Read Online Chill Waters by Joan Hall Hovey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
nurse had her back to him, flipping through a box of files. He slipped quickly past her, worried that she might sense him there, but she didn’t. So far, so good. 306…308…310…312…314…
He stopped, his heart seeming to stop with him. So where was the cop who was supposed to be guarding her door? While he was relieved that no one would be keeping him from Heather, he was also angry that no one was looking out for her. What if the guy decided to come back? Didn’t anyone give a damn?
What would he say to her? For the millionth time, he blamed himself for not being there when she needed him. Why didn’t I know? He wiped impatiently at a tear. Knock it off. She damn well doesn’t need you blubbering all over her like a baby, Prichard. What was he waiting for? Someone to see him standing here? Tommy pushed the door open. The room was dark. “Heather?” he said softly.
As he took a tentative step forward, steel glinted in the sparse light coming from the window, outlining her bed. Taking another step into the room, the scent of flowers wafted to him. Nearly tripping over the blanket puddled on the floor, his heart gave a small skip. He picked it up.
Something was wrong.
Approaching her bedside, his bewildered eyes took in the hair spilling from beneath the pillow that lay over her face – her smooth pale arm hanging limply by the side of the bed…
Though Tommy’s brain snapped frantic photos of the scene, it had not yet had time to process them. The unthinkable did not yet register. That would take a few more seconds.
“Heather?”
Officer Mel Willis was just returning with his second cup of coffee, which tasted only a tad better than he imagined the cleaning agent in Sam’s scrub bucket would taste. But at least it woke him up. And it was hot. He’d passed a minute or two (fifteen in real time) chatting with the old man on whether or not Tyson still had the fire in him. Sam was a die-hard fan of the bad-boy boxer.
Mel’s steps halted at the sight of the young man stumbling wild-eyed out of Heather Myer’s room. Dread and horror slammed through him, turning the coffee in his gut into acid. He’d heard it said that before you die, your life flashes in front of you. It was exactly like that for Mel, except that it was his career that flashed before his eyes.
The boy turned to look at him. As their eyes locked, Willis’ training went into gear. The coffee in his cup splattering its dark liquid against the wall, Mel went for his gun, simultaneously assuming the crouch position.
Twelve
At 2:51 a.m. Rachael woke to the wailing of sirens. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa listening to the storm rage outside her window. The wind had howled beneath the eaves, moaned down the chimney, and Rachael was strangely lulled by its mad symphony.
The room was still warm but the fire had waned. She rose and placed another piece of wood on the burning embers. She watched until it caught, then went out to the kitchen.
More sirens. They seemed close. She wondered what had happened. She looked out the small window over the sink, but could see only her own pale reflection in the rain-battered glass.
Lightning flashed silent and eerie in the window, casting the old elm tree in unearthly light. So stark were its tortured branches, it no longer resembled the tree she had climbed in and swung in as a child, but some evil apparition. Like a tree in one of those old Bela Lagosi flicks that had held her spellbound.
You saw too many of them. Feeling the headache returning, she washed down a couple more Tylenol to hopefully ward it off. She’d been living on the damn things lately.
The sirens had stopped. Silence now.
She went back to thinking about those old movies, about how the scary stuff always seemed to happen in the midst of a thunderstorm. As she stood there, a blinding flash of lightning turned night into
He stopped, his heart seeming to stop with him. So where was the cop who was supposed to be guarding her door? While he was relieved that no one would be keeping him from Heather, he was also angry that no one was looking out for her. What if the guy decided to come back? Didn’t anyone give a damn?
What would he say to her? For the millionth time, he blamed himself for not being there when she needed him. Why didn’t I know? He wiped impatiently at a tear. Knock it off. She damn well doesn’t need you blubbering all over her like a baby, Prichard. What was he waiting for? Someone to see him standing here? Tommy pushed the door open. The room was dark. “Heather?” he said softly.
As he took a tentative step forward, steel glinted in the sparse light coming from the window, outlining her bed. Taking another step into the room, the scent of flowers wafted to him. Nearly tripping over the blanket puddled on the floor, his heart gave a small skip. He picked it up.
Something was wrong.
Approaching her bedside, his bewildered eyes took in the hair spilling from beneath the pillow that lay over her face – her smooth pale arm hanging limply by the side of the bed…
Though Tommy’s brain snapped frantic photos of the scene, it had not yet had time to process them. The unthinkable did not yet register. That would take a few more seconds.
“Heather?”
Officer Mel Willis was just returning with his second cup of coffee, which tasted only a tad better than he imagined the cleaning agent in Sam’s scrub bucket would taste. But at least it woke him up. And it was hot. He’d passed a minute or two (fifteen in real time) chatting with the old man on whether or not Tyson still had the fire in him. Sam was a die-hard fan of the bad-boy boxer.
Mel’s steps halted at the sight of the young man stumbling wild-eyed out of Heather Myer’s room. Dread and horror slammed through him, turning the coffee in his gut into acid. He’d heard it said that before you die, your life flashes in front of you. It was exactly like that for Mel, except that it was his career that flashed before his eyes.
The boy turned to look at him. As their eyes locked, Willis’ training went into gear. The coffee in his cup splattering its dark liquid against the wall, Mel went for his gun, simultaneously assuming the crouch position.
Twelve
At 2:51 a.m. Rachael woke to the wailing of sirens. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa listening to the storm rage outside her window. The wind had howled beneath the eaves, moaned down the chimney, and Rachael was strangely lulled by its mad symphony.
The room was still warm but the fire had waned. She rose and placed another piece of wood on the burning embers. She watched until it caught, then went out to the kitchen.
More sirens. They seemed close. She wondered what had happened. She looked out the small window over the sink, but could see only her own pale reflection in the rain-battered glass.
Lightning flashed silent and eerie in the window, casting the old elm tree in unearthly light. So stark were its tortured branches, it no longer resembled the tree she had climbed in and swung in as a child, but some evil apparition. Like a tree in one of those old Bela Lagosi flicks that had held her spellbound.
You saw too many of them. Feeling the headache returning, she washed down a couple more Tylenol to hopefully ward it off. She’d been living on the damn things lately.
The sirens had stopped. Silence now.
She went back to thinking about those old movies, about how the scary stuff always seemed to happen in the midst of a thunderstorm. As she stood there, a blinding flash of lightning turned night into
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