Chapter 6
Jeff let himself in through the garage door and disengaged the house alarm. No lights were on inside. The house was cold and empty.
Before leaving Alice, she’d again expressed her fear that Emory was onto their affair. “You’re certain that she doesn’t know?”
“She’s feeling neglected and playing the wounded wife to the hilt,” he assured her. “She’s in a sulk, that’s all.”
But the fact remained that Emory hadn’t been heard from since Friday evening when she’d called from the motel where she’d spent the night. This was Sunday afternoon, which added up to a significant amount of time not to have heard from one’s wife, even a miffed one.
There wasn’t a married man in the world who wouldn’t understand his waiting out Emory’s little rebellion and letting her get over her huff in her own good time. But doing nothing made him look like a heel, even to his extramarital lover.
It’s not like her not to call, Alice had remarked more than once during their weekend. You’re not worried?
He wasn’t, but he supposed he should be. He called Emory’s cell phone, and before it even rang her voice mail greeting requested the caller to leave a message. “I thought you would be home by now. Call me.”
She often worked at the clinic after hours and on weekends, using that time to catch up on paperwork. He called the main line and then the private number reserved for family use only. Both were answered by recordings. He left messages asking her to call him. He then phoned the hospital where she practiced and asked to be put through to the pediatric floor.
The nurse who answered recognized him by name. “How can I help you, Mr. Surrey?”
“Is Dr. Charbonneau around?”
“I thought she signed out until tomorrow.”
“She did. But I was expecting her at home by this afternoon, and I’ve been unable to reach her on her cell. No one answers at the clinic. I thought she might have stopped there to check on a patient and had gotten tied up.”
“I just came on duty, so I don’t know, but I’ll ask around.”
“Thank you. If anyone’s seen her, please ask them to call me. And if she shows up, tell her that her phone is going straight to voice mail. She needs to check the battery.”
He disconnected, dropped his cell onto his desk, stood up, and began to pace, trying to decide what he should do about this. He debated it for another several minutes, but there was only one logical option.
Ten minutes later, he was speeding north on I-85.
*
Emory picked at the grilled cheese sandwich, feeding herself small bites, testing her stomach to see if it would reject solid food. She’d had no more nausea today, only a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that she might not leave this cabin alive.
After his refusal to let her use his laptop, she’d retreated to the bed, but not before defiantly setting up the folding screen. She lay down on top of the covers, pulling only one corner of the bedspread over her legs.
She’d lain there, tense and wary, but he ignored her and busied himself around the cabin. She’d smelled the coffee he brewed and the egg he fried. He washed the dishes, then went outside for only a couple of minutes. She’d dropped off to sleep while listening to him moving around in the living area.
When she woke, hours had passed. It had grown dark. Through the louvers in the screen, she could see that the lamp with the burlap shade was on.
She’d worried that maybe her lame and unsuccessful attack on him had jostled her brain and left her even more enfeebled. But when she’d sat up, she noted that the dizziness was actually better. Her headache, however, persisted.
She’d gotten up and used the toilet; then, although she’d sworn that hell would freeze over before she left her flimsy sanctuary, that he would have to drag her out from behind that screen by her hair, she stepped around it.
Just as she had, he’d come in from outdoors, bundled up as he’d been before. He’d been carrying an armload of firewood. Seeing her, he’d paused on the threshold, then closed the door with a backward kick of his heel, wiped the soles of his boots on the jute doormat, and carried the wood over to the hearth. He was conscientious about keeping the wood box filled.
Once he’d added the fresh logs to it, he removed his outdoor garments, shaking ice pellets from his coat before hanging it on the peg. “It’s started to sleet.”
“What a lucky stroke for you. The worse the weather, the easier for you to hold me prisoner.”
Matching her wryness, he said, “Look on the bright side, you won’t starve. I have enough food to last us for several days.”
After that exchange, he’d gone about preparing canned chicken noodle soup and the cheese sandwiches, which up till now she’d been picking at. But, in fact, that simple fare tasted delicious, and the more she ate of it, the hungrier she became. Following her run yesterday, she’d been carb-depleted. The soup replaced sodium. She finished the meal.
He noticed her empty dishes, but didn’t comment on them as he carried them to the sink. “Coffee?”
“No thank you. Do you have any tea?”
“Tea.” He repeated it as though he’d never heard of it.
“Never mind.”
“Sorry.” He carried his mug of coffee to the table and sat back down across from her. “I’m not a tea drinker.”
“You should keep it on hand. You never know when a captive will request it.”
“You’re my first.”
“First captive or first tea drinker?”
“Both.”
“I don’t believe you.”
With supreme unconcern, he raised one shoulder and blew on his coffee before taking a sip. When he returned his mug to the table, he caught her looking up at the metal bar suspended between the rafters. When she looked back at him, and their eyes connected, she felt a jolt like a sock in the belly. She wasn’t about to ask him about that bar, afraid of what the answer would be.
Feeling the weight of his stare, she traced the wood grain on the tabletop with her thumbnail. “What did you do?”
“When?”
“Your crime. What was it?” She held off looking at him for as long as she could stand it. When she dared to meet his eyes, they glittered like multifaceted gemstones. She would have thought them beautiful if she hadn’t been afraid of them. “‘I’m keeping them out.’ That’s what you said.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The police? You’re hiding from the authorities?”
“You’re batting a thousand, Doc.”
“Stop calling me that. It sounds like a pet name. And I’m not going to be your pet.”
“Not a docile one anyway. You scratch.”
She’d tried to avoid looking at the long, bloody mark across his cheekbone. The blood had clotted, but it looked painful and nasty. “You should put some of your peroxide on that to keep it from getting infected.”
“Yeah, I should. But I didn’t want to breach the wall of Jericho over there to get into the bathroom.” He tilted his head toward the screen. “I was afraid of being set upon again.”
“I didn’t hurt you that badly.”
“I wasn’t afraid of you hurting me. I was afraid of hurting you.” At her shocked expression, he clarified. “Not on purpose. But if I have to defend myself from you, you could wind up hurt because I’m so much bigger than you are.”
His size would have been intimidating if she’d been standing behind him in the checkout line at the supermarket, or sharing an elevator, or sitting beside him on an airplane. He didn’t have to work at being imposing, his height was sufficient. Today’s cream-colored cable-knit sweater was form fitting and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and chest.
His hands, folded around the earthenware coffee mug, made it look as delicate as a cup from the china tea service she’d played with when she was a little girl. Even dormant, his hands intimidated her. From the knob of his wrist bone to the tips of his long fingers, they looked capable of doing…