The Hidden (12 page)

S E V E N T E E N

M
ACKLIN HAD KNOWN HE
was having a heart attack as soon as the pain started. He’d just gotten out of the shower, dried off, and was putting his shirt on over a dry pair of jeans. It wasn’t the hammer blow that would’ve taken him out right away, just that squeezing sensation and the increased difficulty in getting enough air into his lungs. The bed was as far as he got before the worsening pain and the other symptoms sat him down. He’d tried to call out to Shelby, couldn’t seem to raise his voice above a low, feeble cry.

He’d been scared then, still was after all of her ministrations, and yet, strangely, it was a dull, detached kind of fear. He felt disjointed, as if only part of him harbored the anxiety, while the other part was apathetic and resigned. I don’t want to die, he thought. But there was a lack of emotion in it, as though the thought had been: I don’t want to go out in that storm again.

He lay quiet on the couch, taking in oxygen in slow breaths, watching Shelby watch him. Feeling better now, the symptoms all mostly gone thanks to her. If she hadn’t been here when it happened, he’d probably be dead now. He’d never doubted that she was good at her job, but until now he hadn’t realized just how calm and skilled she could be under pressure, in a personal crisis. Quite a woman he’d married. A woman he was probably still going to lose, assuming he survived.

“I don’t want to leave you alone,” Shelby said, “but there’s no other choice. You need to be hospitalized ASAP.”

“Where’ll you go?”

“The Lomaxes. Ask Claire to come stay with you until I can get a medical response unit out here.”

“Those locked gates … he won’t open up for you …”

“Let me worry about that. If he has a chain saw, he ought to be able to cut away enough of the tree to let me drive through.”

“What if he doesn’t have a chain saw?”

Shelby said, “No more talking,” and went to quickly don her raincoat, tie the hood under her chin. “While I’m gone I want you to lie still, be as quiet and comfortable as you can. If the oxygen in the cannula runs out before I get back, use the D bottle on the floor there—you know how it works.”

He nodded.

“If the fire gets too low and you’re feeling well enough, you can get up long enough to toss on another log or two.”

Nodded again.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” she said, and in a brief slash of cold air, she was gone.

And he was alone.

He listened to the storm hurl rain on the roof, bludgeon the walls and windows.

The moan of the wind was like a woman in the throes of orgasm. Before long the sense of disjointedness left him and depression moved in in its place, bleak and black. He’d never felt more helpless. Or less of a man. Swaddled up like a baby waiting to be coddled, burped, and diaper-changed.

He almost wished the coronary had killed him—a sudden crushing blow, then straight out of his misery. But no, that would’ve been too easy, too quick. This way he was facing a future filled with hospitals, doctors’ offices, reduced activities, bland food, loneliness if Shelby went through with the divorce and a life of dependency whether she did or didn’t, and no worthwhile job prospect in either case because who’d hire a man with one foot in the grave? Months, years of suffering, causing suffering, until another attack took him out or he took himself out. Hell, why not just get up and run around in circles naked until his heart quit beating from the strain, put an end to it right here and now?

Stupid thought. Selfish. He was a long way from the suicide stage yet; self-preservation was still too strong in him. More important, he couldn’t do a thing like that to Shelby. Not now, after all she’d done and was out there doing to try to save his sorry ass.

Bitterly he found himself thinking back to the week before Christmas. He’d had the arrhythmia and shortness of breath for a while before they finally alarmed him enough to do what Shelby’s urgings hadn’t—send him to his doctor, who had shuttled him on to the cardiologist, Dr. Prebble. A stress test confirmed the diminished capacity in his heart. So then they’d put him in the hospital overnight—he’d called Shelby and lied to her about an all-night poker game at Ben Coulter’s—and administered a bunch of tests, including an echocardiogram to determine the location of the blockage. There’d been some talk about “cathing” him—inserting a minicam in his veins and running it up into the heart to look for other blockages—but the cardiologist had finally determined that the procedure wasn’t necessary.

Diagnosis: CAD—coronary artery disease. How could a thirty-five-year-old man have CAD? That had been his first reaction. Age was no factor in heart disease, Prebble had told him; people of any age could have it. Usually it was genetic, but not always. His reaction to that had been the typically self-pitying one: Why me? Took a while to get over it and reconcile himself, but he’d managed it. Or thought he had until now.

