Thomas’s spare message brought back the loss of her friend, and Liz broke down and wept for the second time that day. She tried to imagine what school would be like in the fall without Amelia, and she couldn’t. How could the life of such a brilliant teacher end on a simple drive to her beach house? It was so unfair.
As she crawled into bed, eyes red and swollen, Liz mentally went over her emergency supplies and decided to run into Dover after she took Nora home in the morning. The hurricane might veer out to sea or it might hit the Carolinas and weaken, but it paid to be prepared, especially in such an isolated area. Hurricanes didn’t particularly worry Liz. She’d been far more apprehensive about the continual earthquakes in California. The brick walls of this old house had stood for three hundred years and probably would be standing long after she was dead.
Clarke’s Purchase had seen its share of heavy weather. Liz could remember once, when she was small, water rising within a few feet of the back porch and her father tying his rowboat to the gate. Luckily, the old house was built on a rise and the ground around it was sandy. There had been plenty of electric failures, but no water damage, unless you counted the rain that poured through the attic roof when high wind tore off a few shingles. Still, Liz was glad that Katie was safely away in Ireland.
“Everything bad comes in threes,” Nora had said. Three people around Liz had died. If the old superstitions were true, her run of tragedy was over. Wasn’t it?
Morning dawned gray, and the air felt still and heavy without the hint of a breeze. A quick check of the morning news told Liz that Cassandra was still moving north-northwest, bearing down on the Carolinas. Evacuations were under way all along the coast, and Norfolk was under a storm watch that extended all the way to Cape Cod.
Liz hurried though her shower and breakfast, then took Otto out for his morning run. She had found several heavy mooring ropes in the barn and carried them to the water’s edge before she heard the first rumbling of a boat motor. She walked to the end of the dock and watched as Nora rounded the bend in the river.
“Mornin’, Lizzy!” Nora waved as she covered the distance between them and brought the craft expertly to the dock. “Runs like a clock,” she called as she cut the engine and let the bow nudge the piling.
The two women quickly secured the runabout to the posts. It had been decades since Liz had helped her father ready their fishing boat for bad weather, but it all came back to her. The wind would likely push the tides much higher than usual, so she and Nora had to leave enough line so that rising water wouldn’t sink the boat, and at the same time, the line had to keep the craft snug enough against the dock to prevent damage.
“Would you like to come in for coffee?” Liz asked when they were finished.
“Love to, but I can’t,” Nora replied. “I need to get back and give Arlie moral support. Plus I promised to drive old Mrs. Horsey to the foot doctor. Those daughters of hers both work and can’t seem to find time to take her. And she don’t drive anymore. Not since she got caught going the wrong way on Route One. It’s her eyes. Her mind works fine, but she can’t see worth a damn.”
“No problem. Thank you for bringing the boat. I love it. It’s just what I wanted. I wish you’d let me pay you what it’s worth.”
“No more of that talk,” Nora said. “We’ve hashed that out. Georgie wants you to have the boat, and I brought it to you. Enough said. Enjoy it—that’s the best thanks you can give my son.”
Liz got her purse from the house, put the dog inside, and she and Nora got in the car. She stopped at the end of the lane to put a bill in the mailbox and noticed what looked like a police car parked on the road a few hundred yards away. “That’s odd,” she said. Anxious to see what was wrong, she turned right and drove to the end of her property line.
“Wonder what he’s doing out here,” Nora said.
Liz pulled up behind the state trooper. A young officer stood beside a second vehicle that had been parked on a grown-over lane and was nearly hidden from the road by the trees. The policeman seemed to be writing a ticket. “Wait here,” Liz said to Nora. She got out, barely able to conceal her rising anger.
The policeman glanced up and frowned. “Is this your car, ma’am?”
“No, but I know who owns it.” The Somerville parking sticker on the window removed all doubt. “I live there.” She pointed to her property. “The owner has made harassing phone calls to my home, trespassed repeatedly, poisoned a valuable dog, and threatened me. His name is Cameron Whitaker, and I want him arrested on charges of stalking.”
