by Judi Lind
Elisa managed a faint smile. “So why don’t you go get some sleep? Everything will look brighter in the morning.”
“Good advice, kiddo. With that very thought in mind, I filched one of your sleeping pills. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I didn’t even know you’d brought them.”
Heather shrugged. “I just grabbed a bunch of stuff out of the medicine cabinet. Good thing, too. Anyway, I’m so susceptible to narcotics that I’ll probably crash on your bed in another minute.”
She stood up and laid a plastic vial on the nightstand. “Ah, the infamous computer disk. You should keep it someplace safe. I understand they’re easily destroyed.”
Elisa smothered a yawn. “I’ll be careful. I hate to be rude, Heather, but I’m about to zonk out. Do you mind?”
“No problem, just wanted to make sure we were okay.”
“Fine.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning. By the way, I put the sleeping pills next to the disk. You probably should take one. Might help you sleep through the night. Sometimes the wind sounds like a freight train coming through my room.”
“Good idea,” Elisa murmured. “I’ll take one when I brush my teeth. Right now, I need a catnap.”
“Good night, then.” Heather softly closed the door behind her.
Elisa turned over and punched the pillow. But after ten minutes of restless tossing, she gave up. Her mind wouldn’t stop fluttering from person to person, seeking a credible suspect.
She was startled to discover that she harbored vague suspicions of almost everyone. The Danzigers, for instance.
Instinct told her the sweet old couple were exactly what they appeared to be, but she couldn’t forget that Miriam had been standing directly behind her on the staircase. She was heavyset, but Elisa nonetheless had witnessed the woman’s physical strength. She hefted cases of soda as if they were marshmallows.
And Hank. He seemed like such a dear. But with Elisa’s obvious inability to assess a person’s true character, she couldn’t trust her instincts. Was Hank’s homey aw-shucks persona merely a blind? He’d been alone for hours cleaning and replacing the furniture in her room. It would have been a simple matter for him to rig the armoire so that it would drop on her bed sometime later. And he had been the first one to go into her room after the crash—the easier to remove any evidence he might have left behind?
The Bowmans—Mark and Betty. Were they really the middle-aged Ken and Barbie they appeared? Their conversations were giddy, pure fluff. And the constant “Yes, honey” and “No, dear” sweet talk between them felt artificial and forced. Then again, perhaps they were simply uncomfortable being marooned with strangers. Elisa decided to spend more time with the Bowmans tomorrow. If she talked with them long enough, perhaps they’d let something slip.
She sighed and climbed out of bed. Peeling off her clothes, she stuffed them in the wardrobe. She grabbed a favorite cotton nightshirt and kicked her sandals aside. A good night’s sleep, that was all she needed. She’d feel better in the morning.
Picking up the small zippered bag that contained her toothbrush, soap and other hygienic paraphernalia, she trudged into the bathroom. As she splashed cold water on her face, Elisa reflected that it had been two full days since her last steaming shower. Her poverty-stricken childhood came immediately to mind. After her father’s death, there had been too many occasions when her mother simply didn’t have the money for the utility bills. Esperanza Montoya had been too proud to accept welfare or charity from her friends. As long as her children had shelter and food, she’d insisted on making her own way.
A bittersweet smile tugged at Elisa’s lips. How many nights had they washed with cold water from a basin? Those same nights when they’d heated their beans and tortillas on a small hibachi on the balcony. And told ghost stories in the living room, spookily illuminated by a few candle stubs.
Those truly had been the best and the worst of times. Elisa had wanted something more for her future, for her own children. But her savings were rapidly dwindling, pushing her ever closer to that old life in the Los Angeles barrio.
Nothing she could do about her financial situation right now, she reflected as she tossed the damp towel onto the counter. There was Jay’s will to consider, of course. Although if he had been involved in illegal activities, his es tate could be held up for years. Even drained. Besides, he’d once mentioned that everything he had was tied up in his business.
