by Vicki Hinze
She wasn’t dead. She wasn’t … dead.
Thank You, God. Thank You.
Where was she?
Where were they?
Aching everywhere at once, she fought through the fog clouding her mind. Something pushed against her face and side—dirt. She cranked open one eye.
Outside. Still dark. Thick trunks of twisted trees silhouetted against the night and wooded ground. Were the carjackers still here? She didn’t dare move and alert them that she was awake. Instead she focused hard, listened. No sounds signaled anyone close by.
Sprawled in sandy dirt, she lay surrounded by trees and short, spiny bushes she’d seen many times but couldn’t name. Twigs and leaves, acorns and broken branches littered the ground, and gritty dirt clung to her face. She swiped at it and braced her arms on the ground, forcing herself to sit up and look closer at her surroundings. Still, normal night sounds. Rustling leaves, an owl’s calm call—nothing that indicated anyone else’s presence or raised any alarm.
In the strong moonlight, her eyes began to adjust. Rigid shoeprints led away from where she sat, leaving crevices in the sand. They were two different sizes, one larger than the other. The man in the hooded sweatshirt was huge; the truck driver smaller, about five foot ten or maybe five nine—just a few inches taller than she was.
The car. They’d just wanted the car. They jacked it and dumped her here.
Why take me at all? Why not just leave me on the street?
Doubt crept through her. Their bringing her here didn’t make sense—even if they had left her for dead. But maybe they were twisted souls who got their kicks out of killing.
She patted herself, checking for wounds. With all the aches and pain, she wasn’t sure if she’d been shot, but she definitely had been beaten. Her feet and legs were tender and throbbing, no doubt bruised, but nothing felt broken. Her torso looked muddy even in the moonlight, battered and sore but free of open wounds. Her head—she pulled back her hand.
It was covered in blood.
The beam of a flashlight blinded her.
“Land sakes, girl,” a man she couldn’t see said from the darkness behind the light. “What in the world are you doing out here?”
She screamed.
“Hold on now.” He lifted his hands. The beam of light shifted, slanted through the trees. “Just hold on and calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She blinked hard, tried to get up, but fell back to the ground. Her heart beat fast, adrenaline shoving through her veins. “Don’t come near me.”
She grabbed a rock. Matted blood and bits of her hair clung to its rough surface. She’d either fallen on it or been hit with it. Regardless, the rock probably caused her head injury.
She cranked her arm back, threatening to throw it at him. The pain of stretching throbbed through her, setting off another round of deep-muscle spasms that left her clammy and in a cold sweat. “Stay back. I-I mean it.”
“I’m not moving.” He held his hands higher, and the strong moonlight slanted across his face.
Early sixties, gray hair, and stubbly jaw—not the sweatshirt man or the truck driver—and this man was wearing … pajamas and slippers?
She blinked hard again, certain she couldn’t be seeing what she thought she was, but nothing changed. He was definitely wearing pajamas. The first thing that crossed her mind tumbled out of her mouth. “You—you’re not dressed.”
“I’m up at dawn and I hit the rack at eight o’clock every night except Wednesday—choir practice. It’s late for me.” He softened his voice. “I see blood on your face. Are you hurt?”
“I’m alive.” She couldn’t be anything but grateful, yet said aloud that would sound too odd. “Who are you?”
“Clyde Parker. I live just over there.” He pointed left through the trees.
She needed to get up. The carjackers—they could come back. “Do you often walk in the woods in your pajamas?” Her head swam; she couldn’t lift herself and slid back to the ground.
“Only when I get up for a drink of water and see headlights out here through my kitchen window. I didn’t see anything else, so I went back to bed. But I couldn’t get to sleep. Something just nagged at me to come take a look.”
“They’re gone then?” Hope sparked to life inside her.
His forehead furrowed and the lines near his mouth settled into grooves. “Who?”
“The men who left me here.”
