by Sharon Sala
He put a hand on the door, applying just enough pressure to move it while hoping the hinges didn’t squeak. When it swung silently inward, he breathed a sigh of relief and followed it, stopping a couple of steps inside the doorway.
The light inside the room was faint, but Wes could see the man’s outline beneath the covers. A window-unit air conditioner had been positioned so that it blew directly across the bed. Its busy little hum masked any number of small sounds, which gave Wes time to study his prey.
Storm was tall—very tall. The angular planes of his face gave him a skeletal appearance, but with his eyes shut, it was difficult to judge his personality. What Wes could see was a long, grayish-brown ponytail lying over his right shoulder and down across his chest.
The urge to wake him up was strong. Wes knew how to get information from people who were unwilling to divulge it, but at least as yet, this wasn’t war, and he wasn’t a cold-blooded killer, so he had to be satisfied with what he’d learned so far.
Suddenly Storm snored and then choked. Wes froze. Within seconds, Storm would be awake. He took a silent step backward, pulling the door with him as he went and leaving it slightly ajar, just as he’d found it.
Then, moving quickly along the wall, he retraced his steps through the kitchen and out the door, taking care to lock it behind him. Once outside, he ran into the woods, then stopped and looked back at the house.
As he watched, a light came on in what appeared to be the bedroom, then, a few seconds later, another in the kitchen. When the kitchen door opened, Wes took another step back, although he knew that, given where he was standing, he could not be seen.
Storm was naked except for a pair of briefs, but Wes could see that his hands were curled into fists.
“So…you felt me in there, did you?” Wes muttered.
Roland Storm stepped off the porch into the dust.
“Who’s there?” he called, but he heard nothing except the faint echo of his own voice.
He focused his gaze on the darkened forest surrounding the house, and for the first time since he’d come here, felt imprisoned by the isolation, rather than hidden. He shifted his focus from the trees to the meadow, wondering if someone was out there now, stealing that which did not belong to them. Then he smiled. If they were, they would have a rude awakening.
“You’re going to be sorry!” he shouted, then turned on his heel and stalked back into the house. Moments later, the lights went out.
Wes’s eyes narrowed as he thought about what he’d seen down in that basement lab. He felt threatened by the man, though he didn’t know why. He wasn’t going to find out anything more tonight. Satisfied that, for now, he’d done all he could do, Wes began to retrace his steps.
He’d been moving at a pretty rapid clip down the mountain when suddenly he heard the sound of an engine on the road behind him. In that moment, he realized he’d underestimated Roland Storm. The skin crawled on the back of his neck as he judged the distance he had yet to go to get home. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he had to be inside his house before Roland Storm came knocking.
He leapt forward into an all-out dash. As he ran, the sound of Storm’s truck out on the road suddenly seemed fainter; then he remembered the big curve, knowing it would slow Roland down. It wasn’t much, but it might just be the edge Wes needed.
Rocks rolled beneath Wes’s feet as he ran; branches slapped him in the face. Rabbits spooked and dashed for cover, as owls startled from feeding abandoned their prey and took to the sky. Twice Wes tripped and fell, and each time he quickly scrambled to his feet.
He was running almost parallel to the truck he could hear off to his right. His heart was hammering in rhythm to the pounding of his feet against the earth. This mad dash through unmarked territory was against everything he’d been taught in Special Ops, but there was no time for caution. Either he got there first or he was found out.
Just when he thought it was over, he was out of the trees. He was running across the backyard toward Dooley’s house just as the headlights of Roland Storm’s truck appeared up the drive. Earlier, Wes had used the front door, but he couldn’t go back the same way without being seen. The back door didn’t have a key, only an inside bolt, which he knew was locked. His only chance was through the root cellar. Thankful that it had no lock, he yanked the door open and then let it fall shut as he flew down. Stumbling on the bottom step, he tripped and fell, but again he picked himself up and flew up the other set of steps on his hands and feet. He burst into the kitchen just as he heard Roland pulling into the yard.
His heart was thumping, his chest heaving. Without taking time to think, he ripped off his shirt, tore off his pants and shoes, and kicked them under the kitchen table as he dashed to the sink.
He turned on the water, then leaned down, frantically washing the blood from his scratches as a knock sounded on the door. Drying quickly, he started into the living room, then did a quick one-eighty, grabbed the switchblade out of his pants pocket and moved toward the door as another knock came—this time louder and longer.
He took several deep breaths to calm the sound of his voice, then made noise, as if he was just coming down the hall.
“Who the hell is it?” he shouted.
There was a long, startled moment of silence, and Wes knew that his presence had taken Storm aback. Storm obviously believed he’d had an intruder and believed it was Wes. The last thing Storm had expected to hear was the sound of Wes’s voice. Wes popped the switchblade, then opened the door.
Roland Storm hadn’t expected the stranger to be home, let alone meet him at the door, nearly naked—with a switchblade in his hand.
“Uh…I am—”
“I know who you are.” Wes peered past him to the truck beyond, then frowned. “You’re that crazy bastard who almost ran me off the road this afternoon. What’s wrong now? Was I snoring too loud?”
