Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

But was it?

He was closing quickly.

Panic swept through her.

He was close enough that she could hear his breathing. Strong. Steady—

The toe of her running shoe caught, and she stumbled forward, arms flying. She managed to catch herself before she went down and somehow kept her balance, though her stride was off.

“Careful,” a deep voice said from behind.

Oh, God! He was only two steps away.

She set her jaw. Told herself to be calm.

Did his voice sound familiar?

Her heart raced crazily.

Out of the park she ran. Onto the path edging the bluff. She’d hoped that he would turn the opposite direction, but he was just a step behind her, heading for the downhill run. Maybe she should just stop and let him breeze by.

If only she had her damned phone.

Or the canister of pepper spray she kept in her purse.

“On your right,” he said, catching up with her, matching her pace stride for stride. Now was the time to pull back. “Enjoying yourself, Josie?” he asked.

Josie? She nearly tripped again He knew her? Oh, God, why was his voice familiar?

“You should be careful, y’know.” His shoulder bumped against hers.

She lost her footing and was starting to go down when he suddenly caught her, the fingers of one strong hand circling her upper arm.

“I told you to be careful!” he declared, his grip tight, painful.

“Let go of me! Who are you?” she demanded as they both stopped. Behind his ski mask he was breathing loudly.

“Don’t you know?” His fingers grew punishing.

“Who you are? No! I said, let go of. . Hey!” He jerked hard on her arm. “What’re you doing?” But she knew. In one heart-stopping second, she realized he meant to kill her! “Let go of me!” Her feet slipped out from under her as he pushed, and before she realized what was happening, he propelled her to the side of the cliff and the short stone railing. “Don’t! Oh, God, Help me! Help! ” She was scrambling now, certain of the son of a bitch’s intent.

Oh, God, no! No!

Frantic, she flailed, trying to keep her balance as he shoved her sharply against the stone rail, cracking her shins.

Pain screamed up her legs.

“No!” She fought, but it was no use. He pushed hard, and her weight forced her over the guardrail. To her horror, arms windmilling, she went sailing into the growing darkness. Screaming, she tumbled through the air to land hard against the frozen hillside.

Crack!

Her head banged against a rock, and the world spun as she slid and bounced, twisting and rolling, trying to grab on to anything, her fingers scraping over dirt, roots, and rocks as she slid down the cliff face.

Please, God, help me—

Pain ricocheted up her spine, and somewhere in the distance she heard the roar of rushing water. Closer as she rolled, faster and faster, out of control, her skin bleeding, the world spinning.

But far above she caught a glimpse of him standing high above her, a black figure in the night, looking down.

Waiting.

For her to die.

Trace O’Halleran was pissed.

In fact, he was pissed as hell as he drove ten miles over the speed limit from Evergreen Elementary School, where he’d picked up his kid; now they were on their way to the clinic for X-rays as Eli had been hurt on the playground.

Someone hadn’t been watching his boy, and once Trace was assured that Eli was all right, that someone had some serious explaining to do!

“Hang in there, buddy,” he said to his son, who was seated beside him in his battered old pickup.

Eli nodded and sniffed, either fighting tears or a nasty cold that had been hanging on for about a week.

Squinting through the windshield as the first flakes of snow swirled to the ground, Trace followed the steady stream of traffic that drove down the hillside known as Boxer Bluff to the section of town spread upon the banks of the Grizzly River.

Eli, all of seven, cradled his left arm, which was already in a splint and a sling compliments of an overworked school nurse, whose advice was, “He needs to see a doctor. I’ve already called the clinic on A Street, so you shouldn’t have to wait, like you might at Pinewood Community or St. Bartholomew’s. Have the arm x-rayed. I don’t think it’s broken, but there could be a hairline fracture. The clinic has a lab. While you’re there, you might have the doctor check his ears and throat. I ran his temp, and he’s got a bit of a fever — a hundred and one.”

Trace hadn’t argued against driving to the hospital. Once, he’d sat in the emergency room at St. Bart’s for five hours before anyone could look at his mangled hand, the result of his wedding ring getting caught on a cog of his combine machine when he’d been harvesting wheat. The combination harvester and thresher had nearly torn his arm off before he’d been able to shut it down. Even after saving his arm, he’d almost had to have his ring finger amputated. In the end his finger had been saved, but the nerve damage had been severe enough that he’d lost any feeling in that finger. He’d decided then and there he’d never wear the wedding band again. It hadn’t really mattered, anyway. Leanna, Eli’s mother, had already had one foot out the door.

No, Trace didn’t want his kid to sit on the uncomfortable plastic chairs of the waiting room at St. Bartholomew Hospital, if he could avoid it. They’d start with the clinic, the same damned low-slung building that had been servicing patients for nearly seventy years. Of course, over its life span, the building housing the clinic had been remodeled several times.

Trace’s own father had taken him to the place nearly thirty years earlier, after he’d been bucked off Rocky, the spirited bay gelding that his father had taken in trade for three head of cattle. Rocky had once been a rodeo bronc, and when Trace, at nine, had tried to ride him, some of the gelding’s old fire had resurfaced and he’d sent Trace flying. The result was a concussion and old Doc Mallory’s advice after a quick examination. “For the love of Mike, boy, use the brain God gave you and stay off wild horses!”

Now Trace glanced over at his son, who, cradling his injured arm, was staring out the window.

Eli’s small jaw was set; his eyes were red from the tears he wasn’t about to shed. His breath fogged against the passenger window, which was already smudged with nose prints from their dog, Sarge, a mottled stray who’d shown up half starved the year before. Part Australian shepherd, part who knew what, the dog had become part of their little family. Today, when Trace received the call from the principal of the school and took off for his truck, Sarge had galloped after him, then had stood at the gate, disappointed, when Trace told the dog, “Next time.” Despite the cold, and the fact that the shepherd could get into the warmth of the barn, Sarge would probably be waiting at the gate when they got home.

As if he felt his father’s gaze upon him, Eli muttered, “I hate Cory Deter! He’s a jerk.”

“Cory do this to you?”

Eli lifted a little shoulder.

“Come on, bud. You can tell me.”

Doodling in the foggy glass with the index finger of his good hand, Eli coughed, winced, then said, “He pushed me. We was on the jungle gym, way up top, and he just hauled off and pushed me.”

“And you fell.”

“Yeah.”

“Where were the teachers?”

“Under the covered area.” He slid a glance over his shoulder. “Miss Wallis wasn’t there.”

“I didn’t ask about her,” Trace said with more bite than he’d meant. He flipped on the wipers.

“I know.” Again the shrug.