by Lisa Jackson
God, it was hot. Sweat prickled her scalp. Ran down her back. The heat was so intense, the pain in her arm debilitating, her legs feeling like rubber. “Come on,” she urged. She tried to run the last few feet, one foot in front of the other, when the mare, suddenly realizing that freedom lay ahead, threw back her head and ripped the halter from Shannon’s fingers.
Shannon started to follow, took one step toward the open door, when she saw movement from the corner of her eye.
Her heart jolted.
A dark figure, carrying a long pole, sprang.
The man she’d seen earlier!
With a weapon!
NO! She feinted left, dodging away.
But her movements weren’t sharp.
She was sluggish. Nearly tripped on herself.
Too late!
Whack! The thick handle of a pitchfork crashed into the side of her face.
Pain splintered through her cheek, sending off needles of agony into her eye. No…Oh, God, no!
Blood erupted through her nose and skin.
She threw up a hand to protect herself and staggered backward, trying to reach the open door, hoping to catch a glimpse of the bastard’s face, but it was obscured, hidden in the shadows of a hood.
“Shannon!” a male voice yelled, as if from a distance. Her attacker? Stunned, she reeled, trying to run, her legs wobbly, blood pouring down from her face and down her throat. She could barely see and every breath she took felt like she was taking in fire.
Only a few more steps!
“Shannon!” the male voice again yelled from somewhere outside the building.
“In here. Help!” she cried, but the words were strangled, muted over the rush and whoosh of the fire.
She took another step toward the door.
CRACK!
The back of her head seemed to explode.
She pitched forward, landed on the cement.
He came at her again, this dark figure silhouetted by the red, shifting, eerie light through the windows.
She screamed.
He raised his club again and she tried to zero in on his face, but it was covered. As he lunged, intent on striking her, she forced herself to roll to one side, then leap up. Dizzy, spitting blood, she grabbed the end of the pitchfork before he could beat her.
Her fingers surrounded the smooth wood handle and she put her weight into it, hoping to drive the tines into the bastard’s chest or neck. But her fingers were slick with sweat and her own blood, and she couldn’t hold on. As if she weighed nothing, he twisted the pitchfork and she lost her grip, her boots slipping in the blood.
He yanked it away and she fell back. Her injured shoulder slammed into the concrete. A hot, searing pain ripped down her arm, ricocheting through her body.
Writhing, she let out a scream and rolled toward the open door, away from her attacker. Blackness pulled at her, begging her to leave consciousness and agony behind, but if she did she knew whoever had done this to her would kill her. Would beat her with the handle of the pitchfork or drive the sharp, long tines into her body.
Sirens!
Loud. Piercing. The wail of sirens cut through the night air.
If she could only hang on…help was on its way…she curled into the fetal position, protecting herself from the blows she knew were coming, and closed her eyes. It was so hot…she couldn’t breathe…Stay awake!…Don’t pass out!… but she was losing the battle, the pull was so great…For God’s sake, Shannon, don’t let go!
But it was useless, the pain too intense. She lay on the floor, spent, her blood seeping onto the concrete. With no last thought she gave herself over to the enveloping blackness…
Chapter 7
Travis unlatched the last kennel.
A German shepherd hurtled past him, nearly knocking him over in the darkness, racing to follow the pack of Border collies, Labs and a couple of mutts of undecipherable lineage that he had freed.
He’d managed to get all of the anxious, howling dogs out of their cages despite the fact that the kennel had been plunged in an eerie darkness, pierced only by the hellish red glow seeping through a bank of small windows. None of the lights had worked.
Nonetheless, all the dogs were now free and running wildly through the fields and into the woods. Through the door he saw them racing away from the fire that climbed higher and higher into the night sky.
He thought of the man he’d seen seconds before the first explosion. Who the hell was he? Travis had no doubt that the son of a bitch had set the blaze intentionally. But why?
