Christmas At Timberwoods (14 page)

Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Christmas At Timberwoods

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Angela struggled to her knees, her arms outstretched in an attitude of prayer. She was trying, but she couldn’t do anything.

Such a beautiful little girl with all those dark curls and her tiny gold earrings. Someone must care a great deal about her to put those pretty circlets in her ears. Please don’t let her die.

“Where is it? What is happening?” she screamed to the empty room. “Take me instead, no one cares about me. Take me!”

Angela burst into heartrending sobs. She cried until she was exhausted, knowing she would find no answers sitting on the floor. There were never any answers. Sobbing, she got to her feet and dressed.

The freezing air hit her like a blast from the Arctic as she walked on numb legs around the driveway to the garage door. Her tears tingled on her cold cheeks. She backed the Porsche out of the garage and turned it around, the wheels spinning on the icy road.

Her mind was racing as fast as the car. She was going to drive until it ran out of gas, then get out and walk until she dropped. She didn’t want to see that little girl. She didn’t want to know what was about to happen. No more.

This was the last time she would allow this to happen to her. Her mind was on the verge of shattering.

The traffic slowed to a crawl. She could get to where she was going faster by walking. There was no doubt in her mind as to her destination. Timberwoods Mall—and Charlie. She would tell Charlie about her latest vision. Charlie would listen.

The minutes dragged by as she fought the traffic. After a while, time seemed to lose its meaning and the urgency she’d felt melted away. She realized there was absolutely nothing she could do about what she’d seen. Nothing. The plane would crash. The little girl would die. And that was that.

The mall parking lot was full, as she’d known it would be.

I’ll double-park and hope for the best,
she thought. She found a spot, then slid out of the car.

A second later she slipped on the ice, all arms and legs as she grappled for a hold on something. Her hands reached for the bumper on the back of a compact car and she managed to swivel quickly enough to avoid doing damage to herself by falling. She had a fear of doctors and hospitals.

Righting herself, she made her way to the entrance to the shopping center and was barely through the door when she spotted a cop. She turned to run back the way she’d come when a long arm jerked her backward.

“Make it easy on yourself, kid, and don’t give me any trouble.”

Angela muttered a curse as her arm was wrenched behind her. “Let me go. I didn’t do anything.”

“That’s what they all say. Come on now, we’re going for a ride.”

“No, I’m not,” Angela said, jerking free of the young officer. They always traveled in twos, she remembered. But where was his partner? Probably waiting outside to nab her when she went through the door. Or maybe not. This one looked a little edgy.

Onlookers stopped and stared then went about their business. No one wanted to interfere with the law.

Angela crouched lower, the cop circling her, his arms outstretched. God, what did he think she was going to do to him? Angela’s own arms were outstretched to ward him off should he make a sudden lunge for her. She backed up slowly and felt the door give. An unseen somebody, big and soft, was in back of her. Angela straightened up and was off and running before the young cop could move around the plump, matronly woman. Slipping and sliding over the winter-slick parking area, Angela raced. She couldn’t possibly make it to her car and hope to get away. She would have to make it on foot across the open fields where they were planning the annex to the mall. It was her best bet—her only bet at the moment. The cop wasn’t likely to chase her through an unmowed field and muddy up his uniform.

Her long, coltish legs pumped furiously as she made her way up the slight incline and leaped over the guardrail. Open ground. She risked a quick look over her shoulder. He was right behind her. Her feet sunk down into the crunchy grass with its coating of ice. Mud oozed into her shoes as she ran, her breath coming in quick, hard gasps. What the hell were they doing chasing her, anyway? There must be some real criminals out there somewhere that they needed to go and catch.

She hadn’t bothered anyone, so why was he after her? If only Charlie was here, he would make the cop leave her alone.

She kept running. What was he going to think when he got home to see no dinner and no Angela? Well, she couldn’t worry about that now.

She didn’t see the hole and went facedown into the crusty mud. She was up and running again straightaway, but she’d lost valuable time and momentum. The damn cop was gaining on her. She slipped again on the icy ground and went down. This time the cop tackled her and they rolled around on the ground, Angela intent only on freeing herself, the cop intent on making her his prisoner.

He jerked both her arms backward and handcuffed her. “I wouldn’t have done this back at the mall, but you forced me into it.” It sounded almost like an apology.

“Screw you,” she spat.

The cop ignored her. He heard worse a million times a day. “Look, all we want to do is talk to you. Take it easy. I’m not arresting you.” Again, the tone was defensive.

“Yeah? You handcuffed me for no reason! I want a lawyer, and you can tell your story to a judge.”

