In Her Shadow (16 page)

A figure appears in the distance, someone familiar. Their pace quickens. Could it be?

“Mom... Mom!” Claire calls out, releasing her friend’s hand. She rushes toward her mother, tears spilling down her cheeks.

As she runs toward the figure, the sky darkens. Thunder echoes, booms like stirred-up angels drumming in the sky. She watches the storm clouds expand and darken... No, it’s not supposed to rain. It’s can’t!

She looks ahead. Mom’s image is fading. As Claire steps forward, her mother slips farther away. “Mom!”

Her mother’s mouth is moving, but Claire can’t comprehend. She reaches her arms toward her mother, wishing she could extend them many yards, touch her, reel her in.

Then...silence. The world is frozen around her, the only sound her labored breath. No thunder, no grass or trees, no fresh-smelling berries... Nothing ahead of her but endless vacant space.

She looks behind her. The ground is dark. Her friend lies on it, motionless.

“No!” She rushes toward Elle, tries to communicate in the way they always have—by being, thinking, feeling. But their connection is lost; she feels naked. Rushing back toward her, Claire spots a man standing over her. He drops down on top of Elle, causing her to scream: “Help me!” She reaches a frail hand out toward Claire.

Claire stands there, paralyzed, watching as the man thrusts his groin against the woman’s. It’s so vivid and horrific, Claire can feel the pain inside herself.

Sensing wetness beneath her, she looks down. Her own underwear is overflowing—a magenta flood. Her thoughts fade...she’s slipping into a deep slumber. Or perhaps...it’s death.
 

Chapter Thirty-Seven

What’ll it be tonight, he thinks, scrolling through his car stereo collection.
Romeo and Juliet?
Haunting, but...too romantic
. Pavane Pour Une Infante Defunte?
Too cliché. He chuckles inwardly at the translation. The Dead Princess indeed. Ah... Here we are. He hits play and the lilting trills of Clementi’s
Sonata in G Minor
ring out. Now we’re talking. Tonight calls for flamboyance, celebration
...

While he waits for Claire’s arrival, he marvels at his ability to track her. People think they need fancy GPS programs and computer chips. But common sense paired with others’ gullibility comes free. He’d phoned Peterson under the guise of scheduling a session with Dr. Fiksen and gained her availability in a snap. A quick call to the Hastings hospital revealed that Gil Adolfsson’s granddaughter had left for the night. Sheep. Every one of them.

He runs through his equipment, his mental checklist, reviews the transplant protocol he’s virtually memorized. If he must, he’ll do the procedure in the comfort of Claire’s own home. But conducting surgery anywhere but a hospital or his lab poses numerous risks, from damaging the kidney during transport to passersby hearing something they shouldn’t. Unless absolutely necessary, he will bring her home with him. And then...the adventure begins.

As time ticks on, he grows concerned. She should be here by now. Just before his concern turns to fury, he sees them: headlights cutting through the darkness. A car pulling into Claire’s spot. “Here, princess-princess...”

A man steps out. No!

The bastard wanna-be-doctor boyfriend. Not that he can’t handle this pathetic student. But there’s no sign of Claire. He imagines her and Hank together, naked and entangling. He shudders. She may be part of Gil, but she deserves more than a half-ass wimp for a beau.

Minutes later, when the bastard steps out of the building with Claire’s dog, his suspicion is confirmed. She’s not home.

The dog looks at him straight on as they pass by, then bolts toward the car, stringing Hanky Panky along like a caught fish. The animal jumps up on its hind legs.

“Zola-girl, down!” Hank says, yanking the leash like he knows what he’s doing.

He cracks the window open, but stays out of view. “Think you can control your dog? Some might say you’re disrupting the peace.”

“My apologies,” Hank says, not sounding sincere.

“Asshole.” He rolls up the window and zips off.

Less than two hours later, he’s back home in his kitchen. Rachmaninoff plays from the stereo, doing little to soothe him. He lifts his wine glass and smashes it on the countertop, sending Chianti and glass shards flying, causing his knuckles to bleed. Not enough. He picks up the stereo, yanking the cord from the wall, and thrusts it to the ground. Arching his back, he releases a long, loud wail. Then, with eyes closed, he drops his face forward, sucks in a long breath, eases it out. Another. Then another.

