Wicked Game

by Lisa Jackson

  She turned to gaze back, her face caught in the glare of his headlights. She saw the grill on the front of the vehicle. A truck.

  Hudson hit the accelerator and the Jetta spurted forward, shimmying across the road, righting itself for a moment in the oncoming lane.

  Ram!

  The truck caught the Jetta on the driver’s side, spinning it back. Hudson didn’t wait. There was no more trying to stop. No searching for a place to land. He was going to have to outrun the bastard.

  He punched the accelerator. The Jetta’s wheels grabbed the pavement and lurched ahead of the truck with a jump. The truck’s driver threw it into reverse, then ground the gears, readying for another assault. Hudson pressed the accelerator further and the Jetta charged forward, shaking like a rattletrap.

  “The axle,” Hudson muttered. “Shit.”

  “Hudson, he’s coming!”

  “Bastard.”

  He punched the Jetta. Shivering madly, the compact car ran forward like a runner fighting a limp.

  The headlights pinned them. The truck’s horn bellowed a cry of war, then slammed them with enough force to slide the Jetta over the edge. One moment they were following the center line of the highway, the next they were plunging over an embankment into black nothingness.

  Becca screamed. In her mind’s eye she saw Hudson cold and bleeding. Eyes closed in death.

  Blam! The Jetta hit the ground with force enough to break the axle entirely. Becca’s teeth slammed together. The car surged through underbrush. Ringo yipped. Hudson swore and then suddenly the bole of the tree raced toward them.

  The driver’s side hit the tree dead on. Becca jerked into her seat belt again. The windshield shattered. Cold air and glass rained.

  “Hudson! Hudson!”

  Becca didn’t immediately realize she was calling his name. She surfaced as if from a dream and saw something stuck into the arm of her jacket. A sharp chunk of wood. She reached for it and pulled it out, felt searing pain. It had been jabbed into her bicep. She yanked it out before any of that penetrated her brain and she felt the ooze of blood on her skin.

  Hurry, she told herself. Hurry!

  Her gaze shot to Hudson. He was slumped over the wheel. The area above his right ear was dark with blood. The steering wheel had pinned him to his seat. “Hudson,” she said brokenly.

  Steam sizzled into the cold night. Rain poured in through the half-missing windshield.

  “Hudson,” she whispered again. She tried to move forward but the seat belt held her fast. The dog whimpered and she glanced back. Ringo was trapped in the backseat. The car had folded inward on the driver’s side and the dog was blocked from jumping to the front, but he appeared to be unhurt.

  Hurry! He’s coming back!

  With dull fingers Becca unclasped her seat belt. It zipped back as if the car were in perfect working order. She was having trouble getting her brain to command herself to move with urgency.

  She pushed on her door and it groaned open with the sound of grinding metal. A frigid wind slapped her face.

  The cell phone.

  She glanced at Hudson again. He was pale and his breathing was labored. Was that the effect of being crushed by the steering wheel? Please, God, let him be okay.

  Think.

  The cell phone, yes.

  She reached a hand around the floor of her seat, feeling dull and disconnected. Where was it? She couldn’t find it.

  Hudson kept his cell in his jacket.

  Gently, she reached a hand in his right pocket, but it was empty. Making mewling sounds of distress, she reached over him, flashing anger at the steering wheel, throwing her shoulder against it as if that could help to release him.

  She caught the other side of his jacket and hauled it up, heavy with his phone. She struggled to get it free and when she did, she flipped it open.

  No service.

  Tears squeezed from her eyes. Ringo was whining and whining and she gazed back at him. “Stay put, boy. It’s okay. It’s all right. We’re okay.” She glanced around and felt a zap of pain jump up her neck. Something twisted there. Muscle pain. Immediately her arms went to her abdomen, but she was fine. Her baby was fine.

  Rage ran through her like wildfire, burning through her torpor.

  Bastard. Murdering, killing bastard!

  With new strength she pulled herself from the car, slipping in mud and fir chips and needles. Glass tinkled against itself and fell off her clothes as she hung on to the car. She could feel the pain in her left arm. The wrench of her neck. And there was something with her left hip—a deep bruise.

