way at the other end of the road. And you think you’re fine? In an isolated house with your nearest neighbor a mile away? You’re being naive.”
A bubble of anger formed in her chest. “It’s half a mile, and I’m not naive. Not about anything. Not after Keith.”
“I heard on the news there’s a serial killer loose in Houston.”
So the news about the Night Stalker had gone statewide. If he wasn’t caught soon, there’d be national coverage, as well, she supposed. “Houston’s over an hour away. I’m safer here than in the Medical Center,” Christy said. Every one of the Night Stalker’s victims had worked somewhere in the huge complex of hospitals where she was employed. “Besides,” she added, “I have protection.”
“What?” he said in that scornful big-brother tone she’d hated when she was a kid. “Did you bring a hypodermic syringe from the hospital?”
“Nope, my own 38 special.”
“You…you have a gun?”
“And I know how to use it. I took one of those courses you need to get a gun permit.” She and several fellow nurses had decided that was essential, when two women who worked in their very same hospital turned up dead within a week, victims of the maniac who’d been prowling the city since spring.
“Good God, Toad.” Steve’s voice sounded choked. “Be careful with the damn thing.”
Christy laughed. “You want me to be safe, but you worry that I have a gun. Make up your mind, brother dear.” She reached for the popcorn. Steve’s concern for her safety was misguided. Nothing was likely to happen to her in an isolated corner of a lazy family vacation spot. And if some small difficulty did arise, no problem. She could take care of herself.
Not far away, a man lay on the beach. He heard the rumble of thunder and stirred. Another sound, deeper and more constant, roared in his ears. A flash of lightning penetrated his closed lids; raindrops splattered against his bare forearms. His clothes were damp and uncomfortable. Must’ve left the window open, he thought. But why had he gone to bed with his clothes on? With an effort, he forced his eyes open.
He wasn’t in bed, wasn’t even in a room. He was…outside, sprawled on his stomach on a wet, sandy beach. And the tide was coming in. Salt water swept over his feet and up to his knees, then receded. A sand dune shielded him from the wind, but he was unprotected from the rain and the rapidly encroaching tide.
How in hell had he gotten here?
He tried to get up, but a wave of pain made him clutch his head and freeze. His vision blurred. Must’ve hit my head, he thought fuzzily. But how?
He had no time to think. He had to get up and away from the angry surf. Another flash of lightning and a roll of thunder told him all hell was about to break loose.
On hands and knees he scrambled around the sand dune, then tried to stand, but dizziness and nausea forced him down again. He touched his head, and his hand came away wet. Rain, he thought, then glanced at his fingers. Blood!
Had he had an accident? Been mugged? He couldn’t remember.
He ignored his throbbing head and struggled to his feet. He’d think about his head later, get himself to a hospital if necessary. First he had to figure out what was going on. Panting with exertion, he clambered up a low bank and away from the beach. Cold rain pelted him, and he shivered as he surveyed a deserted road and flat marshland on the other side of it.
Where was he? And how had he gotten here? His mind was too fuzzy to dredge up the answers.
He peered through the rapidly advancing darkness. He saw no one. If he’d been beaten, whoever had done it was long gone.
He scanned the area again and noticed a cluster of small cottages some distance from the beach. A light shone in the house on the end. A light meant people who could tell him where he was. Ignoring the rain, he crossed the road, walking carefully to avoid another attack of lightheadedness, then, with head bent, started up the narrow lane that led to the houses. Rain chilled his neck, drenched his clothing, but he kept going. He’d ask to use the phone and call…
Who?
He groped for a name, a phone number, but nothing came to mind. Surely he should be able to remember his…
Wife? Office? Home? The only phone number he could recall was 911.
Despite the deluge, he stopped and shut his eyes. In a minute, something would come to him: the color of his car, what he’d eaten for lunch, his shoe size. Rain coursed down his cheeks as he waited, but his mind whirled in confusion, his head throbbed with pain.
Opening his eyes, he forced himself to think, to concentrate. Facts flashed through his head: the capital of Minnesota, the number of symphonies composed by Beethoven, the square root of 144. His brain seemed to be a treasure trove of trivia. Totally useless information.
“My name is…” he muttered but couldn’t complete the sentence. He recited the alphabet, hoping he’d recognize the first letter of his name. But he couldn’t. He didn’t know who to call, where he’d come from, or where he’d been going.
He didn’t know who he was.
His jeans’ pockets were empty. Quickly, he searched the pockets of the denim shirt he wore. No wallet. No driver’s license. Not a clue to his identity. Nothing.
Fear clutched at him, and though he couldn’t recall anything about himself, he was certain he was a man who seldom knew fear. Clenching his fists, he started off again, walking faster. Obviously, he’d suffered a blow to the head. Loss of memory was natural under the circumstances. Soon everything would come back to him.
Mud sucked at his shoes, slowed his pace, but doggedly, he kept going. Not much farther. Before him, the light gleamed like a beacon. Fixing his eyes on it, he plowed ahead.
Christy reached for the last handful of popcorn. She should go to bed, but she was too lazy to get out of the chair. Maybe she’d sleep here in the—
The doorbell rang.
She smothered a gasp and jumped up, scattering kernels on the floor. Who in the world would be out in this weather? Putting a hand to her heart, she pattered across the living room. The bell rang again. Whoever her visitor was, he didn’t have much patience. “All right,” she called. “I’m coming.”
She flipped on the porch light and peered out through the living-room window. A man stood beside the door. Tall and lean, he was disheveled and thoroughly soaked from the rain. In the glow of the light, she could make out his features well enough to tell that she didn’t know him. She didn’t open her door to strangers, storm or no storm.
As she watched, he paced to the porch steps. He turned back and she saw his face more clearly now. A bruise marred his jaw and one eye was turning a grisly purple. Had he been in a fight?
Who was he? If she’d met him here before, she’d have remembered him. In spite of his bruises, he had the kind of face a woman would notice. Eyes as gray as the stormy skies, a firm, sensuous mouth above a square jaw, and the hint of a cleft in his chin.
He punched the doorbell again. Reaching up to be sure the dead bolt
