by Nancy Radke
Below them, at the cross street, a minivan paused, its blinkers indicating it was turning their way.
Mary silently urged it forward. It came slowly, observing the low speed limit through the park. Perfect. I’ll run in front of it, if I have to, to make it stop.
It slowed more as it approached and another car followed. The commuters who lived in the area were finally arriving home.
Connor pointed at the oncoming vehicle. "That might be them. They were driving a dark van. Move back to where we can't be seen." He ground out the order with harsh urgency as he threw the last of her things back into her purse.
She wasn’t going into that dark tangle of brush with him. She wanted to be seen.
"Let's go." He handed her her purse, then reached out to take her arm. "I don't have a gun. They do."
"Right. Get my coat." She pointed to where it lay.
"But—"
"I'm freezing. No telling how long we'll have to hide."
He glanced at it, then at her, hesitated for what seemed forever, then complied. The instant he bent to pick it up, she darted across the street in front of the van.
It skidded as the driver slammed on his brakes, just missing her. He rolled down his window and yelled an obscenity, but she barely heard him. She raced for her apartment, not pausing to glance back.
The old security door— thick unyielding metal— stopped her. She quickly punched in the code and glanced around.
No one there. She had expected to see Connor right behind her, but the van must’ve stopped him. She pulled open the heavy door, stepped through and yanked it shut. The locks clicked tight, sealing out the world.
Safe. She said a quick prayer of thanks as she leaned against the wall. She fumbled for her keys. Taking a deep breath, she staggered up one flight of stairs, turned past the vacant apartment next to hers, and unlocked her door. She did not push it open.
They might be inside, waiting for you.
3
Tricked. And by a girl. She had shot out of sight like a MIG with its tail on fire.
Connor stuffed Mary’s white coat over his arm and sprinted down to his car. He drove to her apartment complex, checked her address and parked where he could watch the outer door.
Then he pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial number.
“Yes?”
“I thought you said she was a scared rabbit. Had black-out fainting spells.”
“I did.”
“Not this one.”
“She used to. Maybe her Search and Rescue training—”
“Search and Rescue?” That didn’t sound like a fainting girl to him.
“Her father became a volunteer first, then encouraged Mary to join him, hoping the opportunity to save lives might help her grow more independent. It did— she overcame most of the fears that had haunted her teen-age years. We hoped she was "cured" when she moved in with Alison and Robyn, but her father’s death undid it all.”
“Describe her again.”
“She’s twenty-four. Sweet and gentle. Long black hair. My height. Look at the photo.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Yes, you do. I stuck it in your coat while you were calling the police. Inside pocket.”
He fished out the picture. “Her hair’s different.”
“It was taken four years ago. Look at the face.”
“Looks like her. What’s her dad’s name?”
“Warren Brown. He was a geologist for an oil company, working all over the world. They were living in the Middle East when her mother was murdered in front of her. Three soldiers. They used knives.”
Connor shook his head in disgust. He had blundered big time. Now she wouldn’t ever trust him.
“Mary wandered the streets for two days before Warren found her, hiding in a dirty, abandoned house, wrapped in the traditional garments of an Arab woman.”
“How old...?”
“She was nine, Connor. Only nine. She blacks out when she’s under severe stress. You’ve got to get her out of danger.”
“Why didn’t you warn me?” She hadn’t blacked out, but she could’ve.
“You were out the door before I could say anything more. Promise me you’ll take her somewhere safe.”
“Will do.”
But how? He could call the police, have them come talk to her. And he could guard her door until they arrived. He reopened his phone, dialed the police.
What if those thugs were already inside?
Mary huddled in the rose velvet armchair that had been her mother's favorite— and had become Mary’s place of refuge. Its springs were gone and the cushions threadbare, but she had brought it here when her father died.
Her tears had dried, but her body still shook with fine tremors. Tonight's encounter would probably reawaken her terrible nightmares. They always seemed to resurrect during times of stress.
Mary looked around the familiar quarters, trying to relax. A two-bedroom apartment, it shone neat and clean and cheerful, decorated in rose and mauve and cream. Her favorite painting hung in a place of honor in the dining area— a portrait of herself and her father, done by a grateful artist whose life they had saved.
During their five years of Search and Rescue work, Mary and her father had rescued many people, often at the risk of their own lives. Memorabilia covered one whole wall— framed photos, awards, and letters of gratitude.
She could handle mountains and rivers and day to day living, although dirt bothered her. And strangers on dark streets. Especially ones with knives. Or— she shuddered— keys that looked like knives.
She pulled out the little ivory dragon and watched it swing back and forth on its chain. Courage.
Mary looked around the room, empty with Alison gone on vacation and Robyn visiting her sister. It still bothered her to be alone at night. And hadn't Connor warned her to go somewhere else? She’d do that. Without further thought, she called Robyn’s brother, Ryan Duvall. He was a black belt and should be able to handle anyone.
Ryan’s wife, Angie, answered. “Hello.”
“Angie, it’s Mary. Can I spend the night at your place? Something’s happened.” She went on to describe the encounter with Connor.
