Unspoken (48 page)

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Authors: Lisa Jackson

Tags: #Contemporary, #General, #Romance, #Romantic Suspense Fiction, #Suspense, #Fiction, #Texas

BOOK: Unspoken
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The car sounded closer.
Good.
He glanced at his watch again, the illuminated dial counting off his heartbeats. Everything was going as planned except for the truck. A few more seconds ... He licked his lips in anticipation.
Brakes whined in the night. Too close. Too damned close. He swung his head southward, toward the oncoming roar. There was a catch in the eighteen-wheeler’s engine as the driver shifted into a lower gear.
Every muscle tightened as he listened. He couldn’t risk a witness. Sweat ran down his spine.
He could abort. There was still time.
But when would he get another chance?
A hundred grand. And just the beginning.
Besides, she deserves this ... and it fucking fell into your lap.
The truck’s engine growled loudly, reverberating through the forest of sequoia and oak. An eighteen-wheeler hurtling down the steep grade.
In the opposite direction, the Mercedes, if his information was right, was purring ever-upward, the driver innocently unaware that she was about to die.
His breath came in short gasps.
Slow down. Think of it as an exercise—justas you did years ago when you were with the special unit. You can do this. A few more seconds and you’re home free.
His heart was a drum; his hands soaked in sweat beneath his tight-fitting gloves.
Twin beams rounded the curve from downhill. The truck’s brakes squealed from uphill.
Now!
He sprang, stood in the middle of the southbound lane. The sleek car accelerated, caught him in its headlights and swiftly he lifted the cover on his belt, exposing the mirrors he’d fastened to his torso.
The driver slammed on her brakes.
With a squeal, the Mercedes’ tires locked. The car swerved to the right, hit the gravel on the shoulder and spun. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a horrified expression on her beautiful face as she screamed and desperately cranked on the wheel. There was another person—someone in the passenger seat beside her.
Shit!
She was supposed to be alone. He’d been assured she would be alone.
He jumped into the northbound lane. Avoided being hit by a speeding German-crafted fender by inches. Stumbled. FelL The mirrors on his belt cracked. Glass splintered. Glittered in the headlights’ glare. Hell. No time to do anything about it. Gasping, he was on his feet. Running. Toward the timberland.
Get out of here.
The semi rounded the corner, pinned him in its huge headlights, flooding the wet pavement with near blinding light. He jumped and caught sight of the driver’s panicked face. He was bearded, a big bear of a man, yelling over the scream of brakes. Eighteen thick tires screeched, burning rubber. The cab twisted, the truck jackknifed.
Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit! Run, you bastard!
Rolling over the guardrail, he launched his body into the protective cover of oak and redwood. He landed hard, his ankle twisted, the joint popping painfully, but he couldn’t stop. Not now. His heart pumped furiously. Sweat poured down his face beneath the mask. From the corner of his eye he saw the Mercedes scraping along the guardrail on the far side of the road. Sparks flew. With an agonizing shriek, polished steel sheared.
He catapulted down the hill and heard the groan of metal rending as the car hit the weakened spot in the guardrail, then broke through, barreling through the trees.
As planned.
But the truck, the damned truck was out of control, careening down the hillside.
He was running now, his ankle screaming in pain, his lungs on fire. The semi blasted down the hill. Tires locked. Metal shrieked. The entire forest shook as the big truck slashed through the guardrail, following his path, and angry metal behemoth chasing after him, tons of twisted metal chewing through the brush. His heart thundered, his legs pumped faster. The semi roared.
Run, run!
His ankle hurt like hell, his lungs were about to burst.
He rolled, raced, ignored the agony of shredding tendons, while zigzagging through the trees.
Where the hell was it?
His Jeep. Where? Desperately he tried to avoid the path of the jackknifed death trap. He dived headfirst over a fallen log, then scrambled to his feet as berry vines clawed at his clothing. He hoped to hell he could get to the Jeep in time, start the damn thing and put some distance between himself and the wreckage.
The ground shuddered.
His feet flew out from under him, and he landed facedown on the ground.
In a blinding flash, a fireball shot upward from the trees, billowing bright red and orange. Night was suddenly day.
Tortured screams, horrid, agonizing sounds that would haunt him forever, pierced the night as the truck exploded and sparks showered the forest, raining down to singe his hair, ski mask and jacket. Smoke, smelling of diesel and charred rubber, spewed through the forest. For a second he thought he’d die.
God knew he deserved it
Then he saw it. As if delivered from hell. In the fiery illumination he caught sight of his Jeep, blood-red flames reflected in its tinted windows. Parked just where he’d left it on the abandoned logging road.
Lurching to his feet, he unzipped his pocket, fumbled for his keys. He reached the vehicle and yanked open the door. He’d made it. Almost. Smoke clogged his throat as he threw himself into the Jeep’s interior. He was shaking, his ankle throbbing as he twisted on the ignition and the engine caught. The forest was bathed in eerie light. He kept the ski mask on as a precaution and slammed the door shut.
Ramming the Jeep into first, he gunned the engine. Tires spun in the muddy tracks. “Come on, come
on
!
”
The Jeep lurched forward. Shimmied. Mud flew.
Shit, he needed a cigarette. Bad.
Finally the damned tires caught. He glanced into the rearview mirror and glimpsed the aftermath, fire and smoke billowing upward in the misty night.
She’s dead. You killed her. Sent her black soul straight to hell.
And she fucking deserved it!
He snapped on the radio. Through the speakers, throbbing over the whine of the Jeep’s engine, Jim Morrison’s voice rocked out familiar lyrics.
“Come on baby, light my fire ...”
Yeah, well, never again. The bitch wasn’t ever going to light anyone’s fire again.
Chapter One
 
She couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t ... oh, God, she couldn’t move her hand. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids wouldn’t budge. They weighed a ton and seemed glued shut over eyes that burned with a blinding, hideous pain.
“Mrs. Cahill?”
Mrs. Cahill?
There was a touch, someone’s cool fingers on the back of her hand. “Mrs. Cahill, can you hear me?” The voice, kind and female, sounded as if it was carried from a great distance ... far away, from a spot on the other side of the pain.
Me? I’m Mrs. Cahill?
That sounded wrong, but she didn’t know why.
“Your husband’s here to see you.”
My husband? But I don’t have ... oh, God, what’s happening to me? Am I going crazy?
The fingers were removed and there was a heavy feminine sigh. “I’m sorry, she’s still not responding.”
“She’s been in this hospital nearly six weeks.” A man’s voice. Clipped. Hard. Demanding. “Six week for Christ’s sake, and she’s shown no signs of recovery.”
“Of course she has. She’s breathing on her own, I’ve noticed eye movement behind her lids, she’s coughed and attempted to yawn, all good signs, indications that the brain stem isn’t damaged—”
Oh, God, they were talking about brain damage!
“Then why won’t she wake up?” he demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“Shit.” His voice was lower.
“Give her time,” the woman said softly. “We can’t be certain, of course, but there’s even a chance that she can hear us now.”
Yes, yes, I can hear you, but my name isn’t Mrs. Cahill, I’m not married and I’m dying from this pain. For God’s sake, someone help me! If this is a hospital, surely you have codeine or morphine or ... or even an aspirin.
The fog closed in around her and she wanted to give in to it, to feel nothing again.
“Marla? It’s Alex.” His deep baritone voice was much closer. Louder. As if he were standing only inches from her. She felt a new pressure on her arm as he touched her, and she wanted to let him know she could hear him, but she couldn’t move, not at all. The smell of cologne assailed her, and she instinctively sensed it was expensive. But how would she know? The fingertips on her skin were smooth, soft ... Alex’s hands. Her husband’s hands.
Oh, God, why couldn’t she remember?
She tried to recall his face, the color of his hair, the width of his shoulders, the size of his shoes,
any
little trait, but failed. His voice brought back no images. There was a faint smell of smoke that clung to him as his sleeve brushed her wrist and she felt the scratch of wool from his jacket, but that was it.
“Honey, please wake up. I miss you, the children—” His voice cracked, emotion strangling him.
Children?
No! There was just no way she had kids and didn’t know it. Or was there? That was the kind of thing a woman, even a woman lying drugged and half-comatose in a hospital bed would immediately realize. Certainly her intuition, the female animal in her would sense that she was a mother. Trapped motionless in this blackness she knew nothing. If only she could open her eyes ... and yet the cozying warmth of unconsciousness was so seductive ... Soon she would remember... It was just a matter of time ...
Cold horror crept up her spine as she realized she couldn’t conjure up one single instant in the years that were her life. It was as if she had never existed.
