Black Canyon Conspiracy

THE MEDICATION BEGAN to work quickly, a numbing fog slipping over the anxiety and agitation that were the first signs of a climb toward mania. Lauren hated this lethargy and notfeeling as much as she dreaded the extreme highs or lows of her disease. Why couldn’t she just be normal?

She finished packing her suitcase, stuffing in clothes without care, putting off having to go back into the living room and face Marco. This hadn’t been a bad episode. She hadn’t burst into song or taken off her clothes or made a pass at him—all things she’d done before her diagnosis had provided an explanation for her bizarre behavior. But she’d waved her underwear around in front of him, and laughed at the idea of a man stalking her.

He was so solemn and unemotional. What must he think of a woman who, even on her best days, tended to feel things too deeply?

In the end, she didn’t have to go to him; he came to her. “Are you ready to go?” he asked. “We can stop and get some lunch on the way.”

“Sure.” She zipped the suitcase closed and looked at the disarray of the room.

“It’s all right,” he said. “You can clean this up later.” He picked up the suitcase. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Yes.” She grabbed the two pill bottles from the top of the dresser and cradled them to her chest. “I’m ready.”

She put the pill bottles in her purse and followed him to the door. Sophie had rented the apartment when she’d decided to relocate to Montrose to be with Rand, and Lauren only stayed there because she had no place else to go. She couldn’t claim to be attached to the place, but still, it felt bad to be leaving so soon, to face more uncertainty.

Deep breath. Center. She closed her eyes and inhaled through her nose, the way the therapist at the psychiatric hospital had shown her. She could deal with this.

When she opened her eyes, Marco was watching her. She saw no judgment in his calm brown eyes. “Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded. “Is the bird-watcher still out there?”

“He left a few minutes ago. I guess he’d done his job.”

“What was his job, do you think? Besides delivering the package.”

“He was sending the message that you were being watched. His job was to intimidate you.”

“The note did that.”

“I guess Prentice likes to cover all the bases.”

“What about the package?” She looked around for the creepy gift. “I don’t want Sophie finding it when she comes back.”

“I’ve got it.” He indicated the shopping bag he must have found in the pantry. “I’ll have someone check it out. Maybe we’ll get lucky and learn something useful. Come on.” He opened the front door and started across the lot, toward the black-and-white FJ Cruiser he’d parked closest to her apartment.

“I’ll follow you in my car,” she said.

His frown told her he didn’t think much of that idea. “You should ride with me.”

“I can’t just leave my car. I can’t be stuck way out at your duplex with no transportation.” The idea ramped up her anxiety again, like something clawing at the back of her throat.

“Then, we’ll take your car and I’ll send someone back later for mine.”

“All right.” Relief made her weak. When they reached the car she hesitated, then handed him the keys. “You’d better drive. Sometimes the pills make me sleepy.”

He nodded and unlocked the trunk and stowed her suitcase and the shopping bag, then climbed into the driver’s seat. “What pharmacy do you use?”

Her prescription was ready. Once they’d collected it, he swung by a sandwich shop for lunch. She wasn’t hungry—another side effect of the medication—but she ordered to avoid explaining this to him. Finally they were on the highway headed to his place. She put her head back against the headrest and closed her eyes. Maybe when they got to his place she’d take a nap. But she’d need to unpack, and she still had to call her lawyer, Shawn...

“Have you had any trouble with your car lately?”

She opened her eyes and sat up straight. “No. What kind of trouble?”

“The brakes.” He pumped the brake pedal, but the car only sped up, down a long incline that curved sharply at the bottom.

“What’s wrong with the brakes?” She leaned over to study the speedometer, the needle creeping up past seventy miles an hour. “Why are we going so fast?”

“I think someone may have tampered with your car.” His voice remained calm, but the fine lines around his eyes deepened, and his knuckles on the steering wheel were white with strain.

She covered her mouth with her hand and stared at the highway hurtling toward them with ever-increasing speed. At the bottom of the hill was a curve, and beyond the curve, a deep canyon. If their car went over the edge, they would never survive.

Chapter Three (#ulink_cc89d27b-65ef-5183-a209-4482ac80782f)

Marco didn’t look at Lauren, but he could hear the sudden, sharp intake of her breath and sense her fear like a third presence in the car. He tried pumping the brake pedal, but nothing happened. He pressed it to the floor and downshifted to first gear. The engine whined in protest, and the car slowed, but not enough.

“Hang on,” he said, raising his voice over the whine of the protesting engine. He pulled back on the lever for the emergency brake and the car began to fishtail wildly. He strained to keep hold of the wheel. Lauren whimpered, but said nothing.

They were well out of town now, empty public land and private ranches stretching for miles on either side, with no houses or businesses or people to see their distress and report it. Not that anyone could do anything to help them anyway. If they had any chance of surviving a crash, he had to try to regain control of the car.

They continued to accelerate, racing toward the curve at the bottom of the hill. He steered toward the side of the road, gravel flying as the back wheels slid onto the shoulder. The idea was to let friction slow the car more, but the dropoff past the shoulder was too steep; if he kept going he’d roll the car.

Back on the roadway, the car continued to skid and sway like a drunken frat boy. The smell of burning rubber and exhaust stung his nose and eyes. If they blew a tire, he’d lose control completely; the car might roll. He released the emergency brake and grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. “Brace yourself against the dash and lean toward me!” he commanded.

She didn’t argue. As she skewed her body toward his seat, he could smell her perfume, sweet and floral, overlaying the sharp, metallic scent of fear. He wanted to tell her everything would be all right, that she didn’t have to worry. But he couldn’t lie like that.

He came at the guardrail sideways, sparks flying as the bumper scraped the metal rails, gravel popping beneath the tires. The scream of metal on metal filled the air, making him want to cover his ears, but of course he couldn’t. He kept hold of the wheel, guiding the car along the guardrail.

Friction and a gentler slope combined to slow them, and as the guardrail ended, he was able to use the emergency brake to bring them to a halt on the side of the road. He shut off the engine and neither of them spoke, the only sounds the tick of the cooling motor and their own heavy breathing.

He had to pry his hands off the steering wheel and force himself to look at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, and pushed the hair back from her face with shaking hands. “My car isn’t, though. What happened?”

“The brakes failed.”

“I had the car serviced before I came out here,” she said. “My mechanic said it was fine.”

“It sat at that overlook in the park for a few days, and then at the wrecking yard for a few weeks. An animal—a rabbit or something—could have chewed the brake cable.” He didn’t really think that was what had happened, but he didn’t want to frighten her.

“But I’ve been driving the car for weeks now and it’s been fine.” She turned even paler. “What if this had happened when I was alone?”

What, indeed? He unfastened his seat belt. “I’m going to take a look.”

He had to wrench the hood open, past the broken headlight and bent bumper. He fixed the prop in place and stared down into the tangle of hoses and wires. After a moment, she joined him.

“I couldn’t open my door, so I crawled over the console,” she said. “Can you tell what went wrong?”

He leaned under the hood and popped the top over the master cylinder reservoir. It was completely dry, only a thin coating of brake fluid left behind. That explained why the brakes had failed, but why had the fluid drained?