Snapped (24 page)

She knew he would find her. He’d be first on the scene, like he’d been once before, and he’d see her mangled, lifeless body, and she knew that it would cut him to the bone—the kind of cut that never really healed—because he saw himself as her protector. She realized that now
in this tumbling, too-slow moment when her life stood stark and insignificant before her and she was flying headlong into death after too many wasted hours and days doing nothing much that mattered. She’d cheated death before, and now it was her turn.

She felt the relentless pull of gravity, yanking the front of her car down, dragging her straight back to earth and into the wall of trees. And she suddenly
rejected
death, with every fiber of her being, because even if it
was
her turn, she was a survivor, and she was going to fight until her very last heartbeat.

The wall of trees rushed up. The windshield
popped
. The entire world reached out and smacked her in the face.

Jonah raced through the curves and switchbacks, searching for the Tahoe. His heart thundered. His hands were slick on the steering wheel as he replayed the last few seconds over and over.

There had been a scream and then a high, excruciating shriek of metal just before a silence that froze him to the core.

And then he saw them, there on the highway. Two black parallel skid marks crossing over the yellow line.

“Fuck!”

He stomped on the brake and slammed to a jaw-rattling stop on the narrow shoulder. He jammed the gearshift into park and leaped from the truck, his heart pounding in his chest like a herd of cattle.

He followed the marks and spotted the twisted guardrail he’d missed just seconds earlier. It had been
shorn from all but one of its posts and flung over the hillside like a piece of trash.

Jonah sprinted for the gaping hole in the foliage and caught himself on a tree branch as his feet slid out from under him. He landed hard and rode the next twenty feet on his ass before connecting with a boulder jutting out from the steep hillside. He glanced around frantically.

About forty feet below him, the roof of the Tahoe.

“Sophie!”

He jumped to his feet and crashed through the brush, catching himself on limbs and branches to keep from taking a header into the bowl of plants and trees where she’d landed. He felt sick. His stomach churned with dread as he half-slid, half-ran down the hillside. Was she conscious? Had she crawled out somehow? The one door he could see from this angle—the passenger’s side—was shut. But the window was broken.

“Sophie!” The hoarse call echoed through the hills as he neared the wreckage. The cop part of his brain cataloged the scene while the rest of his brain shut down. The Tahoe had landed on top of an oak tree, splitting it in two. He noted the splintered limbs, the shards of glass, like ice crystals, blanketing the ground. The SUV perched on the splayed tree, its silver hubcaps still spinning like pinwheels in the open air.

And then it exploded.

The blast knocked her off her feet. A bolt of pain zinged up her tailbone. She watched, awestruck, as a ball of fire billowed up from the wreck and reached high into the sky before sinking down again and dissipating into a cloud of smoke. Heat licked her cheeks. She flipped onto her stomach and cupped her hands over her head as chunks of debris rained down.

Seconds ticked by. She tasted dirt. She smelled smoke and dust, felt it tickling in her throat as she waited for the next wave of terror. Her pulse raced at some impossible speed, but it told her she was alive, and for now that was enough. Her ears rang. She pushed herself up. The earth seemed to shake under her hands and knees, but then she understood it was
her
shaking, from the top of her head to the soles of her very bare feet.

My shoes are gone
. And that inane thought was followed by a more practical one:
Someone’s trying to kill me
.

Sophie’s heart skittered. That panicked inner voice she’d heard just moments ago—the one that had ordered her to break free from the tentacles of her seat belt and
her air bag, the one that had ordered her to shimmy through that shattered window and brave the eight-foot drop from the tree like it was nothing—that voice was back again, louder than ever. And this time it was telling her to spit out the dirt and get to her feet and get a
move on
. Now. Before someone realized she’d made it out of that wreck alive.

Her ears continued to buzz as she grabbed for the nearest object—a sapling—and hauled herself to her feet. She wiped her dusty palms on her even dustier dress. She took a wobbly step for the cover of the bushes. Her legs felt stiff and rubbery all at the same time. Smoke stung her eyes. She couldn’t hear. Her mind was jumbled, crowded. She had room for only one thought at a time, and at that instant, it was that her arm burned. She clutched it against her chest and used her other arm to push through the branches. And then a new thought took hold.

She needed to hide.

Jonah reached the fiery wreckage and glanced around, desperate.

“Sophie!”

She’d gotten out. He had to believe that. He clutched her shoe in his hand—her clean, intact shoe—and tried to believe it meant something good. It meant there was hope.

Beyond the crackle and hiss of flames, he heard the sirens of the coming cavalry. He hadn’t called them. His phone was in his truck, sixty feet above him at the top of the ridge. Someone must have seen the smoke and called for help.

A rustle in the bushes. He dropped the shoe and plunged in after it.

“Sophie?”
He swept aside vines and branches and searched for any sign of her. Movement. A flash of blue just beyond the green. He plowed through another layer, and she was there, right in front of him, staring up at him with wide gray eyes.

His heart flipped over in his chest.

She was bleeding. Filthy. Disoriented. But she was alive. She was on her feet, too, but that didn’t last long as her legs crumpled, and he caught her just before she hit the ground. She reached out to touch him, as if he were an apparition.

“Jonah. I don’t …” She didn’t complete the sentence, just clutched the front of his shirt.

“It’s okay. I got you. You’re okay now.”

She looked up at him, glassy-eyed. He touched her face, her shoulders, her neck, looking for any sign of injury. The most obvious—she was in shock. He’d seen it in Afghanistan. She had the look of a soldier whose bunker had just been hammered with a few too many mortar shells.

