Page 45 of Hunter

She was pretty sure he was lying, or he’d rapped so faintly that it would have been impossible for her to hear. She didn’t waste the energy challenging him.

And he didn’t waste any time getting to the point. “A sidearm is missing from the armory,” he announced, watching her face for any reaction.

“And?” she asked, keeping her gaze steady, even as she felt her pulse speed up.

“I’d like to see if it turned up here.”

“Are you asking permission to search the house?” she inquired.

“No. I’m just trying to show you I can be polite.”

“Why should a missing weapon be in this cottage, of all places?” she asked as mildly as she could with her heart knocking against the inside of her ribs.

“I’m checking various buildings. This one’s on the list.”

Last night, Hunter had put the pistol and the silencer in one of the cabinets behind her. She forced herself to casually step aside and sweep her arm toward the kitchen. “Maybe it’s under the sink,” she said sweetly.

“Maybe.”

Her mouth went as dry as sand when McCourt strode forward and opened several of the lower doors, moving aside cleaning supplies and loudly rattling pots and pans, probably to judge the effect on her nerves, she decided as she tried to concentrate on a breathing exercise designed to instill calm.

The relaxation technique was only marginally successful. When McCourt straightened and started on the upper cabinets, she wanted to grab hold of the door frame to steady herself. Instead, she only pressed her shoulder against the white-painted wood.

The gun was to the right of the sink. As if in a nightmare, she watched him open the cupboard and rummage inside. His fingers closed around the bag of flour, and she stopped breathing as she pictured him pulling it aside, revealing the weapon. Eons passed before he removed his hand and slammed the cabinet.

“Are you doing this to harass me?” she asked in a voice that was almost steady.

“No. I’m doing it because I’m in charge of security, and if a weapon is missing, my neck is on the chopping block.”

She managed a little nod as he strode past her and into the dining room, where he paused to open a few drawers. Then he marched down the hall and into Hunter’s room.

Kathryn pulled a paperback from the bookcase in the living room and took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. She’d been pretending to read for more than a minute when she realized she was holding the book upside down. Quickly she switched the position and ordered her eyes to focus on a few lines. All she could do, however, was listen to the sounds of the search in the back of the house. He was taking three times as long in Hunter’s room as he had in the kitchen. Would he go back to the cabinets when he didn’t find the weapon, she wondered.

Redwood forests sprouted and grew to maturity as she waited for him to come striding down the hall. When he finally reentered the room, she looked up questioningly. “Find anything interesting—besides my preferred brand of toothpaste?”

“No,” he snapped. Without another word, he crossed to the door and stamped onto the porch. She didn’t relax until she heard a car drive away. Then she slumped in the chair. Her first instinct was to run to the kitchen and retrieve the gun. She stifled the impulse. McCourt hadn’t found it, so it was safe for the moment.

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Hunter caught a flash of movement in the doorway. Keeping his head bent over the rifle, he slid his eyes to the right. It was Dr. Swinton. Why was he here today when he hadn’t come to the armory in weeks?

Although the research director stood watching him for several moments, Hunter didn’t break his rhythm, even when he felt the man’s gaze burning into the back of his neck. Then, thankfully, Beckton came over, and Swinton started asking low, brisk questions. Hunter strained his ears, but he couldn’t hear either the questions or the answers. It was obvious, however, from the expression on Beckton’s face that he didn’t like being quizzed. Still, he remained respectful as he showed Swinton some of the latest progress reports. Yet every so often, he threw a quick look over his shoulder, as if he were afraid someone would ask what he and Swinton were talking about.

Did they have a secret, Hunter wondered? If so, Swinton hid it better than Beckton.

They finished talking and Swinton left. Beckton looked around nervously, then hurried out of the building.

Hunter finished with the rifle, completed a drill on Gravanian geography, and went outside to the paved area behind the building where a small truck was waiting. After studying a set of written instructions, he climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and began to maneuver around an obstacle course that had been set up.

It was a normal day. Yet everything had changed. He wasn’t simply following orders anymore. He was noticing things around him, making assessments. He’d never tried to figure out if one of the men he worked with had killed Fenton, the chief of security. Today, he wondered if Fenton’s death was connected to the attack last night.

When he came to no conclusions, he switched his thoughts back to the time with Kathryn Kelley—and found himself singing the song that she had sung. It was so different from the music she had played on the machine.The 1812 Overture.He liked them both. But he liked this better—because she had sung it.

To every thing there is a season

And a time for every purpose under heaven

Her voice was high and beautiful. His was a croak by comparison. But he sang the words anyway.

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