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Synopsis
New York Times best-selling author Lisa Jackson revives two characters from her popular novel Deep Freeze in this sequel. Her heart-pounding crime novels are famous for their thrilling romances, and Fatal Burn turns up the heat. Last time we met her, Shannon Flannery struggled to prove her innocence when blamed for her husband's death. Now Shannon is sure someone is trying to kill her, but the only person who believes her is former Special Forces agent Travis Settler. When Shannon's daughter Dani-who she was forced to give up for adoption long ago-goes missing, he becomes convinced that secrets from Shannon's past are the reason for Dani's disappearance. A series of arsons and unsolved murders also appear to be connected to Shannon's family. Lisa Jackson injects every scene with drama as Shannon again attempts to save her name with only one man on her side. George Guidall's reading keeps the flames burning in this thrilling listen.
Release date: May 16, 2013
Publisher: Zebra Books
Print pages: 512
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Fatal Burn
Lisa Jackson
Indian summer
The forest near Santa Lucia, California
Three years earlier
He was late.
He checked his watch and the illuminated digital face glowed eerily in the pitch-dark forest.
Eleven fifty-seven.
Hell!
He’d never make it in time and would draw attention to himself, something he could ill afford.
Picking up his pace, he jogged along the uneven terrain, running downward in this stretch of low wooded hills, far away from civilization.
Far away from discovery.
The sounds of the night crept into his brain: the rustle of autumn leaves in the hot breeze, the snap of a dry twig beneath his hurried footsteps and the thunderous pounding of his own heart, thudding wildly, pumping adrenaline through his veins.
He sneaked a glance at his wrist, the face of his watch registering midnight. His jaw tightened. Perspiration seemed to pour from every inch of his skin and his nerves were strung tight as an assassin’s garrote.
Slow down! Don’t announce your presence by crashing through the underbrush like a wounded stag! Better to be a few minutes late than to destroy everything by making a clumsy racket.
He stopped, drew in several deep breaths and smelled the tinder-dry forest. Beneath his dark clothes he was sweating. From the hot night. From his exertion. From a sense of anticipation. And from fear.
He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and drew in a long, calming breath. Concentrate. Focus. Do not slip up. Not tonight.
Somewhere nearby an owl hooted softly and he took it as an omen. A good one. So he was late. He could handle it.
He hoped.
Once his heartbeat had slowed, he dug into the pocket of his tight-fitting jacket, found the ski mask and quickly pulled it over his head, adjusting the eye and nose holes.
Looking downward he saw the first flicker of light in the shadows. Then another.
Flashlights.
They were gathering.
His heart nearly stopped.
But there was no going back, not now. He was committed. Just as they were. There was a chance that he would be caught, that they all would, but it was a risk they were all willing to take.
He continued his descent.
As a full moon rose higher in the sky, he jogged the final quarter mile through the stands of live oak and pine. Forcing his heartbeat to slow, he slipped around a final bend in the trail to the clearing where the four others waited.
They were all dressed like he was, in black, their faces covered by dark ski masks. They stood about three feet from each other, in formation, what would be a circle as soon as he joined them. He felt all the hidden eyes stare at him as he stepped into the spot that completed the ring.
“You’re late,” a harsh voice whispered. The tallest was glaring at him. The leader.
Every muscle in his body tensed. He nodded. Didn’t reply. No excuse would be acceptable.
“There can be no errors. No delays!”
Again, he inclined his head, accepting the rebuke.
“Do not make this mistake again!”
The others stared at him, the offender. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Eventually they all turned their attention to the leader who was slightly taller than everyone else. There was something about him that emanated power, a fierceness that came through—something that said he was a man to be respected…and feared.
“We begin,” the leader went on, mollified, at least for the moment. With one final glance around the circle, the leader bent down to the ground. With a click of his lighter, he touched the small flame to a pile of twigs which crackled and caught. Small, glowing flickers of fire raced in a predetermined path. The smell of burning kerosene caught in the wind. One sharp point of fiery light became defined, then another as the symbol ignited, a blazing star burning on the clearing.
“Tonight it ends.” The leader straightened, taking his place at a tip of one star point. They each stood at the end of one of the projections, their boots dangerously close to the flames.
“No more!”
“Everything’s in place?” the person to his right asked in a hiss.
Man or woman?
He couldn’t tell.
“Yes.” The leader glanced at his watch. There was satisfaction in his tone, even pride, though his voice was still disguised. “You all know what you need to do. Tonight Ryan Carlyle pays for what he’s done. Tonight he dies.”
The latecomer’s heart clutched.
“Wait! No! This is a mistake,” another one of the group argued, as if a sudden sense of guilt had claimed him. Or was it a woman? The dissenter was certainly the shortest of the lot and was wearing clothes baggy enough to be deceiving. He was shaking his head as if grappling with his ethics. “We can’t do this. It’s murder. Premeditated murder.”
“It’s already been decided.” The leader was firm.
“There must be a better way.”
“The plan is already in motion. No one will ever find out.”
“But—”
“As I said, it’s been decided.” The whisper was scathing and cruel, daring the dissident to argue further.
All the unseen eyes turned on the one who had found the courage to object. He held his ground for a fraction of a second before his shoulders slumped in reluctant acceptance, as if there was nothing he could do. He argued no more.
“Good. Then we’re all in agreement.” The leader shot the protestor one final glance before outlining the simple but effective plan to put an end to Ryan Carlyle’s life.
No one asked a question.
Everyone understood.
“We’re in agreement?” the leader checked. There were nods all around, aside from the one dissenter. “We’re in agreement?” the leader demanded again harshly. The dissenter gave up his fight and hitched his chin quickly, as if afraid to utter even the slightest protest.
The leader snorted, satisfied, then moved his eyes from the objector to each member standing at a point of the star before zeroing in on the latecomer again.
Because he’d arrived a few minutes after midnight, the appointed time? Because of a basic animal mistrust? He felt the weight of the tall man’s stare and met it evenly.
“You all know your assignments. I expect you to execute them flawlessly.” No one spoke. “Leave,” the leader ordered. “Separately. Each the way you came. Discuss this with no one.”
As the flames in the star began to spread, searching for other sources of fuel, each of the five conspirators turned from the fire and disappeared into the forest.
He, too, did as he was bid, rotating quickly, ignoring the thundering of his heart and the sweat covering his body. Inside he was thrumming, his senses heightened. He jogged upward and hazarded one glance over his shoulder. Straining to listen, he heard nothing over the sound of his own labored breathing and the sigh of the wind as it rushed through the surrounding trees.
He was alone.
No one was following him.
No one would find out what he had planned.
Far below, in the clearing, the fire was beginning to take hold, the fiery star splintering and crawling rapidly through the summer-dry grass toward the surrounding woods.
He didn’t have much time. Yet he waited, eyes scanning the dark hillside, the seconds ticking away. Finally he heard the faraway sound of an engine starting, and then, barely a minute later, another car or truck roared to life.
Come on, come on, he thought, glancing at his watch and biting at the edge of his lip. Finally the sound of a third engine, barely discernable, revved to life, only to fade into the distance. Good.
He waited for the fourth vehicle to start.
A minute passed.
He lifted his mask and mopped his face, then pulled it over his head again. Just in case.
Another full minute ticked by.
What the hell was going on?
He felt the light touch of fear burn down his spine.
Don’t panic. Just wait.
But it shouldn’t take this long. Everyone should have been desperate to flee. Through the trees he spied the growing flames. Soon someone would see the fire, call it in.
Damn!
Maybe the leader had changed his mind, considered him a risk after all. Maybe showing up late had been a far worse mistake than he’d imagined and even now the leader of the secret band was stalking him, closing in.
Fists clenched, every sense alive, he searched the darkness.
Don’t lose it. There’s still time. Again he glanced at his watch. Nearly twelve-thirty. And the fire below was taking hold, crackling and burning, racing through the undergrowth.
His ears strained as the smell of smoke teased his nostrils…Was that the sound of a car’s engine roaring to life?
Five more minutes passed and he stood, sweating, muscles tight, ready to spring.
Still nothing.
Fuck!
He couldn’t waste another minute and decided to risk his plan. Swiftly he began running up the trail again, heading toward the little-used logging road high above, but at a fork in the path, he veered sharply right. Heart pounding, his nerves twisted and jangled, he angled along the side of the hill. His muscles were beginning to ache with the effort when he finally saw the abyss ahead of him, a deep chasm cut into the hillside.
He was close now. Could still make it.
Without hesitation, he found the large tree he’d used as a bridge earlier and carefully eased his way along the rough bark and through the broken limbs to the other side of the cleft. Far below, the fire continued to take hold, the flames glowing brighter, the smoke rising toward the night-dark heavens.
Hurry!
At the root-end of the log, he jumped to the ground, picked up another trail and followed it unerringly to a boulder the size of a man. Five paces uphill he found a tree split and blackened by lightning, cleaved as if God Himself had sliced the oak into two pieces.
At the base of that split trunk was his quarry.
Hands and ankles bound, tied to one side of the tree, mouth taped shut, his prisoner waited.
He flicked on his flashlight, saw that the captive’s wrists were bloody and raw, the skin sawed by the ropes as the man had tried to escape.
To no avail.
“The information was correct,” he said to his wide-eyed victim. Sweat ran down the bound man’s face and he looked frantically around him, as if hoping for rescue. “They want blood.”
Garbled noises came from the tied man’s throat.
“Your blood.”
