In Her Shadow (5 page)

Sinking lower in the driver’s seat, he positions the lens on his surveillance camera just so, and
... perfect.
The front door swings open. She steps outside. With rapid silent clicks, he captures each moment. Click-click-click. Click-click-click. Giddy chills coat his skin as he watches the wind rifle her ponytail.

As she walks in his direction, he imagines she’s walking toward him. She stops at her car as expected, not seeming to notice him a short distance down the street. But he feels their connectedness. It’s real and strong, if invisible—like the chill in the air.

He longs to communicate with her.
Let your hair down,
he tries to tell her with his mind, continuing to snap pictures. He envisions her tresses falling loosely around her shoulders, splaying outward in the breeze.

Stop!
he commands, closing his eyes. He needs the separation, the differences between the two of them to stand out. Claire represents pain, loss, suffering. He cannot be fooled by her appearance! A wolf in sheep’s clothing, remnants of
—him.

Gil’s angered face appears in his mind, reminding him that Claire equals pain. It will all come full circle once he puts her to her rightful—perhaps fated—use. Ah yes. Luck has little to do with this.

Poor girl, it isn’t her fault. But there is nothing anyone can do to fix or change that now. Righteousness will stem from her sin-laden life; she might find solace, even pride, in that.

He watches the steam puff from her muffler, frozen air
—visible
chill. Nothing real stays invisible forever. Soon the physical distance between them will close. They’ll breathe the same air as they join together in the ultimate sacrifice.

Soon...

He watches her drive away then waits, skimming the photos before following.

As he drives, he feels heated, hard between his legs, wanting... No!
Think not of her, but your angel!

He closes his eyes for a moment, just long enough to see the one he truly loves. He imagines her vibrant and eager, holding him. He can almost feel her, taste her, inhale her female smell. He imagines her wispy hair, her soft skin—much like a child’s—her gasp as he enters her, her wet tears when he is through.

He can’t take it any longer! Energy surges through his body. His hardness pulsates, thickens. He clutches his manhood with one hand, steering with the other, his body heat rising. The car swerves, nearly hitting a street sign, as he erupts—an explosive orgasm that nearly lifts him from the seat.

Breathless, he refocuses on the road.

He reminds himself to proceed with caution. Though his vulnerabilities are few, they could hinder his plan.

Not that he’s truly worried. Bit by bit, it’s all coming together.

Chapter Eleven

“Step up.” A nurse guides Claire onto a scale at Aspen Digestive Health Center.

As Claire holds her breath then closes her eyes, her grandparents’ scale leaps to mind. “Don’t tell me.”

The nurse half-chuckles. “If you say so. But trust me, you have nothing to worry about.”

Maybe not. But considering the impact of her last weigh-in, ignorance seems best.

Though Claire would much rather be working, she’s eager to get the appointment over with. Remnants of the other night’s panic-and-pass-out episode play out in low energy and subtle fatigue. She hasn’t eaten much since then, but overall, she feels improved.

The nurse checks her vitals then leads her to an exam room. Once the doctor appears, Claire does a double-take. He looks more like a soap opera actor than a gastroenterologist. Salon-coiffed hair, trendy shoes and a Movado watch she recognizes from one of Elle’s advertising campaigns.

“Roger Thorpe,” he says.

“Nice to meet you.” She shakes his hand, scolding herself for stereotyping.

He has her lie on her back. They discuss her symptoms as he applies pressure to various spots on her abdomen and back, listening to each area with a stethoscope.

“Do your symptoms worsen in response to particular foods?” he asks, helping her to an upright position.

“Hard to say. I had cake and some pork roast just before a bad reaction.” Thoughts of the cake send chills down her spine. She shakes them off.
Focus.

He scans her chart. “Any family history of food sensitivities? Digestive conditions?”

“Not that I know of, but my parents died years ago...and I lost contact with most of my father’s side after that.”