  But her head was clearing rapidly. The rain was good for that, at least. She blinked against the drizzle and listened hard. No sound but the rain and the whoosh of an impish wind.

  No engine. He had moved on. He had driven his truck far away.

  Just like last time.

  Her teeth started instantly chattering. She felt a headache building. From the accident? No! A vision. For the first time she welcomed it.

  Please. Please, Jessie.

  And suddenly there she was. Standing precariously on the headland. Alone.

  Where was he?

  Jessie mouthed the word to her. Two syllables. A warning.

  Becca wanted to cry with frustration. “What is it?” she cried aloud.

  “Justice,” Jessie answered.

  Becca came back to the moment as if someone had turned a switch. She turned her face to the high heavens and shrieked, wanting answers, not riddles.

  And Hudson?

  She had to get help.

  Struggling, she grabbed on to exposed tree roots to help her scale the embankment back to the road above. She was glad for her beach clothes, her sneakers and jeans and jacket, but she still scrambled for purchase against the slippery mud.

  Gasping for breath, she finally reached the top, hauling herself up with shaking arms onto the asphalt. She stared down the highway from where they’d come. No sound of an approaching vehicle. She glanced toward the east. The road curved toward the right. Nothing approaching from there, either.

  She wanted to lie down and rest her head on the wet road. She needed…rest.

  But Hudson needed help.

  With an effort, she staggered to her feet. You’re unhurt, she told herself. You’re okay.

  She was only a couple of miles from her first accident. Where someone had run her off the road. Where she’d lost her baby. Again, she cradled her abdomen.

  Which way to go to find cell service? Toward Portland, or toward the beach?

  A toss-up.

  Becca chose Portland. She stumbled east. A car would come by soon. A good Samaritan. Hudson was okay. He wasn’t in any immediate danger. He was okay. But tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she silently prayed for him as she trudged along the road.

  She reached another curve of the road and trudged around it, looking through the rain ahead. Was that a car stopped on the road? To her shock, headlights suddenly blasted her in their bright glare. She saw the grill guard.

  For the briefest of seconds Becca was paralyzed. Then she heard the door slam and a tall figure was backlit in the headlights. He held something in his hands. A knife.

  She turned and fled like an Olympic runner, racing down the road away from him.

  His footsteps slammed hard behind her.

  Not toward Hudson, she thought. She had to lead him away. To the other side of the road.

  She crossed the center line and zigzagged toward the opposite cliffside, sliding over the ledge on purpose, brushing a low Douglas fir branch, scratched by stickery limbs.

  He was close. Breathing hard. He leapt down after her.

  She was surprisingly coolheaded. She had to lead him away. Away. Away. From Hudson and Ringo. From her and her baby.

  “Sister,” he called softly. “You cannot hide.”

  Sister?

  Becca stumbled, nearly fell.

  “Spawn of Satan.”

  Becca struggled onward,
hands outstretched, tearing as fast as she dared through the thick shrubbery and trees. But he was gaining. He was strong.

  Who was he?

  She came to a clearing. To the left and up was the highway. Straight ahead, an open gully with no protection. To the right, more woods and God knew what.

  She had to get back to the highway. Help would come.

  Moving more stealthily, Becca crept around the trees and shrubbery, farther into the woods. Her footsteps sounded loud to her ears, but the rain and wind were covers. He’d slowed down, too. He was listening. Struggling to keep track of her.

  Then she saw the edge of the highway thirty feet above her. She hesitated, hating to make herself an open target. But there was no time. No time!

  With a supreme effort she climbed up the bank, her fingernails scraping the bark on the tree boles, her hands clinging to stubborn vines.

  She heard his breathing behind her.

  With a sob of effort, she threw herself onto the empty road. Her hand closed over a rock the size of her fist. Snatching it up, she stumbled to her feet and ran west.

  “I can smell you!” he roared, reaching the road behind her.

