Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  Her wooden legs moved her quietly to the side door lead­ing into her bedroom. Quentin didn't seem to notice, and his smashing and bashing didn't abate until she closed the door behind her.

  Jonna heard a beat of total silence, then his heavy foot­steps giving chase.

  Jonna stopped long enough to grab and flip over the chaise longue behind her, then she ran.

  She heard Quentin hit the door.

  Her hand swept the dresser top as she passed, and she picked up the small lamp and tossed it in her wake. She slammed the bedroom door and thundered down the stairs.

  A loud and angry expletive escaped him as she hit the bottom step. Two chairs from the dining room table. The coffee mug, the coffeepot at the edge of the counter, every­thing within reach flew behind her as she focused all her at­tention on the outside door. It helped her ignore his thrashing as he cursed and stumbled along ten feet or so behind her.

  Her purse. The keys. She grabbed them from where they'd fallen by the door. She slammed both foyer doors and sprinted toward the garage.

  She heard the door of the house close as she stepped into the garage. She flipped the door locks of the little truck as he lumbered in, his face contorted in fury.

  Her hands shook so outrageously she almost couldn't get the key into the ignition. It finally rammed home and she glanced up to see him, three yards away and closing.

  Her numb finger hit the garage door opener above her visor as her other hand released the emergency brake.

  The wide door rumbled too slowly on its chains, gradu­ally letting in the night. His foreboding grin invaded her side vision, inches from her face, separated only by a thin sliver of glass.

  Bracing herself, forcing herself not to shrink away, she gasped back a sob and turned the key in the ignition. And didn't hear a thing.

  Something tapped the window beside her. She jumped and cranked the key again. Tap. Tap. Again, the motor didn't do a thing. No chug, no churn. Just a tapping near her face.

  A monstrous jag of lightning charged the sky, changing the early evening to daylight, and she saw something small and black and snakelike from the corner of her eye. Don't look. Don't look... but she had to.

  Quentin stood propped against the roof of the pickup, his hand dangling a slender cord against her window. Its swinging connector cap rapped at the window, keeping a horrific, taunting beat.

  He'd taken something out of her dependable little vehi­cle. He nodded jovially as the light of understanding dawned and she went limp.

  The cab, still rocking in protest to her frantic entry, shuddered to a dejected stop. The movement triggered a memory and sobbing with hope, Jonna jammed the clutch and shifted into neutral. She'd never rolled the minitruck out of the garage, but once, she'd forgotten to leave it in gear and the slant of the garage floor had rolled the pickup into the garage door. She released the clutch now and prayed.

  The pickup crawled an inch, then two. She threw herself back against the seat, helping and hoping with everything she could.

  She glanced at Quentin as the pickup gained an almost imperceptible bit of speed.

  Quentin's triumphant smirk turned to stunned dismay, then again to rage.

  She shouldn't have looked. Stark, unremitting terror rendered her nearly catatonic. Confronting his face, so close to hers, jolted her back to shaking so desperately hard she almost couldn't think.

  "Roll." She rocked. "Roll," she chanted, closing her eyes. She expected his hands to materialize somehow through the window and clamp around her throat. She felt permanent, burning scars where he'd touched her before.

  The pickup rolled in earnest, as if in answer to her plea, coasting backward with zero control. The power steering, brakes—nothing worked without the engine. She urged all her energy to her hands and tugged at the steering wheel until her arms ached, turning the little vehicle by sheer will. If only she could get this sucker pointed down the hill...

  The truck creaked almost to a stop as it finished its wide swing and she compressed the clutch. She released it again and the pickup started to roll, slowly, but this time, for­ward.

  Please, God. As soon as she had a little momentum, she popped the clutch. Nothing.

  She cast a frantic look around, desperate suddenly to see him. Quentin was nowhere in sight. Her hair flew in her eyes, almost blocking out the car sitting menacingly to the side of the garage.

  He'd probably gone for that. For the first time in what seemed like hours, she breathed without aching to cry and felt a tremulous shred of hope.

  A dull thud shook her little pickup. Her eyes jerked to the rearview mirror. The momentary respite from terror evap­orated as if it had never been. He'd jumped into the bed and she was taking him with her on her escape.

  Quentin's wild-eyed leer, his gleeful grin filled the view and seemed to radiate evil light into the cab, blocking out everything else.

  Jonna popped the clutch simply because her knee was too weak to hold the pressure any longer. The little truck lurched over the crest of the hill. Nothing happened.

  She popped it again and felt the hair on the back of her neck rising. She could almost feel his fetid breath.

  Again she released the clutch, but with despair. She was past expecting anything this time. Whatever he'd taken from the engine must be crucial.

  The little vehicle really moved now, increasing speed. It felt like a free-fall into the darkness, as if she'd hopped a roller coaster ride into hell. She pushed against the brake. It was nearly as stiff and uncooperative as the steering which she gripped uselessly.

