Eye Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The imagined smack of his mother’s slap stung his cheek.

      He twisted off the ignition and, rounding his shoulders against the pelt of rain, trotted across the street to the red door. For a second his hand hovered above the glossy red paint, then he knocked.

      A volley of small yips answered him. “Quiet, Queenie!”

      Bryn. Yet not Bryn. Something was off in her voice. “Bryn, it’s Gray. Open up.”

      The silence on the other side of the door was so deep, it seemed to suck the breath right out of his lungs “Bryn. Please.”

      “Go away.”

      “I need to talk to you.”

      “Yeah, well, you’re a decade too late.”

      “Open the door, Bryn.”

      “I can’t.” The broken tone of her voice tore him apart. What on earth had happened to her? Why was her hatred of him so deep? He was the one who had been all but driven out of town. What could she possibly hold against him?

      Something slid down the other side of the door, rattling the wood on its hinges. “You left me, Gray. You left me with her.” Her voice, low on the other side of the door, hardened. “You left me with them.”

      Gray swore silently and slid down the front side of the door. They sat back to back with the door between them. “I couldn’t take you to basic training. You know that.”

      “You left me, Gray.”

      Rain blitzed his face, soaked his suit and sank into the Italian leather of his shoes. “You liked it here. Mom always took your side. Mama’s baby never had to do anything. You and Abbie, you were the toast of the town. Queen of this. Princess of that. Brynna Reed and Abrielle Holbrook. Everybody’s friends. Why would you want to leave that?”

      “Things change.”

      Hands draped over his knees, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the hard wood. “Talk to me.”

      “It doesn’t matter. You should leave now.”

      He thought he heard tears in her voice. What the hell was he supposed to do with that when she wouldn’t talk? “This isn’t about me, Bryn. It’s about Abbie.”

      “Abbie’s safe wherever she is.”

      “No she isn’t. Someone within WITSEC is selling her out. If I don’t find her, she could die.”

      Silence, except for the sting of rain spiking against the concrete stoop and rattling against the siding.

      “She’s already lost so much,” Gray said. Noncriminals paid a higher price than criminals in WITSEC. Loss of identity, self, dignity. Abbie was a woman of her world. She belonged here in the same way he never had. Losing her father, her life, her world, he couldn’t imagine how she’d survived it all. “She doesn’t deserve to die for a mistake her father made.”

      “Elliot died to protect her.”

      “What makes you say that?” That tidbit wasn’t in the briefing notes.

      “I’m not going to betray her.”

      “It’s not betrayal when you’re helping her.”

      “She’s safe.”

      Stubborn. Hardheaded. Foolish little witch. It wasn’t her life she was playing with; it was Abbie’s. But he swallowed the barbwire of anger and talked to his sister as if logic would make a difference. “People on the run tend to go back to the familiar. I need to know if she came to you for help.”

      “She’s safe.”

      “Did you know that her safety was compromised three times in the past three weeks? That three deputies died trying to protect her? That right now Raphael Vanderveer is negotiating with teams of lawyers and that, if Abbie chooses not to testify at the trial, he could end up out on the streets again.”

      “Like you said, she’s lost so much. Maybe she feels she has nothing more to lose.”

      “There’s her life.”

      “What’s the point if she always has to live in fear? Maybe she’s tired of running, Gray. Did you think of that?”

      A skewed barb? “I couldn’t take you with me, Bryn. And even if I could have, you wouldn’t have come. You fit too well here.”

      “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

      Nothing he could say would change her mind. “I care about Abbie. You know that. I have to find her before Vanderveer’s snitch does. In your heart you know that, too. Where is she?”

      But Bryn didn’t answer. The push of her body against the door yielded a loud creak.

      He sprang up and pounded on the door. He wrenched the doorknob, but the lock wouldn’t give, and he’d long ago lost the key. “Bryn, you have to help me. Please. I don’t care if you hate me till the day you die. But you have to care that Abbie’s life is in danger.”

      Bryn’s footsteps padded away. The dog’s toenails clicked on the linoleum as it followed its mistress.

      A moment later “Stayin’ Alive” blasted from a stereo.

      He wasn’t stupid. He got the hint. As always in this town, he was on his own. He turned and strode toward his car. His being here was causing Bryn grief, and whatever he represented to her was a threat. Too bad she couldn’t think of her friend. He needed to find Abbie to help her stay alive. Couldn’t Bryn see that? He yanked the car door open and fumbled in his soaked-through pocket for his keys. With one last look at the sad house that looked like a tired, made-up whore, he cranked on the ignition.

      As the engine growled to life, a smile cracked his lips. He reached into the glove compartment for the holey gym sock he kept there to wipe fog off the windshield and dried his sunglasses.

      “Stayin’ Alive.” From the soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever. Maybe Bryn hated him, but she did care about Abbie after all.

      DON’T THINK OF IT, Abrielle. Nobody knows where you are. Nobody can find you. Still, the edge of her peace started to curl at the sound of the ferry’s horn. Once a day it brought supplies, mail and possibly people. And a troop of fear. That was the one chink in this otherwise perfect armor.

      Out here in her refuge of growing fog, she listened for Bert’s footsteps on the rocky path that were the pre-arranged all-clear signal. Only the gentle lap of water against rocks reached her. Was there a problem this afternoon? Had someone suspicious gotten off the ferry? She fiddled with the aperture ring on the camera Bert had loaned her. Let it go, Abbie.

      Bert wouldn’t spill her secret.

      Strains of “High Noon” crept into her mind as Abbie imagined five-foot-two Bert in a showdown with one of Rafe’s thugs. She laughed out loud and the fog swallowed her voice, replacing it with the quiet push and pull of water on rock.

      After СКАЧАТЬ