Secrets Amoung The Shadows

by Sally Berneathy

  SECRETS AMONG THE SHADOWS

  Sally Berneathy

  Copyright ©2012 Sally Berneathy.

  http://www.sallyberneathy.com

  Original cover art by Alicia Hope, http://www.aliciahopeauthor.blogspot.com/.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without express written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  SECRETS AMONG THE SHADOWS

  Prologue

  She poured wine into two glasses and handed one to him. The glass was cheap. Probably something she'd found at a discount store. The wine was cheap, too, like her apartment and the sofa they sat on. Like her.

  He smiled and lifted his glass to hers.

  "To us," she said.

  "To us," he repeated, and sipped the distasteful liquid, his eyes never leaving hers.

  They lowered their glasses, and he took hers from her then set them both on the coffee table.

  Turning back to her, he put one hand on her throat and stroked her chin with his thumb. Her pulse beat rapidly beneath his fingers. His own heart rate increased, and his smile became genuine as he thought of how he had the power to stop that beating. He possessed control not only of his life but of hers, too. It was a heady, exhilarating feeling.

  She lifted her face to his and closed her eyes. Her eyelashes were black and caked with too much mascara. She always wore too much makeup. Her hair was too red, her fingernails too long. But none of that was important.

  He cupped the side of her throat with his other hand, then lowered his lips to hers. Her lipstick was cheap and would be all over him, but it was a small price to pay for the ultimate thrill.

  She returned the kiss, and he wanted to laugh. She offered him passion but not the kind he wanted, the kind he was finally going to get.

  Slowly he increased the pressure of his hands on her throat. His heartbeat accelerated, and he felt himself becoming aroused.

  He took his lips from hers and watched her face as he pressed his thumbs against her windpipe. Her eyes flew open, filled with surprise then terror and disbelief. He drank it all in, savoring the taste.

  Her hands flew up like white birds with red-tipped wings. Without power, they flailed against him. He was taking her power. He was taking the life force from her, taking it into himself, increasing his strength.

  Two of the red tips snapped off her nails and fell away. Her hands fluttered down.

  He was full to bursting with life and happiness and freedom.

  He released her, and she crumpled onto the sofa.

  He stood, not wanting to touch her now, and looked around, basking in the flowing energy he'd released. There was so much to experience, and he was going to have it all. This was only the beginning.

  On his way out, he paused at the door and looked back. Her empty shell sprawled among the gaudy, lifeless flowers of the sofa, unable to move from that spot while he was free with no restraints.

  Chapter 1

  The last place in the world Eliot Kane ever thought he'd end up was a shrink's office, but, he reflected grimly, after Kay Palmer turned up dead the night he dreamed about killing her, he really had no choice.

  When he entered Dr. Leanne Warner's fourth floor office in North Dallas, he strode purposefully across the room, as if he were still in complete control of his life, and offered his hand.

  The doctor rose from behind her polished wooden desk to greet him, extending her own long, slender hand, and for an instant he considered canceling the whole thing.

  You can't trust her! Leave now.

  The thought was his, yet it seemed to come from someone else. The voice that sometimes whispered in his mind in moments of great stress was just another reason he had to trust this woman, had to find a way to stop what was happening to him.

  He focused on blocking the voice, ignoring the angry, fearful feelings that came with it.

  Spilling his guts wasn't going to be easy, and the fact that she was a woman intimidated him further, made him want to protect her from the sort of things he was going to tell her. But he was desperate, and she was the only psychiatrist who'd agreed to see him immediately.

  Even so, he'd expected an older, substantial type with gray hair and glasses. This woman was young and slim with soft blue eyes and shiny brown hair that swung casually about her slender neck. The severe lines of her dark blue pinstripe suit were relieved by a peach-colored silk blouse and by the gentle curves of her body. She looked like someone he'd want to take to dinner, but not someone he'd trust with his sanity.

  "Mr. Kane," she said, smiling easily. "I'm Leanne Warner. Please have a seat."

  Her hand was smooth and cool in his, her grip firm but not aggressively so. Her voice was the same—smooth, cool and firm. That quality made it a little easier to think of her as a doctor, not as a woman.

  He handed her the form her secretary had requested he complete, took the seat she indicated in an over-sized gray leather recliner and attempted to appear calm. Her office was spacious, but the curtains were drawn over the wall of windows, closing them in, calling forth his claustrophobia.

  A dark blue sofa rested across from his chair, flanking the other side of the door through which he'd come. In the far corner of the room was another door, the private door through which all patients left, he assumed. The office breathed quiet, slightly detached, professionalism. Other than the closed curtains, the atmosphere was conducive to tranquility.

  "I've been having memory lapses for the past month," he told her, going directly to the point.

