The Night Before

by Lisa Jackson

  All according to plan.

  Cricket was screeching now. Scooting and shaking as if she could feel each and every little spider and mite on her. Tears raining from her face. Slowly Atropos turned, holding the tongs over Cricket’s head, watching her tremble as she closed the gap until the forceps with their wriggling prey was just inches above the panicked girl’s nose, the red hourglass visible. “They’re not as poisonous as most people think,” Atropos said. “But, with enough bites—”

  The girl squeaked pathetically.

  It was time to end this.

  Atropos opened the forceps.

  Twenty-Seven

  Rolling over, Caitlyn opened one eye and squinted at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty? Was that possible? She glanced at the French doors to the verandah, where shadows were lengthening over the flagstones, promising night. She must’ve dropped off after the drinks with Kelly and . . . oh, the heart-wrenching phone call from a child. Dear God, she’d thought it was Jamie. Who would play such a sadistic trick on her? Who would derive pleasure from making her think even for a fleeting moment that her daughter was still alive?

  Someone who hates you.

  Someone who wants you to crack up.

  Someone who knows you intimately.

  Unless you dreamed the whole damned thing. Maybe you imagined it.

  Groaning, she reached for the handset and checked Caller ID, but there were no numbers in the memory bank. As if she’d erased them. Had she?

  Think, Caitlyn, think!

  She remembered coming back from the run and she remembered showering . . . and . . . and . . . and what? What?

  “Damn it all to hell.” Try as she might, she couldn’t recall the last few hours. Not clearly.

  She did recall that Detective Reed had shown up on her doorstep, though. Right? Yes . . . she was certain and she remembered slamming the door shut, telling him she needed to see her lawyer, but she didn’t doubt he’d return. It was only a matter of time before he’d come with handcuffs. Oh, Lord, how had she gotten herself into such a mess? Everyone in her family was dying . . . one by one they left this world. Sadness stole over her when she thought of her daughter and her mother and even, a little, about Josh. He had been a bastard, but he didn’t deserve to die so horribly . . . at his desk. She blinked. Remembered the tiniest bit of conversation.

  “Wine, Josh?” she’d teased. “But you’re allergic . . .”

  “Not to this kind. Now get the hell out.” He’d smiled, so sure of himself as he’d drained his glass.

  What a fool.

  Now her skin crawled.

  What had she done that night? She’d been there, at Josh’s home, in his den . . . but he’d been alive . . . So the blood . . . how had the blood gotten here?

  Maybe you brought it back here, you crazy loon. You’re just about nuts enough to do something like that. Didn’t the bloody handprint fit your own?

  Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. Her heart thundered, and she imagined the room as it had been: the sticky sheets, dark smudges on the tile and carpet, cracked shower door.

  Fingers scrabbling on the bedside table, she knocked the remote control for her television to the carpet, then snapped on the bedside light. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted as she took a quick look around just to make sure there were no half-open doors, no smeared bloodstains, nothing out of the ordinary. But all seemed quiet. Maybe too quiet.

  Don’t start this, Caitlyn. Don’t start jumping at shadows.

  The dog lying beside her stretched and yawned, displaying his black lips, pink tongue and sharp teeth. “Lazybones,” she said, scratching him behind his ears as she tried to quell the rising panic clawing at her. “Both of us. We’re just two lazybones.” But her pulse was leaping erratically, her nerves jangled, her peace of mind stretched beyond its limit. Forcing herself from the bed, she managed to make her way to the bathroom, where she caught sight of her terrified expression. “Get hold of yourself,” she growled, her fingers curling over the rim of the pedestal sink. “Don’t fall apart. Don’!” Shaking, she ran cold water, leaned forward and took a drink, then splashed her face, hoping to shock herself out of the panic attack. Then she slammed her eyelids shut and dragged in several deep breaths. Slow down, don’t listen to the voices in your head . . . don’t.

