Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  “Jo-Jo! Jo-Jo! Come on back inside, honey. If you’re feeling bad, I’ll have one of the boys run you on home.”

  She didn’t answer, and he couldn’t see her. By now, more than half a dozen men were running amok between the parked vehicles, calling out her name. Raleigh was about to chalk it up to some sort of womanly fit when he heard someone scream her name. The fear in the voice made his blood run cold. He started to run, past a line of cars and a one-ton dually truck, then between two eighteen-wheelers, emerging on the other side facing the highway before he saw her.

  She was running in the fast lane of the highway with her arms out at her side, like a child pretending to fly. And the faster she ran, the closer she came to the headlights of an oncoming truck.

  “Jesus God!” he groaned, and started to run, although he knew he would be too late.

  The scent of burning rubber filled the air as the trucker hit his brakes, but she’d come out of nowhere, far too late for him to stop. The screeching sound of locking brakes overwhelmed the thump her body made as it slammed against the truck. And then she was flying through the air like a broken doll, coming to rest in the center median with a solid thud.

  The men stared in disbelief. Raleigh turned to the one nearest him.

  “Go call 911!” he yelled, and then began flagging down cars so they could cross.

  The homicide detective who worked the case wrote it up as a suicide. Case closed.

  Except for a bartender named Raleigh, who kept swearing she’d been just fine until she’d taken that call.

  Two days later, Chicago, Illinois

  Twenty-eight-year-old Lynn Goldberg had reached a benchmark in her career as a criminal defense attorney. All her life she’d been told she was too pretty to ever be taken seriously as a lawyer, but she’d ignored the naysayers and followed her heart. Today she’d proven that she wasn’t just another pretty face. She’d won her first murder case, and it felt damned good. What was even better was that she was convinced the man she’d gotten off was actually innocent, which, in her chosen line of work, wasn’t always going to be the case.

  She tossed some files that she wanted to review before morning into her briefcase, then slammed it shut. She had thirty-six minutes to get across town and meet her husband, Jonathan, for dinner and drinks. He didn’t know it yet, but tonight she was paying. She could hardly wait to see his face when she told him that she’d won.

  With one last look around her office, she picked up the phone and called a cab. By the time she got down from the fifteenth floor of the office building where the law firm was located, the cab should be waiting. Smoothing her hands down the front of her dark, pinstriped suit, she draped her raincoat over her arm and was reaching for her briefcase when the phone began to ring.

  “No way. My day is over,” she muttered and started toward the door.

  But the ringing persisted, and it occurred to her that it might be Jonathan. It would be awful if she went across town only to find out he’d had to cancel. With that in mind, she hurried back to her desk and picked up the phone.

  “Hello? Yes, this is Lynn Goldberg.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then the far-off sound of distant thunder. She shivered and glanced toward the windows, thankful she’d thought to bring her raincoat. And then another sound was overlaid upon the thunder—the distinct sound of chimes being struck in slow succession. Within the same breath of identifying the sounds her eyelids drooped and her chin dropped toward her chest. Her shoulders slumped forward as she listened.

  The light began to flash on her phone, indicating another incoming call, but she didn’t see it, and if she had, would have been incapable of making the decision to answer. Instead, she quietly laid down the phone and walked out of the office toward the elevator.

  Gregory Mitchell, a fellow attorney, looked up as she passed by his desk.

  “Hey, Lynn, I didn’t know you were still here. Congratulations on the win.”

  She acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Puzzled by her behavior, he watched her walk out of the office. He thought little of it until he realized she’d left her briefcase and raincoat on the floor by the doorway. Knowing she would have to come fifteen flights back up to get them, he started after her on the run, thinking he would catch her at the elevator. They would have a good laugh, and then she’d be back on her way.

  But when he reached the elevator, it was going up rather than down, which made no sense. The top floor of the building had been vacated and was under reconstruction.

