Carry Me Home (Paradise, Idaho)

by Rosalind James

  “Why not?” Dr. Santangelo asked. “So far, you’ve seemed like the most important citizen of this town. What did you do, that cops don’t like you?”

  “Officer Moore,” Cal said. “He’s my cousin.”

  “I thought he was a deputy sheriff,” Dr. Santangelo said.

  “Different cousin.”

  Another man in blue appeared through a door behind the desk.

  “Oh,” Dr. Santangelo said. “That Officer Moore.”

  NOT GETTING ANSWERS

  It was Zoe’s dance partner from a couple weeks before. He stopped short, his weight balanced on both muscular legs, his dark eyes slowly surveying the three of them, a little smile curving his lips. Tall, well built, tough, and Zoe could see the resemblance to Cal. And yes, he was good-looking, which was, she remembered to her disgust, why she had danced with him in the first place. She’d had something to say to Cal about men who only cared about women’s looks, but really, was she any better?

  “Sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

  She knew he did. “Zoe Santangelo,” she said. “From the Cowboy Bar,” she added. On purpose.

  “Oh, that’s right. What can I do for you, Ms. . . . Sangelo?”

  “Santangelo,” she said. “And it’s Dr. Santangelo, actually. I’m here with Amy Corrigan. I’m sure you remember her.”

  He looked at Amy. “Sorry. Didn’t recognize you. The burglary last week, yes, of course. You’d better come on back.”

  Burglary. Amy had been right, then. Zoe followed him through the locked door to the back with Amy following her, and Cal, who still hadn’t said anything, bringing up the rear. The little procession passed through a hallway into a small . . . squad room, she guessed. It looked pretty much like on TV. Bare bones. Bulletin boards, file cabinets, metal desks.

  Officer Moore waved them to seats on the other side of one of those desks, covered with stacks of paper decorated by brown coffee rings. A tin can held pens and pencils, some adorned with teeth marks. No chair for Cal, but he just walked around to another desk, grabbed a chair, brought it back, and sat himself down on the other side of Amy, so she was flanked by the two of them.

  “All right,” Moore said. “Officer Sandford said you had some new information?”

  “I’m sorry,” Zoe said sweetly. “He must have misheard. I said we wanted information. Information on the progress of your investigation.”

  “Ah.” He sat back, laced his fingers over his flat abdomen. “Well, I’m afraid we don’t have much to go on. If somebody’d gotten a license plate, or seen anything more than the back of a guy running away, we’d be better off.”

  “I know more than that,” Amy said. “He was following me, remember? Pickup truck. Big. Dark. I told you.”

  “Uh-huh.” Moore dug in his ear with a little finger. “If it was the same guy. But, yeah. Big dark pickup. Got one of those yourself, don’t you?” he asked Cal. “What were you doing on Halloween?”

  “Funny,” Cal said, barely moving his lips.

  The officer shrugged. “So I’m sorry you’ve taken the time, Miss Corrigan, but I don’t have anything new for you, except to say that we’re investigating, and we’ll keep investigating. I’m not sure why you’ve brought . . . reinforcements, but I’m afraid it doesn’t change the situation. When I have something to tell you, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “After we leave here,” Zoe said, “just to keep you in the loop, since I can see how important that is to you, we’re on our way to the student newspaper to tell them what happened. So women around here know what’s happening and can protect themselves.” She caught Cal’s look out of the corner of her eye. Well, no, it hadn’t been the plan, but it sure sounded like a good one now.

  There was real hostility in the dark eyes across from her. “You are, are you? Telling them there’s been a burglary. Got news for you. There are burglaries on college campuses. It’s not front-page news.”

  “That’s not what this was, though,” Zoe said. “This was an attempted rape. And if that isn’t front-page news here—well, let’s say I’ll be surprised.”

  “Anyway, I do have something new,” Amy said, and pulled a baggie out of her coat pocket. “I’ve got something that tells me what he was there for, no matter what you say. I’ve got this.”

