Miracle in the Mist (21 page)

Setting his cup aside, he took her hand and led her to a chair beside the table. When she was seated, he poured her a cup of coffee and sat across from her.

"What is it?"

For a moment he didn't think she would say anything, only continue to worry her bottom lip. Then she looked up and sighed.

"Remember I told you that when they found me, I had blood on me?"

He nodded.

"Well, there was a lot of blood. My skirt and blouse were almost completely red with it."

He said nothing, fearing if he did, given her state of nervousness, that she'd stop talking and never ask him whatever it was that had caused her state of nervousness.

"I need to know… " She swallowed. "I need to know how much blood someone can lose before they… before they die."

Frank had expected her to ask many things, but this certainly wasn't one of them. For a time, he stared at her openmouthed. "And you want to know this because—"

She dropped her gaze to her fidgeting hands. "Because I think I may have… killed the faceless man." The last four words fell from her mouth in a rush, as though she had to get them out or lose her nerve.

He almost laughed at the ludicrousness of it. Carrie? Killing a man? In his wildest, most twisted dreams, Frank could not imagine Carrie doing anything that violent. "Why would you even think that?"

Carrie stood and walked to the window. "Because a few minutes ago, I had another… "She glanced at him, shrugged, and then looked back out the window. "I don't know what to call them anymore. Since they're happening when I'm awake now, they can't be dreams. Visions, I guess."

Frank got a sick feeling in his stomach. She'd had another bout with the faceless bastard, and he hadn't been there to help her through the aftermath. He moved to the edge of his chair. "'Visions' will do for now. Will you sit back down and tell me about it?"

At first she hesitated, and then she retook her seat across from him. Before she could say a word, he scooped up her hands and enclosed them in his. Then he smiled at her. He wanted her to feel as much at ease as possible, to feel his presence and his protection.

She took a deep breath. "I was going to go inside and help Clara with supper. But before I could, I had this weird sensation, like when you step on a stair that's not there. Only it wasn't just a quick jolt. I felt like I'd stepped into a bottomless hole and kept falling and falling and falling… "

"You're absolutely sure you were awake?"

Yanking her hands away, she stood and glared down at him. "You think I'm crazy or that I'm making this up, don't you?"

She started to leave, but he grabbed her wrist. "No, I believe you. I'm just trying to find out everything."

After studying his sincerity for a time and evidently deciding he had spoken the truth, she sat down again. "No, I was not asleep. I told you, I was going inside to help Clara." Carrie wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. "Anyway, when I hit the bottom of the hole, I was in a closet. I knew someone was hunting for me. I knew it. I could hear his footsteps coming closer and closer." As she talked, her voice had begun to rise. The building tension showed plainly in her features.

Frank took her hands again. She made no move to pull free. "Easy. Just tell me what happened."

Carrie found his touch very soothing, enabling her to recount her visions. She told Frank the whole thing, leaving nothing out. "Then as suddenly as he'd come, he went away, and I woke up on the grass. I still had the painful bruises, but while I sat looking at them, they disappeared."

"That son of a bitch," he mumbled when she'd finally stopped talking. He fisted his hands on the table. "If I could get my hands on him—" His voice had become a growl that sent chills racing down Carrie's spine.

"That's not why I told you all this. I don't need anyone to fight my battles for me." Surprisingly, she believed that down to her toes. If anyone was going to go up against the faceless man, it would be her. If she hadn't learned anything else about herself during her time in Renaissance, she'd learned that she was not a coward. She was an individual with enough wherewithal to fight her own demons. "What I need to know is, was the amount of blood I had on my clothes the night I wandered into the library enough to verify that someone had died?"

Frank searched her face. "My God, you actually think you killed someone. You think you killed the faceless man."

She simply nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Firmly shaking his head, he rose and went to grab the coffeepot. She was sure it was to have something to do rather than because either of them wanted more. But he never poured any coffee. Instead, almost absently, he set the pot on the table and fairly fell back into his chair.

