Wicked Lies (35 page)

She threw herself forward, stumbling.

One huge hand snagged in her hair.

Snapped her head back.

She screamed. The pad of his finger slid down her nape and spine.

She leapt forward, frantic to get away from him. Scorched by his touch. Branded.

Her stomach lurched and the phone jangled in her hand.

Too late!

She hit a button.

“Lorelei?”

Harrison’s voice called to her. Tinny. Distant. From the speaker in her phone.

“He’s here!” she shrieked and felt the monster’s hand clamp over the back of her neck, only to slide away. “Oh, God!” She stumbled over a root or bump or something unseen in the dark. She pitched forward and the ground shifted, gave way. The end of the property. Where it dropped to the highway.

Behind her. Breathing hard. He was
right there!

“I will kill you and your filthy incubus!” he roared.

Without a thought to the consequences, Laura leapt from her hands and knees, forward.

Into nothingness.

The phone fell from her fingers.

And she tumbled into darkness.

CHAPTER 28

“H
e’s here!”

“Where? Where is he? Where are you?” Harrison demanded, jumping to his feet, upending his stool in the process. It clattered to the floor as he yelled into his phone, “Laura! Lorelei!
Laura!
”

Dead zone. No connection.

He turned and was running for the door in one movement.

“Hey!” Geena called behind him.

“Call a cab! On me!” he yelled over his shoulder and then dropped her from his thoughts in the next moment.

He was at his car in less than seven seconds, yanking open the door. He had no illusions about what Laura meant. The bastard was there. Justice Turnbull had found Laura.

“Damn . . . goddammit . . . damn . . .”

With fumbling fingers he tried to call her. No answer. Tossing his cell phone into the passenger seat, he growled in frustration and fear.

He should have stayed with her. He should have listened to his own inner voice, the one that cautioned him. He should have never left her alone. God, why did he leave her alone? What if something happened to her? What if Justice hurt her . . . or . . . what if he . . . ?

Harrison slammed the door shut on his worries. No time for that. He had to get to her. He had to find her. Save her from the maniac and kill that son of a bitch, send the psycho to kingdom come.

His hands flexed on the wheel.

If that bastard hurt her . . . if he hurt one hair on her head. . .

He wondered how he’d been so foolish as to put her into danger. By not believing, thinking her “connection” to Turnbull was all in her head. Guilt bored through his soul and panic kept his foot hard on the accelerator as the night, and oncoming cars, rushed by, headlights muted by the fog, their beams arcing through the night to shimmer on the wet ribbon of asphalt that wound through the cliffs to Laura’s cottage.

God be with her.

He floored it around a final corner and drove like a maniac. At the access road that led to her drive, he spun off Highway 101, up the hill, and nearly sideswiped a black SUV in the process. Wrenching the steering wheel, Harrison barely slowed down, bumping and blasting forward. Then, shooting into her driveway, he stood on the brakes, skidding on the wet gravel, his tires whining, tiny rocks spraying wildly as he stopped behind her car, the only vehicle in the driveway.

He threw open his door and jumped out, stumbling a little in his haste. Down on one knee. Staggering. Up again, in control, balanced on the balls of his feet.

Ready.

The lights were blasting inside her house. Illuminating both the back steps and front porch. Darkness crouched behind this bright scene. Quickly he glanced around, then, bending down, reached into the gravel drive, his fingers searching for a larger stone. No luck. But then his hand closed over a laurel branch that felt at least an inch in diameter. Good enough.

Crouched low, he swept around his Impala, then checked Laura’s car. No one. He couldn’t see her in the house, which was now a fishbowl, yellow light shining from every window. Bright, uncurtained, empty rooms. No sign of any life anywhere.

Laura . . . Lorelei . . . ,
he thought achingly, fear tearing through him like a brittle cold wind.

Should he go inside? Make his presence known? If Justice was still around, he couldn’t have missed his approaching car.

He straightened, listening, the branch clutched in his hand. “Laura!” he said aloud, hearing how sober and serious his tone was. No answer. “Laura!” he yelled louder.

A moan sounded. A mewling sound.

Toward the highway. West.

