Shattered Blue: A Romantic Thriller

by Jane Taylor Starwood

  But Jordan never turned from his headlong course, didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. She saw him approach the motor home, which had begun to shift now, twisting in slow motion like some lumbering, prehistoric beast.

  Jordan reached up and grabbed the door handle. The door swung wide open and he started pulling himself inside. He was almost there, he’d almost made it, when Shane looked upstream and saw a great wall of floodwater surging down. It poured in through the open door of the RV. Still clinging to the handle, Jordan was swallowed by the dark water. As she watched, transfixed, the RV tilted toward him, leaning more and more until it rolled onto its side with Jordan still clinging to the door, half in and half out.

  Shane heard him scream once, and then no more, but she didn’t have time to think about what that meant.

  She squinted through the dark and the rain, desperately scanning the raging water, but she couldn’t see Matt.

  And then there he was, his dark head bobbing above the surface, barely visible in the gloom.

  “Matt!”

  She screamed his name over and over again as she ran along the bank, trying to keep him in sight. She could see him trying to swim, his arms flailing, struggling in the monstrous current. The water flowed faster than she could run; she knew she couldn’t keep up, but she went on running, screaming his name as she tried to picture the terrain ahead, tried to remember where this shallow stream fed into the wider, deeper channel beyond.

  She knew there were trees there, big cottonwoods overhanging the channel, trunks and roots for him to hang onto if he could make it to the bank, if he didn’t use up the last of his strength just to keep his head above water. If he hadn’t spent all his strength chasing Jordan. Chasing Jordan for her.

  Matt had to make it. He had to. Shane ran faster.

  The flood kept pulling him under, and each time it was harder to fight his way to the surface. Gritty water filled his mouth and nose, choking him, making him cough and sputter each time his head cleared the surface. He could barely catch a breath before it pulled him under again.

  But he had to make it, had to survive, had to get back to Shane. He kept pushing his arms and legs through the dark, surging water.

  He went under again, then fought back to the surface. He saw a huge, standing boulder and grabbed onto it, keeping himself in place for a moment, until his hands slipped off the smooth rock and the water took him again.

  Just as he lost his grip on the boulder, he heard Shane’s voice shouting his name.

  “The tree!” she yelled. “Grab the tree!”

  Matt saw the broad tree trunk hanging low over the stream bed, saw Shane on the bank, yelling, pointing. He fought the current that threatened to take him past it and angled left, toward the bank and the tree. It was coming up fast, too fast. If he missed it—

  He couldn’t miss it; it was his last chance for life, life with Shane. Adrenaline surged through him and he kicked hard, twisting his body up and to the left, reaching out of the water, locking his arms around the tree.

  Matt pulled himself halfway out of the water, grunting with the effort, and then he was up and over and hanging there, bent double, exhausted. He gasped for breath, coughing as water poured from his nose and mouth.

  He looked toward the bank. Shane was climbing onto the tree trunk, making her way to him.

  No. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d fall into the flood. With the last of his strength, he aligned his body along the trunk and started inching his way toward the bank, shouting at Shane to go back.

  But she came on, reaching out for him, leaning precariously across the bent trunk. He had to make it to the bank before she fell into the flood. It felt as if it took forever, but then he was scrambling down from the trunk, his feet on solid ground. Shane threw her arms around him, sobbing.

  He held her tightly against his sodden, bruised body. When he closed his eyes, he saw again what he’d seen as he fought the raging water for his life: a mangled body swirling by in a tangle of debris, the face so battered it no longer looked human, the head lolling at an impossible angle.

  He knew it would be a long time before that image stopped haunting him, but he didn’t care, because Shane was safe now. Jordan Ripley was dead.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When Shane and Matt reached the top of the hill and looked down on her house, they saw that Doug’s big black HumVee was gone.

  All Shane felt was relief that they wouldn’t find Doug dead on her kitchen floor, but Matt was angry and frustrated.

  “Shit!” he said. “That guy was dirty to the bone, and I missed it.”

