The soft, salty breeze and the waves below had a calming effect as she stood on the top deck. On one side was a view of the shore, the other side the broad expanse of ocean. Up at the lantern rail she felt closer to heaven than anywhere else on earth.
Chapter 15
“Brian, Brian . . .”
He heard a muffled voice calling to him, sounding miles away in the distance, echoing his name. A monotone beeping, steady air pumping, and other strange mechanical noises roamed through the darkened tunnel where he lay, suspended in space and time, numb to movement, to touch, to emotion. He wanted to cry out, “I’m here!” The sound, though, wouldn’t come. His thoughts were there, but he couldn’t control his body. Fear made him wonder if he, indeed, had a body or if he was in some purgatory of half-life or half-death.
He tried to remember how he reached this strange state of being. Thinking hard—at least his mind was functioning—he tried to re-enact the last moments before he reached this stage. Strange, pleasurable feelings sifted through his consciousness like the fine sand in an hourglass. Images of a delicate, silky body with rounded curves arching up beneath him, of fluffy chestnut hair, eyes pinched closed in ecstasy played like an X-rated movie reel. Delicious feelings of satisfaction, comfort, and total fulfillment washed over him. He groaned, wanting more.
“Angelique,” he screamed.
“Oh my God. He said something,” a garbled voice said somewhere within his midst. “Brian, say something else. Brian.”
A dense fog seemed to lift off of his subconscious while blurred images danced before him as he lifted heavy lids. He squinted in an attempt to clear the view. Blinking, the scene around him came into focus. Though he couldn’t move his body, his eyes darted, surveying the room.
Barren white walls and drawn white drapes surrounded him as machines beside his bed pumped and beeped. Their wires, tubes, and probes were attached to him like a scuba diver’s lifeline. A stark white sheet covered him to his neck. If not for his head being bare, he would have been a perfect candidate for the morgue. Maybe he wasn’t that far from the stainless steel slab. He was numb and cold. Panic set in as he realized he wasn’t only in a hospital, but in intensive care. The worst part was he had no idea why he was there.
He focused on the one figure perched on a metal swivel stool at his bedside. Auburn hair grazed her brow like a fluffy awning and flowed over her shoulders in thick waves. Her hazel eyes, intense with concern, met his.
“Oh, Brian,” Stacey gasped in her breathy voice. “Thank God you’ve come out of it.”
“Wha . . .?” he mumbled. What did he come out of?
Tears streamed from her eyes. Stacey leaned over him, droplets raining down on his sheet. “You’ve been in a coma for more than a week. It’s been touch and go ever since you were life-flighted in. The docs thought you were a goner. Sam and I knew better.” She dabbed her eyes with the heel of her hand.
Sam? Stacey? Yes, he knew who they were. Strange. A vague memory of sending them something important darted through his muddled mind.
“The e-mails?” he asked, each word a hardship to get out.
“Yes,” she whispered, leaning down closer. “Sam and I got them.”
Brian rolled his eyes, happy to hear the news even though he couldn’t remember why it was important.
“We can’t release them yet. Without Angelique there isn’t a story,” she whispered as if keeping a secret.
Fuzzy visions of an ethereal beauty with porcelain skin and silvery-blue eyes appeared in his mind. “Angelique,” he called out, knowing he needed her more for himself than for the others.
“She can’t be located.”
The memory of her, of them, alone in a deserted cottage jolted him like an electric shock. He shuddered with a sudden feeling of loss. A lone tear rolled down his cheek.
“Brian, we need you to get well so everything will become clear, the explosion, everything.” Stacey sat back.
“The explosion?” he asked, trying to piece together visions of a doorknob and a blast.
“Yes. Your cottage was leveled. You’re darn lucky.”
“How bad?” he asked, scrunching his eyes.
“What?” She tilted her head.
“Me.”
“Let’s see. A coma for a week, a few broken bones, some burns on your hands and arms . . . nothing you can’t handle. Don’t worry, you still have all your body parts,” she said.
