Left to Die Page 8

  Fletch remained silent, studying her with hawklike eyes. “Does the name sound familiar?”

  She slowly shook her head. “Not really. What else did he say about this woman?”

  Fletch pulled a hand down his chin, drawing her gaze back to his beard-stubbled jaw and those lips that had kissed her. For a moment during the kiss, she’d forgotten she was in danger. She’d felt safe.

  She didn’t feel safe anymore.

  “She was married to a man named Victor.”

  “Victor?” She tossed that name around just as she had the name Bianca. “You said she was married as in she isn’t anymore?”

  Fletch gave a small nod. “Victor was murdered, shot to death.”

  Jane barely stifled a gasp as the image of the man with the tattoo on his arm surfaced. His body flying backward. Blood spewing.

  Her hand shaking as she gripped the gun...

  She had to swallow twice to make her voice work. “Do they know who killed him?”

  Silence stretched long and thick, filled with the threat of an accusation.

  “At this point, Bianca is wanted for his murder.”

  Oh, God.

  Jane sank down onto the ground and dropped her head into her hands. She didn’t remember a wedding or vows or sleeping with this man she’d married.

  But she had seen his murder in her mind. Worse, she’d been holding the gun.

  * * *

  FLETCH STUDIED JANE’S reaction for signs she was staging it, but she seemed truly distraught.

  “Does any of this sound familiar?” he asked.

  She blinked as if needing to focus as she looked up at him. “I had a brief flashback where I saw the man who’d given me the wedding ring being shot,” she admitted. “But I’m not sure who shot him.”

  The old adage “innocent until proven guilty” reverberated in Fletch’s head. “Jacob didn’t know details, but he’s going to dig around and find out more about Bianca and her husband. When we get back to Whistler, hopefully he’ll have answers.”

  Jane nodded, although wariness mixed with worry in her eyes.

  “God, Fletch. If I killed my husband,” she said, “the man who shot at us might have been a cop.”

  Fletch considered her theory. “If he was a cop, he would have identified himself as one instead of opening fire and attacking you.”

  Jane tugged her hat over her ears as a gust of wind blew through. “True.”

  Fletch searched for an alternative explanation. “If you witnessed a crime, that might explain the reason a hit man would come after you. Someone doesn’t want you to talk.”

  A troubled expression creased her face.

  He extended his hand to help her up. “Ready?”

  She clasped his hand, their gazes locking. Jacob’s warning taunted Fletch. But the woman looking back at him did not look like a cold-blooded killer.

  Don’t be a fool, another voice inside his head whispered. Just because she’s pretty and in trouble, it doesn’t mean you can let down your guard.

  “I appreciate your honesty, Fletch. Thanks for not instantly believing I’m a murderer,” Jane said softly.

  “Just don’t lie to me, Jane. Tell me when you remember something,” he said gruffly.

  Another gust of wind blew through, and Jane shivered, then released his hand. She brushed snow and debris from the seat of her pants, then took off down the trail.

  He was a half mile down when he realized she hadn’t responded to his request.

  * * *

  JANE LATCHED ON TO Fletch’s theory, mentally trying to fit together the pieces in her mind to create a picture of what had happened.

  But there were still too many holes.

  As they hiked over brush and along jagged ridges, her boots skidded, and she clawed at tree branches to maintain her balance. Twice she slipped, but Fletch caught her, the tension between them palpable.

  Although the theory that she was in danger because she’d witnessed a murder made sense, uncertainty plagued his eyes.

  How could she blame him? Doubts filled her at every turn.

  Fletch suddenly threw up a hand for her to wait. The sun was warming the frozen ground, slush slowing them as their shoes sank deep into the icy water and mud. A noise from the left startled her, and she realized the sound was the reason Fletch had halted.

  A limb snapped off and flew downward, and she ducked sideways to avoid being hit in the head. Fletch clutched his weapon as he surveyed the area surrounding them.

  More noise. Brush rustling. Twigs snapping.

  A movement ahead. Then another.

  Jane dug her fingernails into her palms as she waited.

  Fletch motioned for her to stay where she was, and she flattened herself against the trunk of a tall pine. Snow fluttered from the shivering trees, raining down in a white shower.

  Suddenly more movement ahead. She caught sight of reddish brown fur. Two of them.

  Wolves.

  Fletch motioned for her to be very still, and she was, waiting. At one time red wolves faced extinction, so she didn’t condone killing them unless it was for self-preservation. No need to provoke them now.

  She and Fletch remained immobile, giving the wolves time to create some distance between them. Finally she released the breath she’d been holding, and she inched up beside Fletch. He rubbed his leg again, and she touched his arm. “Let me check the bandage. It looks like you’re bleeding again.”

  “I’m fine,” Fletch said.

  “Don’t be silly,” Jane said. “We need to stop the bleeding and change your dressing.”

  He made a low sound of frustration, then limped over to a big rock and sat down. He dropped the pack on the ground, and Jane retrieved the first aid kit. She gently removed the bloody bandage and cleaned the wound. Fletch winced, sweat beading on his forehead. He was obviously hurting but was too proud to ask for help.

