Except, damn it, he could always tell when she lied.
Slinging the bag over her shoulder, she started up the canyon slope.
Guilt made her alternately defiant and worried, because she knew she should have been paying attention. She shouldn’t have let the fog catch her unaware. Moreover, she knew Garik was right; there was a chance that the man who had attacked Yvonne wanted into the care facility to harm her father, and would also like to harm her. She shouldn’t be alone. And yet here she was, at the top of the canyon, preparing to walk back to town …
She did the intelligent thing. She used her phone and called Garik.
Immediately his voice mail picked up. So his phone was still dead.
She called Margaret.
Margaret answered in two rings.
“Is Garik there?” Elizabeth asked.
“He left a good three hours ago. Why? Do you need him?”
“No, I was going to tell him I’m on my way back to town.”
“By
yourself
?” Margaret’s voice rose.
“I know. I shouldn’t be alone. But I am. I can’t find the guys, and this is my smartest move. Going to town. Don’t you think?”
“Yes. Yes. Go to town. Can you find your way?”
“Don’t fret. In the winter, I find my way in the dark.” Elizabeth looked up at the yellow-glazed blob of sun hanging in the western sky. “Garik’s going to yell at me, though.”
“As will I when you get here!” Margaret sounded irked—and worried.
“No one could find me out here.” Elizabeth heard a sound off to her left, like the scuffle of a small animal in the brush … or a shoe dragged through dirt. Her heart jumped. “I’ve got to go. I need to get to the road, then into town. Just tell Garik where I am, okay?”
“I will. I’ll send him for you. Be quiet and careful.” Margaret hung up.
Elizabeth did the same. She stuck her phone into her pocket and walked toward the road. At least … she thought she walked toward the road. Who could tell in this fog?
She moved through the tall summer grass, straining to listen, to hear something more …
Stupid of her to imagine that because fog hung on the air, pale and damp, and because she was alone, that someone was hunting her.
Yet she kept hearing things: twigs snapping, grass swishing, the thud of feet against the cool ground.
She forced herself to stop and listen.
She heard nothing but the distant thunder of the ocean. “Foolishness,” she whispered to herself.
She took the long way around to the road, hoping to shake her uneasiness, and when her foot touched the pavement, she laughed softly and picked up the pace. She would be in town in twenty minutes. When Garik arrived, she’d hustle him out of the diner and she would never have to tell him she’d lost track of the guys. Confession might be good for the soul, but—
Her phone bleated again.
She pulled it out of her pocket and looked. It was lit again, same number with some area code she didn’t recognize. She’d never heard her phone make that sound before. Was this a text? An aborted call? Was the phone company running tests?
Was it a way for the killer to target her?
No. Oh, God, please, no.
She shoved her phone into her pocket. Heard the rush of sound from behind. Turned and jumped off the pavement.
The fog-shrouded figure hit her left side, caught her arm, and almost yanked it out of the socket.
She screamed.
It swung her around, shoved her.
She landed on her face, mouth open, in the dirt.
It punched her on the back of the head.
Her face bounced into the ground.
Grass. Seeds. Soil.
She choked.
Coughed.
It rolled her onto her back and pressed a knee to her chest and a knife to her neck.
Male? Female? Elizabeth couldn’t tell. She only knew her attacker wore a leather jacket, a ski mask, and black gloves.
It spoke in a gravelly voice, yet its tone was kind, gentle,… almost soothing … yet with an underlying greed and anticipation. “Let’s cut off your pretty hair. We don’t want to get blood in it.”
Terror rose in her throat. She choked again, hacked, gasped.
“What’s wrong?” it whispered.
She clawed, coughed, tears streaming from her eyes, unable to dislodge the debris in her throat.
“Stop it!” Its voice was louder, indignant. It grabbed her cheeks between its fingers, and squeezed. The eyes behind the ski mask blazed. “Stop it. You’re ruining it!”
She couldn’t
breathe.
She saw a blur from the side. Something kicked her assailant. Once. Twice.
The creature grunted and tumbled away into the darkness.
She rolled onto her knees, and coughed, and coughed, eyes streaming, unable to do anything except try desperately to recover her breath.