By her forced smile, the hesitance in her words, and shakiness in her voice, Brian could tell she was making light of something far more serious.
“I don’t want to bother you now with all the details. I just want you to recover.”
As if on cue, a lab-coated doctor marched into the room, clipboard in hand. Seeing that he was awake and alert, he approached the bed with a crooked grin. He pulled a tiny flashlight out of his pocket and directed the beam into Brian’s eyes, one and then the other. Without a word, he checked the vital signs on the monitor’s readout.
Brian stared at the slightly built man with the name badge, “Dr. Wang.”
“Who’s the president of the United States?” the doctor asked.
“Are you serious?’ he murmured. “Theodore Roosevelt.”
The doctor crinkled his thick brows and stared at him, poised to record the answer on his clipboard.
“Can’t you see he’s kidding, doc?” Stacey interrupted.
“With serious injuries, one must take every answer seriously,” the doctor replied, squinting behind thick, Coke-bottle glasses.
Brian sighed and answered the doctor’s ridiculous questions about the president, his birthday, where he was, and where he lived. After, the doctor grinned.
“Young man, you are a miracle. I’ve seen patients with half the trauma you’ve sustained leave here in a hearse. The recovery’s going to be long, but you’re going to make it.”
“Thank God.” Stacey let out a deep breath.
“Someone must have been doing a lot of praying or the angels must be on your side,” the doctor said.
“Just . . . one,” he answered with a wink.
“Doctor.” Stacey turned her back to the bed and whispered, “The police have been waiting to question him. Could you allow him a couple days to regain his strength before they begin their interrogations?”
• • •
Two uniformed patrolmen stood guard outside Brian’s hospital room at all times. He noticed them when he was transferred to a private room on another floor, but he wasn’t sure if the guards were for his protection or to prevent his escape.
The police detectives didn’t waste any time. No sooner had word been released that Brian Andrews was out of the coma and being transported out of ICU, than they paraded into his room. Holding digital recorders and spiral-bound note pads, they held court at his bedside. Three dark-suited detectives, somber-faced, all business, stood staring down at him, hanging on his every word.
He didn’t say much. Reporters had a knack for knowing when to keep quiet. All too often he had witnessed those who divulged too much information only end up incriminating themselves. Though he was weak and his mind hazy, he was still a journalist.
But from the bits and pieces he remembered of his last assignment, he was puzzled as to why law enforcement was so interested in him. If he remembered it correctly, weren’t Edwina and Mo Davidson the crooks? He was just the reporter. The physical pain he felt stabbing at his chest, his bandaged arms, and hands were nothing compared to the painful accusations the detectives made. Why had they read him the Miranda rights? Why did he need an attorney?
“We’re holding you personally responsible for the disappearance of Angelique,” Smitty, the lead detective, stated in a Joe Friday, no nonsense tone.
“So, where is she?” another glum detective piped in.
“I wish . . . I knew,” he mumbled to himself, coming up blank.
“You know where she is, so why not just tell us. We’re gonna find out sooner or later,” Smitty said wi
th a smirk on his droopy hound-dog face.
“I don’t know.” He was dizzy, his mind a blur.
“Come on, Brian, speak up! You were so obsessed with Angelique you kidnapped her, didn’t you? Had to have her. Thought she’d get you that big break at the magazine, a big story. She resisted your questions and your advances, didn’t she? You got angry. Hurt your macho image. So in a rage, tough guy, you killed her!” Smitty accused in melodramatic style, complete with flailing arms and pointing fingers. He acted more like a prosecutor than a cop.
“You’re wrong. Wrong,” Brian screamed in his defense. His head was pounding. He couldn’t take any more. He tried to get out of his bed, but was too weak to move let alone fight.
Smitty pointed his finger in Brian’s face. “No. I’m right. We have a team combing through the rubble of that shack of yours looking for clues. You really thought a propane explosion would cover up your crime? Didn’t escape in time, eh? We’ll find out what happened to Angelique.”
