His breath trembled in and out. “Just come home. Come home now.”
“I will. I'll leave as soon as I hang up.”
“Be careful, Amy. Don't trust anyone, whether you know them or not. Not anyone, you hear?”
The journey frayed her nerves but proved uneventful. Nevertheless, when she reached home, she parked in her father's driveway to assure her car wouldn't be vandalized. He had flood lights outlining the paved semi-circle. Unfortunately, he seldom remembered to use them and she suspected they weren't on the night his car and phone were sabotaged. She made a mental note to lecture him. From now on, his grounds must be kept well lighted. And if she intended to spend time at the beach house, they'd have to have an electrician put in some outside lights.
She stared through the windshield at ragged clumps of purple chrysanthemums and scowled. It wasn't right. They shouldn't have to make their homes into fortresses.
She locked the car and entered the house, expecting to find Simon waiting anxiously by the front door. He wasn't there and didn't answer her call. She set the box containing the cellular phone in the hall closet and went to see her father. He had to know about the dead rats and the chilling message on her mirror.
That evening, they gathered in her father's room while she stood at the easel. She turned to the page labeled Dr. Tambor, wrote each of their names in individual circles, then listed the possible links Simon and her father suggested. The sketch was as smudged and confused as her mind when they finished.
“Better start a page on Roger Norman,” Simon said. “I had a friend do some checking. Norman doesn't have a telephone and has never had a utility account.”
“He could be staying with someone.” She chewed a fingernail. “Why would he buy a car? The fellow I had go through the files says he doesn't have a driver's license.”
“A lot of people drive without licenses,” B.J. said. “Besides, he may have wanted it for parts.”
“The car's not that old, B.J.” Simon drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Oren says he took it in for a fifty thousand mile check-up three weeks ago. The mechanic said the car was in tip-top shape. Wanted to know what Elise would take for it. Oren said she laughed when he told her.”
Amy wrinkled her forehead. “Yet, she sold it a week and a half later without a word to him. Would she do such a thoughtless thing?”
Simon's mouth pulled in at the corners. “Oh, yes.” He massaged his clenched knuckles. “Without a second thought.”
“How could you and Oren ...?” She stopped and forced a smile. “Guess what? Gail says the hit-and-run vehicle has had three paint jobs—navy blue, red, and metallic blue.”
“Has Gail run it through the NAPF?” B.J. asked.
“Not yet.” Amy studied her scrawled notes on the sheet of newsprint with a feeling of impotence. “We'll have to watch our step until we find out who's at the bottom of all this.”
“Looks that way,” B.J. said. “But in my opinion, we'll be fairly safe so long as we're on the island. A person would have to be crazy to risk coming here again.”
“Even if he's using disguises? I don't know. Dad.” She noticed the weary droop to his shoulders and set the easel in the corner. “You'd better get some sleep.” She paused in the doorway. “What'd Virgil say about your motor?”
“Pulled coil wires. He had to tow it in anyway, so I told him to do a tune-up at the same time.”
As she and Simon went down the hall, he squeezed her hand. “Glad you're home.” His cheeks and the tips of his ears turned faintly pink. “You're a comfortable person to have around.”
Comfortable! She didn't want to be comfortable. She wanted to be alluring, intriguing, or seductive. Any damned thing except comfortable.
He stooped to peer into her face. “Why the odd expression?”
“You're adept at giving back-handed compliments.”
He thrust out his chin. “I've recently discovered how restful a comfortable woman can be. Julie was seldom quiet.” He ran his hand over his face. “Pushing, always pushing. Change jobs, move to New York, make a name for yourself. Drove me nutty.”
“Oh...” She broke into a smile. “In that case, thank you.” Her smile broadened. “Thank you very much.” Score one point for her. She laughed out loud when he blinked owlishly at her confusing comment.
After making a thorough security check of the house and making certain the outside lights were on, she opened the front door and started out.
Simon pulled her back. “I'll go first.”
She scowled at him. “Since when are you bullet proof?”
