Survive the Night Read online

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  Contents: Prologue 1234567891011

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  Prologue

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  The first thought in Dillon Boone's mind when the car stopped its violent side-over-side roll at the bottom of the ravine was that he had to escape. Maybe the men on the roadway up above would assume that the crash had killed him; maybe they wouldn't bother making their way down the steep, rocky slope and would instead leave the scene as quickly as possible to avoid detection, but he doubted it. Not when they'd chosen the spot for their attack so carefully. Not when they had ignored the deputy with him. Not when they had apparently decided that killing him would be worth killing a cop.

  The cruiser lay upside down now, its wheels still spinning, one side lodged against a barrier of fallen trees, rocks and other debris that darkened the interior and made escape from the passenger side impossible. Another small tree blocked the rear door on the driver's side, and a solid steel-mesh screen prevented him from climbing into the front seat and exiting the driver's door, which had come open and broken off in the wild ride. His only chance was to kick out the window, already marked with a web of cracks, and wriggle through the small space. The way the roof was compressed, he wasn't sure he could make it. He wasn't sure he had the time. He wasn't sure he could endure the attempt.

  But he had no choice. It was either try … or wait here to die. Damned if he was going to make it easy for the bastards. They still might succeed, but they were going to have to work for it.

  Turning onto his back, he raised his feet, drew a breath,then slammed them hard against the glass. Jolts of pain traveled up his legs, becoming knife-sharp and hot as they moved through his ribs. If his ribs weren't already cracked, the shock wave just might finish the job, he thought with a grimace; then, pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he kicked again. This time the weakened glass popped out, falling without sound to the wet, mossy ground outside. He twisted around, working his way out headfirst, swearing silently, viciously, to keep the pain under control.

  For one precious moment he simply lay there, barely able to breathe, feeling the mist soak through his clothes and trickle down his neck,then he forced himself to his knees, forced himself to look above for signs of danger. He could see the ragged scar of downed saplings, scraped rock and disturbed earth where the car had tumbled its way to the bottom, but from here, he couldn't see the roadway where the men had been waiting for them. He couldn't see the black van that had been pulled across the lanes on a hair-pin curve, leaving the deputy nowhere to go but down. He couldn't see the three men, two of them strangers, the third vaguely familiar, who had opened fire on them as they'd skidded across the blacktop and, finally, over the side.

  But they were still there. He could hear voices, low, the words indistinct,the tones threatening. They were coming after him, and they intended to kill him.

  As he summoned the strength to get to hisfeet, his gaze settled on the deputy in the front seat. His name was Coughlin, and he was about Dillon's age and probably twice his size—beefy and muscular. His seat belt still held him in place and had likely saved his life when the door had snapped off under the car's weight. He was unconscious, his breathing labored, his green uniform shirt stained with blood. If he left the deputy here alone, the man might die, Dillon acknowledged. It wasn't likely that the men responsiblefor his condition would summon help for him, and passersby probably wouldn't notice the skid marks or even see the damaged hillside unless they were out of their cars looking.

  But if he stayed, he couldn't help Coughlin.

  If he stayed, all he could do wasdie with him.

  From overhead came the squeal of tires, then the slamming of car doors. Maybe help had arrived, but for him and the deputy? Or the men trying to kill him?

  "Wow, look at that!" A child's voice drifted down into the ravine. "Did someone have a wreck? Is there a car down there? Jeez, do you think they're okay?"

  Another one, this one a girl's, maybe a few years older, joined in. "My mom's calling the sheriff from her car phone. They'll be here any time now. Are you guys hurt?"

  Maybe Coughlin would be all right, after all, Dillon thought. Surely Russell's men wouldn't try to finish the job with two curious children and their Good Samaritan mother standingby, and there was no way they would stay around and wait for the sheriff to arrive. Any minute now they would return to the van and drive away, and more than likely, neither the kids nor their mother would be able to provide a tag number or even a decent description of them or their van.

  Reaching inside the car, he removed the deputy's pistol from its holster and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. He took a moment to lean past the deputy, close enough to hear his uneven breathing and pull the keys from the ignition. If he was going to survive, he needed the small key dangling next to the car keys, the key that would open the handcuffs fastened around his wrists. Sliding the keys into his pocket, he rose to his feet and made his way awkwardly aroundthecar and over the pile of debris. He headed deeper into the mountains. The handcuffs could be dealt with later, but his first priority was getting out of there alive.

  His second was staying that way.

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  Chapter 1

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  With a glance at the clock, Ashley Benedict removed the last of the reeds from the tub filled with gallons of strong tea, checked the color against the last batch she had dyed, then began hanging them from the line suspended the entire length of her workshop. By tomorrow morning they would be dry, and she could begin making the oversize market basket Seth was giving his mother for her birthday. Mrs. Benedict would love the basket, would love that her son had gone to the trouble to have something specially made for her, would love that he'd listened all those times she had complained about keeping her knitting yarns neat and convenient, but she wouldn't be at all happy with the idea that the basket had been made by her former daughter-in-law. Although she hadn't minded Ashley and Seth's friendship when they were growing up, she hadseriously disapproved of their marriage.