Sweating, carrying the fire extinguisher he’d found in the kennel, he jogged across the paddock and closer to the fire, spraying retardant on the ground near the burning shed while looking for Shannon, searching the shifting shadows, feeling the blistering heat from the blaze.
Where was she?
With the horses?
Still in the stable?
He didn’t see her anywhere outside but he noticed the small horses racing back and forth in a far corner of the field. They were anxious, their eyes wide, their heads high as they sniffed the air and whinnied in fright.
Shannon wasn’t with them. Or nearby.
Again he swept his gaze around the nearby buildings.
Had she gone back to the house?
No, he decided, still blowing retardant near the base of the burning building. After releasing the horses, she would have run to the kennel to make certain he’d taken care of the dogs. She’d been adamant about saving the animals.
Sirens screamed in the distance and another horse, a panicked, yellowish animal with black stockings, mane and tail, careened out of the stable. The mare barreled past him at breakneck speed, dark legs flashing as she beelined for the rest of the herd now huddled and restless at the far end of the paddock.
Was Shannon still inside?
“Shannon!” he yelled, one eye on the door, the other on the plume of retardant he was shooting toward the shed. Slowly, he eased toward the stable.
He thought she might have gone out the other door at the front of the building, the one where she’d entered, the smaller door that faced the parking lot, but as the flames roared higher and far he heard in the distance the wail of a siren, and he had a bad feeling.
A real bad feeling.
He didn’t know how many horses were on the premises. The small herd that was snorting and pawing might be all the horses, nonetheless, he moved toward the open door, feeling the heat char his lungs, tasting the smoke in his mouth.
All the while he scanned the landscape, the buildings, the connecting paddocks, porches and walkways.
The sirens screamed closer, the noise nearly deafening.
His canister was suddenly empty, the few last gasps of retardant sputtering out.
“Shannon!” he yelled again, spying a hose coiled on the outside of the stable, only a few feet from a watering trough and spigot. Still watching the door, he jogged to the building, tossed the empty fire extinguisher onto the ground, then unwound the hose. Losing no time, he attached the hose to the spigot, twisted the tap on full bore and turned toward the stable, intending to spray down the roof. “Shannon!”
Where the hell could she be? Still inside? With an injured horse?
“Hell!”
He had to find out. Dropping the hose, he let it wriggle and writhe on the ground like a dying snake.
He was two steps from the doorway when he heard her scream.
A sharp, piercing cry of sheer agony.
Fear jolted through him.
“Shannon!” He ran into the yawning open doorway and into the darkness.
She was less than ten feet from the door.
A crumpled heap in a pool of blood.
“Jesus, no!”
He was at her side in a second.
She was beaten, blood covering her face, running onto the concrete. Oh, God, had she been trampled? He knelt beside her, feeling the heat of the fire, hearing the growl of huge engines, the sound of gravel being crushed beneath thick
tires.
Fire trucks!
Emergency vehicles!
Paramedics!
Oh, God, please, let the paramedics be here!
Heart in his throat Travis felt for her pulse, checked her airway and listened for her breathing over the sounds of men shouting, boots crunching, the fire hissing.
She was alive, breathing on her own, her pulse steady and yet she was out cold, blood gushing from a wound in the back of her head. “Here!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “I need help over here!” He wanted to move her, to drag her from this dark, smoke-filled building, but he didn’t dare for fear of injuring her further.
Where the hell were the EMTs?
“Shannon!” he yelled, trying to wake her without shaking her. “Shannon Flannery!”
She didn’t move. In the dim, reddish light, he saw that her once-beautiful face had been battered. Blood was flowing and crusting from her nose and mouth, bruises surfacing over what had so recently been flawless skin. He tore off a piece from the hem of his T-shirt and held it over the worst of the cut, feeling the blood wet and sticky as it oozed through the wad of dark cotton. With his teeth and free hand, he ripped off more of his shirt and tried to staunch the flow of blood at the back of her head, conscious that she might have a neck injury and careful to barely move her.
