Wait Until Dark
Carolina Moon Series, Book 3
Christy Barritt
Contents
Copyright:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Dear Reader:
If you enjoyed this book, you may also enjoy these books in the Carolina Moon series:
Squeaky Clean Mysteries:
The Sierra Files:
Holly Anna Paladin Mysteries:
Other Books by Christy Barritt:
The Gabby St. Claire Diaries
Complete Book List:
About the Author
Copyright:
WAIT UNTIL DARK: A Novel
Copyright 2016 by Christy Barritt
Published by River Heights Press
Cover design by The Killion Group
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The persons and events portrayed in this work are the creation of the author, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Chapter One
Brody Joyner gripped the steering wheel, his pale knuckles matching the overwhelming white outside. Snow beat down on his windshield. His tires slipped on the asphalt. He was all too aware that, on either side of the road, gigantic ditches waited like graves for anyone who made one wrong move.
He braved the massive snowstorm as a favor to his friend, police chief Joshua Haven. Brody normally worked for the Coast Guard, but he’d recently taken a leave of absence. Joshua had received a report about a stranded boater on the river, so Brody had gone out to see if he could help. When he arrived at the boat, he found it empty.
After securing the boat in the parking lot of a local boat ramp, Brody was headed home.
He cranked up the heat in the truck. Even the layers upon layers of clothing he’d donned didn’t keep him warm right now. The biting cold was unrelenting.
As heat began to pour through the vents—finally!—he let out a breath and stared at the road ahead. Trees formed ghostly impressions. Where the street began and ended blurred together. Treacherous was an understatement for these conditions.
It was brutal outside. Absolutely brutal.
Something on the road in front of him caught his eye. He leaned closer to the windshield, trying to see through the blinding snow.
Just then, the downfall paused as if Old Man Winter drew in a long breath before releasing his next downpour. Brody saw a figure there.
A man. Lying in the road. Still moving—maybe.
He hit the brakes and held his breath, praying the truck didn’t skid. As if suspended in motion, the truck slowed, slowed, slowed even more.
Stop. Please stop in time.
Tension pressed between his shoulders as he continued to glide.
The truck halted mere inches from the man.
Brody threw the gear into park and scrambled to check on the man. No sooner had he stepped out than did the snow begin to fall in a total whiteout. Flakes clung to his eyelashes and stung his cheeks. The wind swept through his clothing until his bones ached.
No one should be out in this weather. He was already wet from the rough surf that had splashed aboard his boat. He’d thought it was survivable—but that was when he assumed he’d be home to take a warm shower within fifteen minutes.
He was going to have to feel his way across the landscape—his vision was useless as precipitation fell in thick, downy sheets.
Finally, his foot bumped something, and he knelt on the slippery snow. This must be the guy he’d seen. All his other senses were useless at the moment, other than his ability to touch and feel. He had to trust that skill, as well as pure instinct.
When the snow cleared again for a few seconds, he spotted an older gentleman with red cheeks and icy extremities. The man’s face was wrinkled, his eyebrows bushy and white, and his figure, though clothed in layers, still obviously slight and wiry. A low moan escaped from the man’s purple lips.
This man needed help—and soon.
“Come on. Let’s get you in my truck,” Brody muttered.
The man’s eyes fluttered open and froze onto Brody’s. “Be . . . careful.” Each word seemed uttered with a scratchy rasp of pain.
Brody supposed anyone could have used that advice. But something about the way the man said it made Brody think twice. He shivered, but convinced himself it was because of the cold, not because of this situation or because of a kooky, perhaps delusional old man.
“I will be careful. Promise.” Brody reached beneath the man’s shoulders. “Let’s get you to safety.”
Brody hauled the guy to his feet. How long had this man been out here? He felt like a dead weight. As Brody grabbed the man’s hand to stabilize him, Brody noticed the blood there. On his knuckles. The torn skin. The purple bruises.
That wasn’t frostbite. It looked like this man had been in a fight. Just who was he? Why was he out here in the middle of the storm? There was nothing else around. Just the river behind him and woods on either side of the road.
Brody would think about that later.
He struggled through the snow, each step a battle to continue moving with the man’s weight pressing into him. He felt like he was pushing against a wall and gaining very little traction. He had rescued people from twelve-foot swells in the middle of hurricanes. He could rescue this man now.
Finally, he reached the front passenger door. Despite thick gloves, his hands were almost numb as he grabbed the handle and pulled the door open. Using his last bit of strength, he helped the stranger into his truck and slammed the door.
He had to get off these roads or they would both be goners. Everything was becoming ice around them, making being outside a death trap in itself.
He released a slow breath, the air from his lungs instantly turning to frost. He kept one hand on his truck, using it as a guide as he scurried around to the driver’s seat.
