Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [19]
But not now. It was just as well that crashing angry waves weren’t added to the mix. She watched the lightning continue to tear through the sky, making it bright as day for long moments at a time. She felt the scoring of the thunder to her toes. It was impressive, utterly dramatic, and she was getting scared.
Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer. She lit the three precious candles, stuck them in the bottom of coffee mugs, and picked up the Steve Martini thriller she’d been reading until the storm had really gotten serious.
Was the storm easing up? She read a few words, then realized that she couldn’t remember the story line. This wasn’t good. She put the novel back on her nightstand and picked up the New York Times, carried only by a small tobacco shop off Poison Ivy Lane. She didn’t want to read about the attempted assassination, but she did, naturally. Page after page was devoted to the governor’s attempted murder. She was mentioned too many times.
Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speech writer for the governor, who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governor’s life.
Former speechwriter now, was she? Well, since she’d left without a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.
It was nearly two o’clock in the morning.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window. She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to the ground. It didn’t hit the house, thank God, but some upper branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder, and thought enough is enough. She didn’t want to be alone, not anymore.
She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to block up the window. But there wasn’t anything except half a dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.
She closed the front door behind her and stepped into the howling wind. She was wet clear through before she’d taken three breaths. No hope for it. She ran through the heavy rain to the Toyota and fumbled with the lock even as her hair was plastered to her head. Finally she got the door open and climbed in behind the wheel. When she turned the key in the ignition, the car growled at her, then stopped. She didn’t want to flood it so she didn’t turn the ignition again. No, give it a rest for a moment. Again, finally, she turned the key, and Lord be praised, the engine turned over, started. Tyler’s house was a half mile down the road, the first street to the right, Gum Shoe Lane.
At a loud crack of thunder, she looked back at Jacob Marley’s house. It looked like an old Gothic manor in the English countryside, hunkered down in the rain, filled with lost and ancient spirits. It looked menacing even without billowing fog to shadow it in more gloom. A sharp lightning flash streaked