Chapter Eighteen
It was late afternoon when Liz returned from Dover. After she’d driven Nora home, she’d stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up extra batteries, raisins, granola bars, another flashlight, and bags of ice to fill her cooler. She’d wanted to purchase a battery-operated lantern to replace her propane one, but those were sold out. While she was there, she stocked up on fresh fruit, three new paperback novels, and a selection of goodies to snack on if she got bored. Storms always aroused her sweet tooth, and since she’d lost six pounds since Tracy’s death, she could afford to indulge herself. As she pushed her grocery cart out into the crowded parking lot, the sky was darkening and cold needles of rain were falling.
Filing the warrants against Cameron took nearly two hours, and more than once, she wished that Michael were there for moral support. She had the impression that the officer taking her complaint thought she was the kook. By the time she arrived back at Clarke’s Purchase, Liz almost hoped that Cameron would show up at her door. If he did, she wouldn’t need Otto’s protection; she was angry and frustrated enough to take him or any peeping Tom on single-handed.
Instead of turning into her drive, Liz kept going, passing the spot where Cameron’s vehicle still sat, a soggy yellow tag hanging out of the driver’s door. Odd, she thought. If he left it here much longer, the state would have it towed, and that would cost him. She imagined that Cameron might have seen the policeman, cut through the woods, and hitched a ride home. But why hadn’t he returned for his car?
As she pulled up to the back gate, Liz reached under the front seat and retrieved the revolver Michael had given her. She felt like a criminal, and she supposed that, technically, she was guilty of carrying a concealed deadly weapon. If she were caught and charged, that might be cause enough for her to lose her job at Somerville. A few weeks ago, after Katie, her professorship was the most important thing in her life. Now, her teaching position didn’t seem as vital. After losing both a student and a friend, she wondered if she could ever pick up her life where she’d left off.
Too much had happened. Everything had suddenly become more complicated, and if she didn’t get away to sort things out, she wasn’t certain she’d retain her sanity. She’d never considered herself overly emotional, yet ever since she’d learned of Amelia’s accident, she’d found herself bursting into tears without warning. She’d come close to it in the check-out line in Wal-Mart today when a tall, slender black woman walked by. For a split second, she’d thought the stranger was Amelia and nearly called out to her. Her friend’s death had hit her much harder than her mother’s, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get over it.
The house, the dock, and the yard were quiet, as she’d left them. Everything seemed secure, but to be certain, Liz carried the handgun with her as she dashed to unlock the back door and let Otto out. The German shepherd trailed her back and forth through the pouring rain as she carried her purchases inside. On the final trip, she heard the phone ringing.
It was Michael, asking if she’d been following the progress of the hurricane. When she assured him that she had, he said he’d be stopping in Valley Forge to visit an old buddy, another ex-cop, who’d been in a physical therapy rehab with him, and that he’d definitely be home sometime after midnight.
“Why don’t you bring Otto and come to my place in the morning?” Michael suggested. “I’ll make breakfast and we can keep each other company during the storm.”
Liz sighed. “No, thanks, I’ll stay here. Go down with the ship, as it were. You’re sweet to worry, but I’m okay. Did you buy the pup?”
“No, too high-strung. It takes a steady temperament to make a good guard dog. I’ll keep looking.” He paused and then asked, “Have you thought about the big question?”
“Yes, I have, but I’d rather wait to talk to you in person.” She kept her tone light. She’d didn’t mention finding Cameron’s car either. There wasn’t anything Michael could do about it from Pennsylvania, and it would only cause him more worry. “You drive carefully,” she warned. “From what the weatherman says, the earliest that the hurricane could hit here would be late tomorrow morning, and there’s still a possibility it may turn east over the ocean.”
