Love Gone Mad (15 page)

“Hi, Erin. I’m running late, but I should be at your place in ten minutes.”

“No hurry, sweetie. Adrian called; he said he’ll be a little late, too. The kids’re excited; they can’t wait.”

“Sure … he’ll get them all worked up. And Sampson, too,” she says, thinking it’s like a cyclone when Adrian, the kids, and the dog get together.

“I swear, Megan, if you don’t marry this man, you should see a shrink.”

They laugh. Megan has a quick flash of the other night at Compo Beach.

“You know, Megan, it’s only been a month, but I think it’s clear …”

“What’s clear?” she asks, hearing a smile in Erin’s voice.

“I can tell by how Adrian looks at you—and at Marlee, too—he cares so much for you both. And Bob and I think he’s great. Robert and Ellie do, too.”

“That’s so important to me, Erin.”

A few more hurried words; then Megan snaps the cell phone shut. She’s about to pocket it when a draft rushes over her—as though a door is open.

An open door from where?

Megan scans left and right.

The basement is creepy: six rows of lockers, recessed fluorescent lights that buzz constantly, cinder-block walls painted in a high-gloss off-white, a gray cement floor; a ribbon of multicolored, rubber-coated wires snake along one wall; aluminum ductwork and PCV pipes crisscross the ceiling. It’s the newer section of the hospital. Modern, sanitized.

And Megan suddenly realizes she’s completely alone.

Her skin feels like it’s rippling, moving in corrugating wavelets. She feels the hairs on her arms stand on end. Yes, her skin feels cold and it’s definitely gooseflesh. She’s always hated this feeling unless it came over her while watching a movie. And lately she feels like she’s living in a John Carpenter movie …
Halloween
… or is it
Nightmare on Elm Street?

I’ve got to stop thinking about movies. It’s too creepy. And why do I think of horror films? It always makes me feel weird
.

Megan shivers. It’s the same feeling she had as a kid when she and Erin imagined monsters beneath their beds. Could they get under the covers before a huge arm reached up from beneath the bed, clutched an ankle, and pulled them under? They’d lie there, shuddering, frozen, waiting in anticipation of being grabbed by this huge, hairy arm, the horror of it.

But it’s not then; it’s now, and she’s leaving the hospital. She has everything—book, purse, coat—and she realizes suddenly that her thoughts are rushing as though she’s pumped with adrenaline. She shuts the locker door, slips the lock through the loop, fastens it, and gives the combination wheel a quick turn.

She stops, frozen in place. Megan has that strange feeling again. It’s a
sense
more than an actual perception. A strange awareness of some sort—that eyes are boring into her. It’s so powerful, it has texture.

God, nerves can make you hear or see things that aren’t there. You can even
feel
them. It’s amazing how fear feeds on itself and can eat you up. Imagination, fantasy—they can be a burden, a true curse.

Then she sees him.

A man stands at the end of the row of lockers.

He’s wearing a black leather car coat, black gloves, and a black ski mask. Narrow slit for the mouth, openings for the eyes. He’s huge, the size of Conrad.

In his gloved hand, a knife gleams.

A riptide of terror streaks through Megan. Her heart jumps in her chest.

Hands shaking, she flips open her cell phone. God, her hands are uncontrollable. Her fingers go weak; she can’t dial, and her thoughts streak in a jumbled rush.

He’s coming toward her.

Fear surges through Megan, pulses through every muscle, and jangles every nerve in her body. A shriek erupts from her throat, but it’s stifled, and she emits a guttural gasp. She turns, somehow; her legs move and she bolts away.

Yes, run. Just run
.

She lurches, stumbles, nearly falls, but keeps going. Her purse tumbles to the floor; she clutches the cell phone.

She looks frantically to her left, then right. Where can she go? There’s only one place to run: there’s a door at the far end of the locker room. Where does it lead? It doesn’t matter. Just run as fast as possible and get there.

Steel cabinets flash by, one row, then another. Her breath whines in her ears.

She’s at the door; it has a push bar, and she slams it down. The door flies open. She’s in a narrow hallway, dimly lit. There’s another door at the end—maybe ten feet away. Where is she going? It must be the old East Wing. Shut and sealed, it’ll be torn down soon. If the next door’s locked, she’s a goner.

Oh, God, please let it open
.

