In Her Shadow (10 page)

“Are you okay?” Farrah asks.

“Yes, I... Sorry. Guess I should eat something. Low blood sugar doesn’t bode well with patient work, which I should get back to.”

She retrieves a large pastry she has no intention of eating from the countertop then heads for the door, coffee mug in hand. “Thanks for listening.”

“No problem. If you ever need to talk more, you know where to find me.”

She barely hears Farrah’s remark as she leaves and walks to her office, thoughts of her father pressed in her mind. What does Dad have to do with the nightmare? Was he the elusive man? He can’t be. She quivers, but can’t release the notion.

Seated at her desk, she retrieves a photo of her parents from her top drawer. Her father with his arm slung over Mom’s shoulders, kindness permeating in his eyes. He was gentle and loving, seldom raised his voice.

No, Dad. You didn’t hurt me.
But did someone?

Chapter Twenty-One

Farrah sits at her computer, composing the email.

Dear Sir:

The subject is exhibiting signs of paranoia. And today, she doesn’t look well.

Please call me at your soonest convenience.

FC

She isn’t surprised when her phone rings minutes later.

“Tell me,” he says.

She describes Claire’s haggard, sleepless appearance and details of the dream, speaking in a hushed, but clear tone. “She grew pale when she alluded to trouble with some man as well as overeating. I was concerned, obviously. So I did some investigating. The last call she made from her office was to a Dr. Marsha Swenson—a clinical psychologist, who she also had an appointment with recently. In other words, I don’t believe she is addressing professional matters...if you catch my drift.”

She pauses, awaiting his response, and hopefully, his praise. She’d gone above and behind her call of duty, relayed information about Claire she doubts he has. And whether it matters to him or not, she’s pleased to have discovered Claire’s imperfections, subtle as they may be.

“We’ll have to move things along,” he says. “I have one more task for you. And it must be done promptly.”

“Certainly.” She smiles, perceiving his request for additional service as praise.

“Claire will be...moving on soon. I need you to prepare her letter of resignation.”

“
Me?
Why not her?” She regrets the questions as soon as she spouts them. He’d specifically instructed, no questions. Nervousness simmers in her belly. “I apologize. I’m just...surprised, that’s all.”

“You will write it because I have asked you to. You’ll be paid double, if you cooperate. That means no more questions. And please don’t worry about Ms. Fiksen. She’s moving far up in the world, to do work few are capable of.”

 
I knew it, Farrah thinks, clenching her fists. Claire is getting some fabulous job she herself could never hope for.

As he describes her next assignment, her concern over Claire’s promotion dwindles. Nothing like a bit of tantalizing distraction.

“Sure, I can meet you,” she says, having regained her composure. “Name the time and place.”

She smiles, licks her lips and jots down the address.
This is going to be a treat
.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Gil Adolfsson drops another apple into his half-loaded bucket, figuring this will be his last pick of the year. CC insisted he wear an extra layer today, winter upcoming and all. He wore it to please her, but doesn’t really need it. The fresh air, the nature, the apples... They all bring him calm. And, it seems, closer to Dawn.

He misses his daughter more than ever lately. Ten years have passed since he saw Dawn smile, felt her arms around him, heard her laugh. A parent should never lose a child. Goes against nature. Maybe that’s what he likes about his orchard—order, predictability. Even with erratic weather, snow coming this month or that, he knows with certainty when the apples will appear and when they won’t. Dawn loved picking apples as much as she loved CC’s pie.

As he pulls two more honey crisps from the tree, he hears rustling in the trees. Better not be the damn ’coons, he thinks. One year the rascals damn near stole half his harvest. And picky they were. Took mostly the best ones.

As he bends down to add the apples to his stash, the rustling repeats, seemingly closer. Whatever it is moves slow. Maybe a stray cat, he thinks. A brisk breeze sweeps through the air, bringing a soft whistling sound and the smell of soon-coming snow.

A hand grasps his shoulder. Gil gasps. Drops the apples and notes another sensation—the end of a gun pressed into his back.

Then the voice he hoped to never hear again sounds—almost a whisper, millimeters from his ear: “It’s been such a long time, Gil. Have you missed me?”

