Читать книгу Murphy's Law - Rebecca Sinclair - Страница 4

Murphy's Law #1: If anything can go wrong, it will.

Twice over, usually…three times over, if it can.

CAR CRASHES were a bitch.

Garrett Thayer knew; not thirty minutes ago he'd been in one.

With each lurching step he took, pain lashed down through his side, burned a path inside his knee and shin. Blood soaked into his jeans, plastering the coarse denim to his right leg.

His lacerated thigh was the only place he felt any warmth—the rest of him was chilled to the bone. While his brown leather bomber jacket did an adequate job of retaining the heat in his upper body, it didn't do squat to prevent the bitter cold wind from lashing at his hips and legs.

Had he ever been this cold in his life?

Not that he could remember.

Hoisting the heavy green duffel bag high on his shoulder, and wincing at the pain knifing through his leg, Garrett clutched the collar of his bomber jacket in an icy fist beneath his chin and staggered onward. He had no choice. If he stayed in one spot too long, he might loose the impetus to keep going. Stopping meant freezing to death.

His right foot, which he semi-dragged, snagged on a branch buried beneath three feet of deceptively fluffy-looking snow. Garrett grunted, a split second before his good leg buckled. There was no stopping momentum, and he was too tired and in too much pain to try.

While the snow may look fluffy, he found out quickly that it's look could be deceiving. It provided no cushion. His left knee made a bone-jarring collision with hard, frozen ground. Gritting his teeth wasn't enough to hold back a tortured groan. His head swam, as though the pain in his lower body had seeped upward and was now clawing around in his brain. Bright pin-points of light danced behind his tightly closed eyelids. Not stars, exactly, but close.

His fingers flexed around the handles of the duffel bag. The nylon straps bit into his numb, ungloved knuckles. The satchel wasn't heavy, yet in the condition he was in, the extra weight was enough to slow him down. If he left the bag behind, there was an excellent chance he could gain some distance and, with luck, find help.

There was only one problem.

Garrett couldn't, wouldn't, leave the duffel bag behind.

Not that he'd formed any personal attachment to this particular duffel bag. Hell no; you could buy similar ones in any department store and still get change back from your ten. It was the contents that were invaluable.

No, leaving the duffel bag behind was not an option.

Instead, he plunged his hand up to mid-forearm in snow, searching with his fingertips until he located the branch he'd tripped over. The tips of his fingers were no longer red, but tinged with blue; he barely felt the scratch of bark against his skin as, one by one, he forced his fingers to curl around it.

The branch wasn't as tall as he'd hoped, yet it was thick and sturdy. It would do. Stabbing one end in the snow until it hit frozen ground, Garrett used the branch as a brace to haul himself upright.

He stumbled forward one step at a time. That was all he could mange, all he could think about. He was afraid that if he let himself dwell on the agony in his leg, he'd pass out for sure.

How long did he trudge through the snow? He didn't know. Maybe it only seemed like forever? All Garrett knew for was that one minute he was hobbling through what looked like a wall of wind-tossed whiteness, the next he was staring at two iridescent specks of light.

Blinking hard, he shook his head. Was he seeing things? Or, worse, about to pass out again? God, he hoped not.

The wind howled in his ears, spitting in his face snowflakes that felt like frigid needle-pricks against his unprotected cheeks and brow. Squinting, he focused on what was materializing in front of him.

Two bright white spheres that could only be…

Headlights?

His first instinct was relief. It was quickly overridden by his second: a surge of blind panic.

Where was the road? Had he stumbled onto it? In what direction was the car coming?

Dammit, the snow was falling so hard he couldn't see that well, couldn't tell!

The headlights grew bigger. They were coming closer all too fast. His sore muscles screaming a protest, Garrett stiffened, ready to lunge out of the way if necessary.

A bolt of pain tore through his injured leg as he instinctively put weight on it. If it wasn't for the support of the branch, he would have toppled over. Again. This time, he wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to get up.

His panic grew when he realized that, if the car was coming at him, there was no way on earth he'd be able to move swiftly enough to get out of its way. The car was going too fast—only an idiot would travel at that speed in this weather!—and he was in too much pain to propel himself quickly enough to avoid being run over.

But, hell, he had to try!

Tossing the duffel bag into a nearby snow drift and wincing in pain, Garrett forced himself to dive in its wake. At the last second he pivoted so his shoulder took the brunt of the collision.

This time the lights that danced behind his eyelids exploded in a brilliant display. The top of his head grazed the trunk of a maple tree. A moan tore from his throat as his face slammed into the cold, wet pillow of snow. More snow filled his mouth and nostrils. He sputtered, coughing it out.

