Pulse (4 page)

She dispatched Lourdes for towels and hot soup, and insisted on helping him peel off his wet clothes. “There had to be a place to take shelter,” she fussed. “You look like you nearly drowned. Look at those shoes!”

She filled the Jacuzzi in the master bath, ordered him into the steaming water and returned with a big stoneware mug. The soup was hot, aromatic. Chicken. Homemade. Jewish penicillin. She sat on the marble ledge around the oversized tub and spoon-fed it to him. Then she lathered his hair with her fragrant shampoo, massaging his scalp. Had he been a cat, he would have purred.

He knew what she was doing, of course. This was in part a diversion, a warm, delectable and delicious diversion from their squabble the night before. He had heard Shandi come in from her date at about 2 a.m. He had never suspected Kathleen’s motives before, but right now he was in heaven, the moment too good to spoil. Who knows, he thought, perhaps the situation with Shandi would resolve itself. Some do.

He felt completely relaxed. “Something happened at the beach, Kath.”

“What was it?” She rubbed conditioner into his hair.

“I saw a boat in trouble, floundering in the storm.”

She paused. “Anybody aboard?”

“One man, he saw me and was signaling for help.”

“Did they save him?”

“By the time I got the lifeguard’s attention, he was gone. Nobody else saw him.”

“What about all those cliff dwellers in the high-rise con-dos and hotels along the beach?” She sounded cheerful and matter-of-fact. “Lots of them have nothing better to do than scan the horizon with their telescopes and binoculars. Youknow how eager they all are to be the first to spot dead bodies, beached whales and Haitian boat people. Surely they saw him and called for help.”

“I hope so,” he said doubtfully.

She handed him the cup and he drained the last satisfying dregs. He smiled up into her eyes, the water easing the tightness in his muscles. “You saved me again,” he said, his head clear. “Home is really the place where they have to take you in.”

“I was so worried when I woke up and you were gone. Where did you go off to at the crack of dawn?”

“To the office, had an early meeting.”

“Don’t ever do that again without telling me first.” Her voice was tender, though she shook her head in mock exasperation. “I worry about you.” She brought him towels from the warmer, thick and fluffy. “What you need now is a nap.”

She was right. He meant to thank her, to tell her she had been right about everything, all along, but he felt drowsy. He wore his bathrobe into the bedroom, sank into bed and pulled the down comforter over him.

He awoke refreshed, the room in soft shadow, the setting sun spilling its golden glow between narrow cracks in the blinds, the sheers billowing in the breeze off the water. Disoriented for a moment, he was not sure whether it was dawn or dusk.

He was sure he was not alone. Someone had just spoken his name. Someone was sitting in the comfortable overstuffed chair between the bed and the fireplace, where Kathleen often sat reading to him when he was ill.

“You don’t have to watch me sleep anymore,” he mumbled. “I’m okay now, Kath.” He rolled over to reassure her,comfortably drowsy in the fading light. “I’m sure you have …”

The stranger smiled faintly, his eyes bright.

Frank jerked to a sitting position. The shock sent cold fear coursing through his body. The man looked familiar, though his face was in shadow. The high-backed chair blocked the waning light from the window behind him.

His rumpled clothes seemed stained and spattered in the uncertain light. The intruder remained still, exhibiting no threat, no sense of menace.

“Who the hell are you? What are doing in here?” Frank fumbled for the bedside keypad, then mashed the panic button.

The shrill siren howled an earsplitting warning, automatically alerting the monitoring station. Police would be notified. But the man seemed to take no notice. Still seated, he extended his right hand in a gesture of supplication.

Frank scrambled out the far side of the bed, the down comforter sliding to the floor. He pulled his robe tight around him, eyes on the intruder, and edged toward the door.

“Kathleen!” he bellowed. “Lourdes!” The alarm continued to wail.

He heard voices, somebody pounding up the stairs.

“Call the police!” he shouted. “Call the police!”

The door burst open. The siren’s shrill sound spilled even louder into the room. He took his eyes off the man and saw the frightened faces of Kathleen, Casey and the housekeeper. His daughter was wide-eyed, hands over her ears.

“Frank, what is it?”

“Don’t come in!” he warned, wheeling. “Somebody’s in here!”

Kathleen hit the light switch. The room was empty. Onthe chair, only a pillow and an open magazine. The intruder had escaped that quickly.

