Simon's amused gaze met Amy's over the edge of the menu and his right eyebrow lifted ever so slightly as if to say, ‘Told you so.’ She returned it with a ‘We'll see’ expression. As she sat back to watch, she realized their relationship had taken several steps forward. Although she'd known him only four days, they were already able to communicate with eye signals.
“What would you suggest?” Simon asked.
The waitress ran the tip of her tongue along her lip. “You want something cold"—her glance slid to Amy and back to Simon—"or something hot.”
Amy covered a smile and Simon's cheeks reddened. “Soup,” he said hastily. “Any kind. I need something to warm the inner man.”
She tossed her head. “You need some educatin’ fella.” She favored Amy with a bland, disinterested look and took her order.
“You lived here long?” Simon asked, after she put her order book in her pocket.
“All my life.”
He bestowed a smile that brought forth a dimple in his cheek. “Maybe you could help me. I'm trying to locate a woman by the name of Elise Dorset. She was born in White Bird. Have you ever heard of her or her family?”
“You a reporter?” Her gaze darted around the room. “People in White Bird don't take to reporters.”
“No, no, nothing like that. I'm doing a family genealogy. The Dorsets are distant relatives.”
Her brow puckered and she scratched her head with her pencil. “A jean-ee-ology huh? Oh ... that's different.” She swayed toward him. “The name Dorset does sound kinda familiar.”
“She worked at Marchmont Hospital,” Amy said, hoping to jar the woman's memory before she got too engrossed with Simon.
The woman stiffened and started backing away. “I gotta get to work,” she said, and scuttled away.
The restaurant's service was slow. By the time they'd eaten and changed clothes, not enough time remained before their appointment to have the car's heater checked. The minute she got outside cold penetrated Amy's dark blue pin-striped suit and nylon stockings instantly. Inside the car the temperature was only slightly warmer and goose pimples prickled her arms and legs.
The road leading to the hospital snaked through scabrous hills where snow had reached a depth of six or eight inches. The covering did little to improve the surroundings. Enormous rocks hemmed in the narrow track on one side, on the other the ground dropped off sharply. In the arroyo below, boulders stuck through the blanketing white like jagged black teeth.
At last, they came to a mesa where a high stone wall stretched out on both sides of massive iron gates. A guard checked their identification and she issued up a prayer of thanks that she hadn't thrown away the driver's license with her married name.
“Why the tight security?” Simon asked.
“Mr. Marchmont's orders,” the guard said, and returned to the small building from which he had emerged.
She drove by a series of turreted six-story gothic structures and let Simon off in front of the largest one.
“If this is a hospital, I hope to God I don't get sick while I'm in White Bird,” Simon said.
“Amen to that.”
Since she had a half hour to squander, she decided to drive through the grounds. The track angled off to the right where it passed three four-story, red brick buildings that appeared to be apartments.
Around the curve, the terrain angled upward and on a knoll, silhouetted against the sky, sat a white Georgian-style house. On the far side, a head-high boxwood hedge blocked the sweep of rolling lawn surrounding the residence. Through a gap in the branches, she glimpsed a row of white crosses.
She got out, pushed open a wooden gate and moved hesitantly toward the first row of crosses.
“What the hell you doing, lady?” A burly man clad in blue coveralls rushed out of a wood frame hut. “You got no business in this place. Ya hear?” Wild eyes glistened under a tangle of black hair. His fingers fastened on her shoulder and bit into the flesh. “Only person's allowed in is Mr. Marchmont. You got that?” He spun her around. “Now you git.”
She needed no urging. Ten minutes later when she entered the hospital, her hands were still shaking. At the reception desk, she asked for Mrs. Demetrius. The woman directed her down a broad hall.
She hadn't gone far when a metal door blocked the way. A sign said to ring the bell. She did, and again had to produce ID. before the guard let her past him. Inside, the odor of pine disinfectant filled her nostrils. Women attired in shapeless, pink-striped dresses shuffled by, their unkempt hair framing dull, uncaring eyes. A white-clad nurse or orderly accompanied each patient.
