And men in Air Force blue.
She didn't realize she had a death grip on the steering wheel until her hands began to ache. What on earth was going on?
Lainey… hurry…
Hurry, Lainey thought, dazed. Hurry where?
My voice… follow the sound… of my voice…
Without stopping to think, without taking time to wonder about the strangeness of it, Lainey slid out of the car and followed the sound of Micah's voice.
She turned away from the mansion as she made her way down the sharp incline located on the south side of the house. Slipping and sliding, she descended the hill, then turned right and followed a drainage ditch until she came to a storm drain.
Bending over, she looked inside. "Micah?"
"In here."
Lainey breathed a sigh of relief when she heard his voice. The inside of the storm drain was damp and dark. She'd gone about six feet when she saw him sitting with his back against the side of the cold cement.
"Micah? Are you all right?"
With a faint nod, he stood up, swaying unsteadily. "Can you get me out of here?"
"I can try." She held out her hand. "Come on."
She couldn't see his face clearly, but she felt him hesitate. He stooped to pick up something, which he tucked inside his shirt, and then his fingers were closing over hers.
Lainey went first, peering into the darkness. "I think we're in the clear," she whispered. "Let's go."
He followed her out of the storm drain and up the hill. Once, she heard him gasp as he stumbled, and then they were at the top of the incline. Her car was only a few yards away.
It was then that she saw the dark stain that blossomed across his shirt front and spread down the left side of his trousers.
"You're hurt!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"
"No time… to explain," he said, his voice reedy and uneven.
Lainey stared at him for a moment. He'd been shot, she thought, appalled. She wondered briefly why the police were after him. Wondered if he was, indeed, a mass murderer.
And then she looked into his eyes, those guileless silver-blue eyes, and all her doubts and fears disintegrated.
A quick glance up the road showed that the police were widening their search. She could see their flashlight beams sweeping the darkness as several officers approached the edge of the driveway. In the distance, she could hear dogs barking, as though they'd picked up a fresh scent.
Wordlessly, she helped Micah into the car, then slid behind the wheel. She turned the key in the ignition, then put the car in reverse.
Only when they were well out of sight of the mansion did she turn on the headlights.
She glanced at Micah several times as she drove home. His eyes were closed, his complexion was beyond pale, his breathing was rapid and shallow. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might die.
He was barely conscious when they reached her house. She drove into the garage, shut off the headlights, and switched off the ignition. After getting out of the car, she closed the garage door, then turned on the light.
Opening the car door, she shook Micah's arm. "Micah? Mi-cah!"
His eyelids fluttered open and he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused.
"You've got to walk. I can't carry you."
He nodded that he understood, and Lainey stepped away from the car so he could get out.
There was no way to explain what she saw. Afterwards, she would wonder if she had imagined it. While she watched, he closed his eyes and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that he was drawing on help from some deep inner well. Impossible as it seemed, she could almost see the vitality flowing through him, strengthening him from within.
In less than a minute, Micah opened his eyes. Effortlessly, he climbed out of the car and followed Lainey inside, down the narrow hallway into the guest room located in the back of the house.
He stood in the middle of the floor, his gaze sweeping the room in a swift glance, noting the single window, the narrow bed, the chest of drawers. And then he reached inside his shirt, pulled out a black box, and handed it to her.
"Take care of this for me," he said, forcing each word. "If anything happens to me, you must destroy it."
And then, as if the last drop of his energy had been expended, he fell face-down across the bed.
Lainey stared at the box for a moment, then placed it on top of the dresser and turned her attention to Micah. It took all her strength to turn him over, to remove the blood-soaked shirt, his shoes and socks, the blood-stained trousers. He wasn't wearing anything under his trousers or shirt.
As she pressed a cloth over the ugly wound in his side, her mind registered a quick impression of a perfect male body before she covered him with a sheet, then ran into the kitchen. She filled a teapot with water and put it on the stove to heat, found a pair of scissors, some gauze, a roll of tape, a bottle of disinfectant.
While the water heated, she ran back to the bedroom to place a hand on his forehead. It was warm. Too warm. The sheet that covered him was already stained with blood. Lainey frowned… Brown blood?
She closed her eyes and shook her head, but when she looked again, the blood was still brown.
The whistle of the teapot drew her back into the kitchen. Finding a tray, she piled everything onto it and went back into the bedroom.
Drawing the sheet away from the wound, she stared at the odd-colored blood that oozed from the bullet hole and then, taking a deep breath, she eased Micah onto his side, feeling a swift surge of relief when she saw that the bullet had gone through.
Moving quickly, trying not to gag at the sight of so much blood, she washed the wound, soaked it with disinfectant, placed cold compresses over both holes, and wrapped a thick layer of gauze around his middle to hold everything in place.
She was perspiring heavily by the time she was through. She hated the sight of blood! She knew lots of little girls dreamed of being doctors or nurses when they grew up, but she never had. Just the thought of a needle was enough to make her nauseated.
