Be Mine (44 page)

A warning light began blinking. The low-fuel indicator. How could
that be? It made no sense. She had filled up at the truck stop. Maybe it was
faulty? All right. She’d stop at the next gas station. Just to be safe. But
there was nothing out there except the wind, the rain, and the night. She kept
driving. After a few more miles, more warning lights began flashing. Engine.
Oil. Her car began vibrating. The motor sputtered, then began bucking. Karen
was jolted.

“Dear Lord.”

She pulled over, switched off the ignition, and took a deep breath.
Be calm. Wait ten minutes, start the car, and drive slowly to the nearest gas
station. Ten minutes passed. Karen turned the key. Nothing.

She tried again.

Nothing. Take it easy. She fished through her bag for her cell phone
and address book. She’d call the auto club.

But the familiar silver shape of her phone failed to emerge. It had
to be there. Karen dumped the contents of her bag on the passenger seat feeling
her stomach tighten. In her hurry to leave Seattle she had forgotten her phone.
It was in her apartment. Charging on her kitchen counter.

She closed her eyes. Inhaled, then exhaled slowly. Rain hammered on
her car as the wind rocked it. She tried starting it again. Nothing. She
reached for the manual and flipped through it, knowing it was futile. She knew
nothing about cars.

Karen had no choice, she had to try something. She pulled the hood
release. She found her penlight and umbrella. Maybe the trouble was obvious.
She got out and a violent gust snapped her umbrella, tearing the cloth,
exposing the frame’s prongs, like the ribs of an eviscerated animal.

Karen managed to raise the hood. Her tiny light came to life and she
probed an alien world of wires, metal, rubber, hoses, and plastic reservoirs
with colored fluids. Maybe something had come loose? Right. How would she know?
As she reached to the engine to test a cable the world began glowing in intense
white light. The hissing rain yielded to a growing roar as a line of several
big trucks thundered past throwing waves of spray that drenched her.

Defeated, Karen retreated into her car.

She tossed her twisted umbrella into the backseat, then grabbed the
wheel to steady herself. Soaked to her bones, she began shivering. Don’t panic.
Think of a plan. Stay in the car. Change into dry clothes. Maybe a patrol car
or Samaritan would stop and call a tow truck or something. If not, she could
spend the night in her Toyota. It wasn’t too cold. She had a blanket. In the
morning, she’d start walking. The next town couldn’t be far.

She reached for her clothes bag and froze. Two white circles
blossomed in her rearview mirror. A vehicle had pulled onto the shoulder and
was approaching. The lights grew brighter as it crept closer, coming to a stop
a few yards behind her. It looked like an RV.

Someone was going to help her.

A door opened on the RV’s passenger side and a figure stepped out. A
man. Wearing a long, dark overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat. He stood at the rear
bumper of Karen’s car, silhouetted in the glare of his high beams and the
curtain rain. Hope fluttered in her stomach. She wiped her hands across her
face and smoothed her wet hair as his shadow crossed the light.

Karen gave thanks.

The first thing she noticed at her door was a white collar, then she
recognized the face of the reverend from the truck stop. Relieved, she lowered
her window about ten inches.

“Your car giving you trouble, miss?”

“Yes, it quit and won’t start.”

“Is anyone coming to help you?”

“No one.”

“Let me take a look.”

The reverend switched on a flashlight and walked to the front. The
hood was still raised. Karen felt him pulling and tapping as he inspected the
motor.

“Try starting it now!”

She turned the key. Nothing happened. The front end dipped as he
pressed hard on something.

“Again.”

Nothing. He closed the hood, returned to the window. “Smells like
something’s burned out on you. Could be anything. I’ve got a phone in my motor
home. I can call a service truck for you, if you like.”

“Yes, please. Oh, wait.” She turned to the passenger seat, sifted
through the contents emptied from her bag. “I’m a member of the auto club.
Here’s their card with the toll-free line.”

“Goodness.” He swept his flashlight from the card to Karen. “You’re
sopping wet.”

“I tried fixing it myself.”

“Well, you shouldn’t sit here and risk catching cold. You’re welcome
to wait with me in my RV until they come.” Karen weighed his offer. His voice
was warm. His face was kind. He was a clergyman. She had considered approaching
him at the truck stop to talk. Rain poured from his hat as he waited.

“You’re a Christian, aren’t you, Karen?” She caught her breath.

“How did you know that, and my name?” The hat tipped to her club
card.

“Your name’s right here and I noticed you have an ICHTHUS bumper
sticker, the fish symbol for Jesus.”

“Oh, right,” she nodded. “Of course.”

“I saw you in the restaurant near Bellingham. You looked troubled.”

Karen was half smiling in amazement as she reflected on everything
that had happened to her today. She had prayed for help.

“Karen? Would you like to wait with me, or do you prefer some
solitude?”

Was this a sign? A reverend finding her adrift in her personal
storm? Was it all part of a master plan?

“I think I’d like to wait with you.” The reverend nodded.

She collected her things, then followed the stranger to his vehicle.
He opened the door. A few small papers swirled from the RV and fluttered into
the night before Karen stepped inside.

I would like to thank Audrey LaFehr, who guided this book through
punishing seas to a safe port. I have also benefited by the help of many other
people. Among them: Wendy Dudley, Mildred Marmur, Jeff Aghassi, Laurie Parkin,
Steve Zacharius, Doug Mendini, Michaela Hamilton, Joan Schulhafer, and everyone
on Kensington’s hardworking sales team. Thanks to Barbara, Laura, and Michael.
And to Ann LaFarge. I especially appreciate the kind support of John and
Jeannine Rosenberg, Donna Riddell, Mary Jane Maffini, Linda Wiken, Sleuth of
Baker Street, Beth Tindall, the Florida gang, and booksellers everywhere.

Above all, I thank you, the reader. Hope we meet again soon.

Rick Mofina is a former crime reporter and the award-winning author
of several acclaimed thrillers. He's interviewed murderers face-to-face on
death row; patrolled with the LAPD and the RCMP. His true crime articles have
appeared in
The New York Times
,
Marie Claire
,
Reader’s Digest
and
Penthouse
. He's reported from the U.S., Canada, the Caribbean,
Africa, Qatar and Kuwait's border with Iraq.

New York Times
Bestselling author, Tess
Gerritsen, says: "Rick Mofina's tense taut writing makes every thriller he
writes an adrenaline-packed ride." His short stories have been selected
for anthologies by Michael Connelly, Peter Robinson, Ed Gorman, the Mystery Writers
of America and the United Kingdom's, Crime Writers Association.

The International Thriller Writers, The Private Eye Writers of
America
and
The Crime Writers of Canada
have
listed Rick Mofina's titles as being among the best in the world.

His books have been published in 21 countries and have been praised
by James Patterson, Dean Koontz, Michael Connelly, Lee Child, Tess Gerritsen,
Jeffery Deaver, Sandra Brown, James Rollins, Brad Thor, Nick Stone, David
Morrell, Allison Brennan, Heather Graham, Linwood Barclay, Peter Robinson,
Håkan Nesser and Kay Hooper.

Rick
Mofina

Rmofina
@ gmail.com

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