With Deadly Intent (21 page)

The locksmith said he could be at the cottage by 2 p.m., so she dialed her father's
number. She hoped he wouldn't ask a lot of questions. He'd have to know what had
happened, but she had a feeling he was already beginning to doubt Oren. Perhaps, if they
were together when she told him, she could explain—she shivered—explain what?

Simon answered the telephone on the first ring. “He's taking a nap,” he said when she
asked for her father. “You want me to give him a message?”

She sighed. Simon would put her on the hot seat regardless of whether he heard her story
now or tonight. She recounted her day starting with the more mundane events and
finishing with the horror in her apartment. But, she remembered to omit Salgado's
reference to the previous message she'd received.

When she finished, he didn't say a word for a long anxious moment. Finally, he cleared
his throat and asked softly, “Are you all right?”

His gentleness caused tears to gather in her throat. “I was pretty shook up at first, but
I'm okay now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm"—her voice broke—"that's a lie. I'm scared, real scared. He's targeted Dad, now
you ... Simon, what if it wasn't Dr. Tambor?”

He drew a ragged breath. “Come home, Amy. Lock your car doors and keep them locked. And
don't get out of the car while you're on the ferry. Do you"—his voice dwindled, and he
started again—"do you have a gun?”

Oh, hell! After Cleo died, she'd searched for the damned thing, but hadn't found it.
Since then, she hadn't found the right moment to ask her father if he had the .38. She
inhaled and let the air trail from her mouth. “Yeah, I have one, but I don't have it
with me.”

His breath trembled in and out. “Just come home. Come home
now
.”

“I will. I'll leave as soon as I hang up.”

“Be careful, Amy. Don't trust anyone, whether you know them or not. Not anyone, you
hear?”

The journey frayed her nerves but proved uneventful. Nevertheless, when she reached home,
she parked in her father's driveway to assure her car wouldn't be vandalized. He had
flood lights outlining the paved semi-circle. Unfortunately, he seldom remembered to use
them and she suspected they weren't on the night his car and phone were sabotaged. She
made a mental note to lecture him. From now on, his grounds must be kept well lighted.
And if she intended to spend time at the beach house, they'd have to have an electrician
put in some outside lights.

She stared through the windshield at ragged clumps of purple chrysanthemums and scowled.
It wasn't right. They shouldn't have to make their homes into fortresses.

She locked the car and entered the house, expecting to find Simon waiting anxiously by
the front door. He wasn't there and didn't answer her call. She set the box containing
the cellular phone in the hall closet and went to see her father. He had to know about
the dead rats and the chilling message on her mirror.

That evening, they gathered in her father's room while she stood at the easel. She turned
to the page labeled Dr. Tambor, wrote each of their names in individual circles, then
listed the possible links Simon and her father suggested. The sketch was as smudged and
confused as her mind when they finished.

“Better start a page on Roger Norman,” Simon said. “I had a friend do some checking.
Norman doesn't have a telephone and has never had a utility account.”

“He could be staying with someone.” She chewed a fingernail. “Why would he buy a car? The
fellow I had go through the files says he doesn't have a driver's license.”

“A lot of people drive without licenses,” B.J. said. “Besides, he may have wanted it for
parts.”

“The car's not that old, B.J.” Simon drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Oren
says he took it in for a fifty thousand mile check-up three weeks ago. The mechanic said
the car was in tip-top shape. Wanted to know what Elise would take for it. Oren said she
laughed when he told her.”

Amy wrinkled her forehead. “Yet, she sold it a week and a half later without a word to
him. Would she do such a thoughtless thing?”

Simon's mouth pulled in at the corners. “Oh, yes.” He massaged his clenched knuckles.
“Without a second thought.”

“How could you and Oren ...?” She stopped and forced a smile. “Guess what? Gail says the
hit-and-run vehicle has had three paint jobs—navy blue, red, and metallic blue.”

“Has Gail run it through the NAPF?” B.J. asked.

“Not yet.” Amy studied her scrawled notes on the sheet of newsprint with a feeling of
impotence. “We'll have to watch our step until we find out who's at the bottom of all
this.”