His CAD required bypass surgery, double, triple, maybe quadruple, they couldn’t be sure until they opened him up and inspected the damage. Prebble’s dry, professional voice telling him this, and then explaining what the surgery entailed: ten-inch-long incision in the middle of his chest, his breastbone separated to create an opening to view the heart and aorta; connection to a heart-lung bypass machine that circulated the blood through his body during surgery; the possible use of the saphenous vein in his leg, or an internal mammary artery, or the radial artery in his wrist to create grafts around the blocked areas; then his breastbone reconnected with wire and the incision sewn up. Five to seven days in the hospital, the first few hours in ICU, and the balance of his recovery at home. Good as new in time … maybe. If he didn’t die on the operating table from traveling blood clots or immediately afterward from infection or some other post-op risk. Or end up having a fatal myocardial infarction despite the bypass.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Macklin. Happy New Year.

Dr. Prebble had wanted him to have the operation right away. He’d balked. Couldn’t it wait until after the holidays? Yes, though it was always best to act quickly in cases like his. Talk it over with your wife, the doctor told him, before you decide definitely to wait. He said he would, but he couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. Instead he’d lied to Prebble, saying he and Shelby both agreed he should wait until after the first of the year. That way, he figured he could enjoy what might be his last Christmas and his last auld lang syne, accept Ben’s offer to use the cottage in between … stick his head in the sand like an ostrich. The risk in waiting was relatively small as long as he didn’t overexert himself, watched his diet and cut down on his alcohol consumption, got plenty of rest, and faithfully took the little white nitroglycerine tablets Dr. Prebble prescribed. That was what Prebble had told him and what he’d made himself believe.

And they’d both been wrong.

And now he and Shelby were paying the price.

E I G H T E E N

I
T WAS FULL DARK
now, the night alive with shifting, rain-drenched shadows just outside the reach of the Prius’s headlights. The twin rays seemed to reflect off rather than penetrate the downpour, tingeing the wild scurry of clouds with a faint luminescence. The surface of the lane between the cottage and the Lomax house was heavily puddled and greasy; in Shelby’s haste she nearly lost control on the one slight curve, turned into the skid just in time. Thank God there were no more toppled trees or other obstacles in her path.

She pulled up at an angle in front of the closed gates, so that the headlight shine illuminated them. Left the engine running and the lights on. Thunder made a drumroll riff in the distance; a few seconds later a lightning fork etched jagged yellow patterns on the canopy of darkness above the ocean. The lightning burst lit up the house for an instant, too, gave it a surreal look like something out of a neo-Gothic horror film.

She took hold of the gates, shoved them apart as far as they would go so she could see through to the front of the house. Dark. The flickers of light she’d seen as she drove up were at the rear. The Lomaxes must be in the sunken living room with logs blazing in that massive stone fireplace; ragged streamers of smoke poured from the chimney, faintly visible before the gale tore them apart.

At first she thought there was enough separation between the two gate halves for her to slide her body through, but as soon as she tried it she knew she’d only succeed in getting herself stuck. Up and over, then—no time to waste. The gates were only six feet high and she’d always been adept at climbing.

She got one foot on the chain, both hands on the soaked top bar of one half; pulled herself up, swung her legs over, managed to scramble down inside without hurting herself. The flashlight was in the slash pocket of her raincoat; she dragged it out, switched it on.

The deluge was so intense it was like trying to push her way through something semisolid. A wind surge sent a three-foot-long branch skittering against her legs as she followed the beam across the parking area, nearly tripping her. She braced herself and kicked it away; plowed ahead to the porch.

More than a minute of leaning on the doorbell brought no response. She tried hammering on the door with her fist, thumbing the bell again at the same time. Futile. The storm made too much noise for her to hear anything from inside, but she had the prickly feeling of being watched through the peephole. She lifted her face close to the convex glass eye, mouthed the words, “Help, I need help.”

Nothing. The door stayed shut.

Damn Brian Lomax and his paranoia!

Desperation drove her off the porch, around onto a brick path that paralleled the south side of the house. Thick manzanita shrubs made close borders along the path, their thin, coarse branches scraping at her as she passed. Three windows on that side, all of them shaded, only the farthest one shielding light. She pawed through the shrubbery and tried the latches on all three, knowing they’d be locked tight, doing it anyway.

