by Nancy Allan
She sprinted into the park, and fighting fatigue, Amy turned onto the jogging trail. She passed no one. It was too early. Even the birds weren’t up yet. The park was eerily silent and forlorn. Just like her. It wasn’t until she neared the other side that she slowed to a walk. Spotting an empty park bench, she dropped down onto it and wiped her face with her sleeve.
Gramps hadn’t told her everything, there was more, but he had said enough to fire a spear of terror deep into her heart. Had the killer threatened her with Jamie’s life the same way he’d threatened her grandmother with Amy’s, years ago?
Amy wasn’t about to let anything happen to her son. He was the very essence of her being—the miracle she had waited for since becoming a woman. He had a whole life ahead of him, and damn it, he was going to live it. She could see his small face--his big, round gray eyes sparkling up at her mischievously, and the magical smile that compelled people to stop and smile back. He was dear and sweet and innocent. A moan escaped her lips and she buried her face in her hands.
Eventually, she got up and walked through the mist to the park entrance. She pulled her cell from her pocket and woke up Sanville’s only taxi operator. When he arrived, she directed him to the impoundment lot. Yesterday, she’d arranged for mobile service from the tire shop.
When she arrived, she saw that the Jeep now had four new tires. The driver’s mirror was shattered and the rear corner was dinged, but the truck was drivable, for now. Amy paid the impoundment and towing fee and drove home. She needed to get clothes and a few personal items. While she was there, she’d use her online access to the University of Oregon’s Knight Library, and the big monitor on her computer to scroll quickly through the archives. All the way home her eyes darted between the road and the rear view mirror for any sign of being followed.
At the house, to avoid emotional distractions, she walked inside, locked the door behind her, and went right into her study. She knew it was risky being at the house alone, so she planned to be quick. Sitting down in front of the Mac, Amy clicked on the library icon. A second later, she was logged in. A search for the newspaper articles covering her parents’ accident brought up black and white photos of the scene, including a number of shots of the Dodge. It was barely recognizable, mostly twisted metal and debris. The photo tore her breath away. She fought nausea. The eighteen-wheeler that struck her parents’ car head-on had sustained only minor front-end damage. Her parents' Dodge was underneath. She had never seen photos of the accident scene and found them devastating. The media reported that her parents had died instantly. The driver had fled the scene. There were no follow-up articles.
Next, she searched for items on the St. Mary’s hospital fire and found a front-page photo and article. There had been a single death. Dr. Joseph Lamont’s body had been found in the basement of the building. The grainy black and white newspaper photo depicted the middle-aged doctor as a balding, heavy-set man, with a kindly face. She located his obituary and noted that his wife had survived him. That was thirty-two years ago. Would she still be alive?
Amy checked the online Beaverdale directory, found six listings for Lamont, and picked up the phone. The first three tries got her nowhere, but the fourth gave her a man who was quite helpful. “You must be looking for my mom,” he told her, “She’s living over in Edgemont now.”
An hour away. “I’d like to drop by and see her.”
“She doesn’t like visitors and she doesn’t go out. She developed agoraphobia many years ago. You know—fear of being outside, in crowds, of wide-open spaces, and so on. For my mom, it’s a fear of being outside of her apartment. It’s so bad now, she’s housebound. I keep telling her she should try going out, but she refuses, even for groceries. Gets them delivered.”
“Can I call her?”
“She doesn’t take calls and watches the call display. She only answers calls when she recognizes the number. You’re welcome to drop by, but I doubt she’ll open the door.” He gave Amy the address and directions.
Amy thanked him, grabbed her laptop, packed some clothing and personal items into a small suitcase, and headed to Edgemont.
Did Mrs. Lamont know anything about her husband’s death or the hospital fire? Was there a police investigation? Was there a related reason for the agoraphobia?
An hour later, Amy tapped at the apartment door. When no one responded she called through the door, “Hello? Mrs. Lamont? Are you home? Mrs. Lamont?”
A husky voice barked a response from the other side of the door. “Go away!”
“Mrs. Lamont, my name’s Amy Johnson, I just want to talk to you for a couple of minutes. I won’t stay long, I promise.”
