by Anna Durand
He hovered behind her, silent, unmoving. The intruder who snuck into the house without breaking a window. The magical shadow man.
Their reflected gazes met. He stepped back, gesturing with one hand, confusion flickering on his face. She whirled to confront him.
The empty shower stall gaped back at her.
A gale swept through the bathroom. The roll of toilet paper flapped in its holder. Towels undulated on the rack beside the shower. Her hair lashed against her face.
She must've imagined seeing the intruder. The stress of everything triggered yet another hallucination. She needed to relax. No one had been there. The wind came from … the air conditioner, a window, or a freak indoor vortex. She was grasping at shadows, desperate to accept any answer, to grab hold of anything that might explain what she witnessed.
To hell with logic. A phantom man was not logical.
Out the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the closed window.
A coldness burrowed in her belly. Wind did not erupt in a closed room. Well, if she accidentally tripped a circuit in the universe that opened the doorway to the beyond, anything could and would happen. Wind without source. Men who vanished. Air vacuumed out of a room.
If a huge rabbit bounded into the house and slapped a wet kiss on her, she'd commit herself to the nearest hospital. Until then, she would deal with her new reality. Make that surreality.
Or plain old insanity.
She gave up on showering, settling for rinsing her hair in the sink. Two voices shouted inside her head — one warning of impending lunacy, the other urging her to give in to the new reality. The first voice grew louder, until she no longer heard the second. Its litany about the Other World became a memory, a paranoia to which she'd almost succumbed. Almost. There was no magic. No secret world. She hallucinated the intruder, both last night and this morning. The rest was remnants of nightmares. She suffered from an excess of stress, nothing more.
Yet the intruder was familiar to her. Oh sure, she knew him. He was her hallucination after all. Of course she recognized him, from her delusions and crazed dreams.
The dream.
She turned her hand upside-down, exposing the bandage that veiled her palm. Ripping off the bandage and tossing it onto the counter, she touched the skin. Not a scratch, not even a pinprick, scarred her palm. What did she expect, a gaping wound? From a dream? She remembered seeing a cut on her palm last night. That's why she bandaged her hand. This morning the cut was gone. She must've dreamed the injury too.
A spot of color on the counter drew her attention to the discarded bandage. A maroon blotch stained it. She reached out for the bandage. Her finger grazed it. She yanked her hand back and cradled it against her body.
Blood. The gauze was bloody.
Preserve the evidence, a voice in her urged. She jogged to the kitchen, where she retrieved a sandwich bag from the cupboard. Back in the bathroom, she tucked the blood-stained bandage into the bag, sealed the zipper lock, and stuffed the bag into the pocket of her jeans. Crazy, saving a bloody bandage. The blood had meaning, though, a significance she could not yet grasp.
Save the bandage, the inner voice urged.
So she did.
Chapter Five
Grace wandered into the kitchen. Normally, she'd pop a bowl of oatmeal into the microwave for breakfast. The post-nausea hunger still growled, but the idea of putting food in her mouth appealed to her about as much as swilling antifreeze.
A toaster pastry, stale and washed down with root beer, sufficed.
A rapping at the front door interrupted her last bite of pastry. Tossing the empty can of pop in the trash, she hurried to the door and squinted through the peephole. A man with gray-flecked chestnut hair stood on the porch, adjusting his navy tie which matched his navy suit. His white shirt looked crisp and unwrinkled. Reflective sunglasses shielded his eyes.
His tongue darted across his lips.
Grace opened the door a few inches, enough to poke her head into the gap. The man was of average height, with a trim physique fleshed out with muscles. He smelled of something stale and vaguely unpleasant, an odor she couldn't quite identify. A scar slashed across the right side of his neck, below the ear. His eyes, dark as coffee, locked on hers. His wide, thick lips parted into a smile. A subtle undercurrent in his presence unsettled her, like the flush of cold air when a ghost passed through a room.
"May I help you?" she asked.
"You must be Grace," he said. "Deputy Skidmore gave me your name."
She eyed him warily. No drawl colored his baritone voice, and he spoke in precisely articulated syllables. His jacket bulged under the left breast, a small lump that might indicate a cell phone or a day planner. Or a gun.
Christ, she'd gotten so paranoid.
He reaffirmed his smile. "Is everything all right?"
Trouble. The word echoed in her mind. Yet he looked harmless — a little too harmless.
"How may I help you?" she asked again, keeping the door wedged between the two of them.
"It's about the man who approached you last night." He lunged a hand through the doorway. "I'm Henry Winston, by the way."
She shook his hand. His skin was warm, almost feverish.
"What man?" she asked.
"The lost soul who approached you outside this house last night." Winston adopted a solemn expression. "It's a matter of some delicacy. May I come in?"
"No," she said, and guilt flushed her cheeks. If Reilly sent this man, then the matter he wished to discuss must bear some relation to her ordeal last night. This man might offer her a few answers. She ought to invite him inside, but that odd undercurrent within him set her nerves on edge.
Winston removed his sunglasses, tucking them in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. "I understand. A woman alone at home, a stranger at the door, and so forth."
