Night Flight Page 18

  Cathy was aware of just how frail that plan was. She was also aware of the alternative.

  "Dave," she said.

  There was some surprise in his eyes when he looked at her, and only then did she realize that it was the first time she had called him by his given name.

  "What I said before . . ." She dropped her eyes uncomfortably and then forced herself to look at him again. "I've never really thought you were in league with him. I've always trusted you."

  He just smiled, and replaced the maps in the pack. "I know that."

  She knew that wasn't true, but thought it was nice of him to say it, and to forgive so easily. He must have seen the doubt in her eyes, because he said, "Last night, you could have run when that dog was after us. You had your chance, but you stayed and fought. Maybe you didn't save my life, but you saved an arm or a leg at least, and you probably wouldn't have done that for somebody you thought was out to do you in. Thanks, by the way."

  He extended his hand to help her up, and after a moment she smiled. "You're right," she said. "Although I don't think I realized it until just now. And you're welcome."

  She put her hand in his, and got to her feet.

  By mid-afternoon it was obvious they were not going to reach any kind of road that day. The trail leveled off in high spruce country and even seemed to descend in places. Just when Cathy allowed herself to grow hopeful it came to an abrupt stop, in a clearing marked by the remnants of many a camper's fire. Dave picked up a smaller footpath —or perhaps it was an animal trail —and Cathy gave one last, longing look over her shoulder to the last vestiges of civilization. From now on there would be no chance of encountering other hikers, no hope of the comforting sound of a Forest Service jeep . . . and hopefully, less chance that a man with a gun was half-an-hour behind them. They were pioneers, as alone as the first people who had crossed that same terrain a hundred years ago—and just as vulnerable.

  Though they were no longer noticeably climbing, the topography was rugged and deeply

  wooded, and the air was thin. Already the sunlight was being swallowed up by the trees as it sank slowly through the western sky, and the thought of spending the night unprotected in the woods terrified Cathy. When she thought of everything she had endured in the past forty-eight hours, the prospect of one night sleeping with rattlesnakes should not have reduced her to cowardice, but it did.

  Dave said unexpectedly, "So how come you never got married?"

  The nature of the question surprised her as much as the sound of his voice, for neither of them had spoken for some time, wrapped in their separate anxieties and dark dreads. Cathy glanced at him and knew without further explanation that the question was designed to distract her, almost as though Dave had read the course her worries were taking and was trying to head them off before they got out of hand. Cathy felt a brief wave of gratitude, along with a kind of comradeship she had never really known with any man besides Jack before.

  She answered, balancing one hand against the trunk of a fir as she pulled herself up a small incline, "What makes you think I've never been married?"

  He replied mildly, "Not hard to figure out. Somebody who's spent most her life taking care of her brother wouldn't have much time left over for a social life."

  Cathy frowned. "What are you talking about? After Lydia left, it was only natural that I move in and take care of the kids. But I've hardly spent my life taking care of Jack. If anything, it was the other way around."

  "I don’t know. Sounds like he got a pretty good deal to me.”

  Before she could respond he went on, "Your friend Ellen said you went to Juilliard."

  Her tone was restrained when she replied; she almost didn't reply at all. "That's right."

  "I don't know much about music, but even I know you don't get into a school like that just because you want to."

  "I suppose."

  "But you ended up teaching music in a small town high school."

  "I didn't give up my shot at the big time because of Jack and the kids, if that's what you're suggesting."

  "No." His voice was maddeningly even, matter- of-fact. "You never even took a shot at the big time. Maybe because you never had to, maybe because you were afraid to, maybe because someone, somehow, convinced you that it was your lot to spend the rest of your life playing second-best to Jack. That's what I'm suggesting."

  She stood stock still, staring as he strode in front of her. “Are you kidding me? Are you freaking kidding me? We’re hiking through the wilderness with a killer on our trail and you can’t think of anything better to do than criticize the way I live my life? What business is it of yours, anyway?”

