In Her Shadow (9 page)

As the sky leans from afternoon toward dusk Grandpa revs the engine and heads for shore. They drive home in the same silence, but before they reach the house they stop at Frankie’s Fish Mart for a variety of fresh catches.

“Make it look like we caught somethin,’” Grandpa tells Claire with a wink.

They definitely left the lake with
something
.

Chapter Eighteen

He spots Dr. Thorpe down the alleyway in the deserted warehouse district—on time, as expected. Malleable like clay, these young doctors are. And greedy. Hungry for money.

As they draw closer to each other, he senses anxiety beneath Thorpe’s confident façade. Like frosting on an already decadent cake.

“Angus?” Thorpe says.

He nearly laughs. The young doc has no clue as to the foreshadowing lurking in his chosen alias. “That’s me. Do you have the materials?”

Thorpe shows him the folder. As he reaches for it, the twerp snatches it away.

“Payment first,” Thorpe says. “I need to see it.”

He opens the envelope, fans the bills out to show that the thick wad consists of hundreds. Once Thorpe hands the materials over, he shines his flashlight on the charts and studies them for a couple of minutes
—perfect.
Her bones, her form...he can almost smell her
.

“Well done. Everything I need. Any trouble accessing them?”

“None at all. Everything but my additions were in the system.”

“So you had no...assistance.”

“I’m a physician. Why would I need assistance?”

God complex.
He has no idea... “Did you call her with the results?”

“Not yet, I figured I’d—”

“Do it now.” He prompts himself to take the edge from his voice. He needs to maintain his cooperation for a few more minutes. “I want to make sure you get it right, as I’m certain you will.” Being a
doctor
and all. “Assure her, then forget her. That’s the plan, right? If all goes well, we may do business again in the future.”

Thorpe dials her number and leaves the message, word for word, as he’d been instructed.
Malleable...

“
Hello, Claire. This is Roger Thorpe calling from Aspen Digestive. Your test results came back normal. No allergies or intolerances. In fact, you seem healthy overall. Please continue to rest and eat well, drink plenty of fluids. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact my office.” He hangs up. “How’d I do?”

“Bloody perfect.” He savors the flash of panic in the young doctor’s eyes. As Thorpe reaches for the envelope, he drops it to the ground.

“Hey!” As Thorpe bends to pick up his prize, he retrieves his gun from his back pocket, places the tip on the back of his head. “Please don’t. I have a wife... A baby on the way.”

He watches the young doc piss himself then pulls the trigger, gratified—like hitting a hole in one and a wet, welcome pussy at the same time.

“Don’t worry. You’ve already sent a note of regret to your wife. You didn’t really think I would let someone who might connect my pursuits with Claire live, did you? Especially once the real fun begins.” He emits a half chuckle. “I thought physicians were supposed to be smart...”

He wipes his prints from the gun, places the weapon in Thorpe’s hand, retrieves the envelope and walks to his car, pleased. One major task on his to-do list, checked off. Not bad for the wee hours of the morning. Another hour on the road and he can commence task two.

*****

He senses her spirit as he sits in the same city, the same restaurant, the same booth he sat in the last time he saw her alive. Ten lonely years...

He stares at the photograph he’s laid on the table. He is doing all of this for her—his angel, his muse. In a few days, all will be right again.

He’ll never forgive Gil for what the old man robbed from him, all that he destroyed. It was his fault Dawn feared him, brought her jerk of a husband to the restaurant, then fled as he began revealing the truth. If not for Gil, she never would have careened off the road as he followed her...or hit the fated tree.

When he stepped out of his car that night and saw the blood spattered on her windshield, he thought his own life had ended. All of his dreams, his future, rested in Dawn. Because of Gil, she didn’t even know it.

Yet he’d refused to settle for such loss; he’d found a way to salvage her. Sheer genius.
She’s alive in a whole new way now.
Soon, her existence will glow brighter, more powerfully, than ever before.

“Don’t worry, my darling.” He pulls the x-ray from the folder, absorbs it with his eyes. “It’s all in the plan.”

