Sleep No More (13 page)

She got up, leaving Maggie to continue working.

Once she was out of Maggie's earshot, she answered.

"What can I do for you, Abby, dear?" Dr. Samuels's voice sounded thinner, less robust than she remembered. It had been well over a year since she'd spoken him.

"I think I need to see you," she said. "I've... I've been sleepwalking again." She figured explaining her theory on sleep-driving would be better if delivered in person.

"You don't say." He sounded surprised. "After all this time?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Losing your mother so suddenly most likely triggered this recurrence." He paused. "When did it start?"

"As far as I can tell, Tuesday night."

"Most likely you were experiencing it to some extent before that. Have you been continuing your strict bedtime routine? Have you been taking your supplements?"

Back when he'd treated her for sleepwalking as a child, Dr. Samuels had developed a regimen in an attempt to curb her sleepwalking. It consisted of an unalterable routine for retiring at night: always at the same hour; no TV, no exercise, no reading thirty minutes prior to bed; a hot bath followed by ten minutes of silent meditation (of course at age nine Abby had no idea how to meditate, so just sat with her eyes closed for ten minutes and pretended); a magnesium supplement and a glass of milk immediately prior to lying down.

Abby couldn't say with any certainty that it helped. She continued to sleepwalk until she'd passed puberty, although perhaps with less frequency. She'd probably just grown out of her sleep disorder as Dr. Samuels had initially predicted. Still, she had never varied from this routine. It was just one of the reasons she'd never spent an entire night with a man.

"Yes to both." She felt hope deflating in her chest. "Aren't there new drugs or something?"

"A few. But honestly, I don't like the side effects."

Could they be worse than driving around killing innocent people?

He went on. "And I haven't read much that leads me to believe they work in most instances. There is a sleep lab now at the hospital down in Savannah. Maybe we should set you up there for some tests."

"I was hoping for something more immediate," she said.

"Abby, there just isn't anything immediate that can be done."

"I've read about hypnosis--"

"Oh-ho, I'm sure there's aplenty out there who'll take your money. But I don't put much stock in hypnosis to alter sleepwalking."

Tears of frustration pushed for release. "I'd like to see you anyway."

"I think that sounds like a good idea. How about Tuesday? You can call and talk to Charlotte on Monday for a specific time. Then we can work on getting you into that sleep lab."

"Is there any way I can see you today?"

"I'm sorry, but that's just not possible. I'm already at the airport. I won't be back until late Monday."

She closed her eyes and exhaled. "All right. See you Tuesday."

God, she couldn't go without sleep that long. She'd have to figure out some way to make it safe.

Jason called the Robard house to tell the senator he was on his way to check on Jessica.

"Jessica is fine," Ken Robard said. "She doesn't need you."

"Wonderful. I'd like to speak to her."

"She's sleeping."

"I'll stop by then."

"No," Robard said. "You can't come here. TV reporters are camped out in front of the house. Kyle was supposed to be at school... he came back home to see a girl. We didn't know anything about it. Reporters are trying to make more out of it than it is. We don't need more speculation--"

"My concern is your wife's welfare. If I can't come and see her, I'll send an EMS unit to your house. See what the media makes of that."

"You can't do that."

"Watch me."

"You're dismissed from her case. I'll find a new doctor."

"Fine. I'm still sending the EMS."

Jason heard a huff on the other end.

"Don't stop and talk to anyone. You're coming as a family friend. Is that understood?"

Jason disconnected the call. If Jessica Robard was "fine" this morning, it'd be a miracle. Sometimes Jason got the impression Ken Robard would have been happier if his wife's suicide attempt had been successful. A grieving widower played better to the public than a man with a wife suffering from an ongoing mental illness.

Sheriff Hughes looked across his desk at his young deputy. "What makes you think she's lying?"

"The evidence for one." Trowbridge sounded surprised that the sheriff even asked. "Plus, it's obvious by her demeanor. She's hiding something. I don't buy it for a second that she doesn't remember
anything
after nine p.m."

The sheriff generally trusted his first impressions; and his said Abby Whitman wasn't telling them everything, either. Still, Trowbridge in his inexperience wasn't looking beyond that gut response.

"What would be the point?" Hughes asked. "Her blood alcohol and drug screen came back clean."

"Maybe she knows who the third party is and is protecting him."

Hughes thought of the theory the state team had come up with thus far. There was a third vehicle, or at least a third person, either involved in the accident or there immediately after. They'd found footprints near the body that were too large to be Abby Whitman's. Unfortunately those prints were such a mess it was going to take the lab a while to tell if they had a shoe tread worth anything.

Those prints, along with the post-mortem 911 call, were clear indicators of a third party. They also backed Whitman's accounting of post-accident events; that she had just come out of her vehicle at the time Trowbridge arrived. The question was did she
see
anyone?

"It's possible that she's protecting someone, I suppose," Hughes said. "We both know the Robard kid had a need for speed. Maybe he was racing someone at the time--someone who called for help and fled the scene. So maybe it played out just as Ms. Whitman claims."

Trowbridge's eyes clouded with skepticism. Hughes suspected he wanted to be
right
more than he wanted the truth. He had the intelligence and drive to be a good officer; he just needed to develop a little patience--and a lot of humility.

Hughes said, "The investigation team says there's something about the positioning of the two vehicles that doesn't add up with their initial thoughts. They're working up some computer re-creations and examining the damage on the motorcycle and the van. Maybe we'll have more specifics by tomorrow."

