B00NRQWAJI (31 page)

Over my dead body,
I thought.

I threw my good arm across my face.

And smashed through the window’s glass.

Chapter 34

Headfirst, I fell from the window of Pamela Wentz’s old bedroom.

But I didn’t fall far.

Like a ton of bricks, I slammed onto what had to be the porch’s tin roof. And like a log, I rolled down its sloping surface. All too soon, I met the gutter—and toppled from the edge of it to slam into the unforgiving earth.

I shot to my feet in an adrenaline-fueled daze, whipped the pillowcase from my head, righted my glasses on my nose. I spun this way and that, looking for my attacker. His form darkened the window frame above. When he disappeared, I knew he was running down the stairs. And I knew I’d have to stay ahead of him to stay alive.

Dusk had fallen. The moon had yet to rise. Yet, thanks to the half-light, I could see the way up the lane. I took off at a stumbling run, pain stabbing my shoulder with every step.

I’d get in Marc’s car. I’d lock the doors. I’d snatch up my phone and call 911. Then I’d race away. At least, that was my plan.

However, when I pushed past the lilacs at last, Eric’s Mercury sat where Marc’s Chrysler should’ve been. The Mercury’s grill was smashed. And it was little wonder why.

Like a bulldozer, it must’ve slammed into Marc’s car. Because there was the Chrysler, at a steep angle, nose down, in the ditch. Its tail end had been crushed with the force of the blow—and its windows had been shattered as well.

There’d be no climbing into it. No locking my assailant out. My heart sank. Still, I slid down the bank. I peered into the gloomy passenger side for my phone.

I didn’t see it.

Scrambling to the Mercury, I tugged on the driver-side door. Locked tight. And behind me, in the lane, the rustling of the weeds said my attacker was coming for me.

From what I’d seen, traffic rarely rolled down this remote road at the height of day. I certainly couldn’t count on passersby to help me at the edge of night. But the Barrett family orchard—and light and safety and Barrett himself—was past the field and over the ridge.

So I made a break for it.

Crossing the road and climbing the cattle gate, I tore across the Wentz family’s field in the twilight. When the cattle gate rattled again, I knew my adversary wasn’t far behind. I shot a furtive glance over my shoulder, but the growing dark hid him from me.

The dark hid obstacles, too, like groundhog holes and roots ready to throw me to the ground. It hid the curve of the creek bed and the trailhead that switchbacked up the hill. Those were the landmarks that would save my life, but I’d never see them in the night. Pushing forward, I kept my eye on the old apple tree on the ridge above. It was nothing more than black hash marks against the deepening charcoal sky—but it was enough to navigate by.

Sloshing through the stream, I managed to find the path on the other side. The hill was steep and I lost my footing as I climbed. As I fell on all fours, waves of pain undulated through my injured shoulder and down my side. But I could hear the thumping of footsteps behind me. And that was more than enough to make me jump up and plow on.

With the breath sawing in and out of my lungs, I crested the ridge, ran past the graceful apple tree, toward the shallow bowl that cupped the ruins of the first Barrett homestead. I told myself I didn’t have far to go. But I tripped again, fell hard enough to rattle the teeth in my head.

And then he was on me.

Fighting, grappling, he pinned me to the dirt. Terrified, I wedged a foot against his hip. And gathering all my strength, I thrust him off of me.

He spat indecipherable curses, but I was already on the run. The first stars had appeared. They poured their weak light onto the broken-down trees dotting the slope, the old stone foundations in the valley, and, just past the far rise, my goal: the peak of Miranda Barrett’s Victorian farmhouse.

My legs burned. My heart hammered. And just when I thought I could make it, the ground fell away from under me. I fell down, down, down through the darkness. And when I stopped, everything went black.

I must’ve lain unconscious for a while. I couldn’t be sure how long. But at some point, I awoke to a whimpering sound—and realized the whimpering was me.

My eyes fluttered open. Like a spotlight, a shaft of moonlight cut a circle around me. I was lying on my side like a forgotten ragdoll. My glasses were gone and my cheek was cushioned in cool, moist mud. A plank of rotten wood lay in front of my face. I squinted, saw another caught between my feet. I tried to sit up.

And thought my body might break in half.

Pain pierced my ribcage. I broke out in a cold sweat. My breathing became short and shallow.

