At Risk

by Judith E. French

The phone on the kitchen wall was ringing. Liz ran to get it. “Hello!”

  A tinny, almost mechanical voice crackled, “Ready or not, here I come.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Who is this? What sick game are you—” The line went dead, and Liz slammed the phone down. She stared at it, trying to shake the unease that pricked the skin on her upper arms. She took two deep breaths and went to the back door, jerked it shut, and turned the deadbolt.

  Heidi whined and looked up apprehensively.

  “It’s all right,” Liz said. “Just a jerk-off.” But was he? Since she’d discovered Tracy’s body and the disturbing events had started happening here at the house, she’d tried to think rationally. She’d been angry, even unnerved, but she hadn’t been afraid for her personal safety. Not really.

  “Suppose I’ve been deceiving myself?” she murmured. “Suppose some psycho is after me and I’m too dumb to realize it?”

  The dog tilted her head, a curious expression in her tawny eyes.

  Liz wondered if she should call Michael and tell him about the call, but decided that she didn’t want to worry him. What she needed was reassurance, and Michael was a typically paranoid cop who saw perverts behind every tree. He’d only make things worse.

  Jack . . . Jack was laid-back. He’d laugh and tell her that most phone harassers were harmless.

  She pulled open a cabinet drawer and flipped through the phone book. Not the yellow pages, too expensive. He’d probably list . . . Yes, there it was. Rafferty, Jack.

  “Be there,” she murmured as the phone rang, twice, three times. “Answer it, damn you. Pick up the—Jack.” She let out a sigh of relief when she heard his voice. “It’s Liz.”

  “I know who it is. Mom told me that I just missed you. I had a charter, and we pulled in to the dock right after you left. Hold on a minute. I just got out of the shower. I’m dripping all over the floor. Let me get a towel.”

  “I’m talking to a naked man?” Pleasurable memories of their passionate interlude in her back yard washed over her.

  His deep chuckle drove back the shadows. “Okay, Lizzy, I’m now decently covered. What’s up?”

  “I just got a crank call.”

  “What did they say? Did—”

  “Could you come over? Just for a little while. I’d rather . . .” She swallowed her pride. “I need some company. I don’t think I’m in danger. I’ve got a friend’s German shepherd here, but—”

  “How about supper?”

  “Your mother stuffed me with trout and lima beans with slippery dumplings.” She leaned against the table, suddenly feeling much better.

  “No, not you. Me. I haven’t had anything and I’m starved. How about if I pick you up? We can go out to Rick’s Crab Shack. I’ll eat, and you can have a beer with me or eat again. Rick still makes a hell of a softcrab sandwich. I’m buying. What do you say?”

  She hesitated. She remembered Rick’s as having great food, but attracting a rough crowd on weekends. This was Monday, and she had told the school she wouldn’t be in until Friday, so . . . “There’s no need to take me out. I could fix you something to eat here.”

  “Are you trying to proposition me? Lure me into your house with food and then take advantage of me?”

  She laughed. “Is that what it sounds like? Do women make a habit of making excuses to get you to come over?” In her mind, she could almost see Jack, towel wrapped around his lean hips, hair dripping. She wondered if he’d shaved. She was certain she’d caught the scent of Obsession on him at the funeral.

  “I’m not in the mood for a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. Live recklessly. Come with an old friend and have a drink. You can tell me all about this phone call that has you spooked.”

  “All right,” she answered.

  “Good. Give me twenty minutes.”

  He was there in eighteen. And shortly after, she had her arms wrapped tightly around Jack’s waist as they sped down Clarke’s Purchase Road in the cool darkness on his Harley.

  “You okay?” Jack shouted as he approached a stop sign and applied the hand brakes.

  “Yes.”

  “Having fun?”

  “Yes.” She realized that she was. She was wound as tight as a spring and needed a release after the past several days. And it had been too long since she’d done something on a whim. Sometimes she felt closer to sixty than forty. She’d always had to be more mature than her age, had to be the responsible one. Her twenties and thirties had slipped by all too fast, and if she didn’t allow herself a little fun, she’d be too old to enjoy it. Being close to Jack felt good, and she had a suspicion that before the night was over, she’d be even closer.

