by Lisa Jackson
He didn’t comment. Didn’t want to pursue this conversation. And he didn’t want to think about Helen and what life might have been if he’d stuck it out in San Francisco, given into the pressure and married her. His feelings about Caitlyn Bandeaux were clear: she was a suspect. Period. The suicide theory was history as far as he was concerned, though he wouldn’t admit it to the press or Bandeaux’s family just yet. He snapped the chair back to its normal position. “See if you can track down her shrink. Rebecca Wade. She left town a month or so ago, and I don’t like it. Do what you have to do to find her. ASAP. I want to know why she left when she did, where she is and what she can tell us about Caitlyn Bandeaux.”
“There is that little problem of patient-doctor privilege.”
“Work around it. It’s just too convenient that she’s missing.”
“You think her patient killed her?”
“I don’t know what to think, not until we locate her. Meanwhile, I’ll double-check Caitlyn Bandeaux’s alibi.”
“That would be a good start,” she said, slapping the top of his desk, “a damned good start.”
“And that’s another quarter. At this rate you’ll have both kids’ college tuition funded by Christmas.”
“Very funny,” she muttered under her breath and looked as if she wanted to cuss him out big time, but held her tongue. “I’ll let you know when I find Dr. Wade. In the meantime, get over your fantasies and figure out how to prove that Caitlyn Bandeaux killed her husband.”
“So I take it you don’t believe in innocent until proven guilty?”
“I think that’s pure, unadulterated . . . hogwash. I’ll stake all of my kids’ college fund that Mrs. Bandeaux is guilty as sin.”
The dream replayed as it always did.
She heard her brother’s voice ricocheting off of the surrounding cliffs.
“Help!” he yelled, his strong voice fading in the storm. “Someone help me!”
Caitlyn ran through the thicket of spindly pines, her boots slipping on a dusting of snow that was beginning to cover the forest floor. “Where are you? Charles!” she screamed, frantic as she scrambled over a fallen log. Was she getting closer or farther away? “Charles!”
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God. Where was he? Snow fell from the sky and night was closing in, darkness seeping through the undergrowth.
Bursting through a thick copse, she caught sight of him lying in the brush, the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his chest, a red stain pooling dark upon his corduroy shirt.
Oh, no! She stumbled, then climbed to her feet, but her legs felt leaden, weighted down by the ice and snow swirling around her. Dry leaves crackled underfoot, and somewhere far off a dog howled. “I’m coming,” she yelled, running forward, her breath fogging the cold winter air. As she reached him, she dropped to her knees, her icy fingers wrapping around the horrid weapon protruding from her brother’s torso.
“Don’t!” a frightened voice warned. She turned to see Griffin, pale-faced and wan, standing between two saplings. Snow had collected on his collar and in his disheveledhair.
“Help me!” she screamed.
Griffin didn’t move. His gaze was glued to the arrow. “Don’t pull it out!”
“But he’s dying!” Her words echoed in the forest, swirled in the falling snow.
“You’ll kill him sure if you yank that out.”
Oh, he was never any help. None at all. “For God’s sake, run!” she yelled, trying to propel Griffin into action. “Get help! Go to the lodge!”
Charles groaned. Blood oozed from the corners of his mouth. Though he was staring straight at her, his eyes dulled, as if he couldn’t see. Snow was beginning to cover his face.
“Go!” she screamed, turning to look over her shoulder at Griffin, but he’d disappeared into the thickening curtain of snow. As quickly as he’d come. The space between the saplings suddenly dark and yawning.
There wasn’t any time. She had to do something. She had to try and save her brother. Swallowing back her fear, she gripped the arrow shaft hard and pulled. It didn’t move; her fingers slid up its slick sides. She wrapped her fingers around it again. Closing her eyes, she yanked with all her might, heard a sickening sucking sound and then she was holding the shaft aloft, the arrowhead bright with blood in the light from the rising moon as night stole through the forest.
But it was too late.
Charles’s breath rattled one last time.
He let out a horrid wail that reverberated through the trees and then was silent.
Silent as death.
No! He was so still. Unmoving. She scrambled away from him, flew to her feet and began to run.
Faster. Through the naked birches.
Faster. Across a frozen stream.
Faster. Up the hill toward the family’s hunting lodge in the Appalechians.
Her lungs were on fire, her feet slipping on the icy ground. The forest was dark. Looming. Seemed to close in on her as snow and ice pelted from the heavens. It covered the familiar paths, clung to her eyelashes, stung her cheeks and chenged the surrounding landscape so that she had no idea where she was, from which direction she’d come.
“Help!” she cried, the arrow frozen in her hand. “Please! Help!”
“Caitlyn?” Berneda’s voice was as brittle as a winter branch.
Caitlyn couldn’t see her mother through the curtain of snow. “Mama? Where are you?
“Caitlyn? Come here this instant!” her mother hissed.
Running again, trying to locate the sound, Caitlyn suddenly broke free of the woods. Gasping, her heart drumming, she finally saw the rambling old hunting lodge with warm patches of light in the windows, smoke curling from the chimney and icicles gleaming from the eaves. The door was open, music drifting into the night. Her mother stood in stark relief against the bright backdrop. A tall, dark angel glowering down upon Caitlyn as she raced up the short rise to the porch.
“Help. We have to get help. It’s Charles, he’s hurt!”
Berneda’s face was the color of the surrounding snow, her eyes blazing with accusation as she noticed the arrow in her daughter’s hand. Her splayed fingers flattened over her chest. “Oh, my God, Caitlyn,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
Caitlyn’s eyes flew open.
She was alone, lying upon the canopied bed that had been hers during the years that she’d occupied this room. The flowered canopy was faded now and the afghan she’d pulled to her neck smelled of must and age. She’d been tired after the funeral, had taken her mother’s advice and rested, here, in her old bed.
She swallowed hard. Remnants of the dream still lingered: the sucking sound of the arrow loosening from Charles’s flesh, the cold whistle of the wind, the horrid accusations in her mother’s voice. This recurring nightmare had chased after her since she was a child, ever since the day when she actually had found her brother dying in the snow.
If only she’d listened to Griffin. If only she hadn’t panicked and pulled that damned arrow from his chest.
But she had. So many years earlier.
It had been the day before Thanksgiving, and most of the family had gathered at their hunting lodge in the mountains of West Virginia. Her father had been alive then, and Charles had been out hunting by himself. Caitlyn, Kelly and Griffin had been playing hide-and-seek in the woods when Caitlyn had become lost and wandered farther from the house, deeper into the forest. Calling for her twin, she’d stumbled upon the half-frozen body of her brother. That was where the dream parted from reality, or at least she thought it did because from the moment she’d seen Charles lying faceup in the snow, she couldn’t remember a thing, only that she’d somehow ended up back at the lodge, blood streaking her coat and insulated pants, the deadly arrow clutched in one mittened hand. She’d been catatonic for days . . . unable to talk, withdrawn inside herself. The entire episode was now a black hole, a void she could only fill in the middle of the night when her subconscious would call up a nightmare as bleak and stark as the
sky on that icy November day.
“God help me,” she whispered, trying to get a grip on herself. Her nerves were shot, her memory filled with holes, her life careening out of control. She couldn’t let this happen. Not again. Flipping on the bedside lamp, she noticed the crisp business card that had fallen from her purse.
Adam Hunt
Ph.D.
Grief And Family Counseling
A phone number was listed on the bottom line.
She saw it as a lifeline to her sanity.
Finding her purse where it had fallen to the floor, Caitlyn leaned over the side of the bed, reached inside and dragged out her cell phone. Her battery had run down again, but there was still a little power. Without thinking twice, she punched out Adam Hunt’s telephone number. She had to get help. She couldn’t take this much longer or she would completely crack up. Just like her grandmother Evelyn had.
