Griff got out of bed and walked across the room, flung open the French doors, and stepped out onto the balcony. The cold November air chilled his naked body, sending a rush of adrenaline through his system and clearing his mind.
On the far side of the lake, on the eastern horizon, the first faint tendrils of morning light crept across the dark sky. The dawn of a new day. Day nineteen.
Unable to find a cave or even a rock overhang and unable to build any kind of shelter, Nic had been forced to make do with what was available to protect her from the nighttime cold. Each night she choose a different location and built a new bed of twigs, leaves, and grass, then covered herself with these same materials. But last night a storm had hit, drenching her to the skin. She had huddled beneath the low branches of a protective tree and endured as best she could. With morning light, her clothes wet, her hair damp and plastered to her head, she forced herself into motion.
This was day nineteen. She had a lot to do today. E-Day. Escape Day.
Griffin had known this trapped feeling before, remembered it only too well. He was uncomfortable in his own skin, tormented by his own emotions, and could not control how he felt or what he thought. Although Lindsay and Judd realized that he was on the verge of collapse, only Sanders and Yvette understood the underlying cause.
Sanders had refused to allow him to walk alone, but kept silent as they ventured out into the frosty morning. His old friend realized that the only thing keeping Griff sane was motion. He had walked endless miles around his property the past few days, increasing his time outdoors more and more each day. He paced in his study, in his bedroom, and throughout the house.
Griff had tried to persuade Lindsay and Judd to take Emily and go home, but they wouldn’t leave. He knew that they were waiting with him for the twenty-first day, staying nearby so that they would be on hand for the end of Nic’s life. Her brother had also stayed. Like the others, Charles David was waiting. To varying degrees they had all accepted the inevitable, although they each gave lip service to hope, the power of positive thinking, and prayer.
After walking what Sanders later told him had been over four miles, Griff began to feel the chill in the air. He glanced at Sanders.
“Why don’t you go back to the house?”
“I will walk with you as long as you walk.”
“There is nothing you can do for me any more than I can do something for Nic.”
“We have at least thirty-six more hours,” Sanders reminded him.
They continued walking, the vibration of the bare trees rustling in the frigid breeze the only sound for miles.
“No matter what happens, I will eventually find him and kill him,” Griff said.
“Yes, I know.”
“He deserves the same fate as York.”
“You have returned to Amara. In your nightmares. In your thoughts. You must leave that place for my sake and Yvette’s as well as your own.”
“I wish I could rip those memories from my brain.” Griff clenched his teeth as unwanted images flashed through his mind. “If only eradicating memories were as simple as amputating a limb.”
“If reliving the past could help you save Nicole, then it would be worth the risk, but it cannot help her. It can only cause you great harm.”
“Yvette says that York won’t stay dead because I keep reviving him.”
“Yvette is a very wise woman.”
“She’s not happy, is she?” Griff asked, the thought hitting like a bolt out of the blue. “She’s beautiful and brilliant and wise, but she isn’t free of the past any more than you or I.”
“She is content with her life, as I am with mine and you were with yours.”
“Yvette deserves to be happy. I want that for her.”
“Perhaps in time.”
“If he kills Nic …
“Your life will go on, and you will survive day by day.”
“Have you told Barbara Jean about Elora?” Griff asked.
“No, but I will. When the time is right.”
“And will you tell her about York and about the years you spent on Amara?”
“Someday, I will tell her as much as she needs to know to be able to understand the person that I am.”
“She has a gentle soul,” Griff told him. “How do you think she will react if you tell her what we did?”
“There are secrets that must be kept and not shared.”
“Take my advice. Don’t wait to tell Barbara Jean how you feel.” Griff paused and looked directly at Sanders. “Reach out and grab whatever happiness you can while you can.”
Nic hiked toward the old roadbed. He would be up by now, preparing for his day, and it was only a matter of time before he realized that she was on the move. He would suspect something was wrong and come looking for her. Because she had planned and prepared and had been patient, she now had a chance, slim though it was, to win the grand prize—her life. If she could get a head start and leave false tracks to lead him in the wrong direction, she might be able to stay one step ahead of him, even though she would be on foot and he would be riding his dirt bike.
If he caught up with her, would he kill her now instead of two days from now?
Yes, he would have to. It was the only way he could stop her from running. If she didn’t escape today, she was as good as dead anyhow. Unless she killed him first.
Nic used her five senses to guide her, knowing that she must stay constantly alert to everything around her. Every sound. Every sight. Every scent. Even her sense of touch and taste could not be ignored. Despite her debilitating weakness, she had to stay strong.
Going against the urge to run like hell, Nic paced herself, not knowing how far she would have to walk to find any sign of the outside world. She moved smoothly, careful not to catch her bare, callused feet on anything. Quiet a while before she reached the old road, she veered off into the woods in the opposite direction, breaking a couple of small tree limbs and mowing down brush with heavy stomping movements; then she backtracked and headed straight for the road. Her small fake trail might or might not buy her some time, all depending on whether or not he actually followed it.
