I'll Find You

by Nancy Bush

Genres: Romantic Suspense; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

"Nancy Bush always delivers edge-of-your seat suspense!" --Lisa Jackson, New York Times bestselling author Only Killing Stops The Pain. . . Callie Cantrell has only fragmented memories of the car accident that killed her husband and son. One year later, she's still trying to start over, yet she can't shake her unease. Especially when former LA cop West Laughlin barges into her life, searching for his young nephew. At first he thinks Callie's lying about who she is and what she knows. But soon it's clear that Callie and West are linked by a killer who has bent others to his twisted will. The worst night of Callie's life was just the beginning of his vengeance. And when her turn comes again there will be no escape. . . Praise for Nancy Bush's Nowhere to Hide "Pulse-pounding. . .Readers will tear through the pages." -- Publishers Weekly "Edge-of-your-seat suspense keeps the pages turning. This is one definite thrill ride." -- RT Book Reviews, 4 Stars

Release date: July 1, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 415

Sample

Callie Cantrell slid open the door to her balcony and immediately felt the sweltering humidity of Martinique. She’d grown accustomed to it these past months, though when she’d first arrived on the Caribbean island she’d been limp, exhausted, and certain she would never become acclimated.

Or maybe that was just because she was mentally and physically spent. Numb. Lost. She’d lived in Los Angeles for most of her adult life and normally would have been able to handle the change in temperature, but ever since Sean’s death nothing was normal.

One year ago. A little over, now.

Leaning her forearms on the wrought-iron railing, she purposely pushed those dark and anxious thoughts aside, like she’d done nearly every moment since she’d decided she wanted to try to get better, to try to live again. Dwelling on his death was dangerous to her. She hadn’t needed a therapist to tell her that, but she’d needed one to bring her back from the edge, to help her begin the journey into the next phase of her life, to convince her she still had a life.

It had taken a month in a hospital and then continual sessions with Dr. Rasmussen to get her to start eating again, get her out of the house she’d shared with her husband and son, get her to accept that this was her new reality. She hadn’t truly been suicidal, though they’d thought she was. She’d simply been too destroyed to function in any positive capacity. Depression. Survivor’s guilt. Abject misery. Yep, she had them all. When she’d finally gotten up the gumption to take charge of her life, she’d told the Cantrell family lawyer that she was going to the island of Martinique for an indefinite stay. He’d objected. It was too soon. She was too fragile. What would he tell Derek and Diane, Jonathan’s grasping brother and sister? When was she coming back?

Now she gazed over the rooftops of the apartments and tenements on the hill below her, looking beyond the telltale signs of humanity toward the crystalline waters of Fort-de-France Bay. She should really appreciate its beauty more than she did, although she did recognize that the slow pace, French language, and sense of being in a different world were helping her slowly come back.

“Callie! Callie!”

Looking below, down the crooked cobblestone alley that led to the road, she saw a little boy, no more than five years old, racing around the corner waving his dust-grimed arm frantically.

Callie grinned and waved back. Tucker, the only other resident of the area she knew who spoke her language, was heading in her direction full tilt. “What are you doing up so early?” Callie called, leaning over the rail.

“I come to see you.” He flashed her a huge smile and scampered up the cracked concrete steps to the apartment house’s front door.

Callie walked back inside and wondered, not for the first time, how Tucker could have so much freedom. It was barely six A.M., for Pete’s sake, and the child ran loose among Martinique’s narrow streets and alleys until way after dark. Callie rarely saw Tucker with an adult, and she’d only met his mother once. Aimee Thomas had regarded Callie with suspicion and had ordered in French—Martinique’s native tongue—for Tucker to leave the room. She then explained in broken English to Callie that she was Tucker’s mother and that she had tried very hard to keep him in line but it was difficult. She didn’t mention Tucker’s father, and Callie couldn’t tell if there even was one.

Callie had privately felt Aimee was just making excuses for being so lax, but since she hadn’t wanted to alienate herself from her she kept her opinions to herself. Tucker was too important to Callie for her to object too strongly. In fact, Callie realized, Tucker was the reason she was still here, almost a month after her initial date of departure. Was he a replacement for the son she’d lost? Almost assuredly, but in that she didn’t give a damn. If she wanted to lavish all her love and attention on the boy, what the hell was wrong with that? And Tucker’s innocence and unbridled enthusiasm were a tonic she eagerly drank. She was slowly, ever so slowly, getting better.

