Her Eyewitness

by Rita Herron

  A feeble protest died on her lips as she realized she’d fallen right into Raeburn’s trap. The next time she spoke with him, she would definitely have a lawyer present. Because in her grief and her inability to hide her pain, she’d just confirmed she had a motive to kill her husband.

  As DUSK SETTLED around the small town of Beaufort, Collin removed his sunglasses, cataloging the details of the police station, trying to decide whether or not to get out of his Bronco, go in and ask questions. He’d come here to repay his debt to the man who’d given him back his sight.

  After the bizarre vision, he’d hounded his friend and colleague, Sam, until he’d pulled some strings and found out the name of the donor. The short report Sam had faxed him about Doug Green said he’d been an entrepreneur, that he put together deals for start-up companies. He raised capital for them, then took them public.

  Not only a smart man, but an honorable one—Green had donated a part of his body for someone else’s benefit. And Collin would never be able to thank him personally for it.

  Green had been married to his wife, Sydney, for only a year. Collin shifted in his seat, unable to shake the feeling that had nagged him for the past few weeks and made him drive to Beaufort. Doug Green had been murdered. Why? Maybe there was something he could do to solve the crime, something that would make his nightmares disappear. Unofficially, of course.

  The door to the station opened and a woman exited. Sydney Green. He recognized her from the snapshot in the newspaper article Sam had sent him. For a brief second she raised her head and seemed to stare right at him. Tears streaked her cheeks and his gut clenched at the sorrow in her heart-shaped face.

  Her beauty and vulnerability struck a chord of longing in him he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Slender, she wore a light blue sundress with spaghetti straps and flat sandals. Her sable hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her eyes were as blue as the summer sky. He felt like an intruder, spying on her as she walked slowly toward a green Honda, her face pale, her shoulders hunched.

  What had happened inside? Had the local police already solved the case?

  If not, did they suspect Sydney Green?

  The cop in him had dissected the case the minute he’d finished Sam’s report. The prime suspect in a murder case was usually the spouse. Given the facts, this case looked classic—domestic passion gone awry. No break-and-enter. No struggle. Victim shot at close range with a .40 caliber gun. Amount of time elapsed before the wife reported the crime sufficient for her to hide evidence. Was Sydney Green a grieving widow in need of help or one hell of an actress?

  Still unsure whether or not to tell her about the transplant or to go in undercover, he watched her pull away. He gripped the steering wheel, his mind cluttered with questions. Some small spark of awareness, an aching familiarity streaked through him, making him shift uncomfortably in his seat. She looked fragile, and he could imagine the kind of interrogation they’d put her through—me kind he would have put her through himself.

  He started his Bronco and began to follow her at a safe distance. She wound through the streets of the quaint South Carolina town and crossed the bridge over the inlet, then eventually turned onto a graveled driveway that led to a small, white-clapboard church. He drove past the driveway, then parked at the side of the road and killed the engine. He watched her climb out of her car and pick her way across the weed-filled graveyard beside the church.

  Faded plastic flowers filled chipped cemetery vases while other vases sat empty. His uneasiness grew. If he’d died, instead of being blinded, would anyone have brought flowers to his grave? He felt a momentary longing for someone to love and love him back, but he shrugged it off. Cops were loners. He’d always lived alone. He always would.

  A light sprinkling of rain dotted his windshield. He pulled a pair of binoculars from his dash and rolled down his window. He watched her push the damp tresses of her hair away from her face, saw her tears mingle with the raindrops as she knelt at the tombstone. She was talking to the grave. A creepy feeling crawled up his spine, and an urge to go to her tightened his gut.

  He climbed silently from his car, telling himself he would only go close enough to hear what she was saying. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his faded jeans, he walked toward her. Sobs racked her body now.

  Emotions bombarded him. No one could stand by and witness such misery without feeling sympathetic.

  “Doug, why did you lie to me?” he heard her whisper.

  He hesitated at her comment, but unable to stop himself, he approached her slowly and laid a hand gently on her shoulder. She jerked and turned to stare at him, her reddened eyes wide with a mixture of fear, hurt, surprise.

