You Betrayed Me Page 2
To sanity.
Over the summit, the car sped up.
She eased on the brakes, hands holding the steering wheel in a death grip. Around one corner. Faster and faster.
Slow it down!
But the car raced forward, gravity pulling her downward, the foggy windshield nearly opaque.
She tapped the brakes a little harder, the back end of the car sliding around a corner, her breath tight in her lungs. She swallowed as she guided the car down the narrowing road, snow piled high on either side.
Just a few miles and—Oh, shit, what’s that? Something in the middle of the road? At the next turn? No!
Her heart a jackhammer, she squinted through a thin patch of clear glass.
On the road ahead something moved.
Something tall and dark against the white.
A deer? Elk? Some other creature?
The steady snow masked its shape as it darted to the side.
Two legs?
“Fuck!”
A man? Woman? Goddamned Sasquatch?
The shadowy image stepped into the middle of the damned road.
A person. Definitely a person.
What the hell?
“Hey!” she yelled, slamming on the brakes. “You idiot!”
The car shuddered.
No!
It began to rotate.
Faster and faster.
She rammed the gearshift into LOW.
But it was too late. The Toyota slipped sideways, spinning out of control. Through the windshield, she caught glimpses of the sheer cliff face on one side of the road and the steep canyon on the other. In the middle of it all, a person. A brainless, idiotic freak. “Shit, shit, shit!” She tried to steer, failed, the Toyota careening wildly to the mountainous side of the road, her bumper shearing ice off the cliff, only to send the little car back across the lanes, rushing toward the ravine, the scenery a snowy blur.
It was all over.
She knew it.
Through the foggy glass, she caught a glimpse of the snowy treetops in the thin beams of the headlights and, beyond the treeline, the vast darkness of the canyon.
This was how she would die, her car hurtling over the edge, crashing through the trees in the yawning darkness, plummeting hundreds of feet to the nearly frozen, snaking river far below.
God, no!
She stood on the brakes.
The crevasse beyond the treetops loomed.
One wheel found pavement.
Caught.
The back end of the Toyota shimmied.
Heart hammering, adrenaline firing her blood, she ignored everything she’d ever heard and cranked hard on the steering wheel, away from the ravine.
The car twisted. The Corolla’s hood pointed directly at the massive wall of stone.
No person on the road between.
What had happened to that shadowy image?
She didn’t have time to think about it. Just tried like hell to right the car, turning the wheel gently, her heart pounding wildly, her mind swirling.
She bit her lip.
The front wheels found traction, and she touched the gas, propelling the car forward, away from the canyon.
And straight at the wall of ice and stone.
She stood on the brakes.
Wheels locked, the car skated faster.
Megan braced herself.
Bam!
The Toyota collided with the mountain.
Her seat belt jerked tight.
Her eyes squeezed shut.
The car’s front bumper crumpled, the hood damaged in a horrific groan of twisting metal and shattered plastic. The windshield cracked.
Something flew forward, launched straight into the mirror, shattering the reflective glass.
She expected the impact from the airbag as it burst out of the steering wheel.
Steeled herself.
Her car jolted to a stop.
No sudden burst of pressure or mass of air shot at her; no balloon trapped her against her seat.
Instead, there was silence.
Sudden and deafening.
And she was alive.
Miraculously unhurt.
Disbelieving, she stared at her gloved fingers, clenched in a death grip over the wheel. She slowly released them as she let out her breath. Her hands were trembling, her entire body quivering.
Get hold of yourself. You’re okay.
Glancing through the cracked window, she tried to calm her wildly racing heartbeat, to focus.
The car. Can you drive it?
Could she get that lucky?
What were the chances?
She twisted the key, heard the starter grind. “Come on. Come on.” If she could just get the car going, she would back up so that it wasn’t crosswise in the road. She could put the car in NEUTRAL, if she had to, and aim downhill, riding the brakes, right? Until she was in civilization. . . or until she could call . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted. Her phone? Where the hell was her phone? She searched the interior quickly, then remembered something flying into the rearview mirror. Was that her cell? Desperately, she patted the seat next to her, wet from her spilled coffee and loaded with books and her backpack, anything she could just toss into the car.
Nothing.
Quickly, she scoured the floor of the passenger area, but it had a trash basket and two pairs of shoes and . . .
Oh, screw it!
It doesn’t matter! Just get the car out of the road so you don’t get T-boned.
She twisted on the ignition. The starter scraped, but nothing happened.
“Oh, come on!”
Another try, and the engine turned over, but . . . a movement caught her attention. Something dark in the shards of glass in the rearview.
From the corner of her eye, she saw something move, a dark and skittering image in the spiderweb of the rearview mirror.
The back of her throat went bone dry.
Oh, God. The person she’d seen moments before.
The cause of the accident.
She glared into the mirror, tried to make out the idiot who had caused this wreck. The damned moron was behind her car, barely visible, but definitely there. And now moving to the center of the road.
As if to block her path again.
Still risking both their lives.