The moisture vanishes from Gil’s throat. He’s angry. Panicked. “I t-told you never to come back.” His hands are raised, palms facing outward—an involuntary move, but not of surrender. He won’t let the bastard hurt him, not this time.

“Now that you mention it, I do recall you saying something to that effect. But you see, that little request of yours? All that talk about staying away?
Threat
is a better word. It hasn’t done either of us much good.”

Gil clenches his teeth, anger seething through his body. “What do you want from me?”

“Excellent question. That brain of yours is sharp! Because see, today is your lucky day. You can make up for almost everything. I might even forgive you...leave you alone, for good. Would you like that?” He pauses, cocks the gun. “Answer me.”

“Yes.
Just don’t shoot.
”

“I need something from your precious Claire-belle. I can do it...peacefully, if you cooperate. Or I can go to her and take it myself.”

“Stay away from her!” Another click—he’s released the safety. “I’ll get it, whatever it is. W-what do you need?”

He flashes a photograph before Gil’s eyes—a sickly woman lying on a bed. “I need her to help save this woman’s life. Her organs are failing...such a shame.”

“But why Claire? She’s a psychologist, not a d-doctor.”

“Oh, but I am...remember? Of course you do. I’ve come in handy, haven’t I?”

“But that was before I knew—”

“I...said...
cooperate.
”

“Y-yes. I will. What...whatever you need. Just promise you’ll leave us alone.”

He leans in and whispers his needs into Gil’s ear as though wanting to be as close as possible when terror strikes him.

The plot is so horrific, it removes the air from Gil’s chest. His body goes numb. The world around him tilts and spins as pain strikes his head like an ax. “Aggah... Cee...cee...h-lelp.”

He drops to the ground.
Help! Hurts...head.

“Lunch is almost ready.” CC’s voice sounds in the distance. “Gil?”

Stay...away. CC!
Gil tries to speak or stand, but can’t. His thoughts grow garbled.
Dawn.
..
Claire... Death.

Then the man who fractured his family in so many ways leans again into his ear. “I guess I’ll just do what I must.” He darts away moments before CC appears.

“Gil!”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Examining her reflection in the mirror, Farrah notes the glimmer in her eyes. She’s finally admitted to herself that her giddiness surpasses financial gain. She knows little about the man, other than the huskiness of his voice, his ability to pay her substantial sums of cash and the need to keep his plans for Claire confidential. Yet when he called her yesterday in response to her email, requesting her highest-paid mission to date, she found herself more enticed by his chosen meeting place than the monetary reward. She adds a fresh layer of lip gloss then proceeds to the sleazy, no-tell motel entrance.

She walks toward his room, her adrenaline surging. Is he as alluring as the sound of his voice? She’s imagined a tall, broad-chested man with dark, silver-streaked hair. Maybe like George Clooney? Then again, with a voice, mystique and bank account like his, who cares? He could look like Shrek and she might do him.

A surge fills her groin. As soon as he said, “I’ve never had such a beautiful woman assist me,” she knew he’d be making dual types of deposits this round.

She wonders if she should feel guilt over disliking Claire so intensely. Thanks to Ms. Fiksen, she is doing quite well now. Reminding herself of her upcoming rewards, she banishes the thought.

She reaches room 16A and smiles; he’s cracked the door open. Absorbing a breath, she places her hand on the knob. “Hello?” she says, aiming to match his seductive tone.

“Come in.”

That voice!
She steps into the dark room, dimly lit by three candles on the nightstand. He lies on the bed, wearing slacks and a dress shirt, his hands braced casually behind his head. His body looks as broad and alluring as she hoped. And the dimness doesn’t hide his handsomeness. Late fifties, early sixties—the kind of man who grows more distinguished with age. Silver hair, a chiseled face and sparkling, alert eyes. Should she hurry over? Pounce on top of him? No—she’d rather savor his pursuit.

“Well?” he asks.

“Mission accomplished.” Facing his bed, she feels a rush of discomfort. She isn’t used to a man maintaining control. She feels her insides melt into a vulnerable puddle as he stares at her. “May I?” She points toward the bed.

