Chapter 11

 

Intruder the First

 

 

1.

 

His visit to Braxton-Carville’s sprawling industrial complex in northern Virginia that day had been fruitless, as he’d expected. He had been made to wait for nearly half an hour before meeting with an officious little PR man whose forced smile—which was not reflected in his dull, bored eyes—remained frozen on his face. The little thirtyish man was named Arthur Merkel, and he assured Falczek that wherever he’d gotten the ridiculous notion that Braxton-Carville was engaged in some secret deal that withheld Paaxone from the patients to whom it had been prescribed, it was absolutely untrue and slanderous and possibly actionable, so he should stop repeating it. The fact was, Arthur Merkel said, that a simple unforeseen malfunction in the manufacturing process had created a shortage of Paaxone that was, as he spoke, being remedied, and the drug would once again be readily available in California very, very soon, and might, in fact, be available there again already. As Falczek persisted with his questions, Arthur Merkel’s smile became more and more forced and the boredom in his eyes morphed into irritation, then repressed anger. The smile remained, but it went from looking forced to looking painful. Falczek gave the man one of the long-unused business cards he’d dug out of a desk drawer before leaving his house in Santa Vermelha.

He’d finally left Braxton-Carville with the hope that Arthur Merkel would start a chain reaction of information that would, at some point, reach someone who knew the truth and who—alarmed by what Falczek knew and curious about how he knew it—would call the number on the card and have a real conversation about Paaxone.

When he left Braxton-Carville and drove toward the suburb of McLean, in Fairfax County, for dinner with the Ims, he found that the day had darkened. Storm clouds had gathered in the sky and as he drove, fat drops of rain began to splat on his windshield. They were few and far between at first, but soon his wipers could barely keep up with them.

He turned on the radio and almost immediately heard the words “Santa Vermelha.” He turned up the volume and listened to the coverage of the Whiskey Lake Mall shooting. The story made him feel queasy. He went to the mall frequently, and as he listened to the coverage, he couldn’t avoid imagining himself being there when the shooting had taken place, possibly even being shot.

It would have been time consuming to drive back to his hotel because the route took him past the Ims and he would have to double back to go there for dinner. So he killed some time by visiting the Smithsonian Udvar-Hazy Air and Space Museum in Dulles, which was new since Falczek had last been in the area. He perused the exhibits until the museum closed at five.

It was still pouring when he arrived at the Im house. They lived in a two-story colonial style house on Lodgepole Street in a quiet, pricey neighborhood where the homes had large yards and healthy distances between them. They could not have afforded a house in that neighborhood on Toby’s salary alone; Cherie was a pediatrician with a busy practice in Arlington. Their house had been repainted in the years since Falczek had been there last, and the large front yard was lush with trees and plants that hadn’t been there before.

It was still raining, and he ducked his head as he hurried up the curving stone path that cut across the lawn. The front door opened as he was going up the steps of the large porch.

“Falczek!” Toby said. “Come in, come in. Cherie’s not home yet, but she’ll be here soon.”

They shook hands, then Toby led him through the grand foyer and into the house.

“How’s Cherie’s practice going?” Falczek asked as they went down a spacious tiled hall.

“She’s doing so well, she moved to a bigger building with a couple of other doctors. They’ve had to turn patients away.” Toby led him into the kitchen. “Take a seat at the bar. I’m doing dinner tonight.”

“I get to watch you cook?” Falczek said as he sat down at the broad tile bar that separated the kitchen from the dining room, both of which were spacious. “You didn’t say anything about a comedy floorshow.”

“Hey, I’ve gotten good. We’re having swordfish steaks with a delicious mushroom-garlic sauce—my own recipe, by the way—with asparagus and almond wild rice. And you’re going to be amazed, I promise. You still drink scotch? On the rocks? I’ve got some good stuff.”

“Bring it on. I could use a drink. I spent the afternoon dealing with some officious little prick at Braxton-Carville.”

Toby got two glasses from a cupboard, ice from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, and poured from a bottle. The small ice cubes crackled as the amber liquid covered them. “The Balvenie Portwood, 21 year old single malt. This is silky stuff. Fruit, spice, honey, a nice long nutty finish, very gentle.”

Falczek’s eyebrows rose. “Jesus, what the hell’s happened to you? You’re cooking swordfish steaks and asparagus, you’re a scotch connoisseur. When I moved to California, you were spending your evenings in front of the TV drinking beer and eating Doritos in your underwear.”

Toby said, “About six years ago, I started watching the Food Network because they have a lot of gorgeous women hosting cooking shows on that channel. But I got hooked. Cooking has kind of become a hobby for me, and along with that, I’ve started paying attention to things like wine and scotch.”

“Pretty soon you’ll be wearing a dress and singing show tunes in airport men’s rooms. When that happens, by the way, I get dibs on Cherie.”

They both laughed, then sipped their drinks.

“How’s your life been, Falczek?” Toby said. “I haven’t seen you since Sally’s funeral. You really do look good. To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect. Losing your wife after all those years together—some people couldn’t hold up after that.”

Falczek looked down into the scotch in his glass and didn’t say anything for a long moment. He lifted his head and looked at Toby. “Every morning when I wake up, I still expect her to be lying next to me. Even after all these years.” He took a breath to continue, but his throat felt thick and hot, so he just drank a little more scotch. It annoyed him that simply talking about it still hurt so intensely after so much time.

