On a Knife's Edge

by Lynda Bailey

  Shasta loved the pastoral setting, but only went when invited…a number she could count on one hand. The cabin was Graham’s retreat…his sanctuary away from everything. And she respected his need for solitude. Thankfully, as the only structure on the road, it was impossible to miss, even with her fuzzy memory and the dusky evening sky.

  The car headlights streaked across the single-story house and icy foreboding settled at the base of Shasta’s spine.

  Gnarled branches from the nearby oaks swept across the exterior on a gust of wind. All the windows were dark, save for the single light coming from the small hurricane lamp in the front one. The normally welcoming home looked like the set from a bad horror film.

  She shivered. The sooner her family got out of here and to the safe house in Reno, the better.

  Newman halted the car and scrutinized the vicinity. “You should stay in the car.”

  She opened her door. “I’m going.”

  The agent grunted a response as he too climbed out. He left the headlights on because the quarter moon did nothing to enhance visibility. Shasta hurried to the house, the gravel crunching under her shoes. Newman grabbed her before she reached the wraparound veranda.

  She jerked away. “Let go of me.”

  The agent tightened his grip. “You smell that?”

  She took a deep inhale, and her brows knitted. “Gasoline?”

  He nodded and kept one hand secured on her arm, while extracting his gun with the other.

  Her jaw dropped. “A gun? My husband and son are inside.”

  “I know that, ma’am.”

  “Then what are you doing?” she hissed.

  “Being careful,” he answered.

  Newman warily ascended the stairs, Shasta in tow, and walked her across the wooden planks. He situated her to one side of the door with a stern look then released her arm. He gripped the knob, turned it and slowly opened the door.

  Frustration and fear clawed at her throat. She wanted to burst into the house. Shout for Graham and Wyatt. Make sure they were all right.

  As the interior crawled into the view, the first thing she saw was the outline of the roughcast wood mantle of the fireplace on the far wall, and the Dupree family portrait that hung over it. Two sets of adults and two boys. Graham and his parents as well as his father’s sister, her husband and their son—Graham’s cousin—Ian. All of whom were deceased.

  Like frozen molasses, Newman advanced into the room, his weapon at the ready. He swerved sharply to his left to check behind the door. Shasta crowded him, unable to get past his massive body, frantically trying to see beyond his hulky frame.

  Finally Newman allowed her access. With air scraping her throat, she dashed inside, barely noticing the increase stench of gas.

  Shadows dominated most of what she saw, but Shasta recognized the various pieces of antique furniture. The solid walnut hutch with the curved glass that stood on one side of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, opposite the fireplace. The 18th century sideboard buffet next to the archway at the back of the living room. Through the portal, she discerned the small dining room table and three chairs. And the knockoff Louis XVI sofa still resided in the middle of the floor rug…with a small body on it.

  Wyatt.

  She rushed to her son, falling to her knees beside him. “Wyatt?” She stroked his hair. “Wyatt, honey, wake up.” Terror seized her chest. “Oh, God…why isn’t he waking up?”

  Newman lightly placed two fingers to her son’s neck for a moment then lifted one of Wyatt’s eyelids. “I think he’s been drugged.”

  “Drugged? Who would do such a thing?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t like this.” Newman holstered his weapon. “We need to get out of here. Now.”

  She stood. “What about Graham?”

  A groan from behind zoomed her heart into her throat. The agent instantly had his firearm back in hand.

  Newman motioned for her to stay with Wyatt as he prowled into a murky corner. She sank to the floor, her arm wrapped protectively around her son’s head.

  Tense seconds ticked by. Her pulse thrashed in her ears. Finally the floor boards creaked, and Newman pushed a wheelchair into the faint pool of lamp light.

  Graham.

  Had she not already been kneeling, Shasta would’ve crumbled into a puddle or relief. But…why was there a bag over her husband’s bowed head? And even more disturbing, why were his wrists tied to his chair?

  The answers came when Newman removed the bag…not Graham.

