She pretended to keep staring at the objects in the cabinet.
She turned.
God!
He was next to her, before her, staring at her, starting to smile…
She swung the frying pan around with all of her might. She caught him on the side of his skull, and the pan seemed to reverberate in her hands. He was still there, still standing, just staring at her.
And then…
He reached out.
She screamed as his hands fell upon her shoulders.
The flooding had grown worse. Still, Keith had no choice but to trust in his knowledge of the area and his instincts. He took the turn-off, then said a silent prayer of relief as the tires found the gravel and rock of his driveway.
The man calling himself Joe Peterson was missing. He had run from the car. Leaving his aunt. There was only one house in the area—his. And Beth was in it.
Something streaked out of the windblown brush and pines that lined the drive.
Someone ahead of him, making his way to the house.
Mark Egan’s hands fell upon Beth’s shoulders. His eyes met hers.
They held a dazed and questioning look.
He sank slowly to the floor in front of her, trying to catch hold of her to prevent his fall. She stepped back, then turned to flee.
His hand, his grip still incredibly strong, wound around her ankle. She fell, stunned. She still had her frying pan.
Never pull out a frying pan unless you intend to use it!
She raised it to strike again. She didn’t need to. The vise of his fingers around her ankle eased. She scurried to the far side of the kitchen floor, staring at him. Was he dead? She inched ever so slightly closer on her knees, frying pan raised to strike.
He didn’t move.
She remained still, desperately thinking. She loathed a movie wherein the victim had the attacker down—then just ran, eschewing the idea that a killer might rise again. She lifted the pan to strike again, then gritted her teeth in agony.
What if she was wrong? What if he was just a drugged-out musician?
She looked around the kitchen, desperate to find something. She saw what she needed. A bottom cabinet was just slightly ajar. She saw an extension cord. The good thing about spending her life around the water and boats was that she could tie one sturdy knot.
She scrambled for the extension cord and turned back to tie up her victim. To her astonishment, he had risen.
He was staring at her again.
His eyes were no longer dazed.
They were deadly.
The elements were still raging. The area in front of the house looked like a lake. Keith knew if he left the old lady in the car, he might well be signing her death certificate. He fought the temptation to leave her, to rush out in a panic, thinking only of his wife.
The dog was yapping.
“Cocoa, if you don’t shut up…!” Keith warned.
To his astonishment, the Yorkie sat still, staring at him gravely. Keith opened the door, reached into the back, picked up his human burden. Cocoa barked once—just reminding Keith he was there. “Come on, then!” he said, and Cocoa jumped up, landing on the old woman’s stomach. Keith hurried toward the house. Was the man in the trailer really just the old woman’s nephew—who had run because of him? Or was he a killer? What if he were in the house, if he had come upon Beth…?
Keith made his way to the front door.
Run. There was no other option.
The rear door was at the back of the kitchen. She ran; he was right behind her.
When she opened the door, the wind rushed in with a rage. She had been ready. He hadn’t. The door slammed shut in his face.
Beth ran out into the storm.
Keith burst into the house, Mrs. Peterson in his arms, Cocoa on top of her.
“Beth?”
To his astonishment, a man staggered out of the kitchen. Wearing his clothes. The fellow stared at him like an escapee from the nearest mental institute.
He was unarmed.
Keith quickly strode to the sofa to deposit Mrs. Peterson. Cocoa stayed on her stomach—growling.
Keith pulled his gun from his waistband.
“Whoa!” the man said.
“Where’s my wife?” Keith barked.
“She hit me with a frying pan and ran out!” the man said. “Oh my God, I’ve been rescued by loonies!” he wailed. “She hits me—now you’re going to shoot me?”
“Who the hell are you?” Keith barked.
“Mark Egan.” He sighed, rubbing his hand. “I’m a musician. What is the matter with you people?”
Holding his gun on the intruder, loath to take his eyes from him, Keith draped a throw, tossed on the back of the rocker, over Mrs. Peterson. “Get in there,” he ordered, indicating the guest room. “Now!”
“I’m going!” the man said, lifting a hand. He sidled against the wall, heading for the room. The lantern caused ominous shadows to invade the house.
“You know, you’re crazy,” he said softly. “You’re both crazy!”
“If you’ve hurt her, I’m going to take you apart piece by piece.”
“She attacked me!” the fellow protested.
“Get in there!”
It was then they both heard the scream, long and sharp, rising above the lashing sound of wind and rain.
The shed had seemed to offer the only escape from the violent elements, and she could arm herself there. Their shed held scuba equipment; she could grab a diving knife.
She couldn’t get the door to open at first because of the wind. At last, it gave.
An ebony darkness greeted her.
She slipped inside, reaching in her pocket for the matches with which she had lit the Sterno. Her hands were shaking, wet and cold.
Her first attempt was futile. She was wet; she had to stop dripping on the matches.
At last, she got a match lit.
There, in the brief illumination of flame, was a face.
Eyes red-rimmed.
Flesh pasty white.
Hand gripping a diver’s knife.
“Don’t scream!” she heard.
Too late.
She screamed.
Keith sped out of the house.
He was forced to pause, slightly disoriented. The wind and rain were loud, skewing sounds around him. Then he realized that the scream had to have come from the shed, and he raced in that direction, his gun drawn. He wrenched the door open.
There was darkness within.
“Beth!”
“Put the gun down!” came a throaty, masculine reply.
Beth appeared. Soaked, hair plastered around her beautiful face. There was a man behind her. The fellow who had claimed to be Joe Peterson. He had a knife, and it was against Beth’s throat as he emerged.
“Put