EDGE OF SUSPENSE: Thrilling Tales of Mystery & Murder (12 page)

If so, had she phoned others too? Or had
Peter been the only one she chose to call for some reason?

Jennifer debated whether or not to call 911.
The last thing she needed was to be the butt of someone's very poor
joke.

Or her husband's cheating ways.

But she had to do something.

Grabbing her cell phone, Jennifer called
911.

"Can you tell me if you've received any
reports tonight of a woman in a car accident in Carlson's
Canyon?"

"I'm not showing anything, Ma'am," the
operator said.

She had to be sure. "Could you please check
again?"

"Are you aware of such an accident?"

"My husband received a call from someone
claiming she was trapped in her car in Carlson's Canyon," she told
the operator.

"Did she say where exactly?"

"No."

"What's the name of the person involved in
the accident?"

"Jennifer," she said, feeling
uncomfortable.

"Last name?"

"I don't know her last name."

"What's your name?" the operator asked.

"Valerie Lane," she said, opting to use her
middle name to keep from making the situation even more
confusing.

"I'll notify the police, but I can't
guarantee how long it will take them to check it out. We've had an
unusual number of calls tonight due to the weather."

Jennifer hung up. She was having second
thoughts about the whole thing. Maybe she should just forget about
it. Peter obviously had. Now that she'd reported the alleged
accident, it was out of her hands.

But every second counted and time had
already been wasted since the woman called. How much longer would
she have to wait till help arrived?

At that moment, Jennifer made the decision
to do what she had wanted to ever since the caller had invaded her
world.

* * *

Jennifer went back to the bedroom. Peter was
lying on his side and showed no sign of waking up. She considered
briefly telling him about her desire to see if she could locate the
distressed woman, but was sure he would try to talk her out of it.
Especially if he had something—or someone—to hide.

No, this was something Jennifer had to do on
her own. She gathered her clothes and crept quietly into the
hallway.

She took an umbrella and her cell phone with
her.

Outside there was no sign of rain. Jennifer
wondered how they had managed to be spared nature's wrath.

Had Carlson's Canyon gotten the worst of
it?

She drove down Highway 219. Soon huge drops
of rain were pounding her windshield. Jennifer had to turn the
wipers on full speed just to see ahead. In the torrent she could
barely make out the sign that read: Welcome to Carlson's
Canyon.

Jennifer looked back at the road only to see
a deer suddenly appear out of nowhere directly in her path. It made
no effort to move, as if frozen by fear.

She slammed on the brakes, but realized it
was too late to keep from hitting the poor animal.

Just before the moment of impact, the car
swerved sharply to the right, then spun out of control. Jennifer
screamed and put her hands up defensively as the car veered off the
road, overturning several times down a steep slope before landing
upside down.

When Jennifer came to, she was upside down
with the seatbelt holding her in place. Groggy and in a great deal
of pain, she somehow managed to reach down and pick up her cell
phone. She punched the speed dial to her house. A flash of
lightning lit up her cracked windshield.

"Hello," the voice bellowed sleepily in
Jennifer's ear. It was Peter.

Hearing his voice gave her hope. "Peter,"
she moaned. "Help..."

"Who is this?" she heard him say.

"It's me...Jennifer." She grimaced, certain
her legs were broken as well as one of her arms.

"Jennifer?" Peter repeated. "Look, who the
hell are you and why do you keep calling here saying you're
Jennifer?"

Her immediate reaction was anger rather than
the crippling pain and weakness that wracked her body. "I'm your
wife. Why are you acting this way?" She tried to conserve her
energy. "I've been in an accident... Carlson's Canyon... Lost
control of the car on a rain slick road. It overturned..."

There was a long pause.

"Jenn...is that you?" Peter asked.

"Yes," she cried.

Another pause.

"You drove to Carlson's Canyon?"

"I had to try to find her," she said.

"Who?"

It was only in a moment of clarity that
Jennifer knew who the mystery woman was, even if she couldn't
explain it.

"Me. I had to find myself, Peter." She
swallowed. "And put the past where it belongs so I could focus on
our future."

Peter seemed to understand what she was
saying.

"Hold on, sweetheart," he pleaded. "I'm on
my way. Don't you dare die on me! I love you, Jenn. I swear no one
will ever come between us again."

"I love you too," she told him, knowing that
she had become the victim of her own nagging doubts.

Peter had passed the test of faithfulness
and Jennifer was sure they would have the rest of their lives to
work on making each other happy beyond words.

# # #

DEATH BY TRIAL AND
ERROR

She wanted to kill the bloody bastard.

But how?

Run him down with her car?

She could imagine him begging for his life
as he lay wounded in the street, bones broken from head to toe. She
would make him suffer before once more rolling the car over the
damaged goods.

And again, until the life had been snuffed
out of him.

Perhaps she should lace his chicken noodle
soup with cyanide?

She would get a great thrill out of seeing
him clutch his burning throat in a desperate attempt to relieve his
agony. Or roll his eyes from a combination of the poison taking
effect and the sheer disbelief of it all.

She would dance with delight watching him
squirm on the floor as if he had been possessed by the devil
himself.

And in that final moment of distress between
life and death, she would laugh at him spitefully, the way he
surely had been laughing at her for the last six months. Or however
long it had been since he'd decided sharing another woman's bed
gave him more pleasure and passion than sharing hers.

It was exactly one week ago that Harrison
had told her about his affair. His intonation, usually deep with
assurance and rich with confidence, had come across as flat and
unrepentant. She felt as if she had been lowered into molten lava.
Or told that she had a malignant brain tumor. The pain could not
have been any worse.

"What—?" The word had shot from her mouth
like a cannon. She was certain she had misunderstood him. Or even
if she had understood him correctly, he surely couldn't have meant
that which she feared most.

