Spirit Of A Hunter. Sylvie Kurtz

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СКАЧАТЬ the past week had swollen streams and saturated the soil. Water crossings, trails and gravel roads could be difficult or dangerous to negotiate, according to the hiker’s warning on the home page.

      Was Tommy off his meds? Was his judgment impaired? Taking a sick kid on such a rough hike, what was he thinking?

      The only way to know Tommy’s ultimate destination was to follow the clues he’d left behind. The Smiling Moose was a café halfway between Camden and I-93. 66 was 6.6 miles past the café to the trailhead off White Mountain Road where the Flint River took a sharp jog out of the mountains. And Graceland was the whole damned White Mountain National Forest—780,000 acres of pure wilderness.

      Sabriel loaded his biodiesel-powered Jeep and smiled at the memory of Tommy at fifteen, so eager to be free. When Will Daigle—the mountain man who’d taught him and Tommy to survive invisibly in the mountains—had told them about the songlines many ancient navigators used to orient themselves, Tommy had mistaken the meaning and fallen back on his vast knowledge of music to keep track of his place in the woods. Their shared joke would help keep the Colonel’s men stranded for a while. That should give Sabriel a chance to find Tommy before he got himself killed.

      But just because he was willing to trek after Tommy, didn’t mean he’d let an inexperienced hiker tag along. Nora would slow him down and speed was of the essence. He’d get the kid’s medicine, make her see that he’d get to Tommy faster if he tracked alone, then stash her at the Aerie—Seekers, Inc.’s headquarters—where Falconer and Liv could keep an eye on her.

      He pocketed his cell phone, a hunting knife and, as an afterthought, climbed to the loft and retrieved the 9mm Beretta he’d stashed in a locker beneath the camp cot. He turned the weapon over in his hand, heavy with potentiality, black like death.

      Once when Sabriel was twelve, he’d complained to Grandpa Yamawashi that he couldn’t hold his ground against his bigger, stronger brothers, and wished he had a gun or a knife to up his odds. Grandpa had said, “The greatest warrior is one who never has to use his sword.”

      In the Army, an unspoken but understood position was that the winner carried the bigger gun. The Colonel and his men lived by that belief. Risking a showdown unarmed was suicide.

      And as much as guilt was a noose around his conscience, he wanted to face death on his terms, not the Colonel’s.

      Sabriel holstered the pistol and strapped it on. The alien weight jarred his gait. He added two extra fifteen-round magazines to his rucksack, fervently hoping he’d find Tommy before he had to draw.

      THOMAS PRESCOTT CAMDEN III stood at the window of his office and surveyed his realm. His chest puffed up at the sense of history and achievement spread out before him. Generations had turned this parcel of rocky land into a showpiece, with its artful gardens, manicured lawn and hand-stacked granite wall.

      One fist balled at his side.

      What an ungrateful grandson he had. How could he turn his back on all the advantages that had been laid at his feet? Didn’t he know men would kill for what was handed to him on a golden platter?

      Nora’s fault, of course. She was too soft on the boy, always coddling him, petting him, hugging him. How was the boy supposed to grow a spine that way?

      Thomas, like all Camdens, had been raised in a heritage of ambition, success and expectations. Camden men went to West Point. Camden men joined the Army and shone through Ranger school. Camden men retired from stellar military service to their country after twenty years, then, with pride, took over the helm of Camden Laboratories, and continued their service to their brothers at arms by developing products and supplements that would ease a soldier’s hard life.

      Camden men had founded this town—which bore their name—over a hundred years ago. There they were kings, respected by all. Producing a male heir to follow in their footsteps was a Camden man’s duty and honor.

      Thomas had followed the preordained path. He’d lived up to and surpassed every expectation. He’d done everything right.

      A too-familiar rumble growled in his chest. To have his son prove a failure and his daughter die before she could give him a grandson was hard enough to take. But to have this woman—a street urchin, no less—ruin his last chance to pass on his legacy galled him to no end.

      She’d destroyed Tommy’s bright future, and now she was using Tommy to steal away his only grandchild. The balled fist rattled the window frame. He refused to let her win this battle.

      His narrowed gaze zeroed in on the bronze of the original Thomas Prescott Camden, sword raised in victory, and Thomas’s fist unclenched.

      The boy’s weakness would disappear once his smothering mother was out of the way. All the boy needed was a firm hand, the right training, some toughening up. There was still time to save him from Tommy’s unfortunate fate. Tommy had failed because of his own feckless character, not because of a transfer of defective genes.

      And Anna? What else could you expect from a woman? They weren’t meant for the battlefield of business. That she’d crumpled at the first sign of conflict wasn’t a surprise. It was his error in judgment for thinking that Camden blood made her different.

      As for Nora, she needed to learn that, when it came to Camden family business, his word was law. She’d defied him for the last time.

      Thomas spun on a perfectly polished heel to face Melvyn Boggs, who stood at attention before the original Colonel’s desk. Boggs was his greatest success story. Thomas had handpicked him right out of Ranger School—the same class his son had failed so miserably.

      At thirty-six the soldier’s body was harder and fitter than most men a decade younger in this spoiled generation. Only the lean, sun-baked face betrayed the hours of training in the harsh elements. The man had nerves of steel and a mind as sharp as the keenest of blades. The experiment that had corrupted Tommy’s gray matter had enhanced Boggs’s fine instrument. No mission was too stressful. No task too arduous. No environment too severe. Boggs would follow orders without question.

      “Find her,” Thomas said. “Make sure she has an accident. Then bring the boy back to me. Unharmed.”

      Thomas strode to the wall-mounted topographical map of the area and circled Mount Storm with his index finger. “This is where Tommy’s headed.”

      People tended to follow the path of least resistance. In moments of stress, they turned to points of comfort. And for Tommy that was the mountains. Even in this vast area, Tommy—like the animal he’d become—had staked out territory over the years. He’d track through familiar trails, and an ace like Boggs would have no trouble following his trace.

      “What about Tommy?” Boggs asked.

      Tommy was a failure beyond redemption. “Put him out of his misery.”

      Chapter Three

      The discreet hand-carved wooden sign announced the Lemire Adventure Camp and promised women the opportunity to learn outdoor skills with like-minded sisters.

      Maybe Nora didn’t need a hero after all. Maybe these outdoorswomen would guide her through the mountains to track down Scotty. Sure beat waiting around.

      The cinnamon gum she’d popped to calm the sea of acid swirling in her stomach turned to modeling clay in her mouth.

      She СКАЧАТЬ