Over the howl of wind came the sharp screech of brakes.

Two minutes ago, Garrett Thayer could have sworn he was as cold as he could get. He was wrong. This new sound turned his blood to ice water as his mind flashed a too-vivid image of his body being mowed over by the still unseen car.

Levering himself up, he shifted until he was sitting on the body-flattened snowdrift. Breathing hard, he looked for the car's headlights, positive he would see them skidding toward him.

He did find the headlights, albeit not where he expected them to be. Nor were they skidding. They were less than six feet away…no longer white, but red, no longer round, but tall and rectangular.

The lights were also no longer moving.

With one hand Garrett fumbled for the duffel bag, with the other, for the branch. Using the latter, he staggered to his feet. That he'd been spotted by whoever was driving the car, he didn't doubt. Hell, he'd been standing directly in front of the damn thing. The driver would have to be blind not to have seen him.

Except for the roar of the wind and the clunky rumble of the car's engine—the motor didn't purr so much as cough and gag—the forest was silent.

A tense moment ticked past, marked by the howl of wind and scratch of winter-bare branches scraping together.

He waited breathlessly for the sound of a car door to open and close. When it didn't come, he shuffled forward a few agonizing steps, his attention riveted to the car.

The red tail lights were joined on either side by the glow of smaller white ones. The hacking of the engine amplified as the driver shifted the car into reverse and backed up.

Garrett's blue eyes widened and his heart skipped a heavy beat. His breath hissed through tightly clenched teeth; the air in front of his face turned to vapor as the passenger window of the battered blue Volkswagen Rabbit pulled up even with him. A half dozen steps and he'd be able to reach out and pound his clenched fist on the glass.

The driver had swabbed a circle in the center of the breath-fogged window. A scant bit of the car's interior was illuminated by the harsh moonlight glinting off snow, a light that made the night seem unnaturally bright.

A woman sat hunched over the steering wheel, her neck craned as she peered out the windshield. All he could make out of her profile was the curve of her cheek, the tip of her nose. The rest of her face was obscured by a floppy hat and a dark, bulky scarf that had been coiled repeatedly around her mouth, jaw and neck.

Garrett shoved himself forward another step.

Two.

The sound of the engine swelled as the woman applied the gas. He heard the car's wheels skid over the slushy mixture of snow and dirt before finding traction.

She was driving away!

“Wait!” Garrett tried to run, but couldn't. Despair cut through him like a knife as the car lurched forward, then veered to the left. “Damn it, no!”

Blinking the snow out of his eyes, he watched the twin beams of red fade until they almost blended with the thick sheet of snow the wind continued to kick up around him.

The car didn't go far.

Just as Garrett was in danger of loosing sight of the tail lights, they swerved to the right, then glowed brightly as the woman applied the brakes. Even over the wind he heard the engine sputter out.

A car door slammed. Then, a few seconds later, another.

Garrett's breath caught. He waited, afraid to hope, afraid not to.

Scarcely two minutes elapsed before he heard the distinct sound of a wooden door creaking open then gently shut.

Garrett released the breath he only now realized he was holding. No noise on earth had ever sounded so sweet. After all, where there was a wooden door, there was something attached to it. Like a house. Where there was a house, there was a phone. And help.

Despite the stabbing pain in his leg and the cold-to-the-point-of-numb sensations in what felt like every muscle and tendon in his body, Garrett Thayer grinned.

MURPHY MCKENNA cupped the thickly padded headphones over her ears. With a flick of her wrist she cranked the volume up on the stereo.

Pivoting on her heel, she plopped down on the nearby couch, her body sinking into the plump blue corduroy cushions. She closed her eyes and released a long, contented sigh.

The music roaring in her ears was deliciously, rebelliously loud. The singer's screechy voice shot through her head like a bullet, blotting out the week of Musak she'd endured in her office at DCYF, Providence, Rhode Island's Department for Children, Youths and their Families.

The cushion beneath her hips shifted. Murphy cracked one eye open. Moonshine, her huge, chocolate point Himalayan cat, crawled onto the bed of her stomach; the latter made even flatter by the lazy slope of her spine. Murphy grinned, her fingers scratching him behind the ears as her lips moved silently over the lyrics of the song blasting in her ears.

Moonshine lazily kneaded her baggy, Irish-knit sweater. The creamy threads were too thick and tight for his claws to do more than tickle the flesh beneath.