She stared at the crown of his head. The hairs, short and thinning, poked up like fresh-cut grass, with Old Spice substituted for the aroma of turf. The cologne failed to mask the other, stale odor. She estimated his age as late forties.
Twice in their brief conversation Henry Winston had referred to "the man who approached" her, as if the incident involved nothing more sinister than a handshake. Winston's phrasing irritated her, but she supposed he was trying to be diplomatic. If he knew anything about the scarecrow man, the information might help her understand why the freak accosted her.
Ignoring the unsettled feeling in her gut, she swung the door open. "Come on in."
Winston strode past her, swerving left into the living room. He glanced at the sofa, and then opted to settle into the armchair across from it. He propped one ankle atop the other knee. Linking his hands over his abdomen, he gazed at Grace with a neutral expression.
She lowered herself onto the sofa, perched on its edge. Her hands she dropped to her sides, with the fingers tucked under her legs. Winston swept his gaze over her entire body, as if assessing a racehorse before making an offer to purchase the animal.
"What's this about?" Grace asked.
"The man you encountered last night. His name is Adam Hansen, and he escaped from a private clinic outside Dallas several days ago. I'm his psychiatrist." Winston stretched his arms out, one on each arm of the chair. "I need to find Mr. Hansen before he harms himself or someone else."
She waited for him to continue, but a long silence ensued. Finally, she asked, "What does this have to do with me?"
"I hoped you might be able to provide some clues as to his whereabouts."
"Sorry." She hunched her shoulders. "He babbled nonsense and then he left. I didn't ask for a forwarding address."
"What precisely did he say to you?"
Memories flashed through her mind. The creepy little man lunging at her. His claw-like fingers scratching at her. His voice, hoarse and fraught with anxiety.
They want your mind.
Her throat tightened. She swallowed against the constriction, focusing on Henry Winston. He watched her — and waited.
"Um … " She floundered for a believable lie, because she certainly would not tell Winston the truth. "I don't really remember what he said. None of it made sense."
Winston sat forward. "Deputy Skidmore mentioned that you claimed a second man broke into your home immediately after Mr. Hansen left."
She stared at him, unable to form a response. Reilly told this man, a complete stranger, the details of what happened to her last night. She understood Reilly sharing information about Adam Hansen's attack on her, because Winston did claim to be the scarecrow man's psychiatrist. But her encounter with the shadow man? Reilly had no business telling Winston about that.
So much for privacy.
"Tell me about this other man," Winston said.
Like hell, she thought, but said nothing. If Winston was a psychiatrist, after hearing about her encounter with the disappearing intruder he'd drag her off to his so-called private clinic and pump her full of enough drugs to put an elephant in a coma.
Next time she saw Reilly Skidmore, she'd slug him.
Which would get her arrested for sure. Brilliant idea, Grace.
"There's nothing to say," Grace told Winston. "I was mistaken."
Leaning back in the chair, Winston stared at her. She felt his attention focused on her like the hot glare of a high-wattage bulb aimed directly in her face. The urge to flee rushed through her, but she suppressed it. Her involuntary reaction to this man was ridiculous. Though he was rude and strange, those traits hardly qualified him for membership in Maniacs Anonymous.
"Perhaps you were mistaken," Winston said, drumming one finger on the chair. Then he broke eye contact and added, in a casual tone, "I understand your parents and grandfather passed away last year."
Grace went stone still. A cold pit hardened in her gut. Reilly couldn't have told Winston about the deaths of her parents and grandfather, because Reilly didn't know. No one knew.
Except for Grace.
"Your parents died in an auto accident," Winston said, "and your grandfather in a plane crash. Is that correct?"
"How could that possibly be any of your business?"
He shrugged. "It speaks to your emotional state at the time of your encounters last night."
The cold pit melted into boiling anger in her gut. She clenched her teeth. It spoke to her emotional state? His words sounded like code for you're nuts, lady.
Winston fixed his stare on her once more. "Do you sometimes wish you could join your loved ones?"
"Join them where?"
"In the hereafter," he said. "Do you ever wish you could die and be reunited with your family?"
She gaped at him, unable to respond. As if trapped in a bad dream, she listened from a detached viewpoint deep inside herself.
"Or perhaps," Winston continued, "you don't believe in the afterlife. In that case, you are completely alone and death offers the promise of oblivion. Freedom from life and struggles, from everything."
Grace snapped back to reality with a jolt that shook her body. This man either had a cruel sense of humor or he was the lunatic in this room.
"Tell me," Winston said, "how did you spend last summer?"
"None of your damn business."
He arched an eyebrow. "Are you unwilling to tell me — or unable to?"
She leaped to her feet. "I'd like you to leave now, Mr. Winston."
A smirk tightened his lips. Without a word, he rose and headed for the door. Grace followed close behind him. Winston swung open the door, stepped outside, and turned to face her. She stood with one hand on the door, ready to shut it in his face.
He leaned into the doorway. "It was lovely meeting you, Grace. Thank you for your hospitality."
She scowled at him.
The smirk widened. He pulled away from the threshold.