  That was all right, though, Ashley mused as she hung the last of the pliable strips. Marriage to Seth had been a mistake from the beginning, and for the past four years, it had been over and done with. Now they were just friends, which was all they ever should have been.

  Reaching for a towel on the worktable, she dried her hands,then opened a jar filled with pale pink cream and scooped some onto her hands. Her own concoction, the lotion was satiny, cool and smelled of roses. It kept her skin soft, and the aloe it contained helped heal the scrapes and cuts that were a hazard of her work.

  While she rubbed it in, she leaned against the sturdy table and stared out the window. It was a little after five on a dreary March afternoon. Yesterday had been beautiful, with temperatures in the seventies and a definite hint of spring in the air. Even this morning the sun had been shining brightly, warming the air, filling the workshop with its light and heat, and she had allowed herself to wonder if winter truly was past. Then the sun had disappeared, the temperature had dropped a good twenty-five degrees and the rain had started. It had been a good day to snuggle beneath a quilt in front of a roaring fire, to drowse away the hours and weave nothing more than dreams.

  It had also been a good day for weaving baskets and blankets, for mixing potpourris and herbal concoctions, for making soap or baking bread or any of the other hundred and one chores that kept her in food, clothing and money.

  With a soft sigh, she shut off the lights and stepped outside, pulling the door firmly shut behind her. The only locks were hook and eye, one on the inside, one on the outside, to secure the workshop against the door blowing open, not against intruders. She never had intruders up here. Surrounded by p
arkland on three sides, more than five miles from her nearest neighbor and ten miles beyond that to the nearest town, she was too far off the beaten path for wanderers or drifters. Seth came by at least once a week to check on her, and she had occasional business-related visitors, but no one else ventured so far. Her friends were hours away inRaleighandDurham, and her parents and sisters lived on theCaliforniacoast, selling pottery by the sea. She was alone.

  And she liked it that way.

  She had taken her first steps from the workshop's sheltering stoop when movement in the clearing caught her attention. A man was coming around from behind where her van wasparked, his head bent low against the rain and the piercing wind. It took only a second's glance to tag him a stranger, only a second longer to identify him as an outsider. No local would be out in weather like this wearing nothing but jeans, sneakers and a stained T-shirt. Even though the sun had been shining this morning and the temperature had been on the mild side, no one who had lived more than a season in theseNorth Carolinamountainswould make the mistake of wandering far from home without a jacket.

  Maybe he was a hiker who'd lost his way in the park … but no serious hiker would take to the rugged trails around here in worn tennis shoes. Even a novice on a day hike knew to wear sturdy boots with ridged soles.

  She felt a moment's uneasiness brought on by his presence, but she shook it off. Living the way she did, isolated and with no one but herself to depend on, she couldn't afford to let every unusual occurrence frighten her. She couldn't acquaint herself with easy fear, or she would start thinking that every bump in the night was the bogeyman come to get her. When that happened, she would have to give up her solitude, her peace and her easy way of living and move into town.

  Besides, this wasn't such an unusual occurrence. She'd had unexpected visitors before, and all they had ever wanted was a little neighborly assistance. This man wasn't likely to be any different. In fact, she was pretty sure she had seen him before, probably in town. He didn't live nearby—she knew all her neighbors—but maybe he was visiting one of them. Maybe he was a relative of one.

  "Can I help you?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest, wishing she'd grabbed the jacket she kept in the workshop, wishing she hadn't planned on a quick dash across the clearing when she'd walked right past it.

  His head came up, and his steps slowed. Coming to a stop a half-dozen feet away, for a moment he simply watched her in the thin light. He looked tired and battered, with a few raw scrapes and bruises that darkened his face, and he was obviously weakened. However long he'd been out in the cold rain, it had been too long. He was suffering, probably a little from shock and a lot from exposure.

  "My car…"His voice was raspy and rough, perfectly matching the appearance he presented. "I hit a slick spot and ran off the road back there. Do you have a phone?"

  At least that explained his face, the awkward way he stood and moved and his lack of warm clothing, she thought as she shook her head. "Sorry, I don't."

  "Is your husband around? Maybe he could help…"

  She smiled. "I don't have one of those, either. But I can give you a ride into town or down to theParmenters ' place about five miles down the road. They have a telephone, and they would be happy to let you use it. Waithere, and I'll get my keys." Still hugging herself for warmth, she hurried across the clearing, taking the half-dozen stairs to the porch in three steps. Under the shelter of the porch roof, she opened the unlocked door, switched the lights on and went inside and to her purse on the kitchen table. She was digging through it when the floorboard right in front of the door creaked and the man stepped into the open doorway.

