Chapter Nine
Mark closed his eyes tight for a moment and struggled to get a hold of himself. Despite the terrible feeling in his stomach from the moment he'd stepped inside the cabin, he had put together a couple of plausible, matter of fact scenarios to comfort himself: there was a tree leaning on the cabin, thrusting its way through the roof. Perhaps Steve had gone somewhere drier for the night. Of course, there didn't seem to be any place nearby, and Steve's truck was still here. Closer examination of the truck had revealed a flat rear tire. So perhaps Steve had just gone for help - something to patch the roof, or somebody to help fix the tire. The power seemed to be out - maybe the cabin was a mess because Steve had been stumbling around in the dark. Maybe the footprints belonged to whoever Steve had gone with - to get the tire fixed. Or the roof.
They weren't completely convincing as far as possibilities went, but they had forestalled the almost paralyzing panic that was nipping at the edges of his thoughts, threatening to overwhelm him. Now the sight of Steve's gun, free of its holster and speckled with blood, amidst all the chaos, swept his nice, safe, sane scenarios away and replaced them with images of menace and danger. But that was almost as ridiculous - what on earth could happen to Steve, way up here and so far from anything - all alone?
All alone. He pressed one hand over his eyes. Steve shouldn't have been alone, and maybe if he hadn't been…Stop it, he told himself sternly. This isn't helping Steve. This isn't helping anything.
He pushed himself to his feet, still clinging to the gun as if it held all the answers he was looking for. He stumbled over to a battered armchair that was still right side up and sank into it.
He needed to think. He needed to look around, to gather clues, to put them together. He had solved dozens of mysteries, maybe hundreds, with his gift for deductive reasoning - now he needed to solve this one too. None had ever been as important as this one. So why did his brain seem so stalled?
Still carrying the gun, he rose again, studying the muddy footprints dotting the floor. The way they twisted and turned reminded him of those Arthur Murray dance diagrams you used to find on the floors of old dance studios. Steps leading to the small kitchen, walking around it, coming back. Steps to the bedroom door, not quite entering, coming back. Then a splatter and smear of mud, as though something large and heavy had landed in the middle of the footsteps, not far from where he'd found the gun. He narrowed his eyes at the steps leading to the bedroom. Now, if the window had been open in there, but no muddy footprints lead away from that doorway…
He entered the bedroom, cast his eyes about it. The window was open, Steve's duffel bag also open on the floor next to the bed. His sharp eyes caught another set of footprints, much larger than the set in the main room. He bent down to look at them. These were not boot prints - the arch was scooped out, as if the owner were barefoot or at least in stocking feet. Crouching there, he caught a glimpse of something under the bed and pulled it out. Socks. Still damp and crumpled into a ball, and these he recognized as Steve's. So Steve had - what? Broken into his own bedroom window in his wet stocking feet? He dropped the socks and rubbed a hand over his mouth. This was just getting more and more puzzling.
Suddenly angry, he climbed to his feet once more, stowing the gun in one handy pocket of his fishing vest and heading toward the other bedroom. He had no idea what was going on here, but he was determined to find out - to find his son.
*
Steve struggled against his bonds, testing them. He took a deep breath, tensing his muscles to see if he could expand and loosen them. The thin twine dug into him instead, razoring through the flannel of his shirt, and he hissed as it bit warningly into his arms and chest. Well, damn. These were definitely not the toys of an amateur - what the heck was he in the middle of? He let his head rest back against the bark of the trunk for a second, trying to find a spot on his scalp that wasn't tender. The sun beat down on his face, the branches of the tall tree he was fastened to too high up to provide any effective shade, and suddenly he realized that he was thirsty. He tried to swallow and moisten his throat, closing his eyes against the direct glare of the early morning sun. The storm seemed to be over for good, leaving them with a bright and beautiful day. A little too bright, actually, given that he seemed to be positioned for maximum exposure. He wondered if that was an accident. Probably not.
He tried to focus himself, to think. What was Peterson mixed up in? Nothing small, that was for sure. Was he dirty, or was this part of some elaborate vice takedown? What did he know about Peterson, really?