The server returns to his table with cream and sugar, smacking her gum like a fucking cow.
Can’t you see I’m concentrating?
He glares up at her. “I said I take it black.”

She cowers away.
Submissive sheep...

His plans plays repeatedly, like a tape in his head. No—like music. He leans his head back, closes his eyes, listens to the orchestra. Rachmaninoff...or—he smiles—Mozart’s Requiem. He wonders if this was how Mozart felt—before the Requiem, of course. Power surging through his veins as he created beautiful art. Like Mozart, his work is fated. He needs only to supervise, let it unfold like the virtuoso’s music—from his soul to his fingers to the keys.

A smile curves the edges of his lips as it strikes him: the first movement has well begun.

 Chapter Nineteen

Claire lies beside Zola on the sofa, hoping that the TV will drown out her thoughts and allow her to sleep. But it’s no use.
“Your f-father... mental problems.”
Gramps’ words replay like a broken up playlist on shuffle-mode. What ‘problems’ was he referring to? What about them made her grandfather so upset? Simply keeping them secret? Dad had mood swings, he’d said, and headaches. Took medications... Gramps’ crumpled, crying face fills her mind, adding ache to her confusion. She tosses onto her opposite side, gives the blankets a frustrated yank.

“What’s that look for?” Judging from the spaniel’s expression, Zola would prefer that Claire calm down and snooze, too. It’s not as though over-thinking all night will provide her with answers anyway. “Fine, I surrender.”

She walks to the bedroom, swallows some Nyquil from the nightstand then resumes her position on the couch. A short time later, she barely hears Letterman’s “good night” wish before she’s pulled into a dream.

She’s riding through the air uncomfortably—upside down? Her arms are dangling, her legs feel trapped and blood rushes to her head.

“Stop! You’re hurting me!” She can’t tell whether she’s pleading out loud or in thought. Something sharp hits her abdomen repeatedly. A man’s arm. He’s carrying her the way Gramps carries charcoal from the store to the car, bent in half and tossed over his shoulder like a satchel. “Please stop. I’m just a kid!”

Tears flood her cheeks as the man walks faster, his heavy step making clumping sounds on the floor. “Where are you taking me?” she asks, her anxiety growing with each step. “Please let me go!”

Finally he does. He throws her down on a bed she doesn’t recognize then looks at her straight on. She can’t make out his face, but his eyes look more monstrous than human. Pushing the heels of her hands down on the mattress, she tries to move away. But he’s too big, too strong, too determined. She’s barely moved an inch when he grasps her wrists, forces them down above her head. Now all she can see is his chest. Through his open shirt, she spots curly hairs sprouted up between hard, reddish nipples. His pale skin shines with sweat, his smell a brew of musky cologne and something rotten.

With closed eyes she wriggles underneath him, still trying to get away, knowing it’s useless. She screams, but makes no sound. The world spins around her, tilting and twirling like a State Fair ride, sickening her just as much.

“I want my mother!” she says. “Where is she?”

He pauses, his brute eyes squinting and smirking, staring harder and harder into her like lasers. She wants to snap hers shut, but needs answers. No, not just answers. She needs her mother. Here. Now! For a split second she wonders if her inquiry has stopped him, but then his fury intensifies. His hairy chest heaves. Sounding like an animal, he grunts, saliva dripping from his mouth to hers. She spits back at him. His eyes widen. He hovers closer.

“Please...don’t!” she yelps. But it’s too late.

He holds her wrists down harder, so hard she fears they’ll break. The world goes black. She feels part of her body floating up, higher and higher toward the ceiling, trying to break free—not from the monster, but from herself. Though she tries, she can’t escape fully. His stench still lingers in her nostrils; she can still feel his prickly hairs, his heat.

She braces herself for pain. It hits her with the force of a train, a stinging ache that radiates from between her legs upward, deep inside—so deep it touches her heart. No! He’s breaking it, her whole body and her heart...what’s left of it. He collapses on top of her, knocking the breath from her—finished.

