Love Gone Mad

by Rubinstein, Mark

  “Yes?”

  “And you said Erin and Bob may move to Hartford …”

  “Yes …”

  “I wish you wouldn’t go … to Hartford, or anywhere else.” His throat tightens.

  Megan’s eyes gleam. She sets her other hand on his.

  “I want you to stay here in Eastport.”

  She tilts her head.

  “Because … you’re not dispensable …”

  She plants a kiss on the back of his hand.

  “Please don’t leave,” he whispers.

  Outside, they embrace and kiss; then, with his arm around her, they walk toward his car.

  “Your place … or mine?” she asks.

  “Wherever you’re comfortable.” A surge of excitement swells within him, and his insides quiver. But it’s more than just desire; it melds with a wish to nurture, to protect and provide for. He wonders if he’s ever felt this way before. No, he decides. Not this way.

  “Then it’s my place,” she says. “Marlee’s with Erin and Bob.”

  “Did you by chance plan this … for Marlee not to be home?”

  “Why don’t you wonder about that?” she whispers.

  They stop walking, turn to each other, and kiss. Their tongues slide over each other’s. She tastes of lamb, butter, burgundy, and Megan. When their lips part, they look into each other’s eyes. It’s a startling moment of intimacy. Adrian takes her hand and sets it on his chest.

  “Your heart’s beating so fast,” she whispers, and she plants a kiss on his lips. They head for the car.

  The Audi starts in an instant. A moment later, they turn onto the Post Road. She leans forward and flicks on the radio.

  “You like rock?”

  “Mostly the older stuff,” she says, punching in the buttons.

  “How about Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin?”

  “Love it. And I’m crazy about Italian opera.”

  “I know squat about opera.”

  “I’ll introduce you to it … tonight,” she says. “It’s very romantic.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And it’s tragic, too … always tragic.”

  “What else do you like?” he asks.

  “I’m a movie freak.”

  “What kinds?”

  “Oh, drama, sci-fi, almost any kind—even horror films.”

  “Horror?”

  “Oh yes,” she says with a laugh. “When we were kids, Erin and I used to watch them and scare ourselves half to death. We’d lie in bed and wait for the Wolfman or Frankenstein …”

  “And now, do you still like horror?”

  “If there’s a rerun of Halloween or A Nightmare on Elm Street, I’ll watch it.”

  Her hand rests on his thigh.

  They’re cruising at thirty-five, passing a minimall with a Stop & Shop and retail stores. Far ahead, a red light turns green. He steps on the gas and the Audi cruises toward the intersection.

  A shadow appears on the left. It creeps up slowly, and a moment later, it overtakes them. Adrian glances to his left—sees it out of the corner of his eye—the shadow looms larger now, dwarfs the sedan. Adrian veers right, sees it’s a pickup and it’s much too close. Jesus! What’s wrong with that guy? And then Adrian realizes it’s pulling ahead, veering toward them, and it’s going to pour into the Audi. It swerves suddenly, violently. There’s an explosive slamming—the raw crack of metal on metal as the Audi is hit and the steering wheel jolts in Adrian’s hand. His head slams into the side window. There’s a momentary starburst of lights as he clutches the steering wheel and fights for control.

  He yanks the wheel, pumps the brake pedal, and feels the Audi swerve with a squeal as rubber shrieks on the asphalt. Everything rushes. It happens very fast. There’s no control, and the Audi hurtles off the road. He tries to pull left, but it’s too late. The Audi pitches and sways—there’s screeching, a lurching sensation, and then a blast as the front wheels hit the curb. The car bounces and the seat belt cinches Adrian’s shoulder; then there’s a downward thrust and the belt grabs his waist. His guts compress. The Audi leaps the curb, tilts upward, and careens onto a grassy area; the harness pulls at him. He’s jerked back and then forward. A blasting impact rocks him and something billows about him, blinding and smothering, and he can’t breathe. Everything stops. He fights for air and feels his lungs compress, and smoke surrounds him.

  The deflating air bag hisses. The car fills with vapor; but it’s not smoke—it’s powder. Clunking comes from beneath the hood. The smell of engine oil and gasoline fills Adrian’s nostrils, and there’s a spiderweb of windshield cracks; suddenly, a section falls inward and onto them in a sheet of splintered glass. The car is angled, front wheels in the air, and there’s more noise—a strange clanking sound, a pinging—and a wave of fumes. Don’t panic, he tells himself.

