Peppermint Creek Inn (31 page)

Trudging across the railroad tracks, he led Sara along the overgrown path to the desolate white-planked house. The black tar-papered roof sagged a little but the rest of it remained in relatively good shape. As they neared the cabin, impressions shelled him. Images of darkness. Ice cold seeping deep into his bones. Angry voices of two men having a violent argument.

This was the place where he’d been held.

Perspiration popped out on every square inch of his body. He felt clammy. Cold. Terrified. The urge to run felt so strong he turned to leave.

“What’s wrong?” Sara’s soft voice stopped him cold, and he looked back at the innocent-looking cabin.

“Nothing.”

He was too close to run away now. His memories lay somewhere in there.

“C’mon let’s go inside,” he whispered. His hand tightened around hers and excitement intermingled with fear as they trudged onto the rotting porch. Pushing the gray wooden-planked door open, he entered the house first with Sara right behind him.

A musty odor of rotting damp wood greeted them along with crumbling shelves filled with cobwebs. Giant spiders watched his every move as he passed them. An old refrigerator lay half sunk into the rotting floorboards.

“Nice kitchen,” Sara whispered from behind him. “Looks like someone was looking for something, too.”

Tom noted that the floor planks had been ripped from the foundations and gaping holes eyed him from the walls. Somebody had obviously done a good job searching the premises.

Instinctively he knew they were way off the mark. He’d outsmarted them. His heart slammed powerfully against his chest as he followed his instincts and walked further into the house.

Tiptoeing across the rotting floorboards, Sara eyed the long strips of white paint that hung haphazardly from a dangerously sagging ceiling and buzzing hornets made their homes in the corners of the main room.

“Look, over there.”

She followed to where Tom was pointing and noted a splintered hole in the top of the window jamb.

“A bullet hole?”

“If I don’t miss my guess.”

Tom bent down and picked up an old rusty kitchen knife and in a few steps he was at the window digging at the hole.

A moment later, the bullet popped out of the rotten wood. Turning it over in his hand, he examined the slug.

“It seems to be the same size as the one I dug out of your back.”

“Could be from the same gun.”

Excitement roared through her. Here was possible evidence Tom had been in this house and someone had been shooting at him while he was escaping. This piece of evidence might come in very handy.

Quickly he shoved the bullet snugly into his back pocket and took her hand again.

“Watch your step, sweetness. I don’t want any more nails digging into those pretty feet of yours. I have better plans for them.”

“Such as?”

“Sucking on your toes for one.”

“I’ve never had a man suck on my toes before,” she giggled.

“Better get used to it.”

“Is that a promise?”

He halted and her breath stopped deep in her lungs at the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m going to try like hell to clear my name and make a future for us. But I can’t do it by trusting the cops. If Garry and Jo can’t help me, then I may have to run, but I promise I’ll come back to you.”

“If you run, I’m coming with you.”

She saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes and a shiver of uneasiness curled through her.

“I know I said no strings but you do want me to come with you, don’t you?”

“I want you safe, sweetness. You can’t be safe with me.”

She wanted to argue with him, but they were at the staircase now.

“I was held down there,” he said tightly and let go of her hand.

A moment later, he began to descend into the dark basement.

Brushing past the hanging cobwebs, she quickly followed him down the narrow staircase.

The air flowed cold and damp down here, instantly reminding her of the well and its contents.

Abruptly she stepped off the last step. And stopped behind Tom.

Except for a tiny streak of sunshine streaming through a small pane-less window toward the far corner, pitch-blackness greeted her.

“We should go back to the boathouse and get a flashlight,” she said as a shiver of unease rippled up her spine. The spooky darkness of this place gave her the creeps. At that instant, she heard a sizzling sound and the bright yellow flare of a match.

“You come prepared.”

“Boy Scouts,” he whispered and pointed to a lone wooden door in the wall.

“That’s where they kept me.”

—

Tom shivered as he struck another match and watched the shadows flicker along the wooden door.