It seems he’s done hurting her for now, but something else is wrong. Something wet and sticky. A new smell, like—metal? Opening her eyes, she sees nothing but crimson. Blood splashes around her, a syrupy red ocean. It’s filling the room, consuming both of them. Pretty soon she’ll drown. “Someone! H-help me... Please!”

Chapter Twenty

Claire drives toward Peterson, unable to rid her thoughts of the nightmare. The dark feel lingers like a bad hangover, minus the fun party prerequisite. She’s never placed much value on the actual happenings in dreams. When her patients share dreams, she inquires about the mood and emotions. But this one felt so real. So did the man in it. She makes a mental note to address it with Dr. Marsha, and hopes to let it go until then. The busy work day may be just what the creepy-dream-doctor ordered.

After her first session, she beelines for the break room for much-needed caffeine. She might blame her digestive problems for her turbulent sleep and lethargy if Dr. Thorpe hadn’t phoned with her results. She’s apparently as healthy as can be, physically. She should feel elated, or at least pleased. Instead, she feels edgy and drained. Blame the couch, she thinks, or whatever late-night TV program she slept to. She can only imagine the garbage that must keep night owls and insomniacs company. But no matter what she tells herself, she can’t believe that the dream was anything but part real, part recurrent.

She finds Farrah standing at the break room counter, stirring creamer into a steaming cup of coffee.

“You look like shit,” Farrah says. “Everything okay?”

Claire tries to ignore the insult and focus on her coworker’s concern. “Yeah, I just didn’t sleep very well last night. I had this crazy dream.”

“Really? What was it about?”

“You wouldn’t be interested.” Claire pours coffee into an oversized mug.

“Actually, I am.”

Claire looks at her with curiosity. Since when did Farrah take an interest in her personal life? Of all the Peterson staff, Farrah has always seemed the least amicable.

“I did some research on dreams in college,” Farrah says. “I find them fascinating. They say so much about our psyche.”

Who is this woman? Normally, Claire would change the subject. But Dr. Marsha did suggest opening up... “Okay. Well, during the night—in the dream, I mean—someone was carrying me down a hallway, holding me over his shoulder. I was younger, in my teens, I think. He took me into a room with a bed and put me down, then held me down by my wrists. I was...terrified, but couldn’t scream. Then the room went dark... When I woke up the room was filling up with—water.” She almost said blood, but caught herself. The last thing she needed was Farrah telling her she’s mentally ill or paranoid. The woman is a psychiatrist, she reminds herself, not a psychotherapist.

“Who was this person?” Farrah asks, wide eyed.

“No idea. I only saw his silhouette—like a shadow, with eyes.... But he terrified me.” She swallows a warm sip of coffee. “Like I said, crazy. Maybe my dreams are telling me to lay off the
CSI Miami
.”

“
Him
...you said. So you know it was a man.”

“It seemed that way.”

“‘
Popper dagi ase,’
” Farrah says.

“Excuse me?”

“‘
Popper dagi ase
.’ Something my grandmother in India used to say. It’s Assamese for ‘Every sin leaves a shadow.’”

Claire pauses, considering. “So what—you think the dream represents something awful I’ve done? Some sin?” Her purging episode comes to mind.

“Not necessarily.” Farrah squints at her, thinking. “Does it correlate to anything in your life? Are you having any problems with, say, anxiety, stress, men...?”

All three, she thinks silently. The man who concerns her most lately, though, died ten years ago. “
Mental problems
...” She hears her grandfather’s voice.

“It sounds to me like you’re enduring something very difficult,” Farrah continues. “Things you don’t wish to face. The water could mean you feel helpless... That you’re drowning, but can’t admit you need help. Or feel that no one will hear you. How would you describe this man? Was it someone you knew? As I’m sure you know, the brain never forgets. And many dreams are symbolic. Jung believed that dreaming of a man who seems strong and paternal, for example, could reveal a need to fix that relationship...”

The room seems to tilt as Farrah’s words become less decipherable. Claire clutches a nearby chair for balance.