The Isaac Project (29 page)

My only saving grace was the fact I wasn’t entirely alone. Yards away, Lisa sat in the house. If I could somehow get her attention, she could call for help.

A car door closed in the distance. The man and I both froze. Hope began to rise until the turn of an engine squished it like a tiny ant. The crunch of tires driving away was a death knell.

“Looks like it’s just you and me.”

My breathing came in heavy gasps, and I swallowed a whimper. I willed Lady to get up. She was my only help, but my hero still lay motionless on the ground. What had the guy done to her? A quick kick wouldn’t have rendered her so pathetically immobile.

“You don’t have to do this,” I pleaded.

His evil chuckle curdled my blood. The flat of his blade lay vertically on my cheek at a slight angle, the tip pushing into my skin. The vile beast increased the pressure. I could either move my head or feel my blood run down my face.

Turning my head, I met cold black eyes. Eyes I’d seen just days before. Mr. Bronson. He leered at my recognition, crooked teeth flashing behind his grimy facial hair. He crushed his mouth hard against mine. My teeth cut into my lip, the metallic taste of blood dancing across my tongue.

Mr. Bronson pulled me out of the stall toward the entry. Where were we going? He stopped near the trash can that held yards of cut orange bailing twine. He bent down to withdraw a piece of rope, and I saw an opportunity for escape. The door to the barn was wide open and only a few feet in front of me.

I dashed forward.

An anvil-sized fist to my temple dropped me to my knees. Bright spots swam in my vision, and my ears rang. My head jerked back as one of his massive paws pulled my hair. Tears stung my eyes, and my scalp throbbed.

I whimpered as he replaced the knife at the base of my neck, right above my collarbone. Hot, rancid breath tickled my ear as Mr. Bronson whispered in an all-too-calm tone of voice, “Try that again, and you’re dead.”

I closed my eyes tight, and twin tears streaked down, wobbled on my chin, and fell to the floor.

A yank on my hair and I was scrambling as fast as I could sideways on my hands and knees. I held my head and neck at an odd angle, trying to alleviate some of the shooting pain from being half dragged.

We entered another empty stall. If only I’d kept some of the horses in today. Mr. Bronson shoved me in the hip with a booted foot, and I sprawled onto the sawdust-covered ground.

“Hands behind your back,” he barked.

I scrambled to my feet and obediently turned my back to him, placing my hands together. The coarse bailing twine cut into my wrists as he tied them together. With a push to the shoulder, I landed once more on the unforgiving floor. A sharp pain in my lower back made me suck my teeth.

I looked up and watched in horror as Mr. Bronson began unbuckling his belt, his knife still present in one of his hands. I had to do something, and I had to do it now.

Lifting my leg, I kicked with all my might. My foot landed square in his groin. The man doubled over, dropping the knife. I clambered toward the weapon, shoving it under a thick layer of sawdust behind me.

“Why you little—”

His hand crossed his shoulder and came down hard on the side of my head.

My body shot backward with the force of the blow.

Darkness enclosed around me in slow motion. Then all went black.

31

Luke

LARRY SAWYER HAD been wrong. The old adage “actions speak louder than words” was wrong. And the Bible, at least in this respect, was also wrong. Either that, or Becky was blind and didn’t see my “fruits.”

I had done everything I could possibly think of to show her that I was trustworthy, honest, and hard working. That I loved her. But she didn’t want me to stay. I’d given her the opportunity to stop me from leaving, and she hadn’t said a word. Her silence spoke volumes.

Kicking at a small rock in my path, I chuckled derisively. God had said if I loved her, she would love me in return. Where was the fruition of that promise now? I’ll tell you where. In the rectangular form of divorce papers.

I mentally checked over everything I had ever done and said in my relationship with Becky. Coming to the end of the tally, I stopped dead in my tracks.

My forehead smarted from the impact of the palm of my hand. How could I have been such an idiot? I had gone to such pains to
show
Becky that I loved her, but I had forgotten to
tell
her.

No time like the present. I turned around, imagining walking up to Becky, taking her hands in mine, looking deep into her eyes, and saying—

My nose twitched. I inhaled, and a faint but familiar smell swirled in my nostrils. “Is that smoke?”

