With Deadly Intent (11 page)

She lay the sheets of paper on the desk and scrutinized Amy. “Takes a certain kind of
person to work in a place like this. We get all kinds you know, manic depressives,
paranoid schizophrenics, and criminally insane.”

Oh my God.
Amy flattened her spine against the wooden chairback, using the hard
pressure point to keep her mind centered and her face expressionless. “Yes, so I
understand.”

Mrs. Demetrius picked up an ivory-handled letter opener. Light glinted on the long steel
blade as she ran it between thumb and forefinger. “Who told you about Marchmont?”

My move.
Amy slowed her speeding pulse. “When one of my friends heard I was moving
to Lewistown, she mentioned the hospital.” She hesitated unsure how far to go, then
continued in a smooth, unruffled tone. “She was born and raised in White Bird and used
to work at Marchmont.”

Mrs. Demetrius pursed thin lips. “How fortuitous. What's her name?”

Amy fixed her gaze on the director's face. “Elise Dorset.”

The letter opener fell from Mrs. Demetrius's hand and clattered on the desk. She opened
her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “No one named Elise Dorset has ever been
employed here.”

A slight cough drew Amy's gaze to the cabinets behind Mrs. Demetrius. The clerk she'd
thought so listless stood braced against the wall. Her eyes blazed and anger contorted
her face. When she saw she had Amy's attention, she mouthed words Amy couldn't make out.

Mrs. Demetrius caught the momentary lapse in Amy's attention and swiveled her chair, but
the blonde had already reverted to her former posture of lassitude. “What're you doing
here? You know trustees aren't supposed to be in this room when I'm interviewing.”

“I ... I only had a few more things to file. I thought I'd...”

Demetrius pointed to the door. “Get out.” When it closed behind the shuffle-gaited
trustee, she turned back to Amy.

“That's strange ... really strange.” Amy said in a last ditch effort to make her trip pay
off. “Why would Elise lie about a thing like that?”

“I can't imagine.” Mrs. Demetrius swept Amy's application papers into a drawer and closed
it with a bang. “We don't have any openings at present.”

“No openings at all? I really need a job.”

Demetrius leveled an icy glance. “This is a mental institution not a social service
bureau.” She stood up. “That'll be all, Ms. Jamison, I have work to do.”

Battle-ax. Amy straightened her shoulders, raised her chin and marched from the room.
But, when the outer office door closed behind her, all the starch went out of her legs
and she leaned against the wall. After a few minutes, she regained her composure, gave
her skirt a twitch and set out for the first check point.

“P-s-st ... Miss.”

The blonde beckoned from a bend in the corridor. Amy took a step toward her. A low watt
light globe overhead caused darkness to pool in recessed doorways. This wasn't smart.
Trustee or not, the woman must be mentally unstable otherwise she wouldn't be
here—unless she'd been committed for a crime. A chill climbed her spine. Nevertheless,
she hesitated only an instant before moving forward. She'd come for information and
she'd get it wherever she could.

A claw-like hand clutched her arm. “My name is Francine ... Francine Anseth.” She drew
Amy deeper into the shadows. “She lied to you,” she hissed. She darted a glance over her
shoulder. “The stupid bitch has the hots for him. She'll learn just like all the rest
of'em have.” She pulled Amy closer and her sour breath struck Amy in the face. “Elise
was here. I knew her. She—"A door slammed and the woman's eyes went wild. “I got to go.
If she catches me, she'll put me in the cage.”

“Wait.” Amy rummaged in her purse, found a business card and wrote her island phone
number on the back. “If you get a chance, call me collect. I must talk to you.” The
woman jammed the card in her pocket and scurried away like a mouse searching for cover.

Feeling vaguely like Alice in Wonderland, Amy pumped up her courage again and started
down the passageway. Marchmont was a mental institution—yet no one had mentioned it, not
Elise's job application, nor the man who'd given them a lift in Lewistown, nor the
waitress in White Bird. Why?

The back of her neck tingled as she made her way through straggling patients. Were eyes
watching her? Or had the aura of paranoia tainted
her
mind too? Panic squeezing
her chest, she rushed down the corridor, turned the corner, and collided with an obese
man.