  Slowly opening her eyes, she glowered at her reflection. So weak. So scared. So frail. Pull yourself together! Determined not to succumb to the fear, she brushed her teeth and finger-combed her hair. She began to calm down, saw her reflection in a different light. A little lipstick would help. She opened the medicine cabinet and sifted through the tubes. Only three. Not the usual four. And the pink shade she liked best, the one that was sold exclusively at Maxxell’s, was missing. Was she right? A little disconcerted, she sorted through the cupboard, decided it wasn’t worth the stress and settled for a soft berry shade. The lipstick had to be in her purse, that was it.

  Lately she was always losing things, misplacing her cell phone, her makeup, her favorite pair of shoes . . . “Comes with the territory, nutcase,” she grumbled as she threw on a pair of shorts and T-shirt. The marks on her wrists had faded enough that she didn’t need to be so careful, she decided, as she walked past the door to Jamie’s room. It was closed . . . how odd. Caitlyn didn’t remember shutting it; in fact, she rarely did, but kept it ajar so that she could look in and remember.

  But then Kelly had been over, right? Or had she? She opened the door and was instantly assailed by memories of her daughter. “Mommy, Mommy, read me a story. The bunny one!” she had insisted, all smiles and ringlets and bright eyes. Caitlyn’s heart wrenched and she started out the door when she glanced at the bed . . . it seemed wrong somehow . . . something was missing . . . the bunny. Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal wasn’t on the bed, or on the bookcase or . . . Caitlyn felt a breath of fear slide down her back.

  Mommy? Where are you?

  Again she heard Jamie’s frightened voice resonating through her mind. Had her daughter . . . No, had someone posing as her daughter really called, or was it all in her mind? What had Lucille said once? “You hear ’em, too, Caitlyn, I know you do. The ghosts, they talk to you.” Well, Lucille was a bit off, everyone thought so, that’s the only reason she stuck it out with Mother. Or had stuck it out. But Jamie’s voice had been real. She’d called . . . Caitlyn ran back to the bedroom, checked Caller ID, but all the old numbers had been erased. She froze. Someone had been in here. Someone had done it. She hadn’t. She would have remembered.

  I told ya, Caitie-Did, you’re crazy as a fuckin’ loon! How many times had she heard Kelly’s recriminations thundering through her brain. Hundreds? Thousands? Way too many to count.

  Shaken, she walked across the landing to her computer. She flipped on her e-mail in-box and saw several messages from Kelly.

  Hey, sleepyhead. What’s the deal? I have to make my own martinis now? I stopped by but you were doing your Rip Van Winkle routine. Call me later. xoxoxo, Kelly.

  Kelly had been here? Had she taken her lipstick and Jamie’s bunny? Or . . . or what? She must have. She clicked on the second message.

  Forgot to mention I took care of Detective Dick. While you were sleeping.

  What? Oh, God. Caitlyn’s gut clenched.

  He showed up while you were sleeping and, in so many words, I told him to get lost. I pretended to be you and said I wasn’t going to talk to him or anyone else without my attorney.

  No, that couldn’t be right. Caitlyn remembered Detective Reed showing up. She’d asked him to leave. Or had she? She’d been asleep and then . . . and then, oh, no. Panic bells began bonging in her mind.

  And before you start lecturing me about pretending to be you, don’t worry. The cop bought it and so did that irritating reporter, Nikki Gillette, the other day.

  Caitlyn felt sick inside. Kelly had always loved the overly dramatic, the cloak and dagger, mistaken identity stuff. It was all a game to her.

  See ya soon.

  xoxoxo,

>   Kelly.

  Caitlyn clicked off the computer and let her head fall into her hands. Kelly was becoming difficult.

  Hasn’t she always been?

  Okay, more difficult.

  If only Kelly would give up the charade. The pretense. Make amends with the family. Life would be so much easier. But it would never happen. Never. She tried to call her twin and ended up getting the damned machine. This time, Caitlyn didn’t bother leaving a message.

  Why would Kelly steal things? Things as personal as her lipstick and Jamie’s favorite stuffed animal. It didn’t make sense unless . . . unless Kelly was somehow trying to confuse her . . . but why?

  Because she killed Josh and wants to frame you, to make it look like you’re cracking up and—

  “No!” Caitlyn wouldn’t believe it. She hurried down the stairs. In the kitchen she hit the lights. Two empty martini glasses and an open bottle of olives sat on the counter. She froze in the doorway. Her skin crawled. She didn’t remember having drinks with Kelly.

