Endless Fear Page 7

She pulled the separating door open and leaned into the garage. Her father’s Cadillac Seville hogged the chamber like the old white elephant it was, wheezing foul air from its bent tailpipe. No one was behind the wheel, and as she’d suspected the huge door was shut. “Hello? Is someone here?”

  Holding her nose, April stepped across the threshold. The swinging door bumped shut against her backside. Intent on turning off the engine, she sank to the driver’s seat. The aromas of pipe tobacco and childhood memories surrounded her as she reached for the key. Her hand froze. “What the…?”

  There was a hole where the ignition should have been. Obviously her father’s handiwork. Lord, why hadn’t she taken the time to look at the device so she’d know what she was supposed to do to turn it off?

  Well, she certainly wasn’t going to sit here and wonder about it. Rushing into the smog-laced cell, she sped to the single outside door on the side wall. Locked. Exhaust fumes burned her eyes and stole her breath. With her hand cupping her mouth and nose, she fled to the swinging door leading to the unit containing her car. She gripped the knob and pushed. The door wouldn’t budge. Alarm burst through April.

  Dear God! She was trapped! Cold curled in her belly. This was no accident.

  She threw her shoulder against the door. It resisted. April hit it again. Nothing. She gulped a lungful of fumes. Then coughed. Her head started to pound.

  Frantic, she raced to the big door and clutched the chrome handle. The lock refused to release.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  The powerful boat motor roared to life.

  “Help!” But even as the word left her mouth April knew it was a waste.

  Coughing, she flung her gaze around the doorframe, then the room. She spied an electric door apparatus attached to the ceiling. Was there a remote opener in the car? A second later, she was again in the car. No opener.

  The smoke was robbing the life from her. As April stared death in the face, she realized no matter how bleak her future might turn out, it was better than this alternative.

  She closed the car door. It took two tries before her trembling fingers managed to hook the seat belts. The pounding at her temples worsened. Shaking her head, she eased the shifter into reverse, and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Chapter Six

  The garage door burst apart with a boom as loud as a detonated dynamite stick. Wood flew high and wide and clunked on the car’s roof and hood. Yelping, April ducked reflexively.

  The car roared backward, over the parking apron, across the road. It rammed into a madrona tree. And stopped. April pitched forward. The seatbelt cut into her chest and stomach and yanked her back against the seat. Leaves rained onto the car.

  Jerkily, she shifted the gears into park, then dropped her head on her forearms on the steering wheel. Her heart raced in sync with the motor. Drawing trembling breaths, April tried to calm herself. The thought wouldn’t leave. Someone had tried to kill her. Why?

  Panic regrouped and gathered force. Wanting out of the car and away from this place, she shoved the door open with adrenaline-powered strength, and stepped from the vehicle onto broken hunks of garage door. The boards beneath her feet cracked. Exhaust continued to spill from the engine, but now the stench was softened by sea air and, peculiarly, the scent of fresh-split pine.

  Weak-kneed, she staggered into the sunlight. The brilliant rays spilling through the madrona branches no longer held any warmth. April shivered, gazing impassively at the damage she’d rent. The urge to run had deserted her.

  Shouts of dismay and concern eclipsed the rumbling car engine. Startled, she spun in a circle. The whole household seemed headed her way, issuing from various directions.

  Spencer reached her first. His face was as white as the old Cadillac. “Are you all right?”

  She simply stared at him. Was she all right? Would she ever be again? Did he realize there was a spot of grease on his cheek? Answers eluded her. But questions came rapid fire.

  “April…? Are you okay?” Her father arrived, breathless, looking as much in shock as she felt. The freckles on his face stood dark against his pale skin.

  “Lordy,” March railed. “What kind of craziness is this?” August glared at his sister.

  The fury storming her father’s navy eyes penetrated April’s stupor, and stirred her own anger at what she’d been put through. “I’m…fine, Daddy.” The words came out in a croak.

  “How…?” he sputtered, sweeping a hand and arm at the debris. “What…?”

