Merry Christmas, Mr. Macklin. Happy New Year.
Dr. Prebble had wanted him to have the operation right away. He’d balked. Couldn’t it wait until after the holidays? Yes, though it was always best to act quickly in cases like his. Talk it over with your wife, the doctor told him, before you decide definitely to wait. He said he would, but he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. Instead he’d lied to Prebble, saying he and Shelby both agreed he should wait until after the first of the year. That way, he figured he could enjoy what might be his last Christmas and his last auld lang syne, accept Ben’s offer to use the cottage in between … stick his head in the sand like an ostrich. The risk in waiting was relatively small as long as he didn’t overexert himself, watched his diet and cut down on his alcohol consumption, got plenty of rest, and faithfully took the little white nitroglycerine tablets Dr. Prebble prescribed. That was what Prebble had told him and what he’d made himself believe.
And they’d both been wrong.
And now he and Shelby were paying the price.
E I G H T E E N
IT WAS FULL DARK now, the night alive with shifting, rain-drenched shadows just outside the reach of the Prius’s headlights. The twin rays seemed to reflect off rather than penetrate the downpour, tingeing the wild scurry of clouds with a faint luminescence. The surface of the lane between the cottage and the Lomax house was heavily puddled and greasy; in Shelby’s haste she nearly lost control on the one slight curve, turned into the skid just in time. Thank God there were no more toppled trees or other obstacles in her path.
She pulled up at an angle in front of the closed gates, so that the headlight shine illuminated them. Left the engine running and the lights on. Thunder made a drumroll riff in the distance; a few seconds later a lightning fork etched jagged yellow patterns on the canopy of darkness above the ocean. The lightning burst lit up the house for an instant, too, gave it a surreal look like something out of a neo-Gothic horror film.
She took hold of the gates, shoved them apart as far as they would go so she could see through to the front of the house. Dark. The flickers of light she’d seen as she drove up were at the rear. The Lomaxes must be in the sunken living room with logs blazing in that massive stone fireplace; ragged streamers of smoke poured from the chimney, faintly visible before the gale tore them apart.
At first she thought there was enough separation between the two gate halves for her to slide her body through, but as soon as she tried it she knew she’d only succeed in getting herself stuck. Up and over, then—no time to waste. The gates were only six feet high and she’d always been adept at climbing.
She got one foot on the chain, both hands on the soaked top bar of one half; pulled herself up, swung her legs over, managed to scramble down inside without hurting herself. The flashlight was in the slash pocket of her raincoat; she dragged it out, switched it on.
The deluge was so intense it was like trying to push her way through something semisolid. A wind surge sent a three-foot-long branch skittering against her legs as she followed the beam across the parking area, nearly tripping her. She braced herself and kicked it away; plowed ahead to the porch.
More than a minute of leaning on the doorbell brought no response. She tried hammering on the door with her fist, thumbing the bell again at the same time. Futile. The storm made too much noise for her to hear anything from inside, but she had the prickly feeling of being watched through the peephole. She lifted her face close to the convex glass eye, mouthed the words, “Help, I need help.”
Nothing. The door stayed shut.
Damn Brian Lomax and his paranoia!
Desperation drove her off the porch, around onto a brick path that paralleled the south side of the house. Thick manzanita shrubs made close borders along the path, their thin, coarse branches scraping at her as she passed. Three windows on that side, all of them shaded, only the farthest one shielding light. She pawed through the shrubbery and tried the latches on all three, knowing they’d be locked tight, doing it anyway.
When she reached the back corner, the flash beam showed her a low, railed deck running the width of the house, steps bisecting it in the center. As she stepped out and around the end of the deck, a sharp burst of bitter-cold wind and rain shoved her off-balance against the planking; she had to hang on to the railing posts to remain upright.
She aimed the torch at the back wall. The drapes were drawn across picture windows and sliding glass door, but behind the door there was a thin gap where the cloth folds didn’t quite meet, letting a strip of light leak out.
Up the steps, her body bent almost double; the squall, like a hand in her back, thrust her forward against the door glass. She darkened the flash and slipped it into her pocket; sleeved her eyes clear and sluiced water off the glass so she could squint through the gap between the drapes.
Brian Lomax was standing statuelike near the fireplace, his big hands flat against his sides—directly in her line of sight. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers was the handgun he’d displayed two nights ago. If Claire was anywhere in the room, Shelby couldn’t see her.
She clung to the door handle with one gloved hand, made a fist of the other and banged it hard on the glass, making the pane rattle in its metal frame. No response. She ground her molars in frustration, peered through the opening again. Lomax still stood in the same spot, in the same posture, his beard-shadowed face like a stone mask.
She had a quick flash of Jay lying sick and alone in the dwindling firelight, and a frenzied wildness took hold of her. She pounded on the glass with all her strength, she didn’t care if she shattered or spiderwebbed it. Kept pounding, pounding. How long could he resist opening the door?