The music faded as the CD player prepared to switch tracks. In the abrupt silence—it sounded like waves pounding on a sandy beach, thanks to her heartbeat echoing in the headphones—she heard the muffled whisper of the cat's purr; the vibrations of it trilled against her belly as he curled into a ball and began licking and scrubbing diligently behind the ear she'd just been scratching.

Her fingers running over the cat's thick, silky fur, Murphy mentally counted off the pause between tracks.

One. Two.

Creeeeeak. Thump!

Three. Four.

Her eyes snapped open. Her heartbeat pounded hard and fast, in time to the drum solo that exploded in her ears.

Murphy wasn't comforted to see that she wasn't the only one who'd heard the noise. Moonshine's head was tipped at an alert angle, his ears perked, his right paw poised in mid-lick. The cat's blue eyes were wide, his gaze fixed on the far corner of textured, baby-blue papered wall where the living room branched off into a short hallway leading to the kitchen.

The cat's mouth opened and closed in a yowl that the music prohibited Murphy from hearing.

She grunted when his powerful back legs used her stomach as a catapult. He bounded to the floor, his fluffy tail brushing the corner of the door frame just before he disappeared from sight.

Murphy snatched off the headphones. She didn't realize her breaths were choppy until she heard the rasp of them in her ears. Her legs were unsteady as she stood and crossed the room.

With trembling fingers, she turned off the stereo; the click of the cold metal knob sounded abnormally loud and menacing.

From somewhere near the foyers, Moonshine meowed.

The sound startled a gasp out of Murphy.

“Calm down,” she whispered to herself, then instantly wished she hadn't. Her voice sounded as shaky and watery as her knees felt. “Stop it. Just stop it. Every house makes noises. You know that.” Of course she did. Only Murphy had an uneasy feeling the noise she heard had nothing to do with the normal creaks and groans of settling wood.

Her gaze scanned the small living room, searching for a weapon. Not that she'd need one, she told herself. Still, as Tom was fond of telling her, it never hurt to err on the side of caution. It was one of her brother's rare words of wisdom that she actually heeded.

Twin brass lamps sat on the teak end tables flanking the sofa. They were large; lovely to look at, not to lift. She judged them too heavy and cumbersome to provide an adequate defense. Besides, in order to use one, it would need to be unplugged. If someone was out there and they saw the lights suddenly go out…

Thunk!

Murphy's hand went slack. The headphones dropped unnoticed to the plushly carpeted floor.

That was not the sound of a house settling, damn it!

Murphy raced into the kitchen. The soles of her sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor when she stopped abruptly and squatted. If only she'd thought to ask Tom where he kept weapons when she'd agreed to borrow his new summer house for the week! But, of course, she hadn't. The thought had never crossed her mind.

Her gaze scanned the moonlit room, fixing on the knife rack. No help there; it was nailed to the wall next to the window on the opposite side of the kitchen. She didn't dare pass the window to reach it. In the drawers next to the stove, the sharpest weapon she found was a butter knife.

Metal hinges creaked as she eased open first one cupboard door, then the next. In the third, she found something useful: a big, fat, cast-iron skillet, the kind her foster mother used to cook mountains of blueberry pancakes after church on Sunday mornings.

The skillet felt heavy and solid in Murphy's trembling hands. Not the perfect weapon, but the best she could find in a strange house on short notice. God knows the skillet was less awkward than one of the lamps.

Breathing hard, she eased the cupboard door shut, then slowly, slowly, stood.

A shadow passed by the window on the adjacent wall.

Murphy's mouth went suddenly dry.

While she would like to convince herself the shadow was caused by nothing more harmful than moonlight flickering off the snow and bare-branched trees outside, she couldn't. The shape was too thick, and it moved in a way that was undeniably human.

Moonshine yowled.

The sound cut through Murphy like a knife.

As quietly as possibly, she crept over to the wall next to the doorway that separated the kitchen and front door by a tiny foyer. Her palms felt clammy as she clutched the heavy skillet tightly to her chest.

Chink, chink, chink.

Someone was rattling the doorknob.

She'd locked the front door…hadn't she?

Hadn't she?!

Her mind went blank. It took effort to swallow back a surge of panic, but she did it. At all costs, she needed to stay calm. If nothing else, her job at DCYF had taught her how to keep her composure—or at least pretend to—under the toughest conditions. Conditions could not get tougher than this. Not if there really was a person out there making those noises.

Murphy was ninety-nine percent sure there was; it was that stray one percent that nagged at her. Her luck had never been good.