If he could just get to the end of this road, there was a gas station not too far down the highway. They could seek refuge there until the whiteout passed. At least it should be warm inside. Maybe the owner, Herb, would even have some coffee made. He was the type who didn’t miss work for any reason—especially not weather emergencies.
Brody climbed in and slammed his door, the heat as welcoming as a kiss from a loved one. “We’ve got to get off this road. Everything is shut down in this area. At least crews treated Highway 17, but the snow is coming down so fast I’m not sure how much good it did.”
He glanced at his passenger. The man sagged against the door, almost like he couldn’t hold himself up. He needed help. Hypothermia was kicking in. But driving too fast down this road would only make things worse.
“What’s your name?” Brody tri
ed to keep the guy lucid as he started down the ice-coated street, moving more slowly than a narwhale in polar waters.
The man said nothing, only stared straight ahead.
“How’d you end up out here in this snowstorm?” Brody continued.
Again, the man remained quiet. Brody had the strange feeling that it wasn’t because of hypothermia as much as it was avoidance. He remembered the man’s bruised, battered knuckles, and unrest sloshed inside him.
As a gust of wind swept over the road, his grip tightened on the wheel. They would be lucky to make it to the gas station in one piece. Being out here was just asking for trouble.
“Pastor . . .” the man finally whispered. He licked his lips, but his eyes looked glazed.
“Pastor? You want to go see your pastor?” Did the man sense the end was near and long for last rites? Or did he have something to confess?
The stranger pointed into the distance. “Please.”
If Brody remembered correctly, they should be approaching a crossroad soon. It was impossible to tell how close they were. “You want me to turn right?”
“They’re . . . coming.”
Alarm shot through Brody. The man had gone from delusional to crazy. “Who’s coming?”
“The men . . .” Just then, he sat up straight and grabbed Brody’s arm. “There!”
Brody glanced in the direction he pointed. The snow cleared long enough for Brody to see a road sign. “What’s down there?”
“Please.” The man clutched his arm even harder.
The man sounded desperate. Brody wasn’t sure why, but he turned. He was fairly certain he could take this street down a little farther and get to the highway. This road was a little broader and not quite as treacherous as the one he’d turned off.
Maybe the man lived down here. Maybe he wanted to go home. Maybe his pastor lived in this direction.
Who was Brody kidding? It would be nearly impossible to walk through this snow without freezing to death. If he were able to drop the man off, the guy would risk life and limb trying to get to the front door. Driveways down here were more likes lanes. Brody’s truck wasn’t equipped to plow through snow and he didn’t have chains.
He glanced in his rearview mirror and squinted. Was that a car behind him? Was someone else crazy enough to be out in this weather?
Slowly, steadily, the car drew closer. No, not a car. It was a Hummer. He could barely see it through the deluge of snow. But it was clearly a vehicle, and it was clearly right on his bumper.
What in the world?
A crack cut through the air.
He glanced behind him.
His back window. It now bore a bullet hole.
That’s when he heard his window splinter.
Someone was shooting at him.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Brody pressed on the accelerator. He shouldn’t go any faster—it was dangerous—but he didn’t have much choice.
Another bullet pierced his vehicle, slipping through the shattered back glass and hitting his front windshield. It had raced by, only inches from his head—if that much.
He flinched, pitched forward maybe. It threw him off enough that—just for a moment—he lost control of his truck.
He hit a patch of ice. The truck swerved.
“Hold on!” he yelled.
He gripped the steering wheel, trying to right the vehicle. It was no use. It began spinning.
With a sickening crunch and a harsh lurch, the truck hit a tree.
And then everything went black.
Felicity French stared at the windowpane, which grew foggy as the cool air from the snowstorm outside met the warm air inside the drafty, old house her grandma had left for her.
She remembered sitting here as a child, in this very spot, using her breath to fog the window. Then, she’d draw hearts and smiley faces and flowers.
At the moment, she pondered what to create on the blank glass canvas. Not hearts and smiles and flowers. Drawing a frowning face seemed too solemn and dramatic. A broken heart seemed over the top.
Instead, she dragged three of her fingers over the glass, curving them until they formed a rainbow.
A rainbow. Hope in the middle of a storm. God’s promises.
She wasn’t so sure she believed in God’s promises anymore. Her preacher had always said that everybody and everything in this world would let you down, but God never would.
That preacher had lied.
God had let her down big-time. Despite her prayers, her tears, her yearnings, everything she’d loved had been taken from her.
As she stared at the rainbow, she squinted.
All she’d seen for the past several hours was blinding whiteness outside as “Snowmegadon” hit the area. Out here in eastern North Carolina, snow wasn’t that common. One inch of snow usually shut down roads and schools. Residents of the small, sleepy town of Hertford already had five inches from this storm, and the precipitation kept coming.
