At Risk (34 page)

The house, the dock, and the yard were quiet, as she’d left them. Everything seemed secure, but to be certain, Liz carried the handgun with her as she dashed to unlock the back door and let Otto out. The German shepherd trailed her back and forth through the pouring rain as she carried her purchases inside. On the final trip, she heard the phone ringing.

It was Michael, asking if she’d been following the progress of the hurricane. When she assured him that she had, he said he’d be stopping in Valley Forge to visit an old buddy, another ex-cop, who’d been in a physical therapy rehab with him, and that he’d definitely be home sometime after midnight.

“Why don’t you bring Otto and come to my place in the morning?” Michael suggested. “I’ll make breakfast and we can keep each other company during the storm.”

Liz sighed. “No, thanks, I’ll stay here. Go down with the ship, as it were. You’re sweet to worry, but I’m okay. Did you buy the pup?”

“No, too high-strung. It takes a steady temperament to make a good guard dog. I’ll keep looking.” He paused and then asked, “Have you thought about the big question?”

“Yes, I have, but I’d rather wait to talk to you in person.” She kept her tone light. She’d didn’t mention finding Cameron’s car either. There wasn’t anything Michael could do about it from Pennsylvania, and it would only cause him more worry. “You drive carefully,” she warned. “From what the weatherman says, the earliest that the hurricane could hit here would be late tomorrow morning, and there’s still a possibility it may turn east over the ocean.”

After she hung up, Liz found a raincoat and boots of her father’s in the closet under the stairs and went out to move her car to the barn. For the next three hours, she kept busy, filling water containers, securing the heavy wooden shutters that protected the windows on the ground floor, and moving her lawn furniture, grill, and trash cans to a low shed.

“I’ll do all this, and the hurricane will miss us completely,” Liz commented to the dog. When she looked at the NOAA weather site on the internet, Cassandra seemed to be stalled over the Carolinas and had been downgraded from a category 3 to a 2. Even at 80 mph, the storm had done considerable damage, knocking down trees and flooding streams and rivers, but traveling over land had decreased the power of the hurricane, and so far, there were no reported deaths.

While Liz was studying the Doppler maps, she received an instant message from Sydney asking if she’d heard that Amelia’s memorial service was postponed. Liz answered that she had, and they chatted for a few minutes before Sydney’s husband alerted her that the twins were awake and wanted her attention. Sydney sent her love and hastily signed off. There was a second message from Jack, but Liz didn’t open it. She was no more ready to parry with him than she was with Michael.

Rain continued through the night, and by morning gusts were whipping around corners of the house and raising whitecaps on the river. Liz attempted to call Michael to see if he’d gotten home all right, but there was no answer. When her phone rang a few minutes later, she grabbed it without checking Caller ID. She’d thought it would be Michael calling back. Instead, she heard Jack’s voice.

“You’re ignoring my e-mails,” he said. “You’re being childish. We need to talk. I want to come over.”

For an instant, she was tempted. If he came, they’d end up arguing and then making love. It was a given, and she wasn’t ready for that. Not until she’d decided that Jack could be trusted. “No,” she said firmly. “I meant what I said before. You haven’t been honest with me.”

“Give me a chance. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Later, when I get back from Ireland. When I’ve had time to sort things out. Good-bye, Jack.”

“Lizzy, don’t hang—”

Only she hadn’t. She been about to press down the button and cut him off, but the line had gone dead first. She tapped it. Nothing. “Damn,” she muttered.

She’d wanted to call Michael’s house and see if he’d gotten in safely, but her phone was definitely out. She knew that it was probably the rain. It had been pouring all night, and sometimes it seemed that she lost the telephone lines every time there was a hard rain. Not that she wasn’t used to losing phones and electricity here on the farm. Several times when she was a child, and once since she’d returned to Delaware, a Nor’easter had dumped so much rain on Kent County that rising water had flooded out the bridges on either end of Clarke’s Purchase Road.

Liz’s cell was in her purse, and she used it to try Michael. She got a busy signal, and had no better luck with his cell phone number. She wondered if she should drive over and see if everything was all right, but if Michael was there, it would mean going in. It would mean telling him that she’d decided not to marry him.

