“Get the shot and leave your paranoia at home,” she muttered to herself. She took the steep turn slowly, no sense making too much noise. As it was, her quarry was extremely sensitive to the slightest vibration, so she’d have to park soon and hike up the mountain on foot.
Her Nikon camera and tripod with the gimbal head rested safely on the passenger seat. They were her most precious belongings. Well, second most anyway. She got that strange, fuzzy feeling deep down in her gut, along with a swirl of desperation. She could not give up, in spite of the ever-present fatigue. Her life wasn’t just about herself anymore. She had someone else relying on her, someone with flyaway hair that never stayed in pigtails and a ready smile.
Something cracked into the windshield, and her foot reflexively hit the brake. She stopped, engine idling. The wheels must have kicked up a rock. She probably had a new chip in the front windshield to show for it. She started on more slowly when another pebble hit the front glass. This time she put the Jeep in Park, slamming the door open.
“All right, Ricky and Stephano. Knock it off,” she hissed to the teen boys she knew must be hunkered down behind the boulders off the path. “If you scare my owl away, I’ll have you tossed in jail.” She was on shaky ground here and the boys probably knew it. She’d threatened to cause trouble with their parents when they vandalized her shed, but incarceration for rock throwing might be a tad severe. Ricky and Stephano were rabble-rousers, but probably not ready for prison yet. In any case, they might just mess up her opportunity to photograph the bird she’d been stalking for a month.
There was a crackle of dry leaves, and someone stepped from behind the rocks. Baggy pants, dirty sweatshirt, backpack. She could not see his face in the near darkness, just a white gleam as he turned his face to hers. Long hair.
Something in the body language made her skin erupt in prickles. Was it the slope of the shoulders, the way he tucked a thumb into the belt loop of his jeans? She knew it was Tucker, even before he spoke. All the time she’d been hunting the owl, he’d been hunting her. Tingles of fear coursed along and tangled with white-hot rage.
“So,” she said, forcing the words out around the serrated edge in her throat. “Are you here to kill me now, too?”
He didn’t answer, just stared at her with eyes that gleamed reptilian in the dim light.
She took a small step back toward the open car door. The motion seemed to jar him loose from his thoughts.
He moved fast, coming at her straight on. She had just enough time to get into the car and slam the door, jamming the lock down. His eyes went wide as he tried the handle, banging his palms against the glass. She started the engine and he backed off. Lurching forward, she lost sight of him and then she realized her mistake. She had not locked the passenger-side door.
Tucker’s face loomed in the darkness, fingers yanking at the handle. Though she jammed the accelerator down, the wheels found no traction on the muddy ground, spinning grit and squealing their helplessness. She tried Reverse with no better luck. Tucker dived into the seat, hands grabbing at her forearms. With a scream, she threw an elbow as hard as she was able into his face and felt the give of his cheek. Momentarily, he released his grip, grunting in pain.
She pressed the gas again and the car shot forward, tumbling him to the floor. He tried to right himself, and she took her foot off the gas pedal long enough to kick out at him. He shoved her off.
“I want what’s mine...” he began, and then suddenly he was pulled from the car. A tall stranger with a crew cut had Tucker by the shoulders. He looked vaguely familiar. Tucker whipped around and threw a punch, which glanced off the stranger’s chin, sending him slightly off balance, but he straightened quickly. Through the open door, over the sound of her own shuddering breaths, she heard the guy say, “You’re done, kid.”
Then there was a glint of metal, a shine of a blade in Tucker’s hands. A knife.
“I’ll die first, Mick,” he hissed. “I’ve got nothing more to lose.”
Keeley realized she’d taken her foot off the gas. Now, with a flood of crazy energy, she cranked the car forward then into a tight turn and stepped on the accelerator. The open door bumped and banged, but she did not take a moment to close it. Both men jerked their heads in her direction.
Tucker yelled something. She did not stop.
The car zipped forward, pinging gravel and dirt up. She was gratified to see the men scatter, running. Her front wheel hit a depression, causing the wheels to buck, and she fought to stay the course.
He would not win. Not again.
* * *
Mick saw the blur of the moving vehicle bearing down on him. The shock loosened his grip, and Tucker slashed with the knife, cutting into Mick’s biceps. Fire rippled through his arm. Then the Jeep was upon them. Tucker leaped aside. With no time to do the same, Mick dived for the trees.
Too slow.
For a moment, he was airborne, cartwheeling over the hood of the car and tumbling headfirst onto the hard ground. The breath rushed out of him in a painful explosion. He tried to get to his feet, stumbled and fell, finding himself planted palms first in the dirt.
Where was Tucker? His nerves screamed. He looked up in time to see the flash of a T-shirt as the kid took off for the trees. Forcing his legs into motion, he made it to his feet.
Keeley got out of the car. She was slender, her hair chin length, cut in a careless bob showing under the knit cap. The same blue eyes as her sister. She looked older and more tired than he’d seen her the last time at LeeAnn’s funeral, the lines more pronounced around her mouth. At least, he thought they were more pronounced. Blink as he would, her face blurred in his vision. He heard her speak as if from far away.
“Who are you?” she said.
I’m the man who let Tucker Rivendale kill your sister, his mind said.
She hugged herself, waiting for him to respond.
Mick struggled to speak. Get back in the car and drive before he comes back. Don’t let him hurt you like he did LeeAnn. But his mouth remained stubbornly closed. “I think I know you. Tell me who you are,” she demanded again.
“Mick,” he said aloud, or maybe it was only in his mind as his sight bled off into darkness and his knees buckled under him.
Spider.
He swam back into consciousness, staring up at a ceiling upon which sat a fat black spider, motionless on the cracked plaster. Then he was assaulted by memories of Tucker and his own body impacting the front of a Jeep. A vulnerable woman’s face, eyes round with shock, materialized in his memory. Keeley. He jerked upright, head spinning, sliding a little on the sheet draped over the couch.
Keeley stood, motion arrested midstride, in the middle of the room, a roll of gauze in one hand and a phone in the other.
“The police are on their way,” she said. “Ambulance, too.”
He planted both feet on the floor, willing it to stop moving. “Don’t need an ambulance. Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I was the one driving, remember? You’re the guy who got run over.”
He felt his lips curling into a painful grin against the scratches on his face. “Yeah. Why did you do that anyway? Women usually need to get to know me better before they want to run me over.”
She shrugged, unsmiling. “Adrenaline.” She set the gauze on the fruit crate that served as a coffee table. “Your arm is bleeding. Sorry to ask, but could you try not to drip on the couch? It’s thirdhand, but it’s