“I’ve been tromping around out here the better part of an hour, and I haven’t seen anyone but you, so I guess they’re gone.” Clyde winced. “Do you mind if I lower my arms? I’ve got arthritis pretty bad in my shoulder, and holding my arms up like this hurts.”
She nodded and let relief sink in. The carjackers were gone. She was alive. And other than being sore from top to bottom and sporting a wicked headache, she seemed all right. The urge to cry hit her. She fought it and swallowed down a threatening sob.
“Did you come here with them by choice?” Clyde asked.
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Pity flashed through his eyes.
Feeling helpless and vulnerable, she stiffened. Something jabbed her thigh from inside her pocket. She reached in and pulled out a card she couldn’t read in the dark and a cross on a delicate chain. Seeing it brought comfort. Needing it, she hooked it around her neck. “Can you please get me out of here?”
“I can and will, if you’ll tell me who you are and how come you’re out in the woods at night with strange men.”
She opened her mouth to tell him her name. Her mind went blank. Totally blank. Her insides curled and tightened, triggering earthquakes inside her. Pain radiated through her entire abdomen and chest. “I can’t.”
“Why not? You doing drugs or something you shouldn’t be doing?”
“No.” Her voice thick, she cleared her throat and admitted the truth chilling her to the bone. “I was at a red light. They took my car and made me breathe something on a cloth. I-I don’t know what was on it. Chemicals.” Her stomach roiled. “The next thing I remember is waking up here.” An inhalant that induced short-term amnesia? Chloroform? What had those chemicals been? Would there be residual effects?
“I see.” His shoulders slumped, pity again burning in his eyes. “Well, you survived. That’s the important thing. And your name?”
Meeting his gaze was difficult. “I-I don’t know who I am.”
He gentled his voice even more. “Did you know when you came into the woods?”
The fear in her swelled and overflowed. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Do you know where you live? Someone I can call?”
Nothing came to her. Not a thing. Her shaking doubled. Why couldn’t she remember these things? “It’s like swiss cheese. I remember some things, but … ” She recalled the card in her pocket and fished it out. “Maybe this will tell us.”
He flashed the light on the card. “Crossroads.” He looked from her to it. “It’s a local crisis center.”
It didn’t sound familiar. “Maybe I belong there.”
He flipped the card. “What’s this on the back?”
“I can’t read it from here.”
He looked over at her. “It says, ‘Susan.’”
A vague memory flashed through her mind. “Unlock this door, Susan … ”
“That must be me.” She touched a fingertip to her chest. “He called me that.”
“The man who brought you here?”
“I don’t know who brought me here, but two men pulled me out of my car. The big one called me Susan.”
Clyde studied her a long moment, then stared at her neck.
She reached up to the heavy cross. Rubbing it soothed her. Calm flowed through her body, head to heel, gentle and welcoming and reassuring. Her rapid breathing slowed.
“Are you a woman of faith?”
“I am.” How she knew that when she didn’t know who she was defied explanation, but she had no doubt it was true.
“I g
uess that’s why I couldn’t get back to sleep, then,” he said, seemingly content with that deduction. “We better get someone to take a look at that gash in your head. I’m going to check and see how bad it is.”
Clyde inched toward her, careful not to make any unexpected moves, then examined her head with a gentle, gnarled hand. “Well, the bleeding’s always rough on head wounds, but the cut’s not too bad. You’ll need a stitch or two. Best put some pressure on it.”
She pressed her fingers to her head.
“I’m going to help you up now. We’ll get my car and I’ll take you to the hospital.” He reached down, offering her his arm. “It’ll be faster to drive in than to wait for an ambulance.”
She clasped his arm, then pulled up. Breath-stealing pain wracked her body. She rocked on her feet. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out! Grappling to steady herself, she leaned against him, needing support to stay upright. “Is it far?”
“No. Just six miles or so—in the village proper.”