  You didn’t. You slept through it.

  But she’d talked to the detective. Before or after Kelly? Oh, God. She dropped into a chair in the nook and Oscar, lying on the rug beneath, looked up at her and thumped his tail. “She has to quit this,” Caitlyn said to the dog as she absently reached down and scratched him behind his ears. “She has to.”

  But she’ll never do it on her own. She’s having too much fun. She’ll just keep on the way she has been since the accident. Until someone stops her. That someone will have to be you.

  “I can’t,” Caitlyn said. “I just can’t !” She had too much to do already, and her life was unraveling strand by strand, faster and faster. It was true. The Montgomery curse, the mental illness, was deep in her genes, in her blood. There was no escape. Panic spurted through her, her heart pounded, her pulse was out of control.

  For God’s sake, don’t lose it. Not now!”

  The phone rang and she jumped. Damn the reporters!

  On her feet in an instant, she snagged the receiver before the second blast. “Hello?” she barked.

  “Caitlyn?” Adam’s voice was as near as if he was in the room with her.

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Relief washed over her. He was just the balm she needed. So why did she want to break down and cry at the sound of his voice? “Hi,” she managed, fighting tears, but the sound was strangled.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  No! I’m not all right. I never will be. You, of all people should know that! Cradling the phone to her ear, she slid down the cabinets, sinking to the floor. “I heard about your mother,” he was saying. “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” she admitted and struggled against hot tears. She wasn’t used to kindness from a man; it was hard to accept, harder still to understand.

  “I thought you might want to talk.”

  “I do. Yes.” She nodded, as if he could see her. She had to see him, touch him, feel something solid in her life. Someone she could trust.

  Trust him? Are you nuts? A guy who flashes his business cards at a funeral, for God’s sake, a shrink culling clients out of the obits? Come on, Caitie-Did, this is crazy. You want to see him cuz you’ve got the hots for him. That’s it. Kelly’s voice echoed through her head. These days it seemed as if her twin was her conscience as well as her tormentor.

  “I can be at your place in half an hour,” he said, and the timbre of his voice touched her heart. He cared. She knew it. “Or would you rather come here?”

  She looked around her home, the empty glasses, half-filled bottles, mud the dog had tracked through the kitchen. Beyond all that there was the restlessness she’d felt here lately, the feeling that she was being observed.

  “Maybe somewhere in between—neutral ground,” he prodded. “Either the office or a coffee shop?”

  “Tell you what, why don’t you come by and pick me up?” She dashed the remainder of her tears away with her fingertips. “We’ll decide then.”

  “I’ll be there,” he promised.

  She hung up and, forcing herself to her feet, she gritted her teeth. She couldn’t fall apart. What good could a nervous breakdown do? No, she had to find some inner strength and sort all this out herself. Forcing herself, she pushed all the demons in her mind back into their dark cobwebby corners as she raced around the kitchen, putting glasses in the dishwasher, stuffing the bottles back into the cupboard and swiping at the countertops and floor with a wet dishrag.

  “Mission accomplished,” she told the dog as she did a cursory survey of the room. “Make that Mission Impossible accomplished.” Tossing the dirty rag into the hamper in the laundry room, she headed upstairs, then threw on a long cotton dress and found a matching sweater that covered the nicks on her arms. Then she frowned at her reflection. A couple of passes with a mascara wand over her lashes and a quick brush of blush was all she had time for. Her hair—well, forget it. She hurried downstairs and dialed the plantation. Hannah was alone, really alone, for the first time in her life, and Caitlyn wanted to check up on her baby sister. Oftentimes Hannah was a pain, but then, who wasn’t? Kelly, Amanda and Troy weren’t all that great at times either. One ring. She waited, checked her fingernails. Two. “Come on.” No such luck. Three. “Great.” On the fourth ring the answering machine clicked on, and Caitlyn froze as she heard the soft, dulcet tones of her mother’s drawl instructing her to leave a message.

  “You all have reached the Montgomerys out here at Oak Hill. If you’d be kind enough to leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you . . .”