He turned to it, bent over, scuttling, moving fast. The moan came from somewhere that sounded far away, at the western edge of the property, which faced the highway and, farther out, the ocean. The land at the front of her bungalow sloped slightly downward, then suddenly dropped off. Highway 101 lay about fifteen feet below.

Fingers holding his stick in a death grip, he stole along the gravel path that led from the front door. All his senses were alert. Ready. His muscles flexed, his heart beating a steady, fear-driven beat. If the maniac jumped out at him, the bastard was going to be in for one helluva battle.

“Lorelei,” he called softly again, his voice sounding loud in the covering darkness.

The cry that came back to him was of relief. “Harrison?” Her voice was strangled with emotion. “I’m—I’m down here!”

Thank . . . God . . . !

He leapt forward and skidded to a stop at the edge of the short cliff. He could see her form, huddled in the ditch below that ran along the side of the highway. Ten to fifteen feet down. He glanced around quickly. Where was Justice?

“You okay?” he asked, sinking to his knees, grabbing a hanging limb from a shivering laurel, then stepping toward the edge, aware the limb wouldn’t hold his weight. At that moment, it snapped and split, but Harrison had only partially given it his weight, and he swung and scrabbled downward into the dirt, half rolling to the ground beside Laura, who was sitting up and quivering.

“Harrison . . . ,” she said brokenly. “Harrison.”

He pulled her quaking body close. “Lorelei.”

“I’m okay,” she said through teeth that chattered. “I’m okay.”

He didn’t believe it for an instant. He kissed her head, squeezed her, fought back his own fear at losing her. He ran his hand down the back of her head, entwining her hair in his fingers, wanting to fuse her to him, feeling her heart beating as the cloaked surf pounded the shore somewhere far below them. “Where is he?” he demanded in a cold voice.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I—I fell and it just went quiet. He was up above and I saw him. I think. It was hard to tell. Too dark and all this fog . . . but I think he looked down at me but couldn’t come down, probably for fear of being seen with the headlights from the traffic. I don’t know. Anyway, he’s gone. I hope . . .” She buried her face in his shoulder. Harrison clutched her as hard as she clutched him, feeling her warmth, the desperation of her grasp.

Harrison glanced back up the short cliff. Justice could still be on the grounds, waiting. Hidden in the shadows.

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Scraped a little. I was scared. I just fell, but it was okay. I heard you on the phone, but I was running and I lost it and . . .” She shuddered.

He squeezed her and whispered into her hair, “Don’t move. Stay here. I’m going to check the house—”

“No!” She scrambled to get her legs under her. “I can’t stay here. No way. I—I’m going with you!”

“I don’t think—”

“And I don’t care.” She was emphatic, her spine stiffening as he held her.

He sighed. “Anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?”

“You’re the first.”

“Yeah, right. Okay. C’mon.” Clasping her hand, and keeping low against the cliff face, he led her along the ditch until they reached the access road that led east and upward toward her driveway. “You okay?”

“Okay, enough.”

Climbing the steep few feet to the top of the ditch together, Harrison held on to her tightly. As one, they crept up the road. He tried to shield her body with his, but in the shadowy, thick night, Turnbull could be hiding anywhere, could leap out from behind the solitary fir tree or the laurel hedge or the car.

Harrison squinted into the darkness. He held on to her fingers with one hand; in the other he still clenched the smooth-barked stick. Approaching her driveway, he spied both their cars and the bright squares of the windows of her bungalow.

He squeezed her hand and they both stopped. For a long moment they stood quietly, eyes and ears straining, hearts pounding rapidly.

Harrison said in an undertone, “My phone’s in my car. I should’ve called nine-one-one.”

“No . . . ,” she murmured.

“It’s time the police were called. Past time.”

“I know. But . . . do you think he’s here? I don’t think he’s here anymore. I
knew
he was here before, and it doesn’t feel the same now.”

“Lorelei, I’d like to trust your instincts, but he came after you this time. Physically. There’s a difference.”

“I know. But I just want to go inside.”

Against his better judgment he gave in and led the way to the back door, which was gaping open, unable to close, because Justice had smashed the lock through the casing. Now Harrison pushed at the door panels with one finger, opening it wider. A knife with a short, bloody blade lay on the floor in the shards of glass.