  “The car…motor running…exhaust—“ April’s voice broke on a cough. Her lungs ached. She must have swallowed more fumes than she’d imagined. Another shiver stole over her. She glanced from one face to the other. Which of these people had nearly succeeded in killing her? “All the doors locked…. Couldn’t get out.” She coughed again.

  “August, obviously she’s in shock.” Spencer caught April’s arm.

  “I’m not in shock!” April yanked from his grip, glaring at him, ignoring his sudden hurt expression. “I know…what happened.”

  Spencer scowled. “All the same, these questions can wait until later.”

  “Spence is right, August. The girl is as pale as a whitecap. And you are, too. I think we’d best get you both to the house.” Cynthia snaked her arm around April’s waist, her hold brooked no argument. “Come on, sugah, let’s go inside. I want to make certain you don’t have any hidden injuries.”

  The bluster left April as quickly as it had arisen. With the will of a zombie, she let herself be led to the house.

  Behind her, she heard the car motor sputter and die. The void was immediately filled with speculative murmurs.

  * * * *

  An hour later Spencer found his stepfather and March conversing quietly in the den.

  “I don’t know why you refuse….” March quit speaking the second she spotted Spencer standing in the doorway. Although her expression gave no hint of tension, her knitting needles clicked like castanets.

  August was another matter. Whatever they’d been discussing had obviously distressed him. His color was unnatural, almost as red as the chair in which he sat. Strain etched deep grooves in his forehead, around his mouth and eyes.

  Intuitively, Spencer sensed the conversation had had something to do with April. Disquiet clacked inside his head in tune to the speedy needles. “How’s April?”

  “She’s fine,” August answered, seeming to stress the point for his sister’s sake. “Cynthia’s still with her.”

  If April was fine, Spencer wondered, why did he sense he’d stirred an already agitated hornet’s nest? He strode to the couch and eased his long frame into the deep cushions to face August. “The tree took a nasty gouge, but I think it will survive,” he reported, bracing his elbows on his thighs and leaning forward. “The Caddy took a few hits, but nothing that can’t be pounded out and painted over.”

  “Insurance’ll cover the repairs. I thank God April wasn’t injured.”

  The knitting needles fell silent. “Were any of the garage doors locked?”

  “March,” August growled. “I’m warning you.”

  Spencer gazed from one to the other, trying to figure out the problem, vaguely recalling April had mentioned locked doors. A nameless fear seized him. “As far as I know, none of the doors were locked. Hell, the doors dividing each garage can’t be locked. What’s going on?”

  But March didn’t bother to answer him. She sat straighter in the chair. “I knew it!”

  “March, you’re trying my patience.”

  “August, the girl tried to kill herself.”

  “What?” Spencer exploded off the couch as though he’d been shot. The two continued to ignore him.

  “Be still March. April did no such thing.”

  The elderly woman’s features grew as tight as one of her stitches, and the needles started anew. “You bought that car when she was five-years-old,” she droned softly. “Lily’s limousine. Seeing it again, sitting inside it, bound to brin
g back memories.”

  All color fled August’s face.

  Spencer’s heart raced. He felt like an unwilling spectator at a medieval witch hunt. According to March, April was branded and condemned on the face of events. She was wrong! Wasn’t she? The nameless fear no longer hid in the shadows of his wary mind. It stood before him, loathsome. Was April still ill? Could she actually wish herself harm?

  “We can only guess at the devils that haunt her.” The elderly woman rambled on, oblivious to the fury mounting in her brother’s eyes, oblivious to Spencer’s pain.

  Frost iced his heart. Reality seemed fragile, beyond his grasp. Reason was called for, but none present could supply it. “Maybe Dr. Merritt—“

  “No!” August shook his head. “This is absurd. April didn’t even know how to start that car.”

  “Humph!” March quit knitting, and shook the needle at her brother. “July could start that car with the switch you put in it.”

  “But April knew nothing about the switch,” August argued. “She hadn’t even heard of the damned thing until she came into the boathouse while I was….”

