Love Gone Mad (8 page)

He asks her name, the date, where they are, other questions: time, place, and person—the whole mental status thing. He’s trying to see if she suffered a concussion. He shines a penlight into her eyes. The small circle of light is blinding.

“You should come to the emergency room,” he says.

“I’m all right,” she mutters, though a surge of nausea flows through her.

“Ms. Haggarty, you’re a nurse. You know you could have internal injuries.”

Oh God, he recognizes me from the hospital
.

“I’m fine,” she says, looking at his name tag: Rodriguez.

I don’t recognize this guy; I never saw him before and yet he knows my name. God, am I getting paranoid?

Another technician rolls a gurney onto the grass.

“I really think you should go to the ER.”

“Just give me the form and I’ll sign it. You’re off the hook.”

“Any nausea?”

“No.” She swallows, hoping she doesn’t hurl on his shoes. That would nail it—she’d be off to the ER.

Lights flash and police radios still crackle. A dispatcher’s voice on a handheld radio crepitates and breaks up. A tow truck roars up behind the Audi. It’s a huge thing, muscular-looking, if you can say that about a vehicle. A thick chain gets hooked to the undercarriage. The cops wave traffic on, but people still gawk. Adrian’s talking with the cops.

The technician hands her the clipboard. With a trembling hand, she signs the form.

The left side of her face burns—feels raw. She touches it and winces.

“It’s a slight facial abrasion from the air bag,” the paramedic says. “Use some bacitracin on it for a couple of days.”

She nods and closes her eyes.

His cologne is overwhelming; nausea swims through her. If she heaves, they’ll whisk her off to the hospital.
God, I don’t want to go there
. If only he’d move away from her. She needs fresh air.

The paramedic stands. Her queasiness recedes.

“Anyone you want us to call?” he says.

“My sister.” She gives him the telephone number.

He dials it, walks a few yards away, and talks into his cell. “She’ll be here in a little while,” the medic calls back to her.

Megan’s thoughts tumble and her inner voice points out the obvious: it must be Conrad. It can’t be anyone else, not a chance. There’ve been the hang-ups, the flowers, the e-mails, and now this. Run off the Post Road and almost killed.

Megan reminds herself to listen to her inner voice, the one that tells her to be very careful after what happened with Conrad. It’s the voice that whispers,
Assume nothing when it comes to him … absolutely nothing
.

Sitting amid police and ambulance lights, with radio static and the tow truck winch whirring, Megan watches a necklace of red taillights trailing east, passing the burned-rubber streaks on the black asphalt and eyeballing the wrecked Audi. Headlights stream west as exhaust fumes linger in the deep blueness of the heavy night air. V-shaped cones of pinkish light from vapor lamps illuminate the road.

That inner voice hisses in her ear …
It’s Conrad, a brilliant madman … and you’re chin deep in a ton of trouble
.

He’s back … and this time he’ll kill you
.

E
rin looks pale and her voice is shaky. The Audi—with its twisted hulk and shattered glass—groans as it’s hoisted onto a flatbed truck. It’s totaled, just a complete loss. A cop waves traffic on. Adrian signs some papers; then he, Megan, and Erin walk to Erin’s Subaru Forester.

“This is some way to meet,” Erin says as she and Adrian shake hands.

Adrian nods and smiles weakly. A humming sensation throttles through his chest. “There’ll be other times,” he says, noticing that Erin’s nearly as tall as Megan; she also has that Celtic look with reddish-brown hair and cerulean-blue eyes.

“The pickup just ran you off the road?” Erin asks, turning off the Post Road.

“That’s right,” Megan whispers.

After passing through a series of tree-lined streets, they pull into the driveway of a ranch-style house about a mile from the Post Road.

As they enter the house, Marlee, wearing pajamas, jumps into Megan’s arms. Megan lifts her, and the child wraps her legs around Megan. “You okay, Mommy?” Marlee whimpers. Her reddish-blond curls are in disarray; her eyes look bleary.

“Everybody’s fine, sweetie.” Megan looks pale and depleted. Marlee rests her head on Megan’s shoulder and casts a furtive glance at Adrian.

Erin’s husband, Bob, a tall, thin guy with a receding hairline, introduces himself and then examines Adrian’s head. “You’ve got quite a goose egg there,” he says.

