The Survivors Club

She walked back outside and scanned the property. The only vehicle here was the ranch truck, a sun- blistered 1970s GMC.

This time, she walked around to the back of the farm truck and took note of the license number.

When she called in, her detective sergeant, Joe Messina, confirmed they were mobilizing search and rescue. “If she’s up in those mountains and disoriented, she’s going to be in trouble. It’ll get cold up there tonight. We can’t wait.”

Tess couldn’t imagine even a disoriented Jaimie Wolfe climbing uphill, but if she was frightened by something. Or someone…

It had been sitting right in front of her all this time.

What if she’d been run off the road?

What if Wade Poole was after her? What if he had her?

They could be anywhere by now.

Joe seemed to read her mind. “You think it was Wade Poole?”

Tess had filed her most recent report earlier in the day by e-mail. Joe and Bonny knew about Wade Poole.

“You saw photos of the scene.”

“Yeah, those boot prints. There was a scuffle.”

It had been hard to see, because the surface of the road had been baked hard. But you could draw that conclusion.

“Okay, I’ll get Danny on it, too. You stay out in the field, if you think that’s where you need to be.”

Michael awoke from his nap to the ringing of the phone. He was entangled in Martin’s arms. Someone had been calling him at intervals all last night, but they never left a message, and he didn’t recognize the number.

The last rays of the sun streamed in through the blinds, striping Martin’s magnificent body. Michael smiled down on him. Martin was his possession. He knew that not only did he possess Martin’s body, but his soul. Martin’s love for him was absolute, but sometimes he played games—withholding his affection, like that argument about his audition. He could be annoying sometimes. Michael didn’t want to be trapped—ever again. His marriage to Nicole taught him that. But it was flattering. And there was no more beautiful man on the planet than Martin.

And he was good. Very good.

I own you, Michael thought with satisfaction. You beautiful, beautiful boy. You’re mine.

He picked up the phone and answered.

First there was nothing. Then, Jaimie started babbling. Babbling and crying. It took a while for him to figure out what she was telling him. And when he realized what had happened, his blood froze.

She was a hostage.

Michael decided to pretend that nothing had happened. This was way too big for him to assimilate all at once. So they went out on to the terrace and they had dinner as usual. He said nothing, of course, to Martin. He stared out at the pool and let it sink in. He had to understand it first.

Martin was prattling on about New York, his new timepiece, and some New York designer. Wondered aloud about the Les Mis production he would be attending tonight. Michael stared into the lighted pool as if the answer could be found there.

Jaimie he could do without. He didn’t care, frankly, what happened to her. Yes, she was his sister, and there was blood to consider. But his siblings had always disappointed him. He’d loved Chad but never took him seriously. Who could? Jaimie was obnoxious, embarrassing, a man-hunter, a drunk—acting out constantly, even though she had a very good life, thanks to the DeKoven inheritance. Jaimie and her stupid horses. Jaimie and that dog—he still didn’t understand how she could pull something like that.

The women in his family had been weak—except for Brayden. Michael allowed that she was tough and smart. She sure didn’t get that from their doormat of a mother. What a pathetic weakling. Their mother never once stood up for them. She knew what their father did to them but she was too meek to say a word. She acted the plain, long-suffering housewife, pretending she was too sick to help anyone, but it wasn’t really that. She wasn’t just weak. She was selfish.

She didn’t care about anyone but herself.

He hated her even more than the old man.

Michael knew he was trying not to think about the subject at hand. The problem was not that this guy had Jaimie, that she was his hostage. The problem was that he knew.

How did he know?

Michael had no idea. But the guy had demanded two million dollars to keep quiet.

Which was bullshit.

Michael would have found a way to pay the two million (and that would not be easy), but he knew that blackmailers always came back to the well. They wouldn’t stop. The threat would hang over his head forever. He’d never know when he’d get another phone call to replenish the coffers.

Plus, there were…issues, laying hands on money like that. Their financial assets were complicated—blind trusts, offshore accounts, a real house of cards. These days it paid to keep a low profile. They had spending money—they were fine, all of them—but so much of their fortune was tied up.

Michael had a pretty good idea who was doing this. Who’d have the brass to do it. And if he was right, he could just go ahead and take him out.

He pictured Sheppard as he was the last time he’d seen him, at the Houston center.

He remember sipping his Starbucks and watching Sheppard, and how Sheppard had caught his eye.

Now, Michael did what he’d done on that day. He formed his right hand into a gun, and squeezed the trigger at the pool.

Second time counts for all.

Michael had done his due diligence on Alec Sheppard at the time he’d prepared to kill him. The problem was, Sheppard checked out of the Marriott two days ago. He could be anywhere. Michael was about to call the office in Houston to see if he could sweet-talk his way into finding out where Sheppard was here in Arizona, when Brayden called.

“Did you get that crazy phone call?” she demanded.

“Which one?” He laughed, but even he could hear the worry in his own voice.

“The man who’s holding Jaimie hostage, that one!”

“A crank. Don’t worry about it.”

“He knows, Michael. He knows about Houston. He knows about California—this guy knows what we did.”

Michael closed his eyes and saw the white truck on Kitt Peak, saw the note under the windshield wiper of his 4Runner: I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

And it was then that he realized he’d seen the white truck before.

And the guy in it.

Maybe a week or two ago, at the little general store down the road. The guy grinned at him when he was coming out the door. A rancher guy. He walked to his truck—a white truck—and got in. Michael remembered because of what the guy said to him before he stepped off the porch of the general store. “Do I know you, friend?”

Michael had replied, “I don’t think so.”

“I guess I must’ve got you confused with someone else, then.” His smile was affable.

And he’d patted Michael on the shoulder.