Only Fear Page 2

  Twice in one night, after months of nothing.

  But then, this was no ordinary night. Today was the first anniversary of Brad’s death.

  I am in control, I am in control, she chanted to herself. But it was obvious to her she was not in control.

  “Excuse me.” She suddenly pushed up from her chair and walked as quickly as she could to the bathroom down the hall. Trying to suck a decent breath of air into her frozