DANGEROUS, Collection #1

by Patricia Rosemoor

  This time she didn’t freeze. Every nerve in her body came alive even as she tried telling herself the vehicle’s return was a coincidence, nothing to do with her. A missed turn-off. Or maybe the driver had been making a delivery and was merely going home.

  But as she crossed through the brights to the other side of the road, the vehicle altered course yet again, veering toward her.

  And there was no denying she was a target.

  Whoever was behind the wheel must be insane rather than drunk. Travis Ferguson in his four-wheeler?

  This time, she flew into the shelter of some trees, whipping around in time to see the vehicle go by. Not a four-wheeler, but a truck. Familiar. Screeching to a stop.

  She watched in horror as the back-up lights indicated the driver was about to retrace the vehicle’s path.

  Echo ran.

  Heard the vehicle backing up.

  Pulling the flashlight from her jacket pocket, she swept the faint light over the wet pavement before her. No cross street near enough to use. No lit houses close enough to offer sanctuary. On her side of the road, a steep ravine, its bottom obliterated by the fog rising against the drizzle. The other, a gentle incline into wooded territory that would take her vaguely toward the lake.

  She crossed the road and plunged into the shelter of the trees, hoping against hope the driver would tire of whatever game he was playing and take off. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the lights of the truck, which was idling in one spot as if the driver were waiting... watching... deciding what to do next.

  Echo paused and caught her breath. This made no sense. Why would someone be playing a deadly game with her. If a game it was. Surely no one would have reason to harm her.

  Unless...

  She had been the one to find the button. And she’d been encouraging Bram to find the truth.

  When the truck began creeping forward, she felt soothed, found the ability to breathe. Whoever was after her was giving up. She edged backward, a weight lifting from her spirit. Relief was all too short, however. For the driver found an unpaved road she hadn’t spotted and pulled the truck on it. That and the brilliant beam from the driver’s window convinced her to move before she was caught.

  Too late.

  Light washed over her even as she turned to run. She screamed, the sound muffled by the rising fog. She was being hunted like an animal, for God’s sake, though she had no idea of why. Who would want to frighten her like this and to what end? That her pursuer’s intent might be deadly terrified her almost as much as the possibility that she would find no escape.

  If only she had her cell phone!

  Reaching a darkened house, she thought to break in to call for help. But what if this was one of those houses abandoned by “summer-only” residents. The phone would be out. Then she would be really and truly trapped.

  Echo stumbled onto a crossroad that angled back west more directly toward the lake. The drizzle had turned to a downpour. She was soaked instantly. A light glowed in the distance, too far for her to run, but close enough so she could barely discern the outline of the dune. The lake was so close she could distinguish the fish smell, could hear the waves lapping at the shore.

  Still moving, sobs breaking from her throat, she squinted against the murky wet. Several closer houses, none of them lit from the inside, stood within open view.

  Hearing the truck grind gears behind her, Echo pushed herself until her muscles screamed for mercy. She slipped once, slid along the pavement and rolled to her feet all in one motion, her goal a faint light ahead. The drive leading to one of the big homes lining the dune above the lake. Gasping, she whipped around a six foot decorative hedge and hid behind it, for the moment sheltered from view and the elements.

  The truck followed, turning up the drive, the moving beam flashing along both sides of the blacktop.

  Heart in her throat, trying to take deep breaths to steady herself, Echo pressed against the foliage, making herself as inconspicuous as possible. For a moment, as it passed beneath the dim yard light, she could see clearly enough to identify the truck if not the driver. Lakeside Construction. The company doing repairs at Dunescape Cottage. She’d seen the vehicle parked by the boathouse earlier.

  Even as she realized someone from Dunescape must be behind that wheel, she rounded the hedge and tore back out to the road and into the near-blinding rain. The truck’s brakes squealed. The driver must have spotted her. Following the outer perimeter of the house’s grounds, she edged the cul de sac that led to the dune ridge, using her flashlight to locate the steep wooden stairway bottoming out on the beach itself.

