That Summer Night (Callaways #6) (34 page)

“I’m afraid I don’t know the details, but from what I understand, you were in a serious car accident."

Before she could ask another question, the nurse returned to the room and handed her a small compact mirror.

She opened the compact with shaky fingers, almost afraid of what she would see. She stared at her face for a long minute. Her eyes were light blue, framed by thick black lashes. Her hair was a dull dark brown, long, tangled, and curly, dropping past her shoulders. There were dark circles under her eyes, as well as purple bruises that were accentuated by the pallor of her skin. A white bandage was taped across her temple. Multiple tiny cuts covered her cheekbones. Her face was thin, drawn. She looked like a ghost. Even her eyes were haunted by shadows.

“Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling as if she were looking at a complete stranger. Who was she?

“The cuts will heal,” the nurse said. “Don’t worry. You’ll have your pretty face back before you know it."

It wasn’t the bruises on her face that filled her heart with terror; it was the fact that she didn’t recognize anything about herself. She felt absolutely no connection to the woman in the mirror. She slammed the compact shut, afraid to look any longer. Her pulse raced, and her heart beat in triple time as the reality of her situation sank in. She felt completely vulnerable, and she wanted to run and hide until she figured everything out. She would have jumped out of bed if Dr. Carmichael hadn’t put his hand on her shoulder, perhaps sensing her desperation.

“You’re going to be all right,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze. “The answers will come. Don’t push too hard. Just rest and let your body recuperate from the trauma."

“What if the answers don’t come?” she whispered. “What if I’m like this forever?"

He frowned, unable to hide the concern in his eyes. “Let’s take it one step at a time. There’s a deputy from the sheriff’s office down the hall. He’d like to speak to you."

A police officer wanted to talk to her? That didn’t sound good. She swallowed back another lump of fear. “Why? Why does he want to talk to me?"

“Something to do with your accident. I’ll let him know you’re awake."

As the doctor left the room, Rosie stepped forward. “Can I get you anything -- water, juice, an extra blanket? The mornings are still so cold. I can’t wait until April. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the rain. I’m ready for the sun to come out."

That meant it was March, the end of a long, cold winter, spring on the nearby horizon. Images ran through her mind of windy afternoons, flowers beginning to bloom, someone flying a kite, a beautiful red-and-gold kite that tangled in the branches of a tall tree. The laughter of a young girl filled her head -- was it her laughter or someone else’s? She saw two other girls and a boy running across the grass. She wanted to catch up to them, but they were too far away, and then they were gone, leaving her with nothing but a disturbing sense of loss and a thick curtain of blackness in her head.

Why couldn’t she remember? Why had her brain locked her out of her own life?

“What day is it?” she asked, determined to gather as many details as she possibly could.

“It’s Thursday, March twenty-second,” Rosie replied with another sympathetic smile.

“Thursday,” she murmured, feeling relieved to have a new fact to file away, even if it was something as inconsequential as the day of the week.

“Try not to worry. You’ll be back to normal before you know it,” Rosie added.

“I don’t even know what normal is. Where are my things?” she asked abruptly, looking for more answers. Maybe if she had something of her own to hold in her hand, everything would come back to her.

Rosie tipped her head toward a neat pile of clothes on a nearby chair. “That’s what you were wearing when they brought you in. You didn’t have a purse with you, nor were you wearing any jewelry."

“Could you hand me my clothes, please?"

“Sure. They’re a bit bloodied,” Rosie said as she gathered up the clothes and laid them on the bed. “I’ll check on you in a while. Just push the call button if you need anything."

She stared at the pair of blue jeans, which were ripped at the knees, the light blue camisole top, the navy sweater, and the gray jacket dotted with dark spots of blood or dirt, she wasn’t sure which. Glancing across the room she saw a pair of Nike tennis shoes on the floor. They looked worn-out, as if she’d done a lot of running in them.

