Above the muted sound of laughter
coming from the television set, Morgan Rains heard a noise that made
the hairs on the back of her neck prickle.
With a click of the remote, she
turned off the DVD she'd been watching-of herself and Glenn in happier
times-and sat very still in the darkened room, listening intently for
sounds from outside.
The rustle of dry leaves came
again, louder this time and closer to the little vacation retreat
nestled in a hollow between two foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Morgan was sure that either a person or a large animal was out there.
In the years she had been coming
to this cozy cottage, there had never been any problem with intruders,
but modern life might have changed that, which was one of the reasons
she was here-to start getting the place in shape to sell it. She didn't
need a vacation home, especially one where so many memories lurked.
Even when she'd told herself the
house was perfectly safe, Morgan hadn't been foolish about staying here
alone. Quietly, she walked to the desk drawer and pulled out the
automatic pistol she kept with her, feeling more secure with the weight
of the weapon in her hand.
Not so long ago, owning anything more deadly than a water pistol
would have been as foreign to her as going back for a second PhD in
quantum physics. That was before her husband had been shot and killed by
a burglar, and her world had shattered.
Glenn Chandler. The love of her life.
She'd dragged herself through
almost a year and a half without him, throwing herself into the
psychology courses she was teaching. Although the joy had gone from the
work, keeping up with research in her field, preparing lectures, giving
tests, and grading term papers filled her time.
Now the semester was over, and
she'd come back to the little house she'd inherited from her parents to
finally pack up the clothing Glenn had left here and decide which of the
furnishings should go to charity shops and which she'd move to her
house in Falls Church. But when she'd come across the videos they'd made
during the five years of their marriage, she'd sat down to watch.
Starting with their wedding day, when they'd been smiling and happy,
surrounded by family and friends.
She clicked off the gun's safety and held the weapon down by her
right leg, wondering if she was going to end up like the heroine of a
mystery novel who was too stupid to live.
Confronting danger was usually a bad idea, yet she didn't see any
option in her present situation. This vacation retreat was in the middle
of nowhere. The closest neighbor was over a mile away, even if she knew
who lived in the house on the other side of the woods. And calling 911
was hardly an option, since it would take the local cops forty minutes
to get here. Too late if someone outside was getting ready to break in.
She couldn't simply sit here and
wait for an intruder to pounce. Of course, she reminded herself, there
had been sightings of mountain lions in the area. If a big cat was
prowling around out there, staying inside and opening the blinds so the
cat could see her were the best alternatives. That would probably make
it run away. But if it wasn't an animal, that was exactly the wrong
tactic.
With her heart thumping inside
her chest, she settled on a compromise. Walking to the window, she eased
the curtains aside with her free hand and scanned the woods beyond the
house. At first she saw nothing in the fading light. Then a flash of
something that wasn't part of the natural environment made her go very
still.
She was seeing flesh. Not fur. Naked flesh.
A man or a big woman. She kept her gaze trained on the figure,
looking for details. It was definitely a man. He was in the woods fifty
yards from the house, weaving his way through the trees on unsteady legs
as though he was coming off a three-day bender.
The breath froze in her lungs. Who the hell was out there in his
birthday suit? Some pervert who knew a woman was staying alone in this
isolated location? A nudist who'd wandered onto the wrong property? Or
an escapee from an insane asylum?
She'd seen him only briefly from the front-long enough to confirm that he was very male.
But he'd turned away from the house. Which meant that he wasn't
stalking her. Unless the maneuver was designed to make her drop her
guard if she was watching.
While that paranoid thought spun in her head, he wavered on his feet.
His large fingers clawed at the trunk of a tree as he made a desperate
attempt to stay upright.
She watched him lose his grip on the bark and slide downward to his knees.
Again he flailed out toward the tree, but his hands slipped away, and
he fell onto the ground, lying on his side in a pile of dry leaves with
his knees curled toward his chest. Unmoving.
She'd thought he might be
stalking the house. Now it looked like he was a man in bad trouble,
unless he was still pulling an elaborate scam.
But she couldn't simply leave him
there. As she looked around, her gaze fell on a striped maroon and
orange afghan, one of the many her mother had crocheted on long winter
evenings. Snatching it off the couch, she threw it over her arm,
concealing the gun as she hurried to the front door.