I wasn’t a field medic, but I was pretty sure about one thing.

I had broken ribs.

A shadow passed over me. I craned my neck to look up. I could make out a hole far above. Someone or something paced past the opening like a jackal waiting for the gazelle to die.

That provoked me to move. I forced myself to sit up. Gritting my teeth, I scooched on my rear, found my glasses, and slid out of the reach of the treacherous moonbeam.

I was in a cavern of some sort. A trickle of water ran through the mud on the floor. I scooted again and, in the ambient light, saw a brick wall nearby. It curved to the hole overhead. Four walls in all met at that aperture.

And it dawned on me.

I was in a cistern.

A catch basin for rainwater or the flow of an underground spring, this cistern must’ve fed the Barrett farm back in the nineteenth century. Topped by a hand- or windmill-driven pump, it might’ve provided water for the house, the barn, and the outbuildings. In later years, pipes could’ve carried water directly indoors. But I didn’t see any evidence of plumbing now. And I didn’t see a way out.

I scooted again, leaned my aching back against the brick. Every bone in my body felt like it was collapsing into the right half of my torso, confirming my self-diagnosis. Still, the support of the wall made me feel better than standing or lying down would.

The cistern must’ve been capped. And I’d fallen through it during my flight. That explained the broken boards down here with me. But did anyone born in this century even know this vault existed? Whoever or whatever paced above certainly did.

I rested my head against the masonry. My attacker wouldn’t come down after me. After all, how would he get out? Immediately, however, a half a dozen possibilities involving ladders, ropes, and all sorts of weapons came to mind. Each one made me more uneasy than the last.

But the pain and fatigue took their toll. They overrode fear and I passed out again. And the next thing I knew, I heard my name on the wind.

Jamie? Jamie, where are you?

I opened my eyes to the pale yellow light of dawn. And alarm ricocheted along my nervous system. I was still in the cistern. But was I alone? Had my assailant found me?

Jamie? Jamie!

A shadow bounded over the hole above. Or maybe I imagined it. I began to lose consciousness again—and then I heard the barking.

It was Barrett’s dog, Theodore the Labrador, raising a ruckus.

Because she had found me.

Chapter 35

It took six men with shovels and a backhoe to open the cistern. And it took four paramedics to lift me out. Strapped as I was to a backboard and hauled up on ropes, the trip to the surface of the earth was the ride of a lifetime—not that I ever wanted to repeat it.

When I emerged from the reservoir, the morning sun blinded me for a split second. And in that moment, someone clasped my hand. His palm was warm and strong and felt so good to hold on to, I closed my eyes and sighed.

A cheer went up that would’ve made a major league baseball team proud. Half the town must’ve turned out to search for me. I tried to take a peek, but only nearby faces swam into view. I saw the paramedics, the tip of Theodore’s sweeping tail, Sheriff Rittenhaus’s ugly mug, and even Shelby’s curly head. I heard Marc’s voice, too.

“Stand back!” he shouted. “Give them some room!”

“I want an IV drip on her, stat,” Elise said.

I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was jogging beside me as the paramedics carried me along. I doubted she had admitting privileges at Fallowfield’s hospital, yet that didn’t stop her from ordering a long list of medicines for me. She prescribed procedures like a CAT scan, too—and one more thing.

“She’ll need a rape kit,” Elise said.

But that wasn’t true.

“No,” I rasped. “And when I find ’im, I’ll make ’im sorry ’e tried.”

Relief, as refreshing as a cool drink of water, rippled through my little contingent. Because broken ribs and a gunshot wound to the shoulder were bad enough. But these men and women who treated trauma everyday knew rape was more than an attack against the body. It was an assault against a person’s humanity. It was designed to denigrate and destroy. Survivors battled those effects for weeks, months—even decades. And no one deserved to be saddled with that.

“Can you ID him?” Rittenhaus asked, and I heard the tension in his voice.

I tried to shake my head, ended up wincing.

“But ’e raped Kayley,” I managed. “And Pamela.”

The hand gripping mine gave my fingers a gentle squeeze. Someone was proud of me. Someone was grateful I’d found out who’d hurt the others—and someone was grateful I hadn’t been hurt worse myself. I blinked, forced my eyes to focus on the cuff of his denim jacket. I followed the line of it up his arm and discovered Barrett holding my hand. It felt like he’d never let go.