  “Megan!” he yells.

  He hears a low moan from his right.

  “Megan! Megan!”

  Hissing comes from behind the fire wall. It’s steam and smoke mixed with the smell of gasoline. Heat percolates everywhere.

  Megan is slumped in the seat, head down. There’s another moan. They’re trapped amid crumpled steel and broken glass, half-suspended, fumes wavering around them. The heat intensifies.

  He unbuckles his seat belt and lunges for Megan.

  There’s an explosion of lights—blue, red, and amber—and the wail of a siren, then another. An ambulance, squad cars, police officers, and EMS people swarm everywhere. Glass is smashed and metal creaks and groans. Megan hears shouting, and someone barks commands amid radio static; then comes the tortured squeal of metal shearing, and she sees firemen with crowbars. There’s another groaning sound as the Audi’s doors are pried open.

  Megan’s wobbly and her chest aches where the seat belt wrenched her. Blood drains from her head; it’s a light-headed, bleached-out feeling, and the night turns white. A cold, prickly sensation rushes up her arms as she’s led away from the car. She hears Adrian say something, but it’s all so far away. She sits on grass—wet with evening dew—far from the car. The car’s crushed front end rests atop the remnants of a low stone wall. Its headlights cast white shafts of light into the air.

  Adrian talks with police officers, describing what happened. How calm and unruffled he seems. It must come from doing surgery—life and death, a daily routine for him. But Megan feels hazy, dazed. And above all, so frightened she’s shaking.

  “No,” Adrian says. “I never got the plate.”

  “Did you see the driver?” asks a cop.

  “No, it had darkened windows.”

  Megan wonders if the cop might think Adrian was DUI and just lost control of the car. After all, his breath must smell of wine. But there’s a young man there—a buzz-cut college kid wearing a Fairfield University sweatshirt and jeans.

  “Yes, Officer,” the kid says. “I was right behind them and saw the whole thing. A pickup just ran them off the road. No reason.”

  “What color was it?”

  “Dark, but I’m not sure because of the sodium lights,” the kid says. “It could’ve been dark blue or black. Its plates were spattered with mud.”

  “Any identifying marks?”

  “Not that I could see.”

  “Could you make out the brand? Ford, Toyota … anything?”

  “It could’ve been a Ford F-250 or maybe a Toyota Tundra, but I’m not sure.”

  Cars slow to a crawl on the Post Road as people rubberneck. Cops direct traffic. Headlights pierce the night air; a stream of red taillights snakes off in the direction heading toward Fairfield; horns blare; Megan hears snippets of conversation. She nearly recoils at the smell of gasoline and smoke in the damp night air.

  My God! We were run off the road by a madman.

  Megan’s shaking as she wonders why she didn’t take Ann’s advice, why she didn’t call an investigation agency—some by-the-hour PI who could run a quick check—find out where on earth Conrad is. It might take a few hours, but he could be locate
d quickly. God, he could be back here in Connecticut. Was the pickup Conrad’s from years back? His was black—and this monster? She just glimpsed it. It’s three years now. Who knows if he even has that big Ford.

  An EMS guy squats beside her. He looks into her eyes, scribbles something, and asks questions. God, he reeks of cologne—smells like Paco Rabanne or some other crap. Nauseating, cloying, absolutely puke-worthy. It’s worse than those gladioli. A sickeningly sweet scent seeps into her nostrils, penetrating her brain. Megan feels she could vomit.

  He asks her name, the date, where they are, other questions: time, place, and person—the whole mental status thing. He’s trying to see if she suffered a concussion. He shines a penlight into her eyes. The small circle of light is blinding.

  “You should come to the emergency room,” he says.

  “I’m all right,” she mutters, though a surge of nausea flows through her.

  “Ms. Haggarty, you’re a nurse. You know you could have internal injuries.”

  Oh God, he recognizes me from the hospital.

  “I’m fine,” she says, looking at his name tag: Rodriguez.

  I don’t recognize this guy; I never saw him before and yet he knows my name. God, am I getting paranoid?

