Pick Your Poison

years back, or anything connecting Feldman to Parental Advocates. I turned my attention to the telephone, a state-of-the-art piece of equipment. Maybe I could find out about Hamilton and Feldman through whatever numbers were stored in the telephone.

I hunted in the desk for the instruction manual and found it within seconds. I perused the index for a last- number-redial feature, then read the directions. The phone displayed the date and time above the number buttons, and next to that, an orange tab labeled FEATURE protruded. To the right and above the numbers were more buttons. To autoredial, I pushed feature three. Not only did the phone dial the number, it displayed the digits where the date and time previously appeared. I quickly wrote the number down and hung up. So what else could Magic Phone do? Back to the manual.

I learned the phone could be programmed to speed-dial up to twelve numbers by using those unlabeled buttons. I pushed each one and jotted down five additional phone numbers on a Post-it note when they appeared in the display window. I stuck the paper in the pocket of my shorts and opened each desk drawer but didn’t find an address book with Feldman’s name agreeably printed under the Fs, nor an appointment schedule conveniently lying around.

I switched my focus to the hall door leading to the rest of the house. What went on back there? Were there filing cabinets chock-full of records?

Time to find out. I opened the door and discovered several lights glowing in the short corridor. But did I stop and consider why these lights were on? Of course not. I charged right in.

Another light, this one tiny and red, flashed up high near the end of the hallway. Miss Smarty-pants Rose had missed something else in her perfect plan.

Smile, Abby. You’re on Candid Camera.

This video equipment, obviously not hooked up to the computer, needed the hall’s brightness to adequately film unwanted visitors. Unfortunately I hadn’t foreseen this possibility.

Now what? I went down the hall, stood underneath the camera, and squinted up. Could I turn the thing off? And where would the tape be? How could I get it out? The camera was too high for me to reach, so I decided to leave that little problem for now.

I retraced my steps and entered the first room off the corridor. A copier stood against one wall, with a fax machine and document shredder alongside. The filing cabinets tempted me, but they were all locked, with no key to be found.

I reentered the hall and took several steps toward the kitchen end of the house, once again facing the blinking camera.

Then I heard the muffled sound of the chime, the one that had nearly been my downfall earlier.

I stopped dead, my stomach tight with fear, then soundlessly took a giant step to the opposite wall and flattened against the wall. I edged toward the office, positioning myself behind by the door so that if someone came through, I’d be hidden—or so I hoped.

A female voice spoke. Definitely Hamilton.

Then a man responded—he was not as close as she seemed to be—but I couldn’t understand either one of them. Could she have brought Feldman with her? Was the man I’d been hunting for in the next room?

Quick steps echoed beyond the door. Then I heard a familiar computer-generated ding. One of them was at the desk on the other side of this door.

And my right shoulder was no more than a foot from the hinges. I could feel my pulse hammering at my neck.

And then I heard her clearly. Sounding exasperated, Hamilton said, “The stupid security system is off. Second time that’s happened. I’ll switch to manual on the way out.”

Her companion said something indecipherable. He must have been standing way on the other side of the room, close to the front door.

Hamilton then said, “I left the copy of the check in the machine. Wait here while I get it.”

A copy of the check? Kate’s check? God, I hoped not.

I made myself as pancakelike as possible, anticipating Hamilton coming on through.

And she did, the open door stopping within an inch of my cheek. Sweat dribbled down the hollow of my back, and I pressed against the wall, holding my breath.

She clacked into the room across from me, came back out quickly, and exited, shutting the hall door.

I slowly exhaled.

“Let’s go,” she said. “I’ve got to find out about this Katherine Rose. She was no more sick than I am.”

Damn. Kate did write a check, and Hamilton had copied it.

Once again I heard a barely audible reply. After the lock turned, I counted to sixty before stepping out, wanting to be sure they were gone. I cracked the door to the foyer.

Without thinking again.

Hamilton had clearly said she’d activated the security system manually, and as soon as that door opened, an almost imperceptible whine started up. A not-quite-silent alarm.

I was knee-deep in manure now. I needed that videotape and then I needed out of here. The police or the hired security people would be arriving any minute.

I sprinted back down the hall and dragged a chair from the nearby kitchen, climbed up, and ran my hands along the outside of the camera.

Come on, come on! Where’s the tape?

I paused, hands trembling, telling myself to calm down.

After taking a few seconds to slow my shallow, rapid breaths, I was able to locate and remove the palm- size tape.

I hurried into the kitchen and confronted a locked dead bolt. No surprise. But the alarm was already activated, so a broken window wouldn’t matter now. In fact, a broken window would be expected.

I smashed through the nearest pane with a broom, but cut my trailing leg when I climbed out. I felt a sting, then a warm stickiness on my shin.

Dark clouds rumbled angrily above me, but thank goodness the rain hadn’t resumed. I glanced around the small fenced yard, seeking the best escape route. Poor Kate was parked on the next block over, probably close to having a heart attack about now. And maybe I’d just join her.

I pocketed the tape and raced across to the hurricane fence. I gripped the top and I hoisted myself up. But one side of my shorts caught on a protrusion when I came over to the other side.

I was stuck. Hung like wash on the line.

21

Dangling there on that fence, I told myself to forget about the eight ball. I was behind the whole rack.

I glanced toward the house, expecting someone to rush out that back door. Galveston Island is only twelve miles long, so someone should have already arrived in response to the alarm.

I clung to the fence with one hand, and, craning around, I saw that one prong had twisted the fabric of my shorts into a knot when I swung my legs over.

All I could do was let go, hoping the cotton would give. And so I did, and immediately heard the wonderful sound of ripping fabric. I landed on my rear with a thud.

Jeez, that hurt!

I stood, realizing my shorts had split down one side, all the way up to my waist. Great. I could run around the neighborhood, clothes torn, leg bleeding, gasping for breath, then maintain my innocence if stopped for questioning.

I crouched behind a large ligustrum alongside the fence, trying to figure out how to deal with this new dilemma. Looking around, I saw a reclining lawn chair ten feet away. A magazine, a pair of sunglasses, and a glass of tea, the ice melted long ago, sat on the ground next to it. The chair and drink had probably been abandoned when the first rain fell earlier.

Hmm... Could I pull this off?