Before either of them could say anything else, Falczek heard a faint clicking sound and looked beyond Toby to see an enormous Rottweiler standing in the middle of the kitchen.

“Either you’ve got a dog I didn’t know about,” he said, “or Cherie’s really let herself go.”

Laughing, Toby looked over his shoulder at the dog. “That’s Barnabas. We’ve had him for a few years. When we got him, he was just a tiny thing. But he’s grown.”

“Grown? If he were any bigger, you’d need pasture and a stable. He’s a beautiful dog.” Falczek leaned forward over the bar and said to the dog, “And you know it, don’t you, fella? You know how good lookin’ you are, huh?”

Barnabas cocked his head, then made his way slowly around the bar to Falczek’s side. Falczek got off the stool and hunkered down in front of Barnabas, taking the dog’s big head in both his hands, talking to him.

“That’s not too common,” Toby said. “Usually he takes time to warm up to strangers.”

“He knows a dog lover when he sees one,” Falczek said. “My dog, Doug, would be an hors d’oeuvres to this guy, but he’s just about my best friend in the world these days.” He got back up on the stool and took another sip of his scotch. Barnabas settled down on the floor beside him, head lifted to look up at Falczek with questioning brown eyes.

“How’d things go at Braxton-Carville today?” Toby asked.

“Nothing more than what I expected. I waited around, talked to a guy in public relations, told my story, he denied it, I told it again, he got annoyed, and by the third time, he looked like he was ready to have a cerebral hemorrhage. I didn’t get anywhere, but I’m hoping my story will.”

“Well, I should get to work on dinner.”

“Oh, good. Time for the entertainment.”

They chatted as Toby prepared dinner, and every now and then, Falczek reached down and petted Barnabas, who seemed very appreciative.

 

 

2.

 

Chloe was dead on her feet when she got out of the car to go into the house at the end of the day. It had been a long day at work, with most of it spent keeping up with the rapid developments surrounding the Whiskey Lake Mall shooting that morning and answering questions from national news agencies calling her for information on the story. Holly Branstetter, an old friend of Chloe’s, had been wounded in the shooting, and after calling 911 on her cell phone—along with more than twenty other people—she’d called Chloe at the station to tell her what was happening. Chloe had put her on the air. Lying just inside a See’s Candy store and bleeding heavily after being shot in the thigh, Holly had described the event as it happened. KNWS had been the only media outlet to have someone on the air while the shooting was taking place, and clips from the broadcast had been playing all day on CNN, Fox News, MSNBC, all the networks and every radio station that covered news.

She’d stayed at work more than an hour past the end of her shift, then she’d gone to the hospital to visit Holly, who’d just come out of surgery and was pretty groggy. On the way home, she’d stopped at the grocery store to get a few things for dinner. She got home a couple of hours later than usual, but it was still too early for Eli to be home from work. And yet his car was in the driveway. As she carried the groceries from the car, she heard loud rock music playing inside the house. It was not the kind of music Eli usually listened to, and it was playing far louder than he usually preferred.

Chloe had a bad feeling as she entered the house, a feeling that something wasn’t right. Nothing had been right all day—how could it be on a day when fourteen people had been shot to death while they were shopping? But Eli being home so early... playing that pounding, wailing music so loud... it made her nervous.

Inside, the walls pounded with the hard beat of AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” It was so loud, she could feel it in her teeth. Her hands were full, so she hurried to the kitchen, put the groceries down, then went back into the living room to the entertainment center against the wall. She hit the button to turn off the music, and it left behind a throbbing silence and a ringing in her ears.

“Eli?” she called.

When he didn’t respond, her feeling of dread grew a little worse. She headed down the hall for the bedroom, but when she heard fingers clacking on the computer keyboard, she stopped outside the guest room and leaned in through the open door.

Eli sat at the computer, his back to her. He stopped typing, picked up a pen, and scribbled in an open spiral-bound notebook as his head turned back and forth between the screen and the page.

Chloe said, “Are you trying to—”

Eli cried out and stood with such force that the chair shot backward as he spun around and faced her with eyes and mouth open wide in shock. His startled reaction startled Chloe, and she jerked backward reflexively and slapped her hand to her chest.

“Jesus, Eli,” she said, her voice breathy. “Are you okay?”

Eli’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled explosively, and his body wilted as the rigid tension left it. “You startled me,” he said.

“Startled you? Eli, you nearly went through the roof. What are you doing?”

“Just... I was online and... nothing, really.”

As she went to him, Chloe noticed that he looked pale and his forehead glimmered with a thin sheen of perspiration. “Are you feeling okay? Why are you home early?” She caught a whiff of cigarette odor, sniffed a couple of times, and said, “Have you been smoking?”

He shrugged one shoulder as she wrapped her arms around him and rested her head against him. “I didn’t feel well, so I came home,” he said. “I just... I’ve been... I don’t know, I just didn’t feel well. And yes, I had a couple of cigarettes today.”

“Why are you smoking again?”

“I just... I... “ He shrugged and sighed. “I felt like it, okay?” he said with a hint of irritation.

