Dark Memories (The DARK Files Book 1)

by Susan Vaughan

  No vehicle in the parking lot. That meant nothing. Cole could easily arrive on foot.

  The backstage doors were kept locked, but not the lobby. She slipped inside. The only illumination came from the exit lights, enough to prevent her blundering into the Bad Boy, parked in the lobby as advertising until hoisted on stage.

  “If only you could talk,” she whispered to the machine.

  Her palms were clammy and her pulse clattered. Sooner or later whoever had cut the phone line would catch on and search for her. If she waited for him on the stage, as the note directed, there were plenty of props to hide her. Or was she better off with lights?

  But why on earth the stage? Did he find some evidence of Janus in the theater? Stomach clenched, she headed through the inner door, then left toward the technician’s booth. She slapped the wall searching for the light switches.

  The brilliance of the house lights cheered her like candles on a birthday cake. With a sure stride, she descended the aisle and mounted the stage.

  Even if she said so herself, the stage crew had performed miracles in creating the Diner set. Two booths with gaudy plastic-topped tables, a lunch counter with metal stools upholstered in shiny red and behind the counter a swinging door through which the phony cook delivered meals and pithy comments. The central part of the floor rotated — a permanent installation — to reveal the other major set, the lobby of the next-door motel, complete with reception desk, couch and the upright piano.

  Laura perched on a diner stool. How long should she wait? The lobby clock had read exactly ten.

  Darkness descended with the snap of the backstage control switch. Smothering blackness enveloped the theater.

  Stifling a cry, she dropped to the floor. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She blinked, willing her eyes to adjust to the cave-like gloom.

  Stupid, stupid. The note didn’t come from Cole. Janus could’ve watched him leave. Not Cole, but the hit man waited here. By cutting her phone line, he’d ensured she’d leave the cabin’s safety. She naively ran into his web. Now she had to make certain she didn’t become his victim.

  Thank goodness she knew the theater as well as her own cabin. Even in the dark, she could use it to her advantage. Whoever flipped the switch waited in the wings stage right. All was silent. He couldn’t know the layout as well as she did.

  Leading with her outspread hands, she stood and placed one foot in front of the other. She prayed she hadn’t gotten turned around. She felt the edge of the first booth. She had to head toward stage left, and the backstage stairs to the lower floor.

  Closer. Closer. Almost there.

  She fell, crashing to her knees, tangled with a folding metal chair at the edge of the curtain.

  Heavy footsteps scraped across the floor from stage right. Going slow in the dark.

  She pushed up and flung the chair toward the footfalls. When she heard a muffled cry of pain and rage, she continued to Braille her way to her escape hatch.

  Silence reigned again. Except for her own panting breath and her hammering heart, nothing. Then a metallic squeaking and the rumble of a heavy object rolling across the floor.

  A massive, flat bulk hurtled into her side. Pain hammered her hip. The impact thrust her across the room. Tinny notes jangled maniacally through the cavernous barn.

  The piano.

  Did he mean to crush her with it? She could hear him straining with the cumbersome instrument.

  She shoved back.

  Momentum favored her attacker. Farther and farther backward he pushed her.

  She tried to sidestep.

  He changed direction. The casters on the old upright shrieked in revolt.

  In one desperate lunge to the side, her foot stepped into air. The stairwell she’d headed for.

  She plummeted down.

  Her knees hit the first steps with a sickening thump that felt like a bolt of lightning hitting every bone in her body. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs in a great whoosh. Limply, out of control, she bounced down, her body pummeled by each of the ten wooden steps. In a welter of battered limbs, she slammed onto the cement floor.

  Her head spun and she had no breath to move. Agony radiated into every part of her body, but she was conscious.

  As if from a great distance, she heard a cacophonous crashing. A discordant clanging like the destruction of all the harps of heaven.

  The piano was following her down through the opening.

  ***

  Cole slowed as he turned the truck into the woods road that led to Laura’s cabin. He rubbed his stiff neck.

