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  “I do remember,” he said, although he hadn’t until she reminded him.

  “Well, I hope you can find Dr. Talbot and that … and that your baby’s okay.”

  “Appreciate your help,” he said, and whistled for Makita as he hurried back to his truck so he could head to Quigley’s Quick Stop.

  Anchorage, AK—Tuesday, 10:40 p.m. AKDT

  Evelyn’s captor returned for her bowl. Because he’d left the tray before, she hadn’t expected to hear from him so soon, but it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes before the slot opened and she could see the now familiar torso of her captor as he demanded her empty water bottles, banana peel and bowl.

  When she shoved those items through the hole—all except for the water she was conserving—he caught her hand so she couldn’t withdraw it.

  “Why is there blood on your fingers?” he demanded.

  A fresh deluge of adrenaline ripped through Evelyn. She was just trying to decide what to say when he added an impatient, “It’s not the baby, is it?”

  “No. I-I fidget when I get anxious, sometimes bite my cuticles.” Although she’d wiped the blood on her jacket, it’d left a telltale smear. She’d been unwilling to waste her drinking water by pouring it over her hands, and there was no way she was going to wash them in the toilet.

  “You make yourself bleed?”

  “A lot of people do.” She prayed he’d believe her. She didn’t want him to come into the room. If he figured out what she was up to, the punishment could be severe. There was also the possibility that, even if he didn’t discover she’d been trying to pry her cot apart, he might take the opportunity to abuse her.

  At the same time, she needed to engage him, try to befriend him. She’d spoken to enough violent criminals over the years to understand that the victims who survived were those who managed to make themselves more than mere objects, to be used at will. They connected with the person who was confining or abusing them, made themselves human, and they often did that by pretending to be supportive of their attacker and empathetic with his motives, needs and situation.

  Her heart pounded loudly in her ears while she waited to see how he might respond—and what she might be able to make of it.

  “You’re a shrink and you’re self-destructive? Isn’t that ironic.”

  “I’ve been through a lot, and being locked in a cooler is reactivating some bad habits.”

  He seemed to accept that. No doubt he had a few bad habits himself. “How much longer until the baby’s due?”

  “I just started my last trimester.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” He tightened his grip on her wrists. “Speak English, for God’s sake!”

  She drew a calming breath. “I still have twelve weeks left, but this is a high-risk pregnancy, so…”

  “So the baby could come at any time. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  He cursed as he let her go.

  “If that happens,” she added, “if I go into labor, I’ll need a hospital if the baby’s to have any chance of surviving. So I hope there’s one close by.”

  “You’d better not deliver while I’m here. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  She’d been hoping he’d reveal something about their location. She’d gotten nothing along those lines, but while I’m here seemed to suggest he was leaving soon. Where was he going—and when? “You do realize I can’t stop labor. Can’t do anything to change when the baby will arrive.”

  “Just keep your legs crossed, because you’ll be in a world of hurt if you don’t.”

  His hands were massive, leading her to believe he was a large man. And she’d noticed calluses that suggested he wasn’t someone who worked in an office. Did he do construction? Some other kind of physical labor?

  Possibly …

  She doubted he was married. He didn’t know anything about childbirth—just that he didn’t want any part of it. She didn’t see a wedding ring, either. “How will I call you if I do go into labor? Surely you won’t leave me in here to have this baby alone.”

  “I told you. It’s not going to happen on my watch.”

  “Your ‘watch’? Is someone else coming? Jasper Moore doesn’t have anything to do with this, does he?” She couldn’t imagine how. Not too long ago, Jasper had killed his wealthy parents, who’d helped him escape after he slit her throat and left her for dead way back when. She was fairly certain they’d helped him financially through the years, too. But now that they were gone, who else would come to his aid?

  No one. Unless …

  Was the man outside the cooler a brother or a friend to one of the women in Jasper’s life? One of his ex-wives, or someone who’d started writing to him since he’d been caught? Jasper looked a lot better than most serial killers, and, like Ted Bundy and even Charles Manson, he received more than his share of love letters, money and gifts from women. Since all prison mail was monitored, she’d read a few of the letters. The Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome, or hybristophilia, was a very real phenomenon where some women were sexually attracted to high-profile, dangerous criminals. Evelyn had seen the same thing over and over again through the years with other notorious killers.

  He didn’t answer. He disappeared and then returned. “Stick your hands out here again.”

  She hesitated. “Why?”

  “Just do it!”

  Someone like Jasper would take great pleasure in cutting off her fingers. She was afraid to take the risk. But this man could come in and do whatever he wanted, so refusing wouldn’t save her for long. It would probably only make him angry.

  She swallowed hard as she put her hands through the slot.

  He poured a bottle of water over them and then dried them, roughly, with a paper towel. “Who knows what kinds of germs are in this place? If I were you, I wouldn’t risk so much as a paper cut.”

  “It’s stress,” she lied.

  “Then you’d better calm down.”

  Although it didn’t help, she craned her neck, trying to see his face, and that was when she noticed the five dots tattooed on his hand. He was an ex-con; that was a prison tattoo. “Where’d you serve time?” she asked, still trying to figure out who he was or who he might know.

