Headlong

by Shannon McKenna

  “Eric,” she said. “We can’t deal with this alone. Whoever’s doing this…it cost a lot of money. Someone has a huge agenda.”

  “You saw that death pen,” Eric replied. “We don’t know how many they have, or by what mechanism they kill. And we’re being watched as we speak. They saw me sneaking around before they arrived, so this place is under surveillance. If we bring police and ambulances up here and try to take them into custody, more innocent people will die.”

  Demi looked around at the bodies, her mouth tight and worried.

  “And if we hang around up here and waste too much time arguing, they’ll send up reinforcements and trap us, like they did to Terry,” he went on mercilessly. “There’s only one road down to Kettle Canyon from GodsAcre. It’s a sheer drop off that mountainside for miles.”

  That finally convinced her to move, thank God.

  22

  Demi’s legs felt like lead. She hung on grimly to Eric’s arm until they reached the Porsche, which had the keys in the ignition, to Eric’s relief. The car spun and struggled for traction out of the heavy slop, but after a few false starts and some very colorful profanity from Eric, they started to move, the low undercarriage scraping on the rocks and ruts.

  He cranked the heat to full bore and opened the windows to air out the stench of cigarettes and body odor as they started a long, grinding, thumping ride out of GodsAcre and up onto the main road. Once they passed the ruins of the Great Hall, their muddy track connected with driveway, and from that, the only slightly smoother Kettle Canyon Road. Windshield wipers swished in the gloom, which had curdled into pitch darkness as soon as he turned on the headlights.

  “We’re telling Chief Bristol everything,” Demi said. “We can’t carry this alone.”

  “And my brothers,” he agreed, accepting the inevitable. “But that’s all for now.”

  “For now. This is bigger than just you and your brothers, you know. This involves everyone in Shaw’s Crossing. All of us are in danger.”

  “I know that.” He reached into the coat pocket, and handed her his phone. “Call Bristol. Tell him to meet us at Otis’s—no, have him come to your townhouse. They’ll be less likely to move on us there with all your neighbors around. At least I hope so. And Bristol won’t want the whole town in a panic. He’ll be discreet. I hope to God.”

  Demi’s thoughts raced feverishly on to the rhythmic squeak of the windshield wipers, taking her to terrifying places. “That guy…he said I was exposed. In high school.”

  “Yeah,” he said grimly. “I heard that.”

  “Sounds like he’s talking about some sort of…pathogen.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “That is terrifying,” she whispered.

  “Maybe the death pen only works on people who were exposed,” he said. “Maybe that’s why they have that database they talked about. People who were in this area at that time.”

  “Except for you,” she said.

  “Right. The Prophet’s Curse, explained. Someone’s been using this thing to kill people in this town for over thirteen years. Now, they’re using it to kill anyone who makes trouble for whatever in the unholy fuck they’ve got going on up at GodsAcre.”

  “Otis made trouble when they saw him taking pictures,” Demi said. “And my dad must have been involved. Until he disappointed them somehow. Then he panicked, so they punished him. Mom must have found out about his involvement, or the kidnapping plot, or both, so they killed her, too. Poor Terry was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. All of them were in Shaw’s Crossing thirteen years ago, just like the guy said.”

  “But who is doing this?” He pounded the dashboard. “There’s nothing up at GodsAcre. What in the fuck could they possibly be digging for?”

  They were silent, staring at the small part of muddy, narrow road the headlights illuminated, through the pounding rain.

  “It’s messed up,” Demi whispered.

  “Yeah.” He reached across the center console and placed his hand on her arm, clasping it through the sodden jacket. “But you’re alive. And that’s so fucking great.”

  She wiped away a rush of tears and squeezed his hand. “Yes. Both of us are. Thanks to you. Again.”

  “I never wanted you to be touched by this. I’m so sorry, baby.”

  “You’re not the one who dragged me into it,” she told him. “But you sure as hell are the one who keeps dragging me out.”

  He smiled at her. “Call Bristol now.”

  She ended up on the phone with Chief Bristol for most of the way back to town. It was late, so none of her neighbors saw their mud-slimed state when they got out of the car.