On legs of rubber, she reaches the door and slams the handle down; it opens. She’s in another short corridor. Gray plaster walls and a bare lightbulb—dimly lit—hangs from the ceiling. There’s another door, twenty feet away. She races toward it. Oh, God, please be open!

She’s there. Down goes the push-bar handle. It opens. She plunges into a dark, musty room. What is this place? Must be a storage room—piled with old mattresses, crates, and gurneys. She’s in the hospital’s old East Wing. She’s certain that’s where she is. It’s an eighty-year-old, four-story building—the original hospital from the 1930s. A mausoleum, it’s been closed since last year. It’s ready for demolition. You can’t get in from the outside.

She rushes into the darkness, crouching behind a carton as her pulse thumps through her. She covers her mouth and waits, aware of her chest heaving. Her heart pounds as she peers from behind the carton at the doorway.

He stands there, backlit by dull light, knife in hand. His silhouette reminds Megan of a bear on its hind legs. Megan’s sure his body looks like Conrad’s.

She has the cell phone, but it’s useless. He’ll hear it beeping if she presses the keys. She slips it into her pocket.

Can’t call … just wait … for what? She’s trapped in this storage room unless there’s another door out. And then where?

Her heart pounds violently and thuds deeply in her chest. Can he hear it? If it’s Conrad, his hearing is incredible.

His head rotates left, right. He’s waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. And he’s listening, perched like a predator.

He moves into the room.

Raw fear burrows through Megan; her body quakes. She feels like she’s turning to jelly.

He reaches out and feels for the light switch.

Oh, God … once the light goes on, I’m a goner
.

The switch snaps up and down. There’s nothing. It’s broken. She waits in darkness.

She’s safe, for the moment.

But fear throttles through her—blood rushes through her arteries, thrums to every part of her, throbs in her head, and she even feels her eyes pulse.

He moves into the room and closes the door. He’s swallowed in blackness.

Megan strains to hear him. She takes shallow breaths—ready, tense. She tingles—from scalp to toes—as though a current simmers through her body.

He’s closer. She can hear his breath—a ragged intake of air.

Squatting, shivering now, she moves slowly to her left, away from him.
Slowly now … don’t make a sound
. Maybe there’s another door out of here, she thinks. She’s behind a pile of mattresses—the ammoniacal stink of urine fills her nostrils. She shifts to a slow crawl on damp, rough concrete. She feels her way slowly, careful not to brush against anything. She moves on hands and knees, an inch at a time, silently.

Oh, please … let there be another door. And if there is one … let it be unlocked
.

She’s at a wall, drowned in darkness; she inches her way along cinder block, feeling its cold, coarse texture. It’s damp, or is that the sweat of her palms?
Careful now, slow … a few inches at a time
.

Then she sees it. A yellowish sliver—a pale light, maybe ten feet away—slants from beneath a side door. Maybe it’s a way out.

There’s whooshing in her ears as blood pulses through her brain; she feels like she’s on fire and dribbles sweat.

She hears a rustling, chafing of clothing on skin, the squeaking soles of his boots. It’s him, coming closer in the darkness.

She reaches the door. Cold metal—feels reassuring; her palm presses its surface. Her fingers crawl slowly up the metal, find the knob—smooth, cold—and she rises from her knees very slowly, inch by inch. Her leg muscles burn, strain, and tremble with tension; her breath sounds like a wind tunnel in her ears.
What if my knees creak or crack? Oh, please … don’t make a sound
. Crouched, she clutches the doorknob. Her thighs quiver and feel incendiary, as she reaches her full height, in blackness, barely breathing, listening for him; then she leans on the door. Her heart slams rampantly in her chest—so strongly, her entire body pulses.

At just the right moment; she’ll make her move. That is … if the door opens.

It’s so dark and she’s so very scared and he’s so close now. She thinks she hears him—maybe ten feet away. This is it … her last chance … the doorknob. She begins turning it slowly.

Oh, God, please don’t squeak. Don’t make a sound … and please, please … don’t be locked
.

The doorknob turns silently, a quarter rotation and then more. Half a turn, more, and now it’s fully turned. She holds the knob in position, closes her eyes, and waits. Some pressure should do it. That is, if the door’s not locked.

She’ll do it in the burst of a heartbeat and maybe catch him off guard.

