Blind Spot. Nancy Bush
the cover of secrecy because she would be in deep, deep shit if anyone at the house found out. Once they’d gone out to the graveyard and made love right on top of one of her dead relatives. Cold as a witch’s tit, and he’d felt guilty and strange, but she’d been so beautiful. White skin, blond hair, a kind of smile that made him want to throw her down and screw the hell out of her. Brand her as his. And he had, too. God, it had been something. She’d had to clap her hand over his mouth ’cause he’d wanted to howl and scream that he’d claimed her.
Another time they’d made love standing up—their usual way, ’cause of the weather—under her bedroom window. It had been a lot colder, and they’d had to be quicker. The danger was heightening. He’d come so fast he’d been a little embarrassed but she’d said it was okay. Had to be that way. Only way they could be together.
And then the people in the house had started to guess what was going on. They’d gotten stricter with her. He’d had trouble seeing her alone. But she loved him. She told him she loved him over and over again. And he loved her just as much.
They’d had a heck of a time seeing each other. Stolen moments here and there. And then they’d learned she was pregnant. She’d whispered it to him when they were outside, under a cold spring night. He’d been scared shitless at first. Then thrilled. He’d begged her to run away with him and she’d said yes.
So here they were, months later, fulfilling their dream. Their destiny.
Zipping up, Rafe strolled out of the bathroom. She wasn’t out yet. Women never were. He glanced at a small field surrounded by the waving firs and decided to walk over and have a smoke.
Tasha leaned against the side of the stall, feeling cumbersome and fat. Her eyes were closed and she was mumbling encouragement to herself. She had set them on this path and now it was just a matter of timing.
A curtain of darkness was descending inside her head. Nothing new. She’d had the same trouble since she could remember. An affliction, she’d been told. Well, they were never going to tell her that again!
She heard the rumble of another vehicle pulling into the rest stop, the noise just barely discernible over the keening of the wind. Her heart clutched. She waited and then footsteps headed into the women’s room, carefully measured treads.
Tasha’s eyes flew open and her lips parted. The saliva dried in her mouth.
The footsteps slapped against the concrete floor, pausing a moment by Tasha’s door. She was glad for the dim illumination; the lightbulbs barely worked at all. She dug her fingernails into her palms.
They didn’t even bother going into another stall. Just turned around and headed back outside without using the facilities.
Carefully, Tasha slipped her lock, peeked out, then tiptoed toward the outside door. She would be seen under the yellow light if she made a break for the pickup. Yet she had no choice.
Silently cursing her ungainly shape, she drew a long breath, then hurried as best she could into the night and to the passenger door. It was open and she clutched it like a lifeline. But there was no Rafe inside. Where was he?
Sidestepping the door, she slipped around the rear of the pickup. The newly arrived vehicle was three spots over, a dark sedan. She gave it a long, hard look. The driver was nowhere to be seen.
Then she thought she heard voices. A snatch on the wind.
“…baby…”
“…wasn’t supposed…”
“…get…away…”
“…you can’t…!”
Tasha moved from the rear of the Chevy back to the side, keeping the pickup between her and the grassy area where the voices seemed to be coming from. She couldn’t discern who was talking. But they were talking about a baby. They were talking about her.
Clenching her fists, she waited, counting her breaths. Minutes passed. Eternities, it seemed.
She finally dared to leave the security of the pickup, but when her feet hit the muddy field grass she slipped and went down on one knee. She glanced around anxiously but there was no one. Nothing but the shrieking wind and rattling limbs and wet slap of water that flew off the branches.
She opened her mouth. “Rafe?” she called softly, sliding one clenched hand inside her coat pocket. “Rafe?”
No sound. But then…something…near?
The knife came swiftly. Slicing down on her. Cutting through her coat and piercing the skin of her left shoulder. Tasha screamed. Shocked. The blade was pulled back, then stabbed again. She jerked herself away and stumbled into the field.
“Rafe!” she screamed and she heard him crashing toward her.
“Tasha?”
But then her attacker was on her again and she went down, rolling with them in the mud, frantically trying to stop the blade. Rolling and rolling. Fighting.
Then Tasha was on her back, the knife blade held high above her, glinting in the yellow security light. She recognized the figure looming over her as the devil himself.
The devil herself.
Long-haul trucker Denny Ewell had to take a whiz really bad. Damn motherfuckin’ coffee. Went through you like you had no pipes. He pulled into the rest stop as the faintest sign of daylight, more like just a lifting of darkness, started moving over the hills.
He pulled his rig into a spot designed for RVs and big semis and leaped from the cab, racewalking to the men’s room. He was peeing by the time he got the damn zipper down and he let out a huge sigh of relief.
Finished, he looked at his reflection and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Fuckin’ A,” he said to his receding hairline. Making a face at his craggy mug, he headed back outside. A little lighter. Little better. He’d be in Astoria in an hour or so, depending on the snowpack in the Coast Range.
He was just about back to his rig when he heard something. Something like a groan. He glanced around. There was a beat-up Chevy pickup in the lot and he realized its passenger door was ajar.
“Hey,” he called.
No answer.
Squinting at his watch, he went to the opened door and pulled it wider. No one there.
The groan was louder. Coming from beyond the pickup. Circling the vehicle, he checked the field opposite. Something there. Movement of sorts.
“Hey,” he called again as he walked cautiously toward it. Wouldn’t do to run into some kind of wild animal searching for food scraps. He could do without that encounter.
Something on the ground.
Something with clothes on…
And then it rose to its feet, a bloodied figure, towering over the prone body still lying on the wet grass.
Denny’s heart nearly exploded from his chest. “Holy shit!”
“The baby,” it said, clutching its chest.
Denny stepped back—he couldn’t help himself—as the figure before him staggered toward him, then fell to its knees. A man. Twisting to bend over the limp mound on the ground.
“Hey. Hey, man,” Denny said, reaching out a hand.
The mound on the muddy grass turned out to be human. A woman, pregnant, her belly exposed like a white mound with black marks across its crest. Bloody marks. From knife wounds scored across her taut skin.
“Oh, Jesus.” Denny pushed the bending man away, not sure what he intended. He fell over without resistance, his eyes staring at the sky, blood dampening his chest.
Horrified, Denny dragged his gaze back to the woman. She was breathing shallowly. Alive. Barely.
And the baby? Whoever had tried to cut the poor little thing out had