Amy’s pulse leaped against her throat as someone moved among the trees, not fifty yards from where she stood. Wearing dark clothing, the figure blended with the shadows, making it impossible to see features, to even determine whether it was a man or a woman.
But Amy knew it was the killer. Knew he—or she—was looking for her.
There was no time to run. The sudden movement would draw the killer’s attention. Instead, as silently as a ghost, Amy sunk to the ground, letting the fog-shrouded underbrush hide her.
She lay facedown in the mud, shaken and terrified and fighting the nausea that rose inside her when she thought about the killer’s identity. Whoever was out there was someone she’d known, maybe even someone she’d trusted. Someone she’d loved?
Another twig snapped to her right, so close Amy almost gasped. She held her breath, her heart thundering in her ears. Her muscles ached from remaining so still, and then, as if to test her will further, something slithered across her legs. A water moccasin. She was sure of it. She could almost see the snake’s white mouth gaping, feel the razorlike fangs sinking into her skin, and then she would surely have to scream and the killer would see her and shoot her dead before the venom could taint her bloodstream.
Slime oozed between her fingers where she splayed them in the mud. After an eternity, the snake slid from her legs and glided away, and then, miraculously, the killer began to move way, too.
Amy listened to the crush of the underbrush subside. The killer had moved on, but how far and for how long, she had no idea.
Slowly, she rose from her hiding place, pushing away limbs that clawed at her arms. Kneeling in the fog, she gazed around. She had no idea which way the killer had gone, but she knew she couldn’t remain here. There were too many other dangers, and if Frankie was still alive, he’d need help and fast.
Struggling to her feet, she stood listening for a moment. But all she could hear was the subtle rustle of leaves in a tree as one of the blackbirds came home to roost and the gurgle of mud settling back into place. Even the rhythm of her own heartbeat faded in her ears.
Gingerly, Amy began to pick her way out of the woods.
* * *
SHE HAD NO IDEA where she was or where she was going.
The woods went on forever. She was exhausted, her mind so numb that she no longer even feared her would-be killer. He might be a real killer now, if Frankie had died, but Amy wouldn’t let herself think about that. She simply shoved the murderer and Frankie out of her head and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
She ignored the scratches and insect bites that covered every exposed area of her body. The torment would have been too much to bear, so Amy blocked it out. She blocked it all out and kept walking.
She had no idea how long she’d been moving when something roused her from her daze. She glanced around. The woods were thinning. Moonlight fell in slanting rays against the trees, silvering the leaves and casting an unearthly glow on the ground beneath her, but anything was better than the gloom of the deep woods.
Pausing once again, Amy tried to get her bearings. She could smell the river, and the scent instantly buoyed her. Hurrying her steps, she burst out of the trees. The old river bridge rose over the water not a hundred yards away from where she stood.
Amy began to run toward it, so relived to see a familiar landmark she completely forgot that somewhere out there someone still wanted her dead. She was already on the bridge when she realized that the way home to Amberly might also lead her straight back to the killer.
And then, as if conjured by her terror, a dark silhouette appeared in front of her. He’d been standing by the railing, Amy realized, hidden by shadows until she was almost upon him. Now he stood directly in front of her, barring her way. At his side, he carried a high-powered rifle with a night-vision scope.
When he started toward her, Amy screamed and jumped back. She landed against the iron railing and hovered for a moment, trying to catch her balance. But the balustrade had already torn loose from the girders, and Amy screamed as she tumbled backward.
She grabbed air, frantic for a handhold. Blindly, she clutched the railing that had torn loose from the bridge, clinging desperately with both hands as she dangled over the river. The rusted iron squealed in protest against her weight, and another portion of the railing broke loose. She dropped another two feet before the metal caught. Scared to even breathe, she gazed around frantically for help. Then, over the edge of the bridge, she saw his face.
The face that had haunted her for nine years. Now she understood why.
* * *
CON’S HEART PLUMMETED when he saw Amber disappear over the side of the bridge. Her scream seemed to echo over and over through the darkness as he ran to the edge of the bridge and knelt.
She was there, hanging about five feet down, just out of his reach. When she saw him she started to struggle, but the iron railing groaned ominously.
“Don’t move,” he commanded. “Just hold on. Let me figure out a way to get you up.”
Quickly, he lowered himself over the side of the bridge, hanging on to the edge with one hand as he reached for her with the other. His fingertips brushed hers on the broken railing, and he heard her gasp.
“Let go,” he instructed. “Grab my hand.”
“I…can’t.” She clung to the railing, her eyes wide and terrified in the moonlight.
Con said calmly, “Don’t be scared. What’s the worst that can happen if we fall? We get a little wet, that’s all.”
“I…can’t swim.”
“What are you talking about?” He inched his fingers nearer the edge of the bridge, trying to lower himself toward her. His hand closed over hers on the broken railing. “You could always swim like a fish.”
“Not…anymore. I can’t swim. I’ll…drown if I fall.”
The metal creaked again, and he heard her breath leave her in a panicked rush. The railing tore free from the support just as Con’s hand closed over her wrist. Amy screamed, swinging from his grasp as the railing dropped thirty feet to the water.
