The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 6-10 - Catherine Coulter [397]
He wasn’t about to clean it up now, but it didn’t look too bad, maybe even most of it salvageable. As he jacked up the rear end of the car, he thought the watermelon looked rather like the cabin they had borrowed from Savich’s boss, Jimmy Maitland, who regularly loaned it out to his friends and his college sons—it had taken them two hours of scrubbing before the cabin was habitable again.
It didn’t take him long to change the tire. He was fastening down the last lug nut when he heard something. He turned to see a woman burst out of the trees twenty feet ahead of him, running directly at him, waving her arms wildly, screaming something he couldn’t understand. Her hair was long, dark, and straight, flying back as she ran. Her face was stark white beneath the pale sickle of moon that suddenly shone down through the dark heavy clouds.
She was still screaming when she reached him, her breath hitching. Words he couldn’t understand bulleted out of her mouth.
He was on his feet in an instant. “It’s all right. It’s okay, you’ve found me. I’m an FBI agent. It will be all right.” He left his SIG in his belt harness for now. She was so terrified she was heaving, speaking fast and high, hysteria smearing her words like thick grease. “The man, he’s in the house! He’s trying to kill me. Oh God, help me!”
She threw herself against him. Savich was startled for just a moment, then he took her arms and gently drew her close, patting her back. She wasn’t wearing a coat, not even a sweater, only what appeared to be a light summer dress, with thin straps. “It’s all right,” he said against her hair. A young woman, not more than thirty, he thought, but so frightened she would collapse if she didn’t calm down. He tried to soothe her, but it wasn’t working. She kept saying over and over again, her voice breaking, her terror slamming him in the face, “The man, he’s in the house, he’s trying to kill me. You’ve got to help me!”
The same words, over and over, nothing specific, no names, nothing more than what she’d said since she’d run out of the woods. Her voice was hoarse now, but her hysteria kept building. Her eyes were dark, wild and terrified.
He clasped her face between his hands and looked right in her face. “Listen to me. I’m a cop. You’re going to be all right. I’ll protect you. Just tell me, where do you live?”
“Over there.” She threw a wild hand in the direction off to their left.
“All right, is the man still there?”
“Yes, yes, he’s there, he wants to kill me.”
“It’s okay, just hold yourself together. I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“No, please, please, help me now, you’ve got to, take me back to the house, the man’s there, please! Help me!”
“Why do you want to go back there if someone is trying to kill you?”
“Please, you’ve got to take me back. You’ve got to get him, stop him. Please!”
Savich drew back, held her arms in his hands and stared down into her white face. Her eyes were very dark, and her face was so white he thought she was going into shock. “The sheriff,” he said, but she jerked away from him and began running away, off the main road.
He caught her in an instant. She fought, sobbing, the wild frenzy bubbling out of her, until he said, “All right. I’ll take you back home. You can trust me. No, don’t try to move. But it would be stupid for me to go there with you alone. I’m calling for help.”
He held her by one arm, pulled out his cell and punched in 911. She made no move to get away. She stood docile and quiet beside him, saying nothing. The phone didn’t work. But that made no sense. He’d spoken to Sherlock just a half hour before, calling from the very same spot. He tried again. The cell was dead as those shriveled carrots he’d just bought. It made no sense. He tried one final time. Nothing.