Trespass (2 page)

Chapter 2

Gemma

I
’m in that elusive state between drifting off and actually being asleep. My horror mounts when, once again, unseen hands clutch me in a deathlike grip. I’m aware of the room; I see it through a sepia wash like an old photograph. I’m lying on my side, held tightly by an invisible presence in my own bed. I feel him pressed tightly against my back, his raspy breath scorching the nape of my neck.

I fight to waken, but I can’t move or make a sound. I’m moaning, but no one can hear me.

Endless seconds pass. I remain paralyzed. The visitor’s weight is pressing heavily against me. I know he’s only a phantom, but his hands on my body feel all too real. When the strength of my frantic efforts to call out finally frees me of the paralysis, I sit up in bed, gasping to regain control of my breathing.

The room hadn’t changed; everything is as it was. My books are lined up on the shelves, the throw pillows on the bed are neatly stacked on a chair in the corner, and my lovely blue Tiffany lamp sits by my bedside, its brilliant shades of blue and teal gray in the soft light from the streetlamp outside the window.

I need to find a way to end these episodes. There have been too many nights when I’ve awakened in terror, then lain awake in dreaded anticipation.

There is a name for what happens to me. It’s called sleep paralysis and isn’t really uncommon. It’s blamed on everything from demonology to pepperoni pizza eaten before bedtime. I’ve never believed in demons and I seldom indulge in pizza or other spicy foods, so why this is happening to me remains a mystery.

But I have to make it stop.

Fear of another episode left me pacing until I decided I had to do something—now. Desperate, I opened my laptop to research therapists and discovered a multitude of them in the area, some grouped together in clinics, some with stand-alone practices. Most of them don’t list their area of specialization, and even if they did, I didn’t think that sleep paralysis would be one of them. I should have checked for a heading under “witch doctors” since sleep paralysis is considered by many to be a paranormal event akin to seeing ghosts or conducting séances.

There were too many therapists to choose from; tomorrow I would call my doctor and ask for a referral. Longing for some fresh non-AC-cooled air I poured myself a glass of wine and walked out into the screened porch. The humid evening air enveloped me like a warm cocoon. Through the trees in my backyard, I could watch the parkway along the river. It was quiet now, after eleven. Even the runners were home in bed.

The wine slid down my throat, sedating me into sleepiness. I leaned back on the rattan sofa and raised my feet onto the cushions, then curled myself into a circle of warmth like a cat and dozed off.

I was awakened by a sound so powerful that it shook the entire house. Alarmed, I rose from the sofa to see the night sky muted with a brilliant light. Forgetting I was dressed in only my sheer nightgown, I ran outside and circled to the front of the house where a tower of flames like a giant bonfire had replaced the house across the street. Every nerve in my body screamed out as I realized the house obliterated in the explosion was that of my best friend—my employer, Norman Teschler.

I walked like a zombie to the edge of the curb. I felt the intense heat of the fire on my skin, and its acrid smell stung my nostrils. The bricks and debris that littered my yard must have singed the soles of my feet with every step, but I felt nothing. A crowd of neighbors was gathered at a cautious distance from the blaze. I barely noticed them. I didn’t understand how it could have happened—Norman had to be the most careful person I had ever met, anally fussy about everything in and around his house and yard.

The fire trucks arrived in minutes, the onlookers pushed back as the area of the explosion and the next-door neighbors’ houses were roped off. Minutes later when the police arrived, one of them made his way through the crowd, asking us if we knew whether anyone had been in the house when it exploded. I heard a neighbor say she thought Norman had been home. I edged farther back, not ready to submit to their questions—it would be too painful. I kept seeing Norman as he’d been the last time I visited his home, happily bragging about the book he was working on and his plans for Cityscapes, the advertising agency he owned.

Despite the heat, I suddenly became aware of the light nightgown I wore; it would be nearly transparent in the blazing light of the fire. I must have been quite the sight. I usually dressed to downplay a body that brought attention my way, yet here I stood on display for the entire neighborhood.

A woman who had been talking to the firemen approached me. Her eyes, a vivid violet blue, twinkled in the golden haze. Dressed casually, she didn’t appear to be with the police or the fire department. She said, “You okay?”