  Demi had no keys, but she reached into a hanging flower basket on the corner of her porch for a spare, to Eric’s horror.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “A fucking flower pot? Seriously?”

  “I thought I could afford to,” she said sheepishly. “Sleepy little town, and all that.”

  “A sleepy little town that’s under a fucking curse, Demi!”

  “Okay, okay. I’m convinced. I promise. Never again.” She pushed the door open.

  Eric followed her in and waited while she dead-bolted it. He poked his head into the living room, then the kitchen, admiring it. “Pretty,” he said. “Colorful. I like it.”

  “Come on in. Don’t just lurk in the entrance hall.”

  “I’m all muddy,” he said. “I’ll make a godawful mess. As usual.”

  “So am I,” she pointed out. “We’re a matched pair.”

  “You’re gorgeous even when you’ve been dipped in mud. Go on up and take your shower and I’ll watch for Chief Bristol from outside, on the porch.”

  “Come up with me,” she offered on impulse. “We can shower together.”

  His gorgeous teeth flashed in his mud-smeared face. “You’re breaking my heart, but I have to keep watch now. No distractions.”

  Of course. Duty called, and Eric Trask always answered. Hero to a fault.

  She hoped the mud hid the embarrassed flush on her face as she ran up the stairs, leaving a trail of dirt clods behind her.

  There was no place for Eric to put himself, in this condition. It was just his luck that Demi decorated with bright, light colors. Her floors were blond hardwood planks, her carpets were pale beige woven wool. He’d destroy anything he touched. He couldn’t even sit down on her floor without leaving a dirt stain on the peach-toned walls.

  He headed back out the front entrance and sat down on the porch steps to wait.

  First order of business, Mace and Anton. Both of their phones went straight to voicemail so he encrypted a text message and sent it to both of them.

  This place is fucked up. Prophet’s Curse is a physical weapon. They killed Otis with it. Tried to kill me and Demi. Whole town in danger. Get back here asap. Bring backup. I need someone trained in close protection to help me cover Demi 24-7. Call me.

  * * *

  Bristol’s police cruiser pulled up behind the mud spattered Porsche, and the chief got out and stopped as he came through the small iron gate. Taking in the mud, the blood.

  The older man looked impressed. “Damn, Eric. You look like shit.”

  “Rough night,” Eric said.

  “Tell me all about it. How about Demi? Her grandfather keeps calling. She has to tell that man to calm the hell down. Henry saw your Porsche on his security camera footage and now he’s convinced you abducted her.”

  “Not me,” Eric said. “She was abducted by a different guy, one who stole my Porsche. The ones you saw in that video at Vaughan’s house. Demi’s upstairs taking a shower. She’s fine. She got smacked around and scared half to death, but she’s tough.”

  “Smacked around by whom?” Chief Bristol crossed his arms over his chest. “I confess, I didn’t understand a goddamn thing she told me on the phone.”

  Eric rubbed his stinging eyes. “Long story. Let’s wait for Demi. That way we tell it only once.”

  “Fair enough.” Chief B
ristol creakily let himself down onto the porch steps to sit next to Eric. “Speaking of long stories, I’ve got a story for you.”

  “Oh, yeah? What’s yours about?”

  “Boyd Nevins came by the station a while earlier.”

  “Ah. That story.” It seemed so far away now. Hardly even important anymore.

  “He wanted to confess,” Bristol went on. “Seems like he told us a big lie seven years ago. And he feels real bad about it.”

  “I’m familiar with that lie,” Eric said.

  “He said Benedict Vaughan promised him a big contract for his roofing company for his dad and a plum job for him in Shaw Paper Productions in Spokane if he would pick you up in his Porsche, drive you out to the Peyton State Park and leave you there with the car. And then never say a word about it. No matter what happened afterward.”

  “As I told you all,” Eric couldn’t keep himself from saying. “Repeatedly.”

  “One of the kidnappers said that Vaughan arranged for you to be forced off the road back then.”

  “Yeah,” Eric said. “But I’m hard to kill. Bummer for him.”