  She didn't have enough fright left to worry about what would happen when they reached the bottom of the hill. And even though everything had spun totally out of con­trol, she was seeing it all in slow motion.

  She glanced at the mirror, expecting Quentin's horrible eyes. Instead, she saw the small stepladder she'd used—only a week or so ago—as she painted Sam's house.

  How strange. She now thought of it as Sam's house. She saw him. Felt his spirit. And if it was true that your life flashed before your eyes before your death, Sam must be the essence of hers. She felt him here, lending her strength.

  Glass smashed. Pebbled glass showered her from be­hind. Cool night air crept under her skin. And Quentin's rage pressed on her neck.

  The truck hurtled toward the Cottonwood grove shelter­ing the big curve in the drive. Past thinking, almost past feeling, Jonna launched herself out the door. She rolled, not sure if the motion came from the impetus of the leap or conscious effort, and landed in the slight indent beside the drive. She watched, paralyzed, as the pickup crashed into the thick shelter belt with a thrashing, crunching sound.

  Jonna wasn't sure how long she lay in the dead weeds fifty or so yards from Sam's house, stunned by her impact with the ground and dazed with terror. But she stayed where she was, aching and too afraid to even cry. Her lips quivered si­lently and she wondered vaguely if God would strike her dead for praying for Quentin's death.

  She waited, waited, then finally eased herself onto her stomach. Slowly lifting her head, she searched the wind­swept night for a sign of movement.

  * * *

  "Okay, let's go." Madden brought the keys and was opening the door before Sam could get his feet off the bunk.

  "Where?"

  "Jonna's," Madden answered grimly.

  Sam's heart stopped. "Has something happened?" he managed to say.

  "Hell, I hope not."

  Sam grabbed his shoes and practically had to run to catch Madden's plump, fast-moving figure.

  The sheriff had his car running by the time Sam came around to the passenger side, and Madden's tires squealed as the car left the small parking lot behind the jail before Sam had closed the door. Madden—laid-back, easygoing Madden—was upset. And Sam couldn't choke out a word to find out why. His stomach churned and firmly dogged his constricted throat.

  Madden muttered a string of expletives. That startled Sam out of his shock. The strongest language Sam h
ad beard the man use was the three "hells" just minutes ago. "Eighteen months until retirement and I'm gonna get myself fired, letting one of the FBI's killers out of jail on no authority but mine." He swung an awestruck look in Sam's direction. "Do you have any idea how many murderers I've had in my jail in thirty-two years?" He didn't wait for Sam's reply. "None."

  "Could we move it a little faster?" Sam said impatiently. He hated the feeling growing in his gut.

  "Quentin Kincaid was fired from his job yesterday," Madden said. "For missing work Monday, the day of the calf thing," he reminded.

  The feeling got worse. "What was his job?"

  "He worked for a damn clipping service. Has for two and a half years. It's the longest he's held a job since he gradu­ated, and he's been searching trade journals on the internet the whole damn time."

  "So, you expect him to show up at Jonna's? We're going to be waiting?" Why hadn't Madden brought his undersheriff—or one of the deputies? Sam decided not to ask and press his luck.

  "I got another report and tried contacting Connors— couldn't be found. I radioed the deputy on patrol—he's the other side of the county. He's meeting us there. I tried call­ing Jonna at Moss's—no answer."

  Sam's spine stiffened, his skin began to crawl.

  The sheriff's curses came in a rash again. "Gary went over there."

  "You think Jonna's at the farm?"

  "Don't know. She didn't answer her phone."

  "And Quentin?" Sam's foot rammed against the right side of his floorboard.

  "How the heck should I know?" Madden answered gruffly, and his knuckles showed white around the steering wheel.

  "Could we hurry? Use the sirens and lights?"

  Their speed picked up, but not enough. "I'm probably being far too suspicious," Madden said to himself.

  "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, Sheriff, but isn't being suspicious part of it?"

  "We have good people here."

  "You're going to have a good but dead one if Kincaid finds Jonna before we do," Sam said between clenched teeth.

  Madden stepped a little harder on the gas.

  "Lights? Sirens?"

  "Let's warn him we're coming so he'll hurry and kill her and get the hell out of there," Madden said wryly, shaking his head.

  "You sound fairly certain he's there," Sam managed to say.

  "I know, and that's what's so crazy." Madden slowed for a corner, then gassed it again, this time a little harder than was probably prudent. "I have no reason to think that."

  "But?" Sam could tell there was a ‘but’ there.

  "I got that second fax. I started reading and about half­way through, I started shaking. I just keep seeing that poor little girl."

  It took Sam a second to realize Madden was talking about Jonna.

  "She's always been such a helpless little thing. Big John would kill me from the grave if I let anything happen to her."