  Shane shook her head. “Don’t kick yourself, Matt, we all missed it,” she said. “Poor Gram. How am I going to tell her the man she loves is a criminal? What I can’t figure out is how Jordan found me.”

  Matt recalled something he’d found out when he was at Jenna’s, something he’d never mentioned to Shane.

  “Shane, did you write to Ray in prison?”

  “Yes, I did. What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Ray’s effects were stolen from his brother’s house, including the letters he’d received in prison.”

  Shane stopped walking and looked at him. “But I never told Ray where I was. I didn’t even put a return address on the envelopes.”

  “Where did you mail the letters?”

  “The Silver City post office.” Her face turned white as she stared up at him. “And I sent him my phone number. I led Jordan right to my doorstep, didn’t I?”

  Matt pulled her close to his side, trying not to grimace when his bruised ribs shot a wave of pain through his chest. “Don’t blame yourself, Shane. You thought he was dead. None of this was your fault.”

  She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. She felt guilty in spite of Matt’s soothing words. If she hadn’t written to Ray— But Matt was right. It wasn’t her fault; she had to let it go. Besides, it was over and done with. As much as she might like to, she couldn’t change the past.

  A few minutes later they reached the back door. It was standing wide open.

  “Wait, Shane,” Matt said. “Let me go first.”

  “There’s no one here,” Shane said, but she moved aside and let him go ahead of her.

  Matt stepped inside the door and swore under his breath.

  Shane walked in behind him and stood surveying the damage. Her beautiful tile floor was smeared with blood. Shattered dishes were scattered everywhere. One of her ladder-back chairs, its jagged, broken rungs splayed like fractured bones, lay on its side in the middle of the floor, and Shane thought it must have been used as a weapon; she could easily picture Jordan bringing it down on Doug’s back.

  Matt bent down and looked at a dark, rectangular object under the table. “It’s Jordan’s stun gun,” he said. He stood up, shaking off the memory. “We’d better leave everything as it is until the police can get here.”

  Shane looked around her bright, cozy kitchen in dismay. “Leave it like this?” she said. Then she resigned herself to reality. She knew Matt was right. You weren’t supposed to tamper with the crime scene.

  Matt reached for the phone.

  “They ripped out the line,” Shane told him.

  “Of course they did,” he said, shaking his head, running a hand through his wet hair. “How are we going to get the police here?”

  “Good question,” Shane said. “And here’s another one: How are they going to get to the house? Because unless they have a helicopter, they’ll have to walk in. The bridge is gone.”

  Matt’s eyes went wide. “Gone?”

  “I barely made it across before a tree wiped it out,” she said.

  “So we’re cut off, is what you’re saying.”

  “Pretty much. We could walk, but it’s a long, steep climb through thick brush and cactus. I wouldn’t chance it in the dark, and even after we reached the road, we’d have to walk all the way to San Miguel. Or maybe hitch a ride, if anybody comes by who’s willing to pick
up a pair of bedraggled strangers.”

  “My cell’s in the truck. As soon as we get within range, I can call 911.”

  Shane stared at him. “Then you’re planning to walk? Now? In the dark?”

  “I don’t see a way around it,” Matt said. “Wait a second, though. If the bridge is gone, how did Doug drive out of here?”

  “I don’t know,” Shane admitted. “Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’s out there stuck in the mud, or floating down the arroyo.”

  “That’s probably too much to ask,” Matt said with a bitter laugh.

  “Let’s go find out,” Shane said. She grabbed the big flashlight from the laundry room and they went out the door into the pattering rain.

  Matt was close behind her. “Hold on, Shane. Didn’t you say Doug had a gun?”

  “Not any more. I just saw it on the kitchen floor, under the counter. And I really don’t think he’s still here, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. I think he’s long gone. You’re right, let’s find out how he got out of here.”

  They followed the Hummer’s muddy tracks down Shane’s steep driveway. They saw the marks in the mud where the Hummer had approached the arroyo and turned back. From there, the tire tracks lead up the hill through torn and flattened brush and cactus.

