Williams Too High in the Wind

1. Auflage 2022
ISBN: 978-1-6678-1964-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 290 Seiten

A staged car accident, an unknown witness and a Special Ops killer lead Becca Noble into a series of suspenseful encounters as she abandons her family's Hamptons compound for a teaching position on a remote island off the South Carolina coast. Becca, who was ejected from her mother's topless Jaguar can only recall the accident in a recurring murky dream. A year later, the dream begins to gradually reveal details about Allison's murder and the killer must act quickly before her identity is revealed . Despite her dream and a strong sense of foreboding, Becca attacks her teaching assignment with energy and optimism. She loves her students and two fellow teachers spark her interest; J.R., a bearded, seductive artist and Nate Forrest, a former Marine sniper that Becca names Neanderthal. A white water camping trip provides Becca's stalker with the perfect opportunity to silence her, but when Becca escapes, the pursuit moves down the coast to Tubman Island. Here, Becca discovers her stalker's identity and against the roar of a violent storm, she must fight for her survival.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Williams, John G.

Leseproben

CHAPTER TWO

Rebecca Noble ignored the cold rain, tugging her bush hat over her ears as she twisted and dodged her way through the cars that crawled along Logan Airport’s Terminal Drive.

“Come on, Robert,” she yelled to her ex-boyfriend who trailed her by three lanes, “I’ve got to make that flight.”

Becca hit the sidewalk running, and sprinted inside, skidding to a stop at the first flight monitor. A large crowd blocked her path. The crowd gave her hope. This was a big storm. She’d watched it on her cell phone, a mass of red and yellows stretching from Boston down into New York.

“I’m sure you’ll be delayed,” Robert said, studying the radar. “Maybe cancelled,” he added, giving her a sly wink. “Wouldn’t that be terrible?”

It would be terrible. She was a planner, but her mother Allison’s habitual spontaneity had spawned this trip; a command performance, issued this afternoon along with a paid e-ticket. Rebecca had refused at first. Too busy: papers to grade, her own graduation, job applications, and the haircut appointment she’d finally found the courage to make. Even listing them now raised her heart rate.

“Please,” her mother had pleaded in her childlike voice, “A girl only turns fifty once, plus you can work here and let the island perform its magic. Don’t tell your father,” she added. “You’re a surprise.”

Becca had relented, resisting the temptation to ask about her mother’s previous “no fuss for my fiftieth” decree. She could work there and Shelter Island did have a magical property; it could slow down the world. Island time, she thought, picturing herself in her Mom’s studio overlooking Dering Harbor.

The flight board refreshed, producing moans and an occasional clap from the trapped passengers. Another recycle and the crowd thinned. She removed her hat and stepped closer. Her flight wasn’t there.

“Come on, Islip,” she mumbled. “I’ve got to catch that ferry. Show me a delay.” She looked for Robert, didn’t see him, and turned back to the board. Her flight appeared, a tranquil patch of white surrounded by angry reds. “Boarding,” she said out loud, rechecking the monitor. “Damn it, it’s boarding.” She spotted Robert propped against a wall. “C7,” she yelled and began to sprint.

By the time Robert caught up with her, she was in line, stuck behind an elderly couple, watching their losing battle against Island Air’s solo kiosk. An argumentative trio surrounded the sole harried clerk.

“No need to hurry now,” she said, shaking her head, watching the machine reject the offerings of credit cards and driver’s licenses the couple presented. “I’m doomed.”

She felt Robert’s hand land gently on her shoulder. “Not yet,” he said, “but the old-toe-tap, lip-bite-combo won’t work.” He dropped his arm to his side. “You’ve got to use the ‘deep- sigh, evil-eye move’ if you want to speed up these people.”

His calm voice irritated her but she stilled her foot and released her lip. They’d been unconscious movements but Robert didn’t miss much. She remembered his creative writing class. “Strive to be someone on whom nothing is lost,” he’d said, quoting Henry James, while stroking his mandatory Harvard grad assistant beard. She’d been a senior then, struggling to decide between an MFA and English grad school. He’d convinced her. “You’re a writer,” he’d said after reading the only short story that she’d let escape her well-guarded briefcase. “Your voice is unique. You have to write.” Now two years later, she was finishing her MFA and she was writing.

The couple finally surrendered, sulking off to the side to regroup. She ran forward, printing her boarding pass, rechecking her gate as she sprinted towards security. Robert trailed behind, dragging her backpack. No baggage, she thought, bypassing the ticket agent; nothing to check, nothing to retrieve. That was the way to go, though it helped to be going home where basic essentials and a second if slightly dated wardrobe awaited her arrival.