Repeatedly, Nic had come this way, near the rutted roadbed, so that when she got a chance to return, she would have memorized the route. She had to stay aware of her surroundings, of where she had been and where she was going. Day after day, she had soaked the landscape into her subconscious. From the sun’s movement, she could gauge not only the approximate time of day, but the direction. She recalled that in winter months, the sun rises more to the southeast than due east.
Pudge enjoyed the hearty breakfast Allegra had prepared. Smoked ham and thick gravy, with scrambled eggs and fluffy white biscuits. As he drank his third cup of coffee and looked over the morning newspaper that Allegra had brought with her, he fantasized about today’s hunt. Nic was proving herself a worthy adversary, a prime animal specimen. He would hate to end their game day after tomorrow.
All the more reason to make the most of today.
Had she spent the night out in the storm, surrounded by lightning, drenched with rain? Of course she had. There were no caves on the property and unless she managed to squeeze into a hollow log somewhere, the best she could have done was find shelter under a tree.
“I’m going out on the dirt bike again this morning,” he told Allegra. “When you finish with the cooking and clean up, call Fantine and have her take you home. I won’t need you back for a few days. I’ll call and let you know when.”
Allegra eyed the rifle propped against the corner wall near the back door. “Ain’t you done killed every squirrel and rabbit and bird there is to kill around here?”
“Hush up, you old fool. I take my rifle with me for protection. And to get in a little target practice.”
After he let his breakfast settle, he would start looking for Nic where he’d left her late yesterday. But there was no hurry. There was no way she could escape from Belle Fleur. Only an expert woodsman would ever find
his way back to civilization and Pudge knew that Nic was a city girl, had been her entire life. And all her FBI training at Quantico hadn’t prepared her for wilderness survival.
Half an hour later, dressed in his camouflage gear, his rifle slung over his shoulder, Pudge mounted his powerful dirt bike and headed out. He was ready for another exhilarating hunt.
When the sun lay halfway between the eastern horizon and directly overhead, Nic stopped along the stream that followed the same path as the old road. She sat down on the bank and cleaned her bleeding cuts and scratches. The way her back itched, she wondered if during the night an insect had bitten her. Maybe something poisonous.
She stood and hurriedly moved upstream. Finding an ideal spot, she leaned down and cupped her hands into the water. After splashing her face, she lifted a second handful to her lips and drank her fill.
Nic left the stream, made her way across the road and into the woods that edged the old path. She found a thicket and sat down inside it. She needed to rest for a few minutes and renew her strength.
During the days and nights of her captivity, several things had helped keep her sane and focused on survival. First and foremost, she couldn’t let that sick son of a bitch kill her and add her scalp to his collection. Of course, she worried about how her mother was handling the situation. Sedated, no doubt. Kept oblivious to reality by her new husband. But what about Charles David? He was so tenderhearted and emotional. He would fall apart if she died, especially if she was murdered.
And what about Griff?
All she had to do was reverse their positions and put him here, struggling to escape from a madman’s clutches. She knew how he felt, what he was thinking, and understood that he had spent the past nineteen days as tortured as she had been.
Nic crossed her arms over her belly.
She hadn’t had her period.
What if I’m pregnant?
She probably wasn’t. Probably hadn’t been when he kidnapped her. But if she had been, was it possible that those tiny, microscopic cells that would divide and multiply and grow into a baby could have survived inside her bruised, battered, malnourished body?
She had tried not to think about the possibility that she was carrying Griff’s baby. The thought of it was too distracting. She couldn’t worry about a pregnancy that more than likely didn’t exist, not when her life was at stake.
Get up and get your ass in gear. Don’t waste any more time worrying about Griff or your mother or Charles David. Or a nonexistent child.
Hours later, when the sun had reached overhead and was beginning its slow descent westward, Nic heard the roar of his dirt bike. Knowing she couldn’t stay hidden indefinitely, that any which way she turned, he could be on her in minutes, she had no choice but to go from defensive mode to offensive. Instead of waiting for him to track her down, she had to attack first.
Nic waited until she heard the bike’s motor idling and knew he had stopped, probably to visually inspect the lay of the land. Since it had taken him a while to figure out that she’d been following the old roadbed, he must have followed her fake trail for quite some time; otherwise, he would have caught up with her sooner. She crept slowly to the edge of the wooded area where she’d been hiding, slipped her hand into the pocket of her filthy, ragged sweatpants, and pulled out the short, thick wooden stick that she had shaped into a weapon. She had used a sharp-edged rock to scrape a sharp point on the end of the stick.
Her only hope of overpowering him was a sneak attack.
There was no point in putting off what had to be done. She had one chance to make her move and take him by surprise. The noise of the idling motor worked to her advantage, masking the sound of her footsteps as she approached him from behind. Using her body as a battering ram, she dove into him and knocked him off the bike. She used the force of her weight to hold him down while she positioned the knifelike stick to hit the jugular vein in his neck. Just as she plunged the tip forward, he bucked up and the pointed end sliced across the back of his neck. He yelped in pain and knocked her off him. She clutched the stick between their bodies as he rolled her over.