He closed his eyes in disbelief. The authorities actually believed he killed Angelique. Brian Andrews, who hadn’t so much as a traffic ticket, was being accused of murder. If only he could remember those fateful moments before the explosion ripped through the cottage like an erupting volcano. He needed to know what happened to Angelique.
The fear that she might, indeed, be dead, gripped at his heart, tugging it. He knew if it was so, he didn’t do it. She was too important to him.
When he opened his eyes, Detective Smitty’s steely gaze was studying him closely.
“After we’re done with you, you’re gonna wish you died in that explosion,” he said in a threatening growl.
Chapter 16
Brian was told that Sam Greenberg hired the best defense attorney his magazine could afford to represent his ace reporter. Brian may have been a stupid fool, but he wasn’t a murderer and his story provided enough evidence of that. He knew having to sit on such explosive information had been difficult for an editor like Sam. The magazine thrived on such scoops. Without Angelique, however, he had to admit himself that the story lacked credibility and an ending. Getting blown up wasn’t the ending Brian had in mind. So maybe Sam was crazy to persuade the publisher to hire Milton “Milty” Cohen to defend Brian.
But perhaps with time Brian’s innocence and Angelique’s hiding place would be revealed. What a cover story that would make. What a fortune they would make.
“Stacey, I still can’t believe Sam’s faith in me,” Brian said, feeling melancholy as he sat propped up on pillows in his hospital bed. “I don’t have faith in myself anymore.” He let out a sigh of frustration. Lying helpless in a hospital bed, accused of murder without a defense was a worst nightmare come true.
“Oh, Brian, you’re a survivor,” Stacey reassured, seated on the chair beside him. Her slender fingers with vampire-red manicured nails patted the heavy bandages that wound from his hands to his elbows.
“If only I could remember what happened before the blast. It’s driving me out of my mind.”
“You know what the doctor said. You could regain your memory of that day.”
“He said maybe. That could take days, years, or never. I can’t wait that long. Angelique, wherever she is, can’t wait that long.” Angelique. He was letting her down. Where was she? Was she still alive? He had to know.
“I know this may sound stupid,” Stacey began with a twinkle in her eyes, “but did you ever think about hypnosis?”
“Hypnosis?” He stared at her.
“I know you think my New Age beliefs are wacko, but a hypnotist may be able to unlock your repressed memories. Hey, it sure helped me quit smoking.”
“I’m running out of choices. That could be a great idea,” he said. These were the first encouraging words he had heard all day.
• • •
The one thing Stacey had was connections. If you needed an expert on anything—New Age, holistic, quirky—she knew whom to ask. Part of it was because of her job in the media, but she also had a knack for attracting odd individuals.
So there was nothing unusual about her prancing into Brian’s room with an African-American woman attired in a Kente-cloth caftan, matching turban, gold rings in her ears and nose, gold bangles and beads dangling from her wrists and neck, and the stride of an overly confident voodoo queen.
“This is Alda, a hypnotherapist,” Stacey introduced.
“And a damn good one,” the woman added, head held high and regal.
He looked up at the heavy-set woman with the ebony face and contrasting ivory smile. At this point he had nothing to lose. Even if she practiced black magic, he didn’t care as long as the spell worked.
“Brian,” Alda said in a soft, singsong voice. “Before we begin I must tell you the degree of success is based upon how much faith you have in wanting to remember and how much faith you have in me to help. Your mind must be receptive.”
Stacey rose and motioned for Alda to sit in the upholstered chair at Brian’s bedside. Stacey moved to a corner seat, holding her portable tape recorder.
“Believe me, no one wants this to succeed more than me.”
“ That’s good. There are six levels of hypnosis, from being drowsy to complete sleep. Until we begin, I cannot tell you how deep a trance you will need to be in to go back to the time before the explosion.”
“I don’t care, just as long as we get results.”
“Now, tell me, how do you think it feels to be hypnotized?” Alda asked, crossing her arms over her buxom chest.
“To be unconscious.”
“Not exactly. This ain’t Hollywood. You will never be unconscious. As a matter of fact, you’ll be aware of everything going on. It’s relaxation and mental concentration. All you need to do is focus and cooperate. You will be in a deep meditative state.”
