Edge of Midnight (26 page)

All the time now, she had the panicky sense of being followed. She never saw anybody and—okay, joke. She wouldn't see anybody unless they were wrapped around and around with running arrow lights. How long before Mitch grabbed her? Because he was coming, she knew it. He was out there somewhere, watching her and following, waiting for whatever he had in mind. All the struggle and running and Arlette dying, would all be for nothing. Mitch would get her anyway. Why not just roll over and die?

A few more minutes of wallowing in fear and sorrow and she got disgusted with herself. So, it might happen. He might be out there hiding behind a bush, waiting for the right moment to leap out at her, but until that happened, she was still alive. For God's sake, go with what you've got! She showered and dressed, then went downstairs and stepped out on the kitchen porch. Wind slapped at her face, the hot air heavy with the odor of death. Much stronger this morning.

Somewhere in the acres of corn, something had died. Horror, deep in the pit of her stomach, said Kelby was out there somewhere. Cary bobbed and weaved, trying to determine the focus of the birds. Could it be the barn they circled and not the cornfield? She'd only glanced around inside. Had Kelby gone up to the loft and fallen behind the hay bales? Been laying there this whole time? Oh God, why hadn't she searched every inch? Do it now! She peered in all directions before setting out. She didn't see anything like Mitch carrying a big sign that read “I'm coming to get you.”

She rolled the wide barn door aside and stepped in, then waited for light to penetrate the dimness. It was cooler inside. The old stone kept the sun from baking it. Kelby's Honda sat gathering dust. Creeping closer, she peered at the windshield.
Smiley face. In the dust.
Mitch? To taunt her?

Ignoring the urge to rush back to the house and lock herself in, she went into each of the stalls along one side of the center aisle. Two were empty. The third had straw on the floor. She tromped around on it, thinking it would be perfect for Ginger. Across the aisle was a room she knew—after learning a few things about horses and barns—was a tack room. Desk in the corner covered with dust, pegs on one wall, shelving on another, with three cardboard cartons on the bottom shelf. She pulled one out and removed the lid.

Newspaper clippings. All about the Lily Farmer murder and trial. Mitch hadn't worked that case, but he'd talked about it. Everybody talked about it. It had been all over the news and in the papers for weeks. She'd watched news and read articles and was horrified, along with everyone else, at the viciousness of the crime. Why did Kelby have these? Cary glanced at pictures of Lily with her dazzling smile, and saw a shot of the young woman's father with an anguished face.

After the trial, the press had talked with any juror who agreed to be interviewed. Some appeared on
Good Morning America
and
60 Minutes.
Holding a clipping almost to her nose, she read one juror quoted as saying the crime scene photos were very hard to take. One of them, Kelby Oliver, almost couldn't look. Kelby had been on the jury in the Lily Farmer trial.

The other two cartons had more clippings. She put the boxes back on the shelf. A heart-stopping vision of Mitch storming in while she was in the loft filled her mind as she climbed one rung at a time. When her head was just above the floor level, she tilted it this way and that, peering into dim corners.

Bales of hay. And dust. As far as she could tell, the dust hadn't been disturbed in a long time. A small animal streaked across the top of a bale and disappeared behind. Only clamped teeth kept her from screaming. Mouse. Clambering over the last rung, she crept toward the stacked bales and looked over, around, behind, on all sides. Nothing. She drew a deep breath and nearly choked on the dust. There was nothing in the barn. Back out to the hot sunshine, she shaded her eyes as she looked up. No birds.

Veering around behind the barn, she followed a trail to a small, squat building that looked as though only the cracked and peeling paint held it together. The door sagged on its hinges and she had to tug and jerk to open it. All she could see inside was nests of straw. Chicken house, maybe?

Farther along the path, an arched wooden bridge spanned a creek, water rippled along about ten feet below, swirling past large rocks. Tentatively, she took a step onto the bridge, then another. There was no railing to hold onto, but she proceeded carefully up the arch. The wind swirled the shadows cast by the trees, until she could see only movement of light and dark. Inching slowly, she put a foot forward, and then another. Then … suddenly there was nothing to step on. Heart hammering in her throat, she knelt for a closer look. Gaping hole. One section of wood had rotted away on the right side of the bridge. She went back to the path. A tall, octagonal building sat at the end, so tall the top was lost in the trees, the crumbling wood had a few flakes of green paint. The sickly sweet smell was almost like a fog she could taste. Silo? For storing grain? There was a small door near the ground. A panel that slid up. Should she open it?

