Woof at the Door

by Laura Morrigan

  Rumbling thunder. Wind rattling through leaves and branches. Jax started barking. A slow tingle snaked up my spine. They were not happy or excited barks. They were fast, harsh, and panicked—a warning.

  A cold shiver shot through to my core. I looked toward Bluebell. The view was partially obstructed by the large tree, but I could see Jax in the back. He wasn’t looking at the woods or at the pasture. He was looking at me.

  No. He was looking behind me.

  I felt myself go still as fear seeped into me. I had walked into a viper’s nest.

  “Hey, there, Miss Wilde.”

  I tried not to jump at the sound of the drawling voice. Mind racing, I turned, struggling to conceal my horror with mild surprise.

  “You startled me.”

  “Did I?” Eyes blazing with some dark inner fire, Bo twisted his lips into a crooked smile.

  I tried to smile back, pretending not to notice the ax handle he was holding in one hand. “I knocked. I thought you would be in the cabin.”

  He returned my comment with a long, narrowed stare. “I reckoned you’d figure it out once you got out here.”

  “Figure what out?”

  “At first, I didn’t believe Gardenia about you being able to talk to animals.”

  “What?” I barely breathed the word.

  “But I figure why take the risk?”

  I took a small step back. Stay calm. I had to keep my head. Think. Don’t panic.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come on, now. Don’t play dumb. You know Jax saw me kill Mark.”

  Jax had seen it, I was sure, but with my mind shielded from his thoughts by distance, I was spared the sight. I swallowed hard against the bile that rose in my throat. I had to think. It was hard to focus. Jax was barking like mad. Angry, panicked barks. I didn’t have to be linked to his mind to know he wanted to tear Bo apart.

  I wanted to give him the chance. If I could get to Bluebell . . . I glanced back. About fifty feet—it seemed a mile away.

  I had to focus. Think. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

  “I didn’t want to have to. I tried to get rid of Jax without hurting anyone else.”

  “You were trying to kill Jax with the antifreeze.” Anger momentarily seared away my fear.

  “I know you won’t believe this, but I ain’t no murderer.”

  “Really? What are you?” I edged another step back.

  “I didn’t meant to kill Mark. But he made me so angry. I’m just tryin’ to protect my family.”

  “How was killing Mark protecting anyone?”

  “Because he was goin’ to write a book. A book!” he said louder, as if I needed to understand what a book was. “About the family and all the dirty little secrets! It would have destroyed our father, his career. I couldn’t let him.”

  “Your father? You mean Buck Richardson?”

  “He’s a great man. He’ll be president one day.” The fanatical pride in his voice chilled me more than any threat could.

  “Not if you do this.” I tried to ease another step backward. “The police know I’m coming out here. You won’t get away with killing me, too. And then everyone will know. The controversy will kill Buck’s chances.”

  “You think I’m stupid? I’m not gonna kill you. You’re gonna get in an accident.”

  He saw my gaze flick to the ax handle.

  “That’s right.” He grinned. A wicked, distorted grin. “You catch on quick. A little bump on the head and you and your truck will end up in the lake.”

  “They’ll figure it out,” I said, trying to keep him talking.

  Think, Grace! If I could just get to Jax . . .

  He chuckled. “They won’t find you. That lake’s an old limestone quarry. A few feet out it drops off to seventy feet, straight down.” He made a whistling noise. “If they do find you, by the time they drag you out of there, the critters will’ve eaten you up. They won’t be able to tell it was more than an accident.”

  Thunder cracked and roared as rain began to fall. “You’re wrong. The cops are smart. They’ll know I was murdered.” I inched back another step, heart hammering in my chest. Fighting panic, I tried not to think about the fact that I was talking to a murderer. “They know Burke was murdered.”

  “What?” His eyes narrowed. I eased back another step. The hill was becoming slippery. I tried to think of a way I could use it to my advantage.

  “Alexander Burke didn’t commit suicide. He was killed. The cops know. And they know about Mark’s relationship with Burke.”

