Carla Cassidy - Imminent Danger

Jesse grabbed the doorknob and turned it slowly, soundlessly. Although emotion demanded he hurry—fling open the door and burst inside—training and instinct warned him to go slow, to face the unknown with caution. He eased the door open and stepped inside, the gun leveled in front of him.

Nothing.

The room appeared empty. The bedspread was wrinkled and a depression marked the center of one of the pillows. The window was closed, the curtains neatly in place. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, except Cecilia Webster was no place in sight.

A renewed burst of adrenaline flooded him as he heard a thump come from the closet. The closet door was half-open, but the waning light of dusk threw deep shadows that obscured the interior of the small space.

Jesse advanced, his gun once again leading the way. With one hand, he eased the closet door fully open. She was there.

He lowered his gun and muttered a soft curse beneath his breath. As he gazed at her, curled up in the corner, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her cheeks stained with tears, he wondered what in the hell she’d been through, and what in the hell he’d gotten himself into!

She could see through the wooden slats of the closet door, saw the two men burst into the house with their guns drawn.

“Hey. Hey…!” John exclaimed. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Allison watched in horror as her sister and brother-in-law backed away from the men, stood just in front of where she hid in the closet.

“Don’t do anything stu—” John’s voice was lost in the eruption of gunfire.

Gunshots resounded in the air. A total of six. Miniexplosions not loud enough to penetrate the walls of the house, not loud enough to beckon help. But loud enough, strong enough for the bullets to kill John and Alicia.

John fell forward, crashing to the floor like a huge oak felled by a lumberjack’s ax. Alicia flew backward and smashed into the closet door. A bullet slammed into the wall just above Allison’s head. Blood splattered through the slats, a fine spray on her face, her chest.

Shoving a hand against her mouth, Allison tried to still a scream of disbelieving terror. No! Oh, God…no! This couldn’t be happening. Her mind raced frantically to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of her.

She fought the impulse to run to her sister, to try to help her. Someplace in her terror-filled mind, the instinct of survival kept her rooted in her hiding place.

Quiet. She had to stay quiet. If they found her, they’d kill her, too. She had to stay alive. She had to stay alive so she could tell somebody what happened here….

“Cecilia.”

The voice came from some distant place, but it had nothing to do with her. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and shoved her hand harder against her mouth.

Blood. There was too much blood. Alicia was dead—murdered, her blood on Allison’s face. Dear God, all that blood. Why had this happened? Why? Why?

“Cecilia!” The deep male voice called again, this time more forcefully.

She shrank deeper into the closet, pressing her back into the corner in an attempt to escape.

A stinging slap across one of her cheeks jarred her from her nightmare landscape to the present. In an instant, she realized she was a long way from John and Alicia’s home. She was in Montana. Mustang, Montana.

“Sheriff Wilder?” she whispered hesitantly.

“Jesse,” he corrected her. “I’m right here.” His hand closed around one of hers. His hand was large and warm, and offered comfort despite its unfamiliar feel.

Her other hand reached up, hit clothes hanging above her. “I’m in the closet, aren’t I?” Weary discouragement weighed heavy on her shoulders.

“Yeah.” His hand tightened around hers. “Why don’t we get you out of here?”

She’d had the nightmare again. No, not a nightmare, but rather a tormenting replay of the horror she’d endured. And, as always, she’d sought the safety of the nearest closet.

When would this end? Would her life—would she ever be normal again?

Embarrassment battled with overwhelming despair as he guided her out of the small confines and into the bedroom. “How did you know I was in there?” she asked. With a tinge of reluctance, she pulled her hand from his.

“You screamed.”

“I’m sorry. I was asleep. It was a nightmare.” She crossed her arms in front of her and hugged her shoulders with her hands. “I guess Keller didn’t warn you about my nightmares.”

“Keller didn’t tell me much about anything,” he said dryly. “Are you all right?”

She released a sigh. “Embarrassed. Mortified, but yes, I’m all right.”

“No need to be embarrassed,” Jesse said in an obvious attempt to comfort. “Everyone has nightmares at one time or another.”

She said nothing, but she wanted to say that not everyone had nightmares that drove them into the deepest recess of a closet.

“If you’re hungry, I’ve got some dinner ready in the kitchen,” he said.

Dinner. The normalcy of it further comforted her. “That sounds good. I’d just like to freshen up a bit.”

“Sure. I’ll just wait in the living room for you, then take you to the kitchen.” She nodded. She hated this dependency, she thought as Jesse left her alone at the bathroom door. A moment later she splashed water over her face and stared at the place where she knew a mirror probably hung over the sink.

Staring with all the concentration she could attain, she tried to force herself to see. A glimmer of light. A pale strand of illumination.

She desperately wanted to see something…anything. But the blackness that had become her world remained impenetrable.

It was as if she’d swallowed whole the darkness of night, and the tenebrous shades of black not only resided in her, but had become the sum being of her.

Odd, that even in complete darkness, while asleep and in the throes of a nightmare and in a strange house, she had found the closet.

Had she fumbled her way to the enclosure that comforted her? Or had her sight momentarily returned while she’d dreamed, allowing her to find the closet where she could hide and feel safe?

Turning away from the sink, she felt around until her hands touched the terry cloth of a towel. She dried her face and hands, then left the bathroom. Carefully maneuvering out the door and down the hallway, she headed toward the living room. She stifled a gasp as a hand touched her elbow.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Jesse said.

“It’s all right. It’s just disconcerting to be touched when you can’t see who is doing the touching.” She relaxed and allowed him to guide her through the living room. She knew they’d entered the kitchen when the carpet beneath her feet turned into tile.

“I hope you like hamburgers,” Jesse said as he led her to a chair at the table.

“Hamburgers are fine,” she assured him. She touched the edge of her plate, the handle of a fork to orient herself.

“Mustard or ketchup?” Jesse asked.

“A little mustard, please.” She heard the squirt of a bottle, then sensed him placing the burger on her plate. “Thank you.”

“Chips?” he offered.

“Sure,” she agreed, just wanting to get the meal over and done with. Eating was one of the many things that had become sheer torture since she’d lost her sight. Finger food had become her friend.

Within minutes they were eating, the meal accompanied by the strained silence of strangers who weren’t quite sure what to say to each other.

“So, tell me about Mustang, Montana,” she said in an effort to break the uncomfortable silence.

“There isn’t a lot to tell. Small town, slow pace, good people. It’s a great place to grow up and a great place to grow old.”