She held her arm against her chest, and he touched it gently.

“Are you hurt? Show me.”

Tremors shook her, head to toe, but she held her arm out to him. It was streaked with blood, and he saw the chunk of glass embedded in her wrist.

“From the window.” She stared down at her arm as if it belonged to someone else.

“You climbed out the window?”

She nodded.

“And then what, you jumped?”

She nodded again.

He laughed—a mix of relief and
you’ve got to be fucking kidding me
—as he looked into her face. He brushed the hair from her eyes. “That was a good call.” He nodded. “Damn thing fireballed, but I guess you saw that.”

Her gaze drifted over his shoulder. She was still in shock.
He
was in shock. He couldn’t believe he was crouched here in front of her when just minutes ago he’d thought she was dead.

He’d thought she was dead
.

He glanced over his shoulder at the plume of smoke above the trees. The sirens were louder now, and stationary. At any moment a crew would start combing the bushes, searching for survivors.

“Jonah.”

He turned back to give her his full attention.

“We’ll get your arm fixed, I promise.” He kissed her forehead.

She sagged against him, and he shifted on his haunches to keep them both from tipping over.
He’d thought she was dead
. He held her tightly and watched the smoke drift up into the blue.

It smelled like a hospital, which made sense because it
was
a hospital. But for the past two hours, the thought kept popping into her brain each time a gurney rolled by or she got a fresh whiff of that antiseptic-scented air.

It wasn’t crowded—not like last time—but Sophie was stuck in hospital purgatory as people in scrubs and lab coats bustled back and forth, ignoring her.

At last, a wispy-thin nurse in pink scrubs stepped up to her table.

“Here we are.” She handed Sophie a small white tube, then picked up the nearby clipboard and jotted something down. “That’s for your cuts. The script for the codeine is on its way, soon as Dr. Broomfield can get over here.”

Sophie hadn’t seen Dr. Broomfield since the first fifteen minutes, when he shone a light in her eyes and asked her what day it was. His bedside manner had been pretty abrupt, but he’d promised her something to help the pain in her tailbone, so she hadn’t totally written him off.

“And after that I can go?”

The woman smiled. “Fine with me, if you can clear it with the authorities.”

Sophie cast an impatient look at the patrol officer leaning against the reception desk, shooting the breeze with the nurses. He’d been there ever since Jonah and Ric had gone to “check on something” at the police station.

The two double doors swung open and—as if conjured up by her thoughts—Ric Santos strode in. To her disappointment, he was alone. He stopped to say something to the patrol officer before making a beeline for her exam room, which consisted of a padded table and a flimsy curtain that had been pulled back.

“Sophie,” he said.

“Ric,” she replied. Small talk was not Ric’s strong suit.

“DPS is still on scene,” he stated.

“Okay.” She wasn’t sure what that meant. The highway patrol was still investigating? Clearing the wreckage away? And then she realized she didn’t give a flip.

“Where’s Jonah?”

“At the station. Said he’d be here soon as he could get free.”

Sophie glanced at the reception desk, where the cop was hanging out. He was still on babysitting detail, or Ric would have dismissed him.

Which meant Jonah was going to be awhile.

The doors opened again, and this time it was Allison. She was wearing another version of the jeans-shirt-blazer ensemble Sophie had seen twice before. She carried a large brown sack with the top folded over, and Sophie wondered what was in it. Detectives were constantly showing up at the lab with bags like that, and some of them contained some pretty nasty stuff.

Allison deposited the bag on the counter and joined their little powwow. “You hanging in?” she asked, looking concerned.

“I’m okay.”

She reached into the blazer and pulled out an envelope. “Went by your apartment, got the manager to let me in. Your spare credit card was in the desk like you said.”

“Thank you.” Sophie took the envelope and stared down at it. Her purse, her phone, her gun—all of her most important possessions had been lost, and now she was down to one spare credit card with a thousand-dollar limit.

Enough to cover her ER co-pay, at least.

She turned back to Ric. “You were saying? What happened to my car?”

“They’re still working the accident scene,” Ric said.

“
Accident?
My Tahoe exploded, in case you didn’t notice. How can that be called an accident?”

Allison shot Ric a look.

“It probably wasn’t,” he said.

“Probably.” Sophie crossed her arms. “Where’s Jonah? I want some straight answers.”

“We have some questions first,” Allison said. “Did you notice anyone lurking near your car in the last twenty-four hours? Maybe when you stopped at the store, say, or parked at the gym?”

“I didn’t do either of those things in the last twenty-four hours.”

“We ran the surveillance tapes for the parking lot at Delphi,” Allison said. “If someone tampered with your vehicle during the past three days, they didn’t do it there.”

Sophie looked from Allison to Ric. “You think someone put a bomb in my car?”

Allison flicked a wary glance over her shoulder, probably worried about potential eavesdroppers. She looked at Sophie. “At this point, we can’t confirm—”

“Jonah thinks it was a bomb,” Ric said, cutting her off.

Sophie’s blood chilled. Ric gave her a long, steady look, as if gauging her reaction.

“You have any threats recently?” he asked. “Phone calls or letters we should know about?”

“I haven’t had any threats, no. I mean, I was
mugged
.” She looked at Allison. “You could probably count that.”

“We’re looking into that,” Allison said, and Sophie’s blood turned colder.

It hadn’t been a mugging, then. The man with the knife had meant to kill her and probably would have if someone hadn’t chased him off with a shotgun.

“So, you’re saying someone wanted to … to hurt me?”
To kill me
, she was thinking, but she couldn’t seem to say the words.