She padded into the bedroom and pulled back the heavy spread. It was so hot, so muggy, she wanted to tear her clothes off and run into the raging surf. Then she recalled the furious battle she’d almost lost with the ocean the day before, and decided she could handle the heat one more night.
When she slid between the crisp, cool sheets, it occurred to her that there were still two people in this hotel that she hadn’t considered.
Carey Howard, who owned those fishing boats and was Heather’s amour du jour. When had they become so chummy? They’d known each other a while, Heather told Storm. If she was so interested in the pallid, mousy sportsman, why hadn’t she ever invited him to the cabin, or even mentioned his name? On the other hand, maybe there was more to Carey than his mousy Milquetoast demeanor exposed. Carey could have instigated the relationship with Heather, instead of vice versa, as she had assumed. But what possible motive could he have for wanting to hurt Elisa?
What good were all these ridiculous hypotheses in the first place? The only thing that would help right now was a full, uninterrupted night’s sleep.
Flipping onto her side, she slid her hand across the nightstand and picked up the sleeping pills Heather had brought. Elisa hadn’t felt the need for one since her discharge. But tonight…tonight she would take all the help she could get.
She swallowed the pill and shoved the blue disk under the mattress. After turning down the wick to preserve fuel, she dropped her head on the pillow, wishing for an instantaneous blackout. The medication didn’t work that way, of course, but she was getting desperate. But her mind simply wouldn’t slow down and let her rest.
You’re forgetting Storm, her subconscious chided. What about the good doctor? Why is he so interested in your past? In fact, why is he so interested in you?
Try as she might to focus on these puzzling and vaguely disturbing aspects of the enigmatic F. Storm Delaney, Elisa’s thoughts kept returning to the electric attraction that sizzled like a live wire when they were alone together. But, like that electrical current, they were either on or off. They either steamed the air with their barely containable desire, or they were facing off like punch-drunk boxers.
Except for this afternoon, when they’d talked, she reflected. In the parlor, and later, in the dining room, they’d had serious, meaningful conversations unfettered by antipathy or sensual appetite. Like friends.
She yawned and punched her pillow as the soothing medication began to work its magic. Friends. Her lips curved upward in a lazy, lusty smile. Close, intimate friends would be nice. Very nice.
Elisa was still smiling when sleep finally claimed her.
It felt as if she’d just dozed off when something—a sound, a disturbing noise—intruded. Bleary-eyed, she glanced at the luminous dial on the alarm clock. One-thirty! Damn this wind!
Flopping over, she dragged the other pillow over her head. Sleep, she wanted to return to peaceful sleep. But the meddlesome noise kept poking at her subconscious. Finally giving up, she threw the pillow aside and sat up. Listening.
It took a moment to identify exactly what had awakened her. At first, everything seemed the same. Room dark. Hotel silent. Wind blowing and-That was it! The wind velocity had picked up considerably since she went to bed. Whistling and wailing, the gusts screamed through the brick building as if it were made of paper. Hurricane Jake was on the move again. Coming closer. Much closer.
She’d never heard or even imagined this kind of domination. As though a live, tormented being were screaming out its anguish in the empty night She huddle
d against the headboard and yanked the blanket up around her neck. Shuddering ripples of pure fear undulated through her body, and crashed in her chest like the pounding surf.
Another horrendous gust whipped past, lashing the hotel with flying debris. She had badly underestimated the raw power of nature. This was so much worse than the earthquakes that rattled California. Earthquakes did their damage in minutes, even seconds, and then it was over. But this seemed to go on forever.
As her vision adjusted to the darkness, she frantically looked around, seeking a sign that the world was still in one piece. That wardrobe! Hadn’t it just wobbled? What if it fell again?
Her head jerked toward the bathroom when something crashed to the floor.
The old hotel groaned and quivered beneath the storm’s ferocity. Terrorized that the structure was breaking apart, Elisa grabbed for the kerosene lantern, knocking the box of matches to the floor in her haste. She had to be able to see! Otherwise, she’d never find her way to safety.
But there was no safe place. The world was coming to a brutal, horrific end.