When she reached the back corner, the flash beam showed her a low, railed deck running the width of the house, steps bisecting it in the center. As she stepped out and around the end of the deck, a sharp burst of bitter-cold wind and rain shoved her off-balance against the planking; she had to hang on to the railing posts to remain upright.

She aimed the torch at the back wall. The drapes were drawn across picture windows and sliding glass door, but behind the door there was a thin gap where the cloth folds didn’t quite meet, letting a strip of light leak out.

Up the steps, her body bent almost double; the squall, like a hand in her back, thrust her forward against the door glass. She darkened the flash and slipped it into her pocket; sleeved her eyes clear and sluiced water off the glass so she could squint through the gap between the drapes.

Brian Lomax was standing statuelike near the fireplace, his big hands flat against his sides—directly in her line of sight. Tucked into the waistband of his trousers was the handgun he’d displayed two nights ago. If Claire was anywhere in the room, Shelby couldn’t see her.

She clung to the door handle with one gloved hand, made a fist of the other and banged it hard on the glass, making the pane rattle in its metal frame. No response. She ground her molars in frustration, peered through the opening again. Lomax still stood in the same spot, in the same posture, his beard-shadowed face like a stone mask.

She had a quick flash of Jay lying sick and alone in the dwindling firelight, and a frenzied wildness took hold of her. She pounded on the glass with all her strength, she didn’t care if she shattered or spiderwebbed it. Kept pounding, pounding. How long could he resist opening the door?

Not much longer. All at once the drapes were swept back and Lomax was there, staring out at her through the glass.

But he still didn’t open the door.

Again she mouthed the words, “Help, I need help,” and added a “please” that had the taste of camphor on her tongue.

Lomax kept on staring, shaking his head now.

Furious, Shelby hammered on the glass again, directly in front of that stone-mask face. She kept it up until the mask began to slip a little—mouth and jaw tightening, eyelids pinching down. Finally got through to him, made him realize that ignoring her wouldn’t make her go away. He reached down to snap the lock free, slid the door open a few inches. Blocking it with his body, the fingers of his right hand resting on the automatic’s handle: He wasn’t going to let her into the house.

“What’s the idea? I could have you arrested for trespassing.”

She could barely hear him over the storm’s shrieks and wails. Rain blew in past her, splattering droplets against his face; he didn’t seem to notice. She leaned up into the opening, close enough to smell the alcohol on his breath. His eyes had a hard fixity, like cat’s-eye marbles, but he didn’t seem to be drunk—at least not drunk enough to slur his words or impair his ability to function.

“Let me come in.”

“No. What do you want?”

“I need your help, yours and Claire’s.”

“… What kind of help?”

“My husband’s had a heart attack.” Shouting to make sure he heard and understood what she was saying. “I’ve got him stabilized for now, but I can’t go for help because the lane’s blocked on the far side of the cottage—the storm blew a tree down across it.”

Nothing changed in Lomax’s expression. His voice remained flat and cold when he said, “That’s too bad. What do you want me to do?”

“You have a chain saw? I thought maybe you could—”

“No. No chain saw.”

He was lying. She couldn’t have said how she knew, but she was immediately sure of it—lying through his teeth. Why, for God’s sake?

“All right, then, we can try moving the tree with your SUV—”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“It’s not any good for that kind of thing. Sits too high.”

“You haven’t even seen the fucking tree! Come with me, take a look.”

“No. There’s no use in it.”

Shelby controlled a savage impulse to reach through, grab him by the throat and choke him. “Listen to me,” she shouted. “Jay could die if he doesn’t get emergency treatment ASAP. You understand? He could die!”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do.”

“Yes there is.” Spitting the words at him now. “You or Claire can stay with him until I get back with a doctor or EMS unit. Keep the fire going so he stays warm— Why the hell are you shaking your head?”

“Claire’s sick. I can’t let her go out in this storm.”

“Sick?”

“She’s in bed. Flu or something.”

“Then you come stay with Jay.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t leave her alone.”

“God damn you, can’t you get it through your head my husband might die unless—”

Lomax said, “There’s nothing we can do. Get off my property,” and backed up a step and slid the door shut and snapped the drapes closed again, tight this time—all in one continuous motion.

A surge of impotent rage made her yell, “You miserable son of a bitch!” and beat on the glass a few more times. Then her control came back, and along with it a redoubled need for urgency.