“For the last time, I’m not arresting you. Someone wants to talk to you and I’m taking you to him. Now get moving, or do I have to carry you?”

“Do you know who I am?” she demanded.

He ignored her and kept her moving.

“I’m Murray Steinhart’s daughter,” she shouted. “Steinhart, you jerk! As in the Steinhart who owns half this town—”

“I know who you are, and you don’t scare me. So shut up and keep moving.”

“The least you could do is tell me who it is who wants to talk to me.” Angela was shivering uncontrollably now, wet mud and ice particles clinging to every inch of her clothing.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“Then I’m not going anywhere and you can’t make me.” Angela dug her heels into the slushy ground and braced herself. He was bigger and stronger, but she wasn’t going without a fight.

The young cop squared off, sensing her intention to dig in and fight him. “Listen, I don’t like this any better than you do. We both know you’re gonna come with me, so why don’t you cooperate. Besides,” he pleaded, “I’m cold. And you look like you’re half-frozen.”

“I can last a lot longer than you can out here,” Angela shouted as she dug her heels deeper into the semifrozen mud.

The cop circled her, got a better grip, and shoved her forward. “Move!”

She was defeated. A fool she wasn’t, but she made the cop work for his money. He dragged her every step of the way, both of them slipping and sliding in the mud till they resembled creatures from some dark swamp.

Angela stared at the cream-colored car the cop was steering her toward, wanting to howl with glee. It didn’t say PD. It was an undercover vehicle—or his own car. Cream-colored with fabric seats! For a brief moment the cop paused, slapping his forehead with a muddy palm. But he had no choice. “Get in and sit in one spot. Do you hear me?”

Angela turned slightly and, even though her hands were bound, managed to hit him with her shoulder and knock him off balance. The cop held back his fury as Angela climbed into the backseat of the car. The first thing she did was to sprawl full-length on the seat. The cop slid behind the wheel, watching Angela dig her muddy heels into the rich fabric of the upholstery.

Christ, he had sweated to buy this car, and now this punk kid had ruined it in three seconds. Someone was going to pay for this, and it wasn’t going to be him. And this wasn’t even department business. A $40,000 car with only 10,211 miles on it. Shot to hell! His shoulders slumped as he steered the quiet car from the parking lot on his way to Eric Summers’s house.

Chapter 10

Charlie glanced in the backseat to make sure the groceries hadn’t been stolen. He had shopped during his lunch hour and left the food in the car. By now everything must be frozen solid. He hoped Angela wasn’t going to be upset.

Angela.

Icy, treacherous roads permitting, he would see her in less than twenty minutes. Happy endings really did happen to people like him.

His eyes glued to the hazardous highway, Charlie fumbled with the radio, picking up warnings about storms and dangerous driving conditions.

“Tell me about it,” he snorted as he watched a car in the next lane swerve and then straighten itself out.

The traffic slowed to a near halt and Charlie shifted the car into low gear. Right now his top priority was Angela and their relationship. For the first time in his life, someone had bothered to look inside him, to see that he really did have a heart and a sensitive soul. And Angela was responsible for all of that. She’d made him feel the way he did at this moment. His mood lightened again and he felt almost giddy. If—and the if was a big one—he ever told Angela about how long he’d been lonely, she would most likely understand. Just thinking about her radiant smile made him feel whole again, no longer split in two.

Preoccupied, at first he thought he’d made the wrong turn. Or was it the wrong driveway? Had he missed his own house? With all the rain and sleet anything was possible. But no, that was his house; he could tell by the mimosa tree on the front lawn. Now the branches were bare, of course—still, his was the only house on the street with a mimosa tree. But the front light was off and there was no sign of life anywhere. Why was the house so dark? Of course, he reassured himself, Angela must have finished all that baking and maybe fallen asleep watching television. What other reason could there be? He would forgive her. She had problems. And if there was one thing Charlie knew about, it was problems.

His gut churned as he shifted the heavy grocery bag and worked the key in the lock. There was no scent of perked coffee, but there was a lingering aroma of cookies. He looked toward the living room, toward the long sofa. She wasn’t there. The television wasn’t casting shadows in the dark room. Something akin to a primal moan in his soul struggled to the surface. He dumped the groceries on the nearest chair and lumbered toward the kitchen.

Empty and dark. He flipped on the light and saw a couple of dozen Christmas cookies on a plate next to the refrigerator. They were in various shapes and decorated with different colored icing.

But where was Angela?

