Read Online Nowhere to Hide by Joan Hall Hovey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joan Hall Hovey
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eaves and snow-crusted branches bowed low under starless skies.
After several moments, drained and exhausted, Ellen went into the kitchen and poured the remainder of her drink down the sink. Quite sober now, she thought how silly it was what she’d tried to do. She wasn’t even sure she really believed in E.S.P. Sure, she and Gail had often been able to tune in to one another thoughts, and sometimes, when she’d pick up the receiver to call her, Gail would already be on the line. They would laugh about that and feel no small sense of wonder.
But even if something more than simple intuition was at work, it wouldn’t happen with a stranger. And you couldn’t call it up, like a witch’s curse, no matter how bad you wanted to.
But she would find him, she thought, standing very still, holding the empty glass in her hand. She wouldn’t rest until she did. And he would pay. Under the sudden pressure of her fingers, the glass shattered, cutting her in a dozen places. Ellen watched with an odd sense of fascination as rivulets of blood flowed over her hand in every direction, dripping steadily as a heartbeat onto the black and white floor tiles.
Gradually, she became aware of the throbbing pain in her hand, and almost welcomed it.
Her life had purpose now.
~ * ~
Across town, in the darkened den of an old Victorian-style house, the tall man jerked awake, the can of Miller Lite dropping from his hand to roll across the floor, knocking up against the leg of the old Philco television set, spewing beer onto the faded rug. He jumped to retrieve the can, looked bewilderedly around him. Aunt Mattie? No, he couldn’t have heard her from down here. Besides, his aunt didn’t swear.
But someone had called out to him, an angry voice—calling him a bastard. Saying he’d pay.
Ten
Upstairs, Ellen stood holding the towel firmly around her hand to staunch the flow of blood. The towel was already reddening, though when she’d run cold water over her hand, she’d seen that none of the cuts were deep.
In the mirror, her eyes looked haunted, sunken in her skull. Her new hairdo lay flat and greasy against her head. She looked like hell. Get yourself together, Ellen. You’ve got work to do.
She opened the medicine chest, her reflection flying out of view. Taking down the bottle of Valium, she flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet. It was important to keep her wits about her. Smelling the faint sourness coming off her body, she realized she needed a shower.
Tomorrow she would fly to New York, she thought, turning on the taps, testing the water with her good hand. She’d talk to Sandi, Gail’s roommate. And the landlady. Someone must know something, must have seen something. Sandi had called one day last week, crying. Ellen couldn’t remember what she said. She’d sent flowers. There’d been so many flowers. She thought of the stack of cards on the fridge. She would go through them. Perhaps Gail’s killer had even sent one. She’d heard of such things.
She would take a sabbatical from work. She had nothing to give to anyone else just now. Someone else would have to take over her caseload. She wouldn’t be returning for a while.
Not until she found him.
~ * ~
She was half way down the stairs when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. It was five minutes past eight. Frowning, she wondered if Myra had come back. Other than the glow from the television, the room was in darkness. Ellen switched off the television, turned on a couple of lamps, and opened the door.
It surprised her to see Miss Layton standing there, looking much as she had standing in the doorway of the funeral parlor—small black hat perched on her graying head, purse clutched in front of her. Up this close, she looked smaller somehow, and Ellen could see the deep lines etched in her face, and the way her lively blue eyes had faded. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, after all these years, that her teacher
After several moments, drained and exhausted, Ellen went into the kitchen and poured the remainder of her drink down the sink. Quite sober now, she thought how silly it was what she’d tried to do. She wasn’t even sure she really believed in E.S.P. Sure, she and Gail had often been able to tune in to one another thoughts, and sometimes, when she’d pick up the receiver to call her, Gail would already be on the line. They would laugh about that and feel no small sense of wonder.
But even if something more than simple intuition was at work, it wouldn’t happen with a stranger. And you couldn’t call it up, like a witch’s curse, no matter how bad you wanted to.
But she would find him, she thought, standing very still, holding the empty glass in her hand. She wouldn’t rest until she did. And he would pay. Under the sudden pressure of her fingers, the glass shattered, cutting her in a dozen places. Ellen watched with an odd sense of fascination as rivulets of blood flowed over her hand in every direction, dripping steadily as a heartbeat onto the black and white floor tiles.
Gradually, she became aware of the throbbing pain in her hand, and almost welcomed it.
Her life had purpose now.
~ * ~
Across town, in the darkened den of an old Victorian-style house, the tall man jerked awake, the can of Miller Lite dropping from his hand to roll across the floor, knocking up against the leg of the old Philco television set, spewing beer onto the faded rug. He jumped to retrieve the can, looked bewilderedly around him. Aunt Mattie? No, he couldn’t have heard her from down here. Besides, his aunt didn’t swear.
But someone had called out to him, an angry voice—calling him a bastard. Saying he’d pay.
Ten
Upstairs, Ellen stood holding the towel firmly around her hand to staunch the flow of blood. The towel was already reddening, though when she’d run cold water over her hand, she’d seen that none of the cuts were deep.
In the mirror, her eyes looked haunted, sunken in her skull. Her new hairdo lay flat and greasy against her head. She looked like hell. Get yourself together, Ellen. You’ve got work to do.
She opened the medicine chest, her reflection flying out of view. Taking down the bottle of Valium, she flushed the remaining tablets down the toilet. It was important to keep her wits about her. Smelling the faint sourness coming off her body, she realized she needed a shower.
Tomorrow she would fly to New York, she thought, turning on the taps, testing the water with her good hand. She’d talk to Sandi, Gail’s roommate. And the landlady. Someone must know something, must have seen something. Sandi had called one day last week, crying. Ellen couldn’t remember what she said. She’d sent flowers. There’d been so many flowers. She thought of the stack of cards on the fridge. She would go through them. Perhaps Gail’s killer had even sent one. She’d heard of such things.
She would take a sabbatical from work. She had nothing to give to anyone else just now. Someone else would have to take over her caseload. She wouldn’t be returning for a while.
Not until she found him.
~ * ~
She was half way down the stairs when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. It was five minutes past eight. Frowning, she wondered if Myra had come back. Other than the glow from the television, the room was in darkness. Ellen switched off the television, turned on a couple of lamps, and opened the door.
It surprised her to see Miss Layton standing there, looking much as she had standing in the doorway of the funeral parlor—small black hat perched on her graying head, purse clutched in front of her. Up this close, she looked smaller somehow, and Ellen could see the deep lines etched in her face, and the way her lively blue eyes had faded. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised, after all these years, that her teacher
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