Читать книгу Undercover Memories - Alice Sharpe - Страница 12

Chapter Three

There was no option but to redress in the torn clothes he’d woken up in. They were still on the damp side and were getting pretty ripe. He slapped a bandage on his chin and one on his forehead and called it good.

Man, he was a mess. The eye wasn’t as puffy as before, but he had at least a day’s growth of dark beard to go with the bruises and cuts. No wonder Paige had looked frightened of him—he was the bogeyman of a nightmare.

“You sorry bastard,” he told his reflection.

There was something else, too. He’d had dreams during the night. Vivid ones. They’d woken him in a cold sweat, driven him into the shower to try to wash away the images. Faces of children, fire, mayhem. Screams…

Like a war. And something flying, hovering, threatening.

Was he a soldier or had he been one in his youth? And what about the children in the dream? Had he done something terrible to children? He couldn’t believe that of himself. He didn’t know who he was, but he did have a sense of what he was, and it wasn’t a murderer.

Yet even now, wide awake, remembering the images made his stomach roll like a set of slow ocean waves.

He splashed cold water on his face and told himself to get a grip. His memory would return any minute and he’d figure out what went wrong, what had happened to him, and maybe more important, what he’d done to someone else.

The aroma of coffee drew him into the kitchen, where Paige handed him a mug, then set a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him.

“What is it like? I mean, not knowing who you are?” she asked as she sat opposite him again.

“Weird,” he said as the first hot swallow of coffee washed down his throat. “Empty.”

“About the police—”

He’d picked up his fork but set it aside again. “No police. Not until I can remember what happened. I’m willing to face the music when it comes to paying for my crimes, but if they’ve decided I’ve almost killed a man, how can I prove I didn’t?”

“Then how about getting some expert help?”

“Like a shrink?”

“No, like a retired cop. I happened to have had dinner with one last night. He and his wife seem like real down-to-earth types. He might be able to advise you about what to do next.”

He picked up the fork again and took a few bites. The eggs tasted pretty good. They were the first thing he’d eaten since stealing yogurt out of Paige’s refrigerator the evening before.

He studied her for a minute. “Who’s Brian?”

She looked away from him.

“You called me that last night.”

“I remember.”

“So, who is he?”

“Brian Witherspoon. He was my fiancé up until about three days ago.”

“Who broke up with who?”

“And that is your business because?”

“Because my head is a vast wasteland. Give me something to think about besides my life, which currently sucks big-time. Throw me a bone. Have a heart. Anyway, I’m curious. You got tired of him, right?”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Hard to picture someone skipping out on you, so you must have done the skipping. Then you came up here by yourself to get away from his incessant pleas to get back together. How am I doing?”

“Perfectly,” she said. Then she blinked, her eyes bright, and shook her head. “Actually, he left me. At the altar. In front of everyone when his ex-wife showed up for the wedding. The preacher said that line about anyone having doubts, and she stood up and announced she still loved him.”

“Ouch.”

“So I came on my honeymoon by myself. Pathetic, huh?”

“I think it’s kind of gutsy.”

“How about you show some guts? Come with me to talk to Jack Pollock. He’s a good man.”

“He’s a cop.”

“Ex-cop.”

“Same thing.”

“Well, there now, see? You know something about yourself after all. You don’t like the police.”

He finished off his eggs. “I also know cops are all alike.”

“That’s silly. Of course they aren’t. Anyway, I told you, he’s retired.”

“He’s still a gun-toting—”

“No, as a matter of fact, you’re wrong. His wife told me last night that he won’t have a gun in the house. He’s left all that behind him. And as for gun toting, that seems to describe you, doesn’t it?”

He stared at her a second and sighed. “Yeah, I guess so. Okay, you win, we’ll go see your friend.”

“Good. I’ll clean up and get dressed while you figure out how to get my car out of the ditch.”

He watched her turn to the sink. She was wearing a tight pair of jeans that made her rear look pretty damn enticing. She turned back, leaning down to take his plate, and their gazes locked. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which was evident every time she moved. The look in her eyes gave him the impression she knew exactly what he was thinking.

His gaze landed on something gold and silver and shiny hanging from a chain around her neck. It had slipped out from beneath her clothes when she leaned forward and now lay against her blue T-shirt between her breasts.

He sucked in his breath and didn’t know why.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice alarmed.

“Your necklace—”

“This?” She fingered the pendant. “Is something wrong with it?” she added as she lowered her gaze to look.