  Bo’s smile morphed into a sneer. “He should have let Mark be. But he talked Mark into writing that damn book. About our family! Brothers don’t do that. In this family you cover for each other. You’ve got each other’s back.”

  “So you killed him.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. I’m sure they won’t either.” I pointed to the dirt road.

  The bluff worked. Bo turned to see who I was talking about.

  I spun and flew down the hill. Immediately, I heard footsteps closing in behind me. I wasn’t going to make it.

  Bo’s hand clamped on my elbow but slipped off. A few more steps and he snaked his arm around the tops of my shoulders. On instinct, I planted my feet, dropped my weight, and tried to throw him the way I had practiced with Emma.

  Instead of slamming into the ground, he skidded past, and went down on one knee. Which put him between me and my only escape.

  Shit!

  I needed a weapon. Too far to try to go back to the barn. Picturing the gun cabinet and its stockpile of firearms, I sprinted for the cabin.

  Careening into the door, I clawed at the handle. Locked. Through the wind and pounding rain, I could hear Bo crashing through the leaves. No time.

  Frantically, I looked around for a weapon or an escape. I caught sight of an access hole leading under the house. Like a hunted rabbit, I dove for the opening and scrambled through.

  A hand snagged one of my ankles, and I was dragged backward. Spinning onto my back, I kicked out. My heel connected with a satisfying crunch. Bo bellowed like an enraged bear.

  He brought his hands up to his shattered nose.

  Ankle free, I crab-crawled backward farther under the house. My gaze was locked on the murderer kneeling just outside. Tears and blood streamed down his face. He spit out a string of curses and stood.

  For a moment, I was relieved. Chest heaving, I tried to adjust to the dark of the dimly lit crawl space. Water ran into my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand. There was only about two feet of space between the earth and the cabin. Not enough room for Bo to wield the ax handle. Under the house, we were on a more even playing field. Still, I felt trapped.

  I’ve got to get out of here. Scanning the outer walls, I saw a shaft of light coming from another opening on the right side of the cabin.

  I started toward it on my hands and knees but stopped just a few feet away. The opening was partly blocked by several pipes. I could never squeeze through the hole.

  I felt another wave of panic. I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. The ground seemed to be rising up—the crawl space shrinking.

  I opened my mouth to sob or scream or something else pathetic, but choked back the impulse. Crying and screaming wouldn’t do any good. The creak of a floorboard sounded overhead. I held my breath, listening. Bo’s muffled voice traveled down through the floor.

  “There’s nowhere to run to. Stupid bitch. You hear?”

  Footsteps echoed above me. I searched for another escape. Then I heard something that made my heart stumble in my chest.

  The ratcheting sound of a cartridge being chambered.

  Bo Bishop had a shotgun.


  I crouched motionless, straining to listen over the thunderous beat of my heart. Would he shoot through the floor? I could hear Bo talking, cursing, walking. It sounded like he was moving toward the front door.

  I was frozen. Petrified. Where could I go? I stared at the opening I had come through. I couldn’t go that way. Bo would be coming out of the cabin any second.

  “Move,” I ordered myself in a ragged whisper. “Move if you want to live.”

  My body obeyed. I began crawling furiously toward the back of the cabin. I slammed my knee into a root and scraped my shins on an exposed cinderblock, but my mind barely registered these things. I had to put as much distance as possible between me and the hole Bo was sure to crawl through any second.

  As I neared the opposite end of the cabin, I heard the front door slam. I glanced back over my shoulder but kept crawling. My hand sank into something wet.

  I looked down. Water. I had crawled to the far side of the cabin. The side closest to the lake. My gaze shot up. I wasn’t looking at a wall. There was no wall. A thin sliver of weak light danced on the water’s surface. What I’d assumed was a solid exterior wall was an illusion. It was the underside of steps leading to a small floating dock. The cabin went right to the water’s edge.

  I crawled forward, fingers groping in the muck. After only a foot, I felt a steep slope. A few feet out it drops off. Sucking in a deep breath, I plunged into the cool water.

