Sharon Mignerey - Too Close For Comfort

The doorknob rattled again. ‘‘C’mon, Rosie. I know you’re in there.’’

Ian glanced at Rosie. ‘‘Who the hell is that?’’

The dog stood in front of the door lazily wagging his tail. Ian would bet his new SUV that whoever stood on the other side of the door was someone the dog knew. Even so, he wasn’t reassured.

‘‘It sounds like Hilda’s brother,’’ Rosie returned, her own voice in a whisper.

‘‘Josh?’’ Ian asked, coming up with a name from earlier in the day. A man who came and went. When Rosie nodded, he added, ‘‘What happens if you ignore him? Will he go away?’’

She shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know.’’

‘‘Trust him?’’

A long second passed before she shook her head. ‘‘He’s probably drunk—sometimes he comes out here to sleep it off. There’s a cot in one of the sheds—if he stays he’ll crash there.’’ She frowned. ‘‘When he’s drunk, though, he never comes to the house. He doesn’t cause any trouble—just sleeps it off.’’

The man outside knocked on the glass again. ‘‘I just want some coffee.’’ The door shook as though he’d put his shoulder against it. ‘‘She ain’t here,’’ he said, his voice muffled as though he’d turned away from the door.

The hair on the back of Ian’s neck rose.

‘‘Nobody…’’ The man continued to talk, but what he said couldn’t be understood.

Ian drew his weapon and crept toward the door. Flattening his back against the wall, he peered through the thin sliver between the gauzy curtain and the glass. At first he saw nothing. Then one of the shadows moved, and he realized there was a man on the outside wall, standing just as he was, his back to the wall by the door. The shadows outside moved again, and one more time there was pounding against the door.

Ian pulled Rosie away from the front of the door and pushed her toward the den.

‘‘Mr. Ian. Auntie Rosie, where are you?’’ Annmarie called, her high voice sounding unnaturally loud. The patter of her footsteps faltered, then her voice became even more plaintive. ‘‘Mr. Ian?’’

His muscles tensed as the ominous shadows outside shifted. From the corner of his eye, he watched Rosie silently cross the kitchen toward her niece. Without taking his attention off the shadows, he assessed his options, which were damn few.

In the next instant the window in the door shattered, and an arm reached through the window frame to unlock the door.

‘‘Rosie, get out of here,’’ Ian commanded.

He grabbed the arm and jerked hard. The bone snapped, and the man cried out.

To Rosie, the breaking glass sounded like gunfire, but no less so than a man’s howl of pain. She scooped up Annmarie and ran into the den. Only half aware of the soothing words she gave the child, Rosie grabbed Annmarie’s jacket and shoes. From the kitchen there were grunts and the sound of a scuffle.

She didn’t have to wonder who had just broken into her house. She knew. Marco somebody. And Josh was with him.

Rosie took a shaky breath and turned off the light in the den, carrying Annmarie through the dark room.

‘‘I want Mr. Ian,’’ the child said plaintively.

‘‘Shh,’’ Rosie murmured.

Within a heartbeat, he had turned into a deadly predator—lethal in his intent, his gun appearing in his hand as though it had always been there. He scared her to death. She could only hope he’d buy the time they needed to escape.

‘‘He’ll be along in a minute.’’ She opened the door to a coat closet, the interior looking darker than she ever remembered. Reaching through the hanging garments, she pressed on the rear wall, and it opened. She fumbled for the light switch, found it, and turned on the light above a steep, hidden stairwell. She set Annmarie down and held her hand. ‘‘Come on. You, too, Sly.’’

Rosie heard a crash in the kitchen, the sound of breaking furniture, then a gunshot. Swiftly she retrieved her backpack from the closet floor plus one other that she used when she was gone overnight.

‘‘Mr. Ian,’’ Annmarie cried.

‘‘Shh,’’ Rosie whispered, urging the little girl down the steep steps. At the bottom she set down the packs, knelt and thrust Annmarie’s arms into the jacket, put on her shoes and tied them.

‘‘It’s those bad men again, isn’t it?’’ Annmarie looked up at Rosie. ‘‘I want them to go away.’’ Her chin firmed. ‘‘And I want Mr. Ian.’’

‘‘He’ll catch up.’’ Rosie put on a jacket, then guided the child toward the steel door at the back of the room. She didn’t know whether he would or not, but nothing was more important than getting Annmarie to safety.

She unlatched the door and pulled it open. Sly preceded her into the tunnel, his nose to the cold concrete floor. She took Annmarie’s hand. ‘‘Come on, sweetie. It will be okay.’’

‘‘Rosie, where the hell are you?’’ she heard Ian call directly above them.

Rosie kept walking, but Annmarie came to a firm halt. ‘‘Mr. Ian,’’ she called.

Rosie frowned and let go of the child. She went back to the hidden stairwell. ‘‘Down here.’’

An instant later he appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘‘Well, I’ll be damned.’’ He turned around and pulled the door closed behind him. Then he hit the light bulb with the heel of his hand, shattering it and thrusting the stairwell into darkness. He clattered down the stairs. ‘‘A secret passage. Just when were you going to trust me enough to tell me about this?’’

‘‘It wasn’t a matter of trust.’’ She turned on the flashlight she’d already put into her pocket and thrust one of the backpacks into his hands. ‘‘And it isn’t a secret. If that’s Josh out there, he knows about this. Everyone on the island does.’’

‘‘Everyone?’’

‘‘Yep.’’ She went to the doorway of the tunnel and turned to wait for him.

As much as she wanted to know what had happened, something in his expression kept her from asking. When his gaze lit on Annmarie, who stood in the dark tunnel with Sly, the lines around his mouth softened.

‘‘Hey, petunia,’’ he said. ‘‘I see you’re keeping Sly company.’’

‘‘You don’t have to pretend,’’ she said, her voice solemn. ‘‘I know it’s those bad men.’’

Ian glanced back Rosie, casually taking the flashlight from her. ‘‘How long is this?’’ he asked, walking away from her. ‘‘C’mon, Annmarie.’’

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