The Incident Under the Overpass
The Incident Under the Overpass
The Traiteur Trilogy, Book One
Anne McClane
After Glows Publishing
The Incident Under the Overpass
Copyright © 2017 by Anne McClane
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Published by After Glows Publishing
PO Box 224
Middleburg, FL 32050
AfterGlowsPublishing.com
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Cover by Fiona Jade
Formatting by AG Formatting
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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
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Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About the Author
Note From the Publisher
The Incident Under the Overpass
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It’s been fifteen months since Lacey Becnel’s unfaithful husband suddenly passed away, leaving her to sort through her feelings of anger, love, and loss, and wondering where exactly her place in life should be.
But when she awakens under an overpass near her home, next to Nathan—a man she met just hours before in the streets of New Orleans—she begins a journey of discovery that some might call supernatural. In the days that follow, it becomes clear that Nathan might be the target of a murder plot, and Lacey—somehow—has the power to heal.
The more she becomes embroiled in Nathan’s danger, the more confused Lacey becomes about her feelings for him. Will she ever fully understand her abilities, or will the danger surrounding Nathan bring things to an abrupt end?
1
Ga-dunk.
The sound expanded in her head, empty at the moment except for a feeling akin to bliss.
Ga-dunk.
The heavy, rhythmic thud echoed like a church bell. It’s telling me I’m complete, Lacey thought.
The breakdown would commence once she was aware. But in that final instant before cognition, the lovely density of the noise and the euphoric feeling teased at some great truth just outside Lacey Becnel’s grasp. Unbeknownst to her, the memory of that feeling would be, at times, the only thing to sustain her in the month ahead.
Ga-dunk.
Her eyes opened to a soggy darkness. Another ga-dunk, a slight echo, and then silence. In the long pauses between the sounds, she could hear the trill of crickets. Ga-dunk again. It worked like an alarm clock.
It was the smell that finally roused her. The smell of fresh, dew-topped grass, and a faint scent of urine. She flexed her hand and felt a clump of earth yield to her touch. Her back was wet, tickled by the scrubby undergrowth.
She savored the feeling for a moment before she realized its meaning. She felt her sides, then her chest, and then her legs. Her clothes were gone. Not in tatters, or in half measures, simply gone.
She was lying somewhere outside, naked.
Fear paralyzed her. She crossed her arms over her breasts, but didn’t dare sit up. She strained her neck toward the sickly glow of a light directly ahead. Beyond, about one hundred feet away, a faint pool of light shimmered around a sodium vapor street lamp. Lacey’s heart broke as the vestiges of that rapturous completeness slipped away, replaced by a rising sense of panic.
Ga-dunk.
She looked up toward the sound. Huge concrete beams sailed high above her. I’m underneath a bridge, she thought. Those are cars passing overhead.
The air was warm and languid, but still she began to shiver. She tightened her arms across her chest and wanted desperately to find her clothes. She turned her head away from the light, searching.
Ga-dunk.
Lacey gasped and bolted upright. Inches away, a man lay on his back—fully clothed, eyes closed, a peaceful smile on his face. He had a laceration along his right cheek. His jacket was torn and bloody at the right shoulder. He looked familiar.
Her memory was patchy. Whatever had happened to her had shot holes through her faculties. What the hell had happened, and why couldn’t she remember? She willed her brain to recoup and repair. Quickly. She took a deep breath, and her shivering slowed. The pungent smell of the outdoors revived her.
Her arms and legs twisted into a pretzel, Lacey looked at the man more closely. He looked tall…she knew he was full head taller than herself; she remembered that from speaking to him. Where? A handsome face, a full head of sandy blond hair, and a kind expression. How did she know he was kind?
She also knew he was strong. Broad shoulders and chest, no pudges peeking out from the T-shirt he wore underneath his linen jacket. Solid, lean muscles. He had a solidness her husband did not have.
Ga-dunk.
The memory of her husband at home crashed in on Lacey, another panic-inducing rear-end impact. Her heart leapt into her throat as adrenaline surged through her. She had an overwhelming instinct to flee. Running away from here naked may complicate the situation, she thought. She lay back down and took another deep breath.
Ga-dunk.
What time is it? Lacey had no concept of how long she had been in this state. It could have been forever. She tried to concentrate. Long intervals elapsed between the passing cars overhead. It must be very late or very early. She remembered the month. June. Whatever time it was, daylight would arrive sooner rather than later.