 

33

Eyes skimming a report, Susan shook two Excedrin tablets into her palm and swallowed them with cold coffee. Her ears crackled. Shouldn't the damn antibiotics be working by now? The phone at her elbow buzzed and, without looking, she picked up the receiver. “Yes, Hazel.”

“Hospital called. Jennifer Bryant had an accident.”

An icy little worry tapped at Susan's mind as she drove to the hospital.
Oh God, please let Jen be all right.
Sliding doors hissed open as she trotted up. Cool air poured over her when she stepped inside. Strong smells of disinfectant, alcohol and vomit stung her nose. In the emergency room, she found Mary Mason, calm and efficient in the midst of chaos, jotting a note on a chart.

“Jennifer Bryant,” Susan said. “What happened?”

Mary's face softened for an instant, then the professional look came back. Fear whispered in Susan's ear. “She took a bunch of pills,” Mary said.

Oh Jen.
“Is she okay? You pumped her stomach, right?”

“There were complications.”

“What kind of complications?”

“Come with me.” Mary led her to Exam Room Two and told her to wait.

Five minutes later Susan was talking with Doctor Sheffield, a stocky man in green scrubs, black curly hair, thick chest, and square hands. He crossed his arms and leaned against a metal cabinet with row upon row of drawers. “She was brought in two hours ago. Pupils fixed and dilated.”

That was bad.

“No response to pain stimulus, muscles completely flaccid. CT scan showed a subdural hematoma. I called the neurosurgeon and he's operating now.”

“A head injury? I don't understand. I was told she took pills.”

He uncrossed his arms and rested his palms on the cabinet behind him. “Vicidin, Xanax, Wellbutrin. Maybe a few other things.”

“Then how could she have a blood clot on her brain?”

“Apparently, she took the drugs and climbed up to a tree house.”

Jen's father had built the tree house when she was little. It was her place of quiet and solitude. Often, she'd climb up there and read.

“… most likely, she slipped into unconsciousness and fell—hit her head—midbrain. Controls breathing…” Doctor Sheffield stopped talking. “You all right?”

“What you're giving me doesn't sound good.”

“Yeah.” He eyed her with a clinical look. “The neurosurgeon can tell you more after the surgery.”

Shivering in overdone air-conditioning, Susan paced a corridor, waited, and looked out a window at the sun blazing from a cloudless sky, and waited some more. She avoided the room where Jen's mother, father, and stepfather sat, isolated in separate misery. Finally, Mary came to tell her the surgery was over, and took her to the doctors' lounge.

Some minutes later, the neurosurgeon came in. Susan was immediately reassured. Gray hair, neatly trimmed beard, crisp white coat, chiseled features. Dr. Phillips exuded competence, an aura of arrogance, confidence that said he could handle anything.

“How is she?”

“I removed the clot. Her brain is very swollen.” Calm, soft-spoken, he explained he'd removed a flap of skull to accommodate the swelling brain.

“Will she be all right?” A second ticked by, another, a third. Blood pounded in Susan's ears.

Finally, he said “The odds are very slim.”

She wanted to slap him.

“I'd say maybe a three percent chance of survival.”

Three percent? No, that couldn't be right. Susan took an elevator to the lobby, went out through the sliding doors, squinted in the bright sunshine as she stumbled across the parking lot to her pickup.

*   *   *

Cary craned her neck. The building—structure—she was pretty sure it was a silo—must be at least forty feet high. She should ask Ronny what it was for. Ronny, trainer of miniature horses to lead the blind, had grown up on a farm and would know about such things. Octagonal in shape, the wood, once painted green, was weathered and crumbling. A rickety-looking ladder went up the side. The wind tossed around the smell of decay.

Kneeling, she leaned close to the door and traced the outline with her fingertips. Not a door, a panel that slid up. With both hands flat against the rough wood, she pressed slightly. Splinters and flaking paint were ready to pierce her fingers, but there was no give, no feel that the old wood would collapse in. She pressed harder. Not a budge. Probably frozen in place by disuse and disintegration.

