Christmas at Timberwoods - Fern Michaels [92]
Richards practically had steam coming out of his ears. “One of these days, Summers, one of these days . . .” He pointed to the clock in the office. It was 5:40.
Angela stood up from her seat on the bench by her father, her face haunted. “This feeling is getting worse by the minute. I feel like my head’s going to explode.”
She paced around nervously, her movements uncoordinated and jerky. “You have to get out of here, Daddy.”
“I’m not leaving you. Look, why don’t you call your friend, the one who has the puppies? Talk to her for a few minutes and maybe you’ll calm down,” Murray suggested helplessly as he looked into his daughter’s tortured eyes. “Use the pay phone. Mine doesn’t get much of a signal—must be the SIM thingy.” He waved her on her way. “Go.”
Angela walked around the corner to the phone booth, her mind whirling. Would Mrs. Summers’s calm voice soothe her? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try if this feeling would just go away.
“Could I speak to Mrs. Summers?” Angela asked a voice she did not recognize.
“Mrs. Summers isn’t here right now,” the woman answered. “She had a doctor’s appointment and then she was stopping by Timberwoods to pick up a gift. She should be back in a little while—around seven, I guess. Do you want to leave a message? I’m her sister. I’m babysitting the puppies.”
“She went where?” Angela screamed.
“To the doctor’s office and then . . . to Timberwoods. Say, what’s the matter?”
“Are you sure?” Angela pressed. “What time was she coming to the shopping center?”
“I’m not sure. She said something about it depended on how long it took at the doctor’s. The roads aren’t too good, so she’ll be driving slow. What’s wrong? What’s the matter?”
“What’s the name of her doctor? Do you have his number? I have to reach her as soon as possible.” Angela chewed on her fingernail while she waited. “Okay, I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, breaking the connection. She dialed the doctor’s number and counted the rings.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach Amy Summers. Is she still there? . . . How long ago did she leave?” Angela let the receiver fall and raced to find her father. Quickly she told him of the phone conversations. “We have to find her, Daddy, and stop her from coming into the mall. We’ll go outside and check the entrances. Hurry, Daddy. We can’t let anything happen to her.”
“That’s doing it the hard way. All we have to do is call Eric Summers and he can station a man at each one of the doors to catch her.”
“I should have thought of that—oh, it doesn’t matter who did! She can’t come in here, she just can’t. Mr. Summers will take care of it.” Her eyes brightened momentarily in thanks to her father and his quick thinking.
Once they had called Eric Summers, Angela and her father prowled the mall, each intent on their own thoughts. No matter which way they walked, Angela invariably circled back and headed toward the North Pole display, going past her group of angel statues several times.
They could use a real one, she thought wildly. But then there never seemed to be a real angel around when you needed one.
Her growing sense of foreboding reached fever pitch. It was someone in the mall. She was certain of it. But who? Would she recognize him—or her—if the person came into her line of vision? She had no way of knowing—and no idea of how much time was left. She stopped and looked at her father imploringly, tears swimming in her eyes. In her peripheral vision, a flash of red appeared and then disappeared. Angela blinked the tears away and stared transfixed at the sight to her left. It was Charlie Roman trudging down Holiday Alley with a sack over his shoulder.
An excruciating clarity hit her hard. Words from her worst nightmare came back to her.
What you can’t see is sometimes right in front of you.
The aura of the unknown man in her vision surrounded Charlie—she knew. It was him. “Oh my God. Daddy! It’s Charlie. The Santa!” She grabbed her father’s arm in a viselike grip.
He