“Of course. We have the extra bedroom. I’ll send Ryan over as soon as he gets home. Better yet, I’ll call him and have him come get you on the way. That way you don’t have to go outside alone.”
“Thanks. I’ll wait.”
With that set up, Mary re-checked the door, making sure all three locks were turned and the deadbolt in place. Then she looked out the window to make sure the man wasn’t lurking nearby. A loose piece of lint caught her gaze, so she picked it up and threw it into the wastebasket.
Next she checked all the window locks and closed the curtains. Then she jotted down a description of Connor McLarren on a notepad to give to the police. A long scar across his left hand, running in a crescent from his ring finger to his wrist. Straight black hair, cut short. Strong jaw line, excellent teeth although his lip was split. Swollen right eye. Tall, broad shouldered, carrying no extra weight.
If Connor had told the truth, his mother's name was Barbara. Barbara McLarren.
Was Barbara one of the people she or her father had saved?
The question jumped into Mary's mind and stayed there, demanding an answer. Setting the notepad down so that its edges were squared with the table, she walked over to the picture wall and examined each photo. She didn’t see anyone named Barbara, although some of the photos weren’t signed. But it might explain the gift of an antique chest.
Mary turned on the TV, wanting the sound of its company while she packed her things. She turned up the volume for the weather report, which also gave mountain pass conditions. Snoqualmie Pass had just been closed to traffic, and all backcountry travel remained closed due to high avalanche hazard.
Hopefully, no one with more courage than brains would venture off the established roads
and require rescuing. Mary hated avalanches, having narrowly escaped more than one. They were unpredictable and deadly. She’d rather meet a grouchy old bear.
Flipping through the channels, she stopped at a cop show, where the police were chasing two criminals.
Two loud thumps came from the apartment below, followed by an angry bellow. The occupant— a cantankerous bully who objected to any sounds he didn't make— always banged on his ceiling at the least bit of noise. He had recently been made manager, so she felt obligated to appease him. She turned the TV off.
Her body felt sticky. She couldn’t stand it. A shower would get rid of the dirty feeling. She’d make it quick.
Mary locked the bathroom door, but once in the shower, she found herself looking around— hating to close her eyes long enough to wash her hair— as if having them open would give her some kind of advantage.
She turned up the water temperature, hoping the warmth would settle her down as well as wash off the feel of Connor's presence. But her nerves stayed tightly strung. It was as if he were at the door— coming in. She took a deep breath, inhaling the strong jasmine fragrance of her shampoo.
Why couldn't she relax?
Deliberately she squeezed her eyes shut, holding her head under the vigorous spray to do a good rinse job. Fear had to be battled so it wouldn't get the upper hand. She had learned that the hard way, during the years following her mother's death.
"Be reasonable," Mary chided herself, as the hot water pounded noisily upon her. "He can't get in here."
But her eyes flew open before she cleared the flow. She checked around again, reassuring herself that she was still alone. This guy had really gotten to her. The outside security door had locked her safely inside. To be afraid under these conditions was irrational.
Fear wasn't logical. She knew that. It was a good thing she had asked Angie if she could stay the night. She’d be able to sleep over there.
Mary turned off the water. The phone rang.
The police? Or Angie? What if Ryan couldn’t make it?
How long had it been ringing?
Mary threw the curtain aside and hopped out. She flipped her toweling robe off its hook and threw it on. As she did so, the fabric swept across her cosmetics case and a water glass and knocked them off the counter with a loud crash. The water glass shattered, flinging particles across the floor.
Tears stung her eyes. Her nerves couldn't take much more.
The phone continued to ring. She hurriedly picked her way around the glass and sprinted out to answer it.
Her neighbor thumped angrily on the ceiling.
"Stop that!" Mary shouted as she wrapped the robe securely around herself. "Leave me alone!"
Something hard smashed against her front door. It shuddered and groaned in protest.
Mary stopped dead, clutching the robe tightly. A trickle of cold water ran down her back, like an icy hand. She stared at the wooden door in disbelief. Another blow. The wood cracked.
Another blow. The door bowed inward.
"Help!" Her scream came out weakly as the hinges failed.
4
Mary screamed as her front door burst open, swinging drunkenly on its one remaining hinge. Connor barged in, fists clenched, his feet planted wide while he checked out first one side of the room and then the other.
Connor's image merged with the one already burned upon the retina of her memory— the image of three soldiers breaking down the door into her family's home. Attacking. Killing. The sounds of the past swirled into the present, catapulting her mentally back to that time. She fought the image, trying to pull herself free.
Her stomach contracted, bowing her into a tight ball. Blackness swirled around, sucking her into its vortex.
"Mary!"
His voice came from a great distance. He shouted her name again, then grabbed her arm. His grip tightened.
She couldn’t get away. She could barely stand.
"Out! Now!" he commanded, pulling her past the broken door and into the dimly-lit hallway. The painted concrete walls boxed them in.
