couldnât remember the story line. This wasnât good. She put the novel back on her nightstand and picked up the New York Times, carried only by a small tobacco shop off Poison Ivy Lane. She didnât want to read about the attempted assassination, but she did, naturally. Page after page was devoted to the governorâs attempted murder. She was mentioned too many times.
Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speechwriter for the governor, who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governorâs life.
Former speechwriter now, was she? Well, since sheâd left without a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.
It was nearly two oâclock in the morning.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window. She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to the ground. Itdidnât hit the house, thank God, but some upper branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder, and thought enough is enough. She didnât want to be alone, not anymore.
She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to block up the window. But there wasnât anything except half a dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.
She closed the front door behind her and stepped into the howling wind. She was wet clear through before sheâd taken three breaths. No hope for it. She ran through the heavy rain to the Toyota and fumbled with the lock even as her hair was plastered to her head. Finally she got the door open and climbed in behind the wheel. When she turned the key in the ignition, the car growled at her, then stopped. She didnât want to flood it so she didnât turn the ignition again. No, give it a rest for a moment. Again, finally, she turned the key, and Lord be praised, the engine turned over, started. Tylerâs house was just about a half-mile down the road, the first street to the right, Gum Shoe Lane.
At a loud crack of thunder, she looked back at Jacob Marleyâs house. It looked like an old Gothic manor in the English countryside, hunkered down in the rain, filled with lost and ancient spirits. It looked menacing even without billowing fog to shadow it in more gloom. A sharp lightning flash streaked down like a silver knife. The house seemed to shudder, as if from a mortal wound. It looked like the gods wanted to rip it apart. She was very glad shewas leaving. Maybe Jacob Marley Senior really had poisoned his wife and God was just now getting around to some punishment. âThanks a lot for waiting until I was here,â she yelled heavenward. She waved her fist. âI come here and you decide, finally, to mete out divine justice. Youâre a little bloody late!â
The huge hemlock that could have so easily smashed right into the side of the house lay on its side nearly parallel to the west wall. That one very full and long branch that had crashed through her bedroom window looked like a hand that had managed to reach into the
Thunder rolled loud and deep over the house as she read: There is a manhunt for Rebecca Matlock, former speechwriter for the governor, who, the FBI says, has information about the attempt on the governorâs life.
Former speechwriter now, was she? Well, since sheâd left without a word or any warning, she supposed that was fair enough.
It was nearly two oâclock in the morning.
Suddenly, with no warning at all, the wind gave a howl that made the hair bristle on the back of her neck and set her teeth on edge. A flash of lightning exploded, filling the sky with a bluish light, and a crack of thunder seemed to lift the house right into the air. She nearly bit her tongue as she stared out her bedroom window. She watched the proud hemlock weave once, then heard a loud snap. The old tree wavered a moment, then went crashing to the ground. Itdidnât hit the house, thank God, but some upper branches crashed into the window, loud and so scary that she leapt from the bed and ran to the closet. She crouched between a yellow knit top and a pair of blue jeans, waiting, waiting, but there was nothing more. What had happened was over with. She walked slowly back into the bedroom. Tree branches were still quivering as they settled just above a pale blue rag rug on the floor. The window was shattered, rain slithered in around the beautiful green leaves, dripping onto the floor. She stood there, staring at the huge tree branch in her bedroom, listening to another loud belt of thunder, and thought enough is enough. She didnât want to be alone, not anymore.
She dressed and ran downstairs. She had to find something to block up the window. But there wasnât anything except half a dozen dish towels with lighthouses on them. She ended up stuffing all her pillows around the tree branch. It worked.
She closed the front door behind her and stepped into the howling wind. She was wet clear through before sheâd taken three breaths. No hope for it. She ran through the heavy rain to the Toyota and fumbled with the lock even as her hair was plastered to her head. Finally she got the door open and climbed in behind the wheel. When she turned the key in the ignition, the car growled at her, then stopped. She didnât want to flood it so she didnât turn the ignition again. No, give it a rest for a moment. Again, finally, she turned the key, and Lord be praised, the engine turned over, started. Tylerâs house was just about a half-mile down the road, the first street to the right, Gum Shoe Lane.
At a loud crack of thunder, she looked back at Jacob Marleyâs house. It looked like an old Gothic manor in the English countryside, hunkered down in the rain, filled with lost and ancient spirits. It looked menacing even without billowing fog to shadow it in more gloom. A sharp lightning flash streaked down like a silver knife. The house seemed to shudder, as if from a mortal wound. It looked like the gods wanted to rip it apart. She was very glad shewas leaving. Maybe Jacob Marley Senior really had poisoned his wife and God was just now getting around to some punishment. âThanks a lot for waiting until I was here,â she yelled heavenward. She waved her fist. âI come here and you decide, finally, to mete out divine justice. Youâre a little bloody late!â
The huge hemlock that could have so easily smashed right into the side of the house lay on its side nearly parallel to the west wall. That one very full and long branch that had crashed through her bedroom window looked like a hand that had managed to reach into the
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