With Deadly Intent (24 page)

“That'll be the day.”

“Salgado called back this afternoon.”

She searched his face. “Anything interesting?”

“Mrs. Michaels has two referral letters Elise gave Dr. Tambor. One was from a doctor in
Idaho, the other from one in Oregon.” His expression became grim. “I called the numbers
he gave me. Neither doctor exists.”

“That makes Francine's story seem more believable.” She glanced at the clock. “Are you
through with Dad?”

“He's tucked in with a gory mystery.” Simon walked over to the refrigerator. “You
scarcely touched your dinner. Wouldn't you like to take a sandwich to the cottage?”

“It'd probably land in a lump in the pit of my stomach and stay there.” She searched for
a flashlight and didn't find one.

“My fault,” Simon said. “I forgot to bring it up this morning.” He peered out the window.
“Doesn't seem as dark as usual. We can find our way.” He switched on the outside lights
and opened the door.

Overhead, moonlight glowed eerily behind seething masses of indigo clouds. Lightning
glinted in strobelike flashes and thunder rumbled in the distance.

She moved closer to Simon. “We seldom get much lightning.”

He took her hand. “Some day we'll take a trip to Idaho and I'll show you a real lightning
storm.”

Plans.
In the space of ten days, they'd developed a past, a present, and now a
possible future. Shaky as the prospect seemed, the thought cheered her.

Simon stood very still his eyes searching the shadows. “Run as fast as you can. Stay
clear of the trees and head down-slope across the lawn. Okay?”

His apprehension escalated her own. “No way. I'm staying with you.”

“Doggone it, will you do as I say for once?”

“No.” Hooking her arm through his, she matched his uneven stride. They arrived at the
cottage out of breath, and stood on the unlighted front porch looking out at the night.

“You're a stubborn, exasperating woman, Amy Prescott. But I'll never forget you.”

Him and his back-handed compliments. Her throat filled until it ached. “I won't forget
you either.”

Suddenly, he enfolded her in his embrace, crushed her to him, and brought his mouth down
on hers. Her lips parted and she responded with all the yearning locked inside her.

Her blood humming in her veins, she fastened her arms around his neck and strained
against him. They kissed, their mouths open, exchanging fierce, hungry kisses. He held
her so close their shuddering breath came out as one and his trembling became hers.

His lips left hers and traveled down to the hollow of her throat. “I need to touch you,
to make love to you. Please, Amy, I'm half out of my mind with wanting you.”

His voice broke the spell.

She pulled away from him. “This isn't real, Simon.”

“The hell it isn't.” He reached for her.

She kept her distance. “Please, Simon, we have to go slow. This is like"—she searched her
mind for the right simile—"like being in a war. Because of the danger our emotions have
encapsulated and intensified. Feelings seem deeper, more significant than they would
otherwise.”

She squeezed her hands together. Somehow she had to make him understand. “You ... you
trigger urges in me.”

“Good. I'm glad I'm not the only one.”

“But I'm not like that, Simon.”

He laughed. “You could have fooled me, kid.”

She scowled at him. “It's the pressure we're under. We'd be foolish to trust what's
happening between us.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. “That's not true. At least,
not for me. When you're not around I get this grinding emptiness inside me until I hear
your footsteps. ‘She's here,' I think, ‘now I can concentrate on my writing.'”

He walked to the railing and stood there for a moment before turning back. “But then I
feel the need to be in the same room with you. And that isn't enough—I have to be beside
you. And ... and that's the worst of all. Aching to touch you, knowing that won't be
enough either.”

She blinked back the moistness in her eyes and tasted salt in her throat. “Oh, Simon.”
She touched his face with her fingertips. “You're such a fine, gentle, wonderful man.”

He jerked his head away. “Knock it off, Amy. You're trying to boost me onto some stupid
pedestal and I'm standing here lusting after your body.”

His choice of words stirred her wry sense of humor. She peered up at him. “Lusting?” She
grinned. “Old fashioned, renaissance-type lusting?”

“It isn't funny, Amy. Cold showers don't help a goddamned bit.”