  Another technician rolls a gurney onto the grass.

  “I really think you should go to the ER.”

  “Just give me the form and I’ll sign it. You’re off the hook.”

  “Any nausea?”

  “No.” She swallows, hoping she doesn’t hurl on his shoes. That would nail it—she’d be off to the ER.

  Lights flash and police radios still crackle. A dispatcher’s voice on a handheld radio crepitates and breaks up. A tow truck roars up behind the Audi. It’s a huge thing, muscular-looking, if you can say that about a vehicle. A thick chain gets hooked to the undercarriage. The cops wave traffic on, but people still gawk. Adrian’s talking with the cops.

  The technician hands her the clipboard. With a trembling hand, she signs the form.

  The left side of her face burns—feels raw. She touches it and winces.

  “It’s a slight facial abrasion from the air bag,” the paramedic says. “Use some bacitracin on it for a couple of days.”

  She nods and closes her eyes.

  His cologne is overwhelming; nausea swims through her. If she heaves, they’ll whisk her off to the hospital. God, I don’t want to go there. If only he’d move away from her. She needs fresh air.

  The paramedic stands. Her queasiness recedes.

  “Anyone you want us to call?” he says.

  “My sister.” She gives him the telephone number.

  He dials it, walks a few yards away, and talks into his cell. “She’ll be here in a little while,” the medic calls back to her.

  Megan’s thoughts tumble and her inner voice points out the obvious: it must be Conrad. It can’t be anyone else, not a chance. There’ve been the hang-ups, the flowers, the e-mails, and now this. Run off the Post Road and almost killed.

  Megan reminds herself to listen to her inner voice, the one that tells her to be very careful after what happened with Conrad. It’s the voice that whispers, Assume nothing when it comes to him … absolutely nothing.

  Sitting amid police and ambulance lights, with radio static and the tow truck winch whirring, Megan watches a necklace of red taillights trailing east, passing the burned-rubber streaks on the black asphalt and eyeballing the wrecked Audi. Headlights stream west as exhaust fumes linger in the deep blueness of the heavy night air. V-shaped cones of pinkish light from vapor lamps illuminate the road.

  That inner voice hisses in her ear … It’s Conrad, a brilliant madman … and you’re chin deep in a ton of trouble.

  He’s back … and this time he’ll kill you.

  Eight

  Erin looks pale and her voice is shaky. The Audi—with its twisted hulk and shattered glass—groans as it’s hoisted onto a flatbed truck. It’s totaled, just a complete loss. A cop waves traffic on. Adrian signs some papers; then he, Megan, and Erin walk to Erin’s Subaru Forester.

  “This is some way to meet,” Erin says as she and Adrian shake hands.

  Adrian nods and smiles weakly. A humming sensation throttles through his chest. “There’ll be other times,” he says, noticing that Erin’s nearly as tall as Megan; she also has that Celtic look with reddish-brown hair and cerulean-blue eyes.

  “The pickup just ran you off the road?” Erin asks, turning off the Post Road.

  “That’s right,” Megan whispers.

  After passing through a series of tree-lined streets, they pull into the driveway of a ranch-style house about a mile from the Post Road.

  As they enter the house, Marlee, wearing pajamas, jumps into Megan’s arms. Megan lifts her, and the child wraps her legs around Megan. “You okay, Mommy?” Marlee whimpers. Her reddish-blond curls are in disarray; her eyes look bleary.

  “Everybody’s fine, sweetie.” Megan looks pale and depleted. Marlee rests her head on Megan’s shoulder and casts a furtive glance at Adrian.

  Erin’s husband, Bob, a tall, thin guy with a receding hairline, introduces himself and then examines Adrian’s head. “You’ve got quite a goose egg there,” he says.

  Adrian nods and sits down on a sofa. His head is throbbing and his legs feel weak.

  Marlee and her cousins, Robert and Ellie, begin playing with Sampson, a fawn-colored little pug who’s getting more excited each minute.

  “I’ll give you a lift home, Adrian,” Bob says.

  “No need, Bob. I’ll call a taxi.”

  “It’s no sweat. I’ll take you.” Bob grabs his car keys.

