Listed: Volume V (7 page)

With
nothing left to find in her room, Paul went into the master bedroom. Ruth must
have been in earlier, since the bed was made up meticulously. She must have
collected the laundry too.

Since
there was no sign of the bracelet in the room, Paul wandered toward the kitchen
and then into the large laundry room. There, in the pile of clothes that were
to be dry-cleaned, he found the black dress Emily had worn the night before.

Paul
picked it up. It smelled like Emily—faintly ginger from the lotion she used—and
it smelled like sex.

She’d
been wearing it last night when they’d made love. Twice.

His
knees felt strangely weak, so he sat down on a bench, still breathing in the
scent of her dress and remembering how she’d looked, sounded, moved, acted,
felt last night.

In
spite of all of his need and excitement, he had felt safe with her last night.
He’d been able to let himself go, knowing that she would accept him—all of him.
Knowing that she wanted him. He had started to wonder if she might feel for him
a little of what he felt for her. As he’d held her in his arms just before he
went to sleep, he had…hoped.

He
should have known he was wrong. He should have known it was far too much to
expect. Her living was as much of a miracle as he could ever hope for.

Because,
no matter how soft and tender and hot her eyes had been in bed with him last
night, the feeling couldn’t have been real.

Not
if she’d left him this morning.

“Oh,
Mr. Marino,” a familiar voice gasped, breaking into his painful brooding. “What
is it? What’s the matter? Is it Mrs. Marino?”

Paul
blinked across the laundry room at Ruth, who stood at the entrance looking
shocked and distraught. He was hunched over on the bench, still holding the
dress near his face so he could smell Emily.

“Is
she…” Ruth’s voice broke. “She’s not…”

“No,”
Paul rasped, realizing what she thought.  He wasn’t in the condition to sort
through what was appropriate or not appropriate to discuss with her. He only
knew that Ruth cared about Emily, and that seemed to matter to him.  “Not that.
She…she left me.”

It
was physically painful to say the words out loud.

Ruth’s
expression changed. She looked almost angry. “No! No, sir. She never would’ve
done that.”

Paul
blinked. He straightened his spine and lowered the dress. “She did.”

Shaking
her head insistently, Ruth said, “I don’t believe it. She wouldn’t—not because
she wanted to anyway. She loves you too much.”

Paul
sucked in a breath and stared at the woman, astonished but desperately craving
to hear more. “What do you mean?”

Ruth
looked a little confused but deeply sympathetic. “I’m sorry, sir. I know it’s
not my place. I know maybe your marriage isn’t…isn’t a traditional one. But it’s
a good one for both of you, and it’s plain as anything that she’s loving you
more every day.”

Paul
couldn’t speak. He just stared at Ruth, wondering, hoping, praying she was
speaking the truth.

Ruth
sounded more confident as she continued, as if she could see Paul wanted to
hear what she had to say. “She never would’ve left because she wanted to. If
she left, she did it for
you
. Sir.” The last word was a hurried
afterthought.

Deep,
frantic hope nudged at the numbed edges of Paul’s mind. He started to see a
pattern here, a possibility—one that was actually convincing, one that felt
right. “For me?”

Ruth
made a small gesture with one hand. “Maybe she thought her leaving would make
things easier on you. Whatever it is, it’s not because she doesn’t want to be
with you. That I know for sure.”

He
took a shuddering breath and made himself think clearly. Maybe…

He
could think of one reason—one absolutely insane, ridiculous, nonsensical
reason—Emily might think it would be easier for him if she weren’t around.

Paul
stood up abruptly, compelled by a rising force of emotion that felt almost like
rage. Surely she wouldn’t have …she wouldn’t have…

Ruth
quickly got out of the way as he strode out of the laundry room, almost blind
with the whirl of ideas and feelings that had just hit him like a wave.

If
she’d left for him, then she was, for some reason, convinced she was going to die.
And he knew she would still want to complete her list—she’d taken it with her,
after all.

