Startled, Emma whirls her torso around and sees Jason, blade in hand. “What are you doing here?” she gasps, hands at her chest. “I thought you were dead.”
“What made you think I was dead?” he asks, the slit eyes in his face bent so close she can see their acid gray color.
Emma’s focus is on the knife. It’s pressed against her left jugular, a superhighway of circulation. If severed, she’ll bleed out in under a minute. Terrified, she struggles for breath, her heart beating fast. “Cynthia said she saw you fall over the cliff.”
“Is that bitch still alive?” he asks, lip pulled back in a sneer. “I was hoping she was dead. I cut her pretty deep. If that goddamn dog hadn’t interfered,” he says, easing the knife slightly. “But I’m alive, and I’m here to pick up some bait. You see, I’m going fishing, and I know just the lure to catch what I’m after.”
Trying to roll away, Emma says, “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any bait.”
“Ah, but you’re the bait,” he says with a smirk.
Emma feels the blade press harder against her skin. Something slides down her neck. A drop of blood, but only a drop.
“And if you roll that chair one inch further,” Jason continues, “I’ll derive great pleasure from slitting your throat.”
“But they’re expecting me. I told them I’d be right back, as soon as I checked the stove. They’re expecting me,” she repeats in earnest.
The blade presses deeper against Emma’s skin. Her jugular’s exposed, right at the surface from the pressure. She feels another prick of the blade. Another drop of blood slides down her neck.
“I’m sure they are, but we’ll fix that. Do exactly as I say. If you deviate from what I tell you, I’m going to kill you.”
Closing the blade with his hip, he slips the knife back in his pocket, turns her chair around and rolls her back up the ramp. “I’ve watched you enough times to know exactly how to get in. Now push the goddamn button.”
“You’ve been spying on me?” she gasps.
“I’ve been watching all of you.”
Pushing Emma’s chair toward the oak desk in Austen cottage, he continues. “You’re going to use the house phone and let them know that everything with the stove is fine. Tell them that all of the excitement from this evening’s events has caught up with you, and you’ve decided to go to bed. Keep your tone pleasant and don’t add anything to what I’ve told you. Let them know you’ll see them in the morning. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, I understand, but they’re going to think it’s unusual if I don’t ask if Mick’s back from the hospital and how Cynthia’s doing. Can I at least ask that?”
His responding smile is menacing.
Taking a step toward Emma, he backhands her across the face. “Don’t ever ‘but’ me,” he says.
After thinking for a moment, he adds, “Actually, you can ask those two questions. The answers will help me to prepare. Now pick up the phone and say exactly what we discussed. If you deviate from the plan, I’ll kill you.”
Emma chokes down an unborn scream. Head reeling, she feels like her heart is beating in her face, but she knows it’s not. Her cheek stings like fire where his hand left an imprint.
Tears held in check, she picks up the receiver.
The ringing phone in the kitchen of the main house startles everyone.
Picking up the receiver, “Emma?” Niall asks, concern in his voice.
All eyes are on Niall as he responds, nodding thoughtfully, “Yes. I understand. Thank you for letting us know. What’s that? Oh yes, Mick’s back and Cynthia’s going to be okay. She’s resting now. Yes, you too. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Raising his hands to ward off the sudden barrage of questions, he repeats what Emma told him. “Everything with the stove is fine. She said that all of the excitement from this evening’s events has caught up with her and she’s going to bed. She asked if Mick is back from the hospital and if Cynthia is okay. You heard what I said from this end.”
“I’m exhausted, too,” Fran says. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” Pausing, she adds, “If you hear anything about Cynthia or Jason before then, please call me.”
Plowing finger marks through his hair, “I’m whipped too,” Mick says. “Good night, I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
When he steps outside, Mick sees that the storm has given way to a clear night sky strewn with stars glistening like ice. His heart aches. He would like to have seen Emma, but he understands her exhaustion. He feels it too.
