"Turn your flashers off," Freddie advised.

  "Why?"

  "It'll run down your battery."

  "Oh." That made sense. She reached under the steering column and disengaged the flashers.

  Taking hold of her arm to lead her back to his rattletrap of a car, Freddie tried to shield her from the severe blast of snow and cold pummeling them. He opened the passenger door, helped her inside, then hurried around to the driver's side. Just as he was about to climb in, he looked across the median and saw a black Jeep stopped on the slab. Obviously, the driver had gone down the Interstate to a crossover point and come back. Freddie lifted his hand and waved the car on. For a moment, the Jeep didn't move, then it shot South like a bat out of hell.

  "He's got more confidence than I do out in weather like this," Freddie grumbled as he shut the driver door. He took off his thick glasses and used his muffler to wipe at the fog that covered the lenses.

  "It's guys like that who get the rest of us killed," Brenna replied. She was shivering despite the blasting heat inside the cab. The roar of the straining motor as it idled nearly drowned out Freddie's next words.

  "Ain't that the truth." He replaced his glasses, glanced behind him and to the side, then pulled carefully onto the roadway. "You look like you could use something hot to drink." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I got hot chocolate in the backseat. Melted some marshmallows in it."

  "I could use that!" She turned around to retrieve a red thermos from the torn seat. "You have no idea how grateful I am you decided to come after me, Freddie." When he didn't reply, she touched his arm to gain his attention.

  Freddie nodded shyly. He glanced at her, watching as she poured a cupful of the chocolate. "Put your seatbelt on, Angie."

  "You want some?" Brenna asked, holding the cup out to him.

  "Nah," he replied, shaking his head. "I'm okay. Put your seatbelt on."

  "Okay, okay," she said and laughed. She put the cup on the dashboard and fumbled for the seatbelt. It was one of the old-fashioned kind that did not hook onto the doorframe. She belted the web around her, fumbling to lock it.

  "That's better," Freddie told her.

  Brenna reached for her cup and took a long swallow. The hot chocolate was sweet and rich and infinitely satisfying. It was one of her favorite treats. She savored the smoothness of it, a little disappointed that the marshmallows left a slightly chalky taste in her mouth.

  "How far are we from La Fargeville?" she asked.

  "Not far." He turned to smile at her. "Drink that chocolate before you turn into a Popsicle."

  She chuckled and took another long swallow of the drink. Her hands cupped around the plastic to warm them, she shifted in her seat so she could look at him. "Do you always make a habit of coming to a damsel's rescue."

  "Aye," he replied, turning to grin at her. "Knight of the Realm, at your service."

  "Then I'll award you my scarf when we get to the mechanic's," she said and giggled, unable to stop a yawn.

  The overly warm air blowing out of the vent and the healing richness of the chocolate was lulling her, making her drowsy. She settled into the seat, drawing up her knees as much as the seat belt would allow. "I really do appreciate this, Freddie."

  "No problem," he replied, casting her another look. When she yawned again, he smiled. "Sleepy?"

  "I must be," she answered, yawning again.

  "Then why don't you take a nap, Brenna?"

  She shook her head. "If I do, I won't…" She stopped. Her head snapped around and she stared at him, although his face was wavering before her. "W…what did you call me?"

  Freddie Hewlett slowly turned to look at her. "Brenna," he replied and his smile was pure evil. "Or would you prefer I call you sweeting?"

  Brenna's eyes went wide in her suddenly pale face. She twisted in the seat, lunging for the door handle, but found herself caught by the restricting confinement of the seatbelt. Whimpering with fear, she fumbled with it, blackness already starting to shut down her world. The buckle would not open.

  "Just relax, milady," her companion said. "You won't be able to get it open. The moment you shut it, it locked tighter than your beautiful legs are going to around my hips."

  As the light vanished, the last thing Brenna heard was his laughter.

  Chapter 13

  * * *

  He drove off the Interstate just before the crossover into Canada. He went ten miles down a two-lane road—never meeting any cars—and turned onto a snow-clogged lane. The heavy old car's snow tires dug with ease into the accumulating snow. Two miles farther, he took a gravel drive that led to a little farmhouse hidden in a copse of tall trees. Activating the garage remote control, he waited until the door was all the way up before he drove inside. Parking the car beside a brand new luxury sedan sitting in the other bay, he used the remote to close the door.

  Brenna was slumped against the door, unconscious. He glanced at her for a moment before turning off the engine and getting out of the car. Walking to the trunk of the Lincoln, he opened the lid, leaned inside, and unzipped a sleeping bag. He peeled back the flap, then walked to the old Pontiac's passenger door. Opening it carefully to keep Brenna from being hurt, he braced her body against him, reaching around her to unlock the trick closing of the seatbelt. His hands went under her knees, behind her shoulders, and he lifted her limp body from the car and took her to the open trunk of the Town Car where he gently laid her atop the opened sleeping bag. He lifted one of her arms and laid it atop her chest, pulled off his gloves, reached into the pocket of his parka and took out a hypodermic needle filled with sodium pentathol.

