Chill Waters

CHILL WATERS

By Joan Hall Hovey

ISBN: 978-0-9867514-5-5

PUBLISHED BY:

Books We Love Publishing Partners (BWLPP)

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

Canada

Copyright © 2009 by Joan Hall Hovey

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Praise for Joan Hall Hovey's novels

CHILL WATERS

"…a stunning, multi-layered, modern-day gothic, told with the unforgettable style and grace of a true master of suspense…"

—
Rendezvous Magazine

"…a chilling hold-your-breath-as you-turn-the-pages novel of such depth and credibility, it's hard to remember that it's fiction and won't be headlined in the daily news…"

—
Evelyn Gale, All About Murder Reviews.

"…a well-written suspense that will have your locking doors, turning on all the lights…"

—
Hattie Boyd, Scribes World

"…as good a thriller as I have ever read…a superb tale of terror and suspense that puts her right up there with the likes of Sandford and Patterson…"

—
Ingrid Taylor for Small Press Review

"…Fans of Mary Higgins Clark will enjoy this author! I was on the edge of my seat the entire time …Great story…"

Detra Fitch, Huntress Book Reviews

A winner!! With her usual ability, the talented author has caught the sense of menace and carried it throughout…a taut, chilling tale..Highly recommended."

—
Anne K. Edwards, BookReviews.net

"…a taut thriller that combines well-drawn vivid characters with an engaging plot? …a magnetically likeable heroine…Rachael's transformation from walking wounded to feisty survivor will leave you cheering."

—
Kristin Johnson, Myshelf.com

"Joan Hall Hovey clearly takes her place among today's contemporary writers as this page-turner can compete with any mystery novel on the shelves…"

—
Linda Hersey, Fredericton Gleaner.

It’s like a lion at the door;

And when the door begins to crack,

It’s like a stick across your back;

And when your back begins to smart,

It’s like a penknife in your heart;

And when your heart begins to bleed

You’re dead, and dead, and dead, indeed
.

—Anonymous; Nursery Rhyme

One

He stood near the ancient gnarled apple tree that for years now had produced only sour, wizened apples, waiting for her. The hot thick air hummed with the chirping of crickets. Behind him, an occasional fat June bug bumped against the screen door, drawn by the night-light. Now and then a car passed by, seeming only to emphasize his sense of aloneness. Not much traffic on Elder Avenue since they built the thruway.

Three houses down, Nealey’s old black lab set to barking excitedly at something – a raccoon scavenging in a garbage can, most likely, but it could just as well be shadows. The mutt had a game leg and was as deaf as his mother’s turquoise plastic crucifix that hung on the wall above the TV. The old man oughta have him done away with, put the damn thing out of its misery. Maybe I’ll do it for him one of these days, he thought, a grin playing at one corner of his cruel mouth. As he retrieved the pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, he heard Nealey’s door open, heard the old man’s low, gravelly voice call the dog inside.

He gazed up at the starry sky, grin fading as he envisioned Marie and that hotshot kid in the fruity white blazer slow dancing under these very stars. Bodies molded together, the kid’s hands moving over her, groping… his breath hot in her ear…

With a muttered curse, he shook his head as if to banish the image, checked an impulse to crush the pack of cigarettes in his hand. Instead, he struck a match against the tree, but his hand was unsteady and it took a few tries before he managed to get it lit. Leaning his back against the tree he closed his eyes. The rough bark of the tree stabbed like jagged stone through his thin nylon jacket. He sucked smoke into his lungs, exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself.

He wasn’t usually a heavy smoker, but four hours later, when he finally heard the car drive up, a small mound of butts had accumulated beside him on the ground.

With slow deliberation, he mashed this latest one out too, and rose to his feet. Although stiff from sitting, at the same time a power born of rage surged through his veins like electricity.

Music drifted through the open car windowa soppy Manilou ballad about a girl named Mandy. Above the music, her laugh floated to him, high and lilting as wind chimes. Mocking him. The flirtatious note in her laugh made his throat tighten, his hands curl into fists at his sides. But it was the maddeningly long silence that followed, while the music went on playing, that made him want to fly at them, yank them both out of the car and beat that scummy kid with her until he had to crawl home through his own blood. He wanted to do it. He saw himself doing it.

It took all his will to remain where he was.

At last she got out of the car. He could see the pale flare of her skirt through the leaves.

“Night, Ricky. I had a really nice time.”

“Yeah, me too. Okay if I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“You wanna go to a movie?
Christine’s
playing at the Capital.”

“Sounds great.”

The car door closed with a solid
thunk
. The kid’s old man was a dentist; the car was a graduation present.