Tucker impatiently rattled her apartment door and Callie hollered, “Hold on. I’m coming.”

“Hurry! I brung you something.”

“That’s ‘brought,’ Tucker, and no, I will not accept any more gifts. You’ve got to take this one back,” Callie said sternly, glancing toward her bedroom and the bracelet on her dresser as she made her way to the front door.

She slipped the chain off the lock and opened the door. Tucker, like the bundle of pure energy he was, hurled himself inside and held out his hand triumphantly. “See?” he demanded.

Cupped between his palms was a tiny, bluish-tinted starfish.

“Ahhh . . .” Callie put the starfish in her own palm, examining it critically as she looped an arm around Tucker’s thin shoulders. “You’ve been beachcombing.”

“Yesterday. And I goes today, too.”

“You’re going today?”

Tucker bobbed his dark head. His eyes were a fine, clear blue and they stood out dramatically against his dark hair and skin. Callie had grown used to the way he mangled his verbs; in fact, it was amazing he spoke English as well as he did, considering his mother was so poor at it. Or at least that’s what she wanted Callie to believe.

“I go to the pier and waits around.” Tucker glanced over his shoulder as if he expected someone to materialize in the open doorway. He moved still closer to Callie. “I have to go first with Maman, though.”

Tucker’s dislike of doing anything with his mother was another piece of a growing puzzle. It’s none of your affair, she reminded herself, but she hugged Tucker extra hard. “Well, I have to go out this morning too,” she said, straightening. “I’m going grocery shopping and I promise to bring you back something from the bakery.”

“Chocolate?”

“You bet.”

“You bet,” he repeated, grinning.

She laughed, surprising herself. When was the last time she’d done that?

“Take me with you,” he said suddenly, begging her with those beautiful eyes.

Callie had to fight herself from buckling under. “You are a heartbreaker,” she scolded him lightly. “But your mom’s waiting for you and I’ve got a million and one things to do that you’d think would be no fun. Now,” she added briskly, before he could put forth another protest and weaken her resolve, “let’s talk about that other gift you gave me. The one I have to give back.” She strode into her bedroom and picked up the unusual silver bracelet with its rings of purple stones—They couldn’t be amethysts, could they?—that Tucker had bestowed upon her. Callie had been bowled over by the gift and done her best to refuse it. From all accounts Tucker lived in near squalor, and when he’d unceremoniously dropped the bracelet in her lap one afternoon, Callie had done a classic double take. She was certainly no expert, but . . . even if it was a fake, it was an expensive one. It must belong to his mother. She’d tried to refuse but Tucker had been adamant, his eyes filling with unshed tears at her insistence that she couldn’t accept it. Sick at heart that she’d hurt his feelings, Callie had said she would keep the bracelet for a few days. Those few days had passed and now she was anxious to give it back.

She stretched out her arm to him, the bracelet hanging from her fingers. “It’s beautiful and I love it, but it’s too expensive of a gift.” She wondered again how he’d ever come to possess it, then decided she was probably better off not knowing.

“You don’t wear it,” he said, hurt.

“I can’t. It’s too precious. I think you should . . . give it back to your mother.”

“It mine!” he said swiftly, almost angrily. “You wear it.”

Callie stared at him in consternation. Something wasn’t quite right, but she couldn’t figure out what it was.

“I’ll wear it today,” Callie said, as a means to pacify him, “but only if you promise to take it back later. Deal?” She passed the bracelet to her left hand and stuck out her right.

Normally Tucker jumped at her Americanisms, soaking them up and adding them to his vocabulary. But now Tucker just stood in injured silence, his gaze on the floor. Callie squatted down to his level and lifted his chin. “If I could, I would wear your gift every day. Believe me. But sometimes adults can’t accept certain gifts. It just wouldn’t be right. What would your mother think if she knew you gave me this bracelet?”

“It mine,” Tucker insisted again, but doubt had crept into his tone.

“If I put it on now, promise me you’ll let me give it back later.” She waggled the fingers of her right hand and he reluctantly reached out and shook it.

“Deal,” he mumbled.

“Good. Then I’ll put it on right now.” Callie ran the bracelet up her left arm and gave Tucker a quick kiss on the top of his head. “Now scoot home before we get in hot water with Aimee.”