She pulled back and pressed her palm to his forehead. “You feel clammy, but not hot. Are you sick to your stomach, or anything?”

“No, I just... I don’t know.”

Chloe turned to the computer monitor. “What were you doing online?” She saw a news article on the screen with a bold headline that read, “Teen Slays Parents and Sister.” She frowned as she moved toward the desk.

Eli stepped in front of her, quickly sat down in the chair and pulled it up to the desk. “It’s nothing,” he said, clicking the mouse. “I was just reading some news stories, that’s all.”

When she looked over his shoulder, the headline was gone and he’d returned to Yahoo, his homepage, where another headline read, “Gunman Opens Fire in Northern California Mall.” She looked at the open notebook with Eli’s writing on the page and said, “What’re you writing?”

“Oh, that,” he said as he picked up the notebook and closed it. He opened one of the desk’s drawers and dropped the notebook into it, then closed it. “It’s nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing? Whatever it is, you were so engrossed when I came in you nearly wet yourself and you scared me half to death.”

“Just some ideas I’m putting together.” He turned his head and looked up at her with a smile that looked forced. “You’re all over the news.”

“Yeah, me and fourteen dead people. Holly was there at the mall.”

“Was she hurt?”

Chloe nodded. “She was hit in the thigh and lost a lot of blood, but so far, she’s doing okay. She had surgery today, so I stopped to see her on the way home. She’s probably going to have some pretty bad nightmares for a long time to come.”

“What about the guy? The shooter?”

Standing behind him, she slid her hands down his chest and leaned on him, pressing her cheek to his head. “He’s in police custody in the hospital. It’s a wonder, too, considering how the mall cops reacted. Holly said they were the first to run and hide. They’re not armed, of course, so it didn’t make much difference. If it hadn’t been for those two clerks from the JC Penney men’s department, the guy probably would’ve shot even more people. They jumped on him from behind, wrestled him to the floor, got the shotgun away from him, and then kicked and beat the shit out of him. Turns out the shooter’s wife was in the mall. She watched the whole thing, then keeled over with a heart attack. She’s in critical condition.”

They said nothing for several long seconds.

“A teenager killed his family in Fresno today,” Eli muttered absently, as if he were reminding himself that he needed to change the oil in his car.

“I didn’t hear anything about this,” Chloe said, standing up straight again. “Did it just break?”

“Within the last hour.”

“Jesus, what is happening to people? Is everyone going crazy?”

The only response she received was the silence of the room, the house. Eli did not look at her, did not even move in his chair, just stared at the computer screen.

“Have you eaten?” Chloe said. “Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Do you want to lie down, or something?”

“No. I’m okay.”

“You’re, uh... you’re not going to keep smoking, are you?”

After a long silence, he said, “If I do, I’ll do it outside.”

That disturbed her. If he was smoking again, then something was up. “I got a roast for dinner. Sound good?”

“Sure.”

“I need to get started on it, because it’ll have to cook for awhile.”

“You go ahead. I’m gonna surf the ‘net some more.”

“Why were you playing that music so loud?”

He shrugged. “Just wanted to make sure I could hear it in here.”

“In here? They could here it in space.”

She’d hoped that would get at least a chuckle out of him, but he just sat there staring at the computer monitor. She frowned at the back of his head.

“Are you sure you’re okay, honey?” she said.

After a moment, he said, nearly whispering, “I just don’t feel good, that’s all.”

Chloe went to the kitchen, unpacked the groceries, and started dinner. But the feeling that something was not right would not go away.

 

 

3.

 

Falczek couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so relaxed, so comfortable and at ease—and he was nearly three thousand miles from home. The only thing that would make him feel even better would be to have Doug nearby, making his quiet little snoring sounds as he dozed. Instead, Barnabas—who had taken quite a liking to Falczek—lay napping at his feet.

They had finished dinner nearly three hours ago, and it had been delicious. Afterward, Falczek and Toby had gone to the living room while Cherie put all the dishes into the dishwasher and turned it on. She’d joined them a few minutes later with a bottle of oloroso sherry and some glasses on a tray. Over the distant hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen, they’d caught up on the time that had passed since Falczek had moved to California. Vivaldi played low on the stereo and Falczek sat in a comfortable chair across from Toby and Cherie, who were on the couch.

Cherie was a tall, slender woman who towered over Toby, with large eyes and a beautiful face, short hair, and mahogany skin. She had changed even less than Toby; he had a sprinkling of grey in his hair and some lines around his eyes, but Cherie looked no different than the last time Falczek had seen her.

Outside, a summer thunderstorm rumbled. The faint hiss of a downpour could be heard even over the music and conversation, and occasionally, a white flash of lightning flickered around the edges of the drapes over the windows.

They talked at length about their children. Cherie brought out a couple of photo albums and showed Falczek some pictures of their children and grandchildren. Toby and Cherie had a daughter, a radiologist who lived in Massachusetts with her wife and one adopted child, and their son was an attorney in Florida, divorced and sharing custody of his two children. Falczek’s daughter Amy lived in San Diego, where she was a professional television stage manager who’d been working for years on a long-running morning talk show. She was divorced and hadn’t remarried, but she and her boyfriend had a son.

