by Anne Frasier
“Yes.”
“Oh my God.” Hand to throat. “Do you think I might be in danger?”
“Yes.”
The light turned. He accelerated.
“Leave with me. If I’m in danger, then you’re in more danger.”
He let out a sound of marvel at the wildness of her idea. “I can’t leave.”
“Just come. Like you said. Be adventurous.”
“That would be an adventure for you, but it would be running away for me.”
“So run. I’d rather have a live coward for a son than a dead hero.”
“I can’t leave. You know that.”
“Because of her.”
“Not just because of her. We’ll have this wrapped up soon, and then you can come and visit. Stay a week. Stay two weeks. And I’ll think about what you said. It makes sense. I know it does. You’re right about Elise, about my hopes and my pathetic hanging on.”
“I’m sorry.” She squeezed his arm. “There’s nothing more painful than loving someone who doesn’t love you back.”
“You talking about Dad?” If so, that was surprising news. His father had always seemed devoted.
“I’ve been in love more than once in my life.” He heard the smile in her voice. “So, does this mean you’ll think about coming home?”
Home. Was it home? He’d come to Savannah to run away. Maybe it was time to face life, face reality, no matter how painful or bleak.
He pulled the car into the parking ramp. He’d go inside. Buy her a ticket. Stay until she actually boarded. “I will.”
CHAPTER 27
From her desk at the Savannah PD, Elise called a cab. Then, in order to avoid eye contact with coworkers, she took the emergency stairs to exit the building. The tetrodotoxin and whatever else had been in her system seemed to have worn off. She was understandably tired, and she had a headache that was on its way out thanks to ibuprofen. All things considered, she didn’t feel too bad. Not physically.
There were three things she still needed to mentally deal with. Getting drugged in her own home, the cemetery incident, and her mother’s death. Four things if she counted David’s deception. She wanted to go home and crawl into bed. Instead she was heading there to try to talk the crime scene crew into releasing some of her belongings.
“This the place?” the cab driver asked as he pulled up in front of her house. From her viewpoint in the backseat, Elise spotted a crime van and something official taped to her door.
“Wait here and I’ll come back with cash.”
No surprise to find that the notice on the front door was an official “Uninhabitable, Do Not Enter” warning.
She entered.
Inside, she found a small crew of people in hazmat suits and carbon-filter masks wiping down surfaces with swabs and sticking the swabs into sample tubes.
One of the crew spotted her and broke away. “You can’t be in here.” He didn’t look familiar, but he seemed to be in charge and seemed to know who she was.
She introduced herself anyway. “I have to get some things,” she said, rattling off a list.
“Not until we give the all clear.”
“I understand, but it’s hard for me to do my job without those items.”
He stared at her. Something other than the color of his skin reminded her of Strata Luna. He walked away, huddled with the crew, then returned with her laptop and a Ziploc bag that contained her phone, keys, billfold, and badge. “I shouldn’t do this, but they’ve been tested and dusted for prints.”
“Thanks. When do you expect to be done here?”
“Collecting samples? In a few hours, but we won’t be able to give you the all clear for a few days.”
“And if I don’t get an all clear?”
“This goes on record as contaminated property. More tests will be conducted to determine what steps need to be taken by the homeowner in order to pass inspection.”
Elise pulled a business card from her billfold and handed it to him. “Text or call me when you have any information.”
Outside she paid the cab driver, then circled the house to the alley. Thankfully her car wasn’t under restriction. Or at least didn’t appear to be. Before anybody could stop her, and without glancing in anyone’s direction in case someone tried to flag her down, she hopped in her blue Camry and blasted down the alley. Two blocks later she pulled over to check the messages that had arrived when she’d been without her phone.
Nothing too surprising other than a voice mail left not long ago from the psychologist’s office. There’d been a cancellation, and they could get her in on short notice, short notice being in an hour rather than the scheduled appointment two months out. Elise’s initial reaction was to turn it down or ignore the message, but the idea of waiting two months made her uneasy.
She called and accepted the last-minute appointment, then took Highway 26 in the direction of Thunderbolt and Whitemarsh Island. The address she’d been given led her to one of those gated communities where people moved to feel safe. The neighborhoods weren’t as diverse, although they usually had good schools and hopefully not as many drugs. But the insulated and segregated nature of all closed communities made Elise uncomfortable, and it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility for a neighbor inside such a compound to be a mass murderer. Where better to plant yourself than a place that gave the impression of safety?
At the gate she displayed her driver’s license rather than her badge. The guard gave her a nod, slipped back into his box, and did whatever he did in there to lift the wooden arm.
She entered the “safe zone.”
The psychologist’s office was located in a ranch-style home with a single palm tree in the front yard that screamed low maintenance. Even before Elise pulled into a driveway, she felt out of place, felt this wasn’t going to be a good fit. How could someone who lived in a gated community understand anything she’d gone through? But then Elise reminded herself that the woman had come highly recommended by Major Hoffman.
“I’ve sent a lot of officers to her,” Hoffman had told her.
At the door Elise didn’t know if she should ring the bell or simply enter. She rang the bell.