  DECIDE AND PLAN

  The man read the article again, forced himself to sit back even as the cold rage coursed through his body. His hand closed over the pen in his hand, until he set it back into its holder with deliberate care.

  In control. He was in control.

  He’d never failed. Never, because nobody was better at pre-engagement reconnaissance than he was. How could he have foreseen the baseball bat? Was he supposed to research their high school sports?

  From now on, he decided, he would. If that was what it took, he would. Suck it up and move on. Decide, plan, and execute. Nobody was better at that, either.

  He’d love to go after Amy again. As scared as she was now, as much as she’d figured out? Hell, yeah. He’d love it. This time, he’d be anticipating the bat, could make a plan to allow for it. The look on her face when he took it away from her . . . that would be so good.

  He wouldn’t use it on her. He wasn’t that kind of guy. But she’d be so terrified he would. He could hold it across her throat, maybe, while he did it. Hold it close, like he was going to crush her windpipe with it, watch her eyes get big, watch her shake, watch her panic. Her arms wrenched behind her back. Helpless. Hurting.

  He could do it, too. He knew where she was, he had the skills, and he could get the access. But it was risky. Even if he made sure the roommate was gone—interior hallway in a dorm? Even at three in the morning, you couldn’t be sure. With lights on, and not being able to wear the mask . . . no.

  He abandoned the night plan, the normal plan, with regret. He either had to get her someplace else, force her off the road, maybe, or find her walking home alone after dark, pull her into the bushes . . . or move on.

  He hated the thought of moving on. Once he found his target, he hit it. Always. But he had a feeling she wasn’t going to be walking alone after dark for a while, or even driving anywhere alone. She wasn’t a soft target anymore, and soft targets were the only ones that made logistical sense.

  Maybe later, he promised himself. Much later, when she had relaxed again, when she thought she was safe again. It could be months, but he wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was she, it looked like. More fool her. They usually ran away, but she thought she was tough. They’d see who was right about that. But not now.

  The smartest choice of all would be to lie low on campus for now, choose a target farther afield. Somebody in town, even. Problem was, he liked the young ones, and high school girls were still living with their families, with their gun-toting, protective Idaho fathers, which made the mission too risky.

  Anyway, the college girls were more satisfying. So confident, so arrogant, prancing around like they owned the campus, not nearly careful enough in their newfound freedom. That always made it sweeter.

  Another campus again. Or maybe . . . His mind toyed with the possibility. She was a little long in the tooth for him, true. But otherwise . . . yeah. Just his type. And if he was looking for an arrogant bitch who thought she got to call the shots, well, you couldn’t do much better, could you?

  And he needed somebody. His planning had been so satisfying. He’d enjoyed the preparation, what he always thought of as warming them up for him, more than ever, with the sweet knowledge that it was about to pay off, that he was just about to scratch that itch.

  But it hadn’t paid off, and he hadn’t scratched that itch for much too long. The frustrated urge clawed, and nothing else could satisfy it. No other form of control could possibly match this, because this was the ultimate.

  He needed another one, and he needed her now. Time to make a plan.
r />   EXECUTE

  Three days after the visit to the police station—and the newspaper office, which had been a little more productive—Zoe nursed her car cautiously around another of the tight curves that snaked their way up the Union City grade.

  It had been snowing all day, and more than six inches had accumulated so far. She’d been told that it was only the start of what was to come, but this was already six inches more than she was used to. The highway had been cleared, but she remembered that black ice from the last time, and she wasn’t ending up in the ditch tonight. Even though she actually did have Cal’s number now, and she had a feeling he’d tow her out again, too. Even in the snow. Even in the dark. Because she’d had lunch with him again after their outing with Amy the other day, and it had been . . . nice. More than nice. And he’d been so . . . so good, coming along for that. Even though he’d been right, he hadn’t exactly been a big asset with his cousin. But then, Zoe wasn’t sure she had been, either.

