Love Gone Mad (10 page)

He came home early—at nine o’clock—barged in the door and staggered around the apartment, reeking of alcohol. Marlee was asleep.

“Is there anything to eat in this fuckin’ place?” he snarled, and then slammed the refrigerator door so hard, the appliance rocked.

“How can you ask me that?” she shot back. “You’re never home. We’re not living like a married couple.”

“Why don’t you
tell
me how we’re living, huh? When you work every day and spend the rest of your life at your goddamned sister’s?”

“Conrad, we’re there because you’re never home. You’re out drinking and—”

“Well, I’m home
tonight
. And the fuckin’ refrigerator’s
empty
.”

He stomped into the living room and the walls seemed to shake. “And this work of yours—nursing newborns—is getting in the way.”

“Getting in the way of
what
? I’m home by five fifteen, but you’re not here.”

“Goddammit! I want you
home
.” His face was blotted with rage.

“I
am
home. But you’re out. You drink too much and you’re angry all the time. And you don’t care about Marlee—”

“And just what the fuck
do
you do at that hospital?”

He kicked over a chair; a huge purple vein on his sweat-soaked forehead pulsed. “You keep those little bastards alive.” He shouted, moving closer, looming over her. “Tell me this … tell me this
one
goddamned thing.” His bloodshot eyes looked crazed. His neck veins bulged like thick ropes.

“Tell you
what
, Conrad?”

“Who’re you fuckin’ at the hospital?”

He clutched her arm and clamped down on it tightly.

She tried pulling away, but his grip was viselike. She felt her arm going numb.

“Conrad, you’re hurting me.”

“I want the
truth
.”

His eyes were wild-looking, bloodshot, and saw nothing. His face was crimson. Gobs of saliva formed on his lips. He shook her so violently, she thought her neck would snap.

“Please, Conrad …”

“Who’re you fuckin’?”

“Conrad.
Stop
it.” The room swayed, then began spinning.

“You’d better tell me, you slut,” he shouted, pulling her closer. Her arms were pinned to her sides, losing feeling.

“You’re
crazy
. You’re—”

His palm cracked across her cheek. She toppled; but he held her up. He shook her again; her body shuddered like a bobble-head doll.

He flung her onto the sofa.

“Tell me, you
whore
.” His fist hovered. One hand clutched her neck, squeezing.

Choking, desperate, her eyes watered. Dimness, breath going, crushing pressure on her chest, the room spinning, she was fading.

She twisted, turned away from him, and gasped.

He got up and raged through the apartment.

She lay on the sofa, shaking, with her eyes closed.

Suddenly, she heard frantic squealing. She leapt to her feet and stumbled toward Marlee’s cries.

What she saw nearly made her heart stop.

Conrad held Marlee in his left arm. His face was bloated with rage; Marlee screamed.

“Tell me whose baby this is. Whose kid is this?”

Marlee shrieked, reaching for Megan.

Still holding her, Conrad rushed into the kitchen. Dishes crashed to the floor.

Megan tottered after him. Her legs shook and felt weak. Trembling coursed through her body.

A carving knife was poised at Marlee’s neck. “Who’s this bastard’s father?”

Megan’s body jangled. “Conrad, she’s yours … she’s
our
child.” She sputtered a stream of words in a weak voice and whispered, “Conrad, please don’t hurt her.”

“Tell me or I’ll slit this little bastard’s throat.”

“Please … Conrad … please … let her go …”

A dark current of fear ran through Megan. “Please, Conrad … give Marlee to me. I’ll tell you whatever you want.” Her voice rasped, frantic, pleading. Shaking, she inched closer on legs of water. “Conrad, please, just give her to me.”

She stepped closer, her breath ragged. Her hands shook violently.

His eyes were ruthlessly bloodshot, crazed. “Tell me
now
. Whose kid is this? Who’s the father?”

“Conrad! What are you talking—”

“Because it isn’t mine.”

“She’s
yours
, Conrad. She’s our
baby
,” Megan cried, certain he was out of his mind. She inched closer, her body shuddering.

The knife rose.

“Fuckin’ whore—tell me, whose is she?”

Megan’s heart jumped. Her stomach dropped. She felt sick.

Another inch closer, then another, then she stopped, arms out, begging with her eyes, tears snaking down her cheeks. Her skin felt raw, like it was shredding.