As he slips into bed, he thinks, How is it that an auburn-haired, green-eyed woman has burst onto the scene and stolen my heart? I’ve fallen, he tells himself. I’ve fallen in love with her
Knowing that he’ll see her in the morning, he smiles and falls into a deep, bone-weary sleep.
Jason looks at Emma. As he watches her, he backs toward the front door and throws the deadbolt. “Now we’re going on a little journey.”
“Where are we going?” Emma asks, trying to keep fear out of her voice.
“You’ll just have to wait and see. Let me remind you,” he says, a grim smile of promise on his face. “If you say one word, or try to call attention in any way, I’ll kill you.”
Pulling the knife from his pocket, he presses his thumb under the thumb-stud, pushing out the blade so she can see its razor-sharp edge.
“Yours wouldn’t be the first throat I’ve slit,” he says baldly. “Do you understand me?”
Emma nods.
“I can’t hear you,” he taunts.
Looking straight into the twin eyes of evil, she says, “Yes, I understand.”
Closing the blade with his thigh, he turns out the light, opens the sliding glass door, pushes her chair out onto the smooth-tiled patio, and then closes the slider behind them.
He can feel the blood pumping in his veins, and a thrill of excitement as darkness envelops them. He’d nearly forgotten the adrenaline rush. These days it usually only comes with the kill.
“Our destination isn’t that far. If you work with me, we’ll be there soon. If you work against me, you could—” He pauses, pretending to think of a suitable word. “Tumble, wheelchair and all—and break your pretty little neck. If you enjoy breathing, I suggest you work with me.”
Surrounded by trees, Jason pushes Emma in her wheelchair through the stormy night.
Think Emma. Think.
“I’m scared,” she whispers just loud enough for Jason to hear.
“Well good, then my plan’s working,” he replies.
Pretending to cry, she feigns sniffing. “Do you have a tissue—”
“Use the back of your hand.”
Emma swallows and nods.
Covering her face with her hands, she tips her head forward, pretending to cry. The drape of her hair curtains the removal of a pearl earring she conceals in her hand.
Jason steps around the chair, juts his face into hers, and threatens, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you something to cry about.” And he slaps her across the face again.
Biting the inside of her lip to stifle a scathing remark, Emma tastes blood. Seething with anger, she pretends remorse. “I’m sorry,” she sniffs.
When he steps behind her chair to continue pushing, she pretends to wipe her nose with the back of her hand. There, I’ve got the other earring.
She hides a self-satisfied smile and surreptitiously drops the first pearl on the ground.
A few dozen yards later, the terrain becomes even rougher, and though it’s dark, she can feel the grade steepen sharply.
“It’s going to get much rougher from this point on,” Jason rasps, nearly out of breath from trying to keep the chair in his one-handed grip.
Unused to this point, Emma reaches for the handbrakes to help slow their decent, inconspicuously letting go of the second earring.
Tripping on a rock, Jason stumbles. “Fuck!” he shouts, releasing the wheelchair.
Emma, now on a wild ride, uses every ounce of her upper-body strength to pull the handbrakes. And though her wheelchair slows, it doesn’t stop until one of the wheels strikes a boulder and she’s thrown from her seat, landing face-down on the rock-strewn ground.
Dizzy and nauseous, she closes her eyes, trying to focus on the colorless void behind her lids.
Moving with stealth, Jason reaches Emma’s crumpled heap. Her legs are twisted. She’s laying perfectly still.
Toeing her body over with his shoe, moonlight reveals her mud-spattered face.
Leaning closer, he knows she’s not dead because of the slight moan that escapes her lips. Straightening, he hisses a barked whisper. “Get up.”
Emma opens her eyes slowly. Sharper than his razor-edged knife, Jason knows that if looks could kill, he’d be dead.
Speaking through clenched teeth. “Why do you think I use a wheelchair?”
“Oh, that’s right, you’re a gimp,” he sneers, “but it’s only your legs.”
Panther-like he circles her.
