Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

Gasping for breath, she finally reached the top, hauling herself up with shaking arms onto the asphalt. She stared down the highway from where they’d come. No sound of an approaching vehicle. She glanced toward the east. The road curved toward the right. Nothing approaching from there, either.

She wanted to lie down and rest her head on the wet road. She needed…rest.

But Hudson needed help.

With an effort, she staggered to her feet. You’re unhurt, she told herself. You’re okay.

She was only a couple of miles from her first accident. Where someone had run her off the road. Where she’d lost her baby. Again, she cradled her abdomen.

Which way to go to find cell service? Toward Portland, or toward the beach?

A toss-up.

Becca chose Portland. She stumbled east. A car would come by soon. A good Samaritan. Hudson was okay. He wasn’t in any immediate danger. He was okay. But tears formed in the corners of her eyes and she silently prayed for him as she trudged along the road.

She reached another curve of the road and trudged around it, looking through the rain ahead. Was that a car stopped on the road? To her shock, headlights suddenly blasted her in their bright glare. She saw the grill guard.

For the briefest of seconds Becca was paralyzed. Then she heard the door slam and a tall figure was backlit in the headlights. He held something in his hands. A knife.

She turned and fled like an Olympic runner, racing down the road away from him.

His footsteps slammed hard behind her.

Not toward Hudson, she thought. She had to lead him away. To the other side of the road.

She crossed the center line and zigzagged toward the opposite cliffside, sliding over the ledge on purpose, brushing a low Douglas fir branch, scratched by stickery limbs.

He was close. Breathing hard. He leapt down after her.

She was surprisingly coolheaded. She had to lead him away. Away. Away. From Hudson and Ringo. From her and her baby.

“Sister,” he called softly. “You cannot hide.”

Sister?

Becca stumbled, nearly fell.

“Spawn of Satan.”

Becca struggled onward, hands outstretched, tearing as fast as she dared through the thick shrubbery and trees. But he was gaining. He was strong.

Who was he?

She came to a clearing. To the left and up was the highway. Straight ahead, an open gully with no protection. To the right, more woods and God knew what.

She had to get back to the highway. Help would come.

Moving more stealthily, Becca crept around the trees and shrubbery, farther into the woods. Her footsteps sounded loud to her ears, but the rain and wind were covers. He’d slowed down, too. He was listening. Struggling to keep track of her.

Then she saw the edge of the highway thirty feet above her. She hesitated, hating to make herself an open target. But there was no time. No time!

With a supreme effort she climbed up the bank, her fingernails scraping the bark on the tree boles, her hands clinging to stubborn vines.

She heard his breathing behind her.

With a sob of effort, she threw herself onto the empty road. Her hand closed over a rock the size of her fist. Snatching it up, she stumbled to her feet and ran west.

“I can smell you!” he roared, reaching the road behind her.

Her lungs burned and her legs were rubber. He ran after her. His breath came in excited gasps. His hands scrabbled for her, tangling in her hair. She yanked free and screamed for all she was worth.

And then Jessie was there. Beckoning her forward. Sobbing, Becca ran toward her. It took her several seconds to realize her attacker had slowed his pursuit.

She glanced back and saw his face. A shudder went through her. The same face she’d seen when she lost her baby. He was staring through dead eyes at-Jessie. Becca jerked her gaze from his back to Jessie, who was fading from sight.

“Justice,” she said again.

Becca fearfully glanced back as her attacker threw back his head and roared. He came at Becca doubly hard. “Jezebel!” he called. “Rebecca!”

The rock felt heavy in her hand. She paused as his big body hurtled toward her, then she heaved her arm back and hurled the stone at him as hard as she could. It smashed into his forehead, knocking him off his stride.

“I am God’s messenger!” he bellowed, staggering.

Becca turned and ran with renewed energy, tearing down the road, her lungs on fire, leg muscles burning.

Faintly, she saw the glow of headlights far ahead, somewhere through the trees. She cried out in desperation, staggering, running, near collapse. She ran toward the approaching vehicle, waving her arms, silently praying this wasn’t some kind of backup for the sick monster chasing her.

The car, a Jeep, slowed to a halt and the driver got out. A man. Becca, muddy, blood-splattered, and sick with fear, shrank away from his stark headlights. When he suddenly ran toward her, her pulse spiked and she stumbled over her feet.

“Becca?” the voice called urgently. “My God, are you all right?”

She knew him. She knew that voice. She turned back, then shot her gaze in the direction of her attacker. The highway steamed in the glow of her savior’s headlights but there was no one chasing her. No one there.

He was beside her now. She recognized him, but not her own shaking voice when she said, “Detective McNally?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you. What happened?”

She broke down, falling limply, but his reactions were swift and he grabbed her before her knees fully cracked against the blacktop. “Levi!” he called over his shoulder. “Get out here!”

The passenger’s side of the Jeep opened and a man stepped out. He half loped, half walked their way, and then hung back. A boy, Becca realized belatedly. She could scarcely think. Her brain was muddled.

“Hudson’s hurt,” she burbled out. “We had an accident.” She pointed behind her to the underbrush. “Down there. Back a ways. He was pushed off the road. The truck with the grill guard. He tried to kill us!”

“Where?” McNally demanded.

He helped Becca to her feet and she pointed in the direction the Jetta had careened off the road. McNally didn’t waste time. He barked to the boy to get a flashlight while he asked Becca if she could stand on her own for a moment. She nodded and he raced back to the Jeep, pulling it farther off the road but leaving the lights on.

Then he came back and helped Becca lead the three of them in the right direction. It was easy to find. The crash through the underbrush had left branches torn, the bark gone, their exposed white interiors ghostly in the flashlight’s beam.

Spying the back of the Jetta, McNally scrambled down the hill, yelling at the boy who was following a tad more slowly to keep the flashlight’s beam ahead of him. Becca slid down the hill on shaking legs, scratching her hands and feeling mud slide into her shoes.

As soon as McNally saw Hudson he attempted to open the driver’s door. It took several tries and a lot of swearing before it wrenched free with a scream of protest that sent Ringo into paroxysms of barking. The front side of the car was sprung sideways and Hudson was wedged firmly. McNally twisted the keys and the engine coughed and sputtered but didn’t catch. He pulled the seat lever and moved the driver’s seat backward a couple of inches. Hudson’s body slipped forward over the wheel. He was free, but still unconscious.

McNally laid fingers against his throat. “Strong pulse.” He checked his cell phone and swore softly. “Someone ran you off the road?”

“Yes.”

“You think it’s the same guy who rammed Renee Trudeau’s car over the cliff?”

“Yes.”

“We need cell service.” He flipped his phone shut and stared hard at the boy Levi, who was talking to Ringo through the window. The little dog was torn between trying to reach Hudson and lick him and wanting to dig through the window. McNally fumbled with a button and the rear window slid downward and Ringo scrambled to get his head through. Levi petted and cooed to him, calming him down.