Simon met her fierce gaze with his own. “Either you do it my way or neither one of us goes out that door.”
She blew out her breath. “Wait until I ask Dad where he put my gun.”
“Forget it. He's already upset, he doesn't need any more excitement right now.” He turned off the lights in the foyer and on the porch. “I'll let you know when to turn them back on.”
She clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “You shouldn't be taking such a chance.”
He disengaged her fingers. “Good investigative reporters don't let danger stop them.” He slipped out the door.
She stood in the darkness listening to the heavy fearful beats of her heart. Five minutes passed, then ten. She felt pain and realized her nails were digging into the palms of her hands. She jumped at a soft knock on the door.
“All clear, Amy.”
He was safe. Her legs went weak. She clung to the umbrella stand for a half minute before she could close up the house and join him.
During the walk to the cottage, he stayed close to her side. When they arrived, she locked the new deadbolts while he checked windows, pulled drapes, and closed the shades. That done, they smiled tentatively at each other and settled down.
Evidently, they'd marked out their space the night before. Simon claimed the dining alcove and she the living room. Radio reception on the island was poor so they worked in silence. She thought briefly of playing records, but decided not to risk it. She felt much too vulnerable. If he put his arms around her tonight, she might do something she'd regret.
At ten o'clock, she set her textbooks aside. She knew she should call good night from a safe distance. Instead she went to the kitchen, ran water, filled a glass, and drank it slowly. When she finished, she sauntered into the dining alcove. Trailing her fingers along the edge of the table, she said, “I'm going to bed. It's been an exhausting day.”
He blocked the progress of her fingers with his own. “I started my book today.”
She smiled at him. “I'm glad for you.”
His forefinger stroked the length of hers. “You people give me room to breathe. Julie never did.”
She opened her eyes wide. His second criticism of his wife in one evening.
“Whenever I was in the study writing, she'd come in and want to discuss the bills, or some project of hers.” A muscle bunched along his jaw. “Our marriage had lots of cracks. I'm not sure it would have survived much longer.”
She sighed. “I know the feeling.” To her surprise, he pulled her over to where he sat and rested his cheek on her breast. Warmth suffused her body. She caressed his hair and let her hand glide to his face. How could she want him and not want him at the same time? She closed her eyes. Our egos are fragile, Simon. We must be very, very careful.
Simon turned until his lips brushed her palm. “You and I are kind of like recovering alcoholics. Only we're luckier. Since we're friends, we can lean on each other.”
He lifted his head. “I don't want you to misunderstand, so I'll try to say this right.” His earnestness sharpened the lines of his face. “Amy, if you should ever need a ... a man for ... for any reason. I'm ... I'm available.”
For a second, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She forced a chuckle, snatched a fly swatter from a hook, and tapped his shoulder. “I dub thee. Sir Simon of the kitchen table.”
The corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled, but h
e kept a straight face. “Dammit, woman, I'm serious.”
“I know, and it's incredibly sweet of you.” She touched his lips with hers, said good night, and hurried up the stairs. If she'd stayed a second longer, she'd have been lost.
She undressed, put on thick, flannel pajamas, surveyed herself in the mirror, and discarded them in favor of a foamy sea-green satin nightgown. After getting into bed, she found herself too keyed up to sleep. She took a pocket book mystery from her night stand drawer and began to read.
Three pages into the story she found she didn't have the faintest idea what she'd read. Each moment that passed her consciousness of Simon's presence increased. At last she heard him coming up the stairs. His footsteps stopped at her door. She held her breath and willed him to come in. If he took her into his embrace and kissed her, her cautioning inner voice would be silenced—for the time being at least.
“Night, Amy,” he called.
She sank back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Another opportunity flubbed.
At 2 a.m., the shrilling of the phone awakened her. She fumbled for the receiver and said, hello.
“This is White Bird, Montana,” the operator said.
The words jolted Amy wide awake. The trustee at Marchmont Hospital. It had to be her. A picture of the skittish blonde file clerk flashed through her mind, and brought her upright. She snapped on the light. “Yes?”
