to make my mother cry, but tears were just running down her face.”

That, Fiona saw clearly, troubled him more than the memory lapse. That had been the mark that had turned his path. His mother’s tears.

“And I thought, That’s enough. It’s enough. I leashed the crazy.”

“Just like that?”

“No. But eventually. Once you learn how to walk away the first time, or realize the one baiting you is an idiot, it gets easier.”

So, she thought, that’s where the control had its roots. “What about the girl?”

“I never made it past second base with her after all. She broke it off,” he added when Fiona said nothing. “I couldn’t blame her.”

“I can. She should’ve found a big stick and helped you instead of crying. She should’ve grabbed some rocks and started throwing them. She should’ve kissed your goddamn feet for saving her from being mauled and raped.”

He smiled. “She wasn’t the type.”

“You have faulty taste in types.”

“Maybe. Up till now, anyway.”

She smiled, leaned over the take-out box to kiss him—and flipped open another button on her shirt. “Since I’m tonight’s pizza slut, I say we take the rest of this upstairs, where it’ll be handy if we want some after.”

“I’m a fan of cold pizza.”

“I’ve never understood people who aren’t.” She rose, held out a hand for his.

Fourteen

Simon woke with the sun in his eyes. At home he slept in a cave, shuttering the bedroom windows so he could wake up, get up, whenever the hell he wanted. He considered it, like eating whatever and whenever, a perk of adulthood aided by being self-employed.

Of course, the dog had changed that, demanding to be let out at questionable hours by jumping on the bed, or licking any body part that might hang over the bed. Or his newest, and fairly creepy, method: standing beside the bed and staring at the human.

Still, they’d worked out a routine where he let the dog out, stumbled back into bed and caught some more sleep until Jaws wanted in again.

So where the hell was the dog? And more important, where the hell was Fiona?

Deciding they were undoubtedly together, Simon grabbed a pillow and put it over his face to block the light so he could sleep.

No good, he realized in seconds.

The pillow smelled of her, and her scent drove him crazy. He indulged himself for a moment, just breathing her in while a picture of her formed in his mind. The soft coloring, the sharp features, the long, strong body. The dash of freckles and clear, calm eyes.

He’d thought if he figured out what there was about her he found so damn compelling, he’d get past it, or around it.

But now that he had, at least partially, he found himself only more tangled up. Her strength—mind and body—her resilience, her humor and what seemed an almost bottomless well of patience combined with an innate kindness and an easy, almost careless self-confidence.

He found the mix fascinating.

He shoved the pillow aside and lay there squinting at the light.

Her bedroom, he thought, showed a strong, imaginative use of color. The walls glowed a coppery hue in the sunlight and formed a good backdrop for some decent local art—probably picked up at Syl’s. She’d indulged herself with a big iron bed with hints of dark bronze along with that copper, and high, knobbed posts.

No fuss, he thought. Even the obligatory female bottles and bowls on the dresser had a sense of organization, while the trio of dog beds across the room spoke of her passion and profession.

Attractive lamps, simple in style, an oversized chair draped with a beautifully made throw—likely Syl’s again. A low cabinet holding books—and he’d bet they were shelved alphabetically—photos, trinkets.

No clothes tossed around, no shoes left on the floor, no pocket stuff scattered on the dresser.

How did anyone live like that?

In fact, he noted, the clothes he’d peeled, tugged and yanked off her the night before were nowhere to be seen, and the clothes she’d peeled, tugged and yanked off him sat neatly folded on the chest under the window.

And since he was lying there thinking about how she decorated and organized her bedroom, he obviously wasn’t getting any more sleep.

He used her shower, found it stingy on the pressure and the hot water. Her bathroom, he thought, needed some serious updating. The old fixtures should be replaced, the tile work redone, and the basic layout wasted space.

Despite what he considered a poor design, it was tidy, organized, scrupulously clean.

He dropped his towel on the floor, went out into the bedroom to dress. Walked back into the bath, picked up the towel and slung it over the shower rail.

He dressed, thinking about coffee, then started out of the room. Walked back, snarling a little, and picked up the pillow he’d shoved off his face and onto the floor. Tossed it back onto the bed. Muttered, but pushed his neatly folded clothes into his duffel. Satisfied, he started out again.

“Goddamn it.” Since he couldn’t shrug off the guilt line between his shoulder blades, he backtracked again, yanked the sheets into some semblance of order, then flipped the bold blue comforter up and over—and considered the bed made.

Feeling put-upon, he trudged downstairs and decided there better damn sight be coffee.

It waited for him, hot, fragrant and seductive. Next to a woman, he thought as he sloshed some into a mug, coffee was the best thing a man could consume in the morning.

He drank, topped off the mug, then went to find the woman and his dog.

They were in the sunny side yard fooling around on what he thought of as the playground equipment while the other three dogs sprawled on the grass. He leaned against the porch post, drinking his coffee, watching the woman—her stone gray hoodie zipped against the early morning chill while she walked his dog up a teeter-totter.

It tilted down at his weight when he passed the center, but rather than jump off, as Simon expected, he walked straight down.

“Good!”

Jaws got a treat, a pat before she directed him to the tunnel.

“Go through.” She moved down the outside as he—probably, Simon thought—wound through the inside. He wiggled out the far side.

After his reward, she turned to a platform. Simon watched his dog leap on command, preen at the praise, then trot down the ramp on the other side and straight to the ladder of the slide.

“Hup!”

Without hesitation he climbed up, navigated the slide down.

Amazed, Simon started over as Fiona turned Jaws to a lower platform. At her command, he jumped over it and, at the next, scrambled up a pile of logs.

“Call the circus,” Simon said. At his voice, Jaws broke ranks and charged over.

“Morning.” Fiona gave her dogs the release signal.

“Yeah.” She’d done something to her hair, he noticed. Some kind of braiding deal at the sides that merged into one at the back.

Where the hell did she find time to do that stuff ?

“What are you doing up and out this early and playing recess?”

“I have morning classes, including a one-on-one with a behavioral problem.”

She stepped in to him the way she did, kissed him the way she did—light and easy. He liked light and easy well enough, but... He pulled her back in for stronger.

“Off.” She held a hand down to Jaws as he jumped, skimmed the other through Simon’s hair. “Your hair’s still wet. So you found the shower and the coffee.”

“Yeah.” She smelled like spring, he thought, with just a hint of heat. “I’d rather have found you in bed, but I settled.”

“The dogs needed to go out, and since we were up and out, I thought I’d work with Jaws. That was his third round with the obstacle course this morning. He thinks it’s great fun, and he’s picked up several skills. If you want to leave him here today, he can hang with the boys, and I’ll work with him some between classes.”

“Ah...”

“Or if you want him with you, you can just drop by later and we’ll work in a session.”

Stupid, Simon thought, that he’d gotten so used to the dog he’d hesitate over the offer of a day without the responsibility of him.

“Keep him if you want. Any special time I should come back for him?”

“Anytime. Play your cards right and you could get that steak dinner out of it since I know you’ll be back. If I’d known you were coming by yesterday... Why did you come by yesterday?”

“Maybe I wanted sex.”

“Mission accomplished.”

He grinned at her, ran a finger over one of those fancy braids. “The sex and pizza were a bonus. I had a reason, but I lost it with everything.”

“There was a lot of everything. I’m glad you were here, whatever the reason.”

“It’s in the truck. I’ll get it. Here.” He pushed the empty mug into her hand.

“What’s in the truck?”

“The reason.” Jaws grabbed a stick and bounded along with him. “We’re not going for a ride yet.” To keep his legs from being bashed and poked, he took the stick. “Give.” Then tossed it.

The entire pack of dogs gave merry chase.

Simon lowered the tailgate, climbed in and tossed aside a tarp. He muscled the chair out of the truck.

“Oh my God, is that mine? Is that my chair?” Fiona scrambled over as he hauled it to the porch.

She lit up, he thought, as if he’d given her diamonds. “It’s mine. I’m not sitting on that piece of crap when I’m over here.”

“It’s beautiful. Look at the color! It’s, what, Caribbean Vacation, maybe? It’s fun!”

“It works with the house, the trim.” Though he shrugged, her reaction brought him ridiculous pleasure. “It won’t look half bad around you.”

“It’s so smooth.” She ran a hand along the side arm. The minute he set it on the porch she plopped into it. “Oh, and it’s comfortable.” Laughing, she rocked. “An easy ride. So, does it suit me?”

“Yeah, it suits you.” He picked up the old chair.

“What are you going to do with—Oh, Simon!” She winced when he snapped one of the rungs—which also gave him ridiculous pleasure. “Someone could use it.”

“It’s crap.”

“Yes, but, I should at least recycle so—”

He broke off another rung. “There. Recycled crap into kindling. Or”—he tossed it, and sent the dogs into another mad dash—“dog toy.”

He needed to go, he thought. If he was up this early, he ought to be working.

“When’s your first class?”

“The one-on-one’s first. They ought to be here in about a half hour.”

“I’m going to get more coffee. Is there anything around here that resembles breakfast food?”

“Simon, you don’t have to stay. I’m going to be alone here sometimes.”

“I make you a chair and you can’t spare a bowl of cereal?”

She rose, laid her hands on his cheeks. “I have Froot Loops.”

“That’s not a cereal. Frosted Flakes is a cereal.”

“Out of stock. I do have Eggos.”

“Now you’re talking.”

It took a few days, but in the middle of her last afternoon class, Fiona spotted the mid-level American-made car easing down her drive—and thought, The feds.

“Keep working on bringing your dogs to heel. Astrid, you’re hesitating and tensing up. You have to show Roofus you’re pack leader.”

She stepped away from the class, turned to walk to the car. Her own tension eased when she saw the driver get out.

He wore a dark suit over a stocky build, and the flecks of gray in his hair had multiplied since the last time she’d seen him.

“Special Agent Tawney.” Fiona held out both hands. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

“Sorry it has to be anybody, but it’s good to see you. My partner, Special Agent Erin Mantz.”

The woman wore a suit as well, trim over a compact build. Her hair fell in a sleek blond tail, leaving her strong, serious face unframed.

“Ms. Bristow.”

“If you could wait? I have about another fifteen minutes to go. And, no offense, but I’d rather not announce to my clients that the FBI’s on the premises.”

“No problem,” Tawney told her. “We’ll have a seat on the porch, watch the show.”

“I’ll wrap it up as soon as I can.”

Mantz stood where she was for a moment. “She looked pretty happy to see you. Not our usual reception.”

“I was with her after she escaped from Perry. She felt comfortable with me, so I was on her during the trial.”

Mantz studied the terrain, the house, the setup from behind dark glasses. “And here you are again.”

“Yeah, here I am again. Perry’s in this, Erin, there’s not a doubt in my mind. And if there’s one person in this world he hasn’t forgotten, it’s Fiona Bristow.”

Mantz watched, cool-eyed, as Fiona supervised owners and dogs. “Is that what you’re going to tell her?”

“Let’s hope I don’t have to.”

He walked to the porch and, a gentleman to the core, sat on the toy chest to leave the rocker for his partner.

“She’s pretty isolated out here,” Mantz began, then reared back, hands out, when Bogart bopped up to say hello. “Stay back. Go away.”

Tawney patted his knee, inviting Bogart over. “Good dog. What’s the problem, Erin?”

“I don’t like dogs.”

They’d only been partners a few months and were still learning each other’s quirks and rhythms. “What’s not to like?”

“Dog breath, shedding, big, sharp teeth.” Bogart’s tail whapped her legs as Tawney rubbed him. Mantz got to her feet, moved out of range.

Peck sauntered up, glanced at Mantz, got the message. He bumped his nose on Tawney’s knee.

“These must be her dogs. You read her file, didn’t you?” he asked Mantz. “They’re S-and-R dogs. She has three. Trains them, too. She started her own unit out here.”

“You sound like a proud daddy.”

He glanced up, cocking his eyebrows at the edge of sarcasm. “I find her a tough, admirable young woman, one who helped us put a monster in a cell by standing up in court, hanging in, even after her fiancé was murdered.”

“Sorry. Sorry. The dogs make me nervous, and being nervous makes me bitchy. I read Greg Norwood’s file, too. He was a good cop. Came off solid. A little old for her, don’t you think?”

“I’d say that was up to them.”

“Proud and protective daddy.”

“Is that you being nervous and bitchy?”

“Just me observing. Jesus, here comes another one.”

She moved over another foot as Newman trotted onto the porch.

By the time Fiona finished class, her three dogs were sprawled happily at Tawney’s feet, and his partner stood rigidly at the far end of the porch.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. Did you make friends with the boys?”

“I did. Agent Mantz doesn’t like dogs.”

“Oh, sorry. I’d have kept them off the porch. Why don’t we go inside? They’ll stay out. Stay out,” she repeated, and opened the front door.

“You’re not fenced,” Mantz observed. “Aren’t you worried they’ll run off ?”

“They’re trained not to go past certain boundaries without me. Please, sit down. Why don’t I make some coffee? I’m nervous,” she said before Tawney could respond. “Even though it’s you, even though I was expecting someone and I’m glad it’s you. I’ll make some coffee and settle down.”

“Coffee’d be good.”

“Is it still coffee regular?”

He smiled. “It still is.”

“Agent Mantz?”

“Same for me, thanks.”

“I’ll just be a minute.”

“Nice place,” Mantz commented when she was alone with her partner. “Tidy. Quiet, if you like quiet. I’d go nuts.”

“Deb and I talk about getting a quiet place in the country when we retire.”

Mantz glanced back at him. They hadn’t been partners long, but she knew enough. “You’d go nuts.”

“Yeah. She thinks we could take up birding.”

“Does that mean watching them or shooting them?”

“Watching them. Jesus, Erin, why would I go out and shoot birds?”

“Why would you watch them?”

He sat a moment. “Damned if I know.”

When Fiona came back, she carried three mugs on a tray. “I’ve got these cookies Sylvia baked, which means they’re disguised health food, so I can’t promise anything.”

“How is Sylvia?” Tawney asked.

“She’s great. Her shop’s doing really well, and it keeps her busy. She helps me out here, taking classes if I get called out on a search. She’s huge into organic gardening, heads up a monthly book club, and she’s making noises about starting yoga classes—teaching them, I mean. I’m rambling. Still nervous.”

“You have a nice place here. You’re happy?”

“Yes. I needed to move, the change, and it turned out to be the best thing I could’ve done for myself. I love my work, and I’m good at it. At first, I think it was just escape, immerse myself in something so I’d have a reason to get up in the morning. Then I realized it wasn’t escape, it was finding my place, my purpose.”

“You’re not as easily accessible here, for your business, as you would’ve been in Seattle.”

“No. I started out slow, and small. The Internet and word of mouth helped me grow, and starting the unit, building a reputation. I’m still pretty small, but it’s the right fit for me. And that was all a way to ease me into saying I live in a fairly remote location and spend a lot of time either alone or with people I don’t really know—at least not initially.”

“Do you do any sort of screening before you take on a client?” Mantz asked.

“No. A good chunk of my business comes from referrals. Friends, family, coworkers recommending me. I do offer personal behavior training, but that’s a really small percentage of my business. Most are classes, ranging from about five dogs to a max of twelve per class.”

“How about anyone who’s signed up for your class who gave you trouble? Wasn’t satisfied with the results.”

“It happens sometimes. I usually offer them their money back, because it’s better business. A pissed-off client’s going to trash you to friends, family, coworkers, and that could cost me more than a refund.”

“What do you do when a client hits on you? You’re a young, attractive woman,” Mantz continued. “It’s a pretty sure bet it’s happened.”

She hated it, hated the intrusion into every corner of her private life. All the questions they asked of victims and suspects. She was neither, Fiona reminded herself.

She was something else entirely.

“If a client’s single and I’m interested, I’d consider seeing him outside class.” She spoke briskly, almost carelessly. “It doesn’t happen often. If he’s not single, or I’m just not interested, there are ways to discourage and deny without causing friction.”

Fiona picked up a cookie, then just turned it in her fingers. “Honestly, I can’t imagine anyone I’ve discouraged or who hasn’t been satisfied with my work mailing me a red scarf. It’s cruel.”

“Someone you broke off a relationship with?” Mantz continued. “Angry exes can be cruel.”

“I don’t have any angry exes. That’s not being naive. After I lost Greg, and then my father, I wasn’t interested in dating or relationships. It must’ve been close to two years before I so much as had dinner with somebody who wasn’t a close friend. I haven’t had a serious relationship in a very long time, until recently.”

“You’re involved with someone now?”

“I’m seeing someone, yes.”

“For how long?”

Resentment tightened her belly. “Altogether, a couple months. He lives here, on the island. I’m working with his dog. He’s not connected to this.”

“We’ll need his name, Fiona, just so we can eliminate him.”

Fiona looked at Tawney, sighed. “Simon Doyle. He’s a wood artist. He made the rocker on the porch.”

“Nice chair.”

“The scarf was mailed from Oregon. Simon hasn’t been off the island. Agent Tawney, we all know there are two possibilities. The first is somebody following the news reports of the murders, somebody who read the article that brought me into it, sent me that scarf as a sick joke or for some prurient thrill. If that’s the case, it’s unlikely you’ll ever find out who it was. The second is whoever’s following Perry’s pattern sent it to me as a warning, a tease. If that’s the case, I have to hope you find out who he is and stop him, really soon. Because if you don’t, at some point he’s going to come at me and try to correct Perry’s mistake.”

“You hung tough through everything that happened before. You’re going to need to hang tough again. The scarf mailed to you is the same as those used on the three victims. The same manufacturer, the same style, even the same dye lot.”

“So.” Her skin went cold, numbed under a sheath of ice. “That’s probably not a coincidence.”

“We’ve traced the outlets, and we know this specific scarf, this dye lot, was shipped to those outlets at the end of October of last year for distribution in the Walla Walla area.”

“Near the prison,” she murmured. “Near Perry. Why would he buy them there if he didn’t live or work or have business there? A prison guard.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “An inmate who was released or, or a family member. Or—”

“Fiona, believe me, trust me, we’re covering all possibilities. Agent Mantz and I have interviewed Perry. He claims he doesn’t know anything about these murders—how could he?”

“He’s lying.”

“Yes, he is, but we haven’t been able to shake him. Not yet. We’ve had his cell searched, multiple times, all of his correspondence is being analyzed. We’ve interviewed prison officials and inmates he interacts with. We’re watching his sister and are in the process of identifying, locating and contacting anyone—former inmates, prison personnel, outside contractors and instructors—he may have had contact with since he went in.”

“A long time.” She set the cookie aside. She’d never be able to swallow it now. “Do you think he’s directing this, or at least lit the fuse?”

“At this point, we have no proof—”

“I’m not asking for proof.” She paused to smooth the sharp edge out of her tone. “I’m asking what you think. I trust what you think.”

“If he isn’t directing it or hasn’t incited it, he’d be furious. He’d control the anger, but I’d have seen it.”

She nodded. Yes, he’d have seen it. They knew Perry, she and Tawney. They knew him all too well.

“This was his power, his accomplishment,” Tawney continued. “Having someone else pick up that power, claim new accomplishments while he’s locked up? Insulting, demeaning. But selecting or approving the person to continue for him, he’d find pride and pleasure in that. And that’s what I saw when we talked to him. Under the control, the feigned ignorance, he was proud.”

“Yes.” She nodded, then got to her feet to walk to the window, to comfort herself watching her dogs roam the front yard, the field. “That’s what I think, too. I’ve studied him, too. I needed to. I needed to know the man who wanted to kill me, who killed the man I loved because he failed with me. I read the books, watched the TV specials, dissected all the articles. Then I put them away, put them aside because I needed to stop.

“He never has,” she said, turning back. “Not really, has he? He’s just bided his time. But why didn’t he send this proxy for me first, before I could prepare?”

She shook her head, waved away the question as the answer was right there. “Because I’m the big prize—I’m the main event, the reason. And you need to build up to that. The others? They’re opening acts.”

“That’s a hard way to put it,” Mantz commented.

