Vanish in Plain Sight

by Marta Perry

She closed her eyes. Opened them again. Was it her imagination, or had the blackness thinned just a little? Think, Marisa. Think.

  Air moved over her, stirring her hair. She was outside, then. The rain had stopped, but the ground beneath her was saturated. She shivered from the cold. She had to get up. No matter how her head hurt, she couldn’t just lie here, a rock cutting into her cheek.

  She tried to push herself up. Couldn’t. Her hands were tied in front of her—her feet bound, too. Panic came again; the panic of being helpless, at the mercy of the person who’d brought her here.

  Help me.

  She listened, straining her ears. Wind rustling the leaves of a tree. The call of a night creature. Nothing that sounded man-made.

  All right. She wasn’t helpless. If she could move, she might loosen the bonds on her feet. She could get out before he came back.

  She swung her legs, trying to get enough leverage to get her knees under her. Move, move.

  The ground disappeared from beneath her feet. For a terrifying moment she was falling…and then she got her feet back on solid ground. Panting, afraid to move, she dug her fingers into the dirt.

  She knew where she was now. On the edge of the quarry where her mother had been buried. A sob choked her. She battled for control, trying to think. To remember.

  The hospital. She’d been there with Ephraim… Ephraim, who’d been struck down in the kitchen of the old house. And then the man who attacked Ephraim had come after her. The empty corridor, the sense of someone behind her, a faint, oddly familiar presence. He’d struck her. Brought her here to the quarry. The person who killed her mother attacked Ephraim, attacked her. He was cleaning up loose ends. Who next? Link?

  Her heart seemed to crack. That bitter accusation would be the last thing she said to him.

  No. She wouldn’t give up—lie here and wait to be killed.

  Flexing her fingers, she pressed her hands against the ground. She edged her bound hands forward. Slow, easy, don’t tip toward the side. An inch at a time, she moved her hands. Finally she was up on her elbows.

  She could see now—stars, bright against a dark sky, a sliver of moon, the dark abyss that was the quarry. Close—even closer than she’d realized.

  She had to get farther away before she could attempt to work her hands and feet free. Wriggling? Rolling? Either had a risk if she overbalanced, but she had to try.

  Holding her breath, she listened. Was there a change in the night sounds? If so, she couldn’t detect it.

  She edged her feet and legs over, a precious couple of inches farther from the edge. Then the rest of her body, her shoulders and head.

  Again. Wriggle, shift, gain ground. Confidence rising, she pressed her feet against the ground. If she could roll…

  The edge crumbled, falling away beneath her feet, too fast for thought. Clutch her fingers into the ground, grasping at roots, clinging tight, seeing the steep drop to the rocks below. Please, please.

  A last rock fell, sounding a distant punctuation as it hit the quarry floor.

  She pressed her face against her hands, scarcely daring to breathe. Terrifying to think of moving again, even more terrifying to lie here, helpless.

  If she could find a sharp rock, maybe she could cut the bonds on her wrists. She explored them with her fingertips. Not rope. Strips of cloth. Why would…

  And then she realized. He didn’t want rope marks on her wrists when she was found. Her death was meant to look like an accident.

  No. Desperate, she pressed her palms down. She’d have to risk rolling, praying—

  Fierce light pierced the darkness, pinning her to the spot. Heart thudding against her ribs, she narrowed her eyes, trying vainly to see against it. He was here.

  “I wouldn’t struggle.” The voice was a gruff male whisper. “You’ll fall.”

  Help me. From somewhere deep inside, courage welled. “That’s what you intend anyway, isn’t it?”

  “Smart girl. Too smart.”

  Not much, but things began to click together in her mind. Scent, sounds, a vague impression of size and shape.

  “You may as well stop hiding behind the light. I know who you are.”

  Silence for an instant. Then the beam flickered upward in a quick flash, and she saw the face she knew she’d see. The district attorney, Preston Connelly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RIGHT ABOUT NOW HE could use those night-vision goggles he’d had in Afghanistan. Link paused, listening, when he reached the old railroad-bed trail, hearing nothing but the normal sounds of the woods at night. He set off at a trot down the trail. The tire iron he’d stuck in his belt thudded awkwardly against his leg, but it was the only weapon he had to protect Marisa.

