In Her Shadow (17 page)

“Tell me about it. What kind of car?”

“Porsche 911, I think. The driver was not happy. He said something rude and skidded off.”

Claire exhales, relieved. Based on Zola’s skills, the man Hank encountered was probably some psychopath or bully. But he wasn’t the man in the SUV, the man she feared was watching her outside the digestive center and Dr. Marsha’s office.

A nurse arrives with a wheelchair to cart Claire out of the hospital.

“I can walk,” Claire says.

“Procedure,” the nurse replies. “Come on, take the free ride.”

The nurse pushes Claire out while Hank pulls his car to the curbside. The outside air feels brisk but refreshing, the fluffy snowflakes appeasing. Hank helps her into the passenger seat. As he drives, she watches the flakes hit the windshield then dissipate, her thoughts fixated on Elle.

Hank glances at her. “You and Elle have a fight or something?”

“No, why?”

“Just asking. Thought maybe that’s why you asked.”

“I’ve been worried about her, but I don’t really have a good reason. I had this nightmare where she—” She shakes her head, disinterested in reliving the horror. “It doesn’t matter. Maybe I just miss her more when things get tough.”

As he pulls up to her apartment, she grasps the door handle and begins opening it before he shifts into park. She needs to get out...to get some air.

“Thanks again for everything,” she says then plants a kiss on his lips. “I owe you big time.”

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Positive.” She kisses him again then hurries out of the car.

Clips from last night’s dream resurface as she walks—Elle, the darkness, the blood. She pauses and closes her eyes, visualizes her previous dream—the man carrying her, pinning her down, blood splashing around her. Why would she have another variation of the same nightmare? The dark mood was identical. And why was Elle in this one?

Noting a sick feeling in her stomach, she opens her eyes and walks faster. She unlocks her apartment door, hoping that Dr. Marsha knows more about dream psychology than she does.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

For the second night in a row she wakes to the heft of his body hovering over her and his smell—a mixture of husky cologne and something rotten—infiltrating her nose. This isn’t supposed to happen now. It’s the one part of being strapped down she deemed a perk: until last night, he hasn’t fondled her body or, worse, entered her.

She doesn’t fight it. What would be the point? Even if she could escape his grasp or reach below for the knife, she wouldn’t—not now. He may be her only pathway to the girl in the photographs. She struggles to glance over his right shoulder. The other bed stands there, still empty.

Where are you? She thinks. What has he done to you?
Perhaps nothing. Perhaps she still has time.

As he continues, she blocks the grunting sounds, his heft, smell and perspiration out of her mind.
You might have my body but you do not have me.
Instead, she focuses on the woman in the pictures, thrusting all of her energy, her thoughts, her love, toward her. Is it possible to love a stranger?

It must be; she already does. Or maybe she loves the idea of another—any other. No one as evil or dark as him. She recalls the feeling of liberation, releasing the straps, the sensation of her feet touching the floor. Free... She almost doesn’t care what’s happening to her now. Even her fatness seems less important. Of course she wishes she were as thin as the woman he’s been following, but that will come in time.

At least her increasing body weight, the result of twelve shakes of which she drank every drop, placed thicker barriers between her flesh and his. She imagines his body grinding against a giant fat globule as she stays safely hidden inside. Her tiny body floating around inside a force field of fatness:
You can’t catch me—I’m free!

Her added physical and emotional strength carry her as he prepares to erupt. Rather than close her eyes, detaching from him and her body as she’s learned to do, she keeps her eyes peeled, watching. She observes his twisting, crinkling face, veins bulging in his forehead like furious worms. The heat inside of her feels foreign and uncomfortable, something vibrating, desperate to blast out of her. Then she realizes, it has a name:

ANGER. For all he’s done, all he’s taken, all he plans to take.

Perhaps she’s been saving all of her anger until now. Soon she will put it to use.

“Dawn!”
he exclaims before his body deflates.

He rolls off of her, leaving her soaked in his salty sweat, the air thick with the pungent smell of semen.

