The tension returned to her cheeks as she drew her breath in slowly. “I noticed how interested you were. Did you see anything you liked?”
Her words had one inference and her face told another story. There was no good psychological term for how she made me feel. The closest I could get was that she gave me the creeps.
“I haven’t been in church since I was a little girl. I was just taking it all in.”
“I’m sure that was all it was.” The mask fell away for a microsecond, and I caught a glimpse of the beast within, cold, morally decayed, maybe even evil. As I stared at her face, transfixed by the icy chill that ran over my spine, her husband, the pastor, stepped in beside her, and the mask went back on.
“And who is this? A new parishioner?” he asked.
Joel Edwards was just as blonde as his wife with teeth that were a little too straight if that was possible. I had studied many of the most dangerous serial killers while I was in college. Killers, like Ted Bundy, were often so attractive that they could weasel themselves into a life and snuff it out before anyone was ever the wiser. The feeling in the pit of my stomach deepened as I looked at Joel, the smile, the teeth, the deep lines at the edges of his eyes. He believed the lie he was selling, and that sort of commitment made him all the more dangerous.
I took his cue and extended my hand in greeting. It was not a time to show fear.
“Lindy, Lindy Johnson.” His grip was strong but not painful. I made sure to match his strength but did not look directly into his eyes. He was like an alpha dog, and I did not want to tip him off to my ulterior motive.
I smiled graciously at his wife. “I was just telling your wife that I thoroughly enjoyed your sermon today.”
Hannah’s voice remained saccharine. “Strange. You seemed more interested in the architecture of the building.”
My mouth opened, but I could not think of a lie fast enough. She was right. She had caught me red-handed, and there was nothing superb about the architecture of the building. It was plain other than the motion-sensor cameras they had hidden in every possible alcove. Obviously I could not mention that.
My stammer killed the credibility of my story. “I—I was looking for someone.”
The blood was in the water, and the pastor had caught the faintest whiff of my fear. “You were? Did you find who you were looking for?”
My eyes darted about in desperation. Who? Who had I been waiting for? What story could I make up? My gaze found the solution, and I died a little on the inside. He was already walking toward me. It was far too easy. There was a special place of torment reserved in the afterlife for liars like me. I was sure of it.
“Here he is!” I exclaimed, extending my hand out to him.
Ryder’s head cocked slightly in question as he took my hand and allowed me to guide him to my side. “This is my boyfriend, Ryder Billings. He was late, and I was trying to find him during the service. I became distracted by the Old World beauty of the church once or twice I have to admit.”
I met Ryder’s dark eyes and willed him to play along. I was sure he was still reeling over the word “boyfriend.”
Hannah turned to Ryder. Her expression reminded me of a jaguar I saw at the zoo once, seemingly innocuous because it was behind glass, but instinctively I knew it would slash my throat if given the chance. “So Ryder, you’re the boyfriend?”
His smile was as easy as I remembered. “I am pretty sure that is what she just said.”
The masks were going back on, true intentions hidden behind false smiles and sticky-sweet voices. Joel Edwards’ eyes narrowed, which was a sign of scrutiny.
“I love to hear couples’ stories. How long have you two been together?” he asked, not without edge to his voice.
Ryder’s smile broadened. If he could see the underlying game, he showed no indication. “Oh, it’s pretty recent. She has sure given me a run for my money.” His arm looped around my waist, and I squelched the urge to remove it. “But, no mistake about it, I was late today. Work sometimes gets in the way of me and my huckleberry here.”
Beneath my skin, my muscles twitched and crawled as my independence was smothered by our fake relationship. Was I really so inept at interaction that even a fake connection made me twitch?
“What do you do, Mr. Billings?” Hannah asked smoothly.
I thought of his near-midnight meeting in the bar, and I had no idea how he would answer. In truth, I knew very little about the man whose arm held my waist so tight.
“I do a little of this, a little of that,” Ryder replied. I’m sure he thought that they would leave it alone. I had heard him say the exact same phrase to Johnny, and my curiosity had been piqued again.
When it appeared as though no one was satisfied by his answer, Ryder clarified by saying, “I do what needs to be done around town. It’s Wednesday. That means fish market. So obviously, I had to shower before I saw this little catch of mine.”
His face ducked into my neck as if to nuzzle me, and my resilience broke. My face flushed in rapid response. I pushed free of his grasp, drawing glances from more than just our immediate group.
I covered by laughing slightly and teasing Ryder. “You still smell like seafood. I think another shower is in order, darling.” The truth was that he smelled amazing. I had pulled back not because I hated his touch but because I liked it far too much. It was unnerving, and I could not have it.
He pretended to smell his shirt and only shrugged. “My last girlfriend thought it was manly. I guess I will have to adjust, huh?” Then just to the preacher, he added a simple shrug that seemed to say, “Women, huh?”
Joel Edwards was amused to say the least. “Did you know Milton well, Mr. Billings?”
I was not sure how he would answer. I was trained to lie at the drop of a hat, to fabricate a back story as it formed in my mind. Ryder was far too honest for that. Would his hesitation cost me my cover? To my delight and surprise, he did not have to lie.