  “Hey, Chief Bristol.” Demi stood in the doorway behind them, wrapped in a pink fleece robe, hair hanging down in long, damp curls. She smelled of honey and flowers.

  “Demi.” Wade’s eyes ran over her, looking for damage. “You’re okay?”

  “Thanks to Eric. Like I said on the phone. Kidnapped. Eric saved my ass, again. But this time it was much worse. These guys would have hurt me for real.”

  Chief Bristol nodded. “I was just telling Eric about how Boyd came in—”

  “I heard. Come on inside. I put on some coffee. We have a lot to talk about.”

  It took hours to make a full accounting of everything that had happened. And even longer to dissuade Chief Bristol from rushing right up to GodsAcre himself.

  They were still arguing at three in the morning.

  “It’s too dangerous,” Eric said, for what felt like the hundredth time. “The Prophet’s Curse is real, Chief, and it sounds like a pathogen is involved. Everyone in town could have been exposed, including you. They can kill you with this thing from a distance. Through a door, like Demi’s folks and Otis. In a car, like Terry. Don’t go near the place, at least not until we know what the hell is going on up there. Please. Go slow.”

  “I have to do something! I can’t just sit on my hands! It’s my responsibility to investigate the—”

  “It’s your responsibility to protect people as best you can. To keep people alive.”

  “How can I do that, if I can’t investigate the crimes these bastards are committing?”

  “For one, keep this quiet,” Eric said. “Don’t tell your wife. Don’t tell anyone at the station. At least not yet. And two…deputize me.”

  Demi jumped up to her feet. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “You got a better idea? I’m the only one who can’t be hurt by that thing.”

  “You just won’t be happy until they kill you,” Demi said. “You won’t be satisfied until you’re, what, crushed, shot, strangled, stabbed, dismembered? The gorier your ultimate martyrdom, the better you’ll like it.”

  Eric sighed. “I don’t want to die. I’ve never had more to live for than I do right now. I’m just trying to—”

  “Prove your worth to everyone in this town, and the whole world while you’re at it. Prove yourself to the ghosts of all the people who died at GodsAcre. Ransom yourself from your stupid misplaced guilt. But you won’t succeed. It’ll never be enough for you.”

  “Demi—”

  “I’ve had enough of your grandiose bullshit. I’m grateful to you for saving my ass, but your hero complex is exhausting me. I’m going to bed. The couch is comfortable, if you dare to close your eyes with the weight of the whole world on your shoulders. ‘Night, Chief. Sorry I’m being such a cranky bitch. It’s been a hell of a night.”

  “I should say so,” Chief Bristol agreed. “Take care, honey. I’ll check on you tomorrow.”

  Demi stalked out. They listened to her bare feet, running lightly up the stairs.

  Bristol grunted thoughtfully. “Looks like you have more problems than just the Prophet’s Curse, son. Good luck with that one.”

  “I’ll need it,” Eric said bleakly.

  “Well then, goodnight. I’m going to head home to get some sleep, if I can. I suppose there isn’t much we can do to protect ourselves from whatever those people have going on. At least not tonight. But I’m not going to sit on this for long. We need to call the Feds, the CDC. Everyone. And soon. This could be a general public health crisis.”

  “Please, Chief,” he said wearily. “Take it easy. Wait until my brothers get here. Don’t turn this into a media feeding frenzy until we know what we’re dealing with.”

  Chief Bristol harrumphed. “We’ll see.” He studied the younger man, frowning. “Try to get some rest. You look like crap.”

  “Will do,” he said. Like he could sleep, as jacked up as he was tonight.

  After Bristol left, Eric poked around the ground floor and found a bathroom off the kitchen with a washer-dryer, a utility sink and a shower. Perfect, since he didn’t want to disturb Demi by making noise in the upstairs bathroom. He didn’t like being naked and blind in a shower with their mysterious enemies floating around out there, but Wade had a point. There was no stopping those bastards if they wanted to attack. They weren’t likely to make a move so soon after losing that last battle so decisively. He hoped.