  Other than the prices, Rick’s Crab Shack, built on pilings sunk into the bank of a tidal salt creek and mudflats, hadn’t changed in the years since Liz had last been there. Rick’s scarred wooden tables were still covered with newspaper, the beer was still served in oversized, chilled mugs and pitchers, and the jumbo hard-shell crabs were so spicy they made your nose run.

  Crude chairs made from barrels and springy plank floorboards added to the ambience, as did the lobster and crab pots hanging from the ceiling. Most of the light came from the 1970’s Budweiser sign hanging over the bar and a few naked sixty-watt bulbs wired inside the lobster traps.

  The country music, courtesy of WDSD, wailed from a lime-green radio bolted to a side wall with a hand-printed warning underneath that read, “Rick don’t care if you swear. Rick don’t care if you smoke. But touch this dial and he’ll rearrange your smile.” Someone had crossed out the word “smoke,” but Liz noticed that at least half the customers ignored the Delaware law prohibiting smoking in public places. Rick’s did not cater to a particularly sophisticated crowd.

  The small restaurant was noisy, but several additions to the main room jutted out over the water, and Jack steered Liz toward a secluded table where they could talk. As usual, he ordered as if it were his last meal: crunchy salads, thick fries, a platter of raw oysters and clams, two of Rick’s infamous soft-crab sandwiches, homemade coleslaw, and a brimming pitcher of cold beer.

  “Who’s joining us?” Liz teased as a sixty-year-old waitress in tight jeans and a Ravens sweatshirt delivered their order.

  “Bet you can’t get food like this in California,” he said.

  “I’ll have you know that California is known for its fine food. They have wonderful seafood.”

  He slathered tartar sauce on a sandwich and took a bite. “Better eat that while it’s hot.”

  She bit into a crab sandwich and savored the taste. “Delicious,” she said. “I haven’t had soft crab in twenty years. But Pacific crab is good too.”

  “I hear you.” He grinned and took a sip of his beer.

  Talking with Jack had always come easily, and tonight was no exception. For more than an hour they laughed and chatted about old times. They finished the pitcher and most of the food before his expression grew serious.

  “Now let’s talk about whoever’s trying to scare you. Do you have any idea who it could be?”

  “There’s a grad student who’s been pestering me to go out with him. Cameron Whitaker.”

  “A grad student, hmm?” Jack raised a dark eyebrow. “Isn’t he a little young for you?”

  “Not this one. Actually, I did go to dinner with him. Once.” She grimaced. “He’s a total jerk. Rude to the waitress.”

  “So you think Cameron is stalking you?”

  “I don’t know if I’d call it stalking.”

  “Breaking into your house? Leaving dead animals and dead flowers on your porch? Threatening phone calls? That’s stalking in my book.”

  “I have Caller ID. I had it turned on earlier in the week, but the kitchen phone is so old it doesn’t show the numbers.”

  “So you have a second phone in the house.”

  “Sure. In my bedroom. That . . .” She broke off.

  “I’m an idiot. That should give the number of the crank call, shouldn’t it? R
egardless of which phone I answered. I didn’t think—”

  “We’ll check it when I take you home.”

  “Certain that’s not a trick to get into my bedroom?”

  “Maybe.” He caught her hand and squeezed it. “Want me to have a talk with your grad student? I could probably—”

  “No, I don’t need your strong-arm tactics to deal with Cameron. He’s about as dangerous as a beached catfish. I could whip his butt with one hand tied behind my back.”

  “I’ve missed you, Lizzy. And now that I’ve found you again, I don’t intend to let anything happen to you. If you need me, all you’ve got to do is shout.”

  She looked away, unsure if she wanted to hear this. Things were happening too fast, and as much as she enjoyed his company, she wasn’t willing to trust him just yet.

  “Hey, Jack!” a red-bearded man in a faded watch cap called from the bar. “Heard you got into a mess of trout today.” He lifted his beer in salute. “You Raffertys always did have more luck than good looks!”