  Matt started back up the hill toward the house. “Come on,” he said. “We can follow his tracks to the road.”

  “Wait, Matt. Are you sure your truck can make it? That hill is really steep and rocky, and this red clay is slippery.”

  Matt smiled grimly. “Have a little faith,” he said. “If a Hummer can do it, so can Big Red.”

  Back in the house, Shane quickly changed into dry clothes. She had nothing that fit Matt except an old red sweatshirt left in the laundry room by the previous owners. He stripped off his shirt and pulled the faded fleece over his head. His jeans and work boots were still soaked, but there was no time to worry about that. They climbed into his truck and drove down the driveway, turning up the steep hill in the tracks of the Hummer.

  “I can tell you one thing for sure,” Matt said as he peered into the darkness. “Tomorrow I’m ordering each of us a satellite phone. Any objections?”

  Shane shook her head emphatically. “Not from me.”

  Half an hour later, they led a small convoy of sheriff’s vehicles down the makeshift road. When they pulled up beside the house, Chief Deputy Wanda Melroy—the stout, friendly, sixty-ish woman in charge of the San Miguel sheriff’s office—waited for Shane and Matt to emerge from Matt’s truck.

  “I still wish you two would let me have one of my deputies take you to the ER in Silver City,” she said. “Especially you, Mr. Brennan. You could have internal injuries, or a concussion.”

  Matt shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said.

  Chief Melroy looked at Shane.

  “I’m fine, too,” Shane said. “I just want to get this over with.”

  “All right,” said Chief Melroy. “But you’ll have to stay outside. I can’t have anybody compromising the crime scene.”

  “For how long?” Shane asked.

  “As long as it takes. Maybe a couple of days. I strongly suspect the feds are going to want to take this over, and they can’t get here before tomorrow. Looks like you’ll have to find someplace else to stay. Does either of you have family nearby?”

  “No,” Shane said, “but my studio is a guest house. We can stay there.”

  “Where’s that?” Chief Melroy asked.

  Shane pointed behind the house. “About fifty yards that way. Is that all right?”

  “It’s completely separate from the main part of the house?”

  “Yes,” Shane said.

  “Well, I don’t see any harm in it, then,” Chief Melroy said.

  “Thank you,” said Shane. “I’ll need some things from the house.”

  Chief Melroy turned to a young deputy standing nearby. “Ralph, escort Ms. MacKinnon to get her stuff. Come right back out, and don’t touch anything near the crime scene.”

  “I won’t,” Shane said.

  The chief grinned. “Oh, I know you won’t. I was talking to Ralphie here. He gets a little ahead of himself sometimes, if you know what I mean.”

  The young deputy’s face went red. “Aw, Ma—I mean Chief—what’d you have to say that for?”

  “Well, you do, Ralphie, that’s all I’m saying. This is a big case here, and I don’t want anybody screwing it up, okay?”

  Matt and Shane exchanged smiles, and he squeezed her hand before she followed Deputy Ralph Melroy through the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom. She gathered everything she could think of that they might need from the bedroom and bathroom, piling it all in a duffle bag she grabbed from the closet, then followed the deputy back downstairs and outside, where Matt was waiting for her.

  “Ready?” he asked her.

  “Ready,” she said, and started to lead him toward the path to the studio. Then she stopped. “Wait,” she said, “I forgot the most important things.”

  She turned back and approached Chief Deputy Melroy. “Is it all right if I get some food and wine from the kitchen?” she asked.

  Chief Melroy smiled. “As long as it’s not evidence and you don’t track through the blood, I guess it’s okay,” she said. “Ralphie, take her back inside.”

  “Thanks,” Shane said.

  She tiptoed past the blood on the tiles and got two bottles of red wine and two stemmed glasses from the cupboard. Under the deputy’s watchful eye, she filled a shopping bag with food from the cupboards and refrigerator, taking whatever was easiest to prepare, and then she rejoined Matt outside. They carried the bags down the gravel path, their shoes crunching in the dark, and went in through the sliding glass doors.

