You Can Run... (2 page)

“Willow!”

The little girl almost dropped her glass jar when she heard her mother yell from the back door of the house. Willow whirled around and hurried out of the woods. She saw Mommy coming down the three steps from the back porch, heading directly for her.
Now I’m gonna get in trouble
, Willow thought dismally. She’d get in trouble, she didn’t feel good, and she had only two sparkle bugs. Her wonderful plan shattered.

“Willow Conley, what are you doing out here?” Mommy’s usually soft, sweet voice sounded high and sharp. “You know you’re supposed to be in bed. Do you want to end up in the hospital again? Because that’s what will happen if—”

Just at that moment, as Willow stood frozen in the face of Mommy’s anger, a tremendous blast shook the earth. Her mother pitched off the bottom step into Willow’s little rubber swimming pool, as a funnel of fire shot through the roof of their house. Vicious yellow flames darted like snakes’ tongues out of the shattered windows and burst through the open back door.

Stunned, the little girl stood rigid, paralyzed by shock and fright. Burning pieces of wood soared through the night, some landing only inches from her. She did not retreat into the woods though. Willow simply clutched the jar of sparkle bugs, her terrified eyes fastened on Mommy, lying motionless in the swimming pool as the hungry fire swept over her.

Twenty Minutes Earlier

Diana Sheridan had watched from behind her windshield as the horizon turned from bright blue to dusky lavender to violet, before the sunlight completely disappeared behind the tree-covered Appalachian Mountains. Now night had come and she was relieved to be almost home, her late arrival caused by a three-car collision on the interstate.

Behind a pile of crushed metal, and police cars and emergency service vehicles, Diana had waited in a line of cars full of people who were at first curious, then sympathetic, then cranky, trapped behind the wreck for over an hour in the August heat and humidity of Friday afternoon. Diana had stopped a passing state trooper and learned that one person had died in the accident and three were critically injured. Getting victims out of the mangled cars was a time-consuming feat requiring many expert hands, as well as the Jaws of Life.

Now, nearly two hours later, Diana soared off an exit ramp, happy to leave the speeding highway traffic. She spotted a fast food restaurant and longed to make a quick pass by the drive-thru window and order french fries. Her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten since the morning.

A glance at the dashboard clock stopped her, though.
Nine fifteen—almost the exact time that her friend Penny had called Diana’s hotel room the previous night and, in an anxiety-edged voice, said she needed to talk in person as soon as possible.

“Is Willow worse?” Diana had asked, referring to Penny’s five-year-old daughter who’d had an appendectomy late Tuesday afternoon. No, Penny had assured her, the sound of distress giving way to relief. Willow had undergone laparoscopic surgery without complications. They were releasing her from the hospital in the morning.

Something else was terribly wrong. “Diana,
please
come by my house before you go home,” Penny had begged almost pitifully, her voice rushed and breathless again. “I can’t talk about this over the phone, but I have to give you an explanation. I can’t just leave you and Simon wondering what’s become of us. . . .” Penny had paused. “I’m involved in a situation that could be a matter of life and death.”

Deeply alarmed, Diana had urged Penny to go to the police, but Penny nearly shouted
no
, so Diana had promised to come by as soon as she arrived back in Huntington the following evening. She had said she’d be there by eight at the latest. Penny, sounding on the verge of tears, had thanked her and hung up so fast Diana didn’t have time to say good-bye—or ask more questions, Diana thought later, puzzled. If Willow was on the mend, what could have gone so wrong in Penny’s world during the last three days?

Diana grabbed her cell phone to let Penny know that she was on her way, even though she was running late. She cursed softly when she saw her phone battery hovering at death’s door. Unfailingly, she’d misplace the phone, she’d need to use it in an area with no reception, or she’d forget to recharge the battery. Diana kept it only because her great-uncle, Simon Van Etton, a retired archeology professor with whom she currently lived, had been aghast when he learned that she didn’t have a cell phone, and immediately presented her with one he’d chosen especially for her. At seventy-five, Simon was obsessed with every new technological gadget that hit the market. Diana looked
hopelessly at his latest gift—an iPhone lying on the seat beside her. She’d never even tried learning how to use it. Her technical acumen seemed confined to cameras.

