InSight

by Polly Iyer

  “Are you seeing one another?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes.” His pen scratched as he wrote. “I’d like to know who filed the complaint.”

  “As I mentioned, someone reported it anonymously. We’re obligated to investigate each allegation without prejudice.”

  Abby noticed his brusque attitude on the phone had softened. He’d interview Luke and Mack Tollison, then present the facts to the board.

  “They’ll inform you of their decision. If your case necessitates a hearing, you’ll receive a letter stating the time and place.”

  She asked what he thought, but he remained noncommittal. She didn’t expect otherwise.

  After their interview, Jackson spent private time with Cleo and Ellie, who’d come in specifically for the conference. Ellie left right after, and Abby didn’t discuss the interview with Cleo, although her gentle squeeze of Abby’s shoulder offered commiseration.

  The complaint eliminated a patient as her tormentor. How could they know about her involvement with Luke? She’d eliminated Cleo and Ellie immediately, and no one she knew would heartlessly hurt Daisy. The question remained: who wanted to hurt her, and why?

  * * * * *

  If Abby couldn’t solve her own problems, maybe she could solve someone else’s. Unfortunately, her next patient’s story tore her insides apart. She sat back in her chair and listened to the electronic voice read the information Cleo had scanned into her computer.

  Kenya Grimes, a six-foot-six-inch high school basketball star, in the wrong place at the wrong time, the victim of a drive-by bullet to the C-2 vertebra. Paralyzed from the neck down, ventilator dependent, he’d begged everyone and anyone to put him out of his misery.

  Abby honestly didn’t know what to do to change his mind. His was a valid request; one that should be addressed.

  When did we lose control over our lives? Or our deaths? Who is to say he’s better off living a life he detests than to pass on to another, perhaps better one?

  The troubling thoughts cycled through Abby’s mind on her taxi ride to the Grimes’s home. Though Mrs. Grimes welcomed Abby, Kenya did not.

  “You’re wasting your time, Doctor Gallant,” he said between intermittent puffs of air forced into his lungs through a tube inserted in his throat. “I don’t go out much. People stare at me like I’m some…” PUFF “…kind of freak. A visitor from another planet.” PUFF “Don’t think I don’t appreciate what you’re trying to do…” PUFF “…but if whoever sent you thought I’d change my…” PUFF “…mind because you’re blind, they were wrong.” PUFF

  The constant whoosh of the machine and the boy’s synchronized speech had Abby gulping breaths, as if breathing had ceased to be involuntary. Kenya’s mother made sure he had enough water and checked his blood pressure. Abby settled her breathing rhythm. She judged this one of those rare times she was glad she couldn’t see. What she heard wrenched her heart.

  When they were alone again, she gave it her best shot. “You can’t give up, Kenya. I know you won’t believe this, but there’s so much you can still do. I—”

  “Stop, Doctor. Please,” he interrupted. “You can still…” PUFF “…function without assistance, do things alone.” PUFF “I’m at the mercy of my family or an attendant for everything.” PUFF “I can’t control my bodily functions or wipe my own nose.” PUFF. “Nothing you say will change my mind. I want…” PUFF “… this to stop. I need them to let me go in peace. I’m not at peace like this.”

  Abby felt pitifully inept. He hadn’t related to her at all. How could he? Her arguments were half-hearted. Would she feel differently in his place, with an alien body, unable to breathe on her own or to feel the touch of a hand on her skin or to touch another’s? Never to make love. Before the end of the hour, Kenya asked her to leave and not to come back. Kenya Grimes was a graphic reminder of life’s fragility, resurrecting that moment eight years before when everything in her world changed. She didn’t realize she was crying until the cool, wet path of a tear trickled down her cheek.

  Though Abby spoke to his mother before leaving, she found no words to alleviate the woman’s pain. None existed. She returned to the office spent, drained of spirit, and passed the rest of the day mechanically, without her usual immersion. She couldn’t concentrate. Everyone else’s problems, including her own, seemed insignificant.

