Flight

by Laura Griffin

  The truck started to slow, and an icy claw of fear closed around her heart.

  Vanessa scooted across the seat and reached for the passenger door, jerking back as her sweater snagged on something. She yanked it free, then grabbed the bag and pushed open the door.

  The truck rolled to a halt. Vanessa scrambled from the car, tripping as she glanced back at headlights. Adrenaline shot through her, and she sprinted for the trees. The ground sloped down, and she ran faster, faster, losing control as she hurtled toward the woods.

  Her toe caught and she crashed to her knees and elbows but managed to hold on to the bag. She pushed herself up and raced toward the tree line.

  Then the headlights switched off, and everything went black. She ran blindly through the knee-high weeds, huffing and gasping and clutching the bag to her chest like a football. A car door slammed, sending a jolt of terror through her. She pictured him running after her, closing the distance, grabbing her by her hair.

  Thorns stabbed at her as she reached the thicket. She swiped at the branches, desperate for cover as she imagined him behind her. She couldn’t see anything, not even her hand in front of her face as she groped through the razor-sharp bushes.

  The thorns disappeared as she stumbled into a clearing. Panting, she stopped and glanced up at the moon. Her heart thundered as she looked around and tried to orient herself. An arc of pines surrounded her. She could hide. Take cover. Defend herself if she had to. With trembling hands, she fumbled inside the bag and pulled out the gun. Dear God, was it loaded? She hadn’t thought to ask.

  He’s coming.

  On a burst of panic, she raced for the trees.

  * * *

  * * *

  Brandon almost made it home.

  Almost.

  His stomach grumbled, and he eyed the pizza box riding shotgun in his truck. Mushroom and pepperoni, thin crust. It wasn’t nearly as good cold, but he wasn’t picky.

  His cell phone buzzed in the holder, and he tapped it.

  “Almost there,” he told his partner.

  “Where are you exactly?” Antonio asked.

  “About two minutes out.”

  “Okay. Take it easy on the curve. You’ll see a black-and-white on the eastbound shoulder near my car. That’s the best place to park.”

  “Got it.”

  Brandon drove another mile down the highway and slowed. He spotted the whirring yellow lights of a tow truck blocking the eastbound lane as it dragged a pickup from the ditch. Brandon passed them, making note of the disabled vehicle—a black Chevy Silverado.

  He tapped the brakes before the curve and saw the reason for Antonio’s warning. A silver car occupied the shoulder, just barely off the roadway. Traffic flares flickered on the pavement. Directly across the street, Antonio and a uniform stood talking with a man. Tall, goatee, green camo jacket, and a baseball cap turned backward on his head.

  Brandon pulled a U-turn and parked behind Antonio’s personal vehicle, a black Mazda. Grabbing his phone, he gave his pizza a last wistful look and slid from the warmth of his truck.

  A cool October breeze blew off the lake as Antonio trudged over. He wore dark slacks and a white button-down, same as Brandon, but his sleeves were rolled up. Looked like he hadn’t made it home yet, either. Their workday had begun at five thirty a.m. with a gas station holdup on the south side of town, and it was almost eleven.

  “How’s it look?” Brandon asked.

  “Weird.”

  Antonio stopped in front of him and ran a hand through his black buzz cut. His partner was short but powerfully built, like an MMA fighter.

  “When did you get here?”

  Antonio sighed. “’Bout ten minutes ago.”

  Brandon turned to look at the man being interviewed by the patrol officer.

  “Guy’s name is Tom Murray,” Antonio said. “He called it in. Says he was driving westbound when a deer ran in front of him. He slammed on the brakes and swerved. Nearly hit the silver car there, then overcorrected and skidded off the road.”

  Brandon turned back toward the tow truck. The orange flares illuminated twin skid marks leading to the ditch.

  “Tire marks corroborate his story,” Antonio said. He’d spent five years on highway patrol, so he should know.

  “And the driver of the car?” Brandon asked.

  “Nowhere. But all her stuff’s in the vehicle. Wallet, keys, phone, everything.”

  “Her?”

  “Yeah, Murray said he walked over to see if anyone was inside and found a purse. Vanessa Adams, twenty-six. He checked the wallet.”

  Brandon muttered a curse.

  “I know, right? Now his prints are everywhere.”

  Shaking his head, Brandon turned back toward the car. “What do you make of the guy?”

  “Seems credible. Passed a Breathalyzer.” Antonio shrugged. “We ran the name from the wallet. No wants or warrants. Vehicle’s registered to her, too.” Antonio looked at him, his brow furrowed. “I gave the car a once-over.”