Lainey stared at the bloody shirt on the floor, at the rag she'd used to clean the wounds. Brown blood. Try as she might, she could find no logical explanation for it, but she didn't have time to worry about it now.
Returning to the kitchen, she made herself a cup of strong coffee, then brewed a cup of weak herb tea, which she generously laced with brandy, for Micah.
He roused enough to drink it, and then he fell back on the pillow.
Sitting in the rocking chair beside the bed, Lainey sipped her coffee. Who was Micah? Why were the police hunting for him? And why had the Air Force been there?
If he was wanted by the law, she could be arrested for harboring a fugitive.
She rested her head against the back of the rocker and closed her eyes. Bits and pieces of the last few days drifted down the corridors of her mind—hearing Micah's voice the first night she had spent in the Grayson house—the fire that started by itself—the carton of orange juice that had appeared as if by magic at the back door of the mansion—the figure with the blue aura that had appeared in one of her photographs. Maybe they were all incidents that could be explained logically. And maybe not.
Sitting up in the chair, Lainey stared at Micah. His breathing was shallow, so shallow that she placed her hand over his chest to make certain he was still alive.
She couldn't seem to keep from touching him—his brow, which was much too hot; a lock of his hair, damp with sweat. She let her fingertips caress his cheek, his jaw. Odd, she thought, there was no telltale shadow of a beard.
He muttered something in his sleep, something she couldn't understand, and then he whispered her name.
"I'm here, Micah."
His eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were dark, glazed with pain and fever. "Thirsty… so thirsty."
"Here." Lifting his head, she held her cup to his mouth. He drank greedily, drinking the last of the coffee that had gone cold.
"Got… to… get… aw
ay."
"Later."
"Now."
"You've got a fever, Micah. You've got to rest."
He shook his head. "Must… go. Home."
"Soon." She lowered his head to the pillow, then wiped his face with a cool cloth. "Rest now."
He shook his head, then tried to sit up, groaning as the movement pulled on the wound in his side. "Danger… here."
"You're safe. No one knows where you are." She pressed a hand to his shoulder, encouraging him to lie back down. "Please, Micah, you've got to stay quiet."
He stilled at her touch and she started to sit back in the rocker when she noticed the stain spreading over the bedding.
He was bleeding again.
It was after midnight by the time she got the bleeding stopped, the bandages replaced, and the sheets changed. The fever raging through him frightened her even more than the blood and its peculiar color.
Filling a bowl with cold water, she wiped his face, his neck, the broad expanse of his chest, down his flat belly, stopping at the strategic point where the sheet protected his modesty and thwarted her curiosity.
Near dawn, his fever went down and a little color returned to his cheeks. Hardly able to keep her eyes open, Lainey curled up in the rocking chair, drew a furry blanket up to her chin, and closed her eyes. That quickly, she was asleep.
Asleep and dreaming.
She was walking with Micah, holding his hand. Everywhere they went, people stared at them, pointing, frowning. Puzzled, she glanced around, noticing for the first time that the sky was yellow, the grass was blue-green, and the sun was pale pink. She noticed the people then. They were all about the same height, they all had hair of varying shades of blond and eyes of varying shades of blue. Trying to stifle the hysteria she felt rising within her, she lifted her head to look at Micah…
The sound of her own scream jerked her from sleep.
"Lainey, are you all right?"
"Fine." She stared at Micah, but he was only a dark shape against the flowered percale sheets. Frowning, she tried to remember her dream, but it was gone.
"Go back to sleep, Lainey." Micah's voice, low and soothing, reached out to her through the darkness.
She nodded. Sleep, yes.
There's nothing to be afraid of.
His voice, speaking in her mind, soothed her as it had once before, lulling her back to sleep.
There were no more dreams.
Chapter Eight
Micah seemed better the following morning. Lainey plugged in the coffee maker, then switched on the morning news. She'd expected the goings-on at the mansion to be the top local story. Oddly enough, no mention of it was made on the radio, or in the morning paper.
After a quick shower, she pulled on a pair of sweats and sneakers, checked to make sure Micah was still asleep, then drove up to the Grayson place.
It seemed exceptionally quiet after the noise and confusion of the night before. She parked her car about a quarter of a mile away, then jogged up the road, slowing as she neared the driveway. An unmarked police car was barely visible in the shadows alongside the mansion. Glancing at the house, she caught a flicker of movement at one of the upstairs windows. She had a sudden, silly urge to wave.
Micah was still asleep when she got home. She threw a load of wash in the machine, including Micah's blood-stained clothes, which had been soaking in cold water, then sat down in front of her computer.
But she couldn't concentrate on her story. There were too many unanswered questions rattling around in her head, too many real-life mysteries that needed solving to worry about the fictional mystery she was trying to write.
Too restless to sit still, she looked in on Micah. He was still asleep. A good sign, she thought. Her mother always said sleep was nature's best cure for just about anything.
She was about to leave the room when her gaze landed on the black box. Picking it up, she carried it into the kitchen. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she went into the living room to study the black box. It was an odd contraption, about four inches square. It wasn't made of wood, or plastic, or of any other material she was familiar with. She turned it over in her hands, but try as she might, she couldn't figure out how to open it, if, indeed, it opened at all.