  “Who are you?” she choked out, quickly standing and putting some distance between them.

  Collin released a strained breath, pausing when her gaze locked with his. He slowly peeled off his dark glasses, and something strange, surreal, passed between them, connecting them in a way he couldn’t explain. It was almost as if she recognized him. Then wariness darkened her expression.

  “I asked you who you are,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “My name is Collin Cash.” He extended his hand and she simply stared at it, biting her lip. “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” he said quietly. He’d frightened her. A twinge of guilt inched into his conscience.

  She rejected his outstretched hand, so he dropped it and took a step back. She, too, retreated another step as if she was about to run, but a beige sedan pulled into the parking lot and an elderly couple climbed out, and she relaxed slightly.

  Her skin glowed in the dimming light, looked smooth and silky soft. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes and hair. A tingle of awareness he didn’t want to admit to raced through him. Even in grief, Sydney Green was a strikingly beautiful woman. Porcelain skin, hair like an ebony curtain, eyes a misty blue.

  “I’m sorry about your husband’s death.”

  Her eyes momentarily filled with renewed tears and he felt his gut clench. Should he tell her the truth?

  “I gather you knew Doug,” she said, her gaze raking over him in an uncomfortable way. A suspicious, cautious way, he realized, wondering about the direction of her thoughts.

  “We had a mutual business acquaintance,” he hedged.

  “You weren’t at the funeral?”

  “No. I just arrived in town and wanted to pay my respects. I’ve been in the hospital...” He let his explanation fade into silence. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Distrust flashed into her expression. “No thanks, I’m fine. I just need to. be alone.”

  She didn’t look fine. She looked vulnerable and sad, as if the last thing she needed was to be alone. He acknowledged her words with a slight nod. Maybe now wasn’t the time to tell her the truth. It might come as too much of a shock. “I’m going to be staying at the Beaufort Bed-and-Brealcfast. If there’s any way I can help you, let me know.”

  Sydney retreated another step, hugging herself protectively. The elderly couple, having placed flowers on a nearby grave, walked past hand in hand.

  “Look, I have to go now.” She lowered her head and focused on the soaked leather of her sandals, then hurried away.

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said, falling into step beside her.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” She cast him an anxious glance and he realized she really was afraid, so he slowed his steps. Was she always this fearful around men, or had her husband’s murder spooked her?

  If so, he could understand. And he felt even worse for scaring her. A woman alone, at dusk, a deserted graveyard—the atmosphere gave him an uneasy feeling.

  He purposefully kept his distance, the tense silence between them accentuated by the raindrops pelting the walkway and the soles of her shoes tapping on the concrete. Just as she neared her car, an engine roared to life. Strange, he thought. He stopped and scanned the area. The elderly couple still stood by their car. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the graveyard. />
  Near the street a utility van was exiting the driveway. Suspicion snaked through him. But the truck made a legal left turn and pulled onto the roadway, and he dismissed the incident. It was probably a delivery truck or some kind of work crew. Nothing to gamer suspicion.

  Then he glanced at Sydney and saw her stagger as she unlocked her car door. He instinctively knew something was wrong and hurried toward her. When he approached the car, the glint of metal caught his eye.

  And he knew it was a gun.

  SYDNEY SPOTTED THE GUN lying in the passenger’s seat and froze in shock. The sounds and sights around her were obliterated.

  It was a small pistol, cold gray metal, and she instantly remembered the gun used to shoot Doug had never been found. Dear Lord, was this it?

  Her legs felt rubbery and she clutched the car door for support. The man who said his name was Collin Cash was moving closer, and Sydney panicked. If he saw the weapon, he might think she had something to do with Doug’s death and call the police.

  She jumped inside, sliding her leather purse over the pistol, then quickly glanced up to see if the man had noticed. His gaze remained trained on something in front of him, his eyes unblinking, his complexion chalky.

