A Stranger in Wynnedower (2 page)

He moved a few,
deliberate steps toward her. “If it did, it didn’t happen here.”

Past her first shock
and with her eyes better adjusted to the low light, Rachel realized that his
clothing, though shabby, was clean. She detected a whiff of soap. The wild hair
that had looked stringy was actually still drying, and the stubble on his face
obscured the strong bone structure.

“Are you the owner?”

He made a rude noise.
“Owner? Right.” He pointed toward the stairs. “The door is that way. Leave or
I’ll call the police. Trespassing is a crime.” He walked away, dismissing her.

Rachel waited, breathless,
disbelieving his behavior and expecting him to return. Her hands fisted. This
man was no help. An impediment, that’s all he was. And he’d left, arrogantly
assuming she’d follow orders, so he was also foolish.

She went to the stairs,
but only descended a few steps, then waited as the sound of his footfalls grew
distant. If she moved quickly, she could check the other doors before he
returned.

The door opposite the
alcove was unlocked. It opened. The brighter light straggling in through the
grimy window was a welcome sight.

The corded plaid spread
on the bed—she recognized it. She’d purchased one for Jeremy years earlier.
He’d taken it with him to college, and this one was bedraggled enough to have
been in use for a decade, but it was a common style and proved nothing, really.

A comb, a few pennies
and a green dry cleaners’ tag littered the top of the dresser. Old paperbacks
were stacked in a corner. Nothing identifiable as Jeremy’s.

Unlike the floor below,
the air up here was musty and hot. Rachel tossed her shoes onto the bed.
Through the window, she saw her car below. She pushed up on the window sash. It
was out of alignment and budged only one stubborn inch. She gained another inch
on the second try but left it at that lest she break a nail. After all, she had
plans for the evening, plus the job interview in the morning.

Rachel shrugged off her
suit jacket and hung it on the door knob. With the door open and the window up
a bit, the fresher air made the heat more bearable. The silk shell stuck to her
back. She pulled it away from her damp skin.

She searched the room.
The closet was empty except for plastic hangers. In the drawers, she found a
few socks with threadbare heels and an old pair of jeans. There were so few
personal items. Yet this was where she’d expected to find him and she found it
hard to give up that idea. Then she hit jackpot—a sweater she’d given him two
Christmases ago.

Relief washed over her.
She leaned against the dresser, elbows resting on the scarred wood and her face
in her hands. Jeremy hadn’t been a kid in a long time, but she’d raised him,
bandaged his scrapes and fussed at him to do his homework. As he grew and
towered over her, she’d worked to support him. He’d always be her baby brother
and he was the only family she had left.

The lack of possessions
in the room suggested he’d moved out, at least in part, perhaps in haste. Next,
she’d talk to his employer—his real employer, not this guy.

Who was this man,
anyway? A handyman? A new caretaker? Had Jeremy already been replaced? She
slapped the top of the dresser.

A waft of cooler breeze
caught her by surprise and caressed her face. She closed her eyes, relishing
the relief brought by the stronger draft—until the door slammed shut.

Momentary blankness
swamped her. Rachel gripped the edge of the dresser and drew in a long, slow
breath. Calmly, she walked to the door, twisted the knob and pulled. Nothing.

“Hello?” She called out
in a reasonable voice, then louder, “Hello?”

The man must have
opened an exterior door. The air had sucked through like a wind tunnel, pulling
the door along with it.

“Hello? Hello?”

She grabbed the knob
and rattled it, shaking the door. She added her other hand, getting a firmer
grip on the knob.

Whoa, Rachel. No
need to panic.

She released the doorknob
and brushed her moist palms against her skirt.

Breathe deeply.
Think it through.

He had opened a door,
probably the front door for the draft to have such force. He’d see her car and
come back. If not, no problem. She had a phone. She could call for help. She’d
deal with trespassing issues later.

Rachel patted her
sides. No pockets. No jacket. She turned to the bed, but only her shoes were
there. Her jacket wasn’t on the floor; therefore, it was on the other side of
the door, out of reach, with her phone in the pocket.

She drew in a long,
deep breath, closed her eyes tightly and focused, willing it to happen. She
visualized that rude man from his dark hair and shirt to the jeans with paint
marks and the broken down loafers. He gets angry when he sees the car and
realizes she ignored his order to leave. He storms up the stairs. Her red
jacket hangs from the doorknob like a flag. He sees it and understands what has
happened, that this falling down house has trapped her.

Her heart pounded.

No panic allowed.

She slumped against the
door and sneezed.

More than a century of
dust, long settled into the sinews of the house, seemed to swell and fill the
hot air. Stuffy and a headache-maker, for sure. Now, thinking about heat and
dust, she was thirsty, too.

The mattress dipped as
she sat on the edge and stared at the door. Perspiration prickled at her
hairline, and rivulets trickled down her spine.

She squashed her fear
by focusing on reality. This delay jeopardized her evening plans. Time wise, it
was a good thing she was already dressed for the reception because, if that
awful man rescued her soon, she could still make the museum reception.

Oh, Jeremy. Where
are you?

Suddenly she saw what
was right in front of her: a gap of about one-half inch, maybe a bit more,
between the door and the floor. Rachel dropped to her knees and peered through
the opening.

Her jacket had fallen
to the floor.

It was a dark, reddish
mound in the dim hallway. If she could snag the material with a hanger, she
could pull it, along with her phone, through the gap.

The pantyhose would
never survive a sprawl on the floor. They were hot, too. She slipped them down
her legs, then folded and tucked them into the top dresser drawer along with
the lonely socks, presumably Jeremy’s. The scatter rug would protect her skirt
from the dirty floor.

