Page 71 of Risk of a Lifetime
“Is that good or bad?” She wanted something to be going their way. Anything.
“Neither. Is what it is.”
“Want another pot of coffee?”
He nodded. “Want to play some checkers?”
She nodded in return. Could they shove a lifetime into the next few hours? They could try.
At ten o’clock, he explained the little they knew about the 1038 numbers and their role in the sequence of violent events from the last few days. Then he locked them both back in the bedroom, shoving the chest in front of the door. His theory was 10:38 might be a trigger for the killer. If he’d told her sooner, she’d have been worried all evening. Instead, she only had to worry for the short time.
They waited. 10:15 came and went. 10:30 came and went. He motioned her behind him, and she obeyed. Then he backed them up until they were in the furthest corner from the door, the window, the bathroom. If anyone came in, JB would take the blow. He might go down, but he’d take the shot for her.
Realization thundered through her entire body. Everything from earlier suddenly made sense. The placement of the weapons. How important she knew where they were. His words from before whooshed in her mind, taking root in her heart. To reach out, touch his back, would only be a distraction to him. Put him at risk. She wouldn’t do that.
This might be the end, and all she could do was stand and watch. JB would take the blow destined for her. Go down. Maybe die in her arms. That was what the promise meant. And all he asked was for her to remember how much he loved her. She tightened the grip on her own gun. She’d never been so scared in her life.
The glow from the clock on the night table showed the minutes. 10:35. Was that the right time? Could it be off a minute or two? Was he watching the clock? No, he was tensed, every muscle cocked and ready. He glanced from place to place. Walked to the window and back. 10:36. Stepped to the bedroom door, listened, then backed up to her again. 10:37. He never looked at her. Never acknowledged her.
The minutes ticked by one by one by one.
She touched his back. “The clock says 10:50.”
…
JB made sure Marcy was asleep before he dialed. Might be two-thirty in the morning, but he needed to check in with the Crayton Police.
The clang of a phone being dropped then picked up again reverberated through the receiver. “Patrolman Kennett here.”
“Sorry to wake you.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sounds like you two made it through another 10:38.” The rookie’s voice cleared fast. Meant his brain woke on a dime.
JB scrubbed his palm over his face. He needed a shave. “Anything new?”
“Nothing. The sheriff came out of surgery good. Saved his leg. But he’s still doped up. Not making much sense.”
“Like what?”
“He’ll be talking about Landon. How the man would check in with your boss on the numbers. Then he rambles about fighting the guy in the ski mask for the phone.” Kennett’s voice sounded tired. “Says the guy has brown eyes. Next minute he says they’re blue. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Keep at it. Check with Landon to see if he ever got anything from headquarters.” JB heard the soft sounds of Marcy mumbling to herself in her sleep. At least she could rest for a while.
The rookie cleared his throat. “When I called him this afternoon, it went to voice mail. He never called back. Went to voice mail a couple hours ago, too.”
Maybe he should call Wilson instead. Why? His ex-boss was on vacation and couldn’t do a damn thing to help him. “Try Landon again. Might be he can remember something about a case I haven’t.”
…
Except for light from the fireplace glow, the cabin sat in darkness when Marcy opened her eyes. Still half asleep, she stared as the digital numbers click forward on the bed side clock. 3:20 AM. So, far she’d watched seven minutes. Each click meant one minute closer to 10:38 again. The numbers seemed to mean something to someone angry enough to kill her and JB.
Last night, the two of them played checkers, popped popcorn over the fire in the fireplace, and racked their brains to find any connection to 1-0-3-8.
The only disruption during the night had been the gentle hoot of an owl. JB insisted they didn’t turn any music on. He needed to listen, hear anything out of the ordinary. How could he hear anything through the closed door and windows? Finally, she realized he wasn’t talking about the owl’s hoot or the water’s ripple or the wind through the trees. He meant he knew other sounds. The sounds of a stalker, a shooter. Still fully dressed, she fell asleep about midnight.
The faint glow from the fireplace and the smell of scorched coffee jogged her awake. She stumbled into the kitchen, spying the grungy coffeepot in the sink.
JB shuffled cards at the kitchen table, once again his Glock within easy reach. “I made a mess.”
