She hobbled between two trees, up close against another. The bared part of her hand touched rough bark, softer, thicker, stringier than on the pines by the lane … redwood bark. Mixed growth in here, pines and redwoods. She grasped a handful, pulled herself around behind the thick trunk a couple of ticks before one of the beams swept past.
There was more spacing between the trees here, and less ground cover. Ink-black in among them nonetheless, with only blips from the traveling lights to keep her oriented.
The thought crossed her mind that she’d trapped herself by coming onto the estate grounds. No other choice, he’d have caught her outside the fence if she hadn’t—but unless she found a place to hide he’d catch her even more easily in here.
Jay—
But she couldn’t help him unless she saved herself.
She groped her way blindly through the trees, dodging or plowing through obstructions, her knee still giving off shoots of pain, the muscles in both legs quivering with fatigue. Not thinking at all now, functioning on adrenaline and a savage determination not to give in to the fear.
The terrain kept sloping downward … toward the estate buildings? Had to be; the big, weirdly shaped house she and Jay had seen from the beach had been backed by woods. The rays crisscrossed behind her, moved up alongside, then out in front: Her pursuer must still be on the driveway. Shelby ducked as one flicked past, steadied, drew back. He’d seen her …
But he hadn’t. The beam circled like a predatory bird seeking prey, slid off to hunt elsewhere.
Down, down … and at last she was on level ground. The spaces between the trees seemed even wider now, nothing underfoot but wet, spongy earth. No place to hide in here. The trunks were tall and straight and impossible to climb in the dark. No chance of escape unless she could get to the buildings—
Ahead there, to the left … what was that?
Another light?
Yes! Below, not behind. Pale, unmoving, fuzzed by the rain. Beacon in the night.
Shelby sidestepped another tree, then two more, and finally she was out of the grove, coming into a broad clearing. Vague bulky shapes loomed ahead and to her left. The massive one farthest away was the estate house, the nearest, small and squat, an outbuilding of some kind; that was where the light was coming from.
Somebody was here, help was here …
She ran toward the stationary light, away from the moving ones.
Slipped once, almost fell again. For several strides she was back on pavement—the driveway—and then off it again onto more rain-soaked ground. From there she could see that the beacon light was leaking out through a window and a half-open door in the front wall of a small, square cabin.
As she neared it another stationary shape materialized beyond the pale yellow glow, touched by its outer edges.
Parked car. Escape, help for Jay.
Shelby hobbled to the doorway, caught hold of the jamb. Started inside with a cry forming in her throat.
Dying in her throat.
What came out instead was a half-strangled moan. She stopped dead still, sucking air, staring in at the floor.
A man lay sprawled next to the table that held an oil lantern, face down, motionless—a man wearing the uniform of a sheriff’s deputy. Arms drawn together behind his back, wrists bound with duct tape … ankles, too. Blood from a wound on the side of his head gleamed blackly in the saffron glow.
Reflexively she took a step toward him. The holster on his Sam Browne belt was unbuttoned and empty. His head was half turned toward her, so that she saw his face clearly in profile—a face she recognized. Ferguson, the mustached deputy they’d encountered in Seacrest that first night, who’d showed up at the cottage yesterday with the highway patrol investigator.
But if Ferguson was here, hurt, tied up, then who had dragged her out of the cruiser, who was chasing her? And who was the second man who’d been shot?
Panic tore at her again. Run, get out of here before it’s too late!
She turned away from the door. And froze once more, with the fear congealing inside her.
It was already too late.
T W E N T Y - F I V E
MACKLIN DONNED THE HEAVIEST sweater he’d brought, then sat on the edge of the bed to pull on wool socks and lace up his shoes.
“What’re you doing?” Claire Lomax had followed him, stood in the bedroom doorway with a hand at her throat.
“What it looks like—getting dressed.”
“Why? For God’s sake, you’re sick, you can’t leave here—”
“But that’s what I’m going to do.”
“With no gun and Brian out there? You must be out of your mind!”
Maybe he was. But the bad feeling he’d had since she told him Lomax had murdered Gene Decker kept getting worse. Prodding him, filling him with a sense of dire necessity. Shelby might be perfectly safe, alone at the highway or in somebody’s car on the way for help by now, but there was just as much chance that she wasn’t; that Lomax had gone out that way hunting his wife. If he found Shelby instead, there was no telling what he might do. Coastline Killer or not, he was unhinged and unpredictable.
“Maybe so. But I can’t keep on sitting here doing nothing,” Macklin said. “He’s out there and so is Shelby.”
“What about me?” Claire’s voice had risen to that hysterical edge again. “You can’t leave me here alone.”
“Come with me.”
“No! I told you, he’ll kill me if he finds me, he’ll kill both of us if he finds us together—”
“Then stay here with the door locked.”
“He’d break it down.”
“Hide somewhere else then. One of the sheds behind the carport … he won’t think to look in there.”
“I couldn’t stand it, trapped in a place like that. Please, please, I don’t want to be alone.”
He finished tying his shoes, stood up in slow, measured movements. Shelby had left the bottle of nitroglycerin pills on the bureau; he slipped it into his pants pocket. Claire clutched at his arm as he moved past her into the hall and he could smell the sweaty, fetid odor of her terror. He was sorry for her, but he couldn’t do anything for her if she refused to cooperate.
She trailed him to the utility closet behind the front door, stood watching him paw through the shelves by candle flame. No other flashlight in there. The closet on the porch? Yes … on a lower shelf among a bunch of canned goods. But it stayed dark when he thumbed the switch; the batteries must be dead.
There was a package of D batteries in the utility closet. He grabbed his raincoat and hat from where Shelby had hung them, threw the coat around his shoulders as he went back to the living room. Claire was in his way; he pushed her aside, not roughly, but the contact made her flinch and moan.
He found the batteries, dropped the dead ones out of the flashlight and shoved in the replacements. Held a breath when he thumbed the switch this time, released it hissing between his teeth when the bar of light stabbed out. He shut it off, then quickly buttoned himself inside the coat, pulled on his gloves, yanked the hat down tight on his head.
Claire plucked at his arm, pleading with him again not to leave her. He said, “I’m going. You’ll be better off coming with me.”
“No, I can’t go out there, I tell you, I can’t …”
“Then go to the woodshed. Take one of the knives with you.”
Macklin picked up the fireplace poker. Take the other knife along, too? He decided against it; he’d have to carry it in his coat pocket and it was liable to get hung up in the cloth. He might even accidentally stab himself with it.
He went to the door. A feral sound came out of Claire; she ran after him, dug her fingers into his arm to try to hold him back. He pulled away from her, flipped the dead bolt with the hand holding the flashlight, eased the door open a crack.