  Jack replied with a cheerful insult that brought laughter from Red-beard’s buddies.

  Liz found herself shocked at how comfortable she felt here in the midst of these rednecks. Was she slipping back into the past she’d worked so long to escape? A few more hours and she’d pick up the accent she’d taken speech lessons to get rid of.

  Her childhood had often been harsh; she’d endured things that she never wanted Katie to imagine. Yet she had to admit that there had been good times too. When he was sober, she couldn’t have asked for a more loving father than Donald Clarke. There was an innate sense of solidarity among the families of the watermen, with hospitality offered freely, no matter how strapped for cash the host might be.

  Jack pulled her from her reverie by stroking her cheek. “Hey, are you listening to me?” His fingertips were rough, but his touch excited her and filled her with heady anticipation.

  Jack was hot and more than a little dangerous. A bad boy, and one she’d never gotten over. And, hands down, a better lay than any other man she’d ever been with.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s too crowded in here.” He left two twenties on the table and pushed open a door that said O EXIT, leading to the narrow dock that ran around Rick’s Crab Shack.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to use this door,” she protested halfheartedly, suddenly wanting to be alone in the dark with Jack.

  “It’s an emergency. I can’t keep my hands off you any longer.”

  The weathered deck and unpainted cedar railing were lit by a dim string of Christmas lights. Jack led her only a few steps past the window before shoving her up against the cedar shakes and kissing her. “Lizzy, Lizzy,” he said as they came up for air. “Do you know what you do to me?”

  His mouth covered hers, and it seemed the most natural thing in the world to open for his kiss, to thrill to the taste of his hot, velvety tongue and the feel of his hands moving over her. She shut her eyes and tilted her head back so that he could kiss her neck and nuzzle the damp warmth at the vee of her sweater. She slid her fingers up his chest to caress his shoulders and tangle in his hair, and all the while, he kept kissing her until she was giddy with need for him.

  On the far side of the thin restaurant wall, a Southern voice on the radio sang about broken hearts and lonely nights, but all Liz could think of was getting closer to Jack. She could feel the heat of his arousal through his worn jeans. She made no protest when he unzipped her pants and tugged them down over her hips.

  “No panties,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Complaining?” Her breath was coming in short, quick gulps.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Have you got a—”

  “Yep.”

  She heard the faint rip of a foil packet and smelled the unmistakable odor of a new condom. “Always prepared?”

  “Hell, yes.”

  She was wet and ready for him. She trembled as he lifted her to slide inside, stifling her cries of pleasure with a searing kiss. Her reward came fast and intense. Rocked by waves of sensual pleasure, she clung to Jack as he reached his climax.

  He groaned. “Better than drugs.”

  “You do drugs?”

  “A little weed. And that was a long time ago. I gave it up when I found something better.”

  “Not crack?”

  He chuckled and nibbled her throat below her ear. “Sex.”

  For long minutes they remained as one, while aftershocks of sensation washed over her. Then Jack lowered her feet to the deck and produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket. Laughing and whispering furtively, they managed to perform basic hygiene and get their clothing in order.

  Liz ran her fingers through her hair in an effort to make herself presentable. “I’m not going back through the restaurant,” she warned. “They’ll all know what we were doing out here.”

  He chuckled. “They might guess, Professor, but they won’t know. My lips are sealed.”

  Unease spilled down her spine. “What did you call me?”

  “Professor.” He grinned. “Or would you prefer Dr. Clarke? It’s what you are, isn’t it?”

  “Yes . . . It’s just . . .” She looked away at the black water. The tide rushed out, exposing the muddy banks and filling the air with the scent of decaying vegetation. Suddenly she felt chilled. “We’d better get back. I’d like to check on that number on my upstairs phone.”

  Professor. Jack hadn’t called her that before. And the message on her computer monitor—the one with the image of the oyster knife—had called her “professor.” It was a coincidence, nothing more, but it spoiled the mood of the evening for her, and she wanted to be alone where she could reason this out.

  If Jack was the one trying to frighten her, she was in a lot more trouble than she’d realized . . .

