She lifted the receiver of the intercom and pushed the button. Dead. Her inner trembling began again. Keep going. Don't think.
She fitted the candle into a holder. With it in one hand and a push broom in the other, she inched into the living room. The phone on the desk had no dial tone. She flung it from her. “Bastard. Dirty, rotten, sadistic bastard.”
Seething with fury, she surveyed the room. No snakes, at least none in sight. She set the broom where she could get at it easily, took the poker from its stand and hurried up the stairs. In her night stand was a flashlight with fresh batteries.
She entered her bedroom, set the candle holder on the dresser and happened to glance in the mirror. A scream tore from her throat.
A gray sinuous ribbon rose slowly from the middle of her bed. The cobra swayed, his black eyes gleaming in the candle light. He hissed, flared his hood, drew back his head.
She let out a howl of rage and swung the poker. The iron rod struck the snake broadside, flinging it against the wall. The cobra's body landed with a plop, slid to the floor and lay still. She resisted an urge to pound it to a bloody pulp.
Snatching up the flashlight, she ran down the stairs and out to the ship's locker on the back porch. Glory. Glory. Two torches. Their batteries were a little weak but they were usable. She put them in a sack.
With the sack in one hand and a broom in the other, she rushed back to the basement stairway. She positioned the torches to light the floor below and a shudder ran through her. A dozen snakes slithered between her and the pit.
Minutes crept by. How long had Simon had the venom in his system? Her pulse speeded up another notch. “I'm coming over.”
He lifted his head. “Forget it. There's no way.”
She grabbed the push broom. “Oh, yes, there is. I'm going to make one.” Talking continuously, she started across. “You underestimate me.” She shoved a sleek sidewinder aside. “When I get mad, I'm the fiercest damned woman you ever saw, fella, and"—she gave another a shove before it could strike—"and don't you ever forget it.” She sprang in beside him. “See, I made it.”
He clasped her in a weak embrace. “Amy, love...” He took a breath. “I don't think I'm ... going to get out of this one.”
“Oh, yes, you are.” She got her arms around him. “You and I are bailing out of this snake pit.”
“My legs won't work.”
A dark, panicky anguish filled her. “Yes, they will.” She heaved him upward and he slid back. Dear God he has to be able to walk. I can't drag him. She tried again and failed. A whirring noise near the pit froze her, but only for a millisecond. A lusty clout from the broom sent it flying.
Now. Right now, or never. She wet the tea towel she'd snatched up in the kitchen, folded it and tied it over Simon's eyes. “We're going for it, Simon.” She got him over the side and tried to get him on his feet.
“Can't ... make...”
“Yes you can.” She hooked her hands under his arms and began to drag him. Midway a movement at the broken window brought her up short.
Simon went taut in her grasp. “What is it?”
“Marcus. Oh, Simon, his head's all bloody.” The Manx sprang to a shelf, sat there growling for a moment, then crept out of sight.
She returned to her task of moving him along a few feet at a time. “Won't be long now. We're almost to the stairs.” A snake wriggled from beneath the bottom step. Before she could move, the rattler coiled and reared its body!
At the same instant a ball of yellow fury leaped out of the shadows. The two animals blurred together in a snarling mass of tawny fur and writhing serpent. Gripping the huge diamondback just behind its head, Marcus repeatedly clawed the fat, undulating coils with his powerful back legs.
When the snake finally went limp, the cat rumbled deep in his chest and took a last baleful look around. Satisfied, he dragged his prey into a corner.
Simon lurched to his knees. “What's going on, Amy? Are you all right?”
She drew in a shaky breath. “Marcus got the rattler.”
“Thank God.” He sagged against her.
She urged him forward. “We've got it made now.” He managed to creep up the stairs one at a time, but collapsed at the top.
Fear gripped her. He couldn't die. “You hang on. You hear?” Grabbing his arms, she dragged him out onto the front porch, ran back inside for blankets, and tucked them around him.
Simon groaned through clenched teeth and yanked at the cloth over his eyes.
