I surged over to the man and sank down on one knee. With tentative hands I reached out and brushed the back of his slick jacket hood. I couldn’t see his face. Should I turn him over, check for a pulse? What if he was alive and the forced movement made his injuries worse?
I placed my fingers on the man’s shoulder. He groaned. Startled, I snatched my hand away.
Only then did I think of my cell phone. I should have called 911 before leaving my car. Time was ticking and every second may be valuable to the man’s life. Yet a voice deep within me whispered a vague warning. Something about this whole thing was off. Besides, I hadn’t been going fast at all.
“C-can you hear me?” I forced the words out, loud enough to survive the hammer of the rain.
The man rolled away from me onto his stomach.
“Sir? Let me help you.”
“No.”
The word came raw and muffled. Had I heard it at all?
“Are you hurt? Do you want me to call for help?”
“No. Just listen to me.”
“But—”
“Listen.”
Nonplused, I watched the man gather both arms close to his chest, pull his legs up. Palms flat to ground, he pushed himself to a trembling crouch and hung there, head down. Rain streamed off the tip of his hood. I could see nothing of his face.
“Please let me help you up. I can take you to the hospital. Or call 911.”
His body tensed, shoulders arching like a wounded animal rising. “I’m just shaken.” His voice growled, menacing enough to make me draw away. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I’m fine.” Fury pulsed in his tone. He pushed up further on his haunches, face still hidden, then unfolded his body until he stood. I jumped up and took two steps back. For a moment the man wavered. He stepped one foot forward, found his balance.
The rain sizzled and bounced and pounded. I would go mad with it. “At least let me take you somewhere. Where’s your car? Where did you come fr—?”
“You want Baxter Jackson?”
My mouth snapped shut.
Slowly the hooded head turned toward me until one eye glared in my direction. The cheek below it looked waxen, the blood thick.
A mask. He was wearing a mask.
What kind of man was this?
Intensity vibrated from his blackened stare. I tried to turn, flee, but my legs rooted to the road.
“Do you?”
“Who are you?”
“Joanne, do you want to see Baxter Jackson pay for Linda’s death?”
My eyes widened. “I—yes.”
“Find Melissa. She knows what happened.”
Melissa.
Understanding leapt into my head, dark and gleaming. My knees nearly gave way. I was right. I’d been right all along.
“You’re telling me Baxter killed Linda.”
“Melissa saw it.”
The words stunned me. Fierce questions crowded my tongue. “Does she have proof?”
“She knows where the body is.”
A body. Grief singed my lungs. I’d known Linda was dead. The courts had ruled she was. But without remains, a stubborn ray of hope for life always shines.
Hooded Man seemed to swell in size. The rain and darkness beat down on me, drowning out rational thought. My mind screamed to escape this surreal and throbbing scene. I backed away—and a steely hand clamped on my arm.
“Wait.”
I froze, gaze fastened upon my still-running car, its windshield wipers in frantic swipe. The SUV sang of warmth and safety. Suddenly it seemed so far away, as if I’d fallen into a Stygian painting and looked back upon my world, eternally lost.
The fingers tightened around my arm. “Don’t tell the police.”
A shudder racked between my shoulder blades. “I won’t.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay.”
“Jackson will kill you if he finds out. Understand?”
“Yes.”
The cold fingers fell away. “Go.”
Without a backward glance I ran to my car, around the hood. Flung open the driver’s door. I fell inside and slammed the door shut. Dry air closed in, the pounding now in stereo upon every inch of the roof. I pulled the SUV’s gearshift from Park to Drive, turned the wheel right to straighten out the car.
My headlights stabbed the road. I threw a glance toward where the man had stood.
He was gone, swallowed into darkness.
THREE
Melissa saw it.
As my foot hit the accelerator, sickening regret washed through me. I eased off, ready to brake. In that split second I saw myself jumping out of the car, yelling for the man, begging him to come back. Why hadn’t I pressed him for more information? Why had I allowed panic to overtake me?
New fear surged. How could I even think of looking for a strange man in a mask after dark? All alone out here?
I pressed on the gas. My car engine gunned. Immediately I slowed, afraid to go too fast in the downpour.
My house lay close, just around the next bend. It seemed as if I’d been gone for hours.
The inside of the 4Runner began to fog. I turned up the dashboard fan.
She knows where the body is.
Melissa Harkoff—the sixteen-year-old foster girl Linda and Baxter had taken in during that summer of Linda’s disappearance. Someone from social services had arrived at the Jackson house to pick Melissa up the day Linda’s blood-smeared car was discovered. A few weeks later Baxter announced in church that he’d heard Melissa had run away from her new foster home. He’d led us all in a special prayer for her safety.
I’d always felt sorry for Melissa. She’d arrived at the Jacksons a frightened teenager, trying with all her might to look strong, hardened. I sensed that Melissa watched every word she said, wanting to fit in, seeking Linda’s approval. I know she came to love living with the Jacksons. And she’d been so grieved at Linda’s disappearance. To think that Melissa witnessed Linda’s murder. How terrified she must have been. Baxter probably threatened her life if she told.
Questions in my head whirled and eddied. The Hooded Man—who was he? How did he know Melissa saw Baxter kill Linda?
When the police had questioned Melissa she gave them the same story as Baxter did. No one ever suspected she knew anything different. I hadn’t even suspected that. Melissa had seemed to think the world of Baxter.
I rounded the curve. The lights of my house glowed into view, a welcoming beacon. Never had my small home, its front porch with white square pillars, looked like such a haven. I turned right into my driveway, hit the garage remote, and slipped inside as soon as the door opened.
The sudden cessation of rain on my car roof rang in my ears. I turned off the engine and tried to breathe. Wet cold bit into my muscles until my whole body shook.
“Don’t tell the police.”
I should, though. Not about what the man had said, but that I’d hit him. What if he turned against me and reported a hit-and-run?
But why would he do that, after the warnings he’d given? And with no victim, what would I tell the police? That I’d hit an unknown masked man who’d materialized from the night, then vanished like a specter? The Vonita police would surely be all ears. They were so attuned to listening to me these days.
Did I know this man? I hadn’t recognized his voice. But he’d spoken in such a gravelly tone.
On purpose?
I pushed the button to close my garage door, grabbed my purse, and got out of the car. My feet squished as I crossed to the door that led into my kitchen. I placed my hand on the knob—