Vanish in Plain Sight (15 page)

Why? Tension prickled through her like an electric shock, making her legs twitch. Why? Did Ephraim know something? And if he did, was there any chance of finding out what it was?

Mary Ann had led Ephraim away, talking to him as soothingly as if he were one of her young children, and Elizabeth talked about him. Ephraim was capable of working under supervision, she’d said. He led a useful life as a valued member of the family—maybe more so than if he’d been in the outside world.

What could he know? He’d have been a boy when Barbara vanished—maybe in his teens at the most, but with the understanding of a six-year-old. Could he have seen something, heard something?

Marisa tossed the sketchbook aside and swung her
legs off the bed. This was futile. She was exhausted, and her mind was running in circles. She had to shut down the speculation and get some sleep. Things would look clearer in the morning.

Rhoda always left milk in the fridge downstairs. She would get a glass of milk, drink it and go to bed, and all the while she would keep her mind focused on something other than the problems ahead of her.

She shoved her feet into slippers and went quickly out into the hall, where a low light burned all night long. It was sufficient to guide her to the top of the stairs. Downstairs, the desk lamp was also left on. She could see it as she descended, casting a small circle of yellow on the guestbook, leaving the rest of the hallway in shadow.

She reached the bottom, fingers touching the newel post, and started toward the desk. A step before she reached it, the lamp went out.

She froze, hands outstretched as if she balanced on a tightrope, and beat back an instant of panic. Stupid. It had burned out, that was all. She just had to feel her way along the desk, cross the few feet between it and the wall and find the switch that controlled the overhead lights.

Or she could forget the milk and go back up to her room. No one would know that she’d acted like a child afraid of the dark.

She’d know. She reached out, touched the edge of the desk and began to work her way along it.

She was fine, her sensible side insisted. Fine. Her
fingers fumbled at the end of the desk. Funny that her eyes hadn’t grown more accustomed to the dark. But it was cloudy out, so that the darkness that pressed against the window was only slightly less dense than that inside.

She reached out in the direction of the wall, took a breath and launched herself toward it, stepping cautiously, her feet making no sound in her soft slippers. For a disoriented second she thought she’d turned herself around completely. Then her groping fingers touched the wall.

The cool, flat surface reassured her. Now to find the switch—but unfortunately she didn’t remember its exact placement. She moved her hand in a small arc. No switch. She tried again, widening the arc. Still no switch, and a tiny frisson of fear brushed her neck.

Stupid, she thought again, pushing it away, and in that instant her fingers found the switch—the old-fashioned kind with two buttons. She fumbled with it, pushed the button.

Nothing. No answering, reassuring glow of light from overhead. The whole house must be without power.

Just as if someone had turned it off at the main switch.

P
ARALYZED
, M
ARISA
stood with her finger pressed against the button. She wasn’t breathing, she realized, and took a slow, careful breath.

She couldn’t let her imagination run away with her. Maybe the rain had knocked out the power. For all she knew, the whole town could be out. Rhoda wouldn’t even notice, because they didn’t use electricity in their wing. And she couldn’t imagine trying to grope her way through the dark rooms to the door that led to their section of the house.

She could use her cell phone for a light, but it was upstairs, on the table beside her bed.

No doubt there were candles someplace, probably in the kitchen, but she could spend the rest of the night feeling around without finding them. The only thing to do was to go back upstairs, get her cell phone and use its light to guide her to the Miller family’s door.

Her fingers didn’t want to let go of the security of the wall. She had to make a conscious effort to pull her hand back, to turn, to grope her way toward the desk.

There. Her fingers connected with a surface. But surely that was too high to be the desk. If she’d gotten herself turned around—

Again that irrational flicker of panic, and again she fought it. The room was the same in the dark as in the light. That was what her grandmother used to say when small Marisa had wanted a nightlight. But in the end, Gran had always left a light on.

Marisa brought a mental image of the area into focus. The wide center hall, with the desk close to the wall that separated it from the kitchen. There was a desk, a chair. To one side a bookcase held books and brochures about Lancaster County and the Amish. On the far wall, a tall stand supported a Boston fern.

She slid her hand along the surface. No plant met her questing fingers. Instead they closed on a stack of brochures, the glossy paper smooth against her fingers.

All right, she knew where she was. The desk should be a quarter turn to the left. All she had to do was feel her way around it and she’d be at the stairs. No problem. She could do that.

She shifted her weight forward, preparing to take a step. A floorboard creaked—but not from her. Farther away, maybe in the kitchen. A chair clattered, a low voice muttered what might have been a curse.

She didn’t dare breathe. She knew exactly what had happened. The chair at the end of the long table was in a direct line with the basement door. Someone
had come stealthily up the stairs, presumably after cutting the power at the circuit box. Not someone who knew the house well. If it was Eli, he’d have known about the chair. And he’d have come with a flashlight as he had that first night.

Now that there really was something to fear, Marisa found herself unaccountably calm. She weighed her options. If the man stayed in the kitchen, she might be able to make it to the front door without being heard.

