The Woman in the Rain

The woman ran into my headlights barefoot, with blood on her knee and two men coming after her.

I hit the brakes hard enough to throw my coffee against the windshield.

For a second she stood there in the rain, one hand raised, the other pressed against her ribs. Her white blouse clung to her shoulders. One earring was missing. Even through the glass, I could see that she was fighting to stay upright.

Then the man behind her caught her wrist.

I opened my door.

"Let go of her."

He looked up at the cab, then at my sleeveless flannel shirt and battered boots. His expression relaxed. That was usually the first mistake.

"Private matter, buddy. Get back in your truck."

The woman twisted toward me. "Please. I don't know them."

Her voice was low and strained, but the words were clear.

I climbed down.

The second man moved to block my way. His jacket hung wrong on the right side. A gun, probably. The first one was gripping her wrist hard enough to leave marks.

"Last chance," I said.

"You deaf?"

I took the first man's hand off her wrist. He bent with it, suddenly interested in how much farther his fingers could move before something broke.

The second reached inside his jacket.

I shoved his partner into him and pulled the woman behind me. The gun hit the asphalt. I kicked it under the truck.

"Get in," I told her.

She looked at the steps as though they were a mountain.

I lifted her into the cab, shut her door, and turned back when the armed man tried to stand.

"Stay down."

Something in my voice finally reached him. He stopped moving.

I got behind the wheel and pulled away before either of them found his courage again.

The woman clutched the seat belt. Her breathing came too fast.

"There's a black car," she said. "They came in a black car."

I checked the mirror. Headlights turned onto the road behind us.

"I see it. What's your name?"

"Charlotte. Charlotte Hayes."

I knew the name. Hayes Logistics had warehouses all along the coast. Her face appeared in business magazines sometimes, usually beside headlines about her age or her late father's company.

Tonight she looked nothing like the woman in those photographs.

"Charlotte, look at me. Did they hurt you?"

"They put something in my drink. At dinner." She swallowed. "I heard one of them talking outside the restroom. They said I wouldn't remember anything. I climbed out a window."

Her hands were trembling.

"Can you keep your eyes open?"

"I'm trying."

I called Miles through the truck's hands-free system.

He answered on the second ring. "You were supposed to check in an hour ago."

"I need a doctor at the river house. Possible drugging. Adult woman, awake, breathing fast. And someone to watch the gate."

There was a short silence.

"Connor, who—"

"Now, Miles."

"Understood."

Charlotte stared at me.

"You have a river house?"

"I know somebody who does."

"And a doctor who makes house calls?"

"You can complain about my friends after she checks you."

A weak laugh escaped her. Then she winced and curled toward the door.

I took the next turn, following a service road beside the freight yards. The car behind us overshot it. By the time it corrected, the truck was behind a row of parked trailers.

I waited with the engine idling and the lights off.

Rain drummed overhead. Charlotte watched my hands on the wheel.

"You don't seem surprised."

"I drive at night. People do stupid things at night."

"They had a gun."

"That was one of the stupid things."

She tried to smile again. This time she couldn't manage it.

"Please don't take me back to the hotel."

"I won't."

"Or call the man who arranged dinner. His name is Daniel Price. He said he wanted to discuss a contract."

I stored the name away.

"Nobody's calling him. Is there someone you trust?"

She gave me a number from memory. Nora Ellis answered sounding irritated, then terrified when Charlotte spoke.

"I'm safe," Charlotte told her, glancing at me. "I think."

I explained where we were taking her. Nora promised to come immediately.

When we reached the house, a woman in a gray jacket was waiting inside. Dr. Bell had patched up men who preferred not to explain their injuries. She was good at asking only the questions that mattered.

She took one look at Charlotte and told me to get towels, dry clothes, and out of her way.

I obeyed.

For the next hour, I stayed in the kitchen while the doctor worked. Miles arrived, listened to my description of the men, and went outside to make calls.

"You need to leave before sunrise," he said when he returned.

"I know."

"Do you? Because you just brought a recognizable executive into a house connected to us."

"She was running from two men with a gun."

"I'm not questioning that. I'm reminding you why you're wearing the truck-driver costume."

I looked down at my shirt.

"I bought this myself."

"That makes it worse."

He left to check the road. I went back to the hallway.

The doctor found me there.

"She's stable. She needs rest and observation. If anything changes, call me immediately."

"Will she remember what happened?"

"That's something she'll tell you herself. Don't make assumptions."

Nora arrived carrying a bag of clothes and enough anger to warm the whole house. She thanked me, then shut the bedroom door in my face.

Fair enough.

I spent the rest of the night on the porch, watching rain fall into the dark garden. My phone lit up with messages about a shipment dispute, a missing intermediary, and Victor Kane asking questions he shouldn't have been asking.

I answered none of them.

By late afternoon, Charlotte was sitting at the kitchen table in a borrowed sweater, both hands wrapped around tea. Nora had gone to arrange a police statement and collect her belongings. Dr. Bell had checked her again before leaving.

Charlotte looked up when I entered.

"You were outside all night."

"You had company."

"Nora snores."

"I'll put that in my review."

She smiled properly for the first time. It changed her whole face.

"What happened to the men?"

"They won't be waiting outside your hotel. Nora has their description and the location where it happened."

"You make everything sound very easy."

"It's a bad habit."

Her gaze dropped to the scrape across my knuckles.

"I caused that."

"No. The man who wouldn't let go caused that."

She took my hand before I could move it away. Her fingers were warm now, steady. She turned it toward the light.

"Does it hurt?"

"Only when rich women interrogate me."

"I'm asking one question."

"You're very good at making it feel like twelve."

She laughed, then kept holding my hand.

I should have pulled back. I had a truck to move, a name to keep out of circulation, and an enemy who would enjoy knowing exactly where I slept.

Instead, I noticed the faint mark on her wrist.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't even know your name."

"Connor Reed."

"Thank you, Connor Reed."

She said it like she intended to remember it.

I picked up my jacket from the chair.

Her fingers tightened around mine.

"Are you leaving?"

"You don't need me standing over you anymore."

Charlotte rose. She was close enough that I could smell the soap in her hair.

"That wasn't what I asked."

For once, I had no useful answer.

She looked at the jacket, then back at me.

"Stay a little longer. I don't want the last thing I remember about this place to be waking up scared."

I set the jacket down.