“It’s a hard way to think of it, but that’s how he sees it. It’s a kind of rematch, isn’t it? Last time, I won. Now he’s going to fix that. Maybe by remote, maybe by proxy, but it’ll clear his record. And the opening acts give him his sick satisfaction with the bonus of making the big prize sweat. He wants my fear. It’s part of his method and a large part of his reward.”

“We can take you in, put you in a safe house, offer you protection.”

“I did that before,” Fiona reminded Tawney, “and he just waited me out. Waited me out, then killed Greg. I can’t put my life on hold again, I can’t give him that. He’s already taken so much.”

“We have more leads this time,” Mantz told her. “He’s not as careful, not as smart as Perry. Sending you the scarf was stupid. It’s taunting. Buying them in multiples, from one area, another mistake. We’ll find him.”

“I believe you will, and I hope it’s soon, before someone else dies. But I can’t hide until you do. That’s not being brave so much as realistic. And I have the advantage here. He has to come to me. He has to come onto the island.”

“Your local police department can’t monitor everyone who gets off the ferry.”

“No, but if he does manage to get this far, he’s not going to come up against a twenty-year-old girl.”

“At the very least you should take more precautions,” Mantz advised. “You should have better locks installed. You should think about an alarm system.”

“I have three of them. I’m not being glib,” she added. “The dogs are always with me, and between the police and my friends, I’m being checked on several times a day. Simon’s staying here at night. I’m actually going away next week for a couple of days with a friend and my stepmother. I have a friend staying here with his dog to watch mine and the house.”

“You mentioned that on your blog.”

She smiled at Tawney. “You read my blog.”

“I keep up with you, Fiona. You said you were taking a quick mental health trip with girlfriends, and intended to relax and pamper yourself.”

“Spa,” Mantz said.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t say where you were going, specifically.”

“No, because everyone and anyone can read a blog. I’ll talk about it after, if it seems interesting. But most of what I write about is dog related. I’m not careless, Agent Tawney.”

“No, you’re not. Still, I’d like the information—where you’ll be, the exact dates, how you’ll get there.”

“Okay.”

When his phone signaled, he held up a finger. “Why don’t you give them to Agent Mantz,” he suggested, and walked out onto the porch to take the call.

“We’re driving up to Snoqualmie Falls next Tuesday,” Fiona told her. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. We’re coming back Friday.”

“Nice.”

“Yeah, it will be. It’s our version of a long weekend, as actual weekends are busiest for all of us. I’m going with Sylvia and a friend. Mai Funaki, our vet.”

Mantz noted down the information, then glanced over as Tawney stepped back in.

“We need to go.”

Fiona got to her feet even as Mantz did. “They found another.”

“No. A twenty-one-year-old woman’s been reported missing. She left her off-campus housing at about six this morning, on foot, on her way to the university’s fitness center. She never got there.”

“Where?” Fiona demanded. “Where was she taken?”

“Medford, Oregon.”

“Just a little closer,” she murmured. “I hope she’s strong. I hope she finds a way.”

“I’m going to stay in touch, Fiona.” Tawney pulled out a card. “You can reach me anytime. My home number’s on the back for you.”

“Thanks.”

She walked out with them, stood with her arms folded over her chest against her thudding heart and the dogs sitting at her feet as they drove away. “Good luck,” she murmured.

Then she went inside to get her gun.

Fifteen

Simon carved the scrolled detail into the header for the custom china cabinet while The Fray blasted out of the radio. Meg Greene, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—except when she changed her mind—had asked to adjust the design four times before he hit the mark for her.

To ensure she didn’t adjust it again, he’d put aside other work to focus on the cabinet. It was a big, beautiful bastard, Simon thought, and would be the showpiece of Meg’s dining room. Another few days, and he’d be done with it, and between the staining and varnishing, he could get serious about the sink base. Maybe work in a few pieces for Syl and have them done when she got back from the spa deal.

If he delivered the stock while she was gone, she couldn’t drag him into talking with her customers. That added motivation.

Starting the day earlier meant he got a jump on things, which almost offset quitting at specific times each day instead of going until he’d had enough.

Stopping, even though he might be on a solid roll, went against the grain, but knowing Fiona would be alone if he didn’t would only screw with his concentration anyway.

But the arrangement had benefits—and not just the sex.

He liked hearing her talk, and listening to the stories she told him about her day. He didn’t know why she relaxed him, but she did. Most of the time.

Then there was the dog. He still chased his tail like a maniac, and stole footwear—and the occasional tool if he could get to it. But he was so damn happy, and a hell of a lot smarter than Simon had given him credit for. He’d gotten used to having the dog curled up under the workbench snoozing or running around outside. And the sucker could field a ball like Derek Jeter.

Simon stood back, studied the work.

Somehow he’d gotten himself a dog and a woman, neither of which he’d particularly wanted. And now he couldn’t imagine his days, or his nights, without them.

He’d gotten more done than he’d expected, and glanced at the clock he’d hung on the wall. Funny, it felt like more than a couple hours since he’d started back up after the grab-a-sandwich, throw-the-ball break he’d taken.

Frowning, he pulled out his phone, read the time on the display and swore.

“Damn it. Why didn’t you remind me to change the batteries in that thing?” he demanded as Jaws trotted through the open shop door.

Jaws only wagged his tail and dropped the stick he’d brought in.

“I don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”

He tried to time his trip to Fiona’s so he arrived long enough after her final class to avoid the inevitable stragglers. Otherwise, she’d start introducing him to people, and there had to be conversations. But he aimed for timing it so she wasn’t alone more than fifteen or twenty minutes.

It was, for him, a delicate balance.

Now, he was nearly two hours behind.

Why hadn’t she called? Wouldn’t any normal woman call to say, Hey, you’re late, what’s going on? Not that they had a formal sort of arrangement. He said see you later every day, left, then he came back.

Nice and easy, no big deal.

“Women are supposed to call,” he told Jaws as they got in the truck. “And nag and bug you. It’s the way of the world. But not her. There’s never any Are you going to be here for dinner? or Can you pick up some milk? or Are you ever going to take out that trash?”

He shook his head. “Maybe she’s lulling me into complacency, stringing me along until I’m... more hooked than I already am. Except she’s not, which is one of the reasons I’m hooked, and I’m already taking out the trash because it’s just what you do.”

The dog wasn’t listening, Simon noted, because he had his head out the window. So he might as well save his breath.

No reason to feel guilty because he was a couple hours later than usual, he told himself. He had his work; she had hers. Besides, he thought as he turned into her drive, if she’d called, he wouldn’t be later than usual.

Maybe she hadn’t been able to call. His stomach knotted. If something had happened to her...

He heard the gunshots as he drove across the bridge where dogwoods bloomed snowy white.

He floored it, then fishtailed to a stop even as Fiona’s dogs charged around the side of the house. Gunshots ripped through the fear that buzzed in his head as he leaped out of the truck. He left the door swinging open as he ran toward them. When they stopped abruptly, he heard his own heart roaring in his ears.

He pulled in the breath to shout her name, and saw her.

Not lying on the ground bleeding, but standing, coolly, competently shoving another clip into the gun she held.

“Jesus Christ.” The anger flew through him, stampeding out the fear. Even as she started to turn, he grabbed her arm, spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Careful. It’s loaded.” She lowered the gun, pointing it toward the ground.

“I know it’s loaded. I heard you blasting away like Annie fucking Oakley. You scared the hell out of me.”

“Let go. Earplugs,” she said. “I can barely hear you.” When he released her arm, she pulled them out. “I told you I had a gun, and I told you I’d be practicing. There’s no point getting pissed off that I am.”

“I’m pissed off about the five years you shaved off my life. I had plans for them.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send out a notification I’d be getting in some target practice.” Her movements as testy as her tone, she shoved the gun into the holster on her belt, then stalked over to set up a variety of cans and plastic water bottles she’d obviously killed before his arrival.

“We can argue about that, seeing as you knew I’d be coming by and might have a strong reaction to gunfire.”

“I don’t know anything. You just show up.”

“If you have a problem with that you should’ve said so.”

“I don’t.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Go ahead and take the dogs inside if you want. I won’t be much longer.”

“What crawled up your ass? I know your face, so don’t tell me about not getting pissed when you’re already there.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you. You should take Jaws inside. My dogs are used to the sound of gunshots. He’s not.”

“Then we’ll see how he deals.”

“Fine.”

She took out the gun, shifted into the stance he’d seen cops use on TV and in movies. As she fired away, Jaws moved closer to his side, leaning against him, but cocked his head and watched—as Simon did—the cans and bottles fly.

“Nice shooting, Tex.”

She didn’t smile, but walked over to set up fresh targets. Behind her a few big-leaf maples, boughs heavy with clusters of blossoms, shimmered in the sunlight.

It made, to his mind, an odd contrast of violence and peace.

“Do you want to shoot?”

“What for?”

“Have you ever shot a gun?”

“Why would I?”

“There are a lot of reasons. Hunting, sport, curiosity, defense.”

“I don’t hunt. My idea of sport is more in line with baseball or boxing. I’ve never been especially curious, and I’d rather use my fists. Let me see it.”

She put the safety on, unloaded it, then offered it to him.

“Not as heavy as I figured.”

“It’s a Beretta. It’s a fairly light and very lethal semiautomatic. It’ll fire fifteen rounds.”

“Okay, show me.”

She loaded it, unloaded it again, showed him the safety. “It’s double-action, so it’ll fire whether the hammer’s cocked or not. The recoil’s pretty minor, but it’s got a little kick. You want to stand with your feet about shoulder-distance apart. Distribute your weight. Both arms out, elbows locked, with your left hand cupped under your gun hand for stability. You lean your upper body toward the target.”

It was an instructor’s voice, he realized, but not her instructor’s voice. That was bright and charming and enthusiastic. This instructor was flat and cool.

“And you remember all that when bullets fly?”

“Maybe not, and maybe one-handed or a different stance would suit the situation better, but this is the best, I think, for target shooting. And like with anything, practice enough and it becomes instinctual. Tuck your head down to line up the sight with the target. Try the two-liter bottle.”

He fired. Missed.

“A little more square, and with your feet pointed at the target. Aim a little lower on the bottle.”

This time he caught a piece of it.

“Okay, I wounded the empty Diet Pepsi. Do I get praise and reward?”

She did smile, a little this time, but there wasn’t any light in it. “You learn fast, and I have beer. Try it a couple more times.”

He thought he got the hang of it, and confirmed the hang of it didn’t particularly appeal to him.

“It’s loud.” He put the safety on, unloaded it as she’d shown him. “And now you have a bunch of dead recyclables in your yard. I don’t think shooting cans and bottles comes close to shooting flesh and blood. Could you actually aim this at a person and pull the trigger?”

“Yes. I was stun-gunned, drugged, tied up, gagged, locked in the trunk of a car by a man who wanted to kill me just for the pleasure it gave him.” Those calm blue eyes fired like her pistol. “If I’d had a gun, I’d have used it then. If anyone tries to do that to me again, I’d use it now, without a second’s hesitation.”

A part of him regretted she’d given him exactly the answer he’d needed to hear. He handed the Beretta back to her. “Let’s hope you never have to find out if you’re right.”

Fiona holstered the gun, then picked up a bag and began to gather up the spent cartridges. “I’d rather not have to prove it. But I feel better.”

“That’s something then.”

“I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t think about you driving up and hearing gunshots.” She leaned down, gave Jaws a body scrub. “You handled that, didn’t you? Big noises don’t scare you. Search and Rescue dogs need to tolerate loud noises without spooking. I’ll get you that beer after I pick up the targets.”

Odd, he thought, he’d learned her moods. Odd, and a little uncomfortable. “Got any wine?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll get the bodies. You can pour out some wine, and maybe use your sexy voice to score us a delivery. I feel like spaghetti.”

“I don’t have a sexy voice.”

“Sure you do.” He took the bag, walked across her makeshift range.

By the time he’d finished, she was sitting on the back deck, two glasses of red on the little table.

“It’ll be about forty-five minutes. They’re backed up some.”

“I can wait.” He sat, picked up his wine. “I guess you could use a couple decent chairs back here, too.”

“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She wrapped her arms around the nearest dog, pressed her face into fur and wept.

Simon rose, went inside and brought out a short trail of paper towels.

“I was okay when I was doing something.” She kept her arms around Peck. “I shouldn’t have stopped.”

“Tell me where you put the gun and I’ll get it so you can shoot more soup cans.”

She shook her head and, on a long breath, lifted it. “No, I think I’m done. God, I hate that. Thanks,” she murmured when he pressed the paper towels into her hand.

“That makes two of us. So what set you off ?”

“The FBI was here. Special Agent Don Tawney—he’s the one from the Perry investigation. He really helped me through all of that, so it was easier going through all this again with him. He has a new partner. She’s striking—sort of like the TV version of FBI. She doesn’t like dogs.” She bent down to kiss Peck between the ears. “Doesn’t know what she’s missing. Anyway.”

She picked up the wine, sipped slowly. “It stirs up the ghosts, but I was ready for that. They traced the scarf, the one he sent me. It’s a match for the ones used on the three victims. The same make, dye lot. He bought a dozen of them from the same store, near the prison. Near where Perry is. So that squashes even the faint hope that somebody sent it to me as a sick joke.”

Fury burned a low fire in his gut. “What are they doing about it?”

“Following up, looking into, pursuing avenues. What they always do. They’re monitoring Perry, his contacts, his correspondence, on the theory that he and this one know each other. They’ll probably contact you because I told them you were staying here at night.”

She folded her legs up, drawing in. “It occurs to me that I’m a lot of work to be involved with right now. It’s not usually true—I don’t think. I’m not high maintenance because I know how to maintain myself, and I prefer it. But right now... So if you want to call a time-out, I get it.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.” She turned her head to meet his eyes straight on, and now, he thought, there was the faintest light in them. “I’d think you were a cold, selfish bastard coward, but I’d get it.”

“I’m a cold, selfish bastard, but I’m not a coward.”

“You’re none of those things. Well, maybe a little bit of a bastard, but it’s part of your charm. Simon, another woman’s missing. She fits the pattern, the type.”

“Where?”

“South-central Oregon, just north of the California border. I know what she’s going through now, how afraid she is, how confused, how there’s this part of her that won’t—can’t—believe it’s happening to her. And I know that if she doesn’t find a way, if there isn’t some intersection with fate, they’ll find her body in a matter of days, in a shallow grave with a red scarf around her neck and a number on her hand.”

She needed to see something else, he thought. Control meant channeling the emotion into logic. “Why did Perry pick athletic coeds?”

“What?”

“You’ve thought about it, the FBI, the shrinks, they’d have a lot to say on it.”

“Yes. His mother was the type. She was an athlete, a runner. Apparently, she just missed being chosen for the Olympics when she was in college. She got pregnant, and instead of pursuing her interests or career, she ended up a very bitter, dissatisfied mother of two, married to a forcefully religious man. She left them, the husband, the kids—just took off one day.”

“Went missing.”

“You could say—except she’s alive and well. The FBI tracked her down once they’d identified Perry. She lives—or lived—outside of Chicago. Teaches PE in a private girls’ school.”

“Why the red scarf ?”

“Perry gave her one for Christmas when he was seven. She left them a couple months later.”

“So, he was killing his mother.”

“He was killing the girl his mother was before she got pregnant, before she married the man who—according to his mother and those who knew them—abused her. He was killing the girl she talked about all the time, the happy college student who’d had her whole life in front of her before she made that mistake, before she was saddled with a child. That’s what the shrinks said.”

“What do you say?”

“I say all that’s just a bullshit excuse to cause pain and fear. Just like whoever’s killing now uses Perry as a bullshit excuse.”

“You stand there because of what he did to you. Motivation matters.”

She set down her glass. “You really think—”

“If you shut it down a minute, I’ll tell you what I think. Motivation matters,” he said again, “because why you do something connects to how you do it, who you do it to, or for. And maybe what you see at the end of it—if you’re looking that far.”

“I don’t care why he killed all those women, and Greg, why he tried to kill me. I don’t care.”

“You should. You know what motivates them.” He gestured to the dog. “Play, praise, reward—and pleasing the ones who dole all that out. Knowing it, connecting to it, and them, makes you good at what you do.”

“I don’t see what—”

“Not done. He was good at what he did. It was doing something he wasn’t as good at—When he deviated from his skill area, he got caught.”

“He murdered Greg and Kong in cold blood.” She shoved out of the chair. “You call that a deviation?”

He shrugged and went back to his wine.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Because you’d rather be pissed.”

“Of course I’d rather be pissed. I’m human. I have feelings. I loved him. Haven’t you ever loved anyone?”

“Not that way.”

“Nina Abbott?”

“Jesus, no.”

There was just enough shocked derision in his tone to carry the truth. “It didn’t seem that far-out a question.”

“Look, she’s gorgeous, talented, sexy, smart.”

“Bitch.”

Pleased, he let out a short laugh. “You asked. I liked her, except when she was batshit crazy—which, looking back, was pretty damn regular. It was steam and smoke, then it was just drama. She liked the drama. No, she fucking loved the drama. I didn’t. That’s it.”

“I guess I assumed there was more than—”

“There wasn’t. And it’s not about me anyway.”

“So you just expect me to be logical and objective about Greg, about Perry, about this. I should be analytical when—”

“Be whatever the hell you want, but if you don’t think, if you don’t step outside and look at the whole, you can shoot that gun as much as you like and it’s not going to help. For fuck’s sake, Fiona, are you going to pack it twenty-four/seven? Are you going to strap it on while you’re running your classes, or driving to the village for a quart of milk? Is that how you’re going to live?”

“If I have to. You’re mad,” she realized. “It’s hard to tell with you because you don’t always show it. You’ve been mad since you got here, but you’ve only let it sneak out a couple times.”

“We’re both better off that way.”

“Yeah, because otherwise you’re Simon Kick-Ass. You come here every night. There’s probably some mad in that, too.”

Considering, she picked up her wine again, walked to the post to lean back, study him as she drank. “You’ve got to stop what you’re doing, toss some things in a bag, drive over here. You don’t leave anything, except what you forget. Because you’re messy. It’s another thing you have to do every day.”

She’d managed to turn it around so it was about him after all, he realized. The woman had skills. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“That’s true.” She nodded, drank again. “Yeah, that’s true. You get a meal and sex out of it, but that’s not why you do it. Not altogether anyway. It has to irritate you, to some extent. I haven’t given you enough credit for that.”

“I don’t do it for credit either.”

“No, you don’t work on the point system. You don’t care about things like that. You do what you want, and if an obligation sneaks in—a dog, a woman—you figure out how to handle it and continue to do what you want. Problems are meant to be solved. Measure, cut, fit the pieces together until it works the way you want it to work.”

She lifted her glass, sipped again. “How’s that for looking at motivation?”

“Not bad, if this was about me.”

“Part of it is, for me. See, it was okay when this was an affair. This you and me. I never had one before, not really, so it was all new and shiny, sexy and easy. Really attractive guy who gives me the tingles. Enough in common and enough not to make it interesting. I like the way he is, and maybe partly because he’s so different from my usual. I think it’s the same with him about me. But that changes without me realizing it—or at least without me admitting it. Affair becomes relationship.”

She sipped again, let out a little sigh. “That’s what we have here, Simon. We’re in a relationship whether either of us wanted it or were ready for it. And as stupid as it is, as useless and wrong as it is, part of me feels disloyal to Greg. So I’d rather be pissed. I’d rather not admit I’m not having an affair with you, a no-problem, casual little fling I can walk away from anytime.”

She watched the dogs scramble off the porch like runners at the starting gun, then bound around the side of the house.

“I guess you’re going to have to remeasure and refit. That’s dinner. We should eat inside. It’s cooling off.”

She walked into the house, leaving him wondering how the hell the conversation had flipped on him.

In the kitchen, Fiona gave the pasta a quick buzz in the microwave. By the time Simon came in, she’d dumped the spaghetti in a bowl, set the garlic bread on a small plate and brought the wine to the table.

When she turned with dinner plates in her hands, he took her by the shoulders. “I’ve got some say in what this is.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

She waited. Waited another moment. “Are you figuring it out now?”

