Mabel slowly put the phone back on the hook, the seed of doubt still intruding upon the firm belief that Michael was innocent. He had to be innocent, she thought. Otherwise, it would be none other than herself who was bringing disaster to his doorstep.
The thought suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she should have called him first. Should! Should! Should! The word played viciously across her mind. Yes, that is what she should have done, but the thought never occurred to her prior to calling the police.
Mabel turned her back, and started downstairs to meet the detective. Rochelle took her gun from beneath the pillow, put it in a bottom drawer beneath some clothing, and then she sat down in a chair to wait, praying all the while that Mabel was right about Michael.
In a few minutes, police cars blazed a siren-screaming trail across town to the Matheson house. As expected, and as in most situations requiring the police, people began to gather out front, wondering what shattering event had befallen the Matheson house this time. The intrigue of the house intensified after Tobias had shot Michael, and after Rochelle's abduction. Now it would offer another reason for curious spectators.
Mrs. Newland, the neighbor who lived across the street from the Matheson house, picked up her phone and dialed the bank. “I need to speak to Mr. Matheson, please. Tell him this is Mrs. Newland.”
She waited until Michael's voice came over the line.
“Michael, I don't know what's happening, but the street is filled with police cars in front of your father's house.”
Michael was temporarily stunned as if someone had slammed a boulder across his skull. When he could force words from his mouth, he said, “Thank you, Mrs. Newland. I'll be right there.”
He hung up the phone and ran from the bank to his car, all the bank employees and the customers turning to stare at his disappearing back.
In his car, Michael could only conclude the inevitable. Tobias had come for Rochelle. Maybe he had hurt her, even killed her. His heart fell like a ball of lead in his chest as he broke every speed limit getting to the house. He cursed himself continually for not taking greater precautions to protect her. He should have known Tobias would come after her. God, what was wrong with him that he could leave her there alone, unprotected?
The street in front of the house flaunted several police cars, and farther down, civilian cars clogged the other parking spaces for at least two blocks away. Pedestrians were busy quizzing everyone else to determine what had happened.
Michael pulled into Mrs. Newland's driveway, and then sprinted across the street, his feet slowing almost reluctantly just before he got to the front door, frightened out of his mind at what he was going to encounter.
A couple of police officers were on the lawn, and another stood guard at the door. Michael started past the one at the door. “Mike, you can't go in there,” Kendrick Evans yelled, trying to hold him back.
“Like hell I can't. Get out of my way, Kendrick,” he shouted and pushed past him. Inside on the foyer, he stopped when he heard voices in the living room. He saw Mabel and rushed to her. “Where is she, Mabel?” he demanded anxiously.
“She's upstairs, Mikey,” Mabel answered solemnly. Then realizing Michael thought something had happened to Rochelle, she tried to stop him. “Mikey, she's okay,” she called after him, but he was already up the stairs, not hearing Mabel.
Reaching the door to her bedroom Michael stopped just inside the door, a blast of air expelled noisily from his lungs when he saw her sitting in the chair. “Chelle...” he said, stalking across the room to her. Detective Norton kneeled in front of her asking questions.
Rochelle came to her feet, nearly knocking Detective Norton backwards. “Michael?”
“Are you all right?” he asked, putting his arms about her. “What has happened here?” he demanded of Norton.
“I'm all right, Michael. Nothing has happened. I found a gun, and Mabel thought we should call the police.”
“A gun? What gun?” he asked, unable to focus on anything other than the fact that Rochelle was all right. Light-headed exhilaration flooded and drowned his fear when he realized she was safe. He would never have forgiven himself if something had happened to her.
“Take it easy, Mike,” Detective Norton said. There is a gun in a hole behind the toilet. We need to get pictures before we remove it.
We think this is the gun that killed your father and stepmother.”
“Jesus, why in the hell didn't someone call me? I thought something had happened to Rochelle.” He still held Rochelle in his arms, so tightly she could barely breathe, his fingers tangled in the auburn-gold curls at the nape of her neck, pressing all of her against him.
“Let's all go downstairs to the living room so the guys can do their job here,” Detective Norton said, taking charge.
