第 13 页

"What the hell ..."

The table was set with flowers, plates, cups, silverware,even salt and pepper. The only problem was, all of the utensils were painted onto the tablecloth in bright red.

He studied the strange artwork, trying to figure out what in the hell was going on. "Hello, Jack. Welcome home."He heard his wife's softly spoken words, and cringed. Ramming his hands deep in his pockets, he grudgingly looked up at her. She was standing in front of the kitchener, her hands clasped together like the well-bred southern lady she had always claimed to be.

And yet, she looked . . . different. Disheveled. Her cheeks were flushed from steamy heat and laughter, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that made him ache with longing. Once, long ago, she'd looked like this whenever they'd been together.

She watched him study her, making no move to turn away. A slow, sensuous smile curved her full lips. Crazily, he felt it was a smile meant for him and him alone. He clenched his jaw and looked away. The oven door creaked open, then banged shut. The aroma of roasting chicken and potatoes filled the small room.

Jack searched for something to say that would sever the ridiculous feeling of lightness seeping into his consciousness. "Why is supper so damned early?"Staring at the bizarre tablecloth, he waited, arms crossed, for her to answer. She didn't.

"Amarylis?"

Still nothing.

He crossed the kitchen in two giant steps and came up beside her. "Goddamn it, I'm talking to you."She looked up at him, the very picture of innocence. "You were?" "You know I was.""How would I know that? In normal communication,one looks at the person to whom they're talking. I thought perhaps you were addressing the painted flowers." "Damn it, Amarylis?""That's a problem as well."Jack was so goddamn confused, he didn't know what to do. His hands balled into frustrated fists. "What?" "You called me Amarylis.""Yeah.""So naturally I assumed you were speaking to the flowers. I am Lissa. From now on I refuse to answer to anything else." She grinned. "Unless you want to call me honeybun or sweetie pie."Jack stared at her in disbelief, then spun away from her innocent eyes and smiling mouth. He strode to the dresser and grabbed a plate. Wedging it under his arm, he yanked the bottom drawer open.

It was empty.

He turned back toward her. "Where's the silverware?"She moved the chicken to a small platter, carefully arranged the potatoes in a ring around it, and set the food on the table. "I'm not sure."He went to the table and sat down hard. "You're not sure where the silverware is? It hasn't moved in years." She sat down across from him, steepled her fingers, and rested her chin on her fingertips. A challenging smile sparkled in her eyes and curved her full lips. "That's right." "I'll get you some, Daddy; it's in?" "Your daddy can get his own silverware, Savannah," Lissa said in a matter-of-fact voice that brooked no argument.

Jack shot a quick glance toward the living room. The girls were standing side by side in front of the sofa, staring at him. They both looked ready to dive beneath the sofa at a moment's notice.

He sighed tiredly, suddenly exhausted by everything. The changes, the smiles, the laughter. Everything.

"Okay, Lissa, what's going on?""The girls and I were playing hide-and-seek. We were sure you'd want to join in."He snorted at the obvious lie. "Well, I don't. So now that the game is over, let's eat." "Why would you think that?"He frowned. A headache flared behind his eyes. "Think what?" "That the game's over."He glanced at the girls again, then back at his wife. "Who's hiding now ... Caleb?"She smiled. "We weren't hiding people. We were hiding things."Jack knew he shouldn't ask. "What things?" Her smile grew into a grin. "The silverware." Jack's first reaction was to explode. The last thing he needed at the end of a hard day was a game of hide-and-seek for the silverware.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed his suddenly throbbing temples, and concentrated on remaining calm. He refused to give her the satisfaction of making him angry. "Jack?" she said in a taunting, singsongy voice. "Are you all right?"His eyes popped open and drilled her. "Yeah." He bit the word off. "I'm fine.""Good, then how about we all go into the living room and find?" "No."Her sentence snapped in half. She looked up at him, obviously surprised by his refusal.

Their gazes locked across the table. He was breathing a little heavier than he'd like, but other than that, Jack thought he looked pretty damn calm for a man slowly being sucked over the edge.

"We hid all the silverware," she said smugly.

It was Jack's turn to grin. He reached for the chicken and wrenched off a succulent, still hot leg. "Then it's a good thing you made chicken."Surprise flitted through her eyes. She studied him for a moment longer, and he would have sworn he saw a glimmer of respect. Then her lips twitched slightly and she turned away.