The door flies open.

She’s in a corridor. She whirls and slams the door shut.

She’s rushing down a hallway now, taking deep gulps of air with breath whining in her ears. The corridor spins as she races. Her legs wobble, but she keeps going. She could be shrieking, but she’s not sure. She dashes along the corridor. Gray walls, peeling paint, dim lightbulbs in steel ceiling cages, a porter’s sink, electric meters, pipes, wires, and cinder blocks stream by her, and she feels breathless, dizzy—suddenly sluggish, stumbling—ready to collapse. At the end of the corridor, a door looms—gray, metal, huge, heavy-looking.

She’s almost there; in a second, maybe two, he’ll be in the corridor.

She’s at the door.

There’s a metal crossbar. She pushes down. It clanks. She shoves the door outward. It scrapes against the concrete floor. It’s stuck—won’t move outward.

She wrenches down on the handle, throws her weight onto it, and then leans her shoulder against the metal and pushes.

It scrapes on the floor and moves—an inch.

The crossbar shakes in her fists. Up and down. She rattles the bar savagely, then once more. She throws her back against the door and pushes so her thighs strain; every muscle quivers, and her legs feel like they’ll explode from tension, and then she slams her back into the door, but it’s stuck.

The storage room door bashes against the far wall. He’s there. He’s coming fast—closing the gap.

She glances to her left. There’s a freight elevator. She slaps at a button.

The door slides open.

She’s inside now, punching at buttons, frantically, any button, doesn’t matter.

“Close” … “One” … “Two” … “Four” …

The doors slide together suddenly, and she’s shut inside.

There’s violent thumping on the outer door. So loud it penetrates the cubicle and thrums through her bones. She’s closed off—in a freight elevator with gray metal walls and a steel floor with studs. The door has a round Plexiglas window reinforced with wire mesh. Overhead: a low-wattage lightbulb in an iron-gray sleeve. It casts a sickly, yellow glow through the compartment.

Her breath whistles through her nostrils; her heart feels like it will burst. Megan’s thoughts hemorrhage in a frenzy of fear and confusion. What now? Where can she go? What options does she have? What does she do? She’s light-headed, weak, and can barely stand, and she shudders as the pounding on the door grows louder, shakes the elevator, drums through her ears, and penetrates her brain. With each thump, she shrinks farther back against the rear wall as fear blitzes through her like a freight train. A steel door separates her from a madman, and she’s trapped in this cubicle—inside the elevator shaft of an abandoned building. She closes her eyes, tries to catch her breath, and does her best to quell the shaking of her body.

But as long as she stays in this compartment, so long as bricks and steel surround her, so long as she stays in this suffocating compartment, she’s safe. But she’s trapped.

In this box.

A
slamming so powerful she
feels
its force—it has sledgehammer intensity. He’s bashing the elevator door, blasting at it with his fists. His power is incredible. It must be Conrad.

Suddenly, there’s a whirring, then creaking. The elevator lurches upward. Megan’s stomach drops as she feels the upward thrust in her thighs.

Cables squeal as the elevator rises. She feels light-headed, faint, as though she’ll drop to the floor.

Destination: first floor or second. She doesn’t know; she’s slapped every button.

Tears flood her eyes with near-blinding wetness.

Two …

Three …

She glances about the elevator. It’s maybe eight feet deep, six or seven feet wide, gray, and has cast-iron walls with rust blotches, a dull, metal-studded floor, and that murky overhead yellow light—a freight elevator.

Her arms feel spaghetti limp, weak. A sick sensation billows up from her stomach, eddies through her chest and then to her head. Her entire body trembles.

There’s a bounce.

Rapid jiggling, cables groan. The elevator stops and shudders. The indicator says it’s the fourth floor.

The doors part silently, quickly.

She peers out at the hallway’s cinder-block walls. Everything is gray, dull, and dimly lit by a few bare lightbulbs. It’s deserted and damp; the air is still.

Megan wonders if she should scramble down the stairway to the third floor, dash from there through a series of fire doors—if they’re even open—and back into the main building. But the doors could be locked. Then she’d be dead meat. There’s her cell phone.
Yes
. She reaches into her pocket and flips the cell open. No signal in this old building. But maybe if she moves, she’ll get one. Megan holds the phone up, watching the screen as she moves left, then right.