Lifelines: Kate's Story (49 page)

“Shut
up, bitch.”

“Your
father died in a fire. Last week you told me your husband deserved to burn for
what he’d done to you. Not long afterwards, someone set fire to his building. I
told the police I thought it was you, and I believed you might try again. It
won’t stop with the investigation into the fire Saturday night, Rachel. The
police will take another look at the fire that killed your father.”

Rachel’s
breathing turned heavy, like someone who’d just experienced a massive physical
trauma. “You’re my counselor. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Confidentiality
won’t apply in a criminal case. I’ll tell the truth.”

Rachel’s
snarl sent shivers down Kate’s spine.

“Go
ahead and testify, bitch. I can’t wait to see my lawyer tear you apart. ‘So, Ms
Taylor, you fucked the defendant’s husband while offering her psychological and
emotional counsel.’ The newspapers will love it. So will the jury.”

If
it came to that, Rachel was probably right. “Rachel, the situation between you
and I—between your husband and me—should never have happened. It won’t make you
feel better to know it was an honest mistake, but it was. I meant you no harm.”

Rachel
stood motionless. The cell phone in Kate’s purse had fallen silent.

“It’s
time you left, Rachel.”

“I
think so, too,” she said remotely.

Narcissists
act, then they withdraw. She’s withdrawing. The worst is over.

Rachel
turned to stare down the drive. Kate saw her profile in silhouette against the
lighted veranda behind. A beautiful woman, clean sharp lines, jaw held too
rigidly. A woman who hated everyone she loved, who damaged every relationship
in a search for reassurance. So alone, she hadn’t even herself for
companionship.

“Go
back to counseling, Rachel. I’ll give you a referral to someone else.”

Rachel’s
features disappeared into the shadow.

“I
won’t see you again, Kate Taylor.”

Yes
you will. In court. I’ll testify against you, and I’ll hate myself for it.

As
Rachel moved, Socrates strained the leash and moved to keep his face towards
her. Kate wanted to bring Socrates down from his rigid vigilance, but she knew
the danger wasn’t over yet. When Rachel got inside the car ... when she drove
away. Then Kate’s legs would collapse and she would sit on the ground and phone
911 back to say the emergency was over.

As
Rachel slid into the driver’s seat of the shadowy car, Kate whispered,
“goodbye.” She’d failed as a counselor with Rachel, had done harm instead of
good. She would have to live with that.

The
car started with a roar and Socrates pulled on Kate.

“Take
it easy, Socrates. It’s over now.”

Socrates,
at least, wouldn’t need to face Rachel in court.

She
heard the roar of Rachel’s engine and thought of the last time she’d gone
driving in the middle of the night, the night she almost killed herself on
black ice, careless of her life. Mercifully she’d faced that recklessness in
herself, managed to stop it with cruise control and the desire for life. Rachel
seemed to be lacking that urge for survival. She would probably make life a
mess for everyone around her, and in the end she’d lose.

Rachel’s
car began backing down the drive and Socrates made a chuffing sound. As if the
dog were psychic, Kate felt herself tense, waiting for the crash as Rachel hit
a tree.

The
car stopped, headlights blinding Kate.

Socrates
began to bark.

Kate
pulled him towards the house, but he yanked her the other way. For a second she
thought he wanted to chase Rachel’s car, then she realized he was straining
towards the cedar tree.

“Socrates,
for heaven’s sake! We’re going in the house.”

He
shoved his head almost to the ground and pulled towards the tree.

“You
need to pee, is that it?” The way he was pulling, he must be desperate.

He
almost pulled Kate off her feet as the engine began to howl. The headlights
moved, coming this way. Rachel’s car, raging closer. Socrates pulled harder and
Kate began to run for the closest shelter—the cedar tree. Louder now, coming
faster. Rachel, out of control and vengeful. She’d kill Kate if she hit. Kill
Socrates.

Kate
catches up with Socrates and stumbles. No time, no time at all. She dives for
the tree, big cedar, grabs Socrates in her arms. If she can get behind it, if
she can put the bulk between them and Rachel’s car.

