“Just Bishop.”
“I’m Kyle,” he says as he holds out his hand.
I ignore the gesture. I find it ridiculous to try to shake hands while wearing gloves, and I don’t want to shake this guy’s hand anyway.
“We met at the clinic,” he says. “I was looking for someone. A girl.”
“Yeah.” I lean against the Jeep and stare at him. “Did you find her?”
“Still on the hunt.” He grins again, but there is nothing friendly in his expression. “I think I’m getting close though. You see, I found this backpack not too far away. It has all her personal items in it—phone, wallet, a change of clothes. The only tracks heading away from the area lead right up here to you. Care to explain that?”
My heart is beating faster. I hadn’t thought about Marty possibly revealing where the backpack was found, nor did I consider that my Jeep tracks would be an easy trail to follow from the road. I don’t want this guy to realize he’s making me nervous, so I shift my weight, take off one glove, and reach up to rub snow out of my eyes. When I look back at him, he’s still waiting for an answer.
“Not really,” I say. Even if it were the type of thing I excelled at, I have no desire to play verbal games with this asshole.
His smile disappears as he takes a step closer to me.
“Look,” he says, “I know you’ve seen her and not just at that gas station. I think she’s been here. She might still be here. I just want to talk to her. She’s my wife, dammit!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say steadily. “Sounds like she doesn’t want to see you though.”
He obviously doesn’t like hearing this.
“And how would you know that?” He sneers and starts to walk around me toward the cabin. “Iris! Iris, are you in there? Come out here right now!”
I step in front of him, blocking his path.
“You’re not going in there.” I stand up straight, glad to see that I have a couple of inches on the guy. “That’s my place, and you aren’t welcome.”
“You’ve got my wife in there.” He takes a deep breath and a step back. “I just want to talk to her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I live alone, and anyone you care to ask will tell you that.”
“How about you just show me the inside, huh?” The malicious grin is back. “Doesn’t look like there’s a lot of room in that shack. If I could just take a look, it would set my mind at ease.”
I continue to stand in front of him, staring steadily with my hand near my pocket.
Everything about this man is familiar, and it has nothing to do with what Iris or Netti told me about him. I’ve known hundreds of guys just like him—the attitude, the attempt at intimidation, the assumption that he’s going to get what he wants—and since I recognize it for what it is, I feel no need to back away from this sort of bravado.
“I’m going in there.” He takes another step forward. “You can either let me in, or I can drop you to the ground and go in while you lie here bleeding. You understand me, you backwoods hick?”
I don’t respond. Nothing I say to this guy is going to make any difference. I may not know much about dealing with women, but I’ve had a lot of experience dealing with asshole criminals.
I slip the glove from my hand, reach into the pocket of my parka, and pull out the Sig. Without hesitation, I flip the safety off and point it at his face.
“No one invades my place. You understand?” I move forward, forcing him to retreat or else feel steel against his face. “We aren’t in the States, and the reservations you may think I have about protecting my property are wrong. I will not hesitate if you take one step closer.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” he says quietly. He takes another step back, raising his hands in surrender. “She obviously has you all twisted into knots, doesn’t she? Believe me, I know how you feel. Do you want to know the truth about Iris? Do you?”
“Get out.” I keep my voice at what I hope is a deadly calm. “You are not welcome. If I catch you anywhere near here again, they aren’t ever going to find a body. You get me?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says as he continues to back away. “I get you. Just tell her this isn’t over. She’s my wife—that hasn’t changed—and she still owes me. I’m not going anywhere until I get my due.”
“Get out.” I say again. “Now.”
He lowers his hands slowly and throws his leg over the snowmobile. He places the helmet back on his head but keeps the visor up and his eyes on me as he starts the engine and slowly turns away. He speeds off over the banks of snow, and I finally lower the weapon.
Once he’s far enough away that I can no longer hear the snowmobile’s engine, I let out a long breath and place my hands on my knees. I squeeze my eyes shut for a minute as images of blowing his head off flash through my head, and I wonder if I’m going to regret not pulling the trigger.