Chapter Sixteen

Allen

“Oh. Oh,” Brielle’s eyes widen at my announcement, and while I feel a bit guilty for not telling her what I’m actually worried about – namely, that a tripod can also be used to support a long-range weapon - I’m not about to mention it.

“But we can’t rule it out either,” she points out. “Not completely. You and I both know the messages are getting worse. Seems like video would be the next escalation.”

Or sniper fire, I think grimly.

“Yes, they are getting progressively worse. And that is why we are leaving. I know you said Anne is covering for you today, and that you have nothing scheduled for tomorrow. But I think it’s best that we plan to lie low for at least a week.”

The color returns to her face as she stops walking again to argue with me. “Like hell. I have appointments and meetings booked all next week! I can’t just bail on everybody, Allen.”

“You can, and you will. You will call your receptionist - what’s her name again? Rita?”

“Yes, but – “

“You’re gonna call Rita when we get back to your house and tell her you’re down with the flu, and that the doctor wants you to stay home and rest until next weekend.”

That brings a flash of anger to her eyes, and she puts one hand on her hip and clenches the other into a fist with index finger extended to poke me in the chest.

She is adorable when she’s mad, my brain blurts out all on its own, and I bite the inside of my cheek because I know that smiling is the worst possible thing I can do right now.

“Look, buddy, I was willing to humor you for a couple of days, but an entire week? Are you kidding me? If you are worried about some pervert videotaping me from the treehouse, then let’s stay in a hotel so I can still do my job!”

I resist the sudden urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake some sense into her. The only thing that stops me is that I know she has not even considered what else could happen.

But she should. Being prepared for anything could save her life one day.

“Brielle,” I say, all humor gone and a dangerous rasp of steel in my voice, “You may think it’s okay to gamble with your safety, but I don’t. I’d rather see you miss work and be pissed off at me, but safe, than see you stick to some damn schedule and end up hurt or worse.”

That gets her attention, and she cocks her head to the side, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re still not telling me something,” she accuses, and I keep a stoic expression and do not reply.

She huffs and stomps away from me down the sidewalk, and I close my eyes and shake my head, counting down from twenty silently before I follow her.

The sound of tires squealing snaps me to attention, and I look up to see a dark panel van barreling down the usually quiet street. As I run to close the distance to Brielle, I see the van begin to angle, deliberately aiming for her on the sidewalk. She sees it and screams just as I tackle her, my momentum carrying the both of us out of the van’s deadly path and causing us to land hard, then roll several times.

The driver guns the engine, the back tires throwing clumps of the neighbor’s front lawn our direction as the van fishtails before finding some grip, then veers back onto the paved road and races past the Andersen’s house and out of sight.

Brielle’s come to rest on top of me, her head on my chest, and she is not moving. I roll her gently to her back onto the soft grass, and she groans, but her eyes open.

“God, Brielle! Brielle! Talk to me! Are you okay?” I ask as I run my hands over her and check for injuries.

“Winded,” she finally gasps.

By this time Pete’s running out of the house toward us.

“What the hell?” he yells.

“Tried to hit her,” I say, a little short of breath myself from the hard roll we took.

“Plate?”

I shake my head. “Didn’t see one. Call Detective Tucker.”

As Pete makes the call, my attention immediately shifts back to Brielle.

“Let’s… go… call…. Rita,” she grunts, nodding her head as she looks up at me, her green eyes still wide and terrified as she struggles to catch her breath.

Brielle

Once I am finally able to breathe properly again – and he is satisfied I have no injuries - Allen helps me up.

“Was that the kind of thing you’re worried about?” I ask, and he just looks at me somberly.

“Okay, I get it now. The phone and laptop stay here. Anything else I should leave behind, just to be safe?”

“Your car. We’re taking my truck.”

“Fair enough.”

I brush off my clothes as Allen reaches over and removes a small clump of dirt, beautiful green blades of grass still attached, from my hair.