  The truck was still chasing. She couldn’t run much longer and probably not at all on the sand. Besides which, the driver would be fresh.

  What else could she do?

  Where could she hide?

  Reaching the platform at the top of the stairs, she saw her salvation clinging to the side of the dune— the abandoned drainpipe that had once been used to detour rainwater from the land around the house ran straight down to the beach more than thirty feet below.

  The corrugated metal was large enough for a body to crawl through!

  The truck braked and shuddered to a stop. The door opening sounded ominous.

  Adrenaline renewed, Echo descended a few feet to a ledge even before the door slammed shut. Careful to make no noise that might alert her pursuer, she slithered sideways along the rain-slicked incline, pausing only when she got to the drainpipe’s head, which was open and still partially secured to a concrete footing.

  Debris had gathered in the mouth of the piping, but not enough to stop her. Dropping to her knees, she backed in carefully, and as she eased her body along the slight curve of metal, she searched for footing. There seemed to be none. Suddenly, her feet shot out, her lower half following. Throwing out her hands, she grasped the edge of the pipe in time to keep herself from hurtling down the shaft. Her rings caught on the metal edge. Her legs dangled wildly. Only her upper body was supported by the pipe before it dropped off sharply.

  Echo felt light-headed. She hadn’t thought that she might be putting herself in even more danger. She adjusted her body, tried to wedge herself in solid, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get a really good foothold.

  Footsteps crunched on wet sand.

  Echo stopped squirming and held her breath. Tried to ignore the sharp metal pressing into her palms, not to mention the strain on her arm muscles. Instead, she forced herself to concentrate on the sounds outside her shelter, hoping to figure out how close her pursuer was.

  And possibly to figure out the person’s identity.

  She’d assumed the truck’s driver to be a man, but the footsteps were light. Merely careful? Or might they belong to a woman? She couldn’t be certain.

  Everything sounded muffled and odd inside the metal housing, even the rain railing down on her. Though the drainpipe had been detached and virtually abandoned as a legal means of diverting excess rainwater to the lake, water still sloshed down the eroded gully. It came in waves, soaking her, forcing dead leaves and twigs into her face and hair. The debris threatened to smother her, the stream to lift her bodily and wash her down the pipe’s length. She fought the increasingly heavy force until her arms burned, and she clenched her jaw so as not to cry out.

  Suddenly realizing she hadn’t been paying attention to the whereabouts of her pursuer, she listened hard. Was that an engine? The truck moving away? Had her pursuer given up the hunt at last?

  She waited until her hands went numb, until her arms threatened to dislocate from her shoulders. Knowing she could hold on no longer, that she had to take the chance of exposure, she finally secured her toes against the corrugated metal and used the indentations like tiny steps. As she wiggled her body upward, the metal buckled and roared against the storm like the rail of thunder.

  Punchy, she giggled. Searched for a grip outside of the pipe. Her fingers met wet leaves. Slender brittle branches. Nothing of substance, not even a tr
ee root.

  She had to get out of there!

  Fighting against panic, Echo tried again, angling her left hip and right knee against opposite sides of the pipe. Sliding up an inch at a time, she forced her head and shoulders out. And then, when victory seemed within her grasp, her foot slipped. Hands shot out again. Found air this time. Her body knocked from one side of the pipe to the other before she gave up, protected her head with her arms and let herself go.

  Down she plunged, the water and slippery decayed material easing her path. At the only bend in the pipe, she jarred her left shoulder, slowing her flight, then smoothly shot to earth in one last long drop of at least a dozen feet. She landed with bent knees, and on impact, rolled in the wet sand.

  The breath was knocked out of her and for a moment, she felt numb all over.

  Nothing short of agony followed.

  Groaning, she tested her limbs. They all worked. Barely. Engrossed in just trying to rise, she nearly had heart-failure when light smacked her across the eyes.

  “Aa-a-ah!”

  “Echo, what the hell is going on?”