  And even as she spoke she knew her anger was generated in part—perhaps a great part—by the certain knowledge that he was right. She had never had the courage to try for a position with a real symphony, although she had always suspected she was good enough, because somewhere deep inside she was afraid of outshining Jack. He had chosen academia; so should she, in her own small fashion. By the same token she had never had the courage to do much of anything without Jack's approval, because he was her anchor, her stability, her protection. And when he was left alone with two small children to raise, it never occurred to Cathy that her brother might manage on his own; she stepped in because she owed it to him, because she felt it was her duty . . . because she needed him far more than he needed her.

  Dave was right, but his timing was lousy.

  He stopped and looked back at her. "This dependency thing you’ve got with your brother—it’s not good, it’s not healthy. Get over it. You can't afford that kind of baggage right now, and neither can I. That's what makes it my business."

  Cathy had no answer for that. She pushed forward and past him. She had gone only a few yards when his voice stopped her.

  "She's in love with him, you know."

  Cathy couldn't help it—she turned to stare at him. "Who?"

  "Your friend Ellen is in love with Jack. You might have noticed —and so might he—if you hadn't been so busy taking care of him."

  This time Cathy let him get ahead of her. And he was quite a bit ahead before she turned to follow.

  **********************

  They made a cold camp beneath a rocky outcrop in the sickly green twilight of late afternoon. Both were exhausted, physically and emotionally, and even Cathy could see — and sympathize with — the effort it took for Dave to make himself stop, knowing that any delay would only bring Kreiger closer. But it would be dangerous to move through the mountains at night, or to push themselves beyond the point of exhaustion. They would have to sleep in shifts, and start out again at first light.

  They opened single-serving cans of beef stew and ate it cold on crackers. As hungry as she was, it tasted like paste to Cathy. Neither of them had said much since the harsh exchange that afternoon, but even though it seemed as though every time Dave opened his mouth he stirred up more raw emotions, systematically ripping away her protective shields until, soon, nothing would be left, Cathy could not resent him for it. Perhaps she was too scared, and too numb with exhaustion, to feel anything. Perhaps she sensed that his motives were to take her mind off their present, seemingly insurmountable difficulties, by forcing her to tackle unpleasant abstracts. Maybe she simply couldn't resent a man for telling the truth.

  She pondered what he had said about Ellen and Jack, and though at first the very concept strained her credulity, gradually she began to see what she should have seen long ago, what it had taken Dave—a complete stranger—only one phone call to see. Ellen and Jack. She wasn't sure how she felt about it, but it was comforting to think about them, about home and normalcy and small puzzles and problems, when she was sitting on a cold hillside watching night fall and the threat of death creep closer. She wondered how Dave had known, and she thought that a man like that was worth knowing better.

  They couldn't have a fire for fear of signaling the enemy, and as the last of the sunlight faded through the trees the air took on a di
stinct chill. Cathy had already donned the sweater Dave had insisted she take, and now she wrapped herself in one of the thin blankets. She was so tired her eyelids ached, but she did not see how she could sleep on the hard ground in temperatures like these.

  Dave studied the map in the dying light. "Tomorrow should be mostly downhill. Cave Springs looks like it's not much more than seven or eight miles away as the crow flies. We should make it by noon, easy." He folded the map and put it back into the pack. "You get some sleep. I'll take first watch."

  Cathy swallowed hard, suppressing a shiver that wasn't entirely from cold. It was hard to envision the future when every moment was an exercise in survival, but she knew tomorrow was not the end of the journey, and only the beginning of the real danger. Tomorrow they could only hope they lived long enough for Dave to place a phone call to the FBI. Tomorrow the quarry started leading the hunter into the trap. Tomorrow she became a willing pawn in war games that used real bullets. It was insane, all of it. And Dave expected her to sleep?

  She sat up and said, "You didn't sleep last night; I did. I'll sit up for a while. That is, if you trust me."