  “You should have called your team to come for you,” Jane admonished while she pressed a blood stopper to the wound.

  “In my job, we have to prioritize. Right now other people need help more than I do.”

  Jane fought a smile at his stubborn independence. “Right.” She applied pressure to the wound. Cold air swirled around her as she waited to stop the bleeding.

  “You did a nice job stitching me up,” he said in a gruff tone.

  Jane shrugged. “My first time. At least, I think it was.” The empty void in her mind threatened to choke her with despair again.

  Fletch squeezed her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. We’ll uncover the truth about you.”

  “I hope so.” She bit down on her bottom lip. “At the moment, I’m worried about you hiking on that leg.”

  Fletch shrugged, a twinkle in his eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a tough guy.”

  Tough and sexy. And a real true-life hero.

  Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away and made quick work of applying another bandage.

  “Thanks,” he said as she stowed the emergency kit again.

  “You’re welcome.” She stood and brushed snow from her clothing.

  Fletch jammed his gun back in the waistband of his pants and gestured he was ready to proceed. Jane followed his lead, winding down a trail so narrow that she felt as if they were going to slide off the mountain.

  They reached another thicket of trees, then stepped through an opening flanked by a cluster of rocks.

  Fletch came to a halt again, his hand pressing her behind him. Jane glanced over his shoulder, then gasped.

  A man lay in the snow between the boulders, his clothing torn and bloody, his arms and legs bent at odd angles, his eyes staring wide open in death.

  Chapter Ten

  The sight of the dead man twisted at Fletch’s gut. He lay stomach down on the rocks, with his face an
gled slightly to one side.

  On first thought, he wondered if he’d fallen and hit his head. But in light of the fact that someone had tried to kill Jane, suspicions kicked in.

  Fletch touched her shoulder. “Stay here. Let me take a look.”

  Jane’s complexion turned pasty white. The man in him wanted to comfort her, but the professional ordered him to do his job.

  Take pictures. Report the body. Let the evidence speak for itself.

  Considering the circumstances, he had to ask, “Do you recognize this man?”

  Jane wrinkled her forehead in thought. “No.”

  “Let me photograph the scene. Sit down and take a deep breath,” he instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Fletch retrieved his camera from his pack and captured different angles of the man’s body and the surrounding area. Talon marks and his torn clothing indicated he’d been mauled by birds of prey, probably postmortem.

  Fletch inched forward, senses honed for trouble as he approached the body. The man had been dressed for the elements, insulated pants, snow boots, flannel shirt, winter coat, gloves and hat, although the hat had come off and lay in the snow.

  Definitely a significant amount of blood had pooled beneath the man’s face.

  Fletch snapped photographs of his clothing, the way his limbs were twisted and distorted, then eased close enough to examine him further.

  Wiry, dirty blond hair. Blood matted on the back of his head. A scar on his face that looked old, as if he’d been in a fight with a knife at some point in his life.

  Fletch pulled gloves from his pocket and slipped them on, then pushed the man’s hair aside. A bullet wound had pierced the back of his skull.

  He gently rolled the man’s head to one side to assess the gunshot. Blood and brain matter covered the rocks and surrounding area, confirming the man had been shot from behind.

  “Fletch?” Jane said in a raw whisper.

  “He was murdered, gunshot wound.” Fletch turned to gauge her reaction. She instinctively rubbed her fingers across the back of her own head.

  “I need to call this in.” He retrieved his radio from his pack and connected with the station. “Fletch here. Found a man shot to death. Looks like he’s been dead a few hours at least.” He gave the coordinates. “Notify Jacob. I’ll look for evidence and collect what I find. Send a recovery team when possible.”

  Fletch ended the call, then combed the area surrounding the rocks for the bullet. A few feet away, he spotted the casing in the midst of a pile of branches. He dug it out, then bagged it and labeled it to give to Jacob for analysis.

  If this bullet casing matched the one from the shooter’s gun, they could connect the two. He dug into the man’s pockets in search of an ID.

  A pack of non-menthol cigarettes, gum, mints, a Swiss army knife and a lighter. No ID.

  The clean shot to the head suggested the killer was a professional. He’d probably taken the ID.

  If this scar-faced man had been killed by a professional, and the professional was the same man who’d shot at Jane, was he a hired hit man?

  Which raised another question—why would a professional killer target Jane?

  * * *

  JANE CURLED HER hands into fists. Fletch wanted to protect her by shielding her from the man’s body, but she needed to see his face. To see if he triggered a memory.

  To know if he was connected to her amnesia.

  According to Fletch’s brother, she was wanted for murder. What if there was a bounty on her head? This man and the bearded shooter could have been tracking her down to bring her in.

  Even so, who killed this man?

  She inched closer, scrutinizing his body size. “Let me see his face,” she said quietly.

  Fletch angled the man’s head to the side. Jane swallowed hard as she studied his features. Shaggy, dirty blond hair. A narrow face, long nose, a jagged scar running from his temple down the left side of his cheek.

