Page 49 of Hunter

The last observation was made by Chip McCourt, who had come out of the crowd.

She gave him a little nod.

“We’ve been going along for months just fine,” he said as they left the crowd and headed toward her car. “Then you showed up and our incident rate suddenly went through the roof.”

“Off the roof?” she muttered under her breath.

“What?”

“What incident rate?” she said more loudly.

“A fight in the gym. A missing weapon. Now we have a mysterious fire.”

“Well, I think there are a number of witnesses who will swear that I was at the commissary when somebody tried to burn up the men’s room.”

“You think it was deliberate?” McCourt asked.

“I have no idea.”

“It’s interesting that you showed up so quickly.”

“I heard the sirens. I was curious.”

“I’ll bet.”

She raised her chin, gave him a direct look. “What are you getting at?” she inquired.

To his credit, he kept his gaze steady. “Nothing.”

“Good.” Turning on her heel, she left, feeling several sets of eyes drilling into her back.

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The moment Kathryn walked into the dining room of the guest cottage, she knew something was wrong. Some of the knickknacks in the shelves had been moved, and the sweater she’d left on a chair was dangling on the floor. Setting down the bag of groceries with a thump, she looked around, a feeling of dread overwhelming her.

Was the gun still in the kitchen?

Maybe. Maybe not. But she had to assume the recorder was still waiting to pick up sounds from its place behind the access panel. Suppose it was sensitive enough to tell the listeners that she’d made a beeline for the kitchen cabinet where the weapon was hidden?

She’d never had a devious mind. Now she forced herself to take a breath and consider how she would really act if she came in and thought her house had been searched.

Probably she’d check her personal belongings. With a grimace, she started down the hall to the bedrooms. Drawers had been opened and the contents moved about. Someone had poked through hers and Hunter’s things and hadn’t bothered to hide the search. With shaky steps, she returned to the kitchen, opened the cabinet to the right of the sink and moved the bag of flour. After seeing the rest of the plundering, she wasn’t surprised that the gun and silencer had both vanished. Still, she stood for long moments, staring at the empty place before moving other supplies, hoping that she might have been mistaken about the location of the weapon.

But the gun and silencer were definitely missing. Leaning against the counter, she cupped her head in her hands. Had McCourt waited for her to leave and come back for a more thorough search? Or had someone else done it? She couldn’t discuss the possibilities with anyone but Hunter. And she wouldn’t be discussing them with him, either, she reminded herself, barely managing to suppress a little sound of anguish. He was in the hospital, and she didn’t know when he was coming back. When he did—if he did—they couldn’t have a normal conversation because the house was bugged.

Crushing her fist against her mouth, she struggled for composure. After a long time, she straightened and automatically began to put away the groceries. More time passed. The house remained quiet except for the sound of her own breathing. She ached to call the hospital and make sure Hunter was all right. She told herself firmly that he was, and that he’d come home when they released him.

Yet what if they didn’t let him come back to the guest cottage? What if Emerson had changed his mind about the living arrangements? Fighting the clogged feeling in her throat, she sprinted across the room toward the telephone but didn’t make the call—knowing that speaking to the Chief of Operations in her present state was a dead giveaway to her feelings. If Emerson knew she’d lost her objectivity, that would be the end of her access to Hunter.

She would have to wait for official word, she told herself firmly. Still, as the minutes turned into hours and then centuries, she thought she would go crazy. Crazy with frustration. Crazy with worry.

Dragging herself into the bedroom, she slipped off her shoes and flopped down in her clothes, prepared to jump up the minute she heard the front door open.

It didn’t, and she lay rigid, staring into the growing darkness, telling herself over and over that Hunter would surely be back soon, and everything would be all right. But she couldn’t stay still, and she couldn’t stop her mind from churning.

Finally, desperate, she staggered into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face, trying to shock herself into steadiness. Feeling a little more in control, she called the medical facility. The woman who answered didn’t know who Hunter was. When Kathryn switched to his old name—John Doe—she was told the information was classified. Now more upset than ever, she carefully replaced the receiver and stood rocking back and forth with her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. Maybe Hunter was already out of the hospital, she told herself. Maybe he was already back in his old quarters. Maybe McCourt was supposed to give her the news, and he’d conveniently forgotten. A mirthless sound bubbled up in her throat. That would give him the last laugh, all right.

She was saved from hysteria by the sound of the front door opening. Her heart skipped a beat, then hammered into overtime as she barreled down the hall.

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