The Messenger: A Novel (3 page)

“It worked out well for everyone, although I wish Derek could have been with us longer.”

“Me, too. I miss him.”

They fell silent.

Tyler began to feel a familiar combination of weariness and warmth—an unpleasant warmth, the sign of the beginning of the fever. He hadn’t escaped it after all. He would have to excuse himself soon, but he wished he could somehow smooth things over with Amanda, if for no other reason than the fact that they would live next door to each other for the next few years.

Ron yawned. “Sorry, I think I’m headed down for the count again. Thanks for coming by, you two. Amanda, go home and get some sleep, okay?”

She frowned. “I don’t mind staying—”

“I know. But you’re tired. I can tell.” He turned to Tyler. “Make sure she gets to her car safely, okay?”

“Now who’s being protective?” Amanda said. “But I would appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Tyler said. “Good night, Ron.”

As soon as they were out of earshot of Ron’s room, she turned to him and said, “I don’t need an escort to my car. I just wanted a chance to tell you that I think you’re the cruelest son of a bitch I’ve ever met in my life.”

R
eally?” he said. “You’ve decided that after five minutes of knowing me? I’m tempted to be impressed with myself, but I have no idea how I earned the title.”

“No? Did you or did you not visit Ron earlier today?”

“I did. Was that cruel?”

“Did you or did you not tell him you believed he was going to live?”

“I did. Don’t you want him to live?”

“Of course I do!”

“Amanda—may I call you Amanda, or do you prefer Ms. Clarke?”

“Amanda is fine—I can put up with it for the next five minutes. What I can’t put up with is having someone who doesn’t know Ron at all—has no idea what he’s been through or is going through—give him false hope.”

“False hope?”

“Oh, and then really laying it on, Mr. Hawthorne—”

“Tyler. Even when the five minutes are up.”

“Telling Ron he can come back to live in a home that should have been his.”

“I agree, the house should have been Ron’s—but Derek was like you, Amanda.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He was a little too certain that he’d outlive Ron.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. Please keep your voice down.” He sighed. “I can understand why you don’t think he’s going to live. I can’t explain why I feel confident he will survive this round with the leukemia, other than to say I have spent a lot of time standing next to deathbeds, and—let’s just say I’ve developed a sense of these things, and my sense is that Ron will live.”

“An antiques dealer who spends a lot of time standing next to deathbeds? What, can’t wait until they’re cold to swindle their estates out of their belongings? I ought to report you to the administration of this hospice.”

He felt his temper rising—a rare occurrence, but he knew the fever would weaken his control of it. She must have sensed she’d gone too far, because she stepped back a pace. Then, catching herself doing that, lifted her chin and moved in again.

“Let’s continue this discussion in the lobby,” he said, struggling to keep his voice soft and level. “I don’t want to wake anyone—those who are here have enough to deal with—they don’t need to listen to us bicker.”

She nodded. They rode the elevator down to the lobby in silence, not looking at each other. By the time they stood near the exit, he had control of himself again.

“I collect antiques for my own pleasure,” he said. “I do not sell them, so I am not a dealer. I have never—not once—purchased an antique from any of those I’ve counseled. I have not accepted gifts from their families after their deaths. I don’t expect you to believe me, but I am well known among the staff here, so ask them.”

“You work here?”

“Not as part of the staff. I volunteer my time.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but said, “I apologize. It’s just that—it has been so hard for me to get to the place Ron is now, or was until earlier today. Until you came by with your predictions, he had accepted that he is dying, and was at peace with that. I didn’t get there so easily, and one minute I’d seem to accept it and the next…”

Her voice trailed off. After a moment, she said, “Believe me, I want Ron to live. I—I can’t imagine what it will be like when he’s gone. But telling him that he’ll get better, that he’ll be able to come back to his home—a home that isn’t even his now! Don’t you see what you’re doing to him?”

“Giving him hope.”

“You’re lying to him.”