  The picture Madden painted of Jonna startled Sam. However Jonna struck him—and strike him, she did—helpless wasn't how he would describe her. She was warm, too trusting, honest, intelligent, sexy, capable, generous— the words didn't quit coming. From the moment he'd seen her, on this subject at least, he'd treated her—and even told her she couldn't handle the truth—like a helpless, incapa­ble child. And he'd been so determined to protect her, he'd put her at risk.

  "I know it's ridiculous," Madden went on, "but this shaky feeling just won't quit."

  On that subject, Sam had to agree. He hadn't quit shak­ing for three solid days. It was getting so bad now, he was afraid it would dislocate his ribs. And the horrible, devas­tating sense of dread weighed so heavily on him, he couldn't think.

  "Did you check flights from Chicago to see if there is any record of Kincaid leaving there?" Sam rasped though he couldn't breathe.

  "I thought about it for a second," Madden answered. "I didn't really want to know. That's when I came and got you. Made more sense to spend the time getting the hell out here."

  "Thank you," Sam whispered, then begged, "Please hurry."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Jonna measured time by counting as far as her frazzled mind would allow. She hadn't seen a single sign of move­ment. Quentin must be seriously injured at the least. Heaven forbid, she still wished him dead.

  She rose carefully and tossed out the idea of going down to check the mangled mess in the trees almost as quickly as it formed. Someone else could find him.

  She tried to quell her permanent shivering. If she never saw that horrid face again, it would be too soon.

  The wind moaned like an omen as she looked up toward her house. Every light blazed but the contemporary for­tress on the hill looked cold, forbidding. And even if her legs could make it up there, the phone didn't work—whether by Quentin's hand or the worsening storm, she didn't know.

  The farmhouse where she was raised looked a little more appealing, but nothing—absolutely nothing—looked invit­ing or warm, and Wedman's farm was four miles away. She didn't think she could make it there.

  Stiff bruised and casting feverish looks over her shoul­ders, Jonna headed for the old house. She stepped into the circle of yard not sheltered by trees and saw Sam's car sit­ting there. She limped hastily toward it. The best choice of all would be getting out of here. Find someone else to worry about and deal with this chaos. Find someone so she didn't have to be alone.

  She wouldn't come back until every little reminder of this nightmare was gone.

  And she knew exactly where she wanted to go. She longed more than anything for the security of Sam's arms. They could put her right in the cell with him and lock the door and throw away the—

  Keys! Sam's car, of course, didn't have keys. She cursed his security consciousness, then remembered that one of the sheriffs men had brought it in from the end of the drive when they'd arrested him. The keys had probably been put with Sam's possessions at the jail.

  Reluctantly, she turned toward Sam's house and prayed that his phone worked.

  Her footsteps sounded hollow and ghostly as she crossed the ancient porch. Suddenly, the last thing on this earth she wanted to do was to go into any dark place alone. But she felt evil all around in the starless night. She hurried inside, sagging and practically falling back against the door, and she reached for the light.

  Her groping fingers encountered a hand.

  "What took you so long?" Quentin asked as he flipped the switch. Light flooded the room.

  Jonna screamed as his face materialized inches from hers.

  His malevolent laugh filled her bones, and he grabbed her arm, keeping her upright when her knees would have folded and thrown her to the floor.

  Worst of all, she couldn't find strength to pull away from his cold, cold hands.

  "You've been more fun than anyone."

  His breath feathered her skin. She tried not to draw needed air into her lungs, repulsed by the thought that his breathing had contaminated it.

  "It’s going to be an honor, adding you to The Record, Jonna Sanders."

  Disgust finally gave her the energy to pull away.

  "Doesn't poor little Jonna Sanders like Quentin?"

  Jonna felt her death draw near. Her brain refused to function.

  "I might even let you see my collection." His grip tight­ened painfully on her upper arm. "Too bad I'm much smarter than you."

  She thought he was baiting, playing with her until his eyes took on a distant glaze and he began to ramble. His hand opened, sliding slowly up her arm. As caressingly as a lov­er's, it crossed her shoulder and curved around her neck.

  She shrank away. The doorknob jabbed her hip from be­hind and jarred a recent memory.

  Her skin would surely melt from his odious touch, but she steeled herself, leaned into it, praying he would see the ac­tion as her yielding to his higher brilliance and power.

  His wide mouth curved up at one end.

  Jonna reached behind her, careful not to move any part of her body except tha
t one forearm and hand. Her finger­nail clicked clumsily against the metal knob. Her eyes felt bright and wide as she watched and waited for his reaction.

  He kept right on talking.

  Her mind couldn't decipher a word.

  She squeezed the knob, twisted, held her breath, then yanked the door open as far as her body would allow.

  Quentin's mouth gaped mid-word as he did exactly what she mentally begged him to do. He grabbed the door.