by Jan Springer
Thrusting. Plunging deep inside her.
Explosions of desire raced up her spine as he suddenly snuggled closer. As if sensing her thoughts, he nuzzled his face into the side of her neck. His other arm slowly reached around her waist and pulled her closer to him. But his eyes remained closed, his breathing slow.
She remained wrapped in the silky cocoon of his strong arms and reveled in the ticklish feel of his day-old beard pressed pleasantly against her cheek. She watched him sleep for a long time in the chilly breeze of the early gray dawn.
After awhile when he didn’t awaken, Sara reluctantly wiggled away from his warm embrace. Reaching for the nearby knapsack, she searched for an apple to nibble on when her hands fell upon her sketchpad.
“What in the world?” she found herself whispering as with further searching she discovered Tom had also stuffed the slender box of charcoals into the pack along with the strip of photos he’d purchased for her.
He really wanted her to get back into her art.
She found herself grinning as she looked at the pics and then at him sleeping soundly.
Why use his picture when she had a live model right here?
Maybe she should surprise him with a drawing? Show him how cute he looked when he slept. The instant her fingers slipped around a thin velvety piece of black charcoal, she began to feel the familiar excitement pound through her veins. In a flash, she became lost in the angles and various shadings of Tom’s sleeping face.
She sat cross-legged, drawing from her heart. The smallest details of his face emerged onto the sketch paper. Wonderful tiny lines stretched around his sensuous mouth. Cheerful laugh lines crawled away like crow’s feet from his sleeping eyes. And those gorgeous, long dark lashes. Oh, God, how she loved those luscious lashes.
In the past, she’d sketched like this. Sitting all day in front of her subjects. Drawing wildlife animals one day, a scenic meadow another day, and toward the end of her painting career, her imaginary children had intermingled with the wildlife world of the north.
Her husband would seek her out in the late evenings where he’d find her in her studio or out in the forest working to near exhaustion, trying to beat the drowning light just to finish a sketch or a painting she wanted just right before calling it a night.
At the thought of her dead husband, Sara lifted her gaze from the completed sketch, a wistful smile on her lips. She found herself looking at her surroundings. Really looking and for the first time in a long time she saw the beauty of nature.
She realized why Jack’s spirit had come to her on the day she’d almost pulled the trigger. He’d wanted her to experience these feelings of love and beauty once again.
She stretched lazily and stood.
In a moment she was dressed in a pair of shorts and a powder blue pullover that would keep the early morning chill off her. Grabbing the sketchpad, the charcoal and her flashlight, she gave Tom a long, loving look and then tiptoed out of the boathouse.
Bright sunshine and abandoned houses greeted her as she walked through the old town, which smelled mildly of fish. The smell didn’t make her wrinkle her nose in disgust. She understood it belonged here.
Just as she belonged here—amidst the healing nature of the wilderness.
For some strange reason, the abandoned houses looked picturesque today. And so romantic. Each conveyed its own aging character.
Their scarred and weather-beaten wooden foundations, once homes for quite a large town, stood defiant. Their lonely, vacant windows watched her as she walked past them. Soft pastel shades of early morning sunlight splashed gently against their peeling paint and green tinged moss-covered roofs. The soil beneath her feet seemed thin and barren, and she wondered how the townsfolk were able to tend to their vegetable gardens in this rocky paradise.
In a sizable clearing, warm sunshine swirled around her, chasing away the chill of the shadows and the gray mist nipping at her heels. She stopped to bask in its warmth and sketched a couple of close-by buildings.
She realized she’d come back here again one day with her paints and pastels and capture on canvas the romantic colors and history of this ghost town called Jackfish.
As she finished the sketching, Sara tucked the book under her arm and continued her peaceful walk through the derelict town. She stepped over rotten boards, careful to avoid the protruding rusting nails and she lost herself for a moment in the cheerful chatter of a couple of chipmunks as they chased each other up one tree and down another.
Then she continued walking.
As she fought her way through the wild tangled clump of raspberry bushes, she quite unexpectedly stumbled upon the yawing chasm of the local well.
The same well Tom had climbed out of last night.
Sara stopped in front of it.
It would be dangerous to leave it like this. Someone else could fall in and be seriously hurt. She would search for sturdy boards in a bit, but first she needed to take a peek.
Flipping on the flashlight, she shone the yellow beam into the hole.
The well was deep. Horribly deep. And so dark.
How in the world had Tom been able to climb out of there? No wonder he’d been so quiet and distant last night. He’d come so close to death. Understandably, the experience had left him shaken.
What if he’d been seriously injured? Or killed? Sara shuddered at the horrible thought. What would she do without Tom in her life?
She stilled the flashlight. A pang of uneasiness slithered up her spine. Something was down there.
She lowered herself onto her belly, all the while dipping the flashlight deeper down the hole with her right hand. Cold, damp, dusky air swelled from the bowels of darkness. It swarmed against Sara’s skin, instantly making her shiver in revulsion.
A piece of silvery metal flashed in the lamp’s beam.
A belt buckle? A belt. Dark blue pants.
