Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

“Hanging in there. I talked to Steven earlier today. That helped.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And, in spite of everything, he was happy to see you yesterday.”

“I’m glad to hear that, too.”

“I’ll hand the phone to Howard now.”

Through the phone, Bellamy could hear her father urging Olivia to use this time to get something to eat. Seconds later, his weak voice whispered, “Hey, good-lookin’.”

“Whacha got cookin’?”

“Olivia won’t be gone long. She knows something’s up, and it’s scaring her.”

“Maybe you should tell her.”

“It would only cause her to fret, and she’s got more than enough to worry about. I tried to talk to her today about my funeral service. She wept so hard I didn’t have the heart to continue.”

Bellamy made a murmur of regret. “Is there anything I can do?”

“I told you what you could do for me. Any progress?”

It wasn’t exactly progress that Dent had been attacked with a knife. Or that Van Durbin and his photographer had captured compromising pictures of them at the airport and outside Dent’s apartment. But the tabloid exploitation of her circumstances now seemed of little or no importance compared to the seriousness of the circumstances themselves.

“Do you remember Allen Strickland’s brother, Ray?”

“Yes,” her father replied. “He was mouthy with us at the trial, and after Allen was killed, he came to the corporate offices and tried to bluster his way past the guards. He was subdued and escorted off the property. That’s the last I’ve heard of him. Why?”

“He was mentioned in a conversation I had today with Dale Moody.”

“So you saw him? So soon?”

She didn’t waste her father’s time explaining how the meeting with the former detective had come about. “He’s a chain-smoking alcoholic living alone in squalor. He admitted that he never thought Allen Strickland was guilty, but he stopped short of confessing exactly how he and Rupe Collier engineered his conviction.”

“I’m surprised he would admit even that much.”

“He’s a broken man. This case ruined his career and his life. He claims still not to know who killed Susan.” She hesitated to tell him more, but then remembered the importance this held for him. “There’s something else, Daddy.” She told him how she’d come to describe the crime scene.

“But you were never at the crime scene,” he said.

“It seems I was. I just don’t remember being there.”

There was much to explain and only a brief time in which to cover it. Cringing each time lightning struck, she talked her father through it as quickly as possible.

“When I mentioned Susan’s purse, Moody jumped on it immediately. Is it true that he brought it to you days later?”

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “We were told it had been found in a tree.”

She sighed. “Then it seems certain that I either witnessed the crime or came upon Susan’s body soon after she was killed. In any case, I saw it before the tornado ravaged the area.”

“Jesus, Bellamy. Oh, Jesus.”

She’d expected a swift and firm denial that she’d been anywhere near the crime scene. Instead, he sounded as though his worst fear had been realized.

“Daddy, what?” When he said nothing, she pressed him, “Do you think that I intentionally withheld information?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then did it ever occur to you that I had memory lapses?”

“No. I would have gotten help for you.”

“Would you?”

Instead of answering, he said, “Ah, Olivia’s back and she’s brought with her… What is that? Vegetable beef soup. I’d better go now, sweetheart, and make sure she eats all of it. Thank you for calling.”

Then he was gone, and his sudden disconnect left her stunned.

The entire conversation seemed surreal. She needed to think it through and determine what it meant. But just then Dent returned. He got in and quickly pulled the door shut against the gusting wind.

“Damn, it’s blowing.”

“What about the airplane?”

“The hangar manager figured it must belong to somebody important, so he’d already moved it inside. I tipped him twenty bucks.” He took a longer look at her. “You okay?”

Lying, she nodded.

“I also checked the weather radar,” he continued. “This is only the leading edge of a wide band of storms that isn’t predicted to move out until after midnight or better, so I stopped by the rental office and told them we’d be keeping the car overnight.” He turned the ignition key. “I made note of a hotel a few miles back.”

It was a short drive, but by the time he pulled the car under the hotel’s porte cochere, he could tell that Bellamy was holding herself together by sheer force of will. She’d kept her eyes closed and hadn’t uttered a sound. She was drawn up as taut as a bowstring, and her lips were so tightly compressed they were rimmed with white.

He parked the car where it wouldn’t block the through lane, got out, and went around to open Bellamy’s door. With a hand beneath her right elbow, he gently eased her out and placed his arm around her shoulders as he guided her through the entrance.

It was a moderately priced chain hotel, having a typical lobby with a navy and burgundy color scheme, polished brass lamps, and silk plants. Since Bellamy seemed incapable of moving, he secured a room with his own credit card, which he was reasonably sure would clear.

Within minutes of entering the lobby, he was unlocking the door to a room on the third floor and shepherding Bellamy inside. He went straight to the wide windows and closed the drapes, then used the remote on the nightstand to turn on the TV, which would help to muffle the noise of the storm. He switched on all the lamps.

Bellamy hadn’t moved from the spot where he’d left her. He went to her and chafed her upper arms. “Do you get like this every time it storms?”

“Since the tornado.”

“Have you seen somebody about it?”

Through chattering teeth, she laughed, but not because what he’d said was funny. “Thousands of dollars’ worth of somebodies. I’ve tried every form of therapy imaginable. None has helped.”

“Do you have something to take?”

“I stopped getting the prescription filled.”

“How come?”

“The medication didn’t help, either. It only made me woozy in addition to being petrified.”

“Maybe you should try the Dr. Denton Carter remedy.” His arms went around her and pulled her close.

But when he bent his head down to nuzzle the side of her neck, she pushed him away. “That’s your remedy for everything.”

“It works for everything.”

Although she’d squirmed out of his embrace, it hadn’t been altogether unsuccessful. A smile was tugging at the corner of her lips, which had regained some of their color.

“I’ve got to go move the car,” he said. “Are you going to be all right if I leave you alone?”

“I’m usually alone when this happens. I’ve learned to panic quite well in private.”

He bent his knees to bring himself eye level with her and tilted his head. “Will you be all right?”

“Yes. Inside, with the drapes drawn and the lights on, it’s better. I’ll take a hot shower. That’s calming, too.”

“Okay then.” He walked toward the door, but she stopped him. When he turned back to her, she said, “You didn’t get yourself a room.”

He held up the key card. “Yes, I did. Don’t use all the hot water.”

He found a parking spot not too far away from the building. On his race back, he had to lean into the strong wind. Small hail stones pelleted him and bounced on the pavement. The lightning was ferocious. But it wasn’t raining all that hard, so when he reentered the lobby, he was relatively dry. And starving.