  She nodded, studying the three-page form that told her his name, address, Social Security number and other equally inconsequential information. She flipped the last page over, laid it down and reached across her desk to switch on a small recorder. "Do you mind?" she asked.

  He hesitated. It wasn't going to be easy to talk about his problem. He wasn't sure he wanted a permanent record of it.

  "No one has access to your file or your recordings except me," she assured him.

  He studied her silently for a long moment. "All right," he finally agreed.

  "If at any point you want me to turn it off, just let me know." He nodded. "Now, can you give me some examples of your memory lapses?"

  He sat erect, crossed his arms over his chest, then realized she was probably reading his body language, thinking he was shutting her out from something—which he certainly had every intention of doing. He leaned back, rested his hands on the chair arms and shrugged—casually, he hoped.

  "Inconsequential things for the most part," he replied, trying to sound as if forgetting one's actions, no matter how small, could be inconsequential. "The first one was picking up my dry cleaning. When I went by, the owner, a man I've done business with for years, told me I'd already taken it. I didn't believe him, but when I got home, the clothes were in my closet."

  Leanne—Dr. Warner—nodded, waiting silently for him to continue. Her expression showed concern an
d caring. It's her job, he reminded himself.

  "I find food in the refrigerator that I don't remember buying," he continued. "I think I have half a bottle of after-shave, but it disappears. I get up in the morning and find my car on the street when I distinctly recall putting it in the underground parking garage of my condo complex, and I don't remember going out again."

  Still she waited, and he no longer thought her eyes were a soft, languorous blue. They were intense, brilliant sapphires, gem-sharp, aware. He felt as if she could read his thoughts, could see what he wasn't telling her.

  His palms against the leather were becoming damp, but he didn't move them. She'd be sure to notice. "And some things of more consequence," he continued, looking away from her, toward the curtained wall of windows on the far side of the room. He could imagine his own thoughts hiding in the folds and shadows of those curtains.

  "I'm an investment banker, an occupation that requires stability and reliability. Recently I called a client to change an appointment, then forgot about doing it. I went to meet him, phoned him when he didn't show up. If that kind of behavior continues, I won't have many clients."

  He turned his gaze back to her, erecting a mental shield. That was all she needed to know. Surely she'd be able to do something based on that much information.

  "Are you on any medication?" she asked.

  "Nothing. I don't even take aspirin."

  She raised one eyebrow. "What do you do when you have a headache?"

  "I don't get headaches." Until a week ago. Until he'd become afraid to go to sleep at night for fear he'd see himself murdering another woman then wake to find her picture in the morning newspaper.

  "After you discover one of these memory lapses—finding your dry cleaning in your closet, for example—do you then recall the event, or does it remain a total blank?"

  He shook his head. "Completely blank."

  "I see."

  Did she? He'd like to think so, but he doubted it.

  "Recently I dreamed about doing something," he said, and realized the words had come out in a monotone, so great was his effort to keep any emotion from his voice. "The next day I found out it really happened." It really happened, he'd said. He couldn't bring himself to say, I did it. He couldn't have done it. He was no murderer.

  He knew that was true.

  He prayed that was true.

  "What did you dream?" she asked.

  He wanted to take his handkerchief and blot the perspiration forming on his upper lip and forehead, but he knew she'd correctly interpret the sign as nervousness.

  "The event isn't important. The fact that it happened is the problem."

  She said nothing for several infinite seconds, merely sat there toying with a pencil, studying him. An involuntary tic started under his left eye. He had no doubt she'd notice with those piercing, searching eyes of hers, but, try as he might, he couldn't seem to make it stop.

  "I'm sure I don't have to remind you that everything you tell me is privileged information," she finally said. "If you want me to help you, you're going to have to trust me. If you're not willing to tell me your problem, we're both wasting our time."

  He knew she was right. Still he hedged. "What do you think about the possibility that I could have another personality, like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde or Sybil?"

  She gave him a small, comforting smile. "Certainly that's a possibility, but it's much rarer than television and the movies would have us believe."

  It was his turn, and he knew what she wanted to hear. His jaw muscles clenched tightly. Damn it, he had told her his problem. She didn't need to know all the specifics. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to come here after all.

  He lowered his gaze, sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. Exhaustion suddenly overwhelmed him. He was going to have to give it up. Much as he hated it, she was right. He couldn't ask her to solve the puzzle if he didn't give her all the pieces.

  The office seemed to close in around him, suffocating him. He needed to take a deep breath but couldn't seem to pull air into his lungs.

  "Do you mind if I open the drapes?" he asked.

  "Not at all." She rose from her desk. "I prefer them open myself." She strode to the window and tugged on the cord, opening up the room, and his breathing came easier.