Obstacles, not walls, he thinks. Not the finish line—not nearly.

He feels his body relax, confident of one thing. Tomorrow will be the day, no matter where, when or how. He’s going to make it happen.

After cleaning the mess and scouring the kitchen surfaces until they shine like stars, he heads to his bedroom. Once his head meets the pillow, his thoughts cling not to his love, not to the voluptuous body she’d soon have again, but to Claire. Her absence tonight hadn’t merely disappointed or angered him—he’d felt rejected, infuriated at the thought of her in bed with her hot young doctor man. 

He envisions her naked body standing in the corner of his room. She stares at him, beckoning him with her index finger
—wanting.

STOP.
He jolts upright in bed. Hands trembling, he pulls Dawn’s photo from his nightstand. Yes, he thinks, stroking himself. How can he allow himself to be tempted when he has her? His beautiful angel.

 
His body relaxes in relief, and soon he is asleep.

A storm breaks in his dreams. Visions not of one, but both women, taunting him like sirens in the ocean. “We’re heeeere….” They sing together, their naked bodies huddled close, flesh upon flesh, their voices blending into a harmonious one. They stand at the end of his bed, sucking each other’s hard nipples, purring like kittens in heat. They turn and bend over. Pointing their rears in the air, they peer around to look at him, seductive eyes luring him, begging him to join them. As he crawls toward them, they turn toward each other and kiss hungrily.

No!
He shoots up in bed, awake, his breath heavy, body dripping with sweat. What does it mean? He looks at his hands—trembling. He pulls them into fists and glares at his doctor’s bag. He cannot afford to shake.

Wretched women.
It’s all their fault. Their strategic prowess could ruin everything. Unless...

Were his dreams a sign? Some sort of celestial guidance? Who says he has to capture Claire, remove her kidneys and kill her? Women aren’t the only ones who can tantalize. Why not lure Claire into his life?

A revised plot plays out like a filmstrip in his mind, bringing it all into perspective. Why kill Claire when he can reunite them as he’d planned years before? His dream was right. They belong together. No wonder his plan to take her earlier hadn’t worked. He needed to hone a better plan. And besides, starting the process in the Hastings house feels right. Gil deserves that—to lose Claire from the same place he lost Dawn. He always had to mess things up for him
...BASTARD!
Perhaps he deserves another visit. Gil will be so close, yet unable to protect or save his Claire-belle.

With renewed vigor and an erection as thick and insatiable as his will, he leaves his bedroom, headed for the stairs.

“Darling...”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“Claire. Claire, can you hear me?” A woman’s voice.

Elle?
Claire lays still, her heart pounding. Then she jolts to an upright position. She glances around the room.
The hospital.
So much for peaceful, happy dreams.

“Is it morning?” she asks the nurse.

“Just about. You must’ve been having some serious dreams. You were mumbling and your heart rate bumped up a bit. I’m just going to check your blood pressure.”

“I was...talking?” Details of the dream’s dark ending surface as the nurse wraps the device around her arm. She quivers, wishing she could forget.

“It happens sometimes, especially while sleeping in an unusual place. You were probably exhausted, too. Sleeping hard and dreaming hard. They go hand in hand.”

She pumps the blood pressure monitor several times, letting the numbers rise and fall between. “There we are. One-ten over seventy...healthy as can be.” She checks Claire’s temperature and pulse, recording the results on her chart. “It’ll be another hour or so before Dr. Bergen will be in to see you. Can I get you anything before then?”

“No, thanks.”

“All right, get some rest then.” She switches the light off and exits.

Claire reaches for her phone and calls Elle. Voicemail. She dials again. Still no answer.

Elle is in danger—she feels it. “Elle, it’s me. Are you okay?” She tries to suppress the tremor in her voice. “I...had another stupid dream. For some reason, I’m...worried about you. Should I be? Call me.”

