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  “Don’t go.”

  The stranger’s face screwed into a grimace with those words as once again pain wracked his body. “Meeting him will only put your life in danger. I’m not going to let that happen. I’m willing to lose it all, even the memories. I can’t die like this, with you looking at me as if I were a stranger, Rachel.”

  He knew her name.

  Though his pain had to be excruciating, he struggled to reach toward her. As soon as Rachel understood that he meant to touch her, she backed away, but it was too late.

  She felt his touch, a ghostly caress of air against her cheek. Fleeting and eerily cold as it was, she felt a burning awareness.

  Then he began to disappear.

  Helen R. Myers, a collector of two- and four-legged strays, lives deep in the Piney Woods of East Texas. She cites cello music and bonsai gardening as favorite pastimes, and still edits in her sleep—an accident learned while writing her first book. A bestselling author of diverse themes and foci, she is a three-time RITA nominee, winning for Navarrone in 1993.

  NIGHT MIST

  HELEN R. MYERS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Stepping out into the night, Rachel quickly turned her back on the darkness and slipped her key into the door’s mortise lock to secure Nooton’s Medical-Surgical Clinic for another day. For four hours and twenty-some-odd minutes, to be more accurate. Until Sammy arrived at six in the morning for his ten-hour shift.

  A demanding schedule, she thought again. As demanding a schedule as any she’d been subjected to since earning the right to call herself Dr. Gentry. Not that she really minded. After all, it wasn’t as though she had someplace else to be. Usually. Tonight, however, was different. That’s why she’d been compelled to close early.

  But as though to challenge her, the lock refused to budge. Disgruntled, Rachel set down her medical bag and used both hands and a few whispered expletives, determined to offset the effect the Louisiana humidity had on everything in this middle-of-nowhere town. There were, of course, more practical solutions. For instance, she could get the can of petroleum-based lubricant Sammy kept in the janitorial closet. But she’d already lost too much precious time arguing with Cleo and didn’t think she could afford to risk any more.

  “Come on, you stubborn…”

  Finally, reluctantly, something inside the cylinder yielded and the key slid all the way to the locked position with a rusty, grating sound that cut into the night’s melancholy drone of tree frogs and other, less identifiable nocturnal creatures. Beneath her doctor’s jacket her skin tingled the way it used to during those mystery and horror movies her college roommate had insisted on watching after their late-night study sessions.

  More aware of her solitude than ever, she wondered again if maybe she’d been wrong not to confide in Cleo. Her senior night nurse hadn’t approved of closing early. What’s more, instead of explaining, Rachel had simply reassured her that, despite their other nurse being on vacation, there wasn’t anything happening tonight. No one would get into trouble for this, she’d added, and Cleo had seemed okay—until Rachel turned down the offer of a ride home.

  “You plan to do what?” the nurse had snapped, her hands fisted on her size-eighteen hips. “A woman’s got no business walking around here at this hour, especially not somebody who don’t yet know who’s who and what’s what around here. Why, you got them oil trucks speeding back and forth from the rigs. You got folks coming out of the lounge hardly able to stand, let alone drive. And we ain’t gonna get into discussing the kind of trash that’s been known to jump off one of the freight trains rambling through town. Just what’re you up to, anyway?”

  Rachel had assured her that she simply felt the need for some fresh air, which the walk would provide. Cleo hadn’t bought the story for a second.

  “This is on account I couldn’t drive you on Monday and Tuesday, ain’t it? I knew it. You’ve been acting weird ever since. Trying to make me feel guilty.”

  It hadn’t been easy convincing Cleo that she wasn’t trying to do anything of the kind; nevertheless, Rachel had held firm to her decision to get herself home her own way. Suspicious and openly offended, the older woman had sped away with a burst of spinning tires and spitting gravel, leaving Rachel to finish turning off all but the security lights.

  It was just as well, Rachel decided, drawing the key out of the door. She picked up her bag and squared her shoulders. Right now she had too many questions of her own without having to answer someone else’s.

  Come on, Gentry, she cajoled as she found herself hesitating. You know the plan, and it’s too late to turn chicken now. Move. If nothing happens this time, no one need ever know besides you. If something does…well, how much stranger could things get?

  Either way she would be safe in her bed in another twenty minutes or so. Safe, although not necessarily asleep. She sighed, not relishing the prospect of lying wide awake for the rest of the night analyzing what she’d seen and what it meant, while mice, or who knew what, scurried around within her bedroom walls.

  Well, don’t forget you came down here because you also wanted some adventure in your life, remember?

  What a thing to remember. Cleo was right; Rachel had been foolish to insist on walking alone at this hour, even though the boardinghouse stood just across Black Water Creek Bridge. And to do it repeatedly? She had to be tempting fate. How she wished she still had her car; having that sleek curve of steel and fiberglass wrapped around her would be a comfort right about now.

  On the other hand, how could she regret selling her parents’ graduation gift? She’d accepted it under duress, anyway, and selling it had cut in half the balance she owed on her medical school loans.