  He lifted her right hand, slapped gently at her flesh until her veins popped up. Putting the syringe between his teeth, he drew off the cap, then expertly injected the drug into the back of Brenna's hand, directly into a vein. When the syringe's payload was shot, he replaced the cap and put the syringe in his pocket. Taking a roll of duct tape from a satchel he'd placed in the trunk along with the sleeping bag, he bound her ankles and wrists together, then tucked her inside the sleeping bag, pulling the zipper up to her chin so that only her face was uncovered. After a few more necessary precautions, he closed the trunk and went inside the house.

  Standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, he stared at his reflection for a moment, then peeled off the straggly white-blond wig he'd been forced to wear for the last five months. From his pocket, he took a plastic grocery bag and dropped the wig inside. The thick glasses and blue-tinted contact lens were placed in the bag. The mouthpiece that had made his teeth look crooked was next. Since the bulky parka he wore had made him as thickset as the padding he usually wore under his smelly clothes at RR, there was nothing to remove there. However, the latex sheathing that covered his face to hide the telltale mole on his left cheek was peeled away and discarded into the bag. Tying the two ends of the bag together, he took it into the living room and threw it into the cold fireplace, sprinkled lighter fluid on it, lit it, and stood there watching until nothing was left of Freddie Hewlett except ashes. After going into the kitchen and retrieving a metal dustpan and whiskbroom, he swept the still-glowing ashes into the dustpan and carried them to the back door where he released them into the falling snow and skirling wind.

  When he drove out of the garage ten minutes later, Brenna Collins was unconscious in the trunk of his car. On her face was a mask pumping oxygen from a bottle that had been rolled to the back of the trunk.

  As he pulled up to the border-crossing kiosk, he pushed the button to roll down his window. "Afternoon, Sir," he said in a pleasant Irish brogue. "Helluva day, isn't it?"

  "Your citizenship?" the bored guard inquired, hating anyone rich enough to own such a car.

  "Canada," he said. "From Quebec." He pronounced it "key-beck."

  "Your reason for being in the States?"

  "Went to see me girl, I did," he replied, grinning.

  The guard took in the handsome face and gleaming dark amber eyes, the sleek brown hair, and white teeth, and hated the man even more. "How long were you in the States?"

  "Just two days."

  Without another word, the border guard waved him through.

  It was as simple as that.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  Gananouque

  Ontario, Canada

  Brenna woke with a vicious headache pounding in her temples. She put up a shaky hand and rubbed the pain. For a few seconds, she had no idea how she'd come to be lying in an old iron bed in a room she'd never seen in her life; but when full memory came back to her, she moaned in abject hopelessness.

  "It's not as bad as all that, sweeting."

  Brenna didn't need to lift her head to see who had spoken. She ignored him.

  "Ah, the silent treatment," he said, chuckling. "That's the Brenna I know and love."

  There was a squeak of floorboards, then he came into view. He smiled down at her. "Did you have a good sleep?" When she refused to answer him, he sat on the bed. As she made to turn her face from him, he reached out casually and kept her from doing so. Turning her face toward him, he looked down into her hostile eyes and grinned. "You're a piece of work, you know that?" His Southern drawl was soft as molasses.

  "Go to hell," she spat, jerking her face from his light grip.

  "Oh," he sighed, "I've no doubt I will eventually." He leaned over her. "But not before I screw you, sweet thing."

  She slowly turned her head toward him, then lay there staring fixedly at him for a long time before finally speaking. "You are sick," she said, letting each word drop like a heavy weight.

  He nodded. "So I've been told." He grinned.

  Brenna made a helpless sound and looked away from him. "Kylan will come looking for me."

  He folded his arms over his chest and stretched out his long legs. "Yes, he will." One thick dark brow quirked upward. "What gave me away?"

  She would not look at him. "The accent," she answered. "You don't have one."

  He let his head fall back. "Ah, yes. The accent. Identical twins; mirror images of one another. No one else has ever been able to tell us apart before now." He shrugged. "Same profession—him in homicide out in Iowa, me in the D.E.A. in Florida. That's how I got to be so good with disguises!" He laughed. "Remember when I told you it was funny you'd ran to the Florida Panhandle, of all places? Woman, you practically ran right into my arms! By the way, my name is Rylan."

  "I don't care who you are," she ground out.

  Rylan Cree tsked. "You thought he was the killer out in Des Moines, didn't you, milady?"

  She turned to glare at him. "Does he know what you've done?"

  Rylan Cree grinned. "Of course, he does, but he can't prove it. Anymore than any policeman can prove it. I don't make mistakes and I don't leave witnesses."

  "You left me."

  "Ah, so I did," he sighed. He scanned her angry face and was amused that she no longer appeared to be afraid of him. "For you, I made an exception."

