Free Thriller by James Patterson Page A

her a faltering smile. “God bless you! You really must be an angel!” he cried.
    Beth drew the quilted throw from the sofa and wrapped it
    around the man’s shoulders, demanding, “What were you doing
    out there? How could you not have heard the evacuation orders
    issued for all tourists?”
    71
    He looked at her sheepishly. “Please, don’t throw me back out,”
    he told her. “I admit, I was on a bender in Key West.” He staggered to his feet. “When I realized we were told to go, I started
    out, but my car was literally blown off the road. Then I saw light.
    Faint light—your place. God must look after fools. I mean…if
    you don’t throw me out.” He was tall and wiry, perhaps about
    thirty. She realized, when not totally bedraggled, he was surely
    a striking young fellow, with his brilliant blue eyes and dark hair.
    “I’m not going to throw you out,” she told him.
    He offered her a hand suddenly. “I’m Mark Egan. A musician.
    Maybe you’ve heard of my group? We’re called Ultra C. Our first
    CD just hit the stores, and we were playing the bars down in Key
    West. You haven’t heard of me—or us?” he said, disappointed.
    “No, I’m afraid I haven’t.”
    “That’s okay, I guess most of the world hasn’t,” he said.
    “Maybe my husband will have heard of you. He’s in Key West
    often and he really loves to listen to local groups.”
    He offered her his engaging grin once again. “It doesn’t matter—you’re still wonderful. You’re an angel—wow, gorgeous, too.”
    “Thanks. I can give you something dry to put on. My husband
    is somewhat larger than you are, but I’m sure you can make do.”
    “Your husband? Is he here?”
    She felt a moment’s unease. “Yes, of course. He’s just…battening down a few things. He’s around, close,” she said.
    “I hope he doesn’t stay out too long. It’s brutal. Hey, you guys
    don’t keep a car here?” he asked.
    An innocent question? she wondered.
    “Yes, we have a car,” she said, determined not to explain further. “I’m Beth Henson,” she said, and offered him a hand. They
    shook. His grip was more powerful than what she had expected.
    “Hang on, I’ll get you those clothes,” she said.
    She picked up one of the flashlights and headed for the bedroom. She couldn’t help looking over her shoulder, afraid that
    he had followed her. He hadn’t. She went to the closet and decided on an old pair of Keith’s jeans and a T-shirt. Best she could
    72
    do. She brought them back out and handed them to the dripping
    man. “Bathroom is the first door on the left, and here’s a flashlight.”
    “Thanks. Truly, you are an angel!” he said, and walked down
    the hall.
    Keith’s friends liked to make fun of him for the Hummer. Hell,
    Beth liked to rib him about it, shaking her head with bemused
    tolerance as she did so. It was a gas guzzler. Not at all ecofriendly. It was a testosterone thing, a macho thing he felt he had
    to have. He mused he could now knock it all back in their faces—
    the Hummer was heavy enough to make it through the wind,
    tough enough to crawl through the flooding.
    So there, guys. Testosterone? Maybe. But Beth had been the
    one who had been worried sick about Mrs. Peterson. She had
    been worried sick again when he had left to retrieve Mrs. Peterson and the dog. She’d wanted to come; he’d convinced her that
    if she was home, he wouldn’t be worried about her in the storm
    as well.
    He fiddled with the knob on the radio again, trying to get
    something to come in. At last, he did. He expected the news stations in the south of the state to be carrying nothing but storm
    coverage—even if the storm had lost momentum.
    “…serial killer on the loose. Authorities suspect that he
    headed south just before evacuation notices went into effect…”
    Static, damn! Then, “Parker managed to disappear, ‘as if into thin
    air,’ according to Lieutenant Abner Gretsky, prison guard.
    Downed poles and electrical