She smiled gently and lay her palm against his cheek. “When all the danger has passed, if
you still feel the same, perhaps I'll let myself do a little lusting too.”

Laughter eased Amy's jitters. “We'd better get inside.” She unlocked the door and flipped
the light switch. Nothing happened.

Simon tried a table lamp. “Lightning must have knocked out a transformer. Let me take a
look up the hill.” He stepped outside. “Nope. B.J.'s porch light is still on.”

“Probably a fuse. The cottage's wiring is ancient. When too many appliances go on at
once, one blows.”

“I'll get the flashlight.” An arm outstretched, Simon shuffled into the kitchen. “I know
right where I left it.” Banging and clattering followed and the sound of breaking glass.
“The damned thing isn't here.”

“No problem, Simon. I keep candles handy.” She rummaged in a drawer and found what she
sought. After using the last three matches in the small box, she got the candle lit.
“I'll dash downstairs and put in a new fuse.”

He set his jaw. “No, I'll go.”

“All right let's compromise. I'll hold the candle, you change the fuse.” She led the way
down the basement stairs.

“What's that odor I smell?” Simon asked.

She sniffed. The air held a rank, musky aroma. “Perhaps, the septic tank backed up.”

“No, this is different. It reminds me of"—the timbre of his voice changed—"a story I did.
Amy,” he said sharply. “Go back upstairs. I'll take care of the problem here.”

“Don't be silly. The fuse box is just over there in the middle of that outside wall.” The
candle flame fluttered. She cupped one hand around it and hurried across the room.

A few feet from her objective the candle flickered and went out. Instantly, the basement
became a foreign place. A cold, black, murky cave. “Don't worry. I have matches here
somewhere.” She spoke in a hushed voice, not knowing why she felt the need.

She was about to stretch out her hand and feel along the shelf in front of her when she
heard a thumping noise. She peered in its direction. In a faint glimmer of moonlight,
she located the cause. Alarm clutched her insides.

She reached back and took hold of Simon's sleeve. “The window's broken. The latch is
undone.”

“Sh-sh.” He gripped her shoulders and brought his mouth close to her ear. “Don't move.
Something's in here.”

Her scalp prickled and she strained to hear, listening with held breath. A whisper. Skin
against skin? Cloth against cloth?

Simon's grip on her shoulder tightened, his quick breaths loud in the darkness.

Her nerves crawled, scritchity as beetle legs. She had to have light. She swept her hand
along the shelf. One of the precariously stacked cans tumbled off and crashed onto the
cement floor. A beat of silence—close, thickly matted—then a chilling, whirring sound.
Her mind refused to comprehend, yet she knew it well from hikes in the hot, sagebrush
dotted hills of Eastern Washington.

“Rattlesnakes,” Simon breathed. He made a move toward her and the whirring increased in
volume. Dry. Brittle. Deadly. The sinister sound seemed to come from everywhere. “Dozens
of them.”

Icy terror settled into the base of her spine. In her mind, she could see their writhing
coils, the upward-held bodies—their taut-scaled “S” shape ending in flat, triangular
heads with flickering black-forked tongues. Their slithering bodies made ominous
whisperings on rough cement.

She clenched her teeth hard, made herself be calm and think. Finally, she eased closer to
Simon. “Help me grab the clothes line wire. I can use it to get to the pit.”

He held her to him. “It'll break and you'll fall right in the middle of 'em.”

“It's all we have.”

He swore half under his breath. “For God's sake, be careful. Soon as you're safe, I'll
make a dash for the stairs.”

“No no no, you mustn't move. I have an idea I want to try.” She squeezed his hand.
“Ready?”

He bent, clasped her below the hips and hoisted her up. She waved her arms above her
head, searching for the wire. Her movement overbalanced him and he staggered.

A menacing rattle, so close this time it raised the hair on the back of her neck. Cold
sweat gathered on her skin.

“Jesus, God! He struck my cast. Grab the wire, Amy, grab it quick before he strikes
again.”