Sucking in two deep breaths, she mentally repeated the question she'd asked herself only seconds before. Had she locked the front door?

Damn it, she couldn't remember!

No, wait, she must have locked it. The door hadn't opened, had it? Surely it would have by now if it wasn't locked.

Her attention shifted to the telephone hanging on the wall to her left. The kitchen was small—a narrow, glorified pantry, really—making the phone within arm's reach.

Clunk, creeeeeeak.

The noise didn't come from the direction of the front door. This time, it came from around back. Murphy traced it to the sliding glass doors leading out from the living room onto a redwood deck, where Tom had left an ample supply of firewood stacked and covered with a tarp to keep it dry.

Thunk! Crash!

Murphy grabbed the phone.

Her fingers were shaking so badly she had to force them around the receiver to lift it from its cradle. The number pads on the phone were oversized, embedded in the receiver. Without bothering to listen for the dial tone, she punched in the numbers she'd memorized as a kid.

9-1-1.

Breathing hard, and clutching the skillet to her chest, she braced the phone between her shoulder and ear and listened to it ring. And ring. And ring.

She didn't realize Moonshine had come into the kitchen until she felt the press of his big, furry body against her jean-clad shins.

Murphy didn't scream. She knew she didn't because, while she'd opened her mouth to do exactly that, the only sound to come out of her fear-tightened throat was a soft, high-pitched squeal.

Moonshine glanced up, his blue eyes shining in the muted light. He meowed, rubbing his cheek against outer shin as though offering comfort. This time Murphy was prepared for the contact and no sound escaped her.

What she wasn't prepared for—not even close to prepared for!—was what she saw out of the corner of her eye.

Another shadow passed closely by the sliding glass doors in the living room. The silvery rays of moonlight glinting off snow distorted the shape until it looked inhumanly big and menacing.

And male. The shape was unquestionably male.

The phone continued to ring in Murphy's ear. She could barely hear it over the erratic throb of her heartbeat. “C'mon. Someone answer. Please.”

Someone did. The voice was feminine and nasally. “New England Telephone. What city, please?”

“Damn it!”

“Excuse me?”

Murphy shook her head. Her voice a shaky, raspy whisper, she said, “Patch me through to the police.”

The tinny voice sounded bored, as though used to terrified women demanding police assistance, and demanding it now. “Did you know you can dial that number yourself, ma'am?”

What little supply of patience Murphy had retained until now burned away in a hot flare of anger. “Of course I do!” She ground her teeth together, and through them replied sharply, “Unfortunately, I can't dial a number I don't know. Please, either patch this call through directly, or send the police to…”

Oh, no, what was the address? Murphy's mind went blank. Again. This was starting to become a very annoying habit.

From the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow pass outside the sliding glass doors. Was it closer this time? She couldn't tell; she hadn't been paying enough attention, and it came and went too quickly for her to assess the distance.

She pressed her back hard against the wall.

A stroke of brilliance—or was it luck?—made her remember the directions her brother had jotted down before Murphy had left Providence, Rhode Island early that morning. The sheet of paper was still tucked in the back pocket of her jeans.

“Ma'am? Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes, I…hold on a sec.” Murphy couldn't hold the phone and skillet, and at the same time fish the directions out of her pocket. Since she was afraid to accidentally cut the connection with her chin if she pressed the receiver the wrong way, she tucked the frying pan under her arm and reached behind her, groping for her back pocket.

The folded sheet of paper was, of course, in the opposite pocket. She dug it out by only slightly contorting her shoulders, back, and hips. The muscles in her right arm and shoulder would be sore from strain come morning.

If she lived that long.

“The address is Pole 147, Chestnut Court,” Murphy said into the phone, reading the address Tom had printed so perfectly on the now limp, body-heat warm sheet of blue-lined notebook paper. At another time, she might have laughed at the irony of the narrow, snow-strewn, pot-hole ridden dirt road she'd driven down being called a “Court".

The operator repeated the address, and Murphy confirmed its accuracy.

“And the nature of the problem?” the woman asked.

“It's not a problem,” Murphy corrected tightly, “it's an emergency.”

“Of course it is, ma'am.” The woman sighed. “The nature of the ‘emergency'?”

“Someone is—”

It was no use. Dead air echoed flatly in her ear. The connection had been broken.

She replaced the receiver, this time gently, quietly, in its black plastic cradle.

Murphy glanced to the side, and gasped. If not for the wall at her back, her knees would have buckled. There was no longer a shadow at the sliding glass doors. There was a figure.

Tall.

Wide shouldered.