Adrian nods and sits down on a sofa. His head is throbbing and his legs feel weak.

Marlee and her cousins, Robert and Ellie, begin playing with Sampson, a fawn-colored little pug who’s getting more excited each minute.

“I’ll give you a lift home, Adrian,” Bob says.

“No need, Bob. I’ll call a taxi.”

“It’s no sweat. I’ll take you.” Bob grabs his car keys.

“Thanks. I’ll make arrangements for a car first thing tomorrow.”

“Are you all right?” Megan asks him at the front door. Her eyes look glassy.

He takes her hands in his and says, “I’ll be okay. How’re you?”

“I’m taking tomorrow off,” she says.

“I don’t have that luxury. I’ll have to get to the hospital early … by taxi.”

“This is some way to end an evening, huh?”

“There’ll be others,” he says, wanting to wrap his arms around her. Instead, he squeezes her hands gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

She nods her head, presses her lips together, and then says, “Adrian, why not come to my place for dinner Tuesday night. Just the three of us … you, me, and Marlee …?”

“I’d love that,” he says, wanting desperately to kiss her, hold her. But it’s neither the time nor the place.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she says, blinking rapidly as her eyes grow wet.

Their lips meet in a quick kiss. After saying goodbye to everyone, Adrian and Bob head out the door. Walking toward Bob’s car, Adrian glances back and sees Megan standing on the front steps. She looks like she’s shivering, and Adrian knows whatever she wants to tell him, it won’t be a good thing.

A
drian gets out of the leased Altima. It’s nine o’clock on a moonless night. The incident on the Post Road two nights earlier—a mere forty-eight hours ago—replays in his head. It’s flashed back to him a hundred times since then: the screech of brakes, the slamming impact, the heat and suffocating fumes. And Megan, looking so completely wrecked.

He unlocks the front door and steps into the cottage. The living room is dark. It strikes Adrian that something’s wrong. He always leaves a small accent lamp on so he doesn’t return to a dark house. It’s an early morning ritual—something automatic—one he doesn’t even think about. Did he do it this morning? It would’ve been dark, so he can’t imagine he’d forgotten. But then, he’s been so preoccupied, it could’ve slipped his mind.

He snaps on the lamplight and glances at the stone fireplace, chestnut beams, built-in bookshelves, and furnishings. Everything’s in place. But there’s a hint of an odor—barely discernible. He wonders if he left the kitchen garbage can open. He recalls a few aging items sitting in the refrigerator: a carton of garlicky takeout Chinese and some prepared crap from Stop & Shop.

He opens the refrigerator door, grabs the leftovers, tosses them in a plastic garbage bag, and carries it to the bin outside the rear door. He laughs to himself, realizing how tough it is to find good ethnic food in Connecticut. He was spoiled silly in Manhattan: great exotic cuisine was everywhere—from every nation on earth. And New Haven had plenty of ethnic places, too—especially Indian and Italian restaurants. Every tribe has its cuisine.

He realizes suddenly there was something wrong in the refrigerator, something out of place. He opens the door again.

Yes, it’s strange: no milk. He recalls clearly going to the supermarket only yesterday and buying a carton of Skim Plus; he uses it on his Total every morning. But it’s not there. Did he throw it out by mistake? Has he been
that
zoned out thinking of Megan—and about what happened two nights ago? Is this an episode of
Fringe
?

Is it the long hours at the hospital, invading patients’ chests and fixing God’s mistakes?
he wonders, knowing he’s quoting Megan.

He returns to the outside garbage bin, snaps open the lid, and rummages through the contents. And there it is—an empty carton of Skim Plus with milk sopping through to the bin’s bottom. The carton was emptied into the garbage.

Adrian recalls reading about REM Sleep Behavior Disorder. You can have violent dreams and do bizarre things. Some people sleepwalk—trudge into the kitchen in a somnambulistic state and raid the refrigerator. Others punch or kick some dreamed-up attacker, thrash their bed partner—actually beat them. And the dreamer has no memory of the dream when awakened.

But Adrian’s never been told he has restless sleep. Not by Peggy, or any other bedmate. He wonders if he’s opened the door to some cartoonish universe and slipped down the proverbial rabbit hole.

But he’s certain he used milk
this morning
. He plops down onto the living room sofa, re-creates his morning rituals, and tries to understand how milk ended up in the garbage and he didn’t turn on the lamp.

