Luke Adams Boxset 1

by Dawson, H A

  'Just something I heard. When you stayed with Ron and Saskia, did you ever hear strange sounds in the house, like crying or screaming?'

  Verity was bewildered. 'No, quite the opposite. The house seemed exceptionally quiet . . . and spacious. I'd lived in squalor, so it seemed palatial. Saskia was lucky to be with Ron.’ She paused. ‘She was also a stupid woman.'

  'For turning to Larry?'

  'Yes, for turning to Larry.'

  Chapter 30

  Megan's anxieties stirred, spreading across her body like creeping tendrils. Everything had changed; he had changed.

  His hand was gripping her wrist, squeezing, threatening. He did not seem like the trustworthy friend she believed he was - not kind and caring nor dependable - and her heart pounded, her eyes twitched, and her body trembled. He edged closer, his warm breath tickling her face, his eyes like malevolent pools of oil.

  He had been concealing something all along, and luring her in, like a mouse to cheese. Was his true persona edging closer to the surface? He had a sinister past and a mysterious need to fulfil something, and she had grabbed the bait like a fool. She should have listened to Verity's warnings.

  Slowly and tentatively, she slithered free her arm. After a moment of apprehension, his face softened and his eyes dropped, and relief hovered in the air.

  'I didn't mean to worry you,' he said.

  Her mouth was too dry to speak, and her body too rigid. One wrong word, one wrong step, and she sensed he would pounce.

  'I know you have Saskia's memories. She promised me one of her paintings.'

  Her options swirled. Should she say she didn't know anything about them and risk his fury? What would he do? What was he capable of? He probably wouldn't believe her anyway. It might be easier to lie and give herself time to think.

  'Which ones are yours?' she asked.

  'Do you have them?'

  'I . . . I need reminding.'

  His eyes narrowed and his face darkened.

  'My memories are triggered by things,' she added quickly, 'tell me about the paintings . . . and Saskia.'

  Overcome with recollections of love, his eyes misted and his lips curled. 'We were soul mates . . . had the kind of love that's rare. We laughed until we cried, made love in some fantastic places.' He glanced to the grassy ledge. 'And we talked for hours . . . about life, love, people and our dreams. She was an amazing woman.'

  'But she was married.'

  He glared. 'Saskia was the kind of woman that you only meet once in your life, and even though . . .'

  Unexpectedly, he stopped and stared at her. Something seemed to concern him and she sensed it was to do with the murder. Had he killed Saskia or had he been a witness? The images, the memories, were blocked.

  '. . . I was still glad to know her,' he continued. 'When I was with her, the world was such a beautiful place. I felt as though I could do anything - all my ambitions, my dreams, they seemed achievable.'

  Nervously, she shuffled, moving a little distance away from Larry. Her palms were flat on the rock face and her feet poised and ready to run. She needed a plan, at least a little more thinking time, and had to keep him talking.

  'What was she like?'

  'She was warm and caring . . . you could say she had brought up her brothers and sisters. I wanted to give her something back. I had a decent job, could afford a mortgage, and was prepared to make sure she had whatever she wanted. My generosity overwhelmed her, but she was worth it . . . every penny. All I wanted was to see her happy, and she was, with me.'

  'I can see how much you loved her.'

  He turned, suspicion written into his eyes. 'She loved me too.'

  'Of course.'

  'She didn't love Ron. He was cruel to her . . . treated her badly. Yes, he gave her money and possessions, but he didn't give her love and attention. He used to put her down, tell her she was from a poor family and that she was lucky to be treated with such kindness. He said she deserved little more than a rat. And if he wasn't criticising her family and upbringing, he was telling her how stupid she was.' He scrutinised her expression. 'Saskia was devastated. Many times she sobbed in my arms.'

  She edged forward on the cool rock. His words were confusing, and not in any way representative of her memories. She told herself to play along - he must not doubt her – and forced her calmness and confidence into her voice.

  'She was lucky to have you,’ she said. ‘You obviously made her happy.'

  'I did. We made plans. We found a house - even put in an offer to buy it - and started looking for furniture. I was prepared to let her choose everything. I was good to her. As I said, our love was unique . . . one in a million.'

