Sweet Dreams, Irene ik-2

by Jan Burke

  I waited a long time. Still nothing. Slowly, I pulled myself down to the creek, rinsing my face, calming myself. I felt for the knife, but realized I must have lost it in the fall down the slope. With small, careful movements, I made my way along the creek bed, trying to stay out of the view of the cabin. I would survive. There were trees up ahead that would hide me better.

  “THAT’S FAR ENOUGH,” a voice said in front of me.

  28

  HE WAS POINTING a gun at me. There was no need for a mask now. I would be dead soon, so why bother? Still, I was surprised. I had guessed wrong.

  “Hello, Paul,” I said, as if I were meeting him at a church social instead of after being his prisoner. And now his prisoner again.

  He smiled, but there was no warmth in it, and said, “You’re going to very much regret what you’ve done, Irene. Devon was my cousin. I loved him very much.”

  “As much as you loved your grandmother?”

  I should have known what his response to that would be. Runs in the family. His blow to my face brought me to my knees. He put the gun up against my forehead and told me to stand up.

  “Can’t. You’ll have to help me. Your beloved cousin did too much damage to my ankle.”

  His help wasn’t gentle. As he reached to grab my shoulders, I saw a set of white ridges on his wrists. It was not a tattoo of a goat that Sammy had seen after all — she had recognized the scars of Paul Fremont’s teenage suicide attempt.

  He dragged me between the trees and up a slope that wasn’t as steep as the one I had slid down. I was beyond being able to resist physically. I decided I wouldn’t cry if I could help it. No tears, and no yelling or screaming. No telling him where the journal is. I had my rules in place by the time he let me fall into a heap in the clearing in front of the cabin.

  I dreaded the possibility of being put back into the room with Devon’s body, but Paul didn’t take me inside. He stood over me a long while, as if deciding a course of action. I lay unmoving, as much from exhaustion as from fear.

  He moved behind me, pressed the gun to my head, and flattened me to the ground by placing a knee into my back. My left arm was pinned beneath me. He grabbed my right wrist, pulling my arm up into my back.

  “Uncle,” I said, wincing.

  He pulled it harder.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  Without saying anything, he eased the pressure off it, moved it around so that my hand was to the side of my head. He held tightly to my wrist, pressing it to the ground. He kept the gun up against the back of my ear. I couldn’t figure out what he wanted me to do.

  My shoulder was on fire, having been stretched as far as it would go. Or so I thought. He proved me wrong by suddenly yanking my wrist up into the air with all his might. I felt a burning, tearing sensation. My shoulder, leaving its socket. Tears came to my eyes unbidden, but my teeth remained clenched, so I managed not to scream. He laughed and laughed.

  “When Frank Harriman finds you, lady, you are going to be broken into so many pieces it will take all day to count them. Think about that.”

  What I thought of was a string of obscenities. I was drenched in sweat. I felt close to passing out. I longed to. I didn’t.

  He grabbed my right hand, never moving the gun from my head. He bent my right thumb part way back. My shoulder hurt so much, it was amazing to me that I could feel him pull at my thumb.

  “You know what’s coming, don’t you?”

  I did, but I didn’t answer him.

  When he broke the thumb, I broke my rule about crying out. The scream was something that seemed to happen on its own.

  It was as that scream died that I heard the sound of a motor. Someone coming up the drive.

  He heard it too. “Raney’s back. Now I’ll have to share some of this fun with him. If I can keep him from killing you outright.”

  But I knew he was wrong. I had learned the sound of the truck, and this was not the truck. Hope rose up against my pain. The sound stopped before the vehicle had reached the crest of the drive, and we heard doors closing. Two doors. Now Paul knew as well as I did that this wasn’t Raney.

  “Come out where I can see you or she dies,” Paul shouted.

  No reply. He pulled on the arm. I didn’t want to, but I screamed again.

  “Let her go, Paul.” Frank. Sweet God in heaven, Frank had found me. In the next instant, I wanted him not to be there, not to see me like this. That passed.