  When Shane turned the lights on, Matt got his first good look at her studio. Partially finished weavings hung on looms of different sizes. One wall was taken up by cubbies stuffed full of fat skeins of nubby yarn in several shades of white, brown, gray and black. A long table held several sturdy branches, a pile of small bones, and plastic bags filled with what looked like seedpods and vines and twigs.

  He wanted to take a closer look at the weavings, but he was too exhausted to properly appreciate them; he’d look in the morning.

  The room seemed larger than it appeared from the outside, and Matt could see that it had, indeed, been a guest house before Shane turned it into her studio. Along the back wall was a galley kitchen with a double sink, a ceramic-top stove, a microwave and an apartment-sized refrigerator. In the corner was a door he assumed led to a bathroom, and a sofa bed stood facing a free-standing wood-burning stove flanked by a stack of firewood. The only thing missing was a dining table and chairs.

  Shane pulled the drapes across the glass doors and then led the way to the kitchen, where they unloaded the food and wine on the counter. Neither spoke while they put packages and jars in the fridge and cupboards. Shane was glad for the sense of quiet normalcy; she knew nothing else was going to be normal for a long time.

  When she turned away from putting the last of the food in the refrigerator, Matt was opening a bottle of wine. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

  Suddenly she felt totally exhausted, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep if she went to bed right now. It was going to take a fair amount of wine and who knew what else to make her jangled nerves and tight muscles relaxed enough to sleep.

  She accepted the glass Matt held out to her and took a big swallow, feeling the slight, pleasant burn of alcohol slide down her throat and cruise along her limbs, warming and calming. She hardly tasted the wine, which was really a shame, because it was a delicious Bordeaux-style blend from her favorite Long Island vineyard. She’d been surprised and delighted to discover it in a wine shop in Silver City. Oh, well, she could always order more.

  She looked up at Matt over the rim of the glass and found him gazing steadily at her, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion.

  “You’re still wet,” she said.


  “Am I?” he answered. “Funny, I can’t feel a thing.”

  “Me neither,” she said, “but we will in the morning. We’ll both be lucky if we can walk.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Matt said. “A nice hot shower would help. I’m assuming there is one.”

  “There is,” Shane said. “It’s pretty small, but it works.”

  “You go first,” he said, placing his empty wine glass on the counter. “I’ll start a fire.”

  Shane finished her wine and put her glass next to his, then stepped up to him and eased her arms around his neck. “I’ve got a better idea,” she said. “Let’s both take the first shower, and then we’ll both start a fire.”

  Matt pulled her closer, smiling into her eyes. “I thought you said the shower was too small for both of us.”

  “No, that’s not what I said. What I said was it’s pretty small, but that doesn’t mean we can’t both squeeze in, if we’re real friendly. It’ll be cozy.”

  “Cozy?”

  “Very.”

  “I never could resist cozy,” Matt said.

  Shane knew it was crazy to pretend everything was fine, that it was just another romantic evening, but it felt right to her, and apparently to Matt, too. One more evening of pretending nothing bad had happened, that they hadn’t almost been killed.

  No more. Jordan was really dead this time, and she would grab all the normalcy she could while she could get it. Tomorrow the FBI would surely step in, and normalcy would go out the window. She wouldn’t think about that now. She would think only about Matt, and the way his body felt close to hers, inside her.

  All at once she was ravenous for him. She pressed closer against him, tilted her head back and kissed him, her lips parted in invitation. She wanted him to invade her, possess her, drive every other thought and feeling from her body and mind.

  She stepped back just long enough to strip off her clothes, to help him pull off his sweatshirt and damp shoes and jeans, and then she took his hand and led him into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

  When the water was hot, when they’d warmed each other with caresses and kisses, they stepped into the shower, so close they were skin to skin. With soap and shampoo slicking their wet bodies, they made slow, languid love until the water began to cool.