Yep. The pilot was still lit.
I held my fingers close to the flickering flame, soaking up its precious warmth as I considered my next course of action.
If I had any friends, I could call one of them and finish the night out at their place.
I thought of the not-so-long list of people I’d met in Rawlings. The first name that came to mind was the too-hot-to-keep-my-hands-off computer geek, David. Calling David for help in the middle of the night was absolutely out of the question.
Then there was the everything-by-the-book Officer Brad.
I shook my head at the appalling thought. I’d have to be mostly dead before I accepted help from a man in blue.
Dorothy Fitch across the street presented a decent possibility. But then I’d be under the same roof as Jack the Ripper. No, thank you.
Tammy at the Beauty Boutique came to mind. I’d figured out she wasn’t hounding after David. That made Tammy, with her welcoming smile, the most logical choice of those to call. Sure, it was four in the morning. But she was a gracious, giving person. She wouldn’t mind a middle-of-the-night jingle from a desperate customer.
I sighed, feeling all alone in the empty basement. I couldn’t call Tammy. She’d just lost Coffee Girl, which meant she was probably emotionally exhausted and didn’t need the extra stress right now.
There had to be someone else.
I thought of Verna, my old cellmate. She’d be there for me. Too bad she was still serving time.
I stared into the tiny flame, remembering my first day with her.
“So how’d you land yourself behind bars?” My new roomy was a large woman, with arms as big around as my thighs. She sat in the corner, slouched down, legs sprawling.
“Um,” I said, “I’m kind of here by accident.”
“Me too. I accidentally got caught.” She gave a throaty guffaw. “At least that lying, scheming, no-good man of mine is dead. That wasn’t no accident.” She laughed again.
“You killed your husband?” My voice had a mousy squeak to it.
“If you’d have been me, you’d have done it too. Don’t kid yourself. If you’re here, you have it in you.”
I shook my head, horrified at the thought of this woman shooting or knifing or beating a man to death, and accusing me of being able to do the same. “No. It’s not in me.”
Her features looked small in her rotund face. She leaned forward, squinting. “Deny it and it’ll poison your mind like a viper. You’ll end up in the loony wing.” She rocked her head back and forth and made a funny face. Her tongue slithered out like a snake’s.
I stood at the cell gate and stared at the chunky cross-eyed convict. First I smiled. Then I laughed.
“We’ll get along just fine,” she said. “You just tell me what you need. Verna will take care of you.”
The pilot light on the furnace came back into focus. My hands were toasty, but my knees had frozen from crouching on the cold basement floor. I worked them back and forth, then attempted to stand up. I grabbed the edge of the furnace and made it to my feet.
I dusted off my jeans and considered the problem at hand. It looked like the only way I would get any more z’s tonight would be in a hotel.
I gave the furnace a final, frustrated kick. Unfortunately, I used my bad leg to do it. I crouched in pain and tried to catch my breath.
A tear coursed down my cheek. I would not let this furnace thing get the best of me.
I lifted my head with new resolve.
Across the basement, the shimmery pink stone caught my eye. It looked so pretty from where I stood. Curiosity compelled me to take a closer look.
I glanced around and checked out the far reaches of the cellar. No boogeymen in sight. I worked my way toward the basement wall on my left, then kept the hard rocks to my back as I sidestepped closer and closer to the cistern.
I could feel something electric in the air. I heard a buzzing in my ears. But there was no turning back as I drew nearer and nearer to the glimmering stone.
Ten feet to go.
My breath quickened as I stared at the rock in front of me.
Five feet.
I stopped and leaned forward, peering at the shiny surface. A salty odor stood out from the usual musty scent.
I squinted. This close up, the stone looked wet.
I dared myself to touch it, to prove to myself that what I perceived as fresh blood was really just the stone’s natural gleam. Hadn’t my eyes tricked me when I looked inside the cistern the first time? There had been no body, just lumpy cement.
And now, on the shiny pink surface of that rock, there was no blood. It was just the dim light hitting the century-old quartz at the right angle.
I lifted my arm, shifting it ever closer to the stone. The buzzing in my ears grew louder.
I ignored it.
My finger reached out and touched the rock.
25
I rested my finger against the stone, a shock of cold raced to my heart.
I drew my finger down the rippled surface. It slid easily in whatever slimy liquid covered the rock.
Not blood. It couldn’t be blood.
I flipped my finger over and checked the color.
Blood.
I gasped and pressed my back against the wall. Sharp stones poked into my spine.
The sound of harsh breathing echoed through the basement.
It was my own.
I stood frozen against the wall, afraid to move a muscle, afraid to be noticed by whatever blood-loving creature had left this mess.
I waited what must have been five minutes, just listening.
Total silence.
I prayed for the sound of the furnace to spur me into action. My fingers became numb in the cold. My breath puffed like fog around me.
Stuck in the headlights. That’s what Grandma would have called it. She’d tell me that not making any move was still making a move. I was just more likely to get squashed by an oncoming truck if I just stood here.
Move, Tish.
I inched toward the staircase, keeping an eye on the cistern. My foot pushed off on the bottom step, and I kept going straight to the top. I pulled the door shut and locked it with the deadbolt. If the viper was still down there, it wouldn’t escape through the kitchen door.
I rubbed my hands together and blew on them. The moist air fell short of warming my fingers.
The clock on the stove clicked and I turned to look. 4:20. My instinct was to call the police. But after the mockery I’d received last time I’d asked for help, I felt like skipping it. Still, did I have a choice?
“Central dispatch,” said a woman’s voice.
“Hi.” I gulped, not sure what to say. “Um, there’s blood in my basement and I don’t know why. Can somebody come down and take a look?” I felt childish with my request.
“Are you injured?”
“No, I’m fine. I just don’t know why there’s blood down there.”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Tish Amble.”
