Afraid

“Please, I don’t know anyone named Warren.”

“This little piggy had roast beef …”

“I really don’t know.”

“This little piggy had none …”

“You have to give me more information! I can’t tell you what you want to know unless you tell me what you want!”

Taylor’s tongue probed her injury, making her gasp.

“I said before,” his teeth knocked against her exposed bone, “I want Warren.”

“Who the fuck is Warren!”

“Warren Streng.”

“The sheriff’s brother? Why the hell would I know where—Jesus Christ!”

Taylor bit down just as Fran succumbed to another panic attack. But this time it was a blessing; she hyperventilated, became oxygen deprived, and blacked out.

The blessing didn’t last. The sharp odor of ammonia shot up Fran’s nostrils, making her eyes burn. She shook her head to escape the smelling salts, realized what was happening, and began to yell for help. As she screamed, Taylor stroked her hair and ran his fingertips over her lips, tracing the O of her mouth.

Then, like an answered prayer, red and blue flashing lights appeared. They became brighter, and Fran watched the emergency vehicle pull into the lot. A fire truck.

Josh!

Since her husband’s death, Josh had been the only man Fran had seen more than once, and she had actually developed feelings for him. Unfortunately, the feelings weren’t mutual, and after four terrific dates Josh had stopped calling. Fran had assumed it was because of Duncan—not too many men had the desire to become instant fathers. A shame, too, because Duncan seemed to like him as much as Fran had.

“Josh!” Fran bellowed, extending his name out into three syllables. “Help me!”

Taylor patted Fran on the cheek, then walked casually over to the tanker truck. Fran’s vision was blocked by her car, so she scooted up onto her butt. Taylor stood next to the driver’s door, speaking casually through the open window. She couldn’t see into the truck or hear any words.

“Josh!” Fran cried.

Taylor waved at her and smiled. Then the fire truck began to pull away.

A sob escaped Fran. This couldn’t be happening. Why would Josh leave her there? Didn’t he hear her?

Fran pushed back against her car door, got her legs under her, and stood up. Then she ran. Behind her she heard Taylor chide, “Don’t make me chase you.” She ignored him, focusing on catching Josh. If he saw her, he’d help. He had to help.

The truck didn’t seem to be in any hurry, cruising down Main Street at a languid pace. Fran’s injured foot seemed to catch fire every time it slapped against the pavement, and her balance was seriously threatened by the binding on her wrists. But slowly, agonizingly, she reached the rear of the tanker.

“Josh! Stop!”

Rather than stop, the truck picked up speed. Only a few miles per hour faster, but Fran couldn’t match it. She scraped her toe bone against the tarmac, and the spike of agony made her slow down. Miraculously, Josh also slowed down. Did he see her?

Energized, Fran pushed on. The truck was within twenty yards. Ten yards. Five. She made it!

Heaving, bleeding, Fran stumbled up to the passenger side as the door opened.

Sitting up in the passenger seat was Martin Durlock, the mayor of Safe Haven. He was naked, gray duct tape wrapped around his face and wrists slick with blood.

The mayor screamed behind his gag, his whole body shaking. He stretched his bound hands out to Fran, eyes wide and imploring, and then the truck sped up and continued down Main Street, turning left onto Conway, the blue and red strobe lights fading into darkness.

Already light-headed from the running, Fran began to hyperventilate. She cast a dizzy eye back at Taylor, who was shining the flashlight on his own face. He frowned in an exaggerated way, his free hand miming tears running down his cheeks.

Fran closed her eyes and bent over, putting her head between her knees, not allowing herself to pass out. A cool breeze blew across her with a faint whistle, and the river sounds helped her to calm down, to focus.

The river sounds.

Fran lifted her head, realizing she stood on an overpass. Beneath her was a choppy section of the Chippewa River. A summer day didn’t go by without her seeing at least one lonely fisherman propped up along the railing, line dragging the water.

She went to the edge and leaned over the short iron railing, smelling the water below. Fran couldn’t see in the dark, but she knew from memory the drop from overpass to water was about fifteen feet. But was it deep enough? If she jumped, would she break her legs? And if she survived the fall, could she stay afloat with her hands tied behind her back?

The flashlight hit her in the eyes.

“I bet that water is really cold.” Taylor would be on her in a few more steps. “And I’ve heard drowning is an awful way to go.”

Not as awful as being tortured to death by a madman, Fran thought. But even more important than that was getting to Duncan, making sure he was safe. She held her breath, closed her eyes, and flipped herself over the railing.

The fall lasted only seconds but seemed to take much longer. As she spun through the air she imagined rocks below, jagged steel, broken glass, or perhaps an island in the middle of the river—something other than water that would crack her bones and split her flesh.

But water, and only water, was what she hit, and that was shock enough. Fran entered the river face-first, a strong slap that made her ears ring, then her body plunged down, deeper and deeper, until Fran wondered if the river even had a bottom. The cold assaulted her from every angle, invading every pore and crevice of her body.

Fran twisted around, but disorientation and darkness prevented her from knowing where the surface was. A strong underwater current pulled her sideways, flipped her over. Fran stopped moving, letting the river control her, until the undertow passed and she felt herself being buoyed upward from the air in her lungs. She scissor-kicked in that direction, kicked until her head pounded, her shoulders and neck straining.

And then Fran breached the surface, coughing and sputtering and surprised to still be alive. She floated onto her back and continued to kick, going with the flow, unable to see anything but knowing that she distanced herself from Taylor with each passing second.

Just as Fran got her breathing under control and settled into a steady rhythm, she heard a sound like distant applause. The noise continued to build, and by the time it had grown into a dull roar she realized where it was coming from and what it was.

Fran turned to face forward, the full moon illuminating the rapidly approaching waterfall.

Josh pointed his light into the trees. He couldn’t see their attackers, but he knew they were there.

“Who are they?” Josh asked Streng.

The sheriff had both hands pressed to his side, the gun tucked into his holster. “I have no idea. Their uniforms are bulletproof, look military, but don’t have insignias. The smaller one had an accent, sounded Spanish.”

“What do they want?”

“He kept asking me about Wiley.”

Josh turned the beam in the other direction. He could feel their eyes on him, but he saw and heard nothing. “Who’s Wiley?”

“He said Warren. That’s his given name, but he only goes by Wiley. He’s my brother.”

Josh looked at Streng. The older man leaned against a tree and winced.

“Does your brother still live in the area?”

“Probably. I don’t know. We don’t talk.” Streng pushed off from the tree, hitched up his pants, and stared into