“Binder was cooperating with the police on the Timberline Trio case, wasn’t he?”
“Was he? I don’t know that I’d call it cooperating. I don’t think he had much to offer.”
Jim jumped up from the sofa, one hand clutching his hair. “He was on the fringes of the drug trade here in Timberline.”
“The drug trade? Is that what Agent Harper was looking into when he was out here investigating the Timberline Trio case?”
“Harper was the FBI agent assigned to the cold case?” Jim stroked the bristle on his chin.
“Yeah. He was going to interview Gary but never got the chance.”
“That’s convenient. I wonder if Rusty or Chewy was in town then.” He took a few steps and then braced one hand against the mantel. “Can I have some water, please?”
Walking into the kitchen, she glanced over her shoulder at his flushed face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m...I’m...” His head fell forward and he sucked in a breath.
“Jim?” Scarlett’s heart pounded as she stuck a glass beneath the tap and filled it with water.
He let out a groan and then crashed to the floor.
Chapter Seven
“Jim!” She dropped the water glass in the sink where it shattered and she stumbled into the living room.
She crouched beside Jim, on his side, his knees drawn to his chest. Pressing her hand against his clammy brow, she asked, “Jim, can you hear me?”
His eyeballs rolled behind closed lids, and she brushed his hair back from his face. If he didn’t open his eyes in two seconds and talk to her, she’d run outside to call 911. But she didn’t want to leave him.
She undid the buttons on his shirt, her hand skimming the hot flesh at his neck. The temperature had to be low sixties in here. Why was he burning up?
His eyelids flickered and she caught the gleam from his dark eyes. “Are you coming around? I’m going to get that water.”
She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and tucked it beneath his head.
She took off for the kitchen and filled another glass full of water, ignoring the broken glass in the sink. When she returned to Jim, his breathing was less shallow, his color less pale.
She punched up the pillow behind his head, and held the glass to his dry lips. “Can you take some water? Should I call 911?”
He turned his head, and she put the glass down on the fireplace. As he held up one hand, she grabbed it with her own. Immediately a flow of energy coursed through her body and she jerked back without releasing Jim’s hand.
Dread soaked into her skin and it felt as if something was waiting for her just around the corner. Holding her breath, she braced for the terror. She squeezed Jim’s hand harder. Her heart thudded in her chest.
Jim ripped his hand from hers and struggled to sit up. “I’m all right.”
While she blinked her eyes, Jim grabbed the water and downed it. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Come back.”
Her hand snaked up the column of her throat. How had he known? What had he seen in her face?
“I’m here, of course. What just happened?”
“You tell me.” He sat up fully, his back against the fireplace, his flannel shirt gaping open, exposing the black T-shirt beneath that clung to the muscles of his broad chest.
“Y-you fell to the floor. You were unresponsive, with shallow breathing and clammy skin. What was that, Jim? You don’t seem exactly panicked about it.”
“That’s because it’s happened before. The...attacks or seizures stopped for a while but have started up again since I’ve been in Timberline.”
“Seizures? What causes them? I assume you’ve been to see a doctor.” She crossed her legs beneath her, folding her hands in her lap.
“It’s post-traumatic stress. It’s been treated. I was on medication for a while—didn’t like it.”
“Did it help?”
“It reduced the attacks, but I’d rather feel my feelings, not stuff them away.”
“You said they stopped?”
“Until I came here.” He cradled the glass in his hands, running his thumb along the rim.
“Why? What is it about this place? Is it the stuff you went through with your father?”
“Some of it.” He hunched forward. “I’d rather hear about what you feel when you touch me.”
Heat washed into her cheeks. “Wh-what do you mean?”
“I’m not talking about the sexual chemistry, although who are we kidding?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I mean the other stuff—the way you act like I’ve given you an electric shock when you grab my hand. I’ve affected different women in different ways, but I’ve never encountered that response before. What’s going on, Scarlett?”
She took a shaky breath and rose to her feet. “I need the rest of my wine for this conversation.”
“Let me get it for you.” He pushed to his feet and swayed before grabbing the edge of the mantel. He held out his hand as she leaned toward him. “I’m okay. I need to move.”
He swept up the empty water glass and walked into the kitchen, his limp more pronounced than usual. “You have broken glass in your sink.”
“Yeah, I dropped it when you collapsed in my living room.”
“Sorry I scared you.” He returned with her wine and more water for himself. “I should’ve realized I was susceptible after the arrest.”
She took the wineglass from his hand and their fingers brushed. She felt nothing but desire this time.
She sank to a chair and he took the chair across from her, resting his forearms on his knees, holding his glass with two hands.
Closing her eyes, she took a sip of wine. “You know about my heritage.”
“You’re Quileute.”