Megan’s temper spiked. What kind of a cretin would—
She threw open the door just as a cautionary Be careful cut through her mind. “Are you out of your mind?” she screamed, craning her neck for a better view. “Get out of the way! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
No movement.
Nothing but bitter cold air.
And the silent whiteout.
No person.
Just the eerie quiet, broken only by the rasp of the Corolla’s engine.
The warning hairs on the back of her neck raised.
Had it all been her imagination?
No, of course not.
She pulled the door shut and was about to back up when she saw the figure again. Right in the middle of the road . . . again. Almost taunting her.
What the hell was this?
It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s weird as hell. Not good. Get out. Get out now!
She swallowed back her rising fear.
What if the person needs a ride? What if they’re stranded?
“Who cares?” she muttered. It wasn’t as if the jerk-wad was waving her down, trying to get help. No, this was something else.
Something very wrong.
Something evil.
She touched her toe to the gas again.
Her damaged car struggled, wheels spinning.
“Don’t do this,” she whispered, her panic rising. She had to get out of here now. Her phone, where the hell was her phone? No time to search for it. “Let’s go,” she said to the car as the engine ground, the wheels spun, and she went nowhere. “Let’s go, let’s—”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw
movement in the side-view mirror.
The person in black was approaching!
Now she trod on the accelerator. “Come on!”
Closer. Through the curtain of snow, a figure dressed in ski gear from head to toe—mask and hat to boots—made his or her way along the side of the whining car.
Megan let up on the gas, then hit it hard. The back end of the car shifted a bit, but the tires found no traction.
The person was right outside the door, and Megan was ready to yell at the cretin, to read the brain-dead idiot the riot act, when she noticed the gun, a black pistol in one gloved hand.
Oh. God.
She began shaking her head, still trying to drive off until the barrel of the gun was level with her head.
Megan’s heart dropped.
Fear curdled through her blood.
Panic jettisoned through her, and she started to turn. To run.
Leave here. Now!
“Get out!” the attacker growled.
Megan froze.
That voice!
Did she know this person? This nutcase?
She couldn’t tell. All she could focus on was the barrel of the gun.
Black.
Deadly.
Aimed straight at her heart.
CHAPTER 3
Valley General Hospital
Riggs Crossing, Washington
December 4
“I have to leave.” James Cahill gazed hard at the nurse adjusting his IV. Lying in bed, doing nothing, was getting to him. The hospital walls were closing in on him. And the not remembering? That was killing him.
“In due time,” she said pleasantly, offering him a sympathetic smile. Sonja Rictor, RN, according to the name tag that swung from a lanyard at her neck. In her forties, a knowing smile on her face, her curly red hair clipped away from her face, a sprinkling of freckles sprayed across a slightly upturned nose, she was slim and attractive. And, he guessed, blessed with a will of iron behind that empathetic grin.
“The time is now.” It was all he could do not to grab her wrist and give it a shake, to emphasize that he was serious. He’d always been a little claustrophobic, blessed or cursed with a lot of energy. That much he did remember. Being confined in a hospital was definitely not his thing.
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
She gave him an “I’ve heard it all before” look that, he supposed, was meant to shut him up. It didn’t.
“Mr. Cahill—”
“James. It’s James,” he said, not interested in any kind of formality.
“I’ll talk to the doctor, James.”
He felt a sharp prick as she adjusted the needle, but he didn’t wince, didn’t want to appear to be a damned wuss.
“He’ll get you out of here as soon as he thinks you’re ready.” She shook her head. “Trust me, these days we don’t keep patients a second longer than absolutely necessary.” Stepping away from the bed, she asked, “So, how’s your pain?”
“It’s fine.”
“On a register of one to ten, ten being the highest-intensity pain?” She motioned toward the wall, where a chart had been tacked. The chart was a display of cartoon faces, everything from a pleasant, pain-free grin under the number 0 to a contorted, red-faced grimace at 10. “When you say you’re ‘fine,’ is it fine as in here?” She indicated a calm, happy-looking face under the number 2. “Or?” She moved along the row of ever-increasing unhappy faces. “Here?” She tapped a gloved finger at a sweating, frowning image at 8.
Shifting on the bed, he felt a sharp jab in his shoulder. Blast. “I’m okay.”
“Uh-huh.” Disbelief.
“I said, ‘I’m okay.’ ”
“That might be up for debate.” Her eyebrows elevated. “So? Your pain level?”
“Maybe a five. Or . . . a seven. Yeah, a seven.” It actually was much higher, but he couldn’t bear looking as weak as he felt. He always struggled when he wasn’t in control.
“Mmm.” She wasn’t buying it, had probably seen it all before. “No reason to be a hero.”
“That, I’m not,” he assured her. No lie there. It was one of the things he did know about himself, one bit of insight he recalled. And about the only thing. At least as far as recent history went.
“I’ll get you something to make it a little more tolerable,” she promised as she stripped her gloves at the door and tossed them into a wastebasket.
