Behind His Blue Eyes (29 page)

Her husband shook his head. “Let's not get ahead of ourselves. She could be visiting with a friend somewhere.”

Ethan doubted it. All her friends were right here. So where could she be? And why would she walk away without telling someone where she was going?

“Has anyone checked with Pastor Rickman?” Maddie asked, her auburn brows drawn in a frown. “She might have gone to speak to Biddy about music for the wedding.”

A long shot, but worth a try. Ethan was starting to feel desperate. This wasn't like her. Audra might be hardheaded, but she wasn't foolish. She wouldn't simply wander off in the dark.

“I'll send Billy, our bellboy, to the church,” Tait offered.

Brodie took a lamp from a table and headed toward the door. “Meet back here in an hour. Come on, Hardesty.”

Ethan tried to stay optimistic, but it was getting hard. Somehow, he knew. He could feel it, the same way he felt that prickle up his back before danger struck. She was in trouble. She needed him now, more than she ever had, and he didn't even know where she was. Fear was a vise around his throat. He could scarcely breathe. Every thought led to disaster.

“It's locked,” Brodie said, a few minutes later, after checking the knob on the front door of the
Herald.
“Wait here. I'll go around back.”

As the sheriff stepped into the narrow space between the building that housed the newspaper office and the millinery shop next door, Ethan peered through the fancy new script on the front window. He made out the shapes of the desks, the printing press, boxes of supplies, and fat rolls of paper stacked against one wall, a mound of something—clothing?—below the window.

Light flashed. Squinting into the dimness, he saw Brodie come through the rear entrance, turn to pull the latch, then hesitate. He watched him lean close to the door, fingers tracing over the wood. What had he found?

Ethan tapped on the glass. “What is it?”

Brodie looked back at him, then turned and walked slowly toward the front, lamp held high, his head swiveling as he checked the narrow office.

Something about his posture. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hand rested on the butt of the gun holstered at his hip when he stopped and stared down at the mound of clothing on the floor below the front window. Then Ethan knew.

Oh, Jesus. It's not just clothing
.

“Is it Audra?” When Brodie didn't answer, he raised his fist to break the glass just as the door opened. He shoved inside, then froze when he saw the shadowed form on the floor by the wall. “Is that . . .”

“Bonet. His throat's been cut.”

Ethan stared at the body. A man's body. Not Audra's. The burnt, coppery smell of blood almost turned his stomach. But needing to see for himself, he took the lamp from Brodie and stepped closer—saw the gaping wound in Bonet's neck, the dark pool spreading across the plank floor, the wild-eyed terror in the dimming eyes.

Relief made him light-headed.
Not Audra. Thank God.

Then where was she? He saw her spectacles sitting on her desk and knew she wouldn't have left them. Panic building, he looked around. “Where is she? Is she here? Did something happen to her, too?” Ethan saw the grimness in Brodie's face and that feeling of dread ballooned into gut-churning fear. “What did you find by the back door?”

“I'm not sure.” Taking the lamp back, Brodie led him toward the rear of the office. When he reached the back door, he held the light high and pointed at a dark red stain on the wood. “What do you make of that?”

Ethan leaned closer. Touched it with his fingers. Damp. Sticky like blood. Not much of it and not high up on the door. Maybe as high as Audra's head would be. And beside it, caught in a splinter, several long, medium brown hairs.

Air rushed out of him. He went numb. His heart felt like it was trying to kick its way out of his chest.

Audra . . . no . . .

He turned to Brodie, his mind in chaos, the buzzing in his ears so loud he couldn't hear his own words.

“He's got her.”

Twenty-nine

A
udra didn't know how far they traveled before they finally stopped. He pulled her off and dumped her on the ground, unrolling her from the canvas as she fell. Cold jarred her awake. She struggled to her knees, spitting dirt and pine needles from her mouth, before a kick sent her down again.

She lay shivering, the pain in her body keeping time to the throbbing in her head.

No more,
she cried silently.
Kill me or let me go.

Something nudged her shoulder. “Get up.”

She opened her eyes to see him standing over her, his bulky form silhouetted against the waxing moon. Something hung from his hand. Long and thin, the grip glinting in the moonlight.

She bolted upright, fear squeezing her throat, remembering the bite of the tasseled tip into her back.

He held it toward her. “Know what this is?”

She tried to speak, couldn't, and forced a nod.

“You can scream all you want. But if you run, I'll use it on you. Understand?”

“Why are you doing this?”

But he was leading the mule away. She thought about running, but before she could make her body move, he came back, picked up two bags and carried them into a sagging canvas tent with a stovepipe sticking out the top.

