Love Gone Mad Page 13

  Just keep calm. You have time … It’s all you have right now.

  Her eyes dart about the compartment—walls, floor, doors, the ceiling.

  There’s a recessed fan in the ceiling, but it’s not stirring. It’s coated with dust and years of grime. Hasn’t been used in God knows how long. There’s a suffocating stillness to the air.

  Stay calm; keep it together. He can’t wait forever.

  It’s stifling in here, but time is on her side. Megan tells herself not to lose her cool. If only her cell phone worked here; if only … if … the biggest little word in the English language.

  She can’t control the panic surge flooding her like a river gone wild. She feels her pores open; a trickle of sweat slides down her back. Her skin feels like it’s cringing.

  Think … think … of what?

  Let’s face it, girl, you’re out of options.

  But if she just waits and time passes, Erin will get worried. She’ll call the hospital, maybe the police, and then they’ll look for her … maybe … if she can just wait him out.

  There’s a creaking sound above her.

  She peers up.

  She sees it: a service hatch—a small ceiling door. There’s no handle inside the elevator. It’s a rescue hatch that opens from on top of the compartment—from the outside. No doubt for firemen and rescue workers; but there isn’t a soul to save her.

  It occurs to Megan that he’s pried open the outer door on the fourth floor. Conrad could be sliding down the cable—just rappelling down the thing. He was a canyoneer in Colorado, cable-dropped hundreds of feet down cliff walls—like the mountain climber he is—and soon he’ll drop down onto the elevator roof. She’ll hear the thump of those huge boots, then the scraping sound as he pries open the hatch. He’ll drop down into the compartment. And then what happens?

  If this was a movie, he’d stomp around on the elevator roof and then lift the door, drop down, and materialize right in front of her. And then he’d be on her with those massive hands, those powerful arms, and he’d crack her neck, snuffing out her life. But in the movie … something else would happen—something dramatic, life-saving, something implausible, impossible.

  C’mon, girl, get real! You’re not in a theater; you’re in this horrible little box, hanging in a shaft, and there’s a madman out there … and he wants you. He wants you to die.

  Her body trembles, it feels like it’s melting.

  God, what can I do?

  She sees it: the alarm button, a red knob. Why hadn’t she seen it before? Panic, that’s why. Her arm shoots out and presses the button.

  Clanging reverberates through the shaftway, up and down its length, shrill, echoing, penetrating her brain. She keeps pressing though her arm feels like lead.

  After what seems a very long time, she pulls her thumb away and listens. There’s silence.

  Her thumb shoots back to the alarm button and presses. The ringing resumes. Shrill, strident, the bell sound shrieks through her bones.

  He can’t stay forever—not while this clamor pours through the shaftway.

  Don’t look at the bricks, she tells herself. It’s too frightening. Just watch the floor and keep pressing the alarm. Someone’s bound to hear it. Is there a chance in this deserted building that a single soul could be within earshot of the bell?

  Megan knows she’s desperate for something to happen, for someone to come. If she just keeps ringing, she tells herself, yes … yes … keep pressing. Keep up the noise; don’t stop. The sound blares through the shaft. He’ll have to leave. Eventually, someone will hear the bell and call for help.

  She’s losing track of time: seconds, minutes … how many?

  Her eardrums are throbbing. Tremors go through her, but the bell’s her only hope. Its harsh shrill piping goes on and on, clanging mercilessly.

  She releases the button.

  Her ears ring—a high-pitched, tinny sound—and she feels her heart flutter like the whirring wings of a caged bird. Her body is damp, and an inner trembling ripples through her—wavelets of fear and terror. The compartment’s more oppressive now and she feels she’ll smother in its closeness.

  Megan lets herself stare at the wall. In any other circumstance, she’d feel panic gazing at this impenetrable facade—brick and cement in layered patterns. But right now, the wall is sanctuary. Safety. She could stay here for hours, for days, forever—just to keep him away.

  Now she listens to the thundering of her heart. Feels like it’ll burst through her breastbone.