Another memory flashed in her brain. She could almost feel herself running, the wind in her hair, her heart pounding, the breath tight in her chest. But she wasn’t out for a jog. She wasn’t dressed right. She was wearing a heavy coat, a dress, and high stiletto heels. She tried to hang on to the image floating vaguely in her head, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come. She supposed she should feel grateful she’d remembered something, but the teasing bit only frustrated her more.

She dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans and jacket, searching for some clue as to who she was, but there was nothing there. She was about to put the jacket aside when she noticed an odd lump in the inner back lining. She ran her fingers across the material, surprised to find a flap covering a hidden zipper. She pulled on the zipper and felt inside, shocked when she pulled out a wad of twenty-dollar bills. There had to be at least fifteen hundred dollars. Why on earth had she stashed so much cash in her jacket? Obviously she’d taken great care to hide it, as someone would have had to examine the jacket carefully in order to find the money. Whoever had undressed her had not discovered the cash.

A knock came at her door, and she hurriedly stuffed the money back into her jacket and set it on the end of her bed just seconds before a uniformed police officer entered the room. Her pulse jumped at the sight of him, and it wasn’t with relief but with fear. Her instincts were screaming at her to be cautious, that he could be trouble.

The officer was on the stocky side, with a military haircut, and appeared to be in his mid-forties. His forehead was lined, his skin a ruddy red and weatherbeaten, his gaze extremely serious.

“I’m Tom Manning,” he said briskly. “I’m a deputy with the county sheriff’s department. I’m investigating your car accident."

“Okay,” she said warily. “I should tell you that I don’t remember what happened. In fact, I don’t remember anything about myself."

“Yeah, the doc says you have some kind of amnesia."

His words were filled with suspicion, and skepticism ran through his dark eyes. Why was he suspicious? What reason could she possibly have for pretending not to remember? Had something bad occurred during the accident? Had she done something wrong? Had someone else been hurt? Her stomach turned over at the thought.

“Can you tell me what happened?” she said, almost afraid to ask.

“Your car went off the side of the road in the Santa Ynez Mountains, not far from San Marcos Pass. You plunged down a steep embankment and landed in a ravine about two hundred yards from the road. Fortunately you ran into a tree."

“Fortunately?” she echoed.

“Otherwise you would have ended up in a boulder-filled, high-running creek,” he told her. “The front end of your Honda Civic was smashed, and the windshield was shattered."

Which explained the cuts and bruises on her face.

“You’re a very lucky woman,” the deputy added.

“Who found me?” she asked.

“A witness saw your car go over the side and called nine-one-one. Does any of this sound familiar?"

The part about going off the side of the road sounded a lot like the dream she’d been having. “I’m not sure."

“Were you alone in the car?"

His question surprised her. “I think so.” She thought back to her dream. Had she been alone in the car? She didn’t remember anyone else. “If I wasn’t alone, wouldn’t that other person be here at the hospital?” she asked.

“The back door of your car was open. There was a child’s car seat strapped in the middle of the backseat, a bottle half-filled with milk, and this shoe.” Officer Manning held up a clear plastic bag through which she could see a shoe so small it would fit into the palm of her hand. Her heart began to race. She had the sudden urge to call for a time-out, to make him leave before he said something else, something terrifying, something to do with that shoe. “Oh, God. Stop. I can’t do this."

“I’m sorry, but I need to know. Do you have a baby?” he asked. “Was your child with you in the car?"

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SILENT RUN

Excerpt: GOLDEN LIES

Barbara Freethy

Prologue

San Francisco-1952

The fire started easily, a small spark, a whisper of breath, and the tiny flame leaped and crackled. It slid quickly down the length of rope, growing in size and beauty with each inch it consumed. It wasn't too late to stop it, to have second thoughts. A fire extinguisher was nearby. It would take just a second to grab it and douse the small flames. But the fire was so beautiful, mesmerizing -- gold, red, orange, black -- the colors of the dragons that had promised so much: prosperity, love, good health, a second chance, a new start.

