Love Gone Mad (6 page)

“These came while you were at lunch,” Barbara says, pointing to a vase of gladioli. Tall spikes of red and white blossoms rise sequentially from long stems. Sword-shaped foliage protrudes from between the florets.

A wave of astonishment washes over Megan. A lovely gesture, but really reckless of Adrian. The human resources handbook is crystal clear about hospital romances: they’re a huge no-no. When it happens, it’s discreet, beneath the administrative radar. In the two weeks they’ve known each other, things have gotten pretty intense, but flowers to the unit? It seems unlike Adrian to do that.

A tag identifies the plant as a Lucky Star gladiola, and there’s a small envelope. She opens it. The script looks like a woman’s cursive writing.

It says, “To Megan, with love.”

But there’s no signature—very discreet.

Megan wonders: why today? Then it’s clear: it’s the first time Adrian hadn’t called early in the morning. No doubt, he rushed off to an emergency. So he sent flowers. Probably made a telephone call to a flower shop between surgeries, she thinks, smiling inwardly. The card is from George’s Flowers, near the hospital. A quick call and a credit card number was all it took to get them delivered.

D
uring the afternoon break, Megan’s cell phone rings. It’s when Adrian calls if he’s not stuck in some patient’s chest cavity. She checks the caller ID and sees it’s him. Glad she’s alone in the nurses’ lounge, she flips the cell open.

“Well, hello,” she says in a half whisper. “How’s your day going?”

“Hectic …”

“I knew that when you didn’t call this morning.”

“An emergency … The heart waits for no one.”

They talk for a while—about their schedules, dinner this coming Saturday night, and how he can’t wait to meet Marlee—but nothing about the flowers. She knows Adrian is short on artifice; gamesmanship isn’t in his playbook. He’s a straight shooter, no duplicity.

“I got the flowers,” she says.

“Flowers?”

“Didn’t you send gladiolas?”

“No …” He sounds bemused, but with a hint of astonishment.

A chill slithers down Megan’s spine. She suddenly recalls that years ago, after one of his rages, Conrad had stormed out of the house and disappeared for two days. There was no phone call, no note—nothing. Then flowers arrived—not gladioli, but roses—followed by a telephone call. He apologized, begged to come back, and said he’d been a total ass and would never scream at her again. And like a fool, she’d taken him back in.

“Don’t tell me I’ve got competition,” Adrian says half-seriously.

“Oh no,” she says with a dry throat. “It’s just that …” And she stops.

“What?”

“Flowers came to the ward … and …” She falters.

“What, Megan?”

“I assumed it was you.” Her voice sounds small in her ears.

“Well, you’re a beautiful woman … I regret it wasn’t.”

Megan’s hands go cold.

“It was probably some parents whose baby you people saved …”

“That’s funny. I didn’t think of that,” she says, but her throat closes. Her skin prickles.

To Megan, with love
.

Tingling starts in her fingertips, then around her mouth. “It’s weird,” she says, as her thoughts streak through a roster of hospital people. Then a vision of Conrad floats before her eyes. The night they met, the quick romance, his almost puerile sweetness—followed months later by his anger, and finally rage and violence … especially after Marlee was born. But Conrad’s in Colorado.

“What’s weird?” Adrian asks.

“There was no signature.”

“Oh, Megan, it’s some preemie’s parents. Didn’t we agree the family’s thank-you is the best part of the job?”

Blood whooshes in her ears.

Adrian says he’s deluged by surgeries and can’t talk, but he called for a quick hello.

“I miss you,” he says softly.

“Double that, here,” Megan whispers as the gladioli flash in her thoughts. A knot forms in her stomach and then tightens.

“I’ll call you tonight,” he says.

“You know, Adrian, things are happening very fast …”

“Yes. It feels like a new beginning.”

“I know,” she whispers, but something jumps in her chest.

“Tonight, then …”

A
t the nursing station, Megan dials the florist’s number.

“Hi, this is Megan Haggarty. I’m at Eastport General and received some gladioli from your shop.”

“Oh, yes,” says the woman. “Aren’t they lovely?”

“They certainly are. Did you pick them out, or did the customer?”

“He asked me to choose something beautiful.”

“Was it a telephone order?”

“He came into the shop.”

“Can you tell me who he was?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Didn’t he use a credit card?”

“No. He paid in cash.”

