by Nora Roberts
“Anyone who drives should be able to change a tire and do simple repairs,” she muttered, mimicking Roy. “Up yours, bro,” she added, but was relieved when the flashlight shot out a steady beam. Roy insisted on solid Duracell batteries.
If she hadn’t been coming to see him—and if he hadn’t insisted she take the train so that she’d felt obliged to drive from Philadelphia, just to irritate him—she wouldn’t be in this fix.
Frowning, she tossed her waist-length blond hair behind her shoulders and aimed the beam on the engine. Looked fine to her, she thought. Everything was black and greasy. So why the hell didn’t it run?
Why the hell hadn’t she had the car tuned before the trip? Because she’d needed a new pair of pointe shoes and her budget hadn’t allowed for both. Lisa had her priorities. Even now, standing in the dark, alone, beside her dead car, she wouldn’t have done things differently. She would have bought dance shoes before food, and often did.
Tired, annoyed, and impatient, she turned a circle, shining the light as she went. She saw a fence and a field, and a scatter of lights that seemed at least two miles away. There were woods, thick and dark, and the black ribbon of road that disappeared around a curve.
Where were the gas stations, the phone booths? Where the hell was a McDonald’s? How did people live like this? She slammed the hood and sat on it.
Maybe she should take a page out of the Boy Scout manual and stay put until someone found her. She stared up the road, then down the road, and gave a long, gusty sigh. At this rate, she’d be ready for social security before she got to civilization.
She could start walking. At five four and a hundred pounds, she might have looked frail and petite, but the rigors of dance had toughened her body. She had as much, maybe more endurance than your average quarterback. But which way—and for how long?
Resigned, she went back to the car for her map and the detailed directions Roy had given her—which she had somehow managed to mess up. She left the door open and sat sideways on the driver’s seat as she tried to figure out where she had gone wrong.
She’d passed Hagerstown. That she was sure of, because she’d pulled off the interstate there for gas and a diet Coke. And a Hershey bar, she reminded herself guiltily. Then she’d come to Route 64, just as Roy had said. And she’d turned right.
Shit. She dropped her head in her hands. She’d turned left, she was all but sure of it. In her mind, she went back to the intersection, saw the convenience store on one side, the cornfield on the other. She’d stopped at the light, munching on chocolate and humming along with Chopin. The light had changed. She’d turned. Her brow furrowed in concentration. Lisa’s mental block between right and left was the joke of the dance company. When she danced, she wore a rubber band on her right wrist.
Oh, yeah, she thought now. She’d turned left, all right.
The trouble was she’d been born left-handed, and her father had insisted she use her right. Twenty years later, she was still confused.
It was hard to blame dear old dad for the fact that she was sitting in a broken-down car in the middle of nowhere. But it helped.
So, she’d made a wrong turn. Lisa combed long, delicate fingers through her hair. That wasn’t a big deal. All she had to do was figure out whether to walk up the road or down it.
She wasn’t the kind of woman who panicked, but one who thoroughly, often stubbornly, worked her way through a situation. She did so now, backtracking on the map, pinpointing the area of her mistake, then moving forward toward the nearest town.
Emmitsboro, she decided. Unless she was completely brain damaged, she should be able to follow the road about two miles. She would come to the town, or with luck, to a house along the way where she could call Roy and confess to being stupid, inept, and irresponsible. At the moment, confession seemed better than spending the night in the car.
Lisa stuck her keys in the pocket of her sweats, grabbed her purse, and set off.
It wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to spend the evening. She’d pictured herself landing on Roy’s doorstep a good twelve hours before he’d be expecting her. She’d wanted to surprise him, then to open the bottle of champagne she’d brought with her.
It wasn’t every day she could announce she’d just been handed the plum role of Dulcinea in the company’s production of Don Quixote. Though she was the kind of woman who made friends easily and kept them, there was no one she wanted to share her news with more than her brother.
