Bump in the Night

Two

Grace Marin stowed her gear on the scarred wooden table in a corner of the cabin before straightening to take a look around. Rustic was too kind a description. This cabin was downright primitive. Log walls, stone fireplace soaring to a loft above, which presumably would offer a place to bunk. The small galley kitchen didn’t even have a sink, which meant no running water.

With a shrug she snatched up her camera and made her way outside. She’d stayed in worse places. Her work as a photojournalist for the World, an international pictorial magazine, had taken her to mud huts in Africa and tarpaper shacks in South America. She’d learned to survive on a few hours of sleep a night. As for food, her coworkers accused her of having a cast-iron stomach. She could probably eat worms if they were the only food available.

Moving to the end of a long, wooden dock, she sat with her back to one of the piers, staring at the endless stretch of water, and tried to stay focused on the photos she intended to shoot. It wasn’t easy, especially since that scene with Richard was still on her mind.

He’d been so angry when he’d learned that she’d accepted this assignment, proving, he said, that her career meant more to her than he did.

He’d been right, of course. Grace had never denied it. But until the words had been spoken aloud, she’d been able to pretend otherwise. Now she needed to face some cold, hard facts about herself. She was a loner. Always had been, and probably always would be. It’s what made her so successful in her career, and such a mess when it came to relationships.

With a sigh she returned her attention to the job at hand. She’d fully anticipated spectacular autumn scenery. Aboard the small supply plane that brought her to this isolated spot, she’d been expecting to see a ring of fiery trees reflected in the waters of a clear crystal lake. What she’d found was this dull, almost muddy landscape of colorless trees, a bleak, biting wind whipping the waves into foam, and a sense of foreboding that had her glancing heavenward to check for storm clouds. There were none. The sky was a gray, blank canvas.

This assignment had initially been offered to one of her fiercest competitors, who was beginning to make a name for himself with the readers of the World. That fact hadn’t been lost on Grace, whose ambition had carried her to the top of her profession. When he’d discovered a conflict of dates, Grace had generously stepped up, even though she’d just returned from an exhausting assignment in the Middle East.

“You need some time off, Grace.” Her editor, Mark Wellington, though grateful for her offer, sat flipping through his file of photographers, looking for a replacement.

“Time off for what?” Grace shoved aside a mountain of papers from the chair beside his desk and took a seat.

He glanced over. “Visiting family. Shopping. Going to the spa. Isn’t that what women usually do when they have some time?”

“I have no family. I’m more comfortable in torn denims and hiking boots than designer dresses and stiletto heels. And having my chipped nails filled with gel and my sunbaked skin oiled would bore me silly.”

Mark spared her a quick glance. “And then there’s Richard.”

“Richard is old news.” She never even paused before adding, “Now about this assignment . . .”

Her editor heard the finality in her tone. This wasn’t the first time Grace had chosen career over romance.

He held out a two-page document. “Here it is. Pilots and fishermen swear they see a light dancing across the water of Spirit Lake. Dozens of them have responded, thinking it was a boater in trouble. The closer they get, the more the light begins to take on the shape of a woman. By the time they guide their plane or boat to the spot, the light, or whatever, is gone. Now I figure it’s the play of moonlight or starlight on the water, but you know how these things turn into folklore.”

Grace met his smile with one of her own.

“I see you agree with me. If you’re up for it, you’ll leave tomorrow. You’ll go in by supply seaplane and be picked up in three days, weather permitting. In, out, and a four-page spread in the next issue, depending on what you find. Even without solving the mystery, you ought to get some fabulous autumn shots of a lake that has all the curiosity factor of the Bermuda Triangle. Maybe you can play up the dark spirits angle.”

“Done.” She took the information from his hand and sauntered to the door of his office. “I’m betting this mystery light–woman is the long-suffering wife of one of the fishermen, who just got tired of staying home while he was off having all the fun.”