Plastic hanger in hand,
she lay down on the rug. It scrunched up beneath her. She smoothed it out and
tried again. Cheek to the floor, she pushed the hanger through. Slowly, the
crook went into a fold. She coaxed the red fabric toward the door.

Sweat broke out in the
parts of her body that had been dry until now. She ignored it, as well as the
grainy feel of the dirt between her cheek and the floor boards, and focused on
the jacket. It slid, making a soft brushing sound against the floor. It came
loose, but close to the door. She stretched her fingers through the opening. It
was a snug fit and the bottom edge of the door scraped her skin, but lightly.
She touched the fabric with the tips of her fingers.

A shadow fell across
the jacket.

She held her breath.
Why wasn’t he saying anything? Her fingers were sticking out. He had to know
she was here. She pulled her hand back, rose to her knees and banged on the
door.

“Please, help me. Get
me out of here. I’m trapped.” Ear to the door, she listened in vain. “Hello?
Who’s out there?”

She pressed her cheek
to the floor and watched as the shadow moved. A floorboard creaked, and then
there was nothing except the jacket and that narrow view of the hallway.

Anger bubbled in her
veins; the heat in the room faded by comparison. Someone had stood, watching,
hearing her pleas for help, yet had abandoned her without a word. Adrenaline
fueled her anger. She stretched her fingers forward again, beneath the door,
and pushed half of her hand through. Her flesh tore, but she snagged the fabric
between two fingers and pulled. The jacket came forward. The red fabric peeked
through the gap below the door, but then stopped.

Was it the phone or the
keys? She didn’t know, didn’t care. A tight fit, but they
would
fit. She
would
make
them fit.

Rachel grasped the
sleeve with both hands and tugged. She half-rose to improve her leverage and
pulled harder. On her feet, she gripped the fabric in both hands and yanked for
all she was worth. The scatter rug slipped. She launched, feet up and backside
down, and smashed onto the floor.

Stunned, winded, coated
in sweat, she lay there gasping to refill her lungs. In her hand, she clutched
one red sleeve.

After a few minutes,
the pain eased in her lungs and back. She rubbed her face. A coarse film of
dirt covered her hands and cheeks.

She’d saved her pantyhose,
but the suit jacket—the expensive suit she couldn’t afford—was torn and no
longer wearable for the reception.

Her eyes burned. She
closed them tightly forcing the tears to remain unshed.

She’d hoped to get that
job by going to the reception looking fabulously chic. It seemed a great idea
while she was sitting amid H-frames stacked with plumbing fixtures and
supplies, counting the stock and making plans. The intersection of daydreams
and reality was a harsh, smack-you-in-the-face, experience.

Lying there on the
floor, she remembered she was resilient. The museum people hadn’t been
expecting her tonight, and she might have said the wrong things and screwed it
up, so maybe it was just as well. Her actual job interview wasn’t until
tomorrow. After a bath and a good night’s rest, she’d make an unforgettable
first impression. After she found an inexpensive hotel room for the night.
After she got out of this prison.

She needed to think,
but first she needed to rest a bit, just long enough to stop her head from
spinning, and to get her thoughts together.

Rachel crawled over to
the bed and hauled herself up onto the old bedspread. She stretched out flat on
her back and tried to imagine ‘cold.’

Eyes closed, she
envisioned a tall glass of ice water with condensation gathering on the sides.
Ice cubes, clear as crystal, filled the glass. She focused on the image and the
chill radiating from it cooled her face. She held it, in her mind’s eye, and
touched it to her forehead, her temples, and sighed.

****

Her head was splitting,
and it was dark. Sweat had soaked her silk shell. The fabric had dried and felt
pasted to her skin. Rachel raised her hand and heard a male voice say, “Don’t
move.”

Her immediate reaction
was to do exactly that, but her limbs felt sluggish. Where was she? Jeremy’s
room? She remembered. She’d climbed onto the bed.

“Lie still. I have a
damp cloth.” He laid it across her forehead, and then stepped away. A soft
light snapped on across the room. “What happened? Do you need an ambulance?”

“No, it was just the
heat.”

“Then why didn’t you
leave?”

Was the man blind? “The
door was jammed shut.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

Pushing the cloth
higher on her forehead, she raised herself slowly upright and lowered her legs
over the side of the bed. Beyond the window was night. What had happened to the
day?

“I don’t think you
should stand yet.”

“I fell asleep, that’s
all.”

His hair was
disordered, some of it caught into a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He
looked a century out of date. Those dark, heavy eyebrows hadn’t improved
either. He was probably angry and, honestly, who could blame him?

She asked, “Did you see
my jacket on the hallway floor? Or was it the car out front that got your
attention?”

“It was the open door.
I keep them closed and locked. Your jacket is hanging on the bedpost.”

He’d ignored her
question about the jacket on the floor. She let it go, too weary to push.

“Thanks for picking it
up.”

“I didn’t. It was
already hanging there.”

The cool washcloth
against her face helped. Was she dreaming? Had she been hallucinating? No. Her
legs were bare. She knew what had happened. If this man would lie about a door
being jammed, then there was no point in asking why he’d ignored her plea for
help.

Rachel pushed off the
bed and onto her feet. She handed him the dirty, but neatly re-folded
washcloth.

“I’ll give you my cell
number. If you hear anything from Jeremy, please contact me. I have an
appointment in the morning. If there’s no word from him by that time, I’ll go
to the police and file a report.”

“The police? A report?”
He stopped in the open doorway, seeming to fill it.

“Of course. To file a
missing persons report.”

“Do you believe he
qualifies as missing?”