  Her lungs burned and her legs were rubber. He ran after her. His breath came in excited gasps. His hands scrabbled for her, tangling in her hair. She yanked free and screamed for all she was worth.

  And then Jessie was there. Beckoning her forward. Sobbing, Becca ran toward her. It took her several seconds to realize her attacker had slowed his pursuit.

  She glanced back and saw his face. A shudder went through her. The same face she’d seen when she lost her baby. He was staring through dead eyes at—Jessie. Becca jerked her gaze from his back to Jessie, who was fading from sight.

  “Justice,” she said again.

  Becca fearfully glanced back as her attacker threw back his head and roared. He came at Becca doubly hard. “Jezebel!” he called. “Rebecca!”

  The rock felt heavy in her hand. She paused as his big body hurtled toward her, then she heaved her arm back and hurled the stone at him as hard as she could. It smashed into his forehead, knocking him off his stride.

  “I am God’s messenger!” he bellowed, staggering.

  Becca turned and ran with renewed energy, tearing down the road, her lungs on fire, leg muscles burning.

  Faintly, she saw the glow of headlights far ahead, somewhere through the trees. She cried out in desperation, staggering, running, near collapse. She ran toward the approaching vehicle, waving her arms, silently praying this wasn’t some kind of backup for the sick monster chasing her.

  The car, a Jeep, slowed to a halt and the driver got out. A man. Becca, muddy, blood-splattered, and sick with fear, shrank away from his stark headlights. When he suddenly ran toward her, her pulse spiked and she stumbled over her feet.

  “Becca?” the voice called urgently. “My God, are you all right?”

  She knew him. She knew that voice. She turned back, then shot her gaze in the direction of her attacker. The highway steamed in the glow of her savior’s headlights but there was no one chasing her. No one there.

  He was beside her now. She recognized him, but not her own shaking voice when she said, “Detective McNally?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. What happened?”

  She broke down, falling limply, but his reactions were swift and he grabbed her before her knees fully cracked against the blacktop. “Levi!” he called over his shoulder. “Get out here!”

  The passenger’s side of the Jeep opened and a man stepped out. He half loped, half walked their way, and then hung back. A boy, Becca realized belatedly. She could scarcely think. Her brain was muddled.

  “Hudson’s hurt,” she burbled out. “We had an accident.” She pointed behind her to the underbrush. “Down there. Back a ways. He was pushed off the road. The truck with the grill guard. He tried to kill us!”

  “Where?” McNally demanded.

  He helped Becca to her feet and she pointed in the direction the Jetta had careened off the road. McNally didn’t waste time. He barked to the boy to get a flashlight while he asked Becca if she could stand on her own for a moment. She nodded and he raced back to the Jeep, pulling it farther off the road but leaving the lights on.

  Then he came back and helped Becca lead the three of them in the right direction. It was easy to find. The crash through the underbrush had left branches torn, the bark gone, their exposed white interiors ghostly in the flashlight’s beam.

  Spying the back of the Jetta, McNally scrambled down the hill, yelling at the boy who was following a tad more slowly to keep the flashlight’s beam ahead of him. Becca slid down the hill on shaking legs, scratching her hands and feeling mud slide into her shoes.

  As soon as McNally saw Hudson he attempted to open the driver’s door. It took several tries and a lot of swearing before it wrenched free with a scream of protest that sent Ringo into paroxysms of barking. The front side of the car was sprung sideways and Hudson was wedged firmly. McNally twisted the keys and the engine coughed and sputtered but didn’t catch. He pulled the seat lever and moved the driver’s seat backward a couple of inches. Hudson’s body slipped forward over the wheel. He was free, but still unconscious.

  McNally laid fingers against his throat. “Strong pulse.” He checked his cell phone and swore softly. “Someone ran you off the road?”

  “Yes.”

  “You think it’s the same guy who rammed Renee Trudeau’s car over the cliff?”

  “Yes.”

  “We need cell service.” He flipped his phone shut and stared hard at the boy Levi, who was talking to Ringo through the window. The little dog was torn between trying to reach Hudson and lick him and wanting to dig through the window. McNally fumbled with a button and the rear window slid downward and Ringo scrambled to get his head through. Levi petted and cooed to him, calming him down.

