"I just spoke with the district attorney. There's a man going about impersonating a state investigator. He came to my office and he just confronted me in the hospital parking lot. He didn't attempt to harm me in any way there, but I thought I saw him following me when I left."
"Can you describe the vehicle driven by the man following you?" he asked.
"Actually, no," she said, a bit ashamed and disappointed in herself for being so distracted by her own fears. "I mean, it was a dark color, but I didn't take note of the make or model."
He nodded, not showing any disapproval.
"Perhaps I should check around the house first," he said. "Just precautionary."
"Yes, of course," she said. It had never occurred to her that the man impersonating a state police investigator would not need to follow her home to know where she lived. That added a new dimension of terror to the situation.
"That stairway goes..."
"To the bedrooms," she said. "Downstairs is the living room you see here on my right. The dining room is straight ahead and after that is the kitchen and pantry. There's a bathroom just before the kitchen."
"Backdoor?"
"Through the pantry. It's an old house. It was my grandmother's," she added. He finally broke into a smile.
"I like these older homes. They have character," he said.
"A character living in one," she muttered to herself as he walked on through. She brought the milk into the kitchen and then thought about making some herbal tea.
When the rear door opened, she nearly jumped over the table, but it was only the police officer. She had thought he had gone directly upstairs.
"It's quiet out back," he said. "I'll look through the bedrooms and closets upstairs. Is there an attic?"
"Yes, but you have to pull down one of those ladders to get to it."
"Yes, I understand."
"Would you like something to drink? I'm making myself some tea," she said.
"No thank you."
He went to the stairway. She made the tea and sat with her hands around the cup, watching the steam rise out of it. She almost didn't hear him return.
"Everything looks fine, Dr. Barnard. You should just lock up. Is there an alarm system?"
"No," she said. "I haven't gotten around to adding that yet. My grandparents never even considered having one."
"I understand. Well, I'll have another patrol car make a sweep by here tonight and of course, if you hear anything or for any reason want us to return, please don't hesitate to call."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure," he said. "I imagine the district attorney has his eyes on this. He's a good man."
"Yes, he is," she said.
She followed him to the front door and locked up after him. A moment or so later, the phone rang. It was Will Dennis.
"Everything is quiet. I'm sure I just imagined that man behind me," she told him.
"Still, he had the nerve to come looking for you at the hospital. He's arrogant in his madness. You have your regular office hours tomorrow?"
"Yes, an easy day, just a nine to five. About what you proposed at the hospital earlier," she started to say.
"Let's not talk about that. I think it's a little more complicated now than I had anticipated."
"You mean that he came after me again?"
"Something like that. Just be a doctor," he told her.
"Why is it that suddenly sounds easy?" she quipped and he laughed. She put away the teacup and then went up to her bedroom. First, she decided to take a warm bath. Then, she would try to sleep. If a dozen or so medical files didn't parade through her brain, and if the events of the last few days didn't return in vivid replay, and if she didn't think about the spat she and Curt had in the hospital parking lot, she might actually get some.
A warm soak never felt as good as it does this moment, she thought after she lowered herself through the bubbles generated by her bath oils. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was almost asleep in the tub when she heard it, a distinct rap on her front door downstairs. She listened and then she heard it again and sat up quickly.
Should I ignore it or get out, put on a robe, and see who it was? Or, maybe I should just call for the sheriff's patrol. She was expecting no one. That was for sure.
She heard the door knocker again. There was no doubt about it. The sound reverberated through the house as if it could travel through the very foundation and frame. She made a quick decision to ignore it and to make that phone call to the sheriff's patrol.
Still dripping wet, she was at the phone in her bedroom. The dispatcher knew who she was immediately and assured her a car would be in her driveway in less than ten minutes. All the lights were off downstairs, but anyone could see her bedroom light was still on, she thought. She turned it off and, still wrapped in only a large bath towel, went to the front window and parted the curtain. She saw an automobile in the driveway. Unfortunately, out here, there were no street lights and she didn't have a light on the outside of the house. Still, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the shadows and the clouds parted a bit to permit more starlight, she realized it was Curt's car.
"Oh no," she muttered, realizing she had just contacted the police to investigate her own fiance. This was going to be hard to explain to him. Maybe it was time to tell him everything, she thought. He was right, after all. They should be sharing this problem.
She wiped herself as dry as she could as quickly as she could and put on her robe and soft leather slippers. Then she flipped on the lights in the hallway and hurried down the stairs, wondering why Curt hadn't continued to knock. His car was still there. She turned on lights as she moved toward the front door. As fast as she could, she unlatched it and opened it, realizing it was practically pushing itself open.
It was easy to understand why.
Curt's limp body was against it, falling in as she opened the door.
