Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson
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sorry, Estelle, but I want your word on this. If anything goes wrong, anything at all, phone me - day or night, it doesn't matter. I need to know that you're alright. Will you do that for me?"
"Well...." Her head rocked from side to side as if calculating the odds. Not that she needed to. Finally she said: "If it means that much to you."
"It does." You do.
She nodded. "If anything happens, I'll call." She waved the business card at him.
"And I'll ring you as arranged."
"I'll be expecting you." I'll be sitting right by the phone.
~o~o~o~o~
She let herself in through the side door from the garage as usual and went straight to the kitchen. Although she had been unable to eat a thing all day, there was nothing appealing in the fridge, so she carried on into the lounge and switched on the television. A minute later she got straight up and switched it off.
She wandered, stopping occasionally, abruptly, to dart the odd glance, or listen attentively. What was to see, to hear – nothing, surely? So, why the jumping nerves? This ought to have been a time to savour – no Michael, home alone, nothing to fear. Or was there?
The coffee table looked unusually large, bare. Why was that? Memory clicked in - there was no mail cluttering the glass top because she had omitted to clear the box. It had completely slipped her mind.
She walked directly to the front door without thinking, not realising until her hand was on the knob and turning it that she would have to go back and find the key in order to undo the dead-lock. Letting the knob spring back, she was about to turn away when her eyes happened to stray to the gap between the door and the frame, that part where both locking bolts could be seen silver and glinting in the light. There were two bolts - one for the ordinary door latch, and one above which was the dead-lock.
Only one was visible. The top bolt had been unlocked!
Her pulse was suddenly racing and breath was coming in short, sharp pants. She was positive she'd locked it before going out. It was habit born of dire necessity because Michael had a phobia about burglars, and to ignore any ‘royal’ command was a punishable offence. A hasty re-cap of the morning’s events brought back Estelle’s anxiety over the woman's voice on Jason's phone. That must have been it – reason enough for forgetting to lock up properly.
Temporarily convinced of it, she opened the door and started out onto the porch. The rain had eased and was now little more than a light shower. She jogged down the path to the mailbox, took out the small bundle of envelopes and advertising circulars, then trotted back.
In the process of closing the door, she managed to drop the mail. Sinking to one knee, she began to gather it up, then froze. Rising just enough, she was able to see a large wet patch on her jeans. A hand went to the area of carpet beneath. It was sodden. Surely not her doing? A hand went to the sole of a shoe – barely moist. A glance up at the ceiling detected no evidence of a leak from the roof. How, then?
There seemed only one explanation: someone had come in earlier when it was raining hard. Estelle hadn’t forgotten to lock the door. Someone had unlocked it after she’d left! Muscles were tightening, hands trembling. Who? Who had been in the house? Who might still be inside?
Unlikely though it was, there seemed to be only one possible answer and she spoke the name as a hoarse, bewildered gasp:
"MICHAEL?!!"
CHAPTER TWO
When a woman is at home alone and suspects an intruder is on the premises, there are a number of options open to her: she can beat a hasty retreat to seek help from a neighbour; she can call the Police, always assuming there is a telephone handy; she can pick up the closest weapon and parade around the house shouting, "I know you're there and if you don't leave right now, you'll be sorry!" - or she can freeze.
Immediate problem solved, Estelle froze. Calling the Police only remained an option because it was a conditioned reflex and was instantly dismissed as inadvisable, perhaps dangerous. An investigation at this time could draw attention to Michael, maybe hinder his getaway. If, however, the intruder was Michael, it required little imagination to guess how he would react after the Police had apologised to him and left. He would be less than understanding.
But it couldn't be Michael, could it? He was in Bangkok and not due to return until Friday evening. Why would he change his plans and not say anything?
On second thoughts, he might do just that. Michael, it seemed, was going out on his own, leaving his wife, his country, skipping out on his business partner, maybe even the syndicate he worked for or with, assuming that such an organisation did exist which was more than a possibility. Knowing Michael, he was probably hopping off with a good slice of their loot. If all of this, or even a part of it, was true, he wouldn't be able to trust anyone but himself. No wonder the need for a false identity!
Estelle knew she was only guessing, but these things had to be considered. She wanted him out of her life, quickly, painlessly. Any action of hers which jeopardised that ambition was tantamount to suicide. So, no Police. No outsiders.
Neither did she see herself as the local Neighbourhood Watch Champion - aerobics with Jane Fonda might be good for the waistline, but this was real life and she knew from past experience that it tended to hit back, generally very hard.
In need of reassurance, a previous wishful thought was some comfort: what if the intruder had already left? Maybe it was Michael, maybe not, but if the house was now empty, she was getting herself into a stew over nothing. A lengthy pause to listen confirmed all seemed quiet. The only obvious sounds were from traffic on the nearby highway and her own restricted breathing. Apart from that, the house was as silent as the grave.
Smart choice of words, Estelle! She began to rise, slowly, cautiously, the mail still clutched tightly in a clenched fist. Then she was slipping off her shoes and tip-toeing along the hall towards the lounge. Why don’t you just leave? pleaded an astonished inner voice. “I can’t,” she whispered aloud, “I have to know.” A few more steps and she was hissing: “Oh, God, Jason. If only you were here!”
She’d made it to the phone and paused. He's just a seven-digit number away, nudged memory, then added his words: "... anything at all, phone me - day or night..." This was the kind of 'anything' he had meant.
She placed the mail on the small table, began reaching for the receiver, then hesitated. To do, or not to do? Unable to decide, she made a tight fist to reset the nerves, opened her fingers and tried again. The hand refused to go any lower as if there was a string attached to it from the ceiling. Was this the puppeteer on high trying to keep her from making what might be a huge mistake? Or was it something closer to home? There was an undeniable need to involve Jason in her life, make him a part of it. Above all, a longing to hear his voice, right at that moment. But if her fears proved to be imaginary, far better that she convince herself of it than drag Jason over on a wild goose chase.
Leaving the phone, she went into the lounge. There was a great deal to be said for open plan - very few doors to creak as they were opened and it was possible to see into rooms without actually entering them, and be able to dash through from one to the next without delay if need be. Conversely, doors were quite handy barriers to shut behind a person if they were being pursued. It was too late to worry now: the house was built, she was in it, and so too was her prospective attacker - maybe.
The lounge was as she had left it - comfortably empty. So, too, were both the dining room and the kitchen. Each of these discoveries generated a little more confidence until she was on the verge of feeling normal again - at least, as normal as could be expected under the circumstances.
She continued to search the rest of the house, finally arriving at the very satisfactory conclusion that she was definitely alone. All that lingered was that unnerving, nauseous feeling whenever privacy has been invaded. Whether by her own husband or another, she didn't know, but it was, nevertheless, unsettling.
Taking her nervous disposition to the point of becoming a phobia, she went