Mac,
I wish I’d told you I love you.

Jennifer,
please have a good life.

Too
late. No time.

Something
snapped.

Darkness.

M
ac
heard the sirens as he turned onto Dorby Way. He couldn’t tell the direction of
the howling, but the nausea in his stomach told him Rachel had set fire to the
new Taylor Road house.

He
prayed the owners had escaped.

Halfway
along Dorby Way, he spotted the flashing lights and pulled off the road to
wait. He should have phoned the police from the house. If he had, he might have
stopped her.

The
ambulance screamed past and he started to turn, but realized he could probably
get more information from the firemen who would still be at the Taylor Road
house. It wasn’t until he’d turned onto Taylor Road itself that he saw where
the rest of the flashing lights were. Kate’s house.

A
uniformed man stopped Mac’s truck halfway up the drive.

“You
can’t come up here, sir.”

“What’s
happened?” Mac’s heart bulged in his throat, heavy pulses shaking his voice.
The only light from the house was the single bulb over her front door. “Where’s
Kate? Where is she?”

The
policeman said something, but Mac spotted Sheriff Trawley beside a police car
on the edge of Kate’s drive, and shouted, “Sheriff!”

The
officer blocked Mac’s way again. “Sir, you can’t go up there.”

Two
police cars and an ambulance had parked by the house. Kate’s car stood outside
the closed garage door. Mac saw no sign of fire, but ... police ... ambulance ...

Kate
...

“Sheriff
Trawley!”

Trawley
turned his head, saw Mac and made a gesture to the policeman holding his arm.
As Mac ran up the drive, someone slammed the rear door closed on the ambulance.
Then, just as he reached Trawley, he saw the other car. A green four-door,
deeply crumpled. It had tried to climb the tree and failed.

“Oh,
Jesus,” he whispered.

Trawley
put one arm around Mac’s shoulder. “Do you recognize the car?”

“Rachel.
My wife.” Mac couldn’t stop swallowing. “Is she—?”

“She
died in the crash.” Trawley’s rough voice sounded barely audible. “We’ll need
to talk to you, when you’re ready.”

“The
car?” Mac shook his head. “Why was she here? Was anyone else hurt? Kate?
Where’s Kate? She didn’t hurt Kate, did she? What the hell happened here?”

“I’ll
get you some coffee, sir. Then we’ll talk.”

“I
don’t need coffee. Kate Taylor’s car is right over there. Where is she? Is
she—”

“She’s
on her way to St. Joseph’s hospital. She should be there by now. Sir, at some
point, we’ll need you to identify your wife.”

“What?”

“Your
wife, sir. Can you identify her?”

“In
the car?”

“Here,
sir. In the ambulance.”

He
couldn’t think. He needed to get to Kate.

“Your
wife’s in the ambulance, sir.”

Mac
stumbled into the emergency response vehicle. When the ambulance attendant
uncovered the face of the woman on the stretcher, Mac’s pulse seemed to beat to
the rhythm of Socrates’ barking.

“Sir?”
Trawley stood in the open door to the ambulance.

“Yes.”
His voice cracked. “It’s my wife. Rachel Hardesty.” Why didn’t someone go to
Socrates? Mac had never heard him bark like that. Where was Kate?

Rachel
crushed in that car. Where was Kate when the car hit the tree? The ambulance
that passed him ... Oh, God, Kate, I’m sorry!

“Sir,
when you’re ready to answer some questions.”

“I
have to go to the hospital. Kate—did Rachel ... how did Kate get hurt?”

“She
was hit by the car.”

“I
have to go to the hospital.”

Trawley
studied him a moment, then said, “I’ll come along later and have a talk with
you.”

Mac
realized he still had his keys in his hand. “I’ll take the dog with me. She’ll
want the dog.”

“Sir,
the dog’s not your responsibility. We’ll take him to the animal shelter.”

“He
knows me.”