“Casey,” he instructed, “go downstairs, go outside, stay there and wait for the police.”

No one moved. They all stared at him.

“Go! Go!” he shouted.

“Do it,” Kathleen said, touching Casey’s shoulder, never taking her eyes off him.

“Did you call the police?” he demanded, as Casey trotted out of the room, turning to stare at him over her shoulder.

“The alarm company will send them, unless we cancel,” Kathleen said calmly.

“He must have gone through the bathroom.” His words sounded tense, choked. “He could be anywhere.” If the siren would only stop, he could think.

The leather bag with his medication still lay on the nightstand. Frank snatched it up. The closet where Kathleen kept her jewelry seemed intact, the wall safe undisturbed.

“Come on.” Hurriedly he shepherded them out into the hallway, then downstairs and into the foyer.

Lourdes squinted, gritting her teeth against the shrieking of the alarm. “I’m going to turn it off,” Kathleen said.

“No! The son of a bitch is still in the house!”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were asleep, Frank. You must have been dreaming.”

“No!” he said fiercely, as the first hint of doubt gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Why did the intruder’s face look so familiar, so beneficent, as though he belonged there?

A patrol car pulled into the driveway. Frank used the remote to stop the siren. In the sudden, blessed silence, Frank saw their next-door neighbors at the side gate. Gardiner Bishop’s paunch hung over the top of his walking shorts. He held a revolver in his hand.

“Is everybody all right?” he called.

Frank nodded as he stepped out to greet the first patrolman, ears ringing, the alarm still sounding in his head.

Two police officers and a K-9 dog searched the house from top to bottom. Daisy the dalmatian barked her brains out at the men in uniform and their canine partner, a harnessed German shepherd who ignored her. The searchers found nothing amiss. Doors, screens and windows all intact.

Frank and Kathleen talked to the officers in the living room. A lanky, weary-looking cop who appeared to be in his forties and his partner, a burly, slightly oafish man at least ten years younger.

No one else saw the intruder. Daisy never barked until the police arrived. Now she refused to stop. Yes, Frank had been sleeping during the day. Well, yes, he was on medication but nothing hallucinogenic.

Shandi came running into the house, past the police cars blocking the drive.

“What’s going on! What happened?” she panted, eyes frightened. “Is everything all right?”

“Daddy said he saw somebody, upstairs, in their room,” Casey blurted.

“He’s still recuperating,” Kathleen was telling the officers, “from major surgery. He was in the hospital for months.”

“I’m fine now,” Frank protested. He realized how it sounded, and looked. He had been barefoot, in a bathrobe, when they arrived. “I simply took a nap because I was up very early this morning and got drenched in the storm this afternoon.” He read Kathleen’s face as he spoke and realized she didn’t believe him either.

No one was seen leaving the island on foot, no strange cars had been spotted. The man might have escaped along the water. But if so, the others downstairs and Lourdes in the kitchen should have seen him.

“So you wake up and he’s just sitting there?” the younger cop said again. “You didn’t see a weapon?”

“No, it was shadowy, but I didn’t see anything in his hands.”

“He wasn’t exposing himself?”

“No,” Frank said impatiently. “Not that I saw. I think he was trying to tell me something. His lips were moving.”

“Maybe he was reading that magazine,” the cop suggested. Kathleen’s copy of
Southern Living
had been left open on the chair. He turned to Kathleen. “That was there when Mister Douglas went in for his nap?”

She nodded.

“Didn’t look like anybody sat on it. Maybe he took the magazine off the chair, then put it back before fleeing.” He shrugged and glanced at his partner.

“What did he say?” the older cop asked.

“I couldn’t hear, didn’t wait around to find out,” Frank admitted.

“You just got out of the hospital,” the cop said quietly, “where people are in and outta your room all the time. Maybe you woke up and thought you were still there. You know how you can wake up confused for a moment.”

Frank knew, all too well.

“The light can play tricks on you, especially if you’ve been dreaming.”

“No,” he said stubbornly. “I saw someone. He was there.”

He saw the way they looked at him. The eyes of the lifeguard that afternoon had reflected the same expression.

“We’ve had a few driveway robberies on these islands,” the older cop conceded, getting to his feet. “But no home invasions.”

The officers remained respectful and left promising to patrol the island more often, but Frank knew they didn’t believe him.