  And if he invited her to go dancing again . . . she didn’t think she was going to be able to say no.

  She brought her mind back to the tricky S-curve at the top of the grade, breathed a little easier when she reached the top and her little car wasn’t laboring so hard anymore. She hoped she could nurse it through the winter. A new car—well, a new used car—was an expense she hadn’t counted on and couldn’t afford. She’d had no idea, though, how hard cold weather and salted roads could be on a car that was on its last legs anyway.

  As long as she could hold out until next fall, she’d be all right. She should be able to get more consulting work, too. She’d just made her very first final presentation, had delivered her report to the city on their aquifer, and they’d seemed pleased. A pleased client meant a referral. And best of all, she’d delivered her invoice, which meant that she’d be paid. Within two weeks, she devoutly hoped. She was so glad now that she hadn’t reduced her rate as she’d been halfway tempted to do.

  Ask for what you deserve, she’d reminded herself. Don’t put yourself on sale. You’ll impress nobody that way. People take you at your own valuation. All the lessons that Dr. Aaronson, her major professor, had drilled into her when she’d assisted him with his own research. Tough to do when the urge to compromise, to ask for less, to settle, was telling you something entirely different. But for a woman in a man’s world, that message was everything.

  The bright, high-set lights of a semi loomed in her rearview mirror, and she brought her attention back to the road once more. A rare stretch of straightaway appeared ahead, and the big truck moved out and around her. She hugged the white line and slowed to let it pass, her hands tight on the wheel, then fumbled for her windshield wipers as the truck cut back in front of her, its big tires kicking up slushy spray. She tried not to flinch at the pickup truck that zoomed past in the opposite direction, seemingly only a second after the semi had gotten out of the way. That had been much too close to a head-on collision, with her right in the middle of it.

  She forced her mind away from the vivid image and slowed down a little more, focusing on following the big truck’s taillights, until even it pulled away.

  More lights appeared behind her. Not a semi this time, but somebody else who would probably want to pass, because nobody in Idaho drove more slowly in the snow than she did. She was coming into another curve, though, so he’d just have to wait.

  He was clearly impatient, because his lights seemed to be taking up her entire rearview mirror. She tried to ignore him as he dropped back, edged closer, dropped back again, and then, on a straight section, edged up again. Passing, she thought with relief.

  He didn’t pass, though. He got so close that her attention drifted from the road and turned to the mirror, because she could swear he was going to rear-end her. She sped up again, but he matched her speed, and sweat was prickling under her arms despite the chill.

  Five more miles of him speeding up, falling back, speeding up again, and the tension in her arms and legs was making it hard to control the car. She took a curve too fast, felt her back end sliding again despite her new all-weather tires, steered into the skid, and swung back around.

  Nobody was coming the other way this time, so her brief foray across the center line didn’t matter. Why wouldn’t he pass? And why couldn’t she just ignore him? So he was in a hurry. So what? That wasn’t her problem.

  A straight stretch, and she slowed deliberately, hugging the narrow strip of shoulder between the white line and the bank of snow pushed aside by the snowplow.

  And still he didn’t pass. She couldn’t see him, could only see his lights in the mirror. It must be his brights, because they were blinding her.

  She sped up again, risking the ice. She briefly considered pulling over farther, simply stopping and forcing him to go by, but she’d been seized by a thought that was very nearly paralyzing her.

  Somebody was definitely following me, Amy had said. She had been scared, too. Everyone had told her she was imagining it, but Zoe hadn’t thought so. Not then, and certainly not later. She’d thought Amy had been stalked. That somebody had either been looking for his moment, or had simply been scaring her because that was part of his plan. Part of his fun.