“No.”

“Then we should eat before I have to heat it up again.”

“I’m not competing with a ghost.”

“No. No, believe me, Simon, I know it’s not fair. He was my first, in every way.” She set the plates down, crossed over to get the flatware, napkins. “And the way I lost him left scars. There hasn’t been anyone since who was important enough to make me take a good look at those scars. I didn’t know that’s what I’d have to do when I started falling for you. I think I’m in love with you. It’s not like it was with Greg, so it’s confusing, but I think that’s what it is, going on with me. And that’s a dilemma for both of us.”

She topped off both glasses of wine. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d let me know when you figure it out on your end.”

“That’s it?” he demanded. “Oops, we’re in a relationship, and by the way, I think I’m in love with you. Let me know what you think?”

She sat, tipped her face up to look at him. “That pretty much sums it up. Love’s always been a positive in my life.” She scooped some spaghetti onto his plate. “It adds and enhances and opens all sorts of possibilities. But I’m not stupid, and I know that if you can’t or don’t feel it for me, it’ll be painful. That’s a dilemma. I also know you can’t force love, or demand it. And I’ve already dealt with the worst. If you can’t or don’t love me, it’ll hurt. But I’ll get through it. Besides, maybe I’m wrong.”

She took a portion of pasta. “I was wrong about being in love with Josh Clatterson.”

“Who the hell is Josh Clatterson?”

“Sprinter.” She wound pasta around her fork. “I pined for him for nearly two years—tenth and eleventh grade, and the summer between. But it turned out it wasn’t love. I just liked the way he looked when he ran the twenty-yard dash. So maybe I just like the way you look, Simon, and how you smell of sawdust half the time.”

“You haven’t seen me run the twenty-yard dash.”

“True. I might be sunk if I ever do.” When he finally sat down, she smiled. “I’m going to try to be logical and objective.”

“It seems to me you’re doing a damn good job at it already.”

“About you and me? I guess it’s a defense mechanism.”

He frowned, ate. “It doesn’t work as a defense once you tell me it’s a defense.”

“That’s a good point. Well, too late. I meant logical and so forth about Perry and what’s going on now. You were right about that, about the importance of understanding motivation. He didn’t try to kill me just because. I represented something, just like the others had. And failing with me, he needed to inflict punishment? Do you think punishment?”

“It’s a good enough word for it.”

“It had to be more severe than the others. Death ends—though I imagine if he hadn’t been caught he’d have come for me again. Because he’d have needed to end it—to tie off that thread. How am I doing?”

“Keep going.”

“He understood it’s hard to live when you know, when you understand someone you love is dead because you lived. He knew that, understood that, and used that to make me suffer for... breaking his streak, spoiling his record. What then?” she asked when Simon shook his head.

“For leaving him.”

She sat back. “For leaving him,” she repeated. “I got away. I ran away. I didn’t stay where he put me, or... accept the gift. The scarf. All right, say that’s true, what does it tell me?”

“He’s never forgotten you. You left him, and even though he managed to scar you, he was the one who was punished. He can’t get to you, can’t close that circle, tie off the thread. Not with his own hands. He needs someone to do it for him. A stand-in. A proxy. How does he find one?”

“Someone he knows, another inmate.”

“Why would he use someone who’s already failed?”

Her heart knocked at the base of her throat. “He wouldn’t. He waits. He’s good at waiting. So he’d wait, wouldn’t he, until he found someone he believed smart enough, good enough. The women he’s killed—this proxy—it’s a kind of building-up. I understand that. They’re a horrible kind of practice.”

“And they’re bragging. ‘You locked me up, but you didn’t stop me.’ ”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Good.” For an instant those tawny eyes went fierce. “Be scared, and think. What motivates the proxy?”

“How can I know?”

“Jesus, Fee, you’re smarter than that. Why does anyone follow someone else’s path?”

“Admiration.”

“Yeah. And you train someone to do what you want, how you want, when you want?”

“Praise and reward. That means contact, but they’ve searched Perry’s cell, they’re monitoring his visitors—and his sister’s the only one who goes to see him.”

“And nobody ever smuggles anything into prison? Or out? Did Perry ever send a scarf before he abducted a woman?”

“No.”

“So this guy’s deviated. Sometimes you follow another person’s path because you want to impress them, or outdo them. It has to be someone he met, more than once. Someone he was able to evaluate, and trust, and speak to privately. A lawyer, a shrink, a counselor, a guard. Somebody in maintenance or prison administration. Somebody Perry looked at, listened to, watched, studied and saw something in. Someone that reminded him of himself.”

“Okay. Someone young enough to be maneuvered and trained, mature enough to be trusted. Smart enough not to simply follow instructions, but to adjust to each particular situation. He’d have to be able to travel with nobody questioning him about where he’d been, what he’d done. So, single, someone who lives alone. Like Perry did. The FBI must already have a profile.”

“He’d have to have some physical stamina, some strength,” Simon continued. “His own car—probably something nondescript. He’d need enough money to carry him along. Food, gas, hotels.”

“And some knowledge of the areas where he abducts them, and where he takes them. Maps, time to scope it all out. But under it, doesn’t there have to be more? The reason why. Admiring Perry? Nobody could unless they were like him. What made this person like that?”

“It’ll be a woman, or women. He’s not killing Perry’s mother. My guess would be she’s his proxy.”

It made sense, though she didn’t know what good it did her. Maybe the fact that it made sense was enough. She had a theory about what she was facing—or who.

She supposed it helped that Simon pushed her to think. No promises that nothing would happen to her, to protect her from all harm. She wouldn’t have believed those claims, she thought as she tried to soak out the tension with a hot bath. Maybe she’d have been comforted by them, but she wouldn’t have believed them.

He didn’t make promises—not Simon. In fact, he was very careful not to, she decided. All those casual see you laters rather than just saying he’d be back. Then again, a man who didn’t make promises didn’t break them.

Greg had made promises, and kept them when he could. It occurred to her now that she’d never worried about Greg or wondered or doubted. He’d been her sweetheart before the abduction, and he’d been her rock after.

And he was gone. It was time, maybe long past time, to fully accept that.

Wrapped in a towel, she stepped into the bedroom as Simon came in from the hall.

“The dogs wanted out,” he told her. He crossed over, flicked his fingers over the hair she’d bundled on top of her head. “That’s a new look for you.”

“I didn’t want it to get wet.” She reached up to pull out pins, but he brushed her hand aside.

“I’ll do it. Did you finish your brood?”

She smiled a little. “It was only a partial brood.”

“You had a rough day.” He pulled a pin out.

“It’s done now.”

“Not quite.” He drew out another pin. “Scent’s the thing, right? How you find someone. I’ve got yours inside me. I could find you whether I wanted to or not. Whether you wanted me to or not.”

“I’m not lost.”

“I still found you.” He took out another pin, and her hair tumbled after it. “What is it about the way a woman’s hair falls?” He speared his hands through it, locked his eyes on hers. “What is it about you?”

Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers, but softly, testing and easy. She eased into him as she had the bath, with every muscle sighing its pleasure.

For a moment, just a moment, he simply held her, with his hand stroking down her hair, her back. It undid her, the offer of comfort she hadn’t asked for, the gift of affection she hadn’t expected.

He slipped the towel off, let it fall, and even then just held her.

“What is it about you?” he repeated. “How does touching you calm me down and excite me at the same time? What is it you want from me? You never ask. Sometimes I wonder, is this a trick?” His eyes on hers, he backed her slowly toward the bed. “Just a way to pull me in? But it’s not. You’re not built that way.”

“Why would I want anything I had to trick out of you?”

“You don’t.” He lifted her, held, then laid her on the bed. “So you pull me in. And I end up being the one who’s lost.”

She framed his face with her hands. “I’ll find you.”

He wasn’t used to tenderness, to feeling it spread inside him. Or this need to give her what she never asked of him. It was easier to let the storm come, let it ride over both of them. But for tonight, he’d embrace the calm and try to soothe the fears he understood hid behind those lake-blue eyes.

Relax. Let go. As if she’d heard his thoughts, she sank into the kiss that offered quiet and warmth. Slow and easy, his mouth tasted hers, changing angles, gently deepening in a seduction that shimmered sweet.

She’d been wrong, she realized. She was lost. Floating, untethered, in an unfamiliar space where sensation layered gauzily over sensation to blur the mind and enchant the body.

She surrendered to it, to him, yielding absolutely as his lips gently conquered hers, as his hands trailed over her—tender touches soothing a troubled soul.

The softly lit bedroom transformed. A magic glade steeped in green shadows silvered at the edges with moonlight, with the air thick and still and sweet. She didn’t know her way, and was content to wander, to linger, to be guided.

His mouth grazed down her throat, over her shoulders until her skin tingled from the quiet onslaught. He tasted her breasts, patiently sampling until on a groan she arched and offered.

He feasted, but delicately.

Hands and mouth skimmed down in whispering trails, inciting sighs and shivers that rolled into a slow rise, a gilded peak, a breathy fall.

He was with her in the magic, steeped in her, in the rich glow of the moment, in the slow glide of movements. Seduced as he seduced, enraptured by the sound of his name murmured from her lips, the slide of her hands, the taste of her skin.

She welcomed him, warm and wet, took him in—into her body, into her arms. The need stayed slow and sweet, tender as an open heart even as it climbed.

And when he fell, he fell into her eyes.

Sixteen

In the shabby excuse for a rented cabin squatting in the magnificence of the Cascade Mountains, Francis Eckle read Perry’s letter. They had, many months before, determined the route, the timing, the towns, colleges, burial sites.

Or Perry had, he thought.

The preplanning made it a simple matter to obtain a mail drop for the letters Perry smuggled out of prison. The answers returned by a similar method—mailed to Perry’s minister, who believed in his repentance.

In the beginning, he’d been thrilled by the correspondence, the exchange of details and ideas. Perry’s understanding, guidance and approval meant so much.

Someone, finally someone who saw him.

Someone who didn’t require the mask, the pretense, but instead recognized the chains required to keep them in place. Someone, at last someone who helped him gather the courage to break those chains and release what he was.

A man, a friend, a partner who offered to share the power that came from throwing off the shackles of rules and behavior and embracing the predator.

The teacher had become a willing student, eager to learn, to explore all the knowledge and experiences he’d so long denied himself. But now he believed the time had come for commencement.

Time to move beyond the boundaries and the tenets he’d been so meticulously taught.

They were rules, after all, and rules no longer applied.

He studied the two fingers of whiskey in his glass. Perry had decreed there could be no drugs, no alcohol, no tobacco during the journey. The body and mind remained pure.

But Perry was in prison, he thought, and sipped with the pleasure of rebellion. The journey no longer belonged to him.

It was time to make his own mark—or the next mark, as he’d detoured from the plan already by sending the Bristow bitch a little present.

He wished he could have seen her face when she opened the mailer. He wished he could have smelled her fear.

But that would come, soon enough.

He’d detoured as well by renting the cabin—an expense dearer than a dingy motel room, but he felt it earned the cost with its privacy.

He needed privacy for the next detour from his mentor’s carefully drawn route.

Perry had given him a new life, a new freedom, and he would honor that by finishing what his mentor hadn’t and killing Fiona. But there was much to be done in the meantime, and it was time to test himself.

To celebrate himself.

He took another sip of whiskey. He’d save the rest until after. He moved quietly through the room into the bathroom where he removed his clothes, admired his body. He’d removed all the hair from it the night before, and enjoyed the smooth, sleek skin, the muscles he’d rigorously toned. Perry was right about strength and discipline.

He stroked himself, pleased anticipation hardened him, before sliding on a condom. He didn’t plan to rape—but plans could change. But in any case, protection was key, he thought as he drew on leather gloves.

Time to let himself go. To explore new ground.

He stepped into the bedroom, switched on a low light and studied the pretty girl tied to the bed. He wished he could rip off the duct tape over her mouth, hear her screams, her pleas, her gasps of pain. But sounds carried so he’d have to content himself with imagining them.

In any case, her eyes begged him. Her eyes screamed. He’d let the drug wear off so she’d be aware, so she’d struggle—so her fear would perfume the air.

He smiled, pleased to see she’d abraded her wrists and ankles fighting the cords. The plastic under her crackled as she cringed and writhed.

“I haven’t introduced myself,” he said. “My name is Francis Xavier Eckle. For years I taught useless cunts like you who forgot me five minutes after walking out of my class. No one saw me because I hid myself. But as you see”—he spread his arms as tears spilled out of her eyes—“I stopped hiding. Do you see me? Nod your head like a good girl.”

When she nodded, he stepped to the side of the bed. “I’m going to hurt you.” He felt the heat spread in his belly as she struggled, as her wild pleas piped against the tape. “You want to know why? Why me? you’re thinking. Why not you? What makes you so special? Nothing.”

He got on the bed, straddled her—considered the rape dispassionately as she tried to kick, to turn. And rejected it, at least for the moment.

“But you’re going to be special. I’m going to make you famous. You’ll be on TV, in the newspapers, all over the Internet. You can thank me later.”

Balling his gloved hands, he used his fists.

Fiona hesitated and backtracked. Her bag was packed and in the car. She’d made arrangements for everything. She’d left lists—long lists, she admitted—carefully detailed. She’d devised Plan Bs for a number of items—Plan Cs for a few.

Still, she went over everything in her head, again, looking for anything she’d left out, miscalculated, needed to cover more fully.

“Go away,” Simon ordered.

“I’ve still got a few minutes. I think maybe I should—”

“Get the hell out of here.” To solve the matter, he took her arm and steered her through the house.

“If one of the dogs gets sick or injured—”

“I have the name and number of the vet who’s covering for Mai. I have your number—hotel, cell, Mai’s cell, Sylvia’s cell. So does James. We have everything. In triplicate. Between us I think we can handle anything short of nuclear holocaust or alien invasion.”

“I know, but—”

“Shut up. Go away. If I’m hauling four dogs home with me this morning, I need to get started.”

“I really appreciate it, Simon. I know it’s a lot. James will pick my guys up—”

“After work. It’s on the list, with the time, his cell phone, his house phone. I think all that’s missing is what he’ll be wearing. Beat it. I’m finally going to have three days without having to listen to you.”

“You’ll miss me.”

“No I won’t.”

She laughed, then she crouched down to pet the dogs, to hug them. “You’ll miss me, won’t you, boys? Poor things having to spend the day with King Cranky. It’s okay. James will save you later. Be good. Be good boys.”

She straightened. “Okay, I’m going.”

“Thank Christ.”

“And thank you for letting them hang out with Jaws during the day.” She gave him a quick buss on the cheek, opened the car door.

He spun her around, yanked her into a long, hard kiss. “Maybe I’ll miss you a little, if a stray thought of you happens to cross my mind.” He brushed her hair behind her ears. “Have a good time.” Then he grabbed her hand. “Really. Have a good time.”

“I will. We will.” She got in the car, then leaned her head out the window. “Don’t forget to—”

He used the palm of his hand to push her head back in.

“Okay. Okay. Bye.”

He watched her go with the dogs plopped down beside him. “All right, guys, it’s man-time. Scratch your balls if you’ve got them.”

He walked back to the house, did a quick walk-through check. “It never smells like dog in here,” he muttered. “How does she pull that off ?”

He locked up, strode to the truck. “Everybody in. Going for a ride.”

They scrambled up, except for Newman, jockeying for the passenger side or the narrow bench seat behind it.

“Come on. Gotta go,” Simon ordered as the dog sat and studied him. “She’ll be back in a couple days.” He patted the seat. “Up, come on, Newman. Don’t you trust me?”

The dog seemed to consider the question, then apparently took Simon at his word and jumped in.

He had a stray thought of her—maybe a couple of them—as he worked through the morning. He ate lunch with his feet dangling off the porch of the shop, tossing bits of salami (Fiona wouldn’t approve) to the dogs and watching them field. He took another twenty minutes, tossing sticks and balls on the beach, laughing his ass off when every one of them bounded into the water.

He went back to work, radio blasting and four wet dogs snoring their way dry in the sunlight.

He didn’t hear them bark, not with AC/DC screaming, but looked over as a shadow crossed his doorway.

He set his tool aside and picked up the remote to cut the music when Davey stepped in.

“Got yourself a gang of dogs out there.”

“Fiona’s away for a couple days.”

“Yeah, I know. Girl trip with Syl and Mai. I thought I’d run by her place a couple times a day, just to check. Listen... What is that?”

Simon ran a hand down the side of the stump. He’d stripped off the bark, done the first of some rough sanding. It stood, roots up.

“It’s a sink base.”

“It looks like a naked, upside-down tree stump.”

“It does now.”

“I gotta tell you, Simon, that’s pretty fucking weird.”

“Maybe.”

Davey wandered the shop. “You’ve got a lot going on in here,” he commented, winding around chairs, tables, the frame of a breakfront, doors and drawers glued and sporting clamps. “I saw the built-ins you did for the Munsons. They’re nice. Real nice. Hey. This is a beauty here.”

Like Davey, Simon studied the wine cabinet he’d designed for Fiona. “It’s not finished. You didn’t come by to critique my work.”

“No.” Face grim now, Davey shoved his hands in his pockets. “Shit.”

“They found her. The girl who got taken last week.”

“Yeah. Early this morning. Crater Lake National Park. He kept her longer than the others, so the feds thought maybe she got away, or it wasn’t the same guy. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe. Jesus, Simon, he beat the hell out of her before he killed her. Perry never messed them up that way. The other three we know of weren’t beaten. But everything else matches. The scarf, the position of the body. She had the number four written on her hand.”

Because he wanted to pummel something, Simon walked over, opened his shop fridge. He took out two Cokes. Tossed one to Davey.

“He’s finding his own way. It’s what you do. You learn, you emulate, then you create your own style. He’s experimenting.”

“Jesus, Simon.” Davey rubbed the cold can over his face before popping the top. “I wish I didn’t think you were right on that. I wish I didn’t think the same thing.”

“Why are you telling me about this?”

“I want your take. Do we contact Fee, let her know?”

“No. She needs a couple days away from this.”

“I’m with you on that, too, but it’s going to be all over the news.”

“Call Syl. Tell her, and tell her to... shit, make a girl pact—no news, TV, papers, Internet. Nothing to... you know, disturb the nirvana or estrogen field or whatever the hell. Syl will know how to handle it.”

“Yeah, she will. That’s good. That girl, Simon, she was barely twenty. Her dad was killed in an accident about two years ago. She was an only child. Her mother lost her husband and now her only child. It makes me sick.”

He shook it off, gulped down Coke. “I guess you’ll be talking to Fee every night.”

He hadn’t planned to. It seemed so... high school. “Yeah. I’ll be talking to her. She’s fine there.”

But he knew as he went back to work, he’d worry until she was back home again.

Fiona all but floated back to her villa, gliding on bliss and massaged feet. She stepped inside where the scent of flowers and the subtle strains of New Age music embraced her. She drifted through the living area with its sink-into-me furniture and glossy wood, then straight out to the pretty flower-decked terrace where Sylvia basked in dappled sunlight.

“I’m in love.” Sighing dreamily, Fiona dropped down onto a chaise. “I’m in love with a woman named Carol who’s stolen my heart with her magic hands.”

“You look relaxed.”

“Relaxed? I’m a noodle. The happiest noodle in the Pacific Northwest. How about you?”

“I’ve been detoxed, scrubbed, rubbed, polished. My biggest decision is what to have for dinner tonight. I’m considering living here for the rest of my days.”

“Want a roommate? God, Syl, why haven’t we ever done this before?”

Sylvia, her masses of hair messily pinned on her head, her rose-shaded glasses covering her eyes, set aside the fashion magazine open on her lap. “We fell into the busy-women-with-no-time-to-indulge-themselves trap. We’ve broken out of the cage now. And I have a decree.”

“At your command.”

“During our much-deserved indulgence, we’ll read only entertaining fiction and/or glossy magazines.”

She tapped the cover of the one she’d set on the table.

“We will watch only light, frothy, fun movies—if we so desire movies—on TV. We will banish all thoughts of work, worry and responsibility from our minds. Our only concerns, our only decisions during this time out of time will be room service versus restaurant, and the color of polish we want during our pedicure.”

