Authors: L.L. Muir
Was he waiting just below the door, testing her?
She pushed aside her bruised emotions and the worry that he'd never really cared about her, in favor of a more important question, the answer to which might be the key for getting out of her little prison...
What had happened in Texas?
***
Jamison turned on the water tap on his granddad’s enclosed porch. The bar of LAVA soap sat dry, cracked and untouched on the indented edge of the old sink, waiting dutifully until someone with hard-earned dirt on his hands might have need of a good grainy scrub. Waiting for a man who might not be coming home.
The water splashed out of a faucet that had lost its screen long ago, raging with wicked speed around the basin, then plunging down the drain in defiance of any need to conserve it.
Jamison watched the torrent, hands braced on either side of the porcelain, exultant in the waste that would probably piss off the eco-nuts next door. Wild drops splashed onto the odd green soap and stirred its fragrance. Nothing perfumed about it, but the scent summoned memories that slammed into his chest like a steel pan in the hands of an angry cook.
Memories like Granddad sitting on the sturdy bench taking off his boots, their surfaces completely concealed with muck and mud not allowed over the threshold.
Granddad reaching for his cowboy hat as he walked outside, leaving an empty antler and a banging screen door in his wake.
Granddad pulling out of the driveway in his stock truck, then pulling back in on the other side of the house to ask if a little lad would care to join him at the auction.
Granddad nudging the lad’s hand into the air when the opening bid for a piglet was lowered to two bits, then grumbling the whole ride home when the piglet had to ride in the truck’s cab to keep from being trampled by the calves in the rear. And teaching the lad what a Scotch Blessing was after the piglet crapped all over the lad and the seat.
Granddad hosing him off while still seated in the truck—even Jamison had needed the lava soap that day.
The warped inner door squeaked and his mom came out on to the porch. He loved that squeak.
“I thought you were here.”
“I am.”
“A couple of Somerled men are at the front door. They’re looking for your little friend. What’s her name?”
“Skye. Her name’s Skye.”
“Come talk to them, would you?”
“No problem.”
Homework. Bonfire. Pig smells. Rachel Phillips.
Homework. Bonfire. Pig smells. Rachel Phillips.
“Hey, Lucas. Mom says you’re looking for Skye.”
“Yes, we are.”
“Saw her at the bonfire tonight.”
“She said she was going, but Jonathan drove past the school a little while ago and her car is there, but she’s not.”
“Oh, well, maybe she rode in someone else’s car like I did.” Rachel Phillips. Rachel Phillips. “Maybe they went somewhere after. The fire was kind of a letdown. Smelled like a pig farm.” He grinned at Lucas.
Lucas laughed. “Oh, I didn’t think of that.”
“Yeah, neither did I. I feel bad for the guy who has to babysit the fire until it goes out.”
“Are you worried? Should we call Dwain Cooke?” His mom opened the door wider and stepped back. “He’d be happy to help find her, I’m sure.”
“No, that’s all right. We just worried when she wasn’t with her car. What Jamison suggested makes sense. We’ll just wait until we hear from her.” Lucas followed Jonathan down the steps. “I’m only her guardian for a little longer, so I don’t want to do a poor job of it.”
“Oh? Is she going somewhere or are you?” Thank goodness his mom had asked. He didn’t think his voice would have held to do it himself.
“Our little Skye will be joining Marcus. They’d gotten attached, it seems.”
“Awww. Well, let us know if you need us to help track her down.” Mom smiled and shut the door. “I’m going to bed. You wore out Daddy today, then he wore me out telling me all about it.” She wiped away a tear then smiled as she ruffled Jamison’s hair. “You’re a good boy, Kenneth Jamison Shaw. And don’t you forget it.”
Too bad she was wrong.
And he couldn’t be a good boy again until he’d found his friends. Every time he had a plan, Skye got in the way. Now, instead of learning the truth, like he’d hoped, he had to change gears and worry about the Somerleds blowing her up. ‘Cause he’s pretty sure it was a Marcus Firework he’d heard about on the tape.
If she was going to share Marcus’s fate, did that mean his interference had gotten her in trouble?