Roland didn’t know what to say. The man was standing in the shadows, but he could see the shimmer of the blade.
“Someone broke into my house tonight. I thought…”
Wes cursed rudely. “Mister…if someone broke into my house, I’d be calling the local authorities, not calling on my neighbors.”
“Yes, well…I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t—”
Wes slammed the door in his face, then held his breath, waiting to see if Roland Storm left. Within seconds, he heard the sound of footsteps moving away from the door, then the sound of a car door slamming shut. Moments later, an engine fired. When Storm backed up to turn the truck around, the glare from his headlights swept through the windows.
Only then did Wes turn the lock on the door. When he heard Storm leaving, he slid to the floor with his back against the door and started to shake.
He’d done it.
It took long, agonizing minutes before Wes was able to move. Even then, the muscles in his legs were still cramping. He staggered into the bathroom, then into the shower, letting the warm water soothe the aches and pains. Finally, when the water began to run cold, he got out and dried, then crawled into his bed. Just before he fell asleep, he rolled over and set the alarm.
In what seemed like only minutes later, it was buzzing rudely, waking him from a deep and restless sleep. He shut it off and rolled out of bed. Considering it was his first day of work, he didn’t want to be late.
Harold James still didn’t know what had possessed him to hire a perfect stranger to work in his store, and once the man who’d identified himself as Wes Holden was gone, he hadn’t really expected to see him again. Yet there he was, coming in the front door of the feed store before the clock had struck 8:00 a.m. Harold studied the width of Holden’s shoulders and the leanness of his physique, as well as that head full of dark hair that he wore tied back at his nape. He was a fine figure of a man, all right, but there was something guarded in his expression. Then Harold shrugged. If Ally Monroe vouched for him, and as long as he did what he was told, Harold wouldn’t have a quarrel.
; “’Morning, Holden,” Harold said.
Wes nodded as he came through the door.
“Where did you park? I meant to tell you that employees park in back.”
“Don’t have a car,” Wes said. “What do you want me to do first?”
Harold stared. “No car?”
Wes shook his head.
“Then how did you get here?”
“Walked.”
Harold’s eyes widened.
“Dang, man, that’s a good five miles.”
“Don’t know how good it is, but yes, it’s every bit of five miles.”
Suddenly Harold had a new respect for the man he’d hired. If he wanted to work bad enough to walk five miles to get to the job, then he figured he’d just hired himself a good man.
“Got a load of chicken feed coming in around nine. Why don’t you go clean up around those empty pallets before we fill ’em up again? Oh…and one of your jobs will be to feed Scooby first thing every morning.”
“Who’s Scooby?” Wes asked.
“A damn good mouser, and in a place like this, you got to have yourself a good mouser. However, he likes his tuna. I always feed him a tin of tuna before he starts his day. You’ll find Scooby and the cat food in the back room near the loading dock.”
So Scooby was a cat.
“Tuna it is,” Wes said, and headed for the hallway that linked the front of the store to the warehouse.
And so the morning passed. Wes soon discovered that Scooby did not discriminate. Whoever held the key to opening the can of tuna also held the key to Scooby’s heart. The big gray tom entwined himself between Wes’s feet, rubbing against the legs of Wes’s pants until the tuna was on the plate. After that, Wes was on his own.
The semi arrived from the warehouse in Charleston promptly at nine, and Wes began to earn his pay. After unloading four tons of chicken feed that came packaged in twenty-five-pound sacks, the muscles in Wes’s arms were beginning to burn. But it felt good to be tired, and even better to know that, once again, he was earning his way.
Wes spent the rest of the morning loading the occasional sacks for the customers Harold sent his way. He expected their curiosity but was unexpectedly touched by their genuine friendliness and welcome to Blue Creek.
It was nearing noon when Harold walked into the warehouse.
“It’s going on twelve,” Harold said. “You get an hour for lunch. Kathy’s Café across the street is your only option, unless you’re in the market for pop and candy, in which case, you got the fillin’ station on the corner or the grocery store down the block.”
All too aware of his dwindling funds and uncertain of when he would get paid, Wes decided against spending the money.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Wes said.
Harold frowned. “Listen, Wes. You hauled a lot of weight around this morning. I don’t want you foldin’ up on me before quittin’ time.”
“I don’t fold,” Wes said shortly.
Harold’s attention shifted. Once again, he suspected there was a whole lot more to this man than met the eye.
“Suit yourself,” Harold said, and started to walk off, then something occurred to him. He pulled a couple of twenties out of his pocket and handed them to Wes. “Thought you might need an advance on your pay.”
It took swallowing some pride, but Wes accepted the money with a nod.
“I appreciate it,” he said.
“I pay weekly, remember.”
“Yes,” Wes said as he pocketed the money. Then he took off his gloves and combed his fingers through his hair. “See you in an hour,” he said, and headed for the bathroom to wash up.
Once again, he’d unintentionally given Harold another view into the man he was. He would willingly go hungry rather than ask for money he had yet to earn. Harold wondered what had driven a man like Wes Holden to the road. He’d done a little wandering himself in his early days, but he’d had the good sense to stop and put down some roots. Then he heard the bell jingle over the front door and hurried back to the store.