  Her pulse hammered. Something about the man was familiar.

  “Jane?”

  His name teetered on the edge of her tongue.

  Fletch hissed between his teeth. “Maybe Jacob or Liam can ID him, then we determine if his death is connected to you.”

  His calm acceptance helped soothe her anxiety. “Everything just seems random,” she said. “I don’t understand the timing, much less if the bits and pieces tell the story.”

  “Close your eyes and try to relax,” Fletch murmured. “Take your time and concentrate. Maybe he had something to do with Victor Renard?”

  A brief image of her husband’s face flashed behind her eyes. Then she was holding a gun. Then...nothing. A big black hole.

  She knotted her hands in frustration.

  Fletch squeezed her shoulder. “Listen to me. You’re making progress. You just need more time.”

  Maybe so. But everything she remembered became even more disturbing and was filled with death and violence.

  * * *

  FLETCH WAS DAMN tired of playing the guessing game. He couldn’t imagine Jane’s agitation.

  His past was filled with happy memories of family camping trips, holidays, boisterous family dinners and game nights. He held on to those precious memories, to the sound of his father’s voice, to the mouthwatering scent of his mother’s homemade peach cobbler, to the joy of their laughter as he and his brothers chased each other through the woods.

  One trip stood out—it was hot as hell and buggy. After dinner everyone dove into the swimming hole to escape the heat and mosquitos.

  Then they’d huddled around the fire and roasted marshmallows.

  The holidays were always special, too. Liam loved scary stories, especially at Halloween. Their mother had decorated the house and yard with spiders and ghosts and goblins, while his father made up a spooky story about the house down the street being inhabited by pirate ghosts.

  He couldn’t imagine losing those memories or living with an empty void in his mind.

  Or not having a family.

  Yet he’d been so focused on hunting down the arsonist who’d taken his father from them that he hadn’t considered having a family of his own. Not until he’d seen Jacob with Cora and her daughter.

  The love between his brother and his new wife sparked his own desire to have someone special in his life.

  He glanced at Jane’s pale face and grimaced. That kiss had been hot.

  But she was embroiled in something deep. If Jacob’s report was right, she might have murdered her husband. Of course, there could be a plausible reason.

  Abuse topped the list. Or self-defense... Perhaps she’d learned something about her husband he didn’t want exposed. Perhaps she’d witnessed her husband commit a murder, and he’d wanted to keep her quiet.

  Or...perhaps he was grasping because he wanted Jane to be innocent.

  His radio crackled, and he connected. “Fletch here. Over.”

  “It’s Jacob. Todd sent a message saying you found a body. Do you have a name?”

  “No, no ID on him.” Fletch explained about the bullet wound to the back of the man’s head. “I took pictures and gathered what might be evidence to bring back. I’ve also requested a recovery team.”

  “Copy that. I’ll make sure the ME and my deputy accompany them.”

  “Do you want me to stay here and secure the scene until the team arrives?” Fletch asked.

  A hesitation on Jacob’s part. “No. I want you down here for medical treatment.”

  “I’m fine,” Fletch said. “Jane did a good job of patching me up.”

  Another heartbeat of silence. “Speaking of Jane, did you ask her about Bianca and Victor Renard?”

  Fletch angled himself away from Jane so she couldn’t hear his conversation.

  She kept looking at the dead man as if he held the secrets to her pas
t.

  “Yes, but the names don’t ring a bell. Did you find out more about the Renards?”

  “According to my source, Bianca worked as an interior designer with her real estate husband. He owned his own company that was worth a few million. Bianca staged new homes for him as well as handling her own client list.

  “The couple just moved to Asheville. So far, I haven’t located any family or friends to verify this information, but I’m working on it.”

  “Financial trouble?” Fletch asked.

  “I’m just getting started. I’ll have one of our analysts dig into their financials to see if there’s anything fishy.”

  “Something worth murdering for.”

  “Yeah. I’ll keep you posted.” Jacob paused. “And Fletch?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful, man. Looks can be deceiving. This woman might be serious trouble.”

  Hannah had certainly deceived him. She’d pretended to love him, but in the end, she’d wanted money and nice things, not a mountain man who lived his days in the woods.

  Fletch ended the connection and walked back over to Jane. She looked at him expectantly. “That was Jacob.”

  Her sharp intake of breath punctuated the air between them. “What did he say?”

  Fletch shrugged. For some reason, he couldn’t reconcile the information Jacob had shared with Jane’s behavior.

  “Tell me what you know, Fletch.”

  The need in her voice roused his protective instincts again. But sharing might trigger her lost memories to resurface.

  So he relayed Jacob’s statement. “Does any of that ring a bell?”

  Jane pursed her lips. “He said I’m an interior designer?”

  He nodded. “Your husband Victor was a big wheel in real estate, worth millions.”

  She furrowed her brows. “In my dreams, I was at a neighborhood cookout. It was in the suburbs somewhere. And it seemed...normal.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. “If I decorated houses, why can’t I recall that? And for some reason, I can’t imagine I had money like that.”