She put her cell phone on the charger on the counter and busied herself making a pot of vegetable beef soup and a loaf of bread. Punching down bread dough was always good for releasing tension.

Jack would be furious, certain that she had hung up on him in a display of childish temper, but she didn’t care. It might be good to upset him for a change. She chopped onions and carrots, browned meat, and threw spices into the pot. The soup grew beyond anything she’d ever eat in a week, but it would freeze, and she could always take some to Michael. She was certain that it was impossible to make soup for one person; hers always fed at least ten.

Liz watched the television coverage of the coastal storm damage as the delicious scent of baking bread and soup filled the downstairs. According to the latest reports, Cassandra was weakening and heading northeasterly into the Atlantic, rather than sweeping directly up the Chesapeake Bay. The drenching rains continued, but the winds that whipped the tree branches and tore at the shutters were not hurricane force.

Twice, Liz tried the phone again, but the lines remained dead. The dish signal flickered and then went black; her picture was replaced with a message that said she had lost the signal. When the news program didn’t return, she curled up in her favorite chair, put in a DVD, and watched Harry Potter try to outwit his nasty relatives so that he could escape to school. The lights went out, then on and off again before going out for good sometime after eleven, and Liz gave up. Laden with a glass of ice water, the revolver, the new flashlight, and an extra pack of batteries, she climbed the creaking stairs to make ready for bed.

When Liz entered the room with the flashlight on, she found her cat already curled on a pillow, nose tucked under her tail. She turned off the flashlight and put it on the nightstand beside the handgun. In five minutes, her teeth were shiny clean, and she was sliding between the sheets in the dark to the symphony of wind and rain.

The thick walls of brick fired three hundred years ago in a kiln in the west field muffled the storm, but attic timbers groaned and squeaked, and glass panes rattled. The German shepherd paced the bedroom and hall, whining anxiously. In contrast, Muffin showed little concern for the hurricane. Liz could hear the cat’s soft, peaceful breathing only inches from her face and wished that she could sleep as soundly.

Liz didn’t fear the darkness; she’d spent too many summer thunderstorms in the farmhouse without power to be concerned by the lack of electricity, and she was too old to believe in ghosts. Reason told her that this was one night when she didn’t have to worry about Cameron prowling around the house. No one, peeping Tom or pervert, would be abroad on a night like this. But still, she couldn’t shake a feeling of uneasiness. She lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, always bordering on sleep but never quite drifting off. The wind weakened and changed direction, and the deluge of rain dwindled to a light patter on the windows.

When she got up to use the bathroom, thunder was rumbling menacingly overhead. Liz wasn’t surprised. Yesterday’s paper had mentioned the possibility of hurricane winds and sudden shifts in temperature causing violent thunderstorms in the South. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminated the room brightly enough that she could read 2:15 on the bedside clock, which had a battery backup. Seconds later came another roll of thunder.

She didn’t bother with a robe or slippers, but padded barefoot to the toilet. She wouldn’t have taken the flashlight either if she hadn’t been worried about stepping on the dog in the dark. But as she directed the beam around the bedroom and up and down the wide hall, Liz realized that she hadn’t needed the light. The German shepherd wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She assumed that he’d gone back downstairs to his favorite spot in the kitchen.

When she returned from the bathroom, Muffin was still curled on the same pillow on the bed. “Still here, are you?” Liz murmured sleepily. The cowardly cat hated thunderstorms. If the booming grew louder, Muffin would dive under the bed and wouldn’t come out for hours.

Liz had just switched off the flashlight when she heard Otto growl and then bark furiously from downstairs. She froze, heart thumping against her ribs, held her breath, and listened. Just as quickly as the German shepherd’s warning bark had come, it was cut off. Liz reached for the flashlight again, and her fingers closed on the gun.

Her cell phone—where was her phone?

She reached down on the bottom shelf of the nightstand where she kept her purse, but it wasn’t there. Had she left her purse and the cell in the kitchen?

Grabbing the flashlight in her left hand and keeping the revolver in her right, she got out of bed and went to the bedroom door. She stopped and listened. The faint screech of metal came from the hall below. Cold panic seized her as she recognized the familiar sound. The door leading to the cellar was original, the heavy iron hinges rusty with age.

