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The news broadcast continued. “San Sebastian, across the bay, is cut off from the mainland. Access to the causeway bridge was washed out early this morning.”
The implications of that were clear. “We’re trapped,” he murmured.
“Maybe we do need an ark.” Christy tried to smile but failed miserably.
Before he could answer, another voice blared from the TV. “We interrupt the weathercast for this bulletin, just received from the San Sebastian Island Police Department. A thirty-four-year-old woman, Martha McLane, was reported missing last night.”
Christy’s head jerked up.
“Mrs. McLane, who was vacationing on the island with her husband and two children, left their room at the Gulf View Motel around 5:00 p.m. to walk to a nearby supermarket and did not return.” The picture of a woman with dark, wavy hair appeared on the screen. “Witnesses who were in the Kroger parking lot reported seeing a woman meeting Mrs. McLane’s description getting into a dark-blue Toyota Corolla driven by a dark-haired white male, wearing jeans. Witnesses were uncertain about the color of his shirt, but it may have been blue.”
“Dark hair,” Christy muttered. “Jeans…blue shirt.” She turned from the TV set. Her eyes stared into his. It didn’t take a mind reader to figure out what she was thinking.
He laid down his fork. It clattered against his plate. Christy reached for the gun. “Was it you?”
“I don’t know.”
The news reporter continued, “San Sebastian police are concerned that the serial killer who has been terrorizing Houston has broadened his territory even further. They are working with an artist on a sketch of the driver of the car Mrs. McLane was seen entering.”
Both he and Christy swivelled to face the screen. He held his breath. Would he see a likeness of himself?
“As soon as the sketch is available we will interrupt regularly scheduled programming to broadcast it.”
Christy sighed, then turned to him again. In her eyes, he could see the question: was he the kidnapper? “Look, if it was me, I wouldn’t be the one beaten up,” he said reasonably.
“I don’t know about that. Maybe she grabbed the steering wheel, made you go off the road.”
He stared down at his plate, frustration churning in his gut. Without looking up, he shook his head. “I…don’t…know.”
“Maybe you don’t, or maybe you’re faking. Whichever, it doesn’t matter.” She grasped the gun with both hands. “Until you can tell me different and make me believe you, I’ll have to figure you might be him.”
“I understand how you feel—” he began.
“No, you don’t. You haven’t got a clue how I feel.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes flashing. She glanced out the window, then quickly returned her gaze to his. “You wouldn’t be able to get far in the flood, so I won’t send you out. And I tried my cell phone again. All I get is a busy signal, so I can’t call the sheriff’s department. You’ll have to stay here and help me.” She leaned forward. “But if you try anything—anything at all, I won’t think twice. I’ll shoot you, understand?”
“Yes.”
He couldn’t blame her. She’d never seen him before last night. He had no identification. He’d come to her door with some cock-and-bull story about losing his memory. What was she to think? Hell, he didn’t know what to think.
He wanted to reassure her, wipe the fear off her face. He shut his eyes and strained to remember. But his memory extended only as far back as waking last night. He recalled no blue Corolla, no pretty dark-haired woman. There was nothing. Only an endless black void.
He opened his eyes and stared at his half-eaten breakfast. The thought of finishing it, of putting even a morsel of food into his mouth, sickened him. He pushed his plate away and started to get up.
An earsplitting crash sounded.
For a moment he thought Christy had shot him and wondered why he felt no pain. Then he realized he’d heard thunder.
The television screen was black. The kitchen light was out, the hum of the air conditioner stilled.
“The power,” Christy groaned, then slammed her fork down on her plate. “Dammit to hell. What next?”
Chapter 4
After a moment he saw Christy pull herself together. She squared her shoulders. “There’s nothing we can do but get to work,” she said. “These dishes need washing.”
“Dishes?” he asked, surprised she’d waste time in the kitchen with the water lapping at the porch steps.
“The water’s not up to the door yet. We have time, and I like things neat.” She gestured with the gun. “You do them. I’ll watch.”
She wasn’t going to turn her back on him, and in spite of the quandary they were in, that amused him. He hid a smile as he headed for the sink.
Christy impressed him. Some people would cry over the situation and some would curse louder and longer than she had moments ago. She was playing the hand she’d been dealt.