Nearby, but out of sight, she heard the impact of flesh and bone. Again. And again. Finally, a yelp of pain, and the thud of footsteps.
She spit up the last of the debris. She knelt, head down, gasping.
She listened.
Close at hand, she heard a man’s panting breath.
She came to her feet, ready to run.
Garik staggered out of the fog. “Call the cops,” he said.
“Oh, my God!” She leaped at him, hugged him, buried her head in his chest. “It was you. I should have known it was you.” Her voice scratched at her throat. “How did you know? How did you know he was there?”
“I didn’t. I wait for you every night, watch for you to come out of the canyon. Tonight I couldn’t see you. Not until your phone went off. Then … then he got to you first.” Gently, Garik pushed her away. “Elizabeth, call the cops.”
“Yes. Of course. Yes.” She stepped back, fumbled for her phone, dialed 911.
And watched as Garik collapsed at her feet.
She dropped the phone, knelt beside him. “Garik?”
“Stabbed me in the right side. But I got him, too. I got him.” His voice slid into a whisper. “I got him.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Garik was bleeding. He was bleeding.
There was blood.
Blood spreading across his chest …
She stifled a sob. “Garik.”
His eyes opened, and closed. “Did you call nine-one-one?”
“Yes! Wait.” She crawled around until she found her phone.
Someone was talking, asking for her problem, her location.
“My husband … he’s hurt, he’s bleeding, he needs to go to the hospital. Now.”
“Can you tell me why he’s bleeding?” the dispatcher asked.
“He was attacked. He was stabbed!”
“What’s your location?”
“On the road outside of Virtue Falls by the path that leads to the canyon.”
“Who is this?”
“Elizabeth Banner. Send someone now!” Elizabeth hung up, spoke to Garik. “Where’s the truck?”
“Down the road.” He pointed.
She ran.
The keys were in the ignition. She started the engine, put it in gear, and drove three hundred feet down the road to Garik’s prostrate body. She parked, got out, dug around behind the seat. She found a thin travel blanket, folded neatly in the pocket behind the seat. She pulled it out, ran to Garik.
He was bleeding.
Bleeding.
There was blood.
She slid the blanket underneath him, wrapped it around his chest, tied the ends.
He smiled. “Good job. That’ll help.”
In the distance, she heard the wail of a siren. “That was fast,” she said.
“It’s Foster.” Garik struggled to stand. “Early to the crime scene, as usual.”
“You don’t think he’s the one that—”
“Don’t know. Get me in the truck. In the truck!” Garik’s eyes were wild, determined.
She put her arm around him and helped him get to his feet.
He was standing when the police car drove up.
Garik was wounded. He was weak. But he didn’t want to show Foster. He didn’t dare show Foster. If Foster was the one who had attacked her …
“He’s got a gun.” She tried to help Garik into the tall truck.
“I know. So let’s put on a show of strength.” But when he reached up to lift himself up, he groaned and fell back.
Sheriff Foster got out of the car. “Put him in here!” he shouted, and pointed to his patrol car. “In the back!”
“I’ll drive him,” she shouted back. “Help me!”
Sheriff Foster strolled to the truck. He stood with his hand on his weapon. He sneered. He was going to kill them, shove them off into the canyon, and leave them to rot.
She stepped in front of Garik.
She wasn’t brave; her heart beat so hard and fast she could hear it in her brain. Her chin trembled, and her knees shook.
But she didn’t have a choice. Garik was
bleeding
.
Her gaze met Foster’s. She stared at him.
Glared
at him.
Then, by God, Sheriff Foster dropped his gaze. He opened the truck’s passenger door and helped hoist Garik inside. He shut the door behind Garik, then he turned to her. “I assume you didn’t do this.”
“What?”
She turned on him with fury and vigor.
“Who attacked him?”
“I was attacked. Garik saved me. My assailant ran away.” She ran around to the driver’s door and got in. “Did you think
I
stabbed him?”
“Yes. It’s usually the spouse, and you…” He left the words unspoken, but she heard them anyway.
