John Saul - Perfect Nightmare

But it hadn’t been a dream.

Her first impulse had been to call Patrick. He would understand. He would be able to help her. But it was the middle of the night, and Kara knew she had to learn to stand on her own. Patrick had been a wonderful help, but he couldn’t hold her hand every minute of every day.

She had to start getting through the days and nights by herself, starting with this one.

If she took the day one hour at a time, she could get through it.

She looked at the clock on the desk and set herself a goal: in the next sixty minutes, she would write checks for the most urgent bills, shower, get dressed, and have something to eat.

While she was eating, she would plan the next hour.

Only when those two hours were gone would she plan the next.

And if she made it successfully through the day, as a reward she’d call Patrick and report her progress. Just the thought of his understanding eyes and warm smile gave her strength.

She picked up the pen, desperately trying to ignore the echo of Lindsay’s scream still reverberating in her head, and opened her checkbook.

The doorbell rang even before she could look at the balance.

Her heart caught in her throat.

News! It had to be news!

With her bathrobe flapping about her legs, Kara ran down the stairs and threw open the door, certain it would be Sergeant Grant.

Instead, a somber-faced man in a dark suit stood on the porch with a package; in front of the house she saw a black Lincoln Town Car. A chill came over her as she realized what the package was. She signed the form the man offered her, took the box, and retreated back into the house.

The chill tightening its grip on her, Kara pulled off the brown paper wrapping, and the stabbing pain in her chest took her breath away as her suspicions about the package were confirmed.

Stamped in red all over the box were the words HUMAN REMAINS.

SUMMERS FUNERAL HOME was printed at the top of the label.

Steve’s ashes.

Dear God.

Kara’s knees weakened and she sank to a dining room chair. In her head, she could hear herself screaming right along with Lindsay.

On the table in front of her, next to the box, was the cordless phone.

With a trembling hand, she picked it up and dialed Patrick.

“Good Lord,” Patrick Shields breathed as he gazed at the box that still sat on Kara’s dining room table. “They actually made you sign for it?”

She nodded as a sigh of both exhaustion and relief escaped her lips. Though it changed nothing, just having Patrick in the house was making her feel a little better.

“Unbelievable,” Patrick went on, his eyes — always so warm and comforting before — now darkening with anger. “I gave them strict instructions. I don’t see how I could have been any clearer. I told them—”

“It doesn’t matter what you told them,” Kara broke in. “And that’s not why I called you anyway. It’s just — it’s just everything, Patrick!” Hesitantly at first, but then speaking faster and faster, until her words were pouring out in a torrent that reflected every emotion she was feeling, Kara told him what had happened since he’d brought her back to the house yesterday. “I just don’t think I can do it,” she said when she finally ran out of steam, both verbally and emotionally. “I don’t think I can handle any of it. And the thought of tonight—” Her voice broke as she choked on the last word, and she shook her head in helplessness. Patrick gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked directly into her eyes.

“I know exactly how you’re feeling,” he told her, now without the tiniest vestige of anger in his voice or his eyes. “Oh, Lord, do I know. So the first thing we’re going to do is simple. I’m going to take you back to Claire's.”

Kara shook her head again, but this time there was nothing helpless in the gesture. “Not Claire's,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It’s not that she hasn’t been wonderful to me — she has. But — oh, I don’t know. It’s like she’s handling me with kid gloves or something. As if she's—”

“Afraid you’ll break,” Patrick finished for her, speaking exactly the words she’d been about to utter. “I know what that’s like. I got the same thing to the point where sometimes I just wanted to smack her!” His lips compressed into a grim smile. “And it’s not just her, either — it’s everyone. But what can you say? It’s not like they don’t mean well. It’s just that they don’t have any idea what you’re going through.”

“So what do I do?” Kara asked, barely aware that she’d spoken out loud.

“Come to my house,” Patrick decided, speaking before he even thought about it. Seeing Kara about to protest, he held up a hand. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place,” he said, then grinned. “But of course, I did. I just didn’t suggest it, and I know exactly why I didn’t do that, either. After all, what would people think? What would the neighbors say? What would Claire say? Worst of all, what would Neville Cavanaugh say?”

“Neville? But he’s like your butler or something, isn’t he? Why would you care what he says?”

“It’s not really so much what he’d say. It’s the way he’d look.” Patrick twisted his face into an exaggerated parody of the expression of an extremely disapproving servant. “Neville wouldn’t actually say anything. He’d imply. There would be a distinct chill in the air. You have no idea what it’s like — staff can be far worse than parents. They have ways of letting you know how much they disapprove without ever being anything less than perfectly respectful. Which I’m sure you’ll see in about fifteen minutes. Go get your bag.”

“Patrick, I can’t!”

“Of course you can. What you can’t do is stay here. Not yet. Not by yourself. Now stop arguing and go get your bag.”

Less than fifteen minutes later Patrick pulled his Mercedes to a stop in front of Cragmont. Leaving her bag in the trunk of the car, he led Kara up the steps, pushed the huge oaken door open, and ushered her the full length of the main hall and into the library.

“First, let’s fix you a drink,” he said. “Something hot, I think, with plenty of brandy in it.” But instead of going to the bar that was sunk into one wall, he pressed a button on the wall, then lowered himself into one of the wingback chairs opposite the sofa on which Kara was perched as her eyes darted around the large book-lined room. A small smile played around his lips. “Will you just relax?” he said. “This isn’t some kind of museum, despite the way it looks. It’s where I live. In fact,” he went on, his voice taking on a wry note, “I was sleeping on that very sofa until the last week or so.”

As Kara leaned back, Neville Cavanaugh appeared at the library door. His eyes fixed inquiringly on Patrick for a moment, but when he noticed that his employer was not alone, his demeanor instantly changed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees, and Kara pulled a cashmere throw onto her lap.

“A hot Grand Marnier toddy for Mrs. Marshall, please, Neville. And perhaps just a touch of brandy with some water for me.” As Neville silently began fixing the drinks, Patrick turned his attention back to Kara. “I still think I ought to have a word with Summers,” he began, but Kara was already shaking her head.

“It’s not that they did anything so terrible. The thing is, when the doorbell rang, I actually thought they’d found Lindsay.” Her eyes began to glisten. “Isn’t that stupid? I actually thought it was Sergeant Grant coming to tell me they’d found her.”

Patrick leaned forward and took her hand. “It isn’t funny — it’s perfectly natural. I don’t know how many nights I sat right here in this room, waiting. Just waiting for someone to come home. Listening for the door to open and Renee or one of the kids to call out in the hall.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “Have you been watching the news this afternoon?”