  She listened to a voice message from Luke, his first contact in days. He apologized for his disappearance and would explain when he saw her. He had to work a crime scene, and instead of picking her up after work, he’d be over around six to take her out to dinner. He asked her to email to confirm. She’d do it later. Let him wait. She wasn’t in the mood for anyone, even Luke, but rationalized that maybe a bottle of wine with dinner would anesthetize her preoccupation with the morning’s consultation.

  She forced herself through the last appointment, feeling hollow, finished up some work on the computer, and left the office an hour before her usual time, with Daisy leading the way out the side door to her waiting taxi. She’d email Luke when she got home, if she felt like it. Maybe being occasionally unavailable would teach him not to take her for granted.

  The taxi beeped, and Daisy led her to where it always waited. “Good evening, James,” she said.

  “James is sick today,” a gruff voice answered.

  “Oh, I hope he’ll be okay.”

  “Uh-huh.” The driver opened the door and she got in. She put her head back and closed her burning eyes. Half pondering the morning appointment and the situation with Luke, she realized the driver missed the turn.

  She leaned forward. “You should have taken a right at St. John.” He didn’t answer. “If you take the next one, we’ll be heading in the right direction.” He said nothing and made no turns.

  What’s wrong with this guy?

  “Do you know where you’re going? I live in the other direction.”

  When he answered with a clear voice, a wave of panic shot through her. She saw her daughter’s face. Heard the shot that ripped her life apart.

  Daisy growled.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Saluda Grade

  Abby’s heart pounded; perspiration saturated her clothes. Was she losing her mind? That voice. The voice of her nightmares. The same voice that held Macy hostage and told Abby she belonged to him, and that if he couldn’t have her no one else would. The speech sounded slurred, but no mistaking the voice of Stewart Gentry. Her dead ex-husband.

  Her blood iced as she watched her life flash by in black and white stills. Remembering in color would make the past too real, too vivid. She couldn’t live through the terror again—nightmares that jolted her awake, gasping for air. Visions when she brushed her teeth, or listened to a book, or when a patient’s innocent remark unearthed a buried horror. Now they were back, all at once, paralyzing her as the images gained speed.

  Stewart in better days.

  Macy, her angelic face laughing, then terrified.

  The slow-motion bullet penetrating her daughter’s heart.

  The first eye-opening blackness.

  Daisy must have sensed her fear and sidled up next to her. She pulled the animal close, afraid Stewart would quiet her without a flicker of conscience, just like he pulled the trigger that ended his daughter’s life. She thought about pulling out her cell, but Stewart would know from the sounds. She’d wait until she was alone. If ever she was.

  “How can this be?” she said barely above a whisper. “You’re dead. Everyone said you were.” Even Lucy. Especially Lucy.

  Her mother’s deception sent a shiver spike down her back. This must be another nightmare. She’d wake up drenched in her own sweat like she had for the last eight years and remark how it seemed so real.

  “Did your mother tell you I was dead?” Stewart’s weak laugh reeked of irony. “Funny, my mother told me you were dead, too. So they both lied. Until recently I thought I’d murdered you.” Stewart’s voice trailed off. “Why do you think she told me that?”


  Why indeed? To keep me out of the picture, that’s why. Something she always wanted to do.

  She heard the lock click after she got in the car. Now she slid her hand along the side of the door, found the latch, and flipped it open, hoping Stewart watched the road and not the rearview mirror.

  “Now what, Stewart?” Abby said. “If you’ve come back to finish the job, why didn’t you do it the night in my yard, when you almost killed my dog? There I was, helpless and vulnerable. It would have been so easy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never been in your yard. Do…do you think I’d hurt you again? I wouldn’t, Abby. Never. I wouldn’t.”

  His voice oozed sincerity, but she’d heard that voice before—the pleading and begging. She tried to shut it out. “I don’t believe anything you say. How could I?”

