Frozen in Amber by Phyllis Ames

Author:Phyllis Ames
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2015-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

The warrant didn’t happen that day. So I finished my house cleaning in preparation for Dr. Morgan’s visit and then Sunday brunch with local friends.

Precisely at five that evening as the sun lowered toward the ridgeline, I heard the gravel on the drive crunch once again. One of the larger hybrid cars inched toward the house, avoiding most of the potholes. Dr. Morgan stepped out of the vehicle and shook himself all over, like a canine shedding water after a dunk in the river, or a run in the rain. He looked back over his shoulder at the precarious driveway. “That’s one way to maintain privacy,” he said.

Then he turned his full attention to me standing in the doorway. He smiled and strode toward me, long legs stretching into a lope. He grabbed me in a tight hug and swung me around, laughing. “Amber, my dear. I’ve missed you sorely.” He dropped a light kiss on top of my head and kept one arm around me as I led him into my home.

Most un-Werlike behavior. But this was Dr. Morgan, physician, therapist, mentor, tutor to all of us. Every Wer in the Registry spent time at his summer camp in Wyoming—a place hard to find, hard to get into, even harder to leave.

“Nice place,” he said, surveying the open great room, the stone fireplace, and the loft above. “It suits you. Big enough, but not too big. Lots of polished wood, trade blanket upholstery, and windows to the forest behind you.”

“Thanks. I worked closely with the builder to get everything the way I like it.”

“Enough chitchat. I’m hungry. Airport food may fill the tummy but it never satisfies. Where can we get the best steak on this mountain of yours?”

I’d anticipated that question. “Local bar that serves lumberjacks with outdoor appetites and nearly empty wallets, or the restaurant at the resort that will charge you an arm and a leg just to breathe their rarified atmosphere?”

“The resort. My treat. I can register and check my bag while we’re there, then come back here for . . . the real reason for my visit.”

He ate his nearly raw steak with wolflike relish. I nibbled on a salmon Caesar salad, too nervous to appreciate the subtle flavor blends.

He approved my choice of entrée but frowned when I tried to eat a crouton or a hunk of sourdough baguette. “You have to stay away from gluten until we get your health under control,” he reminded me.

Afterward, I lay on my sofa with my long broomstick skirt hiked up to my hip while he poked and prodded the welt with delicate fingers and blunted instruments.

“This is coming along nicely,” he said with a satisfied grin.

“But . . .”

“Don’t worry about it, Amber. I’ll lance it when it’s ready. I can feel a bit of breakdown and movement. We need to wait until it’s ready. In the meantime, we need to watch your pulse and blood pressure closely. Your temperature is a little elevated but not worrisome.

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