Mistaken Identity Page 3

  “No. I was too busy running for my life to stop and get a description of the people who were trying to kill me.”

  Oops.

  There she went with the sarcasm.

  “Glad you’ve kept your sense of humor,” Mason muttered, stepping between towering pine trees, his grip on her arm firm.

  She knew he was trying to keep her from running. She couldn’t say she blamed him, but she didn’t like it.

  “No need to hold on to me,” she said, pulling her arm from his grasp. “I’ve got no idea where we are and no idea how to get to civilization from here. In other words, I have absolutely nowhere to go, so I’m not going anywhere but wherever you’re heading.”

  “Thanks for the information. Now, I’ll give you some. If you run, I’ll catch you,” he replied. “So, how about you save us both the effort and don’t do it?”

  “I already told you, I’m not planning on running.” Especially not now when the guy she’d been looking for was just a few inches away.

  They hadn’t gotten off to a good start.

  She could fix that, clear things up, explain all the reasons why he should hear what she had to say and listen to her reasons for being there.

  They were moving steadily uphill, heading—she presumed—back toward Mason’s house. She expected him to ask more questions. She actually hoped he would. She just needed an opening, and she could explain the situation with Henry, tell Mason all about the young athlete, his cancer diagnosis and his upcoming surgery.

  But Mason seemed content to stay silent.

  She did the same, the sound of police sirens a constant reminder that she was running out of time. For all she knew, she’d be arrested as soon as she reached Mason’s house. She’d be tossed in jail for trespassing, and she’d never get an opportunity to say what she needed to.

  She couldn’t let that happened.

  She’d promised Bryn she’d give it her best. Walking mutely through the forest with the man who could help Henry? That wasn’t it.

  “I’m Trinity Miller,” she said, her voice a little too loud.

  Nothing.

  Not even a hitch in his stride.

  “I have a friend—”

  “No.”

  “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

  “Don’t I?” He turned abruptly, stopping short in the middle of the path. It was too dark to see his expression, but Trinity was certain he wasn’t smiling. “You have a friend who needs money, or an uncle who needs help, or you know a good charity I could donate money to.”

  “Not even close.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “My friend’s son has cancer. He’s going to have his leg amputat—”

  “No,” he repeated and started walking again, his long legs eating up the ground so quickly she had to jog to keep up.

  “You haven’t even heard me out.”

  “I heard enough to say no.”

  “I drove six hundred miles!” she protested, her teeth chattering on the last word.

  She did not want to fail at this. She didn’t want to have to call Bryn to tell her that she’d blown their chance.

  “I’m sorry you wasted your time.” He didn’t sound sorry. He sounded irritated.

  “Look—” she began.

  Somewhere to their right, a branch broke.

  Mason grabbed her wrist, yanking her close to his side.

  “What—”

  “Quiet,” he whispered, his lips close to her ear. “I’m going to see who that is. You stay here.”

  “We need to stay together,” she whispered back.

  “It’s not up for discussion.” He pulled her off the path and dragged her into thick undergrowth. “Do. Not. Move.”

  Three words and he was gone, slipping soundlessly away while she shivered in his coat.

  * * *

  Another branch snapped as Mason crept through the heavy underbrush. He followed the sound, honing in on the soft pad of feet on dead leaves.

  Whoever was out there, he didn’t know much about being quiet. He also didn’t know much about staying hidden. Mason could see a flashlight beam bouncing along the ground a few yards away. The guy was searching, but he wasn’t even close to where Mason had left the woman.

  Trinity Miller.

  Interesting that she’d found him.

  Most people who looked didn’t.

  He had a house in Boston he rented out, and that was where people who were searching for him usually ended up. Somehow Trinity had ended up here. He wanted to know how. He also wanted to know why. She’d said something about a friend’s son and cancer, and he’d cut her off. He didn’t work with kids. There were too many memories there, but he was intrigued by the thought of someone going to such great effort to help a friend. Six hundred miles to see a stranger for a friend’s sake? That was a long way to travel.

  If that was really the case, if she’d really driven that far, Trinity was the kind of friend everyone wanted to have.

  If her claim was true.

  There’d been a lot of activity around his house lately. A few days before he’d left for John’s funeral, government officials paid him a visit. They’d wanted information about one of his clients. He’d refused to give it. The military police had stopped by the next day, demanding that he release confidential information. Mason had refused again.

  For all he knew, Trinity worked for the government or was part of the military, sent to do what the other two groups had not—gain access to information about Tate Whitman. Tate had served three tours in Iraq. He’d nearly lost his life there. Two years ago, Mason had fitted his prosthetic leg. Tate was an active guy. When he wasn’t teaching college counterterrorism classes, he was hiking, biking, running and lifting weights.

  Unfortunately, he was also the key witness in a court-martial case that had the potential to bring down some very high-level military officials. He’d gone into witness protection six months ago. Apparently, he’d run from it soon after. Now people were looking for him, and that seemed to always lead them to Mason.

