TAKEN BY THE WIND, page 1
* * *
* * *
TAKEN BY THE WIND
by
CHARLOTTE BOYETT-COMPO
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
* * *
* * *
Taken By The Wind
An Amber Quill Press Book
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or have been used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Amber Quill Press, LLC
http://www.amberquill.com
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © 2003 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
ISBN 1-59279-096-8
Cover Art © 2003 Trace Edward Zaber
Rating: R
Layout and Formatting
Provided by: Elemental Alchemy
http://www.elementalalchemy.com
Published in the United States of America
Also by Charlotte Boyett-Compo
At Grandma's Knee
BlackWind
BloodWind
DarkWind
In the Heart of the Wind
In the Teeth of the Wind
In the Wind's Eye
NightWind
Prince of the Wind
ShadowWind
Shards Anthology
WindChance
WindFall
The WindLegend's Saga
Book I: Windkeeper
Book II: Windseeker
Book III: Windweeper
Book IV: Windhealer
Book V: Windreaper
Book VI: Winddreamer
Book VII: Windbeliever
Book VIII: Winddeceiver
Book IX: Windretriever
Book X: Windschemer
Dedication
To Patricia A. Rasey
Chapter 1
* * *
Des Moines, Iowa
November, 1997
Brenna Collins sat back in her chair and closed her eyes to the tight band of red-hot pain over her right brow. Nausea was already lurking at the base of her throat. Pinpoint flashes of light played along her peripheral vision and sound was muted in her left ear. Next would come the tunnel vision, the vomiting and shivering, then the pain would be so intense she'd have no choice but to go home.
Brenna knew all too well the signs of a looming migraine headache; she'd suffered with them since her fifteenth birthday.
Placing her fingertips at her temples, she massaged in small circles the agony that throbbed mercilessly there. In passing, she thought about going outside in the 30 degree weather and standing long enough to numb the pain in her head; but it was too much of a hassle for a few moments' respite. Besides, she thought with a grimace of distaste, standing alone at night in downtown Des Moines wasn't exactly a smart thing to do any more.
She leaned back in her chair and sighed. It was nearly ten o'clock on a Friday night and here she was still at work. The day had been a bitch; her boss had been a bastard and the light at the end of the tunnel was getting farther and farther away.
Brenna sighed heavily as she looked at the clock over the row of filing cabinets. She should be in bed instead of sitting at her desk crunching numbers.
Making up her mind to add only one more entry in the computer before her head exploded from the pain, Brenna hunched forward over her keyboard. As she finished the first quarter's data, she was jostled out of her concentration by a succession of thwumping sounds down the hall from her office.
For a moment, Brenna just sat there, listening as the sounds came again, a bit closer this time. She was puzzled by the odd noise, unable to identify the source. When it came again, she listened more carefully, cocking her head to one side in concentration.
As far as she knew, she was alone in the building. McGregor, A'Lex and Brell did not employ night security guards; there was no need. The company carried no night cash and, other than the computer equipment, there wasn't that much for a thief to want.
Suddenly, she heard someone running down the hallway outside her office. This new sound so surprised her she stood up. What the hell was going on? she wondered. She was ready to investigate when something slammed against the sturdy oak door of her office. A loud groan punctuated what could only be a hard collapse to the floor.
"Don't," someone pleaded. "Don't kill me."
The hair on the back of Brenna's neck stood up and chill bumps popped out all over her arms.
"Your expiration date has arrived, Mr. Jenner," an unfamiliar voice said softly.
"No! Please don't shoot me ag—"
Three loud thwumps cut off Jenner's plea.
The wet sound—so final—galvanized Brenna into action. She snaked out her hand and punched the button on the base of her desk lamp, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness. Although she knew no one could see even a trace of light under her door, her natural instinct for survival was working of its own accord. She could feel the rushing adrenaline now pumping through her body and her heart was beating so fast she could hear it rushing through her veins.
There was no doubt in her mind that someone was lying dead just outside her office door. And she would be, too, if the killer realized she was in the building.
The thought that the killer might find her and riddle her with bullets drew Brenna's eyes to the unlocked door. There had been no need to lock it, but she wished she had inherited her mother's almost neurotic habit of locking every door in sight once the sun went down.
She strained to hear even the tiniest of sounds outside, but the muted numbness in her left ear—combined with the pounding of her blood—kept her from picking up any movement beyond the office door.