Paula Gilbert lingered in the parking lot. They had played the night's final set, and although the Inn would remain open another hour or so, they had all decided to leave. Jack and Tag got into their cars, complaining to her about the lousy money they were both making and wondering aloud if they shouldn't just chuck it all. It wasn't the first time, and like all the other times, she didn't put up any vigorous arguments. She wasn't going to stop singing and if they wanted to end the group, fine. She would easily find two other men, or maybe she would hook up with the Boggs Trio. They were always suggesting she should. What else would she do? She had no intention of ever becoming someone's secretary or take any of those boring nine-to-five jobs her friends had, even working for the post office.
All they talked about was their benefits, benefits. As far as Paula was concerned, they had traded their freedom and their chance to enjoy life for the security of medical insurance. Just don't get sick, she told them with a laugh. What are you going to do, work for retirement and hope that by the time you collect your pension, you'll still be healthy and young enough to enjoy life? Not me. I'm still having fun, like always.
They nodded and smirked, but in her heart she knew they were envious. They wished they could be as carefree and as independent as she was. No worries. Jack and Tag quit? So what?
"Don't let worrying about it all keep you up boys," she told them. They, too, shook their heads at her and left her. Good riddance, she thought. She looked around. She was disappointed. That handsome guy disappointed her. He was supposed to be out here, and they were supposed to go for a late-night drink in a place where people didn't have fertilizer on their shoes. So much for that, she thought, tossing off the expectation like a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.
She walked toward her own vehicle, a present from her brother, one of his leftovers. It was a beat-up Chevy Impala, but it still ran and he did take care of its maintenance for her. Just as she reached it, the handsome stranger came around from the rear of the car.
"Where the hell did you come from?" she asked, after gasping and stepping back. "I just about
gave up on you."
"I was standing here in the shadows watching you say good night to your partners. I didn't want to intrude, and I wanted to be sure you didn't have other plans that included one or even both of them," he replied. She laughed.
"Hardly. It's enough I work with those stump jumpers."
"Stump jumpers?" he said laughing.
"Hillbillies, rednecks. Their idea of a good time is a game of darts over at the Old Mill."
"I see. Well, if you're not too tired," he continued.
"Tired? The night's just beginning for me," she said smiling.
"I'm happy to hear that. Can you leave your car here?" he followed.
"Sure," she said shrugging. "Who'd steal it?" He laughed and they started walking toward the front where the customers parked.
"I'm right over here," he said indicating they go to their right. She saw the black Lincoln Town Car, a late model, and smiled. It glittered in the illumination of the Inn's neon lights.
"Nice wheels," she said.
"I like a lot of steel around me," he said. "And soft leather seats."
"I won't turn that down either," she replied when he opened the door for her. When was the last time any man ever did that for her? she wondered and got in. He walked around and did the same.
"Here we go," he said starting the engine. "Hold on to your seat." She laughed.
"Where are we going?" she asked when he turned left instead of right, which would have taken them into Woodbourne and then onto Route 52, which she had described to him earlier in the Inn.
"I was told I shouldn't leave this area until I've seen that dam and lake where they store water for New York City. It's just a little ways," he said smiling at her, "and with the clouds parting and those stars tonight, it could be quite a beautiful site, don't you think?"
She smiled to herself. It wouldn't be the first time she had parked with a man up there, but she hadn't done it since she was in high school. That titillated her. Neck in a car? With the music playing? Maybe it wasn't as sophisticated an experience as she was anticipating, but this guy was like someone who had walked out of a soap opera and it all did make her feel like a teenager again. Afterward, they could go for that cocktail somewhere.
"America has so many beautiful places to visit," he said. "There is nothing like traveling and traveling and suddenly being surprised by a breathtaking sight. You know that expression, stop to smell the roses?"
"No," she said. It suggested something to do at a cemetery to her.
"Well, it means taking the time to appreciate the beautiful things, Paula. You should think about that more. You should stop to smell the roses, too." She laughed. She didn't know why exactly, but there was a new tone in his voice that actually stung her with a little trepidation.
"Most people never do and one day they wake up and realize it, but they also realize it's too late. It's all passed them by, understand?"
"Sorta," she said. That was her philosophy in a roundabout way, wasn't it, she thought.
"I knew you would understand. Anyone who can sing like you do, who can feel words and music, has to be able to understand what is and what isn't important in life. You're an artist," he continued. "Artists are by nature more sensitive." She liked that. No one ever called her an artist.
"Look at these houses out here," he said as they drove on. "Each one has a sizable piece of land around it. They look so peaceful, too, don't they? You feel the contentment, the quiet bliss. With that sky opening up, those homes silhouetted look like they're on the edge of the world. In them, people are sleeping snugly, fathers and mothers are embracing each other, their children are feeling secure, safe, dreaming about bubbles and balloons and tinsel."
"Are you a poet?" she asked him.
"No," he said smiling, "I'm just poetic."
"Same thing to me," she said.
"Maybe it is," he said nodding.
"I don't understand what you do, this networking thing."
