by Gloria Repp
Tara paused and let out a dramatic sigh. “Mollie?”
“Yes?”
“I have to tell you an awful truth. I must needs confess.”
What had she been reading?
“I borrowed something from your room. I didn’t think you’d mind. Really, truly, I wasn’t going to keep it, but Mr. Kennedy made me leave, and so . . . and so I’ve still got it.”
Madeleine sat up. “What?”
“Your forever stone, with the calico.” Tara’s voice hurried. “I just wanted to hold it for a while. I was going to creep in and put it back. And today, I was going to give it to you, but Uncle Sid would’ve caught me.”
Her paperweight.
“Mollie? You’ll forgive me all my sins, won’t you, please? Lest I stay awake the whole night long with this burden on my heart?”
“I forgive you, Tara. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
Her paperweight wasn’t lost. She’d get it back tomorrow—something to be thankful for.
Slowly she put away her journal, crossed the room, and opened the window. She leaned an elbow on the sill. For once the trees stood silent.
The calm night should be soothing, but it seemed that clouds were massing above her—storm clouds—shaped by the events of the day. Secret piled upon secret. Greed and hate and fear. How were they linked to Sid and Tara, to Bria and Jude? To Kent?
Cool air washed through the room, making her shiver, and she turned back to her bed. Mac was doing laundry again. After a while he’d stop, and perhaps she would sleep.
CHAPTER 28
I wonder why Tara keeps asking me to visit.
Maybe I’ll get a chance to talk to her
about God’s forgiveness.
She might be more receptive now.
~Journal
No bad dreams. No clouds in the sky this morning. But last night’s foreboding lingered.
She made herself an omelet for breakfast and dredged up reassuring thoughts. She was going to take muffins for Tara; they’d have a visit that might be long or short; she’d talk to Sid, perhaps get some useful information; then she’d come home.
As long as Aunt Dixie stayed away, all would be well.
She repeated the litany to herself as she drove away from the Manor, traveled one road after another, turned down the highway, and then onto Salty Spung Road. She ignored the sneaking little fears that dodged behind trees whenever she tried to look them in the eye.
Be not dismayed, for I am your God.
Everything about the Marricks dismayed her.
I am your God. Think about this beautiful day He’d given her, complete with a hazy blue sky.
She pulled off her jacket, tossed it into the back seat, and opened her window to enjoy the sunlit breeze.
Here was the Marrick sign, with its flaking red letters.
Smoke?
She clutched the steering wheel, her hands gone cold. Long gray twisting threads of smoke rose from the Marrick’s house.
The breath rasped in her throat. She couldn’t handle fire, not anymore.
Keep going. Get the neighbors. Danger-danger-stay-away.
But Tara was there.
She gunned her car down the driveway, lurched to a stop, and called 911 as she ran for the house.
Wisps of smoke drifted from the kitchen window. It must have just started. Where was everyone?
She bounded up the porch steps.
“Madeleine!” Kent was leaning against a corner of the house. “Come help me.” He looked panic-stricken.
His shirt had a patch of blood on the upper arm. “What happened?” More blood was seeping through his sleeve.
Had he been fighting? With who?
He groaned. “You’ve got to tie it up. Get something.”
Her gaze fell on the knife at his belt. “This will work.”
The knife cut like a laser as she slit open his sleeve and sliced off a strip. She wrapped his arm with care.
But the house! The fire must be spreading inside. Hurriedly she tied the last knot.
“I knew I could count on you.” He took her by the wrist.
His hands were clammy with sweat, and she fought her distaste. What was the matter with him?
His voice dropped into pleading. “Come away with me, Madeleine. Tonight!” The blue eyes had a terrifying intensity. “I’m going to be rich. We can live in Canada, or France, wherever we want.”
“Kent! The fire—”
“Don’t think about that. Think about me.”
She trembled deep within. Fire trucks were coming, but it would take a long time.
“Where’s Tara? And Sid? Let me go.”
He circled her wrist with his hand. “Such a tiny little thing. Such fine bones.”
He looked at the smoking window and smiled. “Don’t worry, there’s no one inside. Come with me.”
She started to shake her head, and he pulled her toward him. “I’ll make you happy, Madeleine. I’ve always found married women more interesting. Experience counts, you know.”
Nausea threatened, and she swallowed it away. Breathe. Breathe again.
He stared at her. “Is it that doctor? Him and his interfering talk. He’s next on my list.”
Kent tightened his hand until her wrist bones seemed to bend and crack.
She fought the panic, made herself stare up at him. What was this about Nathan?
Kent’s face had turned red. “I saw you with him. Don’t you dare waste yourself on that crusty old man.”
“I don’t understand you,” she exclaimed. “The house is burning down. How can you—”
“I’m younger and smarter than he is.” He spoke with tight-lipped confidence. “Ol’ Doc’s going to fry. Him and that clinic of his. Didn’t do him any good to change the locks. Ever hear of plastic explosives?”
Her heart turned over. Not Nathan. Not Nathan.
Lord, help!
I will strengthen you.
To do what?
Delay.
“Madeleine! Are you listening?” Kent grabbed a fistful of her hair.