  My chest and legs scraped the ground as I wriggled under the steps. I swam hard at a downward angle, kicking madly with my heavy, sodden tennis shoes.

  A ghostly light materialized above me. I changed directions, knowing I was past the floating pier.

  Breaking the water’s surface, I gasped. The sound was muted by the driving rain. Treading quietly, I looked back toward shore. I scanned the back of the cabin. There was no sign of Bo.

  I could still hear Jax barking like mad. He was desperate now. In a frenzy. I had the feeling he could still see Bo. That meant he wasn’t crawling under the house looking for me.

  He was waiting.

  Waiting for me to come out. Like a cat waits to pounce on his prey.

  Swimming around the dock toward the side of the house closest to where I’d parked, I pulled myself up the sharply sloped bank into the tall reeds. Though I knew the rain concealed my movements, every crackle of the dry stalks seemed magnified in my ears. I lay still for a moment, trying to steady my breathing. Rising slowly to my feet, I crept along the side of the cabin.

  I stopped at a window and peeked over the sill. Looking past the interior of the house, I strained to see through the windows by the front door. Bo’s figure came into view. He was standing with his back to the Suburban, pointing a shotgun down at the access hole I’d crawled through.

  Shaking from fear and exertion, I turned and flattened my back against the wall. I was only twenty feet from Bluebell. But he had a shotgun.

  No time to dwell on that. Don’t think, run!

  I surged forward and sprinted.

  I had only gone a few feet when I heard the sound of boots, heavy on the ground behind me. I willed myself to run faster. To live.

  I was only steps from the truck now. I reached forward and clasped the door handle. I pulled and felt the door begin to swing open.

  An explosion of pain shot through my head as I was shoved forward into the door. It slammed shut. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. Bo pressed his weight against me, penning me to the door. He clawed his hand into my hair and yanked. I cried out. Snarling, Jax lunged at the window and dug frantically at the door.

  A scene burst though my mind. Fast and violent.

  A memory. Jax’s memory. Mark Richardson’s murder was played out in sickening clarity—

  Mark holding up his hands, then backing away. Then shouting and a loud pop. Mark’s head snapping back. His body falling, slumping back on the white couch. The murderer standing over him, a look of fury and disgust on his face. Speaking words in the same voice I heard in my own ear.

  “You broke my nose, bitch.”

  I tried to fight off the nauseating terror that beat against the inside of my skull like the tail of a caged alligator. But the memory had been so filled with desperate emotion and crippling fear, I was paralyzed. I stood limp and defenseless as a rag doll in the hands of a cruel child.

  “You are gonna pay.” Bo slammed my face against the window. White light flared over my vision. Blinding pain splintered across my cheekbone.

  Broken.

  I could feel a trickle of blood flow from my lip. It smeared on the glass and was washed away by the driving rain.

  Tired, beaten, and sopping wet. What a miserable way to die.

  I felt my breath shudder out in surrender.

  Jax crashed into the window. I blinked, focusing through the glass on the dog. He was frenzied. Snapping and snarling. The feral beast within him had broken free. Reaching out, I latched onto it—let his rage burn into me.

  I curled my fingers around the door handle, all my energy centered on holding on . . . I only had to wait a second for the chance I hoped for.

  Hand still fisted in my hair, Bo jerked me back.

  I gripped the handle as if it was a lifeline. Maybe it was.

  The muscles and sinew of my arm popped and tore as I was wrenched back to the ground. But the door swung open.

  A snarling blur leapt out of the Suburban.

  Jax’s feet barely hit the ground before he lunged forward and slammed Bo sidelong to the muddy earth.

  I tried to scuttle back out of the way. My arm buckled, my injured shoulder unable to take my weight.

  Bo lifted the shotgun to aim at the dog. But Jax was fast. He sprang forward and sank his teeth into Bo’s wrist. Screaming, he released the gun. It clattered out of his hands.