"Oh, it's boring work compared to what you do, Paula. You're out there with people, all sorts of people, personalities, and you have the music that can carry you above it all. I watched you carefully. You're not bothered by the noise or anything. You're in your own little world, aren't you?"
"Yes," she said. "That's it."
"Of course that's it," he replied.
They made another turn and climbed a hill and moments later, there was the dam and the lake and the starlight playing on the water. He found a dirt road that turned in and off the highway and drove in as far as he could, switching off the lights.
"Just look at that," he said. "Breathtaking." She looked at it as if for the first time, too.
"Yes," she said.
He sat there so still and so unmoving that for a few minutes she thought this was going to be it. He wasn't even going to try to kiss her.
Finally, he turned to her.
"I can't help it," he said. "I get so stirred up by beauty. Forgive me," he added. She raised her eyebrows.
"For what?"
"For wanting you so intensely," he said and leaned toward her to kiss her, softly at first and then harder.
She pulled back as if she was angry. "I'm sorry, he said. "I..." She put her finger on his lips and smiled.
"Wouldn't it be better in the rear seat?" she suggested. How wonderful it was to have one so eager, he thought. It filled him with new confidence, not that he needed any boost in that department.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he said, only he said it as if she literally had, as if when their tongues met, the words that were in his brain and transmitted to his tongue, were then conveyed to her.
They got out of the car and opened the rear doors and met on the wide leather bench seat. In moments, his lips were on her neck and his hands were moving over her breasts.
This is just like high school days, she thought and moaned with pleasure. Despite the darkness, she could see his eyes, luminous above her. She let him undo her belt buckle. He undressed her slowly, never moving much without kissing her somewhere. She was contented to just lie there and let him do all the work, serve her as it were, deliver the ecstasy. When she was totally naked, he lifted her breasts with his palms as if he was weighing them.
"Magnificent," he said and lowered himself to her. He entered her with the same gracefulness he had with his every move, the same assurance and confidence. She accepted him as she would accept any necessity of life itself, as if sex were nourishment and could ensure her own well-being. Every part of her was full of warning and welcoming. Vaguely, she felt he was drawing new strength from her compliance. He was moving deeper and deeper into her. He seemed to have no limit, to grow to enormous length, like some kind of a snake, moving through her very organs, into her intestines and on to her very heart where he wrapped himself and squeezed until she found it harder and harder to breathe. It wasn't a dream; it was literally true. She started to gag, to plead for an easing, a moment or two of respite, but he was relentless and soon she felt her eyes go back. Moments later, she blacked out.
THIRTEEN
Terri had just pulled Curt fully into the house when the sheriff's patrol car turned into her driveway. She saw the head trauma immediately. Whatever had been used as a weapon, had split open the front of his skull just under the hairline and the flow of blood down his temples and over the bridge of his nose made it look horrible. She turned him on his back and leaped up to get her doctor's bag. When she returned, the patrolman was already there, kneeling at Curt's side.
"What happened?" he asked.
She shook her head and went to work, checking his pulse, cleaning the wound, and evaluating what had to be done. As she spoke, she cut away some of his hair.
"I heard a knocking at the door, but I was in the tub," she began. "I had no idea he would be at my door, of course."
"Who is he?" the patrolman asked.
"My fiance, Curt Levitt. By the time I got downstairs, this had all obviously happened. I opened the door because I
saw his car in the driveway and this is how I found him," she continued, deciding he needed stitches immediately. "I want to stop this bleeding and then we'll need to get an ambulance and get him to the hospital to see what sort of injury he's obtained." The patrolman nodded and returned to his vehicle to make the call for the ambulance.
"They're on the way," he told her coming back.
"Thanks."
"Do you have any idea how this happened?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't see anyone else or even hear another car," she said. Curt was still unconscious. She felt her heart tighten, and her breath quicken. Suddenly, she was not the doctor anymore; she was a very concerned loved one.
"I'll look around," the police officer said. She barely heard or acknowledged him.
"Curt," she said. "C'mon honey."
His eyelids fluttered. When he opened them, she could see immediately that the pupils were enlarged. He had been hit very hard. All the complications paraded before her.
"Whaaa," he said.
"Don't move. What happened, Curt? If you can, tell me. There's a policeman here."
The patrolman returned.
"Nothing," he said and noticed Curt's eyes were opened. "What's he say?"
"Curt, can you tell us what happened?"
"Hit me," he said. "He was... at your... door... hit me," he finished and closed his eyes again.
"Try to stay awake, Curt. Who hit you? Did you recognize him? Curt?" She shook him gently.
"Man... at the hospital," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. She looked up at the patrolman.
"Get in touch with District Attorney Dennis. Tell him to meet us at the hospital," she said. "Stay with Curt. I'm running upstairs to throw something on. Stay with him."
"What should I do first?" the patrolman asked, confused by her list of commands.
She looked at Curt, his eyes closed again.
Deficiency Page 14