“Where is this gun you found?” Michael asked Rochelle.
“It's in the bathroom behind the toilet in a hole beneath a tile,”
Rochelle explained.
“You're kidding!” Michael was looking at Norton. “Your department turned this damn place upside down looking for a gun and it was here all the time.” He stepped over to the bathroom door to get a peek. He shook his head.
“Come on, Mike. We have to clear out the room so my team can get in here and do their job,” Norton said.
“We're right behind you,” Michael said, hanging back until Norton was out of the room. “Chelle, we have to talk,” he said in a hoarse, agitated whisper
He was suddenly serious, his expression so coldly severe that Rochelle's heart lurched up to her throat. She swallowed, and tried to force the lump down again, everything inside her screaming against the possibility of what Michael might tell her about the gun. He was agitated, nervous, and he was obviously planning to tell her something she did not want to hear. He escorted her down the stairs, a frown marring the smooth texture of his forehead.
When Mabel saw him this time, fear mocked her belief of his innocence. Something about his look was markedly suspicious, like dejected resignation to the obvious. His arm stayed around Rochelle as if joined by flesh, and when he sat down on the sofa, he pulled her down with him, still not willing to remove his arm from about her.
“Mike, this could mark the end of our investigation. We'll send the gun and the diary to the lab for fingerprinting, and hopefully we'll get what we need,” Norton said after taking a comfortable seat on the sofa.
“What diary?” He looked extremely puzzled. “I'm not aware of any diary.”
Mabel looked at him pityingly, and wondered if he was thinking what she was. If it turned out his name appeared derogatorily in that diary, it could pose damaging evidence easily capable of destroying his life. Even if the court couldn't try him again, the newspapers would run story after story until Michael wouldn't be able to find a hole deep enough to hide in to escape their constant invasion of his life.
“The diary belonged to Mrs. Matheson. No one has read it yet because we didn't want to take a chance on smudging the fingerprints. We should know something in a day or two.” Detective Norton was extremely happy about the find. Locating the gun and diary was the break they needed. “Mike, are you all right?” he asked, upon seeing that Michael was as pale as a ghost.
“I'm fine,” he said. “I just hope the next time there's another disaster in this damn house someone will have the good sense to call me.”
Mabel and Rochelle both sighed and hoped Michael's odd demeanor had more to do with his fear for Rochelle, than with the finding of the gun and diary.
Norton asked Rochelle some more questions about how she discovered the hole beneath the tile. Then he asked Michael if he knew the hole was there?
“Hell no, I didn't know it was there!” he exclaimed, sending Norton a look of disbelief. “Whoever searched the house after the deaths of my dad and stepmother was damn well incompetent. The evidence was right here all the time, which could have saved me all the hell you guys and the court put me through.”
Norton looked guilty. “I'm sorry about that, Michael. Those things happen.”
“Yeah, well it damn well shouldn't happen if your department did its job.”
The crime scene people finished upstairs and were getting ready to leave. Norton stood. “I think we have everything we need here.
We will clear out now and let you folks get back to what you were doing. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Chandler.”
Within a few minutes the police cars vanished, the street cleared, and only a few stray neighbors remained on the sidewalk, still hoping for some news on what had occurred inside the house.
Michael finally withdrew his arm from around Rochelle and stood up. He reached out, and took Mabel's hand, pulling her to her feet. “Mabel, I need to talk to Rochelle, if you don't mind.”
“I don't mind, Mikey. Is everything all right with you?” she inquired on the way to the door, remembering to grab her purse from a nearby table.
“Yes, it is now, but I think I almost had a heart attack when Mrs. Newland across the street called and told me the police were here. Mabel, you should have called me. I was out of my mind,” he said softly.
“I'm sorry, Mikey.” She glanced back toward the living room where Rochelle waited. “Go easy with her. We talked the other night and from the little she told me, that husband has put her through hellfire.”
Michael nodded his head, kissed her cheek, and closed the door behind her.
Rochelle watched Michael walk back through the living room, his dark blue suit fitting him with tailored perfection. On the surface, he looked so professional, so in control and authoritative, so like a man who knew what he wanted; but did he really? Did anyone ever really know what he or she truly wanted?