"Carrie, you could never have killed anyone, not you."

She loved him for believing her incapable of such a horrendous act, but… "Then how do you explain all that blood?"

"You said you had a cut on your head," he said, grasping at anything to explain it.

She shook her head. "The cut was minor enough to be closed with a bandage. It would hardly have caused the amount of blood on my clothing." She took his hand in hers. "You haven't answered me. Could that amount of blood have come from someone being killed?"

Frank turned away, but she took his chin in her hand and forced him to look at her. "I can take it. Please, be honest with me. You're a surgeon. You must have some idea."

Nausea churned in Frank's belly. He'd rather cut out his tongue than tell her what she wanted to hear. But he could see the need to know in her eyes and that she was not going to give up until she did.

He swallowed hard. "The amount of blood you described on your clothes could mean the person it came from had been critically injured or… that they could have died."

Chapter 18

Carrie could feel the color drain from her face. Instantly, Frank rounded the table and pulled her into his arms.

"That doesn't mean you killed him or anyone else. It might have been—" He couldn't think. All his brain registered was her intense fear and overwhelming distress. Still he fought for words. "It could be that—"

She laid her fingers over his mouth. "Don't. Please. If I did it, then when I leave here, the thing I have to face is my punishment."

"No!" Frank's booming denial seemed to fill the room. "I don't believe you're guilty of this. Some people are able to kill, but not you. Not you."

She leaned back and searched his eyes. "And you? Are you one of those who can kill?"

For a moment her question threw him off balance, and then he realized to what she was referring. The accident. "It's not the same thing," he said quietly. "It was not on purpose, but I am still guilty."

"So you say, but I don't believe you're guilty of that any more than you can believe I killed that evil being from my dreams."

Then she laid her lips on his, and all thought flew from his mind. Willingly, he allowed himself to drown in a kiss for which he'd been longing for days. Carrie felt so good in his arms, so right. How could they not belong together? Could fate truly be heartless enough to bring them together only to rip them apart?

Feeling desperate, he pulled her closer and let his tongue delve deep into her mouth, tasting and savoring the sweetness he found waiting for him. Sweetness that had become a life-giving force for him, a forbidden elixir that drove him relentlessly to crave more. Carrie was his drug of choice, and he was a willing addict.

She moaned deep in her throat and pressed herself against him. "I want you," she whispered into his mouth. "I want you one more time."

God help him, he had neither the strength nor the desire to deny her. If this was all they were to have, then he'd take every last moment and treasure it. Frank scooped her into his arms and carried her to his bed.

Frank laid Carrie gently on the bed. Knowing the trauma of her most recent vision still lay heavy on her heart, he'd decided to take it slow, but Carrie seemed to have other plans.

She pulled him down beside her and then rolled him onto his back. Before he could blink, she'd unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off, and then tossed it carelessly to the floor. The rest of his clothing quickly followed the shirt. Naked and dazed by the speed and brazenness of her movements, Frank could only stare fixedly as she disrobed.

Moments later, she slid her naked flesh over his body. Her skin was hot and slick. Anticipation and desire sparkled in her heavily lidded eyes. Her warm, sweet breath fanned his face, and then her mouth claimed his in a hungry kiss.

The hesitant, insecure woman he'd first made love to was gone. In her place was an untamed wanton who would have her way with him, a woman who did not want to wait for foreplay. He sensed that right now, at this very moment, she needed the assurance of being the one in control. She needed to know that she could be the one in charge of their lovemaking. And he let her.

Though it took every ounce of his control, Frank let his hands fall to his sides and gave her free reign. As Carrie kissed every inch of his body and explored every curve and valley as though committing them to memory, he held his breath and prayed he'd be able to hold himself in check.

She straddled his middle and played her fingertips over his skin. It felt as if a million butterflies were caressing him. Where had she ever learned to stretch a man's endurance to the breaking point, and then stop just before he plummeted over the edge of pleasure? Wherever she'd learned it, he didn't care. That it was him who was the recipient of her desire made his arousal intensify, and he throbbed with a sensual pain that nearly drove him mad.

