She Loves Me Not (30 page)

“Unfortunately, I don't have the picture out here.” Seeing the tide of doubt and fear wash over her, he adds quickly, “Look, I know it sounds bizarre, but I need a computer to access it. Is there one in the house?”

“No, there isn't. Mr . . . . Brookman, is it? I think you'd better go. I don't—”

“No, listen, all I need you to do is look at a photo. We can do it anywhere. Is there . . . is there a library around here with computer access, or one of those cyber cafes?” he suggests helplessly.

“In Laurel Bay? No. And even if there were, everything's closed because of the storm. Why don't you go talk to the police? Or come back when—”

“No, listen, there has to be a computer with Internet access somewhere around here,” he says, desperately reaching for her arm.

Looking panicky now, she takes another step back, tripping over the little boy, who cries, “Ow! Aunt Leslie, you stepped on my foot!”

“I'm sorry, Leo.”

“Christine has a computer,” the little girl solemnly tells David.

“Who's Christine?” he and the aunt ask in unison.

“Christine. Our neighbor. She babysat me and Leo the other day, and she has a computer. She told me I can come over sometime and see the Powerpuff Girls website.”

“She's your neighbor?” David seizes that, looking around at the other houses on the quiet block. “Where does she live?”

“Right over there,” Jenna says, pointing to the brightly lit house next door.

“Good. Let's go.” David is already on his way down the porch steps.

“We can't just go barging in there asking to use their computer,” the children's aunt protests.

David pivots around to face her. “I can understand your hesitation, Leslie. Really, I can. But you've got to trust me. Your sister-in-law's life might be hanging in the balance.”

“I
told you earlier I'd stop over to check on you, Rose, remember?”

Her heart still pounding from the fright of seeing someone standing in the doorway, she laughs shakily and tells Bill, “I forgot. But it's been a crazy day.”

“I'm not surprised. Are you okay, Rose?” he asks, stepping inside, closing the door behind him, and stomping his boots on the mat.

“Other than the fact that my throat is killing me, I'm better than I was this morning.” She takes off her coat and opens the closet, taking out a hanger for herself and handing one to Bill.

“Thanks.” He unzips his navy parka, looking around. “Where are the kids?”

She quickly hangs her coat, then plucks the note from the mirror, reading it over.

Hitch
—

We'll be right back. Went to pick up Rose. Go ahead and start on the pipes.

L.

“Oh, no.” Her heart skips a beat.

“What's wrong?”

Hitch is coming here?

“The pipes must be frozen,” she murmurs.

“Hmm?”

She looks up to see Bill watching her with a puzzled expression.

“Nothing, it's just . . . I have to try to call my sister-in-law at my house. She went over there to get me.”

“Will she answer the phone there, though? She might not even go inside.”

“I know, but I have to at least try to reach her. I don't want her to worry when she gets there and I'm not there. And I guess the pipes here must be frozen, because—”

“I'll take a look at them,” he offers quickly, zipping his coat again. “That happens at my place all the time. Where's the basement?”

“Through the kitchen. Thanks, Bill. It's so sweet of you to come out in this nasty weather.”

He grins. “What are friends for?”

In the kitchen, she points him in the right direction. “Be careful down there, Bill,” she calls as he heads down the rickety stairs into the cobweb-draped depths of the basement.

“I'm always careful,” he calls back up. “Don't worry about a thing.”

She pops a lozenge in her mouth to soothe her aching throat, then begins dialing her home number.

Answer the phone, Leslie,
she pleads silently.
I have to find out what you told Hitch and when he's supposed to get here. Or maybe he's already been here, and let himself in to fix the pipes.

As the phone rings on the other end of the line, she crosses to the sink and quickly turns on the tap. It's dry.

So Hitch hasn't been here yet.

Or at least, he hasn't yet fixed the pipes, she thinks grimly.

“I
made toast for Jenna and Leo,” Christine says, rejoining Leslie and David Brookman in Ben's study.

