Collecting Evidence. Rita Herron

piece of fabric that had caught on a nail on the windowsill, and bagged it along with the hair to send for analysis.

      Maybe forensics would turn up something to help them nail the bastard and make sure the charges stuck when they finally tracked him down.

      Stewing over the circumstances, he carried the evidence bags to the car while Aspen said goodbye to the other women. Outside, he phoned Miguel to explain the situation.

      “Amnesia?” Miguel asked.

      “Yes. She didn’t recognize me. I’m hoping that seeing Emma and Jack will jog her memory.”

      “I’ll warn Emma about the doctor’s diagnosis,” Miguel said. “And tell her not to push, to give Aspen time.”

      Five minutes later, Aspen returned carrying a small paper bag holding the meager possessions she’d accumulated since staying at the shelter.

      Sister Margaret gave him a concerned look as she escorted them to the gate. “Take care of her, Agent Avecedo.”

      He squeezed her hand with a nod. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave her alone until we find out who hurt her.” He paused and lowered his voice. “And, Sister, I’m going to need the medical report from when Aspen was brought in. When we find out who did this, it will help with prosecution.”

      If he let the son of a bitch live that long.

      “I’ll speak to the doctor, but we’ll need a release from Aspen.”

      “I’ll talk to her about it,” Dylan said.

      Sister Margaret agreed, then thanked him, and he walked Aspen to the car. She settled into the passenger side and buckled her seat belt, the tension thickening as he drove away from the shelter.

      “Sister Margaret said that you were injured when you arrived at the center. That you thought that someone, an abusive boyfriend, was after you.”

      She shrugged. “It seemed like a likely story, Agent Acevedo.”

      “Call me Dylan.”

      She gave him an odd look, then nodded.

      “Did the abusive boyfriend idea come from a memory?” he asked.

      She fidgeted, looking back at the center as if she wanted to return to the safe haven she’d found within that iron fence. “Not really. Just a feeling that I was running from someone.” Her voice warbled. “And then there are the nightmares.”

      “Nightmares?”

      She nodded, her brown eyes huge in her face. “Nightmares of fighting some man, of running, of hearing the river and being cold…”

      She angled her head to study his face. “Can you fill in any of the missing pieces?”

      “Some, but not all. We found your car smashed into a tree by the San Juan River.” He paused, debating over whether to tell her that her son had been left in her car. “There was evidence of a struggle. Blood in the car. We didn’t know if you’d survived or if you might have drowned in the river.”

      She made a low sound in her throat. “My cousin…She was worried?”

      He nodded and gently placed his hand over hers in an attempt to calm her, although heat radiated through him. He wanted more, wanted to hold her and assure her everything would be all right.

      Wanted to shake her for not telling him that they had a son together.

      “Yes, Aspen, her name is Emma, and she’s anxious for you to come home.”

      Relief filled her eyes, and she relaxed slightly. As much as he wanted to press her, he forced himself to rein in his emotions and let her absorb what he’d told her.

      “You look exhausted,” he said. “Why don’t you try to rest during the drive? I know Emma will want to talk when we arrive.”

      She gave him a wary look, but nodded. A second later, she curled up against the door and fell asleep, but even in sleep, her body seemed wound tight and braced for battle as if she expected her attacker to reappear any minute and end her life as he’d tried to do before.

      

      THE NIGHTMARES RETURNED AGAIN.

      Aspen struggled to wake herself, determined not to let them suck her into the darkness, but the heavy pull of fear yanked her back to the day she’d been running.

      Running, but from whom?

      If she could only see the man’s face…

      She crawled along the steep rocks, fighting to steady herself as the river raged below, the snow-capped ridges reminding her that the water would be dangerous and freezing. That although she was an excellent swimmer, there was no way she could survive the icy temperatures or strong current.

      Then the hands were upon her, clenching, hitting, choking her, dragging her into the murky depths of death.

      She screamed, snippets of her life flashing in front of her. The Ute reservation, the casino, the Trading Post, the children gathering for a Ute celebration. The Bear Dance in the spring and the Sun Dance at Mesa Verde.

      Her mother teaching her the ways of the people. The childhood stories of the Sky People, the legend of the Sleeping Ute Mountain, and the ghost stories her mother insisted she pass on about the sacrifices of their ancestors.

      Then she was drowning, the icy water sucking her down to the bottom, the rocks beating against her skin, the whisper of death calling her name.

      She jerked awake, shaking and disoriented. Suddenly she felt the agent’s hand on hers again. “More nightmares, Aspen?”

      She lifted her head, pushed a strand of hair that had escaped her braid from her eyes and tried to steady her labored breathing. “Yes.” She glanced down at his hand, aching to cling to him for protection, but she hardly knew the man. Still, he made her feel safe as if he wouldn’t leave her to the terrifying memories that hacked at her sanity, tapping at the fringes of her conscience yet evading her.

      While she’d slept, the weather had changed. Dark ominous clouds hovered above the ridges, the mountain runoff filling the potholes and shoulder with rising water. A chill filled the car, the temperatures dropping as they neared the canyon.

      The road was virtually deserted, the landscape colored with shadows, prairie grass and scattered rocks. In the distance, the sound of a coyote rent the air, the slap of the windshield wipers battling the light rain eerie in the silence.

      Occasionally they passed a pueblo style house, the elements having beaten its beauty to a muddy brownish orange. The story she’d told the children earlier reminded her that this area was dangerous territory for the reemergence of the grizzly bear.

      And the ghost town that had once been a miner’s haven made her anxious to return to civilization.

      A gust of wind that sounded like a freight train sent tumbleweed swirling across the road, then suddenly bright headlights appeared behind them, racing up on their tail.

      Aspen tensed as Dylan swerved, the car bounced over a rut in the road and hit a wet patch. The car behind them rammed into their tail, sending the sedan fishtailing across the dark highway, skimming rocks and spewing gravel and dirt.

      Dylan cursed in Spanish and steered into the skid in an attempt to regain control.

      But the car raced up behind them, rammed them again, then swerved to their right and a gunshot pierced the side of the car.

      Aspen screamed, and Dylan shoved her head down. “Stay low!”

      Dylan sped up, weaving left then right, as if he intended to outsmart their attacker at his own game of cat and mouse. The sedan sent the other car sliding off the road toward the creek, which looked as if it was about to flood from the mountain runoff.

      Aspen covered her head with her hands, leaning down so her forehead touched her knees. But a second later, the other car’s tires squealed