A terrified wail came through the door. “Johnstone? Did you say, Johnstone?” The voice shrieked through the door and Amy stepped back in surprise. “Get away from here! Leave me alone or I’ll call the police!”
Amy stared at the door. Johnstone. It had been said distinctly with a T. Why did that name distress the woman? What did the name, Johnstone mean to her? Disturbed by the woman’s unexpected reaction, Amy returned to the Jeep, pulled out her laptop, and using wifi, logged onto the library site once more. She went back through archives of The Beaverdale News, unsure what she was looking for. Then she saw it. A newspaper photo of a woman reclining in a hospital bed holding a newborn baby in her arms. A doctor in his late thirties with thinning dark hair, heavy brows, and protruding jaw stood in the background, a stethoscope draped over his white coat. The quality of the photograph was poor and it was apparent the photographer had caught the physician by surprise. The caption identified him as Dr. Johnstone—spelled with a “t”. The article reported that the woman had been expecting twins, but one infant had died at birth. This was exactly what had happened to her mother. Coincidence?
On a strong hunch, Amy ran through listings of obstetricians licensed in the state of Oregon during the late 70’s and early 80’s. Dr. George D. Johnstone had maintained his license to practice in Oregon until 1980, and then his name disappeared from the registry. Changing her search to include all states, the OB/GYN re-surfaced in Houston in 1981, where he remained listed on their registry until 1995.
Had he retired? Died? Moved? It was time to call some Houston hospitals.
After two fruitless hours on the phone, and realizing it was getting dark, Amy followed a stream of westbound traffic out of town and exited onto the dark two-lane highway toward the coast. Soon the traffic disappeared. She picked up her cell and punched in the number for the Sheriff’s office for the sixth time that day, hoping for word on Jamie. She asked to speak to her friend, Debbie.
“Hi, Deb. It’s Amy. Is there any news?”
“No, Amy, sorry, nothing yet. I know the sheriff’s doing everything he can. Between you and me, Dan needs a kick in the ass.”
“I need to find him first. Then, we’ll form a line.”
“Don’t worry, Amy, I’ll call the minute we hear anything.”
Amy dropped the phone on the seat. Fear of what could happen to Jamie swam at the back of her mind constantly. Trying to steer her thoughts from her son, Amy reflected upon her day’s findings. She finally had a name: Dr. George Johnstone. He had a case almost identical to her mom’s, where one twin died. Could he be the OB/GYN who delivered me? Gramps’s neighbor, Mrs. Boxer had mentioned a specialist had been called in for her mom. Amy needed to find out if Dr. Johnstone was her mother’s obstetrician. The dates fit within the time period.
As Amy turned onto Highway 101, she reached for the cell and punched 2 for her grandfather. She wanted to let him know she would stay with him another night. The call went to voicemail. She frowned and tried again a few minutes later, with the same result. Strange, he never goes out after dark.
CHAPTER 17
Amy ran into fog on the way back, so it took longer than usual to get to Sanville. A row of cars crawled along single file, each following the taillights of the car ahead, with the hope of staying on the road. At last, she turned off the highway, headed nort
h toward First Avenue, and turned onto her grandfather’s street. A patrolman stopped her and motioned her to turn around. Behind him, the road had been cordoned off. Half a block up a fire truck and other emergency vehicles blocked the street, their lights flashing. The air was thick with black smoke.
Worried, Amy reversed the Jeep, threw it against the curb, and leapt out, running toward the fire. She dodged vehicles and neighbors, dread filling her chest like wet concrete. A second later she saw the house. Gramps!
Huge jets of water sprayed the burning bungalow. Tongues of flame reached for the shingle roof. A hot wind blew in her face, choking her with acrid smoke, and the stink of charred wood and melting synthetics.
She pushed anxiously through the bystanders, searching for Gramps. The van was still in the carport. She moved faster through the crowd, her brain screaming, Gramps! Be out here, please.
Suddenly an explosion blew out the living room window sending shards of glass raining onto the lawn. Amy froze, her eyes fixed on the blackened building. He can’t be in there, he just can’t! She pushed along the front of the crowd seeing his face everywhere and yet, nowhere.