Lifting a hand to her face, she found a sticky lump above her brow where her head had hit the door. Her cheek felt swollen where he'd struck her, and her side hurt where he had kicked her, but nothing seemed seriously wrong.

She could run. Try to escape. But run where?

She looked sluggishly at the rough camp where he had brought her. With the moon directly overhead, she could see rusty cans littering the ground, tools and crates piled here and there. Other than the canvas tent, there were no structures. Beside a cold fire pit stood a rack of un-scraped animal hides, bits of drying flesh hanging from the curling undersides. The reek of it made her gag. On a line strung between two trees, the mule, bearing the white hairs of long-healed saddle sores, stood hock-deep in manure, watching her with disinterest as it slowly chewed a mouthful of hay. Closer by, amid scattered bones and piles of dried canine droppings, lay a chain with an empty collar.

If she could reach that chain or one of the tools . . .

Head swimming, she crawled onto her hands and knees then hung there as sparks flared and dimmed behind her eyes. She tried to push herself up to her feet, but her legs kept tangling in her skirts.

“What are you doing?”

She glared up at him through a tangle of hair. “Vomiting,” she said hoarsely. “Want to see?”

He studied her for a minute, his small dark eyes moving over her in a way that made her shudder. Then he patted the whip tied to his belt. “Remember what I said.” Picking up another bag, he walked back to the tent.

Despair defeated her. Weeping, she slumped onto her side, then flinched when something sharp gouged into her hip. She reached down to pull it away, and found a hard thing half-buried in the dirt. She dug it loose.

A piece of tubular metal. Thin but solid. Probably a broken tine from a pitchfork. Hands trembling with excitement, she slipped it into her skirt pocket just as Weems came back out of the tent.

Now she had a weapon. She could fight back.

* * *

Ethan had read somewhere that pain was God's gift to a wounded heart because it gave the mind a focus and the body an enemy to fight.

But God gave him numbness instead.

From the moment he saw the blood on the door and realized the worst had happened, he stopped feeling. His body functioned, but his mind went numb. The shaking stopped. His heart ceased its erratic rhythm. His breathing slowed.

That was a good thing. A necessary thing. Because he knew emotion wouldn't help him now. He had to set aside the fear, ignore all the terrible imaginings of what might be happening, and curb the crippling panic that stole his will. He knew those thoughts were still there, like demons dancing along the periphery of his mind, looking for a way in. But he couldn't allow them into his head. In some way he didn't question or understand, he knew if he stayed strong, Audra would stay strong. If he believed, she would believe. And that would keep her alive.

Faith and hope. Little of either remained after Salty Point, but he called up what he had left. He would find her. Audra was all the good he had lost in his life, and all the promise in his future. He would not let her die.

Four days. That's all he had until the full moon.

“Let's get the others.”

* * *

“Stand up.”

Do what he says. Stay alive.

She forced herself to her feet, praying he hadn't seen her slip the piece of metal into her pocket. Hoping to distract him, she asked where his dog was.

“With you. Start walking.”

That collar belonged to Phe? No wonder she was so frightened of men.

A shove sent her stumbling toward a moonlit trail winding up the slope behind his camp. She struggled to keep her footing. Whenever she faltered, he gave her a kick, twice knocking her to her knees. Both times, she was able to pick up a rock and slip it into the pocket with the piece of metal.

When they reached the top, she sank to the ground, gasping for air, her skirts ripped and her petticoats stuck to her bleeding knees. The pain in her head had settled into a constant pounding, and she was so thirsty her tongue felt swollen and dry. “I have to rest,” she choked out. She expected to be yanked up again, but he wandered a few feet away into a jumble of boulders.

She looked dully around.

They must be high, because the trees here were shorter and less branchy than those in town. The wind that had stunted them along one side now cut through her dress, making her teeth chatter. Lifting her face to the sky, she watched stars wink to life in its wake as the moon slipped to the west, and wondered if she would ever see them again after this night.

Would Ethan be able to find her in time? Would he even know who had her and where to look?

Tears dimmed the stars. If she knew why Weems had chosen her, or what he intended to do with her, maybe she could find a way to stop him. But stop him how? With a tiny piece of metal? A feeling of utter hopelessness gripped her, and for a moment she considered ending this terror by throwing herself back down the slope.

But her father needed her. Ethan needed her. And she wouldn't leave them this way.

God . . . please help me. I'm so afraid.

With a hitching breath, she reached into her pocket and wrapped her fingers around the cold, hard metal. She didn't know what she would do with it, but feeling it in her hand gave her hope.