When she arrived at another metal door, the nerves in her back tightened. What kind of a hospital was this anyway? Again a guard let her through. In this section, the women wore blue and white-striped dresses and seemed a trifle more alert. The corridor took several bends before she came to an office labeled Director of Nurses.
The receptionist checked Amy's name off a clipboard list and handed her a job application form to fill out. When Amy finished, the bland-faced woman ushered her into the director's office. “Mrs. Demetrius will be with you shortly.” She lay Amy's application in a wire basket and left.
A massive desk with a brass name plate proclaiming Jacenta Demetrius as owner, dominated the large room. Against a far wall ranged several file cabinets.
Amy heard a slight cough and realized a woman holding a sheaf of papers stood near one of the cabinets. She had pale blonde hair and was stick thin. Her pallid face and washed-out blue-striped dress blended with the walls. No wonder she hadn't seen her. For an instant the file clerk's faded blue eyes met hers and she thought she saw her head move from side to side.
Before she could be sure, a side door burst open and a woman who looked at least six feet tall strode in. At her right temple an inch wide swathe of white swept upward through coal black hair. On either side of her high cheek-boned face, intricately carved carnelian combs held back her straight hair, accentuating dark, deep-set eyes. The red silk blouse she wore with her black suit made her even more striking.
Jacenta Demetrius. Amy wet her dry throat, stood up and stretched out her hand. “I'm Mrs. Jamison.”
The director clasped it in a perfunctory greeting. “So you got here in spite of the blizzard.” As she spoke, her gaze swept over Amy in a swift inventory. “Sit down.” She picked up Amy's application and seated herself in a deeply upholstered white leather chair behind the desk.
Amy perched on the edge of the only chair available—straight-backed, hard-seated, and placed directly in front of the imposing expanse of gleaming teak.
She tried to keep her hands still and her face serenely composed as the minutes dragged by. Nevertheless, as the woman went over the questionnaire and read the letters of recommendation, perspiration gathered beneath Amy's clothing. Would she get an opportunity to ask about Elise, or would all this anxiety be for nothing?
“Do you have people in White Bird?” Mrs. Demetrius asked.
“No. I'm staying with a cousin in Lewistown temporarily.” Amy let her gaze fall to her hands, bit her lip and called upon all her acting ability. “I'm recently divorced. I ... I have to find a place where my husband won't be able to...” When she raised her head her eyes were filmed with tears. “To find me,” she finished in a small voice.
“Ah, I see.” Mrs. Demetrius's piercing black eyes met Amy's and held until Amy gave way and lowered her gaze. The director tapped the letters of recommendation. “Evidently, from what these say, you have good nursing skills.”
She lay the sheets of paper on the desk and scrutinized Amy. “Takes a certain kind of person to work in a place like this. We get all kinds you know, manic depressives, paranoid schizophrenics, and criminally insane.”
Oh my God. Amy flattened her spine against the wooden chairback, using the hard pressure point to keep her mind centered and her face expressionless. “Yes, so I understand.”
Mrs. Demetrius picked up an ivory-handled letter opener. Light
glinted on the long steel blade as she ran it between thumb and forefinger. “Who told you about Marchmont?”
My move. Amy slowed her speeding pulse. “When one of my friends heard I was moving to Lewistown, she mentioned the hospital.” She hesitated unsure how far to go, then continued in a smooth, unruffled tone. “She was born and raised in White Bird and used to work at Marchmont.”
Mrs. Demetrius pursed thin lips. “How fortuitous. What's her name?”
Amy fixed her gaze on the director's face. “Elise Dorset.”
The letter opener fell from Mrs. Demetrius's hand and clattered on the desk. She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “No one named Elise Dorset has ever been employed here.”
A slight cough drew Amy's gaze to the cabinets behind Mrs. Demetrius. The clerk she'd thought so listless stood braced against the wall. Her eyes blazed and anger contorted her face. When she saw she had Amy's attention, she mouthed words Amy couldn't make out.
Mrs. Demetrius caught the momentary lapse in Amy's attention and swiveled her chair, but the blonde had already reverted to her former posture of lassitude. “What're you doing here? You know trustees aren't supposed to be in this room when I'm interviewing.”
