Diane Burke - Hidden in Plain View

Peter ushered the children outside, with whispers to each child to run straight home. When the teacher came up behind the last child, Peter ignored her protests and shoved her to safety, too.

John shoved a felt pouch at Sarah. “Hide this and don’t give it to anyone but me. Understand?”

The heavy and cumbersome bag felt like rocks or marbles were nestled inside. She used several straight pins to bind it to her waistband.

Suddenly the sound of boots pounding against the wooden steps filled the air.

“Shut up. Don’t make a sound!” John ordered. With trembling hands, he aimed his gun and waited for the door to open. But it didn’t.

Instead, bullets slammed through the door.

“Sarah, get down!” Peter yelled from across the room.

Pieces of wood from the walls and desks, as well as chunks of chalkboard, splintered as each bullet reached a target.

John Zook grabbed his shoulder. Then doubled over and clutched his stomach, groaning in pain.

The door banged open and slammed against the wall. A stranger entered, this one much taller, with darkness in his eyes that cemented Sarah’s feet to the floor in fear.

“Hello, John. Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

The slighter man’s body shook. “I was gonna call and let you know where I was, Jimmy. Just as soon as I found a safe place for us to hide out.”

“Is that so? Well, I saved you the trouble. Give me my diamonds.”

Diamonds?

Instantly, Sarah’s fingers flew to the pouch hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“You’ve got until the count of three. One.”

“I don’t have them. I have to go get them.”

“Two.”

“I don’t have them!” John’s voice came out in an almost hysterical pitch.

“Please, Jimmy, honest.” John pulled Sarah in front of him. “She has them. I gave them to her.”

Sarah looked into the stranger’s face, and evil looked back.

“Three.”

The sudden burst of gunfire shook Sarah to her core.

A small, round hole appeared in John’s forehead. His expression registered surprise and his hand, which had been painfully gripping Sarah’s arm, opened. He fell to the floor.

The loud, piercing sound of a metal triangle rent the air. The children had reached their homes. Help was on the way.

The shooter leered at Sarah. “Let’s take a look and see what you’re hiding in that skirt, shall we?”

“No!” Peter yelled, and ran toward her.

The intruder fired.

Her husband’s body jerked not once but twice as he grabbed his chest and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

“Peter!”

Sarah’s heart refused to accept what her mind knew was fact. Peter was dead.

Before she could drop to his side, something slammed into the left side of her head. Another blow to her arm. To her back. Pain seized her breath. Weakened her knees. Crumpled her to the floor.

She stretched her right arm out toward Peter, their fingers almost touching as she slid into blessed oblivion.

ONE

Where am I?

Sarah Lapp lay on a bed with raised metal rails. She noted a darkened television screen bracketed to the opposite wall. A nightstand and recliner beside the bed.

I’m in a hospital.

She tried to sit up but couldn’t. She was hooked up to machines. Lots of them. Fear pumped her heart into overdrive.

Why am I here?

Again she tried to move, but her body screamed in protest.

Burning pain. Throbbing pain.

Searing the skin on her back. Pulsing through her arm and gathering behind her eyes.

She tried to raise her left arm to touch her forehead but it felt heavy, weighted down, lost in its own gnawing sea of hurt. She glanced down and saw it bandaged and held against her chest by a blue cloth sling.

I’ve injured my arm. But how? Why can’t I remember? And why do I feel so scared?

She took a deep breath.

Don’t panic. Take your time. Think.

Once more she inhaled, held it for a second, and forced herself to ever so slowly release it. Repeating the process a couple more times helped her regain a sense of calm.

Okay. She could do this.

She opened her eyes and stared into the darkness.

“Sarah?”

Sarah? Is that my name?

Why can’t I remember?

Her heart almost leaped from her chest when one of the shadows moved.

The man had been leaning against the wall. She hadn’t seen him standing in the shadows until he stepped forward. He obviously wasn’t a doctor. His garb seemed familiar yet somehow different. He wore black boots, brown pants held up with suspenders and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He carried a straw hat.

“I thought I heard you stirring.” He approached her bed and leaned on the side rail. She found the deep timbre of his voice soothing.

The faint glow from the overhead night-light illuminated his features. She stared at his clean-shaven face, the square jaw, the tanned skin, his intense brown eyes. She searched for some form of recognition but found none.

“I’m glad you’re awake.” He smiled down at her.

She tried to speak but could only make hoarse, croaking sounds.

“Here, let me get you something to drink.” He pushed a button, which raised the head of her bed. He lifted a cup and held it to her lips. There was something intimate and kind in the gesture, and although she didn’t recognize this man, she welcomed his presence.

Gratefully, she took a sip, enjoying the soothing coolness of the liquid as it slid over her parched lips and trickled down her throat. When he moved the cup away, she tried again.

“Who...who are you?”

His large hand gently cupped her fingers. She found the warmth of his touch comforting. His brown shaggy hair brushed the collar of his shirt. Tiny lines crinkled the skin at the sides of his eyes.

“My name is Samuel, and I’m here to help you.”

Her throat felt like someone had shredded her vocal cords. Her mouth was so dry that even after the sip of water, she couldn’t gather enough saliva for a good spit. When she did speak, her voice reflected the strain in a hoarse, barely audible whisper.

“Where... What...” She struggled to force the words out.

“You’re in a hospital. You’ve been shot.”

Shot!

No wonder she had felt so afraid when he’d moved out of the shadows. She might not remember the incident, but some inner instinct was still keeping her alert and wary of danger.

“Can you tell me what you remember?” There was kindness in his eyes and an intensity that she couldn’t identify.

She shook her head.

“Do you remember being in the schoolhouse when the gunman entered? Did you get a good look at him?”

Schoolhouse? Gunman?

Her stomach lurched, and she thought she was going to be sick. Slowly, she moved her head back and forth again.

“How about before the shooting? Your husband was inside the building constructing bookshelves. Do you remember bringing a basket of treats for the children?”

His words caused a riotous tumble of questions in her mind. She had a husband? Who was he? Where was he? She tried to focus her thoughts. This man just told her she’d been shot inside a school. Had anyone else been hurt? Hopefully, none of the children.

“Hus...husband?”

“Sarah. There’s no easy way to tell you. Your husband was killed in the shooting.”

The room started to spin. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut.

“I’m so sorry. I wish there had been an easier way to break the news.” His deep, masculine voice bathed her senses with sympathy and helped her remain calm. “I hate to have to question you right now, but time is of the essence.” The feel of his breath on her cheek told her he had stepped closer. “I need you to tell me what you remember—what you saw that day, before things other people tell you cloud your memories.”