  He looked at her steadily for a long moment. And just when she was beginning to grow uncomfortable under his quiet, assessive gaze, he said, "Look, about what I said this afternoon ... I know it was none of my business, and I know I had no right to butt in."

  She started to protest but he overrode her quietly, firmly, and without raising his voice. "I just wanted you know," he said, "that there was another reason I did it. I admire you, and Jack is

  wrong. You're wrong. You're worth a hell of a lot more than either of you have ever given you credit for."

  She didn't know what to say. She hardly knew how to feel. He admired her. Dave Jenks, who had dodged bullets, stolen a car, outwitted and outrun an assassin, and saved her life more than once in the past twenty-four hours . . . Dave Jenks, who could make a few phone calls and understand Cathy better than she understood herself, Dave Jenks whose quiet voice could calm her racing panic and make her believe, against all odds, who faced her shaking, inexperienced marksmanship without flinching and who had, from beginning to end, stayed one step ahead of the FBI, the DEA, and every local authority who threatened them ... he admired her.

  She didn't know what to say.

  After a moment Dave took the other blanket, wrapped it around his shoulders, and stretched out on the ground, using the backpack as a pillow. "Wake me in a couple of hours," he said.

  She managed, "I will."

  The stillness of the mountains was rich and deep. Their presence had frightened away nearby wildlife, and not even the small movements of squirrels or birds broke the silence. The sky, filtered through the canopy of leaves, turned a deeper shade of indigo. Deep in her own thoughts, Cathy thought Dave was asleep. Then he spoke again.

  "After my wife died," he said, "I started to drink. It got bad, and then it got worse. It was touch and go there for a good long while."

  A warmth spread within Cathy that was simple and complete: sharing, understanding, comradeship. She did not ask why he had told her that. He had, almost from the moment of their first meeting, begun invading her most private self; now he was offering to her the same kind of vulnerability. She was not perfect and neither was he, but that was only part of the message. The rest of it was too intricate and fragile for Cathy to begin to examine now.

  Neither did she ask what had happened; he had recovered, or was recovering. He had faced his demons, just as she must. And he had won.

  What she did ask was, "Why?"

  His voice came through the deepening twilight, thoughtful and quiet, more welcome than that of any friend she had ever known. "Anger, partly. Helplessness, mostly. Sometimes I think they're the same thing. You don't go into this line of work unless you've got some kind of hero complex, I guess, and when I came up against something I couldn't fix I didn't know how to handle it." His voice fell slightly. "Seems like since then all I've done is come up against things I couldn't fix. Until now." He injected firmness into his tone and, though she could not see, Cathy felt him turn to look at her. "This time it's going to be different."

  Cathy strained to make out his features in the deepening shadows, and could not. "What makes you think so?"

  "Because we're overdue." His voice was strong with quiet, understated confidence—not a matter for question, just a matter of fact. "Because this time, the good guys are going to win."

  And so they did. The morning sun was behind her when Cathy burst into the hospital wing. Her clothes were filthy and torn, her hair matted, her face dirty, and she was well aware of the looks the nurses gave her. For just a moment she was self conscious, and then she heard voices, dear, sweet familiar voices. Christopher and Janie came barreling around the corner, calling, "Aunt Cathy! Aunt Cathy!" Their arms uplifted, their voices shrill, they were alive, unhurt, unchanged. . . . Her legs failed her and she dropped to her knees, opening her arms, gathering them to her and squeezing her eyes tightly closed against tears of wonder and gratitude as she inhaled the sweet warm fragrance of them. And then she looked up.

  Jack was coming down the corridor, leaning heavily on an orderly, but walking. There was a white bandage around his head and he looked pale and drawn. He was wearing the blue plaid bathrobe she had given him for Christmas. The children were tugging at the hem of her shirt as she stood slowly and began to move toward him.

  "Jack," she whispered.