  “Damn it, Lynn, where’s your head at?” he muttered, waiting for the car to come back and expecting her to get out with a silly grin on her face. But when the car came back, it was empty.

  Ignoring a quick spurt of anxiety, he got into the car and went up, telling himself all the while that there had to be a rational explanation for what she’d done. But when the doors opened and he exited into the hallway, all he could hear was the wind whistling through plastic-bound openings where the dark tinted windows had yet to be installed.

  “Lynn? Lynn? Where are you? It’s me. Greg!”

  There was a rustling sound coming from the far end of the hallway, and he started toward it, still expecting her to come fumbling out from around the scaffolding while trying to talk her way out of her faux pas.

  Instead, he walked into a large corner office, only to find it empty. Frustrated, he started to turn back when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw movement. He started toward the plastic-shrouded corner where a bank of windows would be, and as he did, he suddenly realized someone was on the scaffolding outside the plastic.

  “It can’t be,” he muttered, but he started to run, his gut telling him there was no one else it could be.

  He tore back the plastic, then grunted in disbelief. Lynn was standing on an I-beam sixteen floors above the city. Wind gusting around the corners was pulling at the hem of her jacket, billowing up beneath it and then plastering it to her body.

  “My God, Lynn! What do you think you’re doing? Get back in this minute before you fall.”

  Again she seemed deaf to his voice. To his horror, she suddenly lifted her arms out from her sides, like a conductor telling his orchestra to wait. Greg panicked. This was a situation that was out of control. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, only to realize it was lying on his desk. As scared as he’d ever been in his life, he still couldn’t stand there and do nothing. He started to crawl out the window, talking as calmly as he could, when he really wanted to scream.

  “Lynn, look at me. Don’t look down, okay? You’re going to take my hand, and we’re going to come back inside. You don’t want to—”

  In the middle of his sentence, she suddenly looked up at the sky and then walked into thin air. Greg would remember later that she had smiled as she fell—her arms open wide. He didn’t see her hit the pavement. He was on his knees throwing up.

  The incident barely made the papers. In a city the size of Chicago, a jumper was old news.

  The next night, near Denver, Colorado

  Frances Waverly was convinced, as she had been off and on for the last five years, that her marriage to Charlie had been a huge mistake. It didn’t matter what she did, in his eyes it was wrong. He spent all day yelling and griping, and then, the minute the sun went down, wanted to crawl in her pants. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t want him to touch her and was convinced she was having an affair.

  “Affair!” Frankie screamed. “Right now I’m so sick of men I wouldn’t even have Donald Trump and all his millions, not that he’d be interested in someone like me. You’ve made me old before my time, with all your whining and griping, and I’ve had enough! Do you hear me? I’ve had enough!”

  Charlie grabbed her by the arm. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard before, and he was tired and wanted to go to bed.

  “Oh, shut the hell up, Frankie. You ain’t got nothin’ to cry about. You got a nice house and a nearly new car. You don’t want for nothin
’. All’s I ask for is my husbandly due. You’re my wife. I got a right to make love to you.”

  Frankie’s laugh was a wild, angry shriek. “Love? You don’t know the first thing about love. All you do is take and take. You couldn’t give if your life depended on it.”

  “That ain’t so!” Charlie yelled. “Why, I gave you—”

  In the middle of a shout, the phone began to ring. Frankie snatched the receiver from the cradle, willing to talk to anybody, even one of those stupid telemarketers, rather than listen to another syllable of Charlie Waverly’s words.

  “Waverly residence,” she snapped, and when Charlie would have snatched the phone out of her hand, she slapped him away and turned her back. “Yes, this is Frances Waverly.”

  “Damn it, Frankie, hang up. We’re in the middle of somethin’ important here. Tell whoever it is to call back.”

  But Frankie didn’t respond. Instead, she suddenly leaned against the wall and went limp. For a moment Charlie thought she was going to faint, and then her eyes closed and her chin dropped.