Not much longer. All at once the drapes were swept back and Lomax was there, staring out at her through the glass.
But he still didn’t open the door.
Again she mouthed the words, “Help, I need help,” and added a “please” that had the taste of camphor on her tongue.
Lomax kept on staring, shaking his head now.
Furious, Shelby hammered on the glass again, directly in front of that stone-mask face. She kept it up until the mask began to slip a little—mouth and jaw tightening, eyelids pinching down. Finally got through to him, made him realize that ignoring her wouldn’t make her go away. He reached down to snap the lock free, slid the door open a few inches. Blocking it with his body, the fingers of his right hand resting on the automatic’s handle: He wasn’t going to let her into the house.
“What’s the idea? I could have you arrested for trespassing.”
She could barely hear him over the storm’s shrieks and wails. Rain blew in past her, splattering droplets against his face; he didn’t seem to notice. She leaned up into the opening, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes had a hard fixity, like cat’s-eye marbles, but he didn’t seem to be drunk—at least not drunk enough to slur his words or impair his ability to function.
“Let me come in.”
“No. What do you want?”
“I need your help, yours and Claire’s.”
“… What kind of help?”
“My husband’s had a heart attack.” Shouting to make sure he heard and understood what she was saying. “I’ve got him stabilized for now, but I can’t go for help because the lane’s blocked on the far side of the cottage—the storm blew a tree down across it.”
Nothing changed in Lomax’s expression. His voice remained flat and cold when he said, “That’s too bad. What do you want me to do?”
“You have a chain saw? I thought maybe you could—”
“No. No chain saw.”
He was lying. She couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was immediately sure of it—lying through his teeth. Why, for God’s sake?
“All right, then, we can try moving the tree with your SUV—”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“It’s not any good for that kind of thing. Sits too high.”
“No. There’s no use in it.”
Shelby controlled a savage impulse to reach through, grab him by the throat and choke him. “Listen to me,” she shouted. “Jay could die if he doesn’t get emergency treatment ASAP. You understand? He could die!”
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”
“Yes there is.” Spitting the words at him now. “You or Claire can stay with him until I get back with a doctor or EMS unit. Keep the fire going so he stays warm— Why the hell are you shaking your head?”
“Claire’s sick. I can’t let her go out in this storm.”
“Sick?”
“She’s in bed. Flu or something.”
“Then you come stay with Jay.”
“I can’t do that. I can’t leave her alone.”
“God damn you, can’t you get it through your head my husband might die unless—”
Lomax said, “There’s nothing we can do. Get off my property,” and backed up a step and slid the door shut and snapped the drapes closed again, tight this time—all in one continuous motion.
A surge of impotent rage made her yell, “You miserable son of a bitch!” and beat on the glass a few more times. Then her control came back, and along with it a redoubled need for urgency.
She shoved away from the glass, thumbed the flashlight back on, fought the wind down the steps and back around to the brick path. A bone-white dazzle of lightning flashed as she emerged onto the parking area, followed by more rolling echoes of thunder when she reached the gates. Up and over and back into the car. Moving again.
The rage still stalked her mind. What kind of man was Brian Lomax, to blow her off the way he had? Sub-fucking-human. If Jay died or suffered permanent damage because of him, she’d make him pay somehow. There wasn’t anything the law could do to him—he was within his rights to refuse her admission to his house, refuse to help her because his wife was “sick”; could even bring charges against her for illegal trespass. But she could let the world know how he’d acted tonight. Make him suffer through the media if not in a courtroom.
She drove too fast back to the cottage, ran stumbling through the open gate and slipped quickly inside. Candle flames guttered; she half noticed that some of the candles were already melting into puddles of red and green wax. The focus of her attention was Jay. He was lying as she’d left him with the blanket and comforter pulled up beneath his chin, the cannula still clipped into his nose. Conscious and alert: He raised his head as she hurried across the room.
He asked in a scratchy voice, “What happened?”
Shelby told him in clipped sentences. “I think Lomax was lying. About the chain saw, about Claire being sick.”
“Bastard beat her up again.”
“Probably.” She went to one knee beside the couch. “How do you feel?”
“Better.”
“Pain anywhere? Discomfort?”
“No.”
His voice sounded strong, his color was good and his eyes clear. She removed her gloves, laid a hand on his forehead. Dry and warm, but not feverish. She checked his vital signs again. Lungs clear. Blood oxygen saturation up to 98 percent. Blood pressure holding now at 125 over 78.
The fire was already burning low. She stoked it with the last three small logs in the wood box, leaving the ones on the hearth where they lay. When she turned back to Jay, he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“It can wait. Are you thirsty?”
“A little, but—”
She went to the kitchen, filled a small tumbler, and brought it back. Raised his head, let him swallow a little, then set the glass on the floor within his reach.
“You need to use the bathroom?”
“No.”
“Good.” She indicated the glass. “Small sips when you want more, so you won’t need to pee.”
