LITMIR.BIZ

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added bacon and bagels, then joined him at the table. She reached for the gun, set it beside her plate, and watched as he lifted a forkful of food to his mouth. “Eggs okay?”

      He nodded, glanced pointedly at the revolver. “I’d enjoy them more without the artillery.” He smiled at her. “I like the sound of snap, crackle, and pop, but from cereal, not from bullets.”

      “You’ll have to put up with it.”

      He shrugged, and they ate without further conversation.

      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?

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