The FBI Thrillers Collection Books 1-5 - Catherine Coulter [459]
Ford paused, still staring down at me, and I wished with everything in me that I could give him some sort of sign, but I couldn’t. I was just a lump lying there in that hospital bed that was probably very uncomfortable, if I could have felt it. I wasn’t anything really but my brain and one of my hands that he was holding.
What did he mean that he’d been there with me going over the cliff? That didn’t make any sense, not that anything happening right now made any sense.
A white shadowy figure came into my line of vision. Ford patted my hand, pressed it down against the bed. He walked to the figure and said, “Paul, I just arrived. I was talking to Jilly.”
Paul. He was here in my room. I couldn’t understand what he was saying to Ford, but from Ford’s long silence, he must have been saying quite a lot. He and Ford moved away from me and I couldn’t even hear Ford speaking anymore. I wanted more than anything for Paul to leave, but he didn’t. What was he saying to Ford? I wanted my brother back. He was my only connection to what was real, what was out there beyond myself.
After a while I gave up and went to sleep. Before I slept I prayed that Ford wouldn’t leave me here alone, that he would come back to me. I felt great sorrow for my Porsche, lying there at the bottom of the ocean, fish swimming through it.
I pulled the Ford into one of the six empty parking spaces in front of the Buttercup Bed and Breakfast, a whimsical name for the ugly, gothic Victorian house that was hanging nearly off the edge of the cliff. There couldn’t have been more than twenty feet between the house and a thick stone wall that you could jump off of directly down to a narrow strip of rocky beach a good forty feet below.
Just as whimsical was the name of the main street in Edgerton—Fifth Avenue. The one time I’d been here before, I’d laughed my head off. Fifth Avenue, with four parallel streets running on either side of it, dead-ending at the cliffs, bisecting streets running north and south a good distance each way.
Nothing much had changed as far as I could see.
There were small cottages dating from the 1920s lined up like pastel boxes along Fifth Avenue. Ranch-style homes from the sixties sprawled, with larger plots of land, along the back streets. Wood and glass contemporary homes, the immigrant style from California, perched on higher ground lining the cliffs, while others dotted the shallow valleys that dipped away from the water. There were still a few odd shacks and cottages tucked in among the thick stands of spruce, cedar, and western hemlock.
I went into the Buttercup B&B and was told by a thin woman who sported a line of black hair above her upper lip that they had no vacancies. I thought about all the empty parking spaces out front, saw absolutely no one at all in the house, and said to the woman who was standing behind a stretch of shiny mahogany, looking wary and stubborn, “Busy time of year, hmm?”
“There’s a convention in town,” she said, turned pink, and studied the wall behind my left shoulder, papered with huge Victorian cabbage roses.
“A convention in Edgerton? Maybe they moved the Rose Bowl up here?”
“Oh, no, these aren’t florists, they’re, well, most of them are dentists, orthodontists, I believe, from all over the country. Sorry, sir.”
I wondered what was considered the low season in Edgerton as I walked back to my car. Why hadn’t the woman wanted me to stay there? Had it gotten around already that an FBI guy was in town? Nobody wanted a cop hanging around? It seemed to me that I was the safest customer to have sleeping in your house.
I turned left off Fifth Avenue and drove north up Liverpool Street, a steep winding road that ran parallel to 101 for a good ten