He didn’t speak to me just then, didn’t say a thing when the EMTs loaded me into the ambulance. He didn’t open his mouth as we zoomed to the hospital, either. But he stayed by my side.

At the emergency room, Barrett paced beyond the flimsy curtain that offered the pretense of privacy. He kept his distance while the ER doc catalogued my injuries. I had three cracked ribs, plus a lot of bumps and bruises. To top it off, my gunshot wound was sore and on the brink of infection. And when the physician was done telling me this, Luke Rittenhaus wanted to question me.

“Be brief,” Elise warned him when he stuck his head into my cubicle.

She hovered, fussing with the beeping box that monitored me.

“I’ll cut right to the chase,” Rittenhaus said. “Help me identify who did this to you.”

“Definitely male,” I replied. “About your height. Five-ten?”

“Five-eleven.”

“Five-eleven, then. And he’s a smart one.”

I figured he’d have to be. He hadn’t left DNA traces with Pamela back when the technology to discover them was brand new. And Rittenhaus had admitted the guy hadn’t left traces with Kayley now.

“He’s fit,” I remembered. “He kept pace with me across Wentz’s field. He ran up the ridge right behind me and fought with me there.”

The sheriff scribbled in his little notebook. “Did you note anything about his appearance? Take in his aftershave? Facial hair? Tattoos? Skin tone of his hands?”

“He told me he attacked Pamela.” Which didn’t answer Rittenhaus’s question. But it was all the solid info I had. “He said he assaulted Kayley. And I know he hates Barrett.”

“Pardon?”

Rittenhaus’s lantern jaw was dark with five o’clock shadow, but his cheeks paled at my revelation. Elise, silent, turned to gape at me. And in the hall, beyond the privacy drape, I sensed Barrett halt and listen.

“He hates Barrett,” I repeated. “He hates Barrett because Pamela preferred him. He was jealous then and he still hates him now.”

“I see.” Rittenhaus wasted no time flipping his notebook shut. He crammed it in a pocket. “But you didn’t get a look at him? You wouldn’t know him if you ran into him on the street?”

“No.”

And I hated to admit it.

“Well, if you think of anything else…”

The sheriff retreated behind the curtain. If he exchanged words with Barrett, I missed it because my attending physician bustled in. He wanted to ship me upstairs for a nice, quiet hospital stay. But he’d already pumped me full of intravenous antibiotics and a whole lot of painkillers. Thinking of my assailant’s willingness to rub out his victims, my state-of-the-art security system, and my eiderdown duvet, I declared my intention to leave the hospital and go home.

Of course, my home was south of D.C. and about five hundred miles away. That little detail dawned on me a bit too late. But then Elise chimed in.

“Release Jamie to me,” she told the doctor. “She can rest at my grandmother’s.”

The notion of retiring to Miranda Barrett’s cheery farmhouse was so comforting, I had to blink back tears.

Barrett still said nothing as he drove Elise and me to the orchard. Mrs. Barrett was on the front porch when we pulled in, Theodore standing at her hip. Barrett tried to lift me from the passenger side of Elise’s car and carry me to the house in his arms. But my injuries weren’t about to stand for that. Rather cranky myself, I pushed his hands away.

“I swear to God, Barrett, if you put any more pressure on my ribs, I’m going to turn inside out.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

He might’ve been apologizing for setting off the pain cascading through my body. Or he might’ve been apologizing for more than that. But I stopped myself from figuring it out because I needed to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other if I was going to make it into the house.

Moving slowly and stupidly, I knew, was as good as it was going to get for a while. Gone were the days when doctors bound up cracked ribs, rolling patients in bandages until they looked like mummies. Now medical science dictated prescription pain meds and rest. Breathing hurt. Standing and walking hurt. Lying down would be impossible.

Sitting wouldn’t be much of an improvement, but it was the best bet. Elise knew this better than I did, and when she guided me into her grandmother’s parlor, I found the rose-patterned side chair had been dressed up with goose-feather pillows, a blanket, and sheets. Gratefully, I sank into the little nest. With the pillows to support me, and my feet on the ottoman, I felt almost normal. Almost.