Ethan would come. He always had, whenever she had needed him. And if not, she had this. She ran her thumb over the sharp, jagged point. Imagined plunging it into Weems's throat. All she had to do was stay alive until she found her chance.

How long did she have?

She struggled to remember what she had heard at Sunday luncheon—was it only a few hours ago? Tait had said the killer only hunted on the full moon, four days from now. Did that mean he would keep her alive until then? Why? What was he going to do to her?

“Get up.”

She blinked up at him, saw the unfurled whip hanging from his hand and renewed terror surged through her. “Why are you—”

“You want this?” He wiggled the whip, made it snake along the ground like a living thing.

“N-No.”

“Then get up.”

“I'm just trying to underst—”

A whistling sound, then something bit into her arm. Pain exploded. She doubled over, gasping, awaiting the next lash.

“Want more?”

“N-No . . .”

“Then stand up.”

She tried, tangled her feet in her skirts, and fell again.

“Stupid woman.” He bent down and slapped her. Slapped her again.

Darkness sucked her down. When next she awoke, she was being dragged again, this time by her arm down a long stone corridor. Light cast by the lantern swinging from his other hand flickered on the rocky ceiling overhead.

When had he gotten a lantern? Where was he taking her? Into a tunnel? A mine shaft?

She hadn't the strength to fight him, but allowed herself to be dragged along, rocks digging into her back, her shoulder burning from the strain.

She tried to memorize every change in direction, every unusual rock or outcropping along the way, but before they had gone a hundred feet, she was hopelessly turned around. All she knew for certain was that they were steadily descending. She tried not to think about the tons of rock overhead, or the suffocating closeness pressing around her, or what Weems would do to her once they reached their destination.

Ethan would come. God wouldn't let her die like this.

After several more twists and turns, he stopped and yanked her onto her feet.

She struggled to stay upright, hugging her aching arm to her side.

“In there.” Weems pointed to a narrow opening in the stone.

She saw only darkness. A bottomless pit? A living grave?

Courage deserted her as a lifelong fear of dark, closed spaces flooded her mind. “No . . . please. I'll do whatever—”

He shoved her through the opening. She fell against a rocky wall, then blundered into another, so disoriented by the darkness she didn't know where to step next. “I c-can't see.”

He stepped in behind her, holding the lantern as high as he could in the low-ceilinged cavern. “Home again, home again, jiggety jig.”

Home? Here?
In growing horror, she looked around.

It was a space barely ten feet square, hewn from solid rock. A chain hung from a bolt drilled into the rocky wall. On the loose end was a collar with a lock—too big for her ankle or wrist, too small for her waist. Perfect for her neck. A pallet of dirty blankets lay against the wall beside it, and on the floor nearby, a bucket, a pitcher, and a plate of dried meat over which scurried a dozen flat-backed beetles. There were no candles, no lamps other than the one he had brought, and nothing that could be used as a weapon . . . except for the piece of metal and two stones in her pocket.

He set the lamp on a high rock jutting from the wall and picked up the chain. “Come here.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, struggling not to cry.

He jiggled the chain. “Now.”

“You won't get away with this. They'll come searching for me.”

“They won't find you.”

Fury engulfed her. “What have I ever done to you?” she burst out, her voice ricocheting off the walls. She hated that she couldn't stop the tears, that her voice wobbled. She hated letting him see her fear and weakness. “If you intend to kill me, why don't you just do it?” Maybe if she lured him closer, she could use the piece of metal. Go for an eye, the vein in his neck.

“In time. Come here.”

When she still didn't move, he grabbed her arm and threw her facedown on the pallet. Before she could roll over or strike him, he had a knee in her back and the collar around her neck. He snapped the lock closed, rose, and stepped back.

She jumped up and lunged after him, hands raised to claw out his eyes, but was jerked violently backward when she reached the end of the chain. Choking and coughing, she fell in a sprawl on the pallet, while his laughter boomed off the walls.

“You're a fighter. I like that.” He picked up the lantern. “There's water in that pitcher by your bed, and if the bugs left you some, there's dried buffalo strips on the plate. Best look around and see where everything is. Don't want you mistaking the water pitcher for the waste bucket in the dark. Sweet dreams.”

Laughing, he slipped into the corridor, taking the lantern with him.

“You bastard,” she screamed, pounding the covers with her fists. By the time her voice faded, all light was gone. She closed her eyes. Opened them. There was no change. The blackness was total, the silence so complete she could hear the beetles tearing at her dinner.

Dimly, she heard a high-pitched whimper—a terrible, animal sound—then realized it came from her own throat. With a sob, she clasped her hands over her mouth and began to rock back and forth, driven to needless motion to assure herself she was still alive.

She had descended into hell.