She lies fully awake as the next hour creeps by. Finally, Dr. Bergen appears at her door.

“Good morning, Claire. Rest well?” He crosses the room, pulls the drapes open then approaches her bedside.

Observing the puffy white snowflakes drifting down outside the window, she says, “I slept all right, thanks.”

He checks her vitals and writes on her chart. “I see Nurse White came by earlier. You were…talking in your sleep?” He squints at the nurses’ notation.

“That’s what she told me. I’m not sure I’ve ever done that before.”

“Well,” he continues, guiding her torso forward and placing his stethoscope on her back. “You probably slept heavily after your episode. Breathe in for me?” He listens. “Good, and again.”

The metal round feels like an ice cube as he moves it about her back. Though she believes she can trust him rationally, emotionally she feels invaded.
Get your hands off me
, she thinks, but doesn’t say.

“Everything sounds good,” he says and takes a step back. “You’re feeling well? No nausea, dizziness, pain?”

“Um…no.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m certain. I think I just have a bad dream hangover.” She smiles. “It’s left me a bit shaky.”

A nurse appears in the door.

“Thank you, Emily,” Dr. Bergen looks to the nurse then back at Claire. “Best you eat some breakfast before you leave.” He gives her a knowing look then lowered his voice. “Not exactly gourmet, but the breakfast fare beats lunch and dinner.” He winks. “Get some rest the next couple of days and plenty of fluids. If you have trouble eating or drinking, for any reason, these referrals may help.” He hands her two slips of paper.

Claire glances down at the referral forms—one for a dietitian, one for a therapist. “You know I
am
a therapist, right?”

He shrugs. “Doctors need doctors.”

“Agreed. I actually do have my own therapist. I get what you’re saying, but I don’t think that’s the…problem.” She holds the paper slips back toward him.

“Keep them anyhow, as a precaution. Your drop in weight concerns me, but if you can get your meals and fluids back in order, you should be fine. I suppose I’m biased,” he admits. “My daughter, Shannon, had an eating disorder as a teen.”

“She’s lucky to have a caring father.” Claire smiles sympathetically and tucks the papers in her purse.

As Dr. Bergen leaves, the nurse places a tray topped with a plain bagel, a tub of cream cheese, something that resembles fruit salad/Jell-O and a carton of one-percent milk.

“This will help,” the nurse says, adding a PediaSure can to her tray. “We give these to patients who’ve lost their appetite. Wish I could just give you some of mine.” She smiles and pats her protruding belly. “Most of us nurses end up at Old Country Buffet on breaks. You’d think a hospital might care more about the edibility of the food.”

Claire smiles and pops the shake can open. She sniffs it and winces.
Drink it. You need your strength
. She takes a long sip of the thick, chocolaty liquid, noting the chalky film it leaves in her mouth. It wakens her appetite enough to finish half of the bagel and most of the fruit bits from the Jell-O cup. Though the food itself lacks luster, eating it feels bearable.

Hank appears at the door, freshly showered and toting two cups from Einstein Bros. “Morning. I brought you a latte. Opted against the schmear this time.” He hands her a cup. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I think...”

He sits beside her on the bed and wraps her with his arm. “What’s the matter?”

“Sorry. I just slept weird. I guess I’m not so hip on the whole staying-at-the-hospital thing.” She tries for a smile.

“Are you sure that’s all?” She nods. “Want to go sit somewhere? Grab some breakfast? I have…” He glances at the wall clock. “…an hour before I have to head to the hospital. The other hospital, that is.”

His presence, embrace and offer seem comforting. But she doesn’t feel up to talking just yet. “I should get home and check on Zola then see about heading to work.”

“I thought you were taking it easy today.”

“I am…I might. Work helps me. I need to get my mind off of everything.”

“Speaking of Zola, boy did she freak at some guy last night.”

“What guy?”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Now you have to tell me. I swear that dog could work for
America’s Most Wanted
. Her instincts are always spot on.”

“There’s not much more to tell... She picked up on a scent and practically dragged me toward this car parked on the street. That dog is strong when she wants to be.”