While Others Sleep

Built on a slight bluff, the entrance to the Trails, as it was sometimes called, did seem precarious, especially as the driveway cut a serpentine path through the terraced ground, which, after four hairpin turns, spilled onto Highway 259. Highway 259—or 59 as it was known farther south—was frequently used as a reliable alternate route for drug traffickers using Houston as a hub.

The gatehouse was built of the same stone as the semicircular walls that flanked it. On each side, the walls bore the distinct three-foot-high brass nameplates of the beautifully designed community.

When weather conditions grew treacherous, those on duty were instructed to dive into the deepest corner of the booth, tuck under the built-in desks and cover up with a blanket from the first aid closet for protection from breaking glass and other flying debris. However, Campbell was one of the few people in Tornado Alley who didn’t live in fear of them. She had her own particular dread.

“I’m about to retreat into my hole,” she told him. “But I’ll sit this out better if I know you aren’t parked under some ancient old tree or playing Good Samaritan by chasing hyper pets at the risk of your own safety. Over.”

“No way I can do that—not with the arthritis this storm is aggravating. You know where to find me, then. I’ll holler as soon as the worst is past.” The radio cracked as another flash streaked across the sky. “Now, get off this thing. Over’n out.”

Reassured about her partner, Campbell headed for the first aid closet to get a blanket, but paused again at the sound of an engine. It was coming from inside the development. They didn’t monitor exiting traffic—guests could leave at will. Should it be a resident with a medical emergency, they were to call here for assistance. But with so many senior citizens in residence there were always extenuating circumstances.

Driven by concern, Campbell stepped outside to a sky opening to a torrential rain. A barrage of icy droplets pricked her face, and clear vision was impossible, but she knew the approaching car was a compact and that it was traveling fast. It was almost upon her.

Her memory was working better than her vision, and she reached a hand out into the driveway. She knew of several elderly residents who drove this type of vehicle and it concerned her to think of one in particular venturing out in these conditions. Yet, no sooner did she step down onto the asphalt than she realized the driver didn’t intend to slow down; worse yet, she heard the car accelerate.

It was going too fast to miss her. Far too fast to make the necessary ninety-degree left turn onto the road.

Campbell flung herself backward. Although she struck hard against the booth’s rough stone exterior, she kept her eyes open and focused her attention to try to catch a closer look at the maniac speeding by.

The car was a Grand Am. The driver was—

“Maida?” Campbell gasped. “Maida, stop!”

Ignoring the pain in her back, Campbell launched herself after the car. Brakes squealed and the rear end swung wildly through that first impossible turn. She got close enough to slam her hand on the trunk, but either Maida Livingstone didn’t hear that or the sound had the opposite effect and frightened her.

After several stumbling strides, she gave up and stared in horror as the car accelerated again. The elderly widow was racing toward the next hairpin turn.

“No!” she yelled. Convinced her friend had gone mad, she ran after her, frantically waving her arms. “Mai—”

A deafening crack and a flash of blue-white light to her left locked the cry in her throat. Simultaneously, some instinct ordered, “Drop!” But with a demon’s speed, lightening shot through a pine.

Determined and merciless, the skeletal finger gripped her hand. Robbed of her remaining strength and control, of her very breath, Campbell collapsed onto the flooding road.

The devilish light vanished, leaving punishing rain…and the depressing image of the Grand Am reaching the main highway.

2

Southeast Longview Texas

1:02 a.m.

While driving north on Highway 259, lightning struck close, close enough for Jackson Blade to turn his head away. If he hadn’t, he might have missed the white car parked to his right at the back of the darkened restaurant.

Even though the deadly bolt went to ground as close as a block away, he instantly lost interest in the storm. He squinted through the rain-splattered passenger window of his El Camino for a better view of the compact car, with its front end almost kissing the Dumpster, but he saw something that had him braking fully and lowering the passenger window.

The vehicle was a Grand Am and it was blocked from behind by two patrol cars. Driving rain and activity made it impossible to see whoever was in the front seat, but his experience told him this wasn’t a routine license check or a Lovers’ Lane scare.

