Luke (27 page)

“I can't say I exactly hate it.” The other woman's drawl was flat.

With another resentful glance, April reached for the lamp on the table and lit it. The flare of orange-red light, dim as it might be, made it appear darker outside than it really was. That was something she'd have to watch.

She turned to the cookstove and jerked open the wood box door. Muttering under her breath, she proceeded to lay a fire with newspaper and pine kindling and a few pieces of split wood. Flames were soon roaring up the chimney.

She was in no rush to put the steaks on, which was natural enough since the stove needed to get hot. She found a heavy iron skillet and scoured it out, then dried it over the slowly building heat of the stove. After taking the steaks from the ice chest, she made a marinade from salad dressing and let the meat sit in it. She could have peeled the potatoes while she was waiting, but that would have speeded up the process which was the last thing she needed. Instead, she puttered around, washing dishes and wiping cabinets like a busy little housewife. When she felt it would be too obvious to delay any longer, she heated bacon drippings left over from the morn
ing, then laid the steaks in the pan. As they began to sizzle, she turned them carefully, taking pains to see they browned uniformly.

She was so hot from hovering over the stove that she felt light-headed with it. It didn't matter. Exhilaration hummed in her veins along with grim anticipation. She used the poker to stir the fire to greater heat, then added two more sticks of oak to it.

“You got it smelling good around here,” Frank said, lifting his head and raising his cap brim to stare at her through the door. “But a man could starve to death before you get supper on the table, the way you're going.”

“I like things just so.” April gave him what she hoped was a nervous-looking smile, then surveyed the dimming light beyond the screen. It would be at least another quarter hour before good dark. She needed a distraction, she thought, at least a small one.

Getting out the potatoes, she rinsed them in a pan of water. As she took up her knife to start peeling, she glanced toward Frank. “I've been thinking about Mary Ellen. Luke had a few things to say about her the other day.”

“Don't want to talk about it.” Frank retreated beneath his cap again.

“No? Don't you want to hear his side of it, or at least know what he said about your sister's last night?”

“Won't change a thing.”

“That's not true, you know. It might not change the facts, but it could change how you feel about
them. That's something, at least.” When he said nothing in return, she continued, “He's sorry, you know. Sorry that she died, sorry that he couldn't give her whatever it was she wanted from him. Most of all, he's sorry that he couldn't save her.”

“Yeah, so am I. So what?”

“He said she didn't take her own life. Oh, she was talking about it, maybe even had the impulse, but a lot of teenagers do that. For some it means something, for others, nothing. Your sister tried to avoid the wreck that killed her. She swerved off the road to keep from hitting that busload of kids coming home from a church revival meeting. It was an accident, that's all. Just an accident.” She thought Frank was staring at her, but this time she busied herself slicing potato rounds into French fries instead of meeting his gaze.

“He said that, did he?” Frank asked.

“Yes, he did.” Actually, she'd embroidered a little on what Luke had said, but had kept to the spirit of it. She thought the circumstances warranted the white lie.

Frank snorted. “She'd still be alive if she hadn't gone with him.”

“Maybe. But he didn't force her into his car, you know. She invited herself because she was upset. Could be the blame lies with whoever caused her to feel that way that night.”

“Me, you mean.”

“If you're the one who made her cry.”

He stared at her a long moment. Then he said deliberately, “It's too late. Things have gone too far.”

Did he mean it was too late for Mary Ellen? Too late for Luke? Or was he telling her it was too late to change what would happen to her? From the steely look in his eyes, it could have been any of them—or all. From the corner of her eye, she saw Muriel was watching their byplay with an unreadable expression on her face.

Tilting her chin, April said in quiet challenge, “Is it? Is it, really?”

Frank didn't answer. A curl of smoke rose from the steak pan. April looked down hastily to see that they were browning too fast.

She turned one piece of meat to check its doneness, then transferred it from the skillet to a plate. When she'd taken up the other, she added cooking oil and let it heat while she finished with the potatoes. As she dropped the fries into the hot oil, the sound of the hissing, crackling grease filled the quiet then died down again.

April watched the fries with one eye while keeping the other on the deepening night. She might prolong things a little more by browning slices of bread in the leftover bacon grease, but she thought Muriel might become suspicious at such a cholesterol-laden treat. Anyway, she thought that she'd drawn her meal preparation out long enough.

