A Marked Man. Stella Cameron

the man took no notice.

       The darkness faded, gradually thinned, and she couldn’t see the man with the shovel, or the broken figure on the ground. Like stage lights, a glow rose slowly until she saw Max again. He was farther away, still scraping his stick on the ground.

       She called his name again, “Max!” But he didn’t as much as look up. Annie wanted to go to him but her limbs wouldn’t move. Pain pounded in her head and she grew hotter. Was she there at all? If she was, why didn’t he hear her?

       Why didn’t anyone know she was there?

       A step, at last she took one step, her leg heavy, her foot scuffing over the ground. And another step. And another. Huge, ponderous steps but each one covered perhaps an inch. She wobbled and spread her arms to balance.

       “Max!”

       He turned his back on her and began to stride, only for him each stride became a bound, as if he were a spacewalker, and his figure grew smaller.

       As Max grew smaller the light failed, just as fast as before. Annie squeezed her eyelids together. She shook her head and heavy, damp hair slashed from side to side across her face.

       There was no sound, no dragging, no cracking of metal on stone.

       Holding her breath, she slitted her eyes to look ahead. Nothing, only darkness, hot, wet darkness. Somewhere behind her lay the road and the car. She knew with shocking clarity that everything hung on her retracing her steps and getting away. And never coming back. She should never have come back to St. Martinville, never.

       A lone horn wailed a single, endless note. Deep and mournful.

       Annie marshaled her spirit and looked over her shoulder. The man approached from behind. This time he shouldered the shovel and carried a woman under the other arm. She kicked, flailed, but silver tape wrapped around her head sealed her cries away.

       Annie opened her mouth to scream. The man passed only yards from her, his face averted. She had to stop him from killing the woman.

       He dropped the woman on the leaves and set to work, raking together a pile of sticks and leaves. He brought logs and tree limbs and tossed them on the heap. The pieces of wood arced in slow motion and settled softly.

       He stepped away, lit a crude torch that shot forth flames, and buried the pointed end in the ground. Then he picked up the woman and threw her in the same slow arc as the bits of wood. She spun in the air, illuminated by the torch, her arms and legs flopping and twisting with each turn.

       Annie shoved her hands out and screamed. She moved forward, faster this time, she thought. Sparks reached her, pricked her face and legs like white-hot needles.

       “Don’t kill her,” she cried. “Don’t burn her.”

      Max dropped the stick and spun toward the garbled voice he heard.

      “Hey, hey,” he called, running toward Annie. She stumbled, knees sagging, arms outstretched.

      He covered the space between them in seconds. Her eyes were unfocused, her face white, her hair hanging in sodden clumps. “Annie,” he cried, reaching to grab her.

      Her awful cry ripped through him. She screamed and screamed, and flung her arms back and forth as if in some imaginary fight.

      “Annie!” He caught and shook her. “Take a breath. A deep breath, now.”

      A growling noise came from her throat. She appeared to look at him, but he could tell that her eyes were only turned in his direction. He doubted if she saw anything.

      At first he’d thought she must have epilepsy, but this was no seizure.

      Bending his knees, dropping his weight, he rose under her arms and caught her around the waist.

      Her right forearm connected with his ear and the power of the blow astounded him. She struggled with enormous purpose, as if fighting for her life. Max steeled himself to stop her from hurting herself—or him.

      Slamming her against him, he trapped one of her arms with his body and slid his left hand around her back to grasp the other arm. He lifted her and rolled her toward him until her face pressed into his chest.

      He began to walk toward the trees.

      “N-no-o!” She made room to free her mouth and yelled. “Stop it. Don’t hurt her anymore.”

      Max tried to shut out the words. They had no meaning—or did they?

      Carrying Annie was easy; she didn’t weigh much.

      “It’s okay,” he said, gently but loud enough for her to hear. “I’m going to help you. This will all be over soon.”

      “No, no, no.”

      Her bucking jarred him.

      “No, don’t burn me.” She went limp, her eyes dulled. “I don’t want to die like that.”

      At the car, Max set Annie inside. She seemed docile now, limp.

      His cell rang and he answered. “Who is this?”

      “Did you get my letter yet?” The voice on the phone sounded like a speaking harmonica.

      Chapter Seven

      Sheriff Spike Devol lived with his family at Rosebank Resort, where Max and his brothers had apartments. Spike had assumed part ownership of the resort when he’d married Vivian Patin. Charlotte, Vivian’s mother, remained a partner and also lived on the premises, as did Wendy, Spike’s daughter by his first marriage.

      Drinking coffee at a window table in Hungry Eyes, a combination café and bookshop, Max kept an eye on the sheriff’s cruiser parked at the curb.

      Spike was coming to meet him.

      The suggestion that they have a chat in the café had been Spike’s, but the location also helped solve one of Max’s problems. He had to see Annie and he intended to hang around until he managed just that.

      Annie drove an elderly red Volvo sedan. No sign of it yet. Max knew Annie usually entered the building through the shop if it was open, and used a door at the back of the café. Steps from a vestibule led up to her flat.

      At Pappy’s, a night manager took over from Annie most evenings and Max counted on her coming home by six. Once she was upstairs he’d feel better. At least he’d know where to find her.

      Engrossed, Spike talked on his radio while staring into the glow of a computer screen. He made Max nervous. When he issued the “invitation” to Hungry Eyes he had avoided saying what exactly was on his mind. Max volunteered to meet the sheriff at his office but Spike kept deliberately cheerful and said there was “No need for formality—yet.” The “yet” didn’t sound so friendly to Max who knew the topic would be Michele Riley.

      What if there weren’t any leads?

      Spike wasn’t coming here for nothing.

      When he was alone again, Max intended to go outside to the street and take a right between Joe and Ellie Gable’s house and Joe’s law offices, into an alley leading to back entrances into the buildings. The back door to Hungry Eyes was also Annie’s front door. She could have gotten past without him seeing her.

      She could well refuse to talk to him and shut him out. He drew his lips back from his teeth. Chatter at several other tables helped him feel anonymous. Max didn’t want to attract any attention.

      He had already made up his mind not to be put off. Whatever it took, he would get to Annie. After her meltdown earlier in the day she had refused to be examined by a doctor, even after he’d set out for Reb Girard’s office. Annie would not discuss what had occurred, and something