  Lynch.

  But what was he doing here?

  The agent checked the Streeter like he had Wyatt.

  “Is he all right?” Her voice sounded tinny.

  “Seems to be,” Newman answered. “He’s got a nasty bump on the back of his head, though.” He extracted a knife and cut the ropes binding Lynch’s wrists to the armrests. He then peered at something on the floor behind the couch. “What the hell…?” He moved closer.

  Shasta stood and peeked over the sofa. “What is it?”

  Newman knelt beside an unmoving body. “Adam Murphy. And he’s dead.”

  She plopped onto the cushion next to Wyatt. “Oh…my…God…”

  Bile burned her throat. What in the world was going on? Adam dead? Why was Lynch here? How did he even know about the cabin? And where was Graham?

  Newman pulled out his phone and swiped the screen. The device chirped once. “Shit.” He stuffed the cell back into his pocket then came around the sofa and none-too-gently elbowed Shasta into standing. He scooped Wyatt into his arms.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Getting you and your son out of here.” The agent turned to the door. “I’ll come back for Callan.”

  Panic swelled in Shasta’s chest. “We can’t go. What about Graham? He doesn’t have his wheelchair. He could in one of the bedrooms, unconscious and hurt.”

  Newman flattened his mouth. “You smell the gas. This place could catch fire any second. I won’t risk your safety.” He jerked his chin to the door. “Now let’s go.”

  She headed for the hallway. “Take Wyatt outside. I’ll just be a minute checking the rooms.”

  “Goddamn it…wait.”

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. Newman carefully deposited her son back on the couch and came up beside her. He flipped on the hallway light switch, but nothing happened.

  After another colorful expletive, the agent propped his foot on the wall and unstrapped a handgun from its ankle holster. He held it out to Shasta. “You know how to shoot?”

  She shrank back slightly. “Why do I need a gun?”

  “Is that a yes or no?”

  “Yes, I can shoot.”

  “Good.” He chambered a round and pressed the weapon into her hand. “The safety’s off. Stay here and try not to shoot me when I come back.”

  Shasta watched him move stealthily down the dark corridor until blackness enveloped him. Lynch moaned and she dashed to his side. “Hey…”

  His eyelids fluttered as he lifted his head. “Shaly?” It sounded like the word hurt his throat.

  She gripped his hand. “Yes…it’s me.”

  He blinked, his focus unclear. “Go. Get outta here…now.”

  “We will once Agent Newman finds Graham.”

  Lynch shook his head then groaned. “You…don’t understand. Danger…you’re in…” His eyes rolled back. “…dan…ger…” His head sagged down to his chest.

  Shasta carefully jostled his shoulder. “Lynch?”

  A loud thump from the bedrooms jolted her heart. She hastened to her feet. Adjusting her sweaty hold on Newman’s gun, she tiptoed toward the unlit hallway. Slow, steady footsteps approached.

  “Agent Newman?”

  No answer. But the footfalls grew nearer.

  She retreated as an indistinguishable figure gradually walked forward. She knew it was a man, but she also realized it wasn’t Agent Newman. This man was taller and not as broad in the shoulders.


  The first thing she saw were his shoes. Even in the weak illumination, she could tell they were expensive, with a polished shine. Next came slacks with crisp, tight creases. Newman wore a unkempt suit.

  “Agent…Newman?” She hated that her voice quaked.

  “No, sweetheart. Not Agent Newman.”

  Shasta recoiled at the familiar baritone voice. “Gr…Graham?”

  He stepped fully into the living room. “Not Graham either.”

  Shasta stumbled into the sofa, the gun dropping from her limp hold next to Wyatt’s feet.

  This wasn’t possible. Simply. Wasn’t. Possible.

  Her husband…walking?

  Yet he was, strolling like it was an afternoon in the park. Dressed in dark pants and a black turtleneck that emphasized his trim waist, he looked as athletic as he did before his accident.

