A Bolt from the Blue. Maggie Wells

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      The words were barely out of her mouth when she smelled smoke.

      “Shit! Fuck. Fire. Oh God, fire.” Flinging herself to the side, she began to crawl on her hands and knees through the kitchen toward the front of the house. “Fire, fire, fire,” she panted as she scrambled across the floor like a drunken crab.

      Where was her cell phone? She paused and lifted her head, taking a moment to search her memory. She caught a whiff of burned electrical wiring and cringed as she recalled plugging the temporary mobile in and placing it on the nightstand beside the bed.

      No time to dash upstairs.

      Halfway down the hall, she doubled back to the kitchen. The cordless phone was on its charger. She grabbed it and took off toward the front of the house again, praying the whole time Diana hadn’t shut off the service to the landline. She fumbled with the deadbolt. The second she had the door open, she hit the power button on the handset.

      Nothing.

      “Crap! Crap! Crappity crap!”

      She scuttled back on her ass. Clearing the threshold, she moved to the far edge of the tiny covered entrance. A sharp blast of cool, damp air turned her skin to gooseflesh. Hope looked down, and to her horror, saw that she just crawled out of the house in nothing more than her underpants and an oversized Northwestern University jersey she found hanging in her old closet. She had no idea who owned the shirt or how such a garment came to be there. All she knew was the baggy cotton had felt better against her skin than the silk pajamas she usually wore. But the silk pajamas had pants. Big points for them.

      Damp seeped through her panties. She tossed the useless phone back into the house and wrapped her arms around herself. Rain poured from the sky. Water gushed from clogged gutters and ran in rivers down the circular drive. The car she rented at the airport sat parked outside the three-car garage. Her sister hadn’t thought to give her a remote control to open one of the bays. Or, maybe Diana had thought about it, but decided the domestic model wasn’t deserving of shelter. Her baby sister certainly hadn’t liked the idea of Hope staying in the house as they prepared to place it on the market.

      Eying the car, she tried to remember if she’d pressed the button to lock the vehicle. She had no idea. But she had to move or she would either get soaked or burn up. Gingerly, she ran a cautious hand over the sole of her left foot, flinching when she touched at least three bits of ceramic embedded into the skin. She sucked air between clenched teeth as she plucked two from her heel. The one in the ball of her foot warranted a yelp, two more merdes, and a compound expletive that made her want to wash her own mouth out with soap. She gave her right foot similar treatment before she could chicken out.

      Once she was certain she had extracted the worst of them, she rose as gingerly as she could. Biting her lip, she moved back to the front door and sniffed. The acrid scent of melted plastic and smoldering wood greeted her. The scent of ozone filled the air. The next flash of lightning highlighted a faint haze of smoke filling the house. Time for an outdoor shower.

      She dashed out into the rain. The air was warm and heavy with electricity. Each drop of rain felt like a tiny icicle burrowing into her skin, though the cuts on her feet made her feel like she was running across hot coals. The jersey was soaked through in seconds. Worse, the goddamn car was locked. Desperate times called for measures sure to set the North Shore tongues wagging.

      Without allowing herself a moment to think the better of the plan, she raced down the driveway toward Sheridan Road. Her heart leaped into her throat when she saw rotating red lights bounce off the stone privacy wall. Police, fire, ambulance, she didn’t care. As far as she was concerned, she had need for one and all.

      “Ah-ah-ow-ow,” she chanted as she picked her way closer to the road. Despite the late hour, a surprisingly steady stream of cars zipped by, windshield wipers shushing at high speed. Swiveling, she scanned the road in both directions, praying she hadn’t imagined those magical lights. Arms hugged tight to her sides, she swung back and forth until she caught a glimpse of them again. Seconds later, a fire truck crested a rise in the road. “Oh, thank God.”

      Raising her arms over her head, she waved her hands in broad arcs, hoping the driver could spot her through the deluge. She blew out a long, relieved breath and dropped her arms when the massive truck downshifted. Then, the damn thing cruised right past.

      “No!” Her jaw dropped as she watched the rig roll by. She ran after the truck, heedless of the gravel and grit grinding into her battered soles. Two firemen hung off the back of the truck, in spite of the driving rain, but she didn’t feel the least bit sorry for them. At least they had hats. And pants.

      “Come back!” she cried, but when the truck hooked a sharp left and headed away from the lake, she knew the chase was futile.

      Breathing hard, she eyeballed the subtly played reflectors marking the next driveway. She was halfway between their drive and hers, and since there was no going into her house, she had no option but to forge ahead. Pants or no pants.

      Once upon a time, the house to the north of the Winston’s had belonged to a family named Mason, but she was sure the property had changed hands in the last twenty years. Mrs. Mason’s prized English garden had been replaced by a swimming pool with an infinity ledge that made it look as if one could swim right into Lake Michigan. The landscaping lights were on. Her neighbors had both power and a pool. But she wasn’t up for a dip. At the moment, Hope harbored nothing more than a fervent wish never to be wet again.

      Teeth chattering, she turned to go up the drive, only to find herself faced with an imposing pair of wrought iron gates.

      “Come on. Seriously?” She scowled at the discreet call box. “You afraid of those thugs from Winnetka invading?” she muttered, jabbing at random buttons in the box in hopes of rousing someone to action. “Quick, hide the silver! They’re coming in from Lake Forest by the busload. There’ll be looting and—”

      “Yes?” a disembodied voice boomed through the speaker.

      Tucking her sodden hair behind her ear, Hope leaned in close to the box. “Yes! Hello! My name is Hope Elliot and my parents owned the house next door?” For some reason she turned the statement into a question. Clearing her throat, she forged ahead. “I think there’s an electrical fire. I’m sorry to impose, but I have no phone…or shoes…” She paused, impatience with her situation overtaking the manners drilled into her as a child. “Do you think you can open the gate?”

      There was a long pause, but she couldn’t make out any click or buzz indicating her neighbors were in a mood to be neighborly. At last, the speaker crackled and the man’s voice came through again. “Who is this?”

      Throwing her arms up in surrender, Hope drooped when they fell back to her sides. “I’m your neighbor to the south. Would you mind calling 9-1-1? My house is on fire.” When they didn’t respond, she added a smartassy “Please and thank you, neighbor!” before turning on her heel and marching back toward her smoldering abode.

      Maybe the rain would stifle the blaze. If the place wasn’t engulfed in flames by the time she got back, she would throw caution to the wind and run upstairs for her mobile phone. After all, how fast could a house burn when rain was coming down in buckets?

      Limping back to the house, she tried to assess her situation and her options rationally, but rational thought was damn hard when she was barefoot and pantless on a public roadway and her teeth were chattering hard enough to cause enamel damage. Flames weren’t shooting from the roof. A good sign. With any luck, she could dash in and snag her phone СКАЧАТЬ