Dinner was nearly ready, but he wasn’t hungry. He needed a drink. He poured one and sat sipping it, staring at the gathering darkness. The household was subdued. Little was said, but he knew what they were thinking. The Bishops called to make sure all was well. He remembered Gardiner at the gate, a gun in his hand.

A gun, Frank thought. He had always feared and hated firearms because of his father. But now he realized the world, his life, had changed. He had to protect his family. That was it. He needed a gun.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
n bed that night, he spoke to Kathleen about upgrading security, not only in the house but the entire neighborhood.

“I’m going to the next Homeowners Association meeting,” he said, “to propose a plan for manned security gates on each island.” As past president, he had the clout. They would listen to him.

“Who would pay for it?” she asked, her voice doubtful in the dark. “Wouldn’t it be expensive?”

“Each homeowner would be assessed their fair share based on their property value.”

“But taxes are so high now,” she protested. “People who’ve lived here forever, especially the older ones on fixed incomes, are having a tough time financially. I’m sure there will be opposition.”

“But we have to protect ourselves. You saw what happened today.”

She took his hand. “Sweetheart, you may have been mistaken. After all you’ve been through … Perhaps we should talk to Dr. O’Hara,” she said softly. “He could reevaluate your medication.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “I’m calling Guard-Tec in the morning. I want security cameras here at the house.”

Her silence was eloquent. She soon slept, but he did not. His heart prevented it. No pain, no discomfort, no precise symptom he could positively identify. He was simply aware of every heartbeat. He heard each one. Did Daniel Alexander’s widow sleep well, he wondered, or did she lie awake somewhere listening to her own heartbeat? He knew now that he had to see her, just once.

His heartbeats faded into the gentle creaking of the house, Kathleen’s restless sighs and the faint, faraway music from a midnight party boat passing in the bay.

Frank pored over the morning paper and tuned in to the radio news. No reports of a drowning victim or a missing boater. He called Lucca, instructing him to expedite installation of surveillance cameras at the office, and hired him to consult with his home security company on design of a similar system for the house. “I also need your recommendation on the right weapon to buy, a gun.”

“You got a problem, boss?” the detective growled. “Anything I should know about?”

“Nothing serious. But we had a prowler yesterday.”

“That’s always a wake-up call. What did the local gendarmes have to say?”

Frank wanted to avoid the details. He valued Lucca’s respect too much.

“You
did
call them, didn’t you, boss?”

“Yeah. They were out here. They didn’t find him.”

“No surprise,” he scoffed contemptuously. “Those guys over on the beach couldn’t pick up a wounded elephant’s trail in a foot of fresh snow. How serious are you about this gun thing?”

“Dead serious.”

Lucca was silent for a moment, apparently mulling over Frank’s choice of words. “You’re talking about a weapon to keep in the car, your office, at the house for protection?”

“Exactly. What do you suggest?”

“A good, old-fashioned, .38-caliber six-shot revolver with a three-inch barrel. That’s the easiest to handle, less chance of an accident. Doesn’t tend to jam like an automatic. Fires nice medium-velocity lead bullets. Anything by Smith and Wesson or Colt. Not for stopping cars or tanks, strictly for punching holes in people. That’s all, you don’t need no alley sweeper or elephant gun, no eighteen-shot automatic.

“Might I suggest that before you bring it home, take it to the range first. So you get the feel of it, as opposed to the Miami style, which is throwing open a back door or a window and firing a few shots in the air. Be a good idea to take your wife and the kids out to the range, show ‘em how to use it, teach ‘em to fire it, explain the safety rules. This accomplishes two things. One, if they’re ever alone in the house and threatened, they know how to protect themselves, and two, familiarity does away with the forbidden-fruit factor. Worst thing people with kids can do is to hide a weapon and warn ‘em never to go near it. That’s asking for trouble. And for God’s sake, boss, don’t do like some people who are so scared of their own weapon that they unload it and lock the ammo in a different part of the house. An empty gun don’t do you any good in a real emergency.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“You follow up on that other matter yet?”

“I’m about to, now.”

“Let me know if you need anything in that department.”

“You’ve got it.”

Frank had trouble selecting what to wear. He wanted to look … what? Reputable? Responsible? Appreciative? Like a man worthy of the gift he had received.