“If I’m not mistaken, you were pulling on handbrakes during that unexpected little joy ride. Why didn’t you say there were brakes when I was trying to keep us from barreling down the slope?”
“If you’ll remember,” she says evenly, “you told me to keep my mouth shut.”
Jaw jutting forward, nostrils flared, Jason bends down and backhands her across the face yet again. “Don’t get smart with me. The only reason I haven’t slit your throat is that you’re the perfect bait for what I’m catching.
“You happened to have landed almost on our doorstep. I’m taking your wheelchair in with me. If you want to use it again, you’ll have to earn it back. Since you’re only a gimp from the waist down, you can use your arms and crawl on your belly. Yes, I’d like that. And don’t try anything clever, I’ll be watching you from inside.”
Using his left arm, he picks up the damaged wheelchair and disappears through an opening in the mountainside, leaving Emma, mouth agape, staring after him.
If my legs worked, I’d run and hide in the woods. But they don’t.
Thoughts race through Emma’s mind as she tries to formulate a plan.
I can stand, briefly, but Jason doesn’t know that. He’s never been present when I’ve done it. And the only place I’ve practiced in my cottage is in the bathroom when I’m brushing my teeth. Even if he’s been spying on me, he wouldn’t have seen that. I need to catch him by surprise.
She remembers playing with her brothers. They’d crawl on their bellies up and down the hallway mimicking the GI Joe character on television.
With my upper-body strength, I can do this, Emma resolves. The alternative is unbearable.
It takes a long, grueling while, but she does it. A shroud of moist darkness envelops her when she crawls inside the cave. The blackness is smothering. It’s like being buried alive, but above ground.
Emma’s breathing slows as she takes in the stale, humid air. Using the rough wall as a guide, she hears a faint dripping noise—drip, drip, drip—like dew sliding off rocks.
While her eyes adjust to the dark, a soft squeak alerts Emma to the presence of either mice or bats. The chilled air sends shivers down her spine.
Senses heightened, she smells Jason before she sees him. Whiskey.
She feels his gaze on her back.
Her brain registers the sound of a click, immediately followed by light.
“Welcome to Devil’s Canyon,” Jason says.
Turning, she sees the smile of a madman, uplit by a flashlight held under his chin.
Dazzled by the sudden bright light, thousands of bats form a cloud-like exodus, screeching as they leave a mud and blood-covered Emma hugging the ground in their wake.
Jason’s maniacal laugh echoes long after their departure.
CHAPTER 19
“Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with.”
—HENRY DAVID THOREAU
The main house is situated on a gently sloping hill. From upstairs the panoramic view of the surrounding forest makes Libby feel like she’s in the Swiss Family Robinson treehouse.
This morning she stands at the window and watches the branches sway in the breeze. She doesn’t miss the serrated skyline of San Francisco where she and Mick grew up, but she misses their parents who still live there. I need to plan another visit.
And though she can only hear it in her imagination because the windows are closed, Libby loves the frothy roil of the bay when it recovers from a storm. She also enjoys early mornings before the fog lifts, and the sun warms the house. With no tai chi today, she delights in the idea of a wood fire, wool socks, and hot chocolate made from scratch.
As she turns to look at her lightly snoring husband, she smiles at his hair, wild with sleep, and teasingly says, “Niall, it looks like you combed your hair with an eggbeater.”
“What’s that, wife?” he asks, pulling the pillow over his head.
“You heard me, husband.” She pulls it back off. “Let’s go check on Hemingway. Dr. Sutton said we have to put the Elizabethan collar on him first thing this morning. And I bet he’s got to pee like a racehorse! By the way, where did that saying come from?”
Removing the pillow and the warm covers, Niall swings his legs over the bedside and puts on his slippers. Turning back, he looks at her from under shaggy brows and responds, “Trust me, Libby, you don’t want to know.” And with that, he heads to the bathroom.
Hemingway, wide awake in the mudroom, is busy licking salve from the stitches he can reach with his tongue, and desperately trying to get at those he can’t. He’d need the tongue of an anteater to reach the ones on his back.