“Help!” he screamed again.
God, would they not search the buildings?
For a second he let go of the soaked wad of cloth and her chin and reached into his pocket for his cell phone. He didn’t dare leave her, but he’d call damned 9-1-1 again and have them call and relay a message to the EMTs that there was an injured woman in the stable who needed immediate attention.
He’d pulled up his antennae with his teeth when he heard the sound of footsteps.
Thank God!
“In here!” he yelled.
Someone was running toward him.
Relief washed over him.
Still kneeling, the cell phone in one hand, he glanced up, expecting a fireman or EMT, but the tall man who stopped only inches from him was wearing sun-bleached jeans and a tattered T-shirt. He glared down at Travis with dark, suspicious eyes.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
But Travis ignored the question. “She needs help.”
“I can see that.” The stranger was on his knees in an instant.
“Shit,” he muttered, touching her gently yet familiarly, as if he was accustomed to placing his hands on her body. Travis’s gut knotted and he felt a spurt of jealousy shoot through his blood. He ignored the ridiculous sensation, hoped whoever the hell this guy was, he could help her.
“You with the fire crew?”
The dark-eyed man didn’t answer, his concentration completely on Shannon, eerily so, as if the rest of the world, the horrific fiery blaze, the scattered, panicked horses, the rescue workers, this whole hellish scene, were removed.
Carefully this man touched and probed. “Shannon,” he whispered in a voice barely audible. “Wake up. Can you hear me?”
“She’s out,” Travis said impatiently.
The man didn’t so much as flick him a glance.
“I’ll get help!” Though he was hesitant to leave her, Travis ran to the far end of the building and tried to open the door. It didn’t give. Hell! He fiddled with the deadbolt, heard the latch spring, then shouldered open the door. Emergency vehicles were scattered around the lot—a county sheriff’s rig, a pumper truck, a fire engine and an ambulance. Firefighters in helmets and fire-retardant gear were already twisting on nozzles, dragging hoses, shouting to each other as they surrounded the blaze.
“Hey, you!” shouted one firefighter, a short, wiry man wearing a protective jacket, trousers and helmet. His face was stern and set, eyes drilling through the clear shield of his visor. He held a halligan tool in one hand, his self-contained breathing apparatus strapped to his back. “Anyone inside?” he asked, pointing toward Shannon’s house.
“I don’t know.” He thought of the man running from the fire. Where the hell had he gone?
“I don’t think so, but I’ve got a woman hurt in the stable. She needs medical attention—now!”
The firefighter pointed out the paramedics emerging from the ambulance.
Travis flagged them down as firefighters dragged hoses closer to the blaze and great streams of water began pouring over the burning shed and surrounding buildings. The angry fire spat, sizzled and hissed as if enraged by the onslaught of gallons of water.
“There’s a woman, the one who owns this place, Shannon Flannery, and she’s unconscious,” Travis explained as the EMTs pulled their equipment cases from the ambulance. “Head wound. Facial cuts. Maybe internal injuries.”
“What about you?” the female EMT asked, already following Travis as he ran toward the stable. She was short and slim, her partner, a stocky man jogging beside her, was only a few inches taller.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it,” she said, frowning, and he glanced down at his jacket, shirt and jeans, all of which were colored by splotches of blood—Shannon’s blood.
“It’s not mine,” he said as he reached the door. “Down this corridor. The lights aren’t working.”
“No problem.” The man turned on a huge flashlight that illuminated the concrete path bisecting the building. All along the corridor were bloody footprints.
“Don’t step in those!” the male EMT ordered, but it was too late. Travis saw that the footprints had already been smeared by his own boots as he’d run through the dark seeking help. Knowing whatever evidence had been in those tracks was probably lost, he sidestepped the footprints to the spot near the far door where Shannon lay inert, the tall man in attendance.
He didn’t move away from Shannon even when the EMTs closed in.
“Stand back, sir,” the woman ordered. “Sir!”
The second EMT was already opening his case.