She could tell he had spent some time in the sun while she was away. His face was much darker and his dark hair seemed slightly lighter as though sun-bleached. He was clean-shaven looking like an executive in his business suit. His straight nose, his square chin and strong jaws painted a picture of a flawlessly handsome man. Power and gentleness were the characteristics Rochelle saw in him just then, a rare combination.
She recalled the times he held her, touched her, made love to her, their bodies pressed together as one, his lips enticing and firing her blood with passion and yearning. His hands, that wore a roughness from the carpentry he did, were a dark tan with black glinting hairs along the knuckles.
His long slender fingers raked through his hair as he came toward her, lowering himself on the sofa beside her. At first, she had feared his tormented expression had something to do with the gun found in the bathroom. Now she knew it was not. Just looking at him, she knew what he would suggest, and she was certain what her answer would be.
He sat quietly beside her several seconds before he spoke.
Finally, he said, “Rochelle, I don't want you to stay here any longer.”
Misunderstanding his meaning, she jerked her head up and looked at him, her expression a mixture of hurt and defiance. “You gave me a verbal agreement, Michael. My rent was paid for six months with the promise you would sell if I still wanted to buy,” she reminded him tersely.
He shook his head. “It isn't that I don't want you here. I am afraid for you to stay here. This will be the first place Tobias will come to. Leaving you here alone is too risky. I could only think the worst had happened when I received that phone call from the neighbor across the street. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you after my having brought you here.” His eyes bore into hers beseechingly, needing her to understand his position, his feelings.
Silence fell upon his words a few seconds, and when Rochelle glanced toward him, he looked as if he would actually laugh—but his eyes weren't marked by amusement. It was irony.
“Do you know,” he began, “I should be shouting with joy that the gun was found and now the police can find who murdered my father and Tina. However, after being worried out of my mind that something had happened to you, I could care less about the damn gun. I only care about you, Chelle, and feel responsible for you.”
He cared about her. He had held her in his arms, made love to her, and whispered declarations of love on that awful day Tobias had abducted her. Since then, there had been nothing but jealousy and anger. Now, he had never seemed farther beyond her reach. He was a stranger, concerned only with a strong need to protect—more than likely just to spare his guilt, Rochelle thought accusingly.
“Is that how you feel, Michael? Is it just responsibility you feel?” she asked gently, a deep sadness at all they had known and lost.
“Of course, I feel responsibility. Do you think I want anything to happen to you?” He was honestly frustrated at her efforts to discourage his every attempt to communicate with her.
Rochelle could still see the anger despite all his other feelings.
He still blamed her for having slept with Tobias, and that disturbed her beyond anything he could have said or done. “Then let me relieve your mind. I absolve you of all responsibility for me. There is no need for you to worry any longer. From here on out just consider me no more than someone renting your house. That is all that is between us anyway.”
His jaw clamped down solidly and the pulse at his throat began throbbing furiously. He fought for control, vetoing the desire to sling her over his shoulder and march out with her. “Rochelle, I don't want to argue. I just want to know you are safe. Mabel would be glad to have you stay with her.”
“I'm not leaving here, Michael. You cannot make me. We have a deal.”
He jumped up and began pacing the floor. “Then let's go to the police, explain your situation, and ask them to keep an eye on the house.”
If he had put his arms about her just once the way he did upstairs when he came racing up there filled with fear for her, he could have gotten her to do about anything he wanted, Rochelle thought. Unfortunately, though, he didn't put his arms about her.
There was no affection at all in his expression. His look was one of sheer impatience and growing irritation.
She pushed herself from the sofa, her shoulders squared, her head held tall, and she never looked more in control, nor felt more disheartened and alone. “There's no reason to go to the police. They would drive by every two hours, and anything could happen in between that length of time. The next time Tobias comes for me, I will deal with him. I won't risk your life again like before. And I promise you I will never go back with him again.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” he demanded tiredly, the thought crossing his mind again that he'd like to pick her up and carry her somewhere to safety.
