"How did you find out about it? --Not that I wasn't going to tell you myself," Cary added quickly.
"I have my spies," was her cryptic reply. "Now, let's get back to you. Why didn't you call me when you started getting these photos? All of your fan mail is sent directly here, and no one outside should have knowledge of your itinerary...did you tell anyone?"
"Just my girlfriend, and she wouldn't tell anyone."
Susan sighed heavily. "Okay, let's go back a little. What in the hell were you doing on The Al Jackson Show?"
Cary had no answer but the truth. "It was on my itinerary."
"It was not," she snapped emphatically. "I'm looking at your itinerary right now, and it's not here. Carousel would never send you on that cheap, sensational show."
No, only high-class shows like Jaime, he thought darkly. "Hold on a minute. I'll get my copy."
Susan let go of a beleaguered sigh. "Okay." She knew perfectly well what was on the itinerary. She had helped put it together herself. She even discussed it with Cary himself a few weeks before he left.
Cary laid the phone down on the sofa and walked over to his bags, which were still sitting at the feet his welcoming woman.
He unzipped his carry-on and reached inside for his meticulously kept-up notebook and file folder. He eased it out and then laid it open on the floor. He removed the laser-printed sheet that contained his book tour itinerary. It was professionally prepared on the elegant, understated ivory-colored Carousel Book letterhead. Cary's eyes scanned down the list. Dallas...Los Angeles. There were four stops. Six bookstores, one radio station, and the Tonight Show. The Al Jackson Show was not listed. Cary's heart froze. Tweetie shrieked, making him jump. He shook his head, as though to clear it, and remembered Susan waiting on the line.
He picked up the phone. "Susan. I...I've got to call you back later."
"What? Cary, what's going on? Cary..." Her voice faded until it was cut off completely by his replacement of the receiver.
Cary waited a split second, then took the phone off the hook before she had a chance to hit redial.
He had a skull-cleaving headache. He was in a complete state of shock over the itinerary. He had seen The Al Jackson Show on the list in black and white. He had seen it with his own two eyes. And now it was gone. How could that be? No one else had had access to his bags...not even the airline personnel, for the list had been safely tucked away in his carry-on the whole time. Had he imagined it? The same way he imagined the vomit in Diana's shampoo bottle? Had he really imagined that? He thought he had, but now he wasn't so sure. But he couldn't have imagined it. Al Jackson had been expecting him. It was on TV.
Suddenly paranoid, he looked quickly around the room. There were too damn many windows in the place. The sun was starting to set, and by night with the lights on in his penthouse made it like a fishbowl. Anyone at all could see in. Cary went to the huge window-wall in the living room and drew the white curtains. He cursed the sheerness of them, but decided they were better than nothing at all. He proceeded to go around to each and every window to make certain that, even though he was on the thirteenth floor, they were locked and that their blinds and curtains were all drawn tightly closed. That maniac could be anywhere...watching him as he frantically shut himself in. Did the maniac have binoculars? A telescope? Cary shuddered...A scoped rifle?
Cary's head pounded like a drum solo. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Angry with himself for letting someone else make him feel so vulnerable, he went into the bathroom to take some aspirin. He wished he had something stronger. He slid open the door to the medicine cabinet and reached in for the economy-sized bottle of generic analgesic. He took the bottle and pried it open with his thumb, cursing as the child-safe cap pinched his skin before popping off and landing somewhere on the floor behind the commode. He opened his free palm and shook a few aspirins from the bottle...and bleated like a frightened child.
For, out of the bottle's mouth came not round white aspirins, but round white maggots. Their fat, slimy bodies wriggled wetly in his hand as he stared at them, gasping. More and more worked themselves frees from the bottle and crawled blindly around the sink. Their sweet stench was beyond sickening. Cary flung the maggots from his hand and ran directly to his bedroom. He slammed the door and latched its lock, then threw himself on the bed.
He was still curled up there in the dark, sobbing uncontrollably when Diana returned.