  “It wasn’t me,” he snapped.

  She braced at his tone. Then he swerved to the side and slammed on the brakes. She lunged forward, but the seat belt prevented her from pitching into the front seat. Reflexively, her arms reached out.

  He’d turned, his voice directed into the back seat. “Why won’t you believe me?”

  Under-the-breath mumbles faded, and she saw her chance. Now or never. In one quick motion, she unbuckled the seat belt and reached for the door handle, planning to take her chances on the highway in hopes a passing car would stop and rescue her. She yanked at the door. Locked. Damn! I didn’t hear that. She fumbled for the latch.

  His hand gripped her wrist. “Didn’t you think I’d see what you were doing?”

  “Let me go, Stewart. Kidnapping me won’t help your case.”

  His laugh scared her. “What case? I don’t have a case. I’ll never have my day in court. I’m insane, remember? Or did you forget?”

  He got out of the car, opened the back door, and fastened the seat belt again. She cringed at his touch. If she had a weapon, she’d use it. Slice through his chest and take out his heart to even the score. Tit for tat. Heart for heart.

  “Don’t try that again. Please, Abby, I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  Now she returned the empty laughter. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

  He leaned close, his voice a whisper. “I can never make up for what I did. I don’t even remember doing it. I remember voices telling me you had a lover. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else touching you.”

  The memories came rushing back. “There was no one else, Stewart. You were the only one. I told you that.”

  “I thought otherwise.” His sad tone sounded as if the truth were a bitter pill.

  “And what are those voices telling you now?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Take me home, please. Before you do something you don’t want to do.”

  “I will. After we talk.”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  His hand brushed her cheek. The contact seared her skin like a hot iron.

  “No.”

  She turned away.

  “I know I can’t have you again. Eventually I’ll be caught, and it depends on who catches me whether I live or die. But first, I have to make you understand why I couldn’t let you and Macy go.” He closed and locked the door, then got back in the driver’s seat.

  “How could you keep us if we were dead?” She took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose.

  “I tried to kill myself too, remember? Then we’d all be together in the hereafter. You, me, and Macy.” He paused, his explanation hanging in the air. “I’ve spent every lucid moment hating myself over what I did, but the person who committed that heinous act doesn’t exist any more. He died that day.”

  She felt sick, her sour stomach revolting. “You sound the same as the day you stood with the gun to Macy’s heart and took from me the only thing that mattered.” Abby’s voice cracked. “Do you remember the fear in her eyes? I do. That’s all I remember because it was the last thing I saw.” She bit her bottom lip hard. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Take a deep breath. She waited until she had control. “What do you want from me, Stewart?”

  “I don’t want to cause you more pain. I only want to talk.”

  Abby wished she could stand back from him objectively, as a psychologist stands back from a patient. But she couldn’t. They had a history. Eight years ago, when she woke up in a dark room, she would have begged him to end her life. But things had changed. She had something to live for now, and she didn’t want to lose it.

  Strapped in the back seat, heart hammering, she gathered her remaining wits. Where is he taking me? Think. Pay attention. They’d been driving for thirty minutes—highway driving. Too fast to be anything else. The setting sun warmed her face, so they were going west. When they reached the steep, miles-long incline, she knew. No other road in the area compared with the Saluda Grade—the link between Tryon and Asheville. The car’s engine strained, and she heard 18-wheelers struggling in the designated slow lane as they passed.

  She recalled the excursion to Asheville with Lucy and Macy to visit the Biltmore Estate before Stewart found them. She remembered the mountain views on the drive up, the quaint towns dotting the landscape—rustic communities filled with retirees from the North, anxious to escape big city traffic and pollution. She even considered opening a practice somewhere in the area. What a perfect place for Stewart to hide while he carried out his plan. He could kill her and no one would ever find her body.

  Abby recalled a book she read years before about a butterfly collector who kidnapped a young art student in London and held her hostage, to admire her as he did his prized butterfly collection. Is that what Stewart planned?