The captive began thrashing, yanking at his restraints, and the torturer felt a pang of pity—a small one—for him. The garbled noises became louder, and he figured the captive was bartering for his pathetic life. Eyes bulging, the prisoner was shaking his head violently. No! No! No! As if there had been some terrible mistake.
But there was sweet justice in what was happening. He felt the warmth of it spreading through his veins, the adrenaline high in anticipation of what was about to come. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He shook one of the filter tips out, stuffing it casually between his lips as the pathetic creature tied to the tree watched in horror.
“Oh, yes, they definitely want Ryan Carlyle dead tonight,” he said, flicking his lighter to the end of his Marlboro and cupping his hand around the tip. The thin paper and tobacco ignited in a flare. He drew in deeply, tasting the smoke, feeling it curl as it filled his lungs.
The prisoner, his eyes wide, his body contorting, flailed as he struggled, his horrified screams muffled, blood running from his wrists.
“And you know what? I want him dead as well. But in a different way, in a way that better serves my purpose.” He found a kind of peace in thinking about the demise of Ryan Carlyle, all the ramifications it would cause.
His captive writhed and squirmed crazily. It appeared he was shouting invectives rather than pleading for his life or screaming in terror. Like a wounded animal, he threw himself away from the tree, stretching the ropes, as if he could somehow get free.
Too late.
The decision had been made.
Reaching into his pocket again, the tormentor came up with a syringe. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he pushed on the plunger a bit, spraying a bit of clear liquid into the night.
The prisoner was in full-blown panic but it made no difference. He was restrained, and it was no problem plunging the needle into his exposed arm and waiting for the drug to take effect. Standing back he watched as his victim’s eyes glazed and his movements became sluggish. The captive no longer pulled at his restraints, just rolled up his eyes at his tormentor in abject hatred.
And so it was time.
“Adios,” he said softly. He flipped his burning cigarette onto the dry forest floor. Fire immediately raced along pine needles, dead leaves and dry twigs, burning bright red, following a carefully laid trail around the base of the tree.
Snap!
A small branch caught fire.
Hiss!
A piece of moss ignited.
Smoke drifted lazily to the heavens as a trail of flames ringed the tree. He stepped back as the prisoner’s head lolled to one side.
“Sorry, Carlyle,” he said, shaking his head as the man, almost in slow motion, tried to tear at his bonds, ropes made of natural fiber, restraints that would become nothing more than ash and even if analyzed by the police would contain the same chemicals as the clothes he was wearing. That he had been tethered and bound would be difficult, if not impossible, to discern. Even the drug now rendering him helpless would dissipate and be hard to trace.
He stepped back several steps to stare at his victim, through a rising, crackling wall of hungry flames. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he said with more than a little satisfaction. “You’re a dead man.”
Three years later
“Help me!” she cried, but her voice was mute.
She was running, her legs leaden, fear propelling her forward through the smoke, through the heat. All around her the forest was burning out of control. Hot, scalding flames spiraled hellishly to the sky. Smoke clogged her throat, searing her nostrils with the hot, acrid smell. Her lungs burned. Her eyes teared, her skin blistered.
Blackened tree limbs fell around her, crashing and splintering as she ran. Sprays of sparks peppered the already-burning ground and singed her skin.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!
It was as if she’d somehow fallen through the gates of hell.
“Help!” she screamed again, but her voice was lodged in her throat, not even the barest of whispers escaping her lips. “Please, someone help me!”
But she was alone.
There was no one to help her this time.
Her brothers, always quick to her rescue, couldn’t save her.
Oh, dear God.
Run, damn it! MOVE! Get out, Shannon! Now!
She flung herself forward, stumbling, half-falling, the fire a raging, burning beast, its putrid breath scalding, its crackling arms reaching for her, enwrapping her, sizzling against her skin.
Just when she thought she was going to die, that she would be consumed, the fire, with a roar, shrank back. Disappeared. The black smoke turned into a thick white fog and she was suddenly running through fields of smoldering ash, the smell of burning flesh heavy in her nostrils, the ground an arid, vast wasteland.
And everywhere there were bones.
Piles and piles of charred, bleached bones.
White skeletons of animals and people, all flecked with ash.
Cats. Dogs. Horses. Humans.
In her mind’s eye, the skeletons became members of her family and though they were only bones, she superimposed faces to the skulls. Her mother. Her father. Her baby.
Pain cut through her at the thought of her child.
No! No! No!
These were only skeletons.
No one she knew.
They couldn’t be.
The smell of death and the receding fire burned through her nostrils.
She tried to back away, to escape, but as she moved, she tripped on the scattered bones. She fell and the skeletons broke beneath her. Frantic, clawing wildly, she tried to stand, to run, to get away from this thick, rattling pile.
Brrrrring.
A siren blasted. As if from the distance.
Her heart jolted. Someone was coming!
Oh, please!
Turning, she saw one of the skeletons move, its grotesque, half-burned head turning to face her. Pieces of charred flesh hung from the skull’s cheekbones and most of its black hair was singed, the eyes sunken in their sockets, but they wereeyes she recognized, eyes she’d trusted, eyes she’d once loved. And they stared at her, blinked, and silently accused her of unspeakable crimes.
No, she thought wildly. No, no, no!
How could something this hideous be alive?
She screamed but her voice was mute.
“Ssssshannon…” Her husband’s voice hissed evilly through her brain. Goose pimples covered her skin despite the heat. “Ssssshannon.” It seemed as if his face was taking shape, the blackened flesh filling in, stretching over the bones, cartilage filling the nose hole, sunken eyes staring fixedly at her.
She tried again.
Brrring! The siren. No—a phone. Her phone.
Shannon sat bolt upright in bed. Sweat ran down her back and her heart thundered a million beats a minute. It was dark, she was in her room tucked under the eaves of her small cottage. On a sob, she felt sweet relief swell through her. It was a dream. Only a dream. No, a sick, twisted nightmare.
On the floor beside her, the dog gave a disgruntled bark.
Another sharp blast from the telephone.
“Mary, Joseph and Jesus,” she whispered, using her mother’s rarely called-upon phrase of abject surprise. “What’s the matter with me?” Shoving her hair from her eyes she exhaled shakily. The room was hot, the summer air without a breath of a breeze. Flinging off the damp sheets, she gasped as if she’d just run a marathon. “A dream,” she reminded herself, a headache creeping behind her eyes. “Just another damned dream.”
Heart thudding she yanked the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
No answer.
Just silence…then something more…the sound of soft breathing?
She glanced at the bedside clock: 12:07 flashed in red, digital numbers large enough that she could read the time without her contact lenses. “Hello!”
She was suddenly wide-awake.
Quickly she switched on the bedside lamp. Who would be calling at this time of night? What was it her mother always said? Nothing good happens after midnight. Her heart pounded. She thought of her parents, aging and frail. Had there been an accident? Was someone in her family hurt? Missing? Or worse?
“Hello!” she said again, louder, then realized if there was a problem, if the police or one of her brothers were calling, they would have said something immediately. “Who is this?” she demanded, then wondered if she was the victim of some cruel prank.
Just like before. She cringed as she remembered the last time…Suddenly clammy, she recalled playing that crank-calling game at slumber parties in junior high school: call strangers in the middle of the night and whisper something meant to scare.
But that had been a lifetime ago and now, tonight, holding the damned receiver to her ear, she was in no mood for this kind of sophomoric, idiotic joke. “Look, either you answer or I hang up.” She could still make out the faint sound of raspy, almost excited breathing. “Fine! Have it your way.” She slammed the receiver down. “Creep,” she muttered under her breath and wasn’t even glad that whoever it was had jarred her out of that awful nightmare.
Damn, but it had been real. So visceral. So disturbing. Even now, she was still sweating, her skin crawling, the stench of smoke still lodged in her nostrils. Running a hand over her eyes, she released a long, slow breath and forced the images to recede. It was a dream, nothing else, she told herself, as she reached for the receiver of the phone again and checked the caller ID. The last number to call in, at 12:07, was blocked. No name. No number.
“Big surprise,” she muttered under her breath and tried to tamp down her unease. It was just some bored kids dialing numbers at random, hoping to get a reaction. Right? She stared at the phone and frowned. Who else could it be?
Her dog, Khan, a mixed breed with some Australian shepherd ancestry visible in his mottled coat and mismatched eyes, let out another soft bark from his spot on the rag rug beside her bed. He looked up at her hopefully and thumped his tail on the floorboards as if he expected her to let him onto the bed.
“Are you nuts?” she asked, rolling over and reaching down to scratch him behind one ear. “It’s midnight and you and I both need to sleep, so don’t even think about getting up here, okay? I just need something for this headache.” She rolled off the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
As she stepped into the cramped room, she heard the soft thump of Khan hopping onto the bed. “Get down!” she ordered and flipped on the light. She heard the dog land on the floor again. “Nice try, Khan.”
Some dog trainer you are, she thought as she scraped her hair away from her face, holding a handful of curls in one clenched fist. You can get search and rescue dogs into disaster areas, burning buildings and even into the water, but you can’t keep that mutt off the bed.
Leaning over the sink, she turned on the spigot with her free hand and drank from the faucet, letting water splash against her flushed skin as the remnants of the nightmare burned at the corners of her brain.
Don’t go there!
Ryan had been dead for three years and in that time she’d been accused and absolved of killing him. “So get over it,” she grumbled, snatching a towel from the rack and dabbing it over her face and chest. The nightmares, her shrink had assured her, would lessen over time.
