His features took shape.
A chill shot down her spine.
Jacobi.
The jet boat was racing to shore. On the bank, in front of an army of trees that marched with tips pointing like spears into the cloud, stood another man in black. A rifle in his hands.
“Cl ... Claire?” she tried to whisper, desperate, her chest filling with fear, her voice fading on her lips in spite of her best efforts. “Where ... where is your ... father?”
“Shh,” she said. “Don’t talk. We’ll sort you out. Take it easy.”
Jacobi’s eyes watched her from above. Like the black gleaming eyes of an eagle up high, circling ... circling ... watching, waiting for when best to strike its prey ... when best to dig in talons and rip the ghost fish from the river. Angie’s mind dulled as she stared up into Jacobi’s beady eyes, and her world went black.
CHAPTER 47
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER27
Angie came around slowly. Groggy, with no sense of where she was or of the past or present, she battled to open her eyes and turn her head. A square of gray light exploded against her retinas. She scrunched her eyes shut against the brightness and lay very still, listening, trying to figure out where she was.
There was a smell. She recognized it ...hospital. Her eyes flared open. Her heart raced. But light sliced pain into the back of her skull like a knife. She shut them again, breathing hard. A hand covered hers. Large. Warm. So warm and strong and familiar. Her breathing eased.
Slowly, she eked her eyes open. She looked up into a face. Blurry. Again, she had to shut her eyes to block light.
“Easy,” a male voice said. “Take it easy.”
Yes. Easy. His voice ... so deep and comforting and easy to listen to. He’s here. He’s here, and I’m alive. I think ...
Past and present and fantasy and reality stirred together in her brain. A memory surfaced out of the soup of images. The first time she’d laid eyes on Sergeant James Maddocks. She’d been sitting at the bar at the Foxy, hunting for a hot and anonymous lay, desperate to blow off steam and numb her emotions.
The instant he walked into the bar, she knew he was the one. He sifted through the gyrating crowd—it parted for him like the Red Sea to Moses beneath the sparking disco ball. He moved with a command presence ... scanning the patrons as if searching for someone. He stood a head taller than the crowd, his shoulders broader than average. Light danced off his hair, which was ruffled and the dark blue-black of a raven’s feathers. His skin was pale. His eyes ... she couldn’t see the color, but they were wide set under dense brows. Strong features, ones that hovered between handsome and interesting. There was an otherworldly air about him, a vaguely worn yet incredibly alert look.
He turned, caught her eye ...
Slowly, very slowly, mouth dry, she tried again to open her eyes, to resurface from her dream—or was it a memory?
“Maddocks ... is that you?” she whispered.
“Shh.” He brushed his hand against her cheek. Emotion washed through her chest. “Take it slow, Ange. Take it easy.” His other hand was fingering her solitaire ring, moving it around and around her ring finger like a worry stone. His dark-blue eyes glittered with moisture. It made his lashes look dense and long.So handsome,she thought.He’s so beautiful. Inside and out.This person she’d come to love with all her heart, the one person who meant the utmost in the world to her. He was here. At her side. But he looked pale. Worn. Tired.
“Am I—”
“You’re fine, Ange. You’re going to be fine. You had us all worried there for a while. Your father was here earlier, but he went back to the motel—he’s on his way over again. You’ve been in and out of consciousness since they brought you in. But they got you warmed up. They say you’ll be back to normal in no time.” He smiled. “You had bad hypothermia, but you’ve still got all your fingers and toes and limbs. Just a few bumps and cuts and scrapes. You’ll be sore for a while.”
A chill slid through her as another image surfaced.
Holgersen.
His body. Dead still. The arrow clean through his pale neck. Bile surged up the back of her throat. Emotion flooded into her eyes.
“I—I lost him, Maddocks. I ... Holgersen. He ... the arrow, the fire ...” She couldn’t speak. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes into her pillow, an overwhelming wave of heavy grief swamping her.
“Angie, listen to me.”
She shook her head from side to side, moaning as the memory of Holgersen lying in the snow swam into vivid reality in front of her eyes.
“Angie. Focus. Listen.” He cupped the side of her face, stilling her head. “Look at me.”
She opened her eyes slowly and looked up into his.
