What Doesn't Kill Her (Cape Charade #2)(26)

“I’m a bounty hunter. There’s a woman loose in the woods, she’s a criminal, she jumped me and tied me up here. She’s armed and dangerous. You need to cut me free so I can go after her.”

The guy nodded. Weird guy, dressed in pressed khakis, a long-sleeved golf shirt, hiking boots and a felt fedora.

Horst realized this guy must be a Californian and probably wouldn’t be carrying anything as practical as scissors or a knife. “Are you lost?” Horst asked him.

“I’m exactly where I belong.” In the shadowy woods, Mr. Fedora was not exactly easy to see. He was white, with a healthy tan, but Horst couldn’t see the color of his eyes, only that they glittered beneath the brim of his hat. “Which way did this dangerous criminal go?”

“I don’t know.” Depended on whether she had found the real map. He’d figure that out as soon as he got his hands free. “I was unconscious when she left. But I can track her.”

“If she jumped you, healthy specimen of a man that you are, she’s in good shape.” He had a pleasant voice, modulated, easy to listen to and without a discernable accent. “What makes you think you can catch her?”

For the first time, Horst felt a niggle of worry. This guy was observing him too closely, asking too many questions and smiling ever so slightly. “Come on. Cut me loose. I need to get going.” He waited to hear the guy say he didn’t carry anything sharp.

But the guy pulled out a pocketknife from his khakis and flipped out a blade, about two inches long and honed often and well if the curve of the steel was anything to go by.

“Thanks, man.” Horst watched him walk around behind the tree. “I’ve gotta tell you, I’ve been worried no one would find me until it was too late and I was just a skeleton tied to a tree.” Horst laughed, a little giddy at the idea of freedom.

“Can you move back firmly against the trunk?” the guy asked.

“Sure.” Horst scooted so his spine was flat against the tree, then held his hands up behind him to make them easy to reach. “Feels like she used nylon handcuffs. Is that it?”

The guy mashed his knee on top of Horst’s bound hands, driving them into the dirt and making Horst’s head slam against the wood.

Ouch! “What are you doing?”

Two strong hands reached around the trunk. One grabbed Horst’s chin and jerked it up and back. Horst had one moment of clarity, one moment to yelp in terror and struggle, before the guy’s other hand, the one with the knife, slid firmly across his throat, slitting him from jugular to jugular.

The killer pulled his hands back. But not soon enough. Blood sprayed his wrists.

He grimaced at the mess on his sleeves, and without a backward glance at the incompetent fool, he returned to his car, a silver Lexus NX Hybrid, and changed to a clean short-sleeved golf shirt. Getting behind the wheel, he drove up the steep and narrow gravel road to meet his new team—and give them their new directive.



13


After they left Horst unconscious against the tree, Kellen led, pushed and assisted Rae below the road, and along a parallel track for over two hours. Then Rae sighed so pitifully that Kellen listened for the sounds of pursuit, then called a halt in a grove near a cold babbling stream. The jump out of the tree had not done her hip any good. She hurt, and she was tired, too; from the heaviness of Rae’s bright pink bag, Kellen assumed Rae brought a brick wall. The marble head was no lightweight, either.

She dropped everything off her shoulders into a heap. “We’ll stop and rest and eat. What else is in your lunch sack?”

“String cheese!” Rae shouted.

“Shhh.”

Rae said, “Shhh,” back.

“No, really, Rae. We don’t want the bad guys to hear us.”

“They left! And we tied the traitor up.” To Rae, the matter was settled.

Kellen put her hand on the mummy’s head. “As long as we have this, they’re looking for us. They want it.” At least Group 1 did. Group 2 had a different agenda, but Rae would be able to understand about the head, an object, better than she could understand about hunting a person.

“Why?” Rae asked.

“Because it’s very old and worth a lot of money.”

Dramatically, Rae thumped her forehead with her palm. “Why?”

Kellen took a breath and did her best to explain the whole situation to Rae, what had happened, where they were going. She spoke slowly and clearly and hopefully used words the child understood. When she was done, she asked, “Now do you understand what’s going on with those men and the guy I tied to the tree and the mummy’s head?”

“We’re going to get whacked,” Rae said.

Whacked. Killed? Kellen didn’t ask whether Rae knew what that meant. “Not if I have anything to do with it. But we are in trouble. So let’s talk quietly while we eat, and move out quickly.” She opened Rae’s pink bag. “Let’s see what you brought to eat.”

The good news: Rae’s bag included Rae’s lunch for camp. Carrot sticks! A turkey and Havarti sandwich! A baggie of mushed cherry tomatoes! An assortment of loose citrus Jelly Bellies with little bits of fuzz attached! And yes, string cheese! The food was a lifesaver.

The bad news: this was lunch for one little girl for one day. Every time Kellen put food in Rae’s hand, she conveyed it to her mouth and it was gone. The kid was a bottomless pit, absorbing calories as if by osmosis.