“Will you accept a collect call from Francine Anseth?”
“Yes. Yes. Put her on.”
“This is Francie Anseth,” a faint voice said. “Do you remember me?”
Amy's heart gave an excited leap. She must take great care. The woman frightened easily. “Of course, I asked you to call me about Elise.”
“I can't talk long. It's not safe.” Jerky little breams underscored her words. “I warned her, Doctor. I ... I warned Elise about him, but I was too late. He'd already gotten to her.”
“Who Francine?”
“Bull, the randy old bastard. She wasn't the first, nor the last.”
Amy began to shiver. Make sure. Make very sure. “Bull? Who's that?”
“That fine, upstanding sonuvabitch Wade Marchmont, that's who.” Francie gulped air and rushed on. “She didn't want the abortion, but he insisted.”
Amy's mind reeled. “Did Dr. Yates do it?”
“Mona and me crawled into the ventilator tube and watched the whole thing. Yates was boozed-up as usual. Kept telling Marchmont she was too far along. Then the damned old fool passed out before he was finished.”
Before he was finished! Good Lord. Even under ideal conditions an abortion had some risk. “W-what—” She fought to control her shaky voice. “What happened?”
“Bull grabbed an instrument and did something inside her. God, you never saw so much blood. It just gushed out of her. Nearly made us sick. She—” A rustling noise came over the line. “I think somebody's coming.”
“Wait, Francine. Is the abortion why she left the hospital and came to Seattle?”
“Left the hospital? That's a laugh. Only one person has ever gotten out of this hell hole. I gotta go.”
“But Elise did get away. She came to Seattle.”
“Elise didn't go nowhere.” Francine's voice thinned to a thready whisper. “She died. She died right there on that table four years ago.”
Fourteen
She had to tell Simon. Amy threw back the blankets and dashed into the hall. Light shone from beneath his door. She tapped lightly and stepped inside. In his restless tossing, Simon's bed covers had slid off. He lay half on his side, his left leg hooked over the rounded fiberglass curve of the cast on his right.
She stared at the naked length of him. Russet, tightly curled hair spread across his chest, dwindled to a fine line, and spread once more in the shadowed pubic area.
She tried to evaluate him with a strictly professional eye, and failed. God, what a beautiful body—lean, muscular, not an ounce of flab. That night in White Bird he'd been wearing long underwear and she had scarcely seen or touched him.
An overwhelming desire to lie down next to him held her immobile. A warm rush jolted her at the thought. After gazing at him for another moment, she sighed and swung around to leave. In turning, she blundered into a table stacked with books and several of them thudded onto the floor.
Simon reared up on one elbow. “Huh?” He focused on her. “What is it? Has something happened?”
“I ... I must talk to you.” She shifted her feet and curled her toes into the braided rug. “I have to talk to you r-right n-now.”
He flipped the sheet over the lower portion of his body, lowered his head to the pillow and regarded her with a gentle expression. In the silence, she grew conscious of her rapid breathing and equally rapid pulse. His gaze trapped hers and held it, a mute question in their depths. After an interminable moment, he stretched out his arm, turned his hand palm up, and curled his fingers slightly.
His gesture started a throbbing deep inside her. So easy. Join hands, join bodies. The fierce longing increased. He wants you, you want him. Isn't that enough?
She shook her head as if answering her own question and backed away. “Put on some clothes. I'll meet you in the kitchen.”
In her room, she caught sight of herself in a mirror. Her eyes, her mouth, her breasts, her clinging gown, every part of her betrayed her desire—no wonder he'd thought what he did. How could she have been so dumb? She stuck her feet into slippers and put on a floor-length robe of peach-colored fleece. The bulky garment camouflaged all her curves.
Good going, Prescott. You ‘re great at locking the gate after the horses have gotten out. She made a face and hurried to the kitchen.