She shoved away from the glass, thumbed the flashlight back on, fought the wind down the steps and back around to the brick path. A bone-white dazzle of lightning flashed as she emerged onto the parking area, followed by more rolling echoes of thunder when she reached the gates. Up and over and back into the car. Moving again.

The rage still stalked her mind. What kind of man was Brian Lomax, to blow her off the way he had? Sub-fucking-human. If Jay died or suffered permanent damage because of him, she’d make him pay somehow. There wasn’t anything the law could do to him—he was within his rights to refuse her admission to his house, refuse to help her because his wife was “sick”; could even bring charges against her for illegal trespass. But she could let the world know how he’d acted tonight. Make
him
suffer through the media if not in a courtroom.

She drove too fast back to the cottage, ran stumbling through the open gate and slipped quickly inside. Candle flames guttered; she half noticed that some of the candles were already melting into puddles of red and green wax. The focus of her attention was Jay. He was lying as she’d left him with the blanket and comforter pulled up beneath his chin, the cannula still clipped into his nose. Conscious and alert: He raised his head as she hurried across the room.

He asked in a scratchy voice, “What happened?”

Shelby told him in clipped sentences. “I think Lomax was lying. About the chain saw, about Claire being sick.”

“Bastard beat her up again.”

“Probably.” She went to one knee beside the couch. “How do you feel?”

“Better.”

“Pain anywhere? Discomfort?”

“No.”

His voice sounded strong, his color was good and his eyes clear. She removed her gloves, laid a hand on his forehead. Dry and warm, but not feverish. She checked his vital signs again. Lungs clear. Blood oxygen saturation up to 98 percent. Blood pressure holding now at 125 over 78.

The fire was already burning low. She stoked it with the last three small logs in the wood box, leaving the ones on the hearth where they lay. When she turned back to Jay, he said, “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“It can wait. Are you thirsty?”

“A little, but—”

She went to the kitchen, filled a small tumbler, and brought it back. Raised his head, let him swallow a little, then set the glass on the floor within his reach.

“You need to use the bathroom?”

“No.”

“Good.” She indicated the glass. “Small sips when you want more, so you won’t need to pee.”

“Shel, listen,” he said, his voice earnest now. In the firelight the planes of his face had a bronze cast and his eyes were like black opals. “This isn’t the first time I’ve had chest pains. I’ve been seeing a cardiologist.”

“Dr. Prebble. The nitroglycerine tablets. How long?”

“The week before Christmas. He ran tests … told me I need to have bypass surgery. He wanted to do it right away, but I said no, wait until after the first of the year. I didn’t want to spoil the holidays for us.”

Spoil the holidays. Good God.

She said, keeping her voice even, “Is that the real reason for this trip?”

“Yes. It seemed like a good idea … time alone together, maybe the last good time we’d ever have. Wasn’t that I thought I’d die, it was the way things will be after the surgery. Bad heart, unable to work, financial drain. I’ve been a burden on you so long, it can only get worse …”

“Were you trying to drive me away?”

“No. I knew you’d stay with me, at least for a while.”

“Out of pity? Is that the kind of person you think I am?”

“God, no. It’s just that … I can’t stand the thought of you having to take care of me the rest of my life. I may not be much of a man anymore, but I’ve got some pride left.”

Pride? Stupid male ego.

“Why couldn’t you tell me all this before?”

“I wanted to. I tried to. I’ve never meant to keep anything from you, but I didn’t have the words … no, that’s not true, I had the words but I couldn’t say them. Some kind of mental block … I don’t know, I can’t explain it …”

He was getting himself worked up, the worst possible thing for his heart. “All right, that’s enough,” she said. “There’s no time for any more of this now. I have to go and you have to rest.”

“… What’re you going to do?”

“The only thing I can do.” She had her raincoat rebuttoned, was pulling the hood up over her head again. “Hoof it out to the highway and flag down the first car that comes along. Or walk all the way into Seacrest if I have to.”

“Dangerous,” he said. “Woman alone on a night like this, lunatic running around loose—”

“I can take care of myself.” Can of Mace in her purse, self-defense tactics learned and internalized in a police-sponsored class she’d taken a few years ago. And the flashlight to keep the darkness from swallowing her.

He said, “I love you, Shel. No matter what happens, I’ll always love you.”

She said, “I love you, too,” because it was what he wanted to hear and it would help keep him calm, let him rest more easily. Then she turned quickly away, went back out into the hell-black night.