  “I’ve got a gun pointed right at her head. If you and whoever you’ve got with you don’t show yourselves, she gets a bullet.”

  “Let her go, son. It’s too late. The sheriff will be here any minute.” Jack Fremont was walking into the clearing. He came to a halt when he saw us.

  “Don’t call me your son, you asshole.”

  “Paul, please,” Jack pleaded. “Please don’t do this.”

  “Where’s Harriman? Get the fuck out here or I’ll do her right now. Take a good look at her if you think I give a damn!” There was a rising hysteria in his voice. Frank came into the clearing. He had his gun in his hand.

  “Drop it, Frank, or I’ll kill her right now.”

  He hesitated, but let it drop at his feet.

  “Raney’s dead, Paul,” Jack said, moving closer. “The truck went over a cliff.”

  “Liar. Stay back. Don’t come anywhere near me. I wish you were dead. I hope you go through hell.”

  “Is that why, Paul? You did all of this because I told you I was sick?”

  “Not sick, dying. You told me you were dying. And I couldn’t wait around for that old bitch to die. Not when I could make everybody think it was you. Killed her, then all I had to do was wait for you to die.”

  “She gave you so much,” Jack said. “And you killed her?”

  “She gave all right. Oh yeah. She gave me and Ma everything we could ask for. But she let us know it. Every damn dime, she wanted something back for it. We had to listen to her go on and on. We had to let her know where every penny had been spent. Made us live with her. Like she could buy us! Goddamn I got tired of always having to do things her way. But where were you all that time, Daddy dear? Running around on a motorcycle like some kid. Coming back just to break Ma’s heart. I hate you.”

  “Let Irene go,” Frank said. “She’s never done anything to you.”

  “Oh no? Well, go on in and take a look at Devon. This bitch killed Devon and she’s going to die for it.”

  He grabbed me by the hair and cocked the gun.

  “No!” There was so much anguish in Frank’s voice, I could hardly bear it.

  Paul laughed.

  It infuriated me. “Fuck you. I hope he cuts your heart out.”

  “Just for that, bitch, I think I’ll kill him first.”

  What happened next happened fast. Paul raised up off me a little to turn and point the gun at Frank. I rolled over against Paul’s legs, trying to throw off his aim. Frank dove to the ground and Paul fired the gun. He missed, and as Frank picked his own gun up, Paul turned and aimed right at me. There was no doubt in my mind that he was about to kill me, but in the next second I heard a whistling noise and a strange thunk. There was a knife in Paul Fremont’s chest.

  “Dad?” he said in amazement.

  “I couldn’t, Paul,” Jack said, his voice full of misery. “I couldn’t just stand here and watch you do it.”

  Paul looked at me then, the gun still in his hand, a bright red stain spreading over his chest. For a moment I thought he was still going to pull the trigger, but suddenly he fell over.

  Jack and Frank were running toward us. Jack was picking Paul up in his arms and weeping. Frank knelt next to me, reaching out as if he wanted to hold me, but then stopping, as if he was afraid of hurting me.

  “Irene,” he choked out. I lifted my left hand, the only part of my body that wasn’t in an uproar of pain, and touched his face. He took it in his and kissed it. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked haggard — as if he’d had less sleep than I
. I’ve never been so glad to see anybody.

  “You look awful,” I said, managing a lopsided smile. It was good to hear him laugh.

  THE SHERIFF ARRIVED not long after that. He seemed to know Frank. He didn’t need to be convinced that I needed medical attention, and left a deputy behind at the cabins to ride with us to a nearby clinic. Jack drove while Frank gently held on to me in the backseat.

  Frank and Jack explained what they could to the sheriff, while I repeated one thought over and over to myself: I’m alive.

