Dana Mentink - Dangerous Tidings

The intruder’s mouth twisted into a smile.

Notice the details , she heard her father say. Most witnesses can’t offer anything helpful to catch the offender.

Dark eyes, Caucasian, tall. But was she going to live to be a witness?

He stepped close and she swung the pitcher with all her might at his head. With one hand he batted it away. It spiraled through the air, hit the corner of the table and broke. He grabbed her by the arms, forcing her down into a chair.

Tears of pain trickled down her face. Terror left her limbs thick and lifeless.

“What do you want?” she whispered.

He loomed closer, dark eyes glittering, lips inches from hers. “You.”

Fear turned to adrenaline. She twisted and writhed in the chair, but his grip did not loosen.

“Your pops was a big-shot marine-turned-investigator,” the man said. “Are you a private eye, too?”

She shook her head, teeth clenched together.

He tangled his fingers through her hair. “That’s right. You’re not a detective.” Leaning close, he spoke into her ear. “You’re just a scared little girl.”

Each word shot through her, his hot breath searing her temple.

He pulled a knife from his belt. He was going to kill her.

Again she struggled, striking out at his chest, clawing at his face, pulling at the ski mask until he jerked out of reach.

He smiled, teeth harsh white against a tangle of facial hair, the hint of beard. “I guess you think you’re tough, don’t you?” He wrapped a strong hand around her throat, the other grasping the knife. “Little girls who think they’re tough like men. You know what happens to them?”

She tried to loosen the fingers around her throat, but he was cutting off her air.

“I said,” he hissed, “do you know what happens to those little girls?”

She kicked out, missing him.

Now his mouth was pressed against her forehead and he kissed her.

Revulsion nearly made her gag. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let him see her completely lose it.

“Those little girls...” he whispered in a tender singsong voice, “die.”

* * *

Brent saw the guy pull a knife just before he found what he was looking for, a small stone bench. Not more than a stool, really, but heavy.

He pulled it from the shrubbery, heaved it above his head and hurled it into the window. It shattered with a crash. He dragged it in a circular motion to swipe away the glass. Then he was up and over, clearing the threshold just as Marco smashed through the opposite door.

The man looked from Brent to Marco and made his decision. He went for the door.

Brent pursued. He managed to grab some of the guy’s black sweat jacket, just enough to knock him off-balance. He stumbled, but he did not go down.

Brent lunged for him again, but the guy surged forward, tackling Marco, who went over on his back. The assailant rushed by and clattered down the hall. In seconds, Marco was on his feet and chasing after him.

Should he follow or stay? It wasn’t even a contest. Brent’s heart was always with the victim. He turned back to the woman. Her thick lashes framed wide eyes, so blue, so vibrant. He flashed on Carrie, long dead, his fault. Knock it off, Brent.

“Are you—?” he began.

He didn’t finish the thought before she picked up a glass shard from the pitcher, wielding it like a knife.

“Get away,” she said breathlessly, face wild with fear. “Don’t touch me.”

He held up his hands, palms out. Panic could be as dangerous as any emotion—he knew from having rescued many people on the brink of drowning. Rational thought always took a backseat to the primal need for self-preservation. Many times he’d had to physically subdue a victim in order to save both their lives. The thought rippled across his mind before he could stop it. Had Carrie felt panic in those last few moments before she drowned? With an effort, he blinked the thought away. He kept his tone light, reassuring. “It’s okay. He’s gone. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her skin was dead pale except for two spots of color that appeared on each cheek. “Get away.” Drops of blood dripped from her palm where a glass shard was cutting into her skin.

He stayed still, hands where she could see them. “My name is Brent. I work for the coast guard.” He pointed to her hand. “You’re bleeding. Why don’t you let me help you with that?”

She blinked, still gripping the glass. Slowly she looked at her hand as if she hadn’t known what was in it.

“The man...” she stammered.

He nodded. “I saw him. He ran away and he’s not coming back. Marco’s chasing him.”

“Marco.” The dazed look in her eyes subsided and he could see her body begin to tremble like a leaf in storm-tossed water.

“Why don’t you sit down?” He pulled a chair out, careful not to touch her. “I’ll stay here with you until Marco comes back, okay?”

She still didn’t assent, but neither did she pull away when he pushed the chair toward her. Her trembling was violent now and she collapsed into it.

“I’m just going to call the police.” He did so, eyeing her the whole time, checking to make sure that she was not slipping into shock.

“What’s your name?” he said as he finished the call and clicked off the phone.

“Donna.”

“Nice to meet you, Donna.”

He took a knee and slowly, very slowly, touched her wrist with his finger. “Can you open this hand for me?”

“Are you a doctor?” she whispered.

“Rescue swimmer and an EMT. I’ve been known to try my hand at doctoring a time or two. I’m a whiz with bandages.”

Her fingers opened like a flower and he flicked the glass away. Taking a pile of napkins from the sideboard, he pressed them to the cuts on her hand. “Squeeze, okay? Not too bad, just some shallow wounds. Probably won’t even need stitches.” Her fingers were elegant, long and tapering, strong. He found himself glad she would likely not bear a scar from the attack, not a physical one, anyway.

Mentally he’d been measuring the time, wondering about Marco. Shouldn’t he have returned by now? Her eyes, which he now saw were true navy blue, never left his face. She was, he realized, now that the terror was ebbing slightly from her expression, lovely. Like Carrie, only not.

Sirens sounded in the distance.

“Won’t be long.”

“Where’s Marco?” she said, only a slight tremble in her voice now.

He eyed the door. “As soon as the cops get here, I’ll go find him.”

She caught her full lower lip between her teeth.

“Don’t worry—from what I saw, he’s a big gorilla.”

Marco appeared in the doorway. “The gorilla’s back.”

Brent’s gut relaxed until he saw the ragged edge on Marco’s shirt and the blood seeping into the waistband of his jeans.

* * *

Donna leaped from the chair, brushed aside Brent’s restraining hands and ran to Marco. “You’re bleeding.”

“Minor. Did he hurt you?”

“No. Just scared me. Sit down. This man...” She looked at Brent. “He’s got some medical training.”

Brent raised an eyebrow. “You should do what she says. I’m certain she’s smarter than you.”

Marco reluctantly sat in the chair and Brent took a look at his wound. “Long and shallow.”

“Minor, like I said.”

Donna snatched up more napkins and handed them to Brent, who placed them on the wound. When he tried to hold them in place, Marco swatted his hands away.

“I can do it.”

“What happened?” Brent asked. “You forgot to duck?”

“Sliced me, and made it to his truck.”

Donna knew she should be terrified that the crazy attacker was out there somewhere, but at the moment, she could feel only relief. Marco, a man who was like a brother to her, was not seriously hurt.