Most likely nothing inside anyway. She shoved upward. Tiny shift. Grain trickled from the hairline opening near the ground. She shoved harder and got a splinter in her palm for the effort. With repeated pushing, she inched the panel up in such tiny increments she was ready to give up. Except the smell, that awful, sickly-sweet smell of death grew stronger. With everything she had, she managed to move the panel an inch or two upward.

The stench made her gag. Grain continued to trickle through the opening. Turning a hand palm up, she stuck the fingertips inside and felt fabric. Holding her breath, she put her face near the ground and tried to see. Whatever, or whoever, was buried in grain.

A scream got trapped in her lungs. She fell backward, fist pressed against her mouth. Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled along the stone path toward the house and heard a car come up the driveway. Her poor sight let her make out the driver as he slid from the car. Tall and thin. That was all she could tell, except he carried a shotgun nestled against his arm, barrel pointed down. A high-pitched buzzing started in her head.

Feet planted wide, he raised the gun and pointed at her. “If you want to live longer than three seconds, just keep quiet and don't do anything stupid.”

Whirling, she ran the other way across the dirt road toward the cornfield. The noise deafened her. Fire exploded past her face. She screamed. Hot pain grazed her temple and scalp. Staggering on the hard dirt, she raced into the corn and zigzagged through rows.

Blood seeped down her face. She brushed at it with fingertips and hissed at the resulting sting. She dropped to her belly and slithered along the ground, weaving in and out through stalks. She heard the blades clatter as he pushed through. Terror made her want to jump up and run.
No
. Creep further. Hide. Find a hole and bury yourself.
Creeping and burying made noise.

Fight!
Bare fists against a shotgun?
Play possum.
That should work. She was paralyzed with fear anyway.
She sat, hugged her knees to her chest, and kept her head bent, hoping he wouldn't see her pale face in the midst of all the green.

The corn stalks swayed as he got closer. The hunter, after a rabbit. How long before he spotted her? When that happened, he'd shoot and she'd be dead.
Think!
Come up with a plan. Her terror-stricken mind saw only two choices. Run, or get the gun away from him.

Sounds told her he was closing in. She concentrated on footfalls. Three feet away. Two feet. She held her breath. Shifted to a crouch. Tensed. Waited. Now!

Yelling like the damned, she leaped up, grabbed the gun barrel and shoved up with all her strength. It hit his nose. He grunted with pain. His hold loosened. She yanked and twisted. For a second, she had it. Then his hands tightened and he jerked both gun and her toward him. One hand snaked around her neck, and gripped tight, pulling her face against his chest.

She struggled. He was stronger. What little light she could see started to fade. Sounds grew fainter.

*   *   *

Pain. Deep, throbbing pulses in her head, sharp, stabbing bursts behind her eyes, a dull squeezing ache in her ribs. So intense, no other sensations were noticed. Hold on. Don't slide back into velvety darkness. If she wanted to live, she had to concentrate, move past the pain. As she groped toward awareness, consciousness, forcing herself to move through the pain, she realized her body was being shaken and bounced. The movement splintered the pain, sent it like forked lightning along her spine, until it made her teeth ache. Mitch had never hurt her this bad before. What would she tell the doctors? They always looked at her funny when she said she fell down the stairs. What had she done to set him off?

Somewhere in the bottom of her mind, a thought was swimming through the murk. She focused hard, and slowly it connected with other images until she had a string of thoughts. She'd left Mitch, come by a torturous route to Kansas. Other stimuli worked their way into awareness, hands tied, ankles tied. Something thick and vile stuffed in her mouth, tied tightly and cutting into her face. Vaguely medical smell. Panic threatened. She fought it off. A swallow got stuck in her dry throat.

The whooshing sound meant tires on pavement. Car, yes. Fuzzy mat beneath her cheek. Bound and gagged, lying on the floor of a car. She could see only darkness and shadows with an occasional flash of light. Events flooded back. Kelby in the silo. Running, futile fight to escape. No memory of being trussed up like a chicken for barbeque. Despair oozed in. She'd left Mitch, was making a new life, wanted to be whole, and it wasn't enough.