Fugitive Heart - By Bonnie Dee Page 0,2

bounced. A disposable phone, no doubt, and Elliot long gone to wherever.

Nick bet no one in New York knew Elliot was from a little village in Wisconsin. He’d only admitted that to Nick when they got drunk one night in college. He seemed ashamed of the place and told everyone he was from Chicago—as if coming from a big city made you a better player. Arnesdale, Wisconsin, seemed like the most logical place Elliot would’ve gone to ground, or stashed stuff he’d taken from criminals.

Elliot had called his special hangout the Old Place. And his description matched this farmhouse perfectly. Hell, turned out everyone else in town called it the Old Place too.

Nick climbed the stairs two at a time. The house had personality; Nick had to give it that. He walked through a couple of oddly shaped bedrooms and two strange little tower rooms composed mostly of windows—which weren’t broken. No graffiti either. This definitely wasn’t the city.

He tapped on walls, knelt by floorboards, peered into closets and thumped on their walls, a penlight between his teeth. Nothing.

Sighing, he switched off the penlight and made his cautious way back downstairs. He had a sleeping bag and other camping gear. He was far better prepared this time for a break from his regular life, he thought grimly as he hauled a can of fruit from the cupboard.

A cake sat on the counter. A lady had left it on his doorstep, along with a note welcoming him to the neighborhood. She’d signed the note “Missy” with a smiley face dotting the i.

He’d watched her from upstairs. She’d had hair piled on her head, an okay figure under an ugly, tight, flower dress, high heels and painted nails. Not exactly the overalls and freckle-faced farm-girl look he’d expected to find in the country. She’d seemed nervous as she’d waited and had hung around way too long before giving up and driving off.

What had that meant?

Nick studied the cake for a minute, then dumped it into a garbage sack. He wouldn’t take any chances. His father’s example had taught him that.

The sight of the cake made his stomach rumble. Right. He’d stored maybe a week’s worth of food in the cupboard. And then what?

His reserves, the money he’d saved up for years, was gone. Some of it had gone into his new identity; most of it had gone into getting this place. Land contract had been the only way he could get his hands on the house—and that meant a hefty deposit. Not that he had any intention of sticking around after he got what he needed. Even if this wasn’t the place Elliot had referenced in his text, at least Nick was safe enough here. And his new license said “Sam Allen”. Not the best alias ever, but better than “Sam Adams”. The idiot who’d sold him the ID had wanted to give him that name—inspired by a beer bottle, not the founding father.

Nick opened the peaches and ate from the can, standing at the sink, which he still hadn’t managed to unclog. The pipes had rumbled ominously the first time he’d tried the taps. A farm had well water, of course. No city supply out here in Nowheresville.

He drank the aluminum-flavored peach syrup and flipped the can into the garbage. Dinner was over.

Someone knocked on the door. He slid to the wall and drew the pistol he’d taken off the guy who’d shown up at Elliot’s place at three a.m. two weeks ago. That was the night it started, the night he’d gone to find out what was going on. The night Elliot vanished as if he’d never existed.

Through the small window in the front door, Nick could see a shadow moving and heard two voices. Two women, talking together about the weather. More neighbors?

What the hell? This house was at least four miles from the closest town, Arnesdale. Didn’t people move to areas like this, past Podunk, beyond the outback of nowhere, because they hated being near neighbors? He thought of the movies set in the country—god-awful horror movies he and Elliot had watched in college. Usually some lunatic farmer slaughtered people and made them into pies, carrying on for years before anyone noticed. That was when Elliot had described this house. The country was isolated, not Grand Central Station.

Nick sank into a crouch, resting on his heels. Eventually he’d have to go into town and interact with other people, but he had no desire to face anyone before he