“True, and I catch myself blaming that cop even now. But I was headed in a dark direction. Joining the army turned me into a man instead of a future ex-con while I was young enough to change. God knew I needed the discipline. I needed to leave my pain behind and start fresh, where nobody knew me. At some point in your life, you have to let go of the past. I carried the anger for my parents’ deaths for almost a decade. That’s a long, long time to be mad. I don’t want to live like that anymore. I want to move forward.”
“I know what you mean.” Mandy shot him a look. All she wanted was to get through this next year. After that, she’d be relatively certain Nathan couldn’t harm her family.
And apparently, moving forward meant blathering about his emotions like he was a guest on Oprah or some shit. Is there anything else you’d like to share about your pathetic life? Ten months of therapy, and he was sliding into the touchy-feely zone like it was home base.
Danny carried the eggs to the dining room and lit the burner. A trio of pretty college-age girls chattered as they took a table. Two brunettes and a blonde. They were dressed for the trail in thick boots and expensive-looking synthetic pullovers in bright pink and yellow. A trio of backpacks was stacked on the extra chair.
“Coffee?”
They nodded. Three ponytails bounced. “Yes, please.” One of the brunettes answered with a flirty smile that made Danny feel a thousand years old. “I’m Ashley. These are my friends, Victoria and Samantha.”
“I’m Danny.” He filled their cups and nodded to their packs. “Big plans today?”
“Just the usual.” The tall blonde shrugged. “We always carry extra provisions. It’s important to be prepared.”
“You never know what can happen in the wilderness,” Ashley added. “We’re always equipped to spend at least one night in the open.”
“That’s smart.” Danny smiled. He’d had survival training in the army. He’d learned the basics, but he hadn’t liked it. In fact, all those training exercises made camping about as attractive as torture. Sleeping in the open, eating bugs, and freezing your nuts off sucked. “Where are you headed?”
Victoria added cream to her cup. “We’re hiking the Klimpton trail today. We already wrote it in the book.”
“The book?”
“Uh-huh.” Victoria nodded and stirred her coffee. “The inn has a book to log your plans. That way if you get lost, they know where to start looking for you.”
“Sounds sensible.” And ominous. Just how many people disappeared in Maine? If someone in the city went missing, somebody usually saw something. Not that they’d say, but folks just didn’t go poof. There were security cameras everywhere.
“Do you hike?” Ashley was eying him up like he was a slice of chocolate cake. “Because you could join us. We’re here for the rest of the week.”
Danny backed away. Was this what a rabbit felt like when a hawk hovered overhead? “Sorry. I can’t. I’m helping out in the kitchen.”
“Too bad,” Ashley lamented.
“You all have a great day.” Danny made his escape. He went back to the kitchen. Mandy was filling glass pitchers with juice. “What else needs to be done?”
His hand trembled, and the familiar pins-and-needles tingle started in his fingers. Dammit. It was early in the morning for his nerves to be pulling their shit. If he were smart, he’d give it a rest. At the very least, he’d better not handle glass.
“You could cut up another melon.” She carried the pitchers toward the dining room. The smile she gave him over her shoulder made him forget any ideas of resting.
“Got it.” Melons were very durable. He grabbed a cantaloupe from the icebox, scrubbed it in the sink, and set it on the cutting board. With a knife from the block, he halved the melon and went to work slicing it. He paused every few cuts to clench his hand and give it a shake.
Mandy returned and went to check her latest batch of waffles. Danny’s gaze was drawn to the fit of her worn jeans below the tie of her apron. Mm, mm, mm.
As if she felt his stare, she glanced back at him. “You’re bleeding.”
Danny looked down. Blood ran off his left hand. Suddenly lightheaded, he averted his eyes. He put the knife down and went to the sink. A flush of cold water revealed a long slice across his palm. Mandy leaned against him and grabbed hold of his forearm to examine the cut. “That’s going to need sutures.”