“Do I have time to take a shower?”

“Yes - but make it quick. We need to get moving.”

Pete hangs up from his phone call and announces, “Tucker’s on the way.”

The neighbor’s front door slamming proceeds an extremely loud, “What the hell you think you’re doing? Get off my lawn!”

“Good morning to you too, Mr. Patrick,” I call out to the crotchety old fart that lives next door. “Someone just tried to run me over.”

He shuffles quickly over to survey the damage to his yard.

“Dammit. I just got the Bermuda grass to come in nice and thick, too,” he laments before he turns to me and gruffly asks, “You all right, girly?”

“A little shaken up, is all.”

“Good. Did you see who it was?”

“A black panel van, limo tint on the side windows, didn’t get a good look at the driver, and there was no license plate,” Allen tells him. “We called it in.”

Mr. Patrick looks at Allen, then at me, then back again.

“Well now. That sounds like the same van that was parked down the road from here a couple nights ago.”

I can almost see Allen’s ears perk up. “Where, exactly?”

“In front of the Crawford’s place. About five houses that way and across the street,” Mr. Patrick answers, motioning behind him with his thumb. “Old man Crawford was pissing and moaning about it because it partially blocked his driveway. He said he had to swing his truck out wide to get around the damn thing to head to work.”

“Interesting,” Allen murmurs, then turns to me and says, “You go get your shower. I’m going to visit with Mr. Patrick a bit more while I wait for Tucker.”

I nod, still brushing what feels like a ton of dirt off my face and out of my hair as Pete and I retreat to my house.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I towel off and dress in a t-shirt and yoga pants - comfortable clothes for what could be a long car ride to wherever it is Allen’s taking me.

Once my tennis shoes are tied, I stand up again and walk back into the bathroom to collect what I need to add to my suitcase – soap, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, hairbrush, toothbrush, and toothpaste. After a brief pause, I double back and grab my hand lotion and some sunscreen as well.

The clothes I have packed are totally ‘left-side-of-closet’ items – jeans, yoga pants, t-shirts, and a hoodie, since I have no idea where we are going, but something tells me that hiding out is not going to involve fancy dress attire. I also grab my sleep shorts, tank top and my robe.

I place the items I have collected in the suitcase, then pick up my laptop and plug it in next to my bed.

No need to run the battery down, I reason with myself, although I still feel twitchy about having no means of communication with the outside world.

But as I close my eyes, the sudden image of the van lurching my direction is all it takes to make leaving my electronics behind a non-issue.

I don’t think I have ever gone completely without them, though, I realize. I’ve never fully ‘unplugged’, ever.

This ought to be interesting.

In a flash of inspiration, I walk to my home office and grab four of the paperback books Mari loaned me – two romances by Erin Wright and two thriller stories by Paul Austin Ardoin. Pete glances up and smiles briefly before he returns his focus to my home computer.

I feel a twinge of guilt as I pick up the books, since I have been wanting to read them for months now, but never had the time.

But something tells me that whatever Allen has planned means I will have the time to get to them now, so I return to my room and add them to my suitcase before I zip it closed and hoist it off the bed to set it on the floor.

I extend the handle to its fullest height and wheel my suitcase out to the living room, then pull out my cell phone to call Rita and tell her an outright lie for the first time ever.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Rita,” I begin, taking care to make my voice sound as weak and hoarse as possible.

“Bri! You sound horrible? Are you okay?”

“No,” I croak. “Woke up feeling awful, so I went to the clinic this morning, and they said that it’s a really nasty case of the flu. On bedrest for the next week.”

“Wow, I’m so sorry you’re sick. Need me to reschedule your appointments?”

“Yes, please,” I say, feeling guilty for misleading her.

“You got it. Just get better, all right? And call me if you need anything.”

I disconnect the call, carry my phone to its charger in the kitchen, and rejoin my suitcase in the living room to wait patiently for Allen to return.