  “That’s none of your business,” he said, and jammed her hands back through the slot.

  6

  Hilltop, AK—Tuesday, 10:40 p.m. AKDT

  There was video! That came as a shock to Amarok. “When did you put in a surveillance system?” he asked Garrett as Makita lay by the door so he wouldn’t have to venture too far from the cool air outside.

  The owner of Quigley’s Quick Stop stood behind the counter wearing his usual flannel shirt with jeans and suspenders, slightly stooped, his gray beard hanging down to the middle of his chest. “Few months ago,” he replied.

  “Why didn’t you say anything about it?” Since Amarok was in charge of keeping their small town secure, he would’ve expected Garrett to mention such a change.

  He shrugged. “Wasn’t a big deal. Only cost me four hundred dollars, cameras and all.”

  Maybe Amarok shouldn’t have been surprised. Garrett was never unprepared. Like many of his generation, he wasn’t well educated in technology, but technology had become so easy almost anyone could use it. “You never used to have any security.…”

  “Never needed anything except this.” He lifted the sawed-off shotgun he kept behind the counter. “But with the trouble we’ve had since Hanover House came to town, I decided it was time. Nothing against you,” he quickly added. “You do all you can to keep this community safe.”

  So that was why Garrett hadn’t told him. He’d been trying not to offend Amarok. Not only was Amarok the only police officer in town, he also was marrying the woman most local people blamed for the trouble they’d had in recent years. “Better safe than sorry,” he said. “I just wonder how I missed the cameras.”

  “I haven’t had ’em long. And there are only two. That one right there.” He
pointed at one corner of the ceiling. “And another tucked up under the eaves outside.”

  “Does that mean you have a visual record of every customer you served today?”

  “Since the weather has improved, I have a visual record of every customer I’ve served for the past week. As long as the Internet doesn’t go out, like it does so often in the winter, the new system works great.”

  A clock was ticking in Amarok’s mind—one that felt like a time bomb. “Finally some good news. How can I view it?”

  “My laptop’s almost out of battery. I just plugged it in, so you’ll have to come around.” With one gnarled hand, he motioned for Amarok to join him behind the counter. During hunting season, Garrett sometimes stayed open until midnight to make up for the slow winter months. And since it wasn’t yet dark, he usually had customers.

  Tonight, however, it was quiet. He’d been counting out the till when Amarok arrived.

  He put the piles of money back in the drawer as he made room for Amarok and pulled up the security files on his computer. “I take this computer upstairs with me when I close for the night. That way, I can see what’s happening in the parking lot and down here in the store. I get an alert whenever there’s motion. That’s the only time the cameras turn on. Course, it’s usually just a skunk or possum or something, but having some sort of security in place has given me more peace of mind.”

  Amarok could relate. He’d felt better since putting a similar system in his own house. He couldn’t look at a smartphone to check his front door like those who had cell service, but he could use his computer at the trooper station. Providing Evelyn had her laptop, she could do the same.

  Too bad she hadn’t made it far enough to trigger the motion detector when she was abducted. Whoever nabbed her must’ve taken into account the prevalence of such devices these days, which was why he struck in the driveway, out of range.

  Or maybe that was simply where the perpetrator felt he could grab her the quickest. Maybe the perpetrator knew about Makita and feared the dog would be home.

  “You just click on the date,” Garrett explained. “And see this? This link makes it possible to go to a specific time.”

  Amarok already understood how it worked. “Go to noon and show me everything you’ve got moving forward.”

  “Oh, you’re looking for the guy with the scar on his face, right? I should’ve known.”

  Amarok looked up from the computer. “He stood out to you, too?”

  “Looked a bit rough. But then … we get a lot of rough-looking characters come through here during hunting season. A few days in the wild and they all look like serial killers.”

  “To the animals they encounter, I imagine they are,” Amarok muttered, but he didn’t bother to laugh. He was too focused on looking through the clips.

  It didn’t take long to find the one he wanted.

  Anchorage, AK—Tuesday, 10:45 p.m. AKDT

  She’d done it! She’d removed one of the metal springs from her cot. Her thumbs were paying the price. They were so tender she could barely use them, and they were bleeding again, so she was taking a much-needed break. But she felt a small sense of victory at the accomplishment.

  Evelyn put a hand to her abdomen as she lay on her cot. Her baby was active. She’d been worried that the terror of her situation alone would harm the child, but if her little girl was moving, she was obviously alive.

  That was comforting, but Evelyn also found the reminder that she had a child to protect incredibly daunting. If she couldn’t save herself, she wouldn’t be able to save the baby growing inside her.

  She closed her eyes and tried to picture Amarok. What was happening at home? He was the best man she’d ever known and a damn good cop, but she had no idea if her captor had left enough evidence behind for even the most experienced detective to be able to find her. It could be that she was completely on her own—that whether she survived depended on convincing the man who’d been bringing her food to have mercy on her, which didn’t seem likely. Her captor seemed to be inoculating himself against any kind of entreaty by limiting his contact with her.