Diana was worried about Cary. There was something about his demeanor that scared her. Like he wasn't telling her the whole truth. Like he had something to hide, maybe. And now the revelations about his mother. She wasn't sure what to believe just yet. After all, she wouldn't be surprised if Al Jackson stretched the truth every now and again...but Cary had not refuted any of his statements, not then on TV, and not now at home. She hoped that some rest and TLC would bring her lover back.
When Diana walked into the living room she was taken aback by the stillness. And the darkness. She flipped on the lamp switch and then opened the sheer curtains. Now the city's soft, multi-colored lights illuminated the room and brought warmth to the empty whiteness. Tweetie twittered in welcome as Diana passed her cage.
Diana went into the dark kitchen and set her grocery bags down. "Cary?" she called out tentatively. There was no reply. Had he gone out? Run away?
She walked into the living room, looking for a note from him, or perhaps a memo on the answering machine. She found the phone off the hook and noticed that Cary's luggage had been left open on the floor, but nothing else. She saw a light on in the bathroom and went toward it. There was an open, empty bottle of aspirin in the sink, and aspirins scattered across the top of the counter and all over the floor. "What in the world...?" she said softly aloud. Oh, no! Had Cary tried to commit suicide? Was he that depressed? He'd certainly seemed alright when she left. "Cary!" she shouted, whirling about. "Cary!"
The master bedroom door was closed. She walked over to it and turned the clear crystal knob. The knob turned, but the door held fast. He had flipped the latch from the inside. "Cary!" she shouted again. "Open this door!" She pounded at it with her fists and shook the door by the handle.
"Leave me alone," came the thin reply from the other side of the door. His voice sounded like a recording...only a ghost of his real voice.
Diana shoved at the door with her shoulder and kicked it. She simply wasn't strong enough to break it down. What could she do?
"Cary," she said plaintively. "Did you swallow some pills?"
A strangled cry followed by a succession sobs was his only reply.
She took that to mean yes. Diana's heart was pounding in her throat. She raced to the living room and put the phone back on the hook. She waited a few seconds--which seemed like a few eternities--then picked up the receiver. With a shaking hand that almost missed the numbers, she punched in 9-1-1.
The phone rang once, then a bored voice came on the line. "Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?"
"It's my boyfriend. I think he swallowed some pills," Diana said, suddenly feeling remarkably relieved that she had a lifeline to the outside world.
"Is he conscious?"
"Yes, but please hurry. He's locked himself into the bedroom and I can't get him to come out."
"What kind of pills did he take?" asked the dispatcher in a bland tone, seemingly ignoring Diana's urgent request.
"I don't know! Can't you send someone now?"
"Yes, I'll send over an ambulance. Does he have a gun?"
"Of course not."
"Do you need police?"
"Why all the questions? Is there an ambulance on the way?"
"I need to keep you on the phone until help arrives. Did you see him take the pills?"
"No."
"Is he vomiting?"
"I don't know. I told you, he's locked himself in the bedroom and won't come out!" Diana was getting very annoyed with all of the questions. She wondered what could possibly have prompted Cary to try and kill himself. The conversati
on with Susan Montgomery; did that have anything to do with it? Were they really that angry over his postponement of the book tour?
Finally, the intercom system rang and the EMTs announced themselves. Diana hung up the phone and buzzed them in. There were three of them, complete with a stretcher and various medical sundries. "He's locked himself in there," Diana said, pointing to the shut bedroom door, her eyes moist with tears of relief.
"What's his name?" one of the men asked her, as he approached the door.
"Cary."
He nodded and stood before the door. "Cary?" he called out. "Cary, I'm Douglas Delaney. I'm an EMT. Your wife called an ambulance for you. How many pills did you swallow, Cary?"
The door opened slowly. Cary stood just beyond the door, his skin pale and sallow. The shadows that lay between the lit hall and the darkened bedroom deepened the hollows around his eyes, making his face look like a death mask. His mouth was slack, and his body was limp. "None," he replied quietly. "I just spilled the aspirin, that's all."
