One False Move (13 page)

Who was he kidding? He knew why. He was afraid of commitment, plain and simple. He was afraid of depending on someone other than himself, of counting on someone and then being let down. He had come to believe that maybe he was meant to be alone. And then Erin Cartlan came along, and suddenly he realized what he was missing in his life—what he truly wanted all along—was standing right in front of him. Right in front of him but miles out of his grasp.

He rubbed his shoulder and readjusted the harness. He stared at the blank notebook page, then glanced back into the cabin. The thunder had begun to change from rumble to cracks and came now as a resounding crash. He hadn’t noticed that the rain had started until he felt a spray of it coming in through the screen.

He stacked his notebooks and file folders on top his laptop and headed inside. Maybe tomorrow would be more productive. There was always tomorrow.

7:25 p.m.

Grace tried to hold the umbrella over her and Emily. The stupid garage remote refused to work. Maybe it was the batteries. Maybe the lightning. Figures it would go on the blink during a thundershower and one of her first attempts to actually use the garage.

She couldn’t keep up with Emily, who raced up the porch steps to the front door as if trying to outrun the next flash of lightning.

“Hurry, Mommy,” she called, just as Grace stepped ankle deep into a puddle. More a hole than a puddle and right in the middle of the front yard.

The house was pitch-black and now Grace wondered if the electricity was out. Vince had programmed timers on several lamps, one downstairs, two upstairs. It was his answer to Grace constantly forgetting to use the security system.

As she unlocked the front door, she glanced around at the rest of the neighborhood. All the streetlights were still lit. She could see a couple of porch lights on, and across the street the reflection of the Rasmussens’ big-screen TV glowed in their front window.

She reached for the first light switch, the one in the entry, and was relieved when it came on. Relieved enough that she decided not to worry about why Vince’s timers hadn’t worked. Maybe there had been an interruption in service. It was an old house. She didn’t want to think about Jared Barnett sneaking around her backyard. It was bad enough that she already had Emily worried about a shadow man. Besides, if Barnett had tried to pull off this bank heist, it was only a matter of time before they caught him. Maybe they already had.

Emily stayed so close to her that Grace could feel her bumping against her leg. Her tough little tomboy wouldn’t admit she was scared, an annoying habit she had picked up from her mother.

“Are you still hungry?” Grace dangled the McDonald’s bags to remind her. She had let Emily talk her into fast-food takeout. Not much of an argument. Grace was a fast-food junkie, too. Another habit she seemed to have passed on to her daughter. But they only exercised it when Vince was away. They both were usually able to hold out longer than the first night of his absence, but it was long past dinnertime and Grace was exhausted, especially after spending almost an hour explaining to Grandma Wenny that everything was fine. Emily had told her about the shadow man, and the old woman’s vivid imagination had gone into overdrive. She had never liked the idea of Grace pursuing a career in law enforcement, following in her father’s footsteps. And so once again she’d lectured Grace to be careful, offering her the Smith & Wesson .38, Grace’s father’s service revolver, that the old woman still kept in the drawer of her own bedroom nightstand. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation. It wasn’t the first time the offer had been made and refused. But it was the first time Grace wondered if perhaps she should get a gun of her own.

“Can we eat in the family room?” Emily asked. “On the floor?”

“Yes to the family room, but on trays. No floor.”

Emily was already getting out the folding contraptions, half carrying, half dragging them into position. Grace knew better than to suggest helping. Instead, she went into the kitchen and took out two plates, unwrapping and arranging their cheeseburgers and fries. She could still teach Emily the art of enjoying a meal—it didn’t count as fast food if you put it on real plates, or so she told herself.

She doused both orders of French fries with ketchup, her contribution to making their meal “homemade.”

“Could I have Pepsi, too?” Emily asked, but her eyes were watching out the kitchen window as flickers of lightning illuminated pieces of the backyard. The same backyard that Jared Barnett might have been sneaking around in. Grace needed to stop thinking about it.