So far that hadn’t proved true. She looked into the mirror over the sink, reflective glass clamped over the medicine cabinet, and cringed. Dark smudges appeared beneath her red-veined eyes. Her auburn hair was tangled, a mess from restless sleep, damp ringlets clinging to her skin. Tiny lines of anxiety appeared in the pinch of her lips and the corners of her eyes.
“The face of an angel hiding Satan’s tongue,” her brother Neville had said after they’d been involved in a particularly brutal argument when she was around fourteen.
Not tonight, she thought sourly, as she grabbed a washcloth from an open shelf, rinsed it under the water and dabbed the wet rag over her skin.
Neville. She still missed him horribly and that particular knot of sorrow when she thought of him tightened painfully in her chest. Technically, since Neville had been born a scant seven minutes after his twin brother, Oliver, Neville had been the closest in age to Shannon, who’d come along nearly two years later, the last of Patrick and Maureen Flannery’s brood of six children. Though Oliver and Neville had shared that special “twin bond,” she, too, had felt an intimacy with Neville that she never experienced with the rest of her siblings.
She wished Neville was here now. He’d rumple her hair, smile crookedly and say, “You worry too much, Shannon. It was just a dream.”
“And a phone call,” she would reply. “A weird phone call.”
“A wrong number.”
“At midnight?”
“Hey, somewhere in the world it’s already happy hour. Chill out.”
“Right,” she muttered, like she could. She soaked the cloth again, wrung it between her hands, then placed it at the base of her neck. A headache, brought on by the nightmare, pounded at the base of her skull. Reaching into the cabinet, she found a bottle of ibuprofen and tossed two pills into her palm before chasing them down with another long swallow from the tap. She saw the bottle of sleeping pills on the shelf under the mirror, the ones Dr. Brennan had prescribed three years earlier. She considered taking a couple, then discarded the idea. Tomorrow morning—no, later this morning—she couldn’t afford to be groggy or sluggish. She had several training sessions scheduled with some new dogs and she was supposed to sign papers on her new place—a bigger ranch. Although the move was still weeks away, the deal was falling into place.
Remembering the property she was going to buy, she felt another jab of distress. Just last week, when she’d walked the perimeter of the ranch, she’d felt as if she was being watched, that there had been unseen eyes hidden behind the gnarled trunks of the black oaks. Even Khan had seemed edgy that day. Nervous.
Get over it, she mentally berated herself. Unlike most of the dogs she trained, Khan wasn’t known for his intuition. No one had been following her, watching her every move. She wasn’t in some kind of horror movie, for God’s sake. No one had been hiding in the shaded forest that surrounded the place, no sinister being had been observing her from the outcropping of rocks on a nearby hillside. No one, other than herself, had been there at all.
She was just antsy about plunking down all of her inheritance and savings on the new place. And why wouldn’t she be? Her brothers had all been against her plan and each had enough nerve to tell her the vastness of her mistake.
“This isn’t what Dad would have wanted,” Shea had pointed out the last time he’d stopped by. His black hair had gleamed blue in the lamplight as he’d stood on her porch while smoking a cigarette, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Dad spent his entire life scrimping, saving and investing and wouldn’t want you to squander your share on a run-down, overgrown farm.”
“You haven’t even seen the place,” she’d charged, undeterred. “And don’t pull out the violin and crying towel. Dad always trusted my decisions.”
Shea had given her a dark, unfathomable look, drawing hard on his cigarette and giving Shannon the distinct impression that she hadn’t known their father at all.
“Dad always backed me up,” she said, her voice faltering just a bit.
“I’m just tellin’ ya.” He blew out a plume of gray smoke, then tossed his cigarette butt into the dust and gravel of the lot separating the house from the barns and other outbuildings. “Be careful, Shannon, with your money and yourself.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
The cigarette smoldered, trailing a tiny wisp of smoke.
“Just that sometimes you’re impetuous.” He cocked his head and winked at her. “You know. All part of the Flannery curse.”
“Don’t even go there. That’s the biggest load of bull I’ve ever heard. Just a way for Mom to get back at Dad. Flannery curse? Come on, Shea.”
He lifted a dark brow. For a second he’d looked like one of those caricatures of Satan with his knowing leer and upraised eyebrows. “I’m just saying.”
“Yeah, well, I’m buying the place and that’s that.”
Now, a week later, she wondered what that was all about. It was almost as if her brother had been warning her.
And Shea hadn’t been the only naysayer. Oh, no! Her other brothers had weighed in over the past few weeks, grown men who seemed to think they still held some sway over her. She snorted in disgust as she remembered Robert advising her to put her money in the bank. But she would only earn some pittance on it. Robert! The man was running through his share of the inheritance like water, buying a sports car and going through a major midlife crisis that included ditching his wife and kids. As for Aaron, her oldest sibling, he’d already lost some of his money on speculative stocks. Not to mention that weekend in Reno and the rumors of him having been up thirty thousand dollars at the blackjack table, only to end up losing and playing double-up to catch up. It hadn’t worked and Aaron had been touchy about it ever since.
Then there was Oliver, who was pledging all of his money to the church and God. Of course, she thought, frowning, wondering if Oliver’s sudden renewed faith was because of her. Guilt dug a deeper hole in her heart as she remembered that after the accident, when Ryan had lost his life and Neville had disappeared, Oliver had turned ultrareligious, to the point that he’d applied to the seminary and now was studying for the priesthood. Her part in his newfound faith was murky. Unclear. However, her being accused of her husband’s murder had been a factor.
Shannon shrugged it off, wouldn’t revisit that familiar but forbidden territory.
She suspected her brother Shea was the one who’d been careful with his share of the inheritance. But then, he was always careful. With his money. With his life. A secretive sort, who trod softly but heavily armed. He not only carried a big stick but a bazooka and grenades as well.
Who were her brothers to offer up advice? They could spout their negative opinions until hell froze over, but she’d do what she thought best. She was nothing if not as stubborn as they were.
It was probably all their negative vibes that had made her nervous the last time she’d walked the overgrown acres. That was all.
Then why, suddenly, was she so anxious? Not sleeping? Jumping at shadows? Awaking from god-awful nightmares?
She grimaced and dropped her washcloth into the sink. Maybe it was time to visit her shrink again. It had been over a year since she’d felt strong enough to end the weekly sessions that had helped her sort out her life.
Though she didn’t much like the thought, maybe she truly was one of those people who needed therapy just to keep functioning.
“Great,” she muttered.
Lord, it was hot. The temperatures had been teetering around one hundred all week, the evenings barely cooling into the high eighties. All over town there was talk of a serious drought and, of course, the escalating threat of fire.
She refused to gaze at her reflection again. “You’ll look better in the morning,” she said, then wondered if there was enough foundation in the warehouses of Revlon to make her appear fresh-faced. She couldn’t begin to imagine how many drops of Visine it was going to take when she slipped her contact lenses into her eyes in a few hours.
Her mouth tasted foul. She rubbed some toothpaste over her teeth, rinsed, then twisted hard on the handles of the dripping faucet, listening as the old pipes groaned in protest. Still the scent of smoke and fire lingered.
Dabbing her mouth dry with a hand towel, she wondered why she couldn’t get the acrid odor out of her nostrils.
At that moment she heard Khan growl. Low. Warning.
Still holding the towel she glanced through the doorway and saw a gray-and-brown blur as he leapt onto the bed.
“What the devil?” she asked as he stared out the window.
Only then did she realize what was wrong. The smoke still lingered in her nose and throat because it was more than just a conjured image in her dream. It was real.
Her heart nearly stopped. She raced across the floor as Khan, body stiff, hackles on end, began to bark wildly.
Oh, God, what was it?
Fear crawled up her spine. She peered anxiously through the screen and saw nothing but the night. A sliver of moon was rising over the surrounding hills and beginning to lighten the five acres abutting her property, an expanse of arid, weed-infested fields that was about to be turned into a subdivision. A sudden gust of dry wind, bearing hard from the east, stole through the valley, shook the branches of the trees near the house and rustled the already dead and dying leaves.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Except for the smell.
Her fear deepened.
Khan growled again, his head low, eyes peering through the open window. Suddenly aware that her naked body was silhouetted against the lamp glow, she clicked off the light, then scrounged blindly in the drawer of the nightstand for her glasses. All the while her gaze moved over the shadowy, moon-dappled ground. She saw nothing…or was that a glow in the south pasture? Oh, Jesus. Her throat closed. She found her glasses, knocking over the bedside lamp as she yanked them from their case. In a second she had them perched over the bridge of her nose and was squinting into the darkness.
The glow was gone…there was no eerie light, no crackling flames…but the thin smell of smoke lingered. She could taste it on her tongue.
Could it be from inside the house?
Then why was the dog looking out the window?
She reached for the phone, intent upon calling Nate Santana, who lived above the garage, then remembered he was gone for the week, the first vacation he’d taken in years. “Damn.” She clenched her teeth. There was no one else she felt she could call about a possible emergency at midnight. Not even her brothers, who still, after three years, thought she was slightly off-kilter.
Every muscle tense, she hurried across the hardwood floor to the dormer that poked over the roof on the other side of the room. She cautiously peered through the window that gave a view over the front of the house, across the gravel lot to the barns, kennels and sheds. Squinting through the wash of eerie light from the security lamps, she saw nothing disturbed, nothing that warranted the dog being nervous.
Maybe Khan heard an owl or a bat.