Against the back of his neck, he could feel Sara’s warm breath bristle invitingly and he was really glad she was here with him. She gave him the courage to step forward. To find out what had happened behind that door.

Yet at the same time, he didn’t want to open it either.

As if she knew what he was thinking, Sara whispered gently, “We’ll never find out if you don’t go forward.”

She was right. It was about time he confronted those memories.

Taking a deep breath, he gave the door a rough shove. It creaked inward. Ice-cold air slammed into Tom hurling him back in time…

He’d awoken, almost frozen, lying on the cold, wet ground, his hands cuffed to a drooping chain adhered to an iron loop protruding from the stone wall. His head was literally splitting apart. Nausea almost overwhelmed his senses. He pulled himself upward, his sore hands burning with the effort.

Finally he managed to pull himself into a seated position and hugged the wall for any warmth he could find. He winced as the excruciating headache edged up a notch.

Gazing down at his hands he found the source of pain and was surprised to see the tiny, puffy puncture wounds in his palms. He had no idea what had happened or where he was, but he wasn’t going to hang around to find out.

It was dark in here, but not so dark he could not make out the silhouette of someone huddled in the nearby corner. Almost immediately, he noticed the tiny candle flickering on the ground near the person.

He almost called out. But his heart sank when he saw the clothes the man wore. A cop’s uniform. The man’s eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.
Sleeping on the job?
Tom’s breath hitched at the thought.

Y’know the old saying, when the cat’s away the mice will play. He gazed around the room, quickly checking for an escape route. The room was tiny. About six feet by three feet. And maybe six feet high. How appropriate, he thought wryly.

For all intents and purposes he may as well be six feet under, because aside from these challenging restraints, the only way out would be the wood-planked door. Suddenly the heavy door burst open crashing against the rock wall like a sharp rifle crack. Tom jumped in surprise. The cop in the corner remained in his crouched position. Not moving. His eyes stayed closed.

He got the feeling the cop was feigning sleep. And waiting. He watched the newcomer crouch slightly as he stepped into the cellar. His heart sunk even lower. Another cop.

He noted the reddish moustache and the red hair.

Sam Blake. The man lying dead in the well. The shock of his remembrance almost broke Tom from his memory but he fought against the surprise, pulling himself back into his train of thought. He wanted to remember this. He needed to remember.

The cop glared angrily at the other officer crouched in the corner, but he said nothing.

Then he turned and stared down at Tom.

Tom stared back, defiant.

Sam Blake looked to be about six-foot-three. Maybe taller. The skinniest-looking guy he’d ever seen. His hair, what floated out from beneath his cop’s hat, was a dirty rusty red, the same color as the pencil-thin mustache hanging beneath the man’s bulbous-like nose.

His gaze narrowed on the cop. “Who are you? What the hell am I doing here?”

The cop’s anger dissipated. His lips upturned into one awful cruel smile.

“So! You’re finally awake!” the cop drawled and slowly crouched down in front of him. “Thought I’d beat you a little too hard during the last round. Had me worried.”

“What do you want?”

“We’re not going to play that game again, are we?” he said sweetly.

When he gave the cop no answer, a cruel smile crept across his lips and his voice lowered to a deadly tone that sent a shiver of dread slicing through Tom’s bones. “I’ll cut to the chase this time. You got it. We want it. Tell us where it is and we’ll let you go. It’s as simple as that.”

He blinked not knowing how to comprehend what the cop said.

You got it? We want it? Got what? Shock waves of nausea spilled through his gut.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Blake’s mustache twitched. The cruel smile evaporated and his black beady eyes narrowed into tiny slits.

“Don’t toy with me, rat. I want the goods. I want it now,” he demanded between clenched teeth.

Rat? Why was he calling him rat? What the hell kind of name was that? And what was the cop talking about?

“Listen, there must be some kind of mistake. Just tell me what it is I’m supposed to have.”

Blake’s hand slithered downward. Toward his boot.

