Shirlee McCoy - Navy SEAL Rescuer

But, then, in Pine Bluff, just about anything seemed possible. Here, the guilty wandered free and the innocent rotted in jail.

Just once, her rational self said.

Just you.

The weeds rustled and a tall figure stepped out. Broad and muscular, he stood at the edge of the yard, a ski mask pulled over his face.

A kid?

Catherine didn’t think so, and she tensed, setting the paint roller in the pan without taking her eyes off the man. “Go home.”

“Go home,” he mocked, chuckling softly.

“I’m going to call the police,” she said, backing toward the front door.

“I don’t think so,” he responded and loped toward her.

She lunged for the door, yanking it open, terror squeezing the breath from her lungs as an arm wrapped around her waist, a hand slapped over her mouth.

“Let’s go inside.” He pressed her toward the yawning doorway, and she shoved back, raking her hand down his knit ski mask, slamming her elbow into his ribs. Prison hadn’t taught her much, but it had taught her how to fight.

He cursed, his grip loosening, and she broke free, lifting the paint roller, swinging at his face. Paint splattered across his ski mask, and he stumbled back.

She didn’t wait. Didn’t try to fight more. Just jumped off the porch and sprinted across the yard, heading for the dirt road that connected the homestead to its nearest neighbor.

Please, please.

Footsteps pounded behind her, closing in fast.

Please.

She turned left at the road. A quarter mile, and she’d be at the Morris place. Empty for years but finally sold to a man that Eileen said spent more time away than home.

Please, let him be home.

Her breath panted out, the old broken mailbox that marked the beginning of Morris property just ahead, the curve in the road that hid the house from view just beyond it.

Close.

She was so close.

God is smiling down on you, my sweet girl.

The voice echoed from a past so far away that Catherine wasn’t sure it had ever been hers.

And then she was yanked back with so much force she flew. Off balance, arms flailing, she beat at her attacker, jabbed at his eyes, tried to pull the mask from his face, screaming, screaming. As if someone might hear. As if rescue might be just a moment away.

His fist clipped her jaw, and she reeled, stars and darkness dancing at the edge of her vision.

Please, please, help me.

The prayer danced, too, slipping into her muddled thoughts, breaking her cardinal rule to never ask for help. She’d clung to her faith through rocky times, but the past few years had been stagnant and empty of hope, her faith shriveled and dry from lack of care.

If she could care again, would God save her?

Please!

Sun-scorched earth burned through her T-shirt.

On the ground, his hands around her neck, his breath fanning her cheek.

“How’s it feel to be on the other side, Dark Angel?” he whispered, his grip tightening, his knee pressing into her stomach.

She gagged, clawing at his wrists, trying to break his iron hold.

No air.

No breath.

Just hot dirt and hot sun and cold blue eyes staring into hers.

Please!

She let go of his wrists, dug her thumbs into his eyes, air filling her lungs as he shoved her hands away.

One more scream.

Another.

And his hands tightened on her throat again.

* * *

A scream broke the silence of Darius Osborne’s first day of vacation. Not an excited scream. Not an it’s-summer-and-we’re-letting-loose scream. A terror-filled, panicked, help-me scream, that made his hair stand on end.

Another scream followed the first, choked off at its zenith. He dropped the paint scraper, grabbed the hammer, racing around the side of the old farmhouse and onto the dirt road.

He stopped there. Waiting. Listening.

The hot summer day was silent again.

Not a breath, not a movement.

Nothing.

“Hello?” he called out, glancing up the road toward the distant highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the neighboring farm.

“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew her. Knew of her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff did.

Catherine Miller.

The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.

Injured, terrified.

He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around her waist.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face expressionless.

“Where is he?”

“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.

“Come on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too thin. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen her on the news.

Too thin, but beautiful.

Aloof.

The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what Darius did—to be left alone.

Only, she hadn’t been left alone.

The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.

“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door, ushering her inside.

“I’m not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck.

She flinched, tugging the blanket close.

“What else was he wearing?”

“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.

“I’m going to call for help, then I’ll see if I can find him.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe in the hall closet.

Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They’d said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she’d worked with and with the family of the people she’d been convicted of murdering. There’d never been an interview with her, though. Just photos and videos of her leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.

“Stay here, okay?” he asked.

“I’ll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.

“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure you’re safe.”

“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”

“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will understand if you’re late.”

“My grandmother can’t know what happened.” She touched her neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.

“Unless she’s blind, she’s going to be asking a lot of questions. How are you going to explain this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw, and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he’d seen her on the road.

“I’ll tell her whatever I have to to keep her from worrying.”

“Your choice, Catherine, but remember, you won’t be able to tell her anything if you’re dead. Stay in the house. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stepped outside, listening to the noisy starlings fighting over rotten food near his overflowing trash bin, waiting for a sign that the perp had followed Catherine.

Nothing.

Not even a hint that things weren’t what they should be.

Darius ran down the porch stairs and across the yard, scanning the landscape and the sun-baked dirt road. A scuffed area just beyond the curve in the road gave the first hint of what had happened. He crouched over it, examining the heel digs ground into the dirt and the footprints that led into deep cover.