Outside, on the porch, she
shivered in the evening chill. Not a night to be out naked, she thought
as she looked around to make sure an accomplice wasn't lurking behind a
tree. When she saw no one besides the guy on the ground, she crossed the
patch of straggly weeds that had once been a lawn and stepped into the
shade under the tulip poplars and maples. The man hadn't moved since
she'd seen him claw at the tree trunk and go down.
As she approached, she took in his head full of close-cropped dark hair, broad shoulders, and narrow hips.
What in the world had happened to him? Had some disease felled him?
When she got closer, she saw
well-defined muscles, and more dark hair fanned across his chest,
peeking out from behind the raised knees that hid his genitals.
But that wasn't what riveted her attention. Now that she was close to
him, she gasped as she realized his condition. The side of his face she
could see was dark with beard stubble that didn't hide the bruises on
his cheek and jaw. Or the dried blood around his nose and mouth.
There were more bruises on his back and shoulders and over his ribs.
And something else made her draw in a quick breath-the small, angry red
circles peppering his back, arms, and thighs.
A rash? She didn't think so.
She'd seen something similar once
when she'd been a teenager. She and a bunch of kids had been out in the
woods smoking. Billy Anderson had dropped a cigarette on his hand, and
the mark had looked like the ones on this man, only these were deeper,
angrier.
He might have gotten the bruises in an auto accident or a tumble down
one of the nearby mountains, but not a dozen cigarette burns on his
skin.
She shivered. Much as the idea alarmed her, the only thing she could figure was that he'd been tortured by someone.
But who would do such a thing? She couldn't ask because he was
unconscious, lying out in the open with the temperature falling, his
breath shallow.
Again her mind spun unwanted scenarios. There were people in these
hills growing pot. Others with meth labs. Had he gotten into a dispute
with one of his fellow criminals?
Her gaze landed on his hip which was covered with a particularly
nasty bruise. The rational part of her mind knew that taking him into
her house was dangerous. The reckless part sent a different message.
Does it matter what happens to you? You've been dead for over a year anyway. If he finished you off, it would be a kindness.
She made an angry sound, dismissing that last self-destructive
thought as she turned to the injured man and murmured, "We have to get
you inside."
At the sound of her voice, he stirred.
"Don't worry," she said. "Everything's going to be okay."
The words were automatic. She'd said them to Glenn when he'd lain
dying on the hall floor, a pool of blood spreading around his head.
Clenching her teeth, she shoved that unwanted image out of her mind. She didn't need it now. Or any time.
"Who are you? What happened?"
He had been lying absolutely still. Now he rolled to his back. As his
head moved on the bed of leaves, she saw that one of his eyes was
swollen closed.
"We have to get you inside," she repeated, knowing she couldn't carry him. "Do you think you can walk?"
As she was about to come down beside him, his good eye flew open. It
was dark and unfocused, until it lit on her. A kind of wily intelligence
seeped into his face, and she knew he was going to attack.
"Don't," she gasped.
But it was already too late. He lunged, and she jumped back. Even in
his battered condition, his reflexes were good. He closed his hand
around her ankle, his grip surprisingly strong for someone who'd been
unconscious a few moments ago.
She hadn't known what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this.
His voice was steely as he asked, "I don't remember you around the camp. Did they send a woman to work me over this time?"
"No," she answered automatically. "Who are they?"
He laughed. Not a pleasant sound in the gathering gloom of the
forest. "What? Are you fucking Trainer? And he's having some fun letting
you play with the prisoner."
"No. I'm trying to help you. Who are you? Who did this to you?"
"You know damn well." Even as he said the words, a look of confusion crossed his features.
"Please, I don't know anything about you-except that I found you in the woods outside my house. You're hurt. You need help."
The gun was still in her hand, but she didn't want to shoot him, unless there was no alternative.
"What's your name? Is there someone looking for you?"
"Looking for me? Get real."
He'd been lying unmoving on the
ground, his large hand gripping her ankle. Still holding her in place,
he surged up and grabbed at the afghan. As it slipped off her arm, he
fell back, but the damage was already done. His gaze riveted to the gun
in her hand, and she knew that a dangerous situation had just become a
whole lot more deadly.