Paid in cash … rarely done in this plastic world—done usually when you want to hide your identity
.

“What’d he look like?”

“What did he look like?” the woman asks; a smile seeps through her voice.

She thinks I’m dying to learn who my secret admirer is
.

“I’d say he was nice-looking …”

Megan thinks,
Nice-looking …
so nondescript—bland—meaning he didn’t look like Quasimodo or Godzilla. “Can you tell me more?” This woman is trying to play out some floral fairy tale. “Was he about six three?”

“He was on the tall side.”

“Athletic-looking?”

“I don’t really know …”

Megan switches the phone to her other ear. She recalls Adrian telling her about that insane encounter at King’s Corner a couple of weeks ago.
Adrian, what kind of name is that?
How it could have come to blows but the bartender kicked the man out. Then the shotgun blast from a pickup. And now flowers, she thinks, trying to quell a tide of dread rising steadily within her.

“Tell me,” Megan says, “was he powerful-looking, midthirties, maybe two hundred twenty or thirty pounds, with a thick neck and short hair?”

“He could’ve been, but I’m not very good at estimating a man’s age and weight.”

“Did he have deep-set, bluish-gray eyes? Almost like ice?”

Eyes that could make your blood run cold
.

“No, I’d have noticed
that
.”

“Was his hair blondish in color?”

“No. Actually, it was dark brown and combed back, kinda slick-looking. And to tell you the truth,” she adds, “he had dandruff on his shoulders.”

Slicked-back? Dandruff? Never. Not Conrad
.

Megan feels her heart slow.

She runs through a mental cache of men at the hospital—guys with whom she’d had casual conversations—in an elevator, in the cafeteria, in the parking garage, or on the ward. Nobody fits the description. She draws a complete blank. She wonders if Conrad’s back in Connecticut. Maybe he got someone to go into the shop.

To Megan, with love
.

She thanks the florist and snaps her cell phone shut. A film of sweat forms over her upper lip.

There’ve been a few telephone hang-ups lately, but that happens all the time. Have I noticed anyone following me? Have I seen a black pickup? Is Conrad even alive? It’s been three years since I last saw him. God, what’s going on?

She closes her eyes and thinks—despite her sense of caution and sound judgment—maybe it’s just
one of those things, one of those crazy, inexplicable occurrences that happens to everyone
. She enters the lounge and plops down on the sofa.

Ann Johnson comes in and sits next to her. Ann’s a thin, chain-smoking, twice-divorced nurse who’s been Megan’s confidant for two years. At thirty-five, Ann’s been around plenty of blocks—she’s a somewhat world-weary, hard-bitten but empathic friend—and she’s seen it all. “You look totally washed out, honey pie,” Ann says in her South Florida accent. “What’s goin’ on?”

Megan tells her.

“You worried it could be Conrad?” Ann asks, popping a Marlboro Light into her mouth and opening a window. Ann usually sneaks a smoke in the lounge.

“I don’t know.”

“Have you heard from him?” Contrails of smoke pour from Ann’s nostrils.

“Ann, it’s like he disappeared from the face of the earth.”

“Honey, only dead people do that,” says Ann, the cigarette wagging between her lips. “Think he’s still in Colorado?”

“As far as I know, he is.” Megan feels her chin quivering. “I left New Haven two years ago … and I thought I was out of sight …”

“Megan, dear, you’re
never
out of sight. Unless you’re in the Witness Protection Program, you’re findable.”

“I haven’t heard from him in … forever.”

“You still have that restraining order?”

“It expired a long time ago.”

“I’d think about getting another one,” Ann says; she gets up and begins pacing. “You know, Megan, when I left Donnie—after he beat the crap outta me for the tenth time—I got the hell outta Florida. I hired a no-name mover—the truck had no logo on it—and I had them move my furniture to a warehouse, where it stayed for a few weeks.

“I left for Connecticut by car, in the middle of the night. I didn’t tell a soul where I was goin’—left no forwarding address. Canceled all my credit cards and just got the hell outta town. I had the mover send my stuff up separately.

“I began livin’ a cash-only existence. Had my name changed, got licensed under my new name, didn’t even open a
charge
account. The first year here, I paid for everythin’ with money orders or cash.

“But, sweet pea, it didn’t matter … Donnie found me. My first mistake was comin’ here—’cause your ex knows you’re always goin’ to your family. Donnie knew I’d move near my brother, knew it like the back of his hand. He started callin’ me, makin’ threats … like he was gonna show me some
tough love
. I got an order of protection.”