Danny decided that having her soft body pressed to his was worth a few stitches, even if the sight of blood turned him into a wimp. “Sorry. I ruined your melon.”
Mandy gave him a short laugh of disbelief. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
Danny snagged a paper towel and applied pressure to the wound. “No. I don’t have much feeling in this hand.”
“Dr. Chandler should be in his office by now.” She picked up the phone and dialed. A few sentences later she hung up. “Go right over. Do you know where it is? Do you need me to drive you?”
“Yeah, I know where it is. It’s only a few blocks away. I think I can make it.”
Mandy opened a drawer and took out a first aid kit. Throwing the blood-soaked paper towel in the trash, she bandaged him up enough to keep him from bleeding all over his car. Enjoying her touch, Danny let her. When she was done, her hand lingered on his arm, and her blue eyes darkened, like she was interested in more than his cut. He leaned in, but Mandy jumped back, nearly tripping over her feet in her haste to put some space between them.
Awkward. “Mandy—”
“You’d better go. You’re bleeding through the bandage.” She opened the door. “Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”
“Don’t worry. I’m used to doing things one-handed.”
The drive to Doc’s office took all of three minutes, most of which was spent at the town’s single traffic light. Not much time to contemplate Mandy’s skittishness. But one thing was clear. He needed to take whatever might happen between them slower.
The clinic was on a side street just three doors from the main intersection of town. The barn-red two-story was almost nauseatingly quaint, with its fresh white trim and flower boxes spilling over with purple-and-white flowers. The front door opened in to a small waiting room decorated in castoffs. Thirty-year-old chairs and tables too ugly for Goodwill but not old enough to be antiques vied for space. An old wooden teacher’s desk in the corner was empty.
A white-coated Dr. Chandler appeared in a doorway. “Come on back.” He turned and disappeared.
Danny walked down the short hallway, passing a tiny room with a desk and bookshelves. The doc’s office? Danny hesitated. A few thick volumes stacked on the shelf closest to the door caught his attention: Sleep Disorders, Inherited Prion Diseases, Psychiatry Today, Neurological Disorders that Affect Sleep. Heavy subjects for a family practitioner. Dr. Chandler had been researching Nathan’s disease. Had he known about the family history before December? Had Dr. Chandler treated Nathan’s uncle? Did he know who Nathan was sleeping with?
“Mr. Sullivan?”
“Right here.” Danny followed the doctor’s voice to the next doorway, which led into a small examination room. “Slow morning?”
“I don’t officially open for another hour, which is why I’m the only one here.” The doctor gestured to the usual padded table. “Let’s see it.”
Danny sat. Paper crinkled under his ass.
Doc washed his hands and donned gloves. Then he slipped on a pair of half glasses and unwound the tape. Blood started flowing as soon as he lifted the bandage. “Definitely needs stitches. How’d you do this?”
Danny stared at an eye chart on the opposite wall. “Cutting up a melon.”
“Hmmph.” The doctor hooked a stool with his foot and wheeled a small table closer. Instruments were already lined up on a sterile drape. Perching on the stool, he picked up a syringe. “I’ll numb it and stitch you up. Should heal just fine. Luckily, it’s in the fleshy part.”
“You can skip the shot. I don’t have much feeling in that hand.” Danny’s
fingers, obviously unhappy with the fresh wound, twitched like they were having a seizure. “You’ll have to be careful, though; I can’t do anything about that.”
“So, you can’t feel your hand and it shakes uncontrollably.” The doctor irrigated the wound.
P, E, Z…Danny concentrated on the bottom row of letters. “Pretty much.”
“And you thought it was a good idea to handle a sharp knife?”
“Probably not one of my best decisions,” Danny admitted.
“You think?” Doc picked up his suture needle. He pointed to the thin scar that ran from Danny’s wrist to elbow. “Tell me about the original injury.”
“It was an IED explosion. The hand was crushed under a pile of debris. Broken bones, shrapnel, lots of nerve damage. For while it was iffy that I’d even get to keep it. The surgeon at the veteran’s hospital did a hell of a job putting it back together. I had a nerve graft about ten months ago, but it didn’t take.”