As
if to prove Mac’s words, Socrates stopped barking the moment Mac picked him up
to put him in the truck. Mac couldn’t get Rachel’s damaged body out of his
mind; it kept overlaying Kate’s face. Hit by the car ... if ... if Kate died it
would be Mac’s fault.

Somehow,
Rachel had found out about Kate.

Mac
should have finalized the divorce with Rachel before he became involved with
her. Shouldn’t have let isolation and loneliness, and just plain enjoying Kate,
dim his judgment. He’d put her in harm’s way by committing adultery.

At
the hospital, Mac said he was Kate’s brother and was told that the doctor was
with her. Twenty minutes later they took Kate into surgery. Mac waited. There
was nothing else he could do. Then he realized there was something, and he went
to the nurses’ station.

“Has
anyone called her daughter? Her mother and father?”

The
only person he could think of to call for information on how to contact Han
Stewardson’s lighthouse in the middle of the night was the Canadian Coast
Guard. The first number he got from directory assistance yielded a recording,
but the second hit pay dirt, and within minutes he’d been put through to Seal
Cove Lighthouse by radio link.

Three
minutes later, Han was on the phone. “I’m leaving now,” he said. “I’ll drive to
Nanaimo and get a plane if I can. Otherwise, I’ll be on the first ferry to the
mainland tomorrow. What about Jennifer? And Evelyn—Katie’s mother?”

Han
had telephone numbers for both women, and Mac dialed Kate’s daughter first.

“I’ll
be there in two hours,” said Jennifer.

“Don’t
speed. Your mother’s in surgery. She won’t want to wake up and find you had an
accident getting to her.”

Jennifer
didn’t say anything for a moment, then, “You said your name was Mac?”

“That’s
right.”

“Please
look after her for me. I won’t speed, but I’ll be there by dawn.”

When
he called Kate’s mother, no one answered.

K
ate tried
to turn away from the voice, but she couldn’t escape. Then pain overwhelmed her
and she couldn’t breathe either.

“Easy,”
said the voice. “Don’t fight it.”

The
voice wouldn’t stop, and Kate finally opened her eyes. The voice belonged to a
round face adorned with metal-rimmed glasses.

“Tell
me your name,” the voice demanded.

Kate
closed her eyes.

“You
have to wake up now. Tell me your name.”

How
could it hurt to open her eyes? Talking hurt too.

“What
day is it, Kate? Tell me the date.”

Stupid
questions. What were all these questions for? Kate’s eyes closed again, and she
decided the questions were about brain damage.

“April
... Sunday ... Monday.”

The
voice went away, and left the pain behind.  A long time later, someone rummaged
in the blankets and she felt the prick of a needle. She slipped into a shadowy
world. The next time she woke, the pain had centered on her leg. When she tried
to move it, the pain attacked other sites—chest and shoulder.

“Easy,
Kate.”

She
opened her eyes. Mac. No smile.

“Socrates?
Is he—”

“He’s
fine. He’s down in my truck.”

“Rachel?”

“She
died.”

She
remembered the way Socrates pulled her to the tree. She’d thought he needed to
pee. They’ve drugged me, she thought. The pain’s so far away. “I called the
police,” she said. “I told them—”

“Don’t
talk.” He covered her hand with his. “It’s hurting you. I’ll tell you what you
need to know.”

She
wanted to close her eyes but knew she mustn’t.

“The
Sheriff told me you called to report one of your clients might be planning to
commit a crime. She ... you told them you thought Rachel set fire to my place.”

She
couldn’t look away from the shadows in his eyes, the lines around his mouth.
From years in the counselor’s chair, from life, she read the tangle of
confusion, grief, and guilt on Mac’s face.

“Rachel
was your client?”

She
whispered, “I didn’t know ... I only realized when...”

“That’s
why you said we couldn’t see each other? Because she’s your client?”

“Yes.”

Mac
got up from the chair and walked to the window. Kate felt weariness slide over
her, or perhaps the effects of the drugs. She wanted to close her eyes and slip
away, but Mac’s discomfort had the feel of goodbye.