“Ann, you’re scaring the hell out of me.”

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing, honey, because Donnie showed up here, and it was a good thing my brother was there. Steve beat the crap outta him and called the cops. Donnie did ninety days in lockup and I haven’t heard from him since, the sadistic son of a bitch.”

Megan tries to control the trembling in her chest.

“Look, Megan, Marlee makes you traceable. And you have the same name as before. You can bet Conrad knows you live near Erin, Bob, and the kids. But it wouldn’t matter if you moved to Alaska; he’d find you.”

“Ann, I’m sure he’s hanging out with some gun-toting crowd, chugging Coors, doing his Rocky Mountain thing.”

“You know what, honey … you’d best hire a private detective to find out. It’d set your mind at ease.”

“I’ll think about that, Ann. But if it
is
him, why now …?”

“No idea, sweetie. But you just got flowers, even if it’s from a guy who needs some Head & Shoulders.
To Megan, with love
? Unsigned? Gimme a break, hon; it’s him.”

Megan feels her arms go taut; her fingers cramp.

“Sweet pea, it’s nighttime and you’re treadin’ water in the ocean. And the water moves … a sudden surge. Maybe it’s a sea swell, but maybe somethin’s circling. Even if it’s just the water, you know the shark is out there …”

M
egan sits at the nursing station, swivels her chair, and turns to the computer. She logs in and clicks onto her e-mail in-box.

There’s a high-pitched
ding
. She has mail. She’s certain it’s going to be one of the usual mass notices, an e-mail blast from the administration—double-check all medications before dispensing; use proper disposal techniques for medical waste; make certain you know the location of all fire exits—or a memo about the Accreditation Committee’s tour, any of a dozen weekly reminders sent to staff personnel.

She clicks on the envelope icon.

From: “Private.”

Subject: FLOWERS

Her heart slams in her chest.

Message: YOU KNOW WHO SENT THEM.

A gnawing sensation forms deep in her belly, as though a rat lives inside her. It crawls around and tears at her guts. Then a glacial chill slithers up her spine even as the nursing station feels superheated, as though the thermostat’s set at eighty-five degrees.

Megan’s nostrils fill with the cloying fragrance of Lucky Star gladioli. Her heart skips a beat as she reaches for the telephone.

“S
o, Megan, I have the pleasure of fixing another computer problem for you,” says Brian McCoy, the redheaded hospital IT expert who usually makes rounds every week or two. Brian once asked her out on a date, but she’d demurred. Since then, he’s been a bit flirtatious, but appropriate.

She tells him about the flowers and the e-mail as a taut feeling eddies through her.

A moment later, he’s at the message. “It’s not from our internal network,” he says. “It doesn’t have our domain tag. It could come from anyplace with access to the Web.”

“But the flowers were paid for in
cash
… at a shop down the street.”

“The e-mail’s been sent by an anonymous proxy through a series of random nodes, and it’s very hard to trace back.”

My God … all this creepy tech talk is just too much. We live in such a crazy world
.

“Anything else unusual going on, Megan?”

“Last night I had two hang-ups at home and a few last week.”

“Megan …” Brian’s voice turns low-pitched. “Have you had any … let’s say … situations lately … anyone weird?”

A voltage-filled sensation charges through her.

You know who sent them
.

Brian asks if she uses any social media: Facebook, Myspace, Twitter, and a few others.

“Never …”

Brian stands. “Well, I’ll change your hospital e-mail address.”

“So, Brian, what’s your take on this?”

“I don’t want to worry you, but cyber stalking’s a big thing these days.”

As he heads toward the elevator, another
ding
comes from the computer. Megan looks up at the in-box.

There’s one new message.

Blank, except for the subject line: YOU
DO
KNOW.

A shiver crawls up Megan’s spine.

E
ntering the apartment, Adrian hears a child’s voice. Megan smiles, sets her hand on his arm, and turns to Marlee. The child wears a melon-colored dress with a pink cardigan sweater, red leggings, and pink sneakers. Her rosy face is ringed by reddish-blond curls. Her eyes—every bit as striking as Megan’s—are a combination of cornflower blue with glittering green flecks in the irises. She’s a beautiful kid who looks up at Adrian with an expectant smile.