Leslie flashes her a taut smile before returning her gaze to the screen. “Thank you. That was nice of you.”

“It was no big deal,” Christine lies. In truth, it was a big deal. She's dizzy from the exertion in the kitchen and the climb back up the stairs, and her head aches fiercely. Ben is taking an awfully long time to get back with her Advil, she thinks vaguely as she joins Leslie in looking over David's shoulder as he taps the computer keys.

“Did you access your e-mail account yet?” she asks nervously, still trying to piece together exactly what it is that he's trying to do.

“Yes, and there's an e-mail from the person who was supposed to send the picture attachment,” the man says. “We're just waiting for it to download. But it's taking an incredibly long time.”

“That's because we don't have a DSL modem,” Christine tells him apologetically. “My husband thinks the service is too expensive.”

Nobody says anything. They just stare at the screen, watching the download meter go slowly from ninety-three percent complete to ninety-four . . . ninety-five . . .

Christine realizes she's holding her breath.

She doesn't know what she's going to see when the file is complete. She only knows that this man, this David Brookman, claims to have a photo of the murder suspect and he wants to show it to her and Leslie.

She probably wouldn't have even let these people into the house if the children hadn't been with them. One look at sweet, shivering Jenna and Leo standing on her snowy doorstep, and she opened the door wide.

Ben isn't going to be happy to come home to a houseful of strangers, though.

Hopefully, this won't take long. Then she can get back into bed and rest her head. It's killing her, and she's chilled from head to toe. Christine closes her eyes and rubs her hot forehead. She must be burning up with fever.

“Here it is,” David says urgently. “It's coming up.”

Christine opens her eyes to find Leslie peering at the screen, where a group photograph of somebody's birthday party has popped up.

“Which one is Clarence?” Leslie asks.

“He is. Do you recognize him? Take away the beard and the long hair . . .”

Leslie frowns, studying the photo. Christine leans in closer to see, trying to ignore the painful throbbing in her head.

As she zeroes in on the man in question, she lets out a startled gasp just as Leslie cries out, “Oh my God!”

“E
verything okay down there, Bill?” Rose says from the top of the basement stairs.

“I'm working on it,” comes the faint reply.

She paces across the kitchen floor to the phone to try calling Leslie again.

She jumps, startled when it rings just as she's lifting it to dial.

“Rose? Thank God you're there!” Leslie exclaims. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. I'm here with—”

“Rose, listen carefully. This is important. Your life is in danger.”

Rose's blood runs cold. “Leslie, what are you—”

“Rose, please, just listen to me.” Leslie's voice is high-pitched with hysteria. “We think we've figured out who killed Luke, and now he's after you. It's—”

The name is lost as the phone suddenly goes dead in her hand.

“W
hat's wrong? What's going on?”

‘The connection is broken!” Leslie wails, her fingers flying over the dial pad again. “I'm calling her back.”

She holds her breath, waiting.

There's only a fast-paced busy signal, the kind that comes up when there's trouble on the line.

“Do you think something happened to her?” Leslie asks, hanging up and then dialing again.

David Brookman doesn't look very reassuring as he says, “It's probably just the heavy snow bringing the phone wires down. I'm sure she's fine.”

Wires down . . .

Sam . . .

Gripped by a sudden sense of foreboding, Leslie looks from him to Christine. “But I didn't get to tell her. And she's not there alone. She started to say ‘I'm with' and I cut her off. I just wanted to warn her about—”

“Oh, Lord. You don't think he's the one who's there with her?” Christine asks, sinking into the chair before the computer, her face flushed and eyes glassy.

“We've got to get over there.” David is already striding toward the stairs.

“I'm coming with you.” Leslie hurries after him, calling over her shoulder to Christine, “I'll leave the kids here with you. Can you call the police and tell them to get someone over to my parents' address right away?”

“What is it?”