He really shouldn’t care; she’d been in on Marcus’s little barbeque. Aaaand she was in on Ray and Burke disappearing...which was the whole reason he’d lured her to the tree house.
Good. He was focused again. No more distractions. No more kissing, that was for sure. So he’d added making out to the plan, improvised. But it wasn’t like he’d be able to touch her again after she confessed—to being a murderer, or alien, or whatever the Somerleds turned out to be.
Focus. He needed to focus.
And he needed to keep that image out of his head, the one of Skye, arms extended, rising into the air.
Jamison was freezing by the time he got to the tree. He’d stopped on the patio again, to splash cold water on his face, but hadn’t dried his hands well. It was probably only 50 degrees, but it felt like an artic wind between his wet fingers.
There’d been no movement from the Somerled direction, but he’d skirted the far side of outbuildings and corrals to avoid them. He’d have used the same route with Skye, but it would have made her even more suspicious than she’d already been.
Her face, after he’d lit the candle. Her standing confused and surprised in the middle of the room. That stupid scarf tied around her head. It all made his gut clench.
With one foot propped on the first foothold, he paused and took a deep breath, pushing away all soft thoughts—all images of his mother and grandfather—shoving them into a strong box in his mind and slamming the lid closed.
He didn’t worry about being seen against the blackness of the tree; he’d dressed carefully, put a black beanie over his blond head. Gloves would have been smart, though, not for camouflage, but to keep warm. His hands were so cold he might very well lose his grip.
Climbing the tree in the dark turned out to be pretty easy, though, even with the center of the rungs cut out. He remembered every crevice, and soon he was once again sliding that bolt from the door.
He opened the hatch and waited a few heartbeats, to see if she was going to come running at him, to hurt him, but he heard nothing. He stuck his head up and looked inside. Nothing. The candlelight showed a clear floor. She had to be crouched in a corner. His gut clenched again, but he ignored it.
He pulled himself up with routine ease and swung his legs inside. Two seconds later, he was sliding the bolt home and adding a padlock, one with a combination. He’d brought a small flashlight along, in case he needed it to open the lock.
The room was warm. He took off his hat and shoved it in his back pocket, then braced himself to face her.
She wasn’t crouching in a corner—in any of them. She wasn’t sitting on one of the boxes.
He whipped out the small flashlight and checked the boards he’d used to cover the windows. None of them were missing, none looked loose. She had to be there!
He dropped to his knees in front of a long box and flung the lid open, ready for a teenage vampire or any possibility to come at him.
Just water bottles, their contents winking in the beam of the flashlight. He closed the lid and scooted over to the other box. On top of the wood, her jacket, scarf, and other things were folded neatly in a pile, and on top of the pile was the box of matches he’d spilled on the ground...
...and a pair of handcuffs.
“Shit.”
His mind whirled as he picked through her clothes. How on earth had she gotten out? Why had she taken off her freaking clothes?
Oh, Lucas and Jonathan were going to be thrilled when she showed up at the front door with nothing on. He might as well climb into one of the wood boxes now and save them a few steps.
Why would she need her clothes off? Had she been able to squeeze out without them?
The escape hatch!
Jamison sprang to his feet, took the candle off the stool and set it under the escape hatch he hadn’t considered nailing shut. It flew open and thunked against the roof.
He stuck his head out, but only his eyes cleared the top of the roof; he couldn’t even get a shoulder through.
He turned in a circle, but she wasn’t up there. If she’d gotten out, she’d made it down the tree. If she’d fallen, he would have seen her body on the ground.
Wouldn’t he?
He heard metal clank below him. She was trying to get the bolt out of the door!
He stepped down off the stool and she snapped a handcuff on one of his wrists, but when she tried to pull is hands together, behind his back, she couldn’t do it. He pulled his hands in front of him, the handcuffs hanging from one wrist, his small flashlight in the other hand.
She was behind him, and when he turned toward her, she moved to stay that way.
He laughed. Of course she didn’t want him to see her in her underwear. She must have been hiding under the blanket and he hadn’t noticed.
