Sleep No More

by Susan Crandall

Anyone smart and experienced enough to break in so cleanly would surely be smart enough not to risk driving a car down a quarter-mile-long narrow lane and chance getting trapped. The road in front of Abby’s property was too narrow and bordered on both sides by deep drainage ditches. Where would they have hidden a vehicle?

  Jason fell asleep with that thought on his mind.

  A few hours later, he awakened with a possible answer.

  Abby roused slightly. Enough to realize she wasn’t in her own bed. Then she remembered. Jason—she was in his daughter’s room. And she’d gone sleepwalking in the night.

  It wasn’t as if she hadn’t expected it. All of the triggers were there, sleep deprivation, stress, a break in routine. Still it had made her heart race and her bowels weak when she’d startled awake. All of the precautions had worked this time. But what if the battery on the alarm failed next time? What if she didn’t make enough noise for Jason to hear her?

  With a groan, she rolled onto her back and fisted her hands in her hair. Although her night’s sleep made her feel human for the first time in days, it was so not worth the risk to stay here again. Her sleepwalking was a malignancy that couldn’t be excised, a disease with contagious side effects that threatened everyone around her.

  As she drew in a breath of surrender to the power of the darkness inside, she smelled it. Coffee and bacon.

  She realized she hadn’t eaten at all yesterday. Jason had offered food upon their return to his house last night, but she’d been too exhausted to eat.

  It had been years since she’d awakened to someone making her breakfast—and she would never wake to it again. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she missed that feeling of security and belonging that came with someone cooking for you while you slept.

  Belonging. The word struck a chord. She thrived on her independence, had never allowed herself to long for anything different. Life was what it was, not a storybook ideal. But for this brief moment, she permitted herself to imagine Jason in the kitchen making her breakfast under different circumstances.

  It was a lovely and stimulating thought. No doubt if she was a normal woman she would pursue those circumstances. But for her, sexual relations were fleeting; long-lasting entanglements virtually nonexistent. She didn’t think if she shared that intimacy with Jason, she would ever be able to let him go.

  A small place in her chest felt cold and empty as she realized that, sooner or later, Jason would be making breakfast for a normal woman, a woman who deserved him. A woman who was not Abby.

  Aggravated with her self-pity, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. She had never dallied in daydreams. Now wasn’t the time to start. She made the bed and went to her overnight bag. She’d only brought enough for one night, as that was all she would allow herself. Today she would come up with a way to secure her cottage from intruders—maybe a thick crossbar like they used in the old days, or a heavy slide bolt on the inside. She’d figure out something.

  As she rummaged in her bag she was stunned with the bizarre combination of things she’d thrown in it: orange nylon sweat pants and a purple cashmere sweater, green running shoes and nylon stockings. Only her underwear was coordinated, although wholly inappropriate—a black lace thong and bra.

  “You’re gonna be one good-lookin’ babe this morning.” With a sigh she gathered her clothing, switched off the alarm, and headed to the bathroom.

  She took a quick shower. Hunger outstripped pride and she went downstairs barefoot, with wet hair and no makeup. Dressed as she was, her pride was useless.

  Jason was standing over sizzling bacon and didn’t hear her come to the kitchen doorway. She took a moment to watch him. He wore well-molded jeans and a light-gauge black sweater that showed those muscles that Abby had been crying all over for two days.

  Damn, he looked every bit as good making breakfast as she’d imagined. What a shame this would be her only opportunity to witness it.

  He must have heard her sigh, because he turned around. He gave a startled jerk, his eyes widened, and he nearly dropped his spatula. Immediately, he censored his expression. “Morning.” He said it tight-lipped, suppressing his grin.

  “Go ahead, laugh,” she said. “I look like Bozo the Clown fresh out of the dunk tank.”

  He accepted her invitation and sputtered into laughter.

  “Hey, I said laugh, but I meant tell me I’m perfectly lovely,” she chided as she walked into the room.

  By the time she’d reached his side, he’d grown more subdued. “As I was just about to say, you look lovely this morning.” His voice dropped when he added, “Really.”

  He got that look in his eye, like he was going to kiss her again.

  She took a step away.

  He took the hint and retreated to safer ground. “Guess I should have supervised your packing.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Feed me.” She walked closer and sniffed the French toast he had on the griddle. “Smells great.”

  “Sit,” he said. “How do you take your coffee?”

  She pushed her wet hair behind her shoulders and sat down at the table. “Like my men: hot, white, and weak.”

  “Aren’t we sassy this morning?” He set a coffee-filled mug and a carton of half-and-half in front of her. “You must have slept.”

  She looked up at him, hovering just behind her right shoulder. “I did. Thanks to you.”

  “I should love hearing a woman say that.” He paused. “But not after she’s asked me to lock her alone in a bedroom.”

  Their playful conversation felt like sparks on her tongue and effervescent bubbles in her chest. She chuckled appropriately and concentrated on adding cream to her coffee. If I’d had my druthers, I wouldn’t have been alone.

  He shuttled the rest of the food to the table.

  When he sat down next to her and offered her the bacon platter, she took two polite pieces instead of the six her stomach was demanding. He grinned and shoved another two onto her plate.