  The doctor at the clinic was on her way to another emergency when we arrived. By then I was thinking only of the process required to keep my molars together, knowing that if I opened my mouth, I was going to scream. Conversations being held by those around me were difficult to follow. I know explanations were made, and I recall the sense if not the exact words of Frank’s protest and pleas. They brought me inside the clinic and Frank set me on an examination table. The doctor took time to quickly check over my injuries and give me an injection to make the ride down to the hospital bearable.

  She watched me for a minute, and seemed to know when the injection started to do its work. She nodded to Frank, and he lifted me again. It still hurt, but there was a growing fog between me and the pain. The sheriff decided to stay and help her, and somewhere in the fog he told Frank he would be in touch and people said thank you.

  Jack looked worried about me when he helped us into the car.

  Frank held me again, softly stroking my hair away from my forehead.

  I felt tears welling up. “Ruined my hair.”

  “Your hair is wonderful. Don’t worry about anything. If you don’t like it, you can let it grow back. Or I’ll buy you a wig.”

  I felt myself grin at that, a silly numb-faced grin. My emotions were yo-yoing like crazy.

  There was something important to tell Frank, I thought, as the pain slipped farther away. What was it? Something important, just sliding out of my mind’s reach. Then I remembered it, but my speech was growing thick when I called out to him, and it seemed as if he were getting farther away as well.

  “Right here, I’m right here. Shhh.”

  “One more of them.”

  “No, he’s dead. His truck went over a cliff.”

  “No, one more.”

  “Shhh. Go to sleep. They’re all dead. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe now.”

  “No,” I said, but it didn’t seem important after all, so I let myself float down into darkness.

  WHEN I CAME AROUND again, I saw white lights rolling over my head. Frank was holding my left hand, moving alongside me. I gradually realized I was on a gurney, being wheeled around in a hospital. The painkiller was wearing off.

  The doctors were happy I could talk to them as clearly as I could. They had already taken X-rays, and were anxious about not letting the shoulder remain dislocated. They loaded me up with morphine and yanked the shoulder back into place. I howled like a banshee. The embarrassment of that didn’t last long; I passed out.

  I came awake feeling panicked. It took me a moment to realize I was in a hospital room. Frank was watching me anxiously. I was very grateful to see him there, because being in another strange, small room was frightening the hell out of me.

  “How do you feel?” he said.

  “Scared,” I answered, before I realized Jack was there too.

  He came up beside the bed and said quietly, “Do you want me to leave?”

  “No, Jack. I want to leave.”

  Frank took my left hand in his and I held on to it tightly while I looked myself over. I had an IV in my left arm. The bottom half of my right leg was in a cast. My right arm was in a sling, and I had a strange cast on it. The cast started below my elbow and covered my thumb. It covered my hand under my fingers, but the fingers were exposed. The hand was elevated.

  “The shoulder and thumb were dislocated,” Frank explained. “The thumb fractured as well.”

  The room didn’t have a window. The panic wasn’t subsiding. “Get me out of here,” I said.

  “They want to keep you overnight,” Jack said.

  “I want to go home,” I said to Frank. “Please don’t make me stay here. Take me to your house. I’ll go to a doctor in Las Piernas.”

  That caused a fight with the doctor who was on duty that night. He gave me two choices: see a psychologist or be sedated. I refused both. He tried to talk Frank into keeping me there, but Frank stuck up for me.

  Finally, we found a doctor who was sympathetic to my point of view, or at least understanding of my desire to avoid confined spaces. He even helped me to move out into the hallway, where I felt a little less anxious. Jack went to get a prescription for painkillers filled while Frank helped me into a robe he had bought for me while I was in surgery. I apologized to the nurses for being difficult. I wondered if I was going crazy.

  Just before we left, the doctor who had helped us gave me a sedative, saying it would make the long ride home easier on me. I fell asleep before Frank had finished signing all of the paperwork for my release.

  WE WERE BACK in Jack’s car. I looked up hazily and saw Frank’s face, looking down.

  “Are we going home?” I asked.

  “Yes. We’re going home.”