A small, tan, blond-haired woman of about fifty answered. Some kind of perfume wafted Elise’s way. It smelled like church.
“I’m Dr. Lundy.” She held out her hand. “My assistant had an emergency and took the afternoon off, so it’s just us.”
Elise shook her hand, and the woman closed the door.
“Are you armed?” the doctor asked. “If so, I always request patients not bring weapons past this point.”
“Of course.” Elise pulled out her gun. With a clatter, she placed it on the reception desk.
The doctor picked it up with the ease that came with frequency but not experience. She circled the desk, opened a wall safe, and tucked the weapon inside. Turning with a smile, she said, “Just my own personal policy.”
“Not a problem.” Elise wanted to leave. Not walk out, but run. She supposed anybody visiting a psychologist would feel the same. Would she have felt more comfortable talking to a man? That was sexist, but this petite, smiling woman with the pale suit and styled hair and cloying perfume wasn’t at all the type of person Elise would feel inclined to confide in.
But she’d at least try.
“This is awkward for me,” Dr. Lundy said. “My assistant usually takes care of finances, but we ask that you pay up front.”
“I have health insurance.”
“I’m sorry, but often insurance won’t pay for my services. If it does, you’ll receive a refund.”
“What’s the charge?”
“Four hundred dollars.”
Elise tried not to gasp. Four hundred dollars for one hour? “Do you take credit cards?”
The woman sat down at the desk and with a few key clicks and a finger-drawn signature from Elise, she processed the card.
Four hundred dollars. Elise wanted to murder Major Hoffman even though the woman
was already dead.
They headed down a carpeted hallway to a room with the requisite couch—two couches, actually. Those were flanked by a couple of comfortable-looking chairs. The walls had been painted a soft blue. There were equally soft paintings with dreamy, floral landscapes. Everything was meant to soothe.
It was too obvious. Too staged. Even down to the orchid on the coffee table, along with the strategically placed tissue box. Nearby was a pitcher of ice water with slices of cucumber floating on the top. That water was costing Elise big bucks.
They sat down, Elise on the couch, Dr. Lundy in one of the overstuffed chairs. The woman picked up a timer from the middle of the table, set it, and they began.
“First of all,” she said, “let me start by telling you a little about myself. I want you to know that I specialize in cases like yours, and my primary focus is on PTSD. I also like to begin by sharing my own philosophy.” She poured two glasses of water from the pitcher, and placed one near Elise with an ease that said she’d done so a million times.
“What you have to realize is that trauma changes us,” Dr. Lundy said. “Forever. We no longer react to people and situations the way we used to.”
Elise supposed she appreciated hearing the woman’s background and philosophy, but not on her dime. That information should have been provided beforehand on a website or in a strategically placed brochure in the entry area. To add to the unpleasantness, Elise was acutely aware of the timer ticking away. And yet the cop in her couldn’t help but ask, “Have you been victimized?” After all, she’d said “we.”
“No, but I’ve worked with a lot of police officers who’ve experienced trauma on the job.” She took a sip of water, put the glass aside on a coaster. “I want you to know it’s okay to not get over it. And it’s okay to not share what happened with people closest to you. Some might consider that behavior denial, but keeping your personal experience close is a coping mechanism. And when you’re ready to share, with family, with friends, with a lover, I can help.” She adjusted her tablet. She readied her pen. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Reluctant though she was, Elise was also determined to get her money’s worth. She dove in and told the doctor why she was there. She told her how she’d been held hostage for three days. Then she told her things she’d never told anybody. About the level of torture she’d endured. About everything Tremain had done to her.
Thirty minutes in, while the doctor was buried in her table, face hidden, Elise got to her feet and paced while she talked. At one point she stopped to stare at one of the soothing paintings, then let her eyes go blank as she spoke. She felt removed, as if she were relating something that had happened to someone else, not her. That seemed the only logical way to get through it, because there was no way she was putting herself back there. Instead she watched the events unfold as if through a window, as if observing someone else. She didn’t hold back, speaking words and sentences she’d never spoken aloud, at times losing track of where she was and forgetting anyone else was in the room.
She was a cop, and one of her strengths was her observational skill and ability to replay a scene with accuracy and detail. She used that talent now, and she didn’t stop talking until she’d covered everything, until she’d gotten it all out, every shocking detail.
It wasn’t until she finished that she realized she hadn’t given the doctor a chance to speak. There had been none of the questions like “How did that make you feel?” Even now, when it was time for the doctor’s response, the room was silent.
Until the sobs hit.
They were the choking kind of sobs. The kind of sobs where you couldn’t catch your breath, the kind that tore from deep inside and just kept going.
They were coming from the doctor.
Arms crossed at her waist, Elise turned to see the poor woman groping blindly for the box of tissues she’d pushed across the table earlier. Elise jumped forward and shoved it closer. Dr. Lundy grabbed several tissues, tried to blow her nose, but the sobs kept coming, getting in the way of progress. Elise patted the woman awkwardly on the shoulder in a There, there motion.