His skin was growing warmer, his joints beginning to ache. Tyler brought all his wandering wits to bear on the conversation and said, “Don’t be so sure of that. Now, I promised him I’d see you safely to your car…”

“If you won’t listen to reason, I’ll ask the hospice to ban you from seeing him.”

“Unless Ron made that request, I don’t think the hospice would agree to it. Ron is ill—but he’s not a child, and he is not incompetent. I doubt he would cave in….” A wave of pain washed over him, and he shut his eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “You look pale—”

“I’m fine,” he lied. “Just tired.” He opened his eyes again and forced himself to smile. “Listen, we aren’t going to resolve this tonight. I really do need to get some sleep, and I am sure you’ve had a long day, too.”

She stood looking up at him, unabashedly studying him. He fought an impulse to shift his own gaze away.

She shrugged. “I guess you’re right.”

As they walked across the parking lot, she asked, “Why are you so interested in what happens to Ron?”

“I made a promise to Derek. And I like Ron.”

“You don’t
know
Ron.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’m not saying your intentions are bad.”

“Thank you for that,” he said dryly.

They reached her car. She looked up at him and said, “You don’t look well—are you sure you’re going to be able to drive home? I could give you a ride.”

“I’ll be all right. But it’s kind of you to offer.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m sure our paths will cross again. Good night.”

“Good night,” he said.

He waited until she drove off, then walked to the farthest end of the parking lot, where he had left the van. He had left the window of the passenger side open, in case Shade wanted to roam in the small park at that end of the lot. But Shade had apparently decided not to rove—he was waiting for him. Tyler crawled into the back of the van and collapsed onto the bed there.

It wasn’t going to be bad. He judged, from long experience, that this one would last only an hour or two.

He regretted not being able to follow her home, to make sure she got there safely. He didn’t like the idea of her driving around alone so late at night, even though she didn’t seem fearful. Of anything. He certainly didn’t intimidate her.

The fever spiked, and he curled up on his side, trying to ride out another wave of pain. Shade came near, breathing softly onto his cheek. The pain receded, and Tyler fell asleep.

N
ine days later, Amanda Clarke lay in her bed in the darkness, thinking about Tyler Hawthorne and wondering if he was avoiding her. She believed she owed him another apology and being unable to deliver it irritated her. It was hard enough to admit to herself that she had been wrong to speak to him the way she had, and now it looked as if she was going to have to march up the hill to his house to say so.

Nine days since she had met him in Ron’s room. Nine days since Ron had started to regain his strength.

“Let’s see what happens,” Ron’s doctor had said today, but she was smiling. No one wanted to jump to conclusions, to be overly optimistic. At the same time, no one could deny that he was doing better. The doctor had looked at his most recent blood work and said, “Amazing. Let’s hope this trend continues.”

He was still very weak. He still tired out easily. But his color was better, his appetite was returning.

And he had hope. She had struggled not to hope as well. She had failed. Lying here alone, she admitted that she was nearly convinced that Ron would live, and prayed she wasn’t wrong.

She heard the sound of a creaking floorboard. Not quite alone, was she?

One of her cousins, no doubt, was also still awake at—she glanced at
the clock by her bed—just after midnight. Brad and Rebecca had arrived a week ago, unannounced as usual. They owned a huge house in the desert, and their trustees would have gladly approved the use of funds to buy their own place here in L.A., but when they were in town they stayed here, or on a whim, they took rooms in one of the city’s luxury hotels. Amanda often told herself that she should change the locks and refuse to admit them. Telling herself what she “should” do was as far as she ever got with that plan.

Instead she avoided them as much as possible, even kept her own small bedroom on the ground floor of the house, apart from the more spacious rooms she reserved for them on the second floor. The house had a large master suite on the third floor, but so far, even her nervy cousins hadn’t tried to take over that room.

She listened, but there were no further stirrings from the second floor. The only sound reaching her through the bedroom door was the mesmerizing
tick-tock-tick-tock
of the grandfather clock in the living room.

