Catherine Coulter - FBI 3 The Target Read online

  HE was seated on the single chair in the living room. She stood over him when he pulled down his jeans to examine his leg. The bullet had gouged a gash through the outside of his thigh, ripping away skin, a bit of muscle. Not deep, maybe two inches long. It wasn't bad. He was very lucky.

  He poured vodka over the wound. It burned like hell, but she was standing right there, so scared, her face whiter than high mountain snow, and he wasn't about to yell. He gritted his teeth and kept pouring until he was as certain as he could be that the wound was clean. It probably needed to be stitched, but he couldn't do that, no way, since he couldn't sterilize a needle and thread. The last thing he needed was an infection. He pulled the skin tightly together over the gash, then put some sterilized gauze over it. Then he ripped some adhesive tape off with his teeth, stretched the tape tight to hold the edges of skin together beneath the gauze, and pressed it down. Pain hissed out between his gritted teeth. She made a small mewling sound. He saw her lay her hand on his right knee. "It's all right. It just hurt a little bit, not bad. That was the worst of it, putting that tape over it."

  He laid down more tape, making it tighter. He rose slowly, turned slightly away from her, and pulled up his jeans. "Now, sweetheart, let's get some aspirin down my gullet." He took four generic aspirin from Clement's and drank a full glass of orange juice. He laughed and wiped his mouth. "Vitamin C is good stuff, maybe even helpful for a gunshot wound."

  His leg hurt, but that was the least of his problems.

  He knew she was watching him, fear leaving her face as pale as new snow. He locked the front door, shot home the dead bolt, and fastened the chain. Maybe later he'd go get that old.22 rifle. He knew the men weren't coming back. They had no idea he had no ability to contact the outside world. They'd think he'd called in the troops immediately. He doubted they'd hang around. It would be too dangerous for them. Besides, they were both wounded. They'd have to get help. He had bought himself some time.

  He looked down at her, standing there, not an inch from him, and he knew he had to deal with this and he had to deal with it now.

  "Let's sit down," he said, and held out his hand. There were some flecks of blood on the back of his hand. He hoped she wouldn't see it.

  Slowly, she gave him her hand. He sat beside her on the sofa. He carefully moved the bowl of bloody vodka to the far side of the sofa.

  "I don't know who those men were," he said, looking at her full face, willing her not to be afraid, not to worry so much. "Did you recognize either of them?"

  She cocked her head to one side. She was thinking, he knew that look. He wore one remarkably like it on occasion. Finally, she shook her head, but he could tell she wasn't completely certain. Well, that was good enough for now.

  Maybe it hadn't been just one man who'd taken her. Maybe it had been two men. Maybe it was the men who'd just shown up pretending to be drunk to get him out of the cabin, then shooting. Maybe they'd both stayed masked when they'd had her. That meant they hadn't planned to kill her. What was their plan then? Keep her a prisoner and play with her until they were tired of her?

  It made the blood pound in his temple. They'd been willing to kill him to get her back? But this time they weren't wearing masks. They wanted her dead now?

  That first shot they'd fired hadn't been at him, had it? He couldn't remember. He'd think about it later, go over his memories second by second. Still, it was weird. What was going on? How the devil had they found him?

  He'd been a fool. He should have left her in the Jeep in town and told her to keep hidden. Well, he'd done it and there was no undoing it now. It was likely they'd seen him with her in Dillinger the day he'd bought her clothes, the day he'd had her with him, holding her hand while walking to the store, carrying her. He felt the aspirin kick in.

  About time.

  At the end of it, they'd been shooting to kill. He took her hand in his. "We've got to be really careful now. Okay? I want you to stay close to me." As if she'd stray six inches from him, he thought.

  She nodded solemnly.

  "We'll get out of this, sweetheart. I promise you that."

  Again, she nodded, her little face so serious, so pale and tight that he wanted to cry.

  5

  THE ASPIRIN HADN'T worked worth a damn. His thigh was throbbing big time. He couldn't get comfortable and he couldn't get back to sleep. He knew he had a low-grade fever. It was nearly two o'clock in the morning. He got up finally, listened for her breathing, heard it, and knew she was deeply asleep because he was used to the rhythms of her breathing now. He walked as quietly as he could to the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table, balancing the flashlight so it shone on his leg. He knew he had to get that tape and gauze off to see if the wound was infected. If it was, he would be in the Jeep on his way to the hospital within five minutes. And that would mean the cops since it was a gunshot wound. No hope for it. And he would have to bring her into it, giving her over to the authorities, relinquishing all his protection of her.

  He was wearing loose sweats. He pulled down the pants and looked at his swelled thigh. It felt warm to the touch, but that seemed normal to him under the circumstances.

  It hurt like hell to pull off the tape and lift the gauze, that had, naturally, stuck to the wound, but he took a long swig of vodka, gritted his teeth, and did it. He stared down at his leg. It was swelled and warm, but there was no redness, no pus, thank God. He poured more vodka over the gash, hissing between his teeth.

