Wildwood Road (10 page)

Enough,
she thought.

Jillian kissed the back of his neck and reached around to trace her fingers down his chest. Then she moved her hand lower, pushed beneath the waistband of his cotton briefs, and gripped his cock in her hand.

On the third stroke, he woke up.

He seemed to wake all at once, and a small gasp escaped his lips. “Jilly? What are you doing?”

“Sssh. What does it feel like I'm doing? I can't sleep. If I have to be up,” she said, stroking him erect, “then so do you.”

Michael laughed, and her heart shattered with relief at that sound.

When he rolled over, though, the two of them there beneath their down comforter, in the private warmth of the bed they had shared for years, there was still a distance in his eyes, a sadness that she did not understand. If she had not known better, she would have thought what she saw in him was fear. But what did Michael Dansky have to be frightened of? She had never known him to be afraid of anything.

He pushed his fingers through her hair, caressed her face, and bent to kiss her on the nose and then on her eyelids. His hand began to run over the curves of her body and he snuggled up even closer to her.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

His brows arched, eyes filled with alarm at first, and then with sorrow. “Sorry. I . . . it's been the strangest week.”

“Why didn't you talk to me about it?” she asked, not accusing him, but trying to lead his straying mind back. “When you're troubled, baby, this is where you always come. Home to me.” Jillian took his hand and placed it over her heart. “You bring it here so that you're never alone.” She lowered her voice but her gaze did not waver. “When you don't, I'm scared for you, and for us, and then we're both alone.”

Michael drew in a long, shuddering breath. He continued to caress her and Jillian's own fingers danced up and down his chest, then back down to stroke him again. But there was no seduction there. It was all a part of who they were. Sex and passion and friendship and love, an adoration that combined them all.

“I know,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

“Can you talk to me about it now?”

She felt him begin to soften in her hand.

He drew her to him and kissed her hair, kissed her tenderly on her mouth, then softly on the neck, where it sent a ripple of pleasurable shudders all through her.

“Tomorrow. Let me sleep on it tonight, and I promise I'll tell you about it tomorrow. In the daylight.”

For some reason, she shivered at this, and not at all with pleasure. Jillian pushed him back so that she could stare into his eyes again. “I'll never be able to sleep if I don't at least know what it's about. Only the worst things come to mind, especially in the middle of the night. We can talk about it tomorrow, but at least let me know what it is that's troubling you. What it's about.”

Michael hesitated a moment, but then he swallowed and nodded. When he spoke, he drew in a quick breath first as though he was afraid he might not have the air to get the words out.

“I think I saw a ghost.”

For a long time they only stared at one another, Jillian searching for some explanation, something further in her husband's eyes. She wanted to know more, but she knew the conversation was over for tonight. Then, softly at first but with growing urgency, Michael kissed her once more. His hands moved over her skin and she found herself responding with a ferocity that shocked her. She needed him. It was as though they were escaping into one another, fleeing from this thing that haunted them.

CHAPTER SEVEN

On Thursday morning Michael told her everything. They sat together at the rustic table in their kitchen, the November sun halfhearted as it spilled through the windows and across the floor, and Jillian pulled her feet up beneath her on her chair and cupped her hands around her coffee mug, watching him with equal parts compassion and astonishment. She wore flannel pajama pants and thick white cotton socks. Normally the sight of her like that would have taken his breath away. With the mischief of the previous night glinting in her eyes and stray locks of dark hair falling wild across her face, the earnest innocence in her stumble-out-of-bed wardrobe was incredibly, unintentionally, sexy.

But Michael was immune to his wife's charms at the moment. The dreadful chill that shivered up the back of his neck was far too much of a distraction. He traced one finger over the handle of his coffee mug, furrowing his brow a moment as he noticed the way that the sunshine coming through the windows stretched just far enough to envelop Jillian in its brightness, leaving him in shadow, a slashing line dividing the table in half.

“So,” he ventured. “I'm wigging out, right?”

Jillian laughed, but there was an unsettledness to it, something shrouded beneath her gaze when she looked at him. Michael had told her everything he could remember from Saturday night, all of the thoughts he had been having, the way he had been obsessing about the lost girl and his responsibility to her. He had told her about the way he had subconsciously worked her into his sketches, and about the weird sensory events, the things he kept smelling. Most important, of course, he told her about
seeing
the girl.

“And you haven't seen her since Monday?”

He shook his head. “No. But I keep feeling like I'm going to, like I'll turn around and she'll just be there, as if she's here, but not here. I know how it sounds, trust me.”

“Scooter?” Jillian looked at him. “You're sure that was what she said?”

Michael nodded. “It must be a nickname or something.”

She smiled. “I hope so.”

He realized that Jillian was stalling for time, hedging as she tried to process everything he had said. But he couldn't blame her for needing a couple of minutes to take it all in. He tried to imagine how he would have reacted if their situations were reversed, and could not.