My stupor must have been obvious. I nodded. Words wouldn’t form in my mouth.

“Stay here,” she ordered. She pushed through the crowd to the paramedics’ van and returned with a ratty but clean scrub top that I quickly pulled over my head. My tongue loosened. “Thanks. Are you with the police?”

“Used to be. I live a few blocks over and came to see what happened, see if I could help.” She frowned. “Maybe the paramedics should check you out.”

“I’m fine.”

She didn’t look convinced. “I’ll walk you back to your house. Here, put these on.” She handed me a pair of booties, the kind doctors wear for surgery. I slipped them over my scorched feet.

The woman appeared to be concerned about my well-being and I felt strangely relieved I wasn’t alone. We left the scene, and she walked with me back to the porch. I picked up my empty wineglass from the table next to the sofa and turned to her. “I need more of this. Want one?”

“Got any tequila?”

I poured her tequila, neat, and we sat in a comfortable silence until I said, “My name’s Gemma.”

She raised her glass. “TJ.”

Chapter 3

T
J had breakfast with her son the next morning after Richard left for work. They had tried calling him any one of many versions of the two names, Jeffrey and Richard, but finally settled on JR. From birth, the boy had a large entourage of people who loved him and enjoyed spending time with him. One of them, Jon Engel, had been Jeffrey’s best friend and was picking up JR for the day.

TJ joined Jon in the kitchen after she readied JR for his outing.

“Hear about the explosion last night?” she asked.

“It’s been all over the news. What happened?”

“A house blew up. Went over there after I heard it. They think a gas leak mighta caused it. I talked to one of the neighbors who was a friend of the guy that lived there, and she said he kept good track of everything. She doesn’t think it was an accident.”

“Did he die in the explosion?”

“Looked like it. Supposedly he was in the house when it happened. Only pieces of bones usually survive somethin’ that fierce; don’t think they’ll find a body.”

TJ wiped the last of JR’s breakfast from his face. “Almost forgot—I gave that neighbor I talked to one of your cards. Her house is a mess, and she has your brand of insurance. She could use someone who knows what they’re doin’.”

Jon picked up JR and lifted the bag she set out for him. “I don’t have any control over who does which inspections, but I’ll look into it. I haven’t been doing assessments very long, so something like this may go to someone with specific experience.” Jon, an insurance agent who had his own office in Mequon, had recently expanded his skills to doing inspections.

TJ shrugged. “Whatever.”

She had left Gemma Rosenthal’s house the night before after having a drink with her. Gemma had obviously been in near shock when TJ first saw her, wandering around in a see-through nightgown with her drop-dead body on display. The crowd had a hard time keeping their eyes off her; she had been eye-catching even with tears running down her smoke-covered face.

The cops hadn’t told TJ much at the explosion site. She had hoped Gemma would, but the woman only told her that Teschler was her boss and her best friend. Before she left, TJ gave Gemma one of Lisa Rayburn’s business cards too under the pretense of getting grief counseling. Lisa was a therapist and one of TJ’s few woman friends. TJ had just met Rosenthal, but Gemma seemed to radiate problems.

Psychologist Lisa Rayburn seldom saw clients on Fridays, but when she got the call from a woman who had been referred by TJ, she agreed to meet her at the office after lunch. Despite the little they had in common, Lisa and TJ had remained friends after they succeeded in revealing a killer responsible for the disappearances of abused women who had gone missing in the Milwaukee area. It had been more than a year since the graves were unearthed, although in her nightmares it felt like yesterday.

Gemma Rosenthal stood about five feet eight. She had a firm handshake and excellent posture that perfectly aligned her statuesque form. While not beautiful, or even pretty, she nevertheless came across as extremely attractive. Her features, too large for cover-girl perfection, were enhanced by a luxurious mane of auburn hair. Lisa led her to a set of chairs positioned across from each other near a window looking out onto the edge of Pewaukee Lake.

After they were seated, Gemma said, “Thank you for getting me in today.”

“I try to be here when someone needs me.”

“A woman named TJ gave me your card.”

“Yes, she’s a friend of mine,” Lisa said.

Gemma described what had happened the night before and how she had met TJ.

“Is that what brought you here?” Lisa sensed Gemma had something more on her mind.