He turned the vintage Chevy into the next driveway. The sloped ingress led him up to a house-turned-office where he quickly inspected the privacy fence running between the properties. There would be no easy view from this vantage point, but there were several breaks in the fence. If he was willing to risk getting struck by lightning, and ruining his signature leather jacket, he might be able to answer some nagging questions without being spotted.

Pushing aside his disgust at having lost the vehicle he’d been following through the city, Blade parked and made his way to the closest set of broken slats. What he saw chilled him as much as the rain sluicing under the neckline of his clothes.

Whether the car below was the one belonging to the person he’d been keeping an eye on these last weeks or not, there was serious trouble below, serious enough for the EMTs to have arrived at the scene. One medic hurried up front to the driver. In the break between moving bodies, Blade saw blond hair, enough of it to determine the victim was female. His concern deepened.

Right model car…the hair matched, too.

Accepting that he needed to get down there if he was to get answers, he eased through a wider section of broken fence and leaped off the slick grass and red clay to the asphalt. He lingered in that crouched position in the deeper shadows provided by the storage shed, hoping to recognize one of the cops. It would be less problematic—not to mention dangerous—to have a semifriendly present. Then a third patrol car pulled in behind the others.

Damn, Jackson thought. His identity was about to be compromised beyond what he was willing to risk. Whatever he could learn here wouldn’t offset the dangers of being seen by someone he didn’t know—or didn’t trust. But as he started to retreat, one of the officers spotted him.

Blade almost swore out loud. She would have to be one of the rookies.

“You—freeze! Up slowly. Show me your hands.”

Tight-lipped, he did as directed. The pounding rain had him shrinking deeper into his jacket and muted the intentional heel-dragging of his well-worn Tony Lama boots. He knew what he looked like under normal conditions, and the weather and harsh light only made that worse, especially to an inexperienced cop. If he couldn’t get away, he wanted to attract the attention of her partner. In the meantime, he hoped the rookie didn’t panic.

“Hands!”

To his relief the female officer’s second warning caught the attention of someone else. Though Blade’s primary focus stayed on her and the .9 mm she gripped between her hands, he risked a glance toward the middle-aged man, who’d been slipping on his rain gear.

“You going to just stand there with your mouth open and let her shoot me, Parsons?” he drawled to the squinting cop.

As he peered at him, Phil Parson’s expression turned into a sneer. “I should,” he finally replied. “Might get a citation for enforcing the mayor’s ‘clean up the city’ program.”

“Your daughter seems to like what she sees.” Blade allowed a benign smile. Inside, however, he seethed. The asshole knew dressing like an assistant D.A. or rookie FBI agent could get him killed. Maybe his reply was a low blow and an outright lie—he only knew Parson’s daughter from the photo he’d seen on Phil’s locker door—but if the cop wanted to trade insults, Blade would have the last word. His work, his survival depended on it.

Not surprisingly, veins protruded at each side of the older cop’s eyes, spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “Fuck you, Blade. My girl hasn’t been within miles of you. As soon as we got her out of that—that joint and into rehab, she became her old self again. She’s off of everything and I’ll kick any SOB who says otherwise.”

“Relax. I heard she’s one of the lucky ones.”

The cop’s cheeks puffed as he collected himself. He cast his confused partner a quick look as though wishing he could somehow retract his outburst from her memory. “Damn fool,” he grumbled at Blade. “What did you say that for, then?”

“Wanted your attention. I’m in a hurry.”

“You got it.”

Blade nodded at the car behind the two officers. “What’s wrong with her?” At this point he could definitely tell the driver was female and that she was lying back against the headrest.

Ignoring his partner’s continued stare, the broad-faced man shook his head. “Belly shot. And I suspect you know she’s small.”

“If she’s who I think she is,” Blade replied.

“Doesn’t look good. The EMTs just said they can’t risk waiting to stabilize her here.”

The technicians were, in fact, already removing her from the vehicle and making quick work of loading her into the ambulance. Although he’d seen scenes like this many times—too many—Blade kept his face blank, his tone flat. “Has she said anything?”

“Nah. Nothing sensible, anyway.”

“Come on, Phil, before I have to worry about a bullet in the back as well as the front.”