  Mr. Blow-Dry had been a dead end for DARK, but an arrest for the local cops. The interminable evening was ended. He needed to see Laura. Anxiety about her had shortened his temper and cut his concentration. He wasn’t used to interference with his cool control during a mission, and he damn well didn’t like it.

  At the cabin, he turned in and parked with a squeal of tires and a scattering of gravel. The cabin lights were still on, and all was quiet. Curtains drawn. Door buttoned up. Windows closed. All appeared normal.

  Then why did he feel this prickling at his nape?

  He reached for his 9mm.

  Chapter 21

  DISORIENTED, LAURA HUDDLED in a heap on the cold floor. How long she’d lain there she didn’t know.

  She opened her eyes. “You see stars after all.”

  After drawing shaky, deep breaths to reassure herself that she could, she sat up slowly. When she felt for injuries, her hand found the warm dampness of blood on her cheek and on her right knee.

  Nothing broken, just scrapes and bruises. Enough for three people.

  Gingerly, she pulled herself up on the railing. It fell away and clattered to the floor, and she stumbled. Sensing the presence of something overhead, she reached up. Her fingers brushed dangling wires, and an eerie twang echoed through the darkness.

  So that was it. The piano was wedged upside down at an angle — effectively blocking the stairwell.

  Shoving her down the steep stairs and crushing her beneath the piano, as heavy as a sarcophagus, had been her attacker’s intent. He would’ve succeeded except for the stairwell’s narrowness.

  The acid-tasting nausea of horror swam in her throat. She bent over to clear her head, bracing her hands on her knees. Pain throbbed in the right one. It would quickly incapacitate her.

  She could be trapped in the basement. The realization sent her heart racing. Holding her breath, she listened for noises above her. Nothing. Not even the groan of a board. Did he leave, believing her to be dead?

  Doubtful. A professional would want to make sure. Damn you, Alexei Markos!

  Her best chance was to escape through the lobby. Feeling her way, she proceeded down the hall. Ironic that the area Cole had warned her to avoid alone would be her escape route. Moments later, she bumped into the lobby exit and stopped for a breath and to listen.

  Creaking. Someone stepping on a squeaky board or just the sounds of an old building settling? Was he listening for her?

  Maybe he’d left through the stage door. He might not know about the lower-level egress to the lobby. If he waited outside, she hadn’t a chance with her battered knee, puffy and swelling painfully in the tight denim. She couldn’t run across the open parking lot or through the woods. She couldn’t move fast at all. Unless…

  A millimeter at a time, she opened the door. No one.

  Biting her lip, she stepped out and approached the Harley, dozing on its kickstand in the exit light’s red glow. She whispered, “Easy, boy. Are you like the cowboy’s loyal horse that won’t let anyone else ride him? Your owner won’t mind, I promise.”

  If Cole hadn’t changed his habits, she had a chance. She groped beneath a leather flap on the seat padding. Stomach clenched but heart triumphant, she extracted the key. Quietly, delicately, she loosened the catches on the double doors so all she had to do was push her way through.

  After relea
sing the kickstand, she straddled the bike. At least it wasn’t as enormous as his old one. If she could only remember how to drive the thing.

  Feet pounded across the stage. He heard me.

  Don’t listen. Her heart drummed and her hands trembled like autumn leaves. Think! Like an incantation, she began a recital of the basics. Gear shift on the left footrest. Front brake lever on the right handle. Clutch on the left.

  A thump told her he’d jumped from the stage.

  The bike had an ignition button. Thank God. Her increasing stiffness wouldn’t let her manage a kick-start. Praying that she’d remembered ten-year-old lessons and that the gas tank wasn’t empty, she turned the key and pressed the button.

  Charging footsteps. He was nearly at the end of the aisle. Closer. Coming to the lobby.

  As the engine rumbled to life, heavy feet reached the swinging doors behind her.

  Now or never. She let off the clutch and twisted the hand grip. With a whoop from her and an accelerating roar from the bike, Laura burst through the double doors. She rolled down the handicap ramp and sped into the moonlit night and freedom.