Or sensed a deer or raccoon wandering across the back fields.
And you, you’re just edgy, reacting to the bad dream and weird phone call…
But it didn’t explain the slight hint of smoke still lingering in the air. “Come on,” she said to the dog. “Let’s investigate.” She headed down the steps without snapping on any lights and Khan flew past her, nearly knocking her over, his claws clicking noisily on the stairs as he led the way to the front door. Once in the small foyer he stood, nose to the door, muscles taut.
By now she wasn’t buying his act.
She stood on her tiptoes and peered through the small windows cut into the oak panels of the door. Outside the night was still, the wind having died quickly. Her truck was parked where she’d left it in front of the garage, the doors to the sheds and barns were closed, the parking lot empty. The windows in Nate’s apartment over the garage were dark.
See? Nothing more than your imagination working overtime again.
She tried to relax, but the knot of tension between her shoulder blades didn’t loosen. Her headache raged on—unfazed by the pain relievers she’d downed.
Shannon walked into the kitchen and looked through the larger window with its view of the parking lot and small paddocks, which she used as training grounds for the search and rescue dogs she worked with. The dogs in the kennels weren’t barking, no sound issuing from the barn where the horses Nate trained were stabled. No one was lurking in the shadows.
Khan, unmoving, whined near the door. “False alarm,” she told him and silently chided herself for being such a coward.
When had that happened? When had her sense of adventure dissolved? She, who had grown up with all those older brothers, who had never shown any fear and insisted upon doing everything they did, who had never been frightened of anything. When had she turned into a scaredy-cat?
Shannon had grown up around these parts. She’d been a tomboy. As a child, she’d been nearly fearless. She’d learned to ride a two-wheeler bicycle before her fourth birthday, and by the time she was eighteen, she’d driven her oldest brother’s Harley—south down Highway 101—along the entire length of the rugged California coastline. She’d ridden horses bareback as a child, even entered barrel-racing competitions at a local rodeo. At fifteen, behind her parents’ back she and two friends had hitchhiked to an outdoor concert at Red Rocks Amphitheatre outside of Denver. Later, she’d survived an accident where she’d been at the wheel of Robert’s new Mustang convertible. The car ended up in a deep ditch, nose and engine first, and had been totaled; she’d managed to get out of it with a broken collarbone, a sprained wrist, two black eyes and a battered ego. She suspected that to this day, Robert had never forgiven her.
It was no wonder that when she’d fallen in love, she’d fallen fast, hard, and hadn’t believed for a second that anything but wonderful things would come of it.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath when she thought of Brendan Giles, her first love. How foolish and head over heels she’d been, crushed when it had ended…
To dispel her dark thoughts, she opened the refrigerator and rummaged behind a six-pack of Diet Pepsi to find a chilled bottle of water. Snagging the water, she closed the refrigerator, once again plunging the kitchen into darkness. Resting her hips against the counter, she pressed the cold plastic bottle against her forehead as sweat continued to run down her back.
Air-conditioning. That’s what she needed. Air-conditioning and a way to keep idiots from calling her in the middle of the night.
Khan finally gave up his vigil, trotting by her and scratching at the back door. His hackles were no longer raised and he glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes pleading, as if he couldn’t wait to go out and lift his leg on the first available shrub.
“Sure, why not?” she muttered. “Knock yourself out.” Still holding the bottle to her head, she unlatched the back door. “Just don’t make a habit of this. It is the middle of the night.” Khan rocketed outside and she followed, hoping for some relief from the heat. Maybe a breeze would kick up.
No such luck.
The night was hot and still.
Breathless.
Shannon took one step onto the porch when her gaze caught something out of place, a piece of white paper tacked to one of the posts supporting the overhang from the roof. Goose bumps chased a quick path up her spine even though the paper might be nothing. Someone leaving a note.
At night? Why not just call…?
Her blood chilled. Maybe whoever had left the piece of paper had phoned.
She stepped backwards and leaned inside the kitchen, slapping at the wall until she hit the light switch and the porch was suddenly awash with incandescence from the two overhead lightbulbs.
She froze.
Her gaze riveted to the paper.
“Oh, God.”
Shannon’s insides turned to water as she stared at the scrap of white. It had been singed, the edges curling and black. And someone had tacked it to the post with a green pushpin.
Heart thundering in her ears, Shannon stepped closer. The charred paper was a form of some kind, she realized. Adjusting her glasses she read the smudged, partially burned words that were still visible in the middle of the document.
Mother’s name: Shannon Leah Flan—
Father’s name: Brendan Giles
She gasped.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
Date of Birth: September twenty-thr—
Time of Birth: 12:07A.M.
“No!” she cried, dropping the water bottle and hearing it roll off the porch as if from a distance. September twenty-three! Her mind raced. Tomorrow. No, that was wrong. It was already after midnight, so today was the twenty-third of September and the call…Oh, God, the phone call had come in at precisely 12:07. Knees buckling, she leaned against the porch rail, her gaze scouring the darkness, searching for whoever had done this to her, whoever had wanted to bring back all the pain. “You son of a bitch,” she bit out through clenched teeth. Despite the hot night she was chilled to the core.
Thirteen years ago, on September twenty-third, at exactly seven minutes after twelve midnight, Shannon had given birth to a seven-pound baby girl.
She hadn’t seen the child since.
He stood before the fire, feeling its heat, listening to the crackle of flames as they devoured the tinder-dry kindling. With all the shades drawn, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking.
Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself undress, looked at his perfectly honed body, muscles moving easily, flexing, and sliding beneath the taut skin of an athlete.
He glanced at his eyes. Blue. Icy. Described by one woman as “bedroom eyes,” by another as “cold eyes,” by yet another unsuspecting woman as “eyes that had seen too much.”
They’d all been right, he thought, and flashed a smile. A “killer smile,” he’d heard.
Bingo.
The women had no idea how close to the truth they’d all been.
He was handsome and he knew it. Not good-looking enough to turn heads on the street, but so interesting that women, once they noticed him, had trouble looking away.
There had been a time when he’d picked and chosen and rarely been denied.
He unbuckled his leather belt, let it fall to the hardwood floor. His slacks slid easily off his butt down his legs and pooled at his feet. He hadn’t bothered with boxers or jockeys. Who cared? It was all about outward appearances.
Always.
His smile fell away as he walked closer to the mantel, feeling the heat already radiating from the old bricks. Pictures in frames stood at attention upon the smooth wood. Images he’d caught when his subject didn’t realize he or she was on camera. People who knew him. Or of him. People who had to pay. The kid, the old lady, the brothers. All caught on film without their knowledge.
Fools!
Behind the pictures was his hunting knife. Bone-handled with a thin steel blade that could cut easily, slice through any living thing. Fur, skin, hide, muscle, bone, sinew—all cleaved easily with the right amount of exertion.
The knife was his second choice for a weapon.
His first was gasoline and a match…but sometimes that just wasn’t enough.
He tested the blade against his palm and sure enough, though he barely touched his skin, a thin trail of blood emerged, drops of red that formed the shallowest of slits that ran parallel to his lifeline.
He saw an irony in that and ignored the other tiny scars on his palm, evidence of his fascination with the blade. He watched the red trail widen and ooze and when there was enough blood to form a thick drop, he held his palm over the fire. Feeling its heat, nearly burning his skin, he stared as the red droplet plunged downward to sizzle and burn as it met the eager flames.
“Tonight it starts,” he vowed, having completed the first phase of his plan, the hint warning her that he was afoot. Within the hour he’d start the next phase by traveling steadily north. And by evening the next step would be accomplished. He’d start with the old woman—what did she call herself? Blanche Johnson? Yeah, right. He snorted at her ridiculous attempt at anonymity. He knew who she really was, disguised as that silly old piano teacher in her knit scarves. And she would pay, just as Shannon Flannery would. Just as the rest of them would.
He fingered the knife. He’d start with Blanche; and then, once he’d lured the girl away, it would be Shannon’s turn. Shannon and the others. He let his gaze wander over the pictures until they came to the slightly larger, framed shot of Shannon. Jaw tight, he stared at her gorgeous face.
Innocent and sexy, sweet yet seductive.
And guilty as hell.
He traced a finger along her hairline, his guts churning as he noticed her green eyes, slightly freckled nose, thick waves of unruly auburn curls. Her skin was pale, her eyes lively, her smile tenuous, as if she’d sensed him hiding in the shadowy trees, his lens poised at her heart-shaped face.
The dog, some kind of scraggly mutt, had appeared from the other side of the woods, lifted his nose in the air as he’d reached her, trembled, growled, and nearly given him away. Shannon had given the cur a short command and peered into the woods.
By that time he’d been slipping away. Silently moving through the dark trees and brush, putting distance between them, heading upwind. He’d gotten his snapshots. He’d needed nothing more.
Then.
Because the timing hadn’t been right.
But now…
The fire glowed bright, seemed to pulse with life as it grew, giving the bare room a warm, rosy glow. He stared again at his image. So perfect in the mirror.
He turned, facing away from the reflection.
Looking over his shoulder, he gritted those perfect white teeth, gnashing them together as he saw the mirror’s cruel image of his back, the skin scarred and shiny, looking as if it had melted from his body.
He remembered the fire.
The agony of his flesh being burned from his bones.
He’d never forget.
Not for as long as he drew a breath on this godforsaken planet.
And those who had done this to him would pay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the picture of Shannon again. Beautiful and wary, as if she knew her life was about to change forever.