Breathing as shallowly as she could, sitting absolutely still lest her knee hit a drawer or her hand sweep something from the desktop, she kept her eyes locked on the closed door, willing the killer to leave. The ping of the elevator door's opening stopped her breath altogether. She dug her nails into the palms of her hand, waiting, not daring to hope whomever was outside her door had moved on. When the elevator mechanism engaged and the unmistakable sound of the cage descending the shaft finally penetrated the agony in her brain, Brenna was finally able to take a breath.
Without hesitation, she moved, snatching up the phone and bringing it to her ear quicker than she would have thought humanly possible. She punched in the three numbers her terrified mind told her would bring help.
But there was no dial tone.
At first, she thought she had misdialed so she tried again, deliberately pushing the 911 buttons.
There was no sound and she knew the Centrex line must have been cut.
She slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, her fear intensifying. Her mouth dry, her unblinking eyes going once more to the door, she began to realize help was beyond her reach. She was alone on the sixth floor of the McGregor Building with a dead man just outside her door.
A thought stabbed alongside the migraine pain and brought her to her feet: What if Mr. Jenner wasn't dead?
She put a trembling hand to her mouth, the thought sending spasms of uncertainty through her. Could she help him?
But how, if the phone wasn't working?
If he was lying there bleeding to death and she did nothing to help, she knew she would never be able to endure the guilt. There was no choice to make, as she saw it. She had to go out in the hall.
"Oh, Lord," she moaned, wanting nothing more than to remain where she was until morning came and, along with it, the cleaning staff; but she knew morning might be too late for Mr. Jenner.
Not giving herself time to make excuses to stay put, she came from behind the desk. There was just enough light filtering in through the vertical blinds behind her so she could make her way to the door without stumbling into a chair or filing cabinet. She put her ear to the panel and listened.
Hesitantly—and with a great deal of care—she eased open her office door, blinking against the intrusion of light glaring at her from the hallway. With her bottom lip caught firmly between her teeth, she slowly poked her head into the corridor. What she saw made her gasp.
William Jenner was sprawled on the floor to the right of the door. Jenner's hands were crossed almost primly in his lap and his legs were thrust out directly in front of him, ankles crossed, giving him the appearance of taking a nap. Two gaping holes in his lower torso pulsed blood onto the carpet in an ever-widening pool.
That wasn't what had killed him.
About three feet up the wall behind him, a corona of sprayed blood and gray matter oozing down the wall.
Jenner had been shot through both eyes and once in the very center of his forehead.
"Sweet Mary and Joseph," Brenna whispered, her stomach heaving.
She turned away, squeezing her eyes tightly shut to blot out the sight. Hot bile had rushed up her throat and she was swallowing convulsively in a concerted attempt to keep the vomit from erupting. She could feel her knees threatening to buckle and had to grasp the doorjamb. Her world was cantering off kilter at an alarming rate and it was all she could do not to sink to the floor in a babbling heap.
But the sane, methodical part of her brain told her she was not safe where she was.
And away from the man who had killed Jenner.
She opened her eyes and looked down the hall, deliberately keeping her line of vision from lowering to the dead man, although every instinct cried out for her to do so.
Although the doors to one of the two elevators were standing open and ready for a passenger, that avenue of escape was out of the question, she thought. Engaging the cage would be like advertising her presence and she had no way of knowing if the killer was still inside the building.
She turned her gaze in the opposite direction and hope blossomed in her trembling body. The stairs were only a few feet away.
Thankful she had dropped her car keys into the right pocket of her slacks after coming back to the office from supper, Brenna stepped gingerly around Jenner, avoiding looking at the man again.
Trying not to think about the death behind her, she raced to the stairwell door and was only a foot away when she heard a man's vicious curse coming from the utility room beside the stairwell.
Brenna spun around and raced for the open elevator door, uncaring of the noise her shoes made as they slapped on the carpet.
"Hey!" someone shouted, but Brenna vaulted for the elevator.
She had a vague impression of a thick body hurtling toward her from down the corridor, but she didn't want to see the killer's face; didn't want to be able to identify him; didn't want him to see her face.
"Son of a bitch!" the killer bellowed and she realized he must have slipped on the puddle of blood, for she heard a yelp as he hit the wall, then a resounding crash.
But she refused to look back. The last thing she wanted to see was the killer pushing himself up, fury etched on his ugly face as he lifted a gun to blow her away.