She took up the fries as they browned and put them on a plate, then she turned to set it on the table. In a show of making room for them to eat, she picked up the pile of manuscript with her notebook on top, cradling both in the crook of her arm while she shifted the lamp more to the center. She served
the steaks onto plates then, and put them and eating forks in front of three chairs.

As she worked, she let her gaze linger on the window that opened behind the table, measuring its height with her eyes one last time, checking its rusted screen that barely hung in the frame. Yes, she had wasted enough time.

At the stove once more, she took a folded rag and used it as a pot holder to open the firebox of the stove as if to tend it one last time before closing the damper. At the sudden draft, heat and a few sparks boiled up toward the dirty ceiling overhead.

“I've decided something, Muriel,” she said conversationally as she set the folded rag aside.

“Whoop-de-do.” Muriel got to her feet with her gaze on the plates of food. Behind her, Frank began to lever himself from the floor to an upright position.

“I don't think I'm going to let you have my book.” Taking her manuscript and notebook in both hands, she bent the pages nearly double.

Muriel barely looked at her. “You've got nothing to say about it. Wha—!”

April might have laughed at the woman's look of jaw-dropped horror, and would have if she'd had the time. But she didn't.

She was too busy shoving her unfinished book into the red-hot maw of the cookstove fire.

M
uriel screamed and lunged toward the stove. Dropping her rifle, she snatched up the poker and rammed it into the firebox door. The scattered sheaves of pages inside crackled and flamed. Bits of burning paper and ash flew into the air as she raked a few sheets of flaming manuscript out onto the floor and began to stamp at them with her booted foot.

April didn't wait to see more. Whirling toward the window behind the table, she took three running steps then threw herself at the rusty screen. The rotted wooden frame burst outward. She tumbled over the sill and into the dark beyond.

Stinging pain lanced through her shoulder as she hit the ground. She ignored it as she rolled, then scrambled upright. Behind her, she heard Frank yelling and Muriel cursing. A large shadow crossed the window opening she'd just vacated, looming across it. April put her head down and ran.

Tree limbs snatched at her. Brambles clawed her legs and bit into her bare feet. Her heart pounded in her chest and her breath burned in her throat. Behind her, a shot rang out. She stifled a cry and ducked automatically. Two more shots blasted. She
heard their bullets cutting through the tree leaves above her.

Frank was shooting at the noise she was making, April thought. Either that or he didn't intend to hit her. She halted abruptly and stood trying to decide which it was while also catching her breath. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him jump down from the window. He was silhouetted for a second by the light of the lamp glow from inside the shack, then he moved off in her direction. He swung his head from side to side as he searched the darkness.

He didn't seem too sure of where she was, she thought. It seemed best to go with that idea, since the alternative could get her killed. Easing away a few steps, she pivoted sixty degrees from the direction she'd been heading. Then she took off again, circling toward the rear of the shack with as much stealth as she could manage. Thankfully, Frank didn't deviate from his path.

She had escaped, but now what? The shack was just off the main body of the lake, she was fairly sure, which meant that the land directly behind it was less swampy. The direction of the sun during the day indicated that Turn-Coupe should still be to the west. It was at least twelve or fifteen miles to the main road through deep woods cut by countless little creeks and branches that all looked the same. A few dirt-and-gravel roads wound around the lake, but she might or might not cross one. Chances were high that she'd get lost before she'd gone a mile.

The best escape route was by water, then, using the boat at the dock. However, that was exactly what Frank and Muriel would expect her to try. The
slam of the screen door at the front of the house was a strong indicator that the ex-romance writer was even now moving to cut off access.

What was she going to do? April thought frantically. Run? Hide? Swim for it?

Running was out, period. She had no faith in hiding, waiting to be found, even if there had been decent cover. She swam well enough but had scant chance of reaching safety before she was chased down by boat. So, what was left?

If this was one of her romance novels, and her heroine had just saved herself so handily, it would be time for the hero to come charging up to complete the rescue and deal with the villains. It didn't seem likely to happen. Nothing moved out on the lake and there was not a whisper of an outboard motor's roar. April had no one to depend on except herself.

Regardless, she had once written a scene with an escaping heroine who had doubled back like a vixen with the hounds after her, going to ground, so to speak, in the cave where she'd been held. Yes, and hadn't she found herself a weapon…?

A weapon. There had been an extra rifle in the shanty's back bedroom.

