Riding the Thunder (42 page)

“Pain means you're alive,” she muttered to herself.

Asha had a feeling she wouldn't be if she slowed down. Dragging herself up, she rushed through the little foyer between the motel and the restaurant, hearing Monty's thundering steps close behind. The short distance down the aisles between the booths seemed miles; she cried with each step, struggling to keep going on the bad ankle. Hot agony lanced up her leg each time she planted her foot, nearly causing her leg to buckle.

Frantic, she swung around the counter and grabbed her purse. Relief flooded through her when her fingers closed around the cold metal of the gun. Holding it in both hands, she raised it and pointed the Colt straight at his chest and pulled the trigger. And kept pulling it.

Horror washed through her whole being as nothing happened but
click . . . click . . . click
.

Monty flashed a smug smile, then reached into the pocket of his jacket.“Works better with these.” Holding his hand up, he allowed the bullets to clatter onto the counter between them. Too late, she recalled him coming from the diner before. Now, she knew why. She watched them bounce and scatter across the oak top, ached to snatch at them. But that's what he taunted her to do, as it'd bring her within his reach.

“Told you that you wouldn't always have Fancy Pants at your back. Since he came, he's never left you alone much, glommed onto you, didn't he? I had to wait. I knew my time would come. I figured if you got a hold of that letter you'd send his British ass packing.”

The jukebox suddenly clicked as it changed records, and began playing “Tom Dooley.” Monty looked toward the Wurlitzer, just behind him and to his right.

“
Hang down your head . . . poor boy you're bound to die
. . .”

He flinched; his head whipped around as his eyes narrowed on her. “You do that, don't you? I heard about the women in your family—witches. You called
him
here to destroy me. I looked into his eyes. Knew them. Tommy's eyes. After that, I read up on your family on the Internet at the library. Burned a few of them during the Burning Times, they did. Some historian wrote a book about them, said they were the real thing. I also did research on how they killed witches—by hayfork and billhook.”

Asha recoiled. Old pocket lore claimed pinning a witch to the ground with a pitchfork discharged her power, and then you purified her soul by carving a sign of a cross into her chest with the ugly curved blade used in handling hay bales. By the dim light of the jukebox, Monty's coppery eyes seemed to glow with an unearthly zeal. Terror roiled in the pit of her belly, paralyzing her, as within those yellow eyes she read the message that this was precisely what he intended to do to her. In her mind, she could almost see it happening. The near-clairvoyant vision kept her frozen, unable to move or think.

“Tommy, what's he doing?” Laura's voice rang clear from the shadows.

At first Asha panicked, thinking she was slipping back into the past. Oh, mercy not now! Please not now, not when she needed all her focus to survive.

Monty's head jerked around, staring into the inky darkness toward the motel.
He heard her
. Two forms materialized from the shadows—a man and a woman. The same instant the jukebox went totally nuts, hitting a groove in the record and sticking.

“
Poor boy, you're bound to die . . . poor boy, you're bound to die . . . poor boy, you're bound to die . . . poor boy, you're bound to die
. . .”

Asha dove for the bullets. Monty beat her. His arm slapped out and swiped them off the counter.

A brilliant white light shown from the road, as a car turned into the parking lot, the halogen headlights flooding the glass panes, almost blinding her. Not wasting a breath, she jerked up the soda feed off the fountain and sprayed Monty in the face as he sprang at her. And kept spraying.

The high beams came closer, and the whine of a car engine downshifting was clear over the blasting jukebox. She wanted to look, but didn't dare take her eyes off Monty. With her free hand she snatched up drinking glasses stacked on the counter and tossed them at him. Most hit, bounced or shattered, but they only kept him at bay. Then she thought of the cooler behind her. As she backed up, the sprayer jerked in her hand; it wouldn't reach any farther. Swinging out wildly, Monty caught the plastic hose stretched taught, yanked it, and almost pulled her off balance on her weak ankle. She released it fast, causing him to fall back a few steps until he could right himself. Opening the cooler's glass door, she hid behind it, using it as a shield. Once more there was glass between her and those crocodile eyes. She now launched unopened Coors beer bottles at him; their weight hit with a solid impact.