“I ... I only had a few more things to file. I thought I'd...”
Demetrius pointed to the door. “Get out.” When it closed behind the shuffle-gaited trustee, she turned back to Amy.
“That's strange ... really strange.” Amy said in a last ditch effort to make her trip pay off. “Why would Elise lie about a thing like that?”
“I can't imagine.” Mrs. Demetrius swept Amy's application papers into a drawer and closed it with a bang. “We don't have any openings at present.”
“No openings at all? I really need a job.”
Demetrius leveled an icy glance. “This is a mental institution not a social service bureau.” She stood up. “That'll be all, Ms. Jamison, I have work to do.”
Battle-ax. Amy straightened her shoulders, raised her chin and marched from the room. But, when the outer office door closed behind her, all the starch went out of her legs and she leaned against the wall. After a few minutes, she regained her composure, gave her skirt a twitch and set out for the first check point.
“P-s-st ... Miss.”
The blonde beckoned from a bend in the corridor. Amy took a step toward her. A low watt light globe overhead caused darkness to pool in recessed doorways. This wasn't smart. Trustee or not, the woman must be mentally unstable otherwise she wouldn't be here—unless she'd been committed for a crime. A chill climbed her spine. Nevertheless, she hesitated only an instant before moving forward. She'd come for information and she'd get it wherever she could.
A claw-like hand clutched her arm. “My name is Francine ... Francine Anseth.” She drew Amy deeper into the shadows. “She lied to you,” she hissed. She darted a glance over her shoulder. “The stupid bitch has the hots for him. She'll learn just like all the rest of'em have.” She pulled Amy closer and her sour breath struck Amy in the face. “Elise was here. I knew her. She—"A door slammed and the woman's eyes went wild. “I got to go. If she catches me, she'll put me in the cage.”
“Wait.” Amy rummaged in her purse, found a business card and wrote her island phone number on the back. “If you get a chance, call me collect. I must talk to you.” The woman jammed the card in her pocket and scurried away like a mouse searching for cover.
Feeling vaguely like Alice in Wonderland, Amy pumped up her courage again and started down the passageway. Marchmont was a mental institution—yet no one had mentioned it, not Elise's job application, nor the man who'd given them a lift in Lewistown, nor the waitress in White Bird. Why?
The back of her neck tingled as she made her way through straggling patients. Were eyes watching her? Or had the aura of paranoia tainted her mind too? Panic squeezing her chest, she rushed down the corridor, turned the corner, and collided with an obese man.
He wore a knit watch cap, blue coveralls, and a full beard fell over his chest in a tousled mass. She shifted to the right. With a gap-toothed grin, he slid in front of her. She stepped to the left and he followed suit.
“My, my, little lady,” he wheezed. “You in a hurry or sumpthin'?”
She held her ground and eyed him coldly. “Get the hell out of my way, or I'll call a guard.”
“Who-o-e-e, and she's got spirit too.” He moved nearer. “I like women with spirit.”
She rammed her high heel into his instep, he let out a bellow and grabbed for her, but she dodged past him, dashed down the hall, and out the front door.
Eight
Her breath came in noisy gasps as she slid into the front seat of the car.
Simon regarded her with concern. “What happened?”
She gulped air. “Some slob made a pass at me.”
“A pass? Good God, what a zoo. Did you find out anything?”
She related her encounter with Mrs. Demetrius and Francine Anseth. “When the dragon lady told me Marchmont was a mental institution, I nearly gave myself away.”
“I lucked out, Wade Marchmont's secretary clued me in, otherwise I might have blown my whole story.”
“What's he like?”
“Tall, well built, thick wavy hair. It's pure white, but he looks to be in his early fifties. He's one of those salesman types—stock smile, firm grip, hawk-eyed.”
“Was he helpful?”
“No way. I told him I was doing a follow-up on a story and shoved a copy of the headline article on Elise in front of him. For a second, he looked as if he'd been hit in the stomach.” Simon leaned toward her. “But get this. When I mentioned Elise had once worked for him, he said I'd been misinformed, that he'd never heard of the woman.”