Filled with a sudden fatalistic calm, she sank back and clutched the heavy lamp like a security blanket while she waited out her final moments on earth.
Like an evil trickster, the wind calmed a bit, giving her a moment’s respite.
Creeeak! Elisa’s eyes jolted open. She was startled to see her bedroom door slowly opening. A shadowy figure, either a ghost or someone in white clothing, stole into the room.
Elisa’s heart leaped with hope. Storm! He’d said he’d come for her if they needed to move to the cellar. She tried to call his name, but her throat was so parched she couldn’t speak. The figure turned and glided toward her bed.
Suddenly, the shadowy form loomed over her. It wasn’t Storm.
This spectral body emanated malice and venom.
Terror flooded through her anew. The apparition leaned across her, and she could almost smell the evil. She licked her lips and tried to cry out. Just as a pillow descended over her face.
Gathering her wits, she tried valiantly to fight, but she was still weak from her long hospital stay. She reached out, but her grasping fingers found nothing but tangled sheets and clothing.
Her attacker was strong, vicious, and filled with purpose. The pillow pressed tightly against her nose and mouth, slowly but unquestionably closing off her vital oxygen.
A floating, desperate darkness surrounded her, and Elisa knew her life was fading.
She couldn’t give up! The skinny Latina urchin from the poverty-torn streets of L.A. had fought too hard. For food, for education, for her art, and for her own identity. To have survived all that, only to surrender her life to an unknown assassin, was unthinkable.
If she died, so be it. But she would not give up.
With the ferocity of a nursing she-wolf, Elisa railed out at her enemy. Using her powerful dancer’s legs, she kicked and bucked, until she heard her opponent gasp. Elisa jerked her head sideways, dislodging the smothering pillow. She gulped in life-giving air.
Her assailant screamed in fury and redoubled the attack.
She twisted to avoid the grasping hands, and felt the heavy kerosene lantern bruising her side. Kicking wildly in an effort to distract the killer, she thrust her hands beneath the blanket in a frantic search for the improbable weapon.
Her fingers finally found purchase on the brass bottom, and she raised it above her head like a bludgeon. “Get away! Don’t make me hurt you.”
Her attacker growled and leaped toward her.
Elisa swung the lantern with all her might.
It missed its mark, whizzing through empty space.
The killer’s hands found her throat. And squeezed.
She swung again. The tinkle of broken glass showering the bed told her she’d made contact. But her strength was ebbing, and the savage fingers were closing ever tighter around her throat.
Knowing she might not get another chance, she gritted her teeth and grasped the exposed metal wick holder. Jagged shards of glass sliced her hand as she swung the heavy brass base.
It crashed against her attacker’s head with a sickening thud.
As if this were a slow-motion scene in a violent movie, she felt the fingers that had been clutching her neck sluggishly releasing their hold. The would-be killer fell backward, smacking against the nightstand. Then sagged to the floor, landing in a silent, unmoving heap.
It was over.
But she didn’t feel triumphant or brave. Waves of terror washed over her, and she began to tremble. She leaned against the headboard and shook until she felt her limbs would surely separate from her body and hurl across the room.
She should do something—summon help. Only Hurricane Jake could have lifted her from her bed. When the violent quivering finally began to subside, she tested her voice. Hoarse and raspy, but functional.
“Help!” she called out, but knew the puny sound would never carry through the clamorous wind.
She licked her lips and gulped deeply, filling her lungs with air and, she prayed, volume.
Then she screamed at the top of her lungs.
Chapter Eleven
Storm burst through the partially open bedroom door. “Elisa! Are you all right? My God, what’s happened?”
“I—I’m okay. I think.”
The weak, subdued voice murmuring from the direction of her bed told him otherwise. Cursing the downed power lines that robbed him of even minimal light, he inched toward her voice with outstretched arms flailing for hidden obstacles. When his bare toe smacked solidly against the footboard, he bit off the obscenity hovering on his lips and felt his way along the mattress.
“Storm? Is that really you?”
