The Alvarez & Pescoli Series. Lisa JacksonЧитать онлайн книгу.
any view from the cot. The only door into the room was the old scratched panel that connected this small bedroom to the next, which she thought was probably the heart of this rustic cabin, the area where he stayed, whoever the hell he was. She listened and heard nothing, as if he either were asleep or out of the house.
Was that possible?
In this storm?
How?
By the same way he brought you here.
She remembered feeling as if she were floating and, yes, hearing some loud engine, but it had been cold, so damned cold, and she’d been on the brink of consciousness, almost wakening, then settling deeper into the coma or whatever it was that had kept her unaware ever since the accident.
She couldn’t damned well stay propped on this bed with her bladder about to burst, so she gritted her teeth and swung her good leg over the edge of the cot.
Now, for the real test of will.
Clenching her jaw, she tried to drag her injured leg to the side of the bed.
A sharp, excruciating pain shot up her calf.
Holy Mother of God!
Think beyond the pain, beyond the injury. She’d taken enough self-defense courses to train her mind and focus, but man, her leg hurt.
She sucked in her breath.
Again, she told herself. You can do it.
With effort she dragged her foot to the side of the bed and slowly rotated so that she could swing her leg over. For the first time she saw what he’d done and realized he’d taped her ankle, stabilizing it. Clean cotton gauze wrapped around a splint of two pieces of wood that stuck out a bit. It was old-school, not the molded plastic boots she’d seen on school athletes who had injured themselves, but it looked like whoever had taped her up had done a decent enough job.
But, of course, it wasn’t a walking cast.
Then she saw the crutch.
Propped against the wall near the foot of the bed.
Her skin crawled a little. This guy was a lot more prepared than she’d thought. Who had a crutch just lying around? Maybe a doctor? Or…or someone who’d once hurt himself. But really, in this barren room, a crutch?
Don’t second-guess it. Just nab that sucker!
Maybe, just maybe, he’s a good guy.
No, she couldn’t let herself think that way, not until she knew more about him. He’d shown up pretty fast after the accident. Why the hell was he out in the middle of a snowstorm? She thought she remembered the sound of a rifle report, as if someone had shot at her before the car started spinning. Though it was just conjecture, she had to be cautious.
Because, damn it, she was trapped here.
With a healer?
Or a killer?
Don’t even go there. Not yet.
Willing herself to keep moving, she scooted down the length of the cot and snagged the single crutch. Somehow, she pulled herself to a standing position, though she kept no weight on the injured foot, and then, with her bladder full and her leg aching dully, she made her way to the doorway, hobbling awkwardly and making more noise than she’d intended.
Even so, she didn’t hear a response. If he was inside, he hadn’t heard her.
Taking a deep breath, she twisted the old metal doorknob and pushed gently on the oak panels. Soundlessly the door opened a bit and she peered through the crack to a larger room. No lamps had been lit and the stone and wood living area looked gloomy and dark, only a bit of light coming from the fireplace that butted up to the doorway from which Jillian was peering.
The room had a high ceiling, nearly two stories. On the far end was a ladder that led to an open loft. Bookcases filled the area beneath the loft’s overhang and a massive table occupied the center of the shadowy room. An armoire of sorts was pushed against the wall and nearer the fireplace was another cupboard—no, a closet, like she’d seen at Grandpa Jim’s house twenty-five years earlier, the locked, handcrafted cupboard he’d used to store his hunting rifles.
Jillian felt a trickle of fear.
Of course he’s got guns. For God’s sake, he lives in the wilderness! Maybe you can get hold of one and some ammunition. Just in case you need it.
A sharp shard of memory cut through her brain as once again she heard the crack of a rifle and then her car was spinning out of control, rotating fast toward the sharp ravine….
Her heart froze and her throat went dry in fear.
She needed to leave.
To find a way out of this place.
Now!
Using the damned crutch, she gently pushed the door open further and braced herself, certain someone or something would leap out at her.
A beat-up leather sofa sat near the stone fireplace and backed up to her bedroom. Another chair with a lumpy ottoman was situated nearby and a recliner, complete with sleeping bag, was tucked into the corner that was dominated by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. On the opposite wall, a bank of glass windows was protected by the overhang of a long porch with exposed rafters. The cabin was on a hill, but the view, if there was one, was obscured by a thick veil of heavy, swirling snow that had blown over the floorboards of the porch.
Outside was a whiteout.
She couldn’t see ten feet beyond the porch. But she could hear the ferocity of the wind, feel it shake this old wood-and-rock building.
Her heart sank.
Any thought of leaving here, of seeking help, was obliterated by the storm. She was stuck here for the time being. “Wonderful,” she muttered under her breath as she turned slowly to look around, a sharp pain in her chest reminding her she’d probably cracked a rib or two in the accident.
As she’d thought the cabin was empty. No one around. Inside the massive stone fireplace the flames eagerly licked at a chunk of wood, casting blood-red shadows and shifting shapes on the rock and windows.
It’s not creepy. It’s cozy.
“Yeah, right.”
Steadfastly ignoring the pain in her ankle, she hobbled to what she thought was the gun closet. Sure enough, it was locked, no key in sight. So much for getting lucky.
Moving onward, she hitched her way through an open doorway and found a tiny kitchen with scarred wooden counters and rustic cupboards that looked over a hundred years old. But there was a sink and faucet, so running water did exist, evidenced by the slow trickle coming out of the tap. At least she didn’t have to try and make her way through three-foot snowdrifts to an outhouse. She hitched her way through the kitchen to a narrow door at the far end of the room. It opened to a cold, compact bathroom with cracked linoleum and a tiny window poised over a claw-foot tub with a shower. Along one wall was a toilet and a small vanity with a sink. On the other was a washer and dryer and an old cupboard.
“All the comforts of home,” she muttered and wasted no time closing the door, grabbing onto the sink with one hand and, using the crutch, propelling herself to the toilet. After relieving herself, she stood at the sink and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, oily and tangled, her face bruised, the white of one eye bloodshot. “Cute,” she muttered as she took the time to splash water over her face and refused to think about the throb of her aching chest and injured ankle.
She didn’t have any time to lose.
She needed to figure out how to get the hell out of here and somehow get in contact with civilization. She could grab a gun and ammunition from his closet, pull on the warmest clothes she could find and…and…and what? Hobble down the hillside in the middle of a blizzard with one crutch?
Maybe there was a vehicle. A four-wheel-drive truck or snowmobile or