  She started the engine, put the car in gear and quickly sped out of the lot, checking her rearview window to see if the enigmatic stranger was following her. But he was still standing in the same spot with that blank expression on his face. She turned onto the road, breathing a sigh of relief when he disappeared from view. She didn’t understand the eerie feeling, but something about him seemed odd—mysterious.

  It was almost as if she’d see him before—as if she knew him.

  THE IMAGE of the .40 automatic bore into Collin’s mind. Sydney Green had a gun in her car, the same make that had killed her husband. The light around him faded and he blinked, feeling dizzy as he tried to focus. He shook his head to dislodge the shadows stealing his sight. What was wrong? Was he losing his vision again? Rejecting the corneas? The shadows melted into grays and he swallowed, glimpsing the silhouette of a person—in the feeble light

  A hand closed tightly around the revolver, aimed at his chest. “No, ” he whispered “No, don’t. ”

  But it was too late The gun fired the jolt knocking the hand up. He clutched his chest and stared at the blood spreading across his white shirt. The shadow moved, aimed the weapon at him a second time, then fired.

  This time the bullet penetrated his heart. His body bounced backward, and his legs jerked as he collapsed to the floor. Dark crimson gushed from his chest, soaking into the moss-green rug. Blood filled his nose and mouth and he gagged, his head lolling to the side. Darkness closed around him. He stretched out a hand for help, then saw shoes as the shadow stood in front of him. He watched, shocked, as the figure padded across the room to leave him. The door opened. A thin stream of light filtered in from the hallway.

  He couldn’t breathe. The darkness, the pain... His hand fell limp. His signet ring winked in the light The door shut and he closed his eyes, helpless and alone.

  Seconds later Collin shook himself as the images faded. His hands skimmed his body. His limbs were trembling, his pulse was racing, but he was alive. And he hadn’t been shot. He was still standing in the cemetery parking lot. Had the sight of the gun in Sydney’s car triggered the vision?

  The gun. Sydney had rushed away, taking the weapon with her. Odd—38s were most people’s choice for protection, not .40s. And if she was the killer, why would she have the gun in her car? Surely she would have gotten rid of it. He had to find her. Had to know if it belonged to her, if it was the same .40 that had killed her husband.

  He raced to his Bronco and climbed in. After starting the engine, he made a U-turn and accelerated quickly, fishtailing on the damp pavement. He floored the gas pedal and sped up the narrow road, his tires screeching as he passed a yellow Ford. His eyes stung when the driver flashed his headlights, and he blinked against the pain. Collin quickly turned on his own lights, vaguely aware dusk had settled into darkness. His eyesight was still foggy at times, and he knew he should return to the bed-and-breakfast. But seeing Sydney had changed everything.

  He finally spotted Sydney’s Honda up ahead. She was speeding, going way too fast as she approached the bottom of the hill before the bridge. Why didn’t she slow down?

  She swerved across the double yellow lines and an oncoming car blared its horn. Still speeding, she steered the car sharply sideways to dodge a stalled vehicle, almost rolling on two wheels. What was she doing? Trying to kill herself?

  SYDNEY STOMPED on the brake and barely missed the truck parked in the middle of the road. Her car wouldn’t stop! A low garbled sound tore from her throat. She was going to crash.

  She gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers ached, and then she downshifted, grateful for the sudden slowing of the car. Fear clogged her throat. She flew down the hill and spotted the bridge.

  “Help me, God, please help me,” she whispered, her heart pounding. The ocean loomed only a few hundred yards away. The car gained momentum, bouncing over the rough grooves of the road. Her body jerked against the constraints of her seat belt. She pumped the brakes, but the car accelerated as it raced down the hill. The inlet slid into view, the arches of the bridge, the water, it was so close...

  She pumped the brakes again, but the car careened out of control. She swerved sideways, hoping to break the speed, but the car hit a pothole, then spun around. She screamed and braced herself. Metal crunched. The car screeched and skidded onto the opposite side of the road. Her shoulder and neck were wrenched painfully, and she inhaled the scent of burning rubber. Her head hit the window, and she tasted blood on her lip. Then she saw the metal rungs of the bridge, the roaring waves crashing against the shore. Water. Miles and miles of water, endless water...