  “Someone’s got to drive back and call 911. We need an ambulance.” McNally was looking at Becca.

  “I can’t leave Hudson,” she chattered.

  “I’ll stay with them,” Levi said soberly. “You go.”

  McNally wanted to protest. Becca could tell it was all he could do to leave them and go for help. But there was no choice. She couldn’t go, and Levi was too young to drive. “As soon as I make contact, I’m driving right back here,” he said tautly. He hesitated a moment, then withdrew a handgun from the inside of his coat. As if choreographed, Levi stepped up and took it from him. McNally looked like he wanted to argue about that, too, but he sent Becca a swift look, said, “Don’t hesitate,” then climbed back up the bank in record speed.

  Levi switched off the beam of the flashlight, then removed the keys from the car, quietly petting Ringo’s head, which strained out the window. “No need to advertise where we are,” he said into the sudden dark.

  Near exhaustion, Becca settled herself inside the driver’s door next to Hudson. She found his hand and linked her fingers through his.

  Spawn of Satan. I am God’s messenger. Sister…

  He’d seen Jessie. He’d shared Becca’s vision.

  He knew them both.

  “He’s still out there,” she said. “He chased me. Through the woods.”

  Levi moved closer to Becca. She saw the gun was in his hand. She heard a click and realized he’d removed the safety. “You know about guns?” she asked him.

  “No.”

  “You’re not—McNally’s son?”

  “Yeah. I just don’t know him that much.”

  “And you don’t know about guns.”

  He was staring into the dark, not at her. “I know video games,” he said, and for some reason that was enough to comfort Becca.

  The rain eased up and finally quit. Becca kept feeling Hudson’s pulse but it was strong and steady. Eventually, they heard a car approach and saw it was Mac’s Jeep. He scrambled down the bank and took the gun from his son, resetting the safety. He assured them an ambulance was on its way. They would take Hudson ba
ck to Ocean Park Hospital. He felt Becca should be looked at, too, and had told the 911 operator there were two victims.

  Ringo, who’d waited patiently till now, started renewed whining and bouncing in the backseat, so Levi pulled the dog from the car and held him while Ringo reached his tongue toward Becca. She leaned forward and let him wash her face, hugging him hard.

  “Can I take him home?” Levi asked her. “I’ll take good care of him for you.”

  Becca started crying in earnest. She couldn’t stop. She nodded jerkily, and in the distance came the wail of a siren.

  She gazed off in the opposite direction and wondered what had become of her assailant. “He had his truck around the corner,” she told McNally.

  “I’m going to find him,” the detective told her with certainty.

  Becca turned to Hudson. Please be okay, she prayed. Please, please.

  And then the ambulance arrived in a blinding flash of red and white strobes and the welcome scream of its horn.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Sister.”

  The word was a sibilant sound searing through Becca’s mind.

  “Ssssisssster.”

  Oh, God, no!

  Becca’s eyes flew open, the hiss of his voice still ringing in her ears. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing from the terrifying nightmare. In the dark dream, she’d been running through rain and mud, vainly searching for Hudson, seeing the ghost of Jessie at every turn, feeling the hot breath of a nameless, twisted psychopath upon her neck.

  Sister.

  She blinked, but remnants of the dark nightmare persisted where a writhing wrought-iron fence separated her from hundreds of women, all with the same face. Jessie’s face! And there had been a baby crying, its pitiful, frightened whimper nearly obscured by the roar of the sea and rush of wind. Panicked, knowing there was danger at every turn, Becca had been running, faster and faster through the forest, following the ever-shifting fence line, searching vainly for the baby and Hudson…

  She shivered.

  Forced the damned dream away and tried to think clearly.

  She was in a hospital bed in a room with stainless steel fixtures and a table at her side. A single narrow window cut into the wall overlooked a near-empty parking lot where security lights offered weak illumination of the rain that poured in gusting sheets while the limbs of the already crooked pine trees twisted in the wind.