“I see. Well, your symptoms could indicate various conditions. Most likely, it’s a simple case of gastroenteritis—stomach inflammation. If so, you should feel better in a few days. Get plenty of rest and fluids. In the meantime, we’ll run some tests to rule out common allergies. I’d also like to check your nutrient levels and take an x-ray of your intestinal tract.” He jots notes down on a lab form then hands it to her. “I hope you don’t mind. I promised your referring physician I’d be thorough.”

He sends her down to the lab for blood work then to the second floor for x-rays. She’ll learn the results in a few days.

*****

As Claire exits the health center, cool air blasts her face. Shivering, she pulls her coat tighter around her and scans the lot for her silver Camry. If she’d known the temperature would drop so, she would have parked closer.

As she begins walking, she hears rustling sounds in the distance, then footsteps echoing her own. She pauses, glances over her shoulder. But the sounds aren’t coming from behind. She looks from one side to the other then takes a few cautious steps.

More sounds.
Shit
.

She stops; so does her echo.

“Hello?” she says softly.

No response.

It’s nearly Halloween
, she rationalizes, absorbing a deep breath. It’s dark and cold. She’s seen too many movies. And she’s just gotten past her parents’ accident anniversary and a health scare, for Christ’s sake.
Just...calm down and keep moving
.

A few steps later, she pauses again. She glances around: nothing, her heavy breath is the only sound.
Thank goodness
.

But as she continues, she can’t stop the notion of a looming presence, as though every step draws her closer to danger. She quickens her step, yearning to scrutinize the area and snap her eyes shut at once. The urge to observe and not to battle it out as she prods on, moving faster and faster. Her breath grows so loud, it might drown out more of the earlier echo.

Come on
... Her warm car. Locked doors. Safe and sound.
Almost there
.

She arrives at her car, reaching for the door handle like a first-time race walker approaching a finish line.
Can we say drama queen?
she thinks, attempting to ease her jitters with humor. Certain patients of hers would delight in her paranoia.

Then again, she encourages them to trust their intuition, hone in on that inner voice. Sorting out gut feelings and irrational fear is the challenging part. Present case included.

She settles into the driver’s seat; the familiar smell and feel bring comfort. She starts the engine, double-checks the door locks, and heads toward the exit.

Waiting in the right turn lane to exit the lot, she spots headlights in her rearview mirror.

Her heartbeat quickens.
It’s just another car
, she thinks. Parking lots do have those.

She stares at the mirror, tapping her finger nervously on the steering wheel. The car is a distance away, but drawing closer.
Come on, light. Turn green
. Cars continue to whiz past on the busy street before her. She should have taken the back exit.

As she adjusts the mirror for a better look, the headlights on the car trailing her switch off. The vehicle stops. The driver’s door opens.
Shit!
A tall figure emerges. He walks toward her, raises something in the air. She sees a flash. A camera?

He waves slowly, as though ridiculing or taunting her, then moves slowly back into his car.

“That’s it, asshole.” No more paranoid politeness. She shifts into reverse, prepared to face her follower. Who does this prankster think he is?

The loud screech of tires causes her to jump. A horn blares as the car speeds past her and out the exit. She tries to read the license plate before the car careens into traffic, but makes out only the deer design on the chrome holder. A hunter.

She sits stunned, clutching the wheel as though her life depends on it.

Chapter Twelve

She lies awake, grateful that though she remains in the basement, she’s not strapped down. Her veins are free of needles, though the bruises they left remain. The bruises will fade, her memories of the basement, never.

Ten years have passed since he first locked her down here. Perhaps she deserved it then; she had tried to run away after all. But he had broken a promise and, as a result, her heart.

For years before then, he’d spoken of the woman he would bring home one day—someone to love her, care for her, teach her “womanly things.” But the very day she anticipated its fulfillment, his plan seemed to vanish.

She’d greeted him at the door filled up with giddiness, wearing her best dress, expecting not just him, but a mother. Instead he stomped through the door alone and into the kitchen. He threw her birthday cake on the floor, sending glass shards flying. It was then that she noticed the blood spatters on his sleeves. They matched his bloodshot eyes.

