Page 46 of The Hidden One

Before I can grab the gun, a fist slams down on my arm. I swivel toward my attacker, sit up. Using the heel of my hand, I cuff him hard, make contact with a hard body, heavy clothing.

“I’m a cop!” I shout. “I’m armed! Stop!”

In the strobe of lightning that follows, I see the silhouette of a man. Tall and broad. Too close. Coming at me. My training kicks in. Leaning back, I raise both legs and kick him in the chest. He grunts, reels backward. His back strikes the wall.

I twist, lunge for my weapon, slap my hand down on it, fingers grappling. Not enough time to find my grip before his fist crashes down on my biceps. Electric pain zings up my arm. He sweeps my gun off the table. I hear it clatter to the floor. My .22 mini Mag is on the table, out of reach. I grab the lamp with both hands, draw back, swing it. He reaches for me, growling like an animal. A roar tears from my throat with the effort. But my position is bad. My aim is off. The shade crunches against the side of his head.

“Police officer!” I shout. “Get off!”

I barely get the words out when gloved hands snake toward me. I scramble back, but I’m not fast enough. Fingers close around my neck, the clamp of a vise, cutting off my air. I wrap my hands around his forearms, dig in with my fingers, try to pry them off. Simultaneously, he yanks me to my feet as if I weigh nothing. His strength stuns me. He wheels me around, thumbs digging into my throat, and shoves me to the ground. My back strikes the floor hard enough to send the breath from my lungs. He comes down on top of me, the weight of him crushing my chest, pinning me. I release his arms, punch his face with my fists. He doesn’t relent. I slap and claw at his face. Find an eye with my thumb, shove it into the socket.

Howling, he rears back.

“Get off, you son of a bitch!” I snarl.

A sharp slap against my temple sends stars flying in my peripheral vision. He clinches his hand to my throat, cutting off the blood flow to my head.

“Go back where you came from,” whispers a harsh voice.

I see the silhouette of his head against the light slanting in through the door. It’s too dark to make out details. He’s close enough for me to smell wet hair and stale breath and a body that isn’t quite clean.

Stars pinwheel before my eyes. I writhe beneath him, bring up my knees and ram them against his back. I slap and scratch at his arms, his face. My hand tangles in his shirt and I yank hard, tearing fabric. I seek his eyes with my thumbs. My efforts are futile. He’s stronger than me with the benefit of weight. I wonder if he’s going to kill me. If I pass out, will he keep squeezing? I think of Tomasetti and panic leaps in my chest.

I pry at his fingers as they dig into my throat, peel one off, bend it back hard, try to break it. Snarling, he straightens, pulls my head and shoulders off the floor, then bangs me down hard. Once. Twice. The back of my head thumps against the carpet, jarring my brain, scattering my thoughts. My vision blurs, dims.

“Leave town,” he growls.

Let go of me.

I open my mouth, try to speak, but nothing comes.

“Next time you won’t walk away.”

He releases me. I fall back against the floor, sucking in breaths, choking, my head spinning. Vaguely, I’m aware of him getting to his feet. I turn my head, seeking my .38, only to see him kick it beneath the bed.

“Don’t make me come back,” he says in a gruff voice.

I roll, try to get my feet under me, but my legs aren’t strong enough. Instead, I scrabble toward the bed, aware that he could come back before I reach my weapon.

A sound at the door draws my attention. I look over my shoulder in time to see him disappear into the night.

Every investigation has a defining moment. A piece of evidence or snippet of information or middle-of-the-night epiphany that convinces a cop he’s on the right track. Someone trying to warn me away qualifies and for the first time since arriving in Pennsylvania, I’m certain of two things: Jonas Bowman didn’t murder Ananias Stoltzfus and the person who did doesn’t want me poking around.

It takes twenty minutes for the sheriff’s department to arrive. It took me nearly that long to pull myself together. Once my head cleared, I got dressed, found my gun beneath the bed, my cell on the floor behind the night table. All the while I tried to get my head around what just happened and who might be responsible. When I first wakened and realized someone was in my room, I’d assumed it was a random break-in. Some junkie or thief looking for cash. It didn’t take long for me to realize this was a targeted attack with a specific goal.

Go back where you came from.

This was not random. It was a clear message, intended to intimidate and scare me off. The messenger has no way of knowing his efforts did nothing but strengthen my resolve. The question now is this: Who wants me gone desperately enough to risk breaking into my motel room and attacking me in the middle of the night?

Someone with a lot to lose, a little voice replies.

I’m standing outside my cottage, looking at the smashed windshield and slashed tires on the Explorer, when the deputy pulls up, lights flashing. It’s after four A.M. now. A family in one of the other cabins has ventured onto their porch to see what riffraff has brought the police to this peaceful little paradise.

The deputy gets out of his vehicle and starts toward me, the beam of his flashlight blinding me.

I raise my hand to shield my eyes and identify myself.

“Ten-twenty-three,” he says into his shoulder mike, letting his dispatcher know he’s arrived on scene. “We got a call about a break-in.”