  I woke up a couple of times on the way, vaguely aware of feeling troubled, but Frank would try to calm me and soon I would fall back to sleep. I heard Jack and Frank talking easily to one another, their voices like a lullaby to me.

  We pulled up in front of Frank’s house, and Jack helped him once again. The lights were on in the house, and I became aware of voices — Pete and Rachel, Cody yowling. I couldn’t make out anything anyone was saying, except Cody.

  Frank took me into the bedroom, and with Rachel’s help took the robe off and got me into bed. Rachel left the room. Cody, somehow always sensing when he needs to be gentle, found a place near my left hand to lie down and purr at me, giving me little kisses on my knuckles. It roused me enough to look up at Frank as he kissed me softly on the top of my head. He stayed until I fell asleep.

  He came in again not too much later. I became aware that he had turned on the light and was calling my name and holding me. I was busy screaming. The nightmares had begun.

  29

  WHEN I WOKE UP enough to realize that Devon had not reached up and pulled out the shard and started stabbing me with it, that it was a dream, I felt like there wasn’t enough air in the room. I was going to suffocate at any moment. I was sweating. Frank was looking worried. “I’ve got to go outside,” I told him.

  It must have seemed an odd request, but he gave into it without question, as he did many other odd requests that would follow over the next few weeks. He put on a light jacket and then gently lifted me up out of bed. He helped me to stand and to put on my robe. He picked me up again, and carried me out to the backyard. He eased me down into a chair on the deck, then sat next to me.

  “Is this okay?”

  I nodded. The night was cool, and I took in great gulps of air, which smelled wonderfully of the ocean. I could just make out the sound of the waves hitting the shore.

  “Better?”

  “Yes, much better. I guess after being locked up in that room—” I couldn’t finish.

  He took my hand. We sat there like that for a while.

  “I suppose I should tell you what happened,” I said.

  “When you’re ready.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.” I looked over at him, trying to put myself in his place. Would he ever be ready to hear it?

  Tentatively, I began telling him the story of my three days in the mountains. By the time I finished, he was sitting, head in hands. I knew he was upset, but still, when he spoke, the anger in his voice took me aback.

  “Why the hell did you go out to that field that night?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question many times, Frank.” I swallowed hard, feeling the regret rise within me like a river.

  H
e got up and paced again, shoving his hands in his pockets, then restlessly taking them out again. “I just don’t understand it. You’re smart. But I swear to God, Irene, sometimes you do something so…” He faltered, having finally looked over at my face.

  “Stupid,” I finished quietly.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It doesn’t do any good.”

  “You’re right. O’Connor once said that some people would hold faster to their stupidity than to their lives, which was good, because it provided a way to get rid of idiots.”

  “For Christsakes. That’s not what I was trying to say.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “It’s not your fault, Irene.” He stared down at his feet. “I should never have left you that night. I knew you were in danger, and I left you. I’m the idiot, and you’ve had to pay for it. If I had stayed with you—”

  “That doesn’t do any good, either. Maybe if you had come with me they would have killed you.”

  He was silent.

  I thought of all the worry and self-recriminations my disappearance must have caused him, and at a time when he had plenty of other problems to contend with. I thought of how he had blamed himself for Mrs. Fremont’s death, for his father’s death. I had, quite obviously, put him through hell.

  “Do you think,” I asked, my throat tightening, “that you could possibly come to forgive me?”

  “Oh God, Irene. That’s crazy. Nothing to forgive. What happened is not your fault. None of it is your fault.”

  I couldn’t speak. He came over to me then and said quietly, “Let me hold you.”

  I laid my head on his shoulder. We sat like that for a long time.

  “Want to try to go back to sleep?” he asked, seeing me grow drowsy.

  I nodded. “Let me try to walk.”

  It was slow going, and I was frustrated, but he simply said, “Be patient.”

  “Frank?” I said, as we reached the bedroom.

  “Hmm.”

  “I haven’t seen myself yet.”

  I saw his jaw tense, but he quietly walked over to the closet door. I knew there was a full-length mirror on the other side of that door.