  Again she felt like a caught deer. Body frozen. Only her mind continuing to work.

  The argument. The truck. Now Bram here.

  A cold like she’d never felt before crept through her. Exactly what kind of fool she had been? Rimmed by the flare of his flashlight, he appeared mysterious and commanding, an otherworldly presence who could mesmerize a gullible woman into thinking they had more than mere attraction going between them.

  She’d wanted to trust Bram more than anything. Had that possibly been the biggest mistake of her life?

  Fighting disappointment, crazily wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt, she choked out, “Maybe you ought to be the one doing the explaining!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  BRAM FROWNED down at Echo. What a mess. He tried to help her up without hurting her more than she must be already. She cried out but got to her feet, pushing at his hands. Her own looked cut and bloody.

  “Did you come down that drainpipe or am I crazy?”

  “Are you? Is that why you followed me?”

  “Followed? I was taking a walk on the beach.” Trying to work off his anger with her, with himself and with the past. “I heard this racket and came to investigate.”

  “You were walking in the rain?” Her disbelief was ripe.

  “It wasn’t raining when I set out.” And he’d been too preoccupied to heed the warnings. As, obviously, had been she. Echo was soaked, filthy, her sweater-jacket shredded. “Are you all right?”

  He sensed her calming down. “I will be,” she muttered, staggering toward the stairs.

  “Not so fast.” He caught her around the waist. Her gasp tore at him as if the anguish were his own. “You can hardly stay on your feet.”

  “I can stay on them long enough to get myself home.”

  Not so certain, he refused to let go. She looked wild and utterly desirable. He stilled the inclination to kiss her. She might struggle, and he wouldn’t inadvertently cause her more hurt.

  “I’ll walk you up to your car,” he insisted.

  “I’m not going back to Dunescape.”

  He glanced up. “You didn’t leave it in the cul de sac?”

  “The battery wouldn’t start.”

  If she hadn’t driven, then she’d been on foot. Why? All she’d had to do was come back to the house and he would have given her a ride. If he’d been there. A moment after she’d left, he’d stormed out himself, not even looking after her. No wonder he’d missed seeing her hatchback in the drive.

  “I’ll ask you again,” he repeated. “What the hell is going on, Echo?”

  She seemed to be studying him, her eyes traversing the planes of his face, up to his forehead. He felt the damned scar throbbing as it did only when his deepest emotions were involved.

  As if the sight of it convinced her, she sighed, the sound one of relief. “You really don’t know.”

  That did it! “What the hell do you take me for? Some kind of sadist who wants to see you hurt? I care about you, for God’s sake!” Not that he’d meant to tell her like this.

  She blinked as if trying to take in this new concept. “I-I was walking home when a truck came up behind me. The driver purposely tried to hit me.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  ”Twice.”

  That shut him up. Quickly Echo told him about her ordeal. That someone was out to harm her turned Bram’s blood cold. And he could see she was shivering with it. The cold and the wet. At least the rain had stopped, though the fog was rising. He held her close, felt the rapid beating of her heart, and wanted to kill whoever had done this to her. Though she’d begun by suspecting him, she now clung to him as though she never wanted to let him go.

  “I was so scared,” she admitted.

  “I’m here now.”

  She huddled closer, probably all she’d give in the way of admitting she needed him.

  “If you don’t mind,” she mumbled against his shoulder, “I really want to get home.”

  “I’m taking you.” No argument would sway him.

  But she didn’t protest, didn’t object to the arm he wound around her waist as he helped her up the stairs and set off down the mist-covered road at a fast limp. He took as much of her weight as she would allow and was concerned when he felt her tremble.

  “You’re shivering. My jacket’s not exactly dry, but it’s in better shape than yours.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Perhaps she had herself in control mentally, but her body was another story. She shook. Uncertain if it was a reaction to the cold or the fright, Bram pulled her closer so her length was snugged to his. He’d never felt so close to a woman before. So protective. Neither of them spoke until they reached her home nearly a quarter of an hour later. None too soon. The road was barely visible now. The night was heavy with a wet fog, the stuff from which sprang tales of horror.