  Stop wasting precious time, Gentry. Make the one-eighty.

  She executed a quick pivot, and her heartbeat accelerated to a stronger thump against her ribs. She forgot about Cleo, the red sports car, even that her feet and back were killing her. She simply stared at the veil of gray obliterating the night sky, along with almost everything else, and knew her instinct to experiment one more time was going to yield results. Exactly what kind, she didn’t know, but there would be something.

  Mist…as it had for the first two unforgettable nights of the week, once again it hung in the air, consumed it. Bone-dampening, vision-blurring, spring mist. Fog. Floating rain.

  Before Monday, she wouldn’t have given the soggy weather much thought beyond the fact that it made everything in the boardinghouse smell like moldy bread or overripe cheese, caused her clothes to stick to her body as though they were a decayed layer of skin, and made hard-to-curl hair like hers borderline frizzy. Droll musings. Trivial reflections. But Monday had changed everything, as had Tuesday—and she was losing her ability to remain dispassionate.

  She drew a slow, calming breath and reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to get too caught up in the atmosphere. She was a doctor. Maybe she had a lot to
learn, as Sammy had pointed out, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t approach this with logical, methodical and, above all, scientific thinking.

  This time she wouldn’t overreact. This time she wouldn’t make any mistakes. This time she would determine what was happening on the single-lane bridge linking one side of the rural community to the other. Oh, yes, she would. Even if it meant being drawn deeper into what was beginning to feel like a bad dream.

  With a death grip on her medical bag, and her hand already damp from nerves and the fine moisture hanging in the air, Rachel pocketed her keys, then switched the bag to her right hand. Rubbing her left palm against the side of her jean-clad thigh, she started walking.

  As she eyed the spans on the cantilever bridge, illuminated by the lights from Alma’s Country Cookin’ on the near side and Beauchamp’s Gas and Body Works on the far side, an eighteen-wheeler rumbled by. It prompted her to accelerate her pace. If the driver saw anything while crossing, she reasoned, surely he would stop.

  But she had just stepped onto the single-lane bridge when she heard the change of tone signifying tire rubber meeting solid ground. The truck had reached the other side and was speeding away. Obviously, the driver hadn’t seen anything unusual at all.

  No Dr. Watson award for you, old girl.

  Somewhere in the distance a bloodhound bayed. Beneath her, bullfrogs croaked their night songs in somber bass, and the indolent creek flowed with barely a murmur. She’d heard it would take several days of heavy rains and severe flooding north of Baton Rouge to rouse this swarthy stream, but mid-July wasn’t exactly monsoon season in Nooton, and in the few weeks since she’d moved here the rain they did have had been light.

  She swatted at a mosquito and then two more, deciding a gully washer would be welcome if it rid them of at least a percentage of the pesky bloodsuckers. She’d heard that when they got bad this high up on the bridge, you knew the population was at epidemic proportions. Local trivia fact number eighteen, she thought, making a conscious effort to keep her growing tension in check.

  At least her long-sleeved jacket protected her arms, and her jeans saved her legs from all but the most persistent insects. But how appalled her mother would be if she could see her. “No self-respecting Gentry woman would allow herself to be caught wearing such attire in public,” she would say, her aristocratic nose angled to insinuate just the right amount of disdain. Well, none of her “genteel” relations would be caught dead in Nooton, anyway, and they certainly would never have given up two years of their lives to fulfill anything as archaic and austere as a two-year “moral commitment contract.”

  Almost halfway across the bridge the mist grew thicker. It swirled as warmer air rose from the creek and mossy banks to merge with slightly cooler air currents. Rachel narrowed her eyes, searching each shifting mass. Her heartbeat raced faster, until it seemed one constant thrumming. Was that something? Was that? The phantomlike mist played trick after trick with her vision, making her feel as though she was part of some middleworld and had to wrestle for control of her imagination.

  Oh, God, what was she doing? With another twenty-two months on her contract, what right did she have to go on some wild-goose chase that took her attention away from caring for those who relied on her? Suppose an emergency arose and Sammy learned she hadn’t been there to handle things as she should have? How would she explain? What person in their right mind would accept the flimsy excuse that she’d been following a theory—one based on mathematics to be sure, but still weak?

  “Help me.”

  She jerked to a halt, the rubber soles of her jogging shoes squeaking against the cement sidewalk, and just as abruptly, all doubts and concerns vanished from her mind. Peering through the writhing mist to the other side of the bridge, she saw it. Him.

  So, this wasn’t a fluke after all, she thought with a contradictory sense of satisfaction and trepidation. He was back, as he had been on Monday and again yesterday.

  She studied the vision that initially had made her doubt her overtired eyes. A moment later she heard it again—the desperate words which had been haunting every waking and sleeping hour since she’d first heard them.

  “Help…me.”

  As before, the hairs at her nape and on her arms lifted. Nevertheless, she slowly, cautiously started toward him.