Perhaps he was only playing with her,
looking for some sort of reaction. He often liked teasing her,
telling her things that would incense her, only to laugh playfully
like a schoolboy who had pulled up a schoolgirl's dress merely for
the sake of fun and frolic.

She hated that part of Harrison, the power
he had over her to bring her to the brink of tears, to make her
feel her whole world was about to collapse; then just as easily
make her believe she had the whole world and all its blessings in
the palm of her hand.

With him being her most cherished
blessing.

Yes, he brought out the best and worst in
her, often with merely a gesture, a smile, a frown, a comment, or
some other manner of communication that could only exist between a
husband and wife.

She looked at him standing in the doorway of
the bedroom. For an instant, it was as if she had traveled back in
time some two decades earlier when she first met Harrison Kincaid
and fell in love with him the moment he flashed his megawatt smile
at her. He was tall and solidly built, as if to her specifications.
Dark, wavy hair was swept to the side and his eyes were a deep
shade of blue. They were the kind of eyes that penetrated to the
depths of your soul when he looked at you. She thought he was the
most handsome man she'd ever seen.

And he still was.

It had been a childless marriage, borne as
much from genetic mismatches as the decision to forgo having
children in favor of their careers and each other.

He had gotten up, careful not to wake her,
and dressed as if it was just another day in the life of Harrison
Kincaid: author, lecturer, philanthropist, and asshole. She
wondered how long he had stood there watching her, probably
replaying his revelation over and over in his mind, trying to think
of how best to let her down easily. For all Harrison's faults, he
had always tried to cushion the blow when he had something bad to
tell her, as if he could somehow come across as an angel of mercy
rather than the devil in disguise.

Sitting up in bed, Emma suddenly felt more
vulnerable than she ever had in her life. She saw herself as a
forty-five-year-old hag with breasts that had begun to sag, hips
that had expanded every year, and thighs that were beginning to
resemble something akin to cauliflower. Her hair, once a lustrous
shade of crimson, had become thin, flat, and seemed determined to
remain a convoluted gray no matter how many different dyes she
applied to it. Crow's feet had taken up permanent residence at the
corners of her rich green eyes. Her taut porcelain skin was now
dull and wrinkled.

She wondered if he saw her the same way. Had
she grown too old and unattractive? Was she no longer enough for
him now that he had begun to sense his own mortality at the age of
forty-eight?

Had he really betrayed her in the worst way
that a husband could ever betray a wife?

He seemed to be reading her mind as he
stared at her without blinking. He remained wedged inside the
doorway, as if to come closer would only make what he had to say
that much more difficult. His lips were opened slightly as if
trying to say words that wouldn't come out. She noticed the deep
furrow on his brow and couldn't help but think that he suddenly
looked every bit his age and some.

Finally, he stepped into the room and up to
the foot of the bed. He turned away, as if he could not stand the
sight of her, before meeting her gaze head on.

"I said I'm involved with another
woman—"

This time there was no mistaking his
meaning. He was having a sexual relationship with someone else. He
had forsaken their marriage vows to be with someone who was
probably younger, sexier, able to bear his children, and
brainless.

Even then, painful as it was, she wanted to
make him tell her in clear English what he meant.

And tell her who this woman was.

She was wearing a nightgown—a blue silk gown
he had given her for their twenty-fifth anniversary this very year.
But she felt naked, as if she had just been violated, and pulled
the covers up over her chest.

"I'm not a mind reader, Harrison," she said
as nonchalantly as possible. "What the hell are you talking about?
You mean you're involved with a woman on yet another committee for
dealing with substance abuse or illiteracy?" Aside from his
writing, Harrison had practically made a career out of taking on
various causes for making the world a better, kinder place to
live.

Now she wondered if he had been thinking
more about
his
world.

His eyes hardened and his lower lip
quivered. "For heaven's sake, Emma, don't make this any more
difficult than it already is."

She felt the bile rise in her throat.
Glaring at him, she said, "If you expect me to make this easy for
you, you're sorely mistaken." She could feel her heart slamming
against her chest like a hammer. Did she really want to hear what
he had to say? Might this all somehow turn out to be a bad
dream—someone else's bad dream—if she refused to listen to any more
of this?

But Emma knew she must listen. She wanted
to—
had to
—hear all the gory details of his betrayal. It was
the only way she could possibly come to terms with it.

And deal with him.

* * *

Maybe it would be better if she shot him
between the eyes?

She had become an expert markswoman thanks
to him and his fascination with guns. She would make sure that the
last thing he ever saw with those smug, deceiving eyes was the
hatred he had created in her before she pulled the trigger.

Then, for good measure, she would shoot him
down there between his legs where he had taken what was hers and
given it to someone else.

Someone who had no right to him.

Someone who hadn't been through the ordeals,
stresses, and strains he had put her through.

Someone who hadn't bankrolled his
aspirations for years till they finally began to pay off.

Someone who hadn't invested years in a
marriage that was supposed to be till death do them part.

She found him in the study that morning,
having said that he would wait for her there while she got dressed.
She had not argued, having no desire to hear about his infidelity
in the bedroom of all places.

Their bedroom
.

Had she slept with him in there?

Had they made love in
their
bed?

Over and under their sheets and
blankets?

Harrison had taken the liberty of fixing
them both a drink. Emma suspected that this was probably his third
or fourth this morning. He wasn't a heavy drinker by and large. But
that didn't stop him from indulging whenever it suited his fancy,
usually to calm his nerves.

Or guilt.

She took the glass he gave her, but didn't
drink from it.

"I never planned for this to happen,"
Harrison uttered pathetically. "It just did—"