He shook his head, embarrassed by his visceral, gut-level reaction to such a silly thing.

“My father gave it to me,” she said. “It’s an owl, see? His little wings move up and down and his eyes are tiny topazes—”

She stopped talking, her expression alarmed. “You look spooked, John. Why?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. That thing just creeps me out.”

She slipped the owl under her shirt again. “All better?”

“Yeah,” he said, but even knowing it was there made him antsy. He pushed the chair away from the table. “I’ll see about the car,” he said, anxious to move around a little and get his feelings under control.

It took a shovel, three old boards and a little digging, but he freed the car just as Paige emerged from the cabin. She’d changed clothes and donned a coat. Beneath its unbuttoned contours, he could see the thin strap of her purse bisecting her torso. Looked as if she’d put a bra on under a blue sweater, which was a shame, but at least the damn pendant was covered.

With her bright eyes and fresh face, she looked like a coed on her way to a class—way too young for him, not just in years but in life experience.

Which was an odd thing to think, as he couldn’t recall any life experiences before about eighteen hours before, but he still knew it was true. The gun that felt so natural in his hand was a good indicator of that. He got into the passenger seat and she slid behind the wheel.

“How far away are these people?” he asked.

“About a mile. In fact, they’re closer to the river than I am. I’m surprised you didn’t stumble on them first. I can’t call ahead because my cell doesn’t work up in these mountains.”

“Maybe they won’t be home,” he said hopefully.

But a few minutes later they found a brand-new truck parked on a quiet wooded street in front of a modest green cabin. The few other houses around it looked empty.

Okay, one way or another he was going to have to trust a complete stranger, which come to think of it, pretty much described the entire population of the world except for Paige Graham. He sure hoped this didn’t turn out to be the mother of stupid ideas.

He followed Paige up the front steps, where she knocked on the door and rang the bell.

“Maybe they’re still asleep,” he said as they stood on their side of the unanswered door.

Paige tried the knob. The door opened as far as the dead bolt chain allowed. She called out, “Jack? Carolyn?”

There was no answer.

“Maybe they went for a walk,” Paige said. “That’s where I met them, on a morning hike in the forest.”

“Well, what a shame we missed them,” he said.

She started to close the door, then stopped. “No, they’re not out hiking. I can see Jack’s backpack over there on the floor. He told me he always takes it with him because he likes to be prepared.”

“A cop and a Boy Scout. Great.” He pointed at the steps. “There are no tracks in the snow except ours.”

“Maybe they’re around back.”

“In this weather?”

“Don’t give up so easily,” she said, and marched down the steps and around the house like a general off to mount an attack. Once again he followed.

But the back of the house was as empty as the front. Paige sighed and said, “Well, we struck out, I guess. I could leave a note, maybe, or something.”

He caught her hand and pointed at the back door. It was closed, but what had caught his attention were the tracks that crossed the small deck toward a smaller door that probably opened into a garage.

Paige tore her hand out of his and ran up the stairs to the deck. He called her name, begged her to stop, but she was inside the house in a flash and once again he followed.

He arrived in the kitchen to find more prints on the floor and Paige disappearing down the hall. The smell of death lay heavy in the heated house.

Paige turned into a room on the right, and then she screamed. The sound sent chills down John’s back as he raced to help her. Still screaming, she backed out of the room, hands held in front as though warding away evil, her gaze riveted on whatever lay within.

John grabbed her shoulders. She turned into his chest and buried her face against him, the screams morphing into sobs, her body shaking violently. He peered over her head.

An older woman lay in the bed as though she’d been killed in her sleep, her throat slit. Blood sprayed the wall behind her, soaked into her bedding, pooled on the floor.

“Where’s Jack?” Paige mumbled as John pulled her from the doorway.

Good question. Still holding on to each other, they searched the small house but found no sign of the old guy. “We have to get out of here,” John told her at last.

She seemed too stunned to argue. He hurried her back the way they had come. Once out the door, he stopped abruptly. The footprints leading to the garage now took on an ominous feel. John opened the door with the fabric of his jacket, hoping against hope he wasn’t about to find what he knew in his gut he would.

“Stay back a minute,” he said, but Paige had already peered around him and they both saw Jack Pollock at the same time.

He was in his pajamas and slippers, and it appeared he’d been attacked by a maniac with a hatchet. There was so much blood it was hard to see what the man had once looked like. The car was gone, leaving tire tracks of red against the cement.