You’re the girl who saw your father kill your mother with the scissors, so you’re probably like him.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“Take him to the hospital. I’ll be behind you all the way.” Sheriff Foster flipped on his emergency lights.
“Bastard loves those lights,” Garik muttered.
She didn’t care. She put the truck in gear and drove.
Garik reached, and reached, and finally snagged his seatbelt and pulled it over his chest. It took long moments before he got it clicked into place. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No. Yes. My arm.” It ached. “He about yanked it off. And my throat hurts from coughing. But he didn’t cut me. What did he do to you?”
“Tried to knife me in the heart. Didn’t make it.”
She glanced over to see him exploring the left side of his ribs.
“He sliced me pretty good, though. Not one long slice, sort of here and there and jagged. I don’t think his knife was sharp. Hurts worse that way, makes the wounds less serious.” He half-smiled. “I’m okay. Blood loss will be a problem. Shock. All that shit. I’ll be sore. But I’m fine.”
She wanted to believe him, and the terrible tightness around her chest loosened a little.
“Who was it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. The guy … the, the
person
who attacked Yvonne. Ski mask, leather jacket.” She swallowed. “You didn’t see him … it, either?”
“No, but I kicked the shit out of him. I couldn’t see well enough to kick his head, so I kicked his ribs.” Garik leaned his head against the back of the seat, and muttered, “It had to be a man.”
“Did it?”
“I dunno.”
“Maybe he’ll have to go to the hospital.”
“Maybe … maybe he’s one of those hermits who live in the woods, and we’ll never figure out who he is.” Garik sounded tired.
“That’s true. But he attacked me, and he attacked Yvonne to get into the care facility. So I think we can say you were right. This guy has something to do with my mother’s murder.”
“So many possibilities…” Garik’s voice faded. He slumped in the seat.
Blood stained the blanket over his chest.
Blood will be the problem …
She drove inland like a bat out of hell, through fog, over crumpled roads, desperate to arrive before the sun drifted to the west and below the horizon. She drove toward darkness and cold stars, and found herself praying to a god in which she didn’t believe.
Sheriff Foster followed her all the way, lights flashing. He had called ahead; the hospital was expecting them.
The medical staff put Garik on a gurney, got him into ER, sewed him up, and gave him a unit of blood.
She sat on a hard chair, unable to look away from the stitching and the IVs. But she didn’t faint. She didn’t even feel like fainting. Her fury kept her upright.
Someone had attacked her. Garik had come to her rescue. And then the assailant attacked Garik. Stabbed Garik. Tried to murder Garik.
Never in her life had she known that she could kill someone, but if she found the man, or the woman, who had assaulted them, Elizabeth would gladly take them out. Sitting there, she planned first one attack, then another, using a variety of weapons and a variety of moves.
Apparently the only way to get over being squeamish was to be vengeful and bloodthirsty.
When they took Garik away to put him into a private room, Sheriff Foster questioned her. Did she recognize her assailant? How big was he? What did he smell like?
She recognized the questions; they were essentially the same as the ones Garik had asked Yvonne, and Elizabeth knew just as little. “I didn’t see him. I was coughing,” she said impatiently and for the third time.
“You were coughing.” Sheriff Foster said it as if he could not believe her.
“It’s August. When he slammed my head into the grass, I swallowed seeds, they got stuck in my throat, and I thought I was going to choke to death.”
“And he seemed unhappy with you because you were coughing.” Sheriff Foster clicked his pen.
“He said, ‘You’re spoiling it.’ No, wait.” She remembered that voice. “‘You’re ruining it.’ Like putting a knife to my throat was something he’d imagined, and I wasn’t reacting like I was supposed to.” She looked down at her hands. Her fingers were trembling.
“Huh. Well. Interesting.” Sheriff Foster clicked the pen again. “If you think of anything else, give me a call. If your phone works. Which it does since you said it squawked and that was what gave him his target. Let me see the number.”
She showed him. “I don’t know it.”
He wrote it down. “It’s probably a burn phone. Anyone can buy one with a preset number of minutes. Very useful if you forgot your phone, or if you’re a criminal.” He clicked the pen again, twice more.
She watched him. Nervous habit. Sheriff Foster was almost twitching with guilt.