Gemma’s gaze turned toward the lake. When she faced Lisa, her golden-brown eyes were rimmed with sorrow. “That’s part of it. Norman was my best friend. I’ll miss him terribly, but I’ve been meaning to see someone about a problem I’ve had for quite a while now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I have sleep paralysis and the episodes are becoming more frequent. I had one last night, not long before the explosion. They’re terrifying. I feel someone in bed with me, holding me in place. I feel his hands on me and I can even hear him breathing. I’m having problems sleeping because I dread another episode.” She paused. “It helped once I found out it had a name and discovered I wasn’t the only person in the world who experienced it. Unfortunately, no one seems to know how to prevent them from happening.”

Lisa offered, “I’m no expert on the condition, although I’ve experienced it a few times.”

Gemma perked up. “Then you know how it feels.”

“I do, although I’ve never experienced the feeling that someone was in the room or in the bed with me. I simply felt frozen in place, not really asleep or awake. It happened years ago and never became a problem for me. That form of it isn’t all that uncommon.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Are they becoming more frequent?”

“They are.”

“Do you take anything to help you sleep?”

Gemma sighed. “I don’t like taking any drugs, even the over-the-counter kind.”

“Unfortunately, the less sleep you get, the more episodes you’ll have,” Lisa said. “Sleep paralysis is more common in people with irregular sleep patterns and fairly common in college students. You won’t be able to make sense of this or fight it off if you’re sleep-deprived. It’s rather a Catch-22, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose I could try something for sleep.”

“Another suggestion would be a sleep clinic.”

“For what? I know what my problem is.”

“A clinic could determine if there is a physical reason for your episodes. Sleep paralysis can be brought on by a REM disorder. Make an appointment with your doctor first and have a thorough checkup; there are some physical conditions associated with sleep paralysis which should be ruled out. Your doctor can prescribe something to help you sleep and send you for sleep studies if he thinks it’s indicated.”

“I hardly ever see doctors. I just go to my gynecologist once a year.”

“That’s good,” Lisa said. “You’re healthy. Call your doctor and have him refer you to a good internist.” She jotted down a few notes. “Tell me more about yourself, Gemma.”

Gemma shifted in her chair as Lisa studied her. “Like what?”

“Do you have a family?”

“I’ve read the studies,” Gemma said. “I know some experts believe people who have sleep paralysis were sexually abused as children. I wasn’t.”

Her defensive reaction to the question made it obvious to Lisa that Gemma didn’t want to talk about her family, and she sensed it had nothing to do with abuse.

She tried a different approach. “Did you have a happy childhood?”

“I suppose. I always felt my little sister got all the love and attention.” Gemma smiled faintly. “You probably hear that one a lot.”

“Did she?”

“It felt like it then, but looking back, I think it was only my own perception. Goldie’s petite, bubbly, a great dancer, and popular with everyone. She was a cheerleader, queen of the prom, and on and on.”

“What about you?”

“In high school, I was a nerd with boobs.”

“And now you’re a very attractive woman.”

“Thank you. I learned how to make the most of what I have: fix my hair, get contacts, use makeup.”

By the end of the session, Gemma’s resistance to therapy was apparent. If the woman wasn’t ready to work on the issues responsible for her sleep problem, Lisa couldn’t help her. Before she called time, she said, “Gemma, there is an alternative to one-on-one therapy. A friend of mine holds a group session for people with sleep problems. It isn’t a large group, only about six people, I believe. You might find it helpful talking with others who have similar problems.”

Gemma frowned. “I don’t know. Do they all have sleep paralysis?”

“Some of them do. Would you like me to get more details for you?”

She agreed, but Lisa sensed Gemma wanted to leave. There was something there, something she didn’t want to talk about. And Gemma hadn’t even begun to grieve for her friend Norman. She might be the kind of person who needed to be alone to let it out and have a good cry.

“Why don’t we do this—I think you’ll feel better if you have a plan in place for how to deal with the paralysis. Make an appointment with a doctor for a physical. I’ll give you a list of over-the-counter sleep aids you can try before you get a prescription. I’ll get more information on the sleep group for you, and in the meantime, you can decide whether you want to continue therapy.”

Gemma rose to leave without asking for another appointment.