Kathleen was in and out of the room while he dressed. He tried on a red printed silk jacquard tie, but rejected it. Too bright, too frivolous for the occasion. He felt impatient, pressured to hurry. Why? he thought. The woman doesn’t even know I’m coming. That may not have been her who answered the phone. She may not even be there. Hell, she could be in Paris, Rome or cruising the Aegean Sea by now, spending her dead husband’s insurance money.

He took off the white-on-white herringbone stripe. The French cuffs and spread collar made him look like a stuffed shirt. What had even made him buy these clothes?

Wearing only a bra and lacy half slip, Kathleen fastened a pearl earring and paused to watch him try on an Italian-made blue-gray textured cotton shirt with a point collar.

“If I didn’t know better …”

“What?” He stood in front of the mirror, holding a navy and royal blue silk woven tie up under his chin.

“You remind me of Shandi dressing for a date,” she said, smiling, hands on her hips.

“Speaking of Shandi,” he said, to change the subject, “we need to talk about her seeing Bowden. Is that still going on? Was she really at the library last night? She is grounded, right?”

“Of course. We can discuss all that later.” She kissed his cheek and padded barefoot into the bathroom.

He looked in the mirror and decided to lose the tie. The Miami look, the casual look, was better. That was him.

First he drove to the gun shop Lucca had recommended. He chose the revolver the detective had suggested, paid for it and filled out the paperwork. His background would be checked during the three-day waiting period. Then he drove south.

The house sat at the end of the street on a cul-de-sac. Twin phoenix palms towered over the front yard, flower beds nestled at their feet. The lawn and the beds looked slightly straggly, as though neglected lately. A child’s bicycle lay on the lawn, near the front porch. A white Mercury Sable station wagon, a few years old, stood in the driveway. The dead man’s Lexus must be in the garage, he thought.

A gray striped cat napped contentedly in the sun on the front doormat.

Frank drove by twice. He stared at the house, uncertain. It would have been so much easier if she were gone. But someone did appear to be at home. He pictured what she would be like. Petite, dark-haired, athletic, the woman on the fringe of his fantasies, the elusive figure haunting his restless dreams. Why not? he thought. His heart had loved her. Doctors call it a pump, poets call it the place where love lives—or dies, the center of all emotions. The truth, he thought, must lie somewhere between.

He did not pull into the driveway, but parked the Mercedes at the curb and proceeded up the walk, stepping over a garden hose. A row of empty plastic flowerpots, a trowel, and a ten-pound sack of potting soil sat next to the house as though the task of repotting had been interrupted. Theylooked as though they had been there for some time, the pots askew, tipped one way and the other.

The cat stared, wary at his approach, then skittered into the bushes. The front screen door was strictly South Florida, flamingos and palm trees forged in art deco ironwork. The inner door stood open, to welcome the breeze. Beyond it, he saw a Cuban tile floor, rattan furniture and dappled light filtered through palm fronds outside the back windows. This house had a name as well as a number, twin palms was painted on a decorative ceramic tile over the doorbell.

He took a deep breath and rang the bell. The drive had taken nearly half an hour, mostly because he was unfamiliar with the neighborhood and busy rehearsing what to say. He had decided to keep it simple:

On behalf of my family and myself, I want to personally express our sympathy and our gratitude. You saved my life and we will never forget it. As you can see, I’m doing very well. Thank you.

Short and sweet. That would end it. This compulsion behind him, he would go on to live out his new life and sleep peacefully through the nights to come.

All was quiet inside. He pushed the doorbell again and listened to the melodic chime. A long shadow fell across the tile floor, someone emerging from another room. He held his breath as a woman came swiftly to the door.

“Mrs. Alexander?”

“Yes.”

She was tall, at least five ten, lean and angular with high rounded cheekbones and a sharp little chin with a deep dimple etched in the center. She was nothing like the small dark-haired woman in his mind’s eye. This woman’s hair, a curly mass of red, auburn, spilled carelessly over her shoulders, cascading down her back.

“You got here so fast.” She unlocked the screen door andpushed it open. “You don’t know how much I ‘preciate this.” She spoke southern in a throaty drawl.

He stood there, bewildered. “Come on in,” she urged, beckoning impatiently. “I hope we kin git this all figured out.” She sighed poignantly. “It’s got me totally bumfuzzled.”

