KnockOut by Catherine Coulter Page B

truck, no motorcycle. He’d either vanished in a puff of smoke or gone so deep into the wilderness it would take a week to find him. Ethan called the ranger station, told them the situation, had Joanna give them Blessed’s description—mid-fifties, maybe five-foot-ten, thin, not more than one hundred fifty pounds, long, thinning gray-brown hair, brown eyes. With a look at Ethan, she’d told them his last name was Backman. Blessed Backman? They were related to this maniac? Ethan had never liked alliteration, and at this moment, he hated it. No, Joanna had no idea if he had a car, a criminal record, or any scars.
    Ethan called law enforcement in the half-dozen towns surrounding Titus Hitch Wilderness. He had them check their criminal databases, but there was nothing on Blessed Backman. He couldn’t think of anything else to do, except find out whatever he could from Joanna.
    He called his deputies back in. None of them, they told him, had seen a thing. Because of what had happened to Ox, Ethan spoke to each of them in turn. They all seemed okay, thank God.
    When Ethan walked into his living room at nearly two o’clock in the morning, it was to see Joanna stretched out on his sofa, spooning Autumn, both of them deeply asleep. Even though it was empty, Joanna still held Ox’s gun, a Colt that had belonged to his grandma, an old lady known hereabouts for extinguishing a cigarette at ten feet with a shot.
    Ethan stepped outside to give instructions to his two deputies, Glenda and Harm, stationed in his driveway for the rest of the night. “Listen carefully. I know you realize there’s something hinky about this guy, and there is. Remember what I said—if he comes around, you don’t look at him, okay? You saw what he did to Ox. Keep your eyes down if you see him, and keep shooting.”
    “Sounds like this guy’s some major-league voodoo artist,” Glenda said, and looked him square in the eye.
    “I think we can start with that. I think he’s also a lot more—he’s out of control.”
    Glenda ran her tongue over her lips. She was scared, and that was good.
    He had no idea what Blessed would do next. “Keep alert,” he told them at least twice.
    When he called Dr. Spitz, he told Ethan it appeared that Ox was going to be all right. His headache had lessened in the past hour. Dr. Spitz said he’d never seen the like, but this deal about hypnotism, he couldn’t swallow that. Maybe it was drugs or some sort of psychotic episode. Even with all Ethan’s assurances that it appeared to be some sort of powerful hypnotism, Dr. Spitz remained skeptical.
    All Ethan was sure of was that Ox would have shot Joanna Backman without a moment’s pause.
    Who was Blessed Backman? Who was the mad old woman?
    He stepped back inside and stared down at Joanna, a woman he hadn’t known existed four days before, and her little girl. Autumn suddenly twitched in her sleep—probably a nightmare, and no wonder. Should he wake her? Before he took a step toward the sofa, Joanna began rubbing the little girl’s cheek, soothing her. From what he could tell, she was still asleep. It was an instinct, he supposed, and he wondered if you just did that when you had a kid.
    Autumn stopped moving. She sighed deeply, pushed back against her mother’s stomach.
    Joanna Backman. Who was she, really? Why did Blessed Backman want Autumn so badly?
    “Meow.”
    Ethan looked down to see Mackie rubbing his face against his jean leg. He scooped him up and, out of long habit, smoothed his whiskers. It was then he noticed Lula tucked in tight against the little girl’s stomach.
    Beneath the coffee table, Big Louie snorted in his sleep, crossed his paws over his nose. He opened one eye to stare at Ethan a moment, then closed it again. He wasn’t more than two feet away from the sofa.
    Ethan picked up one of his grandmother’s afghans off the back of his big TV chair and covered them with it. Just before the cover went down, Lula stared at Mackie, gave him the