She gripped his hand. “I'll get help.”
She rushed up the slope, tripped over a root, fell sprawling, scrambled to her feet and hurried on. When she reached her father's house, she raced into the living room and jerked the receiver off the hook. The line was dead.
Dead. Just like Simon was going to be. A high, keening cry escaped her. She clapped her hand over her mouth. Think, you silly idiot!
The cellular phone.
She rummaged in the closet, tore open the box, dashed down the hall and burst into her father's room. His light was on and he was sitting up in bed. “What the hell's going on?”
“Snakes. Snakes everywhere,” she gasped. “Rattlesnakes, cobras.” She told him about Simon.
B.J. blanched and reached for the phone she held. “I'll call the hospital. Can you set flares for the helicopter.”
She jerked her head and turned toward the door. “Is there anything I can do for Simon?”
“Pray, Amy. Pray like hell.”
Sixteen
The nurse on Airlift Northwest refused to let Amy go with Simon in the helicopter. Determined to be with him, she managed to catch the 8 p.m. ferry from Lomitas with only minutes to spare. With fear for Simon pursuing her, she paced the windswept deck.
The minute Simon was out of danger—she fingered the holstered pistol her father had given to her before she left—she'd find the rotten slimeball who'd done this. If Simon died—she clutched the rail and stared into the darkness. I can't lose him now. We've only begun to know each other.
The instant she drove off the ferry, she floored the accelerator. Unmindful of speed limits, she burned up the freeway during the eighty-mile drive to Seattle.
When she parked her car in the Harborview Medical Center lot, she glanced at her watch—10 p.m.—three hours since the cobra's venom had entered Simon's system. She had to learn his condition, find out the results of his work-up, pry a prognosis out of someone.
She thought for a moment. Since she was no longer on staff here, the hospital personnel would view her as a disruptive snooper. It'd be hours before anyone bothered to give her a progress report. So, she'd have to use a more devious plan.
She took a rumpled lab coat from the back seat, tousled her hair a trifle more and draped a stethoscope around her neck—now she fitted the role of a harried intern.
Inside, she didn't ask about Simon. No one, except attending physicians and accredited personnel, gained admittance to the Intensive Care Unit. However, during her internship, she, like the others, had learned the back stair routes.
Once on the floor, she didn't have to wonder if he was still alive. The sound of his harsh, dry voice crying out her name filled the corridor. Her heart twisted. He'd begun to hallucinate while they waited for the helicopter.
She saw a familiar figure coming toward her and lengthened her stride. “Cam. Cam Nguyen.” She hugged him. “Thank God you're on duty.”
The slender, white-coated man hugged her back. “Your father called to brief us on what happened. He said you were on your way in.” He gestured toward a door. “Kittredge's been doing that ever since he arrived.”
She gripped his arm. “How is he?”
His expression became grave. “Neurotoxic venom can cause a multitude of problems, the most devastating being cardiovascular changes and respiratory distress.”
The triage drilled into her during her internship took command. “Is the heart-lung machine set up?”
“Yes, Doctor,” he said, sliding into t
he brisk routine they'd once had.
“Good. What about the antivenin? Has it been ordered?”
“A shipment of snakes arrived at Woodland Park Zoo last week. One of the cobras zapped a handler.” A smile softened the tense lines of his lean, fine-boned features. “So we had antivenin in stock.”
She slumped against the wall. “When did you administer it?”
“About two hours ago.”
She swallowed into a dry throat. “How soon do you expect to know if ... if it's going to work?”
He peered at her from under thick, dark brows, his brown eyes soft with concern. “That's difficult to say, Amy. It depends on his physical condition and how much venom his system absorbed.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “And, as you know, there's always a possibility of his being allergic to the antivenin.”
She turned her face into his shoulder. “Don't let anything happen to him. Cam. He ... he's important to me.”