Reluctantly the man eased away from Shannon and the stern, small woman wearing protective gear took control. “God,” she said in a whisper. “This is Shannon Flannery?”
“Yes,” both men answered and Travis cringed at the sight of Shannon’s battered face. He’d seen his share of wounds in his day, watched his share of fights but Shannon’s contusions, the cuts and bruising on her face, the blood everywhere, caused his gut to clench.
The female EMT looked up. “Either of you related to her? Husband?”
“No,” Travis said and the other man shook his head.
“Do you know if anyone else is injured?” she asked, kneeling next to Shannon as her partner reached into his medical case and yanked on a pair of latex gloves.
“I don’t know,” Travis answered. “I haven’t seen anyone else.”
“Anyone else live here?” She pulled on her gloves and was already examining Shannon, checking her breathing and pulse.
“I do, but I wasn’t home. Just got back,” the tall man answered.
Nate Santana, Travis realized, and another unwanted and uncalled for sense of jealousy sang through his blood. He’d known about Santana, of course, had read about him in some of the articles on Shannon. Supposedly the guy was some kind of horse trainer, a “horse whisperer,” if you could believe what the Internet said about him.
But nowhere in any of the articles he’d read had Santana and Shannon Flannery been romantically linked. A little tidbit the press hadn’t reported. Now, Travis guessed, by the look of concern on his face, the way he’d touched her and talked to her, Santana was more than Shannon Flannery’s partner. He probably lived with her and was her lover.
Tense, Travis hazarded a glance at the tall man with the black hair and eyes as dark as obsidian. Deep grooves were evident around the corners of his mouth and crow’s-feet fanned out from his eyes.
“Does anyone else live on the premises besides you and Ms. Flannery?” the male paramedic asked.
“No.”
Just outside the open door, firefighters tackled the blaz
e, yelling at each other, working together, a kind of fascinating ordered chaos as they battled the blaze. More water was pumped onto the fire. Smoke and steam rose to the night sky.
“Any guests or visitors?”
The tall man glanced at Travis. “None that I know of.”
“Okay, so what happened to her?” the female EMT asked as her partner radioed to someone that there were no other people known to be on the premises.
“She was setting the horses free, afraid this building might go up. I went to take care of the dogs…I wasn’t here, but I thought maybe she’d been kicked or trampled by a horse…”
“This is more than a kick,” she said, glancing up at both men. “How long has she been out?”
Travis said, “Five minutes, maybe six or seven.”
Quickly and efficiently, the female EMT bandaged Shannon’s head, frowning at the cut on the back side, then tore open Shannon’s blouse and bandaged the scrape that sliced down her ribs. “Surface laceration,” she said to her cohort before shining the beam of a penlight into Shannon’s eyes. “Shannon Flannery!” she yelled. “Shannon!” No response. “Let’s take her in, careful of the shoulder.”
She frowned as they unfolded a stretcher. Into a recorder, she said, “The victim’s suffered multiple contusions on the face and head…” She rattled off more of her vital signs, then snapped the recorder off. “Looks like someone beat the tar out of her.” She stared down the corridor to the smeared trail of blood, then said, “Let’s get her to the hospital.”
Travis’s insides twisted. What the hell had happened to her in those few minutes they’d been separated, when Shannon had gone into the horse barn and he’d run to the kennel? He stared down at what had so recently been a heart-stoppingly beautiful face, at the dark bruises, bandages and blood on what had been flawless features. The paramedics stabilized her neck, then carefully placed her on a stretcher.
The paramedic was right. Shannon looked as if someone had swung a baseball bat at her and connected. Because she’d stayed in the stables, because she’d cared enough about her animals that she’d risked her life for them.
His jaw slid to the side and he felt like a fool.
“You two, tell the investigators what you know about this fire,” the female EMT ordered, then she and her partner hoisted Shannon from the ground and carried her away from the fire, down the alley between the garage and stable to the waiting ambulance.