He’d have to do the same.
Keeping busy—that would get him through this. At least he felt better this morning. The pounding in his head had given way to a dull ache, and now that he’d eaten part of a meal, his strength had begun to return.
Christy watched him and aimed the revolver at his back. If her family had any idea what she’d done—opening her door to a stranger, maybe a kidnapper—they’d have her committed. At least, with the gun in her hand, she felt more in control. Still, she watched the dark-haired man’s every move as he scrubbed and rinsed the dishes.
Then she saw the bread knife.
On the counter, inches from his hand. She’d left it there after she’d sliced the bagels.
Silly to be afraid, she told herself. After all, she had the gun.
But would she use it? She’d told him last night she would, but in her heart, she wasn’t sure.
What if he grabbed the knife and refused to give it up? Big man with knife versus small woman with gun. She was afraid he’d have the edge.
Maybe he hadn’t noticed the knife yet. Should she casually walk over and get it? But then she’d be beside him and he could snatch her gun.
Uncertain, she watched him put a plate in the dish drainer, wash another. Then he reached for the knife.
She was on her feet, her finger trembling on the trigger when he dunked the knife in the soapy water. He ran the sponge over it and dropped it into the rinse water.
Legs like jelly, she sank back down on the chair. He’d had his chance with the knife, and he didn’t take it. Now she could get through the morning with a little less stress.
The man turned and their eyes met. His were a deep, smokey gray. The eyes of a criminal? No, she didn’t see evil there. The stranger’s gaze conveyed sincerity, even compassion.
As a hospital nurse, she was used to seeing people in the worst of circumstances, in situations where they were stripped down to their essential selves. What could be worse than losing your memory? Yet he was handling his predicament better than most.
Unmoving, he continued to hold her gaze while outside the storm raged and Christy’s heart pounded. Which did she fear most—him or the storm?
The storm, she thought. The man wouldn’t hurt her, she assured herself. They were in this together. For now, she’d have to trust him. She tucked the gun back in the waistband of her jeans. “Let’s get started on the living room,” she said.
Insisting he walk in front of her, she followed him into the living room.
Hands on hips, he surveyed the room. “We’ll need to sandbag the doors first. Got any old blankets or pillows we can use?”
Christy frowned. He’d put himself in charge. Just like Keith. Give her ex a problem, anything from a broken teapot to a patient with head trauma, and he was certain he knew what to do. Better than anyone. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. Just because she’d had an overbearing husband didn’t mean she had to reject the advice of every male she met. Her helper was probably right. And injuries or not, he’d be better able to handle the heavy work than she. “I’ll see,” she murmured and went to get some blankets.
They barricaded the front door with a faded old beach blanket, then did the same with the back, using a cartoon character blanket that had once belonged to her brother Steve.
Then they got to work, dragging furniture around until they could roll up the dhurrie that covered the living-room floor and set it on the sofa. They put small items—a lamp, a magazine rack, an umbrella stand—on tables.
As they worked, Christy kept her eyes on the man, watching for any tricky moves. Her trust only went so far.
Periodically she stopped to dial 911 on her cell, always with the same result: a busy signal.
She was concerned about the stranger’s strength. A sheen of sweat covered his face, but he seemed to be holding up all right. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
She frowned. “What should I call you?”
She saw him stiffen, then he turned. “Aren’t unidentified males called John Doe? How about J.D. for short?” His voice was flat. Not a shred of emotion showed in his eyes. The man had iron control.
Christy nodded. “J.D. All right.”
Not sure how he felt about giving himself a “name,” he turned away, mouthing the initials silently, wondering if he’d chosen his own. He went down the alphabet as he had last night. J slowed him down a bit, and he muttered, “Joe. Jack. Jerry.” None of the names felt right.
What else? He tried a few sentence beginnings: “I live in…” “My social security number is…” “Hell,” he muttered under his breath. “My social security number is zero zero zero.”