“Take our plates to the trays, please, and I’ll get the Pepsis from the garage. We’ll need a couple of glasses of ice, too.” Grace wanted to keep her daughter busy, keep her eyes and mind off the storm. It would soon pass. “One plate at a time, Em,” she said over her shoulder as she opened the door to the garage, then flipped on the light.

She almost tripped over the toy on the first step down to the garage. Before she yelled at Emily for leaving her things out, she realized she didn’t recognize it. It wasn’t a toy at all. She picked it up to get a better look. It had to be one of Vince’s practical jokes. Maybe his idea of a housewarming gift for their front lawn.

The ceramic gnome was so ugly, it was almost cute.

2:09 a.m.

Andrew jerked awake. It must have been a clap of thunder that woke him. The lightning outside the bedroom window reminded him of a blinking neon sign, constant but dim. The rain tapped against the glass. But the thunder was gone. No, wait. A flash of lightning lit the room, and Andrew began to count, “One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand, four, one thousand—” The crack wasn’t quite as loud as when he had gone to bed. The storm seemed to be moving away according to his brother, Mike’s, archaic meteorology.

He turned on his side, the wrong side, and the jolt of pain flipped him to his back. He had forgotten what it felt like to sleep in any position he chose. Or to sleep through the entire night.

He adjusted the hard foam pillow, wishing he had brought his own. Since his accident he had learned to appreciate the value of a soft but firm pillow. He wondered if he’d be able to stay out here for two whole weeks without a decent one. Geez! He was already looking for excuses to leave. What the hell was wrong with him?

He watched the shadows of tree branches dance across the ceiling every time the lightning blinked. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d lay awake in bed, unable to sleep and worried about how he would pay his monthly bills, wondering which credit card he would take out a cash advance from this time. He had come such a long way since those sleepless nights. Now he worried that his good fortune—his windfall, as his father would have called it—could all disappear with one severe case of writer’s block.

Sometimes he could hear his father’s voice in the back of his head telling him, “What makes you think you deserve all this? You think you’re something special? You think you’re better than the rest of us?”

His father had been gone for almost five years, and yet he lived inside Andrew’s head, in a tiny dark corner in the back, just enough of a presence to keep Andrew in line. To warn him when he dared to get too confident. To bring him back to earth when he dared to dream too big.

Andrew closed his eyes and tried to ignore the sudden tightness in his chest. He needed to think of something else. Or perhaps someone else. He tried to conjure up Erin’s image and how she made him feel when she smiled at him or laughed. She had a great laugh. He remembered—

A noise startled him and his eyes flew open. He stayed still, holding his breath and listening. It hadn’t been thunder. That he was sure of. It sounded as though it had come from inside the cabin.

He waited and listened. Squinted into the dark. He had left a lamp on in the main room, but its dim light didn’t reach the hallway to the bedrooms. He waited out the rumble of thunder then listened again.

Nothing.

Maybe his imagination was playing tricks on him. He probably shouldn’t have had three beers when he was still taking pain meds. It also didn’t help matters to be dreaming up a killer for his novel in the middle of a thunderstorm.

He heard it again. And this time he was almost certain it came from inside the cabin.

He tried to concentrate, tried to explain the sound away. It could simply be one of the open windows or a loose screen banging against the sill with the wind. There had to be a logical explanation.

That’s when Andrew saw a shadow move along the wall of the hallway.

Someone was inside the cabin.

2:23 a.m.

Andrew tried to stay calm. He could barely hear over the pounding of his heart. Could it be a park worker? Someone who’d came to warn him about the storm or check up on him? Was it a knock on the door that had wakened him? It made sense. A park worker would have a key.

Damn! Had he even locked the door? Of course he had. He was a city boy. It was instinctive.

Then his stomach did a somersault. He wasn’t sure the flimsy screen door to the porch
had
been locked. All the back-and-forth he and Tommy had done to the grill. And he knew he had left the door between the porch and the cabin unlocked. He always left it like that so he wouldn’t accidentally lock himself out. He was in the middle of the woods, for God’s sake. Why would he need to lock doors?