“My father was actually Milton’s doctor, so I ran into him around the office over the years. He was a great guy.”
“Wait. We know all of Milton’s doctors,” Hannah interrupted. “I do not remember any Dr. Billings on the roster.”
“My father’s name is Charles Harrison. I use my mother’s last name.”
Recognition dawned with the name. “We know Dr. Harrison. I didn’t know he had a son.”
Ryder was unfazed. “That doesn’t surprise me. He couldn’t get away, so I thought I would join my little huckleberry and pay his respects by proxy.”
He was better than I gave him credit for or perhaps just lucky. The pastor seemed to buy it all, but I could see his jaguar of a wife was unconvinced. She was about to speak when one of the henchmen that had stood guard earlier pulled Joel aside. Joel’s expression dampened after the guard spoke with him, and he excused himself and his wife.
Ryder waited nearly thirty seconds, observing me as I scanned the area for additional threats. Finally, when I could not handle his glare another second, I asked, “What?” My impatience was unfounded, I was sure of it, but I had never been very good with people.
“What do you mean ‘What?’ What was that?” He kept his voice low, but I could hear the frustration all along the edges.
“I appreciate your help,” I offered.
He closed the distance between us and placed a hand on my hip. When my eyes flashed, his tight smile followed. “They’re watching. Trust me. I am helping you again.”
I knew not to look. He was probably right. “But remember,” I whispered through a fake smile, “you stink.”
His grip softened but remained. “I do not. Besides, you like my cologne. You lean into me every time I get near you.”
After all the fabricated and deceptive smiles I had seen, his smile, though only behind his eyes and at the deepest corners of his mouth, was disarming to say the least. There was nothing false about it. He saw my defenses fall, if only for a moment, and took his chance. “You haven’t returned any of m
y messages.”
He was a good person. He did not need the hectic nature of my life. It was wrong of me to use him yet again. “Look, Ryder, you’re a nice guy—”
His hand fell from my hip in defeat. “Save it. I don’t need to hear that pity line. No future here, huh?”
I tried to make light of the situation. “You can consider us officially broken up.”
His lips pursed. There was a slight crinkle on his forehead, and his eyes were downcast. I could see frustration in the tight jawline and the furrowed brow. Pursed lips were indicative of tension, but there was more. Embarrassment. I had actually hurt him.
There was no mistaking the tone of his voice. “At least until you need me again, right? For a cover?”
I tried to explain, but he stopped me short. “That’s what this was, right? A cover story. That’s what it was the other night too with that couple in the corner booth. You needed a picture, and I was handy.”
My eyes told him he was right. I did not try to hide it. Maybe if he knew who I really was, he could move on. It had certainly worked in the past. “I won’t try to use you again, I promise. I had a job to do, and you’ve been convenient.”
His embarrassment deepened with his frustration. “Fine. You’re on your own, Huckleberry.”
I watched him walk from the clearing, his scent lingering long after he had gone. If life were different, if my brain were not rotting right out of my skull, we could probably make it work. But that was not the case. Was it fair to give him just four or five years, ten or fifteen if I were lucky? The thoughts made me cross and tired, and somewhere in the middle of it all, the pastor and his wife had left. I kicked myself for giving in to a conversation with Ryder. This was where relationships got me.
Nowhere.
And fast.
Chapter 7
One aspect I appreciated about my neurologist’s office was how quickly they could get patients in. My appointment was within twenty-four hours of calling. In any other kind of office, this rapid turnaround was unusual, but in a neurologist’s office, it was nearly miraculous. Dr. McAllister refused to waste time, and he expected the rest of the staff to follow suit. Though he was only a part of a large medical building, Associated Neurologists of Northwestern Washington, his was the only office that ran with such efficiency. He was also the neurologist that specialized solely in multiple sclerosis.
I checked in at the reception desk and took the farthest seat from the wall fountain and its eternal trickle. I swear within minutes of sitting near it, you would have to find a bathroom. No one was immune. No one. I chose the hard bench near the ficus, one more barrier to block the sound.
I glanced at my watch, careful to avoid the gaze of the other patients. I had five minutes before the nurse would call my name, and I wanted to avoid any small talk if possible. My thoughts drifted to Stella’s case. I had not made much headway at all. Public records had been closed when I went to search for more information about the church and exactly who owned it, and my Internet searches had not turned up much either. In my experience, no information was far more suspicious than just a little information. When there was nothing, it typically meant someone had gone to the trouble of making it disappear. In reality though, nothing ever disappeared. At least not completely.
I pulled my phone out and dialed a number. It rang twice before I heard his squeaky voice. “Lindy! It’s good to hear from you.”
“Hi, Kip. How are you doing?”
Kip Whittley and I had gone to high school together. We even dated for a short while in college. While some girls go through a “bad-boy phase,” Kip was what I called my “good-boy phase.” Compared with many of the other guys I had dated, he was as squeaky clean as his ever-cracking voice. Kip was also talented with computers in ways that I would never be, so occasionally I entreated his good nature, and he helped me out a bit.
“Look, Kipper,” I said quickly, “I need some help on a case.”
