Share No Secrets

by Carlene Thompson

  As Kit walked into the restaurant, though, she thought about the blood on Lottie’s dress and the scent of Julianna’s signature fragrance, I’ Heure Bleue, that clung tenaciously to Lottie’s neck and face. Lottie was fastidious about her clothes and person. The scent and the stains couldn’t be left over from yesterday.

  With a chill, Kit realized that Lottie had been in the hotel with Juliana that very morning.

  3

  Claude Duncan’s flaccid body seemed to sink into his ancient couch, his legs splayed, his right arm dangling over the side. A coffee table sat near him, laden with newspapers, candy wrappers, two empty pizza boxes, dirty paper napkins, and a notebook in which Claude had been attempting to write his novel. He was now on page 20 after two grueling months of work. A half-full bottle of bourbon stood by the couch.

  On the small television across from him, a spaceship landed on an alien planet from which a distress call had been picked up. Claude loved this movie and had sat raptly through it countless times, always imagining himself as the handsome and heroic ship’s captain, but tonight he was oblivious. He’d accompanied a particularly greasy pizza with four cans of beer, then topped off the meal with two candy bars and several shots of bourbon. He’d gone to sleep feeling satiated and happier than he’d been since the death of his mother.

  And why shouldn’t he sleep well? After all, things were finally going his way. He no longer had to worry about losing his job when the Belle was torn down. He didn’t have to go through the humiliating process of trying to find another job, of appearing polite, intelligent, and bright-eyed to potential employers who for some reason he couldn’t fathom always looked at him like he was something nasty on the soles of their expensive shoes. No, sir. Claude Duncan didn’t have to go job hunting. Claude Duncan had it made.

  For a while he’d been troubled by the fact that his good fortune depended on taking advantage of a tragedy. His mother had died when he was twelve and her memory wasn’t so clear to him anymore, but he did recall that she’d been pretty, kind, religious, and had tried to teach him never to profit from other people’s bad luck. And that’s exactly what he was doing. Profiting from bad luck. His father would never do such a thing.

  Whenever Claude thought of his father, his stomach tightened with anxiety. His mother always said her husband was a good and fair man, but whose moral principles only a saint could live up to. She’d said it sweetly, but Claude had sensed gentle criticism in her words. Other people told him his father was admirable and a perfectionist. No one had ever said, more accurately, that Mr. Duncan was acrimonious, unreasonable, demanding, self-righteous and self-pitying. No one said he’d complained bitterly and loudly about the low intelligence and easy corruptibility of his miserable excuse for a son. Mr. Duncan’s outbursts on this subject usually came late at night, in the little cottage, away from the fine hotel guests. But Claude, not as lucky as the hotel guests, had always been exposed to his father’s contempt, although he’d never been able to analyze the problem clearly enough to put it into words, even to himself.

  But for months now, since the elder Duncan’s death, the harsh edge of the world seemed to have softened for Claude. Now he never looked up to see his father’s disappointed, contemptuous blue eyes boring into his. He never went to bed at night feeling like a slimy, repulsive mistake that had wandered into his father’s perfect world. He never lay in bed wide-eyed into the night wishing he could awaken in the morning and magically see a new boy in the mirror—a handsome, highly intelligent, confident boy whose dazzling smile, piercing eyes, superior height, and wide shoulders, all mixed with an easy charm, naturally won his father’s respect Life had calmed and steadied for Claude since the death of his father. After the initial shock of the man’s quick demise from a severe heart attack, Claude had felt almost giddy with relief. He knew his near joy was shameful and he would never admit it to anyone, but it existed nevertheless. Still, he often escaped his fatherless but still boring life by taking refuge in his “hero” dreams.

  Shifting slightly on the old wreck of a couch, Claude Duncan drifted into his favorite state—sleep—and began to dream. To his frustration, though, he could immediately tell this wasn’t a “hero” dream. True, he was aboard the huge spaceship he’d just seen on television—a cold, gray thing hurtling through an eternity of darkness with him deep in its metal bowels that dripped water condensation and occasionally rattled hanging chains with hooks used for unloading cargo. But in his dream, even though he was the captain, he was disoriented and terribly uneasy.

