It made him distinctly uncomfortable, being discussed by the two of them. This whole business of therapy, of telling his innermost secrets, made him uncomfortable, but when the people he confessed to talked to each other about him, he got really uneasy.
But this wasn't like his teenage confession to Kay, he reminded himself. He had no choice but to trust Leanne and Thurman. Edward's actions had taken that choice away from him. He'd lost control of his life...but he would get it back. Tracing this license number could give him a start in that direction.
Across the room, a thousand miles away, Leanne watched him with a sad expression...and that was the last thing he wanted to see on her face. He didn't want her to feel sorry for him. He wanted her to desire him, he wanted to see the same look on her face as when he'd kissed her at the lake.
He realized he was crushing the already wrinkled paper in his fist. If only he could do the same thing to Edward, reach inside his own brain and crush the part where Edward lived.
***
Every time Eliot's office phone rang the next day he snatched it up, expecting to hear the voice of Roger Fogel, his attorney, giving him the information about the registration of Edward's car. He wasn't sure how he'd explain his query if the car was registered in his own name, but Roger was discreet. He wouldn't ask questions.
When the phone rang again shortly after noon, he picked up the receiver and heard Leanne's voice. Immediately his mind began backtracking to what he done recently. An unopened bag containing a sandwich and fries sat on his desk, and with a sinking feeling he realized that lunch time had once again slipped by unnoticed.
"What's happened?" he barked. "Did he...did I come back?"
"No. Nothing like that."
At her reassuring words, the tension began to dissipate, and he leaned back in his chair.
"I have some information for you," she continued, and he thought her voice sounded tight. Or maybe the tightness was in him.
He laughed dryly. "Well, as long as Edward hasn't been terrorizing you, I guess I can handle it."
"You can handle it." That was the psychiatrist, not the woman, talking. He could tell the difference. "I have a friend at the police department, and he ran that license number for me. We have a name and address."
He gripped the arm of his chair as if it were a lightning rod. "Go on," he prompted.
"The car was purchased a couple of weeks ago by Edward Dalman."
He should have been prepared, but somehow he wasn't. The shock jolted through him.
"Eliot?"
"Yes. I'm here."
"He paid cash. There's no lien holder. It's an older model than yours, though that car hasn't changed much over the last few years, so it's pretty close to identical."
"Well," he said, his mouth dry, "an older model. At least I'm thrifty in my insanity."
"Eliot, don't talk like that. You're not insane. You have a mental disorder. You were just too sensitive to handle the pain of seeing your parents die. It could happen to anyone."
She was using her woman's voice now...her caring tone, not her doctor's voice, so he didn't bother to point out to her that her glib reassurance didn't account for his alter ego's desire to destroy him...and her.
"So," he said, "does this personality share my address or just my body?"
She hesitated for a moment. "I'll tell you the address, but you have to promise not to go there. At least not alone. Let Thurman go with you."
He considered her words. Soon he'd have the same information without making any promises, and he could do whatever he wanted with that information. And what he wanted was to find that apartment or that house and burn it to the ground.
That kind of thinking was bad enough, he reprimanded himself, but what if seeing Edward's home changed him to Edward?
"I'll take Thurman with me," he agreed.
She read off an address only a few blocks from his condo.
Only a few blocks from Leanne's house.
He'd thought he was ready for the news, but he wasn't. Shards of ice prickled in his veins and down his spine.
Unknown to himself, he had another car and another home. Another life. For the first time, this craziness of a split personality sank in and became real.
"I've got to go over there," he said. "As soon as I can get away from work."
"I haven't discussed this with Thurman yet. Let me call him."
Eliot drummed his fingers on his desk. It galled him to be dependent on someone else, to be unable to schedule his own life. Damn Edward for taking that away from him!
"Call me back," he said.
***
Leanne hung up the phone and stared at it for a few seconds. She should have talked to Thurman before she called Eliot. Thurman was going to be angry with her again...and justifiably so. She had acted impulsively, grabbing the phone and reaching out for Eliot as soon as she got the information about Edward.
And a side of her resisted calling Thurman even now. She knew that finding this second residence could very well lead to a breakthrough for Eliot, and he needed his therapist there when it happened. She'd officially given up that role, but emotionally she hadn't. On a totally irrational level, she wanted to be the one with him at this important moment. She wanted to be the only one with him, as though this were a private thing between Eliot and her.
She picked up the phone and punched in Thurman's number. What she was thinking wasn't logical or fair...not to Eliot or to Thurman. Or to herself. Finding Edward's home might well bring about a personality switch...and she could be left alone with a man who wanted to kill her.
"Thurman, I have some very interesting news."
After she gave him the details and after he finished chastising her for talking to Eliot first and not him, he agreed to go with Eliot that afternoon to check out the address.
"I'm going, too," she told him.
"Like hell you are."
"He'll need a friend as well as a therapist." It was the closest she could come to explaining her obsession to be there.