Jack allowed himself a triumphant grin. He'd one-upped Amarylis for the first time in years, and goddamn, it felt good.

It would have felt even better if she hadn't laughed.

Chapter Nine

Jack lay on the couch, shivering. He thrashed side to side, fighting the nightmare's frightening grip. A low, miserable moan escaped him. Restlessly he pulled the flimsy woolen blanket tighter to his chin. His teeth chattered in staccato bursts of sound.

A red haze crept across his closed eyes, turning his world into a twisting quagmire of dripping blood and oozing mud. Screams of the dead and dying reverberated through his head. Gunfire exploded all around him. Suddenly he was awake.

The darkness was coming. Oh, God, it was coming. He could feel it, circling him like hungry wolves, closing in for the kill. Fear washed through him, closed around his throat. Hot, aching breaths pushed past his trembling lips. He curled into the fetal position and lay there, panting, praying it would go away this time. Praying this time he could forget ...

Rain splashed at the windowpane behind him, rattling the house. The sound rocked Jack to the core of his soul. He wrapped his shaking arms around himself, trying desperately to hold himself together until the storm stopped. But it didn't do any good. He could feel the darkness, feel its cold, icy breath on the back of his neck, feel the brush of its fingertips along his arms. It was coming.

Thunder boomed through the night, echoed through the too still house like a volley of cannonfire.

A scream of pure terror wrenched up Jack's throat. He had to protect his family.

He lurched to his feet, not bothering to find his shoes in his panic to flee. Only half-awake, he lumbered to the kitchen and grabbed his coat, plunging his arms into its sheepskin-lined warmth.

Panicked, desperate, he wrenched open the door and raced onto the porch. Rain hammered the overhang above his head and ran in sheets of silver, rattling the floorboards. The wind whistled, screaming, through the night.

"Oh, God," he moaned, feeling the darkness get closer. Closer.

He closed his eyes in a hopeless prayer, then stumbled down the rain-slicked steps and ran.

He had no idea where.

Tess woke with a start. Something was wrong.

She pushed to her elbows and gazed around the room through bleary, unfocused eyes. The first rays of dawn were pushing through the glass, but otherwise the bedroom was dark and quiet. Nothing looked wrong.

She flipped back the coverlet and reached for her robe. Shrugging into the warm flannel, she went to the cradle and checked Caleb. The baby was fast asleep, sucking on his fist.

She hurried down the hallway and peeked into the girls' bedroom. Relieved to find them both asleep, she headed for the living room.

The sofa was empty except for the brown woolen blanket slung haphazardly across its back. Crossing her arms across her chest, she walked toward the kitchen and peered out the window. Dawn was just beginning to creep through the shadowy grass. Last night's lingering rain clung to the leaves, making them appear rich and glossy green.

It was so quiet, Tess could hear the raindrops falling from the leaves and plunking in the still wet grass.

Cold seeped through the thin pane, making her shiver. But it was more than the cold that sent a skitter along her flesh.

Something is wrong.

"No," she said aloud, taking comfort from the strength and certainty of her own voice. Nothing was wrong. Jack was simply out before dawn, working his fields as always.

And yet, she didn't quite believe it.

She stared across the farm's rolling, grassy pastures, willing herself to see a lone figure. Somewhere. Anywhere.

"Where are you, Jack?" she murmured. "And what's wrong?"Jack opened his eyes and thought for a moment he was blind. The world was a smeary wash of black and midnight blue and deep purple, of impossibly shifting shapes and imposing shadows.

Dread slammed through his body, tensed his every muscle until he ached. He rolled onto his stomach and lay panting, trying desperately to remember something. Anything.

Nausea thrummed his stomach hard, coiled around his insides. He swallowed thickly, praying he wouldn't vomit, and crawled shakily to his knees. On all fours he paused, head hung low, taking deep, measured breaths.

Gradually he became aware of the scent of fresh green grass and wildflowers.

He sat back on his heels and looked wearily around him. The headache had already begun, pounding behind his eyes like hammerblows. His vision swam in and out of focus.

The west pasture.

He was in his own field.

"Thank God," he whispered in a raspy, scream-weakened voice.