  Awkwardly, I lurched forward in the dirt, my hand outstretched, reaching for the gun.

  Bo brought his knees up and kicked. Jax tumbled away with a sharp yelp. Bo twisted onto his side and groped for the shotgun.

  In an instant, Jax was on him again. This time he went for Bo’s face. Screeching, Bo writhed and twisted, trying in vain to fend off the enraged animal. Snarling, Jax ripped at Bo’s cheek, and then clamped down on his throat.

  Bo let out a gurgled cry.

  I scurried forward on my knees, grabbed the gun, and cradling the butt in the crook of my arm, managed to point it at Bo. Jax’s feverish anger filled me. I was swept away by it. I felt my own anger surge. I wanted to kill this man. He was a murderer.

  But you’re not. I squeezed my eyes shut. I was shaking violently. I had to bring myself under control.

  Don’t kill him. “Jax. Leave him. Come.” My voice was a quaking whisper. I swallowed and tried again. “Jax.” My voice was stronger now. I couldn’t let him kill Bo. As much as he deserved it. “Jax! Heir!”

  The German command reached the animal’s febrile mind. Jax stilled and slowly obliged, leaving Bo in a moaning heap. Blood was smeared on his face, he had one hand holding the wound at his throat.

  I would not be his executioner. Neither would Jax.

  I kneeled in the downpour, shivering like a nervous Chihuahua, and knew I didn’t have long. Shock could kill as surely as a homicidal maniac.

  “Get up.” Though I said it to myself, Bo’s voice answered.

  “I can’t. Help.”

  The sound of his voice rebooted my survival circuits. He sounded way too healthy for a guy who’d just had a Doberman use his throat as dental floss. I was way too close.

  Dragging one foot under me, I was able to shift my weight and stand. I knew my phone got little or no reception here. Factoring in the storm, my best bet to reach help was the cabin phone. To get to the cabin, I’d have to walk past Bo. And then, I’d have to leave him outside.
r />   This shouldn’t have been difficult, but thinking about losing sight of him reminded me of every slasher movie ever made. Where the girl turns her back on the dead or dying psycho and he lurches back to life.

  While I stood debating in the droning hiss of the rain, I became aware of movement behind me. If Jax hadn’t been there, I don’t think I would have noticed the car at all.

  The sporty BMW splashed to a stop. Jennifer climbed out, her face flitting through a bevy of emotions—confusion and fear being most pronounced.

  Jax whined. Jen.

  No, Jax. Fuss!

  He heeded my command to heel. But whined again, confused.

  “Oh my God, Bo!” Jennifer started forward, but I aimed the barrel at her and she froze. “Grace . . . what?”

  “Don’t move.”

  She hadn’t, but I wanted to be very clear.

  “Okay, I’m not moving.”

  “What are you doing here?” She flicked a glance at Bo.

  “Don’t look at him, look at me.”

  “I came to see Bo. He called me and asked me to come by. What happened? What’s going on?”

  She seemed genuinely surprised, but what did I know? “He tried to kill me.”

  “What?”

  The shock was real. But I didn’t let down my guard. “Bo killed Mark. He admitted it.”

  Jennifer stared at Bo, shaking her head. “No. He would never . . . Bo?”

  The murderer was lying on his side, curled in a fetal position. He whimpered, “Help.”

  “Did you . . . shoot him?” There was no accusation in her voice.

  “No. But I will if he moves.”

  Jennifer blinked and her eyes focused. She seemed to see me for the first time. “You’re hurt.”

  “Yep.”

  “We need to call 911. Can I go into the cabin and call?”

  I thought about it. I desperately wanted to call the cavalry, but I didn’t trust Jennifer’s sudden appearance. I couldn’t stand there all day, so I nodded. “Come back out of the cabin with your hands up.”

  She nodded and walked inside. I could just see her moving through the windows. Within a few minutes she came out slowly, her hands obediently in the air. The rain had slowed. Soon the fickle Florida storm would be over. The sun would burst through the clouds and we’d be sweltering under its bright rays.