The fire began to pop, the small sounds lost in the constant boom of firecrackers going off in the streets of San Francisco in celebration of the Chinese New Year. No one would notice another noise, another spark of light, until it was too late. In the confusion of the smoke and the crowds, the dragons and the box they guarded would disappear. No one would ever know what had really happened.

The flame reached the end of the gasoline-soaked rope and suddenly burst forth in a flash of intense, deadly heat. More explosions followed as the fire caught the cardboard boxes holding precious inventory and jumped toward the basement ceiling. A questioning cry came from somewhere, followed by the sound of footsteps running down the halls of the building that had once been their sanctuary, their dream for the future, where the treasures of the past were turned into cold, hard cash.

The cost of betrayal would be high. They would be brothers no more. But then, their ties had never been of blood, only of friendship -- a friendship that some would think had died this night of fire, but in truth had died much earlier.

There was only one thing left to do, grab the dragons and their box of secrets. The back door offered an escape route. The wall of fire would prevent anyone from seeing the truth. No one would ever know who was responsible.

The crate where the dragons were stored beckoned like the welcoming wave of an old friend. It took but a moment to pry off the lid. Eye-watering smoke and intense heat made it difficult to see what was inside, but it was impossible not to realize that something was missing.

Only one dragon was inside!
The other dragon was gone, as was the box. How could it be? Where were they? The three pieces were never to be separated. They all knew the importance of keeping them together.

There was no time to search further. A door on the opposite side of the basement was flung open. A man holding a red fire extinguisher shot a small, helpless stream of chemicals at what was now a raging inferno.

The fire could not be stopped, nor the future. It was done. For better or worse, the dragons would never dance together again.

Chapter One

San Francisco -- Today

"They say that dragons bring good luck to their owners," Nan Delaney said.

Riley McAllister studied the dark bronze statue in his grandmother's hands. Ten inches tall, it appeared to be a dragon, although the figure looked more like a monster with its serpent body and dirty scales. Its brilliant green eyes blazed like real stones, but those eyes couldn't possibly be jade. Nor could the golden stripe that ran around its neck really be gold. As for luck, Riley had never believed in it before, and he didn't intend to start now. "If that dragon were lucky, we'd be at the front of this line," he grumbled.

He cast a frustrated look at the people around them, at least a hundred he estimated. When he'd agreed to help his grandmother clear out her attic, he'd never imagined he'd be standing in the parking lot at the Cow Palace Arena in San Francisco early Monday morning with a bunch of people who wanted to have their trash appraised by a traveling antiques show.

"Patience, Riley." Nan's voice still held a touch of her native Irish brogue even though she'd lived in California for sixty years.

He frowned at his grandmother's perky smile, wondering where she got her energy. She was seventy-three years old, for God's sake. But then, she'd always been a pint-sized dynamo. Pretty, too, with her stark white hair that had been the same shade for as long as he could remember, and her pale blue eyes that always seemed to see straight into his soul.

"Good things come to those who wait," she reminded him.

Not in his experience. Good things came to those who sweated blood, pulled out all the stops, sacrificed everything, and never let sentiment cloud reason. "Why don't you let me sell this stuff on the Internet?" he suggested for the twentieth time.

"And let someone take advantage of me? I don't think so."

"What makes you think these people won't take advantage of you?"

"Because
Antiques on the Road
is on television," she said with simple logic. "They can't lie in front of millions of people. Besides, this will be fun, a new experience. And you're a peach to come with me. The perfect grandson."

"Yeah, I'm a peach, and you can stop the buttering up, because I'm already here."

His grandmother smiled and set the dragon gently on top of the other treasures in the red Radio Flyer wagon she'd also found in the attic. She was convinced that somewhere in her pile of pottery, dolls, baseball cards and old books was a rare find. He thought she'd be lucky to get five dollars for everything in the wagon.

A loud clattering noise drew his head around. "What the hell is that?" he asked in amazement as a tall man dressed in full armor lumbered toward the front of the line.

"He looks like a knight in shining armor."