  It wasn’t surprising. A computer chip Mason built into every prosthesis collected real-time information about the amputee’s movements and muscle strength. The information was sent wirelessly to Mason’s computer system. He used it to create the best prosthetic design possible for the individual. The system had a built-in tracking system that could be used to find the prosthetic if it was stolen or misplaced. In theory, it could also be used to track the amputee who was wearing it.

  It would take Mason all of five minutes to figure out where Tate was. He wasn’t going to. He had client confidentially to protect. Plus, he didn’t trust people. Not much, anyway. If Tate had thought he needed to hide from the organization that was supposed to be protecting him, he’d had good reason for it.

  It wasn’t Mason’s job to find out what it was. It wasn’t his job to turn him over to the military police, either. Eventually Mason might be subpoenaed. For now, he’d refused the request for information.

  Yeah. No. He wasn’t taking Trinity’s story at face-value.

  He stepped into the shadow of an old elm, the heavy branches leaning toward the ground and hiding him from whoever was approaching. He could still see the light, and he watched it as it crawled along a fallen log and passed Mason’s hiding place. Finally, a man stepped into sight. Tall. Lean. No weapon that Mason could see. That didn’t mean much.

  The perp he’d disarmed had been stupid enough to carry his gun tucked in the pocket of his jeans. This one could be hiding a weapon anywhere.

  The man passed, leaves crunching under his feet, his breath heaving. He might be lean, but he wasn’t in good shape. He sounded like a steam engine huffing and puffing his way through the darkness.

  A man called out and Mason’s quarry flicked off his light, darting b
ack in the direction he’d come.

  Mason sprinted after him, not bothering to be quiet about it. He could hear more voices—several men and at least one woman.

  “Police!” one of them called as lights flashed across a nearby tree. They were on the ledge, heading down, and Mason could have stepped back and let them make the apprehension. He was annoyed, though, and just angry enough to want the guy to be stopped sooner rather than later.

  He followed the perp onto the path that led to the beach, tackling him as he tried to sprint to a small dock that jutted out into the lake.

  “Who are you?” Mason growled as he patted the guy down and found an ankle holster and small pistol. “What are you doing on my property?”

  He kept his knee in the center of the guy’s spine and checked the safety. “Did you discharge your weapon tonight?”

  The guy remained silent, and Mason added a little extra pressure to his spine.

  “You’re going to break my back,” the man gasped, finally struggling. “Get off me. I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  “Did you fire your weapon?”

  The man shook his head.

  “That a no?”

  “You figure it out,” he gasped.

  “I’d rather move on to another question. Where’s your buddy?”

  “I don’t have one. I was out walking alone.”

  “Walking, huh?”

  “It’s not a crime.”

  “It is if you’re on private property while you’re doing it. You have a permit for the pistol?”

  “In my car. Let me up and I’ll go get it.”

  “How about we just wait for the police and they can do it for you?”

  They were charging down the slope, crashing through underbrush and thickets.

  He glanced toward them, counting half a dozen lights flashing in the darkness.

  “Drop the gun! Hands in the air!” one of the officers shouted and Mason did exactly what he’d been told immediately. No way was he going to take a bullet for this guy.

  The pistol landed with a soft thud and officers swarmed closer.

  “Facedown on the ground! Keep your hands where we can see them!”

  Mason followed orders.

  The perp was doing the same, staying prone on the ground, one arm straight above his head, the other...

  Moving.

  Subtly.

  Reaching for the gun that was a few feet away.

  “Don’t,” Mason warned, but it was too late, the guy lunged toward the weapon, lifting it as he tried to run.

  Mason dropped to the ground as the first bullet flew, the police yelling commands, the scent of gunfire in the air. The crack and pop and zing of weapons being discharged, and for a moment he was back in time, lying on the hot sand of an Iraqi outpost while bullets whizzed over his head.

  THREE

  Five rounds fired in quick succession.

  Law enforcement officers yelled commands.

  And, then, silence. To Trinity, that was the worst sound of all—the emptiness and quiet filled with the echo of violence.

  She stepped from her hiding place, searching for the path that would lead her back to the beach. She was almost certain that’s where the gunfire had come from. The police were there. That being the case, she should be safe enough.

  She hoped, because she wasn’t going to keep cowering in her hiding place. Not while Mason faced down the men who’d been chasing her through the woods. She’d caused her own trouble, and she was going to get herself out of it.

  Once she did, she’d concentrate on getting what she’d come to Maine for.

  That was going to prove difficult since Mason had already refused to hear her out. He was angry that she’d trespassed, irritated that she’d gotten herself embroiled in a mess on his property and probably anxious to see her leave the area.

  She had a weekend to change things.

  A weekend to convince him to listen.

  First, she had to make sure he was okay.

