Authors: Fern Michaels
Sara's Song (34 page)
“I don't know the man at all. However, Dr. Granger, one of our doctors, plays golf with him on a regular basis. He's on duty tonight. I could call him for you. Are you serious about reconsidering our earlier talk?”
“Yes. Dallas made a commitment to you, but he did it for all the wrong reasons. You accepted that commitment for the same wrong reasons. As I said, I'm giving it serious thought. I want you to understand, I'm not making a promise. I would appreciate it, Mr. Heinrick, if you would call Dr. Granger and get right back to me. Call me on my cell phone. Do you have a pencil?”
Ten minutes later, Adam's fist shot into the air a second time. “All this Dr. Granger knows is Iverson was really hung-up over some singer. He said he was like a lovesick teenager. Before the singer he was a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. Singer, Tom. It has to be Sandi Sims. Who else could it be? Heinrich said Granger told him she was blond and shapely. Iverson said her legs went all the way up to her neck. Said they were better than Tina Turner's legs. It might be a stretch, but it's all we have to go on.”
“So what's our next move?”
“Either we head back to the house for some warm clothing, or we rummage here for whatever is at hand. The housekeeper said the higher elevations were due for snow. If we're getting this kind of rain down here, it's safe to say it's snowing pretty hard higher up. On second thought, Dallas didn't have any heavy-duty clothing with the exception of a jacket. Look around and see what you can find. That goes for socks and boots.”
“Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“Is the judge the good guy or the bad guy?”
“I don't know, Tom. I don't think Sara knows either.”
“Do you think it was the judge who tossed the blow-dryer into the tub?”
“I don't know that either. I suppose it's possible if Sandi told him about the song. If he didn't know about the song, he would have no reason to stalk Sara. My money is on Sandi. While you're looking for the clothes, I'll see about a flashlight and some food.”
“We're going to look for Dr. Killian?”
“Unless you have a better idea. We have to try, Tom. At least I do. If you don't want to come along, it's okay.”
“Hey, count me in. I liked the lady. I just hate the cold weather. Let's hope the owner of this apartment has some long johns.”
Adam's voice was grim. “I'll put that on my list of things to hope for.”
Chapter Seventeen
Numb with cold, Sara banged on the truck's heat vent with her clenched fist. Her reward was a continuing blast of frigid air. She wanted to cry her frustration at the icy air roaring through the vents even when she turned the heater to the Off position. She was accustomed to an instant blast of warm air in her luxury Jaguar when the occasion warranted, not this rinky-dink heater that spewed cold air no matter what. Obviously Nellie didn't feel a need to have her heater checked for the short ride to the hospital from her apartment. To make matters worse, the windshield wipers were sluggish, their old blades caked with ice and snow.
Sara had only a vague idea of where she was beyond the fact that she was on Route 5 heading north. Careful to stay what she thought of as two car lengths behind the vehicle in front of her, Sara focused on the red taillights in the swirling snow. Somewhere along the way she'd lost track of time. If she were in the operating room, she would know to the split second how much time she had used up and how much time was left until it was time to suture her patient. This was a nightmare. She wasn't even sure now at what point the light snow had intensified to this blinding, swirling blizzard that was making her blood run cold. She was driving blind and she knew it, but as long as she could see the taillights of the car in front of her she felt a small measure of comfort. She couldn't help but wonder if the driver of the car behind her was feeling the way she was. Eventually she was going to have to pull over to the side of the road to chop at the ice on the wiper blades. How far to the right did she dare pull over? How much shoulder was there? What if the driver behind her slammed into her? Would she dare get out? Well, she had to, but definitely not on the driver's side of the car. Gingerly, she pulled over and stopped. There was no middle console in the truck so she slid over to the passenger side and got out that way. The only problem was she had no tool to chop at the ice. She longed for hot coffee and warm, dry gloves. Mittens actually, the kind her mother used to knit for her when they lived in Pennsylvania and she played in the snow. When they got wet there was always a dry pair waiting and they were always bright red, with white tassels at the wrist.
The gusty wind and snow slammed her against the side of the truck. Head down, her arm snaked out to grasp the broad ridge around the windshield where she grappled with the oversize blades. The ice and snow were at least an inch thick, impossible to break off. A sob caught in her throat. She lifted the blade and whacked it down on the windshield. Ice flew in all directions. slipping and sliding, she inched her way around the hood of the truck to do the same thing to the driver's blade: She had to bang it three times before she heard the chunks of ice skitter across the frozen snow on the hood of the truck.