  Then, strangely, calm comes over her, a sense of inner peace, tranquility. In those moments, Megan thinks of Marlee and Adrian and then Erin and Bob and their kids, Robert and Ellie. That’s the trick. Let her thoughts drift to the life-affirming people who love her. Detach from the here and now. Disconnect from him.

  There’s the past—not the present.

  There were the days with Mom and Dad—only memories now, but filled with sweetness and love. There were Sunday brunches after church; and she was high scorer on the girls’ high school basketball team. And there were the days—so many years ago—when Mom and Dad took them to Rye Playland, where she and Erin went on the Dragon Coaster, skated in the Ice Casino, and ate piping-hot pizza, pulling on cheesy strings of mozzarella. Those days seem so long ago, so lost.

  Oh, those memories. Megan thinks of them as so sweet and so painful. Painful? Why? Because they’re gone. And suddenly it seems to Megan that everything before this moment—before this very second in this horrid elevator—all the seconds and minutes and hours and days and years, all the thoughts and feelings and all the things she did with all the people she knew in her life, are gone … are just a series of memories. And yes, her entire life before this very moment is only a memory.

  Suddenly, the door closes. The elevator lurches upward.

  As quickly as it starts, the elevator stops.

  She peers through the door’s wire-mesh Plexiglas window.

  The cab is hanging just below the fourth-floor landing. Through the window, she sees the hallway ceiling and part of the corridor wall.

  She sees him: he’s there. He’s only inches away—the black ski mask over his head, the rounded skull. The eyes are red, wet, gleaming.

  A sound erupts from deep inside her; it’s as inhuman as the thing outside the window. She tumbles back to a corner of the compartment.

  But she can’t let the doors open, so she rushes back to the panel and hits the “Close” button.

  A thump shakes the compartment.

  Then another—more powerful. He’s bashing again at the outer door.

  There’s a creaking sound.

  The elevator rises a few inches.

  It stops—closer to the landing.

  This is it. He’s going to get me.

  She presses harder on the “Close” button, pressing the heel of her palm on it. How stupid, useless—how feeble she feels.

  There’s another thump—deep, penetrating.

  The light in the elevator flickers. It dims, brightens, and flickers again.

  Please, please … not in the dark. I can’t take the darkness.

  The compartment rises—slightly. A few more inches will do it. The elevator will line up with the landing. And the door will open.

  She’s quaking nonstop and feels her guts squirm in her belly.

  She presses “Stop” even as she holds the “Close” button.

  Her insides crawl; she’s shredding from within.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  The light flickers again.

  She slaps frantically at the panel buttons—first one, then another, then another.

  “Basement …”

  “One …”

  “Four …”

  “Stop …”

  “Alarm …”

  Ringing rises through the shaft.

  Just keep pressing and don’t stop. Don’t give up. Do whatever you can.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  Then it happens: the elev
ator slides down, moving slowly, steadily, glides past “Three,” then past “Two,” and bypasses “One,” still going down.

  And then … “Basement.”

  The elevator stops.

  Is he rushing down the stairwell?

  She presses “Open.” The doors slide apart.

  I have to get out of here. Move … move … now.

  She’s in the corridor, where she’d begun. Same cinder-block walls and pipes, same sink, meters, the open door to that musty storage room. Should she bolt back there, race through it and then beyond those doors and back into the locker area? She could trip over the debris in the darkened room. And what then? Would he burst into the room?

  To her right, the stairwell door is open. He’d pushed it out before he stomped up the stairs. She peers into the stairwell: cinder-block walls, cement stairs, and a glossy red handrail. It’s a double flight of stairs to the next landing.

  Rush … run … make it to the first floor.

  She pushes off on one foot. Then the stairwell fades; she’s fainting.

  She clutches the railing, yanks herself upright, and begins the climb.

  Her chest feels like it’ll explode, and how endless these stairs are. She stumbles and sprawls on her hands and knees. Pain—searing, shocklike—shoots from the heel of her palm to her elbow, and her knee slams into the step. Her skin is raw, scraped, burning.

  She rises and scrambles up the stairway. Her mouth opens, and her breath comes in short grunts. There’s a flame deep in her chest, and Megan feels pressure, as though her lungs will collapse within her rib cage.

