Mortal Crimes: 7 Novels of Suspense (108 page)

Finally allowing Madonna the reins, Robbi let her body relax. Looking around, her eyes feasting on the verdant landscape, she attempted to identify the different types of pine trees by the shape of the cones, at the same time chiding herself for not bringing something, a satchel or bag, in which to collect pine cones.

Sometime later she came to the wire fence that marked the southwest boundary of the property. She was in a deep-wooded area that butted up to land once crowded with logging camps. She crossed a small creek, no more than two or three inches deep. The echo of the horse hooves clopped over wet stones and moss, splashing water on Roberta’s jeans.

A half mile farther, a sudden chilling gust of wind blew dust and debris into her face. She turned her head away, rubbing her eyes. The temperature seemed to have dropped twenty degrees in just minutes. She tilted back her head and looked over the tops of the tall aspen trees, their leaves quaking silver and green in the wind. The sky, which an hour before was more blue than gray, was now entirely obscured with a gloomy mass of clouds. Thunderclouds.

A quarter-size raindrop hit the back of her hand. Then another. Then she was being pelted with large drops.

The horse snorted, pranced nervously. Robbi flicked the reins and leaned forward. Madonna, needing no more encouragement, turned her head in the direction of home and broke into a trot, following the fence downhill.

Within moments a torrent of water beat at her, obstructing her vision. Roberta knew that the hard, dry ground beneath them could soak up only so much water before it began to run off, taking pebbles and pine needles with it.

The sudden force of the storm surprised her. Already soaked to the bone, she shivered from the cold, relentless rain. It stung like bits of gravel. Where was the thunder Hanley had warned her to listen for? How far was she from the house? She was uncomfortable but not overly concerned—not yet. The horse knew its way home, and as long as they remained a team, she’d get there.

She reached the creek that she’d crossed earlier, but instead of the six-foot-wide rippling stream, it was now an angry rivulet, surging with muddy, debris-littered water. Madonna balked, refused to cross.

Roberta sat stiffly in the saddle and took stock. The swollen creek ran perpendicular to the barbed-wire fence, cutting through it. They had no choice but to cross the creek.

Robbi dismounted and, taking the reins, she stepped into the roaring water. The water pulled at her ankles.

She teetered, her heart pounded. Rocks cut into the bottom of her running shoes. She pulled on the reins, coaxing Madonna to cross with her. A scene flashed in her head, nearly blinding her. A scene of a river, a wide river. A gray concrete bridge. A small hand desperately gripping a bush. Screams, rendered silent by the raging rapids.
Ronnie . . . ?

In a panic, Roberta slipped, fell to her knees. She cried out. The water pushed and pulled, threatening to drag her along its muddy course. She grabbed onto a stirrup, pulled herself up. Holding tightly on to Madonna’s neck, Roberta nudged the animal until it clattered across to the other side. She buried her face in the horse’s neck, gasping for air, waiting for her heart to steady.

Ronnie
… so long ago, yet still so painful. The sight of the rushing water had triggered her memory.

After several moments she pressed on, deciding to walk the horse rather than ride. The ground, like the creek, had become unstable. Flashfloods were common to this area. She worked her way down a rocky ravine, the rain beating against her face, her feet slipping beneath her. After going only a short distance, Robbi found herself at the edge of a steep projecting mass of rock and twisted pinion pines. She stood shivering alongside the burned-out stump of a large pine tree, its roots exposed beneath the edge of the crag. Madonna shifted, moving in behind her. Suddenly the ground gave way under her feet. A scream ripped from her throat as she, the horse, and the huge stump plunged forward off the rugged edge. Over and over she tumbled, crying out as the rocks drove into her body from all directions. Pain burst in her head.

Everything became still. Even the rain eased. Robbi opened her eyes. Lightning flashed, followed by a low rumbling.
There’s the thunder Hanley spoke of.
A little late now. Then she closed her eyes and drifted off to the sound of horse hooves, muffled by the sodden earth, disappearing into the distance.

After an indeterminable amount of time Robbi came around. She lay on her stomach, her head turned to one side. A patch of velvet moss cushioned her cheek, but the pain in her head was intense. She wove in and out of consciousness. Her legs and arms felt like dead appendages. Was she paralyzed? She couldn’t say, but she knew for certain she was going to pass out again soon. It hurt too much to endure.

The rain felt good. She moved her tongue forward, pushing bits of grit from her lips. She tried to lift her head, and it seemed to explode from within.

She slowly opened her eyes. Over the droning of the rain she heard twigs snapping. Someone was out there. Thank God, someone was coming for her.

“Here . . . It was merely a whisper. “I’m . . . here . . .”

Between the thin boughs of young saplings surrounding her, Roberta saw a woman in a transparent white dress running through the woods. The woman seemed to glow.
What a delicate thing the mind is,
Roberta thought.
She’s not really there. There’s no woman running through the forest in the rain.

The woman came within several yards of her. She stumbled and fell to one knee, crying out. Angry crisscross scratches covered her legs. Her bare feet bled. Around one slender ankle something glittered in the dim light, reflecting into a puddle under her foot; a gold and silver ankle bracelet.

“Help me.”
Roberta forced out the words.

The woman turned her face toward Roberta. In her eyes Roberta saw terror—sheer unequivocal terror. The woman in white jerked her head from side to side as though looking for something, then she abruptly rose and continued to run.