He squeezed her arm. “I'll do my best. God knows you deserve a shot at happiness.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Her lips thinned. “But I doubt if the All Mighty is keeping score.” She flinched as Simon's voice echoed through the hall again. “Can't you sedate him?”
He blew out his breath. “With the possibility of respiratory problems facing us"—he lifted his shoulders in a shrug—"I don't dare.”
“May I see him? Perhaps, I can get through to him and relieve his mind.”
Dr. Nguyen motioned to a nurse. “Put a chair beside Mr. Kittredge's bed.”
The nurse stiffened. “That's highly irregular, Doctor. We really can't permit—”
“Get the chair,” he said quietly. “No one in the unit can rest until he calms down.”
Amy lingered at Cam's side and he looked at her questioningly. “Something else bothering you?”
“I'd like to keep this out of the papers.”
“Information leaks out of this place like water through a sieve, but I'll do what I can.”
“Thanks, Cam, the less the person who pulled this knows, the better.”
She opened the door and edged into the brightly lit room. Despite her familiarity with the heart monitor's bobbing green blip and the throaty “um-m-m huff-f-f” of the respirator, her heart still beat in heavy, apprehensive beats. I.C.U.'s gave her a feeling of powerlessness. Here, only plastic hoses and electric cords tethered patients to life.
She moved to where Simon lay. The color of his face matched the bandage covering his eyes. His legs and head moved in restless torment.
As she started to lower herself onto the chair beside him, he jerked upward nearly tearing his IV from its moorings, and cried, “He's going to strike. Amy! Amy! Oh, God ... oh, God.”
She eased him back on the pillow. “It's over, Simon.” He tensed and started to rise again. She lowered the rail on her side, stretched her arm across his chest, and grasped the opposite rail to hold him down. “Easy now.” With her other hand, she brushed back his perspiration-dampened hair and stroked his forehead.
He struggled to get up. “I gotta help her.” He fell back. “Can't. Can't. Oh, Jesus God.”
She leaned over him until her breath feathered the fine hair by his ear. “I'm here Simon. Right here beside you.” She turned him on his side, massaged the knotted muscles in his neck, and worked her way down his back. All the while, she kept up a running patter, telling him of the places they'd go and the things they'd do, when he got well.
By the time he finally relaxed, her hands and arms ached. She sank onto the chair, sagging with an exhaustion so profound it penetrated to the marrow of her bones. How long had it been since she'd had a full night's sleep? Her mind refused to calculate.
Simon stirred, murmured her name, and put out his hand. She bent over him and held his palm against her cheek. “I'm here.”
At last, he fell into a restful slumber, yet worries continued to flood her mind. The venom might affect his eyesight, his heart, his lungs. He hated being dependent on anyone else. Ill health could shatter him, and his dream of being a novelist.
She sighed and rested her head on the bed.
Thursday, November 3
It seemed to her she'd just closed her eyes when someone shook her shoulder roughly. She straightened and her startled gaze took in the big clock on the wall—6:30 a.m. Good Lord! She reached to check Simon's pulse.
“What are you doing here?” a stocky nurse hissed. She grabbed the back of Amy's chair and tried to wrest it from under her. “This sort of thing is not allowed in ICU.”
Amy stood and fixed the granite-faced woman with an icy stare. She detested doctors who pulled rank, but sometimes circumstances made it necessary. “I am Dr. Prescott. Mr. Kittredge is a special patient, and he's going to get special care. If you have a problem with that, call Dr. Nguyen.”
The woman's cheeks turned a mottled purple. “Humph! We'll see.” She marched off muttering about officious doctors.
“Go get ’em, tiger,” croaked a voice behind her.
She bent and clutched him to her. “You made it through the night.” She kissed his forehead, his cheeks, and finally his fever-parched lips, wetting him with tears in the process.
He brushed her face with shaky, translucent-appearing fingers. “Go home.” His hand settled back onto the sheet and he slipped into deep sleep again.
She made her way to the apartment. The last time she'd been here the rooms had been filled with the stench of death. Fortunately, her bone weary tiredness kept her from dwelling on the fact. She undressed, flopped into bed, and fell asleep immediately.
