by Kate Aeon
And yet, sitting there hearing another train coming, he found himself unwilling to get off the tracks.
He rose at the sound of someone knocking on the door. “Brig, I imagine,” he said, and saw Phoebe wince. “You want the three of us to go over to my place to talk? We’ll still have to come back here, because Brig’s going to need to look around the place.”
She looked at him with mute appeal.
“Someone threatened to kill you,” Alan said. “That same someone threatened to kill me, and he clearly knows where you are and what you’re doing almost all the time. To protect both of us, we need to know how he knows that, Phoebe. I’m not crediting the supernatural with this. That’s just too much. Everything that’s going on is already unbelievable — but that your dying ex-husband can call you on some sort of ghost phone? No. That may be what the caller wants you to believe. But do you think that means you should believe it?”
She closed her eyes in defeat. “The three of us might as well all stay here. Your friend isn’t going to find anything, but...”
“Brig isn’t the kind of man who would tell a woman whose husband had just tried to kill her that she should have stayed with him. Trust me.”
Phoebe nodded.
Chapter Fourteen
Alan’s friend Brig landed in her front room like a brick through a window; solid, rumpled, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, with his tie already loosened around his neck, wearing blue jeans and black running shoes. He didn’t look like anything would disturb him. He had his badge clipped to his belt and a shoulder holster on, and with his weathered face and his mussed hair he could have been a misplaced cowboy.
He didn’t look anything like the other one.
That other detective had looked at Phoebe with eyes that would have been at home in a golden retriever — big, sweet brown eyes at odds with the hawkish features, the military haircut, the anal-retentive wrinkle-free clothing.
And when he got the details of her case, he had been coldly and hatefully terrifying. She’d never understood why. She’d only known that he loathed her and that he sympathized with Michael. Phoebe could never understand that.
Alan and Brig shook hands and clapped each other on the shoulders, and then Alan turned and said, “This is Phoebe Rain.” He paused a little, his face odd, and added, “A friend of mine.”
Brig said, “Ma’am,” in a long, slow drawl, and Phoebe could almost hear the horses whinnying in the background.
She rose carefully, took her time walking over to him to hide the limp as best she could, and shook his hand.
The corner of Brig’s mouth quirked in a smile, but that quickly vanished. “You having trouble?” he asked Alan.
“All sorts of trouble,” Alan agreed. “Culminating today in a man claiming to be Phoebe’s ex-husband calling here and threatening to kill me.”
“This the sort of thing your ex might actually carry out?” Brig asked, turning to Phoebe.
Which was, of course, the part of the conversation she would gladly have skipped. “You remember the shooting at the Sebastian Bright Experimental School a couple of years ago?”
He thought for a moment, and she saw the instant when the case clicked. “Nutcase went after his wife with a shotgun, killed two kids on the way to her. She took him out with her bare hands.”
“That was me.”
“Are you kidding?” Brig said. “You were our fuckin’ hero.” He winced. “Pardon my French.”
He turned to Alan. “She saved the lives of twenty-seven kids and a couple of teaching assistants and God only knows who else. The motherf— pardon me, ma’am — the bastard who broke into the school was seven feet tall and weighed three hundred pounds.”
“Six four,” Phoebe corrected. “And about two-thirty.”
Brig grinned a little and looked over at Alan and raised an eyebrow. That glance said, Doesn’t change a thing, does it? “And he was carrying a twelve-gauge shotgun, along with a rifle, and enough ammo to take San Juan Hill on his own. And she took him out. Bare-handed and shot, a hundred pounds soaking wet, she took him out. It was beautiful. There was some talk among the guys of making her the patron saint of abused wives and women with stalkers. Some of us were much in favor.” He turned to Phoebe and said, “I never got to meet you. And I regret the circumstances, which I take it are not good. But I am honored.”
Phoebe, stunned, said, “Patron saint? That isn’t at all what I heard from Jakelowitz.”
