Edge of Sight

by Roxanne St Claire

  “You dropped your pistol.”

  As he slipped through the door, she bit back a yowl of frustration. Stupid, stupid.

  “You two be good down there, now.” The door latched and locked behind him. She tried to stand, half certain something had to be broken.

  You two? She reached out, night blind. “Is someone down here?”

  The only sound was the tiniest tap, tap, tap, like a Morse code of death.

  CHAPTER 19

  The vicious snap of Sam’s neck was louder than the splash of the car hitting the water, then rolling over.

  For one interminable second, she heard nothing, saw black, and couldn’t breathe. There was just nothing.

  Oh, God, dead.

  “Sam!” Zach’s voice was sharp and right in her ear. She forced herself to open her eyes and suck in air. The seatbelt strangled and jammed against her hips as the car bobbed, floating momentarily.

  “I’m okay,” she said. “I’m alive.” Thank you, God. “Are we…”

  “Listen to me and do exactly what I say, when I say it. I can’t get the power window to work and can’t open a door until we balance the pressure. We’re going to sink in about thirty seconds.”

  Sink. Thirty seconds. Nothing was making sense, but she fought for calm and control. “Can we get out?”

  “Absolutely. Keep your right hand on the door handle; that’ll keep you oriented, but don’t try to open it.”

  “ ’Kay.” She grabbed the door handle with one hand and pulled at the chest belt that choked her with the other. “I can’t breathe.”

  “Not yet. Don’t unhook yet. As soon as the water gets in the car and takes us down, we’ll open a door and swim out. We have about three minutes, okay?”

  “What about him? The truck?”

  “He could be waiting for us. My weapon should work wet or dry, but it’s all we have. I didn’t see much cover, unless we can swim out under the bridge. You can swim, right?”

  “Yes, but what if—”

  “There’s no time, Sam. Just do as I say.” He turned the pistol toward the back window and shot once, twice, and again, each explosion deafening in the vacuum of the closed car.

  Instantly water started pouring in through the window, and they started to sink fast.

  “The door probably won’t open until the car’s almost full and we’ve balanced pressure. When I say, take a deep breath and hold it. I’m going to take your belt off and mine; then you’re going to fall into the water while I open the door. Take my hand and we’ll swim.”

  “Don’t I need both hands to swim?”

  “Make it work. The water will be pure murk, so don’t let go.” He reached over to her seatbelt latch, his face inches from hers, his scar so close she could see the blood pulsing violently in the shredded skin.

  “Zach.” The word hardly came out.

  “Just be calm. Don’t panic, Sam. Don’t.”

  “I’m not,” she lied. “But if we die when we come up…”

  He shook his head. No time for forgiveness, confessions, or admissions of anything. “Do what I say and don’t let go of my left hand. I’ll be firing with my right if I have to.”

  He unlatched the belt, holding her as best as he could as her body started to fall toward the water rushing in. As she slipped, he leaned forward and put his lips on hers. A fraction of a second, and she was nearly submerged.

  “Take a breath, I’m opening the door!”

  She sucked in air, her heart hammering as she wildly searched for his hand. He grabbed hers, then used all his strength to open the door, still bracing himself in his seatbelt.

  The door must have opened because water rushed in, much harder than she even imagined, the shocking pressure smashing her back to her door. With a bone-crushing grip on her hand, Zach somehow yanked her through the water, pulling her out the door as they both kicked furiously.

  Outside the car, the mud was too thick to let in much light. How deep were they? She had no idea, but continued to kick in the direction Zach took her, using her right arm to push through the water.

  It would have been much easier with two hands, but it was so black and she was so dizzy, she’d have lost him and never found him. He knew that. Trusting him completely, she kept kicking through the murky water, her lungs starting to fill and ache.

  Already numb from cold and unable to hold her breath one more second, she released a little air, seeing the bubbles in front of her face going in the same direction they were. Up. Five more long kicks and she saw daylight shimmering on the surface.

