The Night Before (25 page)

Cutting behind a gas station, she slapped at the mosquito, and the aches that had been with her most of the day seemed to melt away. In fact her legs were rubbery, not working quite right. And her vision was fuzzy. She was working too hard. That was it, way too hard.

With more difficulty than usual, Cricket found her little hatchback where she’d left it, under a street lamp, only the light tonight wasn’t working right, flickering on and off, and the street was deserted. Not that it mattered, she thought thickly. God, what was wrong with her? She’d unlocked the car when she heard a footstep, sensed someone behind her. Without much concern, she looked over her shoulder and saw something, a figure—man or woman—crouching behind an old station wagon.

She slid into the car and caught the heel of her shoe on the door frame. “Crap,” she muttered, but found she didn’t really care. Her vision was really blurry now and . . . and she couldn’t sit up straight, was half in and half out of the car, unable to punch the key into the ignition. Jesus, what was going on? It was if she was drugged as if someone had what . . . doctored her Coke?

She heard footsteps and rolled one eye back to see the figure dashing across the lane . . . it was a woman and she seemed familiar . . . someone who would help her. Cricket tried to speak, attempted to hold on to a clear thought as the woman in black drew nearer.
Help me, please,
she tried to say, but couldn’t form the words. They died in her throat as she recognized the stranger.

What was she doing down here? Why? Had she been waiting? Expecting her? Oh, God. Sudden, blinding truth hit Cricket like a ton of bricks. She noticed the woman’s tight-fitting gloves and white slash of a smile.

Like the Cheshire Cat in
Alice in Wonderland.

Or worse. This smile was cold, the eyes gleaming in anticipation. She reached into her purse and withdrew a small glass jar, which she flashed in front of Cricket’s eyes. In the glow of the interior light she saw them. Insects, all sorts and kinds were packed inside, desperately crawling up the sides of the jar, thin legs and wings and antennae moving, pulsing against the glass, segmented bodies crushed against each other. They scrambled over each other, fighting to the top of the heap, as they tried to escape.

“Friends of yours?” the woman inquired, her gaze menacing as she rolled the vial between her gloved fingers. “I think so.”

In that instant, Cricket knew she was going to die.

Caitlyn’s eyes flew open. Her heart was pounding wildly, her skin soaked in sweat. She was home. In her own bed. But the horrid image of her husband lying dead across his desk still burned through her mind.

Josh dead in his den with the wrongful death papers, the wine and open verandah door. She knew without asking to see photos of the crime scene that she’d duplicated it in her subconscious. But how? Unless she’d been there? Unless she’d actually witnessed his death? But that was impossible. It had to be!

The phone blasted. She scrabbled for the receiver. “Hello?” she whispered.

Nothing.

Her skin crawled.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Not a sound. Not even a dial tone.

Terrified, she slammed the receiver down. Dear God, what was happening? She wiped a trembling hand over her forehead.

What she’d experienced was just a bad dream. A
really
bad dream.

Forcing herself to calm down, she took several deep breaths. Oscar was lying at the foot of her bed, yawning and stretching. “Come here,” she said, patting the pillow next to her, and he slowly inched upward to curl against her. There was something calming in stroking his bristly fur, in listening to the whirring of the ceiling fan moving overhead.

The bedside phone rang again.

What now?
Every muscle in her body tensed.

Reaching blindly, she snapped on the light and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

No answer.

“Hello?”

Her heart was hammering as she waited, though she heard shallow breathing.

“Who is this?”

Nothing. No response.

Her skin crawled . . . was there the faint hint of music in the background? Why wasn’t the person answering? She hung up the receiver and checked Caller ID.
Unknown caller.
That much she’d already figured out. She rubbed a hand over her forehead. The phone jangled again.

Damn! She started. Looked at the Caller ID before answering. Troy’s number. She picked up. “Hello?”

“Caitlyn. It’s Troy. I know it’s late and I hate to call you, but I think you should know that Mom’s on her way to the hospital. It’s her heart.”

“No! Oh, God, is she okay?”

“Don’t know. I just got a call from the EMT. He asked me to meet them at Eastside General. I’m on my way.”

“Me, too,” she said without thinking. “I’ll meet you there. Oh, and Troy, did you try to call me a couple of minutes ago?”

“No. Why?”

“The phone rang and I answered, but no one was there.”

“It wasn’t me,” he said.

Her fingers clenched around the receiver. “Probably a wrong number,” she said, not believing it for a second as she hung up. She stripped out of her nightgown, pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, then slid into a pair of sandals, the bottoms of her feet encountering something crusty. “What the devil?” she groused, then saw the dark splotches on the insoles, two purplish drips that she knew instinctively were blood. Her stomach turned over as she realized these were the shoes she’d worn on the night Josh died. She’d obviously kicked them toward the back of the closet and hadn’t noticed the stains when she’d cleaned up her room the next day. Now she scrambled out of the sandals as if her feet actually burned. She felt a wave of panic and found a pair of running shoes that she wormed her feet into, then hurried down the stairs. As she reached the back door, the phone began to ring again. She checked Caller ID.

Her heart froze.

She should answer; it could be news of her mother.

