Thriller: Stories To Keep You Up All Night. Литагент HarperCollins USD

the pounding continued, along with a cry for help. She sprang into action, chiding herself. Someone was out there who needed shelter from the storm. Some idiot tourist without the sense to evacuate when told to. And if that someone died because she was too frightened to give aid in an emergency…

      And how ridiculous. Sure, the world had proven to be a rough place, with heinous and conniving criminals. But to assume a serial killer was running around in the midst of what might have been a killer storm was just ludicrous.

      She hurried forward, hand firmly on the door as she opened it against the power of the wind. Again, compassion surged through her as the soaked and bedraggled man came staggering in, desperately gasping for breath. He was a thin man with dark, wet hair that clung to his face and the back of his neck. When he looked at Beth, his eyes were wide and terrified. He offered her a faltering smile. “God bless you! You really must be an angel!” he cried.

      Beth drew the quilted throw from the sofa and wrapped it around the man’s shoulders, demanding, “What were you doing out there? How could you not have heard the evacuation orders issued for all tourists?”

      He looked at her sheepishly. “Please, don’t throw me back out,” he told her. “I admit, I was on a bender in Key West.” He staggered to his feet. “When I realized we were told to go, I started out, but my car was literally blown off the road. Then I saw light. Faint light—your place. God must look after fools. I mean…if you don’t throw me out.” He was tall and wiry, perhaps about thirty. She realized, when not totally bedraggled, he was surely a striking young fellow, with his brilliant blue eyes and dark hair.

      “I’m not going to throw you out,” she told him.

      He offered her a hand suddenly. “I’m Mark Egan. A musician. Maybe you’ve heard of my group? We’re called Ultra C. Our first CD just hit the stores, and we were playing the bars down in Key West. You haven’t heard of me—or us?” he said, disappointed.

      “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”

      “That’s okay, I guess most of the world hasn’t,” he said.

      “Maybe my husband will have heard of you. He’s in Key West often and he really loves to listen to local groups.”

      He offered her his engaging grin once again. “It doesn’t matter—you’re still wonderful. You’re an angel—wow, gorgeous, too.”

      “Thanks. I can give you something dry to put on. My husband is somewhat larger than you are, but I’m sure you can make do.”

      “Your husband? Is he here?”

      She felt a moment’s unease. “Yes, of course. He’s just…battening down a few things. He’s around, close,” she said.

      “I hope he doesn’t stay out too long. It’s brutal. Hey, you guys don’t keep a car here?” he asked.

      An innocent question? she wondered.

      “Yes, we have a car,” she said, determined not to explain further. “I’m Beth Henson,” she said, and offered him a hand. They shook. His grip was more powerful than what she had expected. “Hang on, I’ll get you those clothes,” she said.

      She picked up one of the flashlights and headed for the bedroom. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, afraid that he had followed her. He hadn’t. She went to the closet and decided on an old pair of Keith’s jeans and a T-shirt. Best she could do. She brought them back out and handed them to the dripping man. “Bathroom is the first door on the left, and here’s a flashlight.”

      “Thanks. Truly, you are an angel!” he said, and walked down the hall.

      Keith’s friends liked to make fun of him for the Hummer. Hell, Beth liked to rib him about it, shaking her head with bemused tolerance as she did so. It was a gas guzzler. Not at all ecofriendly. It was a testosterone thing, a macho thing he felt he had to have. He mused he could now knock it all back in their faces—the Hummer was heavy enough to make it through the wind, tough enough to crawl through the flooding.

      So there, guys. Testosterone? Maybe. But Beth had been the one who had been worried sick about Mrs. Peterson. She had been worried sick again when he had left to retrieve Mrs. Peterson and the dog. She’d wanted to come; he’d convinced her that if she was home, he wouldn’t be worried about her in the storm as well.

      He fiddled with the knob on the radio again, trying to get something to come in. At last, he did. He expected the news stations in the south of the state to be carrying nothing but storm coverage—even if the storm had lost momentum.

      “…serial killer on the loose. Authorities suspect that he headed south just before evacuation notices went into effect…” Static, damn! Then, “Parker managed to disappear, ‘as if into thin air,’ according to Lieutenant Abner Gretsky, prison guard. Downed poles and electrical failures have made pursuit and apprehension difficult. John Parker was found guilty in the slaying of Patricia Reeves of Miramar last year. He is suspected of the murders of at least seven other women in the southeastern states. He is a man of approximately—”

      Keith couldn’t believe it when another earful of static slammed him instead of statistics on the man. Headed south?

      Not this far south. Only a suicidal maniac would have attempted to drive down into the dark and treacherous keys when a storm of any magnitude was in gear. Still, it felt as if icy fingers slid down his throat to his heart.

       Beth was alone at the house.

      He was tempted to turn back instantly. But Mrs. Peterson’s trailer was just ahead now. All he had to do was grab the old woman, hop back in the Hummer and turn around.

      The first thing he noted was that her old Plymouth wasn’t in the drive.

      He hesitated, then reached in the glove compartment for the .38 Smith & Wesson he was licensed to carry. He exited the car, swearing against the savage pelting of the rain.

      “Mrs. Peterson!” he roared, approaching the trailer. Damn, the woman was lucky the thing hadn’t blown over yet. He could hear the dog barking. Yappy little creature, but hell, it was everything in the world to the elderly widow.

      “Mrs. Peterson!” He pounded on the door. There was no response. He hesitated, then tried the knob. The door was open.

      He walked in. Mrs. Peterson’s purse was on the coffee table. Cocoa could be heard but not seen. “Mrs. Peterson?”

      The trailer was small. There was nowhere to hide in the living room or kitchen. He tried her sewing room, and then, not sure why, he hesitated at the door to her bedroom. He slipped the Smith & Wesson from his waistband, took a stance and threw open the door.

      Nothing. No one. He breathed a sigh of relief, then spun around at a flurry of sound. Cocoa came flying out from beneath the bed.

      The small dog managed to jump into his arms, terrified. As Keith clutched the animal, he heard a noise from the front, and headed back out.

      A drenched man in what was surely supposed to be a waterproof jacket stood just inside the doorway. “Aunt Dot?” he called.

      The fellow was about thirty years old. Dark hair was plastered to his head. He stood about six feet even. He saw Keith standing with the gun and cried out, stunned and frightened.

      “Who are you?” Keith demanded.

      “Joe. I’m Joe Peterson. Dot Peterson’s nephew,” he explained.

      “How did you get here?”

      “Walked.” The fellow swallowed. “My car broke down. Um…where’s my aunt?” he inquired.

      “You tell me,” Keith demanded warily.

      “I…I don’t know. I was on my way down here…the car gave out. Man, I went through some deep flooding…walked the rest of the way here. Um, who are you and why are you aiming a gun at me?” There was definite fear in his voice.