3 Lies

Copyright 2010. All rights reserved.

As a work of fiction, the names, characters, situations, and most of the places are constructs of the author's imagination. If you seem to think otherwise, she will be flattered. Any resemblances otherwise to persons living or passed on is simply beyond her ability to control. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews.

ISBN 978-0-9832027-0-7

Published by Domino INK

P.O. Box 1614, Little Elm, TX 75068

For Michael, who kept quiet when he didn’t believe I could write a novel.

Now, my first reader, technical advisor, and greatest champion.

Always, my best friend, husband, and hero.

For MPH, who makes me laugh.

I can’t remember my life before you.

If you enjoy this book, you're invited to sign up for my
Thrillers ~ Behind the Firewall
reader's group, and you will receive a
FREE
copy of OCEAN OF FEAR.

Click here to get started:
HelenHanson.com

The water bead on her chest slalomed south to join the others on the black-diamond run to her groin. Beth Sutton wrapped the thick, white towel around her dripping hair. Both hung to her hip. As she stepped onto the bath mat, the arterial catheter bounced off her inner thigh muscle. She wiped down the rest of her body and draped the towel on the rack.

Clint left her house at eleven the night before with a promise to return for breakfast prior to their fishing trip. Another evening absorbed in unguarded conversation. Their two months together passed with an easy contentment.

She should have dialyzed last night, but she’d fallen asleep too soon, cocooned in fading dreams, down, and enchantment. The evening proved too satisfying to interrupt for blood filtering. He’d offered to help. Again.

Maybe he could really handle it. Maybe not. Maybe she wasn’t ready to test him.

A knock came from her door as she dressed.

Six-fifteen. He was early.

Once over in the mirror—baggy, pink jeans and a pink thermal shirt sufficed for cooking breakfast.

Omelets. Everybody liked omelets.

She hustled to the door. The deadbolt resisted. “Just a second.” The lock popped. She threw the door open with a flourishing smile. “Good morn—”

Her chest inflated with fear. A stocky man wearing a blue ski mask shoved her inside. He covered her mouth before a scream loosened. A piece of paper dropped from his hand. Footsteps fell behind her. She struggled, but she couldn’t escape his grip. A sharp jab pierced her bottom.

Her pulse staggered. A needle. Oh, dear God.

Dreaminess surged. Her focus failed.

Clint was coming. He’d stop them.

Maybe Clint would prefer waffles.

Last night was lovely.

According to Paige Masters, Clint’s almost ex-wife, he never noticed anything. But the white Chevy van pulling out of Beth’s road caught his attention. At least the sound of the V-8 engine rumbling under the hood did. Between a full-size and a mini, that van never left the factory boasting anything larger than a V-6. Dull and gutless by reputation, the piece of junk couldn’t get jacked during a riot.

A throaty roar from the vehicle broke his expectation like a Swedish accent from the lips of a black man. While the kiddies tried to give the illusion of raw power under the hood without the trouble of an actual engine swap, this van camouflaged its strength with exhaust silencers. Sporting rear-wheel drive and a torquey V-8, that homely white box could spank a Mustang in a quarter mile.

Don’t say he didn’t notice anything. Hell yes, he noticed.

Clint parked his black pickup on the main street of Clement, Massachusetts but stayed in the cab to finish his coffee while the seaside burg enjoyed the remaining minutes of slumber. He preferred walking down to Beth’s house so his black lab, Louie, could sniff the flora on the way. Beth’s road was nearly half a mile long and ran mostly downhill on a headland. It led to four houses and a winery. Each home occupied five wooded acres; and the winery, fifty. If Clint drove down to her house without letting Louie romp, then for the duration of their visit, the young dog would whimper, paw the floor, and sulk.

Clint had heard the van coming before it emerged from the patchy fog a car length away. Two swarthy men stayed behind blue-mirrored sunglasses and Red Sox ball caps as they crested the hill. Probably a delivery to the winery. In spite of not knowing these men, Clint waved.

The men either didn’t see him or weren’t up for friendly this early. Neither waved back. The van’s rear tires spun, searching for a hold in the loose gravel. It lurched onto the roadway, staying long enough for Clint to see a dirty patch of bumper sticker glue in the shape of Australia that adorned the back door. Virginia plates. It roared off toward the highway through the dissipating mist.

A beautiful day barely underway. What’s the rush? Smell the flowers. Will ya?

He emptied the last of the coffee from his paper cup and tossed it onto the floorboard before getting out of the truck. A glance to his watch showed the time as six twenty-two. He was early but extra hungry. Somehow, that made up for the early.

The ocean-side chill receded under the constant gaze of the new sun. He pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to the elbows. “C’mon, Louie.”

The glossy black dog bounded from the backseat of the cab. A wag started at the tail and rippled through to the other end of his sleek body. A drooling red tongue flapped amid the pearly-whites of his mouth.

“Good boy.” Clint clipped a leash on the leather collar and patted Louie’s firm flank. “Let’s go, Lou.”

Louie led Clint on a tour of every white oak, sugar maple, and pitch pine before scampering up the porch to Beth Sutton’s door. A nineteenth century bungalow with the Atlantic Ocean slapping its back, the whole place boasted only 820 square feet. Clint lowered the anchor-shaped knocker onto the strike plate. She would hear the clatter from any room. Echoes settled into silence. He knocked again.

No shower noises. Even if she were in there, she’d at least call out and tell him to wait. A growl undulated from Clint’s empty stomach. Beth specifically invited him to breakfast. He was early, but she ought to be up by now. He knocked again. Louder.

Another full minute passed. Clint walked around to the back of the house and rapped on the kitchen door. He peered through a sliver of uncovered windowpane. The hemodialysis machine she'd named Dracula stood sentry at the bedroom wall. The doors to both her bedroom and bath were open. Her vacant computer table occupied the near corner in the still, Beth-less room.

The next round of belly noises came with spikes. He turned around and leaned against the grey clapboard house. He dropped the leash and closed his arms across his chest.

Louie ran straight to a cricket hopping near the garage behind the house. He pounced but missed. It jumped out of his reach through a gap in the carriage door.

Clint forgot to check for her car. Maybe she went out. The garage door lock dangled from the latch. He pushed the solid door in as much as the latch would allow. Even in the low light, the small utility vehicle was easy to see.

Beth probably stayed up late reading again or writing. She owed her editor some chapters but not until early next month. Maybe she had her treatment. She was due for one yesterday, but he’d stayed late. She said she felt washed out after dialysis. He should have gone home sooner, so she was free to dialyze. She wouldn’t start a session with him around. It was selfish of him to linger, but time with her dissolved like sugar.

Still, leaving a guy outside, a hungry guy—

“This violates some rule of social etiquette. Right, Louie?”

Louie pawed the ground. Being right didn’t fill his belly, and Clint still had to rouse her lovely butt.

Damn. Moments like this rubbed. He couldn’t call her. He’d ditched his cell phone along with the rest of his electronic tethers, and he needed to find one. At this hour.