  "Better?" she asked, resuming her seat.

  "I have an aversion to closed spaces." He might as well admit to his phobia. She was sharp enough to have already picked up on it, and it was certainly the least of his problems.

  "Why do you think that is?"

  "I don't know, and right now I really don't care." She lifted one eyebrow, and he realized he'd snapped at her. Damn! He really had lost control. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. It's just that I've been claustrophobic all my life, and it hasn't interfered with anything. I can deal with it. This other problem, I don't know how to deal with it."

  "Very well," she acquiesced, "I believe we were discussing your fear that you have multiple personality disorder."

  "Sometimes—" He paused, wanting to formulate the words in just the right manner. "Sometimes during the last couple of months my thoughts seem out of character, as if they're coming from another source besides my own brain. I can be in a good mood, and suddenly I feel anger, or a thought crosses my mind that seems to come from someone else. It's almost like I have another person inside my head, talking to me, feeling emotions separate from mine."

  "What does this voice say to you?" Was there a subtle shift in her tone? Had he crossed the line with his last confession so that she now regarded him as insane?

  "Nothing of any significance. Odd thoughts such as—" He hesitated, then forced himself to continue. "When I came in here, the idea came to me that I shouldn't trust you."

  "What do you do when these thoughts come to you?"

  "I block them."

  She nodded slowly, studying him intently. "What else?"

  "Can we turn the damned recorder off?" Maybe he had to tell her—probably he had to tell her—but he didn't want his admission recorded.

  With no change in expression, she complied.

  "I dreamed I killed a woman." He expelled the words in a rush, anxious to get them out of his mouth, away from him.

  "That's not an uncommon dream, particularly in times of stress. Is there something in your life that's causing you an undue amount of stress right now?"

  He grinned wryly. "Yeah. These blasted memory lapses." He watched her closely as he continued, suddenly uncertain if he feared more that she'd think him crazy or sane when she heard the rest. "More than once I dreamed about killing that same woman. The first time it was vague, kind of hazy, like a dream of a dream. Then with every repetition it got a little clearer, changed a little, gained more details, until the last time was like watching a movie."

  "Did you know the woman?"

  "No. I seemed to know her in the dream, but when I woke up..." He shook his head. "She seemed kind of familiar, probably because I'd seen her in the dream. No," he said firmly—more firmly than he felt. "I don't—didn't know her."

  "How did you feel in the dreams? Were you upset about the murder? Happy?"

  He hadn't wanted to get into that part, the really bad part. "Excited," he said quietly. "In the dreams one part of me felt ecstatic, powerful...like I could fly. At the same time, the part of me watching it happen felt sick." He studied her closely to see how she would react, but she gave no outward sign of her feelings.

  "So you're two people in the dream? One of you performing the actions and one of you watching?"

  He considered that. "I only see one of me in the dreams. That's the person who enjoys the killing. I, as the dreamer, am disgusted at my own actions."

  "You've never seen this woman outside of your dreams?"

  "Not that I recall." He sucked in a deep breath and prepared to make the total commitment. "The day after the movie-vivid dream, I saw her picture on the news—murdered—strangled, just like I dreamed. Her name is Kay Pal
mer. Maybe you saw the story."

  He had to give her credit. She didn't flinch. Her expression didn't change. "You're sure you never met her?"

  "Believe me, I've searched my memory, and I don't know anyone by that name."

  "But you're concerned that you know her in another personality, that you killed her as another personality?" she asked, putting into words the fear he hadn't dared verbalize, even to himself.

  "Is that possible?" He waited for her answer as if she were judge and jury, deciding his fate.

  "Of course it's possible, but there are other explanations that are more probable."

  He shot up out of the chair, unable to sit still any longer. "Like what?" he demanded, leaning over her desk "How can you explain my seeing a murder? Seeing myself commit it?"

  She tented her fingers and returned his stare calmly. "Perhaps you went to sleep with the television on, woke up just enough to see a late night newscast of the murder, then incorporated it into a dream."

  "The television wasn't on when I went to sleep or when I woke up."

  "You just told me you've been forgetting things. Maybe you forgot turning it on then off."

  "This wasn't the first time I dreamed about her."

  "Maybe it was. By your own admission, the other dreams were unclear. Perhaps your dream woman had features similar to the murdered woman, and your subconscious did the rest. That would explain why she seemed familiar."

  He felt himself begin to relax for the first time since he'd entered her office—for the first time since he'd seen that news report a week ago. Encroaching senility was preferable to murder.

  "As for your thoughts that seem to come from somewhere else, that's a fairly common phenomenon in times of stress." She tapped her pencil against the desk, watching him speculatively. "Let's go back to your dislike of enclosed spaces. Where do you think that originates?"