  But what was on the other side? A truck driver with a rifle?

  They popped through the surface, and she instantly opened her mouth and sucked in air, but got a mouthful of rainwater. She spat it, blocked her mouth with her free hand, sucked again; then he shoved her right under again and started pulling.

  He must know where they were going, or saw a threat above. She held on, kicking against the fifty-pound weight of her soaked jeans, both of her loafers ripped off by the water, numb to the bone already.

  Back up for air and she gasped it quickly, expecting to be pushed down again, but shocked to feel the muck of the bottom under her feet. It was shallow enough to stand. When she did, she realized they were in a muddy swamp at the pond’s edge, about a hundred feet from where they’d gone over. The bridge and road looked completely desolate.

  She spun around, and Zach did the same.

  “Is he gone?”

  “Just stay low, in the weeds.” He continued to turn three-sixty, searching what was nothing but swamp, forest, pond, bridge, and empty road for what looked like miles. His patch was gone, the rain flattening his hair and pouring over his face.

  Her teeth started chattering as her veins turned to ice and her stomach rolled with nausea. He grabbed her, pulling her into him.

  “You’re freezing.” He squeezed her as if he could transfer warmth to her, but he was just as cold.

  The impact of what they’d just survived hit her, along with a hammerblow of reality. They were miles from anywhere, with a lunatic truck driver who could be lurking around any corner. They had no phones. No GPS. No bag, no car, no hope.

  And they’d been followed here. Who’d put that device in her purse? Someone had slipped it way deep in a side pocket, buried under a packet of gum and some ancient store receipts.

  Right now, it didn’t matter who’d tracked them. Just that they got out of here alive. Reliving the horror of the car suspended in midair, tears stung her eyes and she fought them with whatever strength she had. The last thing an Army Ranger wanted to see was tears.

  “Just let me think, Sam,” he said, his voice calming.

  “There was a farm or a house about a half a mile back,” she suggested. “Could we get help?”

  “Possibly.”

  “What else can we do?” Her voice cracked and she worked to maintain composure.

  He didn’t answer, still circling and scanning. “We have to stay off the road, under cover. We need to get to the woods.” He spoke with so much assurance that she almost melted in relief. “We can follow the tree line along the road, and get back to that house. I’m sure whoever lives there will be all warm and welcoming when I knock on their door.”

  “I can knock on the door.” She certainly wouldn’t let him in if she lived alone in a rural area. “Then I’ll call… the police?”

  They shared a look.

  “The police had their hands all over your bag when you went through the metal detector yesterday,” he said. “As much as I hate to think JP was right about that note in your file, I’m not inclined to go to them first for assistance.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed. “Vivi?”

  “Yeah. Vivi or Marc. If we can get an approximate location, one of them can find us. We’re less than two hours from Boston, so it won’t be that long.”

  He pulled her deeper into the sludge where it eventually hardened to terra firma, and they were able to scramble toward the ro
ad, which was deserted, but curved about half a mile away, and a car—or semi—could come at them any second.

  Keeping them low, he looked left, then right, his gun still drawn. They’d be fully exposed running across the road and into the woods.

  “You ready?” He glanced down at her sodden body, her bare feet. He had one sneaker on, one foot in a waterlogged sock.

  She swallowed and nodded. “Let’s do it.”

  “As fast as you can run, right into those woods.” He took her hand and yanked her with him, rain drenching as tiny rocks and pebbles stabbed at the bottoms of her feet.

  She didn’t dare stop, keeping up with him as he practically dragged her, the rain blinding, her head throbbing with the expectation of a bullet hitting her at any second. They reached the grass and she stumbled, but he pulled her up so hard her arm almost dislocated.