Surely she was seeing things. Surely she was having some sort of horrible nightmare and she’d wake up snug and secure beside Tom.
Her grip loosened and the flashlight dropped into the hole. The bright light gave Sara a momentary clear view before it flickered off as it drowned in the murky water.
“Oh—My—God!”
Her hand flew to stifle the scream threatening to erupt from inside her throat. Cold shivers draped over her body. Her pulse raced wildly. In a split second, she leaped to her feet.
“Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God,” The words strummed through her like a death chant. She had to get away from here. Far away!
Blindly she stumbled backward away from the unseeing eyes that peered back at her and cried out as a sharp plain sliced deep into her heel. She jumped as safe, warm arms wrapped around her waist to steady her.
“You okay?” Tom’s whispered voice was soft and full of concern.
“Sam Blake is down there! He’s the missing officer. We have to tell someone.”
Tom’s entire body tensed against her. “Why? What good would it do? He’s dead.”
Sara broke from his embrace. Anger tore at her every fiber as she surveyed the casual way he glanced at the well opening.
“You knew already last night. You could have at least told me. Why didn’t you? Why are you keeping me in the dark?”
“Believe me, you’d rather be in the dark. I just wanted to protect you.”
Sara responded by twirling away from him and she stumbled as the pain sliced through her heel.
He grabbed her by the elbow preventing her from falling.
“What’s wrong?” His concerned gaze raked over her.
“My foot. I stepped on a nail.”
His grip on her elbow tightened with alarm and he ushered her quickly to a nearby fallen log. Slipping off her running shoe, he quickly peeled the blood-soaked sock from her foot.
Tom frowned. “When did this happen?”
“Just now.”
Her heel throbbed like a bitch. Shit! That hurt!
“We have to get you to a doctor. You need a tet
anus shot. You could get lockjaw.”
Before she could protest, Tom swooped her off her feet and into his arms.
“No arguments,” he stated firmly.
Her anger with him vanished when his hot body warmth seared through her clothes as he carried her along the overgrown path his handsome face mere inches from hers.
“Tom, please put me down,” she whispered feeling quite breathless at being so near to him. “I’ve already had a shot.”
He looked at her, doubt flaring in his eyes.
“It’s true. Right after the fire, as I cleared some debris I cut my wrist on a piece of metal. See? I immediately went to my doctor.”
Sara raised her arm and showed Tom the thin two-inch scar streaking diagonally across the underneath part of her wrist.
His eyes darkened and he let out a deep breath of relief. “Then let’s go down to the lake and wash it out.”
With her still cuddled in his arms, he headed toward the shimmering dark blue bay.
Every nerve ending in her entire body seemed to be on fire as she valiantly fought her desire for him. His strong muscular arms cradled her securely as he swept her onto a warm piece of driftwood near the water’s edge. Delicately, he dipped her foot into the cold clear water all the while his body heat kept slamming into her, making Sara pant for air.
He worked diligently, splashing the cold water against her sore heel, thoroughly intent on cleaning the small wound.
“I meant to tell you about the dead man,” Tom said as he worked. “But like I said, I wanted to protect you.”
“I don’t need your protection, Tom. I need your trust,” Sara replied softly.
His head snapped up and he nodded.
“Okay, you’ve got it.”
“No more secrets?”
“No more. I promise. How’s your foot feel?”
“Just a little sore. I’ll live.”
She noticed his gaze stray to the one lone abandoned house set into a nearby hillside, far off the train tracks. A house they hadn’t explored yet.
His eyes narrowed.
“What is it?”
“Something about that house.”
“Should we go and explore it before we leave?”
He hesitated before answering. “I think that’s the house they held me captive in.”
—
Ever since he’d fallen in the well last night, frequent flashes of memory had bombarded him. Amidst the turbulent snatches, he still couldn’t grab onto his name or where he lived. Instinctively he knew the whirling vision of a dead man lying in his blood with someone yelling in the background was a recent event. The vision of him being held captive in a dark, damp cell was also recent. And in the abandoned house straight ahead of him lay the answers. He was so sure of it, he could taste the sour bile in his mouth.
Trudging across the railroad tracks, he led Sara along the overgrown path to the desolate white-planked house. The black tar-papered roof sagged a little but the rest of it remained in relatively good shape. As they neared the cabin, impressions shelled him. Images of darkness. Ice cold seeping deep into his bones. Angry voices of two men having a violent argument.
This was the place where he’d been held.
Perspiration popped out on every square inch of his body. He felt clammy. Cold. Terrified. The urge to run felt so strong he turned to leave.
“What’s wrong?” Sara’s soft voice stopped him cold, and he looked back at the innocent-looking cabin.
“Nothing.”
He was too close to run away now. His memories lay somewhere in there.
“C’mon let’s go inside,” he whispered. His hand tightened around hers and excitement intermingled with fear as they trudged onto the rotting porch. Pushing the gray wooden-planked door open, he entered the house first with Sara right behind him.