  Still holding her hand, he led the way around the deck to the front of the restaurant and the unlighted gravel lot where they’d left the motorcycle. About a dozen cars and trucks were parked there, but Liz saw no one walking to or from the Crab Shack. Jack’s bike was about halfway down the first row, front tire a foot from the chain-link fence that kept inebriated patrons from driving off into the marsh. Behind the Harley, a pickup idled, lights off. In the moonlight, Liz could make out two men in the front seat. A third figure leaned against the driver’s door, the tip of a cigarette glowing red in the darkness.

  Jack stopped and stared at the truck. “Go back inside,” he said.

  Puzzled, she glanced up at him. “Why?”

  “Don’t argue, just go!”

  Abruptly the truck lights came on, temporarily blinding her. The pickup engine revved, and the vehicle shot toward them. Jack grabbed her arm and pulled her aside as the truck screeched past and braked to a halt, blocking her escape route to the restaurant. The doors flew open and the men piled out. One carried a baseball bat.

  “Fine e-evening, J-Jack.” The smoker threw his cigarette on the gravel and ground it out with the toe of his boot.

  “Wasn’t bad until you showed up.” Jack stepped in front of her. “What do you want, Sonny?”

  Liz recognized the name and the stutter, although she hadn’t heard it since she was a child. Sonny Shahan. His close-cropped head was nearly bald and shiny in the moonlight, and he had a beer belly on him, but his aggressive stance and attitude hadn’t changed a bit. Once a bully, always a bully.

  “We want to t-talk to you.”

  “Yeah,” the man with the bat said, his voice slurred with drink.

  “Got nothing to say to you, Randy. You either, Daryll.”

  “What d-did you d-do to Wayne?” Sonny asked.

  “Nothing. Liked to. Looked everywhere for him, but I couldn’t find him.”

  “You’re a damned liar,” the third man said. He was close enough that Liz could smell whiskey on his breath. “Wayne’s our buddy, and if you killed him, you got us to—”

  “Walk away, Lizzy,” Jack said. “She’s no part of this.
Let her go inside.”

  A mosquito buzzed around Liz’s head. The breeze carried a rank smell off the marsh, as though something big had died out there. Her knees felt suddenly weak. She took a step backward.

  “And h-have her c-call the c-cops?” Sonny took another stride closer. “You m-must think we’re s-stupid.” A knife gleamed in his hand.

  “You boys have had too much to drink and you’ve been watching too much television. I told you, I didn’t lay a hand on Wayne. I’m not looking for trouble. What passed between us is just that. In the past.”

  Randy laughed. “Talking a different story now, ain’t you?”

  “Not so tough without your gun, are you, Jack?” Daryll taunted.

  “Leave us alone,” Liz said. “I’ll scream for help.”

  Daryll raised the bat. “Try it, bitch, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

  Jack lunged at Daryll. With a curse, the redneck swung the bat, a blow that would have taken Jack’s head off if it had connected. Jack spun on one foot and delivered a karate kick to Daryll’s groin and followed it up with a quick chop to the back of the neck. Daryll fell, curled, gagging and whimpering, into a fetal position.

  Before Liz could utter a sound, both Sonny and Randy charged Jack. She heard the dull smack of a fist smacking flesh, and Randy collapsed on top of his now sobbing and vomiting brother. Sonny and Jack circled each other.

  “He’s got a knife!” Liz cried. She snatched up a rock and hurled it like a baseball at Sonny. The rock struck him hard in the shoulder, and he let out a yelp. Sonny turned his head to glance in her direction, and Jack brought the side of his hand down against the bully’s wrist. Bone snapped. The knife dropped from Sonny’s fingers, and he clutched his injured hand to his chest.

  Jack stepped back just as the first shotgun blast struck the right headlight of the pickup. Glass shattered. Ears ringing, Liz whirled to see Rick standing at the edge of the road, a twelve-gauge in his hands.

  “Didn’t I tell you to stay the hell away from my restaurant, Shahan? Now get your drunk ass out of here before I call the state troopers to lock you up!”

  “You s-shot m-my truck! I’ll s-sue you, you b-bastard!”