But first, he needed bait.
To get the woman to do his bidding.
He smiled to himself. How fortunate the daughter was living in Falls Crossing, a small town in Oregon on the banks of the Columbia River. He knew it well. Had visited. Had waited. Had watched.
It was fate. . .
The forest near Santa Lucia, California
Three years earlier
He was late.
He checked his watch and the illuminated digital face glowed eerily in the pitch-dark forest.
Eleven fifty-seven.
Hell!
He’d never make it in time and would draw attention to himself, something he could ill afford.
Picking up his pace, he jogged along the uneven terrain, running downward in this stretch of low wooded hills, far away from civilization.
Far away from discovery.
The sounds of the night crept into his brain: the rustle of autumn leaves in the hot breeze, the snap of a dry twig beneath his hurried footsteps and the thunderous pounding of his own heart, thudding wildly, pumping adrenaline through his veins.
He sneaked a glance at his wrist, the face of his watch registering midnight. His jaw tightened. Perspiration seemed to pour from every inch of his skin and his nerves were strung tight as an assassin’s garrote.
Slow down! Don’t announce your presence by crashing through the underbrush like a wounded stag! Better to be a few minutes late than to destroy everything by making a clumsy racket.
He stopped, drew in several deep breaths and smelled the tinder-dry forest. Beneath his dark clothes he was sweating. From the hot night. From his exertion. From a sense of anticipation. And from fear.
He swiped at the moisture in his eyes and drew in a long, calming breath. Concentrate. Focus. Do not slip up. Not tonight.
Somewhere nearby an owl hooted softly and he took it as an omen. A good one. So he was late. He could handle it.
He hoped.
Once his heartbeat had slowed, he dug into the pocket of his tight-fitting jacket, found the ski mask and quickly pulled it over his head, adjusting the eye and nose holes.
Looking downward he saw the first flicker of light in the shadows. Then another.
Flashlights.
They were gathering.
His heart nearly stopped.
But there was no going back, not now. He was committed. Just as they were. There was a chance that he would be caught, that they all would, but it was a risk they were all willing to take.
He continued his descent.
As a full moon rose higher in the sky, he jogged the final quarter mile through the stands of live oak and pine. Forcing his heartbeat to slow, he slipped around a final bend in the trail to the clearing where the four others waited.
They were all dressed like he was, in black, their faces covered by dark ski masks. They stood about three feet from each other, in formation, what would be a circle as soon as he joined them. He felt all the hidden eyes stare at him as he stepped into the spot that completed the ring.
“You’re late,” a harsh voice whispered. The tallest was glaring at him. The leader.
Every muscle in his body tensed. He nodded. Didn’t reply. No excuse would be acceptable.
“There can be no errors. No delays!”
Again, he inclined his head, accepting the rebuke.
“Do not make this mistake again!”
The others stared at him, the offender. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Eventually they all turned their attention to the leader who was slightly taller than everyone else. There was something about him that emanated power, a fierceness that came through—something that said he was a man to be respected…and feared.
“We begin,” the leader went on, mollified, at least for the moment. With one final glance around the circle, the leader bent down to the ground. With a click of his lighter, he touched the small flame to a pile of twigs which crackled and caught. Small, glowing flickers of fire raced in a predetermined path. The smell of burning kerosene caught in the wind. One sharp point of fiery light became defined, then another as the symbol ignited, a blazing star burning on the clearing.
“Tonight it ends.” The leader straightened, taking his place at a tip of one star point. They each stood at the end of one of the projections, their boots dangerously close to the flames.
“No more!”
“Everything’s in place?” the person to his right asked in a hiss.
Man or woman?
He couldn’t tell.
“Yes.” The leader glanced at his watch. There was satisfaction in his tone, even pride, though his voice was still disguised. “You all know what you need to do. Tonight Ryan Carlyle pays for what he’s done. Tonight he dies.”
The latecomer’s heart clutched.
“Wait! No! This is a mistake,” another one of the group argued, as if a sudden sense of guilt had claimed him. Or was it a woman? The dissenter was certainly the shortest of the lot and was wearing clothes baggy enough to be deceiving. He was shaking his head as if grappling with his ethics. “We can’t do this. It’s murder. Premeditated murder.”
“It’s already been decided.” The leader was firm.
“There must be a better way.”
“The plan is already in motion. No one will ever find out.”
“But—”
“As I said, it’s been decided.” The whisper was scathing and cruel, daring the dissident to argue further.
All the unseen eyes turned on the one who had found the courage to object. He held his ground for a fraction of a second before his shoulders slumped in reluctant acceptance, as if there was nothing he could do. He argued no more.
“Good. Then we’re all in agreement.” The leader shot the protestor one final glance before outlining the simple but effective plan to put an end to Ryan Carlyle’s life.
No one asked a question.
Everyone understood.
“We’re in agreement?” the leader checked. There were nods all around, aside from the one dissenter. “We’re in agreement?” the leader demanded again harshly. The dissenter gave up his fight and hitched his chin quickly, as if afraid to utter even the slightest protest.
The leader snorted, satisfied, then moved his eyes from the objector to each member standing at a point of the star before zeroing in on the latecomer again.
Because he’d arrived a few minutes after midnight, the appointed time? Because of a basic animal mistrust? He felt the weight of the tall man’s stare and met it evenly.
“You all know your assignments. I expect you to execute them flawlessly.” No one spoke. “Leave,” the leader ordered. “Separately. Each the way you came. Discuss this with no one.”
As the flames in the star began to spread, searching for other sources of fuel, each of the five conspirators turned from the fire and disappeared into the forest.
He, too, did as he was bid, rotating quickly, ignoring the thundering of his heart and the sweat covering his body. Inside he was thrumming, his senses heightened. He jogged upward and hazarded one glance over his shoulder. Straining to listen, he heard nothing over the sound of his own labored breathing and the sigh of the wind as it rushed through the surrounding trees.
He was alone.
No one was following him.
No one would find out what he had planned.
Far below, in the clearing, the fire was beginning to take hold, the fiery star splintering and crawling rapidly through the summer-dry grass toward the surrounding woods.
He didn’t have much time. Yet he waited, eyes scanning the dark hillside, the seconds ticking away. Finally he heard the faraway sound of an engine starting, and then, barely a minute later, another car or truck roared to life.
Come on, come on, he thought, glancing at his watch and biting at the edge of his lip. Finally the sound of a third engine, barely discernable, revved to life, only to fade into the distance. Good.
He waited for the fourth vehicle to start.
A minute passed.
He lifted his mask and mopped his face, then pulled it over his head again. Just in case.
Another full minute ticked by.
What the hell was going on?
He felt the light touch of fear burn down his spine.
Don’t panic. Just wait.
But it shouldn’t take this long. Everyone should have been desperate to flee. Through the trees he spied the growing flames. Soon someone would see the fire, call it in.
Damn!
Maybe the leader had changed his mind, considered him a risk after all. Maybe showing up late had been a far worse mistake than he’d imagined and even now the leader of the secret band was stalking him, closing in.
Fists clenched, every sense alive, he searched the darkness.
Don’t lose it. There’s still time. Again he glanced at his watch. Nearly twelve-thirty. And the fire below was taking hold, crackling and burning, racing through the undergrowth.
His ears strained as the smell of smoke teased his nostrils…Was that the sound of a car’s engine roaring to life?
Five more minutes passed and he stood, sweating, muscles tight, ready to spring.
Still nothing.
Fuck!
He couldn’t waste another minute and decided to risk his plan. Swiftly he began running up the trail again, heading toward the little-used logging road high above, but at a fork in the path, he veered sharply right. Heart pounding, his nerves twisted and jangled, he angled along the side of the hill. His muscles were beginning to ache with the effort when he finally saw the abyss ahead of him, a deep chasm cut into the hillside.
He was close now. Could still make it.
Without hesitation, he found the large tree he’d used as a bridge earlier and carefully eased his way along the rough bark and through the broken limbs to the other side of the cleft. Far below, the fire continued to take hold, the flames glowing brighter, the smoke rising toward the night-dark heavens.
Hurry!
At the root-end of the log, he jumped to the ground, picked up another trail and followed it unerringly to a boulder the size of a man. Five paces uphill he found a tree split and blackened by lightning, cleaved as if God Himself had sliced the oak into two pieces.
At the base of that split trunk was his quarry.
Hands and ankles bound, tied to one side of the tree, mouth taped shut, his prisoner waited.
He flicked on his flashlight, saw that the captive’s wrists were bloody and raw, the skin sawed by the ropes as the man had tried to escape.
To no avail.
“The information was correct,” he said to his wide-eyed victim. Sweat ran down the bound man’s face and he looked frantically around him, as if hoping for rescue. “They want blood.”
Garbled noises came from the tied man’s throat.
“Your blood.”
The captive began thrashing, yanking at his restraints, and the torturer felt a pang of pity—a small one—for him. The garbled noises became louder, and he figured the captive was bartering for his pathetic life. Eyes bulging, the prisoner was shaking his head violently. No! No! No! As if there had been some terrible mistake.
But there was sweet justice in what was happening. He felt the warmth of it spreading through his veins, the adrenaline high in anticipation of what was about to come. Slowly, he reached into the pocket of his pants and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He shook one of the filter tips out, stuffing it casually between his lips as the pathetic creature tied to the tree watched in horror.