Was it still there? If she could reach it, would she have the nerve to use it? She'd never fired a gun in spite of all Luke's attempts to teach her years ago. She knew the theory from those days and from researching action scenes for her books, but that was all. She despised the heft and polished smoothness of firearms, hated their deadly purpose. They were connected in her mind with loss and change, with
blood and terror and the horror of seeing her father lying sprawled in death across her mother's body. She wasn't sure she could bring herself to touch the rifle, much less load and fire it.

Was her aversion as strong as her need to live? It looked as if she might have to find out. Whatever she did, she needed to make up her mind and go for it. Time was running out.

April closed her eyes and squeezed them tight. Then she jerked into motion once more, heading back toward the house.

As she reached the rear wall, she flattened against it. Foot by foot, she eased closer to the back doorsteps of the bedroom. This was her best chance. At the south side of the house, one end of the catwalk had steps leading to the dock and the screen porch entrance, but the screen door would screech like a night owl if she tried to open it. Muriel was still in front guarding the dock. She thought Frank was still on the north side of the house, searching the edge of the woods where it touched the lakeshore. She just hoped he stayed there.

The back door had been open for air before, and it still stood open. Silent as a cat, April eased up the steps and slipped into the bedroom.

The lamp still burned in the kitchen. Its light fell in a dim triangle through the connecting doorway. April stood listening, but could hear no movement from the other room. The smell of burning paper was strong in the air, and she felt a brief pang for her vanished words, lost time and effort. Then she banished it from her mind as she glanced toward where the firearm leaned in the corner.

It was as she'd thought, a hunting rifle. She reached for it, then curled her fingers into a fist. The reluctance she felt was much like reaching out to pick up a snake. The barrel of the weapon looked just as dark and deadly.

Then from the front of the house, Muriel shouted out. “April! Where are you?”

April grabbed the rifle, lifting it by the barrel and swinging it under one arm. It was a 30.06 automatic, well balanced and not too hefty. Stacked beside it were several boxes of ammunition of different caliber. She sorted quickly through them, found the right one. Dumping the shells on the bed, she loaded the rifle's clip, snapped it back in place with shaking fingers, and stuffed the remaining ammo into the pocket of her shorts.

“April! Come out here! You can't hide from us!” The yell was punctuated by a fusillade of shots.

She froze in place with her breath caught in her throat and the rifle held in front of her like a shield. Then she realized Muriel couldn't know where she was or she'd be tearing back into the shack. No doubt she thought April was hiding in the woods and hoped to flush her out.

Muriel might get more than she bargained for, April thought in grim resolve as she breathed again. The woman had shot Luke, had cornered and humiliated her and forced her to destroy something important to her. Now she was standing between her and the freedom to discover what had happened to the man she loved.

Strange, but the firearm she held no longer felt like a threat. It was, instead, a source of empower
ment, the means to help her get what she needed. She tucked it under her left arm in a loose hold. Then she set her lips in a straight line and moved toward the door.

Seconds later, she was outside again. Moving soundlessly, she left the back step and started toward the south corner. As she approached the turn, she stopped, took a quick look, then drew back again.

The portion of the dock she'd been able to see was clear, but the screen porch prevented a full view. Nothing had moved in the general vicinity that she could tell, still she hesitated. She wasn't exactly anxious to fire on a human being unless it was absolutely necessary. She frowned and held her breath as she tried to locate Muriel and Frank by sound.

From somewhere in the distance came a ripping buzz, as if someone had fired up a Jet Ski. A rumbling echo followed it, as if several fast boats had been cranked up and were idling around each other. It reminded April of the noise made by the teenagers from the more ritzy lake houses as they faced off for night races down the main channel. The far-off sound only emphasized the quiet around her.

No hum of electricity came from inside the shack, no traffic noises intruded or sirens wailed. There wasn't even the racket of a barking dog. The lake lapped against the pilings of the dock. A breeze fluttered the tops of the trees. Other than that, there was only the mating chorale of insect multitudes.

Then from the other side of the house, she caught a quiet curse, as if someone had stumbled or run
into a briar vine in the dark. Frank and Muriel must have given up on the lakefront and were working their way through the woods behind the house. If April didn't move, they might catch sight of her. Tightening her grip on the rifle, she stepped around the corner.