"Leanne, you've got to let go. For your protection, Eliot asked me to take over, and you agreed. You admitted last night that you're in over your head. He's my patient now. I can handle it."
Eliot might be Thurman's patient, but there was a part of him that, in some way she couldn't explain, belonged to her. He needed her to be there...and she needed to be there. If nothing else, seeing the reality might jar her into accepting his illness.
"I'm going, too," she repeated stubbornly.
He sighed. "I'll bring Dixie. Just in case."
His acquiescence elated and frightened her. Leanne hated to admit it, but she was glad she'd have the protection of the big dog.
***
That afternoon Leanne sat tensely beside Thurman in his minivan with Dixie behind them as they drove to the address given for Edward's license tag. The drive took an uncomfortably short amount of time.
Eliot's car—she checked the tag to be sure—was already parked in the street in front of the small, older stone house. As they pulled up behind the blue Lexus, the figure still seated behind the wheel turned to look at them, and Leanne's heart clenched. Eliot or Edward?
"Ready?" Thurman asked, and she nodded, the movement a brazen lie. She wasn't even close to ready for this.
Nevertheless, she opened the door and forced herself to climb out, to stand on stiff legs.
The door to the Lexus opened, and the man stepped out from behind the wheel.
"Eliot?" Thurman greeted, the word a question, an echo of her own doubts. "How do you feel? Are you ready for this?"
Eliot smiled grimly, and Leanne felt her tension go down a notch. Even though the expression more closely resembled a grimace than a real smile, she sensed that it belonged to Eliot, not Edward.
"How do I feel?" he asked. "I feel strange but oddly at home. This is an awful lot like the house I rented when I first got out of college. Yeah, I guess I'm as ready as it's possible to be. Let's get it over with. Let's go
in."
He glanced at Leanne, then scowled and shook his head, as if in confirmation that this action they were about to take added an extra layer to the wall between them.
Thurman let Dixie out of the car, and the four of them started up the walk. Eliot strode boldly ahead, leading the way, meeting his problem head-on. It would have been impossible not to admire his courage. But, she reminded herself, courage and determination were only starting points. They were, in no way, guarantees of the final outcome of mental illness. Her father had been a strong man before his illness destroyed him.
Eliot reached the small porch first and knocked loudly on the tall wooden door.
"Edward could have given a phony address," he said. "Someone else may live here. Or he could have a roommate."
Leanne stepped onto the porch and stood beside him, waiting for a stranger to open the door and question their right to be there—but not really expecting it to happen.
Dixie paced restlessly, though she showed no definite signs of sensing another presence.
"I think I hear something," Leanne whispered.
"Are you sure?" Eliot knocked again.
"No," she admitted when the door remained closed. Just her own blood racing past her ears. "I guess I'm a little nervous. Hearing things. Edward's so distinct a personality, I halfway expected him to be inside the house."
"As opposed to inside my head," Eliot said grimly. "Okay, first I try all the keys on my key ring. None of them should work, but—well, we'll see."
The last key he tried turned the lock easily.
He didn't look up, didn't move. "It's the key to my condo," he said, his voice a monotone. Leanne could only imagine the distress his stoicism must be concealing.
Thurman stepped up between them, and Leanne jumped. She'd momentarily forgotten his presence. "The lock's new," he said, studying it. "He—you must have had a locksmith change it to the same as your condo key."
"How convenient," Eliot replied caustically, then, with a resolute movement, he pushed the door open.
Chapter 16
Eliot focused on opening the door as he ignored the soundless, angry voice that demanded he stay away from the house. It's not your house! It's mine. You have no right to be here.
Opening a door wasn't normally a particularly demanding task, but opening this door was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. The wooden rectangle seemed to weigh a thousand pounds and move in slow motion on frozen hinges.
As the house opened to him, for an instant his vision blurred. Get out of my home! Edward's presence surged through his mind so strongly, it was almost physical. Panic rushed over him. Was Edward going to take control? Eliot stood on the threshold of the house, focusing all his energy on blocking Edward, pushing him away, retaining control of his own mind and body.
Finally when he could no longer hear Edward's voice, he drew in a deep breath and dared to enter the house.
The furnishings were spare, subdued and traditional—similar to the way his condo was furnished.
No, he corrected himself. It was even more spare than his condo and had the stylized feel of the rental furniture he remembered from his college days—sofa, chair, coffee table, two end tables with two lamps. The room held no personal essence...no artwork on the walls or tables, no newspaper or beer can left lying carelessly about.
"Does anyone really live here?" Leanne whispered, her words and tone echoing his thoughts.
Maybe, somehow, this was all a senseless joke, a set-up of some kind. But even as the thought entered his mind, Eliot knew it was a desperate, futile hope.
"Over here," Thurman called, standing outside an open door along the short hallway. The older man rested one hand on Dixie's head, and Eliot could see the tenseness of her posture, the raised hackles on her back, her obvious disquiet. He lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his own neck, certain his hairs must be standing up the same as Dixie's.