  A sob tore from low in her chest. And her last thought before she plunged into the ocean was that she would never have the family she wanted.

  Because she would never survive.

  Chapter Two

  “Oh, my God!” Collin slammed on his brakes and screeched to a halt just as Sydney’s car plunged into the water. He grabbed his car phone and punched 911.

  His hands were shaking, his pulse racing as he waited for the call to go through. He had to hurry! He frantically unfastened his seat belt, dumped the contents of his pockets onto the seats and yanked open his car door, ready to run to Sydney as soon as the call connected. Finally an operator answered.

  “This is an emergency! There’s been a car accident.”

  “Can you give me the specifics, sir? The address?”

  He swiped his hand over his forehead. Damn, no streetlights or signs anywhere.

  “I don’t know the street name,” he said, near panic, “but a car crashed into the water on the north side of the bridge coming into Beaufort. Send an ambulance right away!” He threw down the phone and ran toward the ocean. What if Sydney was already dead?

  Her car had nose-dived into the inlet and was slowly sinking. Kicking off his shoes, he plunged into the water, grateful he’d maintained an exercise program during his months of blindness. The car dipped beneath the crashing waves. He dove beneath the water, fighting the undercurrent, and swam as fast as he could, then nearly choked when he spotted the car with Sydney inside. A bloody gash marred her forehead, but she was alive!

  And she was struggling to open the car door. Water poured into the sedan, the level dangerously close to her neck. Her eyes were stricken with fear, her dark hair swirling in a tangle around her face. Hoping his lungs could hold out, he tried to open the door from the outside, but the force of the water kept it from budging. Panic streaked through him. He saw the terror in her clenched jaw as she pushed at the door, then her chest heaved as if in defeat.

  He banged on the window and motioned for her to try to roll it down. The moment she did, water would rush in over her head and he’d have only seconds to save her.

  She nodded, her face pale as
if the life was already draining from her. How much longer could she hold out?

  Then she closed her eyes and leaned her head back, and he thought she was going to pass out. But she seemed to summon a second burst of courage, or maybe adrenaline, and jerked the window handle. He yanked on the door. Finally the window inched down. Her lungs obviously couldn’t hold out any longer. She choked, coughing and swallowing water as she fought her way out.

  He struggled, pulling her out the window, his lungs about to burst. Sydney’s body went limp and floated toward him. He tucked his arm around her waist and swam upward, dragging her beside him. His chest ached, but he kicked and pushed against the water until they surfaced.

  “Sydney, can you hear me?”

  She sagged against him, her face ashen. It seemed like an eternity before he made it to the embankment, his body throbbing from the ordeal, his throat tight with fear. Finally his feet touched the pebbled ground and he dragged her onto the grass. Laying her down gently, he knelt and listened for a heartbeat.

  Nothing.

  He fought his panic and pressed his finger to her neck for a pulse. Still nothing.

  “Damn it, Sydney, you’re not going to die.”

  His own breathing was erratic and he took several deep breaths to calm himself, then tilted her head back and breathed into her mouth. The first time nothing happened. She merely lay there, the ghostly pallor of her skin making his stomach heave. “Come on, Sydney. Don’t give up.” He lowered his mouth again.

  After several breaths, she coughed and choked. Her ragged breathing sounded wonderful to his ears. Then she began to spit out the murky water. He tilted her head to the side, brushing her hair away from her face. The scent of seawater and fish permeated the air, and he thought he might be sick himself. A siren wailed in the distance and blinding lights beamed across the bridge. Thank God “Don’t worry, help is on the way.” He stroked her face with his fingertips. Her cheeks felt cold and clammy, her skin so chalky it almost glowed white in the moonlight. She moaned and coughed again, and he wiped her cheeks with a soggy handkerchief, then pulled her into his arms, rocking her back and forth, trying to warm her. She tried to open her eyes, a hoarse whisper erupting from her lips.