Not a lot. He seemed like a good enough cop, a little screwy, but those vice guys could be - they had to walk such a narrow line between the world they were trying to protect and the world they were trying to bring down - consorting with gun dealers, drug runners, pimps, mob leaders, trying to think like them, almost having to become one of them. Sometimes they actually did, too. Steve shuddered. They lived in such a world of greys - one that he knew he could never manage himself. Homicide had more than its share of gruesome days and certainly wasn't always black and white, but it wasn't the shell game that vice was and he had learned early that he didn't have the right temperament or mindset to survive that kind of work.
He grimaced, trying to shift and ease some of the pressure of his bonds, twitching his fingers to see if he could at least free his wrists from where they were squashed between the small of his back and the tree. The right one responded. It was tingling from the tightness of whatever was tied around it and a stabbing, digging irritation that must be the splinter was surprisingly uncomfortable, but it felt pretty good compared to the left one. That one felt about twice its normal size, hot and pulsing with pain. Suddenly, moving them didn't seem like such a good idea after all.
He wondered what time it was. Maybe nine in the morning, from the looks of the sun. He tried to swallow again, but his mouth remained dry. His dad would be on his way - maybe there, depending on when he had gotten started. His heart thundered in his chest. He could be walking into anything, and Steve wasn't there to protect him. He had led his attacker away from the cabin for a little while, but now he was stuck here, trussed up like a turkey, and she could be anywhere. He felt a rush of helpless rage.
What on earth could she be looking for? And had Tom known what he was sending him into when he'd rented him the place? He thought back carefully to how it had all come about.
They had been changing in the locker room after a police team baseball game - Homicide against Vice. Homicide had won, he recalled with a faint smile. He had finished his shower and was pulling his shirt over his head when he had heard a vaguely familiar voice call his name. He'd pushed his head through the neck hole and glanced around for the owner of the voice. Tom Peterson was looking up from tying his sneakers, as if waiting for an answer.
"I said I hear you're looking for a fishing cabin for the week of the first. My cabin's free that week, if you're interested."
Steve had hesitated. He had been having trouble finding something that wasn't already rented and he was afraid that if he had to reschedule, he'd never find his father and himself free at the same time again. But he didn't know Peterson very well. Still…
"Yeah, I was hoping to take my Dad fishing for the week. He's not exactly Daniel Boone, though - I don't want anything too rustic. What's it like?"
Peterson had shrugged. "It's nice. Got a lot going for it. Secluded. Good fishing. I always see a lot of action when I go there."
Steve had been desperate and grateful, but now that he replayed the conversation in his head, it seemed riddled with double entendres. Had Peterson known what he was getting him into? More importantly, had he knowingly let him drag his Dad, a civilian, into it as well? He ground his teeth silently at the thought. He'd better not, or he and Peterson would be having a conversation that involved very few words and a whole lot of knuckles. That is, always assuming…he opened his eyes again. No. He refused to think like that. He had to believe that there was a way out of this and that he would find it, and find it in time to take care of his Dad. Then he would take care of Tom Peterson.
"Glad to see you're awake. Did you have a nice nap?" The familiar voice appearing so suddenly by his ear made him jump, his bonds pricking at him warningly. The voice gave a low laugh. "You want to be careful with those - they react badly to any unwise movement - like struggling or, say, breathing."
He didn't answer, but he turned his head to try to get a look at her. He couldn't get a clear view with the sun in his eyes, but he could make out the outline of a slender figure dressed all in black, crouching in front of him. He saw a finger reach toward him, felt it run lightly down the twine that wrapped his chest, sending a shiver of pain through him. "I'm told that they can actually grow quite torturous after a while. You'll have to tell me if that's true or not."
"Where have you been?" His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.
"Around." She moved a ways to the right of him, out of the direct glare of the sun, and he could see her better if he turned his head. "Turns out you weren't lying and there actually is a lake! Was more than one boat mooring, though. I'm afraid you'll have to be a little more specific."
"Why don't you untie me and I'll show you?"
"I don't know…" she seemed to mull this over, but he got the sense that she was just toying with him. "I don't think that would be safe. If you decided to play rough again, what protection would a little girl like me have against a great big guy like you?"