Then he felt her mouth on him, sucking, kissing, and laving him until he was sure the end would come without his bidding. But again, she knew the exact moment to stop him just short of completion.

She slid up his body and leaned over him, enclosing them in a curtain of fiery hair. The tips of her hair skimmed his chest. He moaned and squirmed beneath her. Still, he forced himself not to touch her, instinctively knowing she needed the assurance of being in control.

Finally, when he was convinced he could stand no more, she positioned herself above him and then slowly lowered her body onto him. Frank sucked in a huge lungful of air, certain he'd never breathe again.

Unable to hold out any longer, he cupped her breasts in his palms and massaged them until her nipples pressed hard against his palms. Carrie moved her hips in a circular motion.

The most incredible spirals of heat started at his toes and rushed upward. His groin tightened. Past control, he gripped her hips and guided her frantic movements. Carrie threw her head back and cried out his name. A flash of brightness exploded in front of Frank's eyes, and he felt as if the world had shattered into a million tiny shards of blinding light.

***

Several hours later, the glow of their lovemaking still clinging to her body and mind, Carrie slipped from Frank's bed, dressed, and then placed a kiss on his lips. She stole a moment to look at him. He's a good man, she told herself, with his own trials and tribulations with which to come to terms. He didn't deserve to shoulder the extra burden of her mistakes.

She would lay down her life for Frank, but, if she'd done this terrible thing, if she had, indeed, murdered the faceless bastard haunting her, then her life was no longer hers to control. By taking a life, and now she was almost certain that she had, she'd given up that right.

Brushing away the tears streaming silently down her cheeks, she whispered, "Good-bye, my love." Quietly, she slipped from the room and then from the cottage.

In the outer room, Carrie found Alvin sitting in the pale dawn light. He looked up at her as she approached the table, but said nothing.

She laid her hand on his shoulder. "Help him, Alvin. Free him of his burden."

Alvin nodded wordlessly. Carrie forced a smile she didn't feel, and then walked out of the cottage.

***

Knowing she didn't want him to see her leaving, Frank had pretended sleep. But moisture burned hotly behind his closed eyelids. This was the end for them. Still, even knowing that in the depths of his soul, he wanted to snatch her back, hold her close, and never let the outside world come between them. But he knew that was impossible. A cavity, filled with nothing but emptiness unlike any he'd ever known, opened inside him.

Long after Carrie was gone, Frank lay staring at the darkened ceiling. What kind of God waved complete happiness in front of an emotionally starving man and woman and then snatched it away? How many times would he have to endure the pain of losing the women he loved? This place was supposed to make him feel better, not inflict more pain. Why in hell had he let Steve talk him into coming here?

Because you needed to be here
, a disembodied voice reminded him.
Because until you're free of your own guilt, you won't be any good to yourself or anyone else, including your patients and your friends, but most of all to Carrie. She's going to need you very soon. You can be there for her—if you dare to hope. But you won't be there for her if you don't shed this mantle of guilt
.

Frank knew that. God, he knew it. But shedding something you had earned was easier said than done. So far, she'd at least found some answers. He, on the other hand, had found none. At least her demon sort of had substance and form. Guilt didn't have a form that you could scream at or punch. Guilt simply hung on to your soul until you were so exhausted from carrying it that you gave up and allowed it to pull you under and consume your life.

Frank was tired of his burden, and he refused to allow it to take any more of his life from him than it had already. He wanted to get out from under it. But God help him, he had no idea how to make that happen. Talking about it to Alvin had only opened the wounds and intensified the knowledge that his lousy driving had taken the lives of his wife and unborn child.

Running out on Alvin, and then hiding in his bedroom spending the next few hours staring at the ceiling trying to think, had produced nothing more than a never-ending reenactment of what had happened on that snowy night on a deserted back road. And what had that gotten him? Nothing but more pain and an intensification of the guilt he already found impossible to bear.