The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      “I think we’re going to see a break in the weather,” MacGregor said as he spooned a hot glop of some kind of chili into a bowl and handed it to her.

      “When?”

      “Soon.”

      “How soon?”

      “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” He walked into the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer. Less than a minute later he returned, handed her a spoon, then walked back to the pot resting in the fire and scooped some of the chili into a second bowl. A pan of pre-mixed cornbread was “baking” in a cast-iron skillet half buried in the coals, the edges of the bread already singed.

      “How do you know? You got a television hooked up to a generator somewhere? Or a direct line to the weather service?”

      “It’s just a feeling.” He glanced out the window to the snowy landscape. Darkness was falling fast, long shadows stretching through the trees, making the cabin feel more isolated than ever.

      “A feeling?” Cradling the bowl in one hand, she stirred the chili, its spicy steam warming her face. She was improving a little, the throb in her ankle lessening, the pain in her ribs muted unless she moved too quickly or laughed too hard. But she wasn’t betting on “feelings.”

      “It’s time. The storm should let up.”

      She looked out the window and shook her head, not daring to believe in miracles, as the storm didn’t show any signs of letting up, not to her. She took a bite. The chili, a brand she’d eaten dozens of times, was now fabulously delicious. She took another bite and watched MacGregor at the fire.

      Using a work glove as a pot holder, he retrieved the cornbread from the fire and cut her a chunk with the very knife she’d stolen earlier. He dropped the large square into her bowl and she picked at the crusty top.

      It was as delicious as the chili, but hot enough to keep her from eating too quickly. Which was probably good, as it was all she could do not to bolt down the food.

      The smell of wood smoke and sizzling tomato sauce scented the air, while firelight played across the walls and the embers glowed red in the grate.

      Even the dog was at peace, his dark, begging gaze never leaving MacGregor as he ate. If she let herself, she might just relax with this man. But she didn’t know him at all. Everything he had told her in the past few hours could well be a lie.

      “If the storm breaks like I think it will, I’ll try to get out of here tomorrow.”

      “On a snowmobile?”

      He shook his head. “I’ve got a four-wheel-drive.”

      “Then we could have gotten out of here at any time?”

      He shook his head. “Don’t think so. And I couldn’t take a chance of being stuck with you laid up in a blizzard. I’m not even sure about tomorrow, but we’ll give it a shot, as I said, if the storm breaks.”

      “And if not?”

      “You really want to think about that?” He took a bite of cornbread while the dog, watching, licked his lips.

      “Where will we go?”

      “Grizzly Falls. They’ve got a small hospital. I’ll leave you in the ER.”

      “And then tell the police about my car.”

      His face was shuttered. “I’ll leave that to you.”

      “But you have to tell them where it is. I don’t know the area.”

      “It’s in September Creek, off Johnson Road, about six miles from the cutoff to Missoula. Think you can remember that?”

      “Yeah,” she said, but wondered at his change in attitude, the newfound tension in his shoulders. “What is it you have against the police?”

      One side of his mouth twisted. “Nothing.”

      “Liar.” She wasn’t buying his denials. Something was bothering him.

      His nostrils flared a bit. “It’s not what I have against them so much as what they have against me,” he said and stood suddenly. “Want a beer?”

      “No.” The last thing she needed was any kind of alcohol. She had to keep her wits about her. “Tell me,” she said as he tossed on a parka and gloves, then disappeared through the kitchen. The dog was on his feet and took off after MacGregor as the back door opened and shut quickly. Harley whined and scratched for all of thirty seconds before the door opened again and MacGregor’s voice asked, “Miss me, boy?” He laughed and she heard the sound of a cap being pried from a bottle. And then another. Seconds later he returned with two long-necked bottles in his hand. “I keep ’em in the garage, in a cooler, otherwise they’d freeze.”

      “Oh.”

      He set a bottle on the table next to her. “Thought you might change your mind.”

      “Don’t think so.”

      “Then I’ll finish it.” He took a long swallow, set his bottle down and stripped off the parka before settling into his chair again.

      “So you were dodging the question,” she said as he picked up his beer again. “What do the police have against you?”

      He thought for a moment, staring at the label on his bottle of Coors, then rolling the long neck between his palms. The tension in his shoulders was evident.

      “What happened, MacGregor?”

      A muscle worked in his jaw and he took another long swallow before looking at her again with such intensity her heart nearly stopped.

      “Believe me, Jillian, you don’t want to know.”

      “Try me,” she said, her voice a whisper, her nerves suddenly tight.

      “Shit.” He raked angry fingers through his hair and glared at the fire. Harley, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, whined.

      “What did you do, MacGregor?” she asked, the cabin suddenly feeling more isolated than ever. Old timbers creaked. The glass in the windowpanes rattled loudly enough to be heard over the soft breath of the fire. “Why don’t the police trust you?”

      He hesitated and closed his eyes.

      She steeled herself for the worst.

      “I killed a man, Jillian. It happened a long time ago, but the truth of the matter is that the son of a bitch had it coming and I gave it to him.” He took another swallow of his beer and the lines around his mouth were etched deep, showing white.

      “It was an accident, right?”

      “An accident.” MacGregor snorted. “I don’t know.” He shook his head. “I didn’t intend to kill him that night, but the truth of the matter is that for a few seconds—just long enough—I wanted that son of a bitch dead.”