“I left that,” Laura said, her voice slightly unsteady. “That was my weapon, but I wanted the phone.” As Harrison bent to pick it up and place it on the table, she said, “He has my butcher knife.”

“Jesus.” Harrison’s gaze scraped the interior of the cottage again.

“He’s not here. He’s gone.” She looked around the room a little wild-eyed.

“You’re bleeding,” Harrison said neutrally, though seeing the blood soaking through the knee of her uniform’s left pant leg was a bit harrowing.

Following his gaze, Laura said, “Oh,” then bent down to it, pulling up the pant leg and revealing a long bloody scratch. “It’s not deep.” Remembering, her fingers then flew to her cheekbone, which was red and sporting a coming bruise. “Got hit by a branch. But he’s gone. He’s not here.”

“Let’s make sure.”

“Okay,” she said.

He grabbed the knife with his right hand and transferred the stick into his left. Carefully, with Laura in tow, he crossed the living room and closed and locked the front door, which had swung open, giving a sweeping glance around the porch first. Then he checked the bedrooms, bathroom, and closets.

“You’re right. He’s not here,” he said, returning to the kitchen.

“He must’ve run away when he heard you, or after he realized he couldn’t get to me. I thought I heard something crashing through some brush.”

“Which direction?”

“North, maybe? Or up the hill into the woods?”

“How did he get here?” Harrison asked, more to himself than to her.

“I think he was already here when I got home.”

“Well, we’re not staying here.” Harrison reached for her hand again. “We’ll call the police and—”

“No! Not tonight.” She let out a weary sigh. “I know I should have called them earlier, and I kicked myself that I didn’t, but . . . I just can’t face them and all their questions.”

“You have to.”

“I know. But . . . can it wait? Until morning at least? Please. I just can’t.”

“He’s a murderer. An escapee from a mental hospital.”

She nodded and shook her head. “All right. They can check the break-in. Tell them to come over. But I’ll talk to them in the morning.”

Harrison weighed the options. “Okay, then, we’ll go to my sister’s. She doesn’t live far.”

“No . . . I . . . don’t . . .”

“You’re not staying here,” he insisted. “It’s not safe. And tomorrow we’re going to the authorities,” he stated flatly. “Tonight it’s either my place, a motel, or my sister’s. But wherever it is, I’m not leaving you. Your choice.”

She swallowed, glanced down at the knife, then very deliberately picked it up and placed it back on its magnetic holder. “Your sister’s?”

“My sister’s,” he repeated. “Right after I call the police.”

She remained silent.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, hearing her unspoken reluctance. “They’ll have a fresh trail. You can talk to them in the morning.” His gaze met hers. “We have to.”

“Oh, hell . . .” She nodded. “Fine!”

Something was off. There was a strange, pillowy thickness to the air, and Justice felt both lost and intensely furious with Lorelei as he strode, head down, along the edge of the surf, which curled and licked at his boots.

Lorelei . . .

Justice ground his teeth together and squeezed his mind hard, seeking to reach inside her evil head. He threw all he had into making a mental connection, but she thwarted him. Oh, she was strong! Stronger than he’d believed. He’d had his hands into her Medusa hair, and now his skin felt on fire.

He was walking along the beach, but inside he was running. How many miles was he from the bait shop? Six? Eight? Maybe ten? He wouldn’t be able to walk the entire distance on the beach; there were several rocky cliffs that broke up the sand. Those would be the dangerous places. When he would have to move from the beach to where people could see him. But he wouldn’t have to walk along the main highway, either. There were twisting roads and paths between 101 and the ocean. He could find his way.

He would make it.

He fingered the butcher knife in his jacket pocket.

Tomorrow he would finish her.

He knew where she lived.

He knew where she worked.

He knew
her.

The baby . . .

Laura ran a hand lightly across her stomach as Harrison drove with controlled urgency to a rather dilapidated cottage a little less than ten miles south of her bungalow. As he’d promised, he’d called the police, and they had come to the house. They’d talked to her quickly, the interview was shorter than she expected, but the officers assured her detectives would want to speak to her again in the morning. In the meantime, her house was being cordoned off as a crime scene.