Back in the driver's seat, Sara inched her way onto the road. The headlights behind her stayed with her as she tried to catch up to the pinpoints of red light ahead of her. Had the driver behind her stopped when she did? Was someone following her? Such a ridiculous thought. No one knew she was coming up here. Even the judge didn't know because she hadn't called to tell him she was coming. The person behind her was probably an ordinary citizen trying to get home to his family. The thought didn't make her feel any better.
What seemed like a long time later Sara almost fainted when she saw the neon lights on the side of the road. The car in front of her inched to the left; she followed suit as did the car behind her. She wanted to cry her relief, but knew the tears would freeze on her eyelashes and probably break off. God in heaven, would her eyeballs ever feel the same? And then she was inside the steamy, warm Mexican restaurant. She asked for the ladies' room where she ran her frozen hands under the faucet. She didn't think she'd ever be warm again. What she needed now was a gallon of hot coffee and some piping hot soup.
The restaurant seemed to be full. The chatter was of the storm and road conditions. Taking a high stool in what she surmised as the smoking area, Sara rummaged in her bag for one of the stale cigarettes she'd been carrying around with her for months. When she cupped her hands around the big heavy mug of coffee, she noticed that two of her fingernails were broken. Her hands were tingling, as were her feet. It didn't matter. She was starting to feel warm. She had no idea how she looked, and she didn't care. Nellie's clothing, while several sizes too big, was warm. She smoked the stale cigarettes, vowing never to buy another pack, while she drank cup after cup of coffee. When she felt warm enough and relaxed, she started to look around. The restaurant was small but crowded. When one table cleared, it filled almost immediately. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. A blast of arctic air swept through the restaurant when a four-man work crew entered. Sara scrutinized them carefully. They belonged. She was sure of it. They didn't even look in her direction. She looked around again but didn't recognize anyone. The driver of the car behind her was faceless and nameless. If he was still in the restaurant, she couldn't pick him out. She finished her bowl of bean soup and the two buttery tortillas. She promptly ordered a second bowl of soup because she had no idea when she'd eat again. She finished the soup, asked for one last refill on the coffee, and ordered coffee and a container of soup to go.
Her bladder protesting all the liquid she'd consumed, Sara headed for the bathroom, which smelled strongly of Pine-Sol. She admired the hand-knitted mittens on the young girl ahead of her in line. “I'll give you twenty-five dollars for them,” she blurted.
The girl giggled, and said, “Sold!”
“Can you tell me how to get to Alpine Forest from here?”
“You mean that gated community?”
“Yes, that's the one.”
“You have to have a pass to get in there. Do you have one?”
“Yes,” Sara lied. Nellie's truck was the only pass she needed. She was, after all, a pro at knocking down gates. She copied down the directions.
“We're going that way if you want to follow us,” the young girl said. “We'll blow the horn when you're supposed to turn off. Are you sure you want to pay me twenty-five bucks for these mittens?”
“I'm sure. My wipers keep freezing and the leather gloves I had on were useless. My mother used to knit mittens like yours, but they were red.”
The girl laughed. “My mother's favorite color is yellow. I have eleven yellow sweaters and four pairs of yellow mittens.” Sara smiled. Was she ever that young? She could remember when Carly was the same age as the young girl, but couldn't remember herself at that age. She shivered and wondered what it meant if anything.
“We'll wait for you by the door.”
“I won't be long,” Sara said.
Outside it seemed like the storm was worse. Sara pulled the drawstring on the parka hood tighter. The mittens felt warm and toasty.
“Now,
that's
a truck!” the young girl's companion said.
that's
a truck!” the young girl's companion said.
“It certainly is. It doesn't have a heater, or if it does, it doesn't work. I drove all the way from LA without heat.”
“Jeez,” the girl said. “This is my friend Buck. I'm Gina.”
“Do you want me to take a look at the heater for you?”
“If you wouldn't mind.”
“We'll sit in our truck, honey,” Gina said. “Make it work for this nice lady.”
Twenty minutes later the young man returned. “There is a little heat coming out. Not much. I think you'll be okay till you get to Alpine Forest. I cleaned off your wiper blades. Stay close behind us and when I blow the horn two sharp blasts you turn left. The roads are really bad, and you don't have chains. You need chains up here when it snows. If you had a set, I'd put them on for you.”
“Thank you so much. Can I pay you?”
“Absolutely not!” Gina said. “You already gave me twenty-five dollars.”
“Drive in first gear,” Buck said as he climbed into his own Dodge Ram.
“Okay. Thanks.” These young people were so fearless. The storm was a lark to them while she, on the other hand, was scared witless.