“The old fart in me would like to see them get married,” Falczek said. “But hey, the most important thing is that she’s happy. Marriage is... well, most of them don’t last these days, anyway. Her first one sure didn’t. She was so miserable in that marriage, I’m not surprised she doesn’t want to do it again.”

“How old is her son?” Cherie asked.

The thought of his grandson made Falczek smile. “Brian is eight. He emails me almost every day. He found a scrapbook Amy had kept of my stories, and he was so fascinated by it that he’s decided he wants to be a newspaper reporter when he grows up. I just haven’t had the heart yet to tell him that by the time he grows up, there won’t be any newspapers.”

“Hey,” Toby said, “you want to chase that sherry with some more of the scotch we had earlier?”

Falczek said, “I wouldn’t beat it off with a stick.”

“I’ll get it,” Cherie said. She stood and gathered up the glasses on the tray. “Careful, Toby, you don’t want to have to go to work with a hangover tomorrow.”

“I planned ahead,” Toby said. “I told Marcia I’d be in late tomorrow.”

“Well, I have to be on time tomorrow,” she said, “so I’ll get your scotch, and then I’m going to bed.” She looked at the clock. “Good grief, it’s already twelve-forty.” Cherie left the room with the tray.

The music on the stereo stopped and the room became quiet except for the sound of the rain outside and an occasional growl of thunder.

A flash of white around the edges of the windows was followed by a particularly loud crack of thunder. It startled Barnabas and he raised his head to look around with sleepy eyes. He rose to his feet for a long, luxurious yawn, then turned in a couple of circles before settling back down on the floor.

“That may be the biggest dog I’ve ever seen outside the old TV series Land of the Giants.”

“Yeah, it’s like having two other people in the house with all the food we have to buy for that dog.”

They said nothing for a long moment and just listened to the music and the rain.

“You mentioned newspapers earlier,” Toby said. “Whatever became of your idea to do a book on the history of the newspaper?”

“Oh, I’m still working on it,” Falczek said. “Have been for years. A little here, a little there. But I keep asking myself, who wants to read this?”

“I think a lot of people would. It could be a very important book, with newspapers dropping like flies. If you—”

The doorbell chimed and Barnabas lifted his head, suddenly alert, ears perked. Toby turned toward his head in that direction, frowning. Cherie appeared in the doorway to the hall.

“Who’s here at this hour?” Cherie asked Toby.

Toby started to get up, saying, “I’ll get it.”

“No, no, I will.” She turned and headed out of sight for the door.

“Check the peephole first,” Toby called.

Falczek heard the door open, which made the rain outside louder, then heard Cherie talking with a man. Their words were muddled. Footsteps sounded on the foyer floor, then the door closed. Barnabas rose to his feet in a quick movement and stared in the direction of the sound. A moment later, Cherie came into the living room with a police officer. He was of medium height and wore a rain slicker over his police uniform. A low, rumbling growl sounded in Barnabas’s chest.

“Barnabas, knock it off,” Toby said, standing.

“Toby,” Cherie said, “this is Officer Graham and he wanted to ask us a couple of questions about something that happened on our street earlier.”

Officer Graham’s eyes narrowed slightly and his back stiffened a little as he gazed cautiously at Barnabas. The dog continued to growl.

“Stop it, Barnabas,” Cherie said. She turned to the policeman. “He doesn’t bite, but sometimes he’s nervous around strangers.”

“Maybe he doesn’t bite,” Officer Graham said, “but I’ve had some pretty bad experiences with dogs, especially ones that growl. I’d sure appreciate it if you could take him out of the room while I’m here. I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“Toby, could you take Barnabas out to the kitchen and give him some food?” Cherie turned the police officer. “If there’s food in front of him, he won’t pay attention to anything else.”

Toby slapped his thigh and said, “Hey, Barnabas. C’mon, boy, let’s go get a snack, huh?” He led Barnabas out of the living room at a quick pace, moving past Cherie and the cop. As Barnabas followed Toby out, the dog eyed Officer Graham cautiously.

Cherie turned to the officer and said, “What happened here? I hope no one was hurt.”

“There was an incident earlier,” Officer Graham said, nodding, “but I’d prefer to wait until your husband comes back so I don’t have to repeat myself.”

“When was this?” Cherie said. “Toby and I were at work all day, so we might not have been home when it happened.”

As they talked, Falczek noticed that the officer was eyeing him intensely. It made Falczek uncomfortable. Then he noticed something unsettling. Officer Graham’s rain slicker was open in front and he was not wearing a typical police officer’s belt—no baton, no radio, no pepper spray, no gun.

“It was just a few hours ago,” Officer Graham said. He nodded toward Falczek. “Are you a guest?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cherie said. She turned toward Falczek, smiling, and said, “This is an old friend of ours from California. John Fal—”

Falczek did not know where the knife came from, but it suddenly was in Officer Graham’s right hand. The cop stepped up behind Cherie, wrapped his left arm around her chest, then pressed the knife’s blade to Cherie’s throat and pulled it across hard from left to right.

Blood sprayed and dribbled from Cherie’s throat and she made a horrible gurgling sound as her back stiffened and she began to struggle.

Falczek shot to his feet with a ragged gasp, but shock froze him there. He stood with his mouth hanging open as Officer Graham moved the knife away from Cherie’s throat. He held it out in front of her, blade pointing inward, then stabbed it into her abdomen to the hilt and twisted it.

