Dead Giveaway (23 page)

Noises from outside kept her on edge. Branches banged against the sides of the cabin; the rain thrummed loudly and steadily on the roof. Even the crackle of the fire made it difficult to determine whether or not she heard someone moving around.

It was unlikely, she told herself. If the person who had her gun had intended to hurt her tonight, he would've done it already. She had a kitchen knife for a weapon, but a knife wasn't much use against a gun. Considering her isolation, she was easy prey. So she doubted her visitor had hung around with plans to harm her. For now he--or she--was only out to deliver a message.

She knew that and yet she couldn't relax.

Holding her breath, she closed her eyes so she could focus on differentiating between the various rustling, tapping and scratching noises. But, in the end, concentrating didn't help. Her nerves were working against her. She couldn't tell what was real and what she'd imagined.

Calm down.
Her palm began to sweat on the handle of the knife, but she didn't release it.

She tried to occupy her mind by puzzling out who might've written the note. It had to be someone who knew her and what she was working on, someone who was familiar with the Barker case and had a personal stake in it.

Unfortunately, that didn't bring a lot of possibilities to mind. Most people in Stillwater
wanted
her to get to the truth. The Montgomerys were the only ones she knew of, besides Jed Fowler perhaps, who weren't particularly forthcoming.

Could it be Clay?

The thought crept in, even though she'd been carefully avoiding it. She'd told no one else where she'd be tonight.

But he was too smart to write a note that would make him look worse than he already did.

And he'd told her not to come to the cabin alone. Would he encourage her to bring a friend if he planned to break into her car and frighten her half to death?

She didn't think so. It had to be someone else. Someone who wanted her to believe it was Clay....

Joe Vincelli? Joe's father or another member of the Vincelli clan? Beth Ann?

A car door slammed, and Allie froze. Maybe she was about to find out.

Scrambling to her feet, she pressed herself against the inside wall of the cabin listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. Whoever it was wouldn't be able to get in through the door.

But he--or she--could break the window.

A loud knock made her knees go weak.

"Allie? Are you in there?"

Clay! She recognized his voice immediately and nearly called out to him. But she was afraid she'd been a fool to trust him so much. Had she been blinded by his legendary sex appeal?

105

Brenda Novak

It was possible.
Anything
was possible. At the moment, she doubted herself, doubted everyone.

"Allie, open the door," he said. "What happened to your car? Why's the passenger window broken?"

The doorknob rattled. Icy tentacles of fear tightened every muscle--and yet Allie's first instinct, even now, was to let him in. She would have, if not for the echo of her father's voice in her head...
you got into his car, knowing he could be dangerous...

"Allie, answer me! Are you okay?"

If Clay intended to hurt her, he'd had his chance last weekend.

Her reaction wasn't logical, but fear rarely was. Fear said if she lowered her defenses and she was wrong, he could kill her, bury her in the woods and drive back to town as if he'd never even left the farm--and no one would be the wiser. She'd simply be gone. Like Barker. Just as the note promised.

The fingernails of her free hand curled into her palm as she heard Clay move to the window. Would he break it?

She waited, heart racing, as she wondered if she'd have to defend herself against the man she'd started fantasizing about.

But when she heard his voice again, he was heading toward the river, probably searching for the outhouse she'd told him about, hoping he'd find her there.

"Allie!" The wind tossed his voice about. Her name seemed to echo against the trees, mixing with the melee of thunder and wind and rain. He must be getting soaked.

If he wasn't responsible for the night's events, what was he doing out here?

Think
, she ordered herself.
Think, think, think!
She needed to clear her head; her imagination was getting the best of her. She didn't believe Clay had killed Barker, at least not purposely. And she couldn't believe he'd harm her now. She trusted him.

Enough to bet her life on opening the door?

She remembered the humiliation she'd sensed in him when she'd made him remove his shirt the night Beth Ann had accused him of murder. Beneath the tough exterior, Clay was a good man.