Leslie rushes back to scribble it on a pad, along with the phone number. “Keep trying to get through to Rose, will you, Christine?”

“I will, but . . . you know, the day I babysat, she said she had a pager. Is there any chance she might have it on? You could send her the information that way.”

“She probably does have it, but that doesn't help us. It was my brother's, and it's the ancient numeric kind. You can't send letters or e-mail on it.” Leaving Christine in the study dialing the phone, Leslie hurries back to the top of the stairs to catch up with David . . .

Then stops short.

“Christine!” she shrieks, rushing back to the phone. “The pager!”

B
ill's feet come pounding up the basement stairs.

“Rose? Are you okay?”

“I'm . . . I'm fine.” She looks at the phone in her hand, then slowly raises her gaze to him. “The phone just went dead.”

He turns his head toward the window, opaque with the glare of the kitchen light. “Must be the storm.”

“Must be.” She swallows hard. Winces. Her throat aches.

I'm coming down with the flu,
she thinks vaguely, and then . . .

Leslie was about to tell me who killed Luke.

Rose can hear the scraping rumble of a plow truck passing in the street.

It's somebody I know. It has to be. The way she said it . . .

“Looks like you're going to need a plumber for those pipes, Rose.” Bill's mundane words, his very presence, keep full-blown panic at bay. “But you're never going to get anybody over here tonight, in this weather.”

Yes. Hitch,
she thinks, dazed.
Hitch is supposed to be coming.

“Listen, you can't stay here overnight without running water. Why don't you and the kids come to my place for the night? I've got a pullout couch. It's kind of lumpy, but the kids won't mind, and you can have my bed.”

“I can't . . . I can't take your bed, Bill,” Rose protests, her mind gyrating with possibilities, one more dire than the next.

The door was unlocked when she arrived. Anyone could be here, hiding. Waiting. Listening . . .

She doesn't dare tell Bill what Leslie just said.

“It's just for one night,” Bill tells her with a chuckle. “You can do the dishes to make up for it. I've got plenty of running water at my place.”

She hesitates.

No.

No, you shouldn't go anywhere alone with him.

She doesn't dare trust anyone. Not Bill. Not Hitch. Not . . . not Peter. Or Christine, with whom she left her children.

Who is it? Who the hell is it?

“Come on, grab your bag and your coat, and I'll drive you over to your house to find your sister-in-law and the kids.”

Torn, Rose wants more than anything to get out of here before Hitch arrives.

Bill's already on his way into the front hall.

But is she willing to take a chance?

Suddenly, she feels a vibration against her hip.

Her pager.

Quickly flipping it over, she frowns when she sees only four digits.

7718.

“Coming?” Bill calls from the hall.

“I'll be right there.”

Rose gazes at the unrecognizable number.

Then it dawns on her.

Her panic now mounting unchecked, she unhooks the pager from her belt, turns it around . . . and stares at it in disbelief as the terrifying truth washes over her.

“L
aurel Bay Police. Sergeant Reilly speaking.”

“I need your help,” Christine blurts, her voice scratchy and weakened from the flu. “My friend is in trouble. Somebody might be trying to kill her.”

“Listen, you're going to have to speak a little louder. I can't hear you. First of all, give me your name and address.”

Frustrated, Christine clears her throat, rasps, “Christine Kirkmayer. Fifty Shorewood Lane, Laurel Bay, and—”

“Shorewood Lane? That's where—”

“I know. The murder happened next door to me, and my friend who lives there is in trouble. Rose Larrabee. But she's not home, and I can't reach her where she is. Do you know if there are phone lines down because of the storm?”

“Where is she, ma'am?”

Lightheaded with fever, with fear, Christine desperately searches the desk for the address Leslie wrote down for her. “I'm looking for the address. I just found out that a friend of hers might be trying to kill her, and—”

“You just found out? How did you find out?”

“A man came to my door . . . look, I know it sounds crazy, but he said—”