She recognized a neighbor and yelled to be heard over the din. “Have you seen Art Hadden?” The old man gave her a fearful look and shook his head. With sick realization, Amy turned around once more and stared at the house. No!
She ducked the yellow tape and spurted for the front door. A deputy caught her before she was halfway across the lawn. “Hey! You can’t go in there!”
“My grandfather—” She screamed. “He’s inside!” He put his hands on her shoulders and forced her back behind the tape. “Please,” she begged, “Help my grandfather. Please!” Amy looked at the people around her. It was clear that no one was going to go into the burning house, not even the firemen.
She shoved through the crowd and dashed into the neighbor’s yard, around to the far side of his house, and into the backyard. No one noticed. Once behind the house, she used the foliage for cover and scrambled toward her grandfather’s bungalow. There were no flames coming from the rear of the house. Hoses shot jets of water from the front street. The overspray soaked her.
There was a small ground-level window that accessed the crawlspace under the house. Amy considered her options. Gramps always kept the back door locked, and she could never break it down. The only other way inside the house was through the crawlspace window on the side of the building. She had to be fast if she wanted to get through it without being seen. Or worse, stopped.
In a crouching run, she dove for it, her right shoulder breaking the glass. A fireman saw her and yelled. For a split second their eyes met, then Amy shoved her body through the narrow opening and ducked inside
The crawlspace was shallow, damp, dark, and smoky. There was about three feet of clearance beneath the floor joists. She glanced around. Her grandparents used the space to store mementos, boxes of Christmas decorations, and bins. Amy bent over and scuttled toward the two-step ladder that led up to the access door and the main floor. By the time she got there her lungs were starved for air. Peeling off her wet jacket, she wrapped it around her head and face, inhaling through the damp fibers.
Still crouched over, she stood on the short ladder and pushed hard on the access door. It swung upward, and Amy found herself in the smoky kitchen. She coughed and pulled her jacket tighter around her head and over her mouth and nose. Her eyes watered. Smoke hung all around her. How would she find him when she could barely see? “Gramps!” she screamed, but the racket inside the burning house swallowed her voice.
Pushing herself off the floor, Amy ran toward the dining room, but leapt back when she had only gone as far as the doorway. Too hot. Flames danced up the walls.
Her lungs were burning now. Blinded by smoke and tears she ducked down, finding it cooler near the floor, the air less putrid. “Gramps!” She was running out of time! Scrambling crab-style back across the kitchen floor, she headed for the hall. Once there, she re-positioned the wet jacket over her head and face and crawled forward on her hands and knees. Too hot. Hurry! No time! Gramps, where are you? The bedroom was about three feet away, but it felt like a mile. She propelled herself into the room, landing beside the bed. She ran her hand over the hot surface—no Gramps. She yanked the blanket off the bed and threw it around her, for protection. Her eyes watered profusely now, blinding her. Coughing, barely able to inhale, she crawled around the bed. No Gramps and no wheelchair.
That left the living room. Oh dear God. That room was all but totally consumed by fire. She returned to the hallway and belly-crawled forward. Everything was hot. There was no oxygen in the air! Her lungs were on fire and she couldn’t stop coughing. The heat intensified with every inch. She was crawling into an inferno.
Her head struck something hard—the bureau outside the living room. She was almost there. She pulled herself up and turned toward the living room, but she could see nothing. The heat was cooking her. She tried to call out to him, “Gramps!” But ended up choking instead. An overhead beam pulled away, dangling precariously, sending sparks flying around her. Smoke, heat, and fire were everywhere, but no Gramps.
She could no longer feel anything. Her body went numb. The searing heat disappeared; she felt cold. Then her feet left the floor.
CHAPTER 18
Dallas climbed the worn staircase to his apartment over the dreaded dentist’s office. Juggling grocery bags and dry cleaning, he unlocked the door, stepped inside, hit the lights, and looked around. He needed a cleaning service.
