The parking area beyond was lost in shadow.
I was halfway across when I heard an engine.
Damn it.
A car roared to life on the far side.
Headlights flicked on, bright and blinding—and pointed directly at me.
I froze in the glare, pinned to the bridge like an insect, suddenly visible to anyone within a quarter mile.
I had no cover, no weapon.
No options.
The car jerked forward.
It stopped at the foot of the bridge.
The engine idled, a lion’s growl that filled the silence.
My hand moved to where my pistol should have been. It found nothing. I’d lost it somewhere, probably in the drainage ditch or the riverbank or one of a hundred moments when survival mattered more than equipment.
The driver’s door opened.
A figure stepped out, silhouetted against the headlights.
It was tall and broad-shouldered.
It moved toward me with purpose.
I couldn’t see his face.
All I could do was stand there, shaking with cold and exhaustion, and wait for my fate to unfold.
The figure kept coming.
33
Thomas
Warmth.
That was the first thing I registered.
Heat pressed against my skin, thawing the frozen places inside me.
I was lying on something soft.
A bed? How had I found a bed?
Blankets lay piled on top of me, heavy and suffocating.
I tried to move, but my body refused.
“Easy,” said a voice I didn’t recognize. It was male, older, and had a funny accent. Was I back in Boston? How had I gotten to Boston?
“You’ve been through quite an ordeal,” the voice said. “Don’t rush it.”
