Sleep No More (23 page)

He organized what he knew concerning Abby's accident in a logical, unemotional fashion. When he looked at it, he only had two solid items: Abby's account of what had happened after she awakened, and Trowbridge's search for a third party responsible for the 911 call on Kyle's cell phone. No way could any conclusion be drawn from those scant details. He needed more; evidence from the accident scene itself.

With Abby's permission, he'd go with her to the sheriff when she met with him to tell him about the headlights, and--if by some miracle the hypnosis worked--what they discovered tomorrow in Savannah. Hopefully, the sheriff could fill in some of the blanks.

His main concern right now was the connection between the accident and the person threatening Abby. The obvious, due to the words on the mirror, was the 911 caller.

But what if Jason missed the truth by making that assumption? He'd seen it happen in investigations plenty of times.

Perhaps the threat wasn't linked to the accident at all. Jason had a limited view of Abby's life. Maybe after she'd rested, they could take a wider look.

For now, he had only questions. Was the vandalism at the cemetery coincidence, or linked? Abby had said she couldn't pinpoint when it had happened. And it was incongruous with the break-in; in the cemetery things had been taken, iron that could be sold as scrap.

He tried to approach from a logical, suspect-oriented viewpoint. Who was angry enough at Abby to threaten her life? Who could feel that Abby had grievously wronged them?

Because he was working with only the details of the past few days, the list he compiled was short: Courtney. Senator Robard. Jessica Robard.

Courtney was in New Mexico.

Senator Robard had lost a son. But he had too much to lose (which, judging by his treatment of his wife, he prized beyond family love) to stoop to break-ins and threats. If the senator wanted something done, it would be by another's hand. Not impossible, but unlikely considering the risk.

Jessica Robard. Much more likely. She had been depressed in the first place, and was now out of her mind with grief. She'd slipped away without her husband's knowledge before. The only problem was the words on the mirror. That message made no sense coming from Jessica. But again, she was out of her mind with grief; who knew what her thoughts were. Maybe she feared Abby had seen something having to do with Kyle that would ruin his reputation--which was all Jessica had left of him.

It came back around to his original thought. The anonymous 911 caller was most likely the key. A witness to the accident? Or someone involved in the accident? Someone linked in some way with Kyle Robard? Abby's suggestion of an underage drinker made sense. Had someone been riding with Kyle and taken off on foot? Had someone been racing him? There were plenty of kids who used that road as their own personal racecourse.

Jason wondered if the sheriff had questioned all of Kyle's acquaintances. He'd have to ask. A kid would act out like this, threats on the mirror, vandalism.

But would a kid have a bump key or know how to pick a lock so cleanly? Preston didn't have a lot of break-ins, and certainly none that had been linked to teenagers since Jason had been in town.

Anyone smart and experienced enough to break in so cleanly would surely be smart enough not to risk driving a car down a quarter-mile-long narrow lane and chance getting trapped. The road in front of Abby's property was too narrow and bordered on both sides by deep drainage ditches. Where would they have hidden a vehicle?

Jason fell asleep with that thought on his mind.

A few hours later, he awakened with a possible answer.

Abby roused slightly. Enough to realize she wasn't in her own bed. Then she remembered. Jason--she was in his daughter's room. And she'd gone sleepwalking in the night.

It wasn't as if she hadn't expected it. All of the triggers were there, sleep deprivation, stress, a break in routine. Still it had made her heart race and her bowels weak when she'd startled awake. All of the precautions had worked this time. But what if the battery on the alarm failed next time? What if she didn't make enough noise for Jason to hear her?

With a groan, she rolled onto her back and fisted her hands in her hair. Although her night's sleep made her feel human for the first time in days, it was so not worth the risk to stay here again. Her sleepwalking was a malignancy that couldn't be excised, a disease with contagious side effects that threatened everyone around her.

As she drew in a breath of surrender to the power of the darkness inside, she smelled it. Coffee and bacon.

She realized she hadn't eaten at all yesterday. Jason had offered food upon their return to his house last night, but she'd been too exhausted to eat.

It had been years since she'd awakened to someone making her breakfast--and she would never wake to it again. Until this moment, she hadn't realized how much she missed that feeling of security and belonging that came with someone cooking for you while you slept.

Belonging. The word struck a chord. She thrived on her independence, had never allowed herself to long for anything different. Life was what it was, not a storybook ideal. But for this brief moment, she permitted herself to imagine Jason in the kitchen making her breakfast under different circumstances.

It was a lovely and stimulating thought. No doubt if she was a normal woman she would pursue those circumstances. But for her, sexual relations were fleeting; long-lasting entanglements virtually nonexistent. She didn't think if she shared that intimacy with Jason, she would ever be able to let him go.

A small place in her chest felt cold and empty as she realized that, sooner or later, Jason would be making breakfast for a normal woman, a woman who deserved him. A woman who was not Abby.

Aggravated with her self-pity, she threw off the covers and got out of bed. She had never dallied in daydreams. Now wasn't the time to start. She made the bed and went to her overnight bag. She'd only brought enough for one night, as that was all she would allow herself. Today she would come up with a way to secure her cottage from intruders--maybe a thick crossbar like they used in the old days, or a heavy slide bolt on the inside. She'd figure out something.

As she rummaged in her bag she was stunned with the bizarre combination of things she'd thrown in it: orange nylon sweat pants and a purple cashmere sweater, green running shoes and nylon stockings. Only her underwear was coordinated, although wholly inappropriate--a black lace thong and bra.

"You're gonna be one good-lookin' babe this morning." With a sigh she gathered her clothing, switched off the alarm, and headed to the bathroom.