"Why don't you come out here in the light," suggested the EMT gently, stepping back to allow Cary passage.
"Really, I'm fine," Cary insisted. "I just got some bad news, then I got a headache."
"What bad news?" Diana asked worriedly.
Cary did not respond. Instead, he allowed himself to be led to the divan, where the EMTs took his pulse and listened to his heart with a stethoscope.
"Everything is normal. I don't think he took anything," said one of them, casting a thanks-for-wasting-our-time look at Diana.
"Sorry for the false alarm," Cary said with a weak smile as the three men left. As soon as the door closed he turned to Diana, his body tense and his eyes glinting. "What the hell did you do that for? Don't you think I've had enough humiliation for one week? First the Al Jackson Show, then the goddamn cops, and now this! Shit, Diana, why can't you mind your own business? I'm an adult for chrissakes!"
Diana was taken aback by Cary's outburst. He seldom cursed. She had only been trying to help. Some gratitude. "You calm down, Cary," she snapped. "You really need someone who cares about you right now, so don't you dare try and drive me away. I'm trying very hard here. I thought you were committing suicide! What did you want me to do? Sit back and hope I was in your will?" She wanted the relationship to work this time, but her patience was wearing thin; she knew she would have to meet him more than halfway. Diana turned on her heel and walked into the kitchen to put away the groceries.
Cary sat fuming on the sofa for a while, then he went into the bathroom. The lights were still on. He saw the bottle of aspirin in the sink, and the pills strewn across the countertop and floor. He could understand Diana's alarm but it was only aspirin for heaven's sake, and most of it was on the floor. As he picked the pills up and tossed them into the toilet, he tried not to think of his hallucination. Was it a hallucination? He'd thought before perhaps someone was playing tricks on him, but how could they manage such stunts? His building was ultra-security, and Diana had not seen anything unusual--like a maggot--or she would have said so.
Oh, God, am I cracking up? No. No. I just need some more rest, that's all.
Cary joined Diana in the kitchen. She smiled at him, and he could tell it was an effort. He didn't want to lose her. He knew he'd better be on his best behavior and not let on about the odd incidents of the last couple of days or she would think he was stark, raving mad. Which, of course, he wasn't. Just needed some rest, that's all.
"Hi," he said sheepishly.
"Hello," she replied coolly, opening a can of chicken soup. She poured to contents in to a saucepan and put it on the stove. "Hungry?"
Cary's stomach roiled at the thought of food, but he nodded. "Em-hm." He paused. "I'm sorry about the way I've been acting lately. I guess I'm just overtired... I do need to go see your doctor after all. After last night I thought I'd be fine, but I guess maybe I'm not."
Diana turned to him and smiled with genuine affection. "Oh, Cary. Will you, really? I think he could help you. You're right. You just need some rest. He'll give you a prescription, and I'll take care of you, honey." He looked so forlorn; she couldn't stay upset with him for long. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He wanted desperately to share his horrors with her--with someone--but he didn't want her to think he was crazy, so he gave her the censored version. "Well, after you left, Susan was giving me a real upbraiding about my decision to take a rest. She just doesn't understand what kind of pressure I'm under. So anyway, I had a bad headache and I went to take some aspirin. And then...then I broke. I started crying." He flushed crimson. "I don't know why. Release of tension, I suppose. Anyway, I dropped the aspirin and went to bed. I just had to lie down and be alone for a while. I was feeling very...helpless. Being a success is more pressure than I'd imagined. It's hard to tell you exactly how I feel, but although I am a commercial success, I feel like a failure personally because I'm not able to write the way I really want to."
Diana was watching him, rapt. She felt such compassion for him. If only he would open up like this all the time. He was such a paradox; sometimes he could be so open, so vulnerable, so loving. Other times--most of the time--he was pompous, emotionally closed-down and so, so serious. "I know, honey," she said softly as she stirred the soup. It had come to rolling boil and she was ready to put some bread in the toaster oven. "But your writing is as fantastic as ever. Although I don't like horror myself--as I know you don't either," she added quickly. She didn't want him to feel she was criticizing him. She was his ally. "I must say, your writing is always above par." Stroke the ego. Don't let him close down again. Now ask him what you really want to know. "Why did you have the house all dark and the drapes closed? I almost tripped over your luggage when I came in."