He wore a knit watch cap, blue coveralls, and a full beard fell over his chest in a
tousled mass. She shifted to the right. With a gap-toothed grin, he slid in front of
her. She stepped to the left and he followed suit.

“My, my, little lady,” he wheezed. “You in a hurry or sumpthin'?”

She held her ground and eyed him coldly. “Get the hell out of my way, or I'll call a
guard.”

“Who-o-e-e, and she's got spirit too.” He moved nearer. “I like women with spirit.”

She rammed her high heel into his instep, he let out a bellow and grabbed for her, but
she dodged past him, dashed down the hall, and out the front door.

Her breath came in noisy gasps as she slid into the front seat of the car.

Simon regarded her with concern. “What happened?”

She gulped air. “Some slob made a pass at me.”

“A pass? Good God, what a zoo. Did you find out anything?”

She related her encounter with Mrs. Demetrius and Francine Anseth. “When the dragon lady
told me Marchmont was a mental institution, I nearly gave myself away.”

“I lucked out, Wade Marchmont's secretary clued me in, otherwise I might have blown my
whole story.”

“What's he like?”

“Tall, well built, thick wavy hair. It's pure white, but he looks to be in his early
fifties. He's one of those salesman types—stock smile, firm grip, hawk-eyed.”

“Was he helpful?”

“No way. I told him I was doing a follow-up on a story and shoved a copy of the headline
article on Elise in front of him. For a second, he looked as if he'd been hit in the
stomach.” Simon leaned toward her. “But get this. When I mentioned Elise had once worked
for him, he said I'd been misinformed, that he'd never heard of the woman.”

“Someone's lying.”

“That's for sure. The question is who.”

“Something else strange. I wandered into a cemetery and the caretaker ran me off. Said
only Mr. Marchmont was allowed in.”

“Weird.” He scowled and nodded his head. “Damned weird as a matter of fact.” He peered
out the window at a couple of men who were hurrying down the hospital steps.

She followed his gaze. “That's him.” She pointed. “The big guy with a beard. He's the one
who made the pass.”

“Let's get out of here, Amy. Now!”

She gunned the motor, shot the car in reverse, and took off, spraying slush behind her.
Just as she leaned into the gravel road's first switchback, she heard the rumble of a
full-throated engine and looked in the rearview mirror. A black high-jacked truck
caromed around the corner and bore down on them.

She moved to the right to let him go by, but he rammed the Toyota from behind instead.
“Sweet Jesus!” She jammed on the brakes as the station wagon lurched and veered toward a
jagged wall of heaped stone thrusting skyward on the inside shoulder.

Simon grabbed the dashboard to brace himself. “What the hell's going on?”

She jerked the wheel, the Toyota missed a boulder, fishtailed and began to side slip
toward another. Cold sweat springing out on her skin, she spun the wheel in the
direction of the skid. The car headed for a jutting crag. “Overdid it. Damn, oh damn.”
She gunned the motor and they squeaked past with only inches to spare.

In the outside lane, the driver of the truck drew even with her. She glimpsed the two men
who'd come out of the hospital. The bearded one grinned, yanked the wheel, and smacked
her car with his front fender. The lighter vehicle jounced sideways. She steadied it,
floored the accelerator, and took off, steering toward the center of the two-lane track.

Her move backfired. As soon as the man saw an opening, he edged his truck into the inside
lane. His motor revved to an ear-splitting howl, he pulled alongside and crowded her
toward the road's precipitous edge. Fear clutched her insides. The rock-choked arroyo
lay far below.

The truck's wide-track tires pressed nearer and nearer until the vehicle's black presence
filled her vision. Metal shrieked against metal. Perspiration stung her eyes and her
arms ached from holding the steering wheel. Inch by inch she gave way. “Let up, damn
you.” She clenched her teeth and took a tighter grip on the wheel. “Get ready to jump,
Simon, another foot or two and we'll go over.” Suddenly, the truck shot by them, sped
down the road, spun around, and roared straight for them.

“Look out, Amy. He's going to ram us.” Simon braced his arms.