She took a quick shower. Hunger outstripped pride and she went downstairs barefoot, with wet hair and no makeup. Dressed as she was, her pride was useless.

Jason was standing over sizzling bacon and didn't hear her come to the kitchen doorway. She took a moment to watch him. He wore well-molded jeans and a light-gauge black sweater that showed those muscles that Abby had been crying all over for two days.

Damn, he looked every bit as good making breakfast as she'd imagined. What a shame this would be her only opportunity to witness it.

He must have heard her sigh, because he turned around. He gave a startled jerk, his eyes widened, and he nearly dropped his spatula. Immediately, he censored his expression. "Morning." He said it tight-lipped, suppressing his grin.

"Go ahead, laugh," she said. "I look like Bozo the Clown fresh out of the dunk tank."

He accepted her invitation and sputtered into laughter.

"Hey, I said laugh, but I meant tell me I'm perfectly lovely," she chided as she walked into the room.

By the time she'd reached his side, he'd grown more subdued. "As I was just about to say, you look lovely this morning." His voice dropped when he added, "Really."

He got that look in his eye, like he was going to kiss her again.

She took a step away.

He took the hint and retreated to safer ground. "Guess I should have supervised your packing."

"Yeah, yeah. Feed me." She walked closer and sniffed the French toast he had on the griddle. "Smells great."

"Sit," he said. "How do you take your coffee?"

She pushed her wet hair behind her shoulders and sat down at the table. "Like my men: hot, white, and weak."

"Aren't we sassy this morning?" He set a coffee-filled mug and a carton of half-and-half in front of her. "You must have slept."

She looked up at him, hovering just behind her right shoulder. "I did. Thanks to you."

"I should love hearing a woman say that." He paused. "But not after she's asked me to lock her alone in a bedroom."

Their playful conversation felt like sparks on her tongue and effervescent bubbles in her chest. She chuckled appropriately and concentrated on adding cream to her coffee.
If I'd had my druthers, I wouldn't have been alone.

He shuttled the rest of the food to the table.

When he sat down next to her and offered her the bacon platter, she took two polite pieces instead of the six her stomach was demanding. He grinned and shoved another two onto her plate.

Well, he was only two shy of her desires.

As they poured maple syrup--the real thing, she noted--on their French toast, he said, "I was thinking last night about the person who broke into your house."

She looked at him, those effervescent bubbles in her chest evaporating. "And?"

"Whoever it was seemed knowledgeable--with the lock and all. Would someone like that risk driving back on your lane with no other way out?"

As she chewed she thought. "You think they walked in?"

"Maybe." He took a sip of coffee. "Doesn't your property front the river?"

"They came by boat?" She got that feeling that Great-Gran Girault used to call someone walking on your grave. The intruder coming by river hadn't even crossed Abby's mind. The riverbank was overgrown and the dock had decayed to a few weathered pilings years ago. That kind of knowledge of her property opened many disturbing possibilities.

"It's something to consider. It'd be less risky than the road. They could come in with motor and lights off. No one would ever know they were there."

She had no idea why that idea made the entire break-in seem more creepy, but it did.

"I'd like to go out and take a look," he said. "See if it appears someone landed a boat back there recently."

She retreated to their earlier mood in order to hide her increased uneasiness. "That'll work great, because I clearly need to rearrange my outfit."

"Aw, and my eyes were just getting used to the clashing colors and stopped hurting."

They finished eating without further conversation. Abby was too hungry to initiate any more conversation that might take her appetite away. But once she'd cleaned her plate and they were rinsing the dishes, she said, "Something about that message on the mirror has been haunting me."

He stopped in mid-motion and looked at her. "I would hope so."

"The wording, I mean. The reason why didn't hit me until this morning while I was in the shower. The night after the accident I received a phone call around two in the morning. There was a lot of background noise. The person--I couldn't even tell if it was male or female--was obviously drunk and crying. They said, 'please don't tell... please.' I thought it was someone drunk dialing. But now I'm not so sure."

He set down the plate he'd been rinsing. "Did you tell the police?"

"No. It didn't seem like anything--until last night."

"Do you have caller ID?"

She huffed. "No, and don't lecture me on it."

"Maybe we'd better call the sheriff and meet with him before we go to Savannah. They could be working on getting the phone records."

"I'd rather not. A few hours won't make that much difference. I want to see what we find out under hypnosis before we see him."

"I'll call tomorrow morning and set up an appointment with him--if that's all right with you."

"Be my guest." Normally she was a do-it-myself kind of gal. But she had to admit, it was nice letting Jason make this call. She wanted the sheriff to know someone as intelligent and well-educated as Jason Coble was on her side when she tried to convince him that she'd been sleep-driving when the accident happened.

He said, "We probably won't be back from Savannah until late. It's a two-hour drive each way and we're not meeting Sonja until six."

Sonja.
Sounded exotic. She was probably European and brilliant. Abby already didn't like her.

When they went out to Jason's driveway, the Explorer appeared odd to Abby. She was almost to the driver's door when she realized it was sitting lower than it should be.

Jason had been more astute and was already down inspecting the tires on the passenger side. He said, "All four are flat."

"Well, crap." One spare wasn't going to do her any good. And getting tires on Sunday wasn't in the cards in Preston.

Jason stood and looked across the hood of the Explorer, concern on his face. "They've been cut."

Cut. As in done on purpose. It hadn't been the bad luck of driving over nails spilled on the road. Then it sank in, and she felt as if she'd taken a fast drop over a hill in a speeding car. Someone was following her. Following her! She started to shake.