Moving like a robot, he walked across the strange yet eerily familiar room, past the furniture placed there by unknown hands—his?—down the hall to where Thurman stood. Down the hall to Edward's bedroom.
This room had an occupied look.
A portable television rested on the top of a chest of drawers across the room from the bed. A nondescript beige blanket and white sheet lay in a tangle at the foot of the bed. Two pillows were bunched in the middle at the top. A charcoal streak Eliot recognized as familiar from his smoking days marred the bottom sheet. An overflowing ashtray sat on the laminated surface of the night stand beside a remote control. A telephone crouched next to the remote.
"What's going on with you?" Thurman asked from beside him. "How are you handling this?"
Eliot walked over and touched the bed, picked up a cigarette butt and laid it back down. He had obviously slept there. Smoked that cigarette. Watched that television. He shivered as he waited for something...a memory, recognition, a loss of control that signaled Edward was taking over.
"He didn't want me to come in," he said in answer to Thurman's question. "I feel like I'm snooping in a stranger's house. I feel like someone's going to come in at any minute and call the police, have us arrested for trespassing."
"You have a key to the door," Leanne reminded him softly. She crossed the room to stand beside him. "Your money pays for this place. You have the right to be here and to look around."
Logically, he knew she was right. But it didn't feel right.
As if feelings could be trusted.
He lifted the phone receiver and held it close to but not touching his ear, as if touching would constitute using it, would connect him to Edward.
The dial tone sounded unnaturally loud. Someone lived here, and he'd be willing to bet this phone responded to the private number Edward had given Kay.
He clenched the plastic as hard as he could, wanting to feel it crumple beneath his fingers, wanting to do something to end this nightmare. He had to bring Edward into the open and get him under control before Edward took control of him. Before Edward hurt Leanne.
He yanked open the drawer of a nightstand, determined to expose all the secrets of this place even as he felt he was invading a stranger's privacy.
Until he saw the contents of that drawer.
In disbelief he picked up the first picture in a stack. An Easter portrait of his parents and him. A picture he'd last seen in an album in the back of his closet. He threw it on the bed and yanked out more photographs from his past.
"He stole my pictures!" he exclaimed, suddenly feeling that his own privacy had been invaded.
But they weren't all his. He held up a handful of pictures of Leanne's house, of Leanne leaving her house and her office.
"The bastard's been spying on you."
And he was the bastard.
Leanne took the pictures from his nerveless fingers, and he heard her sharp intake of breath.
"We've always known it," she said, her tone subdued. "But it feels very strange to see the evidence, to know that someone was watching me when I wasn't aware of him."
Eliot restrained the desire to reach for her, touch her, comfort her, reassure her. That option wasn't open to him, he reminded himself as disgust wrapped around him like a gray, slimy shroud. He could scarcely comfort her when he'd been the one watching her, the one who'd upset her.
Her clear blue eyes searched his face, fear but no condemnation in their depths, and he knew that she could no more connect Edward with him than he could...irrational as they both knew that concept to be. His arms ached to hold her against him, bury himself in the feel of her, blot out the images on those photographs, this house, this entire nightmare.
Thurman reached into the drawer, startling Eliot. He'd momentarily forgotten the man was there.
"Who's this?" Thurman asked, holding up another glossy square.
Eliot's hand trembled as he took the picture of himself with his arm around a red-headed woman. "That's Kay Palmer," he whispered. "And me."
"No," Leanne disagreed faintly. "It's Edw
ard. I'd recognize that smile anywhere."
Thurman took the picture from him and studied it for a moment then handed it back. "Eliot," he said briskly, his tone all business, "tell me how you feel when you look at that picture."
"Sick." It took all Eliot's willpower not to tear the picture into shreds, to burn it and crush the ashes. That would accomplish nothing, he told himself, clenching his jaw. He couldn't afford to lose control and indulge in senseless acts. He had to focus his entire attention on getting through this, somehow resolving this horror.
He tossed the picture back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
"Does it bring back any memories?" Thurman pursued.
Eliot resented the question, but admitted its necessity. "None," he said, then turned away and strode across the room to open the chest of drawers, determined to expose whatever ghastly mementos crouched yet undiscovered in Edward's lair.
But the rest of the drawers yielded only socks and underwear, all fairly new, all in the styles and colors he wore but with cheaper labels.
The closet revealed the same...clothing similar to his, all new, all cheap. It was as though, he thought, Edward had just recently been born. He had only the essentials, all new, nothing with any past.
Except the photographs that lay scattered on the bed. The photographs—his past—that Edward had stolen from him. He snatched them up and stuck them into his pocket along with the pictures of Leanne. Took back the ones that belonged to him and took away the images of Leanne that Edward had no right to possess.
Damn it, Leanne and Thurman were wrong. He couldn't accept this creature as a part of himself. He wanted rid of Edward every bit as much as Edward wanted rid of him.
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