Rebecca and Brad had met Tyler. She was annoyed that they had managed to encounter him when she had not. “TDH,” Rebecca had declared him. Tall, dark, and handsome. Well, she was right about that.

Rebecca already had one of her mad crushes on him. She had invited him to her upcoming party out in the desert, and said he had accepted.

Although the desert house was several hours from here, she couldn’t blame Tyler for accepting. Rebecca was as beautiful as he was handsome, and together, they’d make a disgustingly good-looking couple. Or would for four weeks, which had proved to be the maximum amount of time any man in his right mind could handle putting up with Rebecca.

The thought of them being a couple even for a month made her frown. She told herself she was concerned because she didn’t want problems with a neighbor. Maybe Ron would warn him about her cousin, whom Ron referred to as “Rudebecca the Train Wrecka.”

Today, when Rebecca had taken a breath during her “Let me tell you in excruciating detail why Tyler is so hot” marathon, Brad spoke up and invited Amanda to the party, too.

Amanda had been sure he was just trying to spite his older sister, so she was noncommittal.

“He asked if you’d be there,” Brad added. Definitely spiteful.

“You
should
come,” Rebecca said, surprising her.

“You never come out to visit us, we always have to come here to visit you,” Brad said.

She didn’t point out that they never really came to visit her, that they never took her along to the parties they went to in L.A., that even if she just wrote about the last few years, she could put together a really thick book entitled
Signs That Rebecca and Brad Hate Me.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t be boring,” Rebecca said, and went back to boring Amanda.

She apparently bored Brad, too. “Shit, Rebecca, you talked
to
him for about twenty minutes max,” he complained. “You’ve talked
about
him for about twenty hours now. We get the picture. If you don’t want Amanda to know how desperate you are these days, shut your piehole for a minute or two.”

So Rebecca fired up for an attack on Brad, which freed Amanda to escape from the house. By the time she came home from the hospice, her cousins were up in their rooms.

She dozed off and came awake with a start. She listened and heard the grandfather clock strike one.

No sound of someone prowling just outside the house.

Just a dream,
she told herself. Her fears were surfacing in her dreams, not surprising on a stressful day. She had dreamed the noise.

She held her breath, not moving. Listening. Long moments passed.

No one, she tried to reassure herself, was moving stealthily just outside. No creature was stalking its prey just beyond her bedroom window. A dream.

She couldn’t convince herself.

She had heard
something
.

Perhaps the house had creaked in the way old houses do, or leaves
had scratched against one of the upstairs windowpanes, or the refrigerator’s motor had hummed. Whatever the sound was that had awakened her, it was gone now. She exhaled softly through her mouth, drew another breath. Listened.

And heard a noise.

This time she knew it had not been her imagination. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light in the room, she saw the heavy curtains softly billow and realized she had left the window open. The afternoon had been warm, and she had wanted to air out the room. She had fallen into bed after a long day without thinking about the window—without shutting it. Now…

Now she was vulnerable. Now someone or something was moving around out there, just on the other side of a flimsy screen. She could hear the soft rustle of leaves disturbed by a step, the snapping of small twigs beneath the weight of a foot. Slow, stalking steps, not random movements caused by the wind.

Step. A pause. Step. A pause. More steps, slow and creeping.

She clutched the covers, tried to track the direction of the sounds. Maybe it was only a cat or a skunk. No, too heavy to be a cat, and skunks didn’t move with that stalking step.

It could be a dog. She shivered, and reached up to trace the old scar on the ridge of her eyebrow.

She feared dogs. Had been terrified of dogs for years now. Not without reason.

Or—was it a person out there?

The curtains moved again. Was it her fear, or had the breeze suddenly turned chilly?

She slid out of bed and crept toward her closet. She banged one of her shins on a dresser drawer she hadn’t fully closed, but managed to keep her reaction to the pain to a quiet hiss. She reached the closet, quickly put on her robe, and hurried toward her bedroom door. She opened it and stepped into the hallway, then softly pulled the door shut.

“What—?” a voice behind her said.