Where am I? She looked toward the area behind her and the sleeping man. She could just make out some picnic tables. Ashen concrete picnic tables. She knew where she was. The I-610 overpass, not three minutes from her house. She could slink away, try to slip into her house undetected, and pretend this whole…whatever it was…never happened.
What about Fox? Will he hear me come in?
Lacey took another deep breath. Her husband, Fox, wasn’t home, she knew. She knew because he had died fifteen months before.
It still happened to her sometimes, usually upon waking. She would forget about his death and all its circumstances for just an instant, thinking he might be in the living room, asleep on the couch. All the burden of his legacy lifted for a moment of ignorant bliss when she returned
to a time when she’d adored him unequivocally. It happened less frequently as time wore on.
Headlights approached from the direction of the lake. Her lungs deflated, and she was on the verge of hyperventilation as she waited for the car to pass. She exhaled loudly when its red taillights sped down Marconi, and then out of sight.
She wouldn’t dare sit up again until she had some clothes. She was only about twenty feet from the roadway, easy enough to spot from any more passing cars. Whoever the familiar, sleeping, kind man was next to her, she needed his jacket.
Lacey reached out and placed a tentative grip on his right arm. She was blasted by an overwhelming déjà vu as soon as she touched him. Déjà vu and heat; an interior heat, radiating from the base of her sternum. A voice echoed in her brain: This is it. This is what was always supposed to happen. This is where you were supposed to be at this very time. The flash disappeared as quickly as it had come.
She pulled her hand away and rubbed her temple with her palm. The frustration of her memory loss manifested in a physical pain. Nathan, she thought. The man’s name is Nathan. She didn’t know how she knew it, but she was certain of it.
The sleeping Nathan adjusted his position so that his right side brushed up against Lacey. That made her ache even more.
Ga-dunk.
She tried to focus on her surroundings and develop a plan. She closed her eyes, and an amalgam of “Amazing Grace” and the Memorare prayer flowed through her head: ’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved… Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary…
Remember. That combination of song and prayer had helped her cope with Fox’s death. Fox. The love of her life, and the source of her biggest heartbreak. Lacey let out a slight laugh. Considering her current situation, the impact of all Fox’s actions felt small, or at least smaller, for the first time since his death.
Ga-dunk.
Another car approached on Marconi. She held her breath. It passed out of sight, just as the previous one had. Her exposure—their exposure—loomed as Crisis Priority One. It was time to wake Nathan up.
Lacey lifted herself on her side, pulling her legs up to cover her privates and crossing her left arm over her chest. It was a momentously awkward position. With her right arm, she gently nudged Nathan in his side, amazed again how he had no apparent body fat. She said his name several times, low but clear.
He roused, his peaceful countenance turning into a grimace. He moaned a bit and shooed off Lacey’s hand.
“Nathan!” Lacey finally said more loudly. She instinctively looked out to the street to make sure no one had heard her.
“Lacey?” he asked in a raspy voice.
Lacey turned her head and saw the confusion on his face. Okay, so at least I’m not full crazy. We know each other well enough to know names, she thought.
“Nathan,” she said. “That is your name, right?”
Still lying on his back, he said, “Yes. At least I think so. Where the hell are we?”
“Underneath the interstate,” she said. “Do you think I could borrow your jacket?”
“Huh?” He looked at her, not understanding. Then her nakedness registered. He nodded, and tried to keep his eyes upward.
Something happened to both of us, Lacey thought. Neither of our heads seems right.
Nathan sat up, slowly. He tried not to look at her. Lacey tried to shrink herself out of sight. He looked down as he gingerly removed his jacket and handed it over to her.
“Where are your clothes?” he asked.
Lacey arched an eyebrow as she slipped into his jacket in a millisecond’s time. “Good question. And, if I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask you for your jacket, would I?”
He returned his gaze to her face, and this time smiled at the burst of feistiness. His amusement turned into a grimace, and he put his face in his hands.
“Why do I feel like I have the worst hangover of my life?” Nathan asked, lifting his head.
Lacey looked down at the bloody hole in the jacket, and a dark mark that ran down the length of it. “It looks like you were run over.”
Lacey stood, the jacket coming just to the tops of her thighs. She tried to make herself smaller, to somehow shrink the surface area of her legs. She would have to make it work for the short walk home.
Nathan looked up at her and gaped. Lacey assumed it was because of the brutalized look of his jacket.
