Hidden Fire, Kobo (39 page)

As a matter of fact, he looked worse than
she did right now. Between his hours and his stubbornness, he wasn't eating
properly and it was going to catch up with him. She caught herself planning
mental menus. Apparently her subconscious had accepted the idea of taking the
relationship forward.

Trying to wrap her conscious mind around
that one, she exited and looked for a directory. Randy would be going to the
campus police when he finished his calls, so she might as well meet him there.

She found the office, but Randy hadn't
arrived. She retraced her steps to the foyer. A stack of magazines lay on an
end table. She picked up a dog-eared copy of
Good Housekeeping
and
flipped to the decorating section. An article about merging households caught
her eye. She settled onto a bench as questions flooded her.

Would she move to Randy's house? It would
be a longer commute to work, but doable. Her apartment was so much smaller. And
no equity. Plus, she always got the feeling David's ghost haunted him at her
place, even though he denied it. Randy's house was his, free and clear. He
loved living where he'd grown up. Would he let her change things? Bring in a
few of her favorite pieces?

Maybe she should read the article instead
of daydreaming. Absorbed in ways to blend two existing lives, she jerked with a
start when something poked her in the back of the neck. Hot breath fanned her
ear.

"Not a sound, woman, or bad things
will happen to a certain tall friend of yours. Stand up, nice and easy, smile,
and we're going to walk to the door like old friends. Got it?" An arm
gripped her elbow and the object at her neck moved to the side of her rib cage.
She couldn't see it, but it didn't take much to figure out it had to be a gun.

All her self-defense lessons played
through her head. But even if she could remember what to do and if she could
actually do it in real life, Randy was in trouble. She couldn't risk someone
harming him because she wanted to play hero. If she'd learned anything from her
experiences with Chris, it was to wait for the right moment.

She turned her head to see her captor.

"Don't turn around," he
growled.

She caught a glimpse of a black nylon
windbreaker and a baseball cap, but nothing more. He opened the door and shoved
her outside ahead of him. They crossed the street and were in the parking lot.
She scanned the lot but couldn't see Randy's black pickup anywhere. Her heart
pounded against her ribs. Her pulse roared in her ears. Struggling to control
her breathing, she looked for an escape route.

A silver-haired woman approached from
between two cars. She seemed preoccupied with finding something in her
oversized purse. Would she go for help if Sarah called to her? Or was someone
watching, listening? Someone who had Randy? Before she could debate the finer
points of flight, fight or following directions, the woman looked up and
smiled.

"Nice day, isn't it?" she said.
"So wonderful to see the sun for a change. I was going to see if I could
get a jump. My car won't start and I think it's the battery. The campus police
are so nice about things like that."

Sarah fixed her eyes on the woman, trying
to communicate her plight.

Help me,
she mouthed.
Gun.

The woman didn't seem to notice. If she'd
shown up five minutes ago, there would be cops in the parking lot. To Sarah's
surprise, instead of ignoring the woman, or giving her a cursory response, the
man holding her stopped. Sarah's hopes soared. She watched for a chance to make
a move.

"I've got jumper cables," he
said. "I can help."

His voice. The one in the kiln room. Her
customer, the man who wasn't Walter Young. New panic filled her.

The woman stepped in closer. "Oh,
that would be so kind. People nowadays don't like to get involved, do they?"
She adjusted her glasses. "It's the green Focus. Right over there."
She lifted her hand to point. Sarah felt a sting in her arm above where the man
held her.

"Let's go," he said, pushing
her forward. Everything got bright, then fuzzy, then dark.

* * * * *

Sarah's head pounded. Her stomach
churned. Something pressed against her back. Then her front. She was moving. Bumping?
Falling? Rolling? She tried to brace herself, but her hands wouldn't move. She
heard voices. Far away voices. Fading in and out, like a tape recording played
at the wrong speed while someone messed with the volume. Then everything got
dark again.

The next time the world came back, the
fog thinned. She tried to move. Everything throbbed. Sleep was better. Easier.
She settled back into oblivion until the fog lifted again.

Someone was tugging at her shoes. She
tried to struggle, but her muscles weren't listening to the messages her brain
was sending.

"Leave her," a voice said.
Male.

"Why not make it look like the other
one?" someone else said.

"Idiot. That's all we need. Your stupid
idea to make it look like that serial killer was bad enough, but we don't need
half the cops in the country looking for us."

"Shut up, dammit. She might be
awake."

"Gloria said the stuff was good for
a couple hours." A new voice?

"They're out. We'll be long gone
before they come around."

Car sounds. Doors slamming. Engine noises,
loud at first, then quieter. Loud noises, rumbling, crashing. Then more
silence.

When the world came back, she opened her
eyes, then immediately closed them against the sharp, stabbing pain as light
penetrated from above. She squinted through slitted lids. The pain wasn't as
bad this time and she opened them a little wider. She stared up into the
branches of a tree. A gigantic tree. A redwood. Something about hiking through
the redwoods teased her memory. With Randy? She whipped her head around, looking
for him and regretted it as blackness descended once more.

This time, she awoke with a clearer head.
The pain had dwindled to a dull throb and her stomach had settled. Fury built
inside her. She'd been abducted once before and that was one time too many.

She held her breath, listening. Her heart
drummed against her chest. Branches rustling, birdsong, but nothing else.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes. She was alone. Voices. She remembered voices.
Had she dreamt it?

No, too vivid for a dream. She'd been able
to hear, but not respond. Careful to move slowly, she tested her muscles.
Flexed her fingers, wiggled her feet. Everything seemed to work. She propped
herself up on her elbows. A wave of dizziness came, then subsided. She moved to
a sitting position, scooting backward to lean against a tree trunk, riding out
the disorientation.

