Spirit Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz
his error in judgment for thinking that Camden blood made her different.
As for Nora, she needed to learn that, when it came to Camden family business, his word was law. She’d defied him for the last time.
Thomas spun on a perfectly polished heel to face Melvyn Boggs, who stood at attention before the original Colonel’s desk. Boggs was his greatest success story. Thomas had handpicked him right out of Ranger School—the same class his son had failed so miserably.
At thirty-six the soldier’s body was harder and fitter than most men a decade younger in this spoiled generation. Only the lean, sun-baked face betrayed the hours of training in the harsh elements. The man had nerves of steel and a mind as sharp as the keenest of blades. The experiment that had corrupted Tommy’s gray matter had enhanced Boggs’s fine instrument. No mission was too stressful. No task too arduous. No environment too severe. Boggs would follow orders without question.
“Find her,” Thomas said. “Make sure she has an accident. Then bring the boy back to me. Unharmed.”
Thomas strode to the wall-mounted topographical map of the area and circled Mount Storm with his index finger. “This is where Tommy’s headed.”
People tended to follow the path of least resistance. In moments of stress, they turned to points of comfort. And for Tommy that was the mountains. Even in this vast area, Tommy—like the animal he’d become—had staked out territory over the years. He’d track through familiar trails, and an ace like Boggs would have no trouble following his trace.
“What about Tommy?” Boggs asked.
Tommy was a failure beyond redemption. “Put him out of his misery.”
Chapter Three
The discreet hand-carved wooden sign announced the Lemire Adventure Camp and promised women the opportunity to learn outdoor skills with like-minded sisters.
Maybe Nora didn’t need a hero after all. Maybe these outdoorswomen would guide her through the mountains to track down Scotty. Sure beat waiting around.
The cinnamon gum she’d popped to calm the sea of acid swirling in her stomach turned to modeling clay in her mouth.
She discarded the gum into the ashtray and the car’s clock flashed over another precious minute. Where was Scotty now? How much farther away from home? How many minutes could she waste and still find him alive and well?
A rusty chain barred the gravel drive. Her heart tip-tapped with uncertainty. Was she supposed to wait there or drive on up? Sabriel should have given her better instructions. Didn’t he know the stakes? Didn’t he know that one mistake could take her son away from her forever?
Breathe, Nora. She forced in a breath and streamed it out in one long run, tamping back the frayed edge of her anxiety. Hold yourself together. You won’t help Scotty by going ballistic.
Logic. A plan. That would help her find Scotty, not blind panic. Her gaze slid through the car’s mirrors. Her white boat of a car would make too big a target on the narrow lane. She couldn’t park there.
She unclamped her stiff finger from the steering wheel, shoved open the door and unhooked the chain. She drove through, then stared at the heavy links in her hands. Should she hook the chain back up or leave it down? What did it say about the state of her mind that simple decisions required a Herculean effort?
This was all Tommy’s fault. Why did he have to take Scotty? Maybe everything wasn’t perfect at the estate, but they were safe.
She dropped the chain with a snort of disgust and let it lie like a dead boa constrictor. Leaving it down would save Sabriel time, and they could get going faster.
Back in the car, her gaze flitted from the thick pines lining the winding gravel drive to the shadows shifting like black ghouls searching to devour light. One thing was sure: the Colonel would never find her there. And that gave her a measure of confidence.
At the top of the drive, half a dozen cabins that looked too rustic to provide comfort or fun flanked a main lodge with a green roof and time-silvered logs. She parked by the hitching post to the left of the lodge.
The place looked deserted, and the oppressive quiet pressed on her chest, making her want to scream at the world. Stop it, stop it, stop it! How could the earth keep turning, the birds singing, the water lapping when Scotty was missing? She wrapped her arms over her chest, feeling the void of her son’s small body.
As she took in the scene, she realized Scotty would have loved it there—the woods to explore, the lake to swim, the campfire to tell stories. Tommy had talked about taking Scotty camping overnight last summer. But the Colonel had stamped the request “refused.”
“Why is the Colonel so mean?” Scotty had asked, pouting.
Nora had no answer. Not then. Not now.
As her gaze searched the grounds, she wrung her hands in her lap. Where were the outdoorswomen? Wasn’t someone supposed to meet her? There were no other vehicles. No voices. Nothing. No one.
She couldn’t just sit there and wait. She’d go crazy.
Clothes. You need outdoor clothes. Sabriel would arrive soon. And if she was ready, he’d have to take her to the mountains and help her find Scotty.
She rammed the car door open and headed for the lodge. Away from the car’s heater, the air chilled her through her sweater down to the skin. Her knock on the lodge door brought only a fading echo.
She curved a hand to the window and peeked through the glass. No movement. “Hello? Anybody there?”
The stubborn knob resisted her attempts to turn it. Was the camp closed for the winter? Why hadn’t Sabriel mentioned he was sending her to a deserted place?
On the other side of the hitching post, two A-frames groaned under the burden of red kayaks—three on each side. The grating ratchetlike calls of blue jays in a nearby oak jangled her already frazzled nerves. With halting footsteps she followed the path through the trees that would lead her to the cottages. Maybe all the Amazons were out hiking. Maybe they’d left some spare clothes behind.
The trail curved around a narrow strip of beach. The cloud-leached sun eked out pale light that barely scratched at the surface of the water. Pulling out her cell phone, she paced the length of a bench made from a fallen log placed around the dead fire in the stone pit. She was too worried to care if the Colonel had access to her call records. Biting her lower lip, she listened to the incessant ringing of Tommy’s phone.
She growled when Tommy’s voice mail kicked on. “Tommy, please. Call me. I need to know Scotty’s okay.”
How many messages had she left him? At least a dozen. What if something had happened? What if that was why Tommy hadn’t called to reassure her?
Scotty’s with his father, who loves him, she reminded herself for the thousandth time. It wasn’t as if a stranger had kidnapped him and was holding him for ransom in some dark hole. Tommy wouldn’t let any harm come to their son.
Unless Tommy was off his meds.
Her hand strangled the phone and she gulped in air. Scotty was fine. Tommy was fine. They were both perfectly fine. To think otherwise would push her over the brink into insanity. And she couldn’t afford that. Scotty was depending on her.
The mountains loomed on the other side of the lake, taunting her with their nearness, with her helplessness to find one little boy in their midst.
She slammed the phone shut. There was no one else to call. No Amazons to the rescue. Only Sabriel.
Adrenaline ants scurried through her limbs, goading her to take action. With an irrationality bordering on mania, she wanted to turn over rocks, climb trees, ford rivers—anything to find Scotty. She whirled away from the tormenting mountains and jogged toward the cabins.
Fingers of wind rustled through the fallen leaves in the woods and reminded her of chattering teeth.