Toby’s footsteps neared the living room as he returned from feeding Barnabas.

As blood cascaded over Cherie’s chest, the cop let go of her and took a step back, leaving the knife in her abdomen. She dropped to her knees, then hit the floor face-down. She slowly rolled onto her left side with another gurgle.

As Toby entered the room, two things happened at once. Falczek shouted in a hoarse voice, “Toby, look out!” as Officer Graham reached under his rain slicker and produced a gun equipped with a silencer and spun around.

Falczek rushed to Cherie’s side and dropped to one knee, taking his cell phone from his pocket.

Officer Graham raised his gun, and when Toby entered the room, he fired. A black spot appeared just above Toby’s left eye and for a moment, a halo of red mist appeared around the back of his head. Toby collapsed to the floor in a lifeless heap.

As Falczek was punching the 9 with his thumb to call 911, the cop spun around and leveled the gun at him.

“Put the phone down.”

Falczek looked up at the man. As small as it was, the opening at the end of the silencer seemed cavernous and as black as cancer. He closed the phone and set it down on the floor.

“John Falczek?” the phony cop said.

Falczek stared slack-jawed at the man, unable to speak. A pleasant, relaxed evening had gone terribly wrong in a heartbeat and his mind was trying to process everything.

He knows who I am, Falczek thought, and the words continued to pass through his mind in an uninterrupted stream: HeknowswhoIam, heknowswhoIam, heknowswhoIam –

“On your feet,” the man said.

Falczek stood.

“Back in the chair.” He gestured with the gun toward the chair in which Falczek had been sitting only a moment ago.

At first, he had difficulty moving at all. His joints felt calcified, his skin numb, his body detached from his thoughts. Walking in a sideways, crablike manner, he went to the chair and stood in front of it, but could not make himself sit down. He was too tense and stiff and terrified.

As Falczek moved, the man slid his left arm out of the sleeve of the slicker, then switched his gun from right hand to left and shed the slicker altogether. It fell to the floor at his feet.

Although they had slowed down a bit, the same words were racing through Falczek’s mind, along with a few new ones: He knows who I am he knows who I am he’s here for me for me for me he knows who I am he knows—

The man raised the gun and pointed it directly at Falczek’s head as he moved toward him quickly, with purpose. As he moved, he reached behind him and removed something from a back pocket. Falczek did not see what it was because he could not look away from the man’s cold, expressionless eyes.

Smoothly and without effort, the man kicked his right leg up and slammed his foot hard into Falczek’s chest.

Everything inside of Falczek seemed to explode out of him with the thudding blow of the man’s foot. He was knocked back into the chair. For several seconds, he could not draw in a breath, as if his lungs had been crushed. He felt as if his mind were folding in on itself as he gasped for air.

The man dropped to his knees in front of the chair and pressed the gun to Falczek’s crotch. “Listen to me, John Falczek, and listen carefully, because I won’t repeat myself,” he said. His voice was clear, words enunciated precisely. “I’m going to ask you some questions. You will answer the questions. If you don’t—” He held up his left hand to reveal what looked like a particularly sinister pair of pruning shears. The handles were black and short, with broad blades that curved to sharp points. He snapped the shears once with a crisp clack. “You get one non-answer or wrong answer. After that, if you don’t answer me, or if I know you’re lying, I will cut off one of your fingers. I will do this until I run out of fingers. Then I’ll start cutting off other things.”

Falczek finally got air back into his lungs, but he couldn’t quite catch his breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he breathed hard through his open mouth and gawked in horror at the shears. Something was battering violently against the inside of his ribcage, trying to burst out of his body—his heart. The man stowed the gun under his waistband in the small of his back, then grabbed Falczek’s right hand.

Falczek struggled, but the man’s grip was hard steel and he pulled the hand toward him with great strength. He put Falczek’s index finger between the blades.

“How did you know about the Paaxone deal?” the man said. “Who told you?”

Falczek’s eyes widened until they felt ready to pop out of their sockets as he coughed out incomplete words. “Whuh? Whuh? The Paa—the whuh?”

“That was your free non-answer. I’ll ask again. Give me an answer or I’ll cut off your finger. Who told you about the Paaxone deal?”

The deadly-sharp edges of the blades tightened on Falczek’s finger.

 

 

4.

 

Chloe was worried.

Slumped on the couch, she ate popcorn she didn’t taste while she watched an old movie on television that she couldn’t follow. It was nearing her bedtime, but she did not feel sleepy. She was too worried.

Eli had come away from the computer earlier for dinner—a dinner he had not eaten. Chloe could sense that something serious was on his mind; she’d kept up a running monologue about her day hoping to distract him from whatever was bothering him. As she talked, he’d poked at the food, taken a couple of bites, poked some more. Then he’d gotten up and paced for awhile before sitting down to poke at his food again.

“Honey, what is wrong?” Chloe said.

He looked up from his food, a frown tightening his features. “What? Oh. I just... don’t feel well.”

