Mistaken Identity. Shirlee McCoy
to Maine and told them exactly where she planned to be. She wished a lot of things, but wishes were about as useful as umbrellas in hurricanes.
She sprinted uphill and found herself on a narrow path that skirted a ledge. A hundred feet below, dark water shimmered in the moonlight. A lake! And, beyond that, house lights. She wasn’t sure how far. A couple of miles away maybe. If she could make it there, she could knock on a door, find a phone, call for help.
If she could make it.
Someone barreled onto the path a few hundred feet to her left. She didn’t think, didn’t hesitate. She lowered herself over the ledge, grabbing tree branches to stop her momentum as she scrambled down. If she’d had all the time in the world, she could have made it, but time wasn’t on her side, and she was rushing, moving from one handhold to the other, not checking to see if they would hold her weight. She felt one give. The earth was moist from recent rain, the roots probably barely clinging to the side of the steep hill.
She kept moving, listening to the sudden silence. The thickness of it pulsed in the air, as alive and real as her terror. Had the guy pulled his gun? Did he have night-vision goggles? Was he aiming his gun at her?
She grabbed a pine sapling, her feet slipping in her haste to escape. The sapling gave, pulling away from the ground and tumbling toward the lake, Trinity tumbling with it.
And, she knew it was over.
If the fall didn’t kill her, the gunman would, and then she’d be another statistic, another tragedy, another sorrow for her family to bear.
* * *
Going to an old friend’s funeral hadn’t been fun.
Attending his own?
Not something Mason Gains intended to do.
He moved silently through the forest, following the trail of broken branches that led away from his house and workshop. Two-thousand acres of Maine wilderness usually kept people away. That was how he liked it.
Tonight, someone had infiltrated his sanctuary, trespassed on his property and fired a shot that he’d heard loud and clear as he was returning home. If he hadn’t had the windows down, letting cold air sweep away the memory of blood and gunpowder and death that had chased him from Afghanistan and Iraq, followed him across continents and through years of therapy, he might not have heard the gunshot.
But he’d had the windows down, cold air cooling the sweat that beaded his brow, and he’d heard it. He’d known exactly what it was, and he’d known it didn’t belong. This was private property bordered by a state park. No hunting allowed there. Even if there had been, it wasn’t hunting season, and he was certain he hadn’t heard a rifle. He’d heard a handgun. One quick, sharp, report and then silence.
He’d parked the truck on the side of the long driveway, partially hiding it behind a patch of thick shrubs he’d planted with just that purpose in mind. Then he’d taken off on foot, skirting the edge of the driveway, keeping to the shadows as he made his way to the house. He’d noticed the lights first. Then, the SUV parked near his workshop; the open back door, a light shining beyond it. He’d called the police, and then done a sweep of the exterior. There’d been a Jeep parked at the far edge of the field near an old logging road that no one ever used. No other vehicles. No sign of anyone wandering around close to the house. He’d gone inside. Quietly. Just like he’d been trained to do in the military.
There’d been one person inside the house, trying to push aside the built-in book shelves that served as a door to his office. It had taken about six seconds to disarm and apprehend the guy. Youngish with a beer belly and pasty skin, he’d blabbered on about not wanting to die. Funny how people were most remorseful after they’d been caught.
Or not.
He’d asked a few questions, made a few idle threats. Handguns were dangerous, and they were convincing. Mason always carried one, and the kid had spilled enough information to let Mason know that there were two other men. They were in the woods, hunting for Mason’s girlfriend.
There was one problem with that.
Mason had no girlfriend.
So...three unknown people were wandering his property.
The police were on the way, but Mason didn’t believe in waiting around for others to do what he could. He’d already tied up the kid and left him trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey, lying on the floor near the bookshelves.
Now he was going to find the other players in the game.
It shouldn’t be hard. They’d left a noticeable trail, and he was having no trouble at all following it. He eased through thick undergrowth, moving along the edge of the creek that cut through his property. There were footprints in the bank. Large boots and smaller sneakers. The woman who was supposed to be his girlfriend?
She’d headed up the embankment. He followed.
The steep rise led to a ledge that looked out over Whisper Lake. Beyond that, she’d have seen the lights of Whisper—the closest town. Just a pinprick on the map. Fifteen hundred residents on a good day, and exactly the kind of place Mason would have lived if he’d wanted to live close to civilization.
He shopped in the little grocery store there.
When friends came to visit, he took them to the tackle shop, the diner, the ice cream place. There wasn’t much in Whisper, but it was plenty to keep the residents happy.
A pretty little place, but it was nearly fifty miles away. No way could anyone reach it on foot from his property, but he doubted his unwanted visitor knew that. If she’d been running from someone, she probably hadn’t even cared.
He could hear sirens in the distance. Other than that, the woods were silent and still, eerie in their quiet. He’d bought the property for its solitude and for its view of the lake. He’d spent plenty of time sitting in the darkness, looking out over the water, praying for answers to questions he wasn’t even sure he could give voice to.
He hadn’t found any, but he still enjoyed the view.
He didn’t enjoy having people interrupt his work.
He had three prosthetic limbs to design and create. His team would be there Monday morning. Just like always. Mason had planned to return Sunday night but John’s funeral had been a sad event with a handful of mourners, no church service, no celebration of life. Just the graveside service and John’s wife, Sally, crying quietly. She’d wanted Mason to stay for a couple of days. She’d offered him a room in the single-wide trailer she and John had shared. She’d actually begged Mason to stay, but their Nyack, New York, home had seemed claustrophobic.
Or, maybe, it had been the memories that had penned him in.
It didn’t matter.
He’d returned two days early and someone was on his property.
Someone who’d been able to disarm the state-of-the-art security system. Someone who’d known there was an office behind the bookshelves.
That narrowed the list to maybe three or four people who worked for him, a close friend who happened to be the town sheriff and John.
He’d betrayed Mason once. It was more than possible that he’d done it again before he’d died.
Mason skirted the ledge that looked out over the lake, eyeing the foliage below, the dark water beyond it.
A small sneaker print was pressed into the path. He used that as his guide, easing himself over the ledge and finding his footing against the rock and damp earth.
He could see evidence of hands grasping branches—snapped twigs, scuff marks in the earth. Toes pressed deep into dirt.
She’d made it about halfway down when she’d fallen. He could see the uprooted sapling, the slide of her body in pine needles. He stopped, listening to the wind rustling in the leaves, the soft lap of water against the shore below him, the sounds of the sirens drawing closer. No branches breaking. No