Season of Strangers (19 page)

“I could,” one of the others said softly, her voice scratchy and low. Julie turned to see Carrie Newcomb leaning forward in her chair. “Their mouths didn't move, but I could hear them speaking, telling me not to be afraid.”

“They were devils,” Goldman snorted, “with pointed ears and long spiked tails. They've consigned us to hell and they're going to make sure we get there.”

“We all know your opinion, Matt,” the doctor said firmly. “Why don't we let Robert finish?”

Goldman sat back in his chair. It was obvious the others wished he wasn't there.

“I don't remember much more about that particular time,” Robert continued. “When I woke up I was back in my car and it was almost morning. My son was asleep in the passenger seat. He doesn't remember anything that happened to us, and I hope he never does.”

“How…how can you be certain he was taken?” Julie asked.

Robert Stringer leaned forward. He rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. “Do you see this?”

“Yes. It looks like a tiny isosceles triangle.”

“When I awakened that morning, this mark was on my forearm. My son has one just like it on his.”

Laura made a strangled sound in her throat. Julie turned in her direction in time to see her unbuttoning the cuff on her blouse. When she turned it back, Julie saw the small triangle.
Oh, dear God.
A knot clenched in Julie's stomach. Laura's face was as pale as Dr. Winters's white shirt.

“Laura?” Julie stood up, her mouth dry, her chest so tight she could barely speak. She started in her sister's direction, but before she could reach her, Laura's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped sideways on the sofa.

“Damn it!” The oath roared out from the end of the room. The sliding door slammed open and Brian Heraldson strode in, his face as dark as thunder. Obviously he had been listening. “I was afraid something like this would happen.”

Peter Winters gripped his arm, stopping him before he reached the couch. “Were you also afraid your patient's fears might actually be real?” He pointed to the tiny mark on Laura's arm, holding Brian's gaze for long disturbing moments, until Laura's soft moan broke the silence.

Brian tore himself away. “Laura?” He sat down beside her on the sofa. “Just take it easy. It's Dr. Heraldson.” The bearded doctor rested a hand on her forehead and Laura's eyes fluttered open.

“Brian?” She sat up on the sofa a little too fast and swayed against him. “Oh, Brian, I'm so glad you're here.”

He cleared his throat, looking a little uncomfortable at her familiarity. “Yes, well, after I arranged for you to come, I decided that maybe I should be here. I spoke to Dr. Winters about it. I never meant to actually come in, but…”

“I'm glad you did.”

Julie watched her sister with a mixture of pity and concern, her insides leaden. Had Laura really experienced the terror of being abducted, the awful invasions of the mind and body Robert Stringer had described? Though her sister had never met the man before, their accounts were amazingly similar. Still, if Laura was a victim of abduction, where had Julie been during the time her sister was taken?

She glanced down at her forearm. No triangular shape marked her skin. Surely if she had been there on the beach or in the house when the abduction occurred, as Laura's memory suggested, surely they would share some common recollections of the incident. But Julie remembered nothing.

“If you were listening,” Julie said to Dr. Heraldson, “then I presume you heard Mr. Stringer describe his abduction experience. Obviously it's very similar to what Laura has told us.”

The doctor nodded grimly. “Having read other such accounts, I thought perhaps it would be. On the surface the evidence for abduction looks convincing, but you have to understand there are other possible explanations.”

“Such as?” Julie asked.

“Shared hallucination, for one. All of the supposed victims might be sharing an imagined event—rather like two people having the same dream. In centuries past, people hallucinated fairies and malevolent angels who took these same sorts of liberties with their bodies. Today we see movies about aliens and UFOs and hallucinate spacemen. Or it might be caused by a medical problem.”

“A medical problem? What sort of medical problem?”

“It's called temporal lobe disorder.”

“What's that?” Laura asked.

Dr. Winters answered. “There are a number of diseases of the mind that can lead to hallucination. Temporal lobe epilepsy, as it is also called, is only one of them. It is often blamed for psychic and religious experiences, feelings of déjà vu, anxiety and panic attacks. Visions that occur because of this disorder can be extremely vivid, containing even sounds and smells.”

He turned a hard smile on Brian Heraldson. “Of our group, only Willis Small has been tested for this disorder. He does not have it. What Dr. Heraldson might not be aware of is that most of the people who have reported the abduction experience and been tested for temporal lobe disorder have also been found to be free of the disease.”

Brian eyed him coldly. “Schizophrenia as well as paranoia are also associated with hallucinations,” he said defensively.

“True. And no doubt there are those to which that diagnosis would apply.” The smaller man's glance strayed to Matthew Goldman, the nervous man with the tic. “But the majority do not.”

Julie shifted her attention to Dr. Heraldson. “What about the triangle on Robert Stringer's arm?”

“As I told you, the mind and body often act as one. The former influencing the latter to a degree that is often difficult to believe.”

“You're saying her mind made the mark appear.”

He simply nodded.

“Or it's possible these people are telling the truth,” Peter Winters said.

Heraldson didn't answer. He glanced from Julie to Laura, who still leaned against him. “Whatever the case, I think Laura's had enough for the moment. Perhaps it's time she went home.” There was tenderness and concern in his expression, and perhaps something more. Dr. Heraldson was Laura's psychiatrist. Julie frowned at the implications.

He helped Laura up from the sofa, then returned his attention to Julie. “I know what you're thinking. I want you to know I've disqualified myself as Laura's therapist from here on out. I don't believe I can remain as objective as I should be.”