“Oh, yes, they definitely want Ryan Carlyle dead tonight,” he said, flicking his lighter to the end of his Marlboro and cupping his hand around the tip. The thin paper and tobacco ignited in a flare. He drew in deeply, tasting the smoke, feeling it curl as it filled his lungs.
The prisoner, his eyes wide, his body contorting, flailed as he struggled, his horrified screams muffled, blood running from his wrists.
“And you know what? I want him dead as well. But in a different way, in a way that better serves my purpose.” He found a kind of peace in thinking about the demise of Ryan Carlyle, all the ramifications it would cause.
His captive writhed and squirmed crazily. It appeared he was shouting invectives rather than pleading for his life or screaming in terror. Like a wounded animal, he threw himself away from the tree, stretching the ropes, as if he could somehow get free.
Too late.
The decision had been made.
Reaching into his pocket again, the tormentor came up with a syringe. Holding the cigarette between his lips, he pushed on the plunger a bit, spraying a bit of clear liquid into the night.
The prisoner was in full-blown panic but it made no difference. He was restrained, and it was no problem plunging the needle into his exposed arm and waiting for the drug to take effect. Standing back he watched as his victim’s eyes glazed and his movements became sluggish. The captive no longer pulled at his restraints, just rolled up his eyes at his tormentor in abject hatred.
And so it was time.
“Adios,” he said softly. He flipped his burning cigarette onto the dry forest floor. Fire immediately raced along pine needles, dead leaves and dry twigs, burning bright red, following a carefully laid trail around the base of the tree.
Snap!
A small branch caught fire.
Hiss!
A piece of moss ignited.
Smoke drifted lazily to the heavens as a trail of flames ringed the tree. He stepped back as the prisoner’s head lolled to one side.
“Sorry, Carlyle,” he said, shaking his head as the man, almost in slow motion, tried to tear at his bonds, ropes made of natural fiber, restraints that would become nothing more than ash and even if analyzed by the police would contain the same chemicals as the clothes he was wearing. That he had been tethered and bound would be difficult, if not impossible, to discern. Even the drug now rendering him helpless would dissipate and be hard to trace.
He stepped back several steps to stare at his victim, through a rising, crackling wall of hungry flames. “There’s nothing more I can do,” he said with more than a little satisfaction. “You’re a dead man.”
Three years later
“Help me!” she cried, but her voice was mute.
She was running, her legs leaden, fear propelling her forward through the smoke, through the heat. All around her the forest was burning out of control. Hot, scalding flames spiraled hellishly to the sky. Smoke clogged her throat, searing her nostrils with the hot, acrid smell. Her lungs burned. Her eyes teared, her skin blistered.
Blackened tree limbs fell around her, crashing and splintering as she ran. Sprays of sparks peppered the already-burning ground and singed her skin.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!
It was as if she’d somehow fallen through the gates of hell.
“Help!” she screamed again, but her voice was lodged in her throat, not even the barest of whispers escaping her lips. “Please, someone help me!”
But she was alone.
There was no one to help her this time.
Her brothers, always quick to her rescue, couldn’t save her.
Oh, dear God.
Run, damn it! MOVE! Get out, Shannon! Now!
She flung herself forward, stumbling, half-falling, the fire a raging, burning beast, its putrid breath scalding, its crackling arms reaching for her, enwrapping her, sizzling against her skin.
Just when she thought she was going to die, that she would be consumed, the fire, with a roar, shrank back. Disappeared. The black smoke turned into a thick white fog and she was suddenly running through fields of smoldering ash, the smell of burning flesh heavy in her nostrils, the ground an arid, vast wasteland.
And everywhere there were bones.
Piles and piles of charred, bleached bones.
White skeletons of animals and people, all flecked with ash.
Cats. Dogs. Horses. Humans.
In her mind’s eye, the skeletons became members of her family and though they were only bones, she superimposed faces to the skulls. Her mother. Her father. Her baby.
Pain cut through her at the thought of her child.
No! No! No!
These were only skeletons.
No one she knew.
They couldn’t be.
The smell of death and the receding fire burned through her nostrils.
She tried to back away, to escape, but as she moved, she tripped on the scattered bones. She fell and the skeletons broke beneath her. Frantic, clawing wildly, she tried to stand, to run, to get away from this thick, rattling pile.
Brrrrring.
A siren blasted. As if from the distance.
Her heart jolted. Someone was coming!
Oh, please!
Turning, she saw one of the skeletons move, its grotesque, half-burned head turning to face her. Pieces of charred flesh hung from the skull’s cheekbones and most of its black hair was singed, the eyes sunken in their sockets, but they wereeyes she recognized, eyes she’d trusted, eyes she’d once loved. And they stared at her, blinked, and silently accused her of unspeakable crimes.
No, she thought wildly. No, no, no!
How could something this hideous be alive?
She screamed but her voice was mute.
“Ssssshannon…” Her husband’s voice hissed evilly through her brain. Goose pimples covered her skin despite the heat. “Ssssshannon.” It seemed as if his face was taking shape, the blackened flesh filling in, stretching over the bones, cartilage filling the nose hole, sunken eyes staring fixedly at her.
She tried again.
Brrring! The siren. No—a phone. Her phone.
Shannon sat bolt upright in bed. Sweat ran down her back and her heart thundered a million beats a minute. It was dark, she was in her room tucked under the eaves of her small cottage. On a sob, she felt sweet relief swell through her. It was a dream. Only a dream. No, a sick, twisted nightmare.
On the floor beside her, the dog gave a disgruntled bark.
Another sharp blast from the telephone.
“Mary, Joseph and Jesus,” she whispered, using her mother’s rarely called-upon phrase of abject surprise. “What’s the matter with me?” Shoving her hair from her eyes she exhaled shakily. The room was hot, the summer air without a breath of a breeze. Flinging off the damp sheets, she gasped as if she’d just run a marathon. “A dream,” she reminded herself, a headache creeping behind her eyes. “Just another damned dream.”
Heart thudding she yanked the receiver to her ear. “Hello?”
No answer.
Just silence…then something more…the sound of soft breathing?
She glanced at the bedside clock: 12:07 flashed in red, digital numbers large enough that she could read the time without her contact lenses. “Hello!”
She was suddenly wide-awake.
Quickly she switched on the bedside lamp. Who would be calling at this time of night? What was it her mother always said? Nothing good happens after midnight. Her heart pounded. She thought of her parents, aging and frail. Had there been an accident? Was someone in her family hurt? Missing? Or worse?
“Hello!” she said again, louder, then realized if there was a problem, if the police or one of her brothers were calling, they would have said something immediately. “Who is this?” she demanded, then wondered if she was the victim of some cruel prank.
Just like before. She cringed as she remembered the last time…Suddenly clammy, she recalled playing that crank-calling game at slumber parties in junior high school: call strangers in the middle of the night and whisper something meant to scare.
But that had been a lifetime ago and now, tonight, holding the damned receiver to her ear, she was in no mood for this kind of sophomoric, idiotic joke. “Look, either you answer or I hang up.” She could still make out the faint sound of raspy, almost excited breathing. “Fine! Have it your way.” She slammed the receiver down. “Creep,” she muttered under her breath and wasn’t even glad that whoever it was had jarred her out of that awful nightmare.
Damn, but it had been real. So visceral. So disturbing. Even now, she was still sweating, her skin crawling, the stench of smoke still lodged in her nostrils. Running a hand over her eyes, she released a long, slow breath and forced the images to recede. It was a dream, nothing else, she told herself, as she reached for the receiver of the phone again and checked the caller ID. The last number to call in, at 12:07, was blocked. No name. No number.
“Big surprise,” she muttered under her breath and tried to tamp down her unease. It was just some bored kids dialing numbers at random, hoping to get a reaction. Right? She stared at the phone and frowned. Who else could it be?
Her dog, Khan, a mixed breed with some Australian shepherd ancestry visible in his mottled coat and mismatched eyes, let out another soft bark from his spot on the rag rug beside her bed. He looked up at her hopefully and thumped his tail on the floorboards as if he expected her to let him onto the bed.
“Are you nuts?” she asked, rolling over and reaching down to scratch him behind one ear. “It’s midnight and you and I both need to sleep, so don’t even think about getting up here, okay? I just need something for this headache.” She rolled off the bed and padded barefoot to the bathroom.
As she stepped into the cramped room, she heard the soft thump of Khan hopping onto the bed. “Get down!” she ordered and flipped on the light. She heard the dog land on the floor again. “Nice try, Khan.”
Some dog trainer you are, she thought as she scraped her hair away from her face, holding a handful of curls in one clenched fist. You can get search and rescue dogs into disaster areas, burning buildings and even into the water, but you can’t keep that mutt off the bed.
Leaning over the sink, she turned on the spigot with her free hand and drank from the faucet, letting water splash against her flushed skin as the remnants of the nightmare burned at the corners of her brain.
Don’t go there!
Ryan had been dead for three years and in that time she’d been accused and absolved of killing him. “So get over it,” she grumbled, snatching a towel from the rack and dabbing it over her face and chest. The nightmares, her shrink had assured her, would lessen over time.
So far that hadn’t proved true. She looked into the mirror over the sink, reflective glass clamped over the medicine cabinet, and cringed. Dark smudges appeared beneath her red-veined eyes. Her auburn hair was tangled, a mess from restless sleep, damp ringlets clinging to her skin. Tiny lines of anxiety appeared in the pinch of her lips and the corners of her eyes.
“The face of an angel hiding Satan’s tongue,” her brother Neville had said after they’d been involved in a particularly brutal argument when she was around fourteen.