  “What?” he snapped, trying to get her attention, imagining every kind of disaster had suddenly befallen one of their family. “Who is it? Is it Mom? Is Daddy all right?”

  Frankie didn’t respond, and his panic increased. As he watched, he saw a tear roll down her face. Suddenly he was sorry. Sorry for the fight and for making her mad.

  “Look, honey, whatever it is, it’ll be all right,” he said. “I’m here.”

  He slid a hand beneath her hair and gave her neck a squeeze. Instead of a forgiving smile, she laid the phone down on the table and walked past him as if he’d become invisible. When she picked up her car keys and opened the door, he began to panic in earnest.

  “Frankie! Wait! Where are you going? I’ll go with you.”

  She walked off the porch into the night. He reached for the phone.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this? What the hell did you just say to my wife?”

  He got nothing but a dial tone for his trouble. Dropping the receiver back on the cradle, he followed Frankie outside. But to his surprise, she was already in her car and backing out of the drive.

  “Frances! Goddamn it! I told you to wait!” he yelled, but she was already gone. Grabbing his own car keys out of his pocket, he jumped into his truck and began to follow.

  One mile passed, and he kept right on her bumper, honking and blinking his headlights in an effort to make her stop. She didn’t act as if she even knew he was there. Another mile came and went, and he was beginning to get scared. This had to be really bad news for her to behave in this way. When he realized they were approaching the railroad crossing, he began to breathe a little easier. The warning lights were already flashing, and the arms had come down, blocking off the traffic at the crossing until the train could pass. Thank God, he thought. He’d talk to her there.

  Accelerating a little, he started down the hill at a good pace, his confidence returning. It wasn’t until he was at the foot of the hill that he realized Frankie’s brake lights weren’t on. In fact, she was driving even faster than before. Then, in the glow from his headlights, he suddenly saw one of her arms reach out the window, and he realized she didn’t have her hands on the wheel! What in hell was she trying to prove!

  He began to mutter in a singsong chant. “Stop, Frances, stop!”

  He was wasting his breath.

  In disbelief, he watched as she drove through the warning arm and into the side of the passing train. The car exploded, sending burning metal flying into the air. Charlie slammed on his brakes as a part of the fender suddenly hit the windshield of his truck. It was then that he started to scream.

  They buried what was left of her three days later. They would have done it sooner, but the day after the accident, they were still picking up the pieces of her body. No one in the family could shed any light on the phone call, but Charlie was convinced it was the reason she was dead. It had to be. Otherwise, he would have to accept his behavior as the reason for her suicide, and he couldn’t live with the guilt of that on his conscience.

  One week later, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma

  Marsha Butler slid into the passenger side of her best friend’s car and gave her a friendly smile.

  “Gosh, Allison, I really appreciate you coming by to pick me up. My car’s been in the shop all week. Thank goodness it’s finally ready.”

  Allison Turner grinned. “No problem, sweetie. Besides, I’ve got to deposit my paycheck at the bank. Don’t want any of those bills I just mailed to start bouncing.”

  Marsha grinned back. “Don’t I know it.”

  Allison came to a stop, then took a right turn onto Air Depot Drive, ever careful of the Saturday traffic.

  “Now, which garage did you tell me it’s at?” she asked.

  “Hugley’s, just before the corner of Reno and Air Depot.”

  “Oh yes, I know the one you mean. Did they find out what was wrong, or just give you the runaround and charge you an arm and a leg?”

  Marsha sighed. “Who knows? You know how women are treated at places like this. This is one of those times when I wish I was still married.” Then she grinned. “But not bad enough to wish I had Terry back. The louse.”

  They laughed in unison, and the moment passed. A couple of minutes later, Marsha pointed.

  “There it is,” she said. “Take the first turn on your right.”

  “Got it,” Allison said, and began signaling a lane change. As she did, the cell phone in the seat beside her started to ring.