But why would he? If he’d gone to the trouble of shutting off the power, he wanted something. It was hardly likely there was anything valuable in the kitchen.

She found it hard to believe in a sneak thief, anyway. Someone had searched her belongings once before. Now he was back.

A pulse jumped in her throat. Not just to search. He had to believe he wouldn’t find her room empty—not with her car parked outside.

Now the fear came in a cold, implacable tide. She fought it, but it was like swimming against a rip current. That had happened to her once, on holiday at the Eastern Shore. If not for an observant lifeguard, she’d have been pulled under.

She’d survived that. She’d cope with this.
Think, Marisa.

The phone was on the desk. She could picture it, an old-fashioned black desk phone. Even if she could reach it without being heard, he’d certainly hear the
sound when she picked up the receiver. She’d never manage to dial 911 before he was on her. The same thing was true if she screamed for the Miller’s. And if he had a flashlight—

Of course he did. He’d have used it to find the circuit box. Probably he wasn’t using it now because a moving light could draw attention if anyone happened to glance at the house. But if he knew she was there—

Her heart stopped at the thought of being pinned, helpless, in a beam of light.

Not helpless. She rejected the word. She’d fight back if she had to. But first, try to reach one of the doors. Get outside, away from the house, and start screaming.

If she knew where he was… She stiffened into immobility, not twitching a muscle, not breathing, and listened. She forced her mind to filter out the usual sounds of the old house—a branch of the forsythia bush moving against the window, the tick of the clock on the living-room mantel, loud in the silence. Anything else?

A faint creak, then another. He was moving—not toward her, but toward the stairs. If she’d gone that way, she’d have stumbled right into him.

Wait until he went upstairs and then try to make it to the front door? But what if he didn’t do as she expected? Worse, what if he switched on a flashlight to make his way up the stairs? She could still be in his field of vision.

Her fingers closed on the corner of the desk. All right. She knew where she was. She’d edge away, toward the front door, ready to run for it—

Her fingers brushed a stack of papers on the corner of the desk, sending them fluttering to the floor with a soft ripple of sound. She sensed, rather than heard, the body coming toward her, seemed to glimpse a darker solid black against black, and a hand grabbed her sleeve.

She jerked back, but he had her, his hand hard on her arm, a swish of air as he raised something in his other hand. He was going to hit her; if he connected… She jerked to the side as the blow fell. It brushed her head and hit her shoulder, sending pain radiating down her arm—something hard and cylindrical, like a flashlight. The next blow would strike her head, and she couldn’t lift her arm to fight back. He pressed closer, sensing his advantage.

Please, please, I don’t want to die here.

Through the haze of pain and panic came the memory of the self-defense class she’d taken last winter, how the blow she’d almost inadvertently landed had stunned even the well-padded instructor. Drawing back her leg, she thrust with her knee as hard as she could.

He cried out, his grip slackening as he stumbled back. She ran to where the door had to be, felt it, found the dead bolt, twisted it and ran screaming out of the house.

M
ARISA HUDDLED ON THE
straight wooden chair in Adam Byler’s office, trying to gain control of the shudders that still shook her body. Reaction, she thought dully. That’s all it was.

Someone had brought her a blanket—someone else had thrust a mug of hot coffee in her hands. She’d almost said that she never had caffeine at night because it kept her awake and then thought how silly that was. At the moment, she didn’t see how she’d ever sleep, knowing the nightmares that would pounce on her.

“Now, Ms. Angelo,” Adam began again, bending closer to her and looking faintly harassed. No wonder. Each time he started to take her over what happened, someone else came in, interrupting him. “Why did you go downstairs if you thought someone was in the house?”

“I didn’t.” She cut off the words, determined not to let her voice shake. “I thought everything was locked, and I—”

“But it was,” Rhoda, white with shock, protested. “I know it. I went back to our house at around eight o’clock, and every door was locked then, I’m certain-sure.”

“Yes, we do know that,” Byler said. “The intruder forced the lock on the back door.”

“Ja.” Eli nodded, somber. “I saw. Who would do such a thing here in Springville?”

The chief didn’t bother saying the obvious: that bad things happened everywhere. But this hadn’t
just been a random break-in. She studied Byler’s strong-featured face. He didn’t give much away. Did he really believe this was a matter of a sneak thief lashing out in a panic?

A shudder went through her, and she lifted the mug to her lips, taking a sip of the unpalatable brew. It was hot, that was all you could say in its favor.

“You went downstairs.” Byler doggedly tried to get back on track.

“I felt restless.” She thought of the letter, and her mind jerked away. She wasn’t ready to show that to him, not yet. “I was going down to the kitchen to get a glass of milk. When I—”

The door burst open. Link surged through, looking so thunderous that she nearly quailed. Ignoring everyone else, he came straight to her, bending over her.

That wasn’t anger in his face. It was fear. He was afraid for her.

“Are you all right?” The urgency in his voice had her wanting to comfort him.