  He felt her presence, then her small hand on his shoulder. He prayed he didn't look as bad as the wound looked when he said, turning slowly, "Hi, sweetheart. I'm sorry I woke you up. I just had to check my leg. It isn't bad, just swelled a bit, and warm, but nothing scary. I'm just being really careful. Now, let me bandage it up again."

  She carefully took a thick pad of gauze, then waited. With both hands, he pushed the flesh tightly together on the exit wound, then nodded to her. She laid the gauze over it. Then she pulled out a length of tape, laid it over the gauze and his flesh, and pulled it taut. Then she flattened it down with her palm. He couldn't have done it better himself.

  "Maybe you're going to be a doctor," he said, wanting to howl from the pain. He felt sticky sweat on his face, imagined he was as gray as one of his old nightshirts. He took several quick deep breaths. "Thanks, sweetheart. I'm okay, really. Let me get some more tape over this to make sure it holds." He pressed down four more strips.

  She stood back, but kept her hand on his shoulder. Every once in a while, she patted him. He appreciated it.

  When it was done, he pulled his sweats back up again. "I'd say tomorrow night my leg's going to be all black and blue. Hopefully the swelling will go down a bit by then. Now, let me take some more aspirin." He took three this time.

  "You want to go back to bed now?"

  She shook her head.

  "Me either. You want me to read you a story?"

  She shook her head, then mimicked talking.

  "You want me to tell you a story?"

  She nodded, then, to his delight, she took his hand. He stretched out on the sofa, with her beside him on top of the blanket that covered him, and pulled two more blankets and the afghan over them. The pistol was right beside him on the floor. He settled her against him, feeling the warmth of her against his side, her cheek against his neck. "Once upon a time there was a little princess named Sonya who knew how to fly kites better than anyone in her father's kingdom. One year, her father decided that he would have a contest. He knew no one could beat her. She had a special kite, you see, a dragon-tailed kite that could fly higher and make more figures than an ice-skater. There was just one competitor her father worried about. It was Prince Luther from a neighboring kingdom. But he knew she could beat anyone, even Luther, who was a bully and a loudmouth. Do you know what happened at the contest?"

  She was lightly snoring. He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. He realized that he'd forgotten all about his damned thigh. He also realized that to this point,
his story was pretty bad, probably because he was so tired, his brain woozy. It was lucky she'd fallen back asleep or he would have bored her into yawns.

  HE tried to stay off his leg throughout the next day. He stuck to the cabin, sitting by the front window, scanning, forever scanning the meadow and the forest that crept up to the edge. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, and no one.

  He was going to lay low today, let himself get stronger, then he'd decide what to do.

  He knew she was frightened. He knew it and couldn't do a thing about it. He told her half a dozen stories, and none of them too bad, about the little princess named Sonya who beat the nasty little boy, Luther, in the kite-flying contest, then went on to save her father's life, and cook excellent mushrooms and... well, he wouldn't think ahead to the next story. He found it was better if he just opened his mouth and let the story come out unrehearsed.

  She sat on the floor next to his chair by the window, drawing with one of his pencils. The afternoon shadows were lengthening. He looked down to see a stick woman with curly hair holding a kite, a little stick girl standing next

  to her, holding a kite the same size as she was. A curved-up line was the woman's smile; there was a curved-up line for the little girl as well.

  Her mother had taught her to fly a kite. He praised the drawings. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could get her to draw him pictures of the man or men who'd taken her and where they'd taken her, what they'd done to her. But he balked at that. He wasn't a shrink. The last thing he wanted to do was make things worse.

  "It's time to make dinner. You hungry, kiddo?"

  She nodded enthusiastically and gathered up her pages and the three pencils he'd given her. She laid them carefully on the coffee table, lining up the pages neatly. He realized he did the same thing. Then she held out her hand to him.

  He took her hand and made a big deal of her helping him up. His leg hurt like the devil, but that was no surprise. The fever was gone. His wound was still swelled up and warm to the touch. The skin near the wound was turning a little black and blue. He wasn't about to pull off the tape again. Best to leave the leg alone to heal. At least until tomorrow.

  They didn't have much left in the larder. Tomorrow he'd either have to go in to Clement's grocery, exposing her yet again, or he'd pack up the Jeep early and they'd get the hell out of here. No matter how he cut it, their location was known. Even if there wasn't danger from the two men he'd wounded, the people who'd sent them now knew where she was. He knew he should drive right to the sheriff's office. He knew it. He also knew he wasn't going to do it, not yet anyway. He remembered those desperate mewling noises she'd made. She might snap. But the bigger issue was: How could he send her back home where she could be kidnapped again?

  Now that the danger was clear, he had to get off this mountain. He wanted to call his friend Dillon Savich at the FBI to ask his advice. Of course Savich would tell him to call the FBI. He might even know about her if she'd been abducted. Ever since the Lindbergh baby's kidnapping back in the early '30s, and the resulting tragedy, kidnapping had been the purview of the FBI. But until he could get to Savich, he knew his bottom line was to keep her safe, and that meant, to him, to keep her with him.

  Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow early, they'd get out of here. He did a checklist in his mind of everything he needed to do in the interim before they could leave.

  As he opened a can of vegetable soup, he looked at her tearing pieces of lettuce into a big bowl. She had a look of intense concentration on her small face.

  "You want French dressing or Italian?"

  She picked up the bottle of French dressing.

  "Good choice. That was always my favorite when I was your age." He wasn't going to tell her they were leaving until he was ready to load her into the Jeep.

  She cocked her head to one side. He realized he did the same thing in just the same way. Had she picked it up from him in only a week? He shook his head, smiling at her. "Yeah, I was once your age. A long time ago. Don't make fun of me because I'm old."

  She gave him an impudent grin that was as kid-normal as kicking a soccer ball.

  They ate the soup and salad in front of the fireplace. The evening had turned cold, really cold once the sun went down. It was probably in the low forties.

  A coyote howled.

  JUST after dawn, he unbolted the door, unfastened the chain, and as quietly as he could, he went out into a silent world where he could see his breath. He needed to chop wood for the fireplace and the wood-burning stove. He stood very still, looking everywhere for any sign of something that shouldn't be here. Nothing. He finally laid his Browning Savage down on the ground, really close to his left foot. He looked around again but couldn't see anything out of the ordinary.

  He split half a dozen logs before his leg began throbbing so much he had to stop. It would be enough. He'd agreed to leave the cabin the way he'd found it, and that included a goodly amount of split logs. He was cursing softly as he cradled the logs in his arms, pressed his rifle against his side, and carried it all back inside.

  The dawn light was gray, the forest line blurred and indistinct. There was no movement, not even an early-morning squirrel dashing between trees. He crossed the cabin threshold to see her jerk bolt upright, mewling deep in her throat, her face ashen.

  He quickly set the logs and his rifle down by the fireplace, then went to her. He sat beside her" on the sofa. Slowly, because he'd learned never to make any unexpected or quick moves, he gathered her against him. He kissed the top of her head. "It's all right, sweetheart. I had to get some more logs." He wouldn't tell her yet that they were, leaving. "You just snuggle down again and I'll get the fire going really strong. Okay?"

  He laid her back down, the covers in his hands to pull up to her small chin.

  "Don't you touch her, you filthy bastard. Step away from her now!"

  He and the child both froze at the sound of the woman's voice. He was the stupidest human alive. He'd left the cabin door unlocked. He looked at his Smith & Wesson on the table beside the sofa.

  A shot rang out and his gun went flying off the table, skidding across the wooden floor until it was stopped by one of the Indian rugs.

  "Try anything at all and the next bullet will go in your head. I promise you that. Get away from her now."

  He backed away from her and stood. He turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway, wearing a black down jacket, black jeans and boots, a black knit cap on her head. Her face was very white, her irises showing huge and black. She was holding a Detonics.45 ACP, a nasty little pistol that could blow a man's brains out if he was within twenty feet, which he was.

  She looked strung out and quite ready to kill him, but her voice was calm, quiet, filled with hatred. "Move, you creep. I'm not going to tell you again. I don't want you anywhere near her. If I have to blow your head off, I'll do it. Damn you, get away from her!"

  "You don't want to kill me. I'm not the one who took her, I swear it to you."

  "You perverted piece of filth, just shut up. I saw you touching her. What would you have done to her if I hadn't shown up? Move!" He stepped two feet away from the sofa. She had the gun trained on his chest.

  Her eyes darted to the sofa. "Baby, are you all right?"

  It was her mother. But how had she found them?

  He said, "You really should believe me about this. I'm not the one who hurt her."

  "Shut up! Em, are you okay?"

  "I found her a week ago in the forest near this cabin. I didn't kidnap her."

  "Shut up! Em? What's wrong, baby? Listen to me, he can't hurt you anymore. I'm holding a gun on him. Come here, Em, come to Mama."

  She was mewling deep in her throat. She threw back the blankets, looking from him to her mother.

  "Get away from him, Em. I want you to come over here to me. I'm going to tie him up and take him to the sheriff. Then neither of us will ever have to be afraid again. I know you understand. Come here now, Em."

  The woman raised the
gun. She said more to herself than to him, "You're very big. You're not going to let me even get near you, are you? No, the instant I try to tie you up, you're going to attack me. It won't ever be over, not until you're dead. I have no choice, none at all."

  "Sure you do. You don't want to shoot me. I didn't kidnap her. I saved her."

  "Shut up! No. I won't have you lurking about in the shadows, hanging over our lives ever again. I'll do it. I know I can do it. You're evil. You're a monster. Oh God, you abused her, didn't you? I'd prayed and prayed that the kidnapper hadn't hurt her, but you did, didn't you? You don't deserve to live. Em, come here, now. What's wrong with you? Come here so I can make you safe again." She steadied the gun. It was trained right on his chest.

  Suddenly, the child threw herself in front of him, her small hands grabbing at his knees. She yelled, "No, Mama, it's Ramsey! He saved me. Don't hurt him!"