Deficiency (18 page)

"Someone's here!" she said.

"Check to see if it's the sheriff's car. I'll hold on," Will Dennis said.

She went to the front window and breathed relief when she saw the sheriff's logo and the bubble light on the roof. Then she returned to the phone.

"It's the sheriff's car."

"Good. Tell him what happened and let him look around. He'll check everything for you and help you feel more comfortable. I'll call again in twenty minutes."

"Okay," she said and hung up.

The door bell rang, and she went to greet the officer.

"Dr. Barnard?"

"Yes," she said, "please come in."

"The district attorney contacted our dispatcher, who got to me just a while ago. Someone threatened you at the hospital parking lot?"

"He didn't exactly threaten me, but, well, didn't they give you any more information?"

"I was just told to get here quickly and make sure you were all right, Doctor," he replied dryly.

This police officer has a really robotic military demeanor about him, she thought. He stood firm, straight at six feet two and looked at her with a stern face of granite, his features sharp. Normally, she would not appreciate him, but at the moment, he gave her a sense of security, and that she did appreciate. Combining her spat with Curt with her terrifying moments, she felt drained of any energy and resistance. It was good to have someone else upon whom she could lean.

"I just spoke with the district attorney. There's a man going about impersonating a state investigator. He came to my office and he just confronted me in the hospital parking lot. He didn't attempt to harm me in any way there, but I thought I saw him following me when I left."

"Can you describe the vehicle driven by the man following you?" he asked.

"Actually, no," she said, a bit ashamed and disappointed in herself for being so distracted by her own fears. "I mean, it was a dark color, but I didn't take note of the make or model."

He nodded, not showing any disapproval.

"Perhaps I should check around the house first," he said. "Just precautionary."

"Yes, of course," she said. It had never occurred to her that the man impersonating a state police investigator would not need to follow her home to know where she lived. That added a new dimension of terror to the situation.

"That stairway goes…"

"To the bedrooms," she said. "Downstairs is the living room you see here on my right. The dining room is straight ahead and after that is the kitchen and pantry. There's a bathroom just before the kitchen."

"Backdoor?"

"Through the pantry. It's an old house. It was my grandmother's," she added.

He finally broke into a smile.

"I like these older homes. They have character," he said.

"A character living in one," she muttered to herself as he walked on through.

She brought the milk into the kitchen and then thought about making some herbal tea.

When the rear door opened, she nearly jumped over the table, but it was only the police officer. She had thought he had gone directly upstairs.

"It's quiet out back," he said. "I'll look through the bedrooms and closets upstairs. Is there an attic?"

"Yes, but you have to pull down one of those ladders to get to it."

"Yes, I understand."

"Would you like something to drink? I'm making myself some tea," she said.

"No thank you."

He went to the stairway. She made the tea and sat with her hands around the cup, watching the steam rise out of it. She almost didn't hear him return.

"Everything looks fine, Dr. Barnard. You should just lock up. Is there an alarm system?"

"No," she said. "I haven't gotten around to adding that yet. My grandparents never even considered having one."

"I understand. Well, I'll have another patrol car make a sweep by here tonight and of course, if you hear anything or for any reason want us to return, please don't hesitate to call."

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," he said. "I imagine the district attorney has his eyes on this. He's a good man."

"Yes, he is," she said.

She followed him to the front door and locked up after him. A moment or so later, the phone rang. It was Will Dennis.

"Everything is quiet. I'm sure I just imagined that man behind me," she told him.

"Still, he had the nerve to come looking for you at the hospital. He's arrogant in his madness. You have your regular office hours tomorrow?"

"Yes, an easy day, just a nine to five. About what you proposed at the hospital earlier," she started to say.

"Let's not talk about that. I think it's a little more complicated now than I had anticipated."

"You mean that he came after me again?"

"Something like that. Just be a doctor," he told her.

"Why is it that suddenly sounds easy?" she quipped and he laughed.

She put away the teacup and then went up to her bedroom. First, she decided to take a warm bath. Then, she would try to sleep. If a dozen or so medical files didn't parade through her brain, and if the events of the last few days didn't return in vivid replay, and if she didn't think about the spat she and Curt had in the hospital parking lot, she might actually get some.

A warm soak never felt as good as it does this moment, she thought after she lowered herself through the bubbles generated by her bath oils. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was almost asleep in the tub when she heard it, a distinct rap on her front door downstairs. She listened and then she heard it again and sat up quickly.

Should I ignore it or get out, put on a robe, and see who it was? Or, maybe I should just call for the sheriff's patrol. She was expecting no one. That was for sure.

She heard the door knocker again. There was no doubt about it. The sound reverberated through the house as if it could travel through the very foundation and frame. She made a quick decision to ignore it and to make that phone call to the sheriff's patrol.

Still dripping wet, she was at the phone in her bedroom. The dispatcher knew who she was immediately and assured her a car would be in her driveway in less than ten minutes. All the lights were off downstairs, but anyone could see her bedroom light was still on, she thought. She turned it off and, still wrapped in only a large bath towel, went to the front window and parted the curtain. She saw an automobile in the driveway. Unfortunately, out here, there were no street lights and she didn't have a light on the outside of the house. Still, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the shadows and the clouds parted a bit to permit more starlight, she realized it was Curt's car.

"Oh no," she muttered, realizing she had just contacted the police to investigate her own
fianc�. This was going to be hard to explain to him. Maybe it was time to tell him everything, she thought. He was right, after all. They should be sharing this problem.

She wiped herself as dry as she could as quickly as she could and put on her robe and soft leather slippers. Then she flipped on the lights in the hallway and hurried down the stairs, wondering why Curt hadn't continued to knock. His car was still there. She turned on lights as she moved toward the front door. As fast as she could, she unlatched it and opened it, realizing it was practically pushing itself open.

