convince her. “This is insane. Sabatini isn’t your crusade, and you’re not some one-woman crime squad, as much as you’ve been trying to act like it ever since Sutton’s murder. Even if this Drake guy is alive, it’s suicide to think you can bring him in on your own, against Sabatini’s men. And I’m tellin’ you, if Sabatini hasn’t already had the guy executed, you can bet he’s got every hired thug of his out there lookin’ for him. Leave it to Witness Protection or the Fugitive Squad or whoever it is they’ve got searching for Drake.”
“I’m just going to take a few days and see what I can come up with, Adam. That’s all.”
“You’re just going to take a few days and get yourself killed, is all. Just like Sutton, for God’s sake. Guess you learned more from your former partner than I gave you credit for, huh?”
“Look, Adam, I appreciate your concern. Really, I do. But I have to do this. I have to try. Mitch…he…if he is alive, he’s running scared. He’s not going to trust anyone now.”
“And what makes you think he’ll trust you?”
“Because…because he and I have a past,” she admitted before she could change her mind about sharing the personal tidbit.
Her gaze had involuntarily flitted to her fireplace. It was so brief, but Adam caught it. He looked to the framed photo of her and Mitch, barely out of high school, in one another’s arms. She didn’t know why she kept it there on her mantel, but anytime she tried to put the photo away she wasn’t able to.
“Adam, I have to at least try. If anyone is going to be able to find Mitch and convince him to testify…it’s me.”
But now, as Molly strained to see the next road sign through the mounting snow squalls in her headlights, she was beginning to doubt what she’d told Adam. And as she slowed to make the turn toward Bass Lake and felt the first sputter of the Jeep as it accelerated on what could only be fumes at this point, Molly silently prayed that her past with Mitch would have some power in convincing him to return to Chicago and do the right thing.
It wasn’t just to see Sergio Sabatini behind bars, Molly realized as she spotted the distant glimmer of lights beyond the thumping wipers. Mitch’s life depended on it.
BARB’S WORDS HAD PLAGUED Mitch all day. He’d shoveled snow, split some firewood, even changed the oil in the Blazer. And all the while he’d weighed the wisdom of doing as Barb suggested and going to the police.
Still, he’d not been able to see any reason for doing so. Returning to Chicago to testify against Sabatini would have no affect on his own life, anyway. It would do nothing to change the fact that Emily was dead and his career was over. The only reason left for testifying now was to ensure Sabatini didn’t kill any more innocent people. But how was it that he owed anyone anything?
Bitterness had consumed him several times throughout the day. It would clutch at his heart and start the small, familiar fits of anger he’d felt far too often over the past ten months. What did he owe anybody, after what he’d been through, after everything he’d lost?
By early evening, after spending an hour wandering through the house, reacquainting himself with his past design, he’d finally settled down by the fireplace. He’d picked up a pad of paper and a pencil and started sketching possible plans for the addition Barb had mentioned. What else did he have to do except bide his time? Wait for Sabatini’s men to find him…
The sketching, however, had done little to take his mind off his situation. In fact, it only served to remind him of the work and the life he no longer had back in Chicago.
Mitch lowered the pad and pencil at last. He checked his watch: almost 11:00 p.m. The living room lay in shadows, the only light coming from the fireplace and the lamp next to the wing chair he’d occupied for the past several hours. The classical CD on the stereo had finished long ago, and the entire house seemed to have been swallowed by the silence of the surrounding wilderness.
He might not have heard the neighbor’s German shepherd otherwise. But there was no mistaking the anxious bark from the next lot. Mitch set his sketches on the coffee table and moved across the dimly lit room. He approached the east window with caution and fingered open one of the shutters to peer into the darkness.
It was the thin beam of a flashlight through the thick, swirling snow that caught Mitch’s eye first. With such low cloud cover, the night was black, but he could just make out the silhouette of the figure behind the flashlight. It was impossible to tell if it was a man or woman who struggled through the mounting snow, but there was no mistaking the person’s seemingly determined route—straight down the drive toward the front door.
Maybe it was paranoia, but the name Sergio Sabatini jumped to the front of his mind. It was too late at night for lost or stranded tourists, and even if it was just some hapless soul, Barb’s was certainly not the first—and definitely not the most obvious—house along the lakeshore road.
It was that thought and a renewed sense of self-preservation that spurred Mitch away from the window and into action.
MOLLY COULDN’T PUT a finger on the bad feeling that had started in the pit of her stomach from the moment she’d seen Barb Newcombe’s name on the mailbox, but the feeling had risen steadily with each step she took toward the virtually unlit house. A dim but warm light slipped through the shuttered windows of a single downstairs room, flickering through the driving snow. The only other light came from the front porch.
As she mounted the steps, Molly switched off her flash-light and shoved it into a pocket of her anorak. She brushed herself off, removing one glove and wiping at the melted snow on her face while she stared at the set of double front doors.
The bad feeling moved up from her stomach and clutched at her lungs. She took a deep breath to try to calm it.
It wasn’t like the feeling she would sometimes get while working a case, moments before something went very wrong. And it was different from the kind that had saved her skin on more than a couple of occasions in the line of duty. But it was definitely a “feeling.”
Maybe she was tired.
Then again, maybe she was just worried, Molly rationalized. Worried about the kind of reception she might receive from Mitch after all these years.
She lifted a hand to one door and knocked solidly.
She waited.
Nothing happened.
Again she knocked. And again, nothing. The cold, black silence of the night, so different from the bright lights of Chicago, only added to her sense of unease as she reached for the door’s brass handle.
And that unease intensified when the latch moved freely and the door swung open. Maybe it was one of those gut feelings she was having, Molly thought as she took the first tentative step into the house and lowered her knapsack to the floor. Something definitely felt wrong.
What if Sabatini had gotten to Mitch first? The thought sent a hot prickle of fear along her skin. Lifting the bottom edge of her anorak, she unclipped the holster at her hip and removed her duty weapon. The Glock’s grip was cold, and her fingers shivered along the icy nickel as she drew back the slide.
She refused the urge to call out Mitch’s name. If Sabatini’s men had already found the house, there was the chance they were still on the premises. She certainly couldn’t afford to announce herself, she thought, taking another step into the