The young couple waved happily as they headed out of the parking lot, Sara right behind them. “I was never that young. I know I wasn't. I wasn't happy like they are either,” she muttered.
Visibility was nil. Even though she was literally riding the Ram's bumper, she could barely see the taillights ahead of her. She risked a quick look in the side mirror. Twin headlights were behind her. It didn't have to mean anything.
It seemed like an eternity later when she heard the two sharp blasts of the horn. She tapped her own lightly before she flicked her turn signal. She drove slowly toward the dim yellow light at the guard's station. There was no guard, and the gate was up. That was good. She wouldn't have to lie and make up excuses. Now, all she had to do was follow the arrows the judge had made on his map. His was the only cabin that didn't belong to the gated community. He'd explained that he had owned his land and the cabin since the late fifites, and he'd refused to sell out to the developer. The way he'd put it was, “I ignore them, and they ignore me.”
The moment she drove past the last street, Sara knew she was in trouble. There were no tire tracks to follow, no taillights to be seen. The judge had said to drive in a straight line and she would eventually come to a huge double tree at the end of his driveway. The oversize mailbox was cemented inside a brick pillar. The judge had said she'd have to be blind to miss it, and sure enough, when she climbed from the truck for the third time to scrape the ice from the wipers, she was in front of the mailbox. God must be watching over her. She climbed back into the truck and turned onto what she hoped was the driveway. A half mile down the road she glimpsed the dark shape of the cabin. She sobbed her relief as she grabbed the coffee and the soup in her mittened hands.
The key. Where was the key? Had the intruder taken it? No, she'd put it in the envelope with her birth certificate. Her hands fumbled through the papers and envelopes at the bottom of the bag. A mighty sigh escaped her when she felt the key through the envelope. Seconds later she was inside the cabin, which was as dark and cold as it was outside.
The fire was laid; all she had to do was light a match. Thank God the kindling and the logs were dry. Sparks showered upward, lighting up the huge room. Oil lamps were everywhere. She lit them all. While she waited for the logs to blaze, Sara prowled the cabin, dragging quilts and blankets to the hearth, where she spread them out. The kitchen had a potbellied stove, the logs waiting for her to strike a match. She remembered to open the damper before the fire took hold. She thanked God for the indoor bathroom. Obviously the judge had a septic tank somewhere outside. The giant woodbox that went all the way to the ceiling was loaded with clean dry logs. The cabinets in the kitchen were full of canned beans, canned spaghetti, tuna, and Spam. If need be, she could stay here for weeks and not starve.
The big question, though, was she safe here in this cabin? She saw the baseball bat in the corner by the door. Did the judge bring his grandson Jack up here? She decided it was as good a weapon as any, so she picked it up and carried it over to her makeshift bed to slide it under the down comforter. She heard a noise then. Her heart pounded in fear as she tried to decide if it was one of the logs splitting in the fire or someone outside. She looked around at the undraped windows that left her feeling vulnerable and exposed. Anyone outside could see every move she made. If there was someone out there with a gunâher gunâthey could shoot her through the window. She knew now that she had made a mistake coming here. She was truly trapped.
She moved to the darker corners of the kitchen. One by one she turned out the oil lamps. Now she could see the blinding whiteness beyond the windows. She moved quietly from one window to the next to see if there were any footprints to be seen. The pristine white snow was untouched. Outside the wind howled and shrieked. Inside, shadows that looked like obscene monsters danced on the walls of the cabin. The fear stayed with her.
She ran to the door, then, when she heard the same strange noise a second time. It sounded as if someone was on the roof. Was there an attic or crawl space in the cabin? Stupid, stupid, stupid. If there was space above the ceiling, the only entry would be from the inside via a pull-down ladder or a trapdoor. With a fire roaring up the chimney, no one would even think of coming down the way Santa did. There had to be a foot of snow on the roof, making footsteps soundless. An animal looking for warmth? The thought was so ridiculous, Sara grimaced. She felt like the sitting duck she was.
Sara eyed the only door in the cabin. It was sturdy and stout, like Nellie's truck. She knew little about architecture but the cabin looked like it was overbuilt. The beams and heavy black bolts and flanges were awesome, as if some warrior lived here who was securing his fortress. She had no idea what kind of wood the door and the cabin were made of. Not pine. Pine was a soft wood. Oak she thought. The heavy-duty bolts on the door pleased her. One was vertical and one was horizontal. The uncovered windows were another story. Multipaned, the wood in between the squares would shatter if someone threw something against them or tried to throw his body through the window. She asked herself what Carly would do in this situation. She'd probably rack her brain, trying to recall a movie where she'd seen the same scenario acted out and resolved in ninety minutes.
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