He gulped nervously as the cop’s black leather gloved hand slid into the boot and produced a .32. His blood ran cold as Blake lifted the gun slowly. Deliberately.

In seconds the barrel was pointed straight at him. Directly between his eyes. Not more than three inches from his face.

His stomach twisted into a sickening knot.

“You don’t have to do this, man,” Tom whispered. He didn’t recognize his own voice. It sounded flat. Totally devoid of any emotion.

“Just tell me where it is.”

He flinched when he heard the clicking sound shatter the silent room. He watched in horrified fascination as the cylinder revolved to position a shiny new .32 bullet into the chamber.

It was at this point he became fully aware of the saying “your life passes before your eyes”. However, nothing was happening. At least not in his case. Heck. Nothing passed before his eyes. Just a .32 and a grinning madman.

A trickle of sweat dribbled down his forehead as his mind fought desperately against the exploding panic gripping him.

He didn’t have the faintest clue as to what this man was talking about. Maybe the guy would listen to reason?

“Listen, man. I’m serious here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wrong answer,” came his sharp reply.

He braced himself. The gun pointed directly at his brain. The bullet would most likely knock him out before he could even feel a thing. Attempting to keep that one thought plugged squarely in his head, he felt some of his fear vanish.

Panic dulled. Anger at being held against his will subsided. A warm feeling of peace greeted him and he found himself alone. With peace and with God.

Then as if in a dream, he watched his own shackled hand slowly lift and float toward the gun, pushing it gently aside.

“You can’t kill me,” he said casually. “I have something you want.”

Blake’s eyes grew into giant marbles as his face twisted into an evil mask.

“You are a dead man, rat.”

The gun swung on him. A gunshot rang out.

Tom jerked at the searing sound. He squeezed his eyes shut and his heart lunged into his mouth. He held his breath and waited for the life to pour out of him.

Endless silence rang throughout the room.

After a few moments, he realized cold air still entered his trembling lungs. Amazing. Somehow, the bullet had missed. He was still very much alive. And very much terrified. Or very much dead. But dead men didn’t have splitting headaches did they? Or the God-awful shivers.

Reluctantly Tom opened his eyes to find Blake lying facedown on the hard rocky floor in front of him. A spreading blossom of red pooled across the man’s back.

Horrified at the sudden turn of events, he’d turned his aching head to find the other cop, the one who’d been feigning sleep, standing in the corner. A small gray wisp of smoke curled from the gun in his hand. A satisfied smile lifted his lips.

Tom cursed beneath his breath as he remembered the cop’s face.

Jeffries. Justin Jeffries had saved his life.

—

A fresh, warm, fish-scented breeze wafted off the bay, gently rustling Tom’s blond hair. He stood stiff as a board. His jaws clenched tight as if he was fighting off some demons. His scowling emerald gaze scanned the nearby rugged cliffs.

He seemed extremely upset, yet he hadn’t said a word to her as they’d trotted up the stairs from the bowels of the debilitated house. He’d headed straight for the shoreline and begun to scan the surrounding hillside. She wanted to ask him what he was searching for, but she opted to remain quiet. Past experience had taught her he’d tell her in his own good time.

Suddenly his eyes narrowed. She followed his gaze. She didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and yet—

Sara peered closer. A casual observer wouldn’t have seen a thing.

It took a moment but she definitely saw a tiny metallic glint twinkle in the sunshine about halfway up a nearby rocky cliff.

“How’s your foot?”

“Fine.”

“You up for a little hike?”

Sara nodded, puzzled by his suddenly excited behavior.

“C’mon,” he grabbed her hand, leading her along the sandy shoreline, across the train tracks and toward the hillside.

—

Fifteen minutes later, they were both out of breath from the taxing climb as they stood on a narrow ledge of the steep cliff staring wide-eyed at a shiny, expensive, brand new-looking, flashy green motorcycle laid carefully on its side. And it wasn’t just any motorcycle. Gold lettering, written proudly across the gas tank revealed the words “Harley-Davidson”.