“I’m fine. I—”

He put his hands on her shoulders. She winced, pain cutting her words off with a gasp.

“You’re hurt.” He peeled the blanket back with urgent fingers, his mouth tightening at the sight of her shoulder, which had begun to turn purple. He swung on Adam Byler.

“Why is she here? Why haven’t you taken her to
the hospital? She’s not fit to be sitting here answering questions. You should—”

Adam held up his hand, stopping Link in mid-spate. “Ms. Angelo refused to go to the hospital, but I’ve already called Cliff Henderson. He’s on his way now.”

Link nodded, looking reluctant to give up his anger. “Don’t you at least have sense enough to put an ice pack on this?”

Byler seemed to bite back a retort. He opened the door. The patrolman was standing so close he nearly fell into the room. “Larson, get an ice pack and bring it here.”

“Ice pack?” He looked blank.

“Fill a plastic bag with ice, fasten it, wrap a towel around it. You think you can manage that?”

“Yessir.” The hapless patrolman gulped and lumbered away.

“Kid couldn’t—” Byler cut off whatever he was about to say. Either he didn’t think he should criticize the kid in front of civilians, or the language he’d been about to use wasn’t exactly polite. He turned back to Marisa.

“I’d just gotten downstairs when the light on the desk went out.” She said the words quickly, before anyone else could interrupt. “I thought it had burned out, so I felt my way over to the wall switch. That’s when I realized the power was off.” She took a breath, willing her voice not to quiver. “Then I heard someone in the kitchen.”

Link moved closer to her, putting a hand on her uninjured shoulder.

Byler nodded. “It appears he broke in the back door, went to the cellar and cut off the power, then came back upstairs.”

“Why?” Link demanded. “If he was set on ripping off the place, he must have thought it was empty. Why bother with the power?”

Byler shrugged. “There’s no accounting for what a kid hopped up on pills might do.”

Convenient, but not true in this case. “He can’t have thought the house empty,” Marisa said. “My car was outside, and the light in my bedroom was on.”

“Ja, that’s true,” Rhoda said. “I saw it myself when I was going up to bed.”

Byler pivoted toward her. “Did you hear anyone? See anyone near the house?”

“Nothing. I’d have roused Eli if I had,” she said. “I noticed nothing until I heard the door slam and Marisa screaming.”

“I’m afraid I woke the neighborhood.” Somehow that seemed to require an apology.

“Best thing you could have done,” Byler said. “It scared him away—looks like he ran out the back, leaving the door open. Probably cut through the woods.”

“You have someone looking for tracks?” Link said sharply. “He could have had a car parked somewhere.”

“I’ll be on it at first light.” The chief’s face tightened, as if he didn’t care to be told his job.

“You should—”

She put her hand over Link’s, and he subsided. She understood the helpless feeling, but getting the chief’s back up wouldn’t help matters.

The door opened yet again, this time to admit the patrolman carrying a dripping ice pack, followed by an older man carrying the traditional black bag. He took the ice pack, holding it gingerly away from his clothes.

“That’ll do,” he said, dismissing the cop with a nod. “Now, if…ah, thank you, Rhoda.” This last in response to Rhoda’s action as she took the dripping ice pack and dealt with it efficiently.

“What do we have here?” Obviously he knew who his patient was, because he came straight toward her, tipping her head back gently to look at her eyes.

“Marisa, this is Dr. Henderson,” Link said, moving back a reluctant step.

“Retired doctor,” he corrected, smiling. “But the good people of Springville keep calling me out. How is your vision? Seeing double, any blurriness?”

“Nothing like that. The blow brushed the side of my head and landed on my shoulder.”

She sat still as gentle fingers explored her scalp and moved to her shoulder. He seemed to know what he was doing, and he was the very image of the country doctor, with his slightly baggy suit, thick white
hair and keen eyes. In his seventies, at a guess, and he radiated an air of calm she found soothing.

“How did you get hurt?” Byler nodded to her shoulder.

“He grabbed me.” She tried to say the words without reliving those moments, but it was impossible. For an instant she was back in the dark, fighting for her life. “He had something—a flashlight, maybe. I felt him swing it and jerked out of the way, but it hit my shoulder.”

“Certainly a flashlight,” the doctor said, pulling her robe away from her shoulder. “The marks of the cylinder are clear.” He probed delicately, moving her hand and arm.

“Is that when he ran?” Byler persisted.

She shook her head and then wished she hadn’t. “I felt the movement of his arm. He was swinging again. I…I kneed him as hard as I could, and he stumbled back.”

There was a faint gasp from Rhoda, and the doctor chuckled. “Good for you, my dear.” He held out his hand for the ice pack. “Let’s keep this on for a while.” He bent closer, effectively closing her off from the rest of the room. “Do you want to go to the hospital?” He asked softly. “You don’t need to, but I can get you in. Maybe a quiet night would be a good idea.”

Quiet. She knew what he was saying. He’d clap her in a hospital room where she wouldn’t be bothered by anyone, including the police chief with his questions.