She put her palms on his shoulders and turned him in the direction of the door, but he twisted his neck around. “Hot water?” he asked.

“Just another expression. It means ‘big trouble’—the kind that neither of us wants.”

“Hot water,” he repeated, turning fully around again to face her, his expression lightening.

“You just love those idioms,” she said, laughter in her voice. “I think—” she began, when he suddenly threw his arms around her waist and pressed his face into her stomach, his thin body tense with emotion. They stood in silence for a moment and Callie felt her heart beat painfully in her chest. She had to leave very soon, she realized, or it would be impossible to. It nearly was already. She thought of Sean and for a terrible moment couldn’t picture his face. All she could see was Tucker and it stopped the breath in her throat.

Tucker ended the embrace a moment later. He was quick to display affection but also quick to sense when he needed to pull back. With a wave and slight smile he headed out the door, the clattering of his footsteps down the wooden stairs sounding more like an army than just one small boy.

“Let me walk you home!” she called after him.

But it was already too late to catch up with him. Curbing her natural instinct to mother him, Callie pulled herself together and let him go. This was his accepted way of life. He would be on his own again—alone—soon enough anyway. It was crazy, but it was out of her hands.

She inhaled deeply, then let out a slow breath. Tucker belonged to Aimee and not to her. He was an endearing boy, but she was nothing other than a friend to him. This was a transitory relationship, one that had certainly done its magic in bringing her back to the land of the living, but she couldn’t build on it.

Though Callie understood perfectly why she found Tucker so attractive, she was less sure of why he had been drawn to her. She was just another tourist in a city overflowing with them, and though she had purposely moved from her hotel, stretching her meager French vocabulary to rent this apartment on the hill above Fort-de-France, that was the only remarkable aspect about her.

Grabbing up the plastic beach bag she used as a carryall, she stepped onto the third-floor landing, locked the door, then headed down the stairs and out to the narrow, cobblestone street lined with tall, whitewashed buildings that meandered down the hill.

She planned to go to the open market and buy some produce, maybe a bouquet of flowers. Ever since the accident, she’d felt like she was in a colorless world and subconsciously the part of herself that had been buried so long but was determined to survive gravitated to bright hues.

As she walked along she felt a shiver shimmy down her spine, as if someone were spying on her. Immediately she looked behind herself but the street was empty.

Something’s wrong, she told herself, then just as deliberately shoved the thought aside, one she kept having no matter what she seemed to do. Of course something was wrong. Her whole world had been upended and torn apart. That was it. That was all. That was enough.

Yet . . .

From the moment she’d first woken up in the hospital, bleary and confused, she’d felt there was something she was missing. Something she’d forgotten or had almost known, and she kept experiencing a kind of déjà vu in odd moments. When she was reading the overhead menu at a coffee shop. When she was pulling money from her wallet. Each time she fought the emotional wrench of saying good-bye to Tucker and then turning her thoughts to her own life.

She had no memory of the accident itself, a common occurrence she’d been told, but she could remember the sense of anxiety and uneasiness that had plagued her for weeks prior to the accident. Was it because Jonathan had turned so mean-spirited and reckless? Was it her fear that he was keeping something from her? Or was it because of this something she’d known and then forgotten, something that felt like it was teasing just outside her consciousness? A sense that if she fell into a half dream it might well to the surface and she might be able to reach out and grab it?

Now, as she reached the open market, she shook her head, like she had so many times before. The harder she tried to nab it, the farther it seemed to recede from her grasp.

Someday, she told herself, fighting back the building frustration, but her mind wouldn’t quit traveling down that twisted path. She’d been told their car plunged off a cliff as they were driving on Mulholland. No one knew quite how it had happened but Callie, even though she couldn’t fully remember, simply blamed Jonathan for driving too fast. He was always driving too fast. And yes, she’d heard that there was another car abandoned at the scene. A stolen car with a broken headlight and smashed right, front fender. The theory was the two cars had been racing. She’d adamantly refused to believe Jonathan would have raced someone with both Sean and her in the car, but then, how much had she really known about the man she’d married?

She’d also been told she was lucky to be alive. Maybe . . . but she’d wished, more than once, that she had died with Sean. Those months afterward, the excruciating minutes that ticked by so slowly while she recovered from broken ribs and lacerations along her right arm and torso, had been long and hard. And then the month in the mental ward . . .

