With Deadly Intent (10 page)

They brought to mind the mountains at home, and from somewhere in her subconscious, an
idea Surfaced. “I wonder how Elise got from Seattle to the ferry dock last Friday?”

Simon gazed out the window at the harsh, shrub-dotted scenery. “She used to own a sports
car.”

“Suppose she still owned one. Where would it be?”

“Possibly at the ferry dock in either Anacortes or Faircliff.” He chewed his lip. “I
should think the sheriff would have checked that out first thing.”

“Probably. I haven't talked to Tom Calder and he's not apt to tell me much when I do.
But, if he hasn't found her car, we should try to. It could be important.”

“I'll scout around when we get back.” He fiddled with the heater control. “This thing is
blowing cold air.” Nothing he did seemed to bring forth heat, finally he turned it off.
“We're going to get damned cold, Amy. Maybe we'd better turn around.”

“Let's chance it. Shouldn't take us more than thirty minutes to get to White Bird.”

“Okay ... but just remember weather like this can be deadly”

She shivered. “I don't doubt it.” The road straightened and her optimism rose as she
increased her speed. The restful interval lasted for only a few miles before rough,
pot-holed pavement slowed her to a crawl. Then it began to snow. The flakes weren't the
big, fat, lazy kind—these whirled m a white mass. They upset her depth perception,
disoriented her, and made her dizzy;

Her concentration became so intense, she jumped when Simon spoke. “Hm-m-m? ... What did
you say?”

“Can you feel your toes and fingers?”

She tried to think. “I don't know. They're just kind of a dead weight.”

“Stop the car.”

She stepped on the brake but had no sensation of doing so.

“Stamp your feet. Slap your hands together, blow on them.”

She did as he instructed.

“Anything?”

“They feel as if I could break them off like dried sticks.”

“Get out of the car.”

She stared at him. “Into that? You must be nuts.”

“Do it, dammit, and don't give me any argument.” He got out on his side and teetered on
one leg, so she reluctantly opened her door. “Run around the car. When you feel your
feet you can stop.” He balanced himself by holding onto the door and began to hop up and
down.

She pulled up the hood of her coat and stuffed numb fingers in her pockets. Stiff legged
as a female Frankenstein, she began to clump around the Toyota. She skidded and fell on
the slippery blacktop.

“You all right?” Simon grabbed his crutches and started toward her.

“No, no ... stay where you are.” She pushed herself upright. “You don't need any more
fractures.” Ice-edged sleet stinging her face, she slogged round and round. Finally, she
slumped against a fender beside him.

“Better?”

“Slightly.” She plodded around to her side of the car. Each creaky movement of her joints
took twice as much effort as usual and with the return of circulation came pain. She got
inside and sat down before the cramps began in earnest.

“Damn, oh, damn.” She gripped the steering wheel and clinched her teeth in an attempt to
hide her agony, yet a whimper escaped her.

“Hurts like hell, doesn't it?”

She could only nod.

“As a rule, my internal heater keeps me warm, but one night in China, I thought I'd
bought it for sure. An old man found me and thawed me out. Then I really wanted to die.”

By the time she'd recovered enough to go on, the snow had changed to bigger, slower
flakes. With improved visibility, she hoped the remaining miles would go faster.

The road wound through the mountains, growing steeper and rougher with every turn of the
wheels and another hour passed before she began to see scattered hovels perched on the
hillsides. Black smoke billowed from tin stove pipes protruding from tarpaper roofs.
Hunks of cardboard patched broken windows and at least three half-dismantled cars
littered each yard.

Simon looked at her and grinned impishly. “Want to go halves on one of these cozy little
bungalows?”

She laughed. “Doubt if I could afford it. Real estate values must be out of sight.”

The town was situated in a narrow cleft with cliffs rising on either side. Tufts of
frost-blackened grass sprouted from cracked sidewalks, a row of half-dead trees pointed
broken white snags at the sky. In the distant past, a stonemason had erected half a
dozen ponderous rough granite structures. All were square with few windows and the man
had made no attempt to soften or beautify the stern facades. Several of the buildings
appeared vacant—doors stood ajar, windows had been smashed, and wild, untrimmed
shrubbery surrounded them.

