by Mark Lukens
But Detective Grady didn’t smile. “So you’re a psychologist.” He over-enunciated the word just slightly. “And you wouldn’t have a patient, or a former patient, who might be . . . I don’t know—what’s the right word?—unbalanced enough to be angry with you for some reason?”
Phil felt a twinge of fear, his stomach lurching a little. But he tried not to let it show. “I suppose it could be possible.”
“And no one’s contacted you in any way? Threatened you at all in the last few months?”
Could he know about Carlos somehow?
“No,” Phil answered. “Is this leading somewhere?”
Detective Grady gave a slight shake of his head. “No. Just asking a few questions, that’s all.”
There was a moment of tense silence between them, and Phil felt that he had angered Detective Grady even though the man wasn’t showing it.
“Well, I just wanted to stop by and make sure everything was okay with you and your family. And I wanted to leave my card with you.” Grady pulled the card he had slid underneath the mat moments ago out from his pocket and handed it to Phil.
“Thanks,” Phil said as he took the card from Detective Grady. He glanced down at it. Pretty basic card. Police Department logo. Detective Charles Grady written in a somewhat fancy scrawl. His phone number and email address beneath that. “I appreciate you coming by.”
“No problem. If you think of anything else that you might want to tell me, then just let me know. Or if anything else happens, please don’t hesitate to call me. That’s my personal cell number on the card.”
“Of course.”
“It was very nice meeting your wife and daughter,” Detective Grady said with a smile.
But there was a malevolence in that smile, a subtle threat issued.
“Thank you,” Phil said. “Thanks again for coming by.”
The detective just nodded, and then turned and walked away. He cut across the front yard towards his sedan parked in the street, much like Officer Wells had done a few nights ago.
Phil watched the detective walk back to his car.
He knows something. Maybe not everything, but he knows something.
TWELVE
Cathy
Cathy watched as Phil paced in their bedroom. He was on his third drink, and he held the glass a little loosely in his hand as he walked back and forth.
“So he just came by to check on things?” Cathy asked, not really sure what Phil was so upset about. That seemed like a nice thing for the detective to do.
“Yeah,” Phil said.
“And you’re upset about that?” Cathy asked. She was ready for bed. It was eleven o’clock now, and she knew Phil needed to get to sleep soon. But he was still too wired to lie down right now.
Phil stopped pacing and looked at her. “I just feel like I’ve been grilled. You know those old movies where a detective questions the suspect in a dark room with a bright light in their face.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t like that.”
“I know, it’s just . . . it just felt like that. That detective, he made me feel like I was some sort of suspect, like I’d done something wrong. Why? Because I called the police after some guy follows us all the way home?”
“Come on,” she said, taking the nearly empty drink from his hand and setting it on the table. “I think you’ve had enough for tonight. Let’s try to relax and get to bed.” She moved behind him, rubbing his shoulders, trying to knead the tension out of him.
He was starting to breathe a little easier now, finally calming down.
She pecked him on the cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get so upset about it.”
“You have a right to express your feelings,” she told him. “Hey, isn’t that supposed to be your line?”
“Funny,” he said, turning around.
She kissed him on the lips, a little harder this time, moving closer, rubbing up against him.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled as he pulled away. “I . . . I’m just not in the mood for that right now.”
Cathy nodded. She understood. She didn’t like it, but she understood.
• • •
Two hours later Cathy woke up as Phil turned over onto his side, facing away from her. He’d been snoring, and now he stopped for a moment.
She lay there for a moment, watching him sleep, suddenly wide awake now. She thought she might have been dreaming about something, but she couldn’t remember what it was. She tried to remember the dream, and she had almost drifted back to sleep when she heard Phil moaning softly.
She looked at Phil again in the darkness, watching him. His body was motionless, but he was still moaning lowly. It was a creepy sound, like he was on the verge of crying. She moved a little closer to him, thinking her movement might wake him up. She even propped herself up on one elbow.
She was about to wake him up. His moaning was so strange, a miserable and pathetic sound, and it was really starting to bother her. He must be having another nightmare. She couldn’t really remember Phil ever having nightmares before, at least none that he’d ever told her about, and especially not on a nightly basis like this. And she’d never heard him moan like this or talk in his sleep before these last few nights.
These nightmares had to have been triggered by the man following them home Saturday night. It had been pretty scary—she’d been freaked out about it—but she thought Phil would’ve been able to move past it by now; he made a living showing people how to move past their fears. She couldn’t help thinking that there was something more to these nightmares, but the entire picture was unclear because she felt like she was missing some pieces of the puzzle. She knew better than to ask Phil about the nightmares he’d been having; she knew he wouldn’t be open about his dreams. He would just spout off some psychiatric theory about the nature of dreams and subconsciousness and all of that.
But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something from her.
She’d been married to Phil for sixteen years now, been with him for almost twenty. She knew him (or at least she thought she did) as well as she knew herself. She trusted him.
