PART ONE

 

THE HUNTED

 

Chapter 1 - 6:30 P.M.

 

The silver Porsche 911R zipped west on I-70 at a comfortable speed of 75.

“You know that seat is totally adjustable, don’tcha?” Craig Sheffield gave her a quick glance.

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you—“

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay. Actually, you look…well, uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine.”

He shrugged and turned back to his driving.

Bobbie Marsh sighed and told herself she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of being right. True, she was uncomfortable, and had been growing even more so since they left Wheeling. She sat ramrod-straight, her right side mashed against the leather contour of the passenger door. She stared straight ahead at the endless trail of taillights in front of them. Not once did she glance in his direction. But she didn’t care how adjustable the seat was. She didn’t want to be comfortable. If she was comfortable, she might be compliant, and she certainly didn’t want that. Not with her boss once again calling all the shots.

She would have preferred spending the last hour of the work week at her cube, doing mindless busywork, than doing this. However, Craig had a way of getting what he wanted. And after working for him for the last six months, she knew full well how badly things could go when he didn’t get his way. There would be extra work tossed onto her desk, emails flooding her mailbox, and several days when crucial jobs would mysteriously enter her queue five minutes before quitting time that would have to be resubmitted and rerun.

She saw no need to get worked up again. She’d do as he ordered and take this twenty-minute trip to check out his new real estate property, and she’d smile on cue and nod on cue. However, going by his past behavior, she could tell this was just another ruse to get her alone. As always, she told herself to be on her guard.

He glanced at her.  “I can tell you really didn’t want to come on this trip, Bobbie.”

She thought it best not to say anything. She wasn’t in the mood to argue. She wanted to get this done as quickly as possible. She couldn’t wait to get back to the office so she could jump in her Camaro, drive back to her one-bedroom garden apartment and begin enjoying her weekend.

“As I told you before, it won’t take long—no more than an hour, I expect. But I’m really excited about this property and would like your expert opinion. I consider you a valuable asset to the company, so I’d appreciate your input."

Bobbie still didn’t reply. She kept her eyes straight ahead, at the approaching Ohio countryside. She told herself to stay in control and let him do his thing. Putting up with his nonsense for another hour would be no different from putting up with it at the office. She was making good money at Sheffwares and saw no need to jeopardize her career just because he’d ruined her plans for the weekend. He’d shanghaied her several times before, so what was the big deal?

It was a big deal, of course, even though she’d almost convinced herself she could handle it. He’d been trying his level best to make her his mistress ever since she’d filled out her application at Sheffwares and sat in his office for her first interview. He’d been subtle about it in the beginning, but she recognized the signs right off. Luckily, she’d been offered much more than she’d expected. Otherwise, she would have turned him down cold. But at twenty-five, a girl had to start thinking of the big picture and warding off conniving wolves like Craig Sheffield became part of the process. Like it or not, the business world was run prominently by men.  

“I’d like to turn the property into a golf course.” He gave her a quick glance. “It’ll cost a fortune to clear, of course, but I’m confident the return will more than make up for the initial outlay. The hills and creeks are perfect for it, and the woods behind it could provide a beautiful setting for a restaurant and bar. Once you have a look and tell me what you think, we’ll head right back to the office.” 

Just as they passed the Bridgeport area, Craig took the next exit and went south. He drove the Porsche onto a two-lane road, which abruptly turned into a narrow dirt road just a mile or so later. They came to a three-way stop. Craig turned right and went straight for about another mile, until the road grew even narrower and bumpier. Bobbie was about to ask where this place was when Craig suddenly slowed and turned off, where a break in the tree line showed evidence of a dirt path and a barbed wire fence that had deteriorated and collapsed over the years, becoming part of the thick brush. He drove up the winding forty-five-degree dirt drive, which seemed to go on forever, until they reached the top of the hill, where a large farmhouse stood, fortress-like, nestled among the trees. 

To Bobbie, the property looked dismal, the setting sun peeking through the branches of the buckeyes, revealing an aged, tired-looking farmhouse with no sign of life anywhere near it.

Craig coaxed the sleek ride up the steep drive. He stopped in front of the big house, put the car in park, set the emergency brake and switched off the ignition. 

“Well?” He grinned proudly, waving an arm. He gave her the impression that he’d single-handedly cleared the woods and built the house with his own two hands. “A honey of a place, eh?”

Bobbie glanced at her watch. 6:58. It would be dusk in half an hour. Unless he’d had the electricity switched over in his name, she wouldn’t be able to see anything very shortly. She also hoped he didn’t want her to trudge through the woods in the dark.