As he spoke I could picture his face clearly. While I had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheekbones, Kip looked as though he’d been splashed by a mud puddle. His rusty-orange hair and a beaked nose made him a little less appealing. But he was smart. Good gracious, Kip was smart.
“Am I getting paid this time, Lindy?” he asked cautiously.
“Of course,” I assured him.
Kip veered off topic as he was prone to do. “It doesn’t have to be money, you know. We could pick up where we left off.”
His plea brought a smile to my face. “Aren’t you married yet, Kip?”
“Just waiting on you, Lindy,” he teased back.
“You know that can’t happen.”
His sigh was audible, even through the phone. “Yeah, I remember.”
We had not been a couple when I was diagnosed, but we had still been close. He had seen me at my worst, and even Kip agreed that it was too much to ask of a boyfriend to go through everything that a relapse entailed.
“I need you to run a search, Kipper. Hannah and Joel Edwards. They run a company called The Hope Affiliates. I need everything you can dig up.”
Kip bounced back at the mention of work. Though he was in California, he was still my most valuable asset.
“If you are asking me, then your basic searches didn’t pan out?”
“Not one iota,” I agreed.
“Time line?”
“ASAP. There is something off about these folks, and my aunt is too close to it all.”
“You got it.” There was a moment of heavy silence. Then Kip admitted, “I am seeing someone, Lindy. Her name is Dana, and she’s really nice.” I thought it was cute the way he felt like he should tell me about her. We had not been together in five years, but it was his way of telling me he was moving on.
“Good for you, Kip,” I commended, and I meant it. I had hoped he would find happiness. We made plans to speak in a couple of days, and I hung up the phone. Glancing at my watch, I saw that the nurse was two minutes late. I wondered if heads would roll for the delay.
I kept my head bowed, avoiding eye contact with the other patients. There were two in wheelchairs and one woman with forearm crutches, all somehow terrifying for me to look at. My insides twisted up in knots, like the kind that tangle jewelry when it has been left in a mound too long, the kind of knots you knew you would never get out. Rationally, I knew it was wrong. They were like me. They fought the same monster, every day. Just like me.
But they are losing.
The thought developed before I had a chance to stop it. Shame fell over my shoulders. Shame for my thought, shame for my health, and shame that I could not find it in my heart to extend compassion. Something was severely wrong with me.
“June Sampson,” the nurse called from the open door.
The woman with the forearm crutches pulled herself to her feet with some difficulty. Her legs shook slightly, and the young man, a son perhaps, steadied her as best he could. For me, this was the hardest condition to observe. Those metal crutches with the cuffs that almost wrapped around the arms, the unsteady gait, the tremors that racked her body. She was like a metal giraffe, bent and twisted as she struggled to remember how to walk. I could not look at her, and yet I could not look away. My predicament left me in this darting glance dance that almost made me seasick. Some part of me wanted to help her, but the majority wanted to ignore her. It was not her fault. It was me. All me.
Occasionally, I would have these conversations with myself, moments to analyze my own behavior. My aversion to the metal giraffes had been an early conversation in my experience with multiple sclerosis. It had not taken long to assess that my aversion had nothing to do with the individual I came into contact with. It was my fear that one day it could be me who was helpless, just a shell of trembling legs and weak arms, hardly a thought or desire left in my body. The thought was horrifying. I could see the compassion in her son’s eyes. But more than that, I saw worry, concern, a darting hand that might catch his mother if she lost he
r balance or tilted too far to the right or left. The whole scene tore me up. I could not be her. I would not survive. Perhaps she was stronger than me, stronger than I would ever hope to be. I waited for my next relapse like a geologist waiting for the “big one.” Secretly I hoped that if it were going to get bad, it would just kill me in my sleep. I would not fare well as a metal giraffe.
“Lindy Johnson?”
Denise, Dr. McAllister’s nurse, rescued me from my thoughts of self-loathing. After the routine of blood pressure, weight, and temperature, she led the way to the exam room. It was always about this time that I was grateful my problem was in my brain. No embarrassing open-back robes. I could not undress my brain. It was wide open and ready to be probed.
I repeated my mantra in my mind: “It could be worse.”
The wait for the doctor was not long. It was obvious that the delay of three minutes was something he wanted to remedy.
“Lindy, how are you doing?” he asked as he rolled across the floor on his wheeled stool.
Dr. McAllister was young, for a doctor at least, early forties by my judgment. He had the typical doctor haircut, like a Ken doll if Ken had black hair, and kind eyes.
“Pretty well,” I answered. “The police chief wants me on as a consultant, but he won’t sign off on it until you say I am healthy and I won’t slow them down.”
He typed a few things into the computer, chuckling under his breath. “Slow them down? He has met you, hasn’t he?” It was a rhetorical question, obviously. “Are you still running?”
I nodded.
“Kickboxing?”
I nodded again.
“Yoga?”
“Some,” I admitted. “On the bad days when the vertigo kicks in.”
The click clack rattled in the sterile space as he entered the relevant information.
“Swimming?”
I froze. Flashbacks from my nightmares ricocheted in my mind. I did not swim. Ever.
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