  Thinking of Marisa brought on a cold fear that clutched his heart and turned his bones to jelly. He focused instead on the man whose call had brought him here. Used the fury to propel himself forward.

  Please, God, Please, God… The incoherent prayer sounded in time with the thudding of his feet. He didn’t need to say the words—God surely knew his prayer, when Marisa filled his thoughts. If he didn’t get there in time—

  No, don’t think that. Think tactics. He had one advantage here that he hadn’t had in Afghanistan. This was his home turf. No matter how well the killer knew this territory, he knew it better. Most of his boyhood had been spent in these woods, and he knew every inch.

  The log drag, for instance. It slanted up through the woods at an angle just where the path to the quarry broke off. He’d go that way, instead of the more obvious trail. It would bring him up to a slight rise over the spot where the old path down into the quarry had been.

  That was where the killer would have Marisa. That was where he’d gone to dispose of Barbara’s body in that cave. Where he’d dropped the telltale hex tile.

  That had to be it. The person who’d texted him hadn’t been Amish. He’d been someone involved in Allen’s group—someone to whom Barbara had become a threat. That was the only thing that made sense.

  The killer also had to still be living here, in the area and in a position to follow developments in the case. Now, obviously, he thought that Marisa and Link were getting too close to the truth.

  When Link reached the trail that led to the quarry, he had to risk turning on his flashlight for a moment, shielding it with his hand. There was the log drag, a shallow depression in the earth where long-ago loggers had followed the natural curve of the ground to bring logs down from the mountain. Nearly buried in leaves, so no one who wasn’t looking for it would spot it.

  He started climbing, staying to the uphill side of the drag to avoid rustling the leaves. No point in advertising his presence. He had no illusions about the killer’s intent. He and Marisa weren’t supposed to survive the night.

  Pain gripped his heart. He’d die without ever telling Marisa he loved her, and that suddenly seemed the worst thing that could happen. He had to find a way to save her.

  It wasn’t far to the top. He forced himself to stop, to steady his breathing and clear his head. Now he had to move cautiously. Even a snapped stick might reach the killer’s ears. He crept toward the spot where he’d be able to see the quarry.

  He heard them before he saw them. Marisa—that was Marisa’s voice, and the relief that flooded him was so strong he knew he hadn’t expected to find her alive. Another step, and he could see them. The man had a flashlight in one hand and a gun in the other, both trained on Marisa.

  She was standing, hands tied in front of her, dirty and disheveled but otherwise apparently all right. So far.

  And she was defiant.

  “You can’t hope to get away with this.” Her voice sounded strong. “People will realize I’m missing. Link. My father. The police chief. They’re probably looking for me already.”

  “Morgan doesn’t need to look.” The voice was familiar, and it took Link a moment to absorb the truth. Preston Connelly.

  In an insane way, it made sense. Connelly fit everything he had thought about
the killer, and the district attorney was someone with a lot to lose. That made him doubly dangerous.

  “What do you mean?” Now fear edged her words—fear for him.

  “Your boyfriend is probably rushing up here right now to protect you. When he gets here, there’ll be an accident. People won’t be all that surprised, you know. Distraught over finding your mother’s body, you came up here in the night, and Link followed you. Maybe you tried to kill yourself. Maybe it was an accident. Everyone knows Link hasn’t been the same since he came back from the war. The ending is the same. You both fall to your deaths.”

  His heart stuttered, and he was far more frightened than he’d ever been in Afghanistan. This was Marisa.

  He took a long, slow breath, focusing on the situation. He was maybe twenty feet above them. Even after he got to the bottom, he’d have to cover another eight or ten feet to Connelly in the open. The tire iron wasn’t going to do him much good until he got a lot closer.

  He started down toward them, treading as carefully as if he stalked a grouse. Slow, painfully slow, feeling with each foot before he dared put his weight on it.