I squinted, peering through the trees. A jolt of adrenaline shot through me at the orange glow in the distance. Pumping my arms and stretching my legs, I raced through the underbrush and dodged saplings, making a beeline toward the fire.

Too many questions assailed me as I neared the burning building.

Becky’s barn.

My heart pounded with adrenaline. I needed to clear my mind. Keep it professional. Good thing Becky was safe in the house with Lisa. One less thing to worry about.

Quickly assessing the situation, I scrambled for my phone.

“Nine one one dispatch. What’s your emergency?”

“I’m at 8920 West Laurelbrooke Avenue in Meadowlark. The barn is on fire. Please send the fire department.” I pushed the End button and dropped the phone. I knew the woman with the no-nonsense voice would’ve told me to stay on the line, but there was no way that was going to happen. I needed to call Becky.

The ringing was loud in my ear as it came through the speakers of my phone, but…was that…?

My blood ran cold. Becky’s phone was ringing in the barn.

Stripping out of my shirt, I plunged it into the water trough and held it up to my face as I dashed through the open door of the barn. A wall of heat hit me with staggering force. What I wouldn’t have given for a Nomex jacket and a SCBA mask.

I needed to search the area fast. There was way too much fuel, what with the wooden structure, the hay, and the sawdust littering the floor, to think this fire wouldn’t spread in record time. Already the hairs on my arm felt singed from the sheer temperature surrounding me.

Crouching low, I removed my shirt from my mouth and shouted, “Becky!”

A terrified whinny, along with the crackling of fire, was all the answer I received.

Continuing down the aisle, I searched. Smoke made my eyes water, and my lungs ached from lack of oxygen. One of Becky’s precious linemen might as well have been sitting on my chest.

A hacking cough sounded ahead of me and to the right. A stall door burst open, and Becky’s bent frame emerged, silhouetted in front of the orange flames just beyond. Without a glance in my direction, she turned right and limped away from me and toward the center of the angry inferno.

She stumbled and reached a hand against the wall to support herself, her shoulders shaking as her lungs attempted to empty themselves of carbon dioxide and fill with oxygen. Still she shuffled forward. Was she disoriented? I needed to get to her before she became charbroiled.

Ignoring everything I knew about staying as low to the ground as possible, I sprinted to her side and swung her around by her arm. She screamed and clawed at me. I tried to pin her arms, but she continued to fight and push against me. One of her eyes was swollen shut, and the other was filled with intense fear. Blood oozed from a cut on her lip.

“Becky! Becky! Calm down. It’s me,” I shouted, trying to get through the hysteria that clutched her.

I had to get her to stop fighting me so we could both live to see another day.

Images of Lopez slapping sense into the autistic boy surfaced. I ground my teeth. The situation might be dire, but there was no way I was going to strike a woman, much less the woman I loved.

Releasing Becky’s arms, I put both hands to the sides of her face in a grip only slightly gentler than a vice. Licking my chapped lips, I tilted her head up until our mouths met. I could taste her blood, feel the swollenness of her precious skin.

She redoubled her efforts to fight against me. The vibration of a strangled scream slapped my lips. Real tears, not those produced by the fire’s smoke, burned my eyes. Yet I did not relent. We were running out of time.

I deepened the kiss, my mouth moving over hers gently yet insistently. Loosening my grip with one hand, I caressed her cheek with my thumb. Slowly she began to soften against me. The crazed look in her one good eye dissipated, recognition flashing in its place. Her lips began to respond beneath mine, and I pulled away. As much as I wanted to continue the kiss, the hiss of the fire moving toward us took precedence.

Snatching Becky’s wrist, I pulled her toward the entrance. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

A quick twist and tug, and my hand grasped nothing but air. I turned toward Becky’s retreating back.

“I’ve got to get Lady and Artie,” she yelled over her shoulder.

Stubborn woman. We were all going to burn alive like Dark Age martyrs.

I swung her back around and jammed my finger in the direction of the door. “Get out. Now. I’ll get the animals,” I growled.

