David Morrell - The Covenant Of The Flame

In his bedroom – which was also his living room and his kitchen – Craig started to boil water for coffee. By habit, he turned on his radio to catch the news, and on impulse, he picked up the phone. It might not be a smart idea. He'd probably be repeating his mistake. All the same, he felt a compulsion to talk to Tess, to explain that he was sorry for putting pressure on her. He read the note he'd made last night when she'd told him her mother's phone number, and as he pressed buttons on the phone, he vaguely heard the radio announcer describe a new round of mortar battles that had broken out between the Christians and Moslems in Beirut. Why don't they get their shit together? Craig thought and listened to the long-distance static.

He heard a buzz.

Another buzz.

And then a female voice, not Tess's, in fact not even a human voice but one of those robot-sounding computer simulations.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Not in service? Craig frowned. I must have pressed the wrong buttons.

He studied the note he'd made, wondering if he'd written down the wrong numbers, and tried to phone again.

'The number you have called is not in service.'

Jesus, I did write down the wrong numbers.

Boiling water made the kettle shriek. Craig turned off the stove, frowned harder as he spooned instant coffee into a cup, then stiffened when the radio announcer said,

'… completely destroyed a mansion in an exclusive district of Alexandria, Virginia.'

Alexandria ?

A premonition made Craig lunge toward the radio to increase the volume.

'Three people trying to escape the blaze were shot and killed. Two servants and Melinda Drake,' the announcer said.

Craig's throat constricted.

'Widow of Remington Drake, former State Department envoy who was tortured to death by Moslem extremists six years ago in Beirut. Authorities have not been able to identify the assailants or determine their motive for the slayings, but fire investigators have concluded that the blaze was due to arson.'

Arson? Two servants? Tess's mother?

But what about - ?

Craig grabbed the phone, jabbed the numbers for information, got other numbers, jabbed them, got through to Alexandria information, and finally reached the Alexandria…

'Police department,' a gruff man said.

'Homicide.' Craig struggled to control his breathing.

Click. Buzz. Silence.

Come on! Come…!

'Homicide,' a husky-throated woman said.

'My name is William Craig.' Another struggle to control his trembling voice. 'I'm a lieutenant in the Missing Persons division of the New York City police department. My badge number is… My superior's name is… His office phone number is… I'm calling from my home. If you want, I'll give you that number while you verify who I am.'

'Before we get complicated, Lieutenant, why don't you catch your breath and tell me what you need?'

'The arson at Melinda Drake's house. The gunshot victims. Did you find another victim? The daughter. Tess Drake.'

'No. Only the servants and the… What do you know about a daughter, Lieutenant? Why would you think she was at the house? What's your interest in this matter?'

'I… It's too complicated. I need to think. I'll call you back.' Craig slammed down the phone.

Tess was safe!

No.

A sudden fierce thought made him grip the kitchen counter. What if she didn't escape the fire? What if she died in the house? What if the investigators hadn't found her body yet?

Trembling, Craig yanked open a cupboard and grabbed for the Yellow Pages, desperate to make a reservation on the soonest flight to Washington National Airport. He'd rent a car there and drive to…

His hands faltered. Abruptly he shut the directory.

What the hell good would I do in Alexandria? I'd be useless. All I'd do is end up pacing, watching the investigators search the mansion's wreckage.

But I've got to do something .

Think! Hope! All you know for sure is that two servants and Tess's mother were shot while they tried to escape the flames.

But that doesn't mean Tess didn't manage to escape.

Please. Oh, Jesus, please , let her be all right.

If she escaped…

What would she do ? Obviously she'd be frightened. She'd hide from whoever had tried to kill her.

And then?

Maybe…

Just maybe she'd call me.

Who else can she turn to? Who else does she know she can trust and depend on? I might be the only hope she's got.

Afraid, Tess felt naked. Shivering despite the morning's humidity, she rang the mansion's doorbell again. She kept glancing nervously beyond the trees and shrubs in the large front yard toward the hedge-flanked entrance to the driveway. So far she'd been lucky. Since she'd lunged to the porch, no cars had passed along the narrow quiet street, but if any did, and if the drivers noticed her, and if one of those cars belonged to the men who'd tried to kill her…!

Hurry . The next time she pressed the doorbell, Tess didn't take her thumb from the button. Another fear made her tremble. What if the mansion wasn't occupied? What if the Caudills had gone to their summer place in Maine? Desperate, she wondered if she ought to break in. No! There'll be burglar alarms!

Her childhood friend had long since moved away, first to college and then with her husband to San Francisco, but the parents still owned this mansion, and during the night, while Tess had hidden in the damp, black, constricting alcove behind the boulders in the back yard fountain, she'd ignored the increasing pain in her cramped muscles and struggled to focus her grief-filled, terror-racked thoughts in an effort to decide what to do next. Although the answer had been obvious, her confusion had been so great that it had taken her until the morning to remember that the people who owned this mansion had once been like a second set of parents to her.

As the skin beneath her thumbnail whitened from the force with which she pressed the doorbell, Tess's hope dwindled, her fear increasing. Please!

Abruptly she breathed as the door was jerked open. A rigid butler scowled, surveying her grimy jeans, torn pullover, soot-covered face, and grungy, spider-web-tangled hair.

'Mrs Caudill?' Tess said. 'Please! Is she here ?'

'Mrs Caudill donates to shelters for the homeless. There are several downtown.' The butler began to shut the door.

Tess shoved her hand against the door. 'You don't understand!'

'Mrs Caudill can not be disturbed.' The butler straightened and grimaced, his nostrils twitching. Tess realized that her clothes must reek from smoke, sweat, and fear. 'I'll be forced to call the police if you don't leave.'

'No! Listen to me!' Tess said. She pushed at the door.

The butler resisted.

'My name's Tess Drake! Mrs Caudill knows me!' Heart pounding, she heard a car approach along the street and squirmed urgently to get through the narrow opening.

The butler struggled to block her way.

'I'm a friend of Mrs Caudill's daughter!' Tess said and fought to shoulder the butler aside. 'I used to come here often! Mrs Caudill knows me! Tell her it's - '

'Tess?' a puzzled woman said in the background. ' Tess ? Is that you?'

'Mrs Caudill! Please! Let me in!'

On the street, the car sounded nearer.

'That's fine, Thomas. Open the door,' the unseen woman said.

'Very well, Madame.' The butler glared at Tess. 'As you wish.'

The car was close to the mansion's driveway as Tess darted through the door. The butler shut it, muffling the sound of the car.

Tess paused and breathed deeply. She clutched her purse – it felt heavy with its added burden of the photographs, the book, and the handgun – and gazed in relief at Mrs Caudill, who stood in the foyer, near the entrance to the mansion's dining room.