Not Simon. Not Simon.
She located a rafter, traced its splintery side until her
fingers closed on the line. “Got it.” The wire twanged and creaked. The thin metal
strand was old and brittle, and with her lack of agility, chancy as hell. She lifted her
weight off Simon and started hand over hand toward the tublike structure farther down
the wall. Fasteners holding the wire popped and cracked.
Please. Please. A few more
feet, just a few more feet.

“Amy? You all right?”

With a rending screech, the wire let go at one end. She hung onto the swinging line with
both hands and pawed the air with her feet. Her toe banged the side of the pit. Two more
inches—two—only two and she'd be inside. Sweat stung her eyes, fogged her glasses,
slicked her hands. No sound in the cool gloom except her harsh breathing.

She pushed off, pendulumed out, started the return arc. Her hands started to slip. Not
yet. Not yet. She flung her body forward, hitting her shins, her arms, and her head as
she fell. No matter. “I'm in,” she called.

She righted herself, snatched up the hose and turned to assess the situation. Dim gray
light now filled the basement. She could make out Simon some twenty feet away. “Are the
snakes still there?”

“All around me. All within striking distance.”

“I'm going to try sweeping them away with water.”

“Snakes swim you know.”

Panic clawed at her stomach. “Hot or cold water?”

“Cold. The colder the better.”

Score one. Lomitas's water made a person's teeth ache. “Stand very still, Simon.” She
turned the tap on full bore and a blast of water shot from the nozzle. Moving the hose
back and forth, she aimed at black blobs on the floor at Simon's feet.

Time ticked by, seconds seeming like minutes. Would the water make them aggressive? She
squinted, trying to see into the deep shadows concealing the floor where Simon stood.

“You did it.” Simon started toward her. A loud whooshing hiss stopped him in mid-stride.
“No! No! Oh ... my God.”

Moonlight shafted through the window. In its silvery gleam swayed a snake. Black. Shiny
as black satin. Hood spread, its body swaying, the cobra hissed again.

Her blood seemed to congeal. “What'll I do?”

“Nothing. Above all don't move or make any loud noises.”

She shut off the water. The snake still stood poised, primeval eyes agleam. The distance
between him and Simon seemed to have lessened.

Suddenly a gust of wind caught the broken window, punched it inward and sucked it back.
Wood smacked wood, a fragment of glass shattered on the floor.

The cobra drew its head back and opened its mouth wide. “Duck, Amy, duck.”

She felt something wet hit her glasses.

“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” Simon writhed on the floor digging at his eyes.

Venom.
She groped for the faucet.
Hurry. Hurry.
Her hand found the handle,
gave it a yank and sprinkled him with a fine spray. “Hold your eyes open. Let the water
fall in.” Her heart beat in big, terrifying beats. Cobra venom affected nerves,
paralyzed heart and lung muscles, caused blindness. She must get to him.

She switched off the cold faucet and turned on the hot. The pipes clattered and thumped.
Built up steam belched forth with the stream of scalding water she directed at the
snake.
Make it work. I have to get to him.

The snaked whooshed, sprayed her with another shot of venom and slithered off to a far
corner.

She took a handkerchief from her pocket, soaked it with water, vaulted out of the pit,
and ran to Simon.

“My eyes, my eyes.” He thrashed his head about. “God, oh God, the pain.”

She braced his head. “This'll help some.” She forced open his lids, squeezed water from
the cloth and let the drops fall in. From all around her came an almost inaudible
shu-shu-shu. Fear rippled along her skin.

She knelt and tugged his arm around her neck. “Try to get your legs under you.” She
straightened and brought him up with her. “Can you walk?”

“Feel funny.” He swayed and let out a low moan.

She got a better grip on him and started toward the stairs. Two wriggling serpents cut
her off. She swung him around. Step by wobbly step, she moved him back until she reached
the pit, leaned him over the edge and lifted him in.

She tumbled in beside him, dripped more water in his eyes, rinsed off his face and her
own. What to do? Light from the moon had disappeared and with it had gone any chance of
getting Simon across that hazardous stretch.

She felt for his hand. “I have to get help.”

He clung to her fingers. “You can't"—his body contorted and his breath made a whistling
sound—"you can't go ... out ... there.”