She hesitated a moment and then limped away. I sighed in relief. At least she would soon be safe. Turning toward the ever-growing flames, I doubted I would have the same fate.

The shriek of a horse’s cry and the loud thud of hooves against wood directed me toward Artie’s stall. The metal pin holding the door closed seared my skin at first touch. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I flung open the door and watched as the large animal darted out, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

One down, one to go.

The thick smoke brought me to my hands and knees. I only had time to look in one more stall. Every second I stayed in the burning building reduced my chances of making it out alive. I crawled to the door, the palm of my burned hand throbbing.

It was hard to see through the dense haze, my watery eyes, and the spasms of coughing that racked my body every few seconds, but there appeared to be a dark mound in the corner of the enclosure.

My strength was leaving me as my body was depleting of life-giving oxygen. I pulled myself toward the mass. Lady’s body lay motionless. Wrapping an arm around her body, I shifted the dog’s weight onto my lap. With one arm around her chest and the other under her tail, I hefted the animal up, staggering under her weight. Why couldn’t that woman own a Chihuahua?

My steps were slow and excruciating. My skin burned from the heat at my back and the clothes that had absorbed the fire’s intensity. The fabric scourged me with every forward movement. I stumbled and clutched the dog closer to my chest.

In the distance, the sound of siren wails combated with the noise of the blaze’s destruction. The men and women in uniform wouldn’t be able to save Becky’s barn, but they would be able to keep the fire contained to the one building. Her home, at least, would be safe.

Blessed sunlight beckoned to me from the small opening of the doorway. Stepping over the threshold, strong hands gripped my arms, supporting and leading me to safety.

Becky jerked off the oxygen mask covering her nose and mouth and limped toward me, leaving a protesting fireman in her wake. Her eyes darted up and down, yo-yoing between my face and the still form of her beloved dog in my arms.

Her gaze at last rested solely on me while a sooty hand absently stroked Lady’s head. “Are you okay?” she croaked. Her voice sounded like gravel from the smoke she’d inhaled.

My eyes roamed her body, taking inventory of the bruised and swollen eye, cut lip, and ripped jeans that revealed a nasty gash on her left calf. Her face and arms were smudged with dark ash. Sawdust and hay clung to her hair.

“I’ll be fine.” I managed a hoarse whisper—my own voice had taken a beating by the fire. “But how did you—”

“Mrs. Masterson, we really need to see to your injuries.” A uniformed fireman cupped Becky’s elbow and drew her back toward the oxygen tank.

So many unanswered questions shot through my mind. Was someone responsible for Becky’s bruised and bloodied body, or was it just some kind of horrible accident? The weight in my arms tipped the scales to more than an accident. The logical conclusion would be that whoever harmed Lady also hurt Becky and started the fire.

Was this linked to the threatening note I’d found in Becky’s jacket pocket? She’d been so sure it was just an innocent prank from some mischievous teenagers. Well, arson and attempted murder were anything but innocent.

More sirens filled the air as an ambulance approached the foray of first responders. Two men exited the vehicle, snapping on latex gloves over their hands. One moved toward Becky. He squatted down to her level. After speaking to her for a few moments, he began probing, first her face, then her leg.

“Sir?”

It’s amazing how much a person’s mind can tune out. I’d been intently focused on Becky, but now, with only one word, that focus shattered, and the sights and sounds surrounding me flooded my senses. The spray from the large water hoses roared. The fire hissed. Falling timber thudded to the ground as the barn collapsed one beam at a time. Uniformed personnel scurried in their efforts to abate the flames. Flashing lights flitted from surface to surface in a twirling rotation.

“Sir?”

A young paramedic gained my attention through all the chaos.

“Sir, I need to check you over.”

I allowed the man to lead me toward the back of his ambulance. An oxygen mask settled in front of my nose and mouth as the elastic band slid over my head. He reached for the dog, and I allowed him to take her. The paramedic’s palm warmed the back of my hand, rotating until my own palm was face up. A salve was applied to the burn that puckered the sensitive skin.

An overwhelming need to be with Becky almost strangled me.

I removed the mask and stood. The forced oxygen made it less difficult to breathe, but being with Becky was more important than making my lungs’ job easier.