She shuddered as the phone rang.
Cold, cold Nana.
Naughty Nana.
Bad lady.
Twelve
Adam waited.
In Rebecca’s office.
He’d made arrangements with the rental management company, not that it was legal. But he was able to talk his way in as Rebecca was a couple of months behind on the rent and Adam agreed to pay the money due, explaining that he was a friend. Fortunately, the building manager wasn’t all that concerned about the legality of the transaction—just the cash. Adam slipped him an extra five-hundred dollars in cash, promised to vacate if Dr. Wade showed up, and the louse managed to turn a greedy blind eye.
So much for ethics in property management.
But Adam couldn’t complain. He was eyeball deep in the illegal transaction, and he’d spent the past three days reading everything he could about Caitlyn Montgomery, sensing she was somehow the key to Rebecca’s disappearance.
If she’s really disappeared.
She could be on one of her “sealf-awareness trips.”
Or she could have found another man; taken a lover.
It’s not as if she hadn’t done it before.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Really wrong this time. Rebecca had mentioned a breakthrough with one of her patients, a major breakthrough, and then she’d disappeared. True, she’d been talking about taking some time off, heading west and seeing parts of the country she’d never visited before, but to leave without saying good-bye, to never call or send a postcard? No, it didn’t feel right. And yet he hadn’t gone to the police again. Not after the last time. Not until he was certain. He’d already gone to her house and picked the locks. The house was deserted, but not emptied. Too many personal items had remained . . . he’d have to talk to the landlady, but he hadn’t caught up with her yet. Had avoided her until he’d had a quick look for himself.
Now he heard a slight rap on the partially opened door, and then Caitlyn Montgomery Bandeaux poked her head around the corner. Mahogany-colored hair framed a heart-shaped face sculpted with high cheekbones, arched eyebrows and intelligent, troubled eyes.
He was on his feet in an instant. “Come in.”
Cautiously, she slid through the door. “This is kind of weird,” she admitted, surveying the surroundings.
“Because this was Rebecca’s office?” God, she was beautiful. He’d remembered that from the cemetery, but it seemed that today, without the strain of the funeral, she was prettier, had more color. Not that it should matter.
“Yes.” She managed a shy smile. “Because it’s Rebecca’s office.”
“Will it make you uncomfortable?”
“I don’t know.” She managed a smile and smoothed the nonexistent wrinkles from a khaki skirt that buttoned up the front. Her hair was piled loosely onto her head, falling down in some places, and she looked nervous. Edgy. A little ragged around the edges. But then she’d been through quite a bit in the past few days.
“You changed things around,” she said, tugging at the sleeves of her pale sweater.
“A bit.” He’d replaced a couple of the lamps, thrown two new rugs over the floors, put up cheap prints he’d bought at an estate sale, and prominently displayed his degrees behind the desk. He’d repositioned the couch and chairs and thrown out the dead plants, replacing them with a couple of ferns.
“This does seem a little surreal,” she admitted as she took a seat in the rocker and dropped her purse onto the floor beside her.
“I imagine.”
“Kind of like a bad movie. A really bad movie.”
He grinned and saw a bit of amusement in her eyes, just beneath the strain. So she had a sense of humor. That would help.
“I think I’ve been coming here for two-and-a-half years—well, before I stopped a few months back—and I always saw Rebecca, er, Dr. Wade, in that chair—” Caitlyn motioned toward the desk chair and shrugged, then rubbed her arms as if an eerie sensation had stolen up her skin. Crossing her legs, she flashed him a bit of calf, though she seemed unaware of the movement. Surely she knew she was a striking woman . . . then again, maybe not.
“Maybe we should just take this session to get to know each other,” he suggested, reining in his thoughts. Rebecca’s desk chair squeaked as he shifted in it. “How about this? I’ll tell you a little about myself and then you can tell me about you.”
“Kind of like that old kids’ game? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?” she asked, then seemed horrified at the insinuation.
