1976
~ Chapter 1 ~
Fifty-one … fifty-two … fifty-three … his feet were hot from pounding the asphalt; he rubbed the burning sweat from his eyes. Fifty-nine … sixty … he wished he could see more of his mother and father in Seattle. God, Seattle is a long way from Annapolis. At least,after the heart attack, his father’s health had improved, so that was no longer a worry. Seventy-three … seventy-four … he thought of Connie Logan, his best friend from high-school ... she had married Jerry Teringo … he didn’t know Jerry well … four years ahead of them in school … now a lawyer, good guy. They lived in Arlington … he owed them a call …one hundred … one oh one … one oh two …
Ahead, about a hundred yards, the lights of the guardhouse came into view. He checked his watch—two minutes to spare. He picked up his pace. His breath came harder and louder … one thirty-five … one thirty-six, watch for the sand bags left by the road crew … one thirty-seven, bag every ten feet, easy enough to see, white canvas … one thirty-eight, fifty feet to go. His foot hit something … what the … a bag out of place? He went down. The tarry gravel at the edge of the road burned into his knees and the heels of his hands.
No time to waste. In one minute he would be late. He pushed up and brushed at the bits of rock and dirt imbedded in his raw and bloody skin.
“Help …”
He froze, straining his ears.
“Help me …”
He spun around and looked down. The sandbag moved. Jesus, it’s a person, a woman. She’s totally nude.
“Hold on.” He dropped to his knees and studied the bloody and bruised face. Oh God. Sally Craine.
“Sally, it’s me, Tom Wilson.Hold on. I’ll get help.” He touched her arm. It felt warm and sticky. He looked at his fingers. Blood, sticky blood. She groaned.
His heart raced, and he snapped his head toward the guardhouse. Please be there. He saw two guards on duty. One came out to close the gates. Ten p.m.Wilson stood and hollered, “Help, over here,” and waved his arms in the air.
The guard looked in his direction as if uncertain he had heard correctly.
“There’s a cadet here,” Wilson shouted. “She’s been hurt real bad. Bring blankets. Call an ambulance.”
The guard stared, but did not move.
“I’m Tom Wilson. I’m a cadet. Hurry, she might die.”
Wilson didn’t know whether it was the urgency in his voice or the fact that he continued shouting so that anyone within a mile could hear, but the guard leapt into action. The commotion drew the other guard outside. He looked around, exchanged words with his counterpart, and ran back inside. A few seconds later, he came out again, this time with blankets in his arms, and sprinted up the road toward Tom Wilson and Sally Craine.
By the time the guard arrived, Tom determined that Sally had been badly beaten and her left arm smashed to a sickening angle. The guard helped him cover her with the two heavy blankets. When Tom tucked the blanket under her chin, he noticed the matted blood on the side of her head that had been bashed in.
“Sally,” he whispered, “Who did this to you?”
He heard the sirens and saw the flashing lights of the ambulance racing toward them. Using his flashlight, the guard stood and flagged them down. The attendants worked feverishly and in a few short minutes, had Sally strapped to the stretcher and hooked up to monitors and bags of liquids. When the stretcher went past, Sally’s finger touched Tom’s arm. The logic part of his brain knew it was accidental, but another part of his brain told him she had done it on purpose.
“I’ll find who did this,” he said. “I promise.”
~ 1 ~