Nightchild

Chapter 58

She waited a full thirty minutes, counting each slow tedious second as if she were counting individual grains of sand, dropping one by one in an hour glass. Creeping down the backstairs because they creaked less, she halted briefly and listened to the silence of the serene house. The quiet was eerie, almost deafening in its intensity and Blythe felt her heart quicken painfully, hurting her chest, making breathing difficult. Fearful of losing her nerve, she hurried the rest of the way down and strode into the clubroom half expecting Heathe to be awake and waiting, half expecting him to be passed out in a deep alcohol induced slumber.

The heavy sounds of his snoring touched her ears before she reached him and a sense of relief swept over her at the sight of his slumped form. Bracing herself, she sheepishly reached out for the sweater thrown over the back of the love seat. It lifted easily then stopped as if snagged. She gave a light tug but it only stretched. Heathe's snoring stopped and she stood stone still, listening with panic coursing through her nerve endings until the buzz of his even breathing reassured her he was still out. Carefully, she peaked over the small couch and saw the arm of the sweater pinned beneath a massive shoulder. The pocket she sought was by his head, bulging with the keys to the office and hopefully her freedom.

With trepidation, Blythe slid a shaky hand into the pocket of the captive sweater and closed it over the keys. She was becoming more agitated and it was increasingly difficult to keep from being reckless, to force herself to react with slow deliberation. She took a couple of deep breaths and gradually withdrew the keys, clutching them tightly to keep them from jingling.

Tiptoeing into the hall, she rushed to the kitchen where she held them up to the light over the sink. Disappointment consumed her. There were only house keys on the ring, keys to the various rooms. She'd been positive the keys to her car or some other vehicle would have been there. There wasn't even a key marked for the gate as there had been on Nate's keyring nor was there a key to Heathe's Jeep. No help sprang out to her. But suddenly, a tiny beam of hope began to shine through the desolation and taking the keys, she stood before the menacing office door.

One by one, she inserted them into the lock until the sixth one clicked, releasing the deadbolt. Determination, mingling with desperation gave her strength to enter the forbidden room as she walked directly to the desk and switched on its small lamp. Blythe opened a drawer then another and another, rifling through the contents of each, but to no avail. Not once did she feel the cool metal of keys.

"Damn, damn, damn you, Nate," she cursed under her breath, frustration tempting her to slam the last drawer, no longer caring if she woke the sleeping giant in the adjoining room. But common sense grabbed hold of her rash hand, stopping her just as she was about to give the drawer a hefty shove. "Okay, Blythe, get control of yourself," she whispered, taking a deep breath. "Where else would he hide them?" She looked at the phone for the first time and fleetingly pondered calling for help but there wasn't enough time, not if she was going to get safely away from the ranch before Nate returned. Later, she thought, later when I'm a safe distance from here then there'll be plenty of time to use a phone. But she had to hurry now and turning to the gun case, she tried the barred glass doors. They were secured and no key on the ring, she still firmly clutched, was small enough to fit its tiny lock.

Blythe stared at the rifles and guns for a moment and the image of one of the shotguns being used to murder Samantha Stevens and her lover flashed unwillingly through her mind. A shiver ran over her and she shook her head to banish the vision which suddenly haunted her as annoyingly as one of her nightmares. She forced her attention on the long drawer beneath the double doors and pulling, it easily opened, revealing box upon box of shells. Reaching behind them, she groped around in the back where she couldn't see and touched something cold as her hand closed over the barrel of a small pistol. Hastily she pulled it out, part of her feeling protected and reassured, the other part queasy and threatened. Quickly she checked the cylinder to make sure it was loaded.