  The uneasiness she'd felt briefly outside reappeared.Wait here, she had said. Instructions couldn't get any simpler. So why had he followed her? Why was he standing there blocking the door, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end, making her feel very unsafe?

  Her fingers closed around her car keys, but she continued to dig through the deep shoulder bag. "I keep telling myself I should get a smaller purse. I'm forever losing things in here," she said, hearing the beginnings of fear in her voice, hoping he didn't recognize it as that. "What's your name?"

  He was looking around the cabin, paying it far more attention than it deserved. Was she about to be robbed? Ashley wondered, the thought sending chills down her spine. Surely not. Even the most inept thief could find a better target than this primitive little cabin with her inexpensive furniture, aged appliances and minimal personal belongings.

  After a long, still moment his gaze settled on her. "What does it matter?"

  "Just trying to be friendly." She tried for a casual shrug. "I thought maybe I'd seen you before."

  "Where would you have seen me?"

  "In town. InCatlin ."

  He shook his head. "I never met you there."

  No, she knew that. She never would have forgotten such a handsome face … or such an unsettling manner. But shehad seen him. She was sure of it. Maybe in a store, maybe on the street, maybe even in a photograph or…

  A photograph. Yes, that was it. A grainy black-and-white photograph underneath a red heading: Have You Seen This Man? For a few months last year those flyers had been prominently displayed in every business in town. Bill Armstrong, president ofCatlin's only bank, had paid for the printing and had distributed them himself. It was a waste of time, Seth had confided in her. After weeks of investigation and intensive searches, there was one place theCatlin County Sheriff's Department was sure the man wasn't: inCatlinCounty.

  Neither was the four hundred fifty thousand dollars he'd stolen from Armstrong's bank.

  The caption underneath the photo and the lines directly following it came clearly to mind: Dillon Boone. Wanted for bank robbery. If you have any information regarding his whereabouts, please contact theCatlin County Sheriff's Department. Reward.

  It was Dillon Boone. Dear God, what was he doing back here inCatlinCounty, where everyone knew his name, where practically everyone knew his face?

  He stood absolutely motionless, watching her watch him. He knew, she saw—knew that she had remembered. He read it in the shock that had turned her face pale, in the trembling that swept over her as if she'd just stepped into a frigid wind.

  Slowly he stepped inside the cabin, then closed and locked the door behind him. He moved stiffly, as if each motion were painful. He was badly hurt, she realized. In addition to the cuts and bruises on his face and arms, she would guess from the way he was breathing that he had a few broken ribs, and that rusty stain spreading across his shirt she recognized now as blood that might have come from something as innocent as a cut or as sinister as a gunshot wound. Toss in his inadequate clothing, the rain and the chill—the temperature outside was hovering in the high forties now, she estimated, with a stiff breeze out of the west—and he was in seriously bad shape.

  Watching him, Ashley ran through a mental checklist of anything in the cabin that might be used as a weapon against a man in an obviously weakened state: the butcher knife and the rolling pin in the kitchen, the scissors in the sewing basket at the end of the sofa, next to the door the solid length of hickory that she took on her walks into the woods and the logs stacked next to the hearth. Most of the logs were too short and fat to be of any use, but there was an occasional slender piece that could do some damage if she got close enough. It wasn't much of an arsenal, she admitted grimly. Not that it mattered much. The mere idea of stabbing someone with a butcher knife or scissors or of swinging that hickory stick or a sturdy length of firewood against unprotected flesh was enough to make her cringe.

  Get a gun, Seth had counseled when she'd moved up here, but she had protested. It was a less intimate means of defense, true—it could be used with the safety of distance between shooter and target—but it was also such a final one. She couldn't risk killing someone to protect her property; she wasn't sure she could do it even to protect herself. If she tried and couldn't, she would simply wind up giving a possibly unarmed intruder a weap
on to use against her and any other poor unfortunate who crossed his path in the future.

  But Dillon Boone wasn't unarmed. When he faced her again, he was holding a gun in his left hand—holding it as if he were comfortable with it, as if he were comfortable with the idea of using it. "Put the purse down and move over there," he instructed, waving the gun toward the braided rug in front of the fireplace.

  Withdrawing her hand, she let the keys drop to the table, then backed away as he'd directed.

  "Do you live here alone?"

  She considered lying, but she had already been foolish enough to tell him that she wasn't married—and that she had no phone she could use to call for help. She had already let him into her house, where the only jackets that hung on thecoatrack next to him were obviously hers, where the only shoes lined up next to the bed in the corner were women's shoes, where the only items scattered across the dresser top were perfume bottles and a lacy, flowery fabric box filled with earrings. Biting her lip, she nodded.

  "What's your name?"

  "Ashley."