“Yes, but our tribe has shamans, like many others. I’m convinced we don’t have greater numbers of people with these sensitivities than the general population, but it’s something we identify and foster within our tribe. And I do believe extrasensory perceptions run in families—and it runs in ours.”
“Your granny was a shaman. I remember that.”
“You do?” A swell of pleasure crested through her body.
“I remember a lot about you, Scarlett Easton.”
His dark eyes burned into hers and she felt like that schoolgirl peeking at his geometry test again.
She shook her head. “Anyway, I have these abilities, too.”
“And when you touch me...what? You see my future?”
“More like your past.”
Jim bolted upright. “You see into my past?”
“Not exactly.” She tapped her wineglass with her fingernail. “It’s so hard to explain. I’m not really seeing anything real. I have visions, experience feelings, sensations.”
“No wonder you recoil every time you grab my hand.” He lifted one eyebrow. “It’s enough to give a guy a complex.”
She stared into the shimmering surface of her wine. “What is it I’m experiencing, Jim? There’s so much darkness, so much terror and something else...something unknown.”
“Where do I begin?” He rolled the glass of water between his hands.
Leaning forward in her chair, she tapped his bad leg. “Why don’t you start with this? What happened to your leg? Why do you suffer from PTSD?”
“I was captured by the enemy, kept in a confined space, tortured and threatened with beheading on a daily basis.”
Gasping, Scarlett folded her arms over her stomach. “Wh-what did they do to your leg?”
“They broke it and never set it. It healed improperly.” He shrugged. “I could endure the physical pain more than the psychological. Seeing people I’d grown to like and respect being dragged out and tortured and in some cases beheaded—” his jaw hardened “�
��was worse than the physical torture.”
“How’d you get out?”
“Three of us escaped—me, a Dutch journalist and a German contractor. Just like a prison break, we tunneled out of there. We had help from a few locals who got us across the border.”
“I can’t even imagine.” She collapsed back in her chair. “Was it in the news?”
“My companions were in the news. The U.S. Army kept me out of it, had managed to keep my capture out of the headlines, too. I’d been in Syria on a classified mission. Technically, I was never there.”
“You’d worked through the PTSD until you came back here to Timberline?”
“Pretty much.”
“Then why come back here? Your memories of home, of family, are hardly healing material.”
“I want to deal with everything in my past, put it to rest so it can’t come up and sabotage me later.” He stretched his legs in front of him, almost touching the toes of her boots. “When I saw the Wyatt Carson copycat kidnappings in the news and then read that the TV show Cold Case Chronicles was going to do a segment on the Timberline Trio, I took it as a sign.”
“I helped the host of Cold Case Chronicles, Beth St. Regis. She thought she was one of the Timberline Trio, which turned out not to be the case. I know you don’t think you were one of the Timberline Trio, so what’s your connection to the case?”
“I wasn’t one of the Timberline Trio, but I could’ve been.”
“What are you talking about? Three kids were kidnapped—Kayla Rush, Heather Brice and Stevie Carson, the only boy and Wyatt’s brother.”
“During that same time, a man appeared in my bedroom and tried to put a foul-smelling rag over my mouth. I fought him off and made enough of a commotion that it woke up my old man from his drunken stupor in the living room.”
“Oh, my God. I never heard about any of that. Did he run away when your father got there?”
“No.” Jim massaged his temples. “That’s just it. Slick stopped him, but then they moved to the other room and Slick told me to go back to bed. Of course, I didn’t. I listened at my bedroom door while the two of them argued. It’s like they knew each other and Slick was trying to weasel his way out of something.”
“That’s crazy, Jim.” She picked up her wineglass and took another sip. She could use a shot of whiskey about now, but Jim obviously didn’t drink and she didn’t want to scare him off.
“After he left, Slick came into my room and I pretended to be asleep, but he caught up with me the next day. Told me if I ever told anyone about what happened, he’d give me a beating I’d never forget. I believed him.”
Her heart hurt for the boy Jim had been, and she placed her hand on her chest. “Was that the end of it?”
“No. Kayla Rush was kidnapped a week later, and then Stevie Carson and finally Heather Brice.”
She swallowed. “Do you think the Timberline Trio kidnappings were related to your botched kidnapping?”
“Yes. I don’t know how or why, but I’ve always felt it—” he pounded a fist against his chest “—here. That means Slick had something to do with the Timberline case or he knew something about it.”
“What about your older brother?”
“He was fifteen at the time. I’m not sure he’d know anything.”
“Have you ever spoken to him about it?”
“Until recently, he was in prison for drug trafficking as part of the Lords of Chaos. I know he’s out of the joint because he dropped me a line through the army, but we haven’t been in touch since.”
“That might be a place to start.”
“I’m hoping Slick’s cabin turns up some clues.”
“Or...”
“No.” He pushed up from the chair and grabbed her empty wineglass from the table next to her. “You’re not going to help me by reading my mind or getting me into some sort of hypnotic dream state. I don’t need that. I remember exactly what happened twenty-five years ago.”