Brig made a rude noise and said, “Him. Well. He had your case?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That if I’d stayed with my husband like a good wife, those kids wouldn’t have died.”
Brig turned to stare at her. “Jakelowitz is a horse’s ass who gets his wives mail-order from Russia and the Philippines and China because no woman who has actually talked to the shitbag — pardon my language, ma’am — will give him the time of day. His wives leave him, he blames all womankind, and then goes on the Internet and buys himself another innocent kid to mistreat for a few months or a year.” He raised an eyebrow and studied her. “You didn’t think any sane person felt that way, did you?” And leaning down a little, looking into her eyes, he said, “Christ. You did. You went through all of that and you thought...” He swore under his breath. “Brotherhood of blue and all that, but I swear someone needs to peg Jakelowitz.”
“What that detective told you was the reason you didn’t call the police when this started, isn’t it?” Alan said.
Phoebe shook her head. “The fact that what he said was true stopped me. The fact that I didn’t want anybody else between Michael and me. Nobody’s father. Or mother. Nobody’s husband or wife.”
“And the man calling is your ex? Coming after you again? And you didn’t call us about him because of — oh, fuck!” Brig stared at her.
“It’s not that simple,” Phoebe said. “I did call the FBI. They checked on Michael — because of the state-lines issue and the possibility that he might be active again, they looked into it for me. According to them, he’s still in a coma, and apparently now he’s critical. Not expected to live much longer.” She sighed. “They matched fingerprints, so they’re certain the man in the nursing home bed really is him.” She wished she could tell Brig that no matter what the FBI said, the man on the phone was Michael. But she couldn’t. He would think she was crazy, and that would make one too many people in the room who already thought that.
Brig said, “You mind if I sit down?”
Phoebe indicated a chair and returned to her place on the couch. Alan, after a moment’s hesitation, sat beside her.
“All right,” Brig said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
So she told him about the phone calls, about her attempts to backtrack them and how she never could, about the psychic line and how that worked, about why she was reading tarot for a telephone hotline instead of teaching school or working at some other more respectable job. He listened, he never got that tight look of disbelief on his face. He was, she thought, a patient man.
“Sounds... off. Not a typical crank caller by a long shot. I’m inclined to think that you might have picked up some sort of copycat — though like you, I can’t explain how he’s getting through to you. But that’s something we should be able to figure out pretty quickly. I’ll look around here and see if I can find anything out of the ordinary.”
Phoebe nodded and Brig rose. Then Brig’s cell phone went off. He took the call, and she saw his whole body posture change, and she thought, Whatever is on the other end is bad.
“I’m going to have to go now,” he told them both. “I’ll do my best to make it back later today, but...” He shook his head. “I’m off tomorrow. You’ll be better off expecting me then.”
Alan followed Brig to the door and said, “I’ll walk you out.” He turned to Phoebe and added, “Be right back.”
Out at the car he said, “I want to believe her, Brig. I want to believe she’s exa
ctly what she looks like.”
“A sweet little kook?”
Alan sighed. “There are some things I haven’t told you — they involve me as well as her, and they’re what make me think she isn’t a kook. But I have to consider the possibility that she’s scamming me.”
Brig looked startled. “She’s a nice kid. Nice lady, I guess. She went through hell a couple years back. That was all real, Alan. I didn’t have her case, but I sure as hell heard about it.”
“I wasn’t sure about that. It seemed kind of dramatic. But I’m relieved to know that part of it is true. Still, though... I want to believe her, but she’s done a couple of things that make me suspicious.”
“Care to give me the details?”
“I’d rather not unless I know she’s faking all of this.” He rubbed his forehead and stared down at his shoes.
“Considered hiring a detective?”
“No. I feel slimy enough doubting her. God help me if I paid someone to investigate her and she came back innocent.” He frowned. “I hate to ask, but could you run a background check on her? Nothing official. Just a little peek to see if she might be trying to bag a doctor for a husband.”