  “….Installing one in the boat.” March shook her head, pity evident in her widened eyes. “You’re too stubborn to admit the truth when it’s staring you right in the face. She’s unstable, I tell you. Just like her mother.”

  “No! I don’t believe it. And no one is to call Dr. Merritt behind my back. Is that understood?”

  Spencer and March exchanged worried glances, but neither argued.

  “I’m going to help Karl clear the wood off the road. Spencer, your assistance would be appreciated.”

  * * * *

  For the next several days April was leery of everyone. It resolved nothing. She still had no idea who wanted her dead. Or why. The very fact was more than she could comprehend, swamping her with rage and hurt and fear. These people weren’t strangers. They were her family, for God’s sake. Sadly, the only one of them she now trusted completely was July.

  April smiled at the child running ahead of her on the cliff path. “Don’t get too near the edge. The ground might be too soft for your weight.”

  July glanced back over her shoulder. “I know. It’s warm out here. Can I take my coat off?”

  “Sure. Give it here.” April unzipped her own coat and let it flop open. Sun beat down on her, warm and welcome, exactly, she realized with a sudden shiver, like the day on which someone had tried to kill her. No. don’t think about it, she warned herself. Don’t let the ugliness spoil this time with July. In the distance she spotted Turtle Rock, their destination. Like a loyal friend it stood in wait for her, ready to lift her burdens, to take on her pain. Her spirits lightened.

  April draped the child’s jacket over the basket she carried. It contained a picnic lunch, and the aromas of Helga’s fried chicken and potato salad had her mouth watering all the way from the house. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starving!” July raced ahead and took up position in the center of the humpy-backed boulder, reminding April of herself in a long ago past.

  The girl chattered on about school and friends and the engagement party, while gulls squawked overhead as though anticipating the scraps of food that would soon be theirs. Listening with half an ear, April spread a blanket on the ground, comforted by the sanity of seven-year-old logic, sea-washed air, and hungry birds. “Which part of the chicken do you like?”

  “The leg.” July jumped from the rock. “And a pickle, too, please.” Hitting the blanket with her knees, she picked up the plate April had filled for her, but instead of digging in, she gazed at April with round, questioning eyes. “Why did you smash the garage? Did you really try to hurt yourself?”

  The question took April aback. Gaping at her young sister, she spoke haltingly, “Where did you get the idea that I wanted to hurt myself?”

  “I heard Aunt March and Momma talking about it this morning.”

  Drawing a slow breath, April sank back on her heels and continued putting food on her plate, but her hand was shaking, hard. She released the serving spoon, set her plate aside, rose, and strode to the rock. As her gaze fixed on a seal playing in the tide-tossed swells of Haro Strait, she braced her palms on the boulder’s flat surface. So her aunt and stepmother thought she’d tried to kill herself. That meant the whole household must believe it. The realization made her numb. It seemed her tormentor had won a victory of sorts, after all. She might be alive, but the family was definitely questioning her sanity.

  “April?” July sounded distressed. “Aren’t you gonna eat?”

  “In a minute, sweetheart.” April gave her a reassuring smile, but she doubted the smallest bite would make it by the lump in her throat. She needed to phone Dr. Merritt, perhaps return to Arizona and attempt to trigger her memory some other way. That was the sensible, logical, and safe thing to do. Her fists balled in anger. And let the unknown tormentor win? No way. Others had always controlled her life. If she left Calendar House now, her hope for a sane future was all but lost.

  With fierce determination, April forced the worries from her mind. Soon July had her laughing and eating and watching the romping seals from their vantage point on Turtle Rock. The difference in their ages seemed to vanish as the day stretched into a pleasant afternoon.

  Contrarily, dinner that night was an exercise in tension. April spent more time staring at her food than tasting it, and immediately after dessert, she sought the comfort of her cozy room. For the first time, its isolated location along the hallway gave her qualms. She lodged the rung-backed chair beneath the knob and sat propped against the pillows long into the night. When sleep came it was like a drug, more powerful that her fears.