With his red face contorted in rage, he brought his meaty fist back, intending to hit her. When he lowered his hand, Nic turned the stick so that the sharp edge faced away from her. Just as his knuckles hit the side of her face, she lunged upward, thrusting the makeshift knife into his gut.
He grunted.
She shoved the stick deeper.
He stared at her, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
As blood gushed from his wound and he grasped at the end of the stick protruding from his belly, Nic managed to roll him off of her. Struggling to stand, she rose on wobbly legs.
While he stared at the blood gushing out of his stomach, Nic reached down and grabbed for the strap that held the rifle across his shoulder. He clutched the rifle with his bloody hand and held on for dear life. Nic tried to wrestle the rifle from him, but quickly realized she couldn’t win this fight. She moved away from him and ran. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he lay by his bike, unmoving and quiet. She hoped the son of a bitch was dead. She looked ahead of her, up the road toward freedom.
And then, just as she got her second wind and thought she honest to God had a chance of escaping, the rifle shot rang out in the hushed stillness. The bullet ripped into Nic’s back, the impact bringing her to her knees.
Chapter 20
Foy and Jewel Calame, on their way home from a week visiting their daughter and grandchildren in Thibodaux, were listening to Reverend Tommy Taylor’s daily radio broadcast. At home, they always listened to the young minister’s inspiring words every afternoon, right after Foy woke up from his nap. They’d been married forty-six years come February, had raised two sons and a daughter, all of them good, Godfearing Christians. Thank you, Lord Jesus. Jewel remembered a time when Foy had been a drinker and a gambler, back in his younger years. But when he’d found Jesus, right after their second son was born, he’d given up all his sinful ways and been a good husband and father ever since. They didn’t have much in the way of material things, but they made do on Foy’s Social Security check. Their house was paid for and so was this old car. And the kids sent them a little, along with Christmas presents and birthday presents, and just this past Mother’s Day, they’d gotten her one of them cute little pink cell phones.
“Lord have mercy, Christy Lou, what am I going to do with a cell phone?” she’d asked their daughter.
“You’re going to have it for emergencies when you and Daddy are on the road or if you’re in town and want to call home, you can. And I can send you a new picture of Marcy Jewel over this phone every day, Mama.”
It had been that last bit that had persuaded her to keep the phone. She had five grandsons, ranging in ages from nine to fifteen, but Christy Lou’s baby was their only granddaughter. Lord forgive me, but I’m plum crazy about that sweet little gal.
“Look up yonder,” Jewel said. “Ain’t that the road that’ll take us into Orson’s Cove? We got some of the best Jambalaya I ever tasted at that little restaurant last time we came through here.”
“Are you trying to tell me you ain’t going to cook supper when we get home?” Foy chuckled.
“Come on, honey pie, let’s splurge a little and eat out. Christy Lou gave me a twenty-dollar bill and said for me to spend it however I wanted. And I want some of that Jambalaya over at the Fishing Shack.”
“Then we’ll just make a little detour over that way.”
When they reached the turnoff, Foy took the two-lane road to Orson’s Cove. The pavement had been patched numerous times, just like the road that ran by their house in Centersville. But there were more potholes and at least half a dozen little bridges crossing creeks and a few dried-up streambeds. Foy slowed their ten-year-old Chevy Malibu down to twenty-five miles per hour when he approached the final bridge that led into town. Jewel was surprised that the county hadn’t replaced that bridge years ago. It was barely wide enough for
two cars, so most folks took turns, letting incoming traffic go first and outgoing go second when crossing the bridge.
“Hold up!” Jewel cried. “There’s something in the road up there, right over on the other side of the bridge.”
Foy glared through the bug-splattered windshield. “Could be a big old dog. Or maybe a calf. Looks like it’s been run over.”
“Well, you be careful and try not to hit it. And if you can’t drive around it, you’ll just have to get out and push it off to the side of the road.”
“If it’s dead, I’ll move it,” Foy said. “But I ain’t about to mess with no hurt animal.”
Foy eased the car halfway across the bridge, then slammed on the brakes when Jewel hollered, “Stop!”
“What in tarnation’s the matter with you, woman?”
“That ain’t no animal in the road, Foy. That’s a human being. I think it’s a woman.”
Foy opened the car door and got out. “You’re right,” he called back to Jewel. “It is a woman. And I think she’s dead.”
Jewel shoved open the passenger door, got out, and walked across the bridge to where the woman’s body lay sprawled face-down on the road. She knelt down and touched the woman’s head. When the woman groaned, Jewel jerked her hand away.
“She ain’t dead, Foy. But the poor thing is just barely alive.” Jewel inspected the woman from head to toe. “Looks like she’s been shot.”
“No telling what kind of meanness she was into,” Foy said.
“Hush up. It ain’t our place to judge. Go get me that pink phone out of my purse. We gotta call 911 and get this gal an ambulance out here. It’s our Christian duty to do what we can to help her.”
Foy did as she’d asked and brought her the phone. She dialed the emergency number, just like Christy Lou had showed her how to do. Then she told the nice young man on the other end of the line where they were and what they had found.
Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle Page 99