Maidenstone Lighthouse (19 page)

W
ith plots of suitable revenge percolating through my mind—Miss Practical suggested calling town constable Harvey Peabody and swearing out a complaint against Tom Barnwell, while Miss Romantic was holding out for challenging him to a duel—my appetite slowly returned. And I decided before leaving the bathroom that I was not going to let the alcoholic creep's pathetic antics ruin my life, or even my night.

In the candlelit parlor Dan and I sat on the hearth and grilled thick New York steaks over the open flames. We had them with green salads garnished with slices of fresh California avocado, dressed with a delicious raspberry vinaigrette—Dan's own secret concoction—and washed down with a good California Pinot Noir.

We were just finishing dinner and debating whether it was really possible, as I steadfastly claimed, to bake apples for dessert in the hot fireplace coals when a high-pitched electronic sound shrilled over the noise of the worsening storm outside.

“The hospital!” The words exploded from Dan's and my lips simultaneously and we leaped to our feet, searching frantically among the dancing shadows for the portable phone he'd brought in from the kitchen. The thing screeched again and Dan located it on an end table beside the chair in which he'd been sitting earlier.

“Hello?” he asked, pressing the phone to his ear.

Dan listened for a few seconds, then shouted back into the handset. “Yes, Alice, I can hear you, but barely…Speak louder, please.” He covered one ear and strained to hear over the noise of the wind and surf outside and the loud crackling of static on the line.

I was standing anxiously beside him now, watching his face for some indication of what was being said. After a moment, Dan winked at me, repeating Alice Cahill's words for my benefit. “Damon's awake? That's fantastic!” Then he nodded and grinned. “Yes, she's right here!”

Dan handed the phone to me and I put it to my ear, only to be assaulted with a crescendo of electronic noise. The static subsided a bit and I recognized the faint voice on the other end of the connection as that of Dr. Alice Cahill, but her words were being broken up by the interference.

“…Damon…his first…you…so…thought…right away and get…”

“Alice,” I shouted, “you're breaking up too badly. Let me call you back.”

“Damon says…” Alice yelled back, her voice fading away in a fresh burst of static.

“Tell Damon I love him,” I hollered. “I'll try to get a better line and call you right back.”

Frustrated, I broke the connection and looked at Dan. “Call the long-distance operator,” he suggested. “Maybe they can get through.”

I dialed long distance. The phone continued to crackle and sputter, though I could faintly hear it ringing on the other end. “What did Alice say?” I asked Dan while I waited for an operator to answer.

“All I really got,” he said, “was that Damon is out of the coma again and his vital signs are good.”

“Thank God!” I breathed, impatiently pressing my ear closer to the phone. “Come on, dammit!” Far away, a recorded voice finally answered the ringing and informed me that all circuits were temporarily out, due to weather conditions.

“Damn!” I switched off the useless portable phone and dropped it to my side. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“I say we go back up to Boston immediately,” Dan replied without hesitation. “It's what we were planning to do, anyway.”

Surprised by his answer I let my eyes dart to a window lashed by the driving rain. “Tonight?” I asked.

“The full force of the storm isn't due to hit us until mid-morning tomorrow,” he said. “So we might actually have a better chance at getting out of here tonight than we will after daylight.” Dan took me into his arms and held me tight. “Don't worry, I'll get you to Damon.” He smiled. “I think that for both your sakes, you two need to see one another as soon as possible.”

I reached up and kissed him hard, then swiped a tear from the corner of my eye and cleared my throat. “Dan Freedman, has anybody ever told you that you are one hell of a great guy?” I asked.

Dan blushed furiously for the first time since we had met. “Well, I have been told I make a pretty mean salad dressing,” he said, shyly casting his eyes down at the floor.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Dan went outside to the Mercedes and drove away.

Following a brief discussion over the coffee we had not yet gotten around to drinking after dinner, we had come up with a rough plan to expedite our late-night trip to Boston: Dan would go by his place to pick up an overnight bag, then he'd drive out to an all-night truck stop near the interstate to gas up and inquire about road conditions.