Paige was unnaturally silent and John looked down at her with concern. Her mouth was open, her eyes shut, as though she was lost in a cacophony of silent screams that ricocheted inside her head.

He pulled on her once again. “Come with me,” he said, closing the door behind them. They quickly retraced their path in the snow, both of them looking around as they moved for some sign they weren’t alone. This time John shuffled his feet, obliterating any of their clear footprints.

“Someone murdered them and stole their car,” Paige mumbled.

“Yes.”

“I should have called the police from their phone,” she said as they reached the car. Without discussing it, she handed John the keys.

“They’re way past needing immediate attention,” he said, opening her door for her.

“But we can’t just leave them—”

“Yes, we can,” he said gently.

He closed her door and went around to his own side, slipping behind the wheel.

“John, you know what this means, don’t you?” she asked.

“I probably didn’t hurt the guy up at the park, yeah, I know.”

“Someone else—”

“Some kind of maniac,” he interrupted.

“Yes. I want to leave the mountains. Now.”

“Right now?”

“As soon as I get my computer. I can’t leave that behind. All my work is on it. You can come with me if you want, but I can’t stay here. Not after…not after this.”

His gut twisted as he stared at her swollen eyes and pale face. In some illogical way, he knew he was responsible for what was going on. He could feel it in his bones.

“Let’s just hurry,” he said at last. “I don’t think those murders happened all that long ago.” He paused to look down the street and back the way they’d come. He saw no movement that suggested the killer hovered nearby, but threat seemed to hang in the air like cold, damp fog.

“I’ll be quick,” she said, her voice shaky. Tears ran down her cheeks and she flicked them away with her fingertips. He fought the urge to comfort her by starting the car. He didn’t dare touch her. He wanted it far too much and he wasn’t sure why, but the feeling their fates were interconnected had grown strong in the past few hours and the thought that whoever had done that to the Pollocks could do the same to Paige was more awful than he could bear contemplating.

“I’ll leave the mountains with you,” he told her. “For better or worse, we’re in this together.”

She covered her face with her hands.

He let her cry in peace.

* * *

BACK AT THE CABIN, PAIGE dumped her coat on the bed and threw her belongings into her bag. She and John split up the rest of the chores, with John hauling things out to her car. She worked fast, although a combination of nerves and the vivid images of the Pollocks’ bloodied bodies made her clumsy.

John was outside packing the trunk when she took a last check of the kitchen. Might as well take things to eat on the road. As she grabbed a few apples and a chunk of cheese, she heard the back door open.

“John?” Closing the fridge door, she turned, intending to ask him to help her carry the last load out to the car.

It wasn’t John.

The cheese slid from her grasp and hit the wood floor at her feet with a clunk.

“Who are you?” she gasped, but she already knew.

The man filling the doorway six feet away had shaggy black hair streaked with white, and small, mean eyes. Though he wasn’t as tall as John, he was built like a bull, with strong-looking shoulders and big hands with a band of black and gold on the right ring finger. His face was etched with deep lines, his lips thick and curled in a sneer. The bulky jacket with a fur collar that he wore stretched tight across his chest and pulled at the one button he’d managed to secure.

Paige’s stomach flipped as she recognized the coat. It had belonged to Jack Pollock. Thin, wiry Jack Pollock. That’s why the coat was too tight for this man. The revulsion she felt was nothing compared with the horror that filled her as the light from the one weak bulb hanging from the ceiling glanced off the thick, curved blade of a dagger he held down by his leg....

This was the man who had attacked and killed the Pollocks—she knew that as surely as she knew anything, and would have even if their blood hadn’t stained his shoes, even if he didn’t carry that knife or wear that jacket. She could see it in his eyes. She could smell it. He was a predator and he was ruthless.

And from the look on his face, she was his next victim.

Terror momentarily drained her, anchoring her to the floor. And then just as quickly, the instinct to flee melted indecision.

She threw the apples at his face, turned and ran.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him react way faster than she’d expected. She screamed John’s name as she raced into the living room. The door seemed a mile away. She screamed again. Where was John? Had this beast already killed him?

The man’s heavy footsteps pounded right behind hers. He caught her hair and pulled her back against him right as the door flew open and John appeared.

Their gazes locked.

He held his gun, but he had to know, as did she, that it was empty.

What good was an unloaded gun against a monster?