After a few minutes, when it didn’t seem as though Dr. Lundy was going to stop crying, Elise said, “I’ll just let myself out.” She motioned toward the door and the hallway. “But I’ll need my gun before I leave.”
The floor around the woman’s tiny feet was littered with soaked tissues. The doctor nodded. Without looking at Elise, she gathered up the box of tissues, hugged it to her chest, and left the room, Elise following close behind.
Lundy turned the dial and unlocked the safe. And still wouldn’t look up. Elise wasn’t certain if it was due to her shame at being so bad at her job, or if it was horror at the thought of making eye contact with a freak.
“I’ll give you a full refund.” Head down, Dr. Lundy slid the gun across the desk. “All of it, even the processing fee. I’m sorry, but don’t come back. I can’t see you again. I can’t help you.”
Elise slipped her weapon into the holster. “That’s kind of harsh.”
“I’m honestly not sure who to recommend to you. I don’t know anybody who could sit through what I just sat through.”
Funny how it was all about her now. After today Dr. Lundy was probably going to be in need of her own services. Secondhand trauma. Was that a thing? If not, it should be.
Still, Elise felt the continued need to reassure her. “That’s okay.”
Actually, Elise felt better. Not enough to tell Lundy to keep her money, but it seemed to have helped to tell a total stranger what had happened to her. A stranger she’d never see again. It also served as a warning. The information she’d shared today must be locked away and never dragged into the light again.
Dr. Lundy was still blowing her nose and still not looking up.
Elise said, “I’m going to go now.”
Always trust your gut. It was a lesson she wasn’t sure she’d ever fully learn. But she felt stronger, taller, more fearless. And to hell with everybody who’d seen her naked on YouTube. That was nothing compared to what she’d been through with Tremain.
Outside in her car her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, saw David’s name, considered not answering, forgave him for not telling her the truth about the cemetery, answered.
“John is showing signs of consciousness. Avery and I are heading for the hospital right now.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
CHAPTER 28
The doctor explained that John might not remain “conscious” long. He used air quotes around “conscious.” “We expect a coma patient to slip in and out,” he told them. He wore scrubs and one of those colorful caps surgeons sometimes chose over traditional green. “Don’t worry if he doesn’t wake back up for a day or two. Everybody’s different. Each case is different. Also, be careful what you say. Try not to upset him. I realize you need to question him about the attack, but don’t push, and avoid the topic of his wife. He asked about her, but so far we’ve managed to evade his questions. It could be detrimental if he knows what happened to her right now. Also, keep in mind that many coma patients are able to hear the conversations in the room even if they can’t respond. So if, and more likely when, he slips away again, continue to watch what you say even to each other.”
Elise was surprised they were the only ones there. “What about his parents?”
“They’re arriving later today.” He excused himself, saying he had an ER patient to look in on.
In the entry point to the ICU, Elise, David, and Avery took turns washing and disinfecting their hands, following the instructions posted on the wall above the sink. Normally only two people would have been allowed in, but considering the circumstances and the small window of time they might have, all three were given access to the bay where John was attached to machines and IVs, his head shaved and stapled, all of his beautiful curly hair gone, oxygen tubes in his nostrils, his repaired hand wrapped and resting on a pillow.
His eyes were open slig
htly. When the trio approached his bed, one side of his mouth trembled in what appeared to be a faint smile. They said hello, trying to take turns, talking over one another in their relief at seeing him awake.
When they fell silent, John spoke. “Wizard . . . of . . . Oz.” His words were faint and weak.
Elise frowned and shot a worried glance at David. Oddly enough, he smiled. “That would make you Dorothy,” he told John. Ah, they were riffing on The Wizard of Oz. John was communicating. Understanding. Even joking.
His gaze moved beyond them, his eyes searching the room for the one person who wasn’t there. “Mara?” he croaked.
Elise’s throat tightened. From behind she heard Avery make a small sound of distress. He mumbled something about his phone and left the room.
“Mara stepped out for a little bit,” David said, not missing a beat, the lie coming as easily as his earlier comment about Dorothy.
John crooked a finger ever so slightly at Elise. Come here. She stepped nearer and gently touched the back of his uninjured hand. He surprised her by latching on. His grip was weak, but it was a grip all the same.
She thought about the doctor’s comments and got straight to the crucial question. “Who did this to you? Can you tell us?”
His mouth moved, but he struggled to form words. She leaned closer, straining to hear over the sound of the oxygen machine. He made a second attempt, failed, pulled his hand away, then gestured in a circular motion at his face.
She tried her question again. “John, who did this to you? Can you tell me?”
His eyes fluttered, then rolled back in his head, awareness gone. She would have been alarmed if not for the doctor’s earlier warning.
The ICU nurse appeared and checked his vitals, giving them a nod of reassurance. Relieved that their friend wasn’t in any new danger, Elise and David left the ICU. In the hallway they stepped aside. No sign of Avery. When he bailed, he bailed. “What do you think that was about?” David mimicked John’s hand motion in front of his face.
“Maybe he was trying to tell us the perpetrator was wearing a mask.”