Carefully, she turned her head, trying to
get her bearings. To her left, a denim-clad leg protruded from a clump of
foliage. Her eyes moved upward along the body, stopping when she recognized the
shirt Randy had been wearing this morning. Her heart raced. Forgetting her own
aches, she rushed to his side. He lay on his stomach, his head covered with
blood, motionless.

"Randy?" She touched his leg.
He didn't stir. She watched his torso. It moved with his breathing. Slowly, but
he was alive. "Randy. Wake up. It's me. Sarah. Please. Wake up."

Nothing. Wait. Did his eyelids flutter? "Randy.
Can you hear me?"

A barely audible moan answered her.

Someone called his name, demanding he
wake up. Not yet. Too tired. Later. Randy tried to slip back into the
comforting cocoon of oblivion, but the voice got louder. More insistent.

"Mmright. Up." The words caught
behind his thick tongue.

"Randy, please. Wake up."

A gentle touch on his shoulder. Rougher.
Harder. He lifted weighted eyelids. A blurred face hovered above him, half
obscured by leaves and branches. An angel? "Sarah?"

"Thank God, Randy. Can you move?
Wait, don't try. Something might be broken."

"Sarah?" He blinked. "Sarah?"
No wait, he'd said that. Then again, there were two of her.

"Don't talk. Let me try to get you
free."

A gasp escaped as pain shot through his
head. "Stop. Wait." He took a few shaky breaths. Slowly, memories
returned. "Lem. Mon. Ade."

"You're thirsty? I don't have
anything to drink," Sarah said. Her fingers caressed his face. "We'll
get you something later."

"No. Drugged. Kovak."

"Kovak drugged you? Randy you're not
making sense. You've got a nasty bump on your head. I think you hit a tree
trunk. There's blood on it and on you. All over you. You've probably got a
concussion."

From the pain in his head, he agreed.

"Can you move your arms and legs?"
Sarah asked. "Do you think anything's broken?"

He did a check. Fingers wiggled. Wrists
moved. Shoulders shrugged. He tightened his abs. No severe pain. He worked his
way up from his toes. "Think it's okay," he said.

"Can you scoot backward?" Her
hands wrapped around his thigh and tugged.

"Shit. Take it easy," he
gasped.

"I'm sorry. You're all tangled up.
Your leg is trapped. Let me try to move some of these branches."

She pulled and twisted. Pain shot through
him. "Sarah?"

"I'm here." Worry lines creased
her brow.

"I'm going to pass out now, okay?"

"No! Stay with me. Just a little
more. You're almost free."

He clenched his teeth. Concentrated on
where his body parts should be. Suddenly, the pressure on his leg eased. Sarah
tugged some more and he used his elbows to move away from the vegetation that
had imprisoned him. He flopped onto his back, hissing with pain.

"Lie still. I want to see if you're
bleeding anywhere else." Sarah's hands lifted his shirt. He closed his
eyes. He could sleep until she finished. If she'd be quiet.

"I think most of the blood came from
your head," she said. "Those kinds of wounds bleed a lot."

"Blood makes you faint," he
said, surprised the thought registered.

"Don't remind me," she
muttered. "But we don't have time for both of us to pass out and you seem
to have dibs on that one."

"I love you, Sarah."

"And I love you, too. But let's
figure out how we're going to get out of here. Are you feeling any better?"

He had to think about that one. "Yeah."
He struggled to sit.

"Hold it, mister." She pushed
him down. "Let me check your legs." She ran her hands along his
thighs, over his knees, down his calves. "Does this hurt?"

Damn,
everything
hurt. But
bearable. Mostly. He shivered. He patted his pockets. Nothing. No wallet, no
keys, no phone. His gun? "Ankle," he whispered.

"What? Does it hurt? Do you think it's
broken?"

"No. Holster. Backup gun. Is it
there?"

"I didn't feel anything." Her
hands returned, clenching each of his ankles in turn. "Nothing there."

He had vague recollections of someone
else groping him. Not nearly as gentle as Sarah. His head would clear, he knew.
Meanwhile, nothing was being accomplished by him lying on his back. "Help
me up," he said, holding out his hand.

"Are you sure?" That worried
look was back. "Can you walk?"

"One way to find out," he
muttered. He gripped Sarah's hand in his and pulled himself to a sitting position.
The world spun. He squeezed his eyes shut. Sarah's hand pushed his head to his
knees. He counted to ten, then opened his eyes. The merry-go-round had slowed.
He sucked in air. "Let's blow this joint."

Sarah leaned in and wrapped her arms
around his chest. "Take it slowly," she said.

"No problem with that one." He
fought his way to his feet, using Sarah for balance, but trying not to let her
take his weight. Outweighing her by a hundred pounds, he'd send her straight to
the ground if he did.

"You know where we are?" she
asked.

He shook his head. Whoa. There went the
merry-go-round again. Dumb, dumb, dumb. "No. I kind of hoped you did,
seeing how you found me."

"I didn't wake up until a few
minutes ago. I remember I was waiting for you. That man—the one who isn't
Walter Young—came up and stuck a gun in my neck."

Randy staggered and not from dizziness. "What?
My God, Sarah, did he hurt you?"

"No, but this lady came up and
talked to him then everything went black. That's all I remember until I woke
up."

His own memories came back. He'd been
talking to Kovak.

"I was drugged, too," he said. "The
lemonade. Gloria Osgood, the landlady gave me three glasses of the stuff. Slow-acting,
I guess. I remember feeling like crap and—" He stumbled as a wave of
dizziness and nausea crashed over him.

"What," she said. "Do you
need to sit down? There's a log over there."