“Don’t feel well how? Are you nauseated? Do you have a headache? Are you feverish or—”

”I just don’t feel well, okay?” he barked. He threw his fork down on the plate with a clatter and stood so suddenly that his chair nearly fell over. “I’m not hungry.” He turned and started to leave the room, then stopped and stood with his back to her for a moment. Finally, he turned to her and the frown was gone. His eyebrows slanted up in the middle and his eyes looked pained and vulnerable. For a moment, Chloe thought he was going to cry. He came to her, put a hand to the back of her head, bent down and kissed her forehead. “Really, I just don’t feel well. It’s not you. Just... bear with me, okay?” Then he left the room.

For the last few hours, he’d been at the computer while she stared at the TV. She absently put popcorn in her mouth and chewed mechanically.

Is he doing drugs again? she wondered. Is he thinking of doing drugs again? Is he having second thoughts about us?

Communication had never been a problem between them. More than any other man she’d been involved with, Eli had always been open with his thoughts and feelings. But now, something was eating at him that he seemed unable or unwilling to share with her. That frightened her.

By the time the movie ended, Chloe had eaten almost all of the popcorn in the microwavable bag, and she hadn’t even been hungry. She turned off the TV with the remote, went into the kitchen, and tossed the popcorn into the garbage.

She put her hands on the lip of the counter and leaned forward, elbows locked. She needed to go to bed, but she wasn’t going to be able to sleep if Eli stayed up, doing whatever he was doing online, pacing, brooding. She didn’t want to pester him. She had countless childhood memories of her father shouting at her mother, “Stop being such a fucking nag!” Of course, there were few times when they hadn’t been shouting at each other, but the word “nag” came up a lot, and Chloe remembered thinking that her mother did harp on Dad a lot. She was never satisfied, always telling him he was doing things the wrong way, complaining about everything from the way he dressed to the way he ate his food. More than once back then, Chloe had thought to herself, I’ll never be a nag when I grow up.

She wondered if she was being a nag because she wanted to know what was eating at Eli. She decided she wasn’t, and left the kitchen to go down the hall. She stepped just inside the door of the guest room and felt a sharp clutching in her chest when she saw Eli.

He sat at the computer with his elbows on the desktop, head bent forward, a hand on each side of his head with fingers buried in his hair. He looked miserable.

She spoke quietly, not wanting to startle him again. “Um, honey? I’m going to get ready for bed.”

He lifted his head but did not turn to her.

“You want to come to bed?” she said.

“No. I’m gonna stay up awhile.”

She went to him and placed her hands gently on his shoulders. “Eli, something’s wrong. Please tell me what it is. I don’t think I can sleep if I know you’re sitting here feeling—”

He reached up and put a hand over hers. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“But you’re not fine. If you don’t feel well, you should sleep. Otherwise you’re going to be miserable at work tomorrow, and you don’t want to—”

Chloe jumped when he slammed a fist on the desk and shouted, “I’ll be fine, goddammit!” He stood and put his hands on her, turned her around and pushed her toward the door. “Just go to bed and leave me alone, okay? I-I can’t—I’m not able to—I can’t explain things right now, but I will, so don’t worry, just go to bed, please.” He herded her into the hall, then backed into the room and slammed the door.

She’d gotten a glimpse of his face before he’d turned her around and started pushing, and his eyes had looked puffy and red. She stood in the hall and stared at the door for several second, then hurried to the bedroom.

Chloe had seen Eli upset before. She’d seen him depressed, craving a hit of cocaine, a drink, and at those times, even at his worst, he’d never been quite like this. He seemed more than upset—he seemed afraid of something.

She sat on the bed, picked up the phone, and called Roger.

“It’s Chloe,” she said when he answered. She heard music playing loudly in the background. “I’m sorry for calling so late.”

“Late?” Roger said. “Are you joking? We’re just getting started here. A couple of Jandie’s friends came over and we’re playing strip Twister.”

“I’m worried, Roger.”

“About what?”

“About Eli. Something’s wrong.” She didn’t want to cry, but her throat began to get thick, her eyes began to sting. “I mean, something’s really wrong.”

“What’s the problem?”

“He’s been on the computer all night and he just kicked me out of the room. I mean, he shouted at me and pushed me out of the room.”

“Were you arguing?”

“No, but he’s been acting weird all night. Something’s bothering him. He started smoking again today.”

“Smoking again? Really?”

“He’s not himself. He’s like somebody in that old pod-people movie.”

“Invasion of the Body Snatchers?”

“Yeah. Something is really eating at him. He seems upset and angry and I-I-I... Roger, I’m afraid.”

“Afraid? He hasn’t been using, has he?”

“No. Well... I don’t think so. Oh, god, I hope not. But it’s like, like... he’s scared of something. He’s all wound up and he won’t tell me why.”

“Put him on the line.”

“Oh, no, this wouldn’t be a good time. Really. He’s on edge. If I even suggested it, he would—”

”Do you want me to come over?”

She thought about that and decided it might only make things worse. Whatever was bothering Eli, he was not in the mood to share it with anyone right now, and bringing Roger into it might just make him worse.

“No,” she said. “Thank you, but... no, I don’t think so.”

“What can I do?”

She released a single breathy laugh as she wiped a tear from her cheek. “Nothing, I guess. I just... needed to talk to someone.”

“Look, I know he’s been worried about not being able to get his pills. That’s really made him—”

”Pills?”

“His antidepressant.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh. Uh... you didn’t know? Maybe I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“About what?”

