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“No,” Jason called back. “Stay safe. Get back to the marina.”
She waved acknowledgment, and gunned the motor.
It took Jason and Russell four nerve-wracking minutes to cross the rocky beach of the small harbor and scramble up the winter-bare hillside to the back of the ruined mansion. They stuck to cover where they could, but there was not much of it. A few boulders, the occasional evergreen. It was more a test of nerve than endurance. Every minute Jason expected to hear a shot ring out.
The absolute silence was equally unnerving.
They reached the back of the castle, breathing hard but apparently undetected.
“Are you sure someone lives here?” Russell whispered, wiping his forehead.
Today no smoke drifted from any of the chimneys. No laundry hung in the side courtyard. There was no sign of life at all.
Maybe Shepherd wasn’t the only one who had suddenly decided a vacation might be just the thing. Maybe Greenleaf had also come to the conclusion things at home were getting a little too hot.
“He did four days ago.”
Russell tiptoed across a small patio and signed he would circle around the west wing of the house.
Jason nodded.
Russell began to move along the rear of the building, dropping down when he came to the first set of windows. Jason turned and started down the stone walkway, past the double tier of the garden’s retaining walls, until he came to the wide flight of steps leading to the terrace and the clock tower.
He glanced back, but Russell was now out of sight.
Back to the wall, pistol at high ready, Jason sidled up the steps, freezing when he heard the whispered crunch of dead leaves. Someone was quietly making their way across the terrace toward him. It couldn’t be Russell. Not that fast.
Jason’s heart rocketed in his chest, but that was adrenaline, not fear. Okay, maybe a little fear. He had a healthy respect for Greenleaf and his trusty ax.
He made it to the top of the stairs, listening hard.
The footsteps had stopped. Was this other listening as well?
Sweat prickled his hairline, trickled down his spine. He bent down, felt for a pebble, and pitched it into the dead brush over the wall. For a small stone, it created a satisfying crash as it went down through the dead branches and leaves.
He heard the scrape of footsteps moving toward the end of the terrace, and came around the side of the clock tower, pistol leveled—only to find himself staring down the barrel of a Glock 19.
For a split second, his brain straight-lined, though the hand holding his own weapon, never wavered. Squeeze trigger…don’t squeeze trigger… He was processing, deciding, recognizing that he had already taken too long. Suddenly the face in front of him came into sharp focus.
Sam.
“Jason?” Sam exclaimed in disbelief, lowering his pistol. His eyes looked black in his white face.
“Sam?” Until he saw Sam in front of him, alive and perfectly unharmed, Jason hadn’t realized how worried he’d been. Relief left him almost shaky.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Sam demanded. He glanced around as though expecting to see reinforcements—or maybe a magic carpet. “How did you get here?”
“Didn’t Jonnie get hold of you?”
Sam shook his head. “The cell phone reception is shit out here. I haven’t been able to call out since we arrived. What’s going on? Why are you here?”
“Eric Greenleaf is your unsub.”
An odd expression crossed Sam’s face. He did not look as surprised as he should have. In fact, he almost looked like Jason’s words had just confirmed something for him. “Is he?” he said softly.
He moved toward Jason, hustling him back toward the cover of the stairs. “Good to know, because that asshole’s around here somewhere. I spotted him scoping us while we were processing the tribal burial grounds. And by scoping, I mean he had a rifle. I thought it might be a good idea to see what he was up to, and tracked him back here. He disappeared before he reached the house.”
Jason’s heart dropped. “Disappeared?”
