had been missed? Did it matter if there was? She decided not and was heading for the driver's door when the overhead light died. The garage should have been in darkness, but it wasn’t. There was still a glow coming from the street-lamps. Ergo, the roller-door was open.
Goose bumps erupted. She spun, stared at the partially-open door, pulse quickening. This time it couldn’t be her fault. An automatic device activated the motor somehow – another example of Michael’s foibles. So, the door had shut itself, after she’d parked the car. Since then, someone must have opened the door manually, just enough for a person on foot to enter... or leave! A man carrying a cheap plastic suitcase and a passport!
That seemed to confirm it - Michael had definitely been and gone. He had returned secretively when he knew Estelle would be attending her night class. He had let himself in, taken the suitcase and the passport and ducked out through the garage... Why would he bother to do that? Why not just leave the same way he’d entered – through the front door? Maybe that had been his original intention, which was why he’d left it unlocked.
But - a shiver ran down her spine - what if he was running late and she’d arrived home while he was still in the house? In order to remain unseen, he’d have to wait his chance to sneak out through the garage. Logic was a wonderful thing, except when the conclusions reached made one sick to the stomach.
All the time she was performing her paranoid-spy routine, Michael must have been there, inside, watching, waiting, desperate to keep his early return to the country a secret. One he might even have been prepared to kill to protect!
The mere thought caused her to feel weak in the knees and she had to lean against the car to prevent herself from falling. She sagged there for a few seconds, bringing her breathing under control. A sharp object was pressing into the palm of her hand – the car keys – a reminder of her intended dash for freedom. Until then it was the only sensible option. Now this – the open roller-door. The spectre had left the building. All evidence pointed to it. There was no longer a need for rush and panic. Was there?
Plagued by indecision, she hammered a fist on a thigh hard enough to cause pain. That was reality, a physical assault on the senses. This… this other airy-fairy clap-trap was all in her head, the product of pure assumption. What were the facts, just those pertinent to the current situation? There was an unlocked door, rain on the carpet. The case and passport were missing. Most importantly, the garage door had been left open. Someone other than her had been there, but now they’d gone, which was all that mattered.
The plan, paranoid or not, was still on. Whether the mystery visitor was Michael was irrelevant. Indeed, had it been him, it was even more essential that she play the innocent so that he didn’t know she suspected. Estelle must keep her nerve and continue to go through the motions as if nothing more than a few strange, yet inconsequential things had happened.
It was decided, then. A deep breath was almost convincing until it was exhaled with a shudder. Moving to the wall beside the car, her fingers pushed a button. A motor started up. The roller door closed. There was a moment of panic as she found herself in darkness.
Less than a minute later, Estelle was back inside, trembling somewhat as she locked the side door and replaced the hair on the frame with a fresh one. Finally, after switching out the lights, she went to bed.
CHAPTER THREE
Estelle slept soundly that night, less surprising than might have been expected because, when the body and mind are subjected to excessive trauma and excitement, internal chemistry has a way of producing its own sedative. Unfortunately, although the new day awoke bearing promise, within minutes a former paranoia was also stirring from slumber to corrupt optimism with its own unnerving agenda.
Rooms were entered warily. The smallest of sounds made her jump. Each time they were in view, exit doors were regarded with suspicion and although she tried to kid herself that the preoccupation was a hang-over from last evening and unlikely to bear fruit, sweet or otherwise, it was becoming obsessive. It was plainly obvious that reassurance was the only cure, so she did the rounds. The hairs were still attached. Nobody had entered the house while she had been asleep.
This encouraging discovery raised spirits and needed something to top it off. There seemed no better way of celebrating than with a good breakfast, so Estelle made a bee-line for the kitchen. Choices of fare were plentiful, the mere thought of most nauseous. The coffee machine provided a temporary remedy and while waiting for it to perform its noisy procedure, she revived the positives by anticipating the end of all her troubles when she finally went to meet Jason in Kalbarri.
Hopes and dreams took centre stage and lingered through the pouring of the first coffee. Actions necessary to perform the various functions were easy, tried and tested, nothing to worry about. They’d been done before, a thousand times. But Kalbarri….? She wasn’t even sure where it was, could barely remember what Jason had told her – only that it was a long drive. Could she make it on her own? Was she crazy to try? Wouldn’t it be better to bail out right now and join Jason’s convoy? He said he’d phone before leaving, so the option was still open.
A glance at the wall clock brought a frown. He’d said he wanted to make an early start, but it was hardly that. Maybe something had gone wrong. He could have had problems and forgotten to phone. Surely not?
By the time she was on her third cup of coffee and he still hadn't called, Estelle was worrying fit to burst. When the phone eventually burbled into life, she snatched it up in near-panic, pulse racing, breathing constricted. "Are you alright?" she asked hurriedly, not even attempting to mask her concern. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten."
"How could I do that, Estelle?" He sounded hurt and extremely weary. "I'm sorry it's so late, but things haven't gone quite according to plan. It's like the start of the gold rush out there," he grumbled, full of misgivings. "I was under the impression most of them were making their own way, but I was wrong. There are six cars blocking driveways up and down the street, and seventeen people, all milling about, making enough racket to wake the dead. Old Mrs. Teasdale's driving a Morris Major that doesn't look as if it will make it past Midland. She's brought her budgie along! Can you believe that? I need you with me, Estelle. If you don't come I can't vouch for my sanity."
She knew he didn't mean to make her feel bad, but the effect was the same. "Keep thinking of Sunday, Jason. By then it will all be over."
"That's four days!" he moaned. "A lot can happen in that time."
"It won't," she stated categorically. "I won't let it. I'll be fine, Michael will have gone, and you won't have to weave baskets - I promise. Take your wagon train and have a good time. How far is it, by the way?"
"Almost seven hundred kilometres. It's a very long drive on your own."
"You won't be on your own - you'll have lots of company, including Mrs. Teasdale, and her budgie."
"I was thinking about you." Jason had gone very quiet.
Here was the option, perhaps the last chance to exercise it. Yes, or no? She took a deep breath and glanced around the kitchen at the normality, the tedium it suggested, a reminder of those patterns in life so often ignored because they never change. Not unless someone interferes with them. Only then do they become a conscious issue. Although disagreeable, the path she must continue to tread was clear – make no waves, no changes. "Don't worry about me. I intend to take it very easy. Just make sure the tent you said I could use is set up and waiting. I've never been camping before and I'd hate to make a fool of myself."
"You could never do that, Estelle," he said gently and typically Jason, being nice again.
The