“For some reason, his antidepressant hasn’t been available. None of the pharmacies in town can get it. He’s talked to Everett about it. There’s some kind of shortage, or a problem with the manufacturer, something like that. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but he can’t get it, and he’s been worried about that. I think he’s afraid he’ll... you know... slip back to his old self. That’s probably not going to happen, and I’m sure that whatever’s holding up the drug will be cleared up before—”

”When did this happen?” Chloe asked, frowning now.

“A few days ago. But don’t tell him I told you. If he hasn’t told you about it, he probably just doesn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me? He’s scaring the piss out of me!”

“Look, tell you what. I’ll give him a call in the morning and we’ll have lunch together. I’ll talk to him. Okay?”

“But he’s so... I don’t know... so not himself.”

“Don’t worry, Chloe. He’ll be fine. Just leave him alone tonight and I’m sure he’ll feel better tomorrow. I’ll talk to him then, okay?”

After hanging up, she undressed, brushed and flossed her teeth, set her alarm, then got into bed. She lay there worrying, wondering why Eli hadn’t told her he was unable to refill his Paaxone prescription, wondering if that was what was bothering him or if there was more to it... and worrying that she would be unable to sleep.

 

 

5.

 

As the blades pinched together on Falczek’s finger, everything came into hyperfocus and the world took on a vivid clarity he had never known before. It cleared his head, calmed his fears, and somehow allowed him to catch his breath.

The gaze of the man who called himself Officer Graham never left Falczek as he waited for an answer to his question.

“There was a chain of sources,” Falczek said. His voice had a dry rasp to it.

“Start naming them. All of them.”

He gulped as he shook his head back and forth, hoping to stall until... until... until he could think of... something. “It wasn’t like that, I don’t know who all of them are because—”

The blades closed hard and cut through the skin on each side of the base of his finger and drew blood. Falczek cried out in pain.

“Don’t fuck around! Give me names!”

“Lionel Renquist!” he shouted. It infuriated him to have to give up a source, even a slimy worm like Renny.

“The other names?”

“I’m not sure I—”

The blades closed even tighter as the man said, “You’re about to lose this finger, John Falczek, unless you—”

Barnabas attacked without making a sound. The dog didn’t bark or growl or pant. He simply pounced on the man from behind without warning and closed his large jaws on his shoulder.

The shears fell away from Falczek’s finger and the man dropped them as he was pulled backward by Barnabas’s teeth. He released a long, grunting groan through clenched teeth as he reached back and struggled to pry the dog’s snout off of his shoulder. He twisted his body in an attempt to roll over, and the gun fell from the waist of his pants. Barnabas only clenched his jaws harder and finally released a low growl. The man screamed and kicked and rolled as he fought wildly to separate himself from the hulking dog.

Falczek wasted no time. He threw himself forward out of the chair and swept the gun off the floor, clutching it with both hands as he put some distance between himself and Officer Graham. He turned around and aimed the gun at the man writhing on the floor.

“Help me!” the man cried.

Falczek said, “What’re you, high?” His voice was hoarse and his hand trembled as he held the silencer-equipped gun on the intruder. He could feel his heart throbbing inside his skull while nausea roiled in his stomach at the thought of his two old friends lying dead on the floor behind him. He vaguely hoped he did not have to shoot this man.

A vivid memory entered his mind: Toby at lunch that day, joking that someone at Braxton-Carville might rig explosives to his car once they learned what he knew about the diversion of Paaxone. But it wasn’t a joke anymore.

Voice still ragged, Falczek said, “Who are you? Who sent you?”

The man didn’t hear him. He was too busy shrieking in pain and trying to get away from Barnabas. The dog’s head jerked back and forth, teeth buried in the man’s shoulder, tearing flesh and muscle with each movement. The man shrieked even louder. He swung his right fist around and punched Barnabas in the face, but the dog did not budge. He did it again, then a third time, harder each time, and finally Barnabas’s grip loosened enough for the man pull away. He scrambled to the chair in which Falczek had been sitting and clutched the pruning shears on the floor. In a squatting position, he turned to face the dog, ready to inflict pain.

He didn’t have a chance.

Barnabas was on him, closing those powerful jaws on the man’s throat as he knocked the man back against the chair. The shears fell to the floor again as the man’s arms flailed and his legs struggled beneath Barnabas’s weight. His cries of pain became wet, gagging rasps barely audible beneath the dog’s growls.

When Falczek saw blood spattering the chair’s pale upholstery, he turned away—but his eyes fell instead on the dead bodies of his friends, Toby and Cherie.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered as he clenched his eyes shut. He was in a nightmare from which he could not awaken. He walked over to the doorway that led to the front hall and tried to pull his thoughts together.

Obviously, what Renny had told him was very dangerous information. Renny had claimed that he’d received a threatening phone call and that his friend Lauren Parks had already been silenced by a suspicious car accident, but Falczek hadn’t believed him. It had sounded like another of Renny’s melodramatic concoctions. He no longer thought that.

He looked down at the gun in his right hand. There was blood around the base of his forefinger. His prints and DNA were on the gun. Without any thought, he decided to take it with him.

Take it with me where? he wondered.

He closed out the horrible sounds behind him—the dog’s growls and the intruder’s awful burbling coughs.

