Sandra Brown - Smoke Screen

When she was breathing more easily, she turned her head and looked up at him. Her eyes were streaming tears. Her voice was hoarse, and she strangled when she tried to speak. She spat out more water, then finally managed to say, “They tried to kill me.”

He nodded. A thousand questions were demanding answers, but they would have to wait. He needed to assess her physical condition. But he also thought they needed to get the hell away from here. He couldn’t be sure that his headlights had gone unnoticed by whoever was intent on pushing her off the road. The asshole might return to make sure she hadn’t been rescued or by some miracle survived. If the would-be killer came back, they were sitting ducks.

“We need to get to the truck. I’ll have to carry you.”

“I can walk.”

He didn’t think so, but he didn’t argue. He stood up and extended his hand to her. She took it and pulled herself up. But as soon as she was on her feet, her knees buckled. He caught her, then giving her no choice or opportunity to argue, lifted her into a fireman’s carry across his shoulders and started up the embankment.

In the darkness he searched for toeholds he could use for leverage. His own knees almost gave way several times. He stumbled over rocks, dodged wild shrubs and spiky palmettos, and once barked his shin on the branch of a fallen tree. His bare feet got stuck in the mud several times.

When they finally reached the truck, he lowered Britt to the ground and propped her against the fender long enough for him to open the passenger door, then boosted her in.

Reaching across her, he picked up the windbreaker and put it on her, guiding her arms into the sleeves. He pinched her chin between his fingers and searched her face. Her lips were no longer blue. He picked up her hand and studied her fingertips. Color seemed to be returning to them, too, although the dome light wasn’t that bright, so it was difficult to tell.

“Rub your hands and feet. I’ll be right back.”

She gripped his hand in panic. “Where are you going?”

“To get my shoes.” He pulled his hand free and closed the door of the truck.

He tramped around on the riverbank until he found both sneakers, not wanting to leave them behind. So far, whoever had forced Britt into the river was unaware that she’d been rescued. He certainly couldn’t be identified as her rescuer. For the time being, he thought it best to keep their alliance unknown. There was nothing he could do about his footprints in the mud or his tire tracks. He hoped if anyone returned to check, he would be looking for traces of her submerged car. Satisfied that it had sunk from sight, he wouldn’t give the area a detailed search.

He explained this to Britt when he climbed into the cab and dropped his sneakers into the foot well beside her bare feet. Then he started the truck and pulled back onto the road. He headed in the direction from which he’d come, away from Charleston. His destination was anywhere but here. He wanted to leave the scene. “Who was it, Britt?”

“Two men.”

He reached for her left hand and laid it, palm up, between them on the seat. He pressed his fingers firmly against her pulse. “You couldn’t see their faces?”

She shook her head.

“What kind of car?”

She shrugged.

“License plate?”

She shook her head again.

He counted her pulse. It was a little higher than normal but seemed strong and steady. “Open the glove box. Get the first aid kit. There’s a thermometer in it. Take your temperature.”

“I’m okay.”

“Will you just get the fucking thermometer and take your temperature without an argument?” His tone was harsh, but not from irritation so much as fear. If he’d been a few minutes longer at the gas pump, if he hadn’t heeded his instinct to go after her, if he’d been unable to break the windshield, Britt would have drowned. The what-ifs made his hands tremble.

Subdued, she did as she was told. They rode in silence until she removed the thermometer from her mouth and read it. “Ninety-seven point five.”

“Close enough.”

“I’m rarely ninety-eight point six.”

“Okay. Good. Now here’s the thing. You probably should be checked out at the hospital. There’s one in Walterboro. Your body temp is okay, and your circulation has returned. Before my flashlight went out, I saw your hand pressed against the window. You were conscious then, so you couldn’t have been out long. Maybe two minutes total, which means there’s probably no brain damage.

“But your oxygen level should be checked anyway. You’ve got some bleeding cuts and scrapes from when I pulled you through the windshield, possibly a concussion. There may be sediment in your lungs, although you’d probably be coughing if there was any significant amount. CPR keeps your blood circulating until you can breathe on your own, but when there’s a near drowning victim, there are emergency treatment protocols that-”

“Raley?”

“What?”

“Why don’t you want to take me to the hospital?”

In spite of all the reasons he was listing that he should, she’d been able to tell he was discouraging it. “Because I’m afraid if I do, you won’t live long.” He saw no merit in sugarcoating it. She needed the truth and needed it told to her without any buffering bullshit. “Somebody killed Jay. Somebody tried to kill you. I think you’ll be safer if they think you’re dead.”

“Cobb Fordyce was behind this?”

“Or George McGowan. Or maybe both.”

“One for all,” she said softly, repeating what he’d said earlier.

“After we separated, I got to thinking about how vulnerable you are. I was coming to warn you to be careful, to remain in police custody if you could. After this, it’s no longer a matter of speculation. Whoever killed Jay believes you pose a threat.”

“Why didn’t they kill me when they killed Jay?”

“I’m sure they’re asking themselves the same question, regretting that they didn’t.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hug her elbows and rub her upper arms. Despite the outside temperature, he switched the truck’s AC over to heat and aimed the vents at her.

“Did you see the other car?” she asked.

“Couldn’t make it out. Too far away and too dark. What I can’t figure is how they knew where you were. Unless they put a transponder on your car. But if they’d done that, why weren’t they waiting for us at the airstrip? Or why didn’t they intercept us when I took you from your home last night?”

“My telephone,” she said dully. “I found it.”

“Oh.”

“It rang shortly after I left the airstrip. My lawyer was calling. We had a two-or three-minute conversation before the battery went dead. Could they track it by satellite?”

“I guess. If they had the equipment and were set up for it. Did you tell Alexander where you were?”

She nodded. “Which road I was going to take and how far out I was.”

“Anyone hearing that could have been waiting on a side road. When you passed, they pulled out behind you.”

“That’s exactly what they did. At first I was glad to see another car.”

“Did you mention me to Alexander?”

“No.”

“Did you say anything about what I’d told you?”

“Only that Jay’s murder and the police station fire were connected. That there was more to the story.”

Raley expelled his breath. “How well do you know this lawyer?”

“I met him yesterday morning.” She flung back her head and released a mirthless laugh. “Was that only yesterday?”

“Seems he double-crossed you, Britt.”

“I guess.”

“Or his phone was bugged.”

They came upon a tackle shop that, along with live bait, sold cold beer, hot coffee, fireworks, and the best burgers in Dixie. Or so boasted the handwritten sign in the window.