  No stealth for her, not on Harley-Davidson, a bike nicknamed rolling thunder.

  ***

  As Cole approached the cabin door, headlights and a distinctive engine roar emerged from the footpath. The light swerved like a drunken locomotive. He stepped behind the tree.

  The motorcyclist wobbled to a halt, doused the headlight and killed the engine.

  At the sight of the golden fall of hair and the pale oval of her face, his jaw dropped. “What the hell?”

  “Thank God it’s you,” Laura said, her voice quivery with emotion. “How do you work this damn kickstand?”

  He toed the offending prop and helped her to dismount. When she weaved on unsteady legs, he pulled her close. He gently touched her bloodied cheek. “What—”

  “You can have your horse back now, cowboy. He saved my life.” She crumpled in his arms.

  Cole scooped her up and jogged to the cabin door. He set her down and fished in his pocket for the key she’d given him.

  “Wait. I’ve got a key in my jeans.” She leaned, barely upright, against the door frame.

  “Dammit, the one time we need to get inside fast. How bad did he hurt you?” He snatched the key. A wildfire detonated in him. He’d empty his 9mm into the bastard. Or rip his freaking head off.

  At last inside, he laid her on the bed and stripped off her jeans. Wincing as he examined her swollen knee, he said, in what he hoped was a calm tone, “Tell me about it. Just what were you doing out alone this time of night? And where the hell is Vanessa? Didn’t she—”

  Her eyes snapped sparks at him. “Don’t you yell at— Ouch, my cheek!” She accepted the cool washcloth he handed her and dabbed it on the lacerated cheek. “Vanessa walked me home, as requested. She even checked the cabin. Then she left. For all she knew, I was tucked in safely for the night. Except for your note. That I quickly learned wasn’t your note.”

  “Laura!”

  Closing her eyes, she lay back on the pillows.

  He’d have to wait until she had enough strength to talk. He fetched a plastic bag of ice cubes from the kitchen. Kept his hands gentle as he placed the makeshift ice pack on her knee and wrapped a towel around it.

  He sat on the bed beside her.

  “Thank you.” She managed a lopsided smile as she began her story.

  He kept his gaze on her wounded cheek, while she explained about the note. He curled his hands into fists when she described the attack in the theater and her escape.

  “There’s the note, on the table where I left it.”

  Barely glancing at the printed words, he exploded with oaths that widened her exhaustion-smudged eyes. “I shouldn’t have gone! I should’ve let Byrne and Isaacs take care of that piece of crap. Janus has just been biding his time, waiting until I left you unprotected.” And why in hell did Grant Snow never spot the guy?

  She frowned. “It looks that way. But maybe I’m just delirious.” She rubbed one hand over her eyes. “Where did you go tonight? What happened?”

  He didn’t want her to worry about the boys’ involvement, but Zach would probably bring it up. “Zach and Butch wanted to help catch the guy who switched your boat.”

  Eyes widening, she sat up. “Those little boys. Oh my God, what did they do? Are they all right?”

  He pressed her back into the pillows. The feel of her shoulders beneath his palms reassured him. “They’re fine. They did the right thing. Told me about a mysterious Mr. Blow-Dry. Said he was spying on you with binoculars.”

  “So you and the other officers went to check him out. Judging from my misadventure tonight, Mr. Blow-Dry isn’t Janus. Or there are two killers after me.”

  “He’s not a killer. But he is our local burglar. His cabin had all sorts of toys he’d liberated. Including Zach’s camera. He’d used the binoculars to see who was away from their cabins. Byrne and I delivered him to the Alderport PD.”

  “But Zach and Butch are safe. They didn’t talk to him.”

  “No, Zach came to me, as he’d promised.”

  Her shoulders quaked with a shudder. “So how—”

  “No more discussion. You need rest, not conversation. Dr. Stratton insists.”

  She flopped back down, the touch of humor apparently convincing her. Careful not to irritate her injuries, he helped her put on the baggy T-shirt and boxers she slept in. Not what he’d fantasized, but on her as sexy as a negligee.

