Charon's Crossing
It wasn't until she was downstairs, safe in the relative brightness of the drawing room, that she figured out what had really happened in the attic.
The wind had played tricks.
It was playing them now, slamming shutters closed before she reached for them and rattling the loose windows in their frames.
A storm was sweeping in from over the sea. The warm afternoon breeze had become a gusty wind with the smell of rain on it. The changing weather, and her hyped-up imagination, had teamed up to scare her half out of her skin.
A storm wasn't anything to look forward to. Rain and wind, lightning and thunder, were stage effects she could have done without this night but it was lots better to know there was a rational explanation for the things that had gone on up in the attic than to think... well, not to think but to imagine she'd been the victim of something supernatural.
And the worst was over now. She'd checked all the rooms, peered in the corners, locked all the windows and doors. There was nobody in Charon's Crossing except for her...
... and the man. The one who'd vanished in a puff of smoke.
Kathryn straightened her shoulders. That kind of thinking would get her nowhere. The idea was to take a positive approach. Whoever he was...... whatever he was...
He was gone. That was all that mattered. He was gone, the house was secure, and by this time tomorrow, there'd be new locks on all the doors.
The wind was picking up. She could hear it rattling the palm fronds and tapping at the shutters. And the rain had started. She could hear it, too, pelting against the house.
But the house was brightly lit and as safe from intruders as she could make it. She'd change into something more comfortable and then she'd see to her supper—which would have to be soup and a sandwich again, since she'd never gotten around to doing any shopping in town.
And then she'd curl up on the settee and read Matthew McDowell's journal until she got sleepy because one thing was certain. She was not going to sleep upstairs. Not in that gloomy bedroom. She'd go up there just long enough to get what she needed.
"I'll be back," Kathryn said in her best Arnold Schwarzenegger voice.
She headed for the steps.
* * *
Okay. Now she was ready.
She dumped her pillow, sheet and blanket on the floor beside the settee and put her hands on her hips. Her supper was on a lamp table, the remains of the console table her visitor had smashed was kicked into the corner...
And the damned wind was still moaning, the shutters were rattling, but so what?
Kathryn picked up the sheet, flapped it in the air, then laid it over the settee cushions and tucked it in.
The room was pleasant. It must have been really lovely at one time. She smiled, thinking of how incongruous an addition she was, in her sweatshirt, sweatpants, heavy cotton socks and sneakers. But this was the perfect place to spend the night. The settee would make a comfortable bed, and never mind that her feet would probably dangle off the end.
Dangling feet were a small price to pay for a cheerful setting and a telephone.
A shower would have made things just about perfect but only a jackass would take a shower in this house tonight.
"Welcome to the Bates Motel," Kathryn muttered, and tried to laugh.
There. Her bed was all made up, ready and waiting. She sat down, stretched out her legs and crossed her feet. She felt better than she had in hours. If only she had a roaring fire blazing in a fieldstone fireplace, things would be perfect. She remembered the house she and her parents had lived in when she was a child, the old Victorian back in San Francisco. The house itself had been close to falling down around their ears but there'd been a fireplace in almost every room.
She smiled a little, thinking of how she'd watched her father build a fire each night after dinner.
"Want to try it, Kath?" he'd finally asked.
Oh, the pride she'd felt when the first flames of that fire had licked at the logs.
Funny. She hadn't built a fire since that long-ago night. Would she remember all the little tricks that made for a good one? Could Jason build a fire? she wondered idly. He had a fireplace in his apartment but he never used it.
What was the point? he said. The radiators gave off plenty of heat. And it was true; she'd always agreed with him. It was impractical to build a fire when you didn't need one and Jason was always practical. That was one of the things she liked about him. Why, if he were here, he'd probably have figured out where this afternoon's intruder had really come from and what he really was...
Kathryn frowned. She didn't want to think about that now. And she certainly didn't want to doze off, not just yet, but she was getting drowsy. It was this sweat suit. And these socks. The outfit was silly, far too heavy and warm for the tropics, but what choice did she have? She wasn't about to spend the night in her skivvies, not when there was the chance some guy might come popping out of the woodwork...