“I’m behind that. I’m so behind that I’m inside it. Mai’s not back yet?”

“We crossed paths of bliss in the relaxation room. She said she was going to take a swim.”

“If I’d tried that, I’d have sunk like a stone and drowned.” Fiona started to stretch, then decided it took too much energy. “Carol balanced my chi, or maybe she aligned my chakras. I don’t know how, but having my chi balanced or chakras aligned results in something beyond ecstasy.”

Mai glided out wearing one of the spa’s cushy robes, slid into a chair. “Ladies. Is this a dream?” she wondered. “Is this all just a dream?”

“It’s our reality, for three glorious days.” Sylvia rose, wandered inside.

“I had the Mind, Body, Spirit Renewal. I’ve been renewed.” Mai tipped her face up, closed her eyes. “I want to be renewed every day for the rest of my life.”

“Syl and I are going to live here, and I’m going to marry Carol.”

“Good. I’ll be your permanent houseguest. Who’s Carol?”

“Carol used her magic hands on my chi or chakras—possibly both—and I have to have her for my own, for always.”

“Richie renewed me. I could marry Richie, then I could turn my back on the downward spiral of online dating.”

“I thought you liked the dentist.”

“Periodontist. I did, enough for a second date where he spent over an hour talking about his ex-wife. She was a bitch, never got off his back, spent too much money, scalped him in the divorce, et cetera, et cetera. Sam the periodontist goes down the tubes with Robert the psychologist, Michael the insurance exec and Cedric the lawyer/unpublished novelist.”

“You’re better off with Richie.”

“Don’t I know it.”

They both glanced at the doorway, and Fiona’s eyes popped wide as Sylvia came out carrying a silver tray.

“Champagne? Is that champagne?”

“Champagne and chocolate strawberries. I decided when three busy women and great, good friends finally indulge themselves it needs to be celebrated.”

“We’re going to have champagne on the terrace of our suite at the spa!” Fiona clasped her hands together. “It is a dream.”

“Do we deserve it?”

“Damn right.” Mai applauded when Sylvia popped the cork.

Once Sylvia poured the glasses, Mai raised hers. “To us,” she said, “and nobody else.”

With a laugh, Fiona clinked. “That absolutely works for me.” She took the first sip. “Oh, oh, yeah. Syl, this was inspired. It’s like the glitter on top of the shine.”

“We need to make a pact. We do this every spring. Come here, get renewed, balanced, drink champagne and be girls.” Mai held up her glass again.

“I’m in.” Fiona tapped glasses, grinned while Sylvia did the same. “I don’t even know what time it is. I can’t think of the last time I didn’t know, or had to think about, my schedule. I actually had one outlined for here. What time to get up to hit the gym, what classes to take, how long I’d have to take a swim or use the steam room before a treatment.”

She mimed tearing a page from a book and tossing it away. “There’s no room for organized Fee here. Spa Fee does what she likes when she likes.”

“I bet Spa Fee’s up before seven and trotting down to the gym.”

“That may be.” Fiona nodded at Mai. “But Spa Fee won’t be on a schedule. And it’s all because of the amazing Carol. Five minutes on the table and I stopped wondering how the dogs were doing with Simon, how Simon was doing with the dogs, how the rest of the unit would handle it if they got a call while we are here. What the police are... No,” she decided. “I’m not even mentioning that one. Everything just blurred into a quiet ecstasy, which I’m going to perpetuate now by having more champagne.”

They all had more.

“How’s the dating going, Mai?” Sylvia asked.

“I was telling Fee about the thumbs-down on the periodontist. Ex-wife-obsessed,” she explained.

“Never good.”

“First guy,” Mai continued, ticking off on her fingers, “obviously going off prepared remarks, and when I finally got him off-script, he was not only dull but so narrow-minded I’d be surprised if any new thought could squeeze in for consideration. Guy two, slick, self-absorbed and hoping for a quick bang. Guy next? A strange and unappealing combination of guys one and two. I’m going to give it one more shot, but I think this experiment has failed.”

“It’s too bad. Not even a potential casual dinner companion?” Sylvia asked.

“Not for me. I tell you, the most interesting conversations I had with the male of the species in the past couple of weeks have been with Tyson.”

“Sheriff Tyson?” Fiona broke in. “From San Juan?”

“Yeah. He’s looking into getting a dog, a rescue. He called me for some advice and input.”

“Really?” Fiona picked up a strawberry, studied it. “And there aren’t any vets on San Juan Island?”

“Sure, but I’ve got rescue dogs.” She shrugged. “It helps to talk to somebody who’s had the experience.”

“You said conversations,” Sylvia pointed out. “Plural.”

“Yeah, we’ve talked a few times. He was thinking a Lab or Lab mix because he likes Fee’s dogs. But then he thought, maybe just hit the shelter and see how it went, or go online and check out what’s available and who needs a home. It’s sweet,” she added. “He’s putting a lot of time and thought into it.”

“And checking in with you.” Fiona exchanged a glance with Sylvia.

“That’s right. I’m going to go with him to check out the shelter once we get back from Spa Bliss.”

“He asked you to go with him to the animal shelter?”

“A little professional and moral support,” she began, then goggled at Fiona. “Come on! It’s not like he asked me out for a moonlight cruise. It’s not like that.”

“A man, a single man, calls you multiple times to talk to you about one of your pet interests—pun intended,” Fiona added, “progresses to having you go out with him. But it’s not like that?” Fiona gestured to Sylvia. “Opinion, please.”

“It’s absolutely and completely like that.”

“But—”

“Your radar’s skewed,” Sylvia continued. “You’ve been focused on meeting strangers, looking for a spark and common interests so you missed the approach of a man you already know.”

“No, I... God, wait a minute.” She closed her eyes, held up her finger as she reviewed conversations, tones. “Holy shit. You’re right. It never blipped on my screen. Hmmm.”

“Hmmm, good or hmmm uh-oh?” Fiona asked.

“I think... good. He’s interesting, funny when he’s not being official, steady and a little shy. And nice-looking. And a little bit sneaky, which I like. Luring me into a date. I’m... flattered,” she realized. “Jesus, I’m seriously flattered. God. I’ve been renewed and I have a guy who interests me and vice versa. This is an excellent day.”

“Then...” Sylvia topped off all three glasses. “It’s a good thing I got a second bottle in the fridge.”

“You are so wise,” Mai told her. “Who’s for ordering dinner in here later, sitting around in our pajamas, getting lit on champagne and finishing it off with some ridiculously high-caloric dessert?”

They all raised their hands.

“I’m in love with Simon,” Fiona blurted out, then shook her head. “Wow, I really stepped on your Sheriff Tyson news. We can get back to this.”

“Are you kidding? Are you fucking kidding ?” Mai demanded. “Tyson—why do I refer to him by his last name?—Ben and the possibilities of dating him can wait. In love, like the big one, or in love like oh, this is so much fun and makes me feel good, and he’s really sexy.”

“The big one, with a lot of the other, which is why I thought it was all the other, but it’s not. All, or only. Why can’t I have an affair like a normal person? Now I’ve complicated it.”

“Life’s complicated, or what’s the point?” Sylvia beamed even as her eyes filled. “I think this is wonderful.”

“I don’t know if it’s wonderful or not, but it is. He’s so not what I imagined for myself.”

“You stopped imagining for yourself,” Sylvia pointed out.

“Maybe I did. But if I had imagined, I don’t think it would’ve been Simon Doyle—not for the big one.”

Mai propped her elbow on the table, gestured with her glass. “Why are you in love with him? What are the qualifications?”

“I don’t know. He’s solitary and I’m not, he tends to be cranky and I don’t. He’s messy and blunt, doesn’t quibble about being rude, and only ekes out information about himself when you pump or when he’s in the mood.”

“This is music to my ears,” Sylvia murmured.

“Why, O Wise One?” Mai demanded.

“Because he’s not some perfect fantasy. He’s flawed and you understand that. It means you’ve fallen for who he is, not who you want him to be.”

“I like who he is. And on the other side of it, he makes me laugh, and he’s kind. The fact that he’s reluctant about it only gives the kindness more impact. He can’t be bothered to say what he doesn’t mean, and that makes him honest.”

“Does he love you?”

Fiona let her shoulders lift and fall at Mai’s question. “I don’t know, but I know if he ever says he does, he’ll mean it. For now, it’s fine the way it is. I need time to get used to the way I feel—and to be sure he’s not with me or getting involved with me because, well, I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

“I bet he wasn’t thinking, Hey, this woman’s in trouble, when you had sex on the dining room table.”

She nodded at Mai. “Excellent point. And one worthy of more champagne. I’m going to get the second bottle.”

Mai waited until Fiona went back inside. “We’re right, aren’t we, not telling her about the murder?”

“Yes. She needs this. Apparently we all do, but she needs it most of all. She’ll have to deal with it soon enough.”

“I think he loves her, by the way.”

Sylvia smiled. “Why?”

“Because he told Davey to call you, not Fee, to suggest not telling her. We love her, and that’s why we’re not telling her—and I think we’d have decided not to whatever Davey said. But Simon had the same instinct. That’s a loving instinct, that’s what I think.”

“I think so, too.”

“It might not be the big one, but—”

“It’s enough for now, and what she needs. Honestly, Mai, I think they need each other, and they’re both going to be better and stronger together. At least that’s what I want.”

Mai glanced at the doorway, lowered her voice. “I told the concierge not to leave a paper at our door in the mornings. Just in case.”

“Good thinking.”

They heard the pop of a cork and Fiona’s shouted “Woo-hoo.”

“Put it out of your mind,” Sylvia murmured, “so we can keep it out of hers.”

Seventeen

Given what she did for a living, and the gardening she’d be working on throughout the season, Fiona knew manicures were a waste of time and money.

But this was Indulgence Central.

Their last day, too, she reminded herself. She might as well make the most of it—and go home with pretty fingers and toes even if she’d mangle them within twenty-four hours in reality.

Besides, it felt good.

She admired the breezy, beachy pink on her short but currently well-shaped nails as she slid her feet into the warm, churning water at the base of the pedicure chair. A chair, she thought, that offered a slice of heaven as it vibrated up and down her back.

Cindy, who’d given her the pretty nails, brought her a cup of water with thin lemon slices floating in it. “Comfortable?”

“I passed comfortable and am on my way to euphoria.”

“That’s what we like to hear. Do you want the same polish on your toes?”

“You know, let’s go crazy on the toes. The Purple Passion.”

“Fun!” She lifted Fiona’s feet out, patted them dry, then brushed on a warm green clay. “We’re going to let this mask set for just a few minutes, so you just relax. Can I get you anything?”

“I’ve got it all.”

Snuggling into her chair, Fiona opened her book and let herself fall into a romantic comedy that was as much fun as her choice of toenail polish.

“Good book?” Cindy asked when she came back to sit and rinse off the clay.

“It is. Exactly perfect for my mood. I feel happy, relaxed and pretty.”

“I love to read. I like crazy horror and gruesome murder mysteries. I don’t know why they relax me, but they do.”

“Maybe because when you’re reading the book, you know you’re safe, so it’s fun to be scared.”

“Yeah.” Cindy began to smooth Fiona’s heel with a pumice stone. “I hate listening to the news because, well, it’s real, and so much of it’s just awful. Accidents, natural disasters, crime.”

“Or politics.”

“Worse yet.” Cindy laughed. “But when you’re reading about bad things happening in a book you can hope the good guys are going to win. I like when they do. Save the girl—or the guy—or the human race. Catch the killer and make him pay. It doesn’t always happen for real. I’m scared they’re never going to catch that maniac who’s killing those women. Four now. Oh! Did I hurt you?”

“No.” Fiona willed herself to relax her foot again. “No, you didn’t hurt me. Four?”

“They found her a couple of days ago. Maybe you didn’t hear. In the Cascades, in Oregon. I know it’s miles and miles away, but it really scares me. If I have late appointments, my husband comes by to pick me up. I guess it’s silly because I’m not a college girl, but it just spooks me.”

“I don’t think it’s silly.” Fiona sipped the lemon water to ease her dry throat. “What does your husband do?” she asked to change the subject so Cindy could chatter, and she could think.

A couple of days. Sylvia’s decree—no papers, no TV.

She’d known, which meant Mai knew, too. And they’d kept it from her. To give her some peace of mind, she thought. A little slice of oblivion before reality grabbed her by the throat again.

So, she’d do the same for them, she decided. She’d maintain the pretense for this last day. If death haunted her, she could, for now, keep the ghosts to herself.

It wasn’t like him, Simon thought as he frowned at the flowers on Fiona’s kitchen table. He didn’t buy flowers.

Well, for his mother every now and again, sure. He wasn’t a philistine. But he didn’t buy flowers for women on impulse, or for no good reason.

Coming home after a couple days—okay, four days—away wasn’t a good reason.

He didn’t know why the hell he’d bought them, or why the hell he’d missed her so much. He’d gotten a lot of work accomplished without her taking up his space and time, hadn’t he? And he’d drafted out more designs because he’d had more time alone, working and living on his own schedule.

His and the dogs’, anyway.

He liked a quiet house. He preferred a quiet house—one without the annoying obligation of having to remember to pick up his socks or hang up wet towels, or stick dishes in the dishwasher unless he damn well felt like it.

Which, like most normal members of his species, meant when there were no more clean socks, towels or dishes.

Not that she asked him to pick up his socks or hang up his wet towels or stick his dishes in the dishwasher. That was her brilliance. She said nothing, so he felt obligated.

He was being trained, he realized. No doubt about it. She was training him as subtly and consistently and effortlessly as she did the dogs.

To please her. Not to disappoint her. To develop habits and routines.

It had to stop.

He should throw the stupid flowers out before she got home.

When the hell was she getting home?

He looked at the stove clock again, then walked outside so he’d stop looking at the clock.

He didn’t wear a watch for the very specific reason he didn’t want to be bound up in time.

He should’ve stayed home working until she called—or didn’t call. Instead he’d stopped, went into town to buy some supplies—and the christing flowers—and didn’t forget the couple bottles of the red wine she preferred, then came here to check the house.

To make sure, he was forced to admit, that James had picked up his socks and so on. Which, of course, proved unnecessary.

James was either as insanely tidy as Fiona, or well trained.

He hoped it was the latter, at least.

To get his mind off the time, he grabbed a load of tennis balls and thrilled the dogs by throwing them. And when his arm went to rubber decided she needed one of those ball shooters they used for tennis practice.

He changed it up, giving the dogs the stay command, then walking out of sight to hide the balls in various places. He went back around, sat on the porch steps.

“Find the balls!” he ordered.

He had to admit, the stampede and search had its entertainment value, and passed the time he wasn’t paying any attention to.

He ended up with a pile of dog-slobbered balls at his feet, then repeated the routine. But this time he ducked inside for a beer.

The pile of balls waited, but the dogs had gone into their sentries-on-alert stance, facing the bridge.

About damn time, he thought, then deliberately leaned against the post. Just out having a beer with the dogs, he decided. It wasn’t like he was waiting for her, watching for her.

But it wasn’t her car that bumped across the bridge.

He straightened from the post, but waited for the man and woman who got out of the car to come to him.

“Special Agents Tawney and Mantz. We’re here to speak with Ms. Bristow.”

Simon glanced at the IDs. “She’s not here.” The dogs, he noted, were looking to him for direction. “Relax,” he told them.

“We were told she was coming back today. Do you know when she’s expected?”

Simon looked back at Tawney. “No.”

“And you are?”

Simon shifted his gaze to the woman. “Simon Doyle.”

“The boyfriend.”

“Is that an official FBI term?” It stuck in his craw. “I’m helping look out for the dogs while she’s gone.”

“I thought she had three dogs.”

“The one sniffing your shoes is mine.”

“Then would you mind telling him to stop it?”

“Jaws. Back off. Fiona told me you were the agent in the Perry case,” he said to Tawney. “I’ll tell her you came by.”

“You don’t have any questions, Mr. Doyle?” Mantz wondered.

“You wouldn’t answer them, so I’m saving us all time. You want to talk to Fiona. I’ll tell her, and if she wants to talk to you, she’ll get in touch.”

“Is there any reason you’re so anxious for us to leave?”

“Anxious isn’t the word I’d use, but yeah. Unless you’re here to tell Fiona you caught the bastard who picked up where Perry left off, I don’t want you to be the first thing she sees when she gets home.”

“Why don’t we go inside?” Mantz suggested.

“Do you think I’ve got her tied up or held against her will in there? Jesus, do you see her car? Do you see her dogs?” He jerked a thumb to where Jaws was currently humping a disinterested and patient Newman while Bogart and Peck played tug with one of the ropes. “Don’t they teach basic observational skills in the FBI? And no, I’m not letting you in her house when she’s not here.”

“Are you looking out for her, Mr. Doyle?”

“What do you think?” he said to Tawney.

“I think you have no criminal record,” Tawney said easily, “you’ve never been married, have no children and make a good living, enough to own your own home—which you purchased about six months ago. The bureau also teaches basic data-gathering skills. I know Fiona trusts you, and so do her dogs. If I find out that trust is misplaced, you’ll find out what else the bureau teaches.”

“Fair enough.” He hesitated, then went with instinct. “She doesn’t know about the last murder. The friends with her kept her away from the paper and the TV the last few days. She needed a break. I don’t want her coming back and ramming face-first into it. So I want you to go.”

“That’s fair enough, too. Tell her to contact me.” With his partner, he walked back to the car. “We haven’t caught the bastard yet. But we will.”

“Hurry up,” Simon muttered as they drove away.

He waited nearly an hour more, relieved now as every passing minute decreased the chance of her passing the agents on the road home. He gave some thought to putting a meal together, then spooked himself at the image of welcoming her home with a dinner and flowers.

It was just too much.

The bark of the dogs sent him back outside moments before she drove over the bridge. Thank God, he mused, now he could stop thinking so much.

He strolled casually down the porch steps, then the damnedest thing happened. The goddamnedest thing.

When she stepped out of the car, when he saw her standing in the fading sunlight, the fragile blooms of the dogwoods behind her, his heart actually leaped.

He’d always considered that sheer bull—just an overworked phrase in poetry or romance novels. But he felt it—that surge of pleasure and emotion and recognition inside his chest.

He had to restrain himself from rushing her, as the dogs did, bumping one another in their joyful hurry for strokes and kisses.

“Hi, guys, hi! I missed you, too. Every one of you. Were you good? I bet you were.” She accepted desperately loving licks while she rubbed wiggling, furry bodies. “Look what I’ve got.”

She reached inside the car for four huge rawhide bones. “One for everybody. Sit. Now sit. There we go. Everybody gets one.”

“Where’s mine?” Simon demanded.

She smiled, and the quieting sun flared off her sunglasses. As she walked to him, she opened her arms and just took him in.

“I was hoping you’d be here.” He felt her breath—the deep in, the deep out. “You made me another chair,” she murmured.

“That’s for me. You’re not the only one who likes to sit. Not everything’s all about you.”

She laughed, hugged tighter. “Maybe not, but you’re just what I need.”

He eased back until he found her mouth with his—and found it was just what he needed.

“My turn.” He shifted to knee and nudge the dogs back, and caught it. Just an instant as the change of angle let him see through the tinted lenses and into her eyes.

He slipped them off her face. “I should’ve known women couldn’t keep it shut down.”

“You’re wrong—and sexist. They didn’t tell me, and I returned the favor by not letting them know I heard.” Her eyes changed again. “Did you tell them not to say anything to me? To make sure I didn’t read about it in the paper, catch it on the news?”

“So what?”

She nodded, laid her hands on his cheeks, kissed him lightly. “So thanks.”

“That’s just like you, slipping around the normal reaction of being pissed and telling me I didn’t have the right to butt in and decide for you.” He opened the back of her car for her suitcase. “It’s how you get around people.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yeah. What’s this other stuff ?”

“I bought some things. Here, I’ll—”

“I’ve got it.” He hauled out two shopping bags. “Why do women always come back with more than they left with? And it’s not sexist if it’s true.”