“Great. When do we begin?” He wanted to get this over with, the sooner the better.
“Now, Brian,” Alda began in a soft, lilting voice. “Pick a spot on the ceiling and stare at it.”
He obeyed, finding a water spot on the acoustical tile overhead.
“Keep staring at the spot and listen to my voice,” she continued. “Relax as you stare at the spot. Feel yourself relaxing all over . . . deeper and deeper. As you keep staring at the spot, your eyes will become very heavy and drowsy. Your entire body is becoming heavier and heavier . . . your arms, heavy . . . limp and relaxed, feet relaxed . . . relaxed all over. Keep staring at the spot. Your eyes are beginning to tear. Blink. You’re getting drowsy . . . sleepy.”
As he listened to Alda’s sugarcoated voice, her every command, he found himself slipping into a meditative, almost blissful, state. Deeper and deeper he descended until Alda guided him backward into his memory to the day of the explosion.
“It’s morning. The sun is rising to greet a new day. Where are you, Brian? What do you see?” Alda asked.
A cherubic smile shone brightly on his face. In his mind, he was there, back at the cottage.
“She’s so lovely with the sunlight filtering in through the window, streaming over her silken nakedness. I can’t believe she’s lying next to me, that we’re lovers. Just watching her sleep arouses me . . . ”
“Who is she?” Alda asked, cutting him off.
“Angelique, my special angel.”
As the session continued, she coaxed from him on how he had gone into town to e-mail the story and had made the calls to Sam and Stacey. Distressed, he talked about the strangers and how he had sensed immediate danger, danger to Angelique and to himself.
“We dragged the motor boat to the beach and into the surf,” he explained. “Angelique and I grabbed provisions and her things. A thunderstorm was brewing, but we hadn’t a choice. We had to get to the lighthouse. It was our last hope. We jumped in the boat; I must protect her. My computer! I forgot my laptop. I can’t leave it behind. I leap out of the boat into the pounding surf. Angelique is in the rocking boat, waves whirl pooling around her. She’s yelling at me to come back as I
wade to shore. I run up the beach, up the steps, on to the deck. I have to get my computer! I unlock the door. I reach for the handle to open it. Oh, no! What’s happened? What’s happened?” he screamed, perspiration forming droplets on his forehead, his body shaking.
Alda smiled. “One. Get ready to wake up now. You feel fine. Two. Your mind is clear. Three. You’re looking forward to a pleasant week. Four. You’re confident with positive thoughts. Five. You are wide awake now.”
Brian deeply inhaled. He opened his eyes to Alda’s beaming face and Stacey’s intense gaze.
“I told you I’m damned good,” Alda boasted.
“You certainly are. I can’t believe it.” Brian shook his head, amazed.
“And I got it all recorded,” Stacey said, rising from her seat, waving her I-Phone. “All of it.”
• • •
“I’m sorry, Stacey, about you and me.”
He drew a deep breath, tasting the salty ocean air. The time was right for confessions. They stood on the hillside overlooking the sandy beach and craggy coastline of the bay. Cape James seemed different, and for good reason. The cottage was gone, leveled by the explosion, the debris and the past cleared away. Three months had passed since the explosion and it felt like yesterday. The physical pain may have been healed, but the mental anguish over what had happened to Angelique was pure torment. The plot of oceanfront property seemed so desolate and lifeless, reflecting the way he felt inside.
Stacey wrapped her arm around his shoulders in a sisterly hug. “It was good while it lasted. You know, with both of us in the news business it never would’ve worked.”
He turned, looking down at the resignation in her trembling smile.
“You’ll always be special, Stace. I really appreciate your help and support.”
“Hey, isn’t that what friends are for?” She squeezed his shoulders and released her hold.
He sighed. “Well, the day of reckoning is here.”
“It is a neat old lighthouse,” she said, lifting her hand to shield the sun from her eyes as she looked out across the placid bay. “Do you really think she made it?”
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