There was a pounding at the glass door, then Jago's voice called out, sending hot relief flooding through her. “Sometimes, the white knight does come in time,” she whispered the reassurance to herself.“even if his armor is a little tarnished.”

Still, Jago was locked out. The safety glass of the windows and steel reinforced door would permit him to see what was happening, but would hold him on that side. That wouldn't stop Jago. He'd come. Somehow, he'd come. He kicked at the lock twice, the door bouncing from the force. But it held.

She was fast running out of bottles to toss. Time to stop hiding behind the glass cooler and come out swinging. Getting a good grip on one beer with her right hand, and snatching up two more, she came out swinging hard. Monty lunged forward, but she caught him on the side of the head with the first one. The second hit his chin, shattered, and drove him back.

She shifted the third beer for her best grip, caught him full in the face. Because of the angle, she likely broke his nose. Blood streamed down his mouth and chin. Reaching the serving cart, she shoved with all her weight, catching him in the middle of his stomach, and shoving him toward the jukebox. With the shattered glass and soda all over the floor, he struggled not to lose footing.

“
I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE, AND I BID YOU TO BURN!
” The Wurlitzer roared out the start of Arthur Brown's song, scaring Monty, just as it had frightened Jago the night they'd danced in the diner. Monty jumped. His foot came down inside the pail that Colin had left from working on the tiles. He clomped awkwardly, trying to shake it off. It was the opening she needed. Once more she used the cart as a battering ram, slamming into him again.

Monty went down, landing against the jukebox, his palm flattened on the metal side, trying to break his fall. He fused there. As it had knocked Asha on her arse, shocking her, she saw it now fed Monty electricity much in the manner
of a man in an electric chair. Monty's face swelled, his eyes bulged, yet he couldn't let go. The jukebox arched, sizzled and popped; smells of phosphorous and copper filled the air. The horrid scene went on and on.

Her leg giving out, Asha collapsed into a heap at the edge of the bar, crying, unable to watch any longer. Suddenly, arms encircled, pulling her away. Instinct arose and she struggled against them, but then Jago was kissing her face and telling her it was all right. She was safe.

Jago
.

She cried harder. So much pain and worry, all the fear—adrenaline was pumping through her and she couldn't come down.

Monty howled as electricity pumped through his body destroying it. Then suddenly there was a loud explosion from within the Wurlitzer and it went silent. For an instant, Monty stood, frozen. Then fell face forward onto the floor. Dead.

Jago scooped her up in his strong arms, and carried her out of the nightmare scene.

Near dawn, Asha sat crosswise in the bathtub—one leg propped up on the edge to keep the cast out of the water. Soaking in soothing lavender bubble bath, she reached to find some sense of normalcy.

The state police had come and gone, taking Monty's body away. Before that, the ambulance had carried Delbert, who was conscious by then, to the Chandler Hospital in Lexington. The young doctor attending assured Asha that her friend would recover completely, that they would keep him for observations. Seeing her bad limp, he'd suggested she ride with them and have her foot x-rayed. Asha hadn't wanted to let go of Jago. If she did, she'd feared she would start shaking and might never stop.

Jago had driven her to the emergency room, held her hand while they x-rayed her foot, and then as they put it in a cast. Liam, Netta, Sam and Colin were in the waiting room when they came out. Once Sam made sure she was fine, he said he'd stay with Delbert. Colin drove Jago's Jeep back to The Windmill, while Jago sat in the back holding her all the way home.

So much had happened in such a short span of hours.

The warmth of the lavender in the bath filled her mind, its calming influence making her drowsy. She closed her eyelids, but just for a moment . . .

“Tommy, I'm scared. What are they doing?”

Laura saw Tommy glance in the rearview mirror, knew he recognized Ewen hung out the passenger window, Wolf whistling and thumping on the door panel of Monty's truck.

In slow motion—yet all happening too damn fast—Monty revved the truck's engine to smash into the car again. Hard. The cement truck up ahead started to slow to make a left turn onto Richmond Pike. Laura watched, barely able to breathe as the road became winding, dangerous. The cliffs were coming up. Tommy dare not let this madness drag on there, or Monty would likely force them off one of the sharp S-turns.