  After an hour, her cell phone rang. Abby quickly grabbed it from the zippered compartment of her purse and flipped up the cover. “Help me!” she shouted into the phone, but only static answered. Was there a message? She fumbled with the buttons to punch in her code, but Stewart quickly pulled over and snatched the phone without a word. She heard the familiar notes as he turned it off. It had to be Pete. Had he heard her plea for help?

  They reached the summit of the mountain, and after a slight descent Stewart veered off the highway, coming to a stop at the end of the exit ramp. Abby flipped the crystal of her watch to time the distance to wherever he planned to take her. He turned right, then made a quick left onto a paved road. After maneuvering a series of hairpin turns that forced her to grab the grip on the door, Stewart turned onto a long gravel road. She lost count of the turns, but according to her watch, he stopped the car twelve minutes after he exited the highway.

  He got out, opened the back door, and took her arm. She kept a tight rein on Daisy’s halter. Shivering from the chill in the air, she pulled her arm away to button her jacket. The trees rustled above her, providing a canopy to shade the area, she assumed, because no sun penetrated their veil. Breathing in the fresh mountain scent of pine and laurel, Abby listened to the symphony of birds and crickets and male cicadas, the crunch of gravel and dead leaves underfoot, and wondered if all the observations mattered. Would she ever leave?

  Stewart led her up six wooden steps, his hand firm on her arm, and unlocked the door. Daisy remained close. Even though she knew she could never run away, Abby mapped the area in her mind, a habit to supply a mental visual of her surroundings.

  Inside, a woody, mildewy odor reminded her of the house Lucy rented on Lake Lanier one summer when she vowed to stop drinking. One of her many vows; one of her many broken promises. Cooking grease permeated the stagnant air. Abby recalled Stewart’s fondness for hamburgers. The odor brought to mind something else. Another smell. Not its presence, but its absence. Cloves. Why didn’t she smell it on his breath?

  “I’ll show you around,” he said.

  Abby recoiled from his touch but managed to mask her disgust. How could she stay here with him, a man who murdered her daughter and who almost succeeded in killing her? She wouldn’t end up a pathetic victim like the young woman imprisoned in the secret bas
ement of the butterfly collector. Stewart was insane, and with Daisy’s help, she’d find a way to escape, or she’d die trying.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Deception

  Luke wasn’t proud of the way he stormed out of Abby’s house the other night. He’d acted like a spoiled child, but he couldn’t answer any more questions without going to a place he didn’t want to go. And being with Abby meant going there. She wouldn’t quit until she got answers. That’s what she did for a living. Pry into people’s lives to root out their problems. Was he ready for that?

  Whether he answered yes or no, he should have found time to email her before the FBI called him to leave immediately for Miami to lip-read a confirmed meeting between a major coke dealer and a Colombian supplier. He determined the time and place of the shipment, then stayed around for the bust. The feds were happy. So was he. Abby had helped him turn a disability into an advantage. He smiled at the thought that he call deafness an advantage.

  Guilt weighed on him the whole time he was gone. He thought about leaving a voice message but it wasn’t the same as talking to her. When he returned, he left a message, then emailed when she didn’t answer. When that didn’t get a response he dropped by her office. Cleo said she had left early, so he drove to her house. She wasn’t home.

  Now he was worried. She couldn’t be that pissed, could she? He left another voice message. Then he sent a text to Pete, who drove to Abby’s to wait with him. By six o’clock, Luke was beside himself with worry. Abby organized everything by time and place and rarely veered from her schedule.

  At six thirty, Pete called the taxi service. Someone had canceled Abby’s pickup. “Man or a woman?” Pete asked. The dispatcher said man.

  Luke checked the time. “She doesn’t do this, Pete. Something’s happened.”

  Pete told Luke about the incident in the car with Lucy.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Luke hoped he kept the annoyance from his voice, but he knew he didn’t.