When she awakened around noon, her first concern was Simon's welfare. After the head nurse informed her he seemed to be stabilized, Amy's thoughts turned to her father. Last night, Helen had stayed with him. Today, Arne Olafson, the gillnet fisherman would take over.
She dialed and got her father on the line. “The nurse says Simon has...”
“I know, I called.” His tight, keyed-up voice betrayed his agitation.
“What's wrong, Dad? Didn't they tell me the truth?”
“The Seattle Police arrested Oren this morning.”
“Arrested him?” She clung to the telephone receiver as if it were a life line. “Why? What possible reason could they have?”
“They found a baseball bat behind Dr. Tambor's building.” B.J. let out a trembling sigh. “Oren's fingerprints were on it.”
“No!” The harsh cry wrenched from her throat. “Not Oren. He's not—” She curbed her angry frustration. “What're they charging him with?”
“With...” B.J. cleared his throat. “With Dr. Tambor's murder.”
“They can't! He's innocent, Dad. Did you tell them about the footprints?”
“Of course, but Lt. Salgado scarcely listened. He thinks Oren blamed the doctor for everything that's happened to him. He stole Elise's love, and that drove Oren to take her life.”
“If that's true, then who set up the frame, and why?”
“Are you certain of your findings, Amy? I sure as hell wish I could get downstairs. I'd like to go over your calculations.”
Suddenly, she felt fragile as blown glass. Keeping her tone as steady as possible, she said, “Are ... you ... questioning my ability?”
“We—ell ... no, of course not. I ... uh ... I'd just like to ... check for myself.”
“I see.” He didn't trust her. She swallowed but couldn't dislodge the golf-ball-sized lump in her throat. Now she had to prove her skill to him as well as everyone else.
B.J. coughed and broke the stiff silence. “Someone opened a big gash in Marcus's head last night.”
“Yes, I know. I forgot to tell you.”
“The vet says the cat evidently got in some good licks too. He had several badly torn claws.”
“He killed one of the rattlers. It might have happened then.”
“Possibly, but he also could have scratched the person who hit him. Scratches from cats who kill and eat wild animals can cause serious infections.”
“I have to agree with you on that.”
In her mind, she pictured snakes slithering through the deserted cottage, hiding in all the narrow inaccessible places. “What're we going to do about the beach house?”
“A herpetologist from Seattle's zoo will be out today. He says rattlers should be in hibernation this time of year. He thinks they've been kept warm so they'd stay active.”
“Does he know any local dealers?”
“He gave me the names of the reputable ones. He says some pet shops are fronts for thriving black markets in exotic animals of all kinds. It won't be easy to track down the person who bought the snakes.”
“I'll find him.” She clenched her fist. “I'll find him if I have to hit every outlet between here and the island.”
“Easy, kitten, don't go off half-cocked.”
“My brain's never been more clear. Did Calder find any evidence?”
“Fresh tire tracks in Prescott's Byway. I told him to make some casts.” He let out an exasperated breath. “But I doubt he'd know a clue if he fell over it.”
“Has Elise's jewelry turned up yet?”
“Calder and Salgado both come up with zilch. I do have one piece of good news though. The medical examiner who's going to take my place will be here Monday.”
“Finally! The very idea of not letting bloodstains be examined until two weeks after a crime—it's dictatorial, totally unprofessional, and absolutely absurd.” She got the wild animal dealers’ names from him and said goodbye.
She drove to the Public Safety Building and found Gail having lunch at her favorite restaurant. When Gail spotted her, she beamed and waved.
“You must be psychic. Boy have I got news.”
Amy took the chair opposite her. “Great, I could sure use some,” She motioned to the waitress, asked for a cup of coffee, and ordered a roast beef sandwich.
Gail's smile faded. “What now?” She shuddered when she heard of Amy and Simon's horrifying experience. “Good God, Amy, somebody better find that psycho before he wipes out you and your family.”
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