Tess Gerritsen - Presumed Guilty

She staggered to her feet and began to stumble down the road. She rounded the bend of the driveway—

And was instantly blinded by a pair of headlights leaping at her from the darkness. Instinctively she raised her arms to shield her eyes against the onslaught. She heard the car’s brakes lock, heard gravel fly under the skidding tires. The door swung open.

“Miranda?”

With a sob of joy she stumbled forward into Chase’s arms. “It’s you,” she cried. “Thank God it’s you.”

“What is it?” he whispered, pulling her close against him. “Miranda, what’s happened?”

She clung to the solid anchor of his chest. “He’s there — in the cottage—”

“Who?”

Suddenly, through the darkness, they both heard it: the slam of the back door, the thrash of running footsteps through the brush.

“Get in the car!” ordered Chase. “Lock the doors!”

“What?”

He gave her a push. “Just do it!”

“Chase!” she yelled.

“I’ll be back!”

Stunned, she watched him melt into the night, heard his footsteps thud away. Her instinct was to follow him, to stay close in case he needed her. But already she’d lost sight of him and could make out nothing but the towering shadows of trees against the starry sky, and beneath them, a darkness so thick it seemed impenetrable.

Do what he says!

She climbed into the car, locked the doors and felt instantly useless. While she sat here in safety Chase could be fighting for his life.

And what good will I do him?

She pushed open the door and scrambled out of the car, around to the rear.

In the trunk she found a tire iron. It felt heavy and solid in her grasp. It would even the odds against any opponent. Any unarmed opponent, she was forced to amend.

She turned, faced the forest. It loomed before her, a wall of shadow and formless threat.

Somewhere in that darkness Chase was in danger.

She gripped the tire iron more tightly and started off into the night.

The crash of footsteps through the underbrush alerted Chase that his quarry had shifted direction. Chase veered right, in pursuit of the sound. Branches thrashed his face, bushes clawed at his trousers. The darkness was so dense under the trees that he felt like a blind man stumbling through a landscape of booby traps.

At least his quarry would be just as blind. But maybe not as helpless, he thought, ducking under a pine branch. What if he’s armed? What if I’m being led into a trap?

It’s a risk I have to take.

The footsteps moved to the left of him. By slivers of starlight filtering through the trees Chase caught a glimpse of movement. That was all he could make out, shadow moving through shadow. Heedless of the branches whipping his face he plunged ahead and found himself snagged in brambles. The shadow zigzagged, flitting in and out of the cover of trees. Chase pulled free of the thicket and resumed his pursuit. He was gaining. He could hear, through the pounding of his heart, the hard breathing of his quarry. The shadow was just ahead, just beyond the next curtain of branches.

Chase mustered a last burst of speed and broke through, into a clearing. There he came to a halt.

His quarry had vanished. There was no movement, no sound, only the whisper of wind through the treetops. A flutter of shadow off to his right made him whirl around. Nothing there. He halted in confusion as he heard the crackle of underbrush to his left. He turned, listening for footsteps, trying to locate his quarry. Was that breathing, somewhere close by? No, the wind….

Again, that crackle of twigs. He moved forward, one step, then another.

Too late he felt the rush of air, the hiss of the branch as it swung its arc toward his head.

The blow pitched him forward. He reached out to cushion the fall, felt the bite of pine needles, the slap of wet leaves as he scraped across the forest floor. He tried to cling to consciousness, to order his body to rise to its feet and face the enemy. It refused to obey. Already he saw the darkness thicken before his eyes. He wanted to curse, to rail in fury at his own helplessness. But all he could manage was a groan.

Pain. The pounding of a jackhammer in his head. Chase ordered it to stop, demanded it stop, but it kept beating away at his brain.

“He’s coming around,” said a voice.

Then another voice, softer, fearful. “Chase? Chase?”

He opened his eyes and saw Miranda gazing down at him. The lamplight shimmered in her tumbled hair, washed like liquid gold across her cheek. Just the sight of her seemed to quiet the aching in his head. He struggled to remember where he was, how he had gotten there. An image of darkness, the shadow of trees, still lingered.

Abruptly he tried to sit up, and caught a spinning view of other people, other faces in the room.

“No,” said Miranda. “Don’t move. Just lie still.”

“Someone — someone out there—”

“He’s gone. We’ve already searched the woods,” said Lorne Tibbetts.

Chase settled back on the couch. He knew where he was now. Miss St. John’s cottage. He recognized the chintz fabric, the jungle of plants. And the dog. The panting black mop sat near one end of the couch, watching him. Or was it? With all that hair, who could say if the beast even had eyes? Slowly Chase’s gaze shifted to the others in the room. Lorne. Ellis. Miss St. John. And Dr. Steiner, wielding his trusty penlight.

“Pupils look fine. Equal and reactive,” said Dr. Steiner.

“Take that blasted thing away,” Chase groaned, batting at the penlight.

Dr. Steiner snorted. “Can’t do much damage to a head as hard as his.” He set a bottle of pills on the end table. “For the headache. May make you a little drowsy, but it’ll cut the pain.” He snapped his bag shut and headed for the door. “Call me in the morning. But not too early. And may I remind you — all of you — I do not, repeat, do not make house calls!” The door slammed shut behind him.

“What wonderful bedside manner,” moaned Chase.

“You remember anything?” asked Lorne.

Chase managed to sit up. The effort sent a bolt of pain into his skull. At once he dropped his head into his hands. “Not a damn thing,” he mumbled.

“Didn’t see his face?”

“Just a shadow.”

Lorne paused. “You sure there was someone there?”

“Hey, I didn’t imagine the headache.” Chase grabbed the pill bottle, fumbled the cap off and gulped two tablets down, dry. “Someone hit me.”

“A man? Woman?” pressed Lorne.

“I never saw him. Her. Whatever.”

Lorne turned to Miranda. “He was unconscious when you found him?”

“Coming around. I heard his groans.”

“Pardon me for asking, Ms. Wood. But can I see that tire iron you were carrying?”

“What?”

“The tire iron. You had it earlier.”

Miss St. John sighed. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lorne.”

“I’m just being thorough. I have to look at it.”

Without a word Miranda fetched the tire iron from the porch and brought it back to Lorne. “No blood, no hair,” she said tightly. “I wasn’t the one who hit him.”

“No, I guess not,” said Lorne.

“Jill Vickery,” Chase muttered.

Lorne glanced at him. “Who?”

The pain in Chase’s head suddenly gave way to a clear memory of that afternoon. “It’s not her real name. Check with the San Diego police, Lorne. It may or may not tie in. But you’ll find she has an arrest record.”

“For what?”

Chase raised her head. “She killed her lover.”

They all stared at him.

“Jill?” said Miranda. “When did you find this out?”

“This afternoon. It happened ten, eleven years ago. She was acquitted. Justifiable homicide. She claimed he’d threatened her life.”