“Where is she?” she’d asked, terrified, but still hoping.

His face snapped toward her. “NEVER speak of her again. Never!”

He had never used that tone with her, never quite so loud or angry.

And so...she’d run.

By the time he brought Uncle Bob and his hounds to the woods to find her, she’d already decided to turn around and go back. What life did she know, after all, but with him? She thought things would be okay then, back to normal and good. She even wondered if he might change his mind, find the mother he’d promised—see how upset he made her? She’d run away.

During the walk home, Uncle Bob told her that one of the dogs was expecting, and would she like a puppy? Would she ever, she said. But when she looked up at HIM for approval, his face looked blank, yet steely. She should have known something else was coming...

Back at the house, he’d carried her to the basement and showed her “womanly things” of his own. “GET OFF! IT HURTS!” she’d told him. When he was finished, he rolled off of her, leaving her with pain and blood. He never saw Uncle Bob or the hounds again and her wish for a puppy became another impossible dream in her collection.

Now, as she wipes the tear from her cheek, anger replaces her heartache. He’s a monster in her eyes. Though some days she blames herself.

Footsteps sound from the stairway. She pretends to sleep as he checks her for fever then sits down to work at his nearby desk. For a moment she’s grateful he doesn’t force her to eat.

When he steps out and returns with the hospital machine, she’s certain her worst fear is coming true—he’s going to force-feed her through tubes from now on, take back the little control she has left, her only way to cope. She recalls the blood bags, hoping again she’d imagined them. Her heart pounds as a thought strikes her: what if he’s forcing not only sugar water, but blood, protein and cow fat into her veins? She imagines a tube stretching from a Holstein’s stomach into her own, fat blubbering up inside her until her skin can’t contain it.

He’d threatened her once: “If you don’t eat your meat willingly, I’ll have to make you. Come now…it’s special.” It was special—all animals are. But not for eating. She thinks again of the two deer that led her to her secret hideaway... Special. Even when she ate normally, she refused to consume the only creatures more helpless than her. But the more she resisted, the more he pressed. And now...here she is, strapped down and locked in the basement and the palm of his hand.

If he makes her swallow flesh again… Her gag reflexes contract. No—she won’t allow it. Her thoughts churn about in her head—seeking, searching.
You’ve taken everything!
Her thoughts are so loud, she wonders if he hears them.

For once, she doesn’t care. She has nothing left. Nothing here, anyway.

 You don’t love me, she thinks.
I know that now.

Filled up with rage, she barely feels the needle as he reattaches her arm to the blood machine. She keeps her hate-soaked eyes away from his face. He doesn’t deserve to sense what she feels. And she doesn’t deserve the punishment that would follow. Breathing deeply and slowly, she resists the urge to snatch her arm away, take the needle from his grasp and show him what it feels like. Is he capable? He feels, all right. But she’s pretty sure his range is sparse.

She’s more alert this time, aware of the red fluid pulsing in and out of her veins. Every so often, her abdomen cramps up. She winces, but tries not to
. Pretend you don’t care. Pretend none of this matters.
The problem is, it does. The emotional pain is worse than the physical. Thoughts of the blood, the calories and the Holstein imprison her. The monster seated beside her holds the key.

After he detaches her and leaves, she retrieves a mirror she tucked beneath the mattress. In it, she sees nothing but lumps of lard and reasons for loathing. She could break it, if she wished. A simple slice to her wrists and it would all be over…the dread, the pain, the suffering. Kill herself with her own reflection. She looks into her eyes and asks the question she’s asked herself many times:
Do you want to die?

Well? Do you or don’t you?

T
ears fall down her cheeks. She can’t explain her answer, but―no, she truly doesn’t. Is it the woman in the pictures? A desire to save her from...him? Does she actually believe she could? Whatever the reason, she can’t shake her will to live. No, not just
live...