Her slim form was like a deadweight pulling at Con’s muscles. Taking a deep breath and straining with everything in him, he heaved her up until she could grab the edge of the bridge. She clung there for moment, trembling and frightened, until he gave her another boost, and she was finally over the side.
Somehow he managed to pull his own weight up, and the moment he collapsed on the floorboards, Amber gasped and scrambled away from him.
“What the hell—?” He rose shakily to his feet and started toward her.
Amy cowered away from him. “Stop! Don’t come near me.”
“What’s the matter with you?” Was she in shock?
She looked like a scared rabbit in the moonlight. She wrapped her arms around her middle, trembling from head to toe. “Someone tried to…kill me. How do I know it wasn’t…you?” Her gaze dropped to the rifle he’d placed on the bridge.
For the first time, Con’s gaze took in her appearance. Her hair was caked with mud, her skirt and blouse torn and filthy, her arms and legs scratched and bleeding. “Jesus Christ,” he said on a breath. “What happened to you?”
She shoved a strand of matted hair from her face. “Do you know why Nona took me away that night? Because someone tried to kill me. Because someone tied a weight to my ankle and threw me off this bridge. How do I know it wasn’t you?” she asked again.
Shock ripped through Con like a switchblade, followed by a hot dose of anger. “In case you missed it, I just saved your neck here. Why would I have done that if I’d tried to kill you back then?”
“I don’t know.” She looked defeated and her legs almost buckled. “I don’t know what to think. Who to trust. Someone attacked me earlier at the park, and then just now, he was stalking me out in the woods. When I saw you standing there…” Her gaze dropped to his mud-caked boots.
She shook all over. Her teeth were chattering so badly, Con could hardly make heads or tails o
f what she was saying.
He took a step toward her, holding out his hand to her. “I’ve been out looking for you. You weren’t home, you weren’t at the barbecue…I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you.”
She blinked up at him. “What are you doing here at this bridge?”
“I thought you might show up here.”
She glanced up at him, biting her lip. She wanted to believe him. He could see it in her eyes.
He said softly, “It’s all right. Obviously, you’ve been through a lot tonight. Let’s go back to my place and get you cleaned up. You can tell me what happened—”
“No!”
“For God’s sake, I’m not going to hurt you!”
“I’ve got to get help for Frankie. He’s been shot. We have to go back and find him.”
Con stared at her in confusion. “Frankie Bodine? How do you know he’s been shot?”
“Because I was there. I saw him. He took me to his house from the park. At least, I think it was him. Then he gave me a letter from Nona.” She put her hands to her pocket, then her eyes grew frantic again. “It’s gone! I must have lost it in the woods. She told me someone tried to kill me nine years ago. That’s why she took me away. And whoever tried to kill me then tried to kill Frankie tonight. And me.”
“Where’s Frankie now?” Con demanded, trying to make sense of her babbling. Trying to keep his own anger—and fear—at bay.
“He’s still back there in the woods.” She shivered. “I tried to lead the killer away from him—”
Con swore. She’d almost been killed tonight. She’d almost been killed, and he hadn’t been there to protect her. Again. “Come on. You can tell me everything on the way to my place.”
Something in his voice must have gotten through to her, for she stopped suddenly and gazed up at him. “Someone tried to kill me tonight. They tried to kill me nine years ago.”
“So it would seem,” he said grimly.
“But I got away from them.” She almost smiled at that, but then, without warning, her knees collapsed, and Con caught her, slinging the rifle strap over his shoulder, then scooping her up into his arms. She gave only a token resistance before she wrapped her arms around his neck and laid her head against his chest.
How could something that hurt so much feel so good? Con wondered as he carried her off the bridge. He wished he could hold her like this forever, but his knee screamed in protest as he started down the embankment, and he stumbled a bit from the strain.
Against his neck, Amy murmured, “You can’t carry me all the way home. You were wounded in South America.”
He swore. “I’ve walked a lot farther carrying more than twice your weight. This is a piece of cake,” he said as sweat popped out on his forehead.
“This is ridiculous, Con. Put me down. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
Her voice sounded almost back to normal. Con stopped and set her down. “You’re right. You are capable of walking.”
He limped beside her up the path, and Amy took his arm. “You should take better care of yourself.”
“Look who’s talking.”
She shrugged. “I’m okay now. I was just…in shock, I guess. But we have to get help for Frankie.”
Con glanced over his shoulder. “Let’s get you safe inside first.”
* * *
THE TRAILER WHERE Con grew up was almost hidden among the cypress trees and water oaks that grew along the river. He’d left an outside light on, and Amy noticed almost absently the beds of hollyhocks and larkspur that hid the underpinning of the trailer, and the four-o’clock bushes that sprang up around the tiny porch.
Once they were inside, Con leaned the rifle against the wall near the front door, then fetched her a blanket and a whiskey. Amy belted the drink right down.