Jonathan’s sister and brother, Diane and Derek Cantrell, had taken care of the funeral arrangements. Callie, who barely knew them, vaguely registered their hostility, thinking they blamed her for their brother’s death. Later, she’d come to realize that they blamed her for inheriting the Cantrell family fortune. Later still, she discovered that fortune was about a tenth what it had once been, that Jonathan had practically run the company into the ground. She’d been thinking of taking a trip to Martinique, to the island where she and Jonathan honeymooned and Sean was conceived, a vague plan that had roots in the fact that she wanted to just run away. With Diane and Derek’s increasingly hostile attitude after they examined Jonathan’s financial records and realized the money just wasn’t there, Callie had taken off. She had kept her own checking account and she used funds she’d saved on her own.

She told William Lister, a man she’d felt she could trust even though he was the Cantrell family attorney, that she was leaving on a trip. She didn’t tell him where. He advised her against it; there were a dozen legal matters to attend to, to which Callie told him that Diane and Derek could have everything, save what she had in her own account. She didn’t care. She just needed to leave.

Derek caught up with her before she took off and tried to wheedle out of her where she was going. He intimated that she was stealing their inheritance, which pissed her off no end. She didn’t give a damn about the money, or him, or anyone. She’d lost the only person who was important to her. Derek also implied that Jonathan had bought her jewels and designer clothes and other lavish gifts. That’s where he felt the money had gone, and he wanted those gifts returned.

To that Callie said, “Bite me.” She didn’t have the money or the mythical gifts. She took off for Martinique and left her cell phone behind so they couldn’t reach her. She was sick of the lot of them. In the end she’d called Lister a time or two, mostly to let him know she was still alive and okay and to keep him from sending the hounds after her.

Callie sensed there was a lot she didn’t know about her husband, but she wasn’t even certain she wanted to know what it was. Maybe that was why her mind shied away from whatever it was she couldn’t grasp. Whatever the case, she’d spent the last month finishing the recovery that had started within the walls of Del Amo Hospital. She wasn’t her old self; that person had died an unlamented death somewhere along the way. She was someone new, someone stronger. Someone who planned to make much better choices from here on out.

He watched the young woman with the red-tinged, blond hair weave through the open market and held his breath, a surge of hot fury licking through his veins. He’d been accused of being cold and heartless by women before, maybe he had been with them, but right now he was churning with rage, his insides hot lava.

His eyes followed her as she picked up several mangos and a papaya and then moved on to examine an array of tropical flowers. He saw her fingers reach out and gently touch a blood red anthurium and fought back the urge to grab her hard and shake her until something fell loose.

Not yet, he told himself. Not here.

He traced her movements as she made her purchases, then slipped in behind her as she walked away, her carryall laden with fresh fruit and vegetables, the nodding heads of birds of paradise and tiger lilies almost like a beckoning hand. He followed carefully behind her and realized she was heading toward the bay.

The early-morning stillness of Fort-de-France Bay seeped seductively into Callie’s consciousness. Her senses were lulled, attuned only to the heat, the silence, and most of all the view, as she stood on the pier and watched the ferryboat load visitors for the thirty-minute voyage from Fort-de-France to Pointe du Bout, the tourist resort on the other side of the bay.

Her carryall was loaded with groceries, and she had only one stop left to make: the bakery. But she couldn’t find the energy to move. Stretching her bare arms skyward, she felt the sun soak deep into her skin. Smiling, she squinted against the blinding dazzle of light on the water.

An inflatable boat at the end of another pier was being stowed with provisions, and Callie watched the two men doing the loading without really seeing them. Her thoughts were far away. That same elusive memory was teasing at the back of her mind. She ignored it, unwilling to frustrate herself with being incapable of grasping it, and kept her gaze on the small rubber launch as it roared to life and pulled away from the shore. Her line of sight took in a trim white and royal-blue sailboat anchored in the bay. Small waves from the wake of other boats slapped against the sailboat’s gleaming hull, and a man on deck moved to the rope ladder near the stern, leaning down to help load provisions from the approaching inflatable raft.