  Ten more feet and something jammed into her foot, making her buckle, but she ignored the pain and refused to look down. The line of trees was twenty feet away, a thick green veil of safety. He didn’t stop when they got there, dragging her deep into the darkness of the branches, a thick coating of pine and mulch and sticks underfoot, the rain blocked by the umbrella of tree limbs that he tried to swipe out of the way but snapped in her face. In the winter you could see right through this forest, but the New England summer was lush enough to provide cover.

  Finally, he slowed, tumbling to the ground and pulling her down with him, wrapping his arms around her as they both fought for air.

  Light-headed, breathless, and still shaking, she fell against him. Her feet were bleeding, a sharp stick poking out of one arch. She yanked it out without telling him, watching blood spurt.

  “The farm, if that’s what it was, was due west from here,” he said. “That way.”

  “But the building I saw was on the other side of the road,” she said. “That’s north of the road after it curved. We should follow the road.”

  “That’s exactly what they’d expect us to do.” He pulled her up. “We’ll head through these woods, and we’ll find that farm.”

  Forty agonizing minutes later, there was a break in the trees. Five or six times during the trudge, the ground had just given way and become a mucky swamp of tall grass and a foot of water. A dozen times another sharp twig or stone jabbed her brutalized feet, but she refused to give in to the pain.

  At the sight of daylight through the trees, Sam almost did cry out, in relief.

  In the clearing was an older, colonial-style house tucked onto a large pie-shaped lot. Trees blocked the view of the road, except for where they broke and a long gravel driveway led to the front.

  “I didn’t see this house,” Sam said. “What I saw was on the other side of the road, about a quarter mile or so farther down the road.”

  “My guess is that’s a barn or utility building, probably part of this parcel of land. But we need a house, with a phone. You need to tell whoever lives there that your car went over the bridge and you need to use the phone. Tell them your husband is out on the road trying to flag down help.”

  She nodded and headed off to the house, as pain shot like firebrands up her legs.

  There was no answer when she rang the bell, shifting from foot to foot to take the weight off the injury. Frustrated, she pressed four times quickly, hearing the desperate chimes in the house, leaving muck and blood to soak into a ragged brush mat.

  She maneuvered to a window, peeking in, seeing rooms but no people. She limped to other windows, around the house, tried a utility room door, knocking first, then jiggling the handle.

  As she was rounding the back, Zach came jogging to her. “There’s definitely a pole barn about half a mile on the other side of the road.”

  “No one’s home here,” she told him.

  “Perfect. Let’s make some calls, get some provisions, and head for cover across the road.”

  Not breaking in wasn’t even discussed. He circled the perimeter once, with Sam on his heels.

  “I want the least-used entrance,” he said. “And inside, we shouldn’t leave any trace. The last thing we want is for someone to come home and call the cops, with helicopters circling over us.”

  He located an entrance to a walk-out basement, so common all over New England, and proved that water didn’t ruin a pistol. With one shot, he neatly blew off a lock, then headed in, his outstretched hand holding her back until he’d looked around.

  “Let me make sure we’re alone.” In less than a minute, he returned. “Everything we need’s down here in the basement. There’s a utility room over there, with a refrigerator full of bottled water. There’s a guest room right past it. Steal a blanket or towel or whatever you need to get warm and dry; just don’t leave any obvious signs that we’ve been here. I’ll use this.” He held up a cordless phone.

  He was already punching buttons as she gingerly trotted past a Soloflex exercise bench and a rack of free weights.

  She didn’t hear anything he said, just moved to the guest room, grateful the tile floor continued in here since it would be easier to clean up her trail of blood. Quickly, she surveyed what she could carry and what they’d need. She eased a pillow out of its case and stuffed the homemade bag with a blanket, towels, and liquid soap to clean wounds. The dresser drawers were empty, dammit.

  “Hurry up, Sam.”

  She closed the drawer with her hip, then hit the refrigerator for bottles of water. There was no food, except a box of energy bars, so she dug in and took four, then used one of the towels to wipe the water and blood she’d left on the floor, backing out toward the door.