  He placed his hand on her thigh. She froze, maintaining a fixed stare on the town in the valley below.

  'I knew you'd come back to me. We've been given a second chance.'

  He reached for her hand, moving in what seemed like slow motion. His skin met with hers and was warm and clammy. She held her breath, fighting with every ounce of her being to stop pulling free.

  'You need me,' he said, 'just as I need you. We are two halves of a whole. I love you, Saskia.'

  Megan, not Saskia.

  'We can start over. I've made plans to sell the house and go abroad. You always said you wanted to travel. Where do you want to go?'

  Her mouth was dry, her jaw clamped.

  'I always promised I would take you to Austria. We could start there. I've been checking out a few places and found some superb hotels.'

  He shuffled closer, wrapped his arm around her back, and stroked her hair away from her face. Could he feel her rigidity? Could he smell her fear? Or was he so besotted that he believed her to be blissfully happy, having returned to this world to give them both another chance?

  'Then we can go to Germany, and across to Sweden. Would you like that?'

  Bewildered and terrified, she agreed to his suggestion.

  'Good. I thought you would.'

  He leaned closer, pressing his firm lips upon her cheek. His breath was rancid, his aura repulsive. She stayed stock-still.

  'I love you Saskia. We are so right for each other, and this time I'll keep Ron away from you.'

  'Ron?'

  'Don't you worry about him. I've been watching you. I know you haven't been seeing him. You did as you said you would and ended your relationship. You'll be safe with me.' He turned. He stared. 'I don't like it when you lie.'

  It dawned. Saskia had told Larry that she had ended her relationship with Ron when she hadn't. Larry found out. He was furious. But what happened then? Her head ached as she strained her mind, fumbling for the truth. Was that when Larry reached for a knife?

  He pressed his fingers upon her chin and turned her head. 'You're quiet darling. Are you happy?'

  Her lips quivered.

  'Saskia?'

  'I'm happy.'

  'Good girl.'

  Birds squawked and tussled in the hidden canopy below, and then a pigeon fled, racing across the open skies and down the hillside. She started to track it, but then searched for a pathway, a route back to the city and away from Larry. Maybe if she ran downhill she could out-pace him. She could be fleet of foot if she discarded her shoes.

  He squeezed her hand and gazed adoringly into her eyes. 'Remember when I took you to the coast? You danced on the beach, barefoot. You ripped off your top and ran into the freezing sea. I wrapped you in a warm towel and you snuggled into me. You told me you would love me forever - love me until the day you died.' His skin tightened, his veins pronounced. 'It was a promise I made you keep.'

  'You killed her!'

  He jumped to his feet. 'No! No!'

  She launched herself away from the rock. She stumbled. She fell to the grassy clearing. He grabbed her legs.

  'Let me go!'

  'I love you. I would never hurt you.'

  'You killed her! I remember. I saw you with a knife.'

  He raised his hands to his head. 'I was saving you from Ron. He couldn't b
ear to see us happy. He killed you. It was him, not me.'

  'That's not true.'

  She slithered backward. He weighed her legs down with his body. He reached into his pocket. He had a knife, sheathed, safe.

  He hesitated. 'I know what you did. You killed your father, killed unborn babies. You deserved to die.'

  'I didn't do those things. I'm not Saskia.'

  'You should have stayed with me. You would have been happy with me.'

  He pulled out the knife. It glimmered in the light.

  She pressed her hands to the floor and pulled up her knees. He was stepping towards her, looming overhead, blocking out the sunlight. She kicked him, caught his knee. He groaned. He staggered.

  She took her chance and ran. Downwards was quicker, but downwards was more precarious. She stepped around rocks, leaped over grassy tufts and weaved around shrubs. Breathlessly and with her chest straining, and not daring to turn around, she progressed down the valley. Her heel caught and her body jarred.

  Larry was upon her. He thrust her forward, pressed her to the ground and into a jagged rock. She tussled. Her arms and legs flailed. He had her pinned, and in a swift motion tied her arms behind her back with a piece of rag. Then he spun her around.

