Wet, bruised, and chilled to the bone, Jason has one thing on his mind—the bottle of Jack Daniels he stashed in his backpack and left in the cave yesterday as part of his preparation.
A soft glow of light catches Jason’s attention as his aching body steals through the wooded grove. Hugging trees for cover, he creeps closer. When he steps onto the smooth-tiled terra cotta patio, he presses his back to the cottage wall, then turns and peers through the sliding glass door. Like a bird of prey, his hooded, storm-gray eyes survey Emma.
There she sits, in front of the kitchen stove with her head tilted back, throat fully exposed. Its slender column brings to mind dozens of other throats in every shade of skin tone.
With his right arm still tucked up against his chest, the fingers of his left hand absently thrum the cargo pocket on his thigh. Pleased it’s still there after his swim, he fishes out his knife. A Camillus, it’s served him well on many occasions. It would have been a shame to have lost it on the cliffside or in the bay. His heart beats fast and hard, but not with fear, with fierce exhilaration. He feels a flow of heady exuberance.
Well-oiled, he knows the blade barely whispers when deployed. Tucking his thumb under the thumb-stud, he pushes it up and out, admiring its razor-sharp edge. Lost in reverie, he flicks it open and shut, tapping it against his thigh, again and again, with brooding deliberation as he imagines what he can do to Emma’s lovely white throat with it.
Movement in his peripheral vision brings him back from his fantasy. When he realizes that Emma’s rolling her wheelchair toward the front door, he runs around the side of the cottage and hides behind a large tree along the pathway.
As she passes him, unseen, he steps out behind her wheelchair and grabs one of the handles, halting it. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?” he asks.
Startled, Emma whirls her torso around and sees Jason, blade in hand. “What are you doing here?” she gasps, hands at her chest. “I thought you were dead.”
“What made you think I was dead?” he asks, the slit eyes in his face bent so close she can see their acid gray color.
Emma’s focus is on the knife. It’s pressed against her left jugular, a superhighway of circulation. If severed, she’ll bleed out in under a minute. Terrified, she struggles for breath, her heart beating fast. “Cynthia said she saw you fall over the cliff.”
“Is that bitch still alive?” he asks, lip pulled back in a sneer. “I was hoping she was dead. I cut her pretty deep. If that goddamn dog hadn’t interfered,” he says, easing the knife slightly. “But I’m alive, and I’m here to pick up some bait. You see, I’m going fishing, and I know just the lure to catch what I’m after.”
Trying to roll away, Emma says, “I don’t know what you mean. I don’t have any bait.”
“Ah, but you’re the bait,” he says with a smirk.
Emma feels the blade press harder against her skin. Something slides down her neck. A drop of blood, but only a drop.
“And if you roll that chair one inch further,” Jason continues, “I’ll derive great pleasure from slitting your throat.”
“But they’re expecting me. I told them I’d be right back, as soon as I checked the stove. They’re expecting me,” she repeats in earnest.
The blade presses deeper against Emma’s skin. Her jugular’s exposed, right at the surface from the pressure. She feels another prick of the blade. Another drop of blood slides down her neck.
“I’m sure they are, but we’ll fix that. Do exactly as I say. If you deviate from what I tell you, I’m going to kill you.”
Closing the blade with his hip, he slips the knife back in his pocket, turns her chair around and rolls her back up the ramp. “I’ve watched you enough times to know exactly how to get in. Now push the goddamn button.”
“You’ve been spying on me?” she gasps.
“I’ve been watching all of you.”
Pushing Emma’s chair toward the oak desk in Austen cottage, he continues. “You’re going to use the house phone and let them know that everything with the stove is fine. Tell them that all of the excitement from this evening’s events has caught up with you, and you’ve decided to go to bed. Keep your tone pleasant and don’t add anything to what I’ve told you. Let them know you’ll see them in the morning. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes, I understand, but they’re going to think it’s unusual if I don’t ask if Mick’s back from the hospital and how Cynthia’s doing. Can I at least ask that?”
His responding smile is menacing.
Taking a step toward Emma, he backhands her across the face. “Don’t ever ‘but’ me,” he says.
After thinking for a moment, he adds, “Actually, you can ask those two questions. The answers will help me to prepare. Now pick up the phone and say exactly what we discussed. If you deviate from the plan, I’ll kill you.”
Emma chokes down an unborn scream. Head reeling, she feels like her heart is beating in her face, but she knows it’s not. Her cheek stings like fire where his hand left an imprint.
Tears held in check, she picks up the receiver.
The ringing phone in the kitchen of the main house startles everyone.
Picking up the receiver, “Emma?” Niall asks, concern in his voice.
All eyes are on Niall as he responds, nodding thoughtfully, “Yes. I understand. Thank you for letting us know. What’s that? Oh yes, Mick’s back and Cynthia’s going to be okay. She’s resting now. Yes, you too. Get a good night’s sleep and we’ll see you in the morning.”
Raising his hands to ward off the sudden barrage of questions, he repeats what Emma told him. “Everything with the stove