  “Did you—”

  “Didn’t touch anything. There’s a smear on the door. Looks to me like blood.”

  Hence, the reason why he and Antonio had been called out to an otherwise routine abandoned vehicle.

  Brandon scanned the area. The highway was lined with trees. North of the road, the forest was thick and healthy. South, not so much. Years ago, the highway had acted as a firebreak, but several hundred acres to the south had burned, and now it was a mix of jagged gray points and fresh saplings. The terrain sloped down to an area dense with scrub trees. Beyond the brush was a man-made lake that had been created in an abandoned quarry. East of the lake was a public park.

  Brandon opened his truck and reached into the back. “You have time to look around yet?”

  “Not yet.” Antonio gave a sheepish smile. “I don’t have a flashlight.”

  Rookie mistake. But Brandon didn’t state the obvious, even though he was Antonio’s training officer.

  Brandon reached into his truck and grabbed his high-powered Maglite, then tucked it into the back of his pants and handed his spare to Antonio. Opening the tackle box that lived in the back of his cab, he dug out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one to his partner.

  “You want to talk to the driver?” Antonio asked.

  “I’ll take a look at the car first.” Brandon pulled on the gloves. “Tell him to hang out. Then go get started in the woods.”

  “Roger that.”

  Antonio headed off, and Brandon took a last look around before approaching the vehicle.

  It was a silver Toyota, ten years old, give or take, with a purple namaste sticker on the back bumper. The tires were bald but not flat. A thin layer of grime covered the paint, except for streaks along the back, where someone had opened and closed the trunk a bunch of times. Brandon switched his beam to high and checked the back seat. Empty. He stepped to the driver’s side. The door was closed, but the passenger door was wide open. He didn’t like that.

  No interior light on, no ding-ding-ding warning sound. Brandon circled the vehicle, making note of the license plate and the dented side panel. The damage looked old. Taking care not to mar any footprints in the dirt, he approached the open door and leaned in.

  The smell hit him immediately. Pina colada. He swept the flashlight over the seat and spotted the pineapple-shaped air freshener tucked inside the door pocket.

  Brandon crouched beside the car. On the floor was a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a big leather bag. It seemed more like a tote bag than a purse. A red leather wallet sat on the passenger seat. He shined the light on the Texas driver’s license peeking through the plastic window and studied the smiling picture. Vanessa Adams had long auburn hair. She wore red lipstick, and her eyes were accented with gray eyeshadow. Smokey eyes. That was how his ex described it when she did her eyes tha
t way before they went out to clubs. Yet another thing he definitely hadn’t missed over the past six months.

  Brandon swept the flashlight over the door again and found the smear. It wasn’t big—just a swipe near the handle. But it looked to him like blood.

  In the cupholder was an old iPhone with a glittery white case that had a pink heart on the back. The heart case seemed young for a twenty-six-year-old.

  Brandon stood and examined the car’s exterior again. No sign that she’d hit an animal or anything else. So, what was the deal here? Was it a simple case of car trouble, and she’d hiked out for help?

  Brandon could see her leaving her stuff behind, maybe even the tote bag and wallet if she was inebriated enough not to be thinking clearly. But her phone?

  He looked over his shoulder toward the dark woods where a white light bobbed behind the trees. He called Antonio, and the light went still.

  “Anyone check nearby gas stations?” Brandon asked. “There’s an Exxon half a mile east of here, where Old Quarry Road meets the highway.”

  “I’ll get patrol on it.”

  “Thanks.”

  Brandon turned back to look at the car. The iPhone bothered him. Even shitfaced, he couldn’t see someone leaving it behind. For most twentysomethings, a phone was like an appendage. Plus, it was late. He couldn’t picture a woman leaving here without her phone if she’d gone somewhere by choice.

  He swept the light over the dashboard. The ashtray was open slightly and a white business card poked out. Brandon took a pen from his pocket and used the end to slide the tray open enough to read the card.

  LEIGH LARSON. ATTORNEY AT LAW.

  Beneath the name was a Tenth Street address and an Austin phone number. So, was Leigh a man? A woman? What kind of lawyer? The generic white card didn’t offer a clue. Brandon took out his cell and snapped a picture, then slid the ashtray shut.

  His phone buzzed as he stood up. “Yeah?”

  “Hey, I’m in the woods about fifty yards south of you.” Antonio sounded out of breath, and Brandon caught the excitement in his voice. He turned and spotted the distant white glow through the row of trees.

  “What is it?” Brandon asked.

  “Man, you need to come see this.”

  About the Author

  Laura Griffin is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than twenty-five books and novellas. She is a two-time RITA® Award winner as well as the recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award.

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