Harry’s Hang-Out, the only bar, generally remained open until midnight, providing there were enough customers, but somehow he didn’t think its quaint charms would interest Irene.
He went to the window and watched the twin beams of the snappy yellow compact sweep out onto the main road. She turned left toward town, not right to the highway.
Okay, she wasn’t ducking out on the lodge tab. She was definitely off to meet someone. But a lady who was afraid of the dark probably didn’t go out alone a lot at this hour unless it was absolutely necessary. Someone or something here in town must be damned important to Irene Stenson.
He had lived in Dunsley for several months. It was a very small town, a place where nothing out of the ordinary ever happened. Hell, that was the primary reason he had decided to move here. Offhand he could not think of anyone in the community who might scare a woman like Irene, but he was willing to bet that she was afraid of something.
And just why the hell did he care?
He thought about the mix of anxiety and somber determination that had been vibrating in her all evening. He knew the face of raw courage and sheer grit when he saw it. He also knew what it was like to go out into the night to meet the bad guys.
You didn’t do it alone unless there was no alternative.
Maybe Irene could use some backup.
He fished the keys out of his pocket, grabbed his jacket and went outside to the SUV The drive to the Webb house took Irene through the heart of Dunsley’s minuscule downtown. The trip proved to be an unsettling experience. So much seemed familiar.
Three
The drive to the Webb house took Irene through the heart of Dunsley’s minuscule downtown. The trip proved to be an unsettling experience. So much seemed [_familiar. _]
It wasn’t right, she thought. The place should have changed more than this in the intervening years. She paused at the four-way stop that marked the main intersection.
It was as if Dunsley had fallen into lack hole seventeen years ago and remained trapped in a time warp.
True, most of the storefronts had been modernized and repainted. A few of the shops bore new names. But the changes were all superficial. Everything looked uncomfortably the same, if ever so slightly ou f phase. Yep, definitely a time-warp thing, she told herself.
There were almost no other cars on the streets at this hour. She tromped on the accelerator, anxious to get to her destination.
The lights were still on in the gravel parking lot outside Harry’s Hang-Out. The second H in the fade eon sign still flickered, just as it had seventeen years ago. The small herd of battered pickups and SUVs parked in front was identical to the one that had filled the lot in her youth. Her father had been rouse ut of bed in the middle of the night on more than one occasion to quell a brawl at Harry’s.
She drove past the park and kept going for a short distance. When she reached Woodcrest Trail sh ade a left and entered the closest thing Dunsley had ever had to an upscale neighborhood.
The houses on Woodcrest Trail sat on large, heavily forested lots that ran down to the water’s edge.
Only a handful of the homes were owned by local families. Most were summer places that were dar nd empty at this time of the year.
She slowed and turned into the narrow lane that led to the Webb house. The windows on this side o he two-story structure were dark, but a light burned over the front door. There was no car parked i he curved drive. The implication was that no one was home, she thought. But Pamela’s e-mail ha een very clear about the date.
She brought the compact to a halt, switched off the engine and folded her arms on top of the steering wheel, wondering what to do next. The decision to come to Woodcrest Trail after not getting an nswers to her phone calls had been an impulse prompted by a growing sense of frustration and anxiety.
Pamela had been expecting her this evening. She should have been here, waiting.
Something was wrong.
Irene opened the car door and got out slowly. The chill of the night closed in around her. She gav erself a few seconds to deal with the trickle of fear that darkness always induced.
Then she walked quickly to the safety of the well-lit front door and leaned on the bell.
There was no response.
She looked around and saw that the garage door was closed. If her memory was correct, there was a small window on the far side.
She hesitated. It was very dark on the other side of the garage. She fingered the small penlight in her pocket. She needed more firepower, she thought. The flashlight in the glove compartment was large ut not large enough to go up against that kind of heavy night.
She went back4 to the compact, opened the trunk and selected one of the two industrial-strength flashlights she kept inside. When she hit the switch, the strong beam cut a reassuring swath through the shadows.
Steeling herself, she went back across the drive, rounded the corner of the garage and peered throug he grimy glass window. A BMW loomed inside.
Another shivery chill went through her. Someone, presumably Pamela, was here.
Why wasn’t the person answering the phone or the door?
A faint gleam of light caught her eye. It emanated from the back of the house.
She turned and went slowly toward the glow, feeling a lot like a moth being drawn to a candle flame.
The route took her past the utility room door on the side of the house. She remembered that entrance well. Pamela had kept a key hidden under the steps so she could sneak in and out at night. Not that her father or the housekeeper had ever paid much attention to her comings and goings, Irene thought with a small pang.
At fifteen, she and every other teenager in town had envied Pamela Webb her amazing degree of freedom. But from an adult perspective it was clear that her old friend’s much-vaunted independence was the result of parental neglect. Pamela had lost her mother in a boating accident on the lake when she was barely five. Over the years, her father, Ryland Webb, had been consumed with his political career. The result was that Pamela had been abandoned to the care of a series of nannies and housekeepers.
Irene unlatched the gate at the end of the walk and moved into the moonlit garden.
The curtains at the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room were open. The light that she had followed came from a table lamp that had been turned down very low.
Irene aimed the big flashlight through the glass. It came as a shock to realize that she recognized the furniture. Another case of time warp, she decided. Years ago the house had been decorated by a professional designer imported from San Francisco.
The interior was meant to invoke the ambience o luxurious ski chalet. Pamela had privately labeled it Outhouse Chic.