Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson

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      Waiting For Michael

      by

      Kathy Sampson

      WAITING FOR MICHAEL

      Plotting, scheming, fleeing for her life, then waiting for him to find her, hoping desperately that he doesn't. These are the kind of intrigues Estelle has only ever read about. Now, they are really happening! Waiting for Michael was never more terrifying!

      by

      Kathy Sampson

      Copyright 1996 DV & KR Hawkins

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

      Converted by http://www.ebookit.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0406-6

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      INTRODUCTION

      Kalbarri is a resort town situated on the Western Australian coast 590 kilometres north of Perth. An ideal tourist destination, the area abounds with natural beauty, not the least being a variety of wondrous inland gorges winding their way almost invisibly through a vast, seemingly uninteresting landscape.

      It never has been the kind of place to happen upon, or glimpse in passing, mainly because it is off the beaten track and a long, tedious drive from the main highway. Because of this, those who take the Ajana road do so deliberately out of choice, or necessity.

      In June 2000, a new road was constructed south down the coast to link with the smaller location of Port Gregory. This now provides tourists who don’t have the luxury of a 4-wheel drive with easier access to the coastal gorges and an alternative approach route.

      But, that was to come later. The story about to unfold takes place in 1992 when the one way in to Kalbarri was the only way out.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Waiting alone in the empty lecture room was an unnerving experience, one not to be repeated out of choice. It was eerie in the gloom, the only light being that filtering through the glass windows high on the wall which ran alongside the corridor. Close to the corner was the entrance, a single door. There was no other way of getting in, no alternative means of escape should it be required. Not that it would be. At least, it hadn’t seemed necessary when she’d first entered. Now, Estelle wasn’t so sure.

      There were a few people about. Echoing footsteps could be heard accompanied by the odd murmur of conversation, students there to attend night classes most likely. Occasionally a door would open or close. These sounds were inconsequential - they were ordinary, quite comforting in a way. The noises to worry about were the ones that couldn't be heard, because tell-tale sounds were avoided at all cost by those individuals who were up to no good - and there were bound to be some of these characters hovering in the shadows. It was in the genes.

      She tried to find something to concentrate on which would take her mind off the imagined dangers of stalking rapists and perverts, returning to the problem which had haunted her for most of the day - the woman on Jason's phone. Though much later in the day, the memory of that voice and what it might mean continued to torment: "I'm afraid he isn't here. May I ask who's calling?"

      She had never phoned Jason before and had rehearsed her opening lines carefully, including a brief message in the event of confrontation by one of those intimidating answering machines. But when the woman answered, Estelle found herself dumbstruck and had lapsed into temporary emotional shock. Hollow might have been a better way to describe her feelings as she hung up the receiver without saying another word. The heavy silence which followed consumed all but the thud of a pounding heart, evidence that the dream had been dashed by unexpected reality. Later, she just felt misused.

      How could he have done such a thing? How could he have deceived her? Six months ago he had appeared to her as a saviour, or at the very least a lone spark of decency and sanity in her otherwise turbulent world. It had been a belief to cling to, a first positive step up from the depths of depression towards a promising light which rekindled hopes presumed long gone. Now it seemed, all of her aspirations had suddenly been laid waste by the tones of a woman's voice which he might regard as dulcet, but which continued to grate in her memory as the most vulgar sound she had ever heard. So much for men, was the eventual conclusion. They were all as bad as one another!

      This shock to her emotional system had occurred nine hours previously. Now that a semblance of composure had returned and there had been time to think, she had to admit that assumption had, perhaps, clouded judgement somewhat, but she could hardly be blamed for that. He had said so little about himself, just that he was a widower, and the rest had been left to guess-work. He might, at least, have told her! He could have said there was another woman in his life! Wouldn't that have been the decent thing to do, instead of leading her on?

      She had left home early, intending to catch him before he started tonight's class. Disappointment and bitterness had been the motivator, courage not an issue. Even if his explanation turned out to be devastating as expected, she needed to hear it and was prepared for the worst. But the wait had been too long and the main fear had transcended from an agony session with Jason to the imaginary, yet very real dread of an impending attack by person or persons unknown.

      Pull yourself together, she chided, You’re twenty-eight, a grown woman, and you’ve got a self-defence course under your belt! But the advice went unheeded because she had picked up on and was listening to heavy footsteps coming closer. Both the tightening knot in her stomach and the habitual chewing of her lower lip underlined a grave possibility: could it be that some rapists didn't care if their victims heard them coming?

      Instinct dictated a need to hide, but that wouldn't do. Any self-respecting attacker would take it as a sign of weakness. Worse still, if it was actually Jason, she could imagine the kind of impression she might create when he found her grovelling on the floor under one of the desks! No - she must somehow project an air of calmness and composure. Above all, she must remain seated, in control. As the footsteps paused outside the room and the door began to open, despite the fervent resolution, she knew she had started to rise, but was unable to stop herself.

      Captive breath escaped in a whisper of quiet relief as a hand reached in and groped for the light switches. Even as a mere silhouette, it was undoubtedly his, recognisable anywhere - strong, slender fingers; perfect, manicured nails. The aristocratic hand stroked down the painted wall. Her heart fluttered briefly, quelled in an instant by that cruel memory and the pain of denial. He could touch the wall; he could touch the woman on the phone; but Estelle might never know the passion and tenderness of that simple intimacy.

      He found the switches. There were two soft clicks, then buzzing. White light began to pulse from above as the fluorescents came to life and she was suddenly squinting through a dazzling haze, seeing only his shadowy image as it glided into the room.

      "Estelle!" he said in surprise. "What are you doing, sitting in the dark?"

      Jason's voice! It was, as always, a warm sun melting the grey of a СКАЧАТЬ