In his haste to get to the stairs, Charlie tripped and sprawled full-length across the potted rubber plant standing by the wing chair. Large tears flooded his eyes as he crawled up the steps. He already knew there wasn’t going to be a girl lying across the bed. She was gone! She had baked the cookies and left. Why, God, why?

He made it to the top of the stairs and struggled to his feet. It was an effort to remain standing. He wanted to bang his head against the papered wall and scream down the heavens. What had he done? The light switch inside the doorway cast the small bedroom in a cozy but dim light. The bedspread was neat and unwrinkled. He didn’t see her clothes or bag and he was too heartsick to look for them. A sob rose in his throat when he saw his hairbrush lying where she had left it. Angrily he tossed it onto the bed. He would never use that brush again. Never.

Great wracking sobs tore through his body as he stared at the brush on the white counterpane. He could have sworn that she cared, that she had seen what other people refused to see: that he was a caring guy, a regular guy.

She’d seemed so accepting—but then she’d needed a place to crash. He hadn’t asked what she was running from; he shouldn’t have been so stupid. He had believed her, wanted to believe she could care for him.

Blindsided. Alone again.

He wrung his hands in a frenzy as he made his way back down the steps. He went from room to room, turning on all the lights. He didn’t want the shadow of Charlie Roman stalking him, seeing his humiliation. She had betrayed him. He had given her sanctuary when no one else would. He had fed her, trusted her, let her see his vulnerability. Some people would call that love. He wasn’t perfect, but he had done right by her. Now he was bleeding inside. His heart was broken; his soul and spirit were crushed.

Furiously Charlie scattered the cookies on the kitchen counter onto the floor. Why had she put them there and then left? She had added insult to injury, letting him know the party was over. A bright light started at the back of his eye sockets, burning slowly at first then blazing into flame. His body trembled and shook and his thick lips pulled back from his small white teeth. An unholy bellow of rage erupted from him and shook the room. After that he was still; not a muscle twitched. It was over.

He was back to square one. It was a simple matter, really, when you thought about it. All he had to do was move on to square two and from there to square three, where it would all end.

Charlie settled himself into his chair in front of the television. He planted his feet firmly on the carpet and laced his fingers across his stomach. He waited. The dark night crept into dawn and still he waited. At six in the morning he maneuvered himself from the deep comfort of the well-worn chair. He stared a moment at the blank screen in front of him, then at the spilled cookies. Nothing moved him. The bright lights didn’t bother him at all. He put on his jacket and walked out the door. What did anything matter now? The only thought in his head was moving from square one to square two.

Charlie sneezed twice as he fumbled with the ice scraper to dislodge the thick crust from his windshield. By the time he had it cleared, his body was aching. It must be from sitting up in the chair all night, he told himself. He didn’t bother with the heater in the car. He would never feel warm again, so what was the point? He drove with mechanical ease to the mall and clocked in to begin his workday.

Amy Summers watched her husband pick at the food on his plate. She had taken extra pains to make his dinner attractive: roast beef, sliced extra thin the way he liked it, and bright orange carrots next to the emerald peas and the mashed potatoes. At the last minute she had placed a small sprig of parsley on the square of bright yellow butter nestling in the mound of mashed potatoes.

“What is it, Eric? Is the roast too well-done?” she asked, her soft brown eyes reflecting her concern.

“No, it’s perfect. I guess I’m just beat. Hell of a day. By the way, I made myself a stiff drink while you were putting the finishing touches on dinner. I think it took the edge off my appetite. I’m sorry, honey.” Eric had no sooner finished speaking than the doorbell chimed.

Suddenly he was off his chair and running to the front door. His gorge rose. He fully expected it to be someone coming to tell him that Timberwoods Mall had just blown. He realized that unconsciously he had been listening for a thunderous boom in the distance. But if anything had happened, he would have been notified by phone. Still, he couldn’t help it—the nightmare scenario lingered in his mind. It wasn’t over yet.

Amy stared at her dinner, then attacked it with gusto. After all, she was eating for two. Eric was back in a few minutes, his face blank. “Stay in the kitchen, Amy.”

“Stay in the kitchen? What are you talking about? Hey—” she said, getting up from the chair, her dinner forgotten, “haven’t you heard of the Emancipation Proclamation? What’s in the living room you don’t want me to see?”

“Amy, this is mall business. Now, stay out here in the kitchen. I mean it,” he said firmly.

“I don’t like the way you’re talking to me, Eric. I’ve never interfered in your business before, but this time it’s different. There’s something strange going on, and I want to see for myself. This is my house, too, you know.”

“Amy, honey . . .”

“Don’t you ‘Amy honey’ me,” she said, going through the swinging door.