“Not that intense. At least I hope not today.”
“Good. I’m not sure I’m up to intense.” She shoved her hair out of her face and managed a thin smile.
So far this wasn’t going as he’d planned. He wheeled the chair to a small table where a pitcher of iced tea was sweating and a small electric soup maker was warming water. “Coffee? It’s instant. Hot or cold tea?” he asked, and she shook her head.
“I’m fine—well, maybe tea.”
He poured hot water into a mug, then handed the cup, spoon and tea bag to her. “Sorry, fresh out of honey or lemon or cream or sugar or even sugar substitute.”
“That’s fine. I’m a purist.” Dunking the tea bag in her mug, she leaned back in the rocker and again he noticed that she was a striking woman. Paler than most, her fair complexion complemented a toned and supple body. A few light freckles bridged her straight nose and thick, red-brown lashes rimmed wide hazel eyes that, in the right light, looked green. Full lips turned down thoughtfully at the corners, and the space between her eyebrows puckered as if she were in deep, troubling thought. When she looked up at him, he was taken with the intensity of her stare, those hazel eyes dark with worry. “I thought you were going to tell me about yourself.”
“That’s right.” He managed a smile. “I’m afraid it’s pretty boring. Born and raised in Wisconsin, one brother, went to school in Madison, then transferred to Michigan for grad school. I taught for a few years, then went into private practice. I was working in the D.C. area and was thinking of moving when I talked to Rebecca and she suggested I come down here. Savannah sounded interesting. A real change. So I decided to go for it.”
“What about all your patients in D.C.?”
His smile broadened. “I weaned them.”
“They’re all healed?” she asked, snapping her fingers. “Psychoses, depression, whatever. Just like that?”
“Healed? Hmm. A relative term, but yes, actually, most of them are in pretty good shape. A few I referred to colleagues.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About two weeks.”
“Am I your first patient?”
“In Savannah, yes.”
“Do you have references?” she asked, then glanced at the diplomas and awards for service that he’d hung over the now-cold fireplace. “Oh . . .”
“You can call Michigan. Talk to Dean Billings in the Psych Department. Last I heard he was still working, but he could’ve retired, I suppose.”
“So why did you show up at Josh’s funeral? T
hat’s kind of weird. You knew about me.”
His smile stretched. “You caught me. I was looking for you. Figured you’d be there. I’d been talking to Rebecca—Dr. Wade. She’d called me specifically about you. She’d mentioned you before, then called when she read about Josh’s death in the on-line version of the Savannah Sentinel. She thought you might like to talk about it.”
“She should have called me.”
“I think she tried. No answer.”
“I didn’t answer for a few days . . . wasn’t up to it. The press was calling and I was upset.” Her brows pulled into a tighter knot. “But she didn’t leave a message.”
“Maybe she intends to call back,” Adam suggested, knowing it was a lie as he stared into the hazel eyes of this beautiful, vulnerable woman. He felt like a heel, but tamped the feeling down.
Caitlyn dunked her tea bag and didn’t comment, but he knew the wheels were turning in her mind and she was second-guessing her appointment. Maybe he’d blown it. He leaned back in his chair and tented his hands. “So, now tell me about you.”
She visibly started. Then placed her tea bag on a napkin. “I guess that’s why I’m here, right?” She glanced out the window, appeared to struggle. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Wherever you like.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he said gently, “How about why you were seeing Dr. Wade and then you can go back as far as you want.” He sent her a reassuring smile, knew the rimless glasses he’d donned helped soften his visage, and made him look more intellectual than intimidating. “We’ll work forward or backward from the starting point. I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Kinda hard to do when someone’s dissecting your life.”
“Not dissecting.”
“Then examining.”
He leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, his chin propped in his hands. “Look, I don’t know how you did things with Dr. Wade, but let’s start fresh. Don’t think of me as dissecting or examining, or looking too deep into areas you want to keep hidden. We can begin with a dialogue and go from there. We can begin by talking about your family.”