Callie’s scalp prickled and she looked around. A man and woman were walking along the dock, arm in arm, and a female jogger with a long-limbed reddish dog trotting beside her swept off to her right. A deeply tanned man about a quarter-mile down the shore held a pair of binoculars to his eyes, the binoculars trained on that same sailboat. She glanced back to the sailboat herself and didn’t see the same binoculars sweep the shore, pass by her once, then casually pass by her again.

Callie closed her eyes and inhaled the heady, salt-laden air. Hearing the launch rev to life once more, she slowly lifted her lids and watched the rubber craft motor back to the pier, a frothy wake fanning out behind it. To her surprise one of the men looked up, saw her, and began to wave frantically.

She glanced around. She was the only person in sight. Did she know this man? She didn’t think so. He had a grizzled beard and bulky build, and even from a distance she could see how dirty his clothes were. Then he put his hands to his lips and threw her an expansive kiss, arms spread wide, his mouth split by a wide grin.

She smiled back. Of course the man was a stranger. A Frenchman. She’d just been the recipient of his romantic enthusiasm.

She lifted her hand and waved a bit self-consciously. Tucker’s bracelet caught the sunlight and threw bright, lavender pinpoints of light in an arc around her. The man in the launch waved again and then the small boat reached the pier and the two men began hauling on more provisions.

Callie looked at her watch. It was time to get moving if she planned to do anything more than hang around the piers. Turning away from the bay, she walked back toward the center of the city.

Feeling something on the back of her neck, she glanced behind herself, her heart suddenly galloping. But it was the same scene. Nothing had changed except the jogger and dog had disappeared around the curve of the pier. The man who’d been watching the sailboat was tucking his binoculars into their case and turning the other way.

Fort-de-France was a thriving metropolis, its streets so narrow that cars parked on the sidewalks, forcing the pedestrians to spill into the street. It was early enough, as Callie headed north, that she wasn’t battling a crowd of people and cars. Her progress was rapid and she arrived at the tiny bakery within minutes.

“Bonjour,” she said to the woman behind the counter.

“Bonjour.” The woman smiled distractedly and waited for Callie to make a selection.

There were pastries of every kind. Flaky Napoleons layered with custard, cone-shaped scones filled with coconut crème, pineapple tarts, croissants, crusty loaves of bread. Callie’s French couldn’t stand the test of such exotic names and she pointed to several crème-filled items, unable to resist buying several.

“Thank you. Merci.” Callie picked up the bag and settled it into the trusty plastic carryall. Since she had no car she walked everywhere, and after she had found herself an apartment a mile from the city center she learned to limit her purchases to what she could comfortably carry.

The sun was already hot as she headed up the hill toward her apartment. Shifting the bag from one hand to the other, she trekked along until the sidewalks of Fort-de-France gave way to the steep, narrow roadway that led back to the less congested street fronting her apartment. Traffic was thick, and she turned at the first street that could take her away from the main thoroughfare.

A trickle of sweat ran down her spine as she hiked upward. Looking back down the hill, she saw the ferry, shrunk by distance, returning across the bay from Pointe du Bout. Even from this distance she could discern many of the major hotels and tourist resorts that ringed this side of the bay, their white sand beaches sloping into the sea. When Callie and Jonathan had come to Martinique on their honeymoon, they’d stayed at one of those hotels. This time she’d steered clear of them. She asked herself for about the millionth time why she’d chosen Martinique when it held such a dubious memory for her, but she had no answer to that. It was a pretty place. More tropical than Los Angeles. She hadn’t traveled a lot, apart from moving from a suburb of Chicago to the West Coast after a man she’d thought she wanted to marry. It was Bryan’s dream to work as an actor and Callie’s dream to be with Bryan. Neither had worked out.

Tired, she paused for breath, setting down her bag and wiping perspiration from her forehead. It was damn hot. The kind of thick, tropical heat heavy with humidity that stole your breath and weighted down your limbs. Resolutely straightening her shoulders, Callie trudged on again. As the noise of Fort-de-France receded behind her, she almost felt alone on the planet. The only other person in view was a man walking some distance behind her. He looked familiar and her heart jolted before she realized he was only the man who’d been watching the sailboat, his small binoculars tucked into his belt. He was staring into the screen of his cell phone, his forward motion kind of haphazard as his attention was on his phone.