“Well? Your first impression?” He was waiting anxiously. 

Reluctantly she peeled herself away from the door. She knew she’d definitely have to humor him. Craig was excited. It would be a crime to burst his bubble. But she had no intention of staying here any longer than it took to check out the property and tell him it was fine and dandy, and yes, he was a good boy for getting it at such a great price. Then she’d give her watch another not-so-subtle glance and tell him that she’d had enough fun and frolic for the afternoon, had seen all there was to see, and wanted to get back home.

She forced her attention back to the house. Its isolation, along with its darkened windows, missing shingles, peeling paint and look of total neglect, made her slightly nauseous. A shiver passed through her, and she sensed a strange darkness she didn’t much care for. “It looks…haunted,” she said softly.

Craig laughed. One of those snorty things which, like most everything he did, disgusted her. “That's just the outside,” he said, patting her thigh. “Coat of paint’ll do wonders. I intend to convert it to a Cracker Barrel-type place anyway—one that sells knickknacks and homemade jellies and honey.”

She pulled away from him and hoped he wouldn’t try that again.

Craig got out, closed the door, looked around for a moment and slowly scaled the steps.

Bobbie refocused and regarded the wooden porch, where thick, weathered pillars stood proudly, oblivious of the years that had gradually weakened them. She thought it just as eerie—and as desolate—as the house in Psycho. It didn’t exactly look like the type of place you bought to convert into a warm, cozy store selling knickknacks and gifts. For a moment she wondered if there was a corpse sitting in a rocker in the basement.

“Coming in?” He’d turned and was gesturing.

With a tired sigh, she swung her slender, denim-clad legs out of the Porsche and pulled the strap of her black leather bag over her left shoulder. As she approached the house, she couldn’t ignore the honest gloom settling around it as she gazed at it from just twenty feet away.

Was it gloom? Or something else?

Something about Craig?

Bobbie had always been forced to use her instincts with men. If she had strong feelings about someone, she went with those feelings and let nature take its course. If things worked out, fine; if not, she went on with her life.

In this case, something inside her constantly warned her against getting close to him. He was good-looking, well-dressed, and outgoing. And, from what she’d already seen, he was very popular with women. She knew he was married but also knew from painful experience that marriage meant nothing to wealthy men. She’d heard that Craig had been separated from his wife Colleen for some time. She’d also heard that they’d been seriously considering divorce, but Colleen’s interest in Sheffwares would make things very difficult for everyone involved.

However, Bobbie had learned never to put much stock into office gossip—especially when it involved the boss’s friends and drinking buddies.

Gripping the straps of her bag, she sniffed the sweet scents of the pines and the fresh autumnal grass. She approached the three cracked, weather-beaten logs serving as the front porch steps and scaled them slowly and cautiously, as if approaching an awaiting guillotine.     

The house was quite warm inside. The living room had that distinctive musty smell a place has when it’s been closed up, though Craig told her that the realtor had paid someone to come in recently and clean it up. 

At least it was cozy…

She envisioned cold nights on the sofa, watching the flames crackling in the fireplace, wine glasses in warm hands, soft music playing in the background.

She knew right then that this place would be totally wasted on someone like Craig, who obsessed about profits and investments and tearing things down to build something commercial and lucrative in its place. It was too bad she couldn’t afford to buy a place like this herself. She’d been raised on a farm and hated city living. She could see herself making this big, neglected farmhouse into something beautiful.

“Bobbie!” Craig called from somewhere in the back of the house. “C’mon back here. You’ve gotta see this view!”

Her feet suddenly unsteady, Bobbie pushed some long, raven-black hair away from her face and ambled slowly down the long, scuffed hall.

***

Ice plowed into his double cheeseburger while watching the blond babe coming out of the eatery and sashaying over to the other side of the lot, where a late-model red Jag awaited her.

She wore a pink tank top and white shorts, and her legs were long and shapely. Nice stuff, he thought. The babe looked about twenty-two, and the Jag probably went for sixty or eighty K. Blondie no doubt had a serious sugar daddy providing her with her expensive toys.

Jett pulled open the passenger door of the pickup and climbed in.

“What the hell kept ya?” Ice snatched the quart bottle of Wild Turkey double-wrapped inside two brown paper bags from the boy’s grasp. “You were in that damn store so long, I thought you decided to rob the place.” He broke the seal, removed the cap and dropped a healthy inch or two of the warm whiskey down his throat.