“I’m sorry. I know this must hurt, with your arthritis.” Biting back a groan, she took more of her own weight.
“I’m fine,” he said, dry leaves crunching under his feet. “You just hold on all you like.”
“Thank you, Mr. Parker.”
“Clyde.”
“Clyde.” She swayed.
“Whoa, there.” He wrapped his free arm around her shoulder. “Come on now. Let’s get you out of here.”
She sniffed his clean and soapy scent. He couldn’t be dangerous, and she’d never get out of the woods on her own. Daring to trust him, she said, “I’m glad you were thirsty.”
He led her through the woods. “Excuse me?”
“If you hadn’t gotten up for a drink of water, I’d be lost out here.” The woods were dense and thick, and one direction looked much like the other.
“I’m glad I couldn’t go back to sleep and came to look. You could’ve wandered around here for days.”
Glad to have avoided that, she looked up at him. “Thank you, Clyde.”
“No need.” He patted her hand. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” Worry raced across his face. “They didn’t … hurt you, did they?”
She knew what he meant, and an anxious rush gushed through her. “I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t you worry on it.” His pats moved to her arm and sped up. “They’ll take good care of you at the hospital. It’s not big, but the folks there are really good. Guess when you’re small you have to be. They get a little bit of everything.” He dared a smile meant to reassure her.
“Where are we?”
“Walton County, but the hospital’s over in Seagrove.”
She stopped cold. “Seagrove Village—that’s the village proper you mentioned?”
“Yep.”
“I’m in Florida?” Shock pumped through her. It couldn’t be. Oh no. Oh, please, no. Anywhere but there. Anywhere else on the planet. Just not there.
“Yeah,” he said, confirming her worst fears. “You know the place?”
She searched her mind, but nothing came. “I can’t remember.”
“Well, for someone who can’t recall, you sure sound surprised and not at all happy about being here.”
“I am surprised—and I’m definitely not happy,” she confessed, not quite sure what to make of it. “I just don’t know why.”
A limb encroached onto the path. He held it back and waited for her to walk past, then turned it loose. It swooshed back into place, dropping leaves onto the ground. He didn’t doubt her; she saw no skepticism in his eyes.
“Think on it a second. Maybe that knock to your noggin has you a little slow at putting things together. That happens sometimes.”
They walked on through the snapping twigs, and she tried but still came up empty. With nowhere left to go, she gave up. “I don’t have a clue.”
She didn’t, but one thing came through loud and clear. Whatever the reason, she didn’t just dislike Seagrove Village. She feared it. Yet feeling that fear in every atom of every cell in her body and not knowing its source—that ripped right past fear and plunged into stark terror.
“No, no hospital, Clyde.” She pulled the card from her pocket and double-checked the address. He’d said it was local, and it was at the corner of Gramercy and Seville. “Crossroads Crisis Center.”
“All right. Now, it ain’t a hospital, but it’s got limited medical facilities with docs and everything. Like I said, your head’s gonna need some stitches.”
“Can they handle that?”
He glanced at her. “Sorry to say it, but they stitch people up all the time.”
“Take me there, then.” Someone had put that card and necklace in her pocket. She could almost remember being flipped over, a hand shoving them into her pocket. It was fuzzy, but the pressure of that hand was clear. And the necklace was a cross. A cross and the card together offered more protection than the hospital with all its notification rules and regulations.
But would it offer enough? Would she be safe there?
She had no idea. And why was she worried about notification rules and regulations? Her mind raced, and a question popped in that had her shaking like a wind-battered leaf. “Clyde? What day is it today?”
“Saturday.”
She licked at her dry lips. “Is it before dawn on Saturday or after dark?”
He stopped and stared at her. “It’s after dark.”
In the Jag, it’d been Friday night. She vividly remembered that.
“What’s wrong, girl? You look white as a sheet.”
“You’re sure it’s Saturday?”
“Sure as sunshine. Saturday, October tenth.”