Brig sighed. “I like her. I admired the hell out of her for what she managed to do. I don’t want to think she’s just another bitch with an angle, Alan. We all need a few things to believe in.”
Alan knew how much Brig was suffering at the moment at the hands of one such bitch with an angle and her lawyer. “I know. If it makes you feel any better, I feel like a scumbag for even asking you to look.”
Brig reached his white Crown Vic and opened the door. “I’ll check. I promise. And if I find anything that gives me cause for alarm, I’ll let you know.”
“I hope you don’t find anything.”
“Me, too.” Brig swung into the car and stuck the key in the ignition. “We have a fucking mess over in the Hilldale Apartments. Sounds like a big, sloppy murder-suicide. That’s the rest of my day. It’s probably going to be tomorrow before I can look into the situation over here. I’ll bring some guys over in the morning to look at her phones and dig around a little — see if we can shake the caller loose. Meantime, any more threatening calls come in, you need to call the station and get someone out here right away.”
“Right.” Alan watched Brig drive off and turned back to the townhouse with mixed feelings.
While she was waiting for Alan to get back, Phoebe’s phone rang. No caller ID. Dammit, where was her caller ID?
Then she remembered that she’d only paid part of her phone bill the month before because she didn’t have enough money to cover the whole thing.
BellSouth might have dropped her caller ID. Her voice mail. She had to call and find out.
She got up, hobbled over to the table, and answered the phone, trying to stay calm.
“Agent Toeller here. I just received notice that Michael Schaeffer died a few minutes ago. This is to let you know that we’re closing his case.”
Phoebe froze. “What about the DNA evidence? You’re still checking that, aren’t you?”
“Your ex-husband is dead, and the case is closed, Ms. Rain. You have to accept that.”
Phoebe leaned against the table, fighting back tears. Michael was dead — the FBI had checked and the body of the dead man was really Michael’s. But Michael was still calling her. It was Michael. Wasn’t it? “I understand.”
“You’ve talked to the local police, haven’t you?”
“I have,” she said. “The detective left just before you called, in fact.”
“Good. Work with them. Let them help you find the person who’s really after you.”
Phoebe thanked him again.
After they hung up, she realized that she had tears running down her cheeks. She wasn’t sad. She wasn’t relieved. She was, instead, scared almost witless. What Toeller had told her left her feeling like she was in a tiny boat that had been moored to the dock by one frayed little rope, and now that rope had been cut. She was adrift, alone, with a storm building. And no one was going to save her.
Her phone rang again.
She picked it up.
And Michael said, “Time for you to join me. You and your doctor and that cop. ’Til death do us part.”
And then he was gone, and Alan walked through the door looking thoughtful and saw her standing there with the phone still in her hand.
“The FBI called. The agent said Michael is dead. They’re closing his case.” Her voice was shaking when she said it.
Alan felt like a complete shit for asking Brig to investigate her. She wasn’t a con artist. He could look at her and see that. “We’ll figure this out, Phoebe,” he said. “Brig is a good guy. He’ll get to the truth of this if anyone can.”
Phoebe wrapped her arms around herself and turned her back on him. “Michael called me right after Agent Toeller did,” she said, ignoring his attempted comfort. “He says it’s time for us to join him. You and me and Brig. He said... ’til death do us part’.”
Alan stared at her. “The guy who called you mentioned Brig? By name?”
“No. He called him ‘that cop.’ But he knew Brig was here.” She tightened her grip on herself. She felt like she was going to fly apart if she didn’t hang on harder, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hang on hard enough. “It was Michael who called,” she whispered. “It was Michael. It was really him. Michael is dead, but Michael called.”