“It means I will deal with Tobias.” She was making a brave stand against Michael, but she hoped he would go. Her strength was weakening. She didn't know how much longer she could defy him.
Pushing his coat back on his hips, he pushed his hands deep into his pockets. “Rochelle, what is it you want of me?”
“What kind of question is that? You asked me that on the plane, you know. Why are you asking it again? I don't want anything from you, Michael. I owe you a great deal of thanks for all you've done for me, but there's nothing else I expect, and nothing more you can do.”
“That is not exactly what I was referring to.”
“Then I don't know what it is you're talking about.” She turned her back on him. “Now if you'll excuse me, I do have something I have to take care of.”
“Damn you!” Michael cursed, grabbing her arm and swinging her around to face him. “Why won't you listen? You know that by staying here you are only setting yourself up for that son of a bitch.
All I'm asking is for you to stay with Mabel a couple of weeks until we see what Tobias has in mind?”
“Michael, you're hurting my arm,” Rochelle cried, trying to wrench free of his grasp.
He released his hold, and let her arm drop, looking terribly exasperated. “Won't you please do what I ask?”
“I can't, Michael. I am through running from Tobias. I do not want to run anymore. I do not want to hide anymore, and I do not want to live with Tobias anymore. Neither will I put Mabel in jeopardy the way you were when Tobias shot you. I have to handle this in my own way.”
He looked at her in dismay, his face pale with rage and anxiety.
A grim tautness settled across his features, offsetting a ravaged harshness in his eyes. Without another word, he spun about and headed for the front door, slamming it loudly behind him.
Rochelle stood there for several minutes, her small nostrils flaring with as much anger as Michael must feel. When she calmed herself, she set the alarm and went upstairs, put the gun beneath her pillow again, and then called Remy.
“Rochelle, where are you? I kept calling the house. The guards, or whoever they were, kept telling me you couldn't come to the phone. I had no idea what had happened to you. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine, Remy, and thank you for all you've done. I'm in Montana.”
“I'm so happy you called. I'm also glad you're away from Miami right now. Things are really going crazy here. There have been numerous arrests of people associated with Mr. Chandler. The papers are full of it. Word is the State Attorney's Office is offering deals for those arrested to turn state's evidence against your husband.
They haven't arrested him, but newscasts say that an arrest is imminent.”
“Do you know if he's back in the city?”
“I don't think he is. I recall reading something in the paper about him being out of the country. But how are things with you?”
“I'm okay. Remy, you've been a good friend, and I want you to know how much I appreciate all you've done.”
“It was nothing. Give me your phone number and address and I'll call you with anything I learn or send you newspaper clippings.”
Rochelle gave her the number and address. “If you learn that Tobias is back from Columbia, will you please call right away?”
“You know I will, and do keep in touch with me.”
Rochelle went to bed with a novel, a habit that often put her soundly to sleep after an hour or so. That was not the case this night.
She tired of the novel and put it aside and then lay staring up at the ceiling, wondering if Tobias would come for her this night. With a gesture that had become habitual, she reached beneath her pillow to touch the cold metal of the gun. She was surprised at her state of calm. She was anxious to have it over with, but she miraculously felt devoid of fear. She no longer feared what Tobias might do to her. If he killed her, it would finally release her from any further threat of him. To be free was the ultimate goal she sought, one way or another.
The night crept on with endless slowness. Every noise and creak keened Rochelle's ears, and she listened for the next creak or a foot grating on the stair steps. Near midnight, she turned out the light, and tried to sleep. She dozed fitfully, woke, looked at the clock, then dozed some more, a routine she would follow for another hour until she eventually drifted into deep sleep.
About two o'clock, the phone rang shrilly. Rochelle opened her heavy lids, feeling drugged by lingering drowsiness. She picked up the phone.
“Hello,” she murmured groggily. There was no answer, only breathing on the other end. Her eyes opened wider. She listened attentively. “Hello, who's there?” she snapped irritably. Still no answer, and after a minute, the phone went dead.