Her editor chuckled. “You get a picture of that, we’ll have her on all the talk shows. See you the end of the week. And Grace, thanks for volunteering.”

“No problem. This one’s easy. No fuss, no bother, just me and my trusty camera.”

Her words came back to haunt her as she sat, deep in thought. If the mystery light never appeared, what was she going to use to fill four pages of one of the most popular news magazines in the world?

She gave a soft laugh. What did it matter? She would have the next few days to spend all by herself.

All by herself.

Didn’t that define her life? If she felt a little twinge at the realization that her future was looking as empty as her past, she shrugged it aside. She was very good at being alone. She’d had plenty of practice.

With her feet dangling inches above the water, she stared at the endless stretch of water. What would it feel like to slip beneath the waves? Was it possible to embrace death without a fight? Or would her subconscious take over and force her to swim? Not that she was actually contemplating doing such a thing. But the sight of all that dark water, the ancient trees surrounding it like a fiery fortress, was hypnotic. She couldn’t ignore the nagging little thought inside her head that kept asking if anybody would miss her. Oh, there were a few friends and acquaintances, but for the most part, she’d lived her entire life isolated from the world, trying to please just one person—her stern, unyielding father. When she’d chosen a career that would take her far from him, they’d had a terrible row. And now, like everyone else in her life, he was gone, and there was no chance to make it up to him.

At first Grace was so deep in thought, she wasn’t aware of the drone of the plane’s engines overhead. When the sound finally penetrated her consciousness, she looked up absently, wondering if the supply plane had doubled back on its route.

The drone of the engines grew louder, and she lifted a hand to her forehead to shield the sun from her eyes. What she saw had her leaping to her feet. It wasn’t the supply plane that had brought her here. It was another plane, smaller and flying much too low. If the pilot wasn’t careful, his craft was going to clip the tops of those trees. Even as the thought formed, the plane began spinning end over end. Just as it disappeared from view there was a tremendous explosion, followed by a fireball of smoke and flame that billowed up from the forest.

Heart pounding, Grace started running toward the site. It would be impossible for anyone to survive such a crash.

The acrid smell of smoke assaulted Grace as she picked her way through the woods. She could feel the waves of heat even before she pushed through the brush and into the very heart of the crash site. Small trees had been leveled, deep grooves cut into the earth where the plane had skidded before coming to rest against a solid wall of forest. All that was left of the airplane was twisted metal and charred rubble. If there were any bodies inside, they were beyond rescuing now.

With a sigh she backed away from the intense heat of the fire. As she turned she saw a blur of color against the drab landscape. Stepping closer she caught sight of a man’s body.

Was he dead?

Grace knelt and touched a hand to his throat, searching for a pulse. There it was. Faint. Thready.

Alive. Relief poured through her. But there was blood. So much of it. Grace reached into her pockets. Where was a clean tissue when she needed one? Whipping off her hooded sweatshirt, she unbuttoned her cotton shirt underneath and used it to mop at the blood that spilled from a cut on his arm, and another on his leg that had soaked through his pants.

She tore away his shirtsleeve and pants leg and examined the wounds. Despite the amount of blood, the cuts appeared to be fairly superficial. With a sigh of resignation, she tore her shirt from top to bottom, tying the torn fabric firmly around each cut to stem any further flow.

The fact that the stranger remained unconscious led her to probe the back of his head, but she could find no evidence of swelling or trauma. While she examined him, she thought he stirred. But when she looked down, his eyes were closed.

She debated the wisdom of moving him. If there were internal injuries, any movement could make matters worse.

Coming to a decision she wrapped her hooded sweatshirt around him for warmth. “You may be in shock. If so, you’ll need blankets and . . .” She knew she was babbling to someone who couldn’t possibly hear her, but she felt the need to say something comforting. “Don’t worry. You’re not alone now. I’ll be back soon with some supplies. Just . . . hang in there.”

She patted his arm before turning away and racing back to the cabin.