look. And that’s when he spotted what looked to be two people darting from one tree to another.
Adrenaline hit and he reached back in the car to grab the loud speaker as he palmed his weapon.
“Police. Identify yourself and your business on the property.”
The response was a bullet that ricocheted off the front fender of his squad car. Damn. He had a nut on his hands. Bart aimed his gun, but didn’t fire. A reckless shot wouldn’t do anything but antagonize the shooter, and if the second figure happened to be the missing woman, it might put her in more danger.
Taking cover behind the car, he scanned the area with the flashlight once again. When he didn’t see movement, he turned it off, knowing it would make him a target when he moved from behind the vehicle.
He took off in the direction the figures had disappeared, using the light from the police flashers to guide him. The land was rocky, wet and icy in spots, making maneuvering difficult. He traveled a few yards, then leaned against a tree and listened for a rustle of grass, the dry crushing of leaves beneath a boot, the sound of breathing, anything. And then as if she knew he was seeking a sign, the woman screamed.
Bart moved toward the sound, though he’d reached the outer edges of the flashers’ illumination and was moving in almost total darkness. He didn’t know this particular area, but he knew the dangers of the Cascades. They were riddled with drop-offs. One wrong step and a man—or woman—could wind up at the bottom of a cliff with a crushed skull.
Bart stopped again, took a deep breath and made a quick decision, hopefully the right one.
“We have you surrounded,” he called from his spot behind the thick, protective trunk of a towering tree. “Give the woman up before the shooting starts and this will go a lot easier on you.”
There was no answer, but Bart heard noises coming from his right. From the sound, he’d guess the man was dragging the victim along. The decline grew steeper, making footing even more treacherous on the icy ground. His foot slipped on a rock, and he had to grab a low-hanging branch to keep from falling. The branch snapped and crashed to the ground, telegraphing his position.
He darted for cover as the sound of gunfire cracked through the cold air. The bullet dug into his flesh. The pain was intense, ripping through his stomach like the blade of a hunting knife. He fell over, tasted dirt and blood and felt his insides rattle against his backbone.
And then he felt nothing at all.
Chapter One
One month later
Bart Finnegan stood at the window and looked down on the lush foliage that bordered the west lawn of Fernhaven Hotel. The evergreens were dusted with white as was the grass. They’d had heavy snows up higher in the mountains, but all they’d gotten at this altitude was a few flakes.
He’d have preferred a real snow. The dusting reminded him of the powdered sugar his stepmother used to put on cakes in lieu of icing. Cakes without icing were like peanut butter sandwiches without jelly. She’d put those in his lunch tin on several occasions as well.
Odd to be thinking about that now. He hadn’t seen the woman or his father in years. Once he’d joined the Marines at eighteen, he’d pretty much put them and his past life behind him. It had been easier than he’d expected. Enemy bullets had been less scathing than his father’s constant criticism and his stepmother’s nagging.
A young couple rode by on the bike path that bordered one of the several creeks that ran through the property. They were dressed for the activity, in matching red and navy jogging suits and navy ski caps. Her long dark hair flowed behind her, even though she didn’t seem to be pedaling all that fast. The man kept turning his head around as if to make sure she was still behind him.
They were the first people Bart had seen since he’d taken this room in the west wing. Actually, the wing wasn’t even open yet, which was why the room was available. The rest of the hotel was sold out. If you build it, they will come.
The familiar phrase played in Bart’s mind. He’d never have believed that the statement would have been true of a hotel built in a secluded part of the Cascade mountains. But, apparently, the rich and famous could be drawn anywhere that they believed was the in place of the winter season, even if a female guest had been raped and murdered only a month earlier.
But then thanks to the press, most people believed she’d been killed by her husband. They were wrong.
Bart was not one of the rich and famous drawn to the hotel to see and be seen. That’s why the room in the unfinished wing fit him to perfection. The price was right, and the other hotel guests wouldn’t even know he was around unless he chose to mingle with them.
Neither would the sheriff’s department. As far as they were concerned, the gunshot wound had left him out of commission and there was no way they would ever have okayed his searching for the perp.
So he’d slip in and out of his isolated room and investigate on his own, roam the halls, listen in on conversations, nose around where he had no business. The old rules didn’t apply anymore. What the sheriff’s department didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
CARRIE FRANSEN stared at Sheriff Huey Powell, trying desperately to hold her temper, a skill she’d never been good at. “Why Rich McFarland?”
“You can’t work homicide without a partner. It’s a department rule.”
“I’ve heard you say more than once that rules are made to be broken.”
“Not this one.” He raked his fingers through his thin gray hair. “I know how close you were to Bart. That’s why I left you alone for this long, but it’s time to move on. You have to take a partner on this case.”
“Then give me Kirk.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Can’t do that, not after what I received in the mail today.” He took a clear plastic bag from the top of his desk and handed it to her. “I’m sending it out for a fingerprint check, but you can see it for yourself.”
Stop me before I kill again.
There was no signature, but the logo of Fernhaven Hotel was taped to the bottom of the note. The logo looked as if it had been torn from one of the cocktail napkins they used in the lounge.
“It could be a hoax,” she said.
“Could be, and I hope it is,” Powell agreed. “But we can’t ignore it. That’s why I need Rich on this case. Other than me, Rich’s got more years in law experience than anyone else in the department. Not only that, but he worked homicide in Seattle for ten years. We need that expertise on this case.”
“It’s taken weeks to get the people in the area to open up to me. If Rich goes in there with his tough guy, big-city cop routine, they’ll crawl back into their reclusive hideaways and refuse to give us the time of day.”
“You have more than the natives to deal with. You have the hotel staff and the guests that were there that weekend. As far as I know you haven’t ruled out anyone yet.”
“Not officially.”
“Unofficially?”
“Not