  Just like everything in Zoe’s body was telling her that somebody was trying to scare her right now. Or worse, looking for his moment. She had a good fifteen more miles to go to Paradise, and nothing much between here and there. Nothing but farms sitting off the road, a few lonely lights flashing by before she could do more than register them. Farms with unplowed driveways she could get stuck in, and that wasn’t happening. She was driving straight into town, straight to the police station. Not the university police. The Paradise police.

  What else could she do right now? The semi was far ahead now, no help to her. She needed somebody to notice. Somebody driving in the other direction, as few vehicles as that was. This was Idaho, Cal had told her again and again. People helped here. But how did you get somebody to notice you while you were driving?

  You put on your flashers, and you honked, that was what you did. She fumbled for the flashers, punched the button, then laid her hand flat on the center of the steering wheel, pressed hard, and kept pressing.

  He was right on her now. So close that she thought he was going to push her off the road. She kept honking. If only somebody would come.

  Nobody came, though. Nobody at all. The road was curving again, and she had to put her hand back on the wheel.

  Too fast. She was going too fast. She had to tap the brake, fishtailed a little. Her breath caught in her throat, her hands tightened desperately on the wheel, but she made it around. Barely. As soon as she was clear, she had her hand on the horn again, was splitting the night with its blare.

  He was still back there, still right on her tail, and she’d gone straight into another curve, and her back wheels were sliding out again. She tried to turn into it, but she was going too fast, and the surface was too slippery.

  Time slowed as the darkness revolved around her. Like a dream. Like a carnival ride. The other car’s lights loomed over her for a flashing moment, and she flinched, anticipating the collision. Then they were gone, and she was still sliding, heading into darkness, her wheels hitting the snowbank with a sickening thud, then climbing over it. The car stopped for a split second, hovering, then the front end tipped downward and rammed into the other side of the concrete ditch with a hard jolt that slammed her into her shoulder belt.

  She was in the ditch, and she was stopped, and she was stuck. And he was out there. He was waiting.

  IN THE DITCH AGAIN

  Cal slowed for the turn. Not that his truck couldn’t handle it, but he wasn’t taking any chances while he was towing the new Bobcat on the trailer behind him. It was his last time driving this stretch today, and he’d meant it to be in the light, but the day had gotten away from him.

  He came around the curve just in time to see the li
ghts hurtling across his path, the car leaping the bank, slamming to a stop.

  He had his foot hard on the brake, was slowing fast himself, his big tires biting into the road as the powerful brakes engaged. He threw his flashers on with a flip of a switch, rounded the bend, headed down the straight stretch for a little ways, then pulled as far over as he could get, which wasn’t very far at all. Flares and fire extinguisher from under the seat, a flashlight from the glove compartment, and he was out of the truck and running along the shoulder. He stopped halfway along, pulled the cap off a flare, lit it against the asphalt, set it down, and kept running.

  He got around the corner, and the blare of a horn he’d been aware of all along got louder. Must have gotten stuck when the car had crashed, because it was steadily, maddeningly loud. He prayed that it didn’t mean the driver was draped over the wheel. He’d seen an accident once . . . Let it not be that.

  Another truck had pulled over, too. Must have been right behind the car in the ditch. Good. They’d be checking on the car’s occupants, and he wasn’t smelling smoke or seeing flames, so he didn’t stop, just ran on well past the two vehicles, past the horn’s continuing blast, lit another flare and set it down, then ran another hundred yards and lit a third before turning around and taking off toward the wreck again.

  He nearly had to dive for the ditch himself when the truck roared past, barely missing him, on the wrong side of the road. The truck that had been with the car. What the hell?

  He shook it off, ran for the car. Still no smoke, thank God, but no motion, either, and still the horn. But the flashers were on, so the driver must be conscious.

  It wasn’t until he turned the flashlight on the car that it hit him. The little hatchback. The license plate. It was Zoe.

  He wasn’t even aware of leaping the snowbank, sliding down the ditch, and clambering up the other side. He had his hand on the door, was trying to get it open, but it was locked. He shone the light inside, dread tightening his chest at what he would see.