  Now she hears it: a thumping of feet—a furious scrambling, coming closer, thundering—racing down the stairs. He’s coming. She hears his footfalls—pounding, raucous, clamoring and echoing, louder now—closer and right above her.

  Her feet find a rhythm, and she moves so slowly. There’s a door on the first floor, and she lunges ahead on cement legs—lurches and grasps desperately at the handrail—and there’s that fusillade of noise caroming down the stairwell.

  She’s at the door; she thrusts down on the bar and bursts forward.

  She’s in a corridor and there’s another door. She plunges ahead, stumbles again, nearly falls, shambles sideways, regains her balance, slams against the door, pushes the bar handle down, flings the door open, and then lunges and sprawls onto a linoleum floor. Megan thinks she sees doctors and nurses and a security guard, but the corridor tilts, her head hits the floor, and a white starburst detonates in her eyes. There are voices as arms lift her, the blood drains from her head, and the security guard’s radio crackles as she thinks of Marlee and Adrian and Erin and floats in pale ether.

  Nineteen

  “The hospital’s in lockdown,” says Pat Mulvaney, leaning forward with his hands clasped on the table. “Everything’s closed off … the ambulatory care center, ambulance bays, all of it.”

  It’s seven thirty in the evening. Adrian, Megan, Mulvaney, and Harwood are in the third-floor doctors’ lounge. A siren whoops outside. Megan shudders; Adrian wraps his arm around her shoulders.

  “How’re ya feelin’, Megan?” Mulvaney asks.

  “Just a few scrapes and bruises. I’ll be okay,” she whispers.

  But Adrian feels her body trembling. And she sounds drained, wasted. He rubs her back and whispers, “It’ll be okay.”

  “Megan, can you talk now?” Mulvaney asks. Harwood stands nearby with a digital recorder.

  “I don’t know,” she stammers. “I’m feeling calmer now. That sedative’s kicking in.”

  “Can you tell us anything else?” Mulvaney asks.

  “I couldn’t … not really … He was very fast … and … and strong … and …” Her voice warbles; her hands shake.

  “You think it was your ex?” Mulvaney asks.

  She nods and swallows hard. “Yes.”

  “We’re combin’ each floor, goin’ in every room,” Mulvaney says. “Everyone’s being interviewed. The only ones we’re not talkin’ to are patients in comas.”

  “He’s gone,” Harwood says.

  “Can’t know,” Mulvaney says.

  “You’re pretty sure it’s Conrad Wilson, aren’t you?” Adrian says.

  “Believe me, Adrian,” Mulvaney says. “It’s almost always the husband or the ex. And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else. He’s probably lookin’ for you, too. That night at King’s Corner wasn’t a coincidence.”

  “But Megan and I hadn’t even met yet.”

  “Still, Adrian, he was lookin’ for someone … and he picked you.”

  “You mean the break-in at my place, don’t you?”

  “By then he knew you were in the picture. It’s that old jealousy thing. ‘If I can’t have you, then no one can,’” Mulvaney says. He turns to Megan. “We’re gonna make arrangements for you, Megan.”

  “Huh?” she says, and peers vacantly at Mulvaney.

  “We’re takin’ you to a hotel. The tab’s on the governor. It’s not the Ritz-Carlton, but you’ll be comfortable. I can’t tell you where right now—protocol, ya know?”

  “But I can’t leave Marlee.”

  “You’ll both go.”

  “What about Erin and her kids? They could be in danger.”

  Adrian realizes it’s extraordinary; after what she’s been through, Megan worries about her sister and the kids.

  “She’ll be here soon … with the kids,” Mulvaney says. “You’ll all go. And her husband, he and the dog are stayin’ at a friend’s place in Avon.”

  “I’m going with them,” Adrian says.

  “Not a good idea,” Mulvaney says.

  “Someone can cover me. I’ll—”

  “Adrian, you’re both targets. We’re gonna separate you. You’ll stay at a hotel in Fairfield, on the Eastport border—near the hospital—until this is over.”

  “He’s probably left Connecticut,” Adrian says, feeling both hope and dread.