Of course Emma probably used to feel the same way about her husband; sure that she could trust Sheldon with her life. Emma probably would’ve bet anything that Sheldon never would have been unfaithful to her. She probably never thought that he would have (or even could have) kept a secret like that from her.
God, all of that stuff with Emma was making her paranoid, drumming up suspicions about Phil. She was about to roll over and try to get back to sleep when Phil moaned again, even louder this time.
“Nooo,” Phil moaned, twitching a little in his sleep.
Cathy moved closer to Phil, right behind him now, peering over his shoulder as he talked in his sleep.
“Dolores . . . no . . . don’t go . . .”
There was that woman’s name again. She’d heard it clearly this time.
“No,” Phil yelled, sounding angry now.
This was beginning to scare her now. She touched Phil on the shoulder, nudging him a little.
He jumped awake.
She moved out of the way as he flipped over to look at her, swinging his arm around, almost hitting her.
“What?” Phil croaked. His eyes looked wild. “What’s wrong?”
“Uh . . . I think you were having a nightmare again.”
Phil rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, breathing heavily. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can go sleep on the couch if you want me to.”
“No, it’s alright.”
They were quiet for a moment. Cathy wanted to tell Phil that he’d been talking in his sleep again, that he had mentioned a woman’s name again. He’d said the name Dolores, begging her not to go. But she didn’t say any of that to him; instead she asked: “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?”
She didn’t think that was the truth.
“You going to be able to fall back asleep?” he asked, his voice thick, sounding like he was on the verge of sleep. His eyes were closed.
“Yeah.”
And then Phil was out, already snoring lightly.
“Goodnight,” she said.
He jumped awake, but kept his eyes closed. “Goodnight.”
“I love you,” Cathy told him.
“Love you, too,” he mumbled.
A moment later he was asleep again.
THIRTEEN
Phil
Tuesday
The next morning Phil talked with Renee for a few moments as he made a cup of coffee. He took the folders she gave him and went down the hall to his office. He felt tired, like he hadn’t slept very soundly last night. He remembered Cathy waking him up from his nightmare—the same nightmare he’d been having since Saturday night, ever since that man (Carlos?) had followed them home. In the dream, he’d seen the girl’s blood-stained face, watched her struggle to tell him something . . . something important.
God, it had been so long since he’d had those dreams . . . those memories.
Cathy had told him before that he had talked in his sleep. He wondered if he’d been talking in his sleep last night. Cathy had asked him if he had remembered what he’d been dreaming about (he didn’t tell her about his dream—he couldn’t tell her), but she hadn’t said anything about him talking in his sleep. But maybe he should sleep on the couch for the next few nights. He could explain to her that he was sleeping on the couch because he didn’t want to keep waking her up.
Phil sat down at his desk, suddenly wearier than ever. He felt a little light-headed and weak, like he was coming down with the flu, which wouldn’t be a shock because of the stress he’d been under for the last few days.
Was it possible that the driver of the pickup truck and Carlos were two different people? Of course it could be possible, but it would be quite a coincidence. But coincidences happened all the time. What Phil had no doubt of was that Carlos knew about his past; Carlos had come here specifically about it, to bring him a message . . . and a threat.
All of Carlos’ talk about torturing and killing people could’ve been a bluff, but there was no denying that Carlos could be dangerous. The question was: What did Carlos want? Money? Revenge? Was he working for someone else?
And now this Detective Grady had shown up last night out of the blue. Another coincidence? Phil didn’t think so. The detective had said that he’d just been following up on the case. Yeah, right. Phil didn’t believe that for a second; he was sure that the detective had done some digging into his past and found a trail of crumbs to follow. And now that this detective was intrigued, he might keep pursuing things, keep questioning things, putting pieces together.
This was a nightmare now—a living nightmare.
Phil jumped when his cell phone rang.
Maybe Cathy was calling him.
But then he saw the word on the screen: RESTRICTED.
He let it ring two more times before answering it.
“Hello?”
No answer. Just silence on the phone.
“Hello? Who is this?”
But Phil already knew who it was.
There was still no response, only heavy breathing.
“Carlos? Is that you? Look, if you need to talk about something—”
“I think you need to talk about something, Dr. Phil.”
Phil sat rigidly in the chair at his desk, staring at the windows at the other end of his office, at the tropical plants beyond the glass. The trunks of palm and pine trees rose up from the mass of foliage, disappearing above the top of the windows. “What do you think I need to talk about?”
“I think you need to talk about what you did to that girl.”
Phil jumped to his feet, a sudden anger flaring inside of him. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re trying to do—”
“I know all about it. I know everything.”
“If you call me again . . .” Phil let his words trail off, the threat empty.
Click. Carlos hung up.
“Son of bitch!” Phil yelled as he tossed his cell phone down onto his desk.