If he went back to the Crowne Plaza, there was a good chance someone might be waiting for him. Someone was upset enough with him to send a masked gunman to the Im house to kill everyone—had anyone else been there, he suspected they would be dead along with Toby and Cherie—just to find out where Falczek had gotten his information. He had no doubt they already knew where he was staying and which airport he’d come into and would be leaving from, and they weren’t going to take a chance of missing him at either place. He had everything important in his car—he wasn’t about to risk his life for his clothes and toiletries. Instead of the Reagan airport, he could drive to Dulles and catch the next flight out. Even Dulles might not be safe. It might be better to drive out of the area to another city, another airport.

White light flickered at the windows and thunder rolled a moment later.

He turned around when he realized the growling and gurgling had stopped. The man lay slumped against the chair, arms limp at his sides, head leaning forward with his chin on his chest. There was blood everywhere, especially soaking his police uniform.

Barnabas stood staring at the man for a moment, his snout smeared with dark blood. He turned and walked over to Toby and Cherie, dead on the floor. He sniffed them one at a time, then licked Toby’s face.

Should I call the police? Falczek thought.

If he called the police, he would have to stay there and wait for them to arrive. Then he would be questioned, probably more than once. It would keep him there for hours. He couldn’t afford that. He had to get out while he could and get back home. He needed to talk to Everett and take measures to protect himself from further attempts on his life.

I have to get out of here, Falczek thought.

He looked around the room and tried to remember what he had touched. His eyes fell on the shears on the floor near the dead man. Falczek’s blood was on the blades. He walked over and picked them up, stuffed them into the pocket of his suit coat. The dinner dishes had been cleaned in the dishwasher, but he’d been drinking. He went to the kitchen and found the tray of glasses on the counter. He couldn’t tell which one had been his. The dishwasher was humming, but it stopped when he pulled the door open. He put all three glasses in the dishwasher, then pushed the door closed. The washer kicked into action again. Falczek left the kitchen and went down the hall to the doorway that opened on the living room.

Barnabas lifted his head, looked at Falczek with troubled eyes, and released a high, tremulous whimper.

Falczek took a deep breath and fought back the urge to cry, just cry like a baby. He turned and left the house in a hurry, carrying the gun, with the bloody shears in his pocket. He walked through the rain with his head down, and got into his car. He wasn’t quite sure where he was going, but he wanted to get there as soon as possible.

 

 

6.

 

Hands on her body, pulling her.

A mouth on her skin, hot breaths coming rapidly.

Hard flesh stabbing against her thigh.

Chloe gasped as she opened her eyes in the dark, frightened by the frantic movement and the rough way she was being rolled onto her back.

“Eli?” she whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s just me.” His face was next to hers his lips touching her cheek.

“What? What is it?”

“I need you,” he said, breathing heavily. He felt hot and a little damp, as if he’d been perspiring.

He was naked beside her, leaning over her. He pried her legs apart with his hand and his fingers crawled up her thigh. He clutched her there, a finger pressing between her lips.

The bedroom door was open and soft light fell in from the hall. She saw Eli over her, his face close and glistening with perspiration, half of it black with shadow and the other half touched by the hall’s light. He swung his leg over her and moved his body over hers. She felt his erection pressing against her.

“I need you,” he whispered in an intense rasp.

She reached down and guided him in. “Careful,” she said, “I’m kind of dry.” She gasped when he entered her hard. In a moment, he was pounding into her as his fingers clawed at her. He grunted, making low rumbling sounds in his throat, as if he were about to break into an animal-like roar.

This was not like Eli. He was a tender lover, affectionate and sweet. But now he seemed angry, bordering on violent. It sparked a certain excitement in Chloe, but that was rapidly quenched by her fear.

He propped himself up on his arms and locked his elbows as his thrusts came faster and harder. The light from the hall glimmered in his eyes, wide and showing a lot of white. His eyes seemed to hold a burning mixture of fear and anger. His grunts came through clenched teeth as he pounded with his hips, one hand groping her, clutching, squeezing, sometimes hard enough to hurt.

She did not have time lose herself in any of it. With a final roaring cry, Eli was done.

He remained over her on stiff arms for what seemed a long time, his body trembling as he gasped for breath. Then he rolled away and collapsed heavily beside her.

“I needed that,” he said, his trembling voice, dry and cracked, sounding near tears. His breathing slowed, became rhythmic.

Chloe had not moved since he’d stopped. She lay on her back, legs spread, knees up. Finally, she whispered, “Eli, what... what’s wrong?”

He said nothing, just kept breathing very regularly.

“Eli?” She put her legs down and turned on her side toward him.

He lay with his left arm across his forehead, his skin shining with sweat. He was asleep.

The digital clock beside the bed read 3:28. She had to get up soon. She lay back on the bed. In less than a minute, she could tell she would not get back to sleep. She was wide awake. She got up and put on her robe. On her way out of the room, she stopped by the bed to look down at Eli. She wondered what had come over him, what was going through his mind, what had upset him so. She remembered what Roger had told her about Paaxone and she wondered if it was possible that an abrupt cessation of the drug could have such a drastic affect on him.

She sucked her lips between her teeth and sighed tremulously as she left the room, sick with worry and fear.