She could imagine his face lighting up when she told him, the way he would laugh and grab her and swing her around. It had been her mother who had dutifully taken her to dance classes, day after day. But it had been Roy who had understood her need, who had encouraged, who had believed.
Something rustled in the bushes. Being a city girl through and through, Lisa jolted, squealed, then swore. Where were the frigging streetlights? she wondered and was doubly grateful for the flashlight gripped in her hand.
To comfort herself, she started to imagine how much worse it could be. It could have been raining. It could have been cold. An owl hooted, making her quicken her steps. She could be attacked by a gang of mad rapists. She could have broken a leg. She shuddered. A broken leg was much worse than mad rapists.
She’d be going into rehearsals in a week. Lisa imagined herself flicking open the frilly black fan, spinning gracefully into a dozen fouetté turns.
She could see the lights, hear the music, feel the wonder. There was nothing, nothing more important than dance in her life. For sixteen years she had been waiting, working, praying for the chance to prove herself as a principal dancer.
Now she had it, she thought, and hugged herself before turning three pirouettes in the middle of the dark road. And every cramp, every bead of sweat, and every tear would have been worth it.
She was smiling when she spotted the car pulled off the shoulder of the road and heading into the woods. Her first thought was, salvation. Maybe there was a nice, clever man—she hated to be sexist, but now wasn’t the time for sensitivity—who could fiddle with her car.
But she stopped on the side of the road, wondering why the car was pulled into the bush, half hidden from view. Uncertain, she took a few steps closer before she called, “Hello? Is anyone there?” She glanced up the road, that endless dark tunnel, and took another step, carefully avoiding a gully. “Hello? I could use some help.” She shined the light at her feet, watching out for any ankle twisters as she started down the gentle slope. “Is anyone here?” She glanced up at the sound of rustling brush. “My car—” she began, then stopped.
They seemed to melt out of the trees. Two shadowy figures, draped in black. They were faceless, formless. The fear that rose up in her was instinctive and sharp. The beam of light shook as she aimed it at them. She took a step back, turned to run, but they moved quickly.
She screamed in pain and in terror as her hair was grabbed and ruthlessly wrenched. An arm came around her waist, lifting her up. Every woman’s nightmare swam blackly in her brain. She kicked out, a vicious snap of her long legs, but met only air. Flailing with legs and arms, she slapped the flashlight against skull. There was a grunt, an oath, as the hold loosened. As she scrambled for freedom, she heard her shirt tear.
Something struck her face, making her reel, blurring her vision. Then she was running, blindly. She knew she was sobbing. She could feel each breath burn her throat. She tried to stop, her panicked mind focusing on the fact that they could hear and follow.
She realized she had run into the woods and lost all direction. Fallen logs turned into traps, leafy trees into barriers. She was the rabbit, fast but dazzled by fear, chased ruthlessly by the pack. Wild with terror, she plunged on. The roar of her heartbeat was so loud, she never heard the racing footsteps behind her.
He caught her in a vicious tackle, rapping her knee hard against a rock. Even through fear she heard the bone pop. Her leg twisted as her body hit the ground with a force that had pain singing through her. She tasted her own
blood as her teeth sawed into her lip.
He was chanting. Dear God, was all she could think. He was chanting. And she could smell blood.
She heard more now, as he dragged her over. Bodies crashing through the trees. Shouts. Coming closer. Yet her captor didn’t call to them. She could see his eyes, only his eyes. And she knew she would be fighting for her life.
He thought he had her cowed. She could see it. Indeed, she could smell her own fear. When he shifted to tear at her clothes, she raked her nails hard over his hand. She was fighting, with teeth and nails and every ounce of strength in her body.
But his hands were around her throat. He was growling, like an animal, she thought dizzily. She was choking, graying out, and her struggles weakened. The heels of her sneakers beat against the dirt.