After she hung up, Liz found a raincoat and boots of her father’s in the closet under the stairs and went out to move her car to the barn. For the next three hours, she kept busy, filling water containers, securing the heavy wooden shutters that protected the windows on the ground floor, and moving her lawn furniture, grill, and trash cans to a low shed.
“I’ll do all this, and the hurricane will miss us completely,” Liz commented to the dog. When she looked at the NOAA weather site on the internet, Cassandra seemed to be stalled over the Carolinas and had been downgraded from a category 3 to a 2. Even at 80 mph, the storm had done considerable damage, knocking down trees and flooding streams and rivers, but traveling over land had decreased the power of the hurricane, and so far, there were no reported deaths.
While Liz was studying the Doppler maps, she received an instant message from Sydney asking if she’d heard that Amelia’s memorial service was postponed. Liz answered that she had, and they chatted for a few minutes before Sydney’s husband alerted her that the twins were awake and wanted her attention. Sydney sent her love and hastily signed off. There was a second message from Jack, but Liz didn’t open it. She was no more ready to parry with him than she was with Michael.
Rain continued through the night, and by morning gusts were whipping around corners of the house and raising whitecaps on the river. Liz attempted to call Michael to see if he’d gotten home all right, but there was no answer. When her phone rang a few minutes later, she grabbed it without checking Caller ID. She’d thought it would be Michael calling back. Instead, she heard Jack’s voice.
“You’re ignoring my e-mails,” he said. “You’re being childish. We need to talk. I want to come over.”
For an instant, she was tempted. If he came, they’d end up arguing and then making love. It was a given, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not until she’d decided that Jack could be trusted. “No,” she said firmly. “I meant what I said before. You haven’t been honest with me.”
“Give me a chance. I’ll tell you everything.”
“Later, when I get back from Ireland. When I’ve had time to sort things out. Good-bye, Jack.”
“Lizzy, don’t hang—”
Only she hadn’t. She been about to press down the button and cut him off, but the line had gone dead first. She tapped it. Nothing. “Damn,” she muttered.
She’d wanted to call Michael’s house and see if he’d gotten in safely, but her phone was definitely out. She knew that it was probably the rain. It had been pouring all night, and sometimes it seemed that she lost the telephone lines every time there was a hard rain. Not that she wasn’t used to losing phones and electricity here on the farm. Several times when she was a child, and once since she’d returned to Delaware, a Nor’easter had dumped so much rain on Kent County that rising water had flooded out the bridges on either end of Clarke’s Purchase Road.
Liz’s cell was in her purse, and she used it to try Michael. She got a busy signal, and had no better luck with his cell phone number. She wondered if she should drive over and see if everything was all right, but if Michael was there, it would mean going in. It would mean telling him that she’d decided not to marry him.
She put her cell phone on the charger on the counter and busied herself making a pot of vegetable beef soup and a loaf of bread. Punching down bread dough was always good for releasing tension.
Jack would be furious, certain that she had hung up on him in a display of childish temper, but she didn’t care. It might be good to upset him for a change. She chopped onions and carrots, browned meat, and threw spices into the pot. The soup grew beyond anything she’d ever eat in a week, but it would freeze, and she could always take some to Michael. She was certain that it was impossible to make soup for one person; hers always fed at least ten.
Liz watched the television coverage of the coastal storm damage as the delicious scent of baking bread and soup filled the downstairs. According to the latest reports, Cassandra was weakening and heading northeasterly into the Atlantic, rather than sweeping directly up the Chesapeake Bay. The drenching rains continued, but the winds that whipped the tree branches and tore at the shutters were not hurricane force.
Twice, Liz tried the phone again, but the lines remained dead. The dish signal flickered and then went black; her picture was replaced with a message that said she had lost the signal. When the news program didn’t return, she curled up in her favorite chair, put in a DVD, and watched Harry Potter try to outwit his nasty relatives so that he could escape to school. The lights went out, then on and off again before going out for good sometime after eleven, and Liz gave up. Laden with a glass of ice water, the revolver, the new flashlight, and an extra pack of batteries, she climbed the creaking stairs to make ready for bed.
