Heaven's Fury by Frey Stephen

Author:Frey, Stephen [Frey, Stephen]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Published: 2010-09-20T16:00:00+00:00

17

WHEN I COME upstairs an hour later, our bedroom door is locked. It’s easy to jimmy the thing open. I know from experience, but I don’t bother. I don’t even knock or call to Vivian, I just turn and head down the short hallway to the guest room where my shaving kit and a rumpled uniform are tossed on the bed. She hasn’t put my sleeping pills in the kit—probably on purpose because she knows how badly I need them—so I figure I’ll have trouble falling asleep, but I’m so tired I’m out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow. Before I know it the sun’s blazing through the guest room window because I forgot to pull the shade down. It’s a good thing I did or I might still be sleeping. I guess I was that worn out, physically and emotionally.

I wake up at seven-thirty, an hour and a half late, but Vivian isn’t up yet. Our door is still shut when I come out of the guest room and I don’t bother trying to mend fences. Despite the long night’s sleep, I don’t have the strength to deal with her and I’m still shocked that she got my password and that Cindy—or whoever—sent that email to me. Before I crawled into bed last night, I checked my computer and, sure enough, the email from Cindy was there, sent about an hour after I left the estate that morning. There wasn’t a racy picture attached to it, and I’m sure that was just a lie intended to make the story seem even worse. But it’s not like it matters much, it’s not like that’s much of a relief. The incriminating piece is the insane email. I can’t believe Cindy sent that, or that Vivian went through my truck and found that picture of her I took from the mansion.

At least there’s one thing to cheer about as I head toward town. Bear was right about the temperature. When I pull into Bat Mc-Cleary’s Exxon station, it’s already well above freezing, according to the digital readout in the upper right-hand corner of the SUV’s rearview mirror. And, despite the fact that the strong rays from a clear blue sky are streaming down at a winter angle from the south, the thick white blanket of snow is beginning to turn to liquid. If the mercury continues to climb, the Boulder River’s going to become a raging torrent and bust its ice cover in the Gorges and the Meadows. That almost never happens in February.

“Hi, Sheriff,” Bat calls from the other side of the pumps as I step out of the SUV. “Good morning.”

He’s just finished topping off the tank of an old red Chevy pickup truck. It’s owned by an older couple who live out east on Route 7 past the lumberyard. I’m glad to see they’ve made it to town and I wave to them. I’ve gotta give the people in Madison credit. They came through for us this time with the plows.

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