Gooseflesh rose on Liz’s bare skin. She wanted to call for Otto, but she was afraid. If there was someone in the house, the intruder wouldn’t know she was awake. Instinct bade her to slam the bedroom door and throw the wide brass bolt. But she couldn’t be sure. The possibility that she’d conjured the squeaking cellar door out of her own terror made her creep down the hall to the top of the front staircase, the one that led not to the kitchen wing but down to the wainscoted, formal entrance hall. The cellar door opened onto that passageway, but that door was always locked. She’d checked it herself when she’d returned from Dover.

Lightning flashed through the window at the far end of the hallway. A few heartbeats later, thunder crashed, reverberating through the house. Liz gasped as Muffin, eyes wide, back arched and hair and tail bristling, darted through the bedroom doorway. Hissing, the cat raced past and leaped down the staircase in two great bounds. Seconds later, the cat’s wail rose to an enraged shriek. Otto yipped in pain, snarled, and went silent again.

Liz heard the bottom step creak under a heavy weight. Time seemed to stand still as fear paralyzed her and images of Buck Juney rose in her mind. Then a clap of thunder shook the house. Deafened, she twisted around and fled back to her bedroom. Closing the door as quietly as she could, she shot home the bolt with stiff, trembling fingers. Her stomach churned. Her mouth tasted of copper. She could almost smell the rotting stench of Buck’s clothes and hair—feel the heat of his fetid breath in her face.

Was she losing her mind? Buck Juney was dead. He couldn’t be here in the house. Her stalker was someone else. Not a specter but a living, breathing monster . . . someone who meant to kill her. Had he already killed Otto as he had Heidi? Was it Cameron? And if not Cameron, who?

Not knowing was terror beyond any she had known. She wanted to fling open the door and shine the flashlight beam in the intruder’s face. But if she confronted him, it would give away her last advantage. And if she held the flashlight, she couldn’t use both hands to raise and aim the revolver. If he had a gun . . .

No. She had to wait. If she couldn’t see him in the darkness, he couldn’t see her. If he tried to force his way through the locked door, she would have to shoot. A black chasm yawned at her feet. Could she do it? Could she take someone’s life and live with herself? Reason told her that this couldn’t be happening. Not to her. Not twice in the same house.

Logic shattered as the doorknob turned.

Liz dashed to a window, pushed up the sash, and knocked out the screen. The waistband of her pajama shorts was too loose to hold the gun, so she threw the weapon out onto the lawn. She climbed onto the windowsill as a heavy weight slammed against the door.

“Game over,” a harsh male voice shouted through the door. “You’re dead.”

Liz turned onto her stomach and lowered herself out the open window until she was hanging on by her hands. The door splintered. She let go and dropped, smashing into a boxwood and sliding onto the wet grass amid a tangle of leaves and sharp twigs.

The storm was directly overhead. Rain fell in torrents. Lightning shattered a dead tree in the orchard, illuminating the house and yard and half blinding Liz. She scrambled to her feet, oblivious to the scratches on her face and body.

“Ready . . . not! . . . come!” bellowed the shadowy figure at the upstairs window.

She couldn’t hear all the words, but her mind filled in blanks. Where was the damned gun? She looked around frantically. “Please, please,” she prayed. Her fingers closed on the steel barrel of the weapon and she snatched it up, thankful that it hadn’t gone off and killed her when she threw it out of the window.

She only had seconds. Run! But where? She dashed around the house toward the barn. Another jagged bolt of lightning and crash of thunder rocked the earth; but her fear of the monster was greater than that of the storm. Rain battered her face and exposed skin, and the muddy ground sucked at her bare feet, but she knew every step of the way.

The car was locked. She knew it was locked, but she tried the door handle just the same. Gasping for breath, she dropped to her knees on the barn floor and dug for the spare key she kept taped to the driver’s tire well.

It wasn’t there. “Yes, it is!” she cried, leaning her head against the car. “It’s got to be!” A shred of sticky electrician’s tape dangled, but no key.

Run. Not in the barn. Not where he could trap her. The marsh. If she reached the safety of the tall reeds—