“Because we embrace and enjoy life. Keep it up and you won’t get your present.”

She led the way in, and he dumped all the bags by the base of her steps. “I’ll take them up later. How did you find out?”

She took off her shoes, pointed at her toes.

“Your purple toenails told you?”

“The technician who gave me the pedicure. She was just making conversation.”

Damn it. He hadn’t considered basic gossip.

“So that’s what you people talk about during those rituals? Murder and dead bodies?”

“Let’s put it in the category of current events. And let’s go back, get some wine. I’d really like a glass of wine.”

She saw the flowers when she stepped into the kitchen. The way she stopped cold and stared told him she was just as surprised he’d bought her flowers as he’d been.

“You made me another chair and you brought me flowers.”

“I told you, the chair’s mine. The flowers just happened to be there so I picked them up.”

“Simon.” She turned, wrapped herself around him.

Feelings winged into him, slapped against one another. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Sorry, but you’ll have to tough it out. It’s been a really long time since a man brought me flowers. I forgot what it’s like. I’ll be right back.”

The dogs followed her out—afraid, he assumed, she’d leave again. He got out a bottle of wine, pulled the cork. She came back with a small box as he poured her a glass.

“From me and the dogs. Consider it a thank-you for helping out with them.”

“Thanks.” It had weight for a small box, and, curious, he opened it. He found a slender doorknocker. The copper would verdigris over time, he thought, and add to its appeal. Raised letters ran down its length, and the knocker itself formed a Celtic knot.

“It’s Irish. I figured Doyle, there has to be Irish in there. Fáilte means—”

“Welcome. Doyle, remember?”

“Right. I thought if you put it on the door, sometimes it might even be true. The welcome, that is.”

He glanced up to see her smiling. “It might. Either way it’s nice.”

“And you could get one made—I bet Syl could find a metal artist to do it—to put up when you’re not in the mood for company. It could say ‘Go away’ in Gaelic.”

“That’s a pretty good idea. Actually, I know how to say ‘Fuck off’ in Irish, and that might be more interesting.”

“Oh, Simon. I missed you.”

She was laughing when she said it, and as she reached for her wine, he laid a hand on her arm.

“I missed you, Fiona. Damn it.”

“Oh, thank God.” She put her arms around him again, laid her head on his shoulder. “That makes it more balanced, like the two chairs on the porch, right?”

“I guess it does.”

“I have to get this out, and I don’t mean to put pressure on you. But when I dropped Mai and Sylvia off, after I did, all I could think about was that poor girl and what she went through in the last hours of her life. And when I pulled up here, home, and saw you, I was so relieved, so relieved, Simon, that I didn’t have to have all that in my head and be alone with it. I was so glad to see you on the porch, waiting for me.”

He started to say he hadn’t been waiting. Knee-jerk, he realized. But he had been waiting, and it felt good knowing she’d wanted him to be.

“You got back later than I figured, so I—Crap.”

“Last-minute shopping blitz, then the traffic—”

“No, not that.” He’d remembered the FBI and decided he should get it all over with at once. “The feds were here—Tawney and his partner. I don’t think they had anything new, but—”

“A follow-up.” She backed up, picked up her wine. “I told him before I left that I’d be home sometime today. I’m not going to get back to him tonight. I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“But I need you to tell me what you know about it. There wasn’t a way for me to find out any of the details, and I want to know.”

“Okay. Sit down. I was thinking about putting something to eat together. I’ll tell you while I do.”

“I have frozen dinners in the freezer.”

He sneered. “I’m not eating those girl diet deals. And before you say ‘sexist,’ look me in the eye and tell me those Lean Cuisine numbers aren’t marketed to women.”

“Maybe they are, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they’re not good, or that guys who eat them grow breasts.”

“I’m not taking any chances. You’ll eat what I give you.”

Amused, as he’d meant her to be, she sat. “What are you going to give me?”

“I’m working on it.” He opened her fridge, scanned, poked into compartments. “Deputy Davey came by to tell me the day you left,” he began.

As he spoke, he tossed some frozen shoestring fries onto a cookie sheet, stuck them in the oven. Bacon went into the microwave. He found a tomato James must have left behind and sliced it thin.

“She was beaten? But—”

“Yeah. It sounds like he’s trying to find his style.”

“That’s horrible,” Fiona murmured. “And it feels true. Was she... she was beaten and trapped and strangled. And still rape puts a clutch in the throat.”

“No, she wasn’t raped. At least that wasn’t part of what Davey told me, or in any of the news reports.” He glanced over, scanned her face. “Are you sure you want this now?”

“Yes. I need to know what might be coming.”

Simon kept his back to her, ordered himself calm as he layered cheese, bacon, tomatoes between slices of bread. “He deviated with the beating, and with keeping her longer. Otherwise, it sounds as if he followed pattern.”

“Who was she? You know,” Fiona said quietly. “You’d have made it a point to know.”

When Simon slid the sandwiches onto the frying pan, the butter he’d spread on the outside sizzled. “She was a student. She wanted to pursue a career in physical education and nutrition. She taught yoga classes and did some personal training work. She was twenty, outgoing and athletic, according to the reports. She was an only child. Her mother’s a widow.”

“God. God.” She covered her face with her hands for a moment, then scrubbed hard and dropped them. “It can always get worse.”

“She fits the body type. Tall, slender, long legs, toned.” He flipped the sandwiches. “If there’s any more, the press doesn’t have it.”

“Did he mark her?”

“Roman numeral four. You’re wondering what number he plans to put on you. I want you to hear me, Fiona, and to understand I don’t say what I don’t mean.”

“I already understand that.”

She waited, watched as he slid the sandwiches onto plates. Shook the fries from the pan beside them. He pulled out a jar of pickles, tossed a couple onto each plate and considered it done.

He put a plate in front of her. “He won’t mark you. He won’t be able to give you a number any more than Perry could. If the cops don’t stop him first, then we’ll stop him. And that’s it.”

She said nothing for a moment, but rose to get a knife, to retrieve the wine. She topped off the glasses, then cut her sandwich into two neat triangles before offering the knife.

“No, thanks.”

She picked up her wine, sipped, set it down. “All right,” she said, meeting his eyes. “All right.”

She lifted half of her sandwich, took a bite. And smiled. “It’s good.”

“A Doyle staple.”

She took another bite and brushed his leg under the table with her sexy purple toes. “It’s good to be home. You know, one of the things I have in those shopping bags is this incredible honey almond scrub they use at the spa. After dinner, and after I give the dogs some more play and attention, we could take a shower. I’ll exfoliate you.”

“Is that code?”

She laughed. “You’ll have to find out.”

“Do you know why I don’t cut my sandwiches into triangles?”

“Why?”

“For the same reason I don’t want to smell like honey and almonds.”

She gave him a wicked look as she picked up a french fry. “Or eat Lean Cuisine. I bet I could change your mind on the scrub. Tell you what. I’ll just do your back. Your big, strong, manly back, and we’ll see how it goes from there. They also had this shop that sold very interesting lingerie. I bought a little something. A very, very little something, which I’d be inclined to model for you, if you try the scrub.”

“How little?”

“Minuscule.”

“Just the back.”

She smiled and nibbled on a fry. “To start.”

She played with the dogs for an hour, endlessly tossing balls, letting them chase her through the obstacle course, then taking turns playing tug with each of them until he wondered that her arms didn’t pop out of their sockets.

But he could see, even when he left the games and sat on the porch to watch, she used the activities, the dogs, the connections to focus. To block out what they’d spoken of before dinner.

She’d deal, he thought, because that’s what she did. For now, she channeled her energy, and whatever nerves brewed under it, into the dogs and somehow transformed it into joy.

“Now I need that shower.” She swiped at her damp face with the back of her hands.

“You wore them out.”

“Part of the plan.” She held out a hand. “I never asked what you were up to while I was gone.”

“Work. And after work, James and I took in some strip clubs.”

“Uh-huh.”

“We took the dogs,” he said as they walked upstairs.

“Naturally.”

“Newman’s a mean drunk.”

“It’s a problem.” In the bedroom she dug the box of scrub out of the shopping bag, opened it for the jar.

“Actually, if you want some speculation and gossip, I don’t think we’re the only ones who’ll have exfoliated in the shower recently.”

“Sorry, what?”

“I came by to pick up the dogs one morning because I needed some supplies and figured I’d save James the trip. Lori’s car was in the drive.”

“Really? Well, well. She might’ve stopped by early, like you did. I hope not, but—”

“He came out when I started rounding up the dogs. He blushed.”

“Aw.” She crooned it, then laughed. “That’s so sweet.” After she set the jar down on the bathroom counter, she pulled the band from her hair—shook out all that rose gold.

He went rock hard.

“Strip it off,” she ordered. “Let’s see if I can make you blush.”

“I don’t blush, and I’m not sweet.”

“We’ll see.” She tugged off her shirt, but flicked his hand away when he reached out. “Uh-uh. A deal’s a deal. Let’s get wet.”

Maybe it was another way of focusing, channeling, blocking out. But who was he to complain? Naked, he stepped under the spray. “Your bathroom needs to be updated and redesigned.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.” She made a circle with her finger, so he turned around and gave her his back. “It feels a little rough,” she told him as she scooped the scrub out of the jar. “But in a good way.”

She began to rub it over his back in slow, steady circles. “The texture, the flesh-to-flesh contact, the aroma—all add to the experience. Your skin wakes up and feels more—Uh-uh,” she said again, when he reached back. “I do the touching till we’re done. Hands on the wall, Doyle.”

“Did you get naked in the shower at the spa for this?”

“No. I’m adjusting it for home use. You smell wonderful already, and mmmm, smooth.” She leaned in, let her breasts ride over his back before using more scrub farther down. “Is this all right?” she asked as she circled those firm hands over his ass.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you close your eyes, relax? I’ll just keep going until you tell me to stop.”

Those hands ran down his legs, the rough texture tingling over his skin to be sluiced away by the spray, then explored by her lips, her tongue.

Need banged in his blood until his hands on the wall were fists. Rich scent curled in the steam, became erotic until even drawing a breath aroused to aching.

“Fiona.”

“Just a little more,” she murmured. “I haven’t even started on the front yet. You’ll be... unbalanced. Turn around, Simon.”

She knelt in front of him, water gleaming off her skin, sleeking her hair back. “I’ll just start down here, and work my way up.”

“I want you. You couldn’t need for me to want you more than this.”

“You’ll have me, as much as you want. But let’s see if you can hold out till I finish. Let me finish, and you can do whatever you want with me.”

“Jesus Christ, Fiona. You drive me insane.”

“I want to. That’s what I want tonight. But not yet.”

He reached down for her hands, let out a strained laugh. “Don’t even think about putting that stuff on my—”

“That’s not what I’m going to put there.” She skimmed her tongue over him until he bit back a moan. “Can you hold out?” she murmured, torturing him with her mouth as her hands worked up his legs, over his belly. “Can you hold out until you’re inside me? Hot and hard inside me. That’s what I want when I’m done. I want you to take me and use me until I can’t stand it, then I want you to take me and use me more. I won’t tell you to stop. I won’t tell you to stop until you’re done.”

She took him to the edge, then those tormenting lips slicked over his belly, up his chest, while her hands circled, circled.

“The water’s going cold,” she murmured against his mouth. “We should—”

He put her back to the wet wall. “You’ll have to take it, and me.”

“Deal’s a deal.” Her breath caught and shuddered out when he slid his hand between her legs.

“Wider.”

She gripped his shoulders, shuddered once as his eyes burned into hers. As he drove into her, they burned still. He took her, ruthlessly, so that her cries echoed with the slap of wet flesh, the sizzle of cold water. When her head fell on his shoulder, he continued to thrust while his hands made rough use of her body.

His own release ripped through him and left him raw.

He managed to shut off the water and pull her out. When she staggered, he half carried her to the bed. They dropped onto it wet and breathless.

“What do you—” She broke off, let out a whistling breath, cleared her throat. “What do you say about honey almond now?”

“I’ll be buying a case of it.”

She laughed, then her eyes popped open as he straddled her. His eyes, still hot, met hers as his thumbs flicked over her nipples. “I’m not done yet.”

“But—”

“I’m not done.” Leaning over her, he took her hands, lifted them, clamped them around the iron rungs. “Leave them there. You’re going to need something to hold on to.”

“Simon.”

“What I want, as much as I want,” he reminded her, and slid down, lifted her hips. “Until I’m finished.”

The breath trembled between her lips now, but she nodded. “Yes.”

Eighteen

As a sop to healthier eating, Fiona tossed some strawberries onto her Froot Loops. She ate them leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Simon drink coffee leaning against the one across from her.

“You’re stalling,” she decided. “Stretching out another cup of coffee so you’re here until people start coming in for the first class.”

He reached into the cereal box she’d yet to put away, took a handful. “So?”

“I appreciate it, Simon, nearly as much as I appreciate being sexed into a coma last night. But it’s not necessary.”

“I’m drinking this coffee until I finish.” He experimented by dunking a Froot Loop into the coffee. Sampled.

Not half bad.

“I’m staying until I leave,” he continued. “If you have something you have to do, go do it, but I’m not leaving you alone. Deal with it.”

She scooped up more cereal, munched it while she studied him. “You know, somebody else might’ve said, ‘Fee, I’m concerned about you, and I don’t want to take any chances with your safety so I’m going to be here for you.’”

He dunked a couple more. “Somebody else isn’t here.”

“That’s very true, and maybe there’s something perverse in me that prefers your method.” He might’ve been dunking colorful rounds of cereal into his coffee like tiny doughnuts, but he looked scruffy and irritable. God, why did she love that? “What are we going to do about this, Simon?”

“I’m going to drink my coffee.”

“And, using the coffee as a metaphor, are you going to keep drinking it until they catch the person who’s killing those women, and may want to add me to his scorecard?”

“Yes.”

She nodded, ate more cereal. “Then stop hauling that stupid duffel over here every night. I’ll give you room in the closet, clean out a drawer. If you’re sleeping here, it’s ridiculous not to leave some of your things here. You deal with it.”

“I’m not living here.”

“Understood.” He’d inconvenience himself for her, but he’d be careful not to step over the next line. “You’re just hanging out here, and drinking coffee with coffee-soaked Froot Loops—”

“It’s pretty good.”

“I’ll put it on the menu. And sleeping here after making crazed love with me in the shower.”

“That was your idea.”

She laughed. “And a damn good one. Restrictions that apply are acknowledged. Leave your damn toothbrush in the bathroom, Simon, you idiot. Put your underwear in a drawer and hang up a couple of shirts in the closet.”

“I’ve already got a shirt in the closet. You washed it because I left it on the floor.”

“That’s right. And if you leave clothes on the floor, they’re going to get washed and put away whether you like it or not. If I can agree to you drinking coffee, you can agree not to haul that duffel back and forth like a security blanket.”

When his eyes narrowed, she narrowed hers back at him. And smiled. “What? Did that hit the mark?”

“Are you looking for a fight?”

“Let’s say I’m looking for your famous balance. I give, you give.” She tapped her chest, pointed at him, then wiggled a hand between them. “And it levels out in the middle. Think about it. I’ve got to get ready for class,” she added, and strolled away.

Twenty minutes later as her first class of the day started their socialization exercises, she watched Simon walk to his truck. He called his dog—and shot Fiona a look from behind his sunglasses.

He drove away—without the duffel.

She considered it a small, personal victory.

Midway through the day, she’d logged “visits” from Meg and Chuck, Sylvia and Lori, topped off by her daily check from Davey.

Apparently no one was going to leave her alone. As much as she appreciated the concern, it occurred to her just why she’d chosen a place several miles outside the village. As much as she loved company, she needed those small pockets of solitude.

“Davey, I’ve got a call in to Agent Tawney—who’s probably going to make yet another trip out here. I’ve got my phone in my pocket, as promised, and barely thirty minutes between classes. Less when one of the clients is an islander because they stall until whoever’s next on the Watch Out for Fee list shows up. I’m not getting any of my office work done.”

“So go do it.”

“Do you really think this guy’s going to drive up here in the middle of the day to attempt an abduction between my Basic Obedience class and my Advanced Skill Set?”

“Probably not.” He took a swig from the Coke she’d provided. “But if he does, he’s not going to find you alone.”

She cast her eyes up to the puffy clouds dotting the sky. “Maybe I should start serving refreshments.”

“Cookies would be good. You can’t go wrong with cookies.”

She punched him lightly on the shoulder. “Look, here comes one of the next class. Go protect and serve someone else.”

He waited until the car came close enough for him to see the driver was female. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Don’t forget the cookies.”

Davey gave a nod to the other driver as he got into his cruiser and she parked.

She climbed out, a tall, pretty brunette with a swingy wedge of chin-length hair and what Fiona thought of as city boots. Stylish and thin-heeled under trim gray pants.

“Fiona Bristow?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, what great dogs! Can I pet them?”

“Sure.” Fiona signaled, so her dogs stepped up to the woman and sat politely.

“They’re so sweet.” She shoved her enormous shoulder bag behind her back and crouched down. “The pictures on your website are good, but they’re even better in person.”

And where’s your dog? Fiona wondered. But it wouldn’t be the first time a potential client came out to scope her and her setup before signing up.

“Did you come to monitor a class? I have one starting in about ten minutes.”

“I’d love to.” She angled her face up, all fresh style and perky smile. “I was hoping I’d hit between classes so I’d have a few minutes to talk to you. I checked the schedule on your website and tried to time it. But you know how the ferries are.”

“Yes, I do. You’re interested in enrolling your dog?”

“I would be, but I don’t have one yet. I’d love a big dog, like one of yours, or maybe a golden retriever, but I’m in an apartment. It doesn’t seem fair to coop one up that way. But once I get a place with a yard...”

She rose, offered a smile and her hand. “I’m Kati Starr. I work for—”

“U.S. Report,” Fiona finished, in a tone that went cool. “You’re wasting your time here.”

“I just need a few minutes. I’m doing a follow-up, actually a series of stories on RSK Two, and—”

“Is that what you’re calling him?” It revolted her on every level. “Red Scarf Killer Two—like a movie sequel?”

Starr traded in her smile for a tough-eyed stare. “We’re taking it very seriously. This man has already killed four women in two states. Brutally, Ms. Bristow, and with his latest victim, Annette Kellworth, that brutality escalated. I hope you’re taking it seriously.”

“Your hopes aren’t my problem. My feelings aren’t your business.”

“You have to understand your feelings are relevant,” Starr insisted. “He’s reprising the Perry murders, and as the only woman known to have escaped Perry, you must have some thoughts and feelings on what’s happening now. Insight into the victims, into Perry and RSK Two. Will you confirm the FBI has interviewed you regarding these latest homicides?”

“I’m not going to comment. I already made that clear to you.”

“I understand you may have felt reluctant initially, Fiona, but surely now that the death total is up to four, and these abductions and murders are heading north, from California to Oregon, you must want to be heard. You must have something to say—to the families of the victims, to the public, even to the killer. I only want to give you a platform.”

“What you want are headlines.”

“Headlines draw attention. Attention needs to be paid. The facts need to get out. The victims need to be heard, and you’re the only one who can speak.”

She might have believed that, Fiona considered, or at least part of it. But reality dictated that the attention focused on the killer with the catchy nickname.

“I have nothing to say to you, except you’re trespassing on private property.”

“Fiona.” All calm and reason, Starr pushed on. “We’re women. This man is targeting women. Young, attractive women with their lives ahead of them. You know what it is to be that target, what it’s like to be a victim of that kind of random violence. All I’m trying to do is get the story out, get the information out so maybe his next target is more aware, and maybe she’ll keep having her life ahead of her instead of ending up in a shallow grave. Something you know, can say, may be what helps her live.”

“Maybe you mean that. You’re only trying to help. Or maybe what you want is another front-page story with your byline. Maybe it’s a little of both.”

She didn’t know; she couldn’t allow herself to care.

“But here’s what I do know. You’re giving him what he wants. Attention. You published my name, where I live, what I do. And that helps no one except the man who’s emulating Perry. I want you off my property, and I want you to stay off my property. I don’t want to call the deputy who was just here to escort you off, but I will.”

