CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gundersson had been caught by surprise when the couple returned early. Their walks were usually twenty minutes, and over the last three days, he’d taken the opportunity to search the downstairs and the bathroom. He’d been searching the loft, looking for any signs of Seethe, when Roland’s boots banged on the porch below.
Gundersson had lifted the screen from the window above the bed, swung it up on its hinges, and climbed through, dangling by his fingers to lessen the distance of the drop. Still, it was good twelve feet, and when he hit the ground, his ankle twisted on a tree root. The chickens had squawked in alarm, and Gundersson hissed a quiet curse of pain.
He heard them talking inside the house, ignoring the chickens, and he made his way into the woods. The pain was worse by the time he reached the trail. He crouched beside the creek and massaged his ankle, waiting to see if someone would notice the window. He was good at leaving no trace, a real Boy Scout.
The forest immediately around the cabin was dense with laurel tangles, crabapples, and blackberry vines, pocked here and there with old-growth oaks and maples like the one he used as a surveillance post. He didn’t have time to reach the tree, and he wasn’t sure he could climb it with his game leg, anyway.
Then the argument had started, and he figured he might overhear something important despite the gurgling of the water over stones. He caught “Sebastian Briggs” and he figured “Alexis” referred to Dr. Morgan, which suggested the couples had been in contact. But the sudden explosion of Roland’s anger caught him unaware, and now Wendy was running right toward him.
He rolled to his feet and lightning raced up his leg. He put weight on the injured ankle and realized he’d never make it to concealment.
Might be broken.
His orders were clear: Avoid detection at any cost. He couldn’t afford to blow this mission through overconfidence. And he’d been warned what would happen if he was forced to leave corpses.
I’ll chew your ass like bubble gum and leave you stuck on the director’s toilet seat, Harding had said.
Wendy was coming up the trail about twenty yards from Gundersson, slapping at limbs and panting hard as she ran. He glanced around and saw a tiny recess where water had washed away soil beneath a hemlock’s roots. He lay down in the cold, shallow water and wriggled into the damp crevice. He wasn’t completely concealed, but he hoped they were too preoccupied to notice.
“I know you’re in there!” Roland shouted, just now entering the woods, apparently moving a little more slowly than she was.
Is he talking to me? Shit, if he saw me “Wendy!” Roland sounded more angry than concerned.
Ah, a lover’s spat. With firearms.
Through a gnarled web of exposed roots, he watched Wendy jog along the trail, lithe and graceful but gasping for air. She was dressed in her stained painter’s frock, a psychedelic camouflage that would hide her in a Phish concert but not here in the Blue Ridge forest. Then she was gone, and Gundersson lifted himself from the bone-chilling water.
Roland had stopped yelling for Wendy, so Gundersson couldn’t place his location. The bracing water had numbed his ankle a little, so he hobbled onto the opposite bank and found refuge in the scrub. He considered drawing his weapon, but that wouldn’t fit his cover story.
After a full minute, he got curious and wriggled like a snake until he could peer through the low willows. Some wild mint crushed beneath him, mixing with the fecund, earthy aroma of the creek. He gingerly pushed a blackberry vine aside and saw Roland scanning the spot where Gundersson had tended his ankle. After a moment, Roland bent down and picked up something from the ground.
Gundersson felt his pants pocket. Shit.
He’d placed three tiny wireless microphones in the cabin, but the place was so small he hadn’t needed the fourth. And it must have worked out of his pocket while he was rolling around in pain.
So much for getting answers the easy way.
“Wendy!” Roland shouted again, the anger leaving his voice. “I found something.”
After a moment, he added, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Wow. If you actually have to say those words, it’s not a good sign.
Judging by the awkward bulge in Roland’s pocket, he would probably hurt if he had to. And he wasn’t hunting foxes this time.
“Wendy!” Roland called again. “It’s not you. It’s them.”
Gundersson ground his teeth together. On the bright side, at least Wendy was unlikely to find his camp. He’d have to scuttle the mission, and Harding would be an unhappy camper as well, but at least he’d avoided disaster.
All he had to do was wait it out, then limp half a mile through the woods and collect his gear, and “I know,” Wendy called.
From right behind him.
Gundersson rolled up on his side and considered going for his gun. She was unarmed, standing above him with flared nostrils and darkly intense eyes. She wasn’t menacing, given her small stature, but she was crouched and tense as if ready to explode. He wondered if she knew jiu jitsu or karate, and figured that was probably racist, because she was more American than Asian.
He decided to wait on the gun until Roland decided for him.
“Over here,” Wendy called to Roland.
As Roland splashed through the creek, Gundersson managed a smile. “I hope I wasn’t trespassing,” he said to Wendy.
“I hope you weren’t, either. My husband is a little paranoid.”
Gundersson started to agree, but then remembered his cover story. He adjusted his tone to sound casual and a little rural. “I’m a travel writer, doing a piece on backwoods hiking for Appalachian Today. I followed this trail up from Buffalo Bald,” he added, remembering a colorful name from the map. “Twisted my ankle and fell in the creek.”
“Where’s your camera?” Wendy said.
It was in his watch, but he couldn’t tell her that. “I just take notes,” he said. “They send the photographer separately. I can’t even take a mug shot without getting my thumb in the way.”
He tried a disarming smile but her oval face was hard as jade. Roland crashed through the shrubs along the creek bank and gave Wendy a glance before looking down at Gundersson.
“I was just telling your wife here-”
Roland gave him a hard kick in the ribs that drove out both his words and his breath. He raised a hand to ward off the next blow, examining Roland’s posture.
I’d lay four-to-one odds I’ll get my gun out before he does. But then I’d have to kill her, too.
“Who owns you?” Roland said.
“Excuse me?” Gundersson wheezed, giving diplomacy one last feeble attempt. “A magazine, like I told your wife.”
“He said he’s a travel writer,” Wendy said.
“No notebook, no camera, no laptop?” Roland said. “Unless you have a zip drive in your pocket. Do you have a zip drive?”
Gundersson was relieved that Roland hadn’t fished for his gun. He decided he had only one chance to buy some time and maybe even complete the mission.
He sat up, brushing blackberry blossoms from his arms. “Okay,” he said. “Would you believe me if I told you I was a federal agent?”
“Great,” Wendy said. “Tell the most unbelievable lie possible.”
Shell game. Half the truth.
“I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency,” he said, looking directly into Roland’s eyes and not blinking. “We know you’ve been targeted by the National Clandestine Service. And we’re conducting an internal investigation to find out why.”