"What about Senator Robard?" Trowbridge asked.

Unfortunately, Trowbridge had been in the room when the senator had made his most recent call demanding charges be brought against Abby Whitman.

Hughes looked at his deputy sharply. "The senator is not your problem. And I don't want a word of his phone call to pass the walls of this office."

Trowbridge had the sense to appear contrite. Truth was, he had trouble keeping work subjects out of his personal conversations. Hughes had called him on it more than once--minor stuff, but it was a bad habit to get into.

Hughes redirected the conversation. "Did you speak to the priest?"

Trowbridge nodded. "The prayer card found near the motorcycle was from a funeral at St. Andrew's on Wednesday. Lucky for us it was a very small funeral. I have a list of about sixteen that the priest remembered; the rest I need to get from the guest registry. The family already has that. I'm headed out this afternoon to start checking them out." He looked quite satisfied when he added, "Abby Whitman was one of them."

"We'll see if the fingerprint on the card matches hers," Hughes said.

"How about those on the cell phone? Do we have any idea how many unidentified prints are on it?"

"A couple that are good enough to match. But until we have something to match them to, they're useless."

"We have hers, at least. We'll be able to tell if
she
was the one who made the call. Then maybe we can prod her memory."

Hughes didn't like the enthusiasm in Trowbridge's voice. He also didn't see what reason Abby Whitman could have for denying making the call for help.

He said, "One step at a time. For now, I want you to check out the local body shops, see what's come in new since yesterday. The state says there's white paint on the handlebars of the bike. They're comparing it to the van, but in case it doesn't match we'll have someplace to start."

Trowbridge left the office and the sheriff picked up his phone and used the intercom to the officer on the desk. "Don't put any more calls from Senator Robard through. Assure him we're on top of the investigation and will be certain to call him the minute we have anything."

Jason sat at his desk, finishing his notes in Jessica Robard's file. When he'd arrived at the Robard house there had been two news vans parked on the street. Two cameramen and two reporters had immediately scurried his way when he'd slowed to pull into the long driveway. They'd probably run his license plates and have his identity figured out by the five o'clock news.

Maybe that would be for the best. Then Ken Robard wouldn't make his decisions about his wife's health based on keeping her condition a secret.

It had been a damn good thing that Jason had insisted on seeing her. She was supposed to have been sleeping in the master suite; she was supposed to have someone with her at all times. But when Jason and the senator had entered, the bed had been empty.

A frantic search followed. They'd finally found her in the attic--only because she knocked something over and the thud gave away her location. She'd unpacked what looked to be Kyle's entire childhood. Around her on the floor were empty boxes, piles of stuffed animals, baby clothes, Boy Scout uniforms, baseball jerseys and an array of mitts, trophies, blue ribbons, and a scattering of Star Wars toys. She was smudged and sweaty and had fought them every step of the way as they'd taken her back down to the bedroom.

Jason had adjusted her medication and lambasted the senator for leaving her in a room by herself. The incident did seem to have rattled the man. Enough so that Jason trusted his promise to have someone with Jessica at all times.

Jason closed her file and looked at the clock. It was nearly two. Would Abby actually show up with her father for their appointment? After the way she'd withdrawn yesterday, he doubted it.

It was probably just as well; there were others who specialized in Alzheimer's treatment. And he didn't want to complicate things further with Abby by treating her father.

As that thought entered his mind, he asked himself just what he was hoping for in that relationship. Good sense said one thing while his desires were in stark contradiction. He'd been blinded by his own emotions before. Unfortunately he hadn't been the only one to suffer.

Just last night when he'd spoken to Brenna on the phone before her bedtime, she'd asked again when he was coming home. He'd thought at least that issue was behind them. When he'd probed more deeply, he discovered that Bryce had told her if they were all very good, things would work out. Brenna had then told Jason that she'd been good and she prayed every night for Daddy to come home.

When she'd said it, Jason had thought his heart would shatter with its next beat. But his heart kept pumping--and his innocent baby girl kept hoping.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. Nope, he had no business inviting anyone else to his emotional circus.

He heard the outer door open and close. Jason didn't employ a receptionist; the size of this town kept his practice too small to need one. Which was the same reason that his office was located in the back of his residence.

He heard Abby's assuring voice as she spoke to her father.

She'd come.

He couldn't tell if the feeling in his gut was excitement or trepidation as he walked into the tiny waiting area to greet them. The second he looked at Abby, he realized it was excitement--no doubt about it. He was extraordinarily happy to see her, no matter what circumstance had brought her here.

Shame followed right on the heels of that thought. She looked exhausted; he had no right finding pleasure of any sort as a result of her difficult situation.

Jason looked at her father. He appeared calm. Jason wondered how Abby had convinced him to come. How much had she shared with him about her concerns? God knew, this had the potential to be an ugly scene. But somehow Abby had handled it in a way that her father didn't seem threatened.

Tom Whitman shook his hand. "I'm only here to satisfy Abby. She's been such a worrywart since her mother passed. I'll tell you right now, I've never been sick a day in my life. Can't even remember the last time I needed a doctor."

"It's good of you to humor her, sir." Jason smiled. You're lucky to have such a wonderful daughter. Please, come into my office."

Once Abby and her father were seated in the chairs across from his desk, he handed them a clipboard with health history forms.

"The first thing I'd like is for you and Abby to fill out a general health questionnaire, list all dietary supplements and medications you're taking--"

"I don't take any medication. I'm healthy as a horse."