Not tonight, she thought sourly, as she grabbed a washcloth from an open shelf, rinsed it under the water and dabbed the wet rag over her skin.
Neville. She still missed him horribly and that particular knot of sorrow when she thought of him tightened painfully in her chest. Technically, since Neville had been born a scant seven minutes after his twin brother, Oliver, Neville had been the closest in age to Shannon, who’d come along nearly two years later, the last of Patrick and Maureen Flannery’s brood of six children. Though Oliver and Neville had shared that special “twin bond,” she, too, had felt an intimacy with Neville that she never experienced with the rest of her siblings.
She wished Neville was here now. He’d rumple her hair, smile crookedly and say, “You worry too much, Shannon. It was just a dream.”
“And a phone call,” she would reply. “A weird phone call.”
“A wrong number.”
“At midnight?”
“Hey, somewhere in the world it’s already happy hour. Chill out.”
“Right,” she muttered, like she could. She soaked the cloth again, wrung it between her hands, then placed it at the base of her neck. A headache, brought on by the nightmare, pounded at the base of her skull. Reaching into the cabinet, she found a bottle of ibuprofen and tossed two pills into her palm before chasing them down with another long swallow from the tap. She saw the bottle of sleeping pills on the shelf under the mirror, the ones Dr. Brennan had prescribed three years earlier. She considered taking a couple, then discarded the idea. Tomorrow morning—no, later this morning—she couldn’t afford to be groggy or sluggish. She had several training sessions scheduled with some new dogs and she was supposed to sign papers on her new place—a bigger ranch. Although the move was still weeks away, the deal was falling into place.
Remembering the property she was going to buy, she felt another jab of distress. Just last week, when she’d walked the perimeter of the ranch, she’d felt as if she was being watched, that there had been unseen eyes hidden behind the gnarled trunks of the black oaks. Even Khan had seemed edgy that day. Nervous.
Get over it, she mentally berated herself. Unlike most of the dogs she trained, Khan wasn’t known for his intuition. No one had been following her, watching her every move. She wasn’t in some kind of horror movie, for God’s sake. No one had been hiding in the shaded forest that surrounded the place, no sinister being had been observing her from the outcropping of rocks on a nearby hillside. No one, other than herself, had been there at all.
She was just antsy about plunking down all of her inheritance and savings on the new place. And why wouldn’t she be? Her brothers had all been against her plan and each had enough nerve to tell her the vastness of her mistake.
“This isn’t what Dad would have wanted,” Shea had pointed out the last time he’d stopped by. His black hair had gleamed blue in the lamplight as he’d stood on her porch while smoking a cigarette, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Dad spent his entire life scrimping, saving and investing and wouldn’t want you to squander your share on a run-down, overgrown farm.”
“You haven’t even seen the place,” she’d charged, undeterred. “And don’t pull out the violin and crying towel. Dad always trusted my decisions.”
Shea had given her a dark, unfathomable look, drawing hard on his cigarette and giving Shannon the distinct impression that she hadn’t known their father at all.
“Dad always backed me up,” she said, her voice faltering just a bit.
“I’m just tellin’ ya.” He blew out a plume of gray smoke, then tossed his cigarette butt into the dust and gravel of the lot separating the house from the barns and other outbuildings. “Be careful, Shannon, with your money and yourself.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
The cigarette smoldered, trailing a tiny wisp of smoke.
“Just that sometimes you’re impetuous.” He cocked his head and winked at her. “You know. All part of the Flannery curse.”
“Don’t even go there. That’s the biggest load of bull I’ve ever heard. Just a way for Mom to get back at Dad. Flannery curse? Come on, Shea.”
He lifted a dark brow. For a second he’d looked like one of those caricatures of Satan with his knowing leer and upraised eyebrows. “I’m just saying.”
“Yeah, well, I’m buying the place and that’s that.”
Now, a week later, she wondered what that was all about. It was almost as if her brother had been warning her.
And Shea hadn’t been the only naysayer. Oh, no! Her other brothers had weighed in over the past few weeks, grown men who seemed to think they still held some sway over her. She snorted in disgust as she remembered Robert advising her to put her money in the bank. But she would only earn some pittance on it. Robert! The man was running through his share of the inheritance like water, buying a sports car and going through a major midlife crisis that included ditching his wife and kids. As for Aaron, her oldest sibling, he’d already lost some of his money on speculative stocks. Not to mention that weekend in Reno and the rumors of him having been up thirty thousand dollars at the blackjack table, only to end up losing and playing double-up to catch up. It hadn’t worked and Aaron had been touchy about it ever since.
Then there was Oliver, who was pledging all of his money to the church and God. Of course, she thought, frowning, wondering if Oliver’s sudden renewed faith was because of her. Guilt dug a deeper hole in her heart as she remembered that after the accident, when Ryan had lost his life and Neville had disappeared, Oliver had turned ultrareligious, to the point that he’d applied to the seminary and now was studying for the priesthood. Her part in his newfound faith was murky. Unclear. However, her being accused of her husband’s murder had been a factor.
Shannon shrugged it off, wouldn’t revisit that familiar but forbidden territory.
She suspected her brother Shea was the one who’d been careful with his share of the inheritance. But then, he was always careful. With his money. With his life. A secretive sort, who trod softly but heavily armed. He not only carried a big stick but a bazooka and grenades as well.
Who were her brothers to offer up advice? They could spout their negative opinions until hell froze over, but she’d do what she thought best. She was nothing if not as stubborn as they were.
It was probably all their negative vibes that had made her nervous the last time she’d walked the overgrown acres. That was all.
Then why, suddenly, was she so anxious? Not sleeping? Jumping at shadows? Awaking from god-awful nightmares?
She grimaced and dropped her washcloth into the sink. Maybe it was time to visit her shrink again. It had been over a year since she’d felt strong enough to end the weekly sessions that had helped her sort out her life.
Though she didn’t much like the thought, maybe she truly was one of those people who needed therapy just to keep functioning.
“Great,” she muttered.
Lord, it was hot. The temperatures had been teetering around one hundred all week, the evenings barely cooling into the high eighties. All over town there was talk of a serious drought and, of course, the escalating threat of fire.
She refused to gaze at her reflection again. “You’ll look better in the morning,” she said, then wondered if there was enough foundation in the warehouses of Revlon to make her appear fresh-faced. She couldn’t begin to imagine how many drops of Visine it was going to take when she slipped her contact lenses into her eyes in a few hours.
Her mouth tasted foul. She rubbed some toothpaste over her teeth, rinsed, then twisted hard on the handles of the dripping faucet, listening as the old pipes groaned in protest. Still the scent of smoke and fire lingered.
Dabbing her mouth dry with a hand towel, she wondered why she couldn’t get the acrid odor out of her nostrils.
At that moment she heard Khan growl. Low. Warning.
Still holding the towel she glanced through the doorway and saw a gray-and-brown blur as he leapt onto the bed.
“What the devil?” she asked as he stared out the window.
Only then did she realize what was wrong. The smoke still lingered in her nose and throat because it was more than just a conjured image in her dream. It was real.
Her heart nearly stopped. She raced across the floor as Khan, body stiff, hackles on end, began to bark wildly.
Oh, God, what was it?
Fear crawled up her spine. She peered anxiously through the screen and saw nothing but the night. A sliver of moon was rising over the surrounding hills and beginning to lighten the five acres abutting her property, an expanse of arid, weed-infested fields that was about to be turned into a subdivision. A sudden gust of dry wind, bearing hard from the east, stole through the valley, shook the branches of the trees near the house and rustled the already dead and dying leaves.
Nothing seemed amiss.
Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.
Except for the smell.
Her fear deepened.
Khan growled again, his head low, eyes peering through the open window. Suddenly aware that her naked body was silhouetted against the lamp glow, she clicked off the light, then scrounged blindly in the drawer of the nightstand for her glasses. All the while her gaze moved over the shadowy, moon-dappled ground. She saw nothing…or was that a glow in the south pasture? Oh, Jesus. Her throat closed. She found her glasses, knocking over the bedside lamp as she yanked them from their case. In a second she had them perched over the bridge of her nose and was squinting into the darkness.
The glow was gone…there was no eerie light, no crackling flames…but the thin smell of smoke lingered. She could taste it on her tongue.
Could it be from inside the house?
Then why was the dog looking out the window?
She reached for the phone, intent upon calling Nate Santana, who lived above the garage, then remembered he was gone for the week, the first vacation he’d taken in years. “Damn.” She clenched her teeth. There was no one else she felt she could call about a possible emergency at midnight. Not even her brothers, who still, after three years, thought she was slightly off-kilter.
Every muscle tense, she hurried across the hardwood floor to the dormer that poked over the roof on the other side of the room. She cautiously peered through the window that gave a view over the front of the house, across the gravel lot to the barns, kennels and sheds. Squinting through the wash of eerie light from the security lamps, she saw nothing disturbed, nothing that warranted the dog being nervous.
Maybe Khan heard an owl or a bat.
Or sensed a deer or raccoon wandering across the back fields.
And you, you’re just edgy, reacting to the bad dream and weird phone call…
But it didn’t explain the slight hint of smoke still lingering in the air. “Come on,” she said to the dog. “Let’s investigate.” She headed down the steps without snapping on any lights and Khan flew past her, nearly knocking her over, his claws clicking noisily on the stairs as he led the way to the front door. Once in the small foyer he stood, nose to the door, muscles taut.