Hearing Libby and Niall enter the kitchen, he stands and body-wags a greeting.
“Good morning, fella,” Niall says with exaggerated enthusiasm in his voice. “We’ve got a treat for you.”
Turning to Libby, he stage whispers out the side of his mouth. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“Oh, hell no,” she replies. “You get the collar around his neck while I distract him.”
“All right,” he says. “Let’s think about this. Based on previous experience, we need a plan. We know that Hemingway has the advantage of speed, strength, and total lack of concern for our welfare.”
“Yes, but we get to pick the battlefield,” she says. “I say the mudroom.”
“Mudroom it is,” Niall agrees.
“Once Hemingway sees the Elizabethan collar, he’s going to go berserk,” Libby says.
“I agree, but the collar’s in the upper-cupboard in the mudroom.” Niall looks worried.
“I’ll keep him distracted at the Dutch door with treats, while you get the collar,” Libby assures him. “But I think you should change your clothes first.”
“Change?” he looks at her curiously. “Into what?”
“Oh, let’s see,” she muses, tapping an index finger on her chin. “Overalls, construction boots, welding gloves, a football helmet, a hockey face-mask, and Mick’s flak vest.”
“Right,” he says, laughing. “And that won’t scare the daylights out of him?”
“Not if we use the element of surprise.”
“We?”
“Well, you,” Libby replies, not one bit shame-faced. “Niall, once Hemingway’s on to what’s happening, speed is essential to your survival. And when it’s all over, we know it’s not—he’ll be plotting ways to kill us in our sleep. Well, you anyway,” she finishes, grinning wickedly.
Seeing the Bellingham Police Department number on the phone display, Mick sets down his coffee cup and picks up his ringing cell. “McPherson,” he answers. “Good morning. Yes, I can be there in fifteen minutes.” Crap, he thinks to himself. I was hoping to see Emma this morning before heading out to the bluff.
There in ten, Mick is the first to arrive at last evening’s scene. Not wanting to jeopardize any
potential evidence, he stays clear of the area.
Two cruisers pull up. Herb and Chris get out of the first one. Two other officers exit the other.
“Hey, Mick, it’s been a while,” Joe says, extending his hand. “I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.” Turning to the officer next to him, Joe adds, “This is Toni, she just transferred in.”
Stepping forward, Toni shakes Mick’s outstretched hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. We know you’ve already been over this with Chris and Herb, but would you mind telling Joe and me what happened, before we inspect the area? It’ll help us to know what we’re looking at and looking for.”
Leading the four of them to the edge of the area, Mick points while sharing everything he knows—the same information he’d shared last night. “I stayed clear of the area so I wouldn’t disturb anything.”
Lifting up one of his feet, he continues, “I wore the same shoes as last night so you can tell my tread from the others.”
“That’s helpful, thank you. This isn’t your first rodeo, is it?” Toni asks.
“No. I used to be on the force, too.”
“Yeah, on the way over, Joe explained what happened. I’m sorry about that.”
Shifting gears to the subject at hand, Chris says, “Even after the storm, we can see three sets of shoe prints. These impressions correspond in design, physical size, and mold characteristics to your shoes,” she says, pointing at Mick’s feet. “These,” pointing to another set, “belong to a woman. See?” she continues, squatting near the ground. “This divot was made by a pointed spike like the heel on a woman’s shoe.” After snapping photos in rapid succession, she turns to Mick and asks, “Do you recall what shoes Ms. Winters was wearing last night?”
“When I lifted her into the ATV, I was trying to be careful not to bump any part of her, so I was paying attention. She was wearing fancy sandals, but I couldn’t say with certainty if they had spiked heels, or not.”
“Thank you. And these,” pointing to the third set, “have a completely different design, mold characteristics, and are physically smaller in size than yours,” she says, looking at Mick. “How tall would you guess Mr. Hughes is?”
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