She set a jug of water in the microwave, punched in the time, and spooned cocoa mix into yellow mugs. Despite an intense effort to keep her mind centered on Francine's shocking announcement, she couldn't. Instead, she kept seeing the hurt in Simon's eyes when she'd backed away from him.
His footsteps sounded on the stairs and he stalked into the kitchen wearing a frayed T-shirt and droopy sweat pants. Legs spread, elbows akimbo, he scowled at her. “What the hell kind of a game are you playing?”
Stiffening her muscles so she wouldn't shake, she put bread in the toaster and pushed down the lever. “I got a phone call.” Her teeth began to chatter and she clamped them shut. At that moment, the microwave bell went off. Glad for the interruption, she took out the hot water and stirred it into cocoa mix.
“And...” he said gruffly, continuing to glower.
She handed him a mug. “I wanted to talk it over with you.”
“That's not what it looked like.”
The toast popped up. She snatched a knife and began to spread butter. “Yeah ... well ... I didn't know you'd be"—warmth flooded her face—"or that I'd...” She glanced up and found herself looking straight into his eyes. Deep in the irises, tiny green specks shimmered.
Her lip quivered and she caught it with her teeth. “I'm sorry, it won't happen again.” His belligerent manner didn't soften an iota.
She gave an inward sigh. Her actions had been needlessly thoughtless. She shouldn't have gone to his room.
She sprinkled cinnamon flavored sugar on the toast, and cut each piece from corner to corner. Now, things would probably never be the same, between them again. Suddenly she felt drained, exhausted beyond all reason. She put more bread in the toaster, picked up her mug and the short stack of toast. “Let's sit down.”
She had intended to dramatize Francine's announcement of Elise's death. Instead, she blurted it out and waited for Simon's reaction.
Simon fixed her with a cold, sarcastic eye and bit off a piece of toast. “Obviously, the woman has some cogs missing.”
Amy took a sip of her cocoa. “I know it sounds wild, but we can't just dismiss it either.”
“Why not? We know her story isn't true. It can't be.” He flung out his hands. “I lived with Elise for three months.” He rose to his feet, put both hands on the table and leane
d toward her until they were only inches apart. “Three months, Amy. No way could I live with a woman that long and not know who she was.”
“Really ...?” Amy set down her mug. “You said she lied. What makes you think she told you the truth about anything?”
He swayed, turned slightly pale. “This whole damn thing is crazy, too crazy to even consider.” He sank back onto his chair. “Holy Jesus, if she wasn't Elise, who the hell was she and why did she take Elise's name?” He shuddered. “Don't answer that because I don't want to know.”
Amy found a tablet and recorded the phone conversation as accurately as she could. Below it, she wrote Wade Marchmont's name, and pushed the tablet over to Simon. “Let's start with him. If Francine's telling the truth, he's guilty of murder.”
Simon read the words over twice. “She implies it wasn't the first time he'd gotten one of the staff"—he grimaced—"or maybe even one of the patients, pregnant.”
“Wouldn't surprise me. That creep who tried to rape me hinted that he'd been intimate with some of the women patients.” She shuddered. “Perhaps it's one of the ways Marchmont repays the men for keeping their mouths shut about his own peccadilloes.”
She cradled her mug in both hands, took a drink, and gazed at him over the rim. “Perhaps there were other wrongful deaths. That grounds keeper at the Marchmont cemetery said, ‘Nobody's allowed in here except Mr. Marchmont.’ He must have wanted to conceal something. Otherwise, why would he have given such an order?”
Simon's eyes widened. “That would account for him getting shook-up when he saw the newspaper article about Elise's death on Lomitas.” He took a gulp of cocoa and picked up another piece of toast.
“And Dr. Yates’ reaction, and also why Marchmont sent those two goons to kill us.” She went to the kitchen, buttered the toast that had popped up, and brought it back to the table.
“Good God, Amy, you're right That Svengali has everyone in White Bird in his pocket.” He gazed into space for a second, then excitement lighted his face. “If the right people on the outside got wind of what he's been doing—”
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