  Caitlyn’s knees threatened to buckle. Oh, Mama. How could this happen? She remembered sitting on her mother’s lap, smelling the scent of her perfume mingled with smoke, the look of sadness that seemed to linger in her green eyes. Then there had been the nights Caitlyn had awoken to hear the creak of footsteps in the hallway. Sometimes they were a dangerous, scary tread that would pause at her door, open it and steal inside; other times they belonged to her mother as Berneda, an insomniac without her sleeping pills, would pace the upper hallways and stairs . . .

  A sharp beep brought her back to the present as the recorder’s tape clicked.

  “Hannah? Are you there? It’s Caitlyn. I just wanted to see how you were doing. Pick up if you’re home, okay?” She waited. No answer. “Hannah? Give me a call, okay? Uh, if I’m not here, try my cell. Please. Call me.”

  She hung up with the uneasy feeling that something was wrong, but then, what else was new? Everything these days was wrong with a capital W. She heard a car pull up outside about the same time Oscar started barking like a maniac.

  “You stay here,” she said as footsteps sounded on the porch and the doorbell chimed. Peering through the narrow window near the door, she caught a glimpse of Adam, his dark hair shining in the glow from the porch lamp, his eyes sober. In jeans, a dark sweater and tennis shoes he stood, hands in his pockets.

  Her stupid heart skipped a beat when his gaze collided with hers. She couldn’t help but smile and feel a little thrill of excitement thrumming through her veins. There was something sexy and slightly mysterious about him, a secretive side he’d tucked beneath his college-athlete good looks. It intrigued her. Seduced her. Made her want to find out more about him.

  Face it, Caitlyn, you’re attracted to him on a very basic animal level. Female to male. For a split second she imagined what it would be like to make love with him, then caught herself. That was nuts. She couldn’t allow her wayward mind to go there. Hastily she unlatched the door. Before Oscar, hovering at her heels, could make good his escape, she stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind her.

  “Hi. You look—” He let his gaze move up and down her body, then shook his head. “You look damned incredible, but maybe we shouldn’t go there.”

  “What? Forget compliments? No way.” She winked at him and blushed. “You look pretty incredible, too.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, then took her arm in his. “Enough already. We still
have a patient-doctor relationship to protect.”

  “What a bummer,” she muttered and he laughed again.

  The night was quiet. Few pedestrians on the streets. No breath of wind ruffling the leaves of the trees overhead. “Where to?” she asked.

  “Wherever you want to go. This time it’s your choice.”

  She considered for a second. “What about Nickelby’s? It’s three blocks over, past the square. Great coffee. Even greater drinks.”

  His smile was a slash of white. “Lead the way.”

  “Your wish is my command,” she joked, taking his hand and tugging on it.

  Together they walked across the street, making small talk as they angled through the night-darkened streets to the little bistro. Several couples and a few singles were hanging out at small round tables positioned beneath low-wattage bulbs covered with blue shades. A single musician softly strumming an acoustic guitar stood behind a solitary mike. He didn’t sing, just hummed occasionally to a song, presumably of his own creation and obviously without end.

  They took a table positioned near the windows, then ordered iced tea and lemonade laced with vodka. When the waitress had disappeared, Adam asked, “So how are you and your family holding up?”

  “How do you think? Someone seems to want all of us dead. Or at least part of us. It tends to make a person nervous.” She plopped a peanut into her mouth and rubbed the salt from her fingers. “And that’s not all of it. Then there’s the grief to deal with. A double whammy.”

  A goateed waiter with a napkin wrapped around him like an apron brought their drinks. He wore a beret he’d angled over the back of his head in either a fashion statement or to hide the beginnings of a bald spot.

  “I’m waiting for a call from Hannah. She’s all alone at the house now. Lucille took off for Florida—no, don’t ask.” She held up a hand to ward off the obvious question. “I don’t know why. And now Mom’s gone . . .” Her voice trailed off and she sighed as she reached for her drink. “I’m sorry. I’ve been advised not to play the victim and so I won’t. But it would be a lie to say that I don’t feel vulnerable and in some kind of shock.”