A huge fist of apprehension punched him in the stomach. He couldn’t think of a single rational explanation for her peculiar question. “Yeah, it’s me. Almost there.”
His left foot nudged a bundle of clothing near the nightstand. Patting the mattress until he found an empty space, he lowered his hip on the bed. “Hey, Princess, what’s up? Have a bad dream, or is old Jake giving you the willies?”
She breathed heavily, almost panting. A long moment passed. Then two. Finally, she said in a confused tone, “N-no dream. Not the hurricane. Well, yes, but…Oh, my God, Storm, it was horrible! Is—is he…still here?”
Convinced now that she had suffered a nightmare and was still having a difficult time breaking its spell, he leaned over and caressed her cheek. Her skin was cold, clammy, even though the hotel was uncomfortably warm and humid. His hand trailed upward, touching the silken strands at her temple. Her hair was so damp, he normally would have assumed she’d just stepped out of the shower. Except that with the generator turned off for the night there was no running water.
The apprehension heightened to dread. Something was terribly wrong.
Storm groped for the lantern on her nightstand. His hand skimmed across the wooden surface, but encountered only empty space. “’Leese, where’s your lantern?”
She gasped and whimpered, pulling away from him.
Before he had time to absorb her unexpected reaction, the chaotic jumble of several voices resonated down the hall. Storm twisted around just as Hank stepped through the doorway, a Coleman lantern swinging from his upraised hand.
The older man stepped farther into the room, exposing the small band of onlookers behind his back. “What in thunderation is going on up here?”
Storm shook his head. “Don’t know. Bring that lamp over here, would you?”
Hank turned to his entourage, his Southern accent more pronounced than usual. “Y’all stay right here till I figure out what’s goin’ on.”
From the corner of his eye, Storm noted Carey Howard, David Welton and Betty and Mark Bowman. Now silent, they all looked fearfully around the deeply shadowed room, as if expecting Freddy Krueger to leap out of a corner.
Still holding the light high above his head, Hank slowly made his way past bedclothes and strewn pillows. He wa
s almost abreast of Storm when the kerosene lantern wobbled crazily. “Oh, my heavens,” he breathed, almost reverently. “What happened in here?”
That feeling of dread redoubled in Storm’s gut as his gaze followed the lantern’s illumination. His blood pumped violently through his veins when he finally saw what had demanded Hank’s attention.
Only inches from Storm’s left foot, Heather’s inert body lay in a crumpled heap, in a widening scarlet puddle.
Leaping from the bed, he demanded, “Hank! Bring that light here, but watch your step! There’s blood everywhere.”
Hank took a few nimble steps forward before Storm grabbed the lamp and set it on the bedside table, automatically turning up the wick. Kneeling beside Heather’s blanched face, he frantically probed her throat in search of her pulse. “Carey! Run to my room and get my medical bag off the dresser. Hurry!”
While he waited for his stethoscope and first aid supplies, Storm continued to move his fingers, searching for some sign of life. But there was no reassuring throb of pulse.
“Heather! Heather, can you hear me?” he shouted as he ripped open her black blouse and lowered his ear to her chest. Come on, let’s hear you beat. Beat, damn you!
He swung his left leg over her body. Straddling her waist, he crossed his hands over her heart and began CPR. Without an electrocardiograph or stethoscope, there was no way to tell if he was having any success. Storm kept pumping.
Elisa leaned over the edge of the bed and cried aloud. “Oh, no! Not Heather! No, no. It can’t be true. Not Heather, she’s my friend.” She broke off as a deep, shuddering sob ripped loose from deep inside. Still shaking her head, she whispered, “Oh, God, Storm, is she dead? Please say she isn’t dead.”
He couldn’t take the time or breath from his resuscitation efforts to reassure her. Besides, he was fast coming to the conclusion that he’d arrived too late to help the injured redhead.
After a moment, Elisa rolled back to the middle of the bed, quietly weeping.
Carey Howard rushed through the doorway, stopping suddenly when his eyes took in the gruesome sight. “Jeez, Doc, that—that’s Heather!”