Determination settled into her bones. She smiled up at him and smacked at his hand. “Don’t you do that again, or I might have to hate you.”
He grinned, looking surprised, and let go of her hair. “Gutsy little woman, aren’t you?” He waved at the smoking house. “Isn’t that something? I did it. And it’s going to get better.”
His look was so haughty, so prideful, that she knew what to do.
She tilted her head and put on a teasing face. “I don’t believe you did that. Lots of things can start a fire. And what’s a writer know about explosives?”
He talked. He told her how he’d first learned to use explosives, fighting fires in California. How they were good for bringing down snags, and how a double line made a fire guard. How he’d taught himself to make different kinds of bombs.
She kept her eyes on his face and saw that he was watching the house with the avid look of a gambler who’d backed a winning throw.
He explained how his favorite bombs worked, how he’d used one to blow up a store in Tabernacle, just last week. It was quite exhilarating, he said, even better than fires.
An arsonist.
“Gives you a sense of power, doesn’t it?” she said.
His eyes narrowed. “What are you implying, Madeleine? I don’t need anything to make me feel powerful. I don’t need anybody, either.”
Shouldn’t have said that.
He pulled her close. “Except possibly you.”
In spite of her resolve, she took a step backwards. His arm went around her waist. “Don’t do that, my pretty little elf. You know you want me.”
Her breath came hard, snagged in her throat.
Fear not.
Tiny flames slithered from around the kitchen window. He stiffened, watching.
From the back of the house, thunder boomed. The house shuddered, its windows shook, and fire burst through the back roof. Flames licked out of a window an
d leaped onto the overhang above the back door.
He laughed, a growl deep in his chest. “Just a little one. Great stuff. Now we’re off.”
She had to stop him. She jerked free from his sweating hands, but he grabbed her arm, hauling her back. The knife. She snatched it up and aimed for his chest.
His hand closed over hers, incredibly strong, and wrenched at the knife.
A searing pain stung her, and she looked in surprise at the slash across her forearm.
He held up the knife with a triumphant laugh. “Silly girl. Look what you did to yourself.”
Blood trickled down her arm, staining the back of her hand. The fire’s breath struck her face, hot and threatening.
But this wasn’t Brenn.
Fear not.
He bent close, and the rank odor of his sweat filled her nostrils. “Why did you come here, anyway? I warned you.” He propelled her toward the driveway.
A gust of smoke blew across them and she began to cough, clinging to his arm, dragging at him, slowing his pace. “Where—?”
“My car, right handy in the trees.” He stopped. The Bronco stood just ahead of them, but its tires had gone flat. His lips thinned to a cruel line. “Skulking redhead.”
Tara! She was safe.
“We’ll have to take your car. Give me the keys.”
A car backfired—or was it a gunshot?—and Kent staggered.
Someone stood on the porch steps. Sid, with a gun.
Kent pulled her around in front of him. “You missed, Marrick. You’re still a loser. Put down that gun.”
But Sid was already falling to his knees, sliding down the porch steps.
The gun clattered ahead of him, and for the first time in her life, Madeleine wanted that cool, deadly weight in her hands.
A pine tree beside the garage exploded into flame and the porch roof began to smoke.
Kent laughed. He took her chin, turned her face toward him, and she didn’t resist. “We’re going to have fun together,” he said.
Keep him talking. “How come Sid had a gun? Is it Dixie’s pistol? Did you kill her?”
“Her own fault. Stupid woman, got into a wrestling match with me.”
He glanced at the cut on her arm, oozing a little. “Just a scratch. Nothing like mine.”
“You’re still bleeding,” she said. “Let me tie it up some more.”
“Guess so.” He looked pale. “Make it tight.”
She ripped another strip off the dangling remnants of his sleeve, taking her time, but as soon as she finished the makeshift bandage, he said. “Give me the keys, okay?”
Stall him. Risk anything to keep him from Nathan.
“Someone’s reported this fire,” she said. “Why not forget the doctor?”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll teach you better. Let’s go.”
Not into that car, not with him—she wouldn’t come out alive.
She tried again. “You’re going to get caught. I don’t see how you’ll have time to set off your bomb at the clinic. People live around there.”
“Won’t take a minute.” He pulled out a cigarette lighter and flicked it on. “That’s all I need to do. ”
A rushing began in her ears, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the lighter. Her vision darkened. The rushing grew louder. Not now! She had to convince him . . . but his face was swirling into gray.
Please, Lord, not now.
She was sagging against him, and she couldn’t do anything about it.
“What’s the matter with you?” He gave her a shake. “Not much use at all,” he said. “Too bad.”
He found the keys in her pocket and let go of her. She slid to the ground.
His feet went away. Her car door opened. It seemed to take him a long time to get in.
Now that he was gone, she could breathe.
Her car door slammed shut.
Breathe again. Think. He was going after Nathan . . . Get the gun.
He’d have to pull up and turn around. Hurry. Or he’d drive right across her.
The engine caught with a roar.
Move. Now!
She heaved herself onto her hands and knees. Something hurt. She crawled towards the porch. Towards the gun.
