She was terrified, but she had the terror tamped down under the calm she had learned to adopt in crisis situations. If she let him see any sign of fear, it might be the impetus he needed to go ahead and use that automatic. All she could do was keep him talking, try to postpone it as long as she could while she continued to look for some miracle way to prevent it from happening.
She kept chafing her hands together to try to restore circulation; she’d stripped off what was left of the torn and sodden gloves when she first sat down. The cuts on her palms and her cheek stung like fury. But the rest of her felt numb, stiff from the wet and the cold. She had to clench her jaw muscles to keep her teeth from chattering.
The blond man’s eyes were downcast now, in a squint that ridged his forehead with horizontal lines. Again Shelby made a surreptitious eye-sweep of the cabin. There was a wood box next to an old-fashioned woodstove, some sticks of cordwood stacked inside. Maybe, if she could get him out of that chair and closer to her …
“It’s cold in here,” she said. “The fire’s almost out and I’m freezing.”
He didn’t respond. He was massaging his temples again, as if he had a headache.
“Maybe you could put some more wood in the stove?”
“No.”
“Or let me do it—”
“No. You just stay where you are.”
No use. The cut logs were ten feet away, the deputy was on the floor between her and the table, and any sudden movements she made were bound to be clumsy. As soon as she came up off the lumpy sofa, he’d have the weapon in his hand—and one or two seconds after that she’d be dead.
Ferguson’s limbs spasmed again, but his eyes remained shut. She hadn’t gotten an answer to why he was here, what had happened between him and the blond man, but it didn’t really make any difference. Even if his arms and ankles weren’t bound, he’d be of no help to her or to himself. Nasty head wound—blunt force trauma, probable concussion. Likely he’d be so disoriented when he regained consciousness he wouldn’t even know his own name.
Another groan brought the blond man’s eyes back up. They flicked over Ferguson, lifted to resettle on her.
She said, “I don’t know your name.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I’d like to know. I told you my name.”
“Shelby Hunter. I like that, it’s kind of appropriate.”
“Why appropriate?”
“The Hunter part, I mean.”
“I’m not a hunter. I don’t like to kill living things.”
“Neither do I, but sometimes it’s necessary.” Then he said, “Soldiers are hunters, that’s what I meant. Were you ever a soldier?”
“No.”
“You could’ve been. You’ve got the courage.”
She ignored that. “I’m an EMT.”
“Medic? That’s good. Can’t do without medics.”
“It’s how I know my husband needs medical attention. If I hadn’t been there to stabilize him after his heart attack, he might’ve died then.”
“You told me that before. I’m sorry.”
“The deputy needs attention, too,” she said. “Why don’t you let me look at his wound?”
“No.”
“Maybe there’s something I can do for him—”
“I said no.”
Shift to another subject. Soldiers, the military.
“What branch of the service were you in? Army? Marine Corps?”
“Army infantry.”
“NCO?”
“What else? I made corporal.”
“Serve overseas? See combat?”
“Iraq, two tours,” he said. “I hated it over there.”
“I can’t imagine what it was like.”
“No, you can’t. It was hell. But once you’re there, all you can do is embrace the suck.”
“Do what?”
“Make the best of it. Deal with all the shit until you …” His voice trailed off; he shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about Iraq.”
Keep him talking about something!
“Where are you from?”
“Nowhere,” he said.
“You were born someplace, grew up someplace—”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you have family? Brothers, sisters?”
“No.”
“What about your mother and father?”
“I never knew him and the old bitch is dead.” He was becoming agitated; his voice had risen, taken on a sharp edge. “There’s no point in asking me all these questions. It won’t work.”
“What won’t work?”
“Trying to distract me. You can’t overpower me and you can’t get away.”
“I know that. I wasn’t trying to distract you—”
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t like to be lied to.”
“All right.”
Silent stare for several seconds, his face showing the bunched effects of his headache. Then abruptly it smoothed; he pushed his chair back, picked up the automatic, and got to his feet. Resolute expression now, as if he’d made some kind of decision. Shelby tensed, but he didn’t turn the weapon in her direction; held it straight down along his side.
“Lie down,” he said, “on your belly.”
“Why? What for?”
“Do what you’re told, medic.”
“Are you going to shoot me now?”
“Not if you obey orders.”
There was nothing else she could do. She pulled her legs up and stretched out, slowly turned over with her cheek against a cushion that smelled of dust and mildew and pipe tobacco. A bullet in the back of the head, execution style? She resisted the impulse to close her eyes.
He said, “Put your feet together and your hands behind your back.”
No, that wasn’t his intention, not yet. He was going to tie her up as he’d done the deputy. She released the breath she’d been holding, let the prayer that had come into her mind slide back out again.
“Now don’t move.”
She obeyed while he tore off pieces from a roll of duct tape, wrapped her wrists together crosswise, then bound her ankles.
“Why are you doing this?” she said.
He didn’t answer until he was finished and he’d tested the tape to make sure it was secure. “I have to go out again for a little while.”
“Where?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“But you’ll be back.”
“Yeah, I’ll be back.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know yet. Be quiet now, just be quiet.”
At the periphery of her vision she saw him walk across to the door, open it, then stand there looking back at her. His face was impassive in the lantern light, but he had one more thing to say to her, oddly, almost shyly, before he went out and shut the door behind him.
“My name is Joseph,” he said.
T W E N T Y - E I G H T
MACKLIN DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to think. As far as he could tell, nothing had been taken from Shelby’s purse; her wallet was inside, the unopened can of Mace tucked into a side pocket. Logic blocked the notion that there’d been a pair of cruisers and Shelby and the driver of this one had left together in the second. A deputy might have abandoned his vehicle if it was disabled in some way, but he’d sure as hell have locked it first. And Shelby would never have willingly abandoned her purse, not for any reason.
Something bad had gone down here, something that accounted for Brian Lomax being dead. The possibility that Shelby might also be hurt made him frantic. But no matter what had happened she was alive, he refused to think otherwise. Around here somewhere, or out by the highway. Alone? Lomax’s body had been left where it had fallen; there was no reason for Shelby to’ve been taken away, hurt or not. Unless … hostage? No, no, what would anybody need a hostage for? She had to be in the vicinity.
He started to back out of the cruiser, stopped when his gaze rested on the pump-action shotgun in its console brackets. He didn’t like guns, hadn’t had anything to with any type of firearm since the time his father had taken him out hunting quail in his early teens, Pop’s one and only effort to “make a man out of him.” But in a situation like this you did what was necessary, whatever was necessary.