  Her experience had been horrific, Bram thought, the driver of that damn truck a monster.

  Echo seemed to be having a bad case of nerves as she untangled herself from him. Her hand was shaking as she stuck it into her jacket pocket. Pulling out her keys, she unlocked her door and said, “Thanks for the escort.”

  “I’ll see you in.” Not giving her a chance to protest, he slipped inside and headed for the kitchen. “Go take a hot shower. I’ll make you some tea.”

  She turned and did as he ordered. Shock, no doubt. Otherwise, she probably would have pushed him out the door and told him what to do with himself. By the time he set the kettle on the stove, he heard the shower going.

  To distract himself from the enticing images of Echo conjured by that sound, he hung his jacket on a peg and reset fresh logs for a fire. He liked her place. It was warm and cozy. A little sparsely decorated, perhaps, but a relief from the dark clutter of Dunescape Cottage. Thinking about it, he loved the estate, anyway. The mansion might be an old mausoleum, but one that was his heritage. And he enjoyed the laid-back atmosphere of the small town, a relief from life in the big city.

  In the midst of spreading kindling over the logs, Bram stopped. He was getting sentimental about Water’s Edge, as if he didn’t want to leave. But his practice was in Chicago. His life was in Chicago.

  What life?

  The whistle of the tea kettle interrupted his reverie. He started the fire and returned to the island kitchen where he stared at Echo’s tea collection and picked the one called Sleepy time. Hopefully, it would do the trick to settle her down. Before the tea was finished brewing, Echo joined him. She was dressed in purple sweats, a magenta towel wrapped around her wet head. She’d removed her rings and Bram was relieved when he realized she had only minor scratches rather than the imagined cuts on her hands. What he’d thought was blood must have been rust from the pipe.

  He picked out two mugs and set them on the counter next to the teapot. “That was fast.”

  “I had enough water for one day.”


  “Go sit someplace dry and warm, then.” He indicated the teapot. “I can handle this, honest.”

  She nodded and crossed to the couch where she gathered every one of her bright throw cushions and piled them on the area rug. Filling the mugs, Bram noticed she wasn’t limping anymore, though she might be in the morning from stiffness. Gingerly, she sprawled out in front of the fireplace, settling on the pillows with a groan of satisfaction.

  She ruffled her hair with the towel and discarded it. “I thought I might never be warm again.”

  Taking a seat next to her, he handed Echo a mug. “Who do you know that would want to hurt you?”

  “You tell me.” She took a long sip. Let her eyes flutter to slits. Sighed. “There’s a couple of things I haven’t told you. For one, the truck belonged to Lakeside Construction. The driver must have been waiting for me to leave the estate. And when I couldn’t get the wagon going...”

  Bram started. Someone from Dunescape had used the truck as a cover to hurt her? “But he couldn’t be certain you would walk home.”

  “Maybe whoever it was figured the odds were there. I don’t know.” She took another swallow. “What I do know is that someone doesn’t like our poking around into the past.”

  He stared at her. The implication was clear. The driver had a thirty year old secret to hide. Theft? Murder? Most likely both.

  “So why go after you?” he mused. “Why not me?”

  “I was thinking... does everyone at Dunescape know the button is missing?”

  “No. I told Aunt Addy. I doubt she would have spread the news.”

  “I found it. Maybe someone thinks I still have it and wants it back.”

  “But someone did steal it.”

  “If only we knew who was wearing a fancy vest...” Echo’s voice trailed off. “Why didn’t we think of it before? The photographs!”

  “They’re still in my jacket.”

  Bram jumped up and retrieved the pack from the pocket where he’d stuffed it. He laid the pile on the coffee table and they went through the pictures one at a time. They found three images of men wearing fancy vests posed with other costumed partygoers. The problem was the lighting and the age of the photos themselves. It was near impossible to see the buttons clearly or to recognize the parts of faces not covered by masks.