It was easy to understand why.

Curt's limp body was against it, falling in as she opened the door.

Paula Gilbert lingered in the parking lot. They had played the night's final set, and although the Inn would remain open another hour or so, they had all decided to leave. Jack and Tag got into their cars, complaining to her about the lousy money they were both making and wondering aloud if they shouldn't just chuck it all. It wasn't the first time, and like all the other times, she didn't put up any vigorous arguments. She wasn't going to stop singing and if they wanted to end the group, fine. She would easily find two other men, or maybe she would hook up with the Boggs Trio. They were always suggesting she should. What else would she do? She had no intention of ever becoming someone's secretary or take any of those boring nine-to-five jobs her friends had, even working for the post office.

All they talked about was their benefits, benefits. As far as Paula was
concerned, they had traded their freedom and their chance to enjoy life for the
security of medical insurance. Just don't get sick, she told them with a laugh.
What are you going to do, work for retirement and hope that by the time you
collect your pension, you'll still be healthy and young enough to enjoy life? Not me. I'm still having fun, like always.

They nodded and smirked, but in her heart she knew they were envious. They wished they could be as carefree and as independent as she was. No worries. Jack and Tag quit? So what?

"Don't let worrying about it all keep you up boys," she told them.

They, too, shook their heads at her and left her. Good riddance, she thought. She looked around. She was disappointed. That handsome guy disappointed her. He was supposed to be out here, and they were supposed to go for a late-night drink in a place where people didn't have fertilizer on their shoes. So much for that, she thought, tossing off the expectation like a piece of gum that had lost its flavor.

She walked toward her own vehicle, a present from her brother, one of his leftovers. It was a beat-up Chevy Impala, but it still ran and he did take care of its maintenance for her. Just as she reached it, the handsome stranger came around from the rear of the car.

"Where the hell did you come from?" she asked, after gasping and stepping back. "I just about gave up on you."

"I was standing here in the shadows watching you say good night to your partners. I didn't want to intrude, and I wanted to be sure you didn't have other plans that included one or even both of them," he replied.

She laughed.

"Hardly. It's enough I work with those stump jumpers."

"Stump jumpers?" he said laughing.

"Hillbillies, rednecks. Their idea of a good time is a game of darts over at the Old Mill."

"I see. Well, if you're not too tired," he continued.

"Tired? The night's just beginning for me," she said smiling.

"I'm happy to hear that. Can you leave your car here?" he followed.

"Sure," she said shrugging. "Who'd steal it?"

He laughed and they started walking toward the front where the customers parked.

"I'm right over here," he said indicating they go to their right.

She saw the black Lincoln Town Car, a late model, and smiled. It glittered in the illumination of the Inn's neon lights.

"Nice wheels," she said.

"I like a lot of steel around me," he said. "And soft leather seats."

"I won't turn that down either," she replied when he opened the door for her. When was the last time any man ever did that for her? she wondered and got in.

He walked around and did the same.

"Here we go," he said starting the engine. "Hold on to your seat."

She laughed.

"Where are we going?" she asked when he turned left instead of right, which would have taken them into Woodbourne and then onto Route 52, which she had described to him earlier in the Inn.

"I was told I shouldn't leave this area until I've seen that dam and lake where they store water for New York City. It's just a little ways," he said smiling at her, "and with the clouds parting and those stars tonight, it could be quite a beautiful site, don't you think?"

She smiled to herself. It wouldn't be the first time she had parked with a man up there, but she hadn't done it since she was in high school. That titillated her. Neck in a car? With the music playing? Maybe it wasn't as sophisticated an experience as she was anticipating, but this guy was like someone who had walked out of a soap opera and it all did make her feel like a teenager again.

Afterward, they could go for that cocktail somewhere.

"America has so many beautiful places to visit," he said. "There is nothing like traveling and traveling and suddenly being surprised by a breathtaking sight. You know that expression, stop to smell the roses?"

"No," she said. It suggested something to do at a cemetery to her.

"Well, it means taking the time to appreciate the beautiful things, Paula. You should think about that more. You should stop to smell the roses, too."

She laughed. She didn't know why exactly, but there was a new tone in his voice that actually stung her with a little trepidation.

"Most people never do and one day they wake up and realize it, but they also realize it's too late. It's all passed them by, understand?"

"Sorta," she said. That was her philosophy in a roundabout way, wasn't it, she thought.

"I knew you would understand. Anyone who can sing like you do, who can feel words and music, has to be able to understand what is and what isn't important in life. You're an artist," he continued. "Artists are by nature more sensitive."

She liked that. No one ever called her an artist.

"Look at these houses out here," he said as they drove on. "Each one has a sizable piece of land around it. They look so peaceful, too, don't they? You feel the contentment, the quiet bliss. With that sky opening up, those homes silhouetted look like they're on the edge of the world. In them, people are sleeping snugly, fathers and mothers are embracing each other, their children are feeling secure, safe, dreaming about bubbles and balloons and tinsel."

"Are you a poet?" she asked him.

"No," he said smiling, "I'm just poetic."

"Same thing to me," she said.

"Maybe it is," he said nodding.

"I don't understand what you do, this networking thing."

"Oh, it's boring work compared to what you do, Paula. You're out there with people, all sorts of people, personalities, and you have the music that can carry you above it all. I watched you carefully. You're not bothered by the noise or anything. You're in your own little world, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said. "That's it."

"Of course that's it," he replied.

They made another turn and climbed a hill and moments later, there was the dam and the lake and the starlight playing on the water. He found a dirt road that turned in and off the highway and drove in as far as he could, switching off the lights.