Julie relaxed a little at that, grateful for the doctor's professionalism. Heraldson helped Laura to her feet, then together with Julie they walked toward the door.

Carrie Newcomb stopped them in the entry. “It's always worse in the beginning,” she said to Laura, reaching out to squeeze her hand. “The fear never really goes away, but after a while you begin to accept it. Things get better after that. And Dr. Winters is terrific. He's always there to help when you need him.”

“That's right, Laura,” Winters said, coming up to join them. “Talking about it can be very therapeutic. I hope we'll see you here next week.”

“We'll have to see about that,” Brian said coolly, and Laura's head came up.

She focused on Peter Winters. “I'll be here, Dr. Winters—you can count on it.”

“Laura—” Brian started, but the smile she flashed in his direction seemed to cut off his next words. “We can talk about it later,” he said gruffly. “In the meantime, I'll drive you home…that is, if it's all right with you.”

Laura looked at Julie, then back to the tall bearded man. “I'd like that, Dr. Heraldson.”

“Brian,” he corrected. “I'm not your doctor anymore. From now on we're just friends.”

Laura smiled softly. Her cheeks still held a trace of her earlier tears, but some of the color had returned to her face.

Julie squeezed her sister's hand. “Call me if you need anything.” She watched the two of them walk away, worried about Laura yet grateful her sister had a friend like Brian Heraldson to lean on.

Then another man's image came to mind, taller, darker, more sensually handsome. She wondered what Patrick Donovan would have thought about the events of the evening. His opinion might have mattered if things had worked out differently between them.

After his icy rejection, she told herself she didn't really care.

 

Walking over to the built-in bar in Patrick's office, Val reached for a crystal decanter of scotch. “Still a Chivas drinker?” he asked the tall, statuesque woman in black who had just walked into the room. Onyx hair framed a beautiful oval face, a cloud of black that set off her pale, nearly flawless complexion.

Felicia Salazar smiled, lifting a small heart-shaped round mole near the corner of her mouth. “You always did have a good memory…at least for the important things in life.”

He felt a trace of amusement, appreciating another of Patrick's many talents. “On occasion it's a handy thing to have.”

She walked up behind him, rested a long-fingered hand on his shoulder. “What else do you remember, Patrick?” She brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his navy blue sport coat. “The night we made love on the terrace of our room in Puerta Vallarta? We drank champagne that night, do you recall? You poured it onto my breasts then licked it off while we sat on the edge of the pool. God, you were so romantic.”

She bent forward till her breath feathered over his ear. “Or perhaps you remember something a little more erotic…like that time in Century City when you pushed the elevator stop button between the eight and ninth floors of Daddy's new office building. The walls of the elevator were mirrored, do you remember? We could watch each other while we did it. I remember how hard you were, how you forced me into the corner and shoved up my skirt. You buried yourself so deep I came almost instantly. You
do
recall
that
…don't you, Patrick?”

He swallowed, his hands a little unsteady. He remembered, all right. The erotic images had him hard again, just thinking about what they had done.

Her smile turned more exotic, her thick-lashed eyes going dark. She reached down and cupped his groin. “Yes…I can see you do.” She bent forward and kissed him, stuck her tongue inside his mouth.

Val kissed her back, enjoying the hot sensations washing through him, opening himself up to them. Felicia Salazar had just returned to the States from Brazil, where she had been living with her third husband. They were separated, she said. She was lonely. She was looking to Patrick for company.

He deepened the kiss, sliding an arm around her waist and pulling her against his groin. He cupped her buttocks, massaged the firm globes through her short black skirt. It occurred to him that although his body was aroused, he was far more in control than he had been with Julie.

Felicia slowly ended the kiss. “I'm sure your couch would suffice, darling, but I've an appointment at one, and I'm too greedy to settle for just a few minutes. My limo will pick you up at eight. We'll go somewhere special for dinner then go back to my suite at the Penn. We can fuck like rabbits all night, then have breakfast together in the morning.” She kissed him again. “No strings. No expectations. It'll be just like old times.”

Val's dark eyebrows drew together. It was Julie he wanted, not Felicia. He was even more determined to have her, but if they did make love, he couldn't afford to make another mistake. Even though he could relive Patrick's experiences through his memory any time he wanted, it wasn't the same as having actually done it. He wanted desperately to do things right this time and there was only one way to insure that.

He smiled. “All right. Sounds like the perfect evening.”

Felicia ran a long red nail down his cheek. “It will be, darling, I promise.”

She left him then and watching her walk away, he pondered his decision. He felt uneasy about it. Something didn't feel right. Still, it seemed the sensible thing to do, the most logical way to achieve his final objective.

He had a couple of phone calls to make. When he was finished, he left his office and headed toward the receptionist's desk up at the front.

“What time did Julie say she'd be in?” he asked Shirl Bingham.

“Actually, she didn't say. She said she had appointments all day. She called in a couple of times for her messages, but I didn't get the impression she was going to actually come in.” Behind him the front door swung open, ringing the bell on the top. “Babs just walked in. You might try asking her.”

He turned in her direction. She was dressed impeccably in wide-legged lemon-yellow pants and a black-and-yellow top.

“Hi, stranger,” he said. “How was Mexico?” She'd gone to Acapulco for three days with her latest flame, a polo player named Renaldo de la Garza.

“Hot.” She rolled her pale blue eyes. “I must have been out of my mind to go down there this time of year. All we did was drink Margaritas and vegetate in the pool.”

“Sounds like real tough duty.”

She grinned. “Yeah, well, somebody's got to do it.”