Putting food away was no problem. It either went into the near-empty pantry or the near-empty refrigerator. That job finished, he popped the top off a Lone Star beer, took a long swig, and walking over to the scanner, flipped it on. A second later, he caught Hadden’s address and the word fire. He dropped the beer in the sink, grabbed his coat and hat, and ran back out the door.
The patrolman was looking the wrong way when Dallas arrived at First Street, so he whipped around him and broke through the tape, maneuvering his pickup down the crowded street. He came to a fast stop behind the fire truck. Ahead, the road was clogged with emergency vehicles, onlookers, firemen, police, an ambulance, and hoses snaking through the street. He barely recognized Hadden’s house. “Hellndamnation!”
The core of the blaze centered on the front right corner of the bungalow, where flames reached over the rooftop, throwing searing heat back to the road.
Sam Eden, Sanville’s fire chief, was barking orders when Dallas interrupted him. “Anybody inside?” Dallas yelled.
The chief gave him a sidelong glance. “It don’t look good for old Hadden. By the time we got here the fire was too far gone for my guys to get in and out of there safely. Worse thing is, his granddaughter went in for him.”
“What?” Dallas tensed, “Amy’s inside?”
“Been in there a couple of minutes now.”
“Anybody go in after her?”
The Chief shook his head. “We tried, but it’s too risky. The roof is going to cave any minute. Hey, wait! Wayburne, you can’t do that. Come back here!”
Dallas grabbed a yellow jacket, helmet, and respirator from the fire truck and yelled for the paramedics to meet him in the back lane. Throwing on the protective clothing and respirator, he ran through the neighbor’s property, into Hadden’s backyard. Two firemen tried to grab him, but his years on the football field paid off. He dodged them and raced up the wheelchair ramp to the back door. Locked! Two powerful kicks and the old wood splintered. He pushed it open. As he slid across the kitchen floor, something broke free in the front of the house, near the living room, and crashed to the floor sending sparks flying down the hallway.
Then he saw her.
Dodging toppled furniture, he dashed down the hall, reaching Amy just as she collapsed. He flipped her over his left shoulder and wound his way back toward the kitchen.
Suddenly, the house swayed on its foundation. The ceiling over his head buckled, sending drywall and wood splinters raini
ng down upon them. He moved as fast as he could, re-entering the kitchen at the same second the far side of the room disintegrated. The roof was collapsing.
Move! Move! Move! Ten feet to the back door. He ran for it, plunging outside, as the roof caved behind him. He didn’t stop running until his shoes hit the lane. There, gasping for breath, he dropped onto his knees. Paramedics lifted Amy onto a stretcher, put an oxygen mask over her mouth, and hoisted the stretcher into the back of the truck.
“Get a move on.” Dallas told them. They pulled out and Dallas limped back through the neighbor’s yard, onto the street. Fire Chief Sam Eden was furious. “You crazy bastard! All the years I’ve known you, this has got to be the gull-darnedest, stupidest thing you’ve ever done. Lucky you didn’t get fried in there.”
Dallas slapped the fire chief’s back. “Had to get that woman out of there, Sam. Your job’s to put out fires. My job’s to do everything else.”
The Chief grunted. “You barely made it out of there, Dallas. Only thing that saved your ass was your old football days. You always broke the speed records, but this one tops ‘em all.”
Dallas stripped off his gear and dropped it into the fire chief’s hands. “Call me on my cell if you find Hadden.”
Dallas waited impatiently in the Emergency waiting room. As usual, the place was in turmoil—white coats and uniforms going every direction, would-be patients waiting for treatment, and a young girl sobbing. How people actually got medical treatment in these conditions was beyond him.
“Sheriff?”
Dallas turned to see Sandra Wilson, the head nurse waving him over, pen and clipboard in hand. “You can go in now, Sheriff. Amy will be fine—minor burns, cuts to her upper arm and shoulder, a few scrapes, and surprisingly, her lungs aren’t too bad. She’s pretty upset about her grandfather though. She says she’s got to go back to the house. We’ve sedated her to calm her down and to help with the pain.” Sandra stuck the pen behind her ear. “We’ve been trying to locate Dr. Johnson, but it seems he’s out of town and didn’t leave an emergency number.”