By now she wasn’t buying his act.
She stood on her tiptoes and peered through the small windows cut into the oak panels of the door. Outside the night was still, the wind having died quickly. Her truck was parked where she’d left it in front of the garage, the doors to the sheds and barns were closed, the parking lot empty. The windows in Nate’s apartment over the garage were dark.
See? Nothing more than your imagination working overtime again.
She tried to relax, but the knot of tension between her shoulder blades didn’t loosen. Her headache raged on—unfazed by the pain relievers she’d downed.
Shannon walked into the kitchen and looked through the larger window with its view of the parking lot and small paddocks, which she used as training grounds for the search and rescue dogs she worked with. The dogs in the kennels weren’t barking, no sound issuing from the barn where the horses Nate trained were stabled. No one was lurking in the shadows.
Khan, unmoving, whined near the door. “False alarm,” she told him and silently chided herself for being such a coward.
When had that happened? When had her sense of adventure dissolved? She, who had grown up with all those older brothers, who had never shown any fear and insisted upon doing everything they did, who had never been frightened of anything. When had she turned into a scaredy-cat?
Shannon had grown up around these parts. She’d been a tomboy. As a child, she’d been nearly fearless. She’d learned to ride a two-wheeler bicycle before her fourth birthday, and by the time she was eighteen, she’d driven her oldest brother’s Harley—south down Highway 101—along the entire length of the rugged California coastline. She’d ridden horses bareback as a child, even entered barrel-racing competitions at a local rodeo. At fifteen, behind her parents’ back she and two friends had hitchhiked to an outdoor concert at Red Rocks Amphitheatre outside of Denver. Later, she’d survived an accident where she’d been at the wheel of Robert’s new Mustang convertible. The car ended up in a deep ditch, nose and engine first, and had been totaled; she’d managed to get out of it with a broken collarbone, a sprained wrist, two black eyes and a battered ego. She suspected that to this day, Robert had never forgiven her.
It was no wonder that when she’d fallen in love, she’d fallen fast, hard, and hadn’t believed for a second that anything but wonderful things would come of it.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath when she thought of Brendan Giles, her first love. How foolish and head over heels she’d been, crushed when it had ended…
To dispel her dark thoughts, she opened the refrigerator and rummaged behind a six-pack of Diet Pepsi to find a chilled bottle of water. Snagging the water, she closed the refrigerator, once again plunging the kitchen into darkness. Resting her hips against the counter, she pressed the cold plastic bottle against her forehead as sweat continued to run down her back.
Air-conditioning. That’s what she needed. Air-conditioning and a way to keep idiots from calling her in the middle of the night.
Khan finally gave up his vigil, trotting by her and scratching at the back door. His hackles were no longer raised and he glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes pleading, as if he couldn’t wait to go out and lift his leg on the first available shrub.
“Sure, why not?” she muttered. “Knock yourself out.” Still holding the bottle to her head, she unlatched the back door. “Just don’t make a habit of this. It is the middle of the night.” Khan rocketed outside and she followed, hoping for some relief from the heat. Maybe a breeze would kick up.
No such luck.
The night was hot and still.
Breathless.
Shannon took one step onto the porch when her gaze caught something out of place, a piece of white paper tacked to one of the posts supporting the overhang from the roof. Goose bumps chased a quick path up her spine even though the paper might be nothing. Someone leaving a note.
At night? Why not just call…?
Her blood chilled. Maybe whoever had left the piece of paper had phoned.
She stepped backwards and leaned inside the kitchen, slapping at the wall until she hit the light switch and the porch was suddenly awash with incandescence from the two overhead lightbulbs.
She froze.
Her gaze riveted to the paper.
“Oh, God.”
Shannon’s insides turned to water as she stared at the scrap of white. It had been singed, the edges curling and black. And someone had tacked it to the post with a green pushpin.
Heart thundering in her ears, Shannon stepped closer. The charred paper was a form of some kind, she realized. Adjusting her glasses she read the smudged, partially burned words that were still visible in the middle of the document.
Mother’s name: Shannon Leah Flan—
Father’s name: Brendan Giles
She gasped.
Her breath froze in her lungs.
Date of Birth: September twenty-thr—
Time of Birth: 12:07A.M.
“No!” she cried, dropping the water bottle and hearing it roll off the porch as if from a distance. September twenty-three! Her mind raced. Tomorrow. No, that was wrong. It was already after midnight, so today was the twenty-third of September and the call…Oh, God, the phone call had come in at precisely 12:07. Knees buckling, she leaned against the porch rail, her gaze scouring the darkness, searching for whoever had done this to her, whoever had wanted to bring back all the pain. “You son of a bitch,” she bit out through clenched teeth. Despite the hot night she was chilled to the core.
Thirteen years ago, on September twenty-third, at exactly seven minutes after twelve midnight, Shannon had given birth to a seven-pound baby girl.
She hadn’t seen the child since.
He stood before the fire, feeling its heat, listening to the crackle of flames as they devoured the tinder-dry kindling. With all the shades drawn, he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the crisp white cotton falling off his shoulders as moss ignited, hissing. Sparking.
Above the mantel was a mirror and he watched himself undress, looked at his perfectly honed body, muscles moving easily, flexing, and sliding beneath the taut skin of an athlete.
He glanced at his eyes. Blue. Icy. Described by one woman as “bedroom eyes,” by another as “cold eyes,” by yet another unsuspecting woman as “eyes that had seen too much.”
They’d all been right, he thought, and flashed a smile. A “killer smile,” he’d heard.
Bingo.
The women had no idea how close to the truth they’d all been.
He was handsome and he knew it. Not good-looking enough to turn heads on the street, but so interesting that women, once they noticed him, had trouble looking away.
There had been a time when he’d picked and chosen and rarely been denied.
He unbuckled his leather belt, let it fall to the hardwood floor. His slacks slid easily off his butt down his legs and pooled at his feet. He hadn’t bothered with boxers or jockeys. Who cared? It was all about outward appearances.
Always.
His smile fell away as he walked closer to the mantel, feeling the heat already radiating from the old bricks. Pictures in frames stood at attention upon the smooth wood. Images he’d caught when his subject didn’t realize he or she was on camera. People who knew him. Or of him. People who had to pay. The kid, the old lady, the brothers. All caught on film without their knowledge.
Fools!
Behind the pictures was his hunting knife. Bone-handled with a thin steel blade that could cut easily, slice through any living thing. Fur, skin, hide, muscle, bone, sinew—all cleaved easily with the right amount of exertion.
The knife was his second choice for a weapon.
His first was gasoline and a match…but sometimes that just wasn’t enough.
He tested the blade against his palm and sure enough, though he barely touched his skin, a thin trail of blood emerged, drops of red that formed the shallowest of slits that ran parallel to his lifeline.
He saw an irony in that and ignored the other tiny scars on his palm, evidence of his fascination with the blade. He watched the red trail widen and ooze and when there was enough blood to form a thick drop, he held his palm over the fire. Feeling its heat, nearly burning his skin, he stared as the red droplet plunged downward to sizzle and burn as it met the eager flames.
“Tonight it starts,” he vowed, having completed the first phase of his plan, the hint warning her that he was afoot. Within the hour he’d start the next phase by traveling steadily north. And by evening the next step would be accomplished. He’d start with the old woman—what did she call herself? Blanche Johnson? Yeah, right. He snorted at her ridiculous attempt at anonymity. He knew who she really was, disguised as that silly old piano teacher in her knit scarves. And she would pay, just as Shannon Flannery would. Just as the rest of them would.
He fingered the knife. He’d start with Blanche; and then, once he’d lured the girl away, it would be Shannon’s turn. Shannon and the others. He let his gaze wander over the pictures until they came to the slightly larger, framed shot of Shannon. Jaw tight, he stared at her gorgeous face.
Innocent and sexy, sweet yet seductive.
And guilty as hell.
He traced a finger along her hairline, his guts churning as he noticed her green eyes, slightly freckled nose, thick waves of unruly auburn curls. Her skin was pale, her eyes lively, her smile tenuous, as if she’d sensed him hiding in the shadowy trees, his lens poised at her heart-shaped face.
The dog, some kind of scraggly mutt, had appeared from the other side of the woods, lifted his nose in the air as he’d reached her, trembled, growled, and nearly given him away. Shannon had given the cur a short command and peered into the woods.
By that time he’d been slipping away. Silently moving through the dark trees and brush, putting distance between them, heading upwind. He’d gotten his snapshots. He’d needed nothing more.
Then.
Because the timing hadn’t been right.
But now…
The fire glowed bright, seemed to pulse with life as it grew, giving the bare room a warm, rosy glow. He stared again at his image. So perfect in the mirror.
He turned, facing away from the reflection.
Looking over his shoulder, he gritted those perfect white teeth, gnashing them together as he saw the mirror’s cruel image of his back, the skin scarred and shiny, looking as if it had melted from his body.
He remembered the fire.
The agony of his flesh being burned from his bones.
He’d never forget.
Not for as long as he drew a breath on this godforsaken planet.
And those who had done this to him would pay.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the picture of Shannon again. Beautiful and wary, as if she knew her life was about to change forever.
But first, he needed bait.
To get the woman to do his bidding.
He smiled to himself. How fortunate the daughter was living in Falls Crossing, a small town in Oregon on the banks of the Columbia River. He knew it well. Had visited. Had waited. Had watched.
It was fate. . .
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