“Hospitable,” the long-haired man said. “That is a pleasant change from others we’ve encountered.”
“It certainly is.”
“A calm woman, all things considered. Middle of the night, you know. Strangers.”
“Strangers with guns. Very calm, I’d say. Unusually so.”
They were talking around her as they advanced, conversational as two men on a road trip making observations about the scenery. It chilled her more than the sight of the gun had.
“What do you want?” she repeated. They were almost upon her, one at the front and one at the back, and it was harder now to keep her hands in the air; she wanted to bring them down and throw a punch, wanted to run, wanted to drop to the porch floor and curl up and protect herself from their impending touches.
But none of those options would buy her time. She kept her hands in the air, though they were shaking now.
“May we step inside, Mrs. Serbin?”
The one facing her, just inches away, asked the question, but he wasn’t looking her in the eye. His gaze was covering her body, and she had the sense that he was inventorying her in every way. There was violation in his stare and also threat assessment. She wore black leggings, nothing over them, her boots loose along the calf, and when she’d lifted her arms, the jacket had pulled back to reveal the long-sleeved T-shirt she’d been sleeping in. There was no place on her body, under the jacket, to hide a weapon, and that was evident. The oversize jacket hid the bear spray well. She had a feeling that they would take the jacket, though. That, too, was only a matter of time.
Out in the stable, one of the horses whinnied again. A high keening sound. The moon was visible now, clean white light. Would things have been different if it had been out when she opened the door? Would she have seen enough to step back inside? Could a cloud change your life?
“Yes, I think we’ll go inside,” the man behind her said. He reached out and pushed her hair back over her shoulder, one fingertip on her skin, and that was when she dropped her hands and screamed and then his arm was around her, drawing her body hard against his, pinning her arms to her sides. The spotlight fell to the porch floor and bounced. He’d wrapped her up in such a way that her hands were pressed up near her face, useless.
The man in front of her had watched the brief flurry of resistance without reaction. Heard her scream and did not blink. He stood still while the other one held her, and for a time there was no sound but the horses stirring, unsettled by Allison’s scream. The spotlight beam shot crookedly into the night sky, illuminating half of his face.
“Still hospitable?” he said at last.
The grip around her felt like a steel band and there were tears threatening, pain and fear mixing. She blinked the tears back and forced herself to look directly at him when she nodded. She didn’t say a word.
“Marvelous,” he said. He drew the word out slow and looked away from her, taking stock of the grounds a final time, the stable and the pasture and the empty bunkhouse and the garage beyond. She had a feeling they’d inspected the property thoroughly before approaching the house. She didn’t like that measured surveyor’s stare. He saw too much, missed too little. It was the way Ethan took in a place. It wasn’t a quality she wanted to see in a man like this.
When he was satisfied with his assessment, he made the smallest of nods and the other one shoved her forward, through the door and into the living room, without loosening his hold.
“I believe I’ll give myself a tour,” the long-haired one said.
“One of us probably should,” the other answered. Allison could feel his breath on her ear. Could smell his sweat and a heavy odor of stale, trapped smoke. Not cigarettes. Wood smoke.
He held her in the center of the room and did not speak while the other one took a patient stroll through her home. He unplugged phones and lowered window blinds and talked while he moved, and the one holding her answered.
“Quite an empire they have here.”
“Beautiful place.”
“They like mountain landscapes, did you notice?”
“Seems to be the favored artwork, yes.”
“Strange, living in a place like this. Why do you need the paintings, the photographs? Just look out the window.”
“Gifts, I suspect. What do you give someone who lives in the mountains? A photograph of the same mountain that person sees every day. It doesn’t make sense, but people do it all the same. Like that man who raised the dogs. Remember him? The bloodhounds.”
“Pictures of bloodhounds all over the place. Even though the real deal was right there.”
“Exactly. I’m telling you, they are gifts. No one has any imagination these days.”
The grip on Allison hadn’t loosened a fraction, though the man who held her spoke easily. Another smell mingled with the wood smoke, but it took her a minute to confirm what it was. Or accept it.
He smelled of blood.
The long-haired one faded from sight but she could hear his boots as he moved through the rooms behind them. Then he reappeared and crossed the living room. He had a hat in his hand. A black Stetson, wide-brimmed. Ethan’s hat, one that he’d never worn. He hated the cowboy look, but people had their assumptions.
“I like this,” the long-haired man said. “Very Wild West.” He put the hat on and inspected himself in the reflection from the glass door. He smiled. “Not a bad touch.”
“Not bad at all,” the short-haired one said.
“Is it your husband’s hat?” He turned to face Allison.
“It was a gift,” she said. “He doesn’t like it.”
They laughed at her then. “Excellent,” the long-haired one said. “That’s excellent, Mrs. Serbin.” He wandered away again, still wearing the hat, and entered her bedroom. He’d picked up the spotlight when they came inside and was using it rather than the overhead lights. She watched the beam paint the walls and then come to a stop on the shotgun. He went over to it and lifted it with one hand and opened the breech. When he saw the shells inside he snapped the breech shut and returned to the living room, carrying the spotlight in one hand, now turned off, and the shotgun in the other, held down against his leg. The pistol was in a holster at his back.
“Oh my,” he said, easing onto the couch, stretching his legs out in front of him, and leaning the shotgun against the cushion. “It’s been a long day, hasn’t it?”
“Productive, though.”
“True.” The longhair gave a heavy sigh, chest rising and falling, staring at the woodstove. He looked at it for a long time before glancing back at them. “You good?”
“Just fine.”
“Do you think she needs to be held?”
“I suppose we could give her a chance now that you’ve completed the tour.”
The long-haired one fixed his eyes on Allison’s. Cold empty blue. “What do you say, beautiful? Can we take that chance?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then. We get our first test of your honesty.”
The iron grip was gone, as if it had never existed. She was free again. The one who’d held her stepped back after releasing her. She hadn’t seen his face since he’d walked toward her in the spotlight. The two men never stood together.
The long-haired man said, “Do you know why we’re here?”
She shook her head. Immediately, he sighed again and turned from her and ran a hand over his face as if he were exhausted.
“Mrs. Serbin.” The words were heavy with disappointment.
“What?”
“You know. You do know, and you just lied, and that, at this point in the night…” He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “It’s not what we need. It simply will not do.”
“My brother’s had a long day,” the one behind her said. “I’d warn you that he’s a less patient man when he’s tired. You’re not expected to know him as well as I do, so I’ll give you some insider perspective. He’s worn down right now. It’s been a trying day. For us, and for others.”