Dawn...
She recognizes the name. She’s not only heard it from him before, but seen it. With closed eyes, she recalls the photographs. Glancing around the room, from the empty bed to the man who has become a monster, who has become her target, she knows exactly what to accomplish next. If Dawn is his obsession, Dawn she will become.

Chapter Forty

Inside her apartment, Claire finds Zola asleep on the sofa. She sits next to the dog and relishes her drowsy greeting—tail waggling, Zola rolls onto her back so Claire can rub her belly. “That’s my girl.”

For a short time things feel peaceful, and her night at the hospital a distant memory. But, she has work to do. She dials Dr. Marsha’s office, hoping for another serendipitous opening.

“Minneapolis Psychological Services, may I help you?” An operator answers.

“I was hoping to reach Dr. Marsha Swenson. Is this her office?”

“This is an answering service. We’re taking her calls. Is this an urgent matter?”

“No. I just wanted to schedule an appointment.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Are you a regular patient of hers?”

“Not regular, though I saw her once recently.”

“I see. Why don’t you give me your name and phone number and someone will contact you shortly.”

“Actually, could you just transfer me to her voicemail?”

“I’m afraid not. If you’ll kindly give me your contact information...”

She’ll have to complain to Dr. Marsha about her unhelpful answering service. She gives the operator her name and number. A beat after she’s hung up, her cell phone rings from the counter—
Dr. Marsha?
Even better—Elle.

“Where have you been?” Claire asks, skipping straight past ‘hello.’

“Didn’t I tell you? I booked that job in Paris. My connection’s pretty shitty here. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner.”

“It’s okay. Congrats on the booking.”

“Thanks! My first fragrance campaign so sort of a big deal. How are you? How’s everything?” Elle asks, her voice slightly louder than the chatter and music in the background.

“They’re...interesting.” From the peppy tone of Elle’s voice and her surroundings, Claire senses that she has little interest in a deep conversation, much less time for one.

“That’s great,” Elle says, as though she didn’t hear Claire properly—or listen. “You sounded frantic in your message. You said you dreamed about me? Let me guess... Was I drowning in perfume?”

Claire’s concerns suddenly feel meritless. “No... It was just—you were in trouble and I couldn’t get to you.”

“Ah. Well no worries, okay? I’m fine, trust me. I wish you could see this place, Claire.
C’est bon
! Or something like that. Whatever’s French for un-fucking believable. The whole city smells like pastries exploded and there are hot French guys everywhere. Hey, maybe you’re psychic and knew I’d jumped continents.”

She pauses, as though waiting for Claire’s jovial response. “Are you okay? You sound a little down.”

“I’m...fine. Look, you sound busy. We can catch up later.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Elle seems safe. That’s the important thing. She’ll probably chew Claire out later for not telling her about Grandpa’s stroke. But right now, she’s not in the mood.

“Okay,” Elle says. “Love you, miss you. Kiss kiss!”

“You too. Enjoy Paree.”

 Claire hangs up, disappointed. Not that she wished strain or danger for Elle; she’d simply hoped to talk to her best friend, to tell her everything and feel less alone. Instead, Elle seems like a stranger leading a glamorous existence in a whole different world. Maybe last night’s dream was simply a cry for attention and affection from Elle—a reason to reach out to her. Whatever the cause, she feels more detached from her best friend than ever.

“Well, Zola,” she says, looking back at her dog’s concern-filled eyes. “Guess it’s up to you and me now. Think we can figure things out on our own?”

She skims her mother’s therapy file again. Having practically memorized it, she feels almost as clueless as she did upon first read.

She thinks back to where she left off in her office, just before she passed out. Maybe she’s making too big of a deal out of her mother’s plans to run away and not marry Dad. Teens’ emotions are turbulent and confusing
without
motherhood. And writing about such plans in her diary didn’t mean she would have acted on them. Diaries are for private thoughts. Unless...

Had Mom
wanted
Gramps to read it? If that was the case, the tactic probably worked. She started therapy with Dr. Marsha, then married Claire’s dad and spent the rest of her days in Hastings. Happily? She certainly seemed it.