  Late the next morning she awoke to the sound of rain hitting the window. Grabbing her bathrobe, she went to the kitchen. Only one person occupied the room. Spencer sat at the table, reading a newspaper, sipping coffee from a mug. Her pulse-beat sharpened.

  He glanced at her. A quick smile touched his wonderful mouth, but she could see the watchful glint in his dove-gray eyes. Even Spencer. The betrayal, although not unexpected, stung to her toes. She headed for the coffee pot and filled a mug.

  “You just get up, sleepyhead?” He teased, failing to keep his tone light.

  “Yep.” She hated the tremor in her voice, hated her suspicion of him and his of her. His chair scraped back. She spun around. He was standing close, too close. Panic squeezed her chest.

  “If you want breakfast,” Spence said softly. “You’ll have to fix your own.”

  Aren’t you afraid I might poison myself? She wanted to shout at him. Instead she managed, “Coffee will do.” To emphasize the point, she drank from her mug.

  Spencer detested this unnatural politeness. If only he had the right to hold her, to reassure her. But he’d given up that right twelve years ago.

  April gazed beyond him and around the room. “Where is everyone?”

  “Here and there.” He could tell she was jumpy. Was it his doing? Had she remembered? Or was she simply unstable, as March claimed? The puzzle had him fearful, confused, and pitching all sorts of theories. It was possible, sitting in Lily’s car, as March had suggested, might have triggered something shocking enough to account for her smashing the garage door. It could even allow for her anger at him afterward. It didn’t explain her claim of locked doors. “April, what happened the other day in the garage?”

  “Didn’t you get the family version?”

  “I want your version.”

  “Why? You won’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  Oh, how she would love an in-house ally. Too bad his uncertainty stood between them like a brick wall. Besides, how did she know Spencer wasn’t the enemy? The notion turned her stomach, but she couldn’t risk trusting anyone at this point. “I guess I panicked and did a stupid thing,” she lied.

  “You’re right.” Spencer sighed. “I do find that hard to believe.”

  “Well, that’s what happened,” she insisted. Lie
s, and more lies. Knowing this one was necessary did little to ease her distress. “Excuse me. I’m going to my room.”

  Spencer stared after her, frowning so hard it hurt. He felt certain she was lying. The question was—why? Learning the truth suddenly became a major priority.

  * * * *

  Two more days passed without threat or incident. April decided her tormentor had gotten the message. She wouldn’t be chased from Calendar House. However, her memory seemed loathe to return, and she began to despair of ever getting it back.

  Thank goodness for the impending party, she thought, walking from her bedroom toward the foyer staircase. The family was so busy with preparations they had stopped watching her like hawks after a field mouse.

  As she strode past the double doors leading into the west wing, a muffled creak aborted her progress. A shaft of light reached into the hallway, and she realized the doors stood ajar. Curious, she edged forward and slipped through the opening. Before her were three broad stairs leading up into a long, wide hallway with an oval-shaped, stained glass window at its farthest end.

  Gray light slithered down the hall, shadowed, unfriendly, and eerie. Blinking in the dimness, April searched for a light switch, but the bulb in the cobweb-riddled fixture overhead must have long ago burned out or been removed. Cold enveloped her, but she barely noticed as her eyes adjusted to the dull light.

  The air tasted musty. Dust had deadened the winey hue of the carpet, but its density remained intact. And that wasn’t all. No one had redecorated this section of the house. Even the velvet-striped wallpaper endured. April felt as though she’d stepped into the past.

  To the left were ornate glass doors set into each end of the corridor. They led into the ballroom. Footsteps resounded from inside.

  Keeping in mind her experience in the garage, April proceeded with caution into the vast room. Here the light flooded, wondrously brilliant, through the leaded windows gracing one entire wall. Spotting the intruder, April smiled. Déjà vu crept over her. Vanessa was twirling across the floor as though in the arms of some imaginary partner, something she herself had often done as a teenager.