  Well, he was only two shy of her desires.

  As they poured maple syrup—the real thing, she noted—on their French toast, he said, “I was thinking last night about the person who broke into your house.”

  She looked at him, those effervescent bubbles in her chest evaporating. “And?”

  “Whoever it was seemed knowledgeable—with the lock and all. Would someone like that risk driving back on your lane with no other way out?”

  As she chewed she thought. “You think they walked in?”

  “Maybe.” He took a sip of coffee. “Doesn’t your property front the river?”

  “They came by boat?” She got that feeling that Great-Gran Girault used to call someone walking on your grave. The intruder coming by river hadn’t even crossed Abby’s mind. The riverbank was overgrown and the dock had decayed to a few weathered pilings years ago. That kind of knowledge of her property opened many disturbing possibilities.

  “It’s something to consider. It’d be less risky than the road. They could come in with motor and lights off. No one would ever know they were there.”

  She had no idea why that idea made the entire break-in seem more creepy, but it did.

  “I’d like to go out and take a look,” he said. “See if it appears someone landed a boat back there recently.”

  She retreated to their earlier mood in order to hide her increased uneasiness. “That’ll work great, because I clearly need to rearrange my outfit.”

  “Aw, and my eyes were just getting used to the clashing colors and stopped hurting.”

  They finished eating without further conversation. Abby was too hungry to initiate any more conversation that might take her appetite away. But once she’d cleaned her plate and they were rinsing the dishes, she said, “Something about that message on the mirror has been haunting me.”

  He stopped in mid-motion and looked at her. “I would hope so.”

  “The wording, I mean. The reason why didn’t hit me until this morning while I was in the shower. The ni
ght after the accident I received a phone call around two in the morning. There was a lot of background noise. The person—I couldn’t even tell if it was male or female—was obviously drunk and crying. They said, ‘please don’t tell… please.’ I thought it was someone drunk dialing. But now I’m not so sure.”

  He set down the plate he’d been rinsing. “Did you tell the police?”

  “No. It didn’t seem like anything—until last night.”

  “Do you have caller ID?”

  She huffed. “No, and don’t lecture me on it.”

  “Maybe we’d better call the sheriff and meet with him before we go to Savannah. They could be working on getting the phone records.”

  “I’d rather not. A few hours won’t make that much difference. I want to see what we find out under hypnosis before we see him.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow morning and set up an appointment with him—if that’s all right with you.”

  “Be my guest.” Normally she was a do-it-myself kind of gal. But she had to admit, it was nice letting Jason make this call. She wanted the sheriff to know someone as intelligent and well-educated as Jason Coble was on her side when she tried to convince him that she’d been sleep-driving when the accident happened.

  He said, “We probably won’t be back from Savannah until late. It’s a two-hour drive each way and we’re not meeting Sonja until six.”

  Sonja. Sounded exotic. She was probably European and brilliant. Abby already didn’t like her.

  When they went out to Jason’s driveway, the Explorer appeared odd to Abby. She was almost to the driver’s door when she realized it was sitting lower than it should be.

  Jason had been more astute and was already down inspecting the tires on the passenger side. He said, “All four are flat.”

  “Well, crap.” One spare wasn’t going to do her any good. And getting tires on Sunday wasn’t in the cards in Preston.

  Jason stood and looked across the hood of the Explorer, concern on his face. “They’ve been cut.”

  Cut. As in done on purpose. It hadn’t been the bad luck of driving over nails spilled on the road. Then it sank in, and she felt as if she’d taken a fast drop over a hill in a speeding car. Someone was following her. Following her! She started to shake.

  “Who would know to look for my car here?” It was a ridiculous question, but she had to ask it. “I mean, it’s not even really my car.”

  Jason looked around with fire in his eyes; as if there was a snowball’s chance on the Fourth of July that the person who’d done this would still be nearby. “I’m liking this less and less. Call the police.”

  “We’re inside city limits. Should I call the sheriff’s department or city police?”

  “Call the sheriff.”

  Abby dug in her purse for the card Officer Fisher had given her last night. It had the non-emergency number on it. When she explained what she needed and why, the man who’d answered the phone transferred her to Master Sergeant Kitterman, an investigator.

  It being Sunday, Master Sergeant Kitterman wasn’t in his office. She left a voice mail in which she explained everything all over again.

  When she got off, Jason was just putting his own cell phone back in his pocket. “Bryce’ll be here in a few minutes to run us to get my car. What did the police say?”

  “Apparently I’m now in the hands of an investigation officer.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “Then why did I feel like a criminal when the guy on the phone said ‘all reports and investigations pertaining to Abby Whitman are now to go directly to Master Sergeant Kitterman’?”

  “Abby, it means they think the incidents surrounding you are connected in some way. They’re not leaving it in the hands of various patrol officers. Now it’ll be looked at as a cohesive case.”

  She wondered if her case would be getting this much attention if she hadn’t killed a senator’s son, but kept the thought to herself.

  “We should leave your car untouched until we hear from someone at the sheriff’s department,” Jason said. “If you don’t mind, I still want to check the river before we go to Savannah. There’s rain in the forecast.”