  "Why?"

  "I really can't say. There was something about you, Brenna. Some quality lacking in all the other women I've known." He cocked his head to one side. "Maybe it was love at first sight. Who knows?" He reached out to touch her face.

  "Don't touch me!" she snarled.

  His smile faded. "You know Freddie was in love with Angela and I believe Angela was falling in love with him."

  "Freddie never existed."

  "Yes, he did. Freddie was my father. I…"

  He stopped and looked behind him, then stood and walked to the window. Using the back of his hand, he eased the drape from the window. He stood there a long time, then turned to look at her. "He's out there."

  Brenna's heart thudded against her ribcage. "How do you know?"

  "I just do," he replied and let the curtain fall. Without glancing her way, he walked to the dresser.

  "What are you going to do?" She gasped when she saw the gun in his hand.

  Rylan Cree slapped the ammo clip into the base of the nine millimeter semi-automatic weapon and racked a bullet into the chamber. He stuck the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then turned to look at her.

  "Freddie Hewlett might have been a real klutz, Brenna, but he was deeply in love with Angela O'Neil." He held her gaze. "Maybe when this is all over, Freddie and Angie can take up where they left off."

  She stared at him. "You're going to kill him," she whispered.

  Rylan Cree shrugged. "It's the only way. It's either him or me."

  "He's your brother."

  "Yes, and the only reason I haven't killed him before now is because it would have been too much like killing myself." A deep darkness flitted through his golden eyes. "But you know what? He's in love with my woman and that will never do."

  "He doesn't love me. He's never…"

  "I know. I feel what he feels, just like he feels what I feel!"

  "If that were true, he'd feel the same anger toward twins you do, and he doesn't."

  He was shaking his head. "You don't know. You have no way of knowing because you aren't a twin! We are identical. No one can tell us apart. Our parents couldn't tell us apart. They were always calling me Kylan or calling him Rylan and it made me so angry. I hated not having my own face. I hated having a name that sounded like Kylan. I wanted them to see me. See me!" He thumped his chest. "Look at me! Listen to me! Love me!" He looked down at his hands, surprised to see them trembling.

  "Then he must have felt the same way," she said quietly. He wasn't looking at her so she slowly eased her legs from the bed.

  "He did," Rylan whispered. "But…" He looked at her and saw that she was edging toward the door. His facial expression hardened. "Get back on the bed!"

  She lunged for the door, almost reached it before he leapt after her, grabbing her around the waist to swing her away. Brenna tried to scream, but he clamped his hand over her mouth and dragged her, kicking and clawing at his arms, back to the bed. He fell back on the bed, taking her with him, then rolled so she was beneath him, crushed by his weight.

  "You hush!" he said, his thumb and forefinger pinching her nostrils shut. "Do you hear me, Brenna? Hush!"

  She was suffocating. Her nails were digging into his right forearm; she could feel the wetness of his blood on her fingers, but he seemed oblivious to the pain.

  "Do you hear me?" he snarled in her ear and released his hold on her nostrils. After allowing her one deep intake of breath, he squeezed her nostrils closed again. Her frantic squirming to break free made him hard against her thigh.

  Brenna saw pinpoints of light flashing in front of her and thought her head would explode from the building pressure. Just as she was about to pass out from the lack of oxygen, he released his hold on her mouth and rammed his fist into the side of her head, knocking her unconscious.

  Chapter 15

  * * *

  Kylan Cree circled behind the cabin, wondering why he had such an intense feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. By the time he'd doubled back on the Interstate to pick up Brenna, Hewlett was already there, almost as though he'd known she would need his assistance.

  It hadn't occurred to him until he was three miles down the Interstate looking for a crossover to double back that Hewlett must be Rylan.

  "Son of a fucking bitch!" he'd snarled, pressing down on the accelerator.

  From the moment he realized Fred Hewlett had to be his brother, Kylan had known where the killer would take Brenna Collins. The old cabin on the St. Lawrence River had been in the Cree family for over sixty years and had been what their grandfather had euphemistically called his "fishing haven." It had been in that cabin, thirty-six years ago, that Mary Elizabeth Jamison Cree had given birth to twin sons.

  And it would be in that cabin where one of Mary Liz's sons would die tonight.

  Insane with jealousy, driven by a need he could not explain even to himself, he burst through the door of the cabin, gun raised to blow his brother into the hereafter.

  Rylan was standing near the bed, his own weapon pointed straight out in front of him, his left hand bracing his right wrist. His smile was as cold as an Iowa winter.

  Kylan's eyes darted to the bed for just a second. He didn't know if Brenna was alive. He could only pray that she was. His gaze zeroed in on a face he hadn't seen in twenty years unless he looked into a mirror.

  "You'll never have her," Rylan whispered.

  Stunned by the ominous words, the nine millimeter Stechkin semi-automatic in Ky's hand lowered just a fraction of an inch. "What have you done?" he breathed.

 

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