This is a nightmare. That’s the only explanation.
“Marla, please, come back to me. To us,” Alex whispered gruffly, and deep in her heart she wished she felt something, one smidgen of emotion for this faceless stranger claiming to be her life partner. His smooth fingers linked through hers and she felt pressure on the back of her hand, the pull of an IV needle stuck into her arm. Dear God, this was pathetic, a scene from a schmaltzy World War II movie. “Cissy misses you and little James...” Again his voice cracked, and she tried to drag up some tiny thread of tenderness from her subconscious, a tiny bit of love for this man she couldn’t see and didn’t remember. The void that was her past gave her no hint as to what Alex Cahill looked like, what he did for a living, or how he made love to her ... surely she would remember that. And what about her children? Cissy? James? No images of cherubic toddlers with runny noses and flushed cheeks or gangly adolescents fighting the ravages of acne flashed through her mind, but then she was sinking. Maybe they’d finally put something in her IV as she felt herself detaching from her body ... floating away ... She had to focus.
“How long?” he asked, dragging his hand away from hers. “How long is this going to last?”
“No one can tell you that. These things take time,” the nurse replied and her voice sounded far away, as if through a tunnel. “Comas sometimes last only a few hours or ... well, sometimes a lot longer. Days. Weeks. No one can predict. It could be even longer—”
“Don’t even go there,” he said, cutting her off. “That’s not going to happen. She
will
come around.” His voice was like steel. He was a man used to giving orders. “Marla?” He must’ve turned to face the bed again as his voice was louder once more. Impatient. “For Christ’s sake, can’t you hear me?”
With every ounce of effort, she tried to move. Couldn’t. It was as if she were strapped down, weighted to the mattress with its crisp, uncomfortable sheets. She could not even raise one finger, and yet it didn’t matter ...
“I want to talk to the doctor.” Alex was forceful. His words clipped. “I don’t see any reason why she can’t be taken home and cared for there. I’ll hire all the people she needs. Nurses. Aides. Attendants. Whatever. We’ve got more than enough room for round the clock, live-in help in the house.”
There was a long pause and she sensed unspoken disapproval on the nurse’s part... well, she assumed the woman was a nurse ... as she struggled to force her eyes open, to move a part of her body to indicate that she could hear through the pain.
“I’ll let Dr. Robertson know that you want to see him,” the nurse said, her voice no longer coddling and patient. Now she was firm. Professional. “I’m not sure he’s in the hospital now, but I’ll see that he gets the message.”
“Do that.”
Marla drifted off again, lost seconds, maybe minutes. Her sluggish consciousness discerned voices again, voices that interrupted her sleep.
“I think Mrs. Cahill should rest now,” the nurse was saying.
“We’ll leave in just a minute.” Another voice. Elderly. Refined. It floated in on footsteps that were clipped and solid, at odds with the age of the woman’s voice. “We’re family and I’d like a few moments alone with my son and daughter-in-law.”

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