Linda Lovely - Marley Clark 02 - No Wake Zone by Linda Lovely Read Free Book Online Page B

corpse.

FIVE
    A violent shudder wrenched me awake. My heart pounded as if
some grunt just screamed “incoming.” My fright arrived compliments of a
nightmare—Jake tried to drag me underwater, his walleyed stare strangely at
odds with his grasping hands.
    I wrapped myself in a throw and huddled by the window. The
nightmare slowly receded as the crimson sun performed its alchemy, transforming
the leaden lake into liquid gold.
    Though it was barely six o’clock, I tiptoed downstairs.
Darlene sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, head in hands. She glanced up,
eyes puffy, and offered freshly brewed coffee. She looked as if she could use a
little space to pull herself together.
    “Mind if I go for a short run while the temperatures are
cool?”
    “No problem,” Darlene answered. “I’ll call the guards.”
    An exercise junky, I get downright cranky if I fail to jog
for several days. My temper shortens and lethargy takes root. Okay, I’m a pain
in the butt. Whenever I reached this stage, my husband, Jeff—a fitness
agnostic—handed me my running shoes and shoved me out the door.
    Since my knees now scream for mercy when I mount stairs, I
don’t run as far or as often. But this morning I yearned for the mind-numbing
release of a sweaty run. I stretched half-heartedly and saluted Darlene from
the doorway.
    “Be back in under an hour—unless Hamilton instructed the
Thrasos riflemen to use me for target practice.”
    Darlene smiled. “They know to expect you. Just head to the
front gate.”
    I slipped out the sunroom’s French doors. The guard on the
front gate directed me to an opening in the stone wall. The day had dawned as a
beauty—for anyone who didn’t love Jake Olsen. Freshly cut pines lent an
astringent scent to the wooded landscape. It whisked away my nightmare fog.
    I hoofed over side roads to Spirit Lake’s Spine Trail, a
paved stretch of abandoned railroad right-of-way that’s a Mecca for walkers and
bicyclists. The section I chose followed a dry creek bed. Green fields flanked
the path. The chatter of birds and the crackle of last fall’s leaves provided a
soothing soundtrack.
    Aunt May introduced me to the trail after her second bypass.
When doctors insisted she exercise, she mapped a two-mile walking route with
McDonalds as a pivot point. May’s strolls included a half-hour McMuffin
layover. I turned toward the Olsen estate with visions of steaming coffee and
breakfast burritos dancing in my head.
    The roar of a motor startled me. Was I near a spot where the
path crossed a road? No. The sound grew louder. Wonderful. Some jackass had
decided to race a motorcycle down the footpath. The “no motorized vehicles”
signs at each entry were hard to miss. Another bastard who thinks he’s exempt
from the rules.
    I couldn’t see the idiot yet, but the growling engine said
he’d pop into view any second. Better safe than sorry. I stepped off the path
onto a patch of dry brush.
    The biker shot around a corner. Twenty yards away. The
asswipe had to see me. Why didn’t he slow?
    Instead of swerving away, he seemed to take aim. His wheels
straightened, heading straight toward me. What the hell was he holding—a stick?
    I dove farther into the brush. “You imbecile!” I screamed
just as his left arm swung in a looping circle. My shoulder screamed in pain as
his baton landed a glancing blow.
    My throat wasn’t injured. I fired a stream of cusswords at
the biker’s broad back.
    My heartbeat slowed. Bastard. I’d call in a report for what
it was worth. Not much the sheriff could do. The bike had no plates, and the
psycho wore a full helmet. Dressed head to toe in black leather, only a thin strip
of his twenty-inch white neck revealed itself. Hardly enough for an I.D.
    I picked myself up. Felt my shoulder. Bruised, no breaks, no
dislocations. A few bramble scratches on my legs and arms. Permanent damage
zip. No point mentioning the incident to Darlene. Enough shit was raining on
her head.
    The guard