  She imagined how upset Amarok must be and couldn’t help wincing. He didn’t deserve the problems she’d brought into his life. He’d asked her, many times, to change her profession and do something safer, like going into private practice or teaching. But he, of all people, had to understand that in order to keep society safe, dangerous jobs had to be done. Being a firefighter was dangerous. Flying a rescue helicopter was dangerous. Being a soldier was dangerous. Heck, being a cop was dangerous, too, but she’d never asked him to quit his job. Fighting psychopathy was her life’s calling. How could she walk away from it? There were people who did despicable things, with absolutely no remorse, and it was vitally important someone figure out how to treat them. She couldn’t give up, not unless she reached some sort of breakthrough. Until then, the innocent would never be safe.

  However, if she had quit as Amarok asked, maybe she wouldn’t be in this situation. And her child would be safe, too.

  Closing her eyes, she pretended that Amarok was lying beside her, imagined him pulling her into the cradle of his big, warm body and felt tears well up. She’d finally let herself love again, trust again—which was the harder of the two, given her past—only to be ripped away from the security he provided.

  Gathering her fortitude, she got off the bed. She couldn’t fall into despair. She had to think of some way to save herself. Besides what she was doing to create a shiv, knowledge was the only other weapon she possessed. So what information had she gleaned about her captor?

  He was an ex-con, but she no longer believed he was or ever had been one of her patients. She didn’t know him, doubted she’d ever met him before. She could also say he wasn’t some middle-aged, frumpy or overweight opponent. He was strong and physically fit. She couldn’t expect to overcome him physically, not without an equalizer. No matter how badly her fingers hurt, now that she’d removed that wire from her cot she needed to sharpen it.

  Fortunately, the concrete floor made the sharpening part fairly easy. That would’ve been impossible if she were being held in a room with carpet or linoleum, especially because the walls weren’t made of cinder block, like those in so many prisons. But a wire could puncture even without sharpening, so maybe that wasn’t a great deal to be grateful for.

  What else could she put in her favor? If she were consulting on a case and evaluating the man who’d grabbed her, only by what he’d revealed about himself so far, what would she make of it?

  A couple of his comments led her to believe he wasn’t in this alone. Even if he hadn’t said what he’d said about his “watch” and while he was here, she would’ve guessed someone else was involved. If that weren’t true, they wouldn’t be in this holding pattern. He would’ve done something to her by now. Raped her. Beaten her. Demanded a ransom. Were he like so many of the men she’d studied, he wouldn’t have been able to stop himself. She was completely defenseless; there would never be a better opportunity.

  That made her feel somewhat safe—for now. But the possibility of someone else arriving, someone who might be more dangerous, made her blood run cold. It indicated that, although this terrible waiting would come to an end, things wouldn’t get any better. Chances were they’d get exponentially worse.…

  Drawing a deep breath, she pulled the mattress off her bed to provide a cushion as she sat on the floor and went back to work on her homemade weapon. She didn’t know how long she’d have to create it or when she might have to use it, so she needed to get it done as soon as possible.

  “You’ve got this,” she coaxed, trying to keep going even after her arms and hands began to ache. She was so close to having it finished.

  When she finally stopped, the end was razor sharp. She watched a large drop of blood ooze out when she pricked her thumb and found the sight gratifying. She’d equipped herself with some small defense. But she was still trying to work out other possibilities, ones that mig
ht not include violence, since her captor didn’t seem to have a thirst for it himself. He didn’t even want to look at her, hadn’t so much as bent down to peek through the slot.

  A psychopath, at least one who’d taken her for sadistic pleasure, would’ve been eager to see the terror in her eyes, to enjoy her pain and discomfort and fear. This man had given her an extra bottle of water when she’d told him she needed it for the sake of the baby, and he’d washed the blood off her hands so they wouldn’t get infected. Those actions, small though they were, indicated he had some level of humanity.

  Given all of that, why had he kidnapped her?

  The most obvious answer was money.

  Maybe she could buy him off by promising to pay more for her freedom than he’d get for holding her captive, talk him into letting her go before whoever he worked for arrived.

  In order to have the chance, however, she’d need him to come to the door. And she wasn’t sure he was listening—or that he could hear her when she banged and called out for him.

  She’d try to negotiate with him the next time he brought her some food, she decided. And if that didn’t work? She’d hide her shiv close to her body, pretend she was going into labor and, the second he opened the door to see if it was real, stab him and make a run for it.

  Hilltop, AK—Tuesday, 11:00 p.m. AKDT

  Amarok watched the video of the van guy with the scar very closely. The man was tall and muscle-bound—he had to spend a great deal of time pumping iron to maintain that kind of bulk—and he looked hardened, mean in a junkyard dog sort of way. He walked into the store, his legs slightly bowed from the thickness of his thighs, glanced around and spotted Kaylene, whom he seemed to like. But when he noticed Garrett watching him, he pulled his gaze away from her and walked down the aisles. He lifted this or that as if he was considering purchasing it, but Amarok got the impression he was just wasting time.

  After several minutes, during which he paused at the magazine rack, he put back the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and sauntered over to the register to request a pack of cigarettes. His voice sounded normal, as Kaylene had said, no accent. But he had a mark or bruise or something on the web of his hand between his fingers and thumb.