Meanwhile, I was to get my own things packed and be ready to go when he returned in about half an hour.

I was upstairs in my room, throwing makeup, underwear and a few similar necessities into an overnight case, when the old-fashioned black telephone on my nightstand rang. Thinking it must be Dan calling with some bit of last-minute information about the trip, I lifted the heavy receiver and said hello.

Free of much of the airborne static that had plagued the portable phone downstairs, the new long-distance connection from Boston came through with surprising clarity on the antique telephone wired into my bedroom wall. So much, I thought, for space-age technology.

“Sue, thank God I got through to you,” said a faint but familiar voice.

“Damon, is that really you?” I broke into a delighted grin. “My God, you sound wonderful.” Look, I'm throwing some things into a suitcase right now and driving up there tonight.”

“Sue, listen very carefully…” The pitch of Damon's voice was strangely high, and I was suddenly fearful that all might not be well with him after all.

“Are you okay?” I cautiously queried.

“For God's sake, just shut up and listen to me, please,” he snapped, confirming for me that something was definitely wrong.

“Is Dr. Cahill there with you?” I interrupted before he could say more.

Damon's voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Don't talk to me about that bitch,” he fumed. “I escaped in a wheelchair, broken legs and all, while she wasn't looking. But by this time I have no doubt the good doctor is probably organizing a search party.”

There was a brief silence on the line, followed by the sound of labored breathing. “I don't think it'll take them more than a few minutes to find me,” Damon said weakly, “so listen carefully…”

“Damon, where are you?” I demanded.

“I don't know,” he replied, his voice suddenly thick with pain. “In an office somewhere, the maternity department, I think.” Damon uttered an abbreviated version of his trademark idiotic giggle. “I only know that because I can hear the newborns squalling like banshees in the next room.”

“Are you out of your mind?” I screamed at him. “You have been seriously injured, Damon. You are going to hurt yourself. Now get back to your room this second!”

He didn't answer and again I heard only the rasp of his ragged breathing over the occasional burst of electronic noise on the line.

“Damon? Are you there?”

“I'm still here,” he said wearily. “And I am most assuredly not crazy, Sue. As I have been trying to explain to these hospital Nazis for hours, I saw Bobby…But every time I open my mouth to tell someone about it, the bastards jab another needle into my ass. I had to call you…”

Forcing a note of calm into my words that I was not really feeling, I said, “Okay, take it easy. I believe you, Damon. You saw Bobby in the Light and he—”

“No!” Damon screeched. “I did not see Bobby in any goddamn Light! That's what I have been trying to tell these medical morons here. Christ! Why won't any of you just listen?”

He paused for breath and his voice dropped an octave. “I saw Bobby in Manhattan, Sue. And he was very much alive!”

“What?” I stared at the receiver.

“The day after the break-in,” Damon wheezed, “I went back to your apartment late that afternoon to finish cleaning up. Bobby was just coming out of your building, wearing that crappy old leather flight jacket of his.”

Damon wheezed again and gasped for breath. “The man is not dead, Sue,” he insisted. “In fact, I think he's probably the one who broke into your place.”

I was shaking my head slowly from side to side in disbelief. “That's not possible,” I shrieked, my voice cracking with emotion. “You and Bobby never got along, Damon. We think that you only had a bad dream about him that you confused with—”

“Dream, my shiny black butt!” Damon exploded with maniacal fury. “I saw that bastard Bobby Hayward coming out of your apartment building late Monday afternoon. So don't tell me I was dreaming, dammit!”

“Oh, God!” During the last part of Damon's angry outburst I had dropped onto the bed in shock. Now I was just sitting there, paralyzed.

Because suddenly nothing made any sense. If Bobby was really alive and had been rescued, why hadn't he called me right away? And why hadn't his company called me, or the FAA?

“Sue?” The pain was back in Damon's voice.

“Yes?” I replied dully, after a long pause.