  And he was not alone.

  In his very own spaceship, Claude’s tall and muscular body sat huddled in a corner, arms clutched around his middle, his teeth beginning to chatter, his eyes darting fearfully around in the gloom. He knew people above were counting on him. They always counted on him, and why not? In the past, he’d never failed to invent a brilliant solution to whatever horrors space threw at them. Except for now. This time, to his complete shock and shame, all he could do was mutter over and over, “Monster under the bed,” in a little boy’s voice. “Don’t look at the monster under the bed/No, no, wish the monster stone cold dead.”

  He squeezed his eyes tight. Tighter. So tight that lights began to dance behind the black shutters of his eyelids. He let out a tiny, pathetic moan. “No. Please. I’m the captain. I didn’t do nothin’ bad.”

  “Didn’t you?”

  His body jerked, then went perfectly still. Was that voice in his dream? It had to be. Vaguely, he knew this was all a dream, although it wasn’t his typical spaceship dream. And someone new was in this dream with him. It wasn’t one of his crewmen or anyone he could reach out and touch. Maybe it wasn’t even a someone. Maybe it was a something that flittered around him with the speed of a mosquito or hovered above him with the large, silently beating wings of a dragonfly.

  He tried to call for Ripley, his second-in-command—tall, resourceful, and smart even if she was a woman—but she only called back to him in a garbled tone, “Get out of there! It’s coming!”

  Claude thrashed in his tormented sleep. “It’s coming!” he mumbled loudly. “It’s coming!”

  “Yes, it is,” a calm voice interceded, a voice whose placid tones did not fit into the dream. “But you shouldn’t be afraid.”

  “I am ‘fraid,” Claude wailed, still flailing, so drunk he couldn’t wake up. “I’m ‘fraid!”

  “You’re afraid of the unknown. But the unknown isn’t always bad.” A strong hand closed around Claude’s left forearm and held it tight. “Poor muscle tone, Claude. You don’t work out.”

  “I work! I work plenty doin’ ever little thing I’m s’ posed to!”

  “Now, that’s not quite true, is it?” Dimly Claude felt something cold and sharp slip into the tender skin on the underside of his elbow. Then fluid coursed up his arm, pinching like ice, then moving like quicksilver, warmer, faster, shooting through him like something magical.

  “What’re you doin'?”

  “Giving you an injection to make you feel calm.”

  Even in his befuddled state, Claude realized something awful, something fatal, was about to happen to him. He began to thrash weakly. “Gotta get up!” he abruptly shouted, his senses flashing back in a burst of panic. “Gotta get up! Gotta get up!”

  He leaned forward, trying to struggle off the couch, but something pushed him back and held him down. He shook loose and tried to rise again, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. The hands let go of him and he fell backward, sliding between the edge of the couch and the coffee table. He struggled to draw breath, feeling as if someone were sitting on his chest. “You’re not from this world, are you?” he gasped out, saliva dripping down his chin.

  “You’ve never known anything like me.”

  “It’s the Belle. It brought you here a long time ago.”

  “Yes. I belong to la Belle.”

  Claude rasped in another breath and felt warmth between his legs. In shock, he realized he’d wet himself and felt
absurdly embarrassed.

  His companion leaned over him. “Have a little accident, Claude?”

  He tried to focus on a face but he was too dizzy. Besides, he thought, it probably had no face behind that strange veil of netting it wore. He wasn’t imagining it, and the veil clinched identification for him. It was a supernatural Being, hiding a horrible face behind a sheet of net, trying to beguile him with a soothing voice that could become brusque and slashing in a moment, a voice that expected to be obeyed, just as Daddy’s had.

  And predicted cruel punishments for when you didn’t behave. Predictions that always came true.

  By now Claude was so drowsy he barely felt the Being sprinkle the remains of the half-bottle of bourbon on him, lightly at first, then letting it stream over his face and shoulders. A few moments passed. Then more liquid flowed, surely more than could have been left in the fifth of bourbon. His now fear-dried tongue actually darted out for one last taste of the sweet nectar.

