Blood Always Tells by Hilary Davidson (always you kirsty moseley .TXT) 📗

The man crawled to his hands and knees. He retched, but nothing came out of his mouth but a dry gurgle followed by a gasp. He was down but he wasn’t out. He unzipped his leather jacket, putting a hand inside to press against his ribs. Had one of them cracked? He turned his head toward Dominique, but his movements were achingly slow.

“You rotten bitch,” he spat. He paused again, catching his breath before spewing a stream of invective at her. His eyes were wide with rage, but his words were weak to the point of inaudibility. She’d been waiting for him to regroup and charge up the stairs, but he didn’t have enough left in him for that.

Finally, he stopped ranting and stared up at her. In the gray light of the hall, he looked distinctly pale. He put his hand to his neck and stared at the blood. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if testing his ribs from within. “You’ve dug your own grave,” he said in a stronger voice. “Enjoy it.”

With that, he stunned her by stumbling to the front door. He pulled it shut behind him with a decisive slam.

She waited for him to return, wondering what he was going to come back with. Her guess was a powerful gun, but he could have been hunting for one of his partners. All she had was the nail, which she was still holding. She heard an engine fire up and she rushed down the steps, opening the front door in time to see the white van’s taillights disappearing down the narrow path through the trees.

Chapter 11

Even though the wind was freezing and she was in four-inch heels, Dominique ran out of the house and down the dirt road. She didn’t believe anything the man had told her, not about the sixty acres or the electrified fence. Her instinct was to get out and get help. But as the van’s taillights were swallowed by the darkness, she panicked. There was no sound except for the rustling of the skeletal trees. She turned in a circle, without seeing any lights or other signs of civilization. Something near her cracked a branch on the ground, and there was some rustling and another snap. Was it human, or an animal? In the Hudson Valley, there were sightings of black bears, but she didn’t know where she was or what might be stalking her. She ran back in the direction she’d come from. Frightening as that decrepit old house was, it was better, in her mind, than the Blair Witch Project possibilities in the woods.

When she got back to the house, Dominique shut the door and locked it. Aside from the slip-covered furniture in the living room, she didn’t see anything to barricade the entryway with. Her heart was pounding in triple time. She looked at her hand, realizing she was still gripping the nail. She’d actually forgotten she was holding it. The gun was on the floor, where the man had dropped it as he’d fallen. She pocketed the nail and knelt to pick up the gun. Had that man really believed she would kill Gary for him? Or was it just some prop in a bigger game?

For all she knew, Gary was already dead. That thought stopped her heart for a split second.

Dominique hated to admit it to herself but, in a confrontation between Gary and the gunman, her money would be on the latter. For a former boxer, Gary wasn’t much of a tough guy. Mockery was the main weapon in his arsenal.

She started toward the kitchen, picturing the new lock on that crumbling cellar door, but she froze up. It was as if there were a pane of glass in the hallway, blocking her. She could see past it, but not move beyond it.

“Gary!” she shouted. There was no answer, no footsteps, no sign that anyone heard her. If Gary were in the basement, wouldn’t he be yelling back or pounding on that door? Unless he was already dead…

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, even though it wasn’t cold inside. The movement brushed the metal of the gun against her skin, and she cringed. She couldn’t face the thought of finding Gary dead, and so she rushed upstairs. She returned to the little room the gunman had stashed her in, setting the gun on top of the blanket she’d left lying on the floor. m&p22 was written in large letters on the side. Under that was smith & wesson springfield, ma u.s.a. It was a mix of black plastic and metal, and even though it had been light in her hand, she felt a residue from it on her palm. There was no powder or oil on her hand that she could see. It had to be psychological. She hated guns. After what happened to her father, was that any surprise?

She backed out of the room, keeping her eyes on the weapon as if she expected it to jump up on its own and start firing. Shutting the door, she kept her hand on the knob, steadying herself. She didn’t want to see that gun again. But without the light from the jaundiced bulb in that room, the hallway filled with shadows. There was a creak on the stairs and Dominique stared over the railing, but no one was there.

“Gary?” she called.

He didn’t answer. She watched the landing at the base of the staircase, seeing the shadows on the wall quiver. That was just the hanging bulb, she told herself, picturing it on its crooked wire. The warm air in the vents could be making it dance. The house was heating up; maybe that was why the wood was calling out. It didn’t have to mean someone was creeping around.

She crept forward, keeping her eyes on the first-floor landing and brushing her hand against the wall until she touched metal. What else did the kidnappers have stashed away? Given how