He
remembered the few remaining items on the list. One was climbing the volcano.
Two of them she wouldn’t have the resources to do on her own. One he preferred
not to think about and had been ignoring since he’d originally seen it.

But
there was one other item. One that made the final piece click into place.

He
pulled the phone out of his pocket and dialed Marks. When he answered, Paul
said, “She has a former step-sister named Stacie…” He wracked his mind, trying
to come up with the last name.

“Stacie
Laurel,” Marks replied, “Yes, sir.”

“She
might have—”

“Yes,
sir.” Marks’s interrupting Paul was a clear sign that the man was unusually
excited. “We just got the LUDs from the payphones and there was a call to Stacie
Laurel made from one of them at 10:43 this morning. We have her address. Would
you like to—”

“Get
me over there,” Paul bit out, striding down the hall toward the main door and
belatedly realizing he was still holding Emily’s dress.

He
dropped the dress on his way out the door.  The rings he kept clenched in his
fist.

***

Paul pounded on the
door of Stacie Laurel’s small apartment in a much less affluent part of Center
City.

It
felt oddly surreal. By this point of the day, he was worked up emotionally to
such an extent that the man—perspiring in the stuffy hallway and gripping two
women’s rings in his hand—must be someone else, someone other than Paul Marino.

When
no one answered immediately to his knock, he pounded on the door again and had
to force himself not to shout to be let in.

Eventually,
the door was swung open by an attractive, brown-haired, young woman with a
slightly strained expression. She just stared when she saw who he was.

For
just a moment, the stunned look on her face took Paul aback, and he wondered if
maybe his conclusion was wrong. Maybe Emily wasn’t here after all, and he’d
just tried to barge in on a random woman’s Sunday morning.

But
then he saw that Stacie was holding a damp washcloth. And he knew.

“Where
is she?” he demanded.

“What
are you doing here?” Stacie asked, sounding stressed and a little annoyed.

“I’m
here to find my wife. Let me in.” Now that he was so close to Emily, he was
having trouble controlling himself. He tried to walk into the apartment, even
without an invitation.

Stacie
blocked his way. “You can’t just barge in here,” she snapped. “This is
my
home.”

“And
she’s
my
wife.” Paul rubbed his damp forehead in frustration. “She’s
sick.  She needs me. You’re not doing her any favors by keeping me away from
her.”

When
Stacie just stood in place, Paul tried to shoulder past her, finally at the end
of his patience. Emily was close. He could feel it. She was sick. He had to get
to her.

But
he couldn’t get through. Someone else was in the apartment, someone Paul hadn’t
seen until now.

Chris
Mason had moved in front of Stacie, blocking the doorway with his broad frame
and putting a hand on Paul’s chest to hold him back by force. Chris and Paul
were probably pretty evenly matched.

In
outrage and disbelief, Paul practically growled. “Damn it, Chris. What are you
doing? You knew how worried I was about her, and you lied to me anyway.”

“I
didn’t know where she was when we talked,” Chris explained. “Stacie called me
afterwards because she was worried about her.”

“Why
the hell didn’t you call
me
?” Paul looked at Stacie over Chris’s
shoulder. “I’ve been searching all over for her. Let me in!” The thought of
Emily—sick, helpless, alone in Stacie’s bedroom—twisted his gut.

“Go
away, Paul,” Stacie told him, looking even more strained. “This is my
apartment. You don’t have the right to be here.”

Paul
almost choked. “I don’t have the right—Damn it, I’m her
husband
. Of
course, I have the right!”

Then
he heard a familiar sound, coming from the room beyond the partly opened door
across the living room. Emily was crying out in a muffled, anguished tone.

She
was crying out for
him
.

Paul
pushed against Chris’s restraining hand. “She’s asking for me,” he gritted out.
“Get out of the way!”