Rochelle put the handset back down, turned on the light, and sat on the edge of the bed, her toes digging into the carpet. The ringing of the phone left a startling effect upon her nerves after awakening from a sound sleep. The butterflies in her stomach woke, and fear was no longer an illusive bird in flight. It was perilous terror incited by threatened danger. She felt her hands trembling, and when she held them out in front of her she became aware that not only were her hands shaking, but so was her whole body. For assurance, she reached beneath the pillow again and touched hard, cold steel.
Her mouth felt dry like cotton, so she slid off the bed and went to the bathroom where she filled a glass with water and drank thirstily. Tired and still groggy with sleep, she went back to bed and turned out the light, mindful now that the call could have been Tobias's way of ascertaining her whereabouts. Determined to stay awake, she kept her eyes open in the darkened room, never aware when her lids drooped sluggishly and closed. She slept soundly.
She woke with a start the next morning as light crept into the windows, lighting up the room. She felt terrible as if she nursed a drunken hangover. A dull headache capped her head. After going to the bathroom and taking a couple of aspirin, she went back to bed, intending to sleep for another couple of hours. The ringing of the doorbell downstairs stopped that. Adrenaline shot through her like a bullet, and her heart began pounding wildly.
Tossing her legs off the side of the bed, her feet touched the carpet and she pushed herself to a standing position, ever mindful that the next few minutes could mark her final days on earth. She donned a robe and with purposeful slowness, ambled downstairs.
The doorbell rang again while she turned off the alarm. She opened the door, expecting to see Tobias standing before her. The need to get it over with quickly was an urgent thought now. She had resigned herself to the inevitable.
“Damn it, Rochelle, you didn't even bother asking who was out here! Don't you believe in taking at least some precautions?”
“I knew it wasn't Tobias, Michael,” she lied. “He would never show up in broad daylight. That's not his style. What do you want?”
“You look like hell,” he growled. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, unaware that he looked like hell, too. There was a white line about his mouth, and his face seemed stretched tightly with gaunt, pale skin.
“Thanks, I feel about like that, too.” Her heart had slowed down to a marching beat, and she clasped her hands together to hide the trembling.
“May I come in?” he asked, pushing past her. “Didn't you sleep last night?”
Rochelle stood by the door, turning as she watched Michael move past her toward the entrance off the foyer to the living room.
“Won't you come in, Michael?” she remarked sarcastically. She shoved the door closed.
“I'm in, thank you,” he shot back at her. He looked at her disheveled and tangled mane of auburn-gold hair that lent an impression of wildness to her soft facial features. Even drugged by sleep, with her hair in disarray, she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and every bridled bit of desire inside of him longed to take her in his arms and smother her face with kisses.
Pride would not allow that. They were at a standoff, and neither was prepared to bridge the gap. With every encounter, he saw her slipping farther away from him, and he still refused to make it right.
He had tried, over at Mabel's, but she had thwarted his efforts. Now, he decided, it was up to her.
“Michael, what do you want?” she asked softly, the desire to do battle quickly disintegrating as she dropped onto the sofa in the living room, totally drained of energy. Now that the surge of adrenaline started dissipating, the grogginess from disturbed sleep weighed heavily upon her. She lifted her bare feet and propped them on the coffee table, her robe falling away from her long shapely legs to expose smooth creamy flesh halfway up her thighs.
Michael's eyes danced over her hungrily, and he purposely looked away, not willing to lose his easily betrayed control when he was in her presence. “I only wanted to see if you were all right. Now that I've seen you are, I suppose I'd better go.” He started toward the door.
“By the way,” he said stopping and turning toward her again. “I spoke to the police chief, and he'll have an unmarked car come by on the hour. If you have a problem, turn on the outside light.”
God, he hated the way his voice sounded when he spoke to her.
He was angry, and every word he said echoed that anger. He sounded like an irate, disillusioned and cuckolded lover, and he knew she really did not deserve that kind of treatment. Yet, for the life of him, he could not seem to put his rebellious feelings aside even when he yearned just to take her in his arms and hold her. He went out the door, not bothering to look back or say goodbye.
Completely exhausted from her restless night, and more discouraged than ever with Michael, Rochelle went straight upstairs to bed.