Hesitantly he stepped inside. He had been so certain she would look familiar, that he would know her at once. So much for his cockeyed fantasies. Her husband’s heart might beat in his chest, but it neither fluttered nor pounded in recognition. She was a total stranger. This was the woman who had saved him. Slim, almost too thin, she wore a simple, subdued ankle-length print dress, short-sleeved with tiny buttons down the front. Sandals. No jewelry, just a gold wedding band. Her gray-green eyes were big and expressive, her lips almost too full to be natural. He wondered if they were silicone-enhanced, a fad Kathleen’s friends had embraced a few years earlier, when they all began to appear with suddenly swollen lips, as though stung by bees on an angry rampage.

“Please sit down.” She waved toward the rattan couch. A book on the coffee table caught his eye,
Healing After the Suicide of a Loved One.

She had obviously mistaken him for someone else, so he remained standing. He did not plan to stay long enough to sit.

“Mrs. Alexander …”

“Call me Rory. Sorry this place is such a mess.” Newspapers were stacked on a dining room chair. Toys scattered on the floor. She picked up a plastic truck with a missing wheel. “I’ve just been runnin’ in circles,” she said helplessly. There was a childlike vulnerability about her.

“My name is Franklin Douglas.”

“You’re not from Briscoe and Taft?”

He shook his head. He recognized the name, an accounting firm with offices downtown.

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, exasperated, and pushed back her hair. Her eyes became wary and she licked her lower lip nervously, as though expecting something unpleasant. “Then you’re …”

“Frank.” He cleared his throat. “I was very sick for more than a year. I nearly died.” His mouth opened, but the words he had rehearsed weren’t there. His top shirt button was open. He undid the second button, fingering the top of his incision. “I …” he fumbled.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. Her big eyes widened. The toy truck slipped from her hand unnoticed. “You’re forty-four years old? From Miami? You have two children?” Tears welled in her eyes.

He nodded, his own eyes swimming.

She clasped both hands, her expression one of joy. “Oh, you look wonderful! You’re all right!”

“Yes.” He smiled.

“Please sit down. Please.”

He sat on the sofa, she directly across from him in a cane-back chair.

“I’m so glad. I’m so glad.” When she smiled, deep dimples appeared in both cheeks. “I was so scared that it wouldn’t work out. If you weren’t all right, then there’d be nothin'.” She leaned forward. “One of Daniel’s kidneys went to a man in Orlando. They said he only had hours to live without it. The other went to a teenage girl in New Orleans. His liver went to a father of four in Tampa. I think they’re all right. I haven’t heard, probably won’t. But you, look at you.”

Her long, tapered fingers covered her face, huge eyes peering over them to stare. “Daniel would be so happy.” A tear skidded down her cheek as her eyes roved to the mantel.

Frank got to his feet.

“That’s him? That’s your husband?”

She nodded, blinking. “The three of us. Taken a few years ago.”

A small boy perched on a bicycle, his mother laughing, held him and the bike, which appeared to be new. Daniel Alexander stood behind them, smiling. The silver frame was small, only five by seven. But even at a glance Frank saw that this handsome man with deep-set dark eyes was also a total stranger, no visceral connection, no link to his troubling dreams.

He smiled at the photograph, touched by the solemn gaze of the small boy who resembled both parents. The all-American family. He wondered what happened, why it ended the way it did.

“I simply wanted to thank you.” He turned to her. “You saved my life.”

“Oh.” She looked startled. “When they asked me, I never hesitated, not for a moment.” She hugged herself as though suddenly cold, her gaze returning to the photo. “The chance was a tiny anchor in a sea of grief. We had never discussed it, but I’m sure it was what Daniel would have wanted.”

She offered him coffee.

“Sure, I’d love some,” he heard himself say.

“Come on.” He followed her out into a sunny, countrystyle kitchen wondering why he did not follow his plan to say thank you and leave, wondering about the dark-haired woman he had expected. The wallpaper had a green ivy print, a reflection of the real thing growing in water on the windowsill. He sat at a hand-painted wooden table while she brewed coffee. Her husband watched, his expression serious from inside a heart-shaped magnetic frame on the yellow refrigerator. This photo appeared more recent, judging from the hairline just beginning to slightly recede. He felt compassion for the widow, and gratitude, but Frank had expected something else, a physical link, a spiritual sensation of déjà vu, here in the man’s house, looking at his picture, at his wife. But there was nothing. Instead, he felt oddly disturbed and unsettled. The phone rang as she took flowered coffee mugs from a glass-fronted cabinet.