  Zach was reciting their route into the phone, and somehow she just knew he was leaving a message and not in conversation. Fortunately, Vivi checked her voicemail obsessively, far more often than Marc. So if they only had time for one call, that was the one to make.

  She froze at the sound of an engine, a car in the driveway. They looked at each other for a split second, which was about all they had to tear across the backyard and get into the woods.

  “Run!” he ordered.

  She did, not even looking back, throwing herself into the thickest of the trees and rolling to the ground with her stuffed pillowcase. Seconds later, Zach followed, just as they heard a car door slam.

  He pushed her down, covering her with his body, keeping them both deep in the trees while footsteps crunched over gravel. Sam didn’t dare speak, her heart thumping while she waited and wondered.

  “He’s inside. Through the utility room, not the basement.” Zach helped her up, taking the sack of provisions. “All right, let’s go. Through these woods, same direction, to that pole barn.”

  “If we can get across the road without getting shot.”

  “Yep.” He put his arm around her. “Big if.”

  Marc’s plan called for perfect timing, which he usually had. As an FBI agent, he’d been gifted with the ability to track down a target and interrogate, often able to get answers and information when no one else could. He missed that aspect of his job. He missed every aspect of his job, and the possibility of doing the same kind of work within the loose and comfortable confines of family had captured his interest since the first time Vivi mentioned it.

  He was in, all in. Starting with getting to Taylor Sly.

  He waited in the shadows of the overhang of the parking garage across Dartmouth Street, facing the entrance to the redbrick brownstone that housed the Equinox health club. Vivi thought he should corner her when the limo took her to Starbucks. He had a better idea.

  The stretch was ten minutes early to pick her up after her workout, exactly as Marc expected a good, regular driver to be, especially in a drizzle just heavy enough to snarl downtown Boston traffic. The doorman flagged the limo into the no-parking zone in front of the building.

  A quarter mile away, a large delivery truck turned off Columbus to head up Dartmouth, providing the perfect cover. He timed his exit from the parking garage to just beat the truck, walking in front of it directly to the li
mo.

  The driver got out, and before he could lock the doors, Marc snagged the streetside door and slipped into the back of the limo. The doors clicked with the lock, and he congratulated himself.

  Sliding across the leather to the darkest corner of the car, he waited for Taylor Sly, watching the entrance to the building. She came out right on time, hair pulled into a ponytail and sunglasses on, despite the weather. She wore a loose workout jacket and tight jeans, a phone to her ear as she followed the driver.

  Marc stayed way back and quiet, watching her slip into the back of limo. The driver closed the door before she even realized she wasn’t alone, a slight startle her only reaction.

  She slid her glasses down and eyed him. “You’re Vivi’s friend.”

  “Cousin, actually. Marc Rossi. I’d like to talk to you, Ms. Sly.”

  “There are more conventional means.”

  “Never was a fan of convention.”

  The door popped open, and a nice-looking Baby Eagle Beretta preceded the not-so-nice-looking face of the limo driver.

  “It’s all right, Devane,” Taylor said, waving him off. “This man isn’t going to hurt me.”

  Devane narrowed mean eyes at Marc. “How did you get in here?”

  “Trust me, it wasn’t easy.” No need to get the guy fired. “And I’ll get out by the time you stop at Starbucks.”

  He got a very dubious look in return, but a smile threatened on Taylor’s face as she dismissed the driver. “If this is any sign of how you and your cousin plan to run the business, I’m impressed.”

  “You must have been to give her that choice piece of evidence in a murder trial. Why?”

  “Because I don’t trust the cops,” she said simply. “They’d hide it; she’ll do something with it. Is that why you’re here? She read the files?”

  “What exactly does Joshua Sterling’s widow’s connection to a fugitive have to do with the murder?”

  “If you have to ask, then I’m not that impressed after all.”

  “You think Finn MacCauley ordered the hit?”

  She tilted her head. “Again, if you have to ask, I’m not that impressed.”