Confused, she tried to yank her arm free. That hurt, but the pain penetrated the swirling blackness, helping Mary regain control. The past receded back into the depths of her mind, where it lurked, ready to pounce again.
"Where are they?" Connor whispered.
"Who? What? What’re you talking about?" Her words didn't carry. Her throat remained constricted and dry.
"Those men. Where are they?" he demanded.
"I don't— No one's here."
"What?" He straightened. Looked down. His frown eased into a look of bewilderment. "Then what crashed? I thought for sure you were being—"
"I broke a glass."
"You did?"
"Yes. I was hurrying to answer the phone."
He shook his head, appearing confused. "It sounded like you were in trouble."
"Well, I'm not.” His confusion gave her new strength. “Let go!" She tried to pull free.
He slackened his grip, but did not let go. "I heard you yell. Things being smashed. I thought... I pictured those thugs in here, beating you up."
"The only one causing a problem here is you. So leave.”
"I can't. Not now. I've just learned, for sure, that you're the one I'm looking for. You've got to hear me out. Please." He spoke slowly, emphasizing each word.
Wasn’t she ever going to get rid of him?
Connor hadn't hurt her— yet. But the potential for violence lurked there. He had a fire to him, a boiling intensity that terrified her. His dark brown eyes burned deep within.
She stared down at the bright shine on his black boots, his polished belt buckle, and his clean, short-trimmed fingernails. His waterproof watch was one of those mammoth collections of gadgets and dials. Some lunatics took good care of themselves.
"I'm sorry," he said, and Mary became angrier, righteous indignation swelling her courage.
"Then why break down my door, like some movie gangster?" she demanded. "Why didn't you just knock, like everyone else?"
"I did."
"Huh?" His denial, spoken so positively, took her aback.
"Loudly. I pounded on the door several times. You didn't answer."
"I didn't hear you."
"Well, I knocked. Then I heard the same kind of noises I’d heard when I arrived at my mother's home earlier today— the thugs had smashed a bottle to threaten her with. So I broke in. Sorry."
Mary searched his face for some sign that he told the truth, but he believed his delusion, so to him it’d be true. At least he hadn’t attacked her, in the woods or here.
Fresh from the shower, her hair still dripping wet, she was an open invitation to any man— and Connor, having broken in, didn't need an invitation. She’d never be more vulnerable. He could easily help himself.
But he hadn't. At least not yet. Aside from knocking down her door, he continued to act as much a gentleman as she had ever encountered. Holding her arm, but doing nothing more. Her mind focused on that fact, clasped it as a dying man clasped the hand of his rescuer.
Connor had himself under a control so rigid she could feel the tension through his body, see it in his eyes and mouth, hear it in the tightened cadence of his voice.
Her teeth hurt from being clamped. "You followed me," she accused, grabbing hold of the one concrete fact in his world of conjectures.
"Yes."
"But not immediately," she pointed out, unwilling to release her suspicions. "What’ve you been doing in the meantime? If things were as urgent as you say, wouldn't you’ve come right away?"
"You made me doubt myself, so I called my mother for more information."
"I see."
"She said your dad's name was Warren Brown and that you used to live at 212 Ravenna Circle. When you were young, your family lived for awhile in the Middle East.”
He had all his facts straight. Was he telling the truth, or just proving he had
done his research?
"That was where you saw your mother killed...."
Mary felt herself grow pale as she nodded, focusing on Connor's face. Not the face of a madman. He looked intelligent. A lean, dark, determined man, with eyes that demanded attention. He had just the shadow of a dark beard, as if he hadn't shaved since early morning. It added to his piratical appearance as he stood in the half-lit concrete hallway.
His knuckles bled, probably from his attack on her door. A shudder ran through her. She couldn't help it. Violence had entered her life again.
He paused, as if feeling her fear, took a deep breath and let it out in a rush. Took another. Let it out more slowly.
His voice dropped, losing its rough edge, and became gentle, urgently pleading. "It is you, isn't it? I know it's you." He released her arm and whipped out a picture. “Look.”
It was her. Her and her father.
Cold air blew up the hallway as someone entered the building below. Mary shivered as she listened to their footsteps echo down the lower corridor.
5
Connor breathed a sigh of relief. At last! She believed him. After such an entrance, he would have been toast without the photo.
She swayed and he shoved the photo back into his pocket and steadied her with both hands.
Her shattered door hung at a drunken angle on one bent hinge, mute testimony to his door-smashing abilities— but not to his intelligence.
She glared at the mess and raised an eyebrow. Connor followed her gaze and sighed.
"Doesn't look good, does it?" he said.
He drew in his stomach tightly, shoulders back, head erect— silently lashing out at his failure to correctly read the situation. Mary appeared ready to collapse and he didn't blame her.
He’d been all sorts of a fool, rushing in to save her when she didn't need saving. But it had sounded so threatening, outside in the hall.
"No, it doesn't look good at all,” she said shaking her head. “How did you get past the security door?"
"I waited until someone came out, then stepped inside. There's always someone coming or going in a complex this large." He laughed, a harsh sound, not at all pleased with himself. “Simple."