The fiery liquid was instantly fortifying. She sat on the couch, gripping the blanket around her shoulders as Con knelt in front of her. He took one of her hands in both of his.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
She nodded. “Feeling much better.”
“Good. When I come back, I want to know everything that happened tonight.”
“When you come back…where are you going?”
“I have to go see about Frankie. I can’t leave him out there.”
Amy knew he was right, but she fought the idea of Con going out there in the darkness, back to those woods, back to the killer. She clutched at his hand. “You can’t go out there alone. What if the killer is still out there? Con—”
“It’s all right. You’ll be fine here until I get back. No one knows you’re here. Lock the door and don’t open it to anyone but me, do you hear?”
Amy nodded. In spite of his knee, he rose swiftly and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Amy could see him moving about inside the room. He took something from a bureau drawer, and in the silence, Amy heard a series of clicks. It came to her in a flash that he was checking the clip on a weapon. Her gaze went to the rifle by the front door. Why had he been carrying a weapon tonight?
The doubts started to assail her again, but Amy shoved them aside. She had to trust someone. She had to believe in someone, and Con was right. He saved her life on the bridge. She shivered as he came back out with a small handgun that looked only slightly less deadly than the rifle.
“I don’t know how to use that,” she protested when he tried to give it to her.
He took her hand and laid the weapon in her palm. “It’s loaded and the safety’s off. Just point and pull the trigger.”
Their eyes met, and Amy saw something in his dark brown gaze that made her start to tremble again. His expression was hard and coldly resolved, that of a trained soldier who relished the prospect of battle.
She started to tell him to be careful, but the adage seemed inane under the circumstances.
“Lock the door behind me,” he said again, and then picking up the rifle, he was gone in an instant.
* * *
HER HAIR AND CLOTHING were caked with mud, and now that she was out of immediate danger, the scratches and mosquito bites tormented her. Carrying the loaded gun gingerly, Amy went into the bathroom to clean up. She tried to make do with a sponge bath, but the grime only smeared.
“You’re safe,” she murmured, trying to reassure herself. “You’ve got the gun, the doors are locked and you can be in and out of the shower in two minutes.” Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she muttered, “Make that five.”
Locking the bathroom door and putting the gun on the sink within reach, Amy turned on the shower, climbed out of her filthy clothing and stepped under the steaming water. The shower felt wonderful at first, the hot water soothing to the dozens of bites and scratches.
But over the sound of running water, she began to hear noises. Someone rattling the doorknob. The tinkle of broken glass. Footsteps in the bedroom.
Her heart thudding, Amy turned off the water and stood listening. Nothing. All was quiet. But the moment she started the water again, the noises came back to her. Amy knew her imagination was conjuring the sounds, but even so, she lathered, shampooed and rinsed as quickly as she could, then stepped out of the shower to dry off.
But even with the water turned off, the occasional creak of the metal roof, the sound of a dog barking in the distance and a wind chime somewhere out in the yard made her heart skip a beat.
Finding one of Con’s undershirts, Amy slipped it over her head, then wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and clutched it to her while she walked through the trailer, peering out windows.
The moon was still up, and through the trees, she could glimpse the sparkle of silver on water. Even inside, she could smell the river, and the scent reminded her of Nona’s letter. No wonder Amy had had such an aversion to the bridge her first day back here. She’d thought it was because of her mother’s suicide, but now she knew the truth. Someone had tried to kill her that night. Someone had tied a weight around her ankle and thrown her off that b
ridge.
You’re safe, she tried to tell herself again. No one knows you’re here.
But somewhere in the yard, the faint tinkle of the wind chime sounded again, and a chill washed over her. There wasn’t so much as a breeze outside….
Grasping the gun, Amy turned and stared at the front door. Had the knob turned? Were those footsteps she heard?
Then, as if she’d almost willed it, a knock sounded on the door. She nearly jumped through her skin, and the gun fell clattering to the floor. Rescuing it, she crossed the floor as softly as she could and stood listening at the door.
The knock came again, and then she heard Con say, “Open the door, Amber. It’s me.”
She reached for the lock, then hesitated. “How do I know it’s really you?”
A hesitation. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Because I’m your husband.”
She turned the latch and let him in. He walked inside, then closed and locked the door. The gun trembled in her hand, and he reached down to remove it. “Better let me have that thing before you shoot a toe off. Or something worse.”
There was a streak of blood on the front of his white undershirt, and his right forearm was wrapped with a white bandanna.
Amy gasped. “Oh, my God, what happened to you? Were you shot? Con—”
“Take it easy,” he said. “I lost a fight with a thornbush, that’s all.”
Blood was seeping through the bandage. Amy put her hand to her chest, trying to still her racing heart. “It looks deep. Do you want me to clean it up?”
“Later,” he said wearily.
He limped into the kitchen and poured them each a shot of whiskey. He downed his and poured another.
“Did you find Frankie?” she asked, following him into the kitchen.
“No, but I didn’t find his body, either.” The second drink disappeared. “I’ll go back out there in the morning and look around. But in the meantime, I think you’d better tell me everything that was in Nona’s letter.”
Her Secret Past Page 15
