Read Online Trouble at High Tide by Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher
Ads: Link
lullabies or sweet dreams. But I hadn’t been having a nightmare. I knew that. I hadn’t dwelled on the details of Alicia’s death or the death of the other victims of a serial killer. No. Before I’d fallen asleep, I’d been thinking about the beautiful woman I’d seen at the police press conference. Was she really from Scotland Yard? What was her specialty? And did she know my dear friend George Sutherland, who was a chief inspector in the London office? It was likely that she did; I’d ask her if we had occasion to meet.
As I was reviewing my thoughts and recapturing my bedtime musings, I realized that someone was walking on the gravel path outside my window. Whoever it was made no effort to soften his or her footfall, or perhaps was unsuccessful. But what struck me was that he or she was still there. The footsteps hadn’t faded away, neither moving toward the main house, nor down to the beach. Instead, it sounded as if someone was pacing in front of the cottage, or perhaps walking around it with a view to gaining entry.
I slid up to a sitting position, leaned against the pillowed headboard, and squinted at the door to see if I’d locked it before retiring. It was too dark to tell. The moon illuminated the landscape outside but left the details inside the cottage in shadows.
The sound of shoes on gravel stopped. While the knowledgethat someone was walking nearby was unsettling, the silence that followed was worse.
I held my breath, reasoning with myself that this person was simply the security guard Adam had hired carrying out his patrol. But where was he? Why had he paused in his rounds right outside my cottage? And what if this wasn’t the guard? What if it was the person who had murdered Alicia? What if he had indeed been in the vicinity when I discovered the body the night before? Was he worried that I might have had a glimpse of him? Had he come back to ensure that I wouldn’t be able to identify him? Or was he just eager for another victim?
I groped around the nightstand for my cell phone, but when I opened it, no light came on. I’d left it on after notifying the police in case they needed to reach me, and had forgotten to charge it.
I heard a heavy step on the porch and had to stifle a gasp. Was this the way I would die? After all the danger I’d faced in my life, all the risks I’d taken, would my life end because I was trapped in a building with only one exit? No matter how fast I was, if I tried to flee through the door, chances are I would end up in the arms of the intruder.
I quickly debated my choices. Should I pretend to be asleep? Challenge him? Hide? There weren’t many places to conceal myself in the cottage. Perhaps under the bed, assuming I could squeeze into that narrow space without making a racket. But what would that do if someone were determined to get in and attack me?
Was there time for me to barricade myself in the bathroom and yell for help? Confronting the intruder was out ofthe question. I was unarmed, and while in good shape for my age, certainly not up to doing battle with a man wielding a knife.
I slowly pushed the covers off my legs, trying to make as little noise as possible. I twisted toward the edge of the bed, catching one foot in the sheet and nearly toppling over. I forced myself to slow down and concentrate on extricating myself from the cotton snare, all the time listening closely for evidence of his next move.
The person on my porch shuffled forward. I caught sight through the window of the outline of a head and shoulders. I froze. Was he trying to see inside? Then I heard a little squeal from the springs on the swing as he dropped into it, and a thud as he put something down.
Cautiously, I put my feet on the wooden floor and stood, crouched over. Behind me in the corner was a golf umbrella. But to retrieve it, I’d have to climb over the bed and risk alerting the intruder to the fact that I was awake and aware of his presence.
Instead I decided on an
As I was reviewing my thoughts and recapturing my bedtime musings, I realized that someone was walking on the gravel path outside my window. Whoever it was made no effort to soften his or her footfall, or perhaps was unsuccessful. But what struck me was that he or she was still there. The footsteps hadn’t faded away, neither moving toward the main house, nor down to the beach. Instead, it sounded as if someone was pacing in front of the cottage, or perhaps walking around it with a view to gaining entry.
I slid up to a sitting position, leaned against the pillowed headboard, and squinted at the door to see if I’d locked it before retiring. It was too dark to tell. The moon illuminated the landscape outside but left the details inside the cottage in shadows.
The sound of shoes on gravel stopped. While the knowledgethat someone was walking nearby was unsettling, the silence that followed was worse.
I held my breath, reasoning with myself that this person was simply the security guard Adam had hired carrying out his patrol. But where was he? Why had he paused in his rounds right outside my cottage? And what if this wasn’t the guard? What if it was the person who had murdered Alicia? What if he had indeed been in the vicinity when I discovered the body the night before? Was he worried that I might have had a glimpse of him? Had he come back to ensure that I wouldn’t be able to identify him? Or was he just eager for another victim?
I groped around the nightstand for my cell phone, but when I opened it, no light came on. I’d left it on after notifying the police in case they needed to reach me, and had forgotten to charge it.
I heard a heavy step on the porch and had to stifle a gasp. Was this the way I would die? After all the danger I’d faced in my life, all the risks I’d taken, would my life end because I was trapped in a building with only one exit? No matter how fast I was, if I tried to flee through the door, chances are I would end up in the arms of the intruder.
I quickly debated my choices. Should I pretend to be asleep? Challenge him? Hide? There weren’t many places to conceal myself in the cottage. Perhaps under the bed, assuming I could squeeze into that narrow space without making a racket. But what would that do if someone were determined to get in and attack me?
Was there time for me to barricade myself in the bathroom and yell for help? Confronting the intruder was out ofthe question. I was unarmed, and while in good shape for my age, certainly not up to doing battle with a man wielding a knife.
I slowly pushed the covers off my legs, trying to make as little noise as possible. I twisted toward the edge of the bed, catching one foot in the sheet and nearly toppling over. I forced myself to slow down and concentrate on extricating myself from the cotton snare, all the time listening closely for evidence of his next move.
The person on my porch shuffled forward. I caught sight through the window of the outline of a head and shoulders. I froze. Was he trying to see inside? Then I heard a little squeal from the springs on the swing as he dropped into it, and a thud as he put something down.
Cautiously, I put my feet on the wooden floor and stood, crouched over. Behind me in the corner was a golf umbrella. But to retrieve it, I’d have to climb over the bed and risk alerting the intruder to the fact that I was awake and aware of his presence.
Instead I decided on an
Similar Books