She picked up. “Hello?”

No response.

“Hello?”

Nothing, just the static of an open line. The hairs on her nape rose. She had to quell the fear that threatened her.

“Who is this? No, wait, I don’t want to know. Whoever you are, just go to hell!”

“You go first.”
The voice was a harsh whisper and had the same effect on Caitlyn as if she’d heard her own death sentence. She slammed the phone down, her heart racing, cold sweat breaking out on her back and face. Who was it? Why were they calling?

Caitlyn backed up and stumbled against the counter. She had to get to the hospital. She didn’t have time to think about whoever it was who was harassing her. But as she stepped outside to the sultry Savannah night, the three chilling words followed her.

 

 

The hospital loomed in the night, eight very modern stories in sharp contrast to most of the historic buildings in the area. Caitlyn parked and paused long enough to leave a message on Kelly’s cell phone. “Kelly, it’s Caitlyn. I just got a call from Troy. About Mom. It’s around four in the morning, and she’s been rushed to Eastside General Hospital. I don’t know the details, but when I do, I’ll call again.” She hesitated, staring out the windshield to the deserted parking lot. “I, um, I just thought you’d want to know. It wouldn’t kill you to visit her. Maybe it’s time to mend a few fences.” She clicked off, figured she’d probably pissed off her sister, but didn’t really care. A crisis was a crisis.

Sliding out of her Lexus, she stepped into the thick, warm night. There was a slight breeze off the Savannah River and the rumble of a few engines as solitary cars, headlights cutting down the city streets, rolled past. Her footsteps echoed across the pavement as she spied Troy’s black Range Rover and, beside it, Hannah’s Honda.

Glass doors opened as she stepped under the covered portico. Inside the lights were turned low, the corridors hushed except for the ER, where lights blazed. The night staff was on duty, and several members of her family were waiting.

Grim faced, Troy stood near the admissions desk while Hannah sat on a long couch and absently flipped through a magazine. Lucille sat on a small chair near a potted palm and looked straight ahead, either dead tired or stricken, Caitlyn couldn’t tell which. Amanda, none the worse from her recent accident, perched on the edge of a plastic chair and Ian, dressed in his uniform, his shirt crisp, his cap lying on a table, seemed distracted and edgy. He constantly glanced at his watch or bit at a thumbnail.

“How is Mom?” Caitlyn asked, approaching her brother.

“Better.” Troy tried to angle a look past the drapes of the private rooms as some sleepy elevator music played from speakers set into the walls.

“Thank God,” Amanda said with a sigh. “I don’t know if I could take another tragedy.”

“You could take anything,” Hannah said without looking up from a six-month-old edition of
People
magazine. “You’re tough as nails.”

“How would you know?”

“I know.” She flipped another page slowly, and Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Julia Roberts on an inside page.

“Fine, so you’re psychic.”

“Nooooo, I just know people. I leave all that psychic crap to Lucille.”

Amanda looked about to shoot back a retort but decided to hold her tongue. Lucille didn’t so much as glance in Hannah’s direction.

Troy ignored his sisters’ bickering. “Once the ambulance got her here, the doctors were able to stabilize her.”

“She had another one of her ‘spells,’ ” Amanda offered.

“Her heart?”

“Umhmm. Angina attack.”

“Angina pectoris,” Hannah clarified, looking up briefly. “You know, as opposed to just angina, which can be anything. You’re talking about her heart.”

“What about her nitroglycerine pills? They’re supposed to help.”

“They didn’t work this time.”

Lucille sighed heavily as she wrung her hands. “This time nothing helped, so I called 911.” Guilt kept her eyes from meeting Caitlyn’s. She stared at the coffee table. “Nothing worked. I was walking her upstairs to bed, and she began to have trouble, breathing hard, complaining of pain. I managed to get her into the bed and give her the pill, but she just kept getting worse.” The older woman’s lips pursed, and she shook her head. “I called Doc Fellers, and he didn’t answer. Your mother, she was fit to be tied and in so much pain, but she didn’t want me to call anyone else. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called 911, and they sent an ambulance.”

“You did what you could,” Troy said.

Hannah rolled her eyes.

Amanda shot Hannah a warning glare, but their youngest sibling didn’t seem to notice as she tossed the glossy magazine onto the table.

“I should have called sooner,” Lucille said.

“Where were you, Hannah?” Troy asked.

“Out,” Hannah said sullenly, then grabbed her bag. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

“I’ll join you.” Troy was already reaching into his jacket pocket and jogged to catch up with her. The glass doors parted and they stepped outside, huddled together near the ash can.

Caitlyn looked over at Amanda. “How’re you feeling?”

“All in all? Just peachy,” Amanda said flippantly. “All in all, it’s been a helluva week.”

Caitlyn couldn’t disagree, but as the first light of dawn seeped through the mist, she had the gnawing feeling that it was only going to get worse.

 

 

He had to work fast.

Adam slipped into his office and made sure the door was closed tight behind him. He’d missed something; he was sure of it. Although he’d searched this room top to bottom, he was going to do it one last time, scouring every nook and cranny, tearing up the damned floorboards if he needed to. Time was running out.