He didn't mind answering that question, but he would tone down his reasons a bit. Didn't want to seem too paranoid. "Well, I got to thinking what you said about the stalker. Maybe he or she does know where I live. I was just trying to make sure no one could see in."
Diana stole a glance at the open curtain in the living room. She shivered. He was right. "Smart thinking." She decided it wasn't a good idea to press on asking about police protection, though. She didn't want to try her luck. She poured some hot soup into two delicate bone china bowls and placed the French bread on a plate. "Soup's on," she announced cheerfully. "Sorry, but the cod was no good."
They went to the small dining table and Cary poured the wine.
"Good," Cary said, taking a sip of the hot soup. Then he smiled. For real. Gosh, but Diana was pretty. She was poised, and she smelled so sexy. Suddenly, he felt like ravishing her. He had to make a concentrated effort not to blow it with her again. He would go see the doctor, he would sleep through the night, be pleasant by day, and he would work on his Great American Novel.
Life would be sweet from now on.
Chapter 9
Diana's doctor was an old man with a potbelly. Despite his offices in a high rise in Manhattan, he looked rather like Cary imagined a country doctor would: he had a wide, shiny, smiling face with a twinkle in his blue eyes and full, luxuriant white hair that hung in lustrous waves to just below his earlobes. He was the picture of health, which Cary found reassuring in a doctor.
Dr. O'Brien's enthusiastic handshake nearly crushed Cary's fingers. "Hiya, Cary. How are you today?"
Cary wondered if he'd been at the drug supply; he seemed a little too happy. "Fine, thank you," said Cary awkwardly as he sat perched on the doctor's examining table in nothing but a white gown. The shade of his legs very nearly matched the shade of the fabric. His cold feet were tinged a blue-gray.
"Good, good. It's nice to meet you, sir," Dr. O'Brien put his stethoscope to Cary's chest. "How is that gorgeous gal of yours?"
"Diana's doing well," Cary replied without smiling. He had spent a tough three nights since the maggot hallucination with almost no sleep. He hoped desperately that Dr. O'Brien would find something physically wrong with him...because if he didn't, then Cary woul
d have to face the possibility of a mental problem.
"Well, if she makes your heart pound like it is now, I'd say she's doing more than well!" The doctor chuckled, exposing enviably perfect, even bright white teeth. "Just relax, son," he went on softly in a tone that a jockey might use with a nervous race horse.
Cary took a deep breath. As the doctor was taking his pulse, he said, "I understand you're here because you've been having some trouble sleeping through the night. How long have you had this problem, Cary?"
"Well, off and on for my whole life," Cary admitted. "But nothing like the last few months. Some nights I don't sleep at all and when I do, I'm plagued by nightmares."
"Plagued?" The doctor repeated, as though mocking the highfalutin word. "Have you been under any stress lately?"
"Yes. You see, I'm a writer, and I've been trying to work on a novel but I've been having some trouble with it."
"Really?" asked the doctor, clearly interested. "I thought writers just wrote naturally. Didn't know it was stressful."
Although the doctor didn't mean anything by it, Cary took the comment as a personal slight. "It happens to lots of writers, not only me," he said tightly. "Writing takes a lot of discipline and effort. It's not as easy as people think. How would you like to try and fill a thousand blank pages?"
"Okay, okay," replied Dr. O'Brien with a placating smile. "You'd better watch it, or I may have to put you on a lo-pressor."
Cary took another deep breath. "I'm sorry, doctor. I've been edgier than usual lately...I-I'm desperate for some sleep. If only I could sleep, I know things would get better," he concluded almost pleadingly.
"Well, so far everything looks shipshape. We'll run some blood tests on you and take some x-rays. If everything else looks okay, I'll prescribe a mild sedative for you."
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 14
