Read Online Chill Waters by Joan Hall Hovey - Free Book Online
Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
inside Heather’s head screamed. Come back. Don’t leave me!
He waited a few seconds to be sure the nurse had really gone. Then slowly, he turned to Heather, picked up the pillow once again. Smiling down into the wide, terror-filled blue eyes, he said with deadly softness, “Almost got away. And I was kind of rooting for you too. Really.”
Heather mouthed the words, Please no, as the pillow slowly came down onto her face, blocking out all light. All hope.
At exactly 2:26 a.m. Iris Brandt bolted upright in her bed, clutching her chest and gasping for air, with the horrible sensation of being suffocated.
Hearing footsteps on the landing below, Tommy froze where he was. When he was satisfied that the clanging feet were racing to the lower level, he let himself breathe again.
Then he was facing a grey metal door with the number 3 painted above a narrow rectangular pane of fireproof glass. At the sound of an approaching gurney, he shrank back against the wall. A white-haired black man pushing an empty gurney rattled past the door and on down the corridor.
Tommy wiped sweaty palms on his jeans, and slumped down on the top step. Had to get himself together. His nerves were jumpy as hell.
The last thing Heather needed was for him to go in there and lose it. She needed to concentrate on getting better, so he had to be strong for her. He would help her make it through this. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he would.
Right now he just wanted to see her, to hold her and let her know how much he loved her and that he was there for her. He would also vow that the creep who did this to her would be punished. But the first thing he had to do, he thought, getting to his feet, was to make it to her room without being seen. There might be a little problem with that, especially considering that her mom had told him a policeman was guarding her door. He would beg if he had to. Throw himself on the guy’s mercy. “Just for a minute,” he’d say. “You can come in with me.”
One step at a time, Tommy Prichard. You got this far.
Inching the door open a crack, he peered cautiously around it. Seeing a doctor headed in his direction, going flat out, Tommy eased the door closed, stood well back until he passed. Then he opened it again, and, heart pounding like a trip-hammer, stepped into the highly polished corridor.
Complete quiet surrounded himan eerie hush. While beneath it he could hear the faintest murmur of machinesthat great technology that kept hearts pumping, lungs breathing. Or maybe the sounds were just inside his own head.
The air was heavy and too warm, filled with unspoken dangers. Tommy hated hospitals at the best of times. He hated the smells, the sounds. He knew it was because of that time when he was five and an ambulance had rushed him in here in the middle of the night with an attack of appendicitis. He’d never forget his terror at waking up in the shadowy quiet of his room, peering through the bars of his bed, like a trapped rabbit. He’d been crying for his mother, when suddenly a monster in white loomed over him, clamped a big hand over his mouth, cutting off his cries, terrifying him. “Quiet,” she’d commanded before thrusting a big needle into his arm.
When he woke the next morning, his mother was at his bedside, smiling tenderly down at him, stroking his damp hair, telling him he’d just had a bad dream, that was all. There were no monsters—especially monsters in white.
Her smile floated from his mind as Tommy looked up at the red numbers on the wall. Red arrows pointed left and right, guiding him in the direction he needed to go.
Creeping ghost-like down the corridor, Tommy’s sneakers were soundless on the floor. He checked the numbers on the doors; even numbers were on his right.
300…302…304…
Her room had to be just around the next turn past the nurse’s station. Luck was with him. The
He waited a few seconds to be sure the nurse had really gone. Then slowly, he turned to Heather, picked up the pillow once again. Smiling down into the wide, terror-filled blue eyes, he said with deadly softness, “Almost got away. And I was kind of rooting for you too. Really.”
Heather mouthed the words, Please no, as the pillow slowly came down onto her face, blocking out all light. All hope.
At exactly 2:26 a.m. Iris Brandt bolted upright in her bed, clutching her chest and gasping for air, with the horrible sensation of being suffocated.
Hearing footsteps on the landing below, Tommy froze where he was. When he was satisfied that the clanging feet were racing to the lower level, he let himself breathe again.
Then he was facing a grey metal door with the number 3 painted above a narrow rectangular pane of fireproof glass. At the sound of an approaching gurney, he shrank back against the wall. A white-haired black man pushing an empty gurney rattled past the door and on down the corridor.
Tommy wiped sweaty palms on his jeans, and slumped down on the top step. Had to get himself together. His nerves were jumpy as hell.
The last thing Heather needed was for him to go in there and lose it. She needed to concentrate on getting better, so he had to be strong for her. He would help her make it through this. He didn’t know how, exactly, but he would.
Right now he just wanted to see her, to hold her and let her know how much he loved her and that he was there for her. He would also vow that the creep who did this to her would be punished. But the first thing he had to do, he thought, getting to his feet, was to make it to her room without being seen. There might be a little problem with that, especially considering that her mom had told him a policeman was guarding her door. He would beg if he had to. Throw himself on the guy’s mercy. “Just for a minute,” he’d say. “You can come in with me.”
One step at a time, Tommy Prichard. You got this far.
Inching the door open a crack, he peered cautiously around it. Seeing a doctor headed in his direction, going flat out, Tommy eased the door closed, stood well back until he passed. Then he opened it again, and, heart pounding like a trip-hammer, stepped into the highly polished corridor.
Complete quiet surrounded himan eerie hush. While beneath it he could hear the faintest murmur of machinesthat great technology that kept hearts pumping, lungs breathing. Or maybe the sounds were just inside his own head.
The air was heavy and too warm, filled with unspoken dangers. Tommy hated hospitals at the best of times. He hated the smells, the sounds. He knew it was because of that time when he was five and an ambulance had rushed him in here in the middle of the night with an attack of appendicitis. He’d never forget his terror at waking up in the shadowy quiet of his room, peering through the bars of his bed, like a trapped rabbit. He’d been crying for his mother, when suddenly a monster in white loomed over him, clamped a big hand over his mouth, cutting off his cries, terrifying him. “Quiet,” she’d commanded before thrusting a big needle into his arm.
When he woke the next morning, his mother was at his bedside, smiling tenderly down at him, stroking his damp hair, telling him he’d just had a bad dream, that was all. There were no monsters—especially monsters in white.
Her smile floated from his mind as Tommy looked up at the red numbers on the wall. Red arrows pointed left and right, guiding him in the direction he needed to go.
Creeping ghost-like down the corridor, Tommy’s sneakers were soundless on the floor. He checked the numbers on the doors; even numbers were on his right.
300…302…304…
Her room had to be just around the next turn past the nurse’s station. Luck was with him. The
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