Zola watches as Claire paces the living room, talking out loud. “I’m missing something. I can
feel
it.” It’s on the tip of her brain... She continues pacing, scanning her mental Rolodex of details she’s learned.

The dog makes a grumbling sound, seeming perturbed.

“What’s that for, Miss Grumpy?” Claire stops walking. “Wait... Zola, you’re brilliant. Mom
seemed
happy...”

She considers a new possibility, wondering how she could have missed it.

Chapter Forty-One

He walks the hospital corridors suited in scrubs, feeling as calm as a well-fed tiger. While other doctors search for answers, make best-guess diagnoses, he knows his mission with certainty. There’s one sure way to bring Claire to the Hastings house. It starts and ends in Gil Adolfsson’s hospital room, hopefully all before lunch.

“Evening, doctor,” a nurse greets him.

He nods, smiles, keeps walking.

He passes a doctor lecturing a group of med students.
The professor thinks he’s powerful;
he can see it, almost smell it. He knows, because he’s been him—the prestigious doctor, guiding young, formable minds. Those experiences don’t come close to his current venture. Walking through the hospital, undetected, holding Gil’s life in his hands—
this
is true power.

 
He feels excited, yet calm, much like falling in love with his angel. The giddiness of infatuation; calm from knowing he’d found the right one. Lust is cheap. But love...it inspires remarkable feats. Like this one.

He waits for a window between nurse rotations then approaches Gil’s door. Pausing outside, he can almost hear Dawn’s voice, guiding him:

“This is what I want. It’s the only way. You were right all along. I should’ve listened to you.”

It’s all right darling. It isn’t her fault, but Gil’s. He closes his eyes, inhales a confident breath, grasps the door handle. But a woman appears in the window—CC, approaching the door.

It’s been a long time, but she knows him, too well.

He slips away and heads to the nurse station.

“Can I help you?” A plump nurse in her mid-thirties barely looks up at him.

“Yes, actually.” Per usual, his voice draws the woman’s attention. “I was wondering if you might do me a favor.”

“Certainly, doctor.”

He limits his snarky smile to his eyes.“ Gil Adolfsson’s wife in 117 could stand to stretch her legs. Would you mind tending to her? I tried, but I’m afraid she needs a...softer touch.” He places his hand on the nurse’s.

“Of course. I just have a few things I need to—”

“Now would be excellent.”

“All righty, I’m on it.” The nurse stands and picks up the station phone. “Gladys, it’s Lisa. Could you come cover the station for a few? Dr...” She looks at him.

“Rice.”

“Dr. Rice requested my assistance.” She hangs up. “Sorry I had to ask. I’m new.”

“Not a problem.” His day is looking better and better.

Once he spots the nurse escorting CC down the hall, he makes his move.

He walks quickly to Gil’s room and steps inside. The site of his old pal flat on his back, breathing tubes strewn from his nose and IV tubes from his arms, fills him with pleasure. It’s like...experiencing Beethoven’s symphony live, rather than through stereo speakers.

He’s dreamed so many times of Gil’s downfall, typically with himself as the instigator. And here we are. Dreams do come true.

He slips a hand into his pocket, grasps the syringe, enough potassium to stop several hearts. But first, he must savor the moment—the prelude before he rushes straight to the glorious finale. And like a symphony, he feels rhythmic and rich. His subtle brilliance is soon to turn grandiose.

He sits beside the bed and leans into Gil’s ear. “Have you missed me?

Gil’s eyes snap open. They shine with terror.

“Ah, what’s the matter? I see we’re not feeling so hot these days. Well I just came by to say hello, tell you that Claire is as stunning as I imagined...close up.”

 
Gil grimaces, stiffens. The heart monitor beeps wildly then flatlines; he’s gone.

 
A doctor rushes into the room like a wannabe war hero to a fallen solder, unaware that the victim can’t be helped. The doc never even looks at “Dr. Rice” or considers him the catalyst, the recordable “cause of death.” To the ignorant physician, he is merely another professional in the room, another body in the same old scrubs, a member of the same lugubrious team. And nowhere near as important as the cardiac catastrophe on the table.