Lean hipped.

Thick, powerful legs.

That was all she took the time to notice. Clutching the skillet tightly in one fist, she hunched over and snatched up Moonshine with her free hand. If the intruder was at the back door, she'd go out the front. Good. It was closer to the car anyway.

Her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, she raced for the front door. Moonshine must have sensed her fright, because he turned his body inward, his belly pressed flat against her chest. Murphy barely felt his claws—this time they sank well past her sweater—needling into her shoulder as she fumbled with the deadbolt and yanked open the door.

She froze in the act of crossing the threshold. The wind that even now cut through her sweater and jeans had drifted two feet of snow against the door.

That wasn't what stopped her; the snow was an inconvenience.

No, what stopped her was the blood.

Large stains of it marred the otherwise pristine carpet of white. There was, she noticed with a growing nausea, more than a dozen misshapen splotches leading up to, and away from, the front door. Even as she watched, the puddles spread wider, unevenly tainting the snow and melting into it with fresh heat.

The sound of glass shattering behind her propelled Murphy into action. Whoever was out there had broken the sliding glass door.

Reeboks were great, but they did nothing to keep feet warm and dry in blizzard conditions. Murphy learned that quickly as she bolted straight into the snowdrift, then straight out of it. Her attention never strayed from the snow-covered windshield of her decrepit VW. Even when she heard the heavy, staggered chase of footsteps closing in behind her.

Tom could tease her about the car all he wanted, but right now the ratty looking VW that was more parts rust than metal and paint looked like heaven.

The door handle felt like sculpted ice in her hand. The muscles in her shoulders screamed a protest as she wrenched the door open and tossed Moonshine into the driver's seat.

The overhead light had stopped working years ago; she didn't expect it to flick on and she wasn't disappointed as she scooted behind the steering wheel and slammed the door shut.

Murphy didn't glance at the house, didn't dare. She could feel the intruder's presence bearing down on her. With her elbow, she jammed down the lock on the driver's door. It was a two door car, so she only had to stretch to the right to punch the passenger door's lock down, too.

Then and only then did she allow herself a small sigh of relief. The biting cold air turned her breath to mist as she fumbled in her coat pocket for her…

“No. No!” Murphy punched her fist hard against the steering wheel. The blow rocked up her arm, past her shoulder. The pain didn't change anything. Moonshine meowed next to her, as though confirming what she'd already realized with a mounting sense of dread.

Her keys were in her coat pocket. Her coat was back in the house, draped atop her brother's bed in the master bedroom…where she'd tossed it an hour ago when she'd arrived.

A fist slammed against the window next to Murphy's head.

This time, she did scream. Loud and hard.

The second blow hit the window with enough force to threaten shattering the glass. She felt the vibrations of the blow in her fingers and palms as it ricocheted through the steering wheel she clutched in a death-grip.

“Open the door, lady. Now! I swear to God, if you don't, I'll put my fist right through this glass.”

The words were muffled by the car door separating them. They still managed to penetrate Murphy down to the shivering core.

Instinct made her look at the man who delivered a third, resounding blow to the driver's-side window. The glass was foggy from her breath, but not foggy enough to obscure the face that was so close to the window that his breath fogged the other side.

The man's skin was as pale as the snow dusting his shaggy, sandy brown hair. His eyes were narrow, a piercing shade of blue in the glow of moonlight glinting sharply off snow. The muscles in his cheeks were tight, the ones in the square line of his jaw bunched hard as he gritted his teeth and lifted his fist to pound the window a fourth time.

His fist didn't make it that far.

As she watched, the stranger winced and his fingers uncurled, splaying over the cold, snow-and breath-slickened glass. His palm was big and wide, obscuring his face from view. But not for long. He'd barely regained his balance when his hand, as though it couldn't stand the sudden burden of his weight, shifted and slid weakly down the slippery window.

Even over the raspy give and take of her breaths, Murphy heard him grunt. She watched the man's fingers coil loosely inward, his bluntly cut fingernails clawing the flakes of snow clinging to the outside of the glass before his hand dropped away entirely.

He collapsed to his knees. He didn't go down easily. In fact, he looked like he was fighting not only to stay conscious, but to get right back up.

It was a fight he lost.

Both his knees collided with the snow covered, frozen ground. His head snapped back, as though he'd been clipped in the jaw by an invisible fist.

His eyes opened, his gaze locking with Murphy's.

Through the breath-fogged glass, she watched as his eyelids reluctantly swooped down…a split second before he fell forward, face first in the snow beside her car.