  He stood in the darkness and fog, visible only because of his white T-shirt, yet blending in as a result of it. The same man from the other nights, but it struck Rachel that there was something different about him tonight, and it took her several more seconds to realize what it was. He was standing.

  Amazing. Impossible. On the first night she had come upon him lying sprawled on the narrow sidewalk, his back braced against steel girders, his long legs stretched out onto the pavement. The moment she’d reached his side, he’d expelled his last breath and vanished into the mist, leaving her stunned, horrified, and concluding she was on the fringe of some kind of breakdown. Yesterday’s experience had been much the same—except that it had lasted longer somehow. Neither episode had made any sense.

  And tonight he stood. Actually, he was leaning back against a steel truss. As before, his hands were wrapped around his middle. But what made this moment equally tragic, or perhaps even more so, was that this time the terrible flow of blood seeping from between his fingers had only begun.

  “It’s me.” She cleared her throat, disgusted with herself because she thought her voice sounded unsure and shaky. “Please don’t disappear. I think I know the drill now. I’m not supposed to touch you, right?”

  “Rachel.”

  She almost dropped her bag, nearly lost all courage and ran. Her name was the last thing she’d been expecting to hear. How did he know it?

  “Who are you?” she forced out.

  “Rachel…”

  The agony and concern in his voice tore at her heart, even as his use of her name unnerved her. No, she decided firmly, he had to be delirious and was confusing her with someone else called Rachel. But his pain-glazed eyes focused on her, and his expression, his entire being, reflected that of a man who knew the end was near…a man who wanted to go while gazing at the one thing he valued most in life. But how could that be?

  “Ah…jeez. It hurts, Bright Eyes. Hurts bad.”

  The endearment had her insides doing an unfamiliar flip-flop; nevertheless, she didn’t let it intrude on her determination to help—and to get more of her questions answered. “I know it does. I’m a doctor. Maybe I can—”

  “Don’t touch!” he warned, anxiety overriding his pain. But the expenditure of energy proved costly and he began sliding to the ground. “Just…don’t touch.”

  Barely holding back a cry of despair, Rachel followed him down, landing hard on her knees. She set her bag beside her. “All right, all right! I won’t touch.” But it meant restraining everything she was, everything she had trained to be, particularly when he looked so tormented. “Look, if you can feel pain, there has to be something I can do.”

  “Do…yes. I know…I know you have to get out of here, Rachel. If they find out you know me, I think they might…”

  “Who? What are you talking about?”

  Instead of answering, he screwed his face into a tight grimace as once again pain racked his body. Rachel bit hard on her lower lip. Stomach wounds were ugly business, and his challenged her resolve to honor his request.

  “Please,” she said, leaning as close as she dared without risking accidental contact. “Help me to understand this?”

  “N-not sure I get it myself.”

  “At least tell me your name?”

  This time he was the one who looked shocked. “You don’t…?” He swore. “Joe. Joe Becket. Say it, Bright Eyes. I need to hear you say it…one more time.”

  He sounded so desperate, Rachel never considered refusing him. “Joe,” she whispered. But his aggrieved expression told her that he knew the name meant nothing to her.

  A sound broke from his lips. It may have been an attempt at a
bitter laugh, but it sounded more like a sob. “You’re not getting it at all, are you? Listen…I’ve figured out this much. You can’t go back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Leave. Tonight. Now. You can’t…I can’t let you meet…Damn.”

  “Who? Meet who, Joe?”

  “No good. It’ll only put your own life in danger. I’m not going to let that happen, understand? I’m willing…willing to lose it all, the memory of you…of us, if it means…”

  “Hush now.” He wasn’t making any sense, and he was using up precious strength. “Try to lie still. Let me think.”

  He rocked his head back and forth. “No. Won’t go like this. Not with you looking at me as though I was some stranger.” The pain had to be excruciating, yet he struggled to sit up. Then he reached for her. “Once more. I have to just once more….”

  As soon as she understood what he meant to do, Rachel tried to back away from him. But it was too late.

  She felt his touch, a ghostly caress of air against her cheek. Fleeting and eerily cold as it was, it left her feeling a burning awareness she knew she didn’t dare examine too closely.

  Then he began to disappear.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “No!” Rachel lurched forward—to do what, she didn’t know since on some level she understood that any action she took would be pointless—and as expected, he vanished before her eyes.

  She balanced herself by resting her palms on the cement, felt something warm and wet, and inspected her hands. They were smeared with blood. Real blood. Closing her hands into fists, she searched through the mist swirling around her. “I don’t understand this! Do you hear me? I don’t understand.”

  As if in reply, Rachel found herself illuminated by a pair of fast-approaching, blinding lights. Through the din of a roaring engine a horn blasted her. Certain the wide-bodied beast was broad enough to sweep her up in its path, she spun around and pressed herself flat against the steel beams where Joe Becket had reclined only moments ago.