When Liz entered the room with the flashlight on, she found her cat already curled on a pillow, nose tucked under her tail. She turned off the flashlight and put it on the nightstand beside the handgun. In five minutes, her teeth were shiny clean, and she was sliding between the sheets in the dark to the symphony of wind and rain.
The thick walls of brick fired three hundred years ago in a kiln in the west field muffled the storm, but attic timbers groaned and squeaked, and glass panes rattled. The German shepherd paced the bedroom and hall, whining anxiously. In contrast, Muffin showed little concern for the hurricane. Liz could hear the cat’s soft, peaceful breathing only inches from her face and wished that she could sleep as soundly.
Liz didn’t fear the darkness; she’d spent too many summer thunderstorms in the farmhouse without power to be concerned by the lack of electricity, and she was too old to believe in ghosts. Reason told her that this was one night when she didn’t have to worry about Cameron prowling around the house. No one, peeping Tom or pervert, would be abroad on a night like this. But still, she couldn’t shake a feeling of uneasiness. She lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, always bordering on sleep but never quite drifting off. The wind weakened and changed direction, and the deluge of rain dwindled to a light patter on the windows.
When she got up to use the bathroom, thunder was rumbling menacingly overhead. Liz wasn’t surprised. Yesterday’s paper had mentioned the possibility of hurricane winds and sudden shifts in temperature causing violent thunderstorms in the South. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the room brightly enough that she could read 2:15 on the bedside clock, which had a battery backup. Seconds later came another roll of thunder.
She didn’t bother with a robe or slippers, but padded barefoot to the toilet. She wouldn’t have taken the flashlight either if she hadn’t been worried about stepping on the dog in the dark. But as she directed the beam around the bedroom and up and down the wide hall, Liz realized that she hadn’t needed the light. The German shepherd wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She assumed that he’d gone back downstairs to his favorite spot in the kitchen.
When she returned from the bathroom, Muffin was still curled on the same pillow on the bed. “Still here, are you?” Liz murmured sleepily. The cowardly cat hated thunderstorms. If the booming grew louder, Muffin would dive under the bed and wouldn’t come out for hours.
Liz had just switched off the flashlight when she heard Otto growl and then bark furiously from downsta
irs. She froze, heart thumping against her ribs, held her breath, and listened. Just as quickly as the German shepherd’s warning bark had come, it was cut off. Liz reached for the flashlight again, and her fingers closed on the gun.
Her cell phone—where was her phone?
She reached down on the bottom shelf of the nightstand where she kept her purse, but it wasn’t there. Had she left her purse and the cell in the kitchen?
Grabbing the flashlight in her left hand and keeping the revolver in her right, she got out of bed and went to the bedroom door. She stopped and listened. The faint screech of metal came from the hall below. Cold panic seized her as she recognized the familiar sound. The door leading to the cellar was original, the heavy iron hinges rusty with age.
Gooseflesh rose on Liz’s bare skin. She wanted to call for Otto, but she was afraid. If there was someone in the house, the intruder wouldn’t know she was awake. Instinct bade her to slam the bedroom door and throw the wide brass bolt. But she couldn’t be sure. The possibility that she’d conjured the squeaking cellar door out of her own terror made her creep down the hall to the top of the front staircase, the one that led not to the kitchen wing but down to the wainscoted, formal entrance hall. The cellar door opened onto that passageway, but that door was always locked. She’d checked it herself when she’d returned from Dover.
Lightning flashed through the window at the far end of the hallway. A few heartbeats later, thunder crashed, reverberating through the house. Liz gasped as Muffin, eyes wide, back arched and hair and tail bristling, darted through the bedroom doorway. Hissing, the cat raced past and leaped down the staircase in two great bounds. Seconds later, the cat’s wail rose to an enraged shriek. Otto yipped in pain, snarled, and went silent again.
At Risk Page 27