  “Hold your hands out,” Connelly ordered. Holding the flashlight with his arm, he approached Marisa, yanking the bonds from her wrists. Before she could move, he swung at her with the gun—a backhanded blow that sent her staggering toward the edge of the quarry.

  His heart stopped until he saw her catch herself, teetering for balance close to the edge.

  “Stay put,” Connelly ordered. “It doesn’t matter to me if you go over before or after Morgan arrives.”

  He had to move faster. She was balanced on the edge. The rocks could crumble, she could lose her focus. He had to reach her—

  A twig snapped, sounding like a gunshot in the night woods. Connelly was on it in an instant.

  “I know you’re there, Morgan.” He might not know exactly where Link was, but he knew where Marisa was. He pointed the gun at her. “Come out now, or I’ll have to use this on her.”

  No choices left. He felt for the tire iron, loosening it, holding it ready in his hand. Then he climbed down, making no effort to hide his progress. He’d have to hope he could find a chance to overpower Connelly, hope that Angelo would get there in time to help.

  He emerged into the clearing at the top of the quarry, his eyes fixed on Marisa. He didn’t know if she could see his face, but he tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Are you okay?”

  “Not bad,” she said, clearly not daring to move.

  “Over there.” Connelly gestured with the gun, motioning him toward Marisa.

  He’d have to pass fairly close to Connelly to get to her, and obviously Connelly wanted them to go over the edge close together. That would be his best chance to jump the man.

  “Isn’t this an odd role for you, Connelly?” He moved slowly, deliberately. “You’re supposed to be upholding the law.”

  “Don’t bother stalling.” Connelly waggled the gun. “No one is coming to help you.”

  “You sure? Maybe I called Adam after I saw your note.”

  “You wouldn’t be that stupid. And he has no idea I’m involved.”

  Link shrugged, flexing his grip on the tire iron he held behind him, praying Connelly couldn’t see well enough in the dark to know he had something. “You sure? We figured it out. I don’t suppose he’ll be far behind.”

  “No one has suspected me in all these years. I don’t think they’ll start now. Marisa was the only wild card. I thought she might have seen me talking to her mother out in the yard the night before she died.”

  “I didn’t.” Marisa sounded surprised. “I only remember seeing her with Cousin William.”

  “What about the tile?” Link said, desperate to distract him. “You must have had a few bad moments when you heard I found it. I’m guessing there’s something about it that identifies you.”

  “Move.” Connelly wasn’t easily rattled. “I’m not going to stand here explaining myself to you.”

  Another step. Two. Soon he’d have to make a move, but Connelly watched him intently. He might not want them found with bullet holes, but he’d shoot if he had to.

  “You killed my mother.” The accusation ripped from Marisa’s throat, and Connelly’s gaze flickered for an instant.

  All he’d get. Link launched himself toward the man, lifting the tire iron, but then they were grappling for the gun, no chance to swing it, no chance to do anything but fight for the gun, pray Marisa was all right—The gun went off, and pain burned across his thigh. He staggered, Marisa cried out, he was losing his grip…and then a figure hurtled out of the woods, charging straight at them. Russ Angelo grabbed for the gun and sent it sailing in an arc across the clearing.

  Connelly threw them off, diving after it, the pair of them launching themselves after him, and in an instant they were tussling on the ground. Not for the gun, thank God: that must have disappeared into the layer of leaves. They were getting him. He was no match for the two of them; they’d have him—

  Connelly lurched away, losing his balance, stumbling toward Marisa. The ground began to crumble, Marisa screamed—

  And then it was Connelly screaming, arms windmilling as he went over. The scream cut off.

  Link dove for Marisa, catching her hand as the edge beneath her went completely, rattling away to the quarry floor. But he had her, holding her tight by one arm with her body swinging in space. He gripped with all his strength, grabbing for something, anything, to hold on to with his other hand.

  “You can’t…I’ll drag you over.” She gasped the words.