  And while his tongue was out, diligently exploring for the liquid Claude Duncan valued more than blood, the Being struck a long, wooden kitchen match and stared down at Claude’s drenched body, scummy beard, darting tongue. “How about a song?” the Being asked. “I know just the one.”

  By now, Claude was too terrified to think rationally. He simply lay limp, a sack of blood and bones, and trembled. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Finally I had it made, he thought with vague petulance. Things were turnin’ rosy for me. It wasn’t supposed to go this way!

  The voice began to sing like Annie Lennox: “Sweet dreams—” Then it broke off. “Recognize the lyrics, Claude? Julianna’s favorite song. Sing along with me,” the Being invited airily as it moved backward, then threw a lighted kitchen match onto the alcohol-soaked face of Claude Duncan. Then another, then another. “Sweet dreams are made.”

  The Being vanished. In a few moments, a not-quite-dead Claude managed a couple of tortured wheezes meant to be screams. But his voice was lost in the terrific heat Still tossing matches, the Being blithely abandoned Claude and his home. Finally, when Claude was no longer moving or even recognizable, the Being continued to sing “Sweet Dreams” until its voice faded into the cool darkness far beyond the blazing hell of the caretaker’s house.

  FIVE

  1

  “I can’t spend the night in the hospital,” Adrienne explained to a very young nurse with soft blue eyes that reflected every insecurity in her heart.

  “You lost consciousness for a while, Mrs. Reynolds,” she replied in a good imitation of firmness. “In cases like yours, we insist that you spend the night in the hospital for observation.”

  “What is your name?”

  “My name?” Dismay flared in the girl’s vulnerable eyes as if she thought she were going to be reported. “Ah, Miss Leary.”

  “Well, Miss Leary, if someone sits by my bedside all night, will I be safe from slipping into an irreversible coma?”

  “A nurse’s presence always helps,” Miss Leary said mechanically, clearly missing Adrienne’s sarcasm. “You’re just getting yourself all upset, Mrs. Reynolds.” Miss Leary stood helplessly in front of Adrienne, who had begun to untie the strings on the back of her hospital gown. Frustrated and unreasonably angry with everyone on the hospital staff, Adrienne was at the point of ripping off the worn, flimsy garment. The emergency room was freezing. She wanted her clothes. “If you’re cold, Mrs. Reynolds, let me put a blanket across your shoulders to warm you,” Miss Leary pleaded. “Please don’t tear up the gown. The doctor will be here in a couple of minutes, and in the meantime, you can talk to Mr. Reynolds. He’s right outside and he’s been awfully worried about you.”

  “My husband is dead,” Adrienne stated baldly.

  The girl blushed crimson at her faux pas, her gaze skittering back to the medical chart. Adrienne looked at her closer, unwillingly feeling a twinge of sympathy. The poor girl couldn’t be past twenty-one and was clearly inexperienced with pain-in-the-ass patients.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Leary,” Adrienne said in a milder tone. “I’m tired and worried and my head hurts like hell.”

  “It’s just that there’s this man in the hall. He brought you in and he seems very worried about you. I assumed he was your husband.”

  Drew, Adrienne thought. “The man in the hall was once a Mend of mine. He found me after I’d been attacked on the street His name is Drew Delaney. He’s the editor of the newspaper.”

  “You don’t say?” Miss Leary breathed in awe.

  “That’s right And if you’ll throw that threadbare excuse for a blanket over me, he can come in until the doctor arrives.”

  Miss Leary looked as if she were going to burst into tears of relief The harridan on the examining table was obviously losing steam, and no one was going to write her up for not being able to keep her patient under control. “Of course you can have a blanket, Mrs. Reynolds. Why, even your hair is wet You must be freezing.” She whipped a blanket out of nowhere and, with hands moving so fast they seemed a blur, began spinning the cloth around Adrienne.

  “You know, the rain stopped for a while, then it started up again about twenty minutes ago,” she said in her professional “calming” voice as she wielded the blanket “Just hearing rain, even in the summer, makes me feel cold, especially in the ER. I always wear a sweater myself.”

  “The one you have on is a lovely shade of blue,” Adrienne said, trying to make up for her earlier sharpness.

