couple of unmarked cars. Police officers and men in dark suits and overcoats prowled the enormous front yard. Flood lights, located on all four sides of the house, turned the night to day. Up on the hill behind the house, flashlight beams cut across the darkness, sweeping the shrubbery, the shadows under the trees.
She saw dogs.
And guns.
And men in Air Force blue.
She didn't realize she had a death grip on the steering wheel until her hands began to ache. What on earth was going on?
Lainey... hurry...
Hurry, Lainey thought, dazed. Hurry where?
My voice... follow the sound... of my voice...
Without stopping to think, without taking time to wonder about the strangeness of it, Lainey slid out of the car and followed the sound of Micah's voice.
She turned away from the mansion as she made her way down the sharp incline located on the south side of the house. Slipping and sliding, she descended the hill, then turned right and followed a drainage ditch until she came to a storm drain.
Bending over, she looked inside. "Micah?"
"In here."
Lainey breathed a sigh of relief when she heard his voice. The inside of the storm drain was damp and dark. She'd gone about six feet when she saw him sitting with his back against the side of the cold cement.
"Micah? Are you all right?"
With a faint nod, he stood up, swaying unsteadily. "Can you get me out of here?"
"I can try." She held out her hand. "Come on."
She couldn't see his face clearly, but she felt him hesitate. He stooped to pick up something, which he tucked inside his shirt, and then his fingers were closing over hers.
Lainey went first, peering into the darkness. "I think we're in the clear," she whispered. "Let's go."
He followed her out of the storm drain and up the hill. Once, she heard him gasp as he stumbled, and then they were at the top of the incline. Her car was only a few yards away.
It was then that she saw the dark stain that blossomed across his shirt front and spread down the left side of his trousers.
"You're hurt!" she exclaimed. "What happened?"
"No time... to explain," he said, his voice reedy and uneven.
Lainey stared at him for a moment. He'd been shot, she thought, appalled. She wondered briefly why the police were after him. Wondered if he was, indeed, a mass murderer.
And then she looked into his eyes, those guileless silver-blue eyes, and all her doubts and fears disintegrated.
A quick glance up the road showed that the police were widening their search. She could see their flashlight beams sweeping the darkness as several officers approached the edge of the driveway. In the distance, she could hear dogs barking, as though they'd picked up a fresh scent.
Wordlessly, she helped Micah into the car, then slid behind the wheel. She turned the key in the ignition, then put the car in reverse.
Only when they were well out of sight of the mansion did she turn on the headlights.
She glanced at Micah several times as she drove home. His eyes were closed, his complexion was beyond pale, his breathing was rapid and shallow. For the first time, it occurred to her that he might die.
He was barely conscious when they reached her house. She drove into the garage, shut off the headlights, and switched off the ignition. After getting out of the car, she closed the garage door, then turned on the light.
Opening the car door, she shook Micah's arm. "Micah? Mi-cah!"
His eyelids fluttered open and he stared up at her, his gaze unfocused.
"You've got to walk. I can't carry you."
He nodded that he understood, and Lainey stepped away from the car so he could get out.
There was no way to explain what she saw. Afterwards, she would wonder if she had imagined it. While she watched, he closed his eyes and she knew, without knowing how she knew, that he was drawing on help from some deep inner well. Impossible as it seemed, she could almost see the vitality flowing through him, strengthening him from within.
In less than a minute, Micah opened his eyes. Effortlessly, he climbed out of the car and followed Lainey inside, down the narrow hallway into the guest room located in the back of the house.
He stood in the middle of the floor, his gaze sweeping the room in a swift glance, noting the single window, the narrow bed, the chest of drawers. And then he reached inside his shirt, pulled out a black box, and handed it