He started to get to his feet, but as he moved, his knee ground into something hard and cold. He shifted sideways, reaching blindly for the object. His fingers curled around something long and narrow and chillingly cold.

A knife.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a flash of terror so icy, so consuming, he thought for a moment he was going to vomit after all.

His hands started to shake. Curling his fingers tighter around the cold blade, he lifted it up. It seemed to grow heavier, colder. Sweat crawled in an itchy trail down his forehead. Fear radiated through his body, echoing with every painful throb of his headache.

What have I done? The familiar question drove like an icepick into his brain.

No, he thought desperately, I wouldn't hurt my children. Please, God, not my children ...

Weary, shaking with fear and shame and despair, he opened his eyes and looked at what he had in his hands.

A piece of metal. Just a goddamn piece of metal. Not a knife at all.

He got to his feet and started the long walk home. With every step, every breath, his fear escalated until, by the time he saw the outline of the house in the distance, he was wound tighter than a badly made clock.

"Please, God," he mumbled time and again, his hands curled into white-knuckled, shaking fists, "not my children. Not my children. Please ..."Tess crept across the darkened yard and slipped into the chicken pen, latching the gate behind her. Sighing, exhausted, she plunged her hand into the burlap sack and scooped up a fistful of grain.

"Here, chicky-chicky-chicky," she called, scattering the golden kernels across the shadowy yard. Dozens of birds ran into one another, squeezing together in a great, feathered mass in their haste to peck the fallen grain.

Tess stared at the cluster of birds without seeing them. Her mind was a million miles away. Jack? she thought for the thousandth time today. Where are you? She was so deep in thought, it took her a moment to notice the sound. She paused, listening.

Footsteps.

Jack!

Tess spun around, accidentally dropping the bag of grain in her haste. Corn spilled across her feet. Birds surged toward her, ringing her skirts and pecking feverishly at her feet.

She immediately dropped to her knees and started scraping the grain back into the bag. "What are you doing?"Tess heard Jack's scratchy, angry voice and thought it was the most wonderful sound she'd ever heard. She'd been so worried.... Smiling, she looked up.

He was standing about ten feet away from her, legs braced in a fighter's stance, arms crossed. Pale moonlight silhouetted his body, outlining the tired droop of his shoulders. His face was a dark void beneath an even darker hat. Tess opened her mouth to speak, and was surprised to find a lump in her throat. "Hi, Jack," she said quietly. "We missed you.""How ... how long was I gone?"Tess felt a momentary confusion at the question. Her eyes narrowed, focused on the shadowy area of his face.

He sighed, and it was the tiredest, oldest sound she'd ever heard. "Fine, don't answer me. I don't give a shit."That's when Tess knew. He wasn't mocking or taunting or teasing her. He was asking her a real, honest-to-God question. He didn't know how long he'd been gone. And he was scared.

"I think you left just before dawn ... today."His shoulders sagged downward. Another ragged sigh escaped him. "Thanks. So, what are you doing out this late?""Feeding the chickens.""At this hour?"

"I ... I couldn't sleep."

His shadow shifted slightly. "Why not?"Tess grabbed a handful of skirt and scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She wanted to move toward him, wanted to touch him and reassure herself that he was really back. But she didn't move. She forced herself to remain perfectly still. "You were out." "So?""So ... I was worried.""Ha!" His burst of laughter was as sharp as glass, and filled with a pain so deep and drenching, Tess felt ill. He pivoted, heel grinding into the gravelly dirt, and strode away.

Toward the barn. Damn.

Tess winced. She should call him back, find some excuse, however feeble, to keep him from going into the barn tonight. But he wouldn't listen. Wouldn't stop. She felt a sick tensing in her stomach.

He wasn't going to be amused by what she'd done. Not tonight.

He disappeared into the barn. Tess waited.

There were about two minutes of blessed silence, and then came a bloodcurdling yell. "Get in here, Lissa. Now!"Tess thought briefly about running into the house, but knew it would be pointless. He'd find her. "Lissa!"Tess clutched the grain sack to her midsection like a protective shield, tilted her chin, and headed for the barn. It was all part of the plan, she reminded herself, and the plan was for his own good. She had to get him off guard and keep him off guard. She had to make him react.