She crammed the gears into reverse.
Please God make it work.
Blue smoke billowing
and gravel spurting like machine gun bullets, the Toyota plowed an uphill furrow. Foot
by agonizing foot, she cork-screwed the car backward until only empty space stood
between the speeding truck and the road's edge. The driver saw the danger, braked, and
went into a tire squealing skid.

Amy shifted into low and waited. “Hang on, Simon, this may be close.” Soon as she saw a
clear path, she double-clutched, shifted into second and careened past the yawing
vehicle.

Simon craned his neck to look back. “They're going over.” He straightened around. “Both
of them got out. More than the sons-a-bitches deserve.”

She stopped the car and put her head on her folded arms. Her body quivered. She felt sick
to her stomach. Tears filled her throat and she fought to keep them from flooding her
eyes.

Simon rested his hand on her shoulder. “You did a great job of driving, doc. Andretti
couldn't have done any better.”

She blinked and gave a shaky laugh. “I used to live such a sedate, ordered life.” She ran
a hand over her face. “That jerk tried to run us off the road just because I refused to
play games with him. Can you believe it?”

“I wonder...” Simon scowled and shook his head. “We've sure stepped into a cesspool up to
our arm pits.”

“You said it. Let's get the heater fixed and get out of this burg.”

“I'm for that.”

She drove to Demski's Auto Repair, the only garage in town. When they pulled in, a man
came out to the car. His narrow, distended chest and gaunt face hinted at emphysema, but
a cigarette hung from thin, colorless lips. She rolled down the window.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth with grease-stained fingers. “I'm Boris Demski.
You folks want something?”

Simon explained about the heater. The man sniffed and wiped a drip from his thin nose
with the sleeve of his faded flannel shirt. “I'll get to it soon as I can, but you'll
have to leave it overnight.”

She and Simon exchanged startled glances, then she shrugged. “I guess it's either that,
or head back to Lewistown as is.”

“No way,” Simon said. “The temperature in these hills can plummet at night.” He dipped
his head to get the garage man's attention. “Are there any motels?”

“Only one is the Mountain View.” He pointed down the street. “Four blocks that way.” He
eyed their clothes. “Ain't what you folks are used to, that's for sure.”

“Thanks,” Amy said, and started the motor.

Simon caught sight of the motel first. “God, what a dump.”

She pulled into the Mountain View's rutted driveway and parked in front of a door marked
office. Rust streaks from a broken gutter stained peeling white paint. She exhaled
deeply. “I guess this is what you call roughing it.”

They went inside, found no one there and rang the bell on the desk. Five minutes went by
before a frail, white-haired man tottered in. “Can I help you?” Pale watery blue eyes
peered at them through thick-lensed glasses.

“We need a couple of rooms,” Simon told him.

“Yes, sir.” The man frowned, opened a drawer, and hunted inside. “Now what did I do with
those cards? My son usually tends the place, but he's away right now.” After two more
attempts, he finally came up with what he needed.

They registered and got their keys. “If you'll open your door, I'll bring in your
luggage,” she said. A few minutes later, when she came into his room, she was struck by
the incongruent picture he made. Cracked and yellowed plaster walls, cigarette burned
linoleum, and Simon standing in the middle of the tawdry surroundings wearing a Lord
& Taylor suit.

“It's all my fault,” he said. “I got you into this mess. First, I get you damned near
killed and now this.” He waved his hand.

“Don't be silly. I insisted on coming.”

“Well, I've lived in this kinda country. I should have known how it'd be.”

“Stop it, Simon, we're here and we'll make do.”

“Yeah, take a look at that. You weren't kidding about roughing it.” He pointed to a lumpy
bed covered with grayed sheets and a raveled wool blanket. “And wait until you see the
bathroom. Damn thing looks as if it was put in before I was born.”

She set his suitcase in a corner. “Let's change clothes and go get something to eat. When
we're warm and have a full stomach, maybe we can find a funny side to all this.”

He pinched his lips together. “That'll take some doing.”

She turned up the thermostat. “The place will look less bleak when it's warm.” In her
room next door, she changed into slacks, rejoined him and drove the car to the garage.
After arrangements had been made with Mr. Demski, they walked across the street to the
restaurant.