She couldn’t breathe—couldn’t breathe. Her eyes were wide and bulging as he smiled down at her. Limp, boneless, her hands slid down the rough material of his cloak and shook on the carpet of leaves.
Dying. She was dying. And her hands clenched in the crackling leaves.
Her groping fingers closed over a rock. Her heart and lungs were ready to burst as she brought it up and smashed it against the back of his head. He grunted, and his fingers went lax. Even as she gulped in the first painful breath of air, she hit him again.
Gagging, she struggled out from under him. She’d never known such pain and wanted only to lie down and weep until it passed. But she heard voices, shouts, running. Fear barreled into her, pushing her up. She bit her lip when her leg buckled, when the agony of it shot up into her belly. In a limping run, she raced through the trees, knowing there were others close behind.
* * *
Clare felt better. Incredibly better, she thought. She was almost humming as she drove home from Cam’s. She hadn’t known that sitting out and looking at the stars, talking about nothing of particular importance could calm jangled nerves. She was sorry she couldn’t have stayed, couldn’t have snuggled up in bed beside him, to make love, or just to talk and drift into sleep.
Angie and Jean-Paul would have understood, she thought with a smile. But her mother had drummed manners into her a bit too successfully. In any case, she wanted to get back, to close herself off in her room and study the book from her father’s office.
Hiding it away wouldn’t solve anything. That was another conclusion her time with Cam had brought her to. She would read it, try to think it through. She would even go through the rest of the books that had been packed away.
“How about that, Dr. Janowski?” she muttered. “I didn’t have to shell out a hundred and fifty dollars to figure out the best answer is to face the problem, then deal with it.”
Besides, there wasn’t going to be any problem. She tossed her head, and the wind sent her hair dancing around her face. Everything was going to be fine. Emmitsboro would have its parade, a few speeches, then would settle back to its quiet monotony. Just the way she liked it.
She saw the figure dash out of the woods. A deer, Clare thought as she pressed her foot down hard on the brake. The car skidded and swerved as she yanked at the wheel. Her headlights veered crazily and caught the figure—the figure of a woman, Clare realized with sick panic—just before the right fender bumped against flesh.
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, Jesus.” Clare was out of the car in a flash, her limbs like Jell-O. The stink of rubber stung the air. Slumped beside the car was a woman. Blood stained the legs of her sweatpants, was smeared on her hands. “Oh, please. Please, God.” Murmuring brokenly, Clare crouched down to gently brush back the fall of blond hair with shaking fingers.
Lisa blinked but could barely focus. Something had scraped her eye badly as she’d stumbled through the woods. “Help me.” Her voice was a raspy whisper, barely audible.
“I will. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you until it was too late.”
“A car.” Lisa pushed herself up, bracing a palm on the concrete and locking her elbow. Each word burned like acid in her throat, but she had to make herself understood before it was too late. “Thank God. Help me, please. I don’t think I can get up alone.”
“I don’t think you should move.” Wasn’t there something about neck or spinal injuries? Christ, why hadn’t she ever taken a first-aid course?
“They’re coming! Hurry! For God’s sake!” Lisa was already pulling herself up by the bumper. “For God’s sake hurry!”
“All right. All right.” She could hardly leave the woman lying in the middle of the road while she went for help. As gently as possible, Clare maneuvered Lisa into the passenger seat. “Here, let me—”
“Just drive.” Lisa was terrified she would black out. With a hand clenched on the door handle, she peered out into the woods. Her good eye wheeled with panic. “Drive fast, before they find us.”
“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
“Anywhere.” Lisa covered her bloody face with her hand. “Take me anywhere but here.” She slumped in the seat as Clare drove away. Lisa’s body began to shake as she swam toward unconsciousness. “His eyes,” she murmured, fretful. “Oh, God, his eyes. Like the devil’s.”
Cam had his mouth full of toothpaste when the phone rang. He spat, swore halfheartedly, and didn’t bother to rinse. The phone was on its third ring when he lifted it from the nightstand. “Hello?”