Muriel was less than four feet away. She let out a squawk and started to bring up her weapon. April didn't pause, didn't think. In a sudden rush of white-hot fury, she stepped forward, doubled her fist, and struck straight and hard for the woman's midsection.

Muriel sucked air in a wheezing gasp. She clamped a hand to her belly as she brought the barrel of her rifle around in an awkward swing. April ducked, then came up from her crouch with a punch aimed at Muriel's nose.

It struck true. April felt flesh and bone give under her knuckles. Pain raced up her arm to her elbow. As Muriel howled and stumbled back to land on the seat of her pants, April stepped clear. Then she sprinted for the dock and the dinghy that lay tied up at its end.

It was the snick of the safety catch being released that warned her. Before she'd fully registered the sound she was diving, rolling toward the near end of the dock. The first shot tore up ground where she'd been, the second splintered a piling, and the third kicked mud and water into her hair as she scuttled behind the protection of the wooden staging.

The rage that exploded inside her obliterated thought. It wiped away fear and doubt and the last vestige of rattled nerves. Her every instinct quieted to a deadly calm. She saw nothing, heard nothing,
except the firing of Muriel's rifle and the red streaks that marked her position. Stretched out behind the flimsy barricade of the dock, April brought her own rifle to bear.

It was as if the years disappeared and she was with Luke once more, a healthy teenager in shorts and a ponytail lying beside a lanky, hard-muscled boy. She could almost hear his careful instruction:
Snug the rifle butt into your shoulder. Bring the crosshairs into alignment. Don't jerk the trigger but squeeze evenly.

It worked. The 30.06 bucked and Muriel screeched, then scrabbled for the cover of the house. April sent another shot flying after her to encourage her to stay hidden.

Then Frank was yelling and Muriel shouting back. Within seconds, it seemed, April was under fire from a new angle. The shots were high, kicking up water behind her, but she kept her head down, covering it with her arm. As they stopped and the echoes traveled away through the trees, she waited until she thought there might be a target. Then she bobbed up, sent two fast shots toward the north house wall where Frank stood, and dropped back down again.

She hadn't hit anything and she knew it. She'd been in too much of a hurry, been too afraid that Frank's aim was steadier and better than Muriel's had been. In the sudden quiet, she thrust her hand into her pocket for shells and began to reload. Even as she chambered a shell, shoved more into the clip, and snapped it in place again, her brain raced. Her chances didn't look good. She was outnumbered and
outgunned. All Frank and Muriel had to do was coordinate their fire, pin her down then close in and finish her off. She could give them a little trouble, but her cover was scant and her ammunition limited, so it was just a matter of time. Unless, of course, she killed one or both of them.

Could she? She wasn't sure. So far, she'd been intent on doing damage, not taking their lives. She thought desperation and the blessed numbness of her adrenaline high might combine to overcome her reluctance, but she wasn't sure. There was only one way to tell.

Dear God, how had she come to this? What had she done that she was forced to fight for her life in the mud against a crazy woman and a burned-out drunk? She was a writer, not ex-service personnel like Muriel. She hated killing roaches and flies, much less anything warm-blooded. Fast-moving action scenes on paper were one thing, but living them was another kettle of fish altogether.

Damn Luke Benedict for getting himself shot, and damn him for not being here when she needed him. But she wasn't going to cry over it. She wasn't. No. What she was going to do was make Muriel Potts and Frank Randall extremely sorry that they'd mistaken her quiet life-style and polite manners for weakness, or that they had ever tangled with a woman who plotted convoluted stories with sneaky endings for a living.

She'd be damned if she was going to die before she told Luke Benedict to his face that she loved him.

I'll find you.

He'd said that, and he'd meant it, she knew it with every shred of her heart's fiber and every beat it made. If he had not followed through, it was because it wasn't possible. That was all right. Though there was nothing she'd like more this minute than to have him there beside her with his arms around her, it didn't have to be that way. If he couldn't find her, then she would make her way back to him. She would do it because she must. She would do it if it was the very last thing she accomplished on this earth. She'd do it because she knew he loved her even if he never said it.

There was no time like now.

She sprang up in a rush of mud and water and poured a couple of fast shots toward first one corner of the house and then the other. Hard on them, she hit the water, splashing toward where the dinghy was tied, swimming as the water deepened. She had a few seconds, a precious few, for she'd heard Muriel's invective, seen Frank duck behind the house. If they would only stay down a minute longer…