“Why was the deputy just here? Are you under police protection? Do the investigators have any reason to believe you may be a target?”

So much for facts and the public right to know, Fiona thought. What this one wanted, at the base of it, was dish.

“Ms. Starr, I’m telling you to get off my property, and that’s all I’m going to tell you.”

“I’m going to write the story with or without your cooperation. There’s interest in a book deal. I’m willing to compensate you for interviews. Exclusive interviews.”

“That makes it easier,” Fiona said, and pulled her phone out of her pocket. “You’ve got ten seconds to get in your car and get off my property. I will press charges. Believe it.”

“Your choice.” Starr opened her car door. All pretense of the perky dog lover was stripped away. “The pattern says he’s chosen his next victim, or he’s preparing to. Scoping out the area for the right target. Ask yourself how you’re going to feel when he racks up number five. You can reach me through the paper when you change your mind.”

Hold your breath, Fiona thought. Please.

She put it out of her mind. Her work, her life were more important than a persistent reporter hoping, Fiona imagined, to springboard a book deal off tragedy.

She had her dogs to care for, her little garden to tend to and a relationship to explore.

Simon’s toothbrush took up residence in her bathroom. His socks scattered messily in one of her drawers.

They weren’t living together, she reminded herself, but he was the first man since Greg who slept consistently in her bed, whose things mixed with hers under the same roof.

He was the first man she wanted with her in the night when ghosts haunted her sleep.

He was there, and she was grateful for it, when Tawney and his partner returned.

“You should go on to work,” she told Simon when she recognized the car. “I think I’ll be safe in the hands of the feds.”

“I’ll stick around.”

“All right. Why don’t you let them in? I’ll make some more coffee.”

“You let them in. I’ll make the coffee.”

She opened the door, holding it open to the morning air. It looked like rain heading in, she noted. That would save her from watering her pots and garden beds—and add a realistic element to the training classes she had on tap for the afternoon.

Dogs and handlers couldn’t pick just sunny days for a search.

“Good morning,” she called out. “You’re getting an early start. Simon’s making some fresh coffee.”

“I could use some,” Tawney told her. “Why don’t we go back, sit in the kitchen?”

“Sure.” Remembering Mantz’s aversion, she gestured the dogs out. “Go play,” she told them. “I’m sorry I missed you the other day,” she added, leading the way back. “We’d planned to be back earlier, but we dragged our feet. If you want a place to go and unwind, it’s the spot for it. Simon, you’ve met Agents Tawney and Mantz.”

“Yeah.”

“Have a seat. I’ll get the coffee.”

Simon left her to the pouring and doctoring. “Anything new?”

“We’re pursuing the avenues,” Mantz told him. “All of them.”

“You didn’t have to make another trip out here to tell her that.”

“Simon.”

“How are you, Fee?” Tawney asked her.

“I’m all right. I’m reminded daily how many people I know on the island, as somebody drops by to see me—read: check in on me—several times a day. It reassures, even as it makes me itchy.”

“We can still offer you a safe house. Or we can work putting an agent here, with you.”

“Would it be you?”

He smiled a little. “Not this time.”

She took a moment just to look out the window. Her pretty yard, she thought, with its tender spring gardens just starting to pop with color and shape. And all that bumping up against the tower of trees that climbed up the slopes and walked down again, offering countless paths to stroll, lovely surprises of wild lupine and dreamy blue cannas.

Always so quiet and restful to her, so hers season by season.

The island, she thought, was her safe house. Emotionally, yes, but she absolutely believed in every practical sense as well.

“I think, realistically, I’m covered. The island itself makes me less accessible, and I’m—literally—never alone.”

Even as she spoke, she watched her dogs wander by. On patrol, she mused.

“He broke pattern with Annette Kellworth. It’s possible he’s not interested in me anymore, not interested in mirroring Perry.”

“His violence is increasing,” Mantz stated. “Perry duplicated himself, obsessively repeating the same details with each murder. The UNSUB isn’t as controlled or disciplined. He wants to flaunt his power. Sending you the scarf, increasing the time he holds his victims, and now the added physical violence. But he continues to use Perry’s methods, to select the same type of victim, to abduct and to kill and dispose in the same way.”

“He’s adapting his work, finding his own style. Sorry,” Simon added when he realized he’d spoken out loud.

“No, you’re not wrong. Kellworth may have been an aberration,” Tawney continued. “Something she said or did, something that happened that pushed him to the increased violence. Or he may be looking to come into his own.”

“I’m not his.”

“You’re still the one who got away,” Mantz pointed out. “And if you’re going to talk to the press, it keeps you front and center, and makes you more of a challenge.”

Annoyed, Fiona turned from the window. “I’m not talking to the press.”

Mantz reached into her briefcase. “This morning’s edition.” She laid the paper on the table. “And the article’s been picked up by a number of online venues and cable news crawls.”

TRAIL OF THE RED SCARF

“I can’t stop this. All I can do is not give interviews, refuse to cooperate.”

“You’re quoted. And your picture runs inside.”

“But—”

“ ‘Surrounded by her three dogs,’ ” Mantz read, “ ‘outside her tiny woodland home on scenic and remote Orcas Island where purple pansies tumble out of white pots and bright blue chairs sit on the front porch, Fiona Bristow presents a cool and competent demeanor. A tall, attractive redhead, slender in jeans and a stone-gray jacket, she seems to approach the subject of murder with the same practical, down-to-earth manner that has made her and her canine training school fixtures on the island.

“ ‘ She was twenty, the same age as Annette Kellworth, when she was abducted by Perry. Like Perry’s other twelve female victims, Bristow was incapacitated by a stun gun, drugged, bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of his car. There, she was held for more than eighteen hours. But unlike the others, Bristow managed to escape. In the dark, while Perry drove the night roads, Bristow sawed through the rope binding her with a penknife given to her by her fiancé, Officer Gregory Norwood. Bristow fought off Perry, disabling him, and used his own car to reach safety and alert authorities.

“ ‘ Nearly a year later, still at large, Perry shot and killed Norwood and his K-9 partner, Kong, who lived long enough to attack and wound Perry. Perry was subsequently arrested when he lost control of his car in his attempt to escape. Despite her ordeal, and her loss, Bristow testified against Perry, and that testimony played a major role in his conviction.

“ ‘ Now, at twenty-nine, Bristow shows no visible scars from that experience. She remains single, living alone in her secluded home where she owns and operates her training school for dogs, and devotes much of her time to the Canine Search and Rescue unit she formed on Orcas.

“ ‘ The day is sunny and warm. The dogwood trees flanking the narrow bridge over the creek that bubbles across the property are in bloom, and the native red currant flames in the quiet morning. In the deep green woods where shafts of light shimmer through the towering firs, birds twitter. But a uniformed deputy drives his cruiser down her narrow drive. There can be little doubt Fiona Bristow remembers the dark, and the fear.

“ ‘ She would have been XIII.

“‘She speaks of the “movie sequel” title this mimic of George Allen Perry has been given, and the headlines his brutality has generated. It’s attention this man known as RSKII seeks, she believes. While she, the lone survivor of the one who came before him, wants only the peace and the privacy of the life she has now. A life forever changed.’ ”

“I didn’t give her an interview.” Fiona shoved the paper aside. “I didn’t talk to her about all of this.”

“But you did talk to her,” Mantz persisted.

“She showed up.” Struggling with rage, Fiona barely resisted ripping the paper to shreds. “I assumed she was here to ask about a class—and she let me assume that. She talked about the dogs, then she introduced herself. The minute she did I told her to go. No comment, go away. She persisted. I did say he wanted attention. I was angry. Look what they’re calling him, RSK Two, so it gives him flash and mystery and importance. I said he wanted attention, and she was giving it to him. I shouldn’t have said it.” She looked at Tawney now. “I know better.”

“She pushed. You pushed back.”

“And got just enough to run with it. I ordered her off the property. I even threatened to call Davey—Deputy Englewood—back. He’d just left because we both thought she’d come for class. She was here five minutes. Five goddamn minutes.”

“When?” Simon demanded, and a quick chill skipped up her spine at the tone.

“A couple of days ago. I put it away. I made her go, and I thought, I honestly thought I hadn’t given her anything—so I put it aside.”

She let out a breath. “She’s made him see me here, with my dogs and my trees. The quiet life of a survivor. And she’s made him see me there, in the trunk of that car, tied up in the dark—another victim, who just got lucky. The one line, the one about attention. The way she’s written it, that’s me speaking to him, dismissing him. It’s the sort of thing he might fixate on. I understand that.”

She glanced at the paper again, at the photo of her standing in front of her house, her hand on Newman’s head, Peck and Bogart beside her. “She must have taken this from her car. You’d think I posed for it.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting a restraining order,” Tawney told her.

Discouraged, Fiona pressed her fingers to her eyes. “She’ll eat that up. I wouldn’t bet against her adding column inches on me to that article, my pansies, my chairs—painting a damn picture—because I wouldn’t play ball. She’ll only be more determined to write about me if I make her an issue. Maybe I played it wrong. Maybe I should’ve given her the interview the first time around. Something dull and restrained, then she’d have lost interest in me.”

“You don’t get it.” Simon shook his head. He had his hands in his pockets, but Fiona knew there was nothing casual about it. “Talk to her, don’t, it doesn’t matter. You’re alive. You’re always going to be part of it. You survived, but it’s more than that. You weren’t rescued, the cavalry didn’t come charging up. You fought and escaped from a man who’d killed twelve other women, and who had eluded authorities for more than two years. As long as this bastard’s strangling women with red scarves, you’re news.”

He looked back at Mantz. “So don’t look down your dismissive FBI nose at her over this. Until you catch the fucker, they’ll use her for print, for ratings, to keep it churned up between murders. And you fucking well know it.”

“Maybe you think we’re just sitting on our hands,” Mantz began.

“Erin.” Tawney waved his partner off. “You’re right,” he told Simon. “About the media. Still, Fee, it’s better for you to stick with the straight ‘No comment.’ And you’re right,” he said to Fiona, “that this kind of press will very likely pump up his interest in you. You need to continue all the precautions you’re taking. And I’m going to ask you not to take on any new clients.”

“God. Look, I’m not trying to be difficult or stupid, but I have to make a living. I have—”

“What else?” Simon interrupted.

Fiona rounded on him. “Listen—”

“Shut up. What else?” he repeated.

“Okay. I want you to contact me every day,” Tawney went on. “I want you to keep a record of anything unusual. A wrong number, a hang-up, any questionable e-mails or correspondence. I want the name and contact for anyone who inquires about your classes, your schedule.”

“Meanwhile, what are you doing?”

Tawney glanced at Fiona’s flushed and furious face before answering Simon. “All we can. We’re interviewing and reinterviewing friends, family, coworkers, neighbors, instructors, classmates of all the victims. He spent time observing them, he has to have transportation. He’s not invisible. Someone saw him, and we’ll find them. We’re doing background checks and interviewing anyone associated with the prison who had, or may have had, contact with Perry over the last eighteen months. We have a team working the tip line twenty-four hours a day. Forensic experts are sifting through the dirt from every gravesite, looking for any trace evidence—a hair, a fiber.”

He paused. “We’ve interviewed Perry, and will do so again. Because he knows. I know him, Fee, and I know he wasn’t pleased when I told him about the scarf that was sent to you. Not in his plans, not his style. Even less pleased when I let it slip, we’ll say, that Annette Kellworth had been beaten and her face, in particular, severely damaged. He’ll turn on this guy, he’ll turn because I’ll make him feel betrayed and disrespected. And that—you know—he won’t tolerate.”

“I appreciate you keeping me informed, coming here and making sure I understand the status and the situation.” She held temper under clipped words and a brisk tone. “I have a class starting very soon. I have to get ready.”

“All right.” Tawney laid a hand over hers in a gesture as fatherly as it was official. “I want that call, Fee, every day.”

“Yes. Could you leave that?” she asked Mantz when the agent started to refold the paper. “It’ll help remind me not to give even an inch.”

“No problem.” Mantz rose. “There’ll be others now that this story hit. I’d start screening all my calls, and you’d be smart to post some ‘No Trespassing’ signs around your property. You can tell your clients you’ve had some trouble with hikers cutting through, and you’re concerned for your dogs,” she added before Fiona could speak.

“Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll take care of it.”

She walked them out, then waited for Simon to join her on the porch. “You want to give me grief for not mentioning the reporter. That’s fine, but you have to get in line. I’m first.”

“You already gave yourself grief on that.”

“No. I mean I have a few things to say to you, and I’m in a bind. You’re pissed at me, and pretty seriously, but you still stood up for me with Agent Mantz. I’d say the standing up wasn’t necessary, but that’s ungracious. Besides, standing up for someone isn’t ever necessary—it’s just what you do for someone you care about, or when somebody needs it. So I’m grateful for that, and I appreciate that. And at the same time I’m so angry with you for just taking over the way you did. For pushing my opinion and wants aside, and making it clear you’d see to it I’d do what I was told.”

“I’m clear on it, so I figured you and the feds should be.”

She swung around. “Don’t think for one minute you can—”

“You’d better shut it down, Fiona.” His eyes flared hot, singed gold. “You’d better shut it down fast.” He took a step toward her. Nearby, Peck let out a quiet warning. Simon responded by jerking his head, aiming a hard look, pointing a finger for silence.

The dog sat instantly but kept watchful.

“You want to go off on me, then you get in line. You can go on your I-can-take-care-of-myself routine all you want. I don’t give a rat’s rabid ass because you’re not doing it yourself this time, so just swallow that one down. You can tell me I’m stupid for not leaving my damn toothbrush in the bathroom, and I’ve got to give that to you. I’m telling you, you’re brain-dead if you think you can decide all the rest on your own. That’s not how it works.”

“I never said—”

“Shut up. This bullshit about not telling me some reporter came by to hassle you because you put it aside? Don’t pull that on me again. You don’t put things aside, not like this.”

“I didn’t—”

“I’m not fucking done. You don’t run this show. I don’t know how you worked it before with your cop, but this is now. You’re dealing with me now. You’d better think about that, and if you can’t deal with it, you let me know. We’ll leave it that we just fuck when we’re both in the mood, and move on.”

She felt her face go cold and stiff as the blood drained. “That’s harsh, Simon.”

“Damn right it is. You’ve got clients coming, and I’ve got work to do.” He strode away as a couple of cars drove across her bridge.

Jaws, obviously tuned in to his master’s mood, leaped quickly into the truck.

“I didn’t get my turn,” Fiona muttered, then tried some deep breathing to center herself before greeting her clients.

Nineteen

Fiona deliberately scheduled a solo behavioral correction as her last client of the day. She often thought of those sessions as attitude adjustments—and not just for the dog.

The fluffy orange Pom, Chloe—all four pounds of her—ruled over her owners, reportedly wreaked havoc in her neighborhood, yipping, snarling and lunging hysterically at other dogs, cats, birds, kids, and occasionally tried to take a Pom-sized chunk out of whatever crossed her path when she wasn’t in the mood for it.

Struggling to crochet—her newest hobby—Sylvia sat on the porch with a pitcher of fresh lemonade and butter cookies while Fiona listened to the client repeat the gist of their phone consult.

“My husband and I had to cancel our vacation this winter.” Lissy Childs stroked the ball of fur in her arms while that ball eyed Fiona suspiciously. “We couldn’t get anyone to take her for the week—or house-sit, if she was in it. She’s so sweet, really, and so adorable, but, well, she is incorrigible.”

Lissy made kissy noises, and Chloe responded by shivering all over and lapping at Lissy’s face.

Chloe, Fiona noted, wore a silver collar studded with multicolored rhinestones—at least she hoped they were just rhinestones—and pink booties, open at the toe to show off matching pink toenails.

Both she and her human smelled of Vera Wang’s Princess.

“She’s a year?”

“Yes, she just had her very first birthday, didn’t you, baby doll?”

“Do you remember when she started showing unsociable behavior?”

“Well.” Lissy cuddled Chloe. The eye-popping square-cut diamond on her hand flared like fired ice, and Chloe made a point of showing Fiona her sharp, scissorlike teeth. “She’s really never liked other dogs, or cats. She thinks she’s a person, ’cause she’s my baby.”

“She sleeps in your bed, doesn’t she?”

“Well... yes. She has a sweet bed of her own, but she likes to use it as a toy box. She just loves squeaky toys.”

“How many does she have?”

“Oh... well.” Lissy had the grace to look sheepish as she flipped back her long blond mane. “I buy them for her all the time. I just can’t resist. And little outfits. She loves to dress up. I know I spoil her. Harry does, too. We just can’t resist. And really, she is a sweetheart. She’s just a little jealous and excitable.”

“Why don’t you put her down?”

“She doesn’t like me to put her down outside. Especially when...” She glanced over her shoulder where Oreo and Fiona’s dogs sprawled. “When other d-o-g-s are around.”

“Lissy, you’re paying me to help Chloe become a happier, better-adjusted dog. What you’re telling me, and what I’m seeing, is that Chloe’s not only pack leader, she’s a four-pound dictator. Everything you’ve told me indicates she has a classic case of Small Dog Syndrome.”

“Oh, my goodness! Does she need medication?”

“She needs you to stop allowing her to lead, fostering the idea that because she’s little she’s permitted to engage in bad behavior you wouldn’t permit in a larger dog.”

“Well, but, she is little.”

“Size doesn’t change the behavior, or the reason a dog displays it.” Owners, Fiona thought, were all too often the biggest obstacle. “Listen, you can’t take her for a walk without stress, or have people over to your house. You told me you and Harry love to entertain, but haven’t been able to have a dinner party in months.”

“It’s just that the last time we tried, it was so stressful with Chloe so upset that we had to put her in the bedroom.”

“Where she destroyed your new duvet, among other things.”

“It was awful.”

“You can’t leave her to have an evening away without her having a tantrum, so you and your husband have stopped going out to dinner, to parties, to the theater. You said she bit your mother.”

“Yes, it was just a nip really. She—”

“Lissy, let me ask you something. I bet you’ve been on planes, or in the shops, a restaurant where a child’s been running wild, disturbing everyone, kicking the seat, arguing with his parents, creating a nuisance, whining, complaining and so on.”

“God, yes.” She rolled her eyes as she spoke. “It’s so annoying. I don’t understand why... Oh.” Cluing in, Lissy blew out a breath. “I’m not being a responsible mommy.”

“Exactly.” Or close enough. “Put her down.”

The minute Chloe’s pink booties hit the ground, she leaped onto her hind legs, yipping, scrabbling at Lissy’s lovely linen pants.

“Come on now, baby, don’t—”

“No,” Fiona said. “Don’t give her that kind of attention when she’s misbehaving. You need to dominate. Show her who’s in charge.”

“Stop that right now, Chloe, or no yummies on the way home.”

“Not like that. First, stop thinking, But she’s so little and cute. Stop thinking about her size and think of her as a misbehaving dog. Here.” Fiona took the leash.

“Step away,” she told Lissy, and positioned herself between them. Chloe yipped and snarled, attempted a quick lunge and nip.

“Stop!” Voice firm, Fiona kept eye contact and shot a finger toward the dog. Chloe made grumbling sounds, but subsided.

“She’s sulking,” Lissy said with indulgence.

“If she was a Lab or a German shepherd sitting there growling, would it be cute?”

Lissy cleared her throat. “No. You’re right.”

“Spoiling her isn’t making her happy. It’s making her a bully, and bullies aren’t happy.”

She began to walk the dog. Chloe struggled, trying to turn back to Lissy. Fiona simply shortened the leash, forcing Chloe to fall in line. “Once she understands there’s no reward, no affection shown for bad behavior, and that you’re in charge, she’ll stop. And be happier.”

“I don’t want her to be a bully or unhappy. Honestly, that’s why I’m here. I’m just terrible at discipline.”

“Then get better,” Fiona said flatly. “She depends on you. When she’s already excited and heading out of control, speak to her firmly, correct her quickly, don’t placate her in that high baby-talk voice. That only increases her level of stress. She wants you to take control, and you’ll all be happier once you do.”