It was nearing quitting time when the sky started to darken. Harold frowned as a faint grumble of thunder sounded on the other side of the ridge.
“Looks like we’re gonna get a little rain,” he said.
Wes glanced out the window, then kept sweeping. He’d been wet before. At least it was summer. Winter rain was what sucked. After the haircut he’d gotten during his noon hour, it wouldn’t take long for his hair to dry.
Harold thought about the five miles up that mountain that lay ahead of Wes Holden before he got home, then watched Wes hang up the push broom and dust off his hands.
“I’m done with the sweeping,” Wes said. “Anything else you want done?”
“No. You did good today,” Harold said. “Real good. Why don’t you head on home? Maybe get a jump start on the rain before it gets here.”
“I’ve been wet before,” Wes said. “I don’t melt.”
Harold grinned. “Hell, man…if you get any tougher, I’ll have to get myself some new teeth just to talk to you.”
Wes grinned, then shrugged.
“Sorry, but I’m not in the habit of making excuses for myself.”
Harold chuckled. “Yeah, you’ve proved that, so go home already.”
“Thanks,” Wes said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, tomorrow,” Harold echoed.
Wes stepped out onto the sidewalk, then took a deep breath. He was hot and tired, and the muscles in his back and arms ached, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good. He looked up at the sky again. Harold was right. It was going to rain.
He rubbed the back of his neck, unconsciously massaging sore muscles and cognizant of the missing hair. He was stepping off the sidewalk and into the street when he heard the sound of screeching brakes, then a woman’s scream. Seconds later there was a loud crunch of metal against metal, then a quick rush of escaping steam.
He was running toward the accident before the logging truck had stopped skidding. The driver of the car was pinned into the seat by a log that had plowed through his window, while another three logs from the load that had been en route to the lumber mill had slammed into the back of the truck cab, then slid over the hood, trapping the truck driver inside the cab. A large pool of fuel was running out from under the car, increasing the risk of fire and explosion.
Wes vaulted over a log to get to the car, then leaned through the broken window on the passenger side to check the driver’s condition. All he could tell for sure was that he was still alive.
“Mister, help is on the way,” Wes said quickly, and when the driver moaned and tried to push at the log against his chest, Wes stopped him with a touch. “Don’t move. Don’t move, okay?”
Wes couldn’t tell if the driver understood, but at least he stopped moving. As he started away from the car, a half-dozen other bystanders were arriving on the scene.
“Ambulance is on the way!” someone shouted, then Wes heard another man shouting, “Get a fire extinguisher! The truck engine is on fire!”
Wes crawled over the car to get to the truck. The top of the cab had been flattened from the impact of the logs, but the driver didn’t seem to be injured, only pinned.
Wes looked down into the cab through a broken window and found himself staring straight into the driver’s face. He looked young—barely in his twenties.
“Help me!” the young man yelled. “Help! Don’t let me burn!”
For a split second the man’s face appeared to be covered in blood. Wes shook his head and then rubbed his eyes. He felt reality slipping and slammed a fist against the cab, using pain to retain his hold on reality.
“We’ll get you out,” Wes said. “Help is coming.”
He reached into the cab and pulled back on the crumpled steering wheel, trying to give the man room to crawl out, but it wouldn’t give.
The young man was begging now, but Wes couldn’t look at him. Instead, he began pulling at the crumpled door, wil
ling it to open.
As Wes struggled, he could see tiny fingers of fire through a crack in the dash. That bystander was right. The engine was on fire, and with the puddle of fuel from the car spreading by the second, they were caught in the middle of what would probably be their funeral pyre. The driver had begun to cry. Wes wanted to cry with him.
Just when he feared help was going to come too late, an old red fire truck came speeding around the corner. Wes thought about the high-tech equipment in big cities and stifled a groan. If this little fire department even had a Jaws of Life, it would be a miracle, and that was exactly what it would take to get this man out.
Suddenly Wes heard someone calling his name. He looked up as Harold James arrived on the scene. Giving Wes only a split second to prepare for the catch, Harold tossed a fire extinguisher into Wes’s hands. Wes grabbed it and then dropped to his knees on top of the truck cab, popped the trigger on the extinguisher and aimed it into the engine just as the firemen spilled out of the truck.
Within seconds, someone had produced a chain saw and was sawing the protruding end of the log away from the man pinned in the car, while another sprayed water on the fire inside the truck. When the imminent danger was gone, the firemen immediately began adding fire retardant onto the spilled fuel.
With paramedics and firemen now on the scene, Wes began walking away from the accident. There was a small cut on the side of his face and a burn on his forearm, but he felt nothing. Logically, he knew he was in the middle of the street in Blue Creek, West Virginia, but emotionally, he was struggling.
In his mind, the smoke and chaos surrounding the wrecked vehicles were coming from the downed belly of a Black Hawk, and the shouts and cries of the firemen and paramedics had morphed into screams for mercy from dying soldiers trapped in the blaze.
Wes put his hands over his eyes, but the images were still there. He groaned, then staggered as a wave of panic sent him to his knees. The siren squall of an approaching police car turned into the whine of a warning siren, signaling incoming missiles.