“She
doesn’t want to see you,” Stacie objected, looking pained and slightly
bewildered. “She said not to call you, no matter what.”

It
hurt. Even though he thought he understood why she'd said it, it hurt and
outraged him that Emily would have made such a point of keeping him away from her.
He made himself move past the pain, though. She needed him.

“I
don’t care what she said,” Paul began, almost shaking with frustration. He
wanted desperately to hit Chris, but he knew it would only make things worse.
“She—” When he heard Emily cry out again, he broke off abruptly. “
Someone
go help her, if you’re not going to let me!”

Stacie
gave him one last torn look and hurried back into the bedroom.

Paul
took a raspy breath. “Chris, she’s sick. She has a fever. She’s not thinking
clearly. She needs me.”

Chris
now looked as torn as Stacie had. He glanced over his shoulder at the opened
door of the bedroom where Emily was lying.

“I
love her, Chris,” Paul said, his voice thick as he tried again. He was going to
hit his panic button in about thirty more seconds. “I
love
her. Let me
in.”

Chris
stared at Paul for a tense moment. Then he dropped his arm and stepped out of
the doorway.

With
a sigh of relief, Paul strode across Stacie’s living room toward the bedroom.
Toward Emily.

When
he reached the room, he barely registered the colorful curtains and bedding or Stacie
leaning over the bed with a damp washcloth.

Paul
only saw Emily, small, pale, damp, tossing in discomfort. So incredibly sick.

“Oh,
baby,” he rasped, his heart aching with an almost unbearable pressure. He
hurried over to the bedside. “Baby, I’m here.”

She
whimpered and writhed restlessly, pushing down the sheet. Her hair was loose.
It was falling in her eyes, sticking to her neck and her perspiring face. Her
eyes were opened but she didn’t seem to see him. “Paul,” she mumbled, “Paul,
don’t. Please don’t.”

“I’m
here, Emily,” he said, reaching out to stroke her damp hair away from her face.
“It’s all right.”

She
didn’t look at him. Didn’t respond except with another pained whimper. Her eyes
were seeing something that just wasn’t there.

Stacie
was trying to cool her face down, but it wasn’t appearing to help very much.

“How
long has she been delirious like this?” he asked.

Stacie
gave a helpless shrug. “A couple of hours. She was sick from the beginning, but
she was conscious. She said she wouldn’t need a doctor—she just needed to get
through the fever. But when she got delirious, I was scared. I didn’t know what
to do, so I called Chris, who I knew was her friend. I’m sorry I didn’t call
you. I wanted to when she started calling out for you, but she told me not to.
I just didn’t know—”

Paul
brushed off her words. He simply didn’t have the emotional energy to remain
angry with Stacie. It was worrisome that Emily had become delirious so soon
into her fever. The delirium usually didn’t happen until the very end. While
she wasn’t as frantic and violent as she normally was, she was so completely
out of it that his heart started to pound in growing panic.

“Do
you have a bathtub?” he asked. At Stacie’s affirmation, he continued, “Can you
draw a bath for her? Lukewarm—not hot but not too cold. That usually helps. And
do you have a couple of those elastic band things to pull back her hair?”

Stacie
got up immediately, handing him the wet washcloth and looking relieved that she
wasn’t in the position of figuring out what to do anymore. She went to the
bathroom, and Paul adjusted himself on the edge of the bed, learning against
the headboard so he could reach Emily more easily. He wiped her hot face and
had to resist the temptation to pull her into his arms.

When
Stacie returned with the elastic bands, Paul pulled Emily’s hair into the two
low ponytails that helped to keep it out of her face. Then he pulled down the
sheet to expose Emily’s body.

She
was wearing shorts and a tank-top, and her small body was obviously wracked
with pain. Her limbs flailed occasionally, and she shook and shuddered as she
kept babbling out mostly incoherently thoughts. She said his name a lot though,
mostly in the context of trying to warn him off something, not to go somewhere.