For the next ten minutes, Fiona worked with the dog, correcting and rewarding.

“She listens to you.”

“Because she understands I’m in charge, and she respects that. Her behavior problems are a result of how she’s been treated by the people around her, how she’s come to believe she should be treated and now demands to be treated.”

“Spoiled.”

“It’s not the squeaky toys, the yummies, the outfits. Why not indulge yourselves there if it makes all of you happy? It goes back to allowing, even encouraging, unacceptable behavior and giving her the controls. She goes on the attack with big dogs, right?”

“All the time. And it was funny at first. You just had to laugh. Now it’s gotten a little scary every time we take her for a walk.”

“She does it because you’ve made her pack leader. She has to defend that position every time she comes in contact with another dog, human, animal. It stresses her out.”

“Is that why she goes on those barking jags? Because she’s stressed?”

“That, and because she’s telling you what to do. People think of Poms as yappy dogs because their owners often allow them to become yappy dogs.”

Not yapping now, Fiona thought as she stopped and Chloe sat and watched her with those almond-shaped eyes. “She’s relaxed now. I want you to do the same thing with her. Walk her back and forth. Stay in control.”

Fiona led Chloe to Lissy, and the dog rose up to paw the air, to scrabble at Lissy’s legs.

“Lissy,” Fiona said firmly.

“Okay. Chloe, stop.”

“Mean it!” Fiona ordered.

“Chloe, stop!”

Chloe sat, tipped her head from side to side as if evaluating.

“Now walk her. Insist that she heel. She’s not walking you.”

Fiona stepped back to watch. She was, she knew, training the human every bit as much as—possibly more than—the dog. Progress, and a satisfied client, would depend on the human’s willingness to adhere to the training at home.

“She’s listening!”

“You’re doing great.” And both of you are relaxed, Fiona thought. “I’m going to walk toward you. If she exhibits unacceptable behavior, I want you to correct. And don’t tense up. You’re walking your cute little dog. Your cute, polite, happy little dog.”

At Fiona’s approach, Chloe barked and pulled on the leash. Fiona wasn’t sure who was more surprised, Pom or master, when Lissy hissed out a no-nonsense Stop and brought Chloe to heel.

“Excellent. Again.”

She repeated, repeated until at her approach, Chloe simply continued to walk politely at Lissy’s heel.

“Well done. Syl, would you mind? Syl’s going to walk by now. Syl, stop and chat, okay?”

“Sure.” Sylvia strolled up, crossed paths. “Nice to see you.”

“Okay. Gosh.” Lissy stopped, blinking when the pretty little Pom did the same without snarling or yipping. “Look what she did.”

“Isn’t that great? What a pretty dog.” Sylvia bent over to stroke Chloe’s fluffy head. “What a well-behaved dog. Good girl, Chloe.”

“We’re going to add Newman in,” Fiona announced.

“Oh my God.”

“Lissy, don’t tense up. Stay relaxed. Newman won’t react to her until I allow it. You’re in charge. She depends on you. Correct firmly, quickly and as necessary.”

With Newman by her side, Fiona walked across Chloe’s eye line. The Pom went ballistic.

“Correct,” Fiona ordered. “Firmly, Lissy,” she added when her flustered client faltered. “No, don’t pick her up. Like this. Chloe, stop! Stop!” Fiona repeated, making eye contact, pointing sharply.

Chloe subsided with a few grumbles.

“Newman’s no threat. Obviously,” Fiona added as the Lab sat placidly. “You need to keep relaxed and remain in charge—and be firm when she’s exhibiting unsocial behavior.”

“He’s so much bigger. She’s scared.”

“Yes, she’s scared and she’s stressed—and so are you. You have to relax, let her relax. She’ll see there’s nothing to be afraid of.” At Fiona’s hand signal, Newman lay down, sighed a little.

“You said there was a park near you, and several people take their dogs there.”

“Yes. I stopped taking Chloe because she’d just get upset.”

“It’d be nice to be able to take her, so she could have playmates, make friends.”

“Nobody likes her,” Lissy whispered. “It hurts her feelings.”

“Nobody likes a bully, Lissy. But people, especially dog people, generally enjoy a well-behaved dog. And one as pretty and smart as Chloe could make a lot of friends. You’d like that for her?”

“I really would.”

“When’s the last time you took her to the park?”

“Oh gosh, it’s been three or four months. There was this little incident. Really she barely broke the skin—barely—but Harry and I felt it best not to take her back.”

“I think you can give it another try.”

“Really? But—”

“Take a look.” Fiona held a finger up first. “Don’t overreact. Stay calm—keep your voice calm.”

Lissy glanced down, then pressed her free hand to her mouth as she watched Chloe sniff curiously at Newman.

“She’s checking him out,” Fiona said. “Her tail’s wagging, her ears are up. She’s not afraid. She’s interested. Stay calm,” she added, then signaled Newman.

When he stood, Chloe retreated, then froze as he lowered his head to sniff her in turn. Her tail wagged again.

“He gave her a kiss!”

“Newman likes pretty girls.”

“She’s making a friend.” Lissy’s eyes filled. “It’s silly. I know it’s silly to get so emotional.”

“No it’s not. Not a bit. You love her.”

“She’s never had a friend. It’s my fault.”

Mostly, Fiona thought, but things were never quite that simple. “Lissy, you brought her here because you love her and you want her to be happy. She has a friend now. How about we let her make a few more?”

“Are you sure?”

“Trust me.”

Lissy reached out, a bit dramatically, to clutch Fiona’s hand. “I really, really do.”

“Correct if necessary. Otherwise, just relax and let her deal.”

Fiona called the dogs off the porch, one at a time, to give Chloe a chance to acclimate. There were a few corrections, some retreat and advance, but before long they had what Fiona thought of as a sniff-and-wag party going on.

“I’ve never seen her like this. She’s not scared or being mean or trying to claw up my leg so I’ll pick her up.”

“Let’s give her a reward. Let her off the leash so she can run around with the boys and Oreo.”

Lissy bit her lip but obeyed.

“Go play,” Fiona ordered.

As the others ran off, bumping bodies, Chloe stood, shivering.

“She’s—”

“Wait,” Fiona interrupted. “Give her some time.”

Bogart raced back, gave Chloe a few swipes with his tongue. This time when he ran toward the pack, Chloe raced after him on her little designer booties.

“She’s playing.” Lissy murmured it as Chloe leaped to latch onto the frayed end of the mangled rope Bogart snagged. “She’s really playing with friends.”

Fiona draped an arm around Lissy’s shoulders. “Let’s sit on the porch and have some lemonade. You can watch her from there.”

“I—I should’ve brought my camera. I never thought...”

“Tell you what. Sit with Sylvia. I’ll go get mine and take some shots. I’ll e-mail them to you.”

“I’m going to cry.”

“You go right ahead.” Patting Lissy’s shoulder, Fiona led her to the porch.

Later, Sylvia rocked and sipped and watched Lissy drive away with Chloe. “That must be very satisfying.”

“And a little exhausting.”

“Well, you did give her two solid hours.”

“She—they—needed it. I think they’ll be all right. Lissy has to keep it up—and bring Harry on board. But I think she will. Our guys helped, a lot.” She lifted her foot and gave Peck’s rump a rub.

“Now that we’ve solved Chloe’s problem, what about yours?”

“I think that’s going to take more than a firm hand and some dog treats.”

“How mad is he?”

“Pretty mad.”

“How mad are you?”

“Undecided.”

Now that the dog party had ended, a trio of jewel-winged humming-birds dashed and darted along the flowering red currant that Starr had written about in the cursed article.

The blur of color should have charmed her, but it only served to remind Fiona of the harshness of the morning.

“I’m trying to stay calm, to be sensible—because otherwise I think, I really think I’d run screaming and never stop. And Simon’s angry I don’t run screaming. At least I think that’s part of it, and I’m not all ‘Oh, you’re so big and strong, please take care of me.’ Or something.”

Sylvia continued to rock, to sip. “It’s a wonder to me, it really is, Fee, how someone as insightful and sensitive as you can’t seem to understand how painfully hard this is on the rest of us.”

“Oh, Syl. I do! Of course I do. I wish—”

“No, honey, you don’t. Your solution is to block us out of some of the details, and your own fears. To make the decisions, on your own, about what to do and how to do it. And since I can’t completely disagree with that, I’m in a quandary.”

Guilt mingled with frustration, and irritation wrapped them with a frayed bow. “I don’t block you out.”

“Not often. You are a sensible woman, and you’re justifiably proud of your ability to take care of yourself and deal with your own problems. I’m proud of you. But I worry that your need to do that will box you into believing you have to do that, always. You have an easier time giving help than asking for it.”

“Maybe I do. Maybe. But honestly, Syl, I didn’t think telling Simon or you, or anyone, about that damn reporter was an issue. Was a thing. It happened, I dealt with it. Telling you wouldn’t have stopped her from writing the article.”

“No, but telling us would have prepared us for it.”

“All right.” Tired, next to defeated, Fiona pressed her fingers to her eyes. “All right.”

“I don’t want to upset you. God knows I don’t want to add to your stress. I’d just like you to think about... to consider that it’s time to really let those who care about you step in.”

“Okay, tell me what you think I should do.”

“I’ll tell you what I wish you could do. I wish you could pack up and go to Fiji until they catch this maniac. And I know you can’t. Not just because it’s not in your makeup, but because you have your home, your business, your bills, your life to deal with.”

“Yes, I do. It’s maddening, Syl, because I feel like people don’t really understand that. If I crawled in some cave, I could lose my business, my home, not to mention my self-confidence. I worked hard to build all of those.”

“In my opinion, honey, people do understand that, but they wish you could dig into that cave. I think you’re doing what you can, what you have to do—except asking and allowing others to genuinely help. It’s more than having James watch your house and dogs while you take a little trip, or letting Simon share your bed at night. It’s opening up to someone, Fiona, fully. It’s trusting enough to do that.”

“God.” Fiona huffed out a breath. “I’ve practically thrown myself at Simon’s feet.”

Sylvia smiled a little. “Have you?”

“I told him I thought I was falling in love with him. I didn’t get quid pro quo out of that.”

“Is that what you were after?”

“No.” Irritated with herself and everything else, she shoved to her feet. “No. But he’s not exactly the sort who tells you what’s on his mind—unless he’s mad. And even then...”

“I’m not talking about him, or to him. If I were, I’d probably have quite a bit to say. But this is you, Fiona. It’s you I’m worried about, worried for. It’s you I want happy and safe.”

“I’m not going to take any chances. I promise you. And I won’t make a mistake like I did with the reporter again.” She turned back, lifted her hand, palm out. “Solemn oath.”

“I’m going to hold you to it. Now, tell me what you want from Simon. With Simon.”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or haven’t let yourself dig down and think about?”

“Both. If things were just normal—if all of this wasn’t hovering around the edges of my life—maybe I would dig down. Or maybe there wouldn’t be anything to dig for in the first place.”

“Because what’s hovering is why you and Simon are where you are now?”

“It’s certainly influenced it. The timing, the intensity.”

“I’m full of opinions today,” Sylvia decided. “So here’s one more. I think you’re giving a murderer too much credit, and yourself and Simon not enough. The fact is, Fee, things are what they are, and you and Simon are where you are. That’s something to be dealt with.”

She lifted her brows when the dogs went on alert. “And I bet that’s what you have to deal with coming over your bridge. I’m going to go so you can.” Sylvia rose, gathered Fiona in a fierce hug. “I love you, so much.”

“I love you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Then don’t try. And think of this,” she murmured. “He left mad, but he came back.”

She kissed Fiona’s cheek, then picked up her enormous straw bag. She called Oreo as she strolled toward Simon’s truck. Fiona couldn’t hear what Sylvia said to him, but noticed he glanced toward the porch as her stepmother spoke.

Then shrugged.

Typical.

She stood her ground, though she wasn’t quite sure where the ground lay, as Sylvia drove away. “If you’re here due to obligation, I’ll relieve you of it. I can ask James to stay here tonight, or go bunk at Mai’s.”

“Obligation for what?”

“Because I’m in trouble, which I freely admit. I know you’re mad, and I’m telling you you’re not obliged. I won’t stay here alone.”

He said nothing for a moment. “I want a beer.” He walked up the steps and into the house.

“Well, for—” She strode in after him. “Is that how you solve problems? Is that your method?”

“It depends on the problem. I want a beer,” he repeated, and pulled one out of the fridge, opened it. “I have a beer. Problem solved.”

“I’m not talking about the damn beer.”

“Okay.” He moved past her and out to the back porch.

She caught the screen on the back swing, slammed it behind her. “Don’t just walk away from me.”

“If you’re going to bitch, I’m going to sit down and drink my beer.”

“If I’m going to—You left here this morning pissed off and bossy. Interrupting me every five seconds. Telling me to shut up.”

“I’m about to repeat that.”

“What gives you the right to tell me what to do, what to think, what to say?”

“Not a thing.” He tipped the beer in her direction. “And right back at you, Fiona.”

“I’m not telling you what to do. I’m giving you a choice, and I’m telling you I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior.”

His gaze fired to hers, molten gold sheathed in ice. “I’m not one of your dogs. You won’t train me.”

Her jaw dropped in sincere shock. “I’m not trying to train you. For God’s sake.”

“Yeah, you are. Second nature for you, I guess. Too bad, because I’d say it’s a pretty sure bet I have a lot of behaviors you’d like to change. That’s on you. If you’d rather James stay here tonight, give him a call. I’ll take off when he gets here.”

“I don’t know why we’re fighting.” She pushed her hands through her hair, leaned back on the rail. “I don’t even know. I don’t know why I’m suddenly considered someone who’s closed in or blocked off or too stubborn or stupid to ask for help. I’m not. I’m not any of that.”

He took a long pull as he studied her. “You got yourself out of the trunk.”

“What?”

“You got yourself out. Nobody helped you. There wasn’t anybody to help you. Live or die, it was up to you. It must’ve been a hell of a thing. I can’t imagine it. I’ve tried. I can’t. Do you want to stay in the trunk?”

Tears stung behind her eyes, infuriatingly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You can keep getting out on your own. My money’s on you there. Or you can let somebody give you a hand with it, and get it through your head that it doesn’t make you incapable, and it sure as hell doesn’t make you weak. You’re the strongest woman I know, and I’ve known some strong women. So figure it out, and let me know.”

She turned away, pressing a hand to her chest as it ached. “I got myself into the trunk, too.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“How do you know? You weren’t there. I was stupid and careless, and I let him take me.”

“Jesus Christ. He killed twelve women before you. Do you think they were all stupid, careless? That they let him take them?”

“I—no. Yes.” She turned back. “Maybe. I don’t know. But I know I made a mistake that day. Just a little one, just a few seconds, and it changed everything. Everything.”

“You lived. Greg Norwood died.”

“I know that it wasn’t my fault. I had therapy. I know Perry’s responsible. I know.”

“Knowing isn’t always believing.”

“I believe it. Most of the time. I don’t dwell on it. I don’t pull the chains of that with me.”

“Maybe you didn’t, but they’re rattling now.”

She hated, hated that he was right. “I built a life here, and I’m happy. There wouldn’t be this... I wouldn’t have this if it wasn’t happening again. How can it be happening again?” she demanded. “How in God’s name can this happen again?”

She drew a shuddering breath. “Do you need me to say I’m scared? I told you I was. I am. I’m terrified. Is that what you want me to say?”

“No. And if I get the chance, he’ll pay for making you say it, for making you feel it.”

He watched as she swiped a single tear from her cheek. He’d pay for that, too, Simon thought. For that one drop of grief.

And that one drop doused the last sparks of the anger he’d hauled around with him all day.

“I don’t know what I’m after with you, Fee, exactly. I can’t figure it out. But I know I want you to trust me. I need you to trust me to help you out of that fucking trunk. To trust me enough for that. Then we’ll see what happens next.”

“That scares me almost as much.”

“Yeah, I get that.” He lifted the beer again to drink, eyeing her over it. “I’d say you’re in a spot.”

She let out an unsteady laugh. “I guess I am. I haven’t had a serious relationship since Greg. A couple of short-lived pretenses. I can stand here now and look back and see very clearly they weren’t fair to anyone involved. I wasn’t dishonest, and the other party wasn’t after any more than it was. But still, not fair. I didn’t intend to have a serious relationship with you. I wanted the company, some conversation, the sex. I liked the idea of having an affair. Look at me, all grown up. Maybe that wasn’t fair.”

“I didn’t have a problem with it.”

She smiled. “Maybe not, but here we are, Simon, and it’s pretty clear we’re both after a little more than we bargained for. You want trust. I want what I guess is the next level of commitment. I think we’re scaring each other.”

He stood up. “I can take it. Can you?”

“I want to try.”

He reached out, tucked her hair behind her ear. “Let’s see how we do.”

She moved in, sighed as she locked her arms around him. “Okay. This is already better.”

“Let’s try something different.” He stroked a hand down her hair. “Let’s go out to dinner.”

“Out?”

“I’ll take you out to dinner. You could wear a dress.”

“I could.”

“You have them. I’ve seen them in your closet.”

She tilted her head back. “I’d like to put on a dress and go out to dinner.”

“Good. Don’t take all night. I’m hungry.”

“Fifteen minutes.” Rising on her toes, she brushed his lips with hers. “This is better.”

Even as she walked inside, the phone rang.

“Business line. One minute. Fiona Bristow.” Immediately she reached for the pad, the pen. “Yes, Sergeant Kasper. How long?” She wrote quickly, nodded as questions she didn’t have to ask were answered. “I’ll contact the rest of the unit immediately. Yes, five handlers, five dogs. Mai Funaki will run our base, as before. We’ll meet you there. You still have my cell number? Yes, that’s it. We’ll leave within the hour. No problem.”

She hung up. “I’m sorry. We’ve got two missing hikers in the Olympic National Forest. I’ve got to call the others. I’ve got to go.”

“Okay. I’ll go with you.”

“You don’t have any experience,” she began even as she speed-dialed Mai. “Mai, we’re on.” She relayed the information quickly. “Phone tree,” she said to Simon as she clicked off and began to move. “Mai makes the next call.”

“I’m going with you. One, because you’re not going alone. Once you start the search it’s just you and the dog, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“And two, if you’re going to train my dog to do what you’re about to do, I want a better sense of it. I’m going.”

“We won’t get there before dark. If they haven’t found them by then, we’re going to start the search at night, and very likely spend the night in very rough conditions.”

“What, am I a pussy?”

“Hardly.” She opened her mouth to push back again, then realized what she was doing. “Okay. I’ve got a spare pack. I have a list of everything you need to take. Most should be in there already. You take the list, make sure it’s complete. And I’ll need you to call Syl and ask her to keep an eye on the dogs we don’t take.”

She pulled out her spare pack, tossed it to him. “When we get there, I’m alpha dog. You have to deal with that.”

“Your show, your rules. Where’s the list?”

Twenty

A unit was precisely what they were, Simon observed. During the trip, the six members spoke in shorthand, acronyms and the code tight friends or longtime coworkers often fell into.

He did what came naturally to him. He sat back and observed.

The change in James and Lori’s relationship was new enough they exchanged quick, secret glances—while the others shot them amused looks. He heard Chuck and Meg Greene discussing weekend plans—yard work topped the list—with the ease of well-marrieds.

Fiona checked in with the cop named Kasper regularly for status, adjusted ETA and other relevant details.

The small surprise, at least it struck him that way, was the addition of another cop—Sheriff Tyson, from San Juan Island.

Something going on between him and the sexy vet, Simon concluded. Something newer than James and Lori and not quite defined.

The evening air whipped by in quick wet bites as Chuck piloted the boat across the chopping, white-tipped waters of the strait. The dogs seemed to enjoy it, sitting or sprawling, eyes glowing.

If not for the fact that two people were lost, possibly injured, out in the dark, it might’ve been a pleasant evening ride.

He ate one of the sandwiches Meg had provided and let his mind drift.