“Do you think you can take a short walk? We really need to get out of here. I live very close by,” Lacey said. She tried not to sound as panicky as she felt.
Nathan nodded. He rose slowly, testing his unsteady legs as he stood. He went to roll his shoulder, and winced. His T-shirt was torn, but didn’t look as bad as the jacket.
Lacey bounced on her bare heels. “We’ll take a look at you once we get to my house. C’mon.” She stood by his side, offering her arm in case he needed it.
He looked her in the eye and shook his head. “I think I’m okay. Lead the way.”
Lacey made sure she didn’t see any cars in either direction, and stepped lightly to the sidewalk. By the time she made it to the train trestle that paralleled the interstate, Nathan was twenty feet behind her.
She stopped behind one of the columns of the trestle and waited. She looked back at the interstate, and could see arcs of light from passing cars. She thought they were increasing in frequency. Her stomach tightened.
Headlights approached on Marconi, from the south. Nathan was visible from either direction, clearly impaired and sure to be seen. The chances that the oncoming car was a police cruiser were good—cops patrolled all over her neighborhood regularly.
Lacey ran to Nathan and pulled him to the concrete wall of the trestle. She turned her back to the street and put her arms around him. It was a reflexive action, born of a need to protect, to cover, to hide.
She regretted the embrace as soon as she made contact. She was nearly overcome by another electric feeling of déjà vu as she held on to him. The searing heat emanated from somewhere higher this time, a spot at the back of her neck. She longed to break free, but she was paralyzed by an overwhelming desire to know more, feel more, and explore what was happening to her.
Nathan wasn’t struggling. He looked down at Lacey’s face.
The feeling passed. She pulled away as soon as the red taillights were out of sight. It wasn’t a cop car. She intentionally avoided Nathan’s gaze, grabbed his hand, and continued walking. He held on to her hand.
“I’m sorry I’m so slow,” he said in a low voice.
“It’s okay. I hope I’m not making you any worse,” Lacey replied in a voice equally low.
Lacey’s breathing eased once they crossed onto her street, Florida Boulevard. Neither of her two neighbors would be out so early, although there was a good chance one of them might spy her from his window. Lacey hugged the curb, under the cover of a line of crape myrtles. The nosy neighbor had planted them, illegally, on the public right of way to obscure the view of the train tracks. It was their third year, and their branches were fat with buds.
Lacey found it hard to breathe. Nathan gripped her hand firmly, but it felt like he was clinging to her throat. She realized how utterly dependent he was on her at that very moment, and how easily he had surrendered to her. It freaked her out. She felt a fierce desire to be rid of him.
She broke her focus on the trees and stole a glance at Nathan. Pain and effort were evident on his face. Lacey cursed herself, the desire for him to disappear replaced with an entirely different feeling. He looked heroic, his hazel eyes fixed on completing this grim task, jaw set, body moving with marked determination.
“We’re almost there,” Lacey said. “We need to turn here. Just a bit more sidewalk and then we’ll be there.”
Lacey pulled away from Nathan and grabbed the key hidden near the side entrance of her house. She waited for him at the base of the steps. A deeper sense of recognition began to seep in as she watched him. Nathan reached for the stair rail and she t
urned away, ascending the six steps to the door.
Key in the lock, her hand on the doorknob, Nathan stumbled and fell against her, catching himself with a hand to her shoulder. In that moment, she remembered who Nathan was. She didn’t turn around, but hesitated before opening her door.
She was overcome by an acute longing.
2
Forty-Two Hours Earlier
Lacey placed last month’s accounting reports on the bookshelf and returned to her desk. She was alone in the office. Her dilettante of a boss, Clayton Charles Carriere III, or Trip, had showed up shortly after nine a.m., and after about four and a half minutes informed her he’d be out for the rest of the day.
It was Friday, and she did not want to be alone. Since Fox had died, she had come to dread Fridays. The threat of the weekend loomed, two days alone in the house they had shared—the walls, the floors, the furnishings rank with his memory. But she refused to sell the house. It suited her and her Saint Bernard, Ambrose, too well. So she had opted for a systematic redecoration project instead.
So far, it had helped the weekends go faster. The bedroom was complete, and she had decided to take a breather before tackling the living room. But now, sitting alone at work, with nothing to do, she regretted the decision. With nothing planned for this upcoming weekend, the wide-open time ahead preyed upon her mood.