  “Oh, thank you. My mother knitted it for me.” For a finishing touch, Miss Leary tucked the blanket under Adrienne’s chin as if she were an enfeebled old lady. Adrienne cocked her head, the only part of her body she could still move, listening to a demand over the loudspeaker for Drs. Gorman and Price, STAT. Miss Leary looked troubled. “I heard out at the desk the EMS is bringing in a terribly burned man. I just hate burn cases.”

  “I’ve always thought death by fire would be a horrible way to go,” Adrienne said. “Any idea who it is?”

  “No. And I hope I don’t have to help with this particular case. I’m always afraid I’ll faint if the person looks too gruesome.” She gave Adrienne a shaky smile. “I have to get over my squeamishness or I’ll never be a good nurse, and I want to be the best.” She stood back and looked at Adrienne. “There. You should be all nice and warm. I’ll go get Mr. Reynolds. I mean, Delano. Whatever. He’s very handsome. Oh, don’t tell him I said that. It was inappropriate.” Miss Leary blushed again and fled the emergency room.

  In a moment, Drew sauntered in, took a long look at her, and said, “Greetings, Nanook of the North. Planning on going ice fishing?”

  Adrienne unsuccessfully tried to loosen the blanket. “I made the mistake of saying I was cold, and that sweet nurse put me in this straitjacket.”

  “Want me to help you out of it?”

  Adrienne thought of her thin gown hanging open in the back. “Never mind. At least I’m warmer than I was before.”

  “No wonder. You’re in a cocoon.” He frowned. “How on earth did she manage that arrangement, anyway?”

  “I have no idea, but she meant well, Drew. And she thinks you’re handsome, which I wasn’t supposed to tell you. I will tell you to leave her alone. She looks like she’s about Skye’s age.”

  Drew grinned. “Contrary to popular belief, I do not chase every woman I see. But even after all these years and with your dripping hair, scraped forehead, bad temper, lack of gratitude, and abysmal fashion sense, I find you appealing. I’ve only made myself stay away from you since I came back to town because you’re seeing the formidable Sheriff Flynn.”

  The same old Drew, Adrienne thought. Always joking to hide more serious feelings. She felt a jolt of surprise. He was feeling something more than ordinary concern about her. He smiled, but in his dark brown eyes she saw deep worry. “I’m okay, Drew. Really. I just want to get out of here and be with my daughter.”

  “Your daughter is fine.”

  “Is she with Vicky yet?”

  “No.
Philip and Vicky are at a party and Rachel is out with the great white hope of the Allard family—”

  “Bruce.”

  “Yes, Bruce, one of my intrepid reporters. Anyway, everyone will be home within a couple of hours. In the meantime, Margaret will pick up you and Skye.”

  “Margaret?”

  “Margaret Taylor, the pitt bull Philip calls a campaign manager. I don’t think Vicky has been informed of your attack. We couldn’t have it spoiling any of Philip’s political socializing.”

  “I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

  “Well, the pitt bull is here to rescue you,” a female voice said pleasantly. Adrienne and Drew looked at the woman standing in the door of the emergency room. Her black hair was as always pulled into a glossy French twist, her makeup subtle and flattering to her olive complexion, her almond-shaped eyes as clear as a teenager’s. She wore a sage-green linen pantsuit, perfectly tailored and without one wrinkle. “I was shocked to hear about what happened to you,” she said. “Are you all right, Mrs. Reynolds?”

  Adrienne was deeply embarrassed that the woman had heard Drew call her a pitt bull, but Drew looked unfazed. “Yes, I’m just banged up a bit. I look a sight. And please call me Adrienne.”

  Drew smirked, recognizing Adrienne’s friendly tone as a palliative for guilt. He probably knew how much Vicky resented Margaret, and that naturally her resentment would affect Adrienne’s feelings. “I spoke with your doctor in the hall,” Margaret went on affably. “He said you’re determined to go home, and although he’d rather you stay, he can’t force you. I’ll help you dress, then drive you home. Or rather, to your sister’s house. The doctor says you shouldn’t be alone tonight.” She turned to Drew and said coolly, “May we have a bit of privacy, Mr. Delaney?”