“Beautiful downtown White Bird.” Simon rubbed a hole in the steam clouded windshield and
peered out. “There's a restaurant up ahead. Let's grab a bite, then use their rest room
to change into our powerhouse duds.”

She glanced at her watch. Simon had an appointment with Marchmont Hospital's
administrator at two-thirty. She had one with the Director of Nurses at three. “Ought to
work out just right.”

Inside, wonderful warmth enveloped her. Sharp tingling in her fingers and toes blunted
her enjoyment and she sought to ignore it by looking over the place. Spurs, bridles,
horse shoes, and blackened cattle brands decorated weathered barn board walls. They
found a booth upholstered in saddle tan vinyl and sat down.

Simon flashed a big smile when a waitress detached herself from a counter where she'd
been leaning and came toward them. “Now watch the old Kittredge charm.”

The young woman raised and lowered thickly mascaraed lashes and curved carmine lips into
a smile. “Did you fall off your horse, Lancelot?”

Simon's smile broadened. “Nope, a dragon took a bite out of it.”

An ample hip clad in lime green nylon brushed his arm. “That's a crying shame. Good men
are hard to find.” She pulled a pencil from her thatch of permed blonde hair, wet the
tip, and leaned toward him displaying an astounding amount of cleavage. “See anything
you'd like to have?”

Simon's amused gaze met Amy's over the edge of the menu and his right eyebrow lifted ever
so slightly as if to say, ‘Told you so.' She returned it with a ‘We'll see' expression.
As she sat back to watch, she realized their relationship had taken several steps
forward. Although she'd known him only four days, they were already able to communicate
with eye signals.

“What would you suggest?” Simon asked.

The waitress ran the tip of her tongue along her lip. “You want something cold"—her
glance slid to Amy and back to Simon—"or something hot.”

Amy covered a smile and Simon's cheeks reddened. “Soup,” he said hastily. “Any kind. I
need something to warm the inner man.”

She tossed her head. “You need some educatin' fella.” She favored Amy with a bland,
disinterested look and took her order.

“You lived here long?” Simon asked, after she put her order book in her pocket.

“All my life.”

He bestowed a smile that brought forth a dimple in his cheek. “Maybe you could help me.
I'm trying to locate a woman by the name of Elise Dorset. She was born in White Bird.
Have you ever heard of her or her family?”

“You a reporter?” Her gaze darted around the room. “People in White Bird don't take to
reporters.”

“No, no, nothing like that. I'm doing a family genealogy. The Dorsets are distant
relatives.”

Her brow puckered and she scratched her head with her pencil. “A jean-ee-ology huh? Oh
... that's different.” She swayed toward him. “The name Dorset does sound kinda
familiar.”

“She worked at Marchmont Hospital,” Amy said, hoping to jar the woman's memory before she
got too engrossed with Simon.

The woman stiffened and started backing away. “I gotta get to work,” she said, and
scuttled away.

The restaurant's service was slow. By the time they'd eaten and changed clothes, not
enough time remained before their appointment to have the car's heater checked. The
minute she got outside cold penetrated Amy's dark blue pin-striped suit and nylon
stockings instantly. Inside the car the temperature was only slightly warmer and goose
pimples prickled her arms and legs.

The road leading to the hospital snaked through scabrous hills where snow had reached a
depth of six or eight inches. The covering did little to improve the surroundings.
Enormous rocks hemmed in the narrow track on one side, on the other the ground dropped
off sharply. In the arroyo below, boulders stuck through the blanketing white like
jagged black teeth.

At last, they came to a mesa where a high stone wall stretched out on both sides of
massive iron gates. A guard checked their identification and she issued up a prayer of
thanks that she hadn't thrown away the driver's license with her married name.

“Why the tight security?” Simon asked.

“Mr. Marchmont's orders,” the guard said, and returned to the small building from which
he had emerged.

She drove by a series of turreted six-story gothic structures and let Simon off in front
of the largest one.

“If this is a hospital, I hope to God I don't get sick while I'm in White Bird,” Simon
said.

“Amen to that.”