“What—who is she?” she snapped at her husband before she made eye contact with the frightened girl and the officer who had her by one thin, handcuffed wrist. Her tone softened. “You two better tell me right this minute what’s going on. And take off those cuffs,” she demanded. “Right now.”

Amy waddled over to Angela. “Be gentle with her. It’s okay, honey,” she soothed as eight long years of suppressed motherhood rose to the surface. “No one in this house is going to hurt you, and certainly not this big ox I’m married to. I’m Amy Summers. You’d better work faster than that, Mr. Policeman,” she said sharply. “What if you cut off her circulation?”

“She’s fine, Mrs. Summers. I had to do it this way,” the cop said defensively. “She almost escaped.”

The handcuffs removed, Angela massaged her wrists then wiped her lips with the back of her hand. What was she doing here, she wondered as she looked around warily. Why had the cop brought her here?

Don’t ask,
she told herself.
Keep cool and let them talk.
The pregnant lady was glaring at them. Amy Summers seemed genuinely concerned.

“Are you all right, honey?” Amy asked anxiously.

Angela nodded.

“Would you like a soft drink?” Again Angela nodded as she licked her dry lips.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m starved.”

“Oh my God,” Amy said, wringing her hands together. “She’s starved. You come with me right now. I’ll fix you some dinner.” She fixed a bright, brown gaze on her husband and said sharply, “Just look at this poor child. How could you? Grown men! They didn’t hurt you, did they?” she asked worriedly.

“No.”

“Come on, Amy, we’ve only had her for half an hour,” Eric muttered.

“Half an hour! Then why is she starved and why is she so filthy?” she hissed. “You’re not telling me everything. Come on, honey, I’m going to feed you and then you’re going to take a nice herbal bath. I grow the herbs myself,” she chatted as she led the docile Angela into the kitchen. “You sit right there and I’ll make you a nice plateful of supper. Do you like roast beef?”

“I love roast beef.”

Within minutes Amy put a heaped plate before the girl. Angela wolfed it down and sat back in her chair. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers. I think that was the best dinner I ever ate.”

“Why, thank you, honey. Would you like some peach cobbler and a glass of milk?”

Angela nodded. Amy watched her devour the rich cobbler and felt sad. The girl looked so defenseless.

“Everything was delicious, Mrs. Summers. I really enjoyed it. Thanks again.”

“I don’t know why you’re here or what happened, but I want you to know that there isn’t a kinder man in this whole world than my husband. He won’t hurt you, I promise you. Now, you come with me. I’m going to fix a bath for you that you’ll remember for a long time.”

Angela followed Amy down the hall into the bathroom. “See these little net bags of herbs? Take one, tie it under the faucet, and let the water run through it. When the tub is full, untie it and let it float in the water. After you’ve soaked for a while you’ll feel like a new person. I grow the herbs on my windowsill in the kitchen. I have scented soap and Ivory. Which would you like?”

“Ivory will be fine, Mrs. Summers.”

“Here are the towels,” Amy said, opening the cabinet under the sink. “Bath powder and shampoo are in the medicine cabinet. I just might have something from the old days that would fit you. I didn’t always dress in tents.” She laughed.

She was back in a few minutes, her arms full of clothes. “You take your time now. Soak as long as you like.”

As soon as Amy Summers closed the door into the hall, Angela dashed into the bedroom to use the telephone. She had no idea how long Eric Summers planned on keeping her here, but she didn’t want Charlie worrying about her or thinking she’d run out on him. If there was one thing she’d learned about Charlie in the short time she’d known him, it was that he could jump to conclusions. She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to him when she got hold of him, but something would come to her. She hated the thought of lying to someone who’d given her shelter, no questions asked, but she had no choice. If she told him the truth about herself he might not like her anymore.

She felt a twinge of guilt at using the phone without asking, but she hadn’t brought her cell and it wasn’t as though anyone had asked her to come here. She’d been forced. Practically kidnapped.

She had memorized Charlie’s number, which was the same prefix as her own. She counted the rings—two, three, four, six. He wasn’t home, and without an answering machine she couldn’t leave a message. Maybe she could try again after her bath.

When Amy settled herself in the living room the young police officer was gone. She stared at her husband with wide eyes.

“I don’t want you to interfere, Amy. There will be other people here shortly, and I want you to stay in the kitchen or bedroom. Do you understand ?”

“I understand you,” Amy said quietly.

“But you have no intention of doing what I ask, is that it?”

Amy nodded.

“This is a tricky situation, Amy. She has information we desperately need.”