Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Taken by the Wind

The WindLegend's Saga
Book I: Windkeeper
Book II: Windseeker
Book III: Windweeper
Book IV: Windhealer
Book V: Windreaper
Book VI: Winddreamer
Book VII: Windbeliever
Book VIII: Winddeceiver
Book IX: Windretriever
Book X: Windschemer

Des Moines, Iowa

November, 1997

Brenna Collins sat back in her chair and closed her eyes to the tight band of red-hot pain over her right brow. Nausea was already lurking at the base of her throat. Pinpoint flashes of light played along her peripheral vision and sound was muted in her left ear. Next would come the tunnel vision, the vomiting and shivering, then the pain would be so intense she'd have no choice but to go home.

Brenna knew all too well the signs of a looming migraine headache; she'd suffered with them since her fifteenth birthday.

Placing her fingertips at her temples, she massaged in small circles the agony that throbbed mercilessly there. In passing, she thought about going outside in the 30 degree weather and standing long enough to numb the pain in her head; but it was too much of a hassle for a few moments' respite. Besides, she thought with a grimace of distaste, standing alone at night in downtown Des Moines wasn't exactly a smart thing to do any more.

She leaned back in her chair and sighed. It was nearly ten o'clock on a Friday night and here she was still at work. The day had been a bitch; her boss had been a bastard and the light at the end of the tunnel was getting farther and farther away.

Brenna sighed heavily as she looked at the clock over the row of filing cabinets. She should be in bed instead of sitting at her desk crunching numbers.

Making up her mind to add only one more entry in the computer before her head exploded from the pain, Brenna hunched forward over her keyboard. As she finished the first quarter's data, she was jostled out of her concentration by a succession of thwumping sounds down the hall from her office.

For a moment, Brenna just sat there, listening as the sounds came again, a bit closer this time. She was puzzled by the odd noise, unable to identify the source. When it came again, she listened more carefully, cocking her head to one side in concentration.

As far as she knew, she was alone in the building. McGregor, A'Lex and Brell did not employ night security guards; there was no need. The company carried no night cash and, other than the computer equipment, there wasn't that much for a thief to want.

Suddenly, she heard someone running down the hallway outside her office. This new sound so surprised her she stood up. What the hell was going on? she wondered. She was ready to investigate when something slammed against the sturdy oak door of her office. A loud groan punctuated what could only be a hard collapse to the floor.

"Don't," someone pleaded. "Don't kill me."

The hair on the back of Brenna's neck stood up and chill bumps popped out all over her arms.

"Your expiration date has arrived, Mr. Jenner," an unfamiliar voice said softly.

"No! Please don't shoot me ag"

Three loud thwumps cut off Jenner's plea.

The wet soundso finalgalvanized Brenna into action. She snaked out her hand and punched the button on the base of her desk lamp, plunging the room into pitch-black darkness. Although she knew no one could see even a trace of light under her door, her natural instinct for survival was working of its own accord. She could feel the rushing adrenaline now pumping through her body and her heart was beating so fast she could hear it rushing through her veins.

There was no doubt in her mind that someone was lying dead just outside her office door. And she would be, too, if the killer realized she was in the building.

The thought that the killer might find her and riddle her with bullets drew Brenna's eyes to the unlocked door. There had been no need to lock it, but she wished she had inherited her mother's almost neurotic habit of locking every door in sight once the sun went down.

She strained to hear even the tiniest of sounds outside, but the muted numbness in her left earcombined with the pounding of her bloodkept her from picking up any movement beyond the office door.

Breathing as shallowly as she could, sitting absolutely still lest her knee hit a drawer or her hand sweep something from the desktop, she kept her eyes locked on the closed door, willing the killer to leave. The ping of the elevator door's opening stopped her breath altogether. She dug her nails into the palms of her hand, waiting, not daring to hope whomever was outside her door had moved on. When the elevator mechanism engaged and the unmistakable sound of the cage descending the shaft finally penetrated the agony in her brain, Brenna was finally able to take a breath.

Without hesitation, she moved, snatching up the phone and bringing it to her ear quicker than she would have thought humanly possible. She punched in the three numbers her terrified mind told her would bring help.

But there was no dial tone.

At first, she thought she had misdialed so she tried again, deliberately pushing the 911 buttons.

There was no sound and she knew the Centrex line must have been cut.

She slowly replaced the receiver in its cradle, her fear intensifying. Her mouth dry, her unblinking eyes going once more to the door, she began to realize help was beyond her reach. She was alone on the sixth floor of the McGregor Building with a dead man just outside her door.

A thought stabbed alongside the migraine pain and brought her to her feet: What if Mr. Jenner wasn't dead?

She put a trembling hand to her mouth, the thought sending spasms of uncertainty through her. Could she help him?

But how, if the phone wasn't working?

If he was lying there bleeding to death and she did nothing to help, she knew she would never be able to endure the guilt. There was no choice to make, as she saw it. She had to go out in the hall.

"Oh, Lord," she moaned, wanting nothing more than to remain where she was until morning came and, along with it, the cleaning staff; but she knew morning might be too late for Mr. Jenner.

Not giving herself time to make excuses to stay put, she came from behind the desk. There was just enough light filtering in through the vertical blinds behind her so she could make her way to the door without stumbling into a chair or filing cabinet. She put her ear to the panel and listened.