The Enforcer. Anna PerrinЧитать онлайн книгу.
her. But maybe Gene had been too rushed for explanations. “During our last session, I uncovered his intention to kill someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The fire alarm went off, and we had to evacuate the building. Afterward, he wouldn’t come back and continue our session. Sending him to Ridsdale was the only way I could ensure he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“Forrester definitely needs his head examined if he thinks shooting you is a smart move.”
Shooting you.
The image of her own bleeding, bullet-riddled body made her shudder.
Had Forrester intended to kill her?
She wished she could believe he’d only wanted to scare her, but the shots had hit too close. A few inches to the right, and she would have died without ever seeing her executioner.
Without ever seeing…
She turned toward Young. “Did you see him tonight?”
“What?”
“When you left me, did you see Forrester?”
“No,” he admitted.
“Then how can you be sure he shot at us?”
“You’re the one who fingered him as a potential threat,” Young said, irritation plain in his voice.
“What if it wasn’t him?” Forrester might be the obvious candidate, but they lacked proof of his guilt.
“You lock up anybody else recently?”
She stiffened. “Of course not.” Did he think she enjoyed confining patients to Ridsdale? That she got a kick out of exerting her power? Obviously, he didn’t know her. An important point to remember the next time she felt the slightest twinge of attraction for him.
“Make somebody angry enough to want to see you dead?” he asked.
Her own anger made it hard to respond in a calm tone. “Not that I know of.”
Young stabbed the dashboard with his forefinger. “Forrester had motive and opportunity. That makes him the prime suspect.”
When she drew breath to respond, Young interjected, “Don’t make this complicated, Dr. Lamont.”
Folding her arms over her chest, she stared out the window. Young had made up his mind about Forrester. And although his arguments had merit, so did hers. He was just too stubborn to consider them.
The swishing sounds of tires on wet road and the clacking of the windshield wipers made the trip seem endless. After a while the rain stopped, and Young shut off the wipers. But the tension inside the Mustang didn’t diminish.
Thirty minutes later, she spied a sign indicating Camel Lake on the right.
Young made the turn. “Almost there.”
Several miles farther, the road became a narrow laneway.
Finally, he stopped the Mustang in a small clearing. Flicking on the overhead light, he dug through the glove compartment. She heard the jingle of keys, then the murmur of his deep voice. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but the cabin’s pretty rustic.”
Rustic. A term used to make primitive dwellings sound charming.
She peered through the window at the surrounding darkness but couldn’t detect anything that looked remotely man-made. With a sense of misgiving, she turned to him. “How rustic?”
He shrugged. “Basic amenities only.”
“'Basic’ includes indoor plumbing, right?” She wasn’t expecting a complimentary robe, but the possibility of a dilapidated shack and outhouse had her wishing she’d asked for details earlier. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d had a lot of options.
He hesitated long enough to make her nervous before the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Yeah, there’s plumbing.”
That smile was the one she remembered from their first meeting, the one she had found so appealing, the one she had wanted to make happen. Now that she’d succeeded, she grew wary. Young’s smile made him far too sexy.
Careful what you wish for.
Grabbing her carry-on, she exited the car. Young hustled around to the trunk, retrieved his gear and set off along a narrow, winding path through the woods.
A pale sliver of moon glowed in the sky, lending just enough light for them to walk without tripping over rocks and tree roots. Their footfalls made rustling noises in the grass. Other sounds carried on the night air. Water lapped against the shore. Crickets chirped noisily. An owl hooted in the distance. Normally, being surrounded by nature calmed her nerves, but tonight she was on edge. Of course, adrenaline could still be coursing through her blood from being shot at. That explanation was certainly less perturbing than the other possibility: sexual awareness of her companion.
She walked faster, telling herself she wasn’t running away, she was merely anxious to reach her temporary accommodations.
A wooden structure appeared at the end of the path, nestled among the trees. Built entirely from rough-hewn logs, the cabin was larger than she had envisioned.
“How many bedrooms are there?” she asked, as Young climbed the porch steps.
“Two.”
The right answer, since it meant neither of them would be stuck sleeping on the couch. He unlocked the front door and stood aside so she could enter. She stepped over the threshold, more than a little curious to see the cabin’s interior. With Young’s guidance, she located the light switches. On the left side was a country-style kitchen. To the right, the main room contained a leather couch and several oversize chairs grouped in front of a granite fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the full length of one wall.
A flash of metal caught her eye. A silver trophy stood on the coffee table. She moved closer. What did Young excel at—besides making her uncomfortable?
The nameplate read 2007 Weir Marina Bass Derby Winners—Brent Young and Pete Sanderson.
Sanderson?
That was the name of the FBI colleague who had been shot—and evidently had been a close friend of Young. No wonder he had fidgeted throughout her presentation.
She edged away from the trophy, then shot him a glance. How was he taking it? Had the reality of his loss sunk in yet? Did he forget sometimes that his friend was dead? She didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess.
“The cabin hasn’t been used since the fall,” Young said.
She looked at the living room again, this time noting signs of neglect. Cobwebs clung to the central light fixture and a layer of dust coated every visible surface. Her nose registered the staleness of a place that hadn’t been aired out in months.
“I guess you can’t fish here in the winter,” she commented.
His gaze fell on the trophy. “Sanderson convinced me to go ice-fishing in Alaska once. We just about froze solid….” For a brief, unguarded moment, Young’s lips trembled and he squeezed his eyes shut.
Her heart twisted as she witnessed his struggle for composure. One thing she’d learned early in life: healing from grief was a painful process that often unfolded over years. This place had to hold so many memories. Would Young have come here now, if not for her need for a safe haven? His action displayed an inner strength that she couldn’t help but admire.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “I’m sorry that your friend died.”
Opening his eyes, Young pinned her with a furious glare. “Pete Sanderson didn’t die. He was murdered. And when his killer is apprehended, he’s the one who will be sorry.”
His