Diana sighed as she stopped at a red light. Another delay. When the light finally turned, she pressed the accelerator, concentrating on “Layla,” by Eric Clapton, pouring forth from her CD player. She wouldn’t be lucky enough hear anything like “Layla” at the country club dance club tomorrow night, and she wished she hadn’t agreed to go with Glen Austen, a university history professor. Glen was nice looking, intelligent, warm-hearted, unfailingly courteous, and utterly predictable.

Even her great-uncle Simon kept telling her to stop seeing him. “I introduced you to Glen, although not as a potential love interest,” he often said. “He’s a nice fellow, but you need a man with some fire, girl. Someone more like me when I was twenty-five!”

To which Diana always replied, “Glen is
thirty
-five, but I’m sure even at that age you would have had too much fire for me!” The remark never failed to delight Simon, bolstering his already robust ego and sending him into a gleeful fit of laughter as he agreed with her.

Besides, she’d had “fire” once. She’d had passion and excitement, and for a short time, what she’d thought was true love. After a short engagement and three years of marriage, though, Diana had realized how naive she’d been. She’d tied herself to a man who resented her career and her deep ties to her family. He wanted to be the only meaningful part of her life. When he’d unceremoniously left her for an eighteen-year-old who thought the sun revolved around him, Diana had been almost relieved. Almost.

Annoyed with herself for dredging up an unfortunate part of her past, she cleared her mind of the old memory of disenchantment and concentrated on driving. Penny lived in Rosewood, a housing project built quickly at the end of World War II, like hundreds of others throughout the United States, when returning soldiers needed homes. In the late 1940’s, the 1950’s, and even the early 1960’s,
the houses had looked neat and were considered pleasing, if not fashionable. But now neighborhoods like Rosewood had begun to decline, the houses no longer looking fresh and inviting, and nearly a third of them displaying “For Sale” signs, as the paint peeled and shingles fell disconsolately from neglected roofs.

Which is why Penny had chosen this particular place to live. “I don’t want to be cooped up in an apartment,” she’d told Diana. “I want Willow to have a yard and space for a swing set, and Rosewood has the only houses within range of my budget.”

Penny had told Diana that her young husband died instantly when he plowed his car into a telephone pole on a slick road. He’d left only a twenty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy and little savings, so money had become a problem for a woman with no conveniently well-off relatives and no college education. Penny had worked as a part-time waitress in a diner before she decided to get a college degree and began taking a summer composition class at Marshall University, where she had seen Simon’s advertisement for an editorial assistant posted on the bulletin board. She applied for the job she found interesting, hoping it would allow her to build a regular schedule around her child.

The day Penny Conley came for her interview, Diana took an immediate liking to the attractive, vivacious woman, although when Diana glanced over her résumé, she’d felt that Penny didn’t stand a chance of being hired. The composition class was her first brush with college, she had no secretarial or research experience, and she’d never held a job other than waitressing. Diana doubted that Penny had the skills Simon required of someone helping him write his fourth book about ancient Egyptian culture and his archaeological expeditions.

Diana had held her breath as Simon scanned Penny’s résumé, afraid he might dismiss her without her a chance, although later she’d chided herself for not giving her great-uncle more credit. The man did not make hasty
judgments, which was a blessing for Penny, because after she’d answered his first few cursory questions, he’d begun merely chatting with her. Half an hour later, Penny had left the house with orders to report to her new job on Monday morning. That had been over a year ago, and aside from her good looks and charm, Penny had proved to be the most conscientious and astute assistant Simon had ever employed. She and her daughter had also become like members of the family.

Diana reached Penny’s neighborhood at last. She stretched behind the wheel, feeling like she’d been driving since early morning instead of early afternoon. The photo assignment she’d taken on had been more grueling than she’d expected. She’d thought it would be simple—just photos for a city tourism pamphlet. But almost every time she’d focused her camera and started to take a picture, the fussy male head of the tourism center would screech “Stop,” after he’d spot a cloud moving to an unsatisfactory position or observe a shriveling petunia in a flower border. At the end of the first day, Diana had been ready to strangle him.