“If not me, how about help from a therapist?” She waved her hands. “I don’t mean with repressed memories, but getting treatment for your PTSD.”
“I had some of that before. I figured I’d kicked those spells—or whatever you want to call them—for good, only to have them crashing back on me in good old Timberline.”
“I know a good therapist. Her name’s Dr. Shipman, and she practices in Port Angeles. I can give you her number.”
“I’ll take it.”
Yawning, Jim stretched his arms over his head and she got a full view of his muscles flexing beneath his T-shirt. But the man had more than sexy packaging.
His life story had given her a whole new appreciation for his fortitude and bravery. He’d faced enough demons to last most people a hundred lifetimes and yet here he was back in Timberline to confront another.
He rubbed a hand across his mouth. “That’s the most I’ve talked since my debriefing. I don’t expect you to care or want to get involved with any of this.”
“I kind of didn’t have a choice, did I? For whatever reason, Rusty decided to make his way to my cabin after someone stabbed him and dumped him on the road.”
“I hope to God it was just a coincidence that led him to you. The Lords of Chaos?” He sliced one finger across his throat. “Not anyone you want to be involved with.”
“You survived.”
“Only by enlisting in the army. Otherwise, I’d be dead like Slick or an ex-con like Dax.”
“I didn’t even realize you were a member of a motorcycle gang. How far were you into it?”
“Further than I wanted to be. It’s like a legacy—club membership is handed down from generation to generation. To escape is to turn your back on your family and your friends. I had to do both.”
“You never regretted it?”
“Never. In the army, with my unit, I found another family.” He flicked the card he’d given her earlier, which listed the name she’d called to get to the attorney in Seattle. “This guy’s someone I can count on in any crisis.”
“You’re lucky.”
Twisting his wrist, he glanced at his watch. “It’s late. You’ve done more than enough tonight. At this rate, I owe you a remodel.”
“I might take you up on that.” She stood up beside him and shoved her hands in her pockets to keep from touching him. “Are you sure you’re okay? That seizure was pretty scary.”
“It’s more like a blackout, and the medical doctors tell me it’s all in my head and there’s nothing physically wrong with me...except my messed-up leg. I’m all right, but I will take Dr. Shipman’s number if you have it handy.”
“Give me your cell number and I’ll send it to you that way.”
He recited his cell phone number to her and she forwarded Dr. Shipman’s number to him in a text.
She held up her phone. “Not sure that text is going through, but it will eventually.”
“When are you going to get that landline?”
“I’ll get to it.”
“You can’t keep running outside down to the road to make calls in case of emergencies.”
“Funny thing is?” She tossed her phone on the kitchen counter. “I never had any emergencies before people started digging into the old Timberline case.”
“Wyatt Carson started it all by kidnapping those three kids in an attempt to duplicate the original crime, and then positioning himself as the hero by rescuing them.”
“You’re right. That put Timberline back in the news and prompted Beth St. Regis to make a pilgrimage out here, and now you. I’m glad Beth got her answers and I hope you do, too, but digging into all this old stuff is stirring up trouble.”
Jim reached her front door and grabbed the handle. Without turning around, he said, “Maybe you should go back to San Francisco, Scarlett.”
“Maybe I have a stake in this myself.”
He leaned his back against the door, facing her. “What would that be?”
“The Timberline Trio kidnappings affected me, too.”
“I think they affected all of us who grew up here.”
“It’s more than that. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the Quileute legends and how some of the elders believed it was a creature from our own myths who kidnapped those children.”
“I remember a little about that.”
“Well, I remember a lot. We were forbidden from discussing the case. It was all hush-hush.”
“Maybe the elders didn’t want to frighten the kids on the reservation.”
She snorted. “They scared us all the time with those old stories, mostly to keep us in line. This was different. Any time the older kids talked about the kidnappings, they were shushed. The parents wouldn’t even discuss it. It was all strange, and Granny wanted no part of it.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Granny is a more powerful shaman than I am, or at least she was. With children missing, I would’ve thought she’d offer her services to the sheriff’s department, even if they ended up scoffing at her, but she wanted to distance herself from that case.”
“What are you saying?”
“I don’t even know, but I’d be happy if the case were solved and everyone could put their demons to rest.”
“I don’t know if I’m going to solve the case, Scarlett. I just want to understand my part in it, my father’s part in it.”
As she hung on the door, he stepped into the glow of light on the porch. “Just be careful. I’ll stop by tomorrow to install those new locks for you.”
“After lunch is a good time for me.”
“See you then, and thanks for...everything.”
She watched him disappear into the trees surrounding her cabin and listened for the growl of his Harley’s engine. Then she closed the door and rested her forehead against it.
Army Ranger Redemption Page 7