“I think Bobby saw me, too,” Damon whispered, slowly emphasizing each word as if it might be his last. “I was sure he started to follow me,” he continued. “I jumped into a cab and lost him…Then I tried to call your cell phone, but I couldn't get through. So I went straight out to the airport and got onto that damn commuter flight to Hell, to warn you—”

“Warn me!” I ended the astonished exclamation with a short, hysterical laugh. “Warn me of what?”

Damon's voice was rapidly fading now, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “Sue, I thought about it the whole time I was waiting to catch my plane,” he whispered. “Those times when you thought you saw Bobby during the past few weeks, when you were sure you must be going crazy…”

I tried to concentrate on Damon's implausible theory but my head was beginning to spin. If Bobby had been alive all this time, then I…I had betrayed his love, with Dan.

“I-I've been unfaithful to him,” I stammered. “I didn't have any idea…”

Damon swept aside my feeble confession with another angry outburst. “Unfaithful, you? No, Sue, don't you understand what I'm saying?” he croaked in his odd Southern accent.

“All the time you were grieving for him, Bobby was alive. He came back to New York and started watching you, stalking you. You didn't
think
you saw him. You did. You didn't do anything wrong, Sue. That lying bastard betrayed
you
.”

“But why?” I wailed, unable to come to terms with what he was saying. “I loved Bobby and he loved me. Why would he do a thing like that to me, Damon? Why?”

Before he could answer me, I heard the sounds of other voices in the background. Then something fell over with a loud clatter and Damon was cursing. His outraged screams faded away as someone else picked up the phone.

“Susan?” I recognized Alice Cahill's firm, no-nonsense tone on the line. “Susan, are you there?”

“Wh-What happened?” I stammered. “Is Damon all right?”

The doctor let out a long, patient sigh. “Yes,” she said. “At least he doesn't appear to have done any major damage to himself, thank God. Hang on for just a second…” I heard Alice issuing stern orders to someone, then she came back on the line. “At this moment,” she said, “two very large, very gentle orderlies are taking your Mr. St. Claire back to his bed, like a very naughty child.”

Alice suddenly sounded very tired. “I was afraid that something like this might happen if Damon spoke with you too soon.”

My head felt like it was going to explode and I wasn't sure I understood what she meant. “Do you mean you think Damon's still…delusional?” I asked. “I mean, he just told me—”

Alice snorted derisively, cutting me off. “I know exactly what he told you, Susan. God knows I've been listening to it here all evening. Damon is now saying that he saw your dead fiancé alive.”

Everything was moving far too fast for me. I was having trouble getting my breath and felt as if I might pass out at any second. “But you don't think Bobby is really…alive?”

“No, Susan.” Alice's gruff tone had turned gentle, soothing. “I'm afraid that's just your poor, befuddled friend's way of defending his earlier paranoid delusion. Actually, it's relatively common for patients with Damon's condition to change their stories to fit changing circumstances…”

“Oh!” I whispered, all my fears and hurts of a moment before draining away to a single, dull ache in my chest. If what Alice was saying was true, then Damon's mind had obviously been seriously affected by his injury, perhaps worse than any of us could have imagined.

The old house creaked and shuddered under a powerful blast of wind. I glanced nervously toward the turret windows, glimpsing the wink of the lighthouse beacon on its endless circuit across the troubled sea.

“I…We were going to drive up to Boston tonight,” I said.

Alice's reply was immediate and firm. “No!” she insisted. “Please, Susan, don't do that. As you must have realized by now, Damon is still very…confused. I've called in an excellent psychiatrist to see him, but it's going to be some time before Damon is going to be ready for visitors.”

“A psychiatrist?” I had a sudden mental image of Laura sitting in her Italian leather chair, making glib pronouncements about what was going on inside my head, when she couldn't in her wildest dreams have imagined the things I was actually experiencing. As a result of that experience, psychiatrists rate only slightly higher on my credibility scale than witch doctors and companies that run million-dollar sweepstakes.

Besides, I reasoned, although Damon's story was unbelievable it at least explained why he had been flying up to see me that night.