She swallowed hard. “Clyde, I’ve lost a whole day.”
“Sir, we have a problem.”
Seated at the head of an exquisitely set table, Gregory Chessman buried his irritation at the interruption of the dinner party he was hosting for thirty of his most influential friends. Those seated closest to him overheard his assistant Paul Johnson’s stage whisper, including Mayor John Green’s wife, Darla.
“Anything I can do to help?” She eyed Gregory inquisitively.
Airhead. Not eager to be the subject of speculation for the next few days, he patted her hand. “No, my dear, don’t trouble your pretty head with this. Just a little man talk.”
A piercing look flashed in her eyes. She brushed her napkin onto the floor between her and her husband and clasped his arm, digging in her nails hard enough that John flinched.
“Is something wrong, darling?”
“No.” Her clasp on his forearm changed to a stroke. “What could be wrong? Everything is lovely.”
Paul rushed to pick up the napkin and return it to her.
Darla pressed the fine linen back to her lap, cupping her hand over its creases.
So, Gregory surmised, she resented his comment about her worrying her pretty head. Odd. She perpetuated her image and routinely fished for compliments. Women did that with monotonous regularity. Perhaps she was just in a mood.
Gregory cast her an indulgent smile, dabbed at his mouth, and forced his tone light. “No rest for the wicked, eh?”
His guests laughed, and because they did, he was genuinely amused. He slid back his chair, then stood. “If you’ll excuse me … ”
“Gregory Chessman, wicked?” Darla let out a dainty laugh, free from any hint of moodiness. “Now doesn’t that take a vivid imagination?”
Her remark elicited another round of laughter, one more heartfelt. It would indeed take a vivid imagination for anyone at the table to consider him wicked, with one exception: his secret partner. But for reasons of greed, self-preservation, and a fervent distaste for prison, there was no danger of his exposing Gregory—he couldn’t, not without exposing himself and his own duplicity.
Gregory gave his partner no reason to regret their strategic business alliance. He had worked for a decade to build his man-above-reproach image, and he succeeded. Even if presented with irrefu
table opposing evidence, none of the other locals would believe him capable of wickedness. That had already been tested and proven. He resisted the urge to puff up with pride. To them, he was ethical and moral—a model citizen—and he would do whatever he had to do to keep it that way.
He had revealed few personal specifics to anyone and fully disclosed them to no one. Self-made, he’d come a long way from the slums to what others viewed as his charmed life of privilege.
Nothing and no one was going to steal even a pinch of it.
“Perhaps I can help.” The respected attorney from Atlanta started to stand.
“No, my friend,” Gregory told him. No trouble was worth risking the man revealing anything he learned. He had worldwide connections. “Keep your seat.” He waved a hand. “Everyone, eat. This is a minor irritant and will be resolved in a moment.”
The attorney settled in his seat and returned to his conversation with Benjamin Brandt, the owner of Crossroads Crisis Center.
“Ben,” Darla said. “It’s good to see you socializing again. We’ve missed you.”
“Thank you.” He shifted to look at his host. “It’s been three years since I’ve been to one of your enjoyable parties, Gregory.”
“Glad you’re back,” he said.
Darla set down her water glass. “As I recall, you were alone at the last one.”
Pain flashed through Brandt’s eyes. “Yes, my son was ill, so my wife stayed home.”
“I’m sorry.” She lowered her gaze. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
“It’s all right,” Ben said. “Seagrove is a small village. Few have secrets.” He leaned forward and laced his fingers. “I’m sure where I’ve been is common knowledge.”
“It is,” Hank Green, the mayor’s younger brother, said. “You’ve been down in the islands, visiting friends.”
“Ah.” The corner of Ben’s mouth lifted. “Nora’s been busy, I see.”
“No, not your housekeeper,” Hank said. “Peggy Crane told me.”
“She was my next guess.”
“Ben?” the lawyer asked. “Are you at all interested in local landmarks.?”