As Marie turned away and started up the path toward him, the kid gunned the motor and drove off, taillights glowing like twin rockets, swiftly disappearing into the night.

Now the only sounds were the crickets and the soft click of her shoes on the cement walk. Yet she looked to be almost floating toward him, her white, strapless dress blue in the moonlight.

When she left the house tonight, her black glossy hair had been swept up into a satiny swirl, a few wispy curls trailing down past her ears; now it was messed up. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he moved deeper into the shadows.

Her pearl drop earrings swayed lightly above her bare shoulders as she walked. He knew how smooth those shoulders would feel beneath his hands because he’d touched them before. He had touched
her
. Had tasted the warm, throbbing hollow of her traitorous throat, crushed her mouth beneath his own, sometimes to silence her crying.

Even now, he could taste her salty tears on his tongue.

As she drew nearer to where he stood in the clot of darkness, she touched her fingertips to her mouth, a small secret smile on her lips like the goddamn Mona Lisa. Face all soft and dreamy—all of it for someone else—never for him.

He waited until she was directly parallel to him, then stepped out of the shadows. He enjoyed hearing her gasp of shock, in seeing her hand leap to her breast in fright, the smile vanish as she stumbled on the walkway, nearly falling.

“Damn you! You scared me half to death. What’s wrong with you? Why are you always sneaking around? Always watching me. Can’t I have one normal…”

His hand clamped hard and sudden over her mouth, cutting off her words. It made him feel good to see those lovely eyes widen with shock, then fear. Fear that turned swiftly to terror, then to pleading. But it was too late for that. Too late. The beast had risen up in him.

“It’s midnight, Cinderella,” he whispered.

Two

It was past noon and Rachael had to admit to herself that she was lost. She’d either missed the road leading down to Jenny’s Cove, or hadn’t come to it yet.

Her shoulders ached with tension and she was sweating in the heavy bulky sweater. Chilly when she left this morning, the day now hung around her like a steam bath. The eight-year-old Cavalier, among its other problems, had no air-conditioning. Resentment stabbed her as she pictured Greg’s red Mustang in the drive.
No, that’s Greg’s car; I’ve rather have heatstroke.
Raking damp hair from the nape of her neck, tugging at the prickly wool sweater glued to her skin, it seemed she just might.

She considered stopping somewhere and changing into a cotton blouse, but everything was packed up, either in the bags on the back seat, or in boxes in the trunk. Anyway, Jenny’s Cove had to be somewhere around here, didn’t it? It couldn’t just have disappeared into thin air.

“Happy birthday, Rachael. Maybe you’ll spend your forty-fifth year trying to find out where the hell you are.” The irony was not lost on her.

She massaged tired, burning eyes with the heel of her hand. Didn’t get much sleep last night. She’d lain awake listening for Greg’s car in the drive. Habit. The green numbers on the clock glowed 3:12 a.m. when she finally heard it. He came upstairs, walked past their door and went into Jeff’s old room where he’d been sleeping for the past three weeks. Except there was a difference now—now that she knew. A defiant guilt maybe.

A silo sprang up in her rearview mirror and she eased up on the gas. Further on, she passed an old farmhouse with a scattering of outbuildings. Brown and white Guernsey cows languished in a field, some stood still as statues beneath a spreading elm tree, trying to find relief from the heat.

A small boy in overalls and a striped tee shirt waved to her as she drove past, the thumb of his free hand propped in his mouth. She thought of stopping to warn him of inherent dangers, but a semi bellowed impatiently behind her, then roared passed, a blast of wind buffeting her car.

Glancing in her rearview mirror, she was relieved to see a woman with a baby in her arms, hurrying down the driveway toward the little boy.

Rachael refocused her attention on the vaguely familiar landscape, sure that once this had been all farmland – fields stretching like patchwork quilts. Barns and silos. Now it wasn’t so different from the suburbia she had left behind, with its streets winding up through fashionable developments.

As she drove on, her thoughts drifted back to Greg, the needle slipping easily into the raw groove of her soul, to the very moment when life as she’d known it, stopped. And that was the reason she was on this road, trying to find a house she hadn’t seenmade no effort to seesince she was sixteen years old.

Three weeks ago, Tuesday, he’d called to say that he’d be working late again. Dinner was on the table; she’d cooked all his favorites. Swallowing her hurt, she snuffed the candles, cleared the food away. No use complaining. It only made him angry and defensive. She told herself she needed to be more understanding. Greg was under a lot of pressure with the new job. He wasn’t used to being tied to a desk. He liked being on the road.