Part 1 (1/2)

She Waits.

By Kate Sweeney.

Dedication.

To my mother-from her paperbacks in the attic to the adventures in our minds-Thanks, Mom.

Acknowledgements.

Many thanks to my editor, Reese Szymanski, who made me believe I could write without an over abundance of adverbs.

To my family who believed from the beginning, and Tracey-my beta, who never seemed to tire of my typos.

Finally, to Kat who took the chance, and Den, whose one e-mail, started this and made all the difference.

Chapter One.

I swear she came out of nowhere.

I was up early that morning, on my way to Galena, Illinois for the weekend. Throwing myself together, not an easy task, I added a single lesbian's best companion, my dog Chance. She jumped into her side of the Jeep. Yes, it's her side. I'm waiting for the day she'll strap on her own seatbelt.

I was on my way to meet my sister for a long-deserved peaceful weekend. I should have stayed home and done laundry.

A couple of dear friends, Jan and Barb, had told me about this quaint town, just outside Galena. Apparently, a friend who lives there was having a little trouble. They had been visiting this friend last month, and some strange things happened while they were there. Nothing they could put their finger on, but something was wrong with their friend and, naturally, they were worried. Even more so when their friend decided not to go to the police.

With my curiosity piqued, I suggested they call this girl and, if she agreed, I'd take a detour and meet with her on my way to Galena. Of course, the woman declined my help and who could blame her? She didn't know me at all. Apparently, this woman's aunt had voiced her opinion to Jan and Barb stating she thought it was indeed a good idea that someone try to help. Evidently, that opinion was not shared by her niece.

My P.I. instinct reared its forgotten head and got the better of me though, so I decided to drive through anyway. I thought again of my father, who had been a Chicago cop. I'd learned a great deal from him. He used to discuss his cases with my sister Teri and me.

Because he was a homicide detective, the cases were murder, which my poor mother found gruesome. He would lay out all the evidence before me and I would watch in awe as he dissected every bit of information. I would throw my two cents in and together we figured out who done it. He told me I had a knack for figuring out puzzles, while I was just happy to be doing something with my father.

It was because of him that I became a private investigator. Thinking of my father brought me to Bob Whittier and I wondered how he was doing. I hadn't seen him in more than a year. My mind wandered back to when he agreed to my wild idea of starting our P.I. business.

”I'll do all the legwork. We'll even put your name first!” I offered. ”Whittier and Ryan.”

It obviously wasn't a good incentive. Bob was still not convinced. So a few days later, I was surprised to see him on my doorstep.

”I hate retirement. While I was sitting around, I could hear my arteries harden. I need to get back into it, Kate. I suppose being Dan Ryan's partner for nearly fifteen years wasn't enough. Now, I gotta be partnered with his kid. Who's gonna look after you if I don't? Okay, you win.”

”Yes!” I screamed and almost jumped into his arms.

”Let me go, you Amazon. G.o.d, you're strong. You will do all the legwork, young lady.”

Whittier and Ryan Private Investigations lasted for nine years. It's been almost four years since we gave up the business. I ran my fingers over the scar on the back of my neck. I s.h.i.+vered thinking about how Bob and I almost lost our lives.

Yes, Bob and I decided to limp away with whatever body parts we still had intact. We both thought it was a wise decision. Now, I'm back to my first love, photography. It's a nice quiet existence and I'm glad to say taking photos of nature hasn't killed me...yet. I'll leave that to my editor.

I shook myself back to reality and realized I was coming up to the small town nestled comfortably in the middle of the woods. If you blinked, you could have easily missed it. It actually reminded me of the old movie Brigadoon, the small village lost in the mist of time.

Smiling to myself, I noticed a sign that read Cedar Lake, pop 1300. As I headed into town, it appeared to be mainstream Americana: Everyday people going about their everyday lives.

I would find out much later that nothing could be further from the truth.

It was like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Beautiful maple trees lined the streets. The colors were magnificent and the golden leaves fell as the breeze gently shook them from the branches. It was a cool, crisp sunny morning. When I opened my window, the aroma of burning leaves instantly took me back to my childhood, when in autumn that wonderful earthy scent flooded everyone's senses.

G.o.d was in His heaven and all was right with the world, until I hit the young woman on the horse. Well, I didn't really hit her. I almost hit her. Actually, I almost hit the horse, or the horse almost ran into my car. I'm still not quite sure. I only know I almost soiled myself.

I had seen her from the corner of my eye, from out of nowhere came this black blur galloping as if she was h.e.l.l bent on some maniacal steeplechase. At the last minute, I swerved to avoid them. The car skidded as I slammed on the brakes. A maple tree caught my b.u.mper nicely, stopping me from continuing into the peaceful woods.

All at once, I was engulfed in a sea of marshmallow when the air bag slowly deflated. I looked over at poor Chance. She was sprawled on the car floor looking up at me. She quickly jumped back up and barked.

I examined her for injuries. ”Hey don't blame me. I told you to put your seatbelt on,” I said, as I quickly untangled myself.

The rider was lying still on the side of the road and for a horrifying moment I thought, c.r.a.p, I killed her. I ran over to her, begging the G.o.ds for help. I knelt down beside her and gingerly turned her over, looking for signs of life. The saddle was off the horse and lying in a heap on her left ankle.

She looked young, no more than twenty-two or -three. Great, I've killed a child.

I checked her pulse. I checked to see if any bones were broken. I checked for bleeding. I didn't know what else to check. While I was thinking, d.a.m.n, I did kill her I looked down to see that her eyes were wide open and staring at me. I jumped back like a scalded hound. She scared the life out of me.

”Are you all right?” I asked.

She struggled to her feet, waving off my attempts to help. ”Am I all right?”

I tried to help her-what a stupid thing to do. She almost knocked me over getting to her horse. She spoke in soothing, sweet low tones to the snorting beast.

After making sure her horse was uninjured, she limped back to me. ”Christ, are you crazy?” she bellowed.

I took a step backward. She looked scary, with leaves in her disheveled chestnut hair and her blue eyes glaring. My, she is short.

”Well I...”

”What in the h.e.l.l were you doing?” she interrupted. Her look demanded an answer.

”Well, you-”

”Christ, you could have killed somebody.”

”Yes, I realize that.” I was trying to get a word in edgewise while backing away.

”Christ, you imbecile!”

That did it. n.o.body calls me an imbecile, except my editor. I tried to remain calm. ”Look Miss, if you'd let me get a word in, I'd like to apologize.”