  She moved faster. She started to run. And then the orderly lifted his head, and she saw his face.

  It was Kreiger, and he had a gun pressed to Jack's ribs.

  "Cathy!"

  Jack shouted the warning but it exploded into another sound, a horrible sound, a final sound. . . . And it wasn't Jack's voice at all, but another's, and it wasn't a shout but a whisper.

  "Cathy!"

  She awoke with a start. Dave was bending over her, his hand gripping her shoulder. When she drew in a ragged, stifled breath he immediately placed a finger across her lips to silence her. "Sound carries in this air," he said, very low. "Come here."

  She was on her hands and knees, following him from beneath the shelter of the rock overhang, before she was even aware of moving. It was a dark, still, purplish night that made Cathy think at first that it was still evening. Her heart lurched with the fear that she had fallen asleep on guard duty, but then she remembered waking Dave, shivering as she lay down on the ground, thinking she would never sleep . . .

  And then something penetrated her sleep- fogged brain, and she identified the smell at the same minute as Dave pointed out the distant flickering glow far down below them. Wood smoke. Someone had a campfire down the mountain.

  "It could be hikers," she whispered.

  He didn't answer.

  "Why would he build a fire?" she insisted. "It gives away his position—"

  "He knows we're not going to come down the mountain after him. Even if we did, he's a good two or three miles behind us and would have plenty of time to set a trap. And he doesn't know where we are. There's a chance we might not have seen him; why should he be uncomfortable on the chance that we would?"

  Cathy's chest began to tighten. It made sense. The fire could still belong to campers . . . but it made sense. Until now, with this tangible evidence of pursuit, Cathy was unaware of how relatively safe she had felt all day. But he was down there. He was coming for them. There was no such thing as safe.

  Dave began to gather up their belongings, stuffing the backpack. "We'd better move out while we've still got a head start. Going will be rough until daylight, but that's his morning fire and I'm willing to bet he won't linger over a second cup of coffee."

  Her throat was dry, and her voice a little hoarse. "How long-before he catches up?"

  She couldn't see his expression in the dark, which was probably just as well. If he was lying, she did not want to know.

  "He won't catch up. Not until we want him to."

  He stood up, slipping the str
aps of the pack over his shoulders. "You ready?"

  For a moment Cathy did not move. Then she swallowed hard, nodded, and got to her feet.

  ***********************

  Chapter Sixteen

  An hour after dawn, it happened. Afterward Dave would reflect on the incredible twist of fortune that had taken them through some of the most treacherous country he had ever negotiated, in the near dark, yet turned on him in broad daylight with no warning whatsoever. When his foot first dislodged the loose dirt at the edge of the path he muffled a curse of minor irritation and expected to go to his knees; when the ground continued to crumble and nothing broke his fall, all he could feel was utter, outright astonishment.

  He bounced off the side of a cliff he had not even known was there, and felt something tear in an excruciating burst of red-white pain inside his knee. He heard Cathy's scream through a distant roaring in his head. Blue, green, and the brown of tree trunks turned over and over before his eyes as he continued to fall. He hit another outcrop and the crushing pain knocked the breath out of his lungs. He flung out his arm and tried to catch a protruding root; his fingernails bent back like badly glued labels and the root broke away. He landed with an impact that exploded into gray ness.

  By the time Cathy reached him, slipping and sliding down the leaf-slick gorge, she was sobbing out loud. His body looked like a discarded sack of laundry where it had come to rest against the thick trunk of a tree, limp and unnaturally still. She practically tumbled the last fifty feet herself, and she was on her knees next to him, gripping his shoulders. "Dave! For God's sake, Dave!"

  He was opening his eyes even as she screamed at him, and the relief that went through her sagged in her muscles and left her light-headed. But when she could focus again she noticed the deathly pallor of Dave's face and the shallow, guarded sound of his breathing. When he tried to sit up he went stiff with pain and his skin took on a greenish cast. He closed his eyes, limp again.