Michael, dead Michael, had threatened Alan again. Only no one had heard but her. No one was there but her. The phone would say that only the FBI had called. There were no records of Michael, no tracks, he was dead and the mug kept moving and in her dreams Michael came to her and he touched her and when she picked up the phone Michael was there but no one else would know it was him only she knew his voice only she heard him in her nightmares and felt him watching her when she was alone.
And Michael was going to kill her. This time he was going to do it. But first he was going to kill Alan’s friend Brig. And then he was going to kill Alan.
Alan, who in an impossibly short time had come to seem to her like the only solid ground in the midst of a tempest.
Michael was going to kill Alan. Or perhaps nothing was the matter, no one was calling, the mug was exactly where she left it, the phone wasn’t really ringing, and she was losing her mind. Hearing voices. Seeing shadows. Living in a nightmare of her guilty mind’s own making, because she was the reason two kids were dead and the guilt was going to devour her.
But no. Michael had talked to Alan. That had been real.
Alan needed to get away from her. Phoebe had already known that Alan had to be temporary in her life. Even if Alan wanted to be with her, the poison from Michael was going to keep coming, and it was going to destroy anyone who stood between Michael and her. She hated the idea of letting Alan slip away from her, or of pushing him away, which was what she probably needed to do. But she couldn’t know that Michael had threatened Alan and not take every possible step to protect him.
Phoebe turned to face him, determined to save him from Michael, or from herself if she was the danger. “I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know you need to get out of town. To get as far away from me as possible. You need to just leave from work and... go on vacation or something. I don’t want — anyone — coming after you.”
Alan said, “I’m not leaving town. Brig’s good; he’ll figure out what’s going on with your crank caller and take care of it.”
“What about Chick?”
“What about her?”
“She came to you to tell you that you were in danger.”
“I haven’t figured out what’s going on with Chick yet, Phoebe. I just don’t know. I don’t know about anything right now.” He sighed. “I’m about eight hours behind on charting — I’m going to have to get caught up. I won’t be able to finish before I go on shift, but I should be able to make a big dent in the paperwork.”
“When does your shift st
art?”
“Seven p.m. I’m on until seven tomorrow morning. Maybe it’ll be slow and I’ll be able to sleep once I go on duty.”
He yawned and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, a gesture that Phoebe found endearing. Boyish.
“You’re vulnerable. Michael wants to hurt you. He wants to kill you. You don’t know him. You don’t understand what he’s capable of. If you’re at work, he’ll know how to find you.”
Alan shook his head and rested both hands on her shoulders. “Phoebe, sweetheart, the Michael you knew is dead. I don’t know who’s after you — but whoever he is, this guy isn’t a god. He isn’t a ghost. He’s a man, and while he may have some tricks up his sleeve, he isn’t invulnerable, and he can’t just appear out of nowhere and get you or me if we’re watching out for him. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful. That’ll have to be good enough, because I have to go in to the hospital today. People’s lives depend on me being there. And you’ll be okay, too. The police are looking into this mess. They’ll find the guy who’s calling you. In the meantime, keep your doors locked, check before you answer, and don’t let anyone in but me, or Brig if he comes back today. Okay?”
Phoebe thought, You’re too busy saving other people to save yourself. But she didn’t say that. Instead, she said, “You think horrible things never happen to people once the police start looking into it? You think that all those women with restraining orders who end up slaughtered on their kitchen floors were saved by the fact that the police knew who wanted to hurt them?” She leaned forward. “We have to save ourselves, Alan. We’re the only people who can watch out for ourselves twenty-four hours a day. If Michael — or whoever — comes after you, the police will end up picking up what’s left after the fact and trying to figure out who did it, and how. They can’t be everywhere that he might be all the time to protect you.”
But Alan just gave her a hug and said, “You’re afraid, and I really understand that. The call I took was frightening. I’d think that knowing your ex-husband is dead and can’t hurt you anymore would help. Knowing the police are involved should help. Knowing that I’m here for you — that should count for something, too. You aren’t alone, Phoebe. Not anymore.”