Grace slammed the door. She started to walk away, but then stopped. A shiver tingled down her spine. She swung back around to press her face to the door, aligning her eye with the peephole.
Henry Winston gazed at the door, expressionless, green highlights glowing in his dark brown eyes. He bent forward to peer through the peephole.
Grace jerked backward.
The dark circle of the peephole lightened.
Slowly, she leaned forward to look through the lens.
Henry Winston had backed away from the door. Patting the bulge in his jacket with one hand, he waved at her with his other hand. Was he letting her know he had a gun? Certainly, he wanted to intimidate her, though she had no clue why. She'd done nothing to him. They never met until today, as far as she remembered.
Which left plenty of room for doubt.
He turned and sauntered down the cement walkway.
She rushed to the living room window, adjacent to the door. Parting the curtains a couple inches to get a view of the walkway, she watched Winston amble across the lawn and down the sidewalk, out of sight.
A swarm of butterflies danced in her gut. She bit her lip and let the curtains drop closed. For a little while, she'd let herself believe things couldn't get more bizarre — but they just did. The motives of Henry Winston, and indeed his purpose in coming here, eluded her every attempt to comprehend them. Grace hugged herself, rubbing her arms. One thing she did know for certain.
Winston had been sizing her up.
But why? Who was he? What did he want? Was his name even Henry Winston?
More questions without answers.
Chapter Six
An hour later, after much wondering about Henry Winston's visit but without arriving at any conclusions, Grace gave up on the solving the mystery — at least for the moment. She changed into a beige pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse and flats that matched the suit. After a brief but futile attempt to improve her bedraggled appearance with makeup, she drove to Professional Personnel in downtown Lassiter Falls.
The head of the employment agency had expressed an interest in publishing his own book on the subject of job-seeking strategies. He wanted an estimate for book design, but insisted that Grace present her quote in person. The man apparently harbored a Luddite streak that ran deeper than the Grand Canyon. When she'd suggested that e-mailing the quote would save them both a great deal of time, he'd snorted.
"I don't trust e-mail," he'd said, in a tone that matched his derisive snort. "And I don't do business with somebody 'less I meet 'em in person first."
How quaint, Grace had thought, but kept the sentiment to herself. That was how she wound up traipsing all the way to downtown Lassiter Falls when she would much rather have stayed home to nurse the aftermath of this morning's migraine. She really needed this client.
Professional Personnel occupied a suite on the second floor of the newest structure in town, a two-story office building one block from the town square. Grace parked along the street. Several other cars occupied spaces along the curb. However, few vehicles traveled the street, which served as one of the main arteries in Lassiter Falls. The courthouse, a historic site dating to the late nineteenth century, loomed up ahead. Its clock tower jutted above the surrounding trees. At night, the clock glowed orange. On St. Patrick's Day it glowed green, and throughout December its face burned a festive red.
The courthouse reminded her of a Gothic castle. Its spires resembled turrets and its clock tower seemed perfectly suited for the purpose of imprisoning a deposed queen. The traffic circle surrounding the courthouse gave the illusion of a moat. Grace envisioned a dungeon hidden beneath the courthouse, knights dueling on the front lawn, a desperate lady waving a white hankie from the tower's apex.
Grace sighed. She wasn't destined for the tower, but for the office building in front of her. Tearing her gaze away from the majestic courthouse, she approached the modern, and to her mind, depre
ssingly sterile structure known as Market Street Plaza. A pair of glass doors hissed open for her automatically. When she entered the building, cold air enveloped her as the doors hissed shut behind her. Goose bumps prickled her arms. Ahead, a wide staircase curved up toward the second floor. She followed the stairs to the second floor landing. Her loafers shooshed against the carpeting. She imagined herself gliding on a cloud, floating toward the gates of heaven — until the clickety-clack of someone typing in one of the office suites popped the bubble of her reverie.
At the landing, she turned left and trudged down the hallway to a composite-wood door emblazoned with the logo for Professional Personnel. A handwritten sign taped below the logo declared, "Come on in, ya'll." She pushed through the door.
The waiting room was vacant. The reception desk at the far end of the small room also stood unoccupied, the chair behind it turned to one side, a file lying open on the desktop. A light on the telephone blinked red.
Behind her, in the corridor outside, soft voices drew nearer.
Grace marched to the desk.
A woman emerged from a door to the right of the desk. She held a manila folder tucked under one arm. Plopping into the chair, she slapped the folder onto the desktop.
"Are you here to sign up?" she drawled.
"No," Grace said. "I have an appointment with Ron Petrovicz."
"Oh." The woman shuffled papers on her desk. "Ron was supposed to be here today, but I'm afraid he got called for jury duty. Would you like to reschedule?"
Grace felt a scowl creeping into her features. She forced a polite smile to cover it. "Why don't you just ask Mr. Petrovicz to call me when it's convenient for him. We can discuss rescheduling then."
"I'm real sorry about this."
Grace made a noncommittal sound. The receptionist wasn't to blame for her boss's rudeness. Petrovicz should've called Grace to cancel.
"I'll give Ron the message," the woman said.
"Thank you."
The woman reached for the phone. The conversation was evidently over.