"Very funny." Steve squirmed a little at the wires chewing at his skin, reconfirmed that movement was a bad idea. "Look, you're the one who didn't want to waste time. Untie me and I'll show you where I buried it. I'll even help you dig it up."
"Hmm…I don't think that would be such a good idea. You didn't behave so well the last time we were together."
Steve set his teeth. "Look who's talking."
"Now, now, don't be testy - I only did this for your own good. You really should stay off of your knee."
Steve remembered the shoe print on the knee of his jeans and spat back, "I think we BOTH should stay off of my knee." He had a second to reflect that he really should try and do something about that habit of his of speaking first under pressure and then regretting it later, braced himself for the inevitable blow. It didn't come.
Instead, she laughed again. "I do like a man with a sense of humor. Now, which boat mooring is the one I'm looking for?"
"I can show you more easily."
"More easily for who, I wonder? You know, you can make this hard, or easy. I told you that those cords grow increasingly uncomfortable. The sun is only going to get hotter, too. And I know a few more direct tricks, if I need them. I'm very good at them. Graduated first in my class. It's a real gift with me."
"Your mother must be so proud."
This time she laughed long and loud. "Oh, dear." She tilted her head at him. She had a round, fresh face, rather like the cheerleader he had taken to the Junior Prom, and somehow the resemblance made him a little queasy. Or maybe he just really needed a drink of water. "Really, it's a shame. Under other circumstances I think I could have quite liked you."
Steve felt no inclination to return the compliment. Instead, he thought that maybe after all this was over he might visit a shrink and find out what exactly it was about him that seemed to appeal to so many psychopathic women. Her smile faded. "So. Are you going to tell me? Or do I have to get more - persuasive?"
"I have been telling you! I've been telling you all along! I've been cooperating! You're the one who lost it and reached for the thumb screws!"
She seemed to think this over. "Impatience is one of my biggest faults," she admitted at last. "But you can understand the precaution. You pulled a gun on me."
"You tried to shoot me!"
"I suppose I did. I can't believe I missed. Either I'm getting slow or you're very quick."
"Or we're both very lucky." The irony of his words wasn't lost on Steve since he had never felt less lucky, but she seemed more relaxed and he wanted to keep it that way - make her start thinking of him as a partner.
"Maybe." She smiled. "And, of course, I did take your gun and take you down, didn't I? I hope I didn't hurt your…?"
Her voice stopped abruptly and Steve saw something shift in her face. He wasn't quite sure what it was, but something about the sudden, calculating stillness of her expression made him distinctly uneasy. She stared at him for a long moment, her face reflective, thoughtful. When she spoke again, there was a cold edge to her voice. "So tell me something," she said at last. "Why is it that among all the information I have about you, there is no mention of you being left handed?"
*
Mark stared in the other bedroom. This one had obviously been earmarked for him, for here was his luggage, stowed neatly by the bed. Whoever had ransacked the rest of the place obviously hadn't made it this far. The room had a beautiful view and a lump rose to his throat as he reflected that that was probably why Steve had selected it for him, noticed the care with which it had been tidied and his things conveniently placed.
Steve had gone through a lot of trouble to plan this, to make sure he was comfortable, and now he couldn't quite remember why his patient had seemed more important than spending time with his son. Oh, of course his patients were important, but there were, if he was honest with himself, other doctors who could care for them. He was the only one who could be father to his son. Katherine had reminded him of that once, gently, and he had sworn to himself never to forget it again. Evidently he had. Of course, Steve wasn't a little boy anymore, and they lived together, so maybe that caused him to take their closeness for granted? Just a little?
Suddenly hating the sight of the lovingly prepared room, he turned on his heel and returned to the main living space. Something rolled under his foot, almost tripping him, and he caught himself on the wall just in time. He looked down to see what he had stepped on, reached down to pick up a small metal cylinder. A spent shell casing.
Acid sloshed in his stomach. He raised his eyes toward the door, noticed for the first time a chunk of wood blown out of the door frame, moved toward it as if in a trance for a better look. He ran his hand over it, studying it closely. That was definitely damage from a bullet. And it was just about level with where Steve's head would be.