  The accident…

  Her body temperature spiked and perspiration beaded on her upper lip. Her muscles weakened. “How…” She shook her head. “How is it that you’re…walking?”

  Graham beamed a grin. “Been doing it for years now, sweetheart.”

  His cavalier dismissal of something so radical and unbelievable obliterated her shock. She straightened. “Just what the hell is going on, Graham?”

  A fierce scowl replaced his smile. “I said I’m not Graham.”

  “Then…who are you?”

  His expression instantly became buoyant again. “Ian Blackwell.” He clicked his heels and bowed slightly. “At your service.”

  She shook her head. “Ian’s your cousin and he died—”

  “No.” His sharp tone hurt her ears. “I’m Ian.”

  “But Graham—”

  He grasped her upper arm in a vice-like grip, hauling her against his hard chest. “I told you I’m not Graham. I’m not that insipid weakling, understand?” He flung her away and she fell against the couch arm.

  She whipped her head up to stare at him. Talons of fear sank into her heart. Graham believed he was Ian? How? Why? What the hell was wrong with her husband?

  She licked her dry lips and stood. She cast a nervous look down the hallway. “Where’s Agent Newman?”

  Graham waved his hand. “Back there.” He brushed imaginary lint from his sweater. “He’ll have quite the headache when he wakes. That is if he wakes up.”

  Shasta inched backward, but tripped and glanced down. Her stomach heaved. Adam Murphy. She scuttled from the inert DA. “What…what happened to Adam?” she stammered.

  Graham swiped his finger along the sideboard then flicked off the dust. “He was getting close. Too close.”

  “Close to what?”

  “To discovering my secret. I had no choice, sweetheart.”

  “So…you…killed him?”

  He scrunched his features with a scoff. “No. I didn’t kill him.” His smile reminded her of a crocodile. “I have people for that kind of thing.”

  People for that kind of thing?

  Shasta now knew, without a doubt, what was wrong with her husband…

  He was mad. Insane. Totally and completely. There could be no other explanation.

  Thoughts whirled through her head. What was she going to do? How was she going to save him? Could she save him? And what about Wyatt, and Lynch, and Agent Newman? She edged her way around to the front of the sofa, hoping to use the furniture as a barricade.

  Graham closed the distanced in measured steps. “I hadn’t wanted it to be like this.”

  “Hadn’t wanted what to be like this?” she repeated. Maybe if she kept him talking, he’d snap out of whatever delusion had gripped his mind.

  “This.” He threw his arms in an emphatic arc. “It was suppose to be uncomplicated. Simple. Without all this…god-awful drama.” He wagged his head. “It’s been tough, all these years, watching you from afar. Not being able to tell you the truth. Not being with you.” He swept his gaze over her, and bile rose in her throat. “The worst part was having you think that…” He visibly shuddered. “…invalid was your husband. But all will be well very shortly.”

  “It will?” Shasta kept her voice as composed as possible. “How’s that?” She swallowed. “Ian?”

  Joy lit up his face and he caressed her cheek. She struggled not to pull back. “Because we’ll finally be together. It’s our destiny, you know. To be together.” He frowned. “Despite what your father said.”

  She inhaled a small gasp. “My dad? What about him?”

  “He didn’t believe me when I said you were fated to be mine.” Graham pressed his lips into a thin line. “He called me a sick bastard. Said hell would freeze before he allowed his daughter to be with someone my age. After years of being his friend, for him to turn on me was unforgiveable.”

  Shasta wrapped her arms around her middle and locked her knees to keep standing. “What did you do?”

  His eyebrows rose. “I eliminated him, of course.”

  “Eliminated him?” Her blood chilled. “You mean you killed him. You killed my father.”

  Graham narrowed his eyes. “Do not raise your voice to me. But, yes. One of the few times I took care of business myself.” He reached for her, but she angled from his touch. He crossed his arms with a sigh. “Surely you realize it had to be done. Your father stood in my way. In our way. Just like your brother, and…” He cast a hateful look to the wheelchair beside her which held the unconscious Lynch. “…him.”