“Please.”

She sits down and slips off her heels. Handing him a copy of Claire’s resignation letter she helped forge, her confidence returns. “Sykes will open it Monday morning at the earliest. The office will be empty all weekend.”

He reads the letter by the candlelight, then nods. “Fine job.”

Now what? Her throat goes dry.

“I have something for you.”

As he reaches for his briefcase, she undoes her top blouse button. He withdraws an envelope thick with a wad of cash and hands it to her. Then he runs his hand over her arm, kisses her neck, begins undressing her.

Chills appear on every inch of her skin. Turning, she kisses him harshly.

She pushes him back onto the bed and straddles him, tearing the clothes from her body like useless wrapping tissue. She’s never felt so desperate, so wanting. She relishes his watchful eyes as she rides him, his massive penis an attribute to add to her list. He places his hand over her mouth as she orgasms, perhaps knowing that the sound would echo through the building.

Suddenly he pushes harder.
Harder
.

“Stop!” she cries. “You’re hurting me!”

Her bliss transforms into panic as the needle pierces her neck. She feels herself slipping away as he takes his turn on top of her. Unable to move, she feels his body tense—just before she gasps her final breath.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Claire arrives home from a long hike with Zola, grateful for the weekend. Between her birthday, health challenges, nightmares and patients, the last five days felt more like months. She feeds Zola then takes a steaming shower.

While patting herself dry with a thick cotton towel her phone rings. Seconds later, it rings again. Then again.
Talk about persistent
. She wraps herself in a towel and walks to the kitchen. Her call history displays her grandparents’ cell number—a phone they rarely use. Concerned, she immediately calls back.

“Hello? Grandma, is that you?” She hears nothing but forced breathing and a whimpering cry.

“Gil…”

“What is it, Grandma? Is it Grandpa? Is he okay?” No response. “Are you okay?” Still nothing. “Grandma, where are you?”

She hears shuffling sounds in the background, people moving and talking. Then, a louder voice over an intercom.

“Grandma, are you at the hospital?”

“Hos...hospital. Gil…”

“Grandma.” She tries to sound calm. “I need you to put a nurse on the phone. Can you do that?”

Moments later a nurse comes on the line. Her first words hit Claire like a fist in the stomach. The rest of what she says blurs together until Claire hangs up and drops to the floor beside Zola.

“It’s Grandpa,” she says, reaching for her dog. “They think he had a stroke.”

*****

The gasoline smell adds to her unease—toxic fumes to fuel their journey to the hospital in Hastings. Hank peers in at her from the driver’s side as he fills his tank. “Can I get you anything? Coffee or soda? Toss that in the trash?”

Though the tissue clenched in her fist is soggy and useless, she can’t seem to let it go. “I’m good, thanks.”

She leans her head against the passenger window as they drive, observing landmarks she’s driven by countless times on her way to or from her grandparents’ house. The Mega-Mall— “an atrocity...too damn big for its own good,” by Grandpa’s standards. Sun Fish Park, where he dropped her off for summer camp as a kid. A billboard for Treasure Island Casino. “Grandpa took me there for my eighteenth birthday,” she tells Hank.

“The casino?”

“Yeah, he had this speech prepared. Something about how...life is a gamble and all you can do is try your best and use your head. But every once in a while you should say ‘Screw it,’ and risk everything. Put it all out there on the table.”

“Sounds like a pretty philosophical guy.”

“I think it was just an excuse to take his granddaughter to the casino.”

Hank smiles. “A fun guy then, in any case.”

“He was. He is.” How could she have said that?

“Did you win anything?”

“No. Luckily I only had twenty bucks to start with.” She hadn’t cared about winning or losing. She told Grandpa he could leave her alone at “the tables” since she was “now a grownup and all.” She never told him, but she was relieved that he stayed.

Hang on, Grandpa. I still need you
.

“Guess this is it.” Hank pulls into the Regina Medical Center parking lot.

At the sight of the hospital, she feels numb, unable to breathe. Her anxiety increases from a wave to a surge as Hank walks around the car and opens her door. “Wait.”