Obsessing over his identity wasn’t going to help him remember. He let his thoughts wander, and they came to rest on the woman working beside him. The voice of an angel, he thought. But she had a revolver tucked in the waistband of her jeans. Sweetness and spunk; the combination was immensely appealing. She was the kind of woman he’d enjoy sharing a burger and a beer with…or chateaubriand and champagne. If the weather were calm and she were his, he’d like to stroll along the beach with her under the summer sun. Or on a starlit night, with a soft Gulf breeze ruffling the hair that would drift like moon shadows to her shoulders.
A romantic image. Was he a romantic man? He pondered that for a moment and decided that no, he was more practical than poetic; yet something about Christy stirred him, called forth pretty words.
She bent to pick up a magazine that had dropped off a pile and gave him an enticing view of her backside. Nicely rounded. His hands itched to touch, to mold.
If she were his, on a day like this, they’d finish in here and he’d take her back to the bedroom and make love to her while the thunder growled and the storm battered the windows.
If she were his…
But she wasn’t, and the thought jerked him back to reality. She’d mentioned a husband last night. But the spouse was clearly an invention she’d come up with to protect herself from a stranger who might get ideas about a lone woman.
Well, he’d gotten them.
He’d like to…
A sudden question halted him midthought. What if he was married and thinking this way? Damn, this was a helluva mess.
He glanced at her to find her with the cell phone at her ear again, punching in 911. While he’d been imagining romantic scenes, she’d been doing her best to try to get rid of him.
She caught him staring. “What?” she asked.
Had he said something out loud? “Nothing,” he muttered. He pointed to the crowded bookshelves. “You don’t want these books ruined. We’ll move the ones from the lower shelves.” He pulled out a well-worn copy of The Secret Garden. “Looks like you’ve read this more than once.”
She nodded. “It was my favorite book when I was growing up. I read it every summer we were here, at least five years in a row.”
“You came here when you were a kid?” he asked.
“Yes, this is my parents’ beach house.”
He glanced around the living room. Big windows that could be opened to catch the Gulf breeze, shut now to keep out the rain. Comfortable furniture but not fancy. A fireplace. One that was actually used. A log lay in the basket beside it. On the mantel was a picture of a man holding up a huge fish. Christy’s father, he guessed. He scanned more of the book titles. “You have a brother.”
She nodded.
“Older than you.”
She cocked her head and stared at him. “Yes, but how do you know that?”
He gestured to the dog-eared volumes. “His books are on a higher shelf.”
He read more titles. The Hardy Boys, Huckleberry Finn, and Tom Sawyer. Funny, he knew the contents of all those books but couldn’t remember reading them. Dammit, why? Rubbing his hand over his temple in frustration, he turned away from the shelves.
“Let’s take a break,” Christy said. “I’ll fix us some lunch.”
“Okay.” He led the way into the kitchen without her asking. He already knew the drill; she didn’t want him behind her.
“I’ll make some cheese sandwiches,” she said.
Christy dawdled over her sandwich. J.D. was certain she did that to give him time to rest. He liked that, appreciated that she didn’t make a big deal out of it. He guessed she knew that would embarrass him.
She’d gone out of her way to help him, even though she still didn’t trust him. She kept plenty of space between them so he couldn’t snatch her gun, and except for that one delicious view she’d given him of her derriere, she never turned her back on him.
He wondered about her, this woman who was so strong. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. “Did you always want to be a nurse?” he asked.
She shrugged. “A nurse or an archaeologist.”
“And you settled on nursing.”
“I decided I wanted to be in health care.”
“Why not a doctor?” he asked, but she only shrugged.
He tried to picture her at work, wearing scrubs, her hair pulled back from her face. “What hospital do you work at?” he asked.
“You ask too many questions.”
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to pry.” He pushed his sandwich away. “I can’t do much but ask questions. I can’t tell you about me.”
She shrugged. “That’s okay. I don’t go for the ‘strangers on a plane’ routine.” She got up abruptly, punched 911 on her cell phone and backed away from the table.
At the kitchen door she stopped. “I’m getting through,” she said excitedly, and hurried out of the room.
J.D. sighed. Now she could call the paramedics or the police. Or both. Wouldn’t do much good though, he decided, looking out the window. No one would be able to get here. The roads were filled with water. The Gulf of Mexico was right at their doorstep.
Christy counted the rings as she stepped into the front hallway. After nine of them, a woman’s harried voice answered. “Emergency.”