The intruder had to be a park worker. Someone checking to make sure he was okay. Someone who didn’t call out because he didn’t want to disturb him. Someone who—

He heard a floorboard creak. His eyes darted around the small bedroom as he tried to lie still, tried not to make a sound. His suitcase sat on a chair in the corner. His mind frantically went through the contents.
Damn it!
Everything was airport security approved. He had even changed to fucking Gillette Super Blue disposable razors.

There was a shuffling sound. He couldn’t tell if it was headed in his direction. Andrew slid out of bed and onto the floor. His injured shoulder banged against the bed rail. He bit down on his lip until the pain subsided. He crawled between the bed and wall to the closet. Straining his eyes to see, he waited for a flicker of lightning. Nothing inside the closet. Not even a broom. Then he remembered the wooden rod for hanging clothes. He had noticed it because he thought it was silly to think anyone would bring clothes that required hanging to a cabin in the middle of the woods.

He slid his body up the wall, stopped and listened. He reached into the closet, feeling for the rod. Please, please let it not be secured. His fingers wrapped around the smooth wooden rod. He stopped and listened. There was a soft rustle and then a crackle. He held his breath.
Damn!
He still couldn’t hear over the pounding of his heart in his ears.

He leaned his cheek against the paneling and cocked his head toward the door to the bedroom. Another crackle, maybe a slow ripping sound. The intruder was going through his things. He tried to remember where he had left his wallet. Maybe whoever it was would take it and leave. Andrew lifted the rod out of its slots, and quietly, slowly he eased it up and out of the closet. He got a better grip. He raised his good arm, testing to see how high he could lift it before the pain shot across his shoulder and stopped him. Not bad, though he wished he had taken more of the physical therapy his doctor had nagged him about.

He made his way to the door, then hesitated and listened. He thought he saw a blue glow that wasn’t lightning. The refrigerator, maybe? A hungry thief?

Andrew tightened his grip on the rod. It felt good in his hand. It felt good enough that maybe this son of a bitch wouldn’t be taking his wallet, after all.

2:35 a.m.

Andrew kept his back against the paneling, sliding inch by inch down the hallway. He held the rod down by his side, ready, despite his sweaty palm. The sounds continued from the kitchen area. The blue glow from the refrigerator lit the opposite wall. He could see a partial shadow, and it looked crouched over. Now was his chance, while the asshole was going through the fridge.

He rushed out of the hallway, three long steps, raising the clothes rod and ready to swing. The woman spun around, her eyes wide, and her hands immediately flew up to protect herself from the blow. But Andrew stopped.

“Who are you? And what the hell are you doing?’’

She was filthy, her clothes slathered with mud. She batted wet strands of dirty-blond hair out of her eyes. Her face looked bruised, her cheek scraped raw, though it was hard to tell what was bruises and what was dirt.

“I asked, what the hell are you doing?”

He saw her eyes look over his shoulder. He felt the breeze and smelled the rain, and he knew the door between the cabin and the porch was open. He turned slowly, keeping an eye on her. The small lamp he had left on sat in the corner on the floor, its dim yellow glow enough for Andrew to see the two men out on the porch. One sat by the table. The other stood behind him. From what he could smell, they were as filthy and wet as the woman.

“What do you want?” Andrew asked. At some point his fear had transferred to anger. Anger was better, he reminded himself, and tightened his grip once again on the wooden rod.

“We just needed to come in out of the storm,” one of the men said as he shifted his weight in the chair.

It was too dark on the porch for Andrew to see either man’s eyes or much of their faces. The flickers of lightning were fading, the thunder a distant echo.

“Did your car break down?” Andrew glanced again at the woman. Her eyes kept darting from Andrew to the man, but she avoided Andrew’s eyes. There seemed to be a nervous energy to her, yet she stood still, with her hands in the pockets of her jeans, as if she didn’t quite trust Andrew.