He dropped the smile. No quarter. No mercy.
“Would you like me to turn my back while you get dressed?”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” If she didn’t get dressed, well...she just had to get dressed, that’s all.
He faced the nearest wall. He really wanted an excuse to muzzle her again. Even those two words, “would you,” had hit him in the stomach and the poor organ had been abused enough. Before the night was over, he’d be puking into the bucket he’d brought up for her to pee in. He just knew it.
That reminded him. “There’s a bucket, if you need to pee.”
She snorted; she should have been scared.
He needed her to be scared. He needed her upset and ranting—mad enough to start spitting out what she’d done with his friends!
He turned, but her back was to him. Her head was bent while she did up her pants. One thin shirt was already on.
Her head snapped up and she glared. Her hair floated down to frame her face. After she pulled on her sweater, she took control of the mass and began to braid it, watching him, poised to jump away from him if he came in for a kiss, or anything else.
But the time for kissing was gone. Besides, this was someone he didn’t know.
“What would Kenneth think?” She raised her chin.
Jamison smiled and she took a step back, smart girl. He slid the scarf out from under her jacket and reached for her.
“Thank you for reminding me. Rule number one,” he said as he pressed the hanky back into her mouth and covered it with the scarf, “there will be no mention of my family.”
He should have cuffed her hands first. She stepped away and ripped off her gag.
“Oh, no you don’t. I’ll sit here and play your little game, Jamison, but you’re not going to touch me again.”
Don
’
t
touch
her.
Don
’
t
touch
her
. The voice in his head was insistent. And
female
!
He frowned. “All right. Let’s start with...what the hell was that?”
***
Not good. She shouldn’t have given him the suggestion twice. Surely he wouldn’t have suspected just one. Heaven have mercy, what was wrong with her?
Of course she shouldn’t have anything to fear, but while she was standing in camouflage behind him, she’d been very afraid what would happen if he got a look at her, blending into the background like a chameleon.
Miracle of miracles, he’d allowed her to dress. She should have thanked him for it, but instead, she’d played the Kenneth card, the one she’d been holding onto for an emergency. She thought the danger was over, so she’d dropped the silly thing off her tongue. She should have been biting it.
While he made himself comfortable on his box, she toyed with the scarf, imagining how she might use it against him.
He sniffed and made a nasty face.
She was missing something. A bad smell? What would smell bad? Then she had it.
“I assume you used part of the pig shed up here.”
He frowned, trying not smile. Or maybe the smell was so bad it was easy to frown.
“I did.” He moved the heater out toward the center of the room. Apparently it had been warming up a pungent piece of wood. The smell, it seemed, would not change his plans.
“Just what are you doing, Jamison? What do you want from me?” She put on her last layers of clothing, stuffed the scarf in her pocket, and resumed her seat on the opposite box. “I’d give you the “I thought we were friends” bit, but I won’t.”
It hurt just saying it.
“I don’t like pretending to be friends with murderers.”
“Ah, I see. So you do remember.” The memory of saying goodbye to Marcus stirred a heavy gray cloud in her soul. She closed her eyes and pretended it had nothing to do with the goodbyes she’d be saying herself. Soon.
“Oh, I remember all right.” He took a breath, as if he were pacing himself. He’d obviously done a bit of planning. Maybe it would take all night, just to get through his questions.
“May I ask how you remember?”
“You mean, how was I able to remember after having my brain stripped?”
She winced. Adjusting memories had never sat well with her, maybe because she had never performed it, or couldn’t perform it. Maybe if she’d been inside someone’s mind while it was happening, she would see how harmless Lucas claimed it was.
“Yes. That’s what I mean. How were you able to remember?”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You could run home and tell Lucas so he could keep it from ever happening again, so you could have the memory of tonight taken out and I wouldn’t remember it either.” He rubbed his hands on his dark pants.
He’d worn black clothing on purpose, even a black beanie. He was very serious. Whatever he had planned, she was going to have to stop him. If he got into serious trouble before Kenneth died, the old man would go through Hell, and in the long run, it would have been her fault.