You Can Run - Softcover

Chaper One 

Twenty Minutes Earlier

 

Diana Sheridan had watched from behind her windshield as the horizon turned from bright blue to dusky lavender to violet, before the sunlight completely disappeared behind the tree-covered Appalachian Mountains. Now night had come and she was relieved to be almost home, her late arrival caused by a three-car collision on the interstate.

 

Behind a pile of crushed metal, and police cars and emergency ser vice vehicles, Diana had waited in a line of cars full of people who were at first curious, then sympathetic, then cranky, trapped behind the wreck for over an hour in the August heat and humidity of Friday afternoon. Diana had stopped a passing state trooper and learned that one person had died in the accident and three were critically injured. Getting victims out of the mangled cars was a time-consuming feat requiring many expert hands, as well as the Jaws of Life.

 

Now, nearly two hours later, Diana soared off an exit ramp, happy to leave the speeding highway traffic. She spotted a fast food restaurant and longed to make a quick pass by the drive-thru window and order french fries. Her growling stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since the morning.

 

A glance at the dashboard clock stopped her, though. Nine fifteen—almost the exact time that her friend Penny had called Diana's hotel room the previous night and, in an anxiety-edged voice, said she needed to talk in person as soon as possible.

 

"Is Willow worse?" Diana had asked, referring to Penny's five-year-old daughter who'd had an appendectomy late Tuesday afternoon. No, Penny had assured her, the sound of distress giving way to relief. Willow had undergone laparoscopic surgery without complications. They were releasing her from the hospital in the morning.

 

Something else was terribly wrong. "Diana, please come by my house before you go home," Penny had begged almost pitifully, her voice rushed and breathless again. "I can't talk about this over the phone, but I have to give you an explanation. I can't just leave you and Simon wondering what's become of us. . . ." Penny had paused. "I'm involved in a situation that could be a matter of life and death."

 

Deeply alarmed, Diana had urged Penny to go to the police, but Penny nearly shouted no, so Diana had promised to come by as soon as she arrived back in Huntington the following evening. She had said she'd be there by eight at the latest. Penny, sounding on the verge of tears, had thanked her and hung up so fast Diana didn't have time to say good-bye—or ask more questions, Diana thought later, puzzled. If Willow was on the mend, what could have gone so wrong in Penny's world during the last three days?

 

Diana grabbed her cell phone to let Penny know that she was on her way, even though she was running late. She cursed softly when she saw her phone battery hovering at death's door. Unfailingly, she'd misplace the phone, she'd need to use it in an area with no reception, or she'd forget to recharge the battery. Diana kept it only because her great-uncle, Simon Van Etton, a retired archeology professor with whom she currently lived, had been aghast when he learned that she didn't have a cell phone, and immediately presented her with one he'd chosen especially for her. At seventy-five, Simon was obsessed with every new technological gadget that hit the market. Diana looked hopelessly at his latest gift—an iPhone lying on the seat beside her. She'd never even tried learning how to use it. Her technical acumen seemed confined to cameras.

 

Diana sighed as she stopped at a red light. Another delay. When the light finally turned, she pressed the accelerator, concentrating on "Layla," by Eric Clapton, pouring forth from her CD player. She wouldn't be lucky enough hear anything like "Layla" at the country club dance club tomorrow night, and she wished she hadn't agreed to go with Glen Austen, a university history professor. Glen was nice looking, intelligent, warm-hearted, unfailingly courteous, and utterly predictable.

 

Even her great-uncle Simon kept telling her to stop seeing him. "I introduced you to Glen, although not as a potential love interest," he often said. "He's a nice fellow, but you need a man with some fire, girl. Someone more like me when I was twenty-five!"

 

To which Diana always replied, "Glen is thirty-five, but I'm sure even at that age you would have had too much fire for me!" The remark never failed to delight Simon, bolstering his already robust ego and sending him into a gleeful .t of laughter as he agreed with her.

 

Besides, she'd had " fire" once. She'd had passion and excitement, and for a short time, what she'd thought was true love. After a short engagement and three years of marriage, though, Diana had realized how naive she'd been. She'd tied herself to a man who resented her career and her deep ties to her family. He wanted to be the only meaningful part of her life. When he'd unceremoniously left her for an eighteen-year-old who thought the sun revolved around him, Diana had been almost relieved. Almost.

 

Annoyed with herself for dredging up an unfortunate part of her past, she cleared her mind of the old memory of disenchantment and concentrated on driving. Penny lived in Rosewood, a housing project built quickly at the end of World War II, like hundreds of others throughout the United States, when returning soldiers needed homes. In the late 1940's, the 1950's, and even the early 1960's, the houses had looked neat and were considered pleasing, if not fashionable. But now neighborhoods like Rosewood had begun to decline, the houses no longer looking fresh and inviting, and nearly a third of them displaying "For Sale" signs, as the paint peeled and shingles fell disconsolately from neglected roofs.

 

Which is why Penny had chosen this particular place to live. "I don't want to be cooped up in an apartment," she'd told Diana. "I want Willow to have a yard and space for a swing set, and Rosewood has the only houses within range of my budget."

 

Penny had told Diana that her young husband died instantly when he plowed his car into a telephone pole on a slick road. He'd left only a twenty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy and little savings, so money had become a problem for a woman with no conveniently well-off relatives and no college education. Penny had worked as a part-time waitress in a diner before she decided to get a college degree and began taking a summer composition class at Marshall University, where she had seen Simon's advertisement for an editorial assistant posted on the bulletin board. She applied for the job she found interesting, hoping it would allow her to build a regular schedule around her child.

 

The day Penny Conley came for her interview, Diana took an immediate liking to the attractive, vivacious woman, although when Diana glanced over her résumé, she'd felt that Penny didn't stand a chance of being hired. The composition class was her first brush with college, she had no secretarial or research experience, and she'd never held a job other than waitressing. Diana doubted that Penny had the skills Simon required of someone helping him write his fourth book about ancient Egyptian culture and his archaeological expeditions.

 

Diana had held her breath as Simon scanned Penny's résumé, afraid he might dismiss her without her a chance, although later she'd chided herself for not giving her great-uncle more credit. The man did not make hasty judgments, which was a blessing for Penny, because after she'd answered his first few cursory questions, he'd begun merely...