If they took murder out of the equation, would he be here now, eating ham and cheese with spicy mustard on a kaiser roll on a crowded boat that smelled of water and dog?

He wasn’t sure.

Then he glanced toward Fiona. She sat, body swaying with the bump of the waves, her cell phone at her ear, the notebook she scrawled on—make that wrote on; Fiona didn’t scrawl, he mused—on her lap, wind whipping the hasty braid she’d tied. That deceptively slender body tucked into rough pants, light jacket, scarred boots.

Yeah, he’d be here. Damn it.

Not his type. He could tell himself that a thousand times and it didn’t change a thing. She’d gotten under his skin, into his blood. Gotten somewhere.

He was half dazzled, half irritated by her—a strange and dangerous combination. He kept waiting for it to pass.

No luck there.

Maybe, once things were settled, he’d take a break. Go visit his family for a week. In his experience absence didn’t make the heart grow fonder, it generally blurred the edges of the fondness. While it was true nothing had blurred during her short trip away, this could be different. He’d be the one to go.

Mai dropped down beside him. “Are you ready for this?”

“I guess I’ll find out.”

“My first search? I was scared to death, and so excited. The training, the mock-up, the maneuvers? All essential, but the real thing is... well, the real thing. People are depending on you. Real people, with feelings and families and fears. When Fee first talked to me about the unit, I thought sure, that’s something I could do. I had no idea how much it takes. Not just time, but physically, emotionally.”

“You still do it.”

“Once you’re in, you’re in. I can’t imagine not doing it.”

“You run the base.”

“That’s right. Coordinate the dogs and handlers, keep the logs, maintain contact, liaise with the other search teams, the cops or rangers. I don’t have a search dog since I end up adopting special-needs types, but I can work with one if they need me. Fee thinks your Jaws is hardwired for this kind of work.”

“So she says.” He offered her a dip into his bag of chips. “He picks up on the training—at least it looks like it to me. Mostly I think he’d turn himself inside out if he thought it would make her happy.”

“Dogs have that reaction to Fee. She’s got a gift.”

She shifted a little so their knees bumped and her back was to Fiona. “How’s she doing, Simon? I try not to bring it up often. I know how she likes to keep things in their proper box.”

It was a perfect description, he thought. Dead-on perfect. “She’s scared. That only makes her more determined to handle it.”

“I sleep better knowing you’re with her.”

Sylvia had said the same, Simon recalled. But with a warning tone. Don’t let me down.

Once they arrived at the mainland, a group of volunteers helped them transfer into trucks for the drive to base. Things moved fast, he noted, with a kind of hard-edged efficiency. Proper boxes again, he supposed. Everyone had a purpose, and everyone knew what it was.

Fiona wedged between him and some guy named Bob and continued to work in her notebook as they sped or bumped along.

“What are you doing?”

“Checklist, working out preliminary sections going on the data I have now. It was a long trip, and it’s dark—but we’ve got good moonlight. Possibility of thunderstorms before morning, but it’s clear now so we’ll do what we can. How’s your boy, Bob?”

“Heading off to college come fall. Don’t know how that happened. He and my wife are helping out with chow.”

“It’ll be nice to see them. Bob and his family run a local lodge. They’re regulars when we have a search. Sergeant Kasper said the missing hikers are staying at your place.”

“That’s right.” Bob, with his windburned, square-jawed face, gripped the wheel with big-knuckled hands and navigated the switchbacks like a commuter on the freeway. “Them and another couple, traveling together. They headed out at first light, took a box lunch. The one couple, they came back just before dinnertime. They said how they separated on the trail, took different directions. They expected their friends to be back before them.”

“They don’t answer their cell phones.”

“Nope. Sometimes the service gets spotty, but they’ve been trying since around five, five-thirty.”

“I have the formal search starting about seven.”

“That’s right.”

“In good shape, are they?”

“Seem to be fit enough. Early thirties. Woman wore new boots, fancy pack. Came in from New York. Plan to stay two weeks, do some fishing, hiking, sightseeing, use the spa.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

Simon spotted the lodge—a sprawling two stories lit now like the Fourth of July. Someone had put up a large tarp so it served as a makeshift chow hall, he supposed, with a long table loaded with food, coffee urns, cases of bottled water.

“Thanks for the lift, Bob. I’m looking forward to some of Jill’s coffee.” She got out behind Simon. “Could you help with the dogs? They’ll need to be watered. I need to coordinate with Sergeant Kasper while Mai sets up base.”

“No problem.”

She crossed to a uniformed cop with a generous belly and a weathered, bulldog face. They shook hands, and when Mai joined them, he shook hers before gesturing. Mai walked briskly into the lodge.

Fiona got herself a cup of coffee while she and Kasper talked.

“Mai says this is your first.” Tyson held out a hand to Simon. “Ben Tyson.”

“Yeah. I guess it’s not yours, Sheriff.”

“Keep it at Ben. Not the first, but I’m usually on that end.” He jutted his chin toward Fiona and Kasper as he and Simon herded the dogs toward a huge galvanized tub of water.

“Okay. What are they doing?”

“Well, the sergeant’s updating her, giving her whatever he’s got. How many they’ve got out, what areas they’ve covered, time lines, PLS—the point last seen. Fee, she’s good about making sure they have the right maps, but he’ll fill her in on the topography. Roads, hills, water, barriers, drainage, trail markers. All that’s going to help her strategize the unit’s search pattern. Mai says they were hiking with friends, so Fee’ll talk to them, too, before she briefs the unit.”

“That’s a lot of time talking.”

“It might seem that way. If you rush it, brush by getting all the data, you may miss something. Better to take the time now. And it gives her time to get her feet under her, gauge the air.”

“The air?”

Ben smiled. “That’s where it goes by me, to tell you the truth. Air pockets and scent cones and whatever the hell. I’ve worked a few searches with Fee and the unit. Seems to me she’s got a nose like one of the dogs.” Ben reached down, gave Bogart a scrub between the ears.

For the next twenty minutes, Simon wandered, drank truly exceptional coffee, watched volunteers and uniforms come back to refuel, debrief.

“We’re set up in the lobby,” James told him. “If you want in on the briefing.”

“All right.”

“Done much hiking?”

“Some,” Simon answered as they walked inside.

“At night?”

“Not really.”

James grinned. “You’re about to get a workout, and an education.”

Simon thought of the lobby as rustic gloss. It worked. Lots of leather chairs, heavy oak tables stained dark, iron lamps and rough pottery. Fiona stood at a table that held a boxy radio, a laptop, maps. Behind her hung a large topographical map of the area, while Mai worked on a whiteboard.

“We’re looking for Ella and Kevin White, Caucasian, twenty-eight and thirty, respectively. Ella is five-five, a hundred and twenty-five, brown hair, brown eyes. She was wearing Levi’s, a red shirt over a white tank, and a navy hoodie. Kevin’s five-ten, a hundred and seventy. Levi’s, brown shirt over white, brown jacket. They’re both wearing hiking boots, the friends think Rockports, sizes seven and ten and a half.”

She flipped over a page in a notebook, but Simon sensed she didn’t need it. She remembered. “They left this location at just after seven a.m. with another couple, Rachel and Tod Chapel. They headed south, along the river.”

She stepped back to the map, used a laser pointer. “They kept to posted trails, stopped several times and took an hour’s break about eleven-thirty—here, as the witnesses best remember—to eat the boxed lunch the lodge provided. That’s when they separated. Ella and Kevin opted to continue south. The other couple headed east. They planned to meet back here around four, maybe four-thirty, for drinks. When they didn’t return by five, and neither answered their cell phone, there was some concern. They continued to try their cells and combed the immediate area until shortly before six, when Bob alerted the authorities. Formal search commenced at six fifty-five.”

“If they kept south, they’d head into the Bighorn Wilderness Area,” James pointed out.

“That’s right.”

“There’s some rough going in there.”

“And Ella is an inexperienced hiker.”

She moved on, pointing out the areas the search had covered, laying out the sectors for each team, using, Simon noted, natural barriers and landmarks as borders.

“Additional data. The witnesses say Kevin’s an overachiever. He’s competitive. Both he and Tod wore pedometers and had a bet going. Whoever clocked the most miles won, and the loser bought drinks and dinner tonight. He likes to win. He’d have pushed it.

“I know it’s late, but we’ve got the weather and the moon in our favor. It’s a go for a sector search. As OL, I’ll go in, inspect the PLS. I think it’s good data, but a spot on a map can’t replace eyeballing it.”

She checked her watch. “They’ve been out about fourteen hours, had their last real meal nine hours ago. They’ve got water and some power bars, some trail mix, but the water situation was geared toward a late-afternoon return. Let’s have a radio check, then I’ll pass out the scent bags outside.”

Once they were outside, Fiona hitched on her pack. “Are you sure about this?” she asked Simon.

He scanned the dense, primal dark of the surrounding forest. “I’m sure you’re not going in there alone.”

“I don’t mind the company, but it’s a stretch to think a crazed killer heard about a couple of missing hikers, and our unit’s call-in, managed to get here and is now lying in wait.”

“Do you want to argue about it, or do you want to find these people?”

“Oh, I can do both.” She gave Bogart the scent. “That’s Ella. That’s Ella. And Kevin. Here’s Kevin. Let’s go find them! Let’s find Ella and Kevin.”

“Why are you doing that now? I thought you were going to the PLS?”

“Good—and yeah, we are. He needs to start the game now, get revved. Maybe they got lost or turned around on the way back. Maybe one or both of them got hurt and just can’t make it back in the dark.”

“And sniffing socks is going to do the trick.”

She smiled, using her flashlight to add more illumination to the trail. “You like cornflakes, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope this doesn’t put you off them. We shed cornflake-shaped skin cells. Dead cells, called rafts, constantly shed and carry a scent unique to the person who sheds them. They’re carried off by the air, by wind currents downwind in a scent cone. The scent cone’s narrow, and it’s concentrated at the source.”

“The person.”

“Exactly. It widens with distance, and Bogart can and will find that scent. The problems with following it to the source can be too much wind, too much humidity, looping, pooling, a chimney effect—various ways wind and air work depending on the climate conditions and the terrain. That’s my job—judging that, outlining the search plan, helping the dog stay on scent.”

“Complicated. Tricky.”

“It can be. You get a hot day, no air movement, heavy brush? The scent’s not going to disperse out, and that’s going to limit the range. I’d have to adjust the search sweeps. A stream, a drainage, those can funnel scents, so the OL, then the handlers, may have to adjust for that.”

So it was science, he concluded, as much as training, as much as instinct. “How do you know the dog’s working it and not just out for a stroll?”

The reflectors on her jacket, and the ones she’d slapped on his, glowed eerie green in the moonlight. The beam she carried swept over trail and brush and odd clumps of wildflowers.

“He knows his job. He knows the game. See, he’s moving pretty briskly, but he checks behind, to make sure we’re in sight. He scents the air, moves on. He’s a good dog.”

Reaching out, she took Simon’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “Not exactly dinner out.”

“We’re out. The sandwich was pretty good. What are you looking for?”

“Signs.” She continued to sweep her light. “Tracks, broken brush, candy wrappers, anything. I don’t have Bogart’s nose, so I have to rely on my eyes.”

“Like Gollum.”

“Yes, my precious—but I think that was a lot of nose work, too. God, it’s beautiful, isn’t it? One of my favorite places in the world. And now, with the moon filtering through the canopy, all the shadows and sparkles, it’s just amazing.” Her light skimmed over gilded mushrooms, exotic jack-in-the-pulpit. “One of these days I’m going to find time to take a course in botany so I know more of what I’m looking at.”

“Because you’ve got nothing but time on your hands.”

“You can always squeeze out a little more for something you really want. Sylvia’s taking up crocheting.”

He paused, couldn’t find the connection. “Okay.”

“I’m just saying you can always make time for something if you want it. I know the basics on flora and fauna—and I know what not to touch or eat when I’m out on a search like this. Or if I don’t know, I don’t touch it or eat it.”

“Explain why we’re hauling crappy hiking food in the packs.”

“You won’t care if it’s crappy when you’re hungry.”

Each time Bogart alerted, she stopped, marked the spot with tape. Everything they knew said the lost hikers had passed this way hours before, but the dog followed the trail.

Knew his job, Simon concluded, just as Fiona claimed.

“We found a hiker a couple years ago, not all that far from here,” she told him. “Dead summer, steaming. He’d been wandering around for two days. Dehydrated, infected blisters, and he had poison ivy in places you really, really don’t want poison ivy.”

They walked, endlessly it seemed to Simon, lit by moonlight, along the trail with her scanning light. She’d stop, call out, listen, use her radio to check with her unit. Then move on after the dog. Tireless, he noted. Both of them. And there was no doubt the pair of them took the work seriously, and enjoyed every minute.

She pointed out things she knew. The busy life of a nurse log, the strange and fascinating pattern of lichen.

When Bogart stopped to drink, she refreshed the scent for him while owls and night birds filled the air with calls.

Bogart alerted, and began busily sniffing air and ground.

“This is it, where they stopped for lunch. Where they separated. Lots of tracks.” She crouched down. “They were respectful, I’ll give them that. No litter.”

The dog wandered off to relieve himself, and, deciding it was a fine idea, Simon moved deeper into the trees to do the same while Fiona cupped her hands around her mouth and called.

“We made good time,” she said when Simon came back. “It’s not quite midnight. We can take a break here, start again at first light.”

“Is that what you’d do if I wasn’t here?”

“I’d probably give it a little longer.”

“Then let’s go.”

“Short break first.” She sat on the ground, dug a bag of trail mix and a pouch of kibble out of her bag. “It’s important to keep the energy up, and stay hydrated. Otherwise, they’ll be sending someone out for us.”

She handed Simon the trail mix, then fed the dog.

“Have you ever not found who you were looking for?”

“Yeah. It’s horrible to go back empty. The worst. Worse than finding them too late is not finding them at all.”

She dipped her hand into the bag. “These two, they’re young and strong. I’m guessing they—or he—misjudged their endurance, got disoriented. Probably a combination. The phones are a concern.”

“Dead battery. Or they can’t get a signal. Dropped them. Lost them.”

“Any or all,” she agreed. “There’s wildlife, but it’s unlikely they ran into something that wouldn’t walk away. The thing is, a twisted ankle out here knocks you back, especially if you’re inexperienced.”

In the dark, he thought, probably disoriented, certainly tired, possibly injured. “It took them, what, four hours to get here?”

“Yeah, but they were meandering, stopping, taking photos. Kevin wants to pick up the pace, win the bet when they head south. He probably only planned to go another hour, maybe two—which is too damn much in one day when your hiking’s mostly done on Fifth Avenue. But then they could shortcut it back—at least in his head—and get back to the lodge by cocktail time.”

“Is that how you see it?”

“From what I got from his friends. He’s a good guy, a bit of a know-it-all, but funny. He likes a challenge, and he can’t resist a dare. She likes trying new things, seeing new places. It’s chilly.” Fiona drank from her water bottle while she searched the shadows and moonlight. “But they have jackets. They’re probably exhausted, scared, pissed off.”

She smiled at him. “Do you think you can handle another hour?”

“Kevin’s not the only one who’s competitive.” He rose, held out a hand for hers.

“I’m glad you came.” She rose up, moved into him. “But I still want that dinner out when we get back.”

They stretched the hour to ninety minutes, zigzagging on the trails as the dog followed the scent. Fiona’s calls went unanswered, and clouds drifted over the moon.

“The wind’s changing. Damn it.” She tipped her face up, and he’d have sworn she scented the air like her dog. “We’re going to get that storm. We’d better pitch the tent.”

“Just like that?”

“We can’t do any more tonight. Bogart’s tired. We’re losing the light, and the scent.” She pulled out her radio. “So we’ll take a couple hours, get some rest, stay dry.” She looked at him then, holding the radio. “It’s not worth going back to base, getting drenched, exhausted, then heading out again at dawn. A bed and a hot shower’s a cheap trade for warm, dry and rested out here.”

“You’re the alpha.”

She cocked her head. “And you’re saying that because you agree with me?”

“It helps that I agree with you.”

She called their status and location in to base, coordinated or took updates on the other searchers. No chatter, Simon noted. Straight business.

After she shed her pack and began setting up the tent, he found himself again in the position of taking direction. He didn’t have a clue, he was forced to admit. The last time he camped out in a tent he was probably twelve—and the deal she called a hyper-light didn’t work anything like the ancient pup tent he’d used.

“It’ll be cramped, but we’ll be dry. You first,” she told him. “You’re going to have to sort of angle yourself, given your height. Bogart and I will maneuver ourselves in after you.”

Light it might’ve been, but cramped was a kind word for it. By the time he had the dog curled at the small of his back and Fiona shoehorned beside him, there wasn’t an inch to spare.

“I think your dog has his nose in my ass.”

“Good thing you’re wearing pants.” Fiona shifted a little. “You can scooch over toward me a little more.”

Scooch, he thought, but realized he was too tired to think of a sarcastic comment. So he scooched, muttered and found if he got his arm under her—which he’d probably have to amputate in the morning—he gained a fraction of space.

Thunder belched violently seconds before the skies opened. The rain sounded like a monsoon.

“This would be romantic,” Fiona decided, “if we had a bigger tent, were doing this for fun, and there was a nice bottle of wine involved.”

“The dog’s snoring.”

“Yes, he is, and he will. He worked hard tonight.” She only had to turn her head a fraction to kiss him. “So did you.”

“You’re shaking. Are you cold?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re shaking,” he repeated.

“I just need to settle down. I have a problem with closed-in or tight spaces.”

“You...” It struck him immediately, and he cursed himself for an idiot. She’d been bound, gagged and locked in the trunk of a car, heading for death. “Jesus, Fiona.”

“No, don’t.” She grabbed on to him when he started to move. “Just stay right here. I’m closing my eyes, and it’ll pass.”

He felt it now, the way her heart beat against him, as violently as the rain. “We should’ve gone back for the night.”

“No, it wastes time and energy. Plus I’m too tired for a full-blown panic attack.”

What the hell did she call the shivering and heart-banging? He drew her closer, wrapping his other arm around her to stroke a hand up and down her back. “Is that better or worse?”

“It’s better. It’s nice. I just need a minute to adjust.”

Lightning slashed wildly, illuminating the tent. He saw her cheeks were pale, her eyes closed. “So, is Tyson banging the vet?”

“I don’t think it’s progressed to banging, Mr. Romance. I think they’re just starting to get to know each other on a personal level.”

“Banging’s personal, if you do it right.”

“I’m sure she’ll let me know if banging becomes part of the arrangement.”

“Because you’ve told her we’re banging.”

“I suspect she could’ve come to that conclusion all on her own, but yes, of course I told her. And in specific and minute detail. She wishes you’d banged her first.”

“Huh. An opportunity lost.” Her heartbeat was slowing, just a bit. “I could backtrack and make it up to her.”

“Too late. She’d never have sex with you now. We have codes and standards. You’re no longer on the menu when it comes to any of my friends or relations.”

“That doesn’t seem fair when you consider you’re friends with everybody on the island.”

“That may be, but rules are rules.” She tipped her face again, touched her lips to his. “Thanks for taking my mind off my neurosis.”

“You don’t have any neuroses, which is annoying. You have quirks, which make up for it a little. But you’re mostly irritatingly stable and normal. You’re still not my type.”

“But you’re still going to bang me.”

“At every opportunity.”

She laughed, and he felt her fully relax against him. “You’re rude, socially stunted and cynical. But I intend to be available for said banging whenever possible. I’m not sure what that makes us, but it seems to be working.”

“You’re who I want to be with.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d said it—maybe the forced intimacy of the tent, the rain beating its fists down on it, his concern for her even as her trembling ceased. Whatever the reason, he thought, it was truth.

“That’s the best thing you’ve ever said to me,” she murmured. “Even more, given the current circumstances.”

“We’re warm and we’re dry,” he pointed out. “And they’re not,” he added, echoing her thoughts.

“No, they’re not. It’s going to be a terrible night for them.”

This time he turned his head and brushed his lips over her hair. “Then we’d better find them in the morning.”