Peering across the living room, he sees an empty space on the mantel. The framed photo of Mom and Dad on their honeymoon at Schroon Lake in upstate New York is gone. Startled, he shoots to his feet. Then Adrian sees his guitar. It’s upright, leaning against the stone surround of the fireplace.

A jolting sensation pummels him, and his heart feels like it stops.

The guitar strings have been severed. They dangle like limp tresses from the instrument’s neck.

Somebody broke in, emptied the milk, took the photo, and cut the guitar strings
.

Adrian’s body goes taut as a sizzling sensation rips through him.

There was an intruder … in the cottage.

His eyes dart to the bookshelves, to his old Leitz microscope from medical school, then to the brass candlesticks on the console, something Mom gave him—all undisturbed. The flat-screen television sits on a credenza; the TV and microscope are what a burglar would take.

But someone was in the house. My place was violated … my possessions … my space was invaded
.

But don’t burglars head to the bedroom for jewelry and hidden cash?

And that smell … vague, but detectable. Someone or something is upstairs
.

Adrian moves to the staircase; he stops and sets his hand on the newel post. He sniffs and thinks there’s an odor.

Yes, something smells, and it’s rotten …

He begins the climb—slowly—moves up the first few steps.

Yes, there’s a stench—it’s stronger now. Definitely … something reeks.

He treads lightly and goes up a few steps, and the wooden planks creak.

As he nears the top of the staircase, the odor grows stronger.

Standing on the landing, he feels his pulse in his wrists.

The bedroom door is shut
.

He never closes it—ever.

Frozen, he hears whooshing in his ears. He moves toward the door; the oak floorboards groan.

Adrian hears the night sounds of an old cottage: the water heater rumbles, a pipe in a wall knocks, and then comes a series of metallic clanks. Outside, crickets chirr, there’s the hoot of a night owl, the creaking of the red maple’s windblown branches in the autumn air.

At the door, his legs quiver. His tongue feels sandy.

An eddy of air whips against the cottage’s cedar shingles.

Ear pressed to the door, Adrian hears the thudding blood rush of his heart.
My God
, he thinks, he can actually feel the hairs on his neck standing.

He turns the doorknob slowly, silently.

He flings the door open and flips the light switch.

It hits him like a bitter cloud.

The bedroom air is putrid and reeks of decay. He tastes it on his tongue—caustic, repellent.

On the bed is the bloodied body of a large bird—a crow.

Its neck is wrung; its head angles grotesquely. The thing is ripped apart, mangled. Dried blood is streaked on the bedcover and pillow—clotted, congealed like currant jelly. Clawed feet poke up. The wings are torn, smeared with bloodied innards. Greenish-black iridescent feathers and quills are scattered everywhere, the tips crusted with blood and rotting flesh.

There’s a sudden movement. A feather tilts, sticks up—quivers.

Something white and glistening appears. It rolls; then it’s gone.

The smell of the carcass is so penetrating, it burns his throat.

Then he sees them.

Maggots—glistening white, segmented things—writhe wetly through the corpse and bore through its flesh. The dead thing pulses up and down, as though alive; it reminds Adrian of a beating heart. The bird is infested with maggots and rests in the broken rigor of a violent death.

Adrian turns, leaves, and slams the door shut.

He whips out his cell phone.

“W
ell, it wasn’t a burglary,” says Sergeant Ford. “I can say that, even though the photo’s missing.” Ford’s a military type—reminds Adrian of a marine drill instructor—has a slate-gray crew cut, is steep-jawed, steely eyed, and wears a tailored uniform to fit his wiry physique. Right out of Central Casting. His partner, Moore, a balding giant, must tip the scale at three hundred pounds—looks like he could wrestle in the WWE.

“You think it might’ve been kids playing a prank?” Adrian asks.

“Nope,” Ford says. “I’ve been a Simpson cop for fifteen years … seen plenty of teen mischief. They leave empty beer bottles and pizza boxes and toss the furniture.” Ford rubs his chin and shakes his head. “And they piss all over the place and take a dump … They leave a little souvenir for the homeowner.” Ford shakes his head. “But that bird? It’s a whole other thing, Doc.”

“I’ll smell it for a long time,” Moore says, his salami-sized hand rubbing his bulbous nose. The junior cop reminds Adrian of Shrek.