Brian Freeman - The Burying Place

She'd thought that knowing the truth would make her feel better, but it didn't. Maggie and Jack Nicholson were both right. She couldn't handle it.

'Denise,' Stride said into the phone outside the restaurant.

'Are you watching the news?' she asked.

'Yeah.'

'Blair fucking Rowe,' Denise said.

'It looks like she has her sights set on Valerie now.'

'Yeah, my angel of a sister.'

'Do you know what this big secret is?' Stride asked.

Denise's voice was flat. Her emotions had drained out of her like oil from her car. 'Yeah. I know.'

'So what is it? Does it affect the case?'

'I have no idea. As far as I'm concerned, I don't care what happens to my sister anymore.'

'What's going on, Denise? What did Blair find out about Valerie?'

'Keep watching, and you'll see. Enjoy the show like everybody else. Blair's going to tell the whole world that Valerie was having an affair.'

Stride had a bad feeling. 'An affair? With whom?'

'With Tom,' Denise replied. 'Apparently it's not enough for Valerie to have the looks and the money in the family. She had to have my husband, too.'

Regan Conrad climbed down from her Hummer in the driveway outside her house and thumped the door shut. Behind her; the porch light threw her shadow down across the dormant fields like a giant. She walked a few steps into the open land where the fields began. There, she cocked her head and listened. In the trees, the wind sounded like the roar of a river. Miles away, a train rattled and rumbled south from the Iron Range. She heard a truck's air horn bellowing on the highway. That was all. Nothing else moved or stared back at her. Instead, the wind blew stronger, and the fat, drooping arms of the spruces shook with laughter.

Under her scrub top, however, bumps of gooseflesh rose on her arms. It wasn't just the cold night. She also had a sensation of eyes in the darkness.

You're paranoid, she told herself.

Regan let herself inside her house and turned on the lights. She lingered in the foyer, noticing the closed doors on both levels. Most nights, she didn't give it a thought. It was odd how you could let your mind carry you away, and when you did, every door and dark space felt like a threat. You didn't have to be a child to worry about monsters in the closet.

She wandered into the kitchen and poured herself a shot glass of Scotch. Before she sat down, she saw the flashing light on her answering machine. Two messages. She punched the play button and downed the shot as she listened.

The first message was from Marcus Glenn. Poor Marcus. He was upset.

'Regan, damn it, what are you trying to do to me? What did you tell Valerie? My nurse told me she found you in my office over the weekend. I want to know what you were doing there. We need to talk right now, you crazy bitch. I need to see you. I want to know what in the hell you did.'

He hung up.

Her lips curled into a smile. She wondered if he suspected what she had stolen from his files. What a fool he was, cuckolded by that blonde bitch. How could he tolerate that woman in his bed? A woman who barely moved as he made love to her and then had the nerve to give her body to someone else.

He could have had her, Regan. They could have been together. It was his mistake to choose so badly.

'How does it feel?' she growled at the machine. 'How do you like having the whole world turn against you? Even your pretty little wife.'

The second message was time-stamped an hour ago, but the message was blank. Empty. It went on for a full minute with nothing but silence on the machine. Her face twisted with concern as she listened. The longer the dead air stretched out, the more threatening it became.

She got up and checked the log of callers on the phone. The last call was labeled PRIVATE.

Regan replayed the message and leaned close to the machine. This time, she realized that she could hear someone breathing in the background. Whoever it was let the call drag out without saying anything, but he or she breathed near the phone, loud enough for Regan to hear it.

She deleted both messages. Maybe it was Marcus again, playing with her head. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of being afraid.

Regan poured another shot and finished it in one swallow and then went upstairs. She thought about leaving the downstairs lights on, but she told herself that she was overreacting. The house was empty. The doors and windows were locked and secure. In her bedroom, she removed her scrubs and dropped them down the laundry chute to the basement. She brushed her teeth and took a shower and then slid into bed with her body warm and damp.

She reached out with her right hand. Next to the bed, propped against the wall, was a shotgun. Two cartridges loaded. Pick it up, point, and shoot. She stroked the glossy wooden shaft with her fingers, and she felt better. She reached for the lamp on her nightstand and turned it off, throwing the room into complete darkness. Only the green glow of the clock gave any light.

She closed her eyes. Moments later, she was dreaming.

Regan had no idea how much time had passed when she started awake.

Her eyes flew open. She glanced at the clock, but the face was dark, and the absolute silence of the house told her that the power was out. With the furnace shut down, the bedroom had already grown cold. Her bare arms and shoulders lay above the blanket, chilled. Her dream faded as her mind wrapped itself around the real world again. She stared blindly at the ceiling.

Regan shivered. Something was wrong.

The sensation of eyes in the darkness was back, but it was inside now, with her, in the room. She lay frozen, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She thought about closing her eyes again and pretending that everything was fine. Go back to sleep. Dream. It was nothing but her imagination.

Maybe she was dreaming right now. But she knew she wasn't.

He's here, she thought.

Her right hand came alive. Inch by inch, her fingers crept along the edge of the blanket, moving invisibly in the black bedroom. No one could see. Her hand nudged over the side of the bed, and she reached out, hunting for the barrel of the shotgun, ready to yank the gun into her arms. She knew exactly where it was, had measured the distance in the darkness countless times in the last month, had practiced and rehearsed in case this moment ever came.

The gun was gone. It wasn't there.

Her heart jumped with panic. She bolted up in bed, not pretending any more. The blanket slipped down. She took open-mouthed breaths, and her chest heaved in fear. She leaned down and felt desperately along the ground with her hands, thinking the gun had slipped to the floor.

But no. She heard a noise. Someone was in the room, across from her, settled into the armchair, watching her. She eased against the headboard and tried to see. Her eyes grasped for a beam of light, but everything was dark.

A voice came from across the room. Bitter and intense.

'Why couldn't you keep your mouth shut?'

She understood. Everything made sense now.

'You're making a mistake,' Regan said in her calmest voice. 'You don't have to do this.'

They were sweet, persuasive words, but they didn't work this time. The voice split the silence again.

'You lied to me.'

Regan wondered if she had any hope of escape. She had gone to sleep with the bedroom door open, but now, staring at the dark wall, she knew the door was closed. In less than five seconds, she could be out of bed and in the hallway, and from there, she had a chance. She searched for the right moment to run.

There was no time.

Regan heard the noise of someone shifting in the chair. Getting up. The wood and metal of the gun moved.