“Looks that way,” B.J. said. “But in my opinion, we'll be fairly safe so long as we're on
the island. A person would have to be crazy to risk coming here again.”

“Even if he's using disguises? I don't know. Dad.” She noticed the weary droop to his
shoulders and set the easel in the corner. “You'd better get some sleep.” She paused in
the doorway. “What'd Virgil say about your motor?”

“Pulled coil wires. He had to tow it in anyway, so I told him to do a tune-up at the same
time.”

As she and Simon went down the hall, he squeezed her hand. “Glad you're home.” His cheeks
and the tips of his ears turned faintly pink. “You're a comfortable person to have
around.”

Comfortable!
She didn't want to be comfortable. She wanted to be alluring,
intriguing, or seductive. Any damned thing
except
comfortable.

He stooped to peer into her face. “Why the odd expression?”

“You're adept at giving back-handed compliments.”

He thrust out his chin. “I've recently discovered how restful a comfortable woman can be.
Julie was seldom quiet.” He ran his hand over his face. “Pushing, always pushing. Change
jobs, move to New York, make a name for yourself. Drove me nutty.”

“Oh...” She broke into a smile. “In that case, thank you.” Her smile broadened. “Thank
you very much.” Score one point for her. She laughed out loud when he blinked owlishly
at her confusing comment.

After making a thorough security check of the house and making certain the outside lights
were on, she opened the front door and started out.

Simon pulled her back. “I'll go first.”

She scowled at him. “Since when are you bullet proof?”

Simon met her fierce gaze with his own. “Either you do it my way or neither one of us
goes out that door.”

She blew out her breath. “Wait until I ask Dad where he put my gun.”

“Forget it. He's already upset, he doesn't need any more excitement right now.” He turned
off the lights in the foyer and on the porch. “I'll let you know when to turn them back
on.”

She clutched the sleeve of his jacket. “You shouldn't be taking such a chance.”

He disengaged her fingers. “Good investigative reporters don't let danger stop them.” He
slipped out the door.

She stood in the darkness listening to the heavy fearful beats of her heart. Five minutes
passed, then ten. She felt pain and realized her nails were digging into the palms of
her hands. She jumped at a soft knock on the door.

“All clear, Amy.”

He was safe. Her legs went weak. She clung to the umbrella stand for a half minute before
she could close up the house and join him.

During the walk to the cottage, he stayed close to her side. When they arrived, she
locked the new deadbolts while he checked windows, pulled drapes, and closed the shades.
That done, they smiled tentatively at each other and settled down.

Evidently, they'd marked out their space the night before. Simon claimed the dining
alcove and she the living room. Radio reception on the island was poor so they worked in
silence. She thought briefly of playing records, but decided not to risk it. She felt
much too vulnerable. If he put his arms around her tonight, she might do something she'd
regret.

At ten o'clock, she set her textbooks aside. She knew she should call good night from a
safe distance. Instead she went to the kitchen, ran water, filled a glass, and drank it
slowly. When she finished, she sauntered into the dining alcove. Trailing her fingers
along the edge of the table, she said, “I'm going to bed. It's been an exhausting day.”

He blocked the progress of her fingers with his own. “I started my book today.”

She smiled at him. “I'm glad for you.”

His forefinger stroked the length of hers. “You people give me room to breathe. Julie
never did.”

She opened her eyes wide. His second criticism of his wife in one evening.

“Whenever I was in the study writing, she'd come in and want to discuss the bills, or
some project of hers.” A muscle bunched along his jaw. “Our marriage had lots of cracks.
I'm not sure it would have survived much longer.”

She sighed. “I know the feeling.” To her surprise, he pulled her over to where he sat and
rested his cheek on her breast. Warmth suffused her body. She caressed his hair and let
her hand glide to his face. How could she want him and not want him at the same time?
She closed her eyes.
Our egos are fragile, Simon. We must be very, very careful.

Simon turned until his lips brushed her palm. “You and I are kind of like recovering
alcoholics. Only we're luckier. Since we're friends, we can lean on each other.”