  'You're not getting away again, not this time.'

  He hoisted her to her feet and dragged her back to the grassy ledge, where, without warning, he let go. She stumbled, falling to her knees and dropping to her face. He hovered over her, staring and smirking. He had his trophy.

  'I would have looked after you. Given you the life you deserved. You betrayed me Saskia, you forced my hand.'

  'I'm not Saskia! I don't know anything about Saskia.'

  'You said you loved me, and then . . . and then . . . you went back to him. I saw you together. I saw you. Have you any idea how that hurt? After everything you promised, after all I'd done.'

  He smoothed his fingers across the surface of the knife. It glimmered. She gasped. Her heart pounded. Slowly, as though to make a point, he stroked the sharpened surface and grinned.

  Think damn it. Think. 'The paintings! Don't you want the paintings?'

  'Where are they?'

  'If you kill me, you'll never find out.'

  His face hardened and blood rushed through her trembling body. He was questioning if she was toying with him, and so had to remain resolute and couldn't show even a tad of weakness.

  'I know where they are. I can take you. Then we can be together,' she said.

  'Don't lie to me Saskia, not again.'

  Stay calm and don't screech, she thought and took a steadying breath. 'I'm not lying. I did them for you. They're yours.'

  He was frowning, disbelieving.

  'I came back for you, so we could be together. Don't spoil it. We won't get another chance.'

  'What about Ron?'

  'He means nothing. I want you, no one else. Please, you have to believe me.'

  'Where are the paintings?

  'I hid them . . . kept them safe.'

  'Take me to them.'

  He yanked her to her feet and headed back to the car. Oh Lord. What now? Where should she take him? Somewhere busy. Rodley perhaps.

  He threw her into the rear. She crashed into the seat, unable to position herself with the rag pressing into her wrists, and lay along the length of the seat. Her heart was pounding, her breathing hurried. A door slammed shut and another opened and shut. She could see nothing of consequence and couldn't raise herself to window level and see anything below the skyline.

  Outside, another car screeched to a standstill. It sounded as though it was going to hit them. Breathless and helpless, she listened as Larry turned the ignition key, pressed hard on the accelerator, and swerved and drove away. She lurched to the left, her head bashed against the door, and she lurched to the right. Brakes squealed. The engine roared. She fell into the well, her body contorted and became trapped, and her arms cramped.

  Her stomach swelled and fluid rose to the mouth. They were moving more rapidly now, downhill. Larry was muttering something, swearing. They swerved. They skidded. They bounced over rough ground. Plummeting. Toppling. Faster. Faster. Her insides lurched. Her life flashed before her eyes.

  Chapter 31

  Luke peered through the woodland at the paths and small clearings, absorbing the scenery of the illuminated grasses, ferns, and meandering ivy. Deep shade limited his viewing, with the only light spreading from gaps in the canopy. It was beautiful. It was eerie. It had a mystical quality.

  The sunlight created a mosaic effect upon the road as the huge drooping branches swayed in the light breeze. The road was narrow, a twisty single track. He hugged the left-hand side at a tight corner. The sunlight dazzled. He squinted as the car descended a hill, and then peered into the rear view mirror.

  Ben leaned forward, anxiety spreading across his face. 'Faster, we're losing them.'

  Concentrating his gaze, Luke eased his foot from the brake and clenched the steering wheel, keen to shorten the gap between their two cars. Then, reaching a short patch of straight road, he accelerated and swung the car into the next corner and looked as far ahead as he could. The rear of Larry's car slipped from view.

  His heart was in his mouth. They had seen Larry forcing Megan into the rear and noticed the malevolence in his eyes. Ben's anger had exploded and he'd been ready to jump out and confront him, but Larry had been quick and thrust his car into immediate action. They must not lose him; it wasn't an option.

  Sweat trickled along his forehead, his body tightened, and droplets trickled into his eyes. Then, from ahead came the screeching sound of grinding brakes and squealing tyres, followed by a repetitive thudding sound. He lifted his foot off the gas, held his breath, and hugged the tight bend. They gasped in unison. Larry's car was tumbling down a hill, across meadowland and towards a wall and a line of trees. He slammed on the brakes.

