Home Again

He looked at the wreck, at the Volkswagen that was twisted and broken, one headlight shining into the sky like a single unseeing eye. The horn was still blaring; he could barely hear it above the shrieking of the wind and the hammering of the rain.

Then he saw his body, draped over the hood of the car, one arm bent at an awkward angle, the other flung to the right. Even from here he could see the blood that pooled beneath his stark, white profile and dripped down the hood. A fine dusting of glass sprinkled across his ripped, bloodied cardigan. His eyes were open.

People surged across the road, clustered around the remains of the car. One of the policemen picked up his limp wrist. There’s a pulse.

Back in the patrol car, the other officer spoke urgently into a hand-held radio, spitting out words that Francis couldn’t quite make out.

Francis wanted to call, I’m here, over here, but he couldn’t seem to speak. Or move. He just stood there, feeling warm and dry in the middle of the rainstorm, watching the strangers whirl around his body, poking, prodding.

An eerie pulling sensation started in the pit of his stomach and radiated outward. The world tilted slowly, slowly, and he felt himself being drawn away from the road. Or the road disappeared out from underneath him, he wasn’t sure. He felt the darkness falling, closer, closer, the sky curling around him, soothing him.

His last thought was Madelaine.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Fifteen

At midnight Madelaine stretched her legs and rose from the couch. Credits rolled across a black screen on her television set, accompanied by sweeping, romantic music. She dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed even in the privacy of her own living room to be crying at such a bad movie. Not that she’d ever been able to help herself. It was the strangest thing—she hadn’t cried when her mother died, nor at her father’s funeral, but let her see a good Hallmark commercial and she wept like a baby.

She glanced at the clock on the mantel: 12:15.

Francis was late.

Nothing new in that, of course; he was always late. She reached down for her cup of decaf tea and downed the last lukewarm sugary sip. Crossing the room, she went to the front door and opened it, stepping onto the porch. She flicked the overhead fixture on and stood in the puddle of light.

The storm was still raging. Rain hammered the dead grass, forming itself into murky brown puddles in her flower bed, splashing on the walkway. Beside her, the porch swing creaked and rocked off kilter. A distant rumble of thunder echoed, followed by a flash of white lightning.

She frowned, staring through the gloom at the windswept street. Overhead, a heavy branch groaned,

pinecones fell in swirls of blackened needles and bounced on the pavement below.

The streetlights flickered and went out.

Madelaine sighed. It was the third power outage this fall. Turning, she went back into the house and closed the door tightly. Feeling her way through the darkness, she went to the kitchen and eased the utility drawer open, searching through the mess until her fingers closed around a flashlight. She turned it on and pointed the powerful white beam of light toward the living room. Grabbing a box of matches, she set about lighting emergency candles and placing them on the coffee and end tables.

By the time she was finished, it was twelve forty-five.

She felt the first prickling of anxiety when she looked at her watch. Taking hold of a candle, she walked over to the window and stared out, searching through the jet-black night for a pair of twin headlights.

Come on, Francis.

By one-thirty the fear had grown big enough to take a bite. She thought of calling the lodge in Oregon, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. All they’d tell her was that Francis had left around eight o’clock—the same thing he’d told her himself.

He should be here by now.

Calm down. She took a deep breath and went to the bookcase, pulling out her road atlas and flipping the heavy volume open to the side-by-side maps of Oregon and Washington. She found the tiny town at the base of Mount Hood and figured the lodge was around there. Then very methodically, she counted the red mile markers to Portland.

It was probably an hour and fifteen minutes. Maybe even an hour and a half.

And from Portland to Seattle, in this weather, it could take three and a half hours. Five hours, then.

She almost smiled. By her calculation, Francis should be pulling into the driveway any minute—assuming he’d left on time. Which, she knew well enough, he hadn’t. As usual, he’d haphazardly figured how long the drive would take and thrown a number at her.

Feeling better, she crawled back onto the couch and drew the quilt around her, settling in. Her head hit the pillow and she closed her eyes.

She was awakened by the electricity coming back on. Noise blared from the television. Light stabbed her bleary eyes. She blinked heavily and sat up, staring blankly at the TV. A televangelist was asking for donations in a booming, authoritative voice. God wants you to dig deep….

She reached for the remote control and meant to hit the Mute button. Instead she depressed Volume and the televangelist’s voice screamed at her to give, give to the Lord. Wincing, she pressed another button and dropped the remote onto the couch. Then she glanced down at her watch.