  The moon had inched above the trees, and it glowed gold-green, illuminating the dead leaves and scrub that littered the forest floor. The path should be right up ahead, and she headed in that direction, moving as quietly as she could, afraid to break the ominous silence.

  She reached the path and hesitated, her skin crawling, her pulse racing. Voices carried through the trees, drifting up from the beach. None of them frantic or excited. Whatever had happened, whatever the gunfire had meant, it was over, but Trinity still felt uneasy.

  She stepped onto the path and turned toward the beach, skirting past giant pine trees that could have been hiding anyone or anything.

  Sounds drifted up from the shore, men and women talking, a dog barking, radios buzzing with activity.

  She thought about calling out, but she was afraid of who else might be listening. Not just the law-enforcement officials who’d converged on the property. There’d been at least two men in the woods and it was possible both of them were still free.

  She shivered, her teeth chattering as she jogged toward the beach. The slope was easy, but her feet were numb and she could barely feel the ground beneath them. She tripped over roots, stumbled over rocks. Her foot got caught in a tangle of weeds spreading across the path and she fell hard.

  Someone grabbed her arm, dragged her up.

  She went fighting, swinging her fist toward a shadowy face.

  “Let’s not,” Mason growled, snagging her hand before she could make contact.

  “How did you get here?” she asked, taking a couple of quick steps back to put some distance between them.

  “I walked. Now, how about you tell me why you didn’t stay where I left you.”

  “I heard gunshots.”

  “And that made you think you should jump into whatever chaos was happening?”

  “The gunfire stopped. I heard the police. I figured it was safe enough to come out.”

  “Just like you figured it was safe enough to swim in a lake that has a temperature hovering in the thirties?”

  “For the record,” she said, “I wasn’t exactly thinking when I jumped into the lake.”

  “For the record,” he replied, cupping her elbow and tugging her along the path. “I like quiet. I like peace. I do not like people bringing drama to my property.”

  “I didn’t bring this. It was here when I arrived.”

  “If you’d stayed away, you wouldn’t have walked into it.”

  “If I’d stayed away, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to meet you. Which was the entire purpose of my trip to Maine.”

  “Normal people don’t travel six hundred miles to meet with strangers. Especially if the strangers they plan to meet don’t know they’re coming.”

  “I never said I was normal.” She pulled his coat a little closer, using the movement to dislodge his hand from her elbow.

  “If you’re not, then we have something in common.” He grabbed her arm, and this time she didn’t think she was going to maneuver away from him. “Because I’m not the typical hospitable rural resident who’d happily offer food and ride to someone who broke down in front of his house. I don’t like unexpected visitors, Trinity. Generally speaking, I ignore them.”

  “I got that impression from the interviews you did a couple of years back.”

  “I don’t like having my work interrupted,” he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “And, I for sure don’t like to be lied to, manipulated, or used.”

  “I hope you’re not implying that I’m trying to do any of those things.”

  “The timing of your arrival is suspect.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The sheriff wants to speak with you.”

  “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m happy to
speak with the sheriff.”

  “I’m sure Judah will be happy to hear that.”

  “Judah?”

  “Dillon. He’s the sheriff. We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “Sounds like you’re still trying to scare me.”

  “Why would I? Unless you’ve done something wrong, you’ve got nothing to be scared of.”

  He’d given her an opening, another opportunity to try to tell him about Henry. She wasn’t going to miss it. “I already told you, I’m here for a friend. Her son has cancer in his right femur, and the leg will have to be amputated. I came to—”

  “You can tell Judah. He’ll be able to fact-check.”

  “Is there some reason why you don’t want to hear what I have to say?”

  “Aside from the things I already mentioned? No.”

  “Then maybe I should clear things up for you. I have no intention of lying to you, of using you or of manipulating you.”

  “I noticed you didn’t mention not arriving unexpectedly, not bringing chaos and not distracting me from my work.”

  “I didn’t bring chaos, and—”

  “Tell that to the guy who’s bleeding on the beach.”

  “Was he shot?” she asked, hurrying along beside him.

  “Yes.”

  “Was he one of the guys who chased me through the woods?”

  “I have no idea. He did have a gun.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Is he going to die?”

  “How about we play Twenty Questions after you talk to the sheriff?”

  She’d rather ask the questions now, but she had the feeling she’d pushed Mason as far as he was willing to be pushed. Any more questions and he might shut her out completely. That would make it a lot more difficult to broach the subject of Henry again.

  She pressed her lips together, sealing in a dozen more things she wanted to ask.

  Let him have what he wanted—silence and peace.

  For now.

  They reached the beach and stepped off the trail, heading toward a group of people standing near the water’s edge. Several more people were kneeling beside a prone figure. A man. Trinity couldn’t see his face, but she could see the dark blood spreading beneath him. A lot of blood. Too much. If they didn’t get him to the hospital soon, he’d die. The tense silence of the crowd said they knew it.