  “My brother and Lynch?”

  “Yes…it was the perfect plan. Kill your brother and frame Callan for the crime. One obstacle would be dead, the other on death row.” Graham sighed. “Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out like I’d hoped. And while I’m loath to allow your brother to continue breathing, it’s a small price to ensure others are out of the way to our happiness.”

  “Others?”

  Graham pinched the bridge of his nose with a noisy exhale. “Really, sweetheart…must you repeat everything I say? Yes…others, as in Callan.”

  Comprehension cleared her mind.

  The gasoline. Lynch out cold and tied to the wheelchair. “You’re going to burn down the cabin—with Lynch inside?”

  “He’s been between us for far too long. Just like your father. Once Callan’s gone, it’ll just be you and me.”

  Stars outlined her vision. She glanced down at her son. He looked so small. So vulnerable. “And Wyatt?”

  “It needs to look like the invalid died in the fire.” Graham’s expression seemed almost…sympathetic. “And lots of people know he brought the boy here.”

  Her stomach roiled. “So you’re just going to…leave him?”

  “I can’t have anything—or anyone—sully our future. But don’t worry, sweetheart. He won’t suffer. I promise. He’s been sedated and will die from smoke inhalation long before he burns. He won’t feel a thing.”

  “Won’t feel a thing,” she mimicked, her voice a shrill shriek. “You’re talking about killing your son. About burning him alive.”

  “He is not my son.”

  “Of course he’s your son, Graham. You’re the only father—”

  She never saw his hand. Pain roared across her cheek. Blood flooded her mouth. She staggered backwards, landing on the couch, next to Wyatt’s motionless body.

  “Call me that cripple’s name again,” Graham bit out, “and I’m going to get upset.”

  Cool metal pressed against Shasta’s knuckles. She wrapped her fingers around the forgotten gun and rose to her feet, the weapon hidden behind her right leg. “I won’t let you do this.”

  Graham gave her an patronizing smile. “And just how do you plan to stop me?”

  She leveled the gun at his chest.

  He laughed. “Oh, please. You won’t shoot me.”

  She stiffened her arm. “Yes I will. I’ll do whatever is necessary to protect my son. And you.”

  “Protect me? From what?”

  “From yourself. This isn’t you, Graham. Something’s happened to you. You love Wyatt. He’s your son. You wouldn’t
hurt him. You wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  His nostrils flared. “I warned you not to call me that.” He took a menacing step forward.

  “Don’t come near me,” she cautioned.

  When he didn’t heed her warning, she switched her aim and fired a round just over his right shoulder. He jumped as the bullet imbedded in the fireplace mantel. She immediately trained the gun on her husband again.

  Shock blanketed Graham’s face, then his complexion turned an ugly, mottled red. “How dare you… You think this makes a difference? It doesn’t. You can’t prevent any of this.” He tipped his nose in the air. “It’s already started.”

  Shasta inhaled a breath…and cold fingers seized her heart.

  Smoke.

  She moved toward the hall and the pungent smell grew stronger. “What have you done?”

  “What was necessary to ensure our future.”

  Too late she realized Graham had lunged forward and snagged the gun barrel. Agony scorched up her arm as he twisted the weapon from her grasp.

  “See?” He smiled a triumphant grin, the gun in his hand. “I said you wouldn’t shoot me.” He moved to the side and waved her toward the front door. “Now, come. I soaked the bed linens with lighter fluid. It’s just a matter of minutes before the gasoline I poured on the floor catches.”

  Shaking her head, she backed away.

  Graham pinched his lips together. “Enough foolishness, Shasta. We need to go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, Graham. That’s right, Graham,” she taunted at his angry glower. “Your name is Graham, not Ian. And if you think, for one nanosecond, I’m leaving with you, you’re not simply crazy, you’re fucking deranged.”

  The tendons in his neck bulged. He jumped forward, locked his hand on her arm and dragged her toward the door. “I’ve had it with your childishness. You’re coming with me.”