Since she had a half hour to squander, she decided to drive through the grounds. The
track angled off to the right where it passed three four-story, red brick buildings that
appeared to be apartments.

Around the curve, the terrain angled upward and on a knoll, silhouetted against the sky,
sat a white Georgian-style house. On the far side, a head-high boxwood hedge blocked the
sweep of rolling lawn surrounding the residence. Through a gap in the branches, she
glimpsed a row of white crosses.

She got out, pushed open a wooden gate and moved hesitantly toward the first row of
crosses.

“What the hell you doing, lady?” A burly man clad in blue coveralls rushed out of a wood
frame hut. “You got no business in this place. Ya hear?” Wild eyes glistened under a
tangle of black hair. His fingers fastened on her shoulder and bit into the flesh. “Only
person's allowed in is Mr. Marchmont. You got that?” He spun her around. “Now you git.”

She needed no urging. Ten minutes later when she entered the hospital, her hands were
still shaking. At the reception desk, she asked for Mrs. Demetrius. The woman directed
her down a broad hall.

She hadn't gone far when a metal door blocked the way. A sign said to ring the bell. She
did, and again had to produce ID. before the guard let her past him. Inside, the odor of
pine disinfectant filled her nostrils. Women attired in shapeless, pink-striped dresses
shuffled by, their unkempt hair framing dull, uncaring eyes. A white-clad nurse or
orderly accompanied each patient.

When she arrived at another metal door, the nerves in her back tightened. What kind of a
hospital was this anyway? Again a guard let her through. In this section, the women wore
blue and white-striped dresses and seemed a trifle more alert. The corridor took several
bends before she came to an office labeled Director of Nurses.

The receptionist checked Amy's name off a clipboard list and handed her a job application
form to fill out. When Amy finished, the bland-faced woman ushered her into the
director's office. “Mrs. Demetrius will be with you shortly.” She lay Amy's application
in a wire basket and left.

A massive desk with a brass name plate proclaiming Jacenta Demetrius as owner, dominated
the large room. Against a far wall ranged several file cabinets.

Amy heard a slight cough and realized a woman holding a sheaf of papers stood near one of
the cabinets. She had pale blonde hair and was stick thin. Her pallid face and
washed-out blue-striped dress blended with the walls. No wonder she hadn't seen her. For
an instant the file clerk's faded blue eyes met hers and she thought she saw her head
move from side to side.

Before she could be sure, a side door burst open and a woman who looked at least six feet
tall strode in. At her right temple an inch wide swathe of white swept upward through
coal black hair. On either side of her high cheek-boned face, intricately carved
carnelian combs held back her straight hair, accentuating dark, deep-set eyes. The red
silk blouse she wore with her black suit made her even more striking.

Jacenta Demetrius. Amy wet her dry throat, stood up and stretched out her hand. “I'm Mrs.
Jamison.”

The director clasped it in a perfunctory greeting. “So you got here in spite of the
blizzard.” As she spoke, her gaze swept over Amy in a swift inventory. “Sit down.” She
picked up Amy's application and seated herself in a deeply upholstered white leather
chair behind the desk.

Amy perched on the edge of the only chair available—straight-backed, hard-seated, and
placed directly in front of the imposing expanse of gleaming teak.

She tried to keep her hands still and her face serenely composed as the minutes dragged
by. Nevertheless, as the woman went over the questionnaire and read the letters of
recommendation, perspiration gathered beneath Amy's clothing. Would she get an
opportunity to ask about Elise, or would all this anxiety be for nothing?

“Do you have people in White Bird?” Mrs. Demetrius asked.

“No. I'm staying with a cousin in Lewistown temporarily.” Amy let her gaze fall to her
hands, bit her lip and called upon all her acting ability. “I'm recently divorced. I ...
I have to find a place where my husband won't be able to...” When she raised her head
her eyes were filmed with tears. “To find me,” she finished in a small voice.

“Ah, I see.” Mrs. Demetrius's piercing black eyes met Amy's and held until Amy gave way
and lowered her gaze. The director tapped the letters of recommendation. “Evidently,
from what these say, you have good nursing skills.”