the glass.
But he still didn’t open the door.
Again she mouthed the words, “Help, I need help,” and added a “please” that had the taste of camphor on her tongue.
Lomax kept on staring, shaking his head now.
Furious, Shelby hammered on the glass again, directly in front of that stone-mask face. She kept it up until the mask began to slip a little—mouth and jaw tightening, eyelids pinching down. Finally got through to him, made him realize that ignoring her wouldn’t make her go away. He reached down to snap the lock free, slid the door open a few inches. Blocking it with his body, the fingers of his right hand resting on the automatic’s handle: He wasn’t going to let her into the house.
“What’s the idea? I could have you arrested for trespassing.”
She could barely hear him over the storm’s shrieks and wails. Rain blew in past her, splattering droplets against his face; he didn’t seem to notice. She leaned up into the opening, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes had a hard fixity, like cat’s-eye marbles, but he didn’t seem to be drunk—at least not drunk enough to slur his words or impair his ability to function.
“Let me come in.”
“No. What do you want?”
“I need your help, yours and Claire’s.”
“… What kind of help?”
“My husband’s had a heart attack.” Shouting to make sure he heard and understood what she was saying. “I’ve got him stabilized for now, but I can’t go for help because the lane’s blocked on the far side of the cottage— the storm blew a tree down across it.”
Nothing changed in Lomax’s expression. His voice remained flat and cold when he said, “That’s too bad. What do you want me to do?”
“You have a chain saw? I thought maybe you could—”
“No. No chain saw.”
He was lying. She couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was immediately sure of it—lying through his teeth. Why, for God’s sake?
“All right, then, we can try moving the tree with your SUV—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s not any good for that kind of thing. Sits too high.”
“You haven’t even seen the fucking tree! Come with me, take a look.”
“No. There’s no use in it.”
Shelby controlled a savage impulse to reach through, grab him by the throat and choke him. “Listen to me,” she shouted. “Jay could die if he doesn’t get emergency treatment ASAP. You understand? He could die!”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes there is.” Spitting the words at him now. “You or Claire can stay with him until I get back with a doctor or EMS unit. Keep the fire going so he stays warm— Why the hell are you shaking your head?”
“Claire’s sick. I can’t let her go out in this storm.”
“Sick?”
“She’s in bed. Flu or something.”
“Then you come stay with Jay.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t leave her alone.”
“God damn you, can’t you get it through your head my husband might die unless—”
Lomax said, “There’s nothing we can do. Get off my property,” and backed up a step and slid the door shut and snapped the drapes closed again, tight this time—all in one continuous motion.
A surge of impotent rage made her yell, “You miserable son of a bitch!” and beat on the glass a few more times. Then her control came back, and along with it a redoubled need for urgency.
She shoved away from the glass, thumbed the flashlight back on, fought the wind down the steps and back around to the brick path. A bone-white dazzle of lightning flashed as she emerged onto the parking area, followed by more rolling echoes of thunder when she reached the gates. Up and over and back into the car. Moving again.
The rage still stalked her mind. What kind of man was Brian Lomax, to blow her off the way he had? Sub- fucking-human. If Jay died or suffered permanent damage because of him, she’d make him pay somehow. There wasn’t anything the law could do to him—he was within his rights to refuse her admission to his house, refuse to help her because his wife was “sick”; could even bring charges against her for illegal trespass. But she could let the world know how he’d acted tonight. Make
She drove too fast back to the cottage, ran stumbling through the open gate and slipped quickly inside. Candle flames guttered; she half noticed that some of the candles were already melting into puddles of red and green wax. The focus of her attention was Jay. He was lying as she’d left him with the blanket and comforter pulled up beneath his chin, the cannula still clipped into his nose. Conscious and alert: He raised his head as she hurried across the room.
He asked in a scratchy voice, “What happened?”
Shelby told him in clipped sentences. “I think Lomax was lying. About the chain saw, about Claire being sick.”
“Bastard beat her up again.”
“Probably.” She went to one knee beside the couch. “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“Pain anywhere? Discomfort?”
“No.”
His voice sounded strong, his color was good and his eyes clear. She removed her gloves, laid a hand on his forehead. Dry and warm, but not feverish. She checked his vital signs again. Lungs clear. Blood oxygen saturation up to 98 percent. Blood pressure holding now at 125 over 78.
The fire was already burning low. She stoked it with the last three small logs in the wood box, leaving the ones on the hearth where they lay. When she turned back to Jay, he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“It can wait. Are you thirsty?”
“A little, but—”
She went to the kitchen, filled a small tumbler, and brought it back. Raised his head, let him swallow a little, then set the glass on the floor within his reach.
“You need to use the bathroom?”
“No.”
“Good.” She indicated the glass. “Small sips when you want more, so you won’t need to pee.”
“Shel, listen,” he said, his voice earnest now. In the firelight the planes of his face had a bronze cast and his eyes were like black opals. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had chest pains. I’ve been seeing a cardiologist.”
“Dr. Prebble. The nitroglycerine tablets. How long?”
“The week before Christmas. He ran tests … told me I need to have bypass surgery. He wanted to do it right away, but I said no, wait until after the first of the year. I didn’t want to spoil the holidays for us.”
Spoil the holidays. Good God.
She said, keeping her voice even, “Is that the real reason for this trip?”
“Yes. It seemed like a good idea … time alone together, maybe the last good time we’d ever have. Wasn’t that I thought I’d die, it was the way things will be after the surgery. Bad heart, unable to work, financial drain. I’ve been a burden on you so long, it can only get worse …”
“Were you trying to drive me away?”
“No. I knew you’d stay with me, at least for a while.”
“Out of pity? Is that the kind of person you think I am?”
“God, no. It’s just that … I can’t stand the thought of you having to take care of me the rest of my life. I may