Wasn't it strange, how most of the time the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the floral clock on the wall were inaudible, and yet at other times they seemed impossibly loud? Now, for instance.

“Well?” he said, at last.

It seemed to pain her to respond. She pursed her lips together and gave a barely perceptible shake of her head. “You never believed in ghosts,” she said softly.

“No, I didn't. I'm still not sure I do.” The heat of embarrassment warmed his face. “I mean, what's more likely, really? That I'm being haunted . . . or that my head's shaken up from what happened Saturday night? All of it, I mean.”

Jillian's usual confidence slipped back into her expression and she smiled as she reached across the table, shattering that line between daylight and shadow. She twined her fingers with his and tilted her head, drawing his gaze and holding it.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

With a nod, Michael sighed. “Yeah. I do. And to be honest with you, sweetie, I think I'd almost rather be haunted.”

“Hey,” she said softly, squeezing his fingers. Her brows knitted in consternation. “Don't do that. You're talking to insomnia girl, remember?” And he did remember. Jillian had suffered from terrible insomnia the year Michael had graduated college. “I couldn't shut my mind off for months. I thought things at three in the morning that wouldn't make sense to anyone. Your mind can play tricks on you. And very few of them are funny.

“Look, we've already established that you weren't drunk enough by half for what happened to you Saturday night. So someone slipped you something. How are we to know the effects of whatever it was? We don't even know
what
it was. So what have you got so far? A bit of obsession, which is understandable if you're feeling guilty for having left the girl at that house when you're not sure she was safe. You were messed up, Michael. You're not responsible. But I can't tell you not to feel that way, 'cause I'd probably be stressing about it, too.

“What else do we have? Paranoia, for sure. Weird sensory experiences. That sounds like the effects of drugs. All right, you've had one massive hallucination—seeing this girl—but even that could be due to whatever was in your drink, or the mental stress, or a combination of the two. I think you should see a doctor—”

Michael nodded, sighing. “A shrink.”

“Well, yeah,” Jillian agreed, nodding in punctuation. “But that's not what I meant. I think you should see a
doctor
doctor to make sure that whatever you were doped with this weekend isn't going to have lasting side effects. Who knows what's in your blood right now? And then I think you should talk to a therapist, just to get rid of the stress you're under. You're so tense, you've latched on to this girl. Maybe you need to talk to someone whose job it is to combat that stuff.”

The smell of coffee was strong in his nostrils. Michael noticed that the morning sun was rising further into the sky and the line of shadow had moved back some, so that now the place where he and Jillian held hands was washed in sunshine. The warmth of it felt better than he would have cared to admit.

“You're okay. You're just a little out of focus at the moment,” she said.

“Like when the TV starts fritzing out,” Michael agreed, smiling with some small effort. “Maybe if you just whack me in the side of the head?”

“Don't tempt me.”

They stayed like that for several long moments and then Michael nodded. “Thanks, Jilly. I'm sure you're right. I think I knew all that, but I needed to hear it from you, too.”

What he didn't tell her was that the hallucination of the lost girl in his office had seemed so real that he had needed to talk about it to Jillian to soften it in his mind, to make it seem less real. Talking about it out loud helped him push it away, reassure himself that the rules of the world he knew still held fast. And it had worked. Now that they had spoken of it and Jillian had echoed his own internal attempts to make sense of it, Michael could embrace the idea that there was something wrong with him. Something that could be fixed with a couple of doctor's visits, maybe a prescription or two.

Now she watched him again with those gentle eyes, her smile playful as she leaned over the table to kiss him. Her lips brushed against his.

“You'll be all right, Michael. If you need to try to find that house, just do it. That might make you feel better. But first, call the doctor. And set up an appointment with a therapist. You'll be right as rain.”

He had to grin at that. It was an antique expression, one her mother had always used, and Jillian put it into conversation almost without realizing it.

“You know,” he said, “you really are something. Level head. Always got an answer for everything. Maybe you should run for office one of these days.”

She laughed. “Maybe I will.”

Michael had been teasing her about her interest in running for city council, but he was glad she seemed to be taking it seriously. It would be good for her, and good for the city.

“Actually,” she said, “we're going to have dinner with Bob Ryan tomorrow night.”

“Really?” He was pleased, and a bit surprised she hadn't brought it up sooner. Michael had the feeling Jillian wasn't sure if her husband was really in favor of her getting into politics. “Somewhere nice, I hope.”

“Dorothy's.”

Michael sat back in his chair. “Great. I could use a night out. Guess I have to be on my best behavior, huh?”

“Yes,” Jillian said, wagging a finger at him. “No ghosts.”

T
RAFFIC WAS HEAVIER THAN USUAL
on the way to the office. Halfway there, Michael wished he had gone all the way out to Route 495. It would be the long way around, but with the traffic on the back roads it might well have gotten him there sooner.