  “No problem.” There was absolutely no way she was going to meet a woman named Sonja dressed like this.

  Jason picked up her overnight bag and she followed him to the street to wait for Bryce. He set her bag on the grass next to the curb and remained quiet—in a preoccupied way. He had a look similar to the one he’d worn last night after he’d seen the words on the mirror. A look that said he’d like to inflict bodily harm on whoever was doing this.

  Bryce arrived a couple of minutes later. His hair looked as if he’d just tumbled out of bed, and his expression was surly as a bear dragged out of hibernation.

  Jason opened the rear passenger door for Abby. She got in and he handed her bag to her, and then got in the front passenger seat.

  Bryce eyed her overnight bag. She settled it on the floor by her feet, as if out of sight truly was out of mind.

  He asked Jason, “Why didn’t you come get your car last night?”

  “It got late,” Jason said vaguely.

  Abby shot him a look that he didn’t seem to notice. Why hadn’t he explained that she’d only spent the night because of a break-in, and had slept in Brenna’s room?

  Bryce didn’t say another word the entire way to Jason’s car. But he did keep a nasty eye on Abby in his rearview mirror most of the time. It felt every bit as accusatory as Gran Girault’s had been, but for a much different reason.

  From the back stoop of Abby’s cottage, she could see the flat, dark water of the broad Edisto River as it made a meandering curve and headed away from the property. The old boat dock was hidden from view, built where the river’s course dipped more deeply into Whitman land.

  “The dock is off to the left,” she told Jason as they descended the steps. “Through that grove of trees.”

  They walked in silence until they came to the path that led through the grove.

  Abby stopped and looked at Jason. “I suppose we won’t mess up any footprints by walking on the lane.”

  “It’s too loose and sandy to hold one.” He took her hand.

  She immediately withdrew her hand from his and felt as if she’d peeled a layer of her own skin away. God, she’d never wanted anyone like she did him.

  Was it simply because she knew she couldn’t have him?

  As they walked, she sensed him looking at her. She kept her gaze ahead and put a little more space between them.

  He said, “I’m hoping the riverbank is a different story.”

  “Oh, it is. It’s a muddy mess,” she assured him. “Mom used to get so mad at Dad when we were little and he took us down here. We made castles out of the mud like other kids made sandcastles on the beach—except tidal mud stinks.”

  “I hadn’t thought of the tide, didn’t know it reached this far inland. Let’s hope it didn’t wipe out any footprints we might find.”

  “It’s pretty muddy even beyond high tide line,” she assured him.

  They reached the end of the lane. The rotting pilings rose first out of dry sand and shell where the dock used to meet the lane. Then the thick posts marched through the grasses and out into the dark water of the river where the barges would carry the rice away from the plantation—the skeleton of a time long gone. The dock had been maintained for pleasure craft as long as the house had been occupied. This dock was just one more casualty of Abby’s disorder.

  Jason said, “Wait here.” He picked his way carefully toward the river.

  It didn’t take but a few seconds before he called to her, “Better get the police out here.”

  Abby’s heart beat faster as she followed Jason’s footsteps until she was right behind him. At the edge of the river was a three-foot-wide area where the tall grasses and reeds had been broken over. In the middle of that was a depression in the mud that looked to have been made by the bow of a small boat. There were plenty o
f footprints around it.

  The sight made Abby’s skin crawl. Someone out there was very calculated in what they were doing. What did they have planned next?

  CHAPTER 17

  Apparently having a second new development in a matter of hours warranted disturbing Master Sergeant Kitterman on a Sunday morning. Thirty minutes after her call, he arrived at Abby’s instead of a patrol officer.

  He was a whiplike man with a receding chin and thinning hair. But Abby quickly saw his appearance was a disguise; there was nothing weak about him. He held himself as if it was difficult to keep his energy in check. Even as he introduced himself to her, his sharp eyes seemed to be taking in everything around him.

  His questioning glance landed on Jason.

  “This is Jason Coble,” she said. “A friend.”

  Kitterman said, “The sheriff told me of your involvement. I hadn’t realized it was personal.” Although this was a statement, it had the feel of a question.

  “Sergeant Kitterman.” Jason shook his hand, not taking the bait on the questioning tone.

  “Let’s have a look at what you found.”

  As Abby led him to the river, Jason followed just behind.

  Kitterman asked, “What made you think of checking for a boat?”

  “I didn’t. Jason did.”

  “Is that so?” He cast a glance over his shoulder. “What prompted you to look here?”

  Jason said, “The narrow lane and no other way out. It seemed unlikely that someone who had enough finesse to break in without damaging locks would put themselves in a position to be trapped.”

  Kitterman nodded his approval.

  When they reached the ruins of the dock, Abby indicated where he would find the evidence.

  Jason stood next to her with a hand on the small of her back as she watched Kitterman survey the muddy bank.

  In a moment he returned. “Looks like it was probably a small fishing boat. Wouldn’t need deep water. There are some good-quality tracks. Can’t tell if there’s anything unique enough about them to do us any good. I’m going to need my casting kit and camera.” He looked at Jason. “Would you mind staying here while Abby and I go get the equipment?”