Oh, just a little closer … a few inches … if I can get close enough …

Suddenly, the telephone rang.

“Who’s that?” he roared. “Is it your
boyfriend
?”

“No, Conrad. It’s Erin.”

“Oh yeah? We’ll see,” he said, snatching the telephone.

Megan lunged at him; he fell backward.

She seized Marlee and bolted away. She grabbed her car keys, threw open the apartment door, dashed down the hallway, stumbled, and kept going, rushing wildly.

Conrad stormed into the foyer, crashed drunkenly into furniture, fell down, got up, and then came after her.

Doors opened; neighbors’ heads popped out; the hallway flew by. Megan scrambled down three flights with Marlee shrieking in her arms.

Conrad thundered down the stairwell. She heard him closing in—the second floor, then the first. She could hear his rage-filled, drunken grunting. Then he tumbled over, bounced heavily on the stairway, headfirst, rolled, roared, and cursed; then came more thumping and shouting as he got to his feet, fell again, got up, and came after her.

At the car, Megan fumbled with the keys, hands trembling, knees quaking, and then—after groping and foraging—she was behind the wheel; the ignition whirred, as the engine coughed and finally turned over. She threw the car into reverse and backed away from him as he bounded toward her.

Her breath left her as he came closer. She was frantic, in a frenzy of fear.

Limping, Conrad bounded closer.

She turned the wheel, and the car swerved.

The headlight beams shone on him and swung away. His hand slammed the rear fender—a deep and jarring thump. She gunned the gas pedal and burned rubber; the car fishtailed and then sped away. She held the wheel with one hand and clutched Marlee with the other.

On the main avenue, she glanced into the rearview mirror. Was his pickup behind them? Not yet. No traffic. Thoughts scuttled in a frantic mind rush; the streets flashed by, lamplights, headlights, signs, crosswalks, all in a nighttime blur.

Another glance in the mirror: nothing. Nobody was behind her. She passed a red light, the tires shrieked and then hammered on the road as she sped down Chapel Street.

The engine howled as she gunned the gas pedal and stomped it to the floor. She held Marlee. No time for the baby seat—just time to get away, to Erin’s place or the police. But what would they do? Arrest him—a holding cell, maybe till tomorrow. Then what?

She’d go to a safe place, to people she loved and who loved her because they were family, the only thing that could ever matter in this crazy world. It was all she had; it was everything.

Yes, family
. Not Conrad’s madness.

“S
o I lived with Erin and Bob,” Megan says. “And I got a restraining order. Conrad wasn’t allowed near us. Then I filed for divorce.”

Looking pale, her voice watery and weak, Megan shudders on the sofa. Adrian feels a twinge of sadness—raw, penetrating sorrow—reaches for her hand and caresses it.

“Then flowers began to arrive … along with notes.”

“Flowers?” Adrian says.

“Yes.”

“Like the gladioli that came to the hospital?”

“Yes.” Megan swallows and then takes a deep breath. “The flowers I thought you sent that day.”

“What happened then?”

“Erin wanted me to call the police, but I ignored Conrad, didn’t want to fan the flames. He began sending notes saying he loved me and wanted me back. He never even mentioned Marlee, and I was amazed at the irony of it. For Conrad and me, learning who our real parents were was the burning issue of our childhoods. It was our personal dragon. And now my husband was accusing me of having a bastard child. It was crazy. As Erin put it …
His own flesh and blood and he thinks it’s someone else’s. How crazy is that?

“There were telephone hang-ups. But they tapered off after a while. I guess he just gave up. Then I heard he left for Colorado. Bob hired an investigator, and we learned that Conrad relocated out West.”

Megan’s eyes are red-rimmed, puffy-looking.

“For a while, I had the strangest feeling he was following me, even though he was gone. Whenever I saw a black pickup, my heart would stop.”

“A black pickup?”

“Yes, like the one that ran us off the road, Adrian.”

“I’m getting the picture,” Adrian whispers as the edges of the room darken.

“I had this uncanny sense he was around—lurking—because I realized he’d always know where to find me. You can’t just disappear into thin air. With a man like Conrad, you can never feel safe … ever.”

“You mentioned his eyes.”

“Yes.”

“Blue-gray … they seemed ghostly …” he says.

“Yes.”

“That guy at King’s Corner … those were the kind of eyes he had.”

“Oh, my God.” Megan gasps and blanches.