  After locking up and dousing the lights, he stripped off his clothing and lay down beside her. He wasn’t returning to the lumpy couch, and she didn’t complain about his presence. Wouldn’t have done her any good.

  “Cole, hold me” She scooted closer to him.

  It warmed him throughout that she wanted his comfort, but he feared hurting her. Sliding one arm around her shoulders, he gathered her close, carefully so he didn’t touch her wounded cheek or knee. Her skin was cold, her body trembling. The aftermath of a terrible ordeal. Shock.

  If he ever got his hands on the son of a bitch…

  “One little question.”

  “All right.” In spite of the knot in his chest, he couldn’t help smiling into her fragrant hair. The woman had incredible courage. She was weary and hurting, but still curious and fighting.

  “How did he know you were gone? I didn’t know until you called. And how did he disable the phone?”

  He kissed her temple. “Too many questions for someone as wasted as you. We’ll sort through it in the morning.”

  If he knew the answer to her questions, he could lay his hands on the killer. A killer close enough to know Cole had left that night. A killer who was getting closer to accomplishing his job.

  And there was one piece of news he’d keep to himself. Laura had been through enough. When Cole’s contact officer had finally called, he reported that they’d lost Markos again.

  The importer had vanished.

  Chapter 22

  WHEN COLE AWOKE the next morning, Laura had already left the bed.

  How could she even think about going out alone after the beating last night? The woman didn’t know when to quit.

  He flung off the light blanket and was about to hit the floor when he heard water running in the bathroom. Swinging his legs back up, he lay back on the pillows.

  Last night had been so hectic and she too upset and shocked to think clearly. But today he’d have to do damage control. Explain more to her. And to Stan.

  He would let Stan think he’d driven the Harley out earlier and that vandals wrecked the old piano. Announcing this new attack on Laura would mean having to call in the cops for more than vandalism. He couldn’t risk exposing the DARK team and blowing the trap, so they would keep mum. But it grated on him not to let Stan know the truth and not to hustle Laura somewhere safer.

  A moment later, she appeared in the bedroom doorway, wearing only
boxers and bruises. Varying shades of purple blotched her thighs and calves. Daring but so vulnerable, too much so, she made him feel he needed a sword and shield to defend her.

  Heat pooled in his groin. Lust mingled with satisfaction that she’d had few lovers over the years. She’d confessed a deep freeze ever since their disastrous weekend. That he’d been the one to reawaken her passion fed his ego.

  The violet and purple on her legs, arms and back told the tale of her tumble down the stairs. She wasn’t flaunting herself, but neither was she hiding her near nakedness. She’d stopped concealing the neck scars from him. A teasing smile tilting her full lips, she attempted a limping pirouette for him.

  “I was checking out my war wounds. So what do you think?” she said. “Will these rainbow hues catch on fashion-wise?”

  “I hope not, babe.” He held out his arms, and she eased down with him on the rumpled sheets. Semi-prone against the pillows, he helped her to lie half across him, one leg thrown over his and her head on his shoulder, her breasts against his side. “How do you feel?”

  She threaded her index finger through his chest hair. “Last night I felt as if I’d been pounded with hammers, then flattened by a paving machine—or an upright piano, like Wile E. Coyote. I ache, but I’m reinflating.”

  He ran his palm over her hair, sexy and disheveled from sleep. Smudges beneath her eyes spoke of her pain, but a glint in the gold flecks had been missing last night. A tough cookie, she was more resilient than the cartoon coyote.

  “Tell me what you found out last night. I know you got up after you thought I was asleep.” Her fingers grew still on his skin, her gaze alight with intensity. Her hands were cool, but electric tingles spread from their touch.

  Hating this sordid business, he gave a grunt of disgust. “Not much to tell. The phone cord wasn’t cut, just unplugged outside.”

  “And who did you call?”

  He grinned and smoothed a hand down the one shoulder with no bruises. She’d washed her face and smelled of soap and her apple lotion. In spite of her bruises, she felt supple and warm in his arms.