“You know the trouble they give me in those places.” Jett gulped down a little booze when his huge friend handed over the bottle. “I’m twenty-two now and everybody thinks I'm sixteen.”

“Well, next time we need booze, I'll get it.”

Jett opened his white bag and took out a bacon cheeseburger from its foil wrappings. He began chowing down, ketchup and mustard forming reddish-yellow blots sliding down the corners of his mouth and gathering on his pointed chin. 

Ice had another slug of whiskey and set the bottle carefully on the cracked vinyl console between them. 

The parking lot was crowded. It was just past seven, and folks were getting hungry. Ice didn't like crowds and got as antsy as a caged Doberman when he was doing a job and heavy traffic bogged everything down.

I-70 rush-hour traffic usually thinned out by now. But since it was Friday night, the assholes out for a good time would surely gum up the works. Luckily, the kid was with him. Ice didn't want to do this one by himself. For one thing, the target might not be alone—Ice had been told a chick could be involved. The photo the Man emailed to Ice’s phone the other day showed she was a real looker, with a body that wouldn’t quit. Ice didn’t like dusting chicks, but once in a great while it had to be done. He just didn’t like it when something as hot as this number had to be taken out of the picture.

But if she was there at the wrong time, he’d have no choice…

This babe—as well as the blonde with the Jag—reminded him once again how long it had been since he’d been laid. He began thinking of that spic hooker again, the one he’d bought a little more than two months ago in Pittsburgh. The woman was as fine as silk—thick black hair down to the smooth, brown globes of her ass, huge black eyes, luscious lips… 

If only the bitch had kept her damned mouth shut while she was being slammed…

Ice had another belt of the wild stuff and turned to Jett. “I wanna check out a new place when we're done eatin’ and eyeball the hookers.”

“What about the job?” Jett, dripping mustard and ketchup, looked as confused as usual.

Ice sighed. The kid was all right for a total fuckup. When you’re twenty-two, you're gonna be messed up—no two ways about it.  However, this kid had a shitload of other problems. Ice knew something was wrong with him when he’d picked up the boy outside that Shadyside dive in the wee hours of the morning some weeks back, the kid dirty and sweaty, babbling away like he’d just escaped a psycho ward.

Ice had felt sorry for him. The kid reminded him of his little brother Lonnie, who’d died at sixteen after running away one night when Pops had wailed the shit out of both of them during one of his drunken stupors.  

Lonnie just up and ran, right out the front door in the middle of a freezing storm. He’d apparently walked and walked until he couldn’t walk any more. Then, half-crazy with cold and exhaustion, he lay down in the middle of the slick, frozen highway and just went blank. He was out cold and frozen stiff when an oil tanker, driven by a dazed trucker on bennies highballing it to make a deadline, ran over him at three A.M. the next morning.  

This kid Jett resembled Lonnie so much that Ice had nearly totaled the pickup that night when he’d grinded to a stop to have a closer look. For the longest time he just sat behind the wheel, gazing at the boy while remembering his brother. It wasn’t that Jett actually looked like Lonnie... It was the slender build—the way the boy tilted his head to one side when he walked. It was the way he always looked down, keeping his hands buried in his pockets. 

Just like Lonnie.

Ice caught Jett having a bad dream one night when they were sacked out under the stars in the bed of the pickup. The kid was whimpering like a whipped puppy, mumbling about some guy named Reagan staying away, that he didn’t want him near them anymore. 

The kid would be okay with someone looking after him. Once Ice had gotten him away from his old lady, the kid began to come around. It wasn’t natural, a kid Jett’s age living with his old lady, a used-up hooker going to bed with the bottle because her johns started chasing younger, fresher tail.  

“What about the job?” Jett had asked.

“We got all night. I heard this Wheeling place has got some dynamite hookers. Once we do the job, we’ll come back here and have some fun. The man gave me five grand as a down payment. We’re gettin’ a hundred K for this hit, twenty-five more if the chick’s with him and we do her without a hitch. That’s good money, no matter how ya slice it up. Right-o?”

“Right-o, Ice.” Jett grinned and belched loudly.

Ice had another belt of whiskey.

Tons of money could be made in this line of work. You could settle for just one or two hits a year and live damn good—as Ice had been doing the last five years. When this one was finished, he’d head on down to Daytona Beach, soak up some sun and do a couple of hot biker babes while it was still off-season. 

“No reason why we can’t have a little fun, is there?”

“No siree, Ice,” Jett said, chewing the rest of his cheeseburger.