  “Get that for me, will you?” she asked.

  Marsha quickly obliged.

  “Hello? No…this isn’t Allison. She’s behind the wheel at the moment. Will you please wait?”

  “Thanks,” Allison said, as she turned into the station.

  “Just let me off anywhere here,” Marsha said.

  “I’ll wait until you make sure it’s ready.”

  “Oh, the garage already called me, or I wouldn’t have dared risk the trip.”

  “Just the same, I’ll wait,” Allison said.

  “Thanks, I owe you,” Marsha said, and got out of the car.

  As soon as her friend left, Allison locked the doors behind her and answered the phone.

  “Hello, this is Allison, thank you for waiting. Hello? Hello?”

  Her eyes widened as she took a quick breath; then, just as suddenly, they began to close. Her head dropped down as if she’d dozed off, but the phone was still pressed to her ear.

  Marsha was paying for her car when she noticed that Allison was still in the lot. She smiled, thinking to herself what good friends they’d become. Moments later, she was in her car and driving toward the street. She paused beside Allison’s car and honked to get her attention, but Allison didn’t move.

  Marsha frowned and started to get out, then noticed Allison was still on the phone. She hesitated, afraid it was personal, and started to leave. But there was something about the way Allison was sitting that made her nervous. That limp, almost lifeless posture could mean she’d just gotten bad news.

  On impulse, she got out of the car and knocked on the window.

  “Allison! It’s me. Are you all right?” She tried to open the door, but it was locked. “Allison! Allison!”

  Allison didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Marsha was starting to get scared when Allison suddenly lifted her head. Laying the phone in the seat beside her, she put the car into gear and accelerated. It was only because Marsha jumped back in time that she wasn’t run over. Marsha stared in disbelief as Allison’s car shot out across two lanes of traffic, barely missing being broadsided twice.

  She screamed. “Allison! Watch out!” But the warning went unheeded. Marsha watched in shock as Allison Turner drove straight beneath the underbelly of a gasoline tanker. Cars began sliding sideways in an effort to miss the oncoming pileup, while drivers who had already stopped were out of their cars and running, aware of what was about to happen. Marsha had one moment of clear vision just
before the impact, and she would have sworn Allison’s arms were stretched horizontal to her body, as if trying to embrace impending death.

  The impact of the cars, metal to metal, rocked the air where Marsha stood, and then the blast, which came a half second later, blew her backward against the hood of her car. She was still screaming when the ambulances started to arrive.

  2

  One week later, Sacred Heart Convent—upstate New York

  Five years ago, Georgia Dudley’s life had come to rest. After four separate jobs in two years and struggling to find her place in the world, the certainty of where she should be had come to her in a dream. Her family had been in shock—her boyfriend of the moment in grief over her sudden decision. But for Georgia, it had been a true moment of grace.

  She was going to become a nun.

  For a woman who’d partied and tasted a lot of the pleasures of the flesh at an early age, it was an about-face that no one believed. But she’d come through the fire of her salvation, cleansed in heart and soul and truly happy for the first time in her life. Now, as Sister Mary Teresa, residing at Sacred Heart Convent in up-state New York, she was in her element.

  Still feisty, but with God always in mind, she tore through life with verve and joy. She was a favorite among the Sisters. Even Mother Superior had a twinkle in her eye when Sister Mary was around. And now, just coming back from her first sabbatical, Sister Mary Teresa was full of herself and of God, and ready to reinvent the world.

  Mother Superior looked up from her desk, breaking into a rare smile of welcome as the young nun entered the main office.

  “So…you’ve come home,” the Mother Superior said.

  Sister Mary laughed and opened her arms out wide.

  “Yes…yes…and it’s a blessing to be here, I can assure you. Oh, Mother Superior, it was grand! I saw the Pope. I kissed his ring! And the glory of Rome! It was like something out of a movie. Why, I had no idea that everything was so…so…”