  “Thanks. I’ll make arrangements for a car first thing tomorrow.”

  “Are you all right?” Megan asks him at the front door. Her eyes look glassy.

  He takes her hands in his and says, “I’ll be okay. How’re you?”

  “I’m taking tomorrow off,” she says.

  “I don’t have that luxury. I’ll have to get to the hospital early … by taxi.”

  “This is some way to end an evening, huh?”

  “There’ll be others,” he says, wanting to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he squeezes her hands gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

  She nods her head, presses her lips together, and then says, “Adrian, why not come to my place for dinner Tuesday night. Just the three of us … you, me, and Marlee …?”

  “I’d love that,” he says, wanting desperately to kiss her, hold her. But it’s neither the time nor the place.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, blinking rapidly as her eyes grow wet.

  Their lips meet in a quick kiss. After saying goodbye to everyone, Adrian and Bob head out the door. Walking toward Bob’s car, Adrian glances back and sees Megan standing on the front steps. She looks like she’s shivering, and Adrian knows whatever she wants to tell him, it won’t be a good thing.

  Adrian gets out of the leased Altima. It’s nine o’clock on a moonless night. The incident on the Post Road two nights earlier—a mere forty-eight hours ago—replays in his head. It’s flashed back to him a hundred times since then: the screech of brakes, the slamming impact, the heat and suffocating fumes. And Megan, looking so completely wrecked.

  He unlocks the front door and steps into the cottage. The living room is dark. It strikes Adrian that something’s wrong. He always leaves a small accent lamp on so he doesn’t return to a dark house. It’s an early morning ritual—something automatic—one he doesn’t even think about. Did he do it this morning? It would’ve been dark, so he can’t imagine he’d forgotten. But then, he’s been so preoccupied, it could’ve slipped his mind.

  He snaps on the lamplight and glances at the stone fireplace, chestnut beams, built-in bookshelves, and furnishings. Everything’s in place. But there’s a hint of an odor—barely discernible. He wonders if he left the kitchen garbage can open. He recalls a few aging items sitting in the refrigerator: a carton of garlicky takeout Ch
inese and some prepared crap from Stop & Shop.

  He opens the refrigerator door, grabs the leftovers, tosses them in a plastic garbage bag, and carries it to the bin outside the rear door. He laughs to himself, realizing how tough it is to find good ethnic food in Connecticut. He was spoiled silly in Manhattan: great exotic cuisine was everywhere—from every nation on earth. And New Haven had plenty of ethnic places, too—especially Indian and Italian restaurants. Every tribe has its cuisine.

  He realizes suddenly there was something wrong in the refrigerator, something out of place. He opens the door again.

  Yes, it’s strange: no milk. He recalls clearly going to the supermarket only yesterday and buying a carton of Skim Plus; he uses it on his Total every morning. But it’s not there. Did he throw it out by mistake? Has he been that zoned out thinking of Megan—and about what happened two nights ago? Is this an episode of Fringe?

  Is it the long hours at the hospital, invading patients’ chests and fixing God’s mistakes? he wonders, knowing he’s quoting Megan.

  He returns to the outside garbage bin, snaps open the lid, and rummages through the contents. And there it is—an empty carton of Skim Plus with milk sopping through to the bin’s bottom. The carton was emptied into the garbage.

  Adrian recalls reading about REM Sleep Behavior Disorder. You can have violent dreams and do bizarre things. Some people sleepwalk—trudge into the kitchen in a somnambulistic state and raid the refrigerator. Others punch or kick some dreamed-up attacker, thrash their bed partner—actually beat them. And the dreamer has no memory of the dream when awakened.

  But Adrian’s never been told he has restless sleep. Not by Peggy, or any other bedmate. He wonders if he’s opened the door to some cartoonish universe and slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole.

  But he’s certain he used milk this morning. He plops down onto the living room sofa, re-creates his morning rituals, and tries to understand how milk ended up in the garbage and he didn’t turn on the lamp.

  Peering across the living room, he sees an empty space on the mantel. The framed photo of Mom and Dad on their honeymoon at Schroon Lake in upstate New York is gone. Startled, he shoots to his feet. Then Adrian sees his guitar. It’s upright, leaning against the stone surround of the fireplace.