The security line was short. “Thanks,” she said, giving Robert an air kiss and taking her pack. “See you on campus.”

“Becca,” he shouted as she moved through the line. “Call me when you land.”

“Okay,” she mouthed back, though she wanted to say no. It’d been three weeks since their breakup. She knew he’d expected something more when she called, but all she needed was a ride. Uber was rained out. She’d been firm, nice but firm. It wasn’t just him, though he was part of it. She was starting over, and Robert was part of her past. She smiled at the TSA agent and lifted her backpack onto the conveyor belt. No baggage, she said to herself, focusing her eyes forward.

A loud beep halted the line. The man in front of her had set off the metal detector. A giant Patriots belt buckle proved to be the culprit. She hated the Patriots.

Glancing back, Becca spotted Robert standing where she left him, his brown eyes drooping like a scolded puppy. He gave her a weak wave. She waved back. ‘No baggage,’ she thought again moving forward, ‘no baggage.’

The ticket agent greeted her with a tight smile. “You’re lucky,” she said, scanning Becca’s boarding pass. “The pilot was late too.”

The plane was tiny, a Saab turbo prop with noisy engines, but her single window seat was comfortable and her backpack fit into the overhead compartment with minimum effort and no glares from the lone flight attendant who now struggled to unlock the just-locked cabin door. Just what I need, Becca thought, leaning into the aisle, spotting a middle-aged woman dragging a large canvas bag, the flight attendant yapping at her heels.

They stopped at the empty seat across from Becca. “It’s got to fit under your seat,” the flight attendant said in a weary voice, eying the large bag. “I’ll check later, but the overhead bins are full.”

“It will,” the woman said, sliding into her seat. Becca watched. It’ll never fit, she thought, watching the woman compress the bag with her feet then force it forward with a series of kicks. Divine intervention, she thought when the bag disappeared, though its contents probably needed last rites.

The woman glanced over at Becca. “That should comply with all federal regulations,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “They made me check my carry-on.”

Don’t be a talker, Becca said to herself. She acknowledged the woman’s presence with a nod, breaking eye contact before she could speak. She looked like a talker and Becca hated long conversations with strangers. Business woman, she thought glancing over; they’re the worst kind.

The plane shuddered as it eased back from the terminal, its movement keying the flight attendant’s monotone spiel. Becca half-heard the standard announcements, selecting out only “non-stop” and “seventy minutes flying time” from the oxygen masks and life preserver demos. The plane began to taxi, then stopped. The intercom crackled.

“We’re number three in the stack,” the pilot said. His voice was youthful and pleasant. “This weather’s going to follow us down the coast, but we’ll beat it to Islip. Wheels up in about ten minutes.”

She switched on her reading light and pulled a thin paperback from her purse. Reading discouraged most talkers. “Thank you, Holden Caulfield,” she whispered. The Catcher in the Rye was another Robert suggestion. “Re-read it,” he’d said, using his professorial voice. “Either you or Holden’s changed. I’ll let you be the judge.”

She had changed. Grown was more like it; a two-year journey with Robert as her guide. He’d encouraged her writing, understanding what she wanted before she knew herself, transferring the words in her head to the dreaded blank page, like a magical muse. “Leave out the parts people tend to skip,” he’d say, turning her masterpiece into a series of blue lines and arrows, halving her word count. She couldn’t write without him, and she had to write though she didn’t know why.

This gave him power; power he’d used to mold her into what he couldn’t become. Her days were limited to classes and her nights filled with coffee house readings along Boston’s Massachusetts Avenue.

Sexually, Robert was neither experienced nor demanding, seeming to shed his worldly sophistication at the bedroom door. She winced as she replayed the clumsy seduction scene that had played out on her second visit to his Cambridge apartment.

He’d set it up: wine, candles, soft music, and the mandatory, accidental touching that he must have read about in one of the trendy men’s magazines that littered his apartment. When she’d finally kissed him, he was trembling, and he didn’t undress until they were in bed. It didn’t last long, and after that, many of their nights together ended with only a good night peck. We were like an old married couple, she thought, without being old or married. No, writing, not sex had provided their intimacy and a three-month scholarship to Italy had proven that she could write alone. She’d work on the sex, though her expectations were low.

Ironically, her awakening had come from one...