  Ben jumped out, leaving the car door ajar. He bounded across the grass, slipping sideways down the incline and shrieking, ‘Megan, Megan!’

  The car was still rolling, gaining speed, bumping and thrashing into the clumps of undergrowth.

  Luke stood next to Imogen both mesmerised by the scene. The car crashed into the wall. The impact seemed to freeze his circulation. He shuddered, his skin cold and hypersensitive, his stomach swirling. He gawked, helpless.

  'Go!' Imogen yelled, 'I'll ring the services.'

  He hesitated. He took off.

  Megan must have lost consciousness as the moment she recovered, her adrenaline triggered. She was in agony; pain progressed down her shoulders and arms, and her legs twisted at an awkward angle. She was grazed and bleeding, and her face was sore. She released a tremulous cry.

  She wasn’t certain what had happened but knew she had to get out of there. Motivated by the thought of Larry in the front seat, she forced strength to her legs, desperate release herself from the tight gap and get to safety. He would be upon her, soon.

  Why hadn't he moved? What had happened to him? His last guttural cries turned her stomach, and she smoothed one hand over her other, soothing herself with knowledge that she was alive.

  'Larry?' she said weakly.

  There was silence, no gasps for air, no grunts of agony and no shuffling sounds of movement. Was he dead? If he were, she should be grateful.

  Alternatively, he might have escaped and be about to creep up on her with a knife in his hand and evil intentions in his mind. She had to get away, but her pain increased with every wriggle. Unable to free herself, she sank back down and moaned.

  A voice, faint but familiar, called out her name.

  Tears swept into her eyes. 'Ben?' she said, her voice quaking and solitary.

  His steps were soft on the grass. He pulled on the door handle. It was jammed. 'Megan. Are you all right?'

  'Yes.'

  'Hold on.' He rushed around to the other side, flung open the door and crouched down. 'Does anything hurt?'

  'Everything.'

  'Anything
broken?'

  'I don't think so.'

  'What about your neck, your spine?'

  Her voice quaked. 'It's good.'

  He clambered onto the back seat, reached down and untied her hands, puffing and groaning. With the release, much of her discomfort evaporated, and blood, beautiful and rich, poured into her tingling hands. She shook her arms, placed her hands on the floor, and tried to lever herself up. Soon, with Ben's assistance, she was out of the car and wrapped in his arms. His soft body, his warmth, and his pleasant aroma moved her to tears.

  He kissed her on her forehead. 'Better get you away.'

  'What about Larry?'

  Ben did not say anything but moved her a little way across the grass. Despite the warm glow of the sun on her body, she was cold and gripped him tighter, seeking warmth. It seemed as though her blood was draining away, and with it, her strength.

  Her knees buckled. He eased her to the ground, sat beside her, and encouraged her to nestle into him. She inhaled the wondrous aroma of his lush hair.

  The paramedics and police arrived, entering the field from a track at the bottom of the hill. Luke hurried to greet them, and they spoke for a while before he guided them to Megan. The paramedic spoke to her with kind and gentle tones and wrapped a blanket around her frigid body. He was trying to insist she went to the hospital. She held her ground, adamant, bar a few cuts and bruises, that she was fine. He nodded and strode back to the group by the wreckage.

  Larry was dead. Nauseous, she willed herself to be grateful, telling herself he had deceived her, treated her like a friend and then tried to kill her. She would never have considered herself gullible, yet she had been. With hindsight, it was obvious that he had been exceptionally affable, rarely choosing to disagree with her, never risking their friendship. And all the time he’d had a plan.

  He had known Saskia intimately. He had yearned for her and craved a return to a past he had destroyed. This was his second chance. But had he sought love or revenge? Maybe it was a bit of both.

  She had been a fool, an idiot. Why had she never questioned his interest in her? Even Ben sensed something was wrong. Not only had he spoken of his concerns, but also, with every mention of Larry's name, worry had glazed his face. She had been too determined to make a point of independence to listen, and it nearly cost her, her life. Turning to him, searching for his reassurance, she released an exhausted breath.