Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Bang-bang-bang-bang ricocheted throughout the metal building as loud as gunshots. I jumped and whirled around, terrified I’d see something more menacing than spray cans of paint rolling across the floor after they’d been blown from the windowsill. A window I’d left open.

God. Spooked much, Belle?

Once I’d calmed down, a tiny bit of resentment arose. If I gave in to fear, I’d never accomplish anything-not what I’d promised Rosemary, not even the commission. So I propped the side door open to harness the lovely cross-breeze and took a deep breath.

Ha. There. Take that. I’m not afraid .

Leaving the cans where they fell, I gathered cleaning cloths soaked with linseed oil, wadded-up paper towels smeared with paint, and the spent, capless tubes of manganese blue and cinnabar green on my way to the garbage.

I lingered before the canvas, unhappy with the images, unhappy with myself. I was so lost in self-reproach that I didn’t sense the intruder until air whooshed past my cheek, followed a split second later by metal flashing in front of my face. I recognized my palette knife-oddly sharp due to Don’s whetstone skills-an instant before the edge was pressed into my neck. Then my left arm was chicken-winged behind my back, sending an excruciating shaft of pain from my wrist to my shoulders, which made me cry out.

“Don’t make another sound,” he said.

The man’s voice was cloaked with a deep rasp, soft as a whisper, but as deadly as the steel against my throat.

“Put your right hand all the way into the front pocket of your jeans. Slowly.”

I complied. I may have grown up on a ranch but I’m not exactly a scrapping tough girl. My mouth was bone-dry. My heart was jackhammering. My eyes watered like crazy. I could not pull enough air into my lungs.

He thickly whispered, “Good girl, Belle.”

He knows my name .

Oh, God. He knows my name .

I wondered if he could be one of Don’s former associates. I knew Don was an ex-con when I married him. As much as Don claims to be on the straight and narrow, I’ve suspected he’s stepped off the path a time or ten. Like any woman in love, I’ve overlooked his lapses.

The idea that he could be looking for Don made me blurt out, “Don’s not here.” Then it hit me what a stupid thing I’d done, admitting I was alone. “What do you want?”

“Answers.” He moved in behind me, so there was no chance I’d see his face. His body brushed mine in a way that caused my flesh to crawl.

“I know you went to see her.”

At first, I couldn’t understand whom he meant.

“Rosemary Thomas. You visited her the night before her execution.”

My mind frantically tried to make sense of what he was saying.

“You aren’t denying it,” he whispered.

When I swallowed, the metal of the blade seemed to move in closer to my throat. I croaked, “Yes, I met with her.”

His breath stirred my hair and his nose brushed the upper shell of my ear. “What did you talk about?”

“Nothing important.”

“Liar.” He jammed my arm higher up my back and I cried from the pain. “Try again.”

“We… ah… talked about children.”

“I don’t believe you. Tell me the truth.”

“I am. I’m telling you the truth.”

“You sure? So you and Rosemary just… talked.”

My “Yes” came out a frustrated hiss, similar to the whisper he used.

“You sure she didn’t give you something that night?”

God. How would he know? “Just advice.”

Evidently he wasn’t satisfied with my answer. He abruptly released my arm and with his free hand grabbed a handful of my hair as he jerked my head aside, brandishing the knife in front of my eyes. “You lie.”

“No. Please-”

He pressed the blade and my skin finally gave way. I gasped at the sharp sting.

“Tell me everything or the next one will hurt.”

What if I told him what Rosemary had given me? Would he let me live?

He’d kill me for sure. Probably messily. The image flashed before me, my body sprawled on the ground, eyes staring vacantly at the skylights, my neck sliced. Don or the kids would find my body. Or the dogs. In my mind I could almost hear their barking as they tried to rouse me.

But the yips I heard weren’t only in my mind. They were getting louder, which meant someone had let the dogs out of the house.

Despite the fear choking me, I managed to let out a scream, a scream so loud and long it hurt my own ears and turned my throat raw.

My attacker dropped back. The knife clattered to the floor and his footfalls faded as I fell to my knees, retching. I heard nothing but blood roaring in my ears and the furious pounding of my heart. I huddled against the ground and gripped the knife in my hand, just in case.

But it wasn’t only my heart pounding-footsteps closed in, stopping next to my head. A hand landed on my back and I shrieked.

“Belle?”

Terrified, I looked up, expecting to see him again. “Don, thank God you-”

“What the hell happened? Who did this to you?” he demanded.

“I don’t know. He ran out the door. But please don’t-”

Then Don was gone, whistling for the dogs.

I should’ve saved my breath. Don wasn’t the type to cocoon me when he had a chance to inflict damage on someone who’d dared attack me. Part of me feared what Don would do to the guy; part of me wished I could watch him do it.

I remained crouched on the floor, knife clutched in my hand. Too stunned to cry. Too scared to move.

When Don returned, huffing and puffing, anger contorting his face, slamming the door hard, I knew he hadn’t caught the guy.

I launched myself at him. His strong arms encircled me and held me tight. “Oh, God. Don. If you hadn’t-”

“Shhh. Baby, I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”

After years together and countless questions from people asking how we ended up together, I couldn’t explain it. No one had ever looked out for me the way Don did. No one had ever loved me the way Don did. He’d do whatever it took to make me happy, and I’d learned firsthand how broad his definition of “whatever” was.

Once I stopped trembling, he eased back to look me over. His hard gaze zoomed to the cut on my neck. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

His jaw tightened. “You calmed down enough to call the police?”

Don hated cops. Hated them. That he planned to dial 911 meant he was worried. I lifted my hand to touch him, to soothe him, and I’d forgotten I still held the knife. He didn’t even flinch with the blade so close to his face, just kept his eyes on mine as he unwrapped my fingers from the handle and tossed the knife to the floor. “It’s okay. We’ll get the guy who did this to you.”

“No cops.”

“Belle. You’re not thinking straight. We have to let the police know what happened.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Jesus Christ. The fucker cut you! He could’ve killed you. I can’t believe you’d let him go free. What if the kids’d been home, huh? Would you be as careless with their safety as you are with your own?”

I shook him, hoping it’d clear his brain. “Don. Listen to me. This wasn’t a random attack.”

He froze. “What?”

“The guy… knew me. He knew my name. He knew about my visit to Rosemary the night before the execution, and he somehow suspected that she gave me-”

“For Christ’s sake, Belle,” Don roared, “that’s ten times worse. If this guy is gunning for you, then we definitely have to report this.”

Silence.

We stared at each other. Measuring each other.

After a minute or so, Don threw up his hands in defeat. “Fine. No cops. But it proves I’m right. You can’t go to the memorial, Belle. No way. This has gotten too goddamn dangerous.”