Doc was quiet for a few minutes. Danny was keeping his gaze averted, but in his peripheral vision he could see the doctor sewing. He tied another knot. Snip. “That should do it.”
Danny glanced down at his palm. Seven neat black knots closed the cut in his palm.
The doctor bandaged his hand. “Keep it dry. Come back in five days and I’ll remove the stitches.”
“Thanks. What do I owe you?” Danny rubbed his forearm. The cut didn’t hurt, but the pins-and-needles sensation had expanded from his fingers to his wrist. Soon those pins would turn into bayonets and spread up to his elbow.
“Pain?” Dr. Chandler frowned at the bandage.
“Some. Sometimes I get a stabbing sensation when it’s too cold or too hot or I overuse my hand. I guess the gash is making it worse.”
“Call me if you need pain medication.”
“Thanks, but I’m not a fan of drugs.” Narcotics aggravated his PTSD. “Rest usually helps.”
The doctor led the way back to the schoolmarm desk. He lowered his tall, lanky body into a cheap office chair. He typed into the computer and printed out a bill. Fluorescent light glinted off silver threads in his dark hair as he bent over the keyboard. “Give me a minute. My receptionist isn’t in yet. I’m a lot slower than she is at this.”
Danny pulled out his wallet to pay the bill. The total was laughably small. “That’s it?”
“Small town, you know.”
Danny paid. “While I’m here, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Nathan Hall.”
Doc’s face tightened from friendly into suspicious. “You know I can’t talk about a patient.”
“Of course not,” Danny said. “But you can give me some general information about Campbell’s Insomnia.”
Scowling, the doctor crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair. “Lesions form in the thalamus of the brain. That’s the area that regulates sleep. Afflicted people develop severe insomnia, gradually losing the ability to sleep at all. Coma and death follow within a year or two.”
All textbook information Danny already knew. “How quickly is the person completely incapacitated?”
“Depends on the individual,” the doctor said.
“But case studies show that the person’s mental state is affected long before the body shuts down. Dementia hits hard during that period. So, an afflicted person could be mobile and potentially dangerous for a long time.”
The doctor’s lips pursed with annoyance. “The disease is very rare. There aren’t enough cases to make generalizations.”
“But people with Campbell’s can have violent hallucinations that drive them to bizarre behavior.”
“It’s not my specialty. I really wouldn’t know.”
“So you have no idea how long Nathan could be dangerous?” Danny pressed.
“No. I really can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“In this case, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’ll see you in five days, Mr. Sullivan, if you’re still in town. Don’t feel the need to stay, though. Any doctor can remove those stitches.” The doctor put his hands flat on the desk and pushed to his feet. The conversation was over.
Danny walked toward the door. He glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Anger, cold as his stainless steel instruments, flickered in the doctor’s eyes. “Some people in this town have been through hell. There’s no need to drag them down to the next level.”
“I’m just trying to find a killer.”
“Don’t forget that those with good and bad intentions often end up in the same place.”
With that send-off, Danny made his exit. His injured hand twitched as he started the engine. A compact SUV was parked at the curb behind the Challenger. A woman dressed in scrubs got out and walked into the clinic. Dr. Chandler’s nurse?
He turned the wheel to pull out onto the street. Pain shot into his elbow. He clenched his fist and steered through a turn. There was no point rushing back to the inn. He wasn’t going to be any more help to Mandy today. Why would she want anything to do with him? Not only was he was useless to her at the bed-and-breakfast, he was still doing the one thing she had asked him not to do. He was still trying to find Nathan. But Danny couldn’t let it go. If he could just accomplish one thing, meet one goal head on, maybe he could move forward. Quitting definitely wasn’t going to help.