He lifted his head. “I don't want you to misunderstand, so I'll try to say this right.”
His earnestness sharpened the lines of his face. “Amy, if you should ever need a ... a
man for ... for any reason. I'm ... I'm available.”

For a second, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She forced a chuckle, snatched a
fly swatter from a hook, and tapped his shoulder. “I dub thee. Sir Simon of the kitchen
table.”

The corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled, but he kept a straight face. “Dammit, woman,
I'm serious.”

“I know, and it's incredibly sweet of you.” She touched his lips with hers, said good
night, and hurried up the stairs. If she'd stayed a second longer, she'd have been lost.

She undressed, put on thick, flannel pajamas, surveyed herself in the mirror, and
discarded them in favor of a foamy sea-green satin nightgown. After getting into bed,
she found herself too keyed up to sleep. She took a pocket book mystery from her night
stand drawer and began to read.

Three pages into the story she found she didn't have the faintest idea what she'd read.
Each moment that passed her consciousness of Simon's presence increased. At last she
heard him coming up the stairs. His footsteps stopped at her door. She held her breath
and willed him to come in. If he took her into his embrace and kissed her, her
cautioning inner voice would be silenced—for the time being at least.

“Night, Amy,” he called.

She sank back on the pillow and closed her eyes. Another opportunity flubbed.

At 2 a.m., the shrilling of the phone awakened her. She fumbled for the receiver and
said, hello.

“This is White Bird, Montana,” the operator said.

The words jolted Amy wide awake.
The trustee at Marchmont Hospital. It had to be
her.
A picture of the skittish blonde file clerk flashed through her mind, and
brought her upright. She snapped on the light. “Yes?”

“Will you accept a collect call from Francine Anseth?”

“Yes. Yes. Put her on.”

“This is Francie Anseth,” a faint voice said. “Do you remember me?”

Amy's heart gave an excited leap. She must take great care. The woman frightened easily.
“Of course, I asked you to call me about Elise.”

“I can't talk long. It's not safe.” Jerky little breams underscored her words. “I warned
her, Doctor. I ... I warned Elise about him, but I was too late. He'd already gotten to
her.”

“Who Francine?”

“Bull, the randy old bastard. She wasn't the first, nor the last.”

Amy began to shiver. Make sure. Make very sure. “Bull? Who's that?”

“That fine, upstanding sonuvabitch Wade Marchmont, that's who.” Francie gulped air and
rushed on. “She didn't want the abortion, but he insisted.”

Amy's mind reeled. “Did Dr. Yates do it?”

“Mona and me crawled into the ventilator tube and watched the whole thing. Yates was
boozed-up as usual. Kept telling Marchmont she was too far along. Then the damned old
fool passed out before he was finished.”

Before he was finished! Good Lord. Even under ideal conditions an abortion had some
risk.
“W-what—” She fought to control her shaky voice. “What happened?”

“Bull grabbed an instrument and did something inside her. God, you never saw so much
blood. It just gushed out of her. Nearly made us sick. She—” A rustling noise came over
the line. “I think somebody's coming.”

“Wait, Francine. Is the abortion why she left the hospital and came to Seattle?”

“Left the hospital? That's a laugh. Only one person has ever gotten out of this hell
hole. I gotta go.”

“But Elise did get away. She came to Seattle.”

“Elise didn't go nowhere.” Francine's voice thinned to a thready whisper. “She died. She
died right there on that table four years ago.”

She had to tell Simon. Amy threw back the blankets and dashed into the hall. Light shone
from beneath his door. She tapped lightly and stepped inside. In his restless tossing,
Simon's bed covers had slid off. He lay half on his side, his left leg hooked over the
rounded fiberglass curve of the cast on his right.

She stared at the naked length of him. Russet, tightly curled hair spread across his
chest, dwindled to a fine line, and spread once more in the shadowed pubic area.

She tried to evaluate him with a strictly professional eye, and failed. God, what a
beautiful body—lean, muscular, not an ounce of flab. That night in White Bird he'd been
wearing long underwear and she had scarcely seen or touched him.