Carla Neggers - Abandon

She surfaced almost immediately, squinting up at the clouds as she took in a breath and tried to stay focused on her surroundings, the feel of the breeze on her wet face and hair.

Don’t think about Washington.

About Rook.

In a few moments, she adjusted to the cold water and flipped onto her back. The nearly cloudless sky was all she could see as she floated, going still, tilting her head back the same way she had as a girl, when the lake had been her refuge, and her keenly intelligent, eccentric neighbor had been her salvation in the tense, frantic months of her father’s long and uncertain recovery. He couldn’t return to the carpentry work he knew and loved. She’d later learned that money was tight. Her mother, who’d worked part-time as a teacher’s aide, had turned to full-time work, every ounce of her energy going to keeping food on the table and helping her husband get back on his feet.

Mackenzie dived again, remembering telling her parents not to worry about her, that she’d be fine. She’d always loved roaming the woods, catching frogs on the lakeshore, watching the loons. With her father needing so much of her mother’s attention, Mackenzie had figured her propensity to wander could finally be a help instead of an annoyance and a cause for concern. She’d relished her time alone in the woods.

Eventually, though, she’d decided to hitchhike into town, and Nate Winter, then a teenager, had picked her up and taken her to his uncle at his store, where she’d promptly stolen a jackknife and a couple of packs of waterproof matches.

Almost twenty years later, she couldn’t remember the emotion that had driven her to pocket things that weren’t hers, only the deep shame and anger – at herself, at everyone – when Gus had caught her.

And Bernadette’s talk. Mackenzie remembered that. The law, Bernadette had explained, wasn’t about seeing what you could get away with. Red lights weren’t to be obeyed just when a police car was in sight. They were there for the welfare and safety of everyone.

She’d never mentioned Mackenzie’s parents and how preoccupied and overwhelmed they were. In retrospect, Mackenzie understood that was why Gus had taken her to Bernadette and not them.

Blunt and straightforward, their neighbor had offered Mackenzie use of her library of books at the lake. She could take them home with her, or she could sit out on the porch or the dock and read to her heart’s content. When Bernadette was in Washington, she allowed Mackenzie to let herself into the lake house for a fresh supply of books.

As she swam back to the dock now, Mackenzie felt the tension of the past two days fall away.

She climbed out of the water, shivering when the breeze hit her wet skin. She grabbed her towel, quickly drying her arms.

The door to the utility shed off to the right of the dock had blown open. Bernadette often didn’t bother with the padlock. There was nothing of great importance in the shed – canoes, kayaks, paddles, life jackets, swimming noodles, lawn mower and garden tools.

Even so, it wasn’t Mackenzie’s favorite place.

Its wide door, stained the same dark brown as the house, creaked in a gust of wind.

She draped the towel over her shoulders and stepped off the dock onto a path of gravel and sharp stones that she’d avoided on her run down from the house. As a kid, she wouldn’t have even noticed the stones under her bare feet.

She heard a rustling sound in the brush between the shed and the shoreline and stopped, peering into the tangle of small birches and pines, thigh-high ferns, blackberry vines and invasive Japanese barberry so thick with thorns, nothing could get through it.

Wild turkeys? A squirrel?

Behind the shed were woods laced with paths that led to favorite spots along the lake, connected with trails that eventually snaked up into the mountains.

Mackenzie listened for a few seconds, but when she heard nothing more she draped her towel over one shoulder and reached for the shed door.

A guttural sound – a low growl – came from the brush. She turned quickly, just as something leaped out of the bushes, coming at her.

A man. Dark hair, a beard.

Mackenzie jumped back, but he was diving for her, slashing at her.

A knife.

She reacted instantly, adrenaline flooding her senses, and hooked her beach towel around her right arm to block another slash of his knife. Quickly, she grabbed his wrist, pointing the knife to the dirt path, and simultaneously locked his elbow in place with her other hand. She gave his wrist a sharp, hard twist away from her.

He groaned in pain, but still gripped the knife.

With the side of her foot she delivered a quick, hard kick to the inside of his knee.

The knife dropped from his hand, and he screamed in pain, sinking to the dirt.

Maintaining her hold on his forearm, Mackenzie kicked the knife into the brush. Her attacker smelled of rancid sweat, and his beard was unkempt. His hair was wild, dirty, streaked with gray. He wore scarred hiking boots, lightweight khaki-green pants and a sweat-stained tan T-shirt.

White-flecked pale eyes stared up at her.

Those eyes…

She’d seen him before.

She felt something warm oozing down her left side but didn’t let herself look.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, grinning at her. “I cut you.”

He wasn’t lying. She could feel the pain now, searing, overtaking the adrenaline that had protected her in the first seconds of injury. But the wound couldn’t be deep. Her counterattack had prevented him from stabbing her in her kidney, killing her on the spot. Instead, he’d cut a five-inch gash in her side, just above her hip.

Spit formed at the corners of her attacker’s mouth and sparkled on his beard. “You’re going to pass out, Deputy Stewart. Think about what I’m going to do to you then.”

He knew her name – he knew he’d just assaulted a federal agent.

Pain pierced through her. She needed to disable him, make sure he didn’t get up even if she did pass out. Just one good chop to his neck. But she could feel the warm blood from the slice on her side mingling with the cool lake water on her skin. Her grip on him slackened, and her towel slid off her arm onto the ground.

He seized the advantage and surged up, pushing her backward. She blocked his move, and managed to stay on her feet as he grunted, spun around and ran, crashing through the brush, swearing like a madman.

Did he have another weapon hidden in the woods?

Mackenzie knew she couldn’t charge after him. She was barefoot and injured. She’d had one chance to nail him, and she’d failed. She needed to get to her gun, a telephone. Put on some dry clothes.

Her heart jumped. Carine.

Her friend was up on the road with her baby. What if she ran into this bastard?

What if she already had?

Mackenzie pressed her forearm against the wound on her side to provide compression. She didn’t want to pick up her towel and risk passing out.

The shed door was still open. Had her attacker come out of there? Or had he been on his way into it, but saw her emerging from the water and ducked into the brush?

She had to check the shed for any other victims. If her attacker had an accomplice, he’d have surfaced by now. In her pink tankini, she was an easy target for two men.

Nothing was out of place in the shed. There was nowhere for a person to hide – the old canoe was upright, the lightweight kayaks leaned against a wall. Mackenzie grabbed a crowbar from among the tools hanging on hooks and nails, planning to use it as a makeshift weapon. But its weight pulled on her cut side, the resulting pain dropping her to one knee. The crowbar clattered to the cement floor, landing inches from an old stain – her father’s blood, still there after twenty years.