Driving south on Route 125 he listened to the morning talk on Kiss 108, even though he couldn't stand the music they played the rest of the day. Their
A
.
M
. drive show was the best in the city. Even so, he was only half listening. There was a pleasant ache in his hips from his lovemaking with Jillian last night, and he could still feel her touch on his hand from their conversation at the kitchen table this morning.

The rest of his life might still be out of sorts, but as long as things between him and Jillian were on solid footing, he was sure everything else would work out. Hell, as long as he had Jillian, not much else really mattered. He loved his work, but it wasn't nearly as important to him as his marriage.

As he drove south, he barely paid attention. This was a route he had traveled hundreds of times. He could have driven it with his knees. Hell, he could have driven it with his eyes closed, nearly. The window was open several inches to let in the cold, crisp November air. The visor was down to protect his eyes from the sun, but he still had to squint as he rounded a corner just past Butcher Boy.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a lone figure standing on the sidewalk in front of the ice-cream stand on the left. A ripple of some trace memory went through him and for a moment he was sure it was her again, the lost girl. Scooter.

But when he glanced over, careful to keep the car on his side of the center stripe, he saw that the figure was too tall. Instead, it was someone in a long, shapeless coat. Perhaps a homeless man, though this would be an unlikely place to see a vagrant walking. With the sun cutting down at a harsh angle, the man's face was bleached and pale. In that glimpse it seemed his face was misshapen, as though he wore a mask. Michael shifted his focus back to the road, adjusted the steering wheel slightly, and then glanced back to try to get a better look, but he had driven too far past the man now and all he could see was the strangely shambling shape on the sidewalk.

The radio had been rambling through a series of inane advertisements for this week's television lineup. November was a network ratings sweeps month, after all, so there were all sorts of stunts on the various sitcoms and dramas. Jillian and Michael didn't watch a lot of television.

Now the ads segued into a hip-hop beat, a woman sang the same sweet words over and over in the background, and a deep-voiced man launched into a rap in dangerous tones. Michael rolled his eyes. It was all the station played these days, and it all sounded the same. He reached out and punched buttons on the radio, gaze ticking upward to make sure the traffic light ahead was still green.

Two of his preset stations were oldies, and he smiled now as the blistering guitar riff from Eric Clapton's “White Room” squealed from his speakers.

Content, he sat back.

The light was yellow and he was just about to coast under it. The intersection was a large one, and half a dozen vehicles were waiting to come in from the right, where the China Blossom restaurant sat on a small rise overlooking the road. A breeze whispered through the window. Clapton's guitar wailed. It was too late to stop for the light, which would turn red any second, and so he accelerated. A pickup truck loaded with paint supplies, ladders hanging off the sides, had already edged partway out into the intersection in anticipation of the light change.

The paint truck's driver laid on the horn as Michael sailed through the intersection. Michael ignored him, though the urge to make an obscene gesture was pretty strong.

Then he was passing by China Blossom, a big orange-and-white barn of a place, with very little overt Asian influence, despite the offerings on its menu. His stomach growled. He had eaten breakfast, but still felt hungry.

“Is it lunchtime yet?” he muttered to himself, chuckling.

And then he frowned and sniffed the air. Perhaps it was hunger, or just the thought of food, that had summoned up the scent, but if so it was an odd one. He inhaled it, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at the control panel for the heat and a/c, wondering if somehow it was coming from the engine or drifting in from outside, but the fan wasn't even on.

Michael smelled chocolate.
No, not chocolate. Hot cocoa.

He breathed it in again, but this time there was only a trace of the smell. And then it was gone entirely and he was left wondering if it had been his hungry stomach and his vivid imagination after all.

He put down his window and the chilly air rushed in. The traffic stopped abruptly ahead of him and he hit the brakes. The car shuddered to a stop. Another frown creased lines in his forehead as a disturbing thought struck him. This wasn't the first time he had noticed a smell that seemed out of place to him, and he wondered if it could really be some aftereffect of whatever he might have been drugged with.

Jillian was right. The sooner he saw a doctor and found out what was happening to him, the better. If he was going to sit in traffic—up ahead there was some construction going on, a new high school, he thought—then he could make use of the time. Keeping his foot on the brake, he popped open the glove compartment and pulled out his cellular phone.

As he sat up again and began to dial, he glanced to his right.

The sun had disappeared behind gray prewinter clouds and the daylight was dreary now.

On the side of the road were two figures, nearly identical to one another. Nearly identical, also, to the homeless man he had seen a short way back on the other side of the road. Long, shapeless coats. A sort of stoop to their shoulders.

They stood as though waiting for a bus, but they were looking directly at Michael. At his car. Through his car. Watching him.

And now that the sun was hidden in gray sky, he saw that it was not the glare of the morning light that had made the face of the first one look bleached. These two were equally pale and had the strangest features, as though their faces had been stretched and distorted. Yet Michael could see their eyes—wide eyes with irises so dark they seemed black as tar—and they stared at him.