Another mystery, she thought, and dropping the box on top of the TV, along with her empty coffee cup, she went back to her computer, determined to get at least one page written before the day was over.
She went to check on Micah again at a little past noon. He was sitting up, his pale face sheened with perspiration.
"I'd ask how you're feeling, but there's no need," Lainey said, placing her hand on his fevered brow. "You look awful."
"I feel awful. Where are we?"
"My place. Don't you remember?"
He frowned, then shook his head. "No. I don't remember anything after I was wounded."
"What happened? Why are the police after you?"
Micah took a deep breath, pondered telling her the truth, and dismissed it. "I can't tell you," he replied slowly.
"Can't, or won't?"
"Can't, Lainey. Not now. But you must believe me when I tell you I haven't done anything wrong."
Under the circumstances, there was no reason to believe him. But she did. He was telling the truth. She knew it right down to the ground.
"Are you hungry?"
Micah nodded.
Lainey smiled. His having an appetite was a good sign. "I'll fix you something to eat. If you have to—ah, relieve yourself, the bathroom's in there." She paused at the bedroom door. "Do you need help?"
Micah shook his head, and Lainey left the room. He stared after her, unaccountably pleased that she was willing to trust him even though she knew very little about him.
He gazed out the window, wondering at the wisdom of remaining here. Last night, wounded and afraid, he had called out to her, desperation clouding his judgment, but it had all happened so fast. He had been asleep in front of the fireplace, dreaming of Lainey, when a noise from outside roused him. Before he had quite realized what was happening, men were swarming through the house, their lights blinding him.
He'd had no time to try to hide in the guise of an earthling, no time to get his flight pack, no time to do anything but grab the transmitter and make a run for it.
He'd heard a voice shout, "There he is!" and then there was only confusion, an explosion, blinding pain…
He shook the memory from his mind.
It took every ounce of his strength to get out of bed and walk to the bathroom. Inside, he closed and locked the door; then, head hanging, he let himself relax completely.
When he looked into the mirror a few minutes later, his own face stared back at him.
Lainey hummed softly as she prepared Micah's lunch. She hadn't had a man to fuss over since Drew. Hadn't realized how much she missed it until now. Their marriage had been a mistake from the very beginning. She had been looking for a home and family; he had been looking for another conquest.
She knew now that the only reason Drew had stayed around so long was because she had refused to sleep with him until after they were married, because she had been determined to be a virgin when she walked down the aisle. It was a promise she had made to herself when she was just a young girl, a vow that she had silently renewed each time she saw another of her friends dressed in a long white gown—girls who clothed themselves in the outward symbol of purity and innocence when everyone knew they had been sleeping with their boyfriends for months, or years. Silly as it seemed in this day and age, Lainey had wanted to be worthy of a white dress and all the trimmings.
Maybe, way deep down where she didn't look too often, she had always been secretly afraid that Drew would lose interest in her once the hunt was over. And that might have been one of the reasons their marriage failed, but the main reason had been because, in spite of all they had done, she had been unable to have children, and he had left her for a woman who could.
Lainey had filed for divorce the day
after Drew's son was born. Filed for divorce and gone back to using her maiden name. And then she had buried herself in her writing. The emotional pain and heartache she had suffered during the breakup of her marriage gave her a new perspective to write from, a new depth of emotion, of empathy, of understanding.
Her career had soared. Her personal life had been in the pits. She had forced herself to date, always shying away when the relationship started to get too serious, too intimate, resigned to the fact that she would never marry again, never have the family she so longed for…
She heard Micah moving around in the bathroom, and found herself smiling. She was drawn to him in a way that she couldn't understand. It wasn't just his looks, though heaven knew she had never seen a more gorgeous hunk of masculinity in her whole life. Just looking at him made her feel good all over, but there was a vulnerability about him, a kind of innocence, that she found vastly appealing.
She turned off the stove, covered the plate to keep the food warm, and walked down the narrow hallway to the guest room.
The bed was empty and she glanced at the bathroom door, then frowned at the strange blue light glowing in the narrow crack between the bottom of the door and the bedroom rug.
"What the… ?" She stared at the light, closed her eyes, then opened them again.
The peculiar glow was gone.
A moment later, the bathroom door swung open and Micah stepped into the bedroom, a blue-and-pink striped towel wrapped around his waist.
She couldn't help staring at his broad shoulders, the wide expanse of his chest, his long, well-muscled arms and legs. The blood-stained bandage was partly visible above the towel.
Micah stopped in mid-stride when he saw her standing there. Color stained his cheeks as he glanced down at the towel, at Lainey, and at the towel again.
"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't know you were here…"
"It's all right." She turned her back to him. "Get into bed, Micah. I won't peek."
She heard the rustle of sheets as he crawled under the covers, her imagination running wild. She'd already had a brief glimpse of that magnificent body. It took very little imagination to fill in the rest.
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