“Shel, listen,” he said, his voice earnest now. In the firelight the planes of his face had a bronze cast and his eyes were like black opals. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had chest pains. I’ve been seeing a cardiologist.”
“Dr. Prebble. The nitroglycerine tablets. How long?”
“The week before Christmas. He ran tests … told me I need to have bypass surgery. He wanted to do it right away, but I said no, wait until after the first of the year. I didn’t want to spoil the holidays for us.”
Spoil the holidays. Good God.
She said, keeping her voice even, “Is that the real reason for this trip?”
“Yes. It seemed like a good idea … time alone together, maybe the last good time we’d ever have. Wasn’t that I thought I’d die, it was the way things will be after the surgery. Bad heart, unable to work, financial drain. I’ve been a burden on you so long, it can only get worse …”
“Were you trying to drive me away?”
“No. I knew you’d stay with me, at least for a while.”
“Out of pity? Is that the kind of person you think I am?”
“God, no. It’s just that … I can’t stand the thought of you having to take care of me the rest of my life. I may not be much of a man anymore, but I’ve got some pride left.”
Pride? Stupid male ego.
“Why couldn’t you tell me all this before?”
“I wanted to. I tried to. I’ve never meant to keep anything from you, but I didn’t have the words … no, that’s not true, I had the words but I couldn’t say them. Some kind of mental block … I don’t know, I can’t explain it …”
He was getting himself worked up, the worst possible thing for his heart. “All right, that’s enough,” she said. “There’s no time for any more of this now. I have to go and you have to rest.”
“… What’re you going to do?”
“The only thing I can do.” She had her raincoat rebuttoned, was pulling the hood up over her head again. “Hoof it out to the highway and flag down the first car that comes along. Or walk all the way into Seacrest if I have to.”
“Dangerous,” he said. “Woman alone on a night like this, lunatic running around loose—”
“I can take care of myself.” Can of Mace in her purse, self-defense tactics learned and internalized in a police-sponsored class she’d taken a few years ago. And the flashlight to keep the darkness from swallowing her.
He said, “I love you, Shel. No matter what happens, I’ll always love you.”
She said, “I love you, too,” because it was what he wanted to hear and it would help keep him calm, let him rest more easily. Then she turned quickly away, went back out into the hell-black night.
N I N E T E E N
MACKLIN DOZED. PULSES OF heat from the stoked-up fire, the smother of the blanket and comforter, the immobility, the recuperative demands of his body, the now-monotonous ravings of the storm—all combined to push him toward the edge of a deeper sleep. He struggled against it, blinking himself awake every time he reached the edge, because sleep was also an easy escape, another way of hiding, and he wasn’t going to hide anymore.
How much time had passed since Shelby left the second time? It seemed like an hour, probably wasn’t more than a handful of minutes. Out there braving the storm and her fear of the dark and Christ knew what else for him, while he lay here warm and comfortable and waited for her to come back with help.
The black despair had left him a while ago, replaced by a resignation that was no longer quite so fatalistic. Whatever happened, it was pretty much out of his hands now.
One good thing about the heart attack: He’d finally been able to tell Shelby about Dr. Prebble and the need for the bypass operation. The words, so clogged and clotted in him every time he’d tried before, had come spewing out tonight like dammed-up water released through a spillway. And he had a sense that the spillway would remain open; that the attack had rewired him somehow and if he was given the chance, he’d be able to confide some of the other private thoughts and feelings that he’d kept locked away fro
m her. Even though it had taken a freakish set of circumstances and a faceup look at his own mortality to make it happen, it let him feel a little better about himself, gave him a measure of hope.
His eyelids grew heavy, too heavy to keep raised. He dozed again. Snapped awake. Dozed.
Slept, in spite of himself.
And rode the nightmare again.
The same, yet not the same this time. All the familiar components, only they were broken up into out-of-sequence fragments, like film clips spliced together by a child or a drunk. It wasn’t as though he were living it but as if he were an observer watching the spliced bits unroll across a screen. The terror was there, but muted and without the usual ravaging intensity. And it didn’t end with those yellow fangs devouring his body while his torn-off head looked on in horror; it ended with the monster’s roaring words jumbled but recognizable, sentence chunks that no longer fell like whispers but like cushioned blows against his ears.
For the first time he didn’t scream himself free of it; he was simply awake, tense, but not sweating or shaking or struggling for breath. An accelerated pulsebeat was the only physical effect. The dream creature’s words echoed and reechoed in his mind. He lay piecing them together, arranging them in a semblance of order, until with a mixture of awe and anger he began to comprehend what they meant, what the nightmare signified and why he’d kept having it all these years—
The sound of the door opening, the sudden inrush of frigid air, chased it all aside, compartmentalized it.
Shelby, he thought. Back already.
He lifted his head, and then blinked and stared because it wasn’t Shelby who came stalking across the room, dripping rainwater and leaving muddy splotches on the carpet, waving a lighted torch as if it were a weapon.
The Hidden Page 13