  “New York’s only forty minutes away. And Rhode Island’s an hour from here on I-95. But my old cop’s gut tells me he’s around.”

  Harwood’s cell phone trills. He snaps it open, listens, thanks the caller, and then closes the phone.

  “That’s New Haven PD,” Harwood says. “They got a warrant and went to Wilson’s place. Empty coffee containers, pizza boxes, and half-eaten cartons of Chinese are everywhere. But he’s not there.”

  “So you’ll be looking for that pickup?” Adrian asks.

  “My guess is he garaged it somewhere,” Mulvaney says. “Or maybe he sold it for cash to some illegal.”

  Mulvaney pauses and then says, “Adrian, you need anything from your place?”

  “Just some clothes, a few things …”

  Mulvaney glances at his watch. “It’s safe to go there now. I spoke with Chief Toscano in Simpson. Just in case Wilson decides to pay you another visit, Simpson PD’s got your place staked out. The cruiser’s probably been there for a half hour by now, so it’s safe. But don’t stay long.”

  Adrian nods.

  “Look, I gotta be up-front with you,” Mulvaney says. “Wilson may come back. Megan, we’ve got your place under surveillance—twenty-four-seven—with state police and my men. Adrian, Lieutenant Harwood’s made arrangements at a hotel for you in Fairfield. You’ll use a different name … Tom Cunningham.”

  “I don’t see why I can’t go with Megan.”

  “Please, Adrian, you’re in my operating room now.”

  Mulvaney rises to his full height. Then he says, “Adrian, talk with Lieutenant Harwood, then go home, pick up a few things, and head over to the hotel. Remember … the name’s Tom Cunningham.”

  Mulvaney peers at the throng outside the hospital. There are klieg lights and a clot of reporters. What a goddamned zoo, he thinks. A battalion of microphones bobs in his face. One aggressive reporter nearly pokes him in the nose with his digital recorder.

  Jesus, buddy. Watch it, will ya? I only got one nose, Mulvaney thinks, scowling at the guy. He makes his way do
wn the hospital’s steps, thinking he should have used a side door.

  News 12 Connecticut has a truck sitting there. Local reporters and TV crews jostle for position.

  “Chief! Can you give us any details?”

  “I’m afraid not, Harold,” Mulvaney says to Harold Fallon, a reporter for the Connecticut Post. He and Fallon go back two decades to Mulvaney’s days in the New Haven PD. “We’re sortin’ through everything.”

  Mulvaney tries to quicken his pace, but the pack is too thick. He stops on the mezzanine between the upper and lower stairway.

  “Any idea who it was, Chief?” calls a reporter. The guy’s face is thin, mottled—some goddamned skin condition—and under the lights he looks reptilian.

  “Is there a boyfriend involved?” asks a guy from the New Haven Register.

  “No comment.”

  The horde cascades down the steps with him, mikes, cameras, recorders held high.

  “Does it look like a random thing, or was it a stalker?” shouts a reporter for the Eastport Bulletin, the town weekly. The paper’s biggest stories usually center on the new school budget or rising property taxes. Not tonight.

  “People … people … it’s an ongoin’ investigation.”

  Mulvaney plows through the mob, but they follow him like a swarm of pilot fish on a shark’s ass. A forensic team’s just arrived from Hartford; it’s combing through the place. If something’s found—a hair, fiber, anything—they’ll tag it and bag it.

  Everyone’s here—TV crews, the daily rags, the local weeklies. Mulvaney gets to the sidewalk and keeps walking. One guy with a camcorder crouches down to get a close-up of Mulvaney—a goddamned nostril shot. Mulvaney keeps trudging as two beefy cops commandeer Camcorder Guy and shove him back.

  This stinks out loud, Mulvaney thinks, quickening his stride.

  I gotta get away from this pack of shitweasals.

  A contingent of state police brass is coming to an eight o’clock meeting at the town hall. So is Eastport’s first selectman, Kevin Russell, and members of the town council. Mulvaney’s gotta hustle now, gotta talk with Inspector Bruce Howard, state police deputy chief of the Central District’s Major Crime Unit.