  He risked a shower, just long enough to scrub the mud off. As soon as the water ran clear, he wrapped a big towel around his waist, shoved his filthy clothes into Demi’s washing machine, glugged in lots of soap and set it to wash. Tomorrow, they went to Otis’s for a suitcase, guns and ammo. He hated being naked, but that clammy mud was nasty. At least he had the Glock, even if his balls were flapping free in the breeze.

  After that, he used his phone to buy a long-range drone, and a home security and surveillance system for Demi’s house from his favorite Seattle-based security company, SafeGuard. Those guys had the best security gear anywhere, and it would arrive by private courier tomorrow. That done, he went up to Demi’s bedroom. Her bay window overlooked the lake, which glimmered with the lights of the town. She slept on a king-sized bed under a fluffy comforter, her hair fanning wildly over the pillows.

  He’d walked away from her once by necessity. It had almost killed him. He couldn’t do it again. Not now that he finally understood what he had to live for.

  He settled down in the wingback chair near the window, gun in hand. Keeping an eye on the street outside.

  Demi might have banished him to the downstairs couch tonight, but he wanted her in his unbroken line of sight.

  Forever.

  23

  The hours dragged by. Eric struggled to stay focused. He was a one-man army whose sole objective was protecting Demi Vaughan. No other thought should be allowed in his head. But images kept stabbing through his mind.

  Felix, holding Eric’s razor blade to Demi’s ear.

  Demi, disappearing over the edge of the crater and out of his sight.

  Demi, shouting at him from that monster’s grip. Eric! I love you! Run!

  That was on auto-repeat. Those spasms of wild hope were messing him up. Hope was a dangerous ingredient to combine with the rest of this toxic garbage.

  Hope could take him down if he gave into it. If he let it in, even for a second.

  Come on. Of course she would say that. At that point, she’d figured she was already dead and she’d been trying to save his ass. Like the boss that she was. Selfless. Fearless. She probably didn’t even remember she’d said it. It was a heroic reflex.

  His pissed off, prickly goddess. He’d never get enough of that.

  He was glad that the issue of his past sins had been finally put to rest, but at this point, who gave a fuck? It seemed very far away and not particularly relevant anymore. Their real, current problems were so huge and
baffling, the past could get no air time.

  One thing was for sure. Until he figured out who was behind this shitstorm, he was not leaving Demi’s side, not unless they dragged him away from her in cuffs. And there was only one true way to make her safe for good.

  He had to lift that fucking Curse. Once and for all.

  The phone buzzed in his hand. A text from Anton.

  Outside Demi’s house. U in there?

  He got up, startled, and looked around for something more substantial than a towel, since his clothes were still rattling in the dryer downstairs. His brother must have driven at top speed from Seattle the second he got Eric’s message.

  He grabbed the first thing he saw, which happened to be Demi’s fluffy pink fleece bathrobe, and went downstairs to peer out the peephole. Anton’s black Mercedes was parked right behind Eric’s mud-slimed Porsche, with another silver SUV pulling up behind it.

  He opened the door as Anton flung open the gate. His brother’s dark eyes had that intense, burning look he got when he was wound up. The one emotional tell-tale in his tough guy mask.

  Anton’s gaze swept him, taking in the cuts, scrapes and bruises as he strode forward. Eric put his finger to his lips before his brother could speak. “Shhh,” he said. “Demi’s sleeping.”

  “Eric,” his brother hissed. “For the love of fuck?”

  “She’s exhausted,” Eric explained. “I don’t want to wake her until—”

  “No, not that. I mean, what the fuck are you wearing?”

  “Ahhh…” Eric glanced down at the puffy pink robe, his bare legs and feet. “My clothes are in the—”

  “Never mind.” Anton’s eyes fastened onto the spreading bruise, partially visible along the top of his shoulder. “I don’t care. Let me look at you.”

  Eric pulled away. “I’m fine.”

  “Let me see.” Anton wrenched the bathrobe open.

  “Hey!” Eric yanked it shut and gave his brother a baleful look. “Jesus, Anton. All of Shaw’s Crossing does not need to see my dick! Let’s take it inside, for fuck’s sake.”