“And, Megan, that night we got run off the Post Road …”

“I know. I think it was Conrad.”

A coppery taste forms on Adrian’s tongue.

“He’s back. I’m sure he is,” she whispers.

Adrian shivers; his chest feels like it’s filled with ice.

“I thought I’d left it all behind. Bob and Erin had just had Ellie, and their place in New Haven was too small, so they moved here. I rented this place to be near them and got the job at Eastport General.”

Megan looks drained, pallid. “Now there’ve been telephone calls, the flowers, those e-mails, and the break-in at your place.”

That coppery taste on Adrian’s tongue turns to acid—hot, bilious.

“Didn’t you say that Chief Mulvaney had the forensic people in Hartford examine that bird and they found that it was filled with buckshot?” Megan says.

“Yes, twenty-gauge shot.”

“That’s the kind of shotgun Conrad had. The New Haven police confiscated it when I got the restraining order.”

“Is it still in effect?”

“No. It expired.”

“Well, my love, I know someone who can find out if Conrad Wilson’s here.”

“What if he
is
?”

“Let’s take it one step at a time.”

“And, Adrian, there’s something else I need to tell you about Conrad and me. It’s important, and …” She falls silent, stares down, and covers her mouth. And she says, “My God, I’m so scared.”

“What is it, Megan?”

“I just can’t …” Her voice trails off. Her shoulders shudder and her hands go to her mouth. “I feel so terrible … and if I tell you this, I worry you’ll think less of me. I worry you’ll never want to see me again.” Tears drip from the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, Megan, how could you even think that? There’s nothing that could make me feel that way … nothing.”

“There’s something else I need to tell you about Conrad and me.”

“What is it?”

“Well,” she whispers, “in his own crazy way, Conrad’s right. But it isn’t … it isn’t anything he could ever know, because it’s a secret. The truth is,” she says as tears roll from her eyes. “The truth is, Marlee’s … Marlee’s
not
his. But, Adrian, it’s not what you think.”

“H
ow’s my favorite heart surgeon?” asks Patrick Mulvaney, the Eastport chief of police.

Adrian always finds himself smiling when he and Pat talk. He loves the big guy’s laugh, a genuine marker of pleasure in a man who’d been near death and now laps up every possible delight life offers.

“I’m fine, Pat. How’re you doing?”

“Can’t complain, thanks to you and your chest-crackin’ buddies. Ticker’s goin’ like a damned Swiss clock, and I haven’t had a chest pain since the bypass. I’m back to playin’ golf now, walking the full eighteen. And I keep it light on the Nineteenth hole. No more corned beef and cabbage, either, and only one measly beer a day. Can ya believe it … an Irishman drinkin’ only one shitty beer a day? That’s the downside; the upside’s I get to live my life, thanks to you.”

Adrian reminds himself that Pat always focuses on the absurdity of life—even when trouble rears its ugly head. And trouble—big or small—is Patty’s business.

“How’s Marge?” Adrian asks.

“She wants your ass over here for dinner real soon;
that’s
how she is.”

“It’s a date, Patty. Just let me know when.”

“I know I’ve said this before Adrian, but I wish I had a daughter for you.”

Adrian smiles, knowing Pat Mulvaney’s quite the father figure. It’s always been part of the mix in his feelings about Pat. After all, the infamous left anterior descending coronary artery—known in the heart trade as
the widow maker
—left Adrian fatherless. Whenever he’s inside a patient’s chest, a thought of Dad flashes in his mind; and now he thinks of Patty, too. It’s a momentary thing, but it’s always there. And that artery, along with others, was as clogged as an old rusty pipe when Adrian opened Pat up.

“You seein’ anyone special these days?”

“You’ll be happy to hear, Pat, I’m seeing a beautiful Irish girl.”

“An Irish girl? Really?”

“Megan. Megan Haggarty …”

“A
lovely
name. You’ll bring her for dinner. Marge and I insist.”

“Sure thing, Pat.”

“Sorry I don’t have any more on that pickup, Adrian. It’s a dead end. And that bird … I had the thing examined by the forensic unit in Hartford. There’s nothin’ more … just the buckshot.”

“That’s not what I’m calling about,” Adrian says as dread slithers through him and chills his flesh. He feels goose bumps on his forearms, and the back of his neck tingles.

Adrian … what kind of name is that? I’ll be back …