By the time she finished on the third day, she’d fled the town, her muscles aching with tension. She vowed that within the next year, she would take only the commercial assignments she found appealing. A few galleries in New York City, Chicago, and San Francisco were already showing her photographs, and in the last year, sales had begun to climb beyond Diana’s expectations, if not beyond her hopes. She no longer had to scramble for money.

She turned onto Penny’s street—dark without streetlights—and felt a chill pass over her. Diana stiffened, hearing her grandmother’s dreamy voice from long ago: “I feel like someone just stepped on my grave,” she’d say, after which, Simon, always the earthbound empiricist, would tell her affectionately such remarks made her sound like a simpleton. Now, though, Diana knew exactly what her grandmother had meant. Suddenly she felt weak, cold, frightened, and doomed, as if Death were whispering in her ear.

As if Death were whispering in her ear?
The phrase caught Diana by surprise. She shook her head and told herself she was even more tired than she’d realized.

Diana sighed in relief as Penny’s house came into view. Penny had turned on the outside light, which showed off an urn of red geraniums and the porch swing she’d painted light blue at Willow’s request. Diana remembered stopping by during the painting process to find Penny impressively splattered with blue paint. Penny had laughed, saying this was her first experience with painting and should probably be her last.

Diana parked at the curb, avoiding a skunk sitting stubbornly in Penny’s driveway. She turned on the interior car lights, looked in the rearview mirror, fluffed her long, curly honey-brown hair that had frizzed in the humidity, and wiped away a smudge of mascara beneath one of her heather-green eyes. Even in the dim light, she thought she looked tired and older than her twenty-eight years.

Later, Diana couldn’t remember whether she first saw or heard the explosion. She’d turned off the engine and was reaching for her tote bag when Penny’s small white house suddenly erupted into a blinding ball of fire. Diana screamed as her car rocked, burning debris raining over glass and metal. At first she ducked. Then she raised her head slightly to see gold and red flames devouring the house, igniting surrounding shrubbery, shooting across the lawn, leaping and frolicking with deadly joy against the still, ebony sky . . . creating a glittering, voracious inferno that Diana was certain no one could survive.

Thick, gray-black smoke plumed from the towering burst of flames, slowly floating away after their first, shocking eruption. The smoke spread in layers, the breeze sending it wafting toward Diana’s car, enclosing her in a gauzelike shroud. She heard a pitiful mewling sound, then realized
it came from her as she sat shuddering, clutching the steering wheel, waiting for . . .

Waiting for what? For Penny to come running toward her, holding Willow’s hand?

Diana fumbled with the handle and opened her car door. She stepped out, realized her legs were too shaky to bear her weight, and dropped back onto her seat. She didn’t even feel the swinging car door bump against her legs dangling outside of the car.
I should do something
, she thought.
I have to do something
. She looked at the cell phone with its dead battery, and which she didn’t know how to use anyway. She looked at the little house, still burning gaudily in the hot night. Diana had closed her eyes for a moment when someone jerked the car door completely open and yelled, “Are you all right?” She jumped.

She saw a man with sun-streaked blond hair combed back from a wide forehead, and steely-blue eyes that were watering slightly from the smoke-filled air. “Miss, are you all right?” he asked again, his voice rough-edged and slightly Southern.

Diana swallowed. “My friend Penny. It’s her house. I just pulled up and—” Her throat closed.

“Penny,” the man repeated.

“Penny C-Conley,” Diana managed.

“I don’t live here. I was just turning onto this street when I saw the explosion.” The man spoke rapidly. “Did you call nine-one-one?”

For a moment, Diana went blank. Call 911?

“Lady, did you call nine-one-one?” the man nearly shouted.

“No. My cell phone is dead.” The words flowed out of Diana’s mouth in a voice she barely recognized as her own—thin, high, without emotion. She sounded as if the explosion held no horror or surprise for her, but as the man nodded and disappeared, Diana realized she was crying. Tears flowed down her face to her trembling mouth and dropped off her jaw onto her blouse. She wiped her cheeks with her hands but more tears streamed, and finally
she dropped her hands and simply sat, weeping silently, hating her helplessness.