Her gut had told her that from the beginning and her gut was all she had to rely on.

Taking a deep breath, she set the knife aside and started to shove the bookcase out of the way. But then she heard a muttered curse right outside the cabin, too close to be Clay. Clay was still calling for her down by the river.

Was the person who'd taken her gun still there? If so, why?

Joe's face, angry and vindictive, flashed through Allie's mind. The only answer she could come up with was that this was some kind of setup. No doubt Beth Ann had convinced Joe, along with half the town, that Allie wouldn't put Clay behind bars even if he deserved it. Maybe Joe had gotten tired of waiting for justice and decided to take the law into his own hands. Joe and his father and brother had been fishing with Allie's father a couple of times, so they knew about the cabin. It was possible that Joe had enticed Clay to the lake on false pretenses.

And if that was true...

Allie's stomach tensed. If that was true, she'd just let Clay walk into a trap.

She had to warn him. Now! But it had taken her a full fifteen minutes to slide the bookcase in front of the door. She couldn't move it in a matter of seconds.

Unable to stop the terrible images bombarding her brain--images of Joe creeping up behind Clay with her Glock--she tore half the books off the shelves, kicked the unit over and used the wall to give her some leverage as she pushed.

106

Brenda Novak

"Allie?" Clay was still calling her.

"Stop! Get down!" she cried out in panic and frustration. But she knew he couldn't hear her.

Each agonizing second seemed to last an hour as she moved the bookcase inch by inch.

Finally, she was able to open the door enough to slip through. "Clay!"

Clay's truck was parked right in front. Even without a flashlight she could tell that someone had punctured two of his tires.

Someone who didn't want him to leave. Which frightened her more than anything.

"Clay, get down! Don't say a word!" she yelled. Her cry echoed back to her as she charged after him. But it was too late. A shot rang out before she'd taken five steps. She heard a gasp to her left. Then someone went crashing through the woods to her right.

Time seemed to stand still as, not far away, Allie heard an engine start. The shooter was escaping. She didn't even try to follow. She'd never be able to catch him. But that wasn't what kept her rooted to the spot. It was the sickening realization that someone had just taken a shot at Clay.

And she'd heard him fall.

The pungent smell of wet earth filled Clay's nostrils as he lay on the ground, blinking against the rain falling into his face. What had happened? One moment, he'd been searching frantically for Allie. The next, he'd heard a gunshot and something--presumably a bullet--had knocked him off his feet.

Had someone taken a shot at him? As surreal as that seemed, it was the only explanation.

He wanted to believe the gunshot was a freak accident, but then he remembered Allie yelling, trying to warn him.

What was going on? He remembered the shattered window in Allie's car. She wasn't safe.

He had to get up.

But his arm...

Muffling a groan, he tried to see what was wrong with it. It ached and burned. His head hurt, too. But he had to reach Allie somehow. The person who'd shot him could be after her.

"Allie?" he called. Except he was pretty sure her name didn't actually leave his lips. He was yelling, but only inside his head.

"Clay? Answer me if you can. Please! Clay? Help me find you."

She was the one who was calling. She was pleading with him, searching for him, but he couldn't seem to respond. Why?

The beam of a flashlight swept through the trees. She was coming toward him.

He cursed the target her light made. She had to turn it off, run, hide....

Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to clear his muddled brain. Had he blacked out when he hit the ground? "Allie, get out of here," he said. The words were a mere croak, but at least this time he heard his own voice and, when he redoubled his efforts, he was able to yell louder. "Get out of here! Do you hear? Go!"

"Clay!" she cried, breaking into a run.

"Not this way!" he yelled. Slowly, his faculties were returning. He clambered into a sitting position and used the tree to pull himself to his feet. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him, but he fought it back. She wasn't listening, dammit. She was hurrying toward him.

"Allie--" he started. But then she was there, helping to support his weight while she shone her flashlight, examining him closely.

"Are you hurt?"