  His hand caught a tree root, snagging it, and confidence poured into him. “I will never let you go.” He held her until Angelo reached him. Together they pulled her up and into their arms.

  THEY HUDDLED AROUND Geneva’s kitchen table like a group of shipwreck survivors, Marisa thought. She wrapped her hands around the mug of tea in front of her, welcoming the warmth. She had had a hot shower and was now bundled into an aqua fleece robe that belonged to Geneva, but she still felt chilled to the bone.

  She looked across the table. Dad had exchanged his muddy clothes for jeans and a sweatshirt that must have belonged to Link’s father.

  As for Link… She searched for signs of pain but found none. Adam had wanted him to go to the ER, but he’d insisted the bullet had just grazed his leg. He’d see his own doctor in the morning, if necessary.

  Despite the wound, despite the exertion that must have exhausted him, Link looked better, in a way, than she’d ever seen him. Peace and confidence gentled his expression. He saw her watching him and smiled…a small, private smile just for her, and her heart turned over.

  “I still don’t understand what drove a man like Preston Connelly to do such a thing,” Trey said. “Even if he was involved in Allen’s little group, surely what they were doing wasn’t illegal.”

  “It may well have been.” Leo Frost’s white hair was rumpled, and she suspected he’d been roused from bed by Geneva’s call, but his eyes were alive with interest. “Twenty-three years ago, Connelly was a smart young attorney with his eye on advancement. If he was trading favors with anyone for a leg up the ladder, he might well have bent the law. And if that came out, he could kiss a political career goodbye.”

  “He said that he came and talked to my mother the previous night, but I didn’t see him.” It was a struggle to keep her voice steady, but she made it. “I suppose he tried to pressure her to keep silent. Maybe threatened her. That’s why she packed that suitcase—she was leaving to protect us.”

  “Yes.” Dad’s voice roughened. “She was still Amish in the way she thought. She wouldn’t have wanted to do anything that would draw attention to herself. It would never occur to her to go to the police. She’d just try to disappear back into Amish life.” A world of sorrow and regret seemed to weigh on him.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Daddy,” she said softly.

  “The blame belongs on Connelly.” Link patted his shoulder a
wkwardly. “Nobody else.”

  “Unless Uncle Allen knew about it and did nothing,” Trey said. “Whether we’ll ever know the truth of that…”

  “You’d never have known it from Connelly, even if he hadn’t died the way he planned for you.” Leo’s tone was precise. “He knew the system too well.”

  “I understand why he went after Marisa.” Adam accepted the coffee mug Geneva handed to him. “He was afraid she might have seen him. But why was he so intent on eliminating Link?”

  “I think I know.” Geneva slipped her hand into the pocket of her fuzzy pink robe, her cheeks as pink as the material. “Today I went through the boxes of Link’s old toys in the attic. I found this.”

  She dropped it on the table, and it lay there looking vaguely ominous. The tile, with its menacing hex sign.

  “I had no idea what happened to it,” Link said, making no effort to touch the thing.

  “Look on the back,” Geneva said.

  Adam flipped it over. They could all read the initials incised on the back.

  “PLC,” Adam said. “Preston Lawrence Connelly. He’d have had trouble explaining that away.”

  “He must have been afraid you’d produce it,” Marisa said, looking at Link, marveling at the fact that they were both still alive. “Or remember the initials.”

  “I’ll take this,” Adam said, lifting it. “It’s evidence, even though Connelly has escaped a trial.”

  “Good by me. I’d be just as happy not to see it again.” Link stood. “Now I think Marisa ought to get some sleep, if nobody minds.”

  Nobody did, it seemed. There was a general murmur of agreement.

  “I’ve got to call your sister back. She’s been calling every half hour, wanting to know what’s happening and threatening to fly home.” Geneva headed toward the kitchen phone. “Russ, if you don’t mind waiting a moment, I’ll get a bed ready for you for what’s left of the night.”

  Marisa rose, discovering that her knees still had a distressing tendency to buckle, and took the hand Link held out. His fingers closed warmly over hers.