“No, don’t… don’t leave….” Roberta sobbed the words, watching her go.

Suddenly from out of nowhere a large man appeared. The running woman screamed. He chased her, caught her by her long blond hair. He pulled her around to face him. Again the scream, like the long shriek of a train whistle in the night.

Roberta, horrified, looked on.

The man hugged the woman to him as she struggled and repeatedly struck out at his face. She squirmed out of his grasp and began to run again. A huge fist shot out and knocked her down. His hand circled her throat and he lifted her off the ground, feet dangling, thrashing. The man trembled with rage. His face twisted, became monstrously cruel beneath a beard and sopping masses of hair. The muscles in his arms bulged from the tremendous tension he exerted in the strangulation of the woman.

Roberta’s vision blurred, then cleared, blurred again.

The thrashing stopped, yet, for what seemed like an eternity, he continued to hold the limp, rag-doll figure off the ground by her neck.

An involuntary moan escaped Roberta’s lips.

His head snapped up; alert, listening.

Her pulse crashed at her temples, sending a renewed surge of pain through her injured body. She tried to move but was powerless to budge.

He released the woman. She crumpled at his feet. His hand swiped across his eyes as he turned in Roberta’s direction. He took a step, stopped, and glanced down at the dead woman, then looking back toward Roberta, he began walking her way.

Behind the thin saplings she tried to make herself small, invisible. Her throat locked. Her mind screamed. Mercifully, she blacked out.

CHAPTER SIX

Sounds. Ordinary, everyday sounds. Traffic in the street, soles on linoleum, metal clinking against metal, a toilet flushing. All quite normal sounds.

Pain. It rode her body in waves, one following the other, rising, cresting, crashing; never ending.

Blackness. Not a glimmer of light anywhere. With the blackness came a feeling of unreality, of timelessness and despair—utter despair.

________

The universe consisted of pain, sound, and a black void. There was something else … a strong smell of damp earth.

________

The nebulous voices:

“Robbi, darling, can you hear me?”

“Roberta? Roberta?”

“Okay, honey, we’re just going to turn you over.”

“Can she hear us…? Little one, can you hear me?”

The voices were distant sounds, drowned out by pain.

________

She wove in and out of the dreams. Running, running, so tired. Still she ran, mired in the denseness of the night. She ran through the black forest, the stinging rain pelting her, the eyes chasing her. Eyes, glowing and feral. Gaining on her.

________

“Robbi.”

Watermelon. Coconut. Peaches. Tobie? Tobie, turn on the light.

“I think she can hear me…me…I know she can…can…”

Tobie, I’m here. Keep talking. Don’t go away.
Would the daylight never come? She tried to choke down the rising panic.

Where am I?

I want to see … Please, let me see!

And as if in answer to her desperate plea, images began to form. Smoky monochromatic images. Roberta strained to see, grateful for any impression, greedy for the drab, indistinct picture developing before her.

She was in the woods. Rain stung her face. To each side of her she caught flashes of trees, blurred images in the grim light as she raced pass them.

The storm.

Her fall down the ravine.

Of course. Of course, that explained it. She was
dead.
She was dead and in a state of limbo in some vacuum in time.

But could she be dead and feel so much pain?

She tried to move but couldn’t. Panic rose again. What was wrong? Was she paralyzed? Tied down? A spirit without physical energy?

Suddenly another image flashed across her mind. An image of a running woman surrounded by a torrent of rain. A huge man choking the woman to death. The man turning toward Roberta … coming after her.

At that moment Robbi gave in to the panic and cried out, her mind desperately urging a helpless body to react—to fight. Never before had she known such terror and anguish. She thrashed out, screaming.

Instantly hands were holding her, voices shushed, and she felt the sharp jab of a needle. The image disappeared, leaving her to struggle with the black void. As her senses began to dull, despite the dreaded darkness that had ruthlessly clawed at her before the vision, she experienced a ray of hope. She was Roberta Paxton. She was alive. She was in a hospital and she’d had a nightmare.

________

“Miss Paxton? Roberta? Can you hear me?” the deep baritone voice asked.

Robbi had been staring into space—black space— listening to the sounds, seeing nothing. She had regained consciousness hours earlier, drifting in and out, but had not called out to anyone. She just listened, trying to stay calm.

“Roberta, if you can hear me, please answer.”

“I can’t see,” she said softly.

Scratching sounds of a pen to paper. “Well, hello. How do you feel?”

“I can’t see,” she repeated.

A gentle hand covered hers. “Can you see anything? Light, shapes, colors?”

“Nothing. Black. Sometimes red spots, flashes.”

“Um.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Dr. Newton. You’re at Washoe Med. Now it’s your turn. Can you tell me your full name?”

“My name is Robbi—Roberta Paxton.”

“Address? Phone number?”

She told him.

“What’s wrong with my eyes? Why can’t I see?” She put cool fingers to her eyes and pressed lightly.

More scratching. “Roberta, you had a bad fall. You’ve been comatose for nearly four days. Aside from a concussion, you have several cracked and bruised ribs, a sprained ankle, contusions, and abrasions. No internal damage. Nothing broken. You’re a very lucky lady. At first we thought you were paralyzed from the waist down, but within twenty-four hours you regained complete mobility. That gives us hope, and reason to believe your sight will be restored as well.”