“Wait,” he said as she started to leave. “What day is it?”
“The date? The fourth.” When he didn’t respond, she clarified, “Of December.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to do the math, but had no real starting point. “So I’ve been here . . . what? Two days?”
“It’s Sunday. You were brought in Thursday night.”
“The first.” He’d been here three damned days? And in that time, he remembered only glimpses of people coming in and out of the room, bothering him, not allowing him to sleep, always asking how he was feeling or poking or prodding him; he’d had no awareness of time passing.
Until today. A digital clock mounted over the door told him it was a little after two in the afternoon, the gray sky outside confirming that dusk was still a few hours off.
“I’ll talk to Dr. Monroe,” the nurse said. “He’s on duty this weekend.” She stepped out of the room.
Two and a half days of his life gone. Lost in the black hole of his memory. How had it happened? James had no inkling why he was here, though he was sure he’d been told. In the haze of the last few days, he recalled seeing the doctor, though it was vague, and he couldn’t call up the guy’s name or what the doc had said was wrong with him. If they’d even had that conversation. If so, he couldn’t call it up.
Obviously, he’d screwed up his shoulder. It hurt like hell, no matter what he’d told the nurse. And his chest ached, sharp pain cutting through it when he shifted—bruised or broken ribs, he figured. Then there was that ominous bandage over half his head. And when he rubbed his jaw, it hurt.
He glanced around.
The hospital room was small, with only the bed, a TV mounted on the wall, and a vinyl chair placed near the heat register that was tucked beneath a single window. The view wasn’t that great; it overlooked a parking lot a story or two below. A few cars were scattered throughout the lot, all collecting snow that was continuing to fall, the asphalt covered with a white blanket showing few tire tracks.
Had he been in a car wreck? A bar fight? Fallen? What? He moved on the bed, winced, trying to remember. But it was a no go. Whatever information had been imparted had floated away on a wave of pain and/or medication, which, right now, wasn’t working.
Didn’t really matter.
He needed to get out of here. Get back home. He had a ranch and a hotel on the property, along with a Christmas-tree farm and a tiny-house construction business, all on acres outside of town.
He rubbed his eyes.
Felt as if he were clear-headed since . . . since . . . God, why couldn’t he remember? Pushing a button on the bed frame, he raised his bed high enough that he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror mounted over the sink. “Jesus,” he whispered, barely recognizing himself in the reflection. His usual tan had faded, and he appeared gaunt beneath at least a three days’ growth of beard shadow. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, his brown hair unruly where it was visible, the bandage wrapped over his crown. Down the left side of his face, deep gouges—like claw marks—were visible. As if he’d been on the losing side of a takedown with a cougar.
The old punch line You should see the other guy swept through his mind, but he didn’t so much as crack a smile. Because he knew there was no other guy. In James’s experience, those who usually scratched and clawed were female. That didn’t bode well. Well, hell, none of this did.
“Not good, Cahill,” he said and fell back against the pillows.
He was in a fight with a woman?
He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to recall.
r /> A memory, hot and dark, started to surface: a woman’s distorted, furious face bloomed, then withered away again.
This was so wrong.
He started to rise again, threw off the scant covers just as the door swept open and a bald man on the north side of forty stepped into the room. His name tag read: GRANT P. MONROE, MD. A trimmed goatee that had started to gray covered his chin, and behind rimless glasses, his gaze met James’s. He introduced himself and added, “We met earlier.”
Did we?
“You may not remember.”
“I don’t.”
“Hmm.” Noncommittal. But his eyes narrowed a fraction.
“In fact, I don’t even remember how I got here.”
“Results of a concussion.” He was using a penlight to stare into James’s eyes. “Should clear up in a few days.”
“Should?”
“Could be longer. Might come all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, but more likely in bits and pieces as something you see or hear creates a connection. As time passes, as your brain heals, hopefully you’ll piece it all together.” He shone his light in the other eye.
“Hopefully?”
“No one can be certain.”
“How comforting.”
The barest hint of a smile at the sarcasm. “Give it time.”
“What choice do I have?” James grumbled.
The doc didn’t react, nor answer, but explained that not only did James have the concussion, but he had suffered three cracked ribs and torn ligaments in his right shoulder, along with some abrasions and contusions.
“You’re lucky,” the doctor concluded.
“Lucky?”
“Could’ve been much worse.”
“How?”
“Well, the blow to your head could have killed you.”
“I was hit?”
“You fell.”
“I fell?” he said, thinking of all the damage.
“Or were pushed,” Nurse Rictor said as she returned, sweeping around the doc to insert something in his IV as Monroe examined his shoulder.
“Pushed?” James repeated.
Monroe lifted James’s right arm, rotating it slightly, and James felt the color drain from his face as he sucked in his breath. “Bad?” Monroe asked.
“I’ll live.”
“Good.” Monroe returned James’s arm to its sling. “Bruised and lacerated shoulder,” he explained. “Nothing broken. As I said, ‘lucky.’ ”