Phil heard a noise at his door, a soft knocking. Renee stood there, her eyes wide. He knew she’d heard him yelling into his phone. “Renee,” he said, clearing his throat a little.
“Uh, I just wanted to let you know that your nine o’clock called to reschedule. Do you want me to call the ten o’clock and see if she can come in earlier?”
“No,” Phil said, his voice a reasonable and professional tone again. “No, that’s okay. I’ve got some stuff I can do for an hour.”
“Sure,” Renee said. But she still looked a little shocked. She wasn’t dumb, and Phil was sure that she knew he’d been on the phone with Carlos. For a second he thought she was going to ask him if he was okay, if he needed anything. But she didn’t. She left without another word.
Phil hurried to the door once she was gone and closed it all the way. Locked it. He should’ve done that in the first place.
He went back to his desk and collapsed down into his chair, feeling miserable and helpless.
Then a thought occurred to him. He opened the drawer of folders, finding Carlos’ folder near the top. He pulled it out and opened it to the forms Carlos had filled out. All his information was there: address, phone number, the reason he’d come to see a psychologist (obviously a lie).
Phil grabbed his cell phone and dialed the number from the form, bracing himself to hear Carlos’ voice again.
One ring. Two rings . . .
“Murphy’s Bicycle Shop. Ken speaking.”
For a moment Phil couldn’t say anything.
“Murphy’s Bicycle Shop,” Ken said again with the slightest impatience in his voice. “Ken speaking.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” Phil muttered into the phone. “I’m sorry. I think I might have dialed the wrong number.”
“No problem,” Ken said. “You have a great day.”
“Thanks. You too.”
Phil hung up.
A bicycle shop?
Phil checked the number he’d dial on his phone against the one Carlos had written down on the forms to make sure he hadn’t misdialed the number, but they were the same. And Phil knew that Carlos had chosen the number to a bicycle shop for a specific reason.
Phil typed the address that Carlos had listed on his forms into a search engine on his computer. Seconds later he saw that the address was also Murphy’s Bicycle Shop on Edgewater Drive.
Did Carlos work there?
No, he wouldn’t be that sloppy.
No, this was a clue that he wanted Phil to figure out.
FOURTEEN
Cathy
Phil had gotten home a little after five o’clock. He went straight into the kitchen to mix a drink.
Cathy followed him, watching him. “Already?” she asked.
For a moment she thought Phil was going to snap at her like some raging alcoholic. But he didn’t argue, he didn’t even have some sarcastic comeback. He just stopped his preparations and started putting everything away.
“I’m just worried that it’s . . . it’s turning into a habit again,” she explained. Cathy had hoped that Phil might have begun to get a little worried about how much he’d started drinking lately, but it didn’t seem like it. So she had to say something.
“You’re right,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even thinking . . .”
“I don’t want you to be mad at me,” she said.
“I’m not.” He smiled as if to prove it.
“I’m just worried that . . . you know . . .”
He knew. He came over and gave her a hug, a kiss, and then he let her go.
Cathy felt a little better. They didn’t usually argue very much, but these last few days (or had it been th
ese last few weeks?) there seemed to be a tension between them.
“Megan’s so excited about going out tonight,” she said, trying to steer the subject somewhere else.
But instead of sharing her enthusiasm, a dark cloud seemed to pass over Phil’s expression. “Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that. I’m not so sure this is such a good idea.”
That tension was back in her body, along with a sudden anger. “Phil. You’re not going to change your mind now.” It wasn’t a question, but a command. “You already allowed her to go tonight, to spend the night at Arianna’s.”
“I know, but . . .”
Cathy tamped down that anger that had surged so suddenly inside of her, forcing herself to comfort her husband instead of challenging him. “She’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.”
Phil didn’t seem so sure. Something was still bothering him. He seemed ready to launch into a long explanation, like a lawyer about to plead his case to a jury.
But Cathy cut him off before he could get started. “I can’t believe you’re still that upset about what happened the other night.”
The expression of concern on Phil’s face turned darker. “What? Some nutjob follows us home, and I’m just supposed to get over it in the next few days?”
“Nutjob? Is that your professional opinion?” Cathy tried a joke, trying to ease the tension before it got out of control, before this disagreement blossomed into a full-blown argument only a few minutes before Arianna’s mother arrived to pick Megan up.
Phil walked away.
“Come on, Phil. I was just kidding.”
She followed him to their bedroom. “You can’t keep our daughter prisoner in our home just because you’re still (she wanted to say scared) upset about that guy following us home.” There—she’d just officially made it worse. God, why couldn’t she just stop talking right now?
“I’m not,” he snapped, whirling around on her in the middle of their bedroom, a flash of anger in his eyes that she never remembered seeing before. She even took a step back.
“I’m letting her go,” Phil continued in a softer voice. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now to let Megan and her friends go out by themselves. That’s all I was trying to say. She’s not responsible enough yet.”