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

her together,” Keith said.

      He indicated that Joe should walk back out. The fellow hesitated uneasily and then voiced an anxious question. “Aunt Dottie…she’s really not here?”

      Keith shook his head. “Move.”

      Joe moved toward the door. “Back out into the storm?” he demanded.

      Keith nodded grimly. Outside, he put the dog in the car, stuck the gun in his waistband and opened the driver’s side. “Get in,” he shouted to Joe Peterson.

      “Maybe I should wait here,” Peterson shouted back.

      “Maybe we should look for your aunt!”

      They both got into the car. Cocoa scampered to the back seat, whimpering. Keith eased the Hummer out of the drive. “Search the sides of the road, see if she drove off somehow!” Keith commanded.

      “Search the side of the road?” Peterson repeated. He looked at Keith so abruptly that water droplets flew from his face and hood. “I can’t see a damn road! It’s all gray.”

      “Look for a darker gray blob in the middle of the gray then,” Keith said.

      The windshield wipers were working hard, doing little.

      But then he saw it. Something just barely visible. Peering forward more closely, he saw the Plymouth. It had gone off the road heading south.

      Keith stared at Peterson, drew out the gun and warned the man, “Sit still.”

      “Right, yeah, right!” Peterson said nervously, staring at the gun.

      Keith stepped from the car. He sloshed through the flooded road to the mucky embankment. He looked in the front and saw nothing. Why would the old lady, who always held tight to her handbag, have left the purse on the table when she was taking off in her own car?

      Fighting against the wind, he opened the front doors and the back. No sign of a struggle, of a person, of…anything.

      Then he noted the trunk. It was ajar. He lifted the lid.

      And found Mrs. Peterson.

      “So…you live out here, year-round?”

      “No. This is just a vacation home.”

      “Lonely place,” he said.

      Beth shrugged. “We live in Coconut Grove, but actually spend a lot of time down here. My husband is a diver.”

      “A professional diver?”

      Beth could have explained that Keith’s work went much further than simple diving, that his contracts often had to do with the government or law enforcement, but she didn’t want to explain—she wasn’t sure why. Her uninvited guest had changed his clothing. He was warm and dry. She had given him a brandy, and he had been nothing but polite and entirely circumspect. The unease of having let someone into her house hadn’t abated, although she didn’t know why. This guy seemed to be as benign as a hibiscus bush.

      “Um, yes. He’s a professional diver,” she agreed.

      “Great,” he said, grinning. He pointed a finger at her. “Didn’t you get that original evacuation notice?”

      “We got it, but this place was built in the mid-1800s. It’s weathered many a storm. The evacuation wasn’t mandatory for residents—only visitors.” She was pleased to hear a sudden burst of static and she leaped to her feet. “The radio! I don’t know why, my batteries are new, but I wasn’t getting anything on it. And the cell phones right now are a total joke.” She offered him a rueful smile and went running through the hall for the kitchen, at the back of the house.

      “…be on the lookout…extremely dangerous…”

      She nearly skidded to a stop as she heard the words come from the radio on the dining table.

      “…serial killer…”

      Like a stick figure, she moved over to the table, staring at the radio. It had gone to static again. She picked it up and shook it, feeling dizzy, ill.

      “…suspected to be running south, into the keys…”

      “Turn it off!”

      Beth looked up. Her guest had followed her from the living room to the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, hands tightly gripping the wood frame as he stared at her. His eyes were wild, red-rimmed…

       Like they had appeared when she’d first seen his face in the window.

      And there was a serial killer loose in the keys…

      Mrs. Peterson was trussed up like a fresh kill, wrists and ankles bound, a gag around her mouth. There was no blood, and though her linen pants and shirt were muddied and soaked, there were no signs of violence on her. Keith checked for any sign of life. Her body was so cold.

      But she was alive. He felt a faint pulse and snapped open the blade on the Swiss Army knife attached to his key chain. He cut the tight gag from her mouth and then the ropes binding her.

      He didn’t know if she had broken bones or internal injuries. She could wind up with pneumonia or worse, but this wasn’t the kind of situation that left him much choice. He hoisted her fragile body from the trunk and returned to the car, staggering against the wind. He shouted for Joe Peterson to help, but there was no response. He managed to wrench open the rear door of the vehicle on his own.

      Cocoa yapped.

      Keith swore.

      “Dammit! Why didn’t you help?” he demanded of his passenger, depositing his human burden as best he could.

      There was no answer, other than Cocoa’s excited woofs.

      His passenger had disappeared.

      “You’re right!” Beth managed to say, forcing her frozen mind into action. “The storm is rough enough. Let’s not listen to bad news!”

      She turned the radio off.

      “Hey, I have a Sterno pot, if you’re hungry. I can whip up something.”

      He shook his head, not moving, staring at her with his red-rimmed eyes. You’ve been through worse than this! she reminded herself.

       Worse?

       Yes! When she had met Keith, when there had been a skull in the sand, when she had become far too curious…

       Toughen up! she chastised herself. You’ve come through before!

      “I think I’ll make myself something.” Stay calm. Appear confident. How did one deal with a serial killer? She tried to remember all the sage things that had been said, recommendations from the psychiatrists who had spent endless hours talking with killers that had been incarcerated. Talk. Yes. Just keep talking…

      Then she remembered her husband’s own words of caution. If you ever pull out a gun, intend to use it. If you find that you have to shoot, shoot to kill.

      She didn’t have a gun.

      But then again, there was another question.

      What if he wasn’t the serial killer? Just because she had found herself alone with this man and heard that there was a killer on the loose, did that mean this man was the one?

      Weapon! She needed some kind of weapon.

      And would it be the same? If you ever pull out a gun, intend to use it. Would that work with, if you ever pull out a frying pan, intend to use it?

      She reached into one of the shelves for a can of Sterno and matches, trying to pretend the man who now looked like a psycho and stood in the door frame—still just staring at her—wasn’t doing so. She forced herself to hum as she lit the Sterno, and then reached for the frying pan. She held it as she rummaged through the cabinet.

      Then