“Someone's lying.”
“That's for sure. The question is who.”
“Something else strange. I wandered into a cemetery and the caretaker ran me off. Said only Mr. Marchmont was allowed in.”
“Weird.” He scowled and nodded his head. “Damned weird as a matter of fact.” He peered out the window at a couple of men who were hurrying down the hospital steps.
She followed his gaze. “That's him.” She pointed. “The big guy with a beard. He's the one who made the pass.”
“Let's get out of here, Amy. Now!”
She gunned the motor, shot the car in reverse, and took off, spraying slush behind her. Just as she leaned into the gravel road's first switchback, she heard the rumble of a full-throated engine and looked in the rearview mirror. A black high-jacked truck caromed around the corner and bore down on them.
She moved to the right to let him go by, but he rammed the Toyota from behind instead. “Sweet Jesus!” She jammed on the brakes as the station wagon lurched and veered toward a jagged wall of heaped stone thrusting skyward on the inside shoulder.
Simon grabbed the dashboard to brace himself. “What the hell's going on?”
She jerked the wheel, the Toyota missed a boulder, fishtailed and began to side slip toward another. Cold sweat springing out on her skin, she spun the wheel in the direction of the skid. The car headed for a jutting crag. “Overdid it. Damn, oh damn.” She gunned the motor and they squeaked past with only inches to spare.
In the outside lane, the driver of the truck drew even with her. She glimpsed the two men who'd come out of the hospital. The bearded one grinned, yanked the wheel, and smacked her car with his front fender. The lighter vehicle jounced sideways. She steadied it, floored the accelerator, and took off, steering toward the center of the two-lane track.
Her move backfired. As soon as the man saw an opening, he edged his truck into the inside lane. His motor revved to an ear-splitting howl, he pulled alongside and crowded her toward the road's precipitous edge. Fear clutched her insides. The rock-choked arroyo lay far below.
The truck's wide-track tires pressed nearer and nearer until the vehicle's black presence filled her vision. Metal shrieked against metal. Perspiration stung her eyes and her arms ached from
holding the steering wheel. Inch by inch she gave way. “Let up, damn you.” She clenched her teeth and took a tighter grip on the wheel. “Get ready to jump, Simon, another foot or two and we'll go over.” Suddenly, the truck shot by them, sped down the road, spun around, and roared straight for them.
“Look out, Amy. He's going to ram us.” Simon braced his arms.
She crammed the gears into reverse. Please God make it work. Blue smoke billowing and gravel spurting like machine gun bullets, the Toyota plowed an uphill furrow. Foot by agonizing foot, she cork-screwed the car backward until only empty space stood between the speeding truck and the road's edge. The driver saw the danger, braked, and went into a tire squealing skid.
Amy shifted into low and waited. “Hang on, Simon, this may be close.” Soon as she saw a clear path, she double-clutched, shifted into second and careened past the yawing vehicle.
Simon craned his neck to look back. “They're going over.” He straightened around. “Both of them got out. More than the sons-a-bitches deserve.”
She stopped the car and put her head on her folded arms. Her body quivered. She felt sick to her stomach. Tears filled her throat and she fought to keep them from flooding her eyes.
Simon rested his hand on her shoulder. “You did a great job of driving, doc. Andretti couldn't have done any better.”
She blinked and gave a shaky laugh. “I used to live such a sedate, ordered life.” She ran a hand over her face. “That jerk tried to run us off the road just because I refused to play games with him. Can you believe it?”
“I wonder...” Simon scowled and shook his head. “We've sure stepped into a cesspool up to our arm pits.”
“You said it. Let's get the heater fixed and get out of this burg.”
“I'm for that.”
She drove to Demski's Auto Repair, the only garage in town. When they pulled in, a man came out to the car. His narrow, distended chest and gaunt face hinted at emphysema, but a cigarette hung from thin, colorless lips. She rolled down the window.
He plucked the cigarette from his mouth with grease-stained fingers. “I'm Boris Demski. You folks want something?”
With Deadly Intent Page 8