“Mollie! Over here.” Tara took her by the shoulders and pulled her inside the iron frame.
She clutched Tara’s arm. “I need that gun.”
“Stay behind the wheel cutout.” Tara darted off.
The car lurched forward, coming straight at her. Its tires bounced against the hump of iron and went no farther.
Tara pushed the gun into her hand.
He whipped the car into reverse and turned, the tires growling, spitting stones. Going after Nathan.
She crouched.
Steady. Dad’s voice. Hold it steady, Mollie girl. Breathe.
She aimed for the back tires, squeezed the trigger, and winced at the recoil.
Again.
The car veered left and crashed into the trees with a tearing, splintering sound.
Another sound, a roaring, came from behind her—the porch roof was blazing high. A beam collapsed in showers of ash and sparks. Something stung her neck.
Tara was helping her uncle down the steps, pulling him to the center of the driveway. “Mollie! Get away!” she cried. “Get away from the house.”
Another beam fell, and scorching heat lapped toward her. She pushed herself up off her knees and stumbled away from the heat and the noise and the smoke.
Check on Sid, lying in the sand. She bent to look at him, lost her balance, and fell.
She dragged herself back onto her knees. Phone.
In her pocket. All this blood—whose was it?
She pressed the buttons on her phone.
“Mollie, I was just thinking about you.”
She could curl up into the warmth of that voice, curl up forever.
“Nathan.” She closed her eyes.
His voice deepened. “Mollie? Talk to me.”
Something important—she had to tell him. What?
“Your clinic,” she mumbled. “There’s a bomb.”
“Okay, where are you?”
“Fire. At Tara’s house.” She took a wheezing breath. “I . . . I need you.”
“Coming.”
Tara was asking questions. Too tired to answer.
Tara was leaning her back to lie on the sand. Cold sand.
She shivered and bent her body so she couldn’t see the fire.
All she wanted now . . .
She lost the strand of her thought and found it again. All she wanted now . . . was to look up into the face of that crusty old man.
CHAPTER 29
I’m afraid to turn off the light because I’ll see
flames licking across the roof
and the charred beams of the porch
. . . and Kent’s face.
~Journal
Nathan came. Right behind the fire trucks, with an ambulance and a police escort, he came. Her internal monitor must have clicked off as soon as she heard his voice because the next few hours went by in a haze.
His gentle touch on her face. His reassuring whisper. His hands, tucking her into a blanket. Someone bending over her, saying she was in shock.
After the ambulance left, he bundled her and Tara into his Jeep and drove them to his clinic. He kept a hand on her all the way and said little, but that might have been because Tara was talking non-stop about the fire and her uncle and the aunt she couldn’t find.
At the clinic, someone took charge of Tara. Nathan gave quiet orders, and nurses came and went.
For a few minutes they were alone in a small room, and he held her until a nurse brought something for her to drink and ice for her wrist.
She couldn’t remember much more, just that he stitched up her cut, and it didn’t seem to hurt, and he murmured to her as he worked.
He drove them both to the Manor, had Tara help her change, and then had her sit at the kitchen table and dr
ink orange juice.
His hand warmed her shoulder. “I gave you something for pain,” he said, “and now I want you to take a good long nap.”
She could taste the smoke. She rubbed at the grit on her face, saying, “I would like a shower.”
For some reason, he smiled, but he said, “Maybe later. First, you nap.”
Too sleepy to argue. He had her lie down on her bed and covered her with a blanket. He disappeared and returned with a warm washcloth. He bathed her face and found the stinging little burns on her neck. He spread something creamy on the burns, went away, and came back.
He knelt beside the bed and put his arms around her, cradling her. “Our mighty God! He protected you, Mollie.”
She lifted a hand to his face, curving her palm against his cheek. “The Lord kept me . . . from being so afraid.”
She frowned. “But then Kent pulled out that lighter. Why did God let me faint? I didn’t want that.”
The gray eyes glistened. “To keep you safe. To put the gun into your hand.” He brushed back her hair. “Sleep now. My brave girl.”
He stayed, smoothing her hair, and she drifted off. When she awoke, he was gone.
Tara stood at the kitchen window but she turned, looking dejected. “I thought you’d sleep all day.”
Madeleine stretched. “Guess I’m hungry.” And stiff. And hurting. And she wanted a shower. Where was Nathan?
“The doctor said for you to phone when you got up.”
He answered with a smile in his voice. “We’ve got a date, remember? Do you feel like pizza?”
“Let’s see,” she said, “flattened, maybe a little crisp around the edges? Yes I do, now that you mention it.”
He laughed. “You’re doing better than I dared to hope. I’ll be there soon.”
While she waited, her energy seemed to fade, but it returned as soon as she saw him. Maybe she was just hungry. Keeto’s takeout pizza tasted remarkably good, considering. She ate two pieces and began to yawn.
He stood up. “I’m off again. Back to bed for you.”
She stood too, saw fire blazing across a roof, and had to grab for the edge of the table. But after a moment her head cleared and she asked him, “Please, sir, may I take a shower?”
His smile teased her. “One-handed?”