"Please, please, please!" she begged God as she leapt into the elevator and slapped at the button to close the panels. She struck again and again at the sublevel two button, spitting out vulgar words when the elevator failed to respond.
"Come one, come on, come on!" was her litany.
After what seemed an eternity, the doors began to close. Just as they did, she looked up, saw the killer coming right at her, and jammed herself into the corner of the elevator beside the control panel. Raising her arms over her face, she expected to feel bullets ripping into her body, but the doors slid shut to shield her. She heard his bellow of frustration; felt, rather than heard, him hit the doors hard enough to make them shake.
As the cage began to lower, her migraine flared brutally and she gagged, bending over in reflex as she felt bile coming up her throat. Pain stabbed hard into that tender place above her right eye and a noxious, acid fluid filled her mouth. Vomit flew from her mouth in so violent a stream the action caused acute pain in her throat. Straining as she purged the bitter fluid from her stomach, she vomited so savagely she thought she would pass out from the intensity of her heaves. Her ears buzzed loudly for a second or two before she could straighten up and, when she did, the pain lessened above her eye and rational thought invaded her mind as though someone had turned on a switch—
He'll take the stairs; catch you at the bottom when the elevator stops.
Brenna jumped forward, slamming her hand against the stop button. Instantly, the car jerked to a halt and her eyes went to the panel above the door. She knew she was between the third and second floors. She also knew the killer would have taken the stairs expecting her to go all the way to the parking level. He would try to cut her off. Even as she stood there, he was probably waiting at the doors down in the parking garage, ready for her. When he looks up, sees I've stopped the elevator…
She didn't want to think about the killer's reaction. Instead, she drew in a quick breath and stabbed at the third floor button. There was a slight hesitation, then the car lifted, then settled.
Reaching into her pocket, she drew out her car keys. With care, she threaded the metal keys individually between her knuckles, the jagged edges pointing outward like the barbed spikes of a warrior's gauntlet. Tightly gripping the makeshift weapon, she kicked off her pumps and sent them sliding into the corner of the cage just as the elevator doors shushed open.
She hurried to the stairwell and jerked open the fire door. As she took the thick mesh steps upward, she could hear the crash of heavy pounding on the stairs far below her. From the interval in between each reverberating crash of foot to metal, the killer was taking the stairs two at a time.
"Fall and break your neck, you bastard," she hissed from between clenched teeth.
Bursting through the fourth floor fire door, she rushed toward the closed doors of the service elevator at the far end. She reached the elevator, jammed the single 'down' button and almost whooped for joy when the door opened immediately. She hurried inside, hit the sublevel two button.
Off to her right, she heard the fire door crash open and had to choke off a shriek of surprise. How had he found her so quickly?
There was nowhere to go. She knew he could see the open freight elevator door. Brenna leaned against the door's close button, putting all her weight into it, and felt a momentary flood of relief as the doors began to close. But just as the panels were about to meet, a hand clutching a gun wedged between the closing panels and the doors began to open once again.
"No!" Brenna bellowed. She lashed out, stabbing violently at the killer, raking the back of his hand with her car keys. Her action so stunned—and hurt—him, he dropped his weapon. The gun hit the carpet with a dull thud.
Brenna stared at the blood already beginning to seep down the man's fingers as he cradled it like a claw in his other hand. She had raked him so brutally scores of deep cuts showed on his darkly tanned flesh.
"That was good," she heard him say in between heavy intakes of breath.
Against her will, she slowly raised her eyes to meet his and whimpered as she got a good look at him.
"I wasn't expecting that," he said softly.
She whimpered again and he began to smile in an eerie, challenging way that showed straight white teeth. His grin grew predatory and he widened his eyes with mock surprise. "Now what are you going to do, Sweeting?"
The killer's foot was across the threshold, blocking the doors from closing. She wanted to lunge for the pistol at his feet, pump the entire clip into his chest, and tear him to bits with it. Her attention slid recklessly toward the weapon and she saw him cast a slow look that way as well.
"Go ahead, baby," he whispered, drawing her eyes immediately back to his. His nose crinkled with amusement as he said, "Do it."
She saw absolute evil in the killer's face. Although he was smiling warmly at her, the smile didn't reach his chocolate brown eyes. Those amber-shot dark orbs were as cold as the farthest reaches of the galaxy. The power staring out at her from a face that was movie-star handsome made the situation even more eerie. Killers, she thought, should not look like they belonged on the cover of a fan magazine.