A musty odor of rotting damp wood greeted them along with crumbling shelves filled with cobwebs. Giant spiders watched his every move as he passed them. An old refrigerator lay half sunk into the rotting floorboards.
“Nice kitchen,” Sara whispered from behind him. “Looks like someone was looking for something, too.”
Tom noted that the floor planks had been ripped from the foundations and gaping holes eyed him from the walls. Somebody had obviously done a good job searching the premises.
Instinctively he knew they were way off the mark. He’d outsmarted them. His heart slammed powerfully against his chest as he followed his instincts and walked further into the house.
Chapter Twelve
Tiptoeing across the rotting floorboards, Sara eyed the long strips of white paint that hung haphazardly from a dangerously sagging ceiling and buzzing hornets made their homes in the corners of the main room.
“Look, over there.”
She followed to where Tom was pointing and noted a splintered hole in the top of the window jamb.
“A bullet hole?”
“If I don’t miss my guess.”
Tom bent down and picked up an old rusty kitchen knife and in a few steps he was at the window digging at the hole.
A moment later, the bullet popped out of the rotten wood. Turning it over in his hand, he examined the slug.
“It seems to be the same size as the one I dug out of your back.”
“Could be from the same gun.”
Excitement roared through her. Here was possible evidence Tom had been in this house and someone had been shooting at him while he was escaping. This piece of evidence might come in very handy.
Quickly he shoved the bullet snugly into his back pocket and took her hand again.
“Watch your step, sweetness. I don’t want any more nails digging into those pretty feet of yours. I have better plans for them.”
“Such as?”
“Sucking on your toes for one.”
“I’ve never had a man suck on my toes before,” she giggled.
“Better get used to it.”
“Is that a promise?”
He halted and her breath stopped deep in her lungs at the intensity of his gaze.
“I’m going to try like hell to clear my name and make a future for us. But I can’t do it by trusting the cops. If Garry and Jo can’t help me, then I may have to run, but I promise I’ll come back to you.”
“If you run, I’m coming with you.”
She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes and a shiver of uneasiness curled through her.
“I know I said no strings but you do want me to come with you, don’t you?”
“I want you safe, sweetness. You can’t be safe with me.”
She wanted to argue with him, but they were at the staircase now.
“I was held down there,” he said tightly and let go of her hand.
A moment later, he began to descend into the dark basement.
Brushing past the hanging cobwebs, she quickly followed him down the narrow staircase.
The air flowed cold and damp down here, instantly reminding her of the well and its contents.
Abruptly she stepped off the last step. And stopped behind Tom.
Except for a tiny streak of sunshine streaming through a small pane-less window toward the far corner, pitch-blackness greeted her.
“We should go back to the boathouse and get a flashlight,” she said as a shiver of unease rippled up her spine. The spooky darkness of this place gave her the creeps. At that instant, she heard a sizzling sound and the bright yellow flare of a match.
“You come prepared.”
“Boy Scouts,” he whispered and pointed to a lone wooden door in the wall.
“That’s where they kept me.”
—
Tom shivered as he struck another match and watched the shadows flicker along the wooden door.
Against the back of his neck, he could feel Sara’s warm breath bristle invitingly and he was really glad she was here with him. She gave him the courage to step forward. To find out what had happened behind that door.
Yet at the same
time, he didn’t want to open it either.
As if she knew what he was thinking, Sara whispered gently, “We’ll never find out if you don’t go forward.”
She was right. It was about time he confronted those memories.
Taking a deep breath, he gave the door a rough shove. It creaked inward. Ice-cold air slammed into Tom hurling him back in time…
He’d awoken, almost frozen, lying on the cold, wet ground, his hands cuffed to a drooping chain adhered to an iron loop protruding from the stone wall. His head was literally splitting apart. Nausea almost overwhelmed his senses. He pulled himself upward, his sore hands burning with the effort.
Finally he managed to pull himself into a seated position and hugged the wall for any warmth he could find. He winced as the excruciating headache edged up a notch.
Gazing down at his hands he found the source of pain and was surprised to see the tiny, puffy puncture wounds in his palms. He had no idea what had happened or where he was, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out.
It was dark in here, but not so dark he could not make out the silhouette of someone huddled in the nearby corner. Almost immediately, he noticed the tiny candle flickering on the ground near the person.
He almost called out. But his heart sank when he saw the clothes the man wore. A cop’s uniform. The man’s eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm. Sleeping on the job? Tom’s breath hitched at the thought.
Y’know the old saying, when the cat’s away the mice will play. He gazed around the room, quickly checking for an escape route. The room was tiny. About six feet by three feet. And maybe six feet high. How appropriate, he thought wryly.
For all intents and purposes he may as well be six feet under, because aside from these challenging restraints, the only way out would be the wood-planked door. Suddenly the heavy door burst open crashing against the rock wall like a sharp rifle crack. Tom jumped in surprise. The cop in the corner remained in his crouched position. Not moving. His eyes stayed closed.
He got the feeling the cop was feigning sleep. And waiting. He watched the newcomer crouch slightly as he stepped into the cellar. His heart sunk even lower. Another cop.