Driving aimlessly, Danny headed away from town. He needed some time alone. Thoughts of his prospects filled his head. What did his future hold? What kind of a job was he going to get with only one good hand? Sullivan’s Tavern could only support so many family members. His only other marketable skill was fixing cars, but his bum hand slowed him down too much for that to be a viable career. It was probably best that Mandy wasn’t interested in him. He didn’t even know what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. How could he contemplate a relationship? He glanced at the dashboard clock. More time had passed than he’d intended. Such was the time-sucking nature of a pity party. It was time to meet the insurance adjuster at Reed’s house. As Danny turned onto the interstate, his eyes were drawn to the mountains on the horizon. How could a place so peaceful harbor so much evil and madness?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The sound of wood scraping woke Kevin. He opened his eyes to dusty daylight. Lifting his head over his son’s body, curled in his arms, Kevin scanned the barn interior. No people in sight. The double doors were ajar. Fresh air flooded the cage. Against his chest, Hunter’s rib cage expanded with each reassuring breath. But they’d been without food or water for two days, maybe more. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Exhaustion and the drugs they’d been given had bent reality like a fun-house mirror.
He recognized that fear should be pounding through his veins, but dehydration had sapped his body’s ability to respond. He stretched a leg out. His foot encountered something. He turned his head and squinted. Two meal bars and a liter-size bottle of water had been placed in the cage during the night.
Multiple things occurred to Kevin immediately. One, someone had been close to them while they slept, completely vulnerable. He curled tighter around his son while panic took a slow spin through his already nauseated gut. Two, there was a good chance that the water was drugged. Three, without water, Hunter wasn’t going to survive much longer. Four, there wasn’t anything Kevin could do to save his son.
Hunter shivered, and Kevin tried to cover more of his shrinking form with a combination of his own jacket and body. The child’s skinny frame didn’t have any body fat available for fuel, and his smaller mass left him more susceptible to fluid loss. The damp, cold nights were an added insult. Looking down at his son’s pale and sleeping face, Kevin’s heart ached more than his water-starved joints. Terror for his son welled in his chest, filled his lungs, and constricted his next few breaths. The pressure threatened to render Kevin useless. He fought back with action. Right now, they were stuck, but who knew what opportunities might crop up. The more Kevin studied his surroundings the
better.
He took another inventory of the barn. There was nothing he could reach through the bars of the cage, but potential weapons littered the building: a hammer, pieces of lumber, a couple of other farm tools he didn’t recognize but that looked potentially harmful. Or course, all of these things could be used against them, too.
The big tractor hadn’t moved. Nothing had changed. Wait. Kevin squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Yes. The woodpile in the corner had doubled in size.
What was his captor planning? More cages? Kevin blinked as his eyes adjusted to the light. No. The pieces of wood were thin branches, too flimsy to build another prison.
Kevin sat up. The rough wood beneath his body dug into his bones. He scooted to the other side of the cage, picked up the water bottle, and examined it. It was a refillable sports-type bottle, not a sealed commercial product. Easy to tamper with the contents. What to do?
He opened the bottle, put it to his lips, and sniffed. Smelled like water. He took a small sip, barely enough to wet his chapped lips, and waited. When he felt no adverse effects, he drank more. Cool water soothed his dusty throat, but he put the bottle down after drinking about a quarter cup. Hunter needed the fluid more. Kevin sat and let ten or fifteen minutes pass. He didn’t die.
Kevin cupped his son’s face. “Hunter, wake up.”
His boy’s freckled face blanched in fear the second his eyes opened. But his eyes were cloudy. If Hunter didn’t get some water, Kevin wasn’t going to have to worry about their captor’s plans. So plan A: Hunter would get the majority of food and water. With just a little fluid, Kevin’s spare tire would keep him going for another day or two. If Kevin was wrong and the supplies were drugged, he could only hope the dose wouldn’t be worse than no water at all—and that if the opportunity to fight for their freedom did come, they would be able to respond. Drugged, he couldn’t protect his son. But dead, he’d be of even less use. He refused to think about the horrors playing out in his head. Of his son helpless at the hands of a psycho and of Kevin powerless to protect his boy.
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