But there, in the distance, was a blob of black.
Felicity erased the rainbow and cleared more of the fog away in order to see better. Were her eyes playing tricks on her? What was that in the distance?
Another gust of snow blew past. She blinked, trying to focus. All she saw was white again.
Maybe that was all she’d ever seen.
She stared for a couple more minutes before convincing herself she was losing her mind, seeing some kind of winter mirage. Finally, she stood. She had to do something instead of gaze out the window.
Just because she was newly single and jobless didn’t mean she had to act useless.
She walked back into the kitchen of the old plantation house. Her mom’s mother had died not even a year ago, and no one else in the family wanted the rundown place. Felicity knew she needed a change after the fiasco in Raleigh, and she saw this house as the perfect opportunity for a fresh start.
She wasn’t sure how her grandmother had survived out here for so long, though. Some of the wooden floorboards were so deteriorated that Felicity feared falling through when she walked across them. The flowered wallpaper peeled at the corners, water stains decorated the ceiling, and the stair railing was loose in more than one place.
The outside was lovely, though. It was plantation style with white columns and a massive wraparound porch. A solitary stained-glass window hung high above the front door, almost like a centerpiece.
Trees, now decrepit-looking with their frail branches and moss that hung like threadbare clothing, lined the gravel driveway. At the end of the drive, toward the road, metal gates stood open. They were rusted that way, for that matter.
The place had been glorious at one time. Full of life and love and hopes and dreams. Felicity had spent many summers here as a child, and she’d delighted in the wide, open spaces.
Maybe with time, Felicity would fix up the house. Maybe she’d stay here awhile and then move on. She hadn’t decided yet.
She refilled a chunky ceramic coffee mug, took a sip, and let the warmth fill her.
Her feet seemed to be on autopilot, and she found herself walking back toward that window again, her subconscious still dwelling on that black dot she’d seen in the distance.
“Felicity! Everything okay down there?”
Great-Aunt Bonny was staying with Felicity during the storm. Normally Aunt Bonny had her own residence at a local assisted-living facility, but Felicity had invited her to stay for a while.
Maybe invited was too strong of a word. Aunt Bonny had shown up on the doorstep with a suitcase in hand.
Bonny’s sister-in-law—Felicity’s grandmother—had owned this place. How could she refuse? Besides, she’d thought, the company would be nice. But in less than twenty-four hours together, her opinionated aunt was driving her crazy. The woman had ideas on everything—everything! The way Felicity wore her hair, what her next career move should be, what kind of man she should date.
Felicity might lose her mind if they were trapped inside alone
for too much longer. However, she feared her aunt might be suffering from the start of dementia. It was the small things that made her think so. Repeating herself. Not remembering names. Forgetting to eat.
Felicity had her moved from an assisted-living facility down in Wilmington to one here in Hertford. Aunt Bonny hadn’t objected. In fact, she’d made the move sound like fun, like a new adventure. She’d always been a free spirit, and she had no husband or children to dictate what she could or couldn’t do.
“Everything’s fine, Aunt Bonny,” she yelled up the stairs. “I’m just looking at something outside.”
“Something interesting?” Footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs.
Felicity stared out the window again, searching for the source of her curiosity. She saw nothing. “I’m not sure what it was. A dog, maybe? I could be seeing things.”
“These old eyes aren’t what they used to be, but let me take a look. I could use some excitement around here.”
Aunt Bonny descended the stairs. Bonny might be in her seventies, but with her platinum-blonde hair, always perfect makeup, and trim figure, one would never know that. The woman lived by the motto that—not cleanliness—but being well-groomed was next to godliness. She’d even adopted popular styles most often seen on teenagers. Colorful leggings were her most recent favorite trend.
Felicity, at one time, had portrayed that image also: well-groomed and having everything together. But now that she was unemployed, she enjoyed letting her long, wavy blonde hair flow freely, falling halfway down her back.
She preferred no makeup, even though that meant people could see circles under her eyes or other blemishes that popped up. Overall, she had a good complexion.
Ricky had always liked her hair smooth, her flaws concealed, and her clothing tailored. That was just one more reason for her to revert back to her uninhibited state—the way she’d been before Ricky came into her life.
Aunt Bonny stood beside Felicity and peered through the glass. “I think it’s a . . . it’s a . . . a man.”
Felicity leaned closer. Sure enough, the blob reappeared. In between the bursts of snow, the outline of a man came into view. Felicity’s pulse quickened. “You’re not crazy. But what’s someone doing out in a storm like this?”
Wait Until Dark: Carolina Moon Series, Book 3 Page 1