Texting, she assumed, thinking of the disposable phone she’d purchased, then shoved in a drawer. She’d made a few calls since she’d been here, couldn’t act completely like she was a missing person. The few times her phone had rung she’d known it was William Lister or a wrong number. She didn’t answer either way. She didn’t have anything to say to Lister. She would deal with him and the rest of Jonathan’s family when she was darn good and ready. She’d given them everything they wanted, and if they would just leave her alone, she would be back soon enough anyway.

And you’ll leave Tucker.

She couldn’t think about that now. Couldn’t. Think. About it.

Cutting across a weed-choked lawn, she took a shortcut the rest of the way. The sun was shining brightly as she turned a corner, walked along a cracked, narrow sidewalk, then ducked into the alley between her apartment building and the one next door.

Where the hell is she going?

He kept a careful distance behind, his gaze not on the smartphone in his hand but on her tan legs and the swaying hem of her gauzy white sundress. He’d been looking for her for over a week, trolling a particular Internet café, making discreet inquiries, getting nowhere. Then she’d turned up at the market and walked down to the pier, big as you please. Soaking in the sights like every other tourist, her crown of hair shining beneath the blazing sun.

He wanted to kill her with his bare hands.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Victoria had warned him in her tight-lipped way. “If you have to bargain with her, okay. But don’t antagonize her any further.”

Like he needed to be told what to do. He’d done plenty of surveillance. Had enough years with the LAPD to be considered an old hand.

Still, Victoria was right in one respect: he wanted to shake the woman until she fell into pieces. He wanted to shatter her self-indulgent world and leave her in the rubble. There would be no bargaining as far as he was concerned. Victoria knew that, but she always tried to make everything sound so civilized. But the only way to deal with her was by bringing things down to a level she could understand.

Bargaining was for beggars. Now was the time for action.

The bitch was in his sights.

Callie stopped again, halfway through the alley, arms aching. She set down her carryall and swept a hand through her hair, making a face at its long, untamed style. When she got back to LA she was going to cut it short. A new life and a new look. Maybe she’d get her master’s and apply for a real teaching job.

Hoisting her bag once more, Callie continued on the sun-cracked dirt path between the buildings. She met no one and the silence was unbroken as she walked on. The sun reflected off the white walls and prickled her scalp. The air felt like a hot blanket. She blew on straggles of hair that fell into her eyes and thought about the pitcher of iced lemonade that awaited her in her tiny refrigerator.

A pebble lodged itself in her sandal and she stopped, lifting her foot and wiggling her toes. Lemonade and croissants at the little table on her balcony, she told herself. Maybe she would even splurge and try one of the gooey pastries she’d gotten for Tucker. Maybe he would even come back and share with—

“So, Martinique, huh?” a cold, male voice asked. “Must be a reason.”

Callie nearly jumped from her skin. He’d made no sound and she’d thought she was alone. Before she could respond a hand grabbed her upper arm and twisted her around until her back was pressed against the west building’s hot wall.

“Wh-what?” Callie stared at him and the air rushed from her lungs. Deeply tanned. Hard jaw, mouth, and eyes. The man with the binoculars. “Let go of me!”

“Where’s the boy?” he gritted out.

“The boy?” she repeated blankly.

“Stephen Tucker Laughlin. Your son, Teresa. Where is he?”

Your son.

The words stopped her cold. Stephen Tucker . . . ? Tucker? He meant Tucker? Her head swam. Tucker wasn’t her son. Her son was gone.

He shook her hard. “You’re not going to faint,” he warned.

No, she wasn’t going to faint. But was that the truth? She felt like she could faint.

Teresa. He’d called her Teresa?

“Where is he?” he demanded again.

Her heart raced with fear. Her mind was dull and sluggish. With a feeling of unreality Callie stared at the man. There was a grimness of purpose around his mouth that chilled her blood. She tried to capture her scattered wits. “Who are you?” she managed to get out.

“Make a guess.”

“What? I can’t . . . I don’t think—”

“Take a good, hard look.”

Callie could do little else. His face, tanned to the color of teak, was within inches of hers. His eyes were bluer than her own, with thick, dark lashes and tiny white lines edging from the corners where the sun never reached. Dark hair framed a lean, savage face; she was certain his nose had been broken more than once. His mouth was wide and sensual and she thought a bit cruel; his jaw, firm and jutting, sporte