He wanted to shield her, in case another bullet came from the same direction. But he didn't 107

Brenda Novak

have his accustomed mobility. He wasn't even sure he'd still be standing without her. "My arm."

The beam of her flashlight rose, and he heard her gasp. She'd spotted the warm, sticky blood he'd felt soaking into his clothes. But when she spoke, her cop instincts seemed to take control because she sounded quite calm. "It doesn't look too bad."

He knew she was saying it for his benefit, but he had bigger concerns on his mind right now. Like getting shot again. Or seeing Allie shot. "Whoever did it could still be out there--"

"No, I heard him go. We've got to get you to the cabin," she said urgently.

"The cabin?" he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

"We can't," she told him. "We don't have a vehicle."

As soon as Allie got Clay out of the rain, she helped him strip off his wet clothes. She was afraid he'd go into shock if she didn't get him warm. He was soaked clear through, and his pupils were dilated.

"Do you have a cell phone?" she asked.

"No."

Great
. "That's okay. You're going to be fine," she said over and over. She wasn't sure who she was trying to convince, him or herself; she didn't feel nearly as confident as she tried to appear.

Before she joined the cold case unit in Chicago, she'd responded to calls that involved some serious wounds, but she'd never come across a victim she couldn't immediately rush--or have rushed--to the hospital.

In any event, it didn't matter if she sounded a little panicked, because Clay didn't seem to be listening, anyway. Allie got the impression he had to concentrate just to remain conscious.

"Are you in a lot of pain?" she asked.

"No," he said.

She could tell by the grim set of his jaw that he was lying, but decided to play along. "That's good." She pulled the blankets over his naked body then rummaged through the cupboards, searching for anything that might help them.

She located a first-aid kit that was at least fifteen years old. Thankfully, the bottle of ibuprofen she found right afterward was almost new. "Here, have some of these," she said, dropping four pills into his palm. "They might take the edge off."

He swallowed the pills without water and without argument.

"Doesn't look like a big deal," he said, gazing down at his arm.

Bits of dirt and grass clung to the blood smeared on his bicep, and a fresh trickle flowed from a tiny hole in his deltoid.

Was the bullet still inside?

That thought made Allie nauseous, which surprised her. She'd dealt with some gruesome murders, considered herself to have a strong stomach. But this was different. Clay wasn't a stranger.

Allie wiped away the blood with a dish towel, because it was all she had. More blood surged out, so she applied pressure until the bleeding slowed. She could see where the bullet had gone in and--she leaned forward, then sagged onto the bed in relief--where it had come out. It had passed straight through the muscle.

"Don't tell me you're going to faint," he murmured.

"No, I'm just glad we don't have to perform any kind of crude surgery. There's a lovely exit wound on the back of your arm. If it didn't hurt so badly, you could probably turn it far enough to see for yourself."

108

Brenda Novak

He winced. "I'll take your word for it."

"I'm getting the bleeding under control."

"Glad to hear it," he muttered.

She tied the dish towel around his arm to keep pressure on the wound. "I'll be right back."

He reached out to stop her, but she stood up too fast. "Where are you going?"

"To the river for water."

"No, I don't want you out there. Get under these blankets before you catch pneumonia."

Allie immediately pictured the body beneath the covers, the body she'd helped undress. She knew Clay was only being practical. They were almost out of dry wood and had to stay warm somehow. The shock to his system was probably making it difficult for him to bring his body temperature up, even though he was dry and covered with blankets. But she should clean his wound first. There was no telling how much bacteria he'd encountered when he fell in the mud.

Besides, she couldn't climb into bed wearing wet clothes and, although she had more worrisome issues to deal with at the moment, she felt self-conscious about getting naked. She was too attracted to Clay. Had he been a stranger, she could've reacted to the necessity of the situation without feeling so nervous and aroused.

"I will once I clean it," she said.

"Isn't there some antiseptic?"

"No. It's long gone. I need some water."

He scowled. "Morning will be soon enough for that."