The truck ahead started to slow, the brake lights only working on one side. There'd be no stopping. Tommy hit the gas, hoping to swing around the truck before it turned. As he did, Monty slammed into the car, jarring them forward. Too late, they saw the Peterbilt, barreling down on them from the other direction. The driver never had a chance to hit the brakes. Tommy attempted to swerve back, but Monty crashed into the Mustang again, pushing them forward into its path.

Crying tires, busting glass, grinding metal . . . her painful scream, as she knew everything was being stolen from her.

In movies, they show how your life passes before your eyes at the instant of your death. They lied. It wasn't the years of her short life that ran through her mind. It was Tommy.

Always Tommy. That she wouldn't marry him come next year. No Christmases, no long walks along the sandbar at Lock 8. No more kisses under the bell tower. She would never hold their beautiful black-haired son. It was all images of the life that never would be.

She tried to speak. Oh, Tommy. To kiss you one last time. To tell you how much I love you. Always will love you . . . always love you.
. . .

 

Tommy stood there looking back as cars and trucks stopped along the roadside. The driver of the Peterbilt was on his knees in the middle of the highway crying. Poor man, it wasn't his fault. It was Monty's. He'd stolen everything from them.

Heartbreaking, yet somehow it all seemed now . . . distant
.

She touched Tommy's shoulder, then laughed. Taking his hand, she tugged on it. “Tommy, this way.”

“Laura, wait. I love you.” He yanked her into his arms, squeezing her tightly. Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, Laura
. . .”

She kissed him. “Shhhh! We must hurry before someone gets our booth at The Windmill. I want a Cherry Coke and then to slow dance to our song.”

“But Laura . . .” He hesitated, looking back at the wreck, confused.

She reached up and gently pulled his face around toward hers. “It doesn't matter, Tommy. Nothing matters but that we're together. We'll always be together. Just like the song, Tommy, our love will never die. Come . . .”

They walked down the road, enjoying the peace. Yes, peace. It felt as if they had made this trek a thousand times . . . ten thousand. This time was somehow different.

She smiled when the restaurant, with the funny windmill outlined in neon on the roof, came into view. The music reached her ears making her smile. Ray Peterson crooned,
“Tell Laura not to cry, my love for her will never die . . .”

It was odd, but The Windmill was empty when they entered. The diner never seemed to change, but offered a soothing feel of coming home. Coming home. Tommy seemed to understand. He wordlessly pulled her into his strong arms, and they began slow-dancing
.

“Hey, sleepyhead. Wake up. I need to get you out of the tub before you turn into a prune,” Jago touched her shoulder, bringing her awake, then started putting down a gazillion
towels on the tiled floor in preparation of helping her out of the tub.

“Sorry, I must've dozed off. Lavender will do that to me.” She gave him a lazy smile. “I meant to ask how did you get back to Kentucky so fast?”

“The power of Mershan International. My brother owns a Sikorsky that can almost outfly a jet, and then for good measure, he owns a jet, too.”

She yawned. “I'd say I'm impressed, but I'm too lazy. You better get me out of this tub or I might drown. I'm too tired to stay above the water.”

Without hesitation, Jago reached into the foot-high bubbles and scooped her out. He held her easily, so close she could see the small variation in the beautiful green eyes so full of love. Her naked body, slick with Mr. Bubble and held against his bare chest, caused her libido to roar to life, despite being too damn tired to do anything about it. Still . . .

“Kiss me, Jago, remind me I'm alive.”

He kissed her, the smooth warm lips lending her their heat. Gently at first. Then deeper, more demanding, as he felt her hunger, fed off it. He finally broke the kiss and buried his face against her neck, softly crying. His tears trickled down her shoulder.

After a few moments, he carried her into the shadowy bedroom, Clint dancing on the bed as he placed her down. Turning down the light on the nightstand, Jago sat on the edge of the bed. His hands shook as he carefully tucked the blanket about her, finally shooing Clint away when he kept butting his head against her arm. The cat was upset too and wanting reassurance. She lifted her hand and managed to give him a weak pat.