“Cam.”
He needed only that one syllable to tell him something was wrong. “Clare, what is it?”
“I’m at the hospital. I—”
“What happened?” he demanded, grabbing the jeans he’d slung over the chair. “How bad are you hurt?”
“It’s not me. I’m fine.” Her hand trembled so violently the coffee in the Styrofoam cup splashed over the sides. “There was an accident—a woman. She ran out of the woods. I thought she was a deer. I tried to stop. Oh, God, Cam, I don’t know how bad I hurt her. They won’t tell me. I need—”
“I’m on my way. Just sit down, Slim, and close your eyes.”
“Okay.” She pressed a hand to her lips. “Thanks.”
It seemed like hours. She sat in the Emergency Room, listening to the moans, the slap of feet on tile, the droning television. Leno was doing his monologue, and apparently knocking them dead. Clare kept staring down at the bloodstains on her blouse and jeans—reliving over and over that instant when she’d hit the brakes.
Had she hesitated? Had she been driving too fast? She’d been daydreaming. If she’d been paying closer attention, that woman wouldn’t be in surgery.
God, she thought, I don’t even know her name.
“Clare.”
Dazed, she looked up just as Cam crouched beside her. “I don’t even know her name.”
“It’s okay.” He brought her hands to his lips and held them there, assuring himself she was whole and safe. There was blood on her shirt, but after the first jolt of panic, he knew it wasn’t hers. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“She ran in front of the car. I hit her.”
He noted that her face was colorless, even her lips. Her pupils were dilated. When he put the back of his hand to her cheek, he found the skin clammy and cold. “Has anyone looked at you?”
She gave him a blank look. “I want to know what’s happening. I have to know. They’ll tell you, won’t they? Please, Cam, I can’t stand it.”
“All right. Stay right here. I won’t be long.”
She watched him as he walked to a nurse, took out his identification. After a few moments, the nurse led him away down a hall. When he returned, he was carrying a blanket, which he tucked around her before he sat.
“She’s in surgery.” He took her hand, warming it between his. “It may be awhile. Her knee was badly damaged and her eye.” He waited until Clare pressed her lips together and nodded. “There’re some internal injuries and a lot of bruising around the throat. Clare, can you tell me how hard you hit her? How far the impact tossed her?”
“They asked me all that.”
“Tell me.”
; “It seemed like kind of a bump. I was nearly stopped. I thought I’d be able to stop in time. I swung the car hard, to the left. I swear, it felt as though I’d be able to stop. But then, when I got out of the car, she was lying there, and there was blood.”
Cam’s eyes narrowed. “She was right beside the car?”
“Yes, she was almost under the damn tire.” She pressed a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t know what to do. She begged me to help her.”
“She talked to you?”
Clare only nodded her head and rocked.
“Okay, take a minute.” He put an arm around her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her temple. But he was thinking quickly. “Do you want some water?”
She shook her head. “I’m okay. It’s only that I keep seeing her, in that instant she was caught in my headlights.”
He would question her about that as well, but he wanted to give her time. “Just listen. The intern on E.R. duty said her clothes were torn. There were leaves and twigs stuck to them and tangled in her hair. The bruises on her neck indicate attempted strangulation.”
“But …”
“You said she ran out of the woods. Would you be able to show me where?”
“I won’t forget it anytime soon.”
“Okay.” He smiled, noting some color was seeping back into her cheeks. “I’d like to take a look at your car before I take you home.”
“I can’t go. Not until I know.”
“You’re ragged out, Slim.”
“Not until I know.” She took a deep breath before she turned to look at him. “She was running away from someone. It didn’t click in before. I was so scared. I didn’t want to move her, but she tried to climb into the car. She was terrified, Cam. The pain must have been awful for her, but she was actually trying to crawl into the car. She said we had to get away before they found us.”
