bedroom to the initial plans; he’d made good use of it for the past three nights.
Nothing had felt better than that extra bed after the full day he’d spent on a Greyhound from Huntington all the way through Sault Ste. Marie and on up to Wawa, followed by a one-hour car ride after Barb picked him up at the terminal.
He’d had a whopping headache by the time they pulled into the hidden driveway, but he’d known it was more on account of the blow he’d sustained from a flying plank during the explosion than from the long hours sitting in a cramped coach.
Reaching the wraparound porch, he lifted one hand to his forehead and fingered the neat piece of gauze that covered the healing gash. It had bled fiercely when he’d scaled the fence of the bungalow’s backyard. He mustn’t have been unconscious for long, he’d decided. He’d already staggered a good three or four blocks from the safe house before he’d heard the wail of sirens.
He knew then that, unless he had a death wish, he couldn’t return to Chicago, and even before he located the bus terminal in Huntington, he’d already decided he had to come here. He could trust Barb. No one else. Not even the police, it seemed.
There was one person on the Chicago police force he might be able to trust with his life. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d thought of Molly during the past few days. Then again, how was that any different from the past twelve years? In all that time, not a day went by when he hadn’t thought of her, when he hadn’t wondered about calling her, seeing her. But in all those years, he’d never had the courage. Nor had he ever been able to think of the words to apologize for what he’d done to her.
Chapter Two
Molly gripped the wheel of her Jeep Wrangler a little tighter and eased her foot off the gas as she maneuvered the vehicle into a sweeping curve. The headlights skimmed across the high snowbanks, hinting at the dark trunks and dense underbrush beyond. Normally she’d enjoy a drive like this—twisting blacktop through the middle of the wilderness. But with the snow coming down even thicker now, and with the wind battering against the side of the Wrangler, the fun was lost to the struggle against the elements.
Not to mention the fact that she was exhausted. For almost ten hours straight she’d battled the slippery conditions of Highway 131, then traffic along the I-75 heading north through Michigan; she’d spent another three past the Canadian border, fighting whiteouts and snow-covered roads the entire way. The thrill of the drive was long gone, replaced with anxiousness as Molly glanced down at her gas gauge.
“Bass Lake, eh? Oh yeah, that’s just up the road a few kilometers,” the proprietor of the last convenience store had advised, and he’d proceeded to give her directions that had convinced her she’d make it there on the quarter tank of gas.
But “a few kilometers” had translated to miles. And those miles had been added to when she’d missed the snow-plastered sign and the turnoff, and ended up driving a good twenty minutes beyond before realizing the mistake and having to backtrack.
The needle of the gas gauge dipped even farther below the E as she banked the Jeep through the next curve. Molly cursed. Why hadn’t she heeded that voice of warning in her head when she’d considered stopping a couple of hours ago to scout for a motel?
Because her gut had told her not to. Her gut told her Mitch was alive, and that she had to get to him before Sabatini did. Her gut had led her to Mitch’s closed-up architecture firm in the Jackson Boulevard Complex, where she’d rifled through his files and Rolodex, and found Barb Newcombe’s name and the address of her summer place in Ontario. And Molly’s gut had told her that of all the possibilities, it was his college friend’s cottage Mitch would most likely run to.
Of course, it wasn’t her gut that was running on empty and was about to die along this deserted stretch of godforsaken, freezing road, Molly thought, cursing again.
She’d called Barb Newcombe’s secretary yesterday afternoon in Chicago, and managed to find out that the CEO had taken an extended New Year’s vacation in Canada and wasn’t expected back to work until the day after tomorrow. The chance of Mitch being at Newcombe’s cottage with her had seemed even more likely after that, and Molly had started packing.
She’d almost finished by early evening when Adam had shown up at the door of her apartment. He hadn’t waited for an invite, but pushed his way in, demanding to know what she was up to and why she hadn’t responded to any of his attempts to page her.
“Yeah, right, Molly,” he’d said, standing in the doorway of her bedroom as he’d watched her shove more clothes into her overnight bag. “You aren’t visiting your aunt in Cleveland. Unless, of course, you always pack your off-duty for family reunions.” He lifted one fleece sweater to reveal the compact Walther 380 tucked in its ankle holster. “Hell, you probably don’t even have an aunt in Cleveland, do you?”
Molly ignored the question, praying he wouldn’t search further and find her on-duty weapon in the bag as well.
“Adam, would you do me a favor?”
“Nope.”
“Adam, come on, it’s just—”
“No way.” He shook his head, and Molly followed him into the cramped living room, where he attempted to pace.
She’d always thought Adam Barclay was built like a linebacker for the Bears, and in her small apartment, he looked even broader as he tried to maneuver around the clutter.
“You’ve got a key to my place,” she continued, adopting a plea in her voice. “Just come in and feed Cat once a day? Please?”
“That ungrateful bag of—”
“Please?”
“Only if you tell me where you’re really headed.”
“I can’t do that, Adam.”
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?”
The question shouldn’t have surprised her. After all, practically everyone in the Homicide Unit—especially her partner—knew of the deep-seated grudge she held against Sabatini. How could Adam not have guessed what she was up to?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stated.
“The architect. Mitch Drake. You figure he survived the bombing, that he’s alive and hiding out someplace. So you’re going to single-handedly bring him in. The unwilling witness.”
“And how do you arrive at that conclusion?”
“Come on, Molly, I’ve been your partner three years, and in all that time you’ve never taken a vacation. I think I can figure it out. So…what d’you think you’ll get for this stunt—bringing in the one witness that can finally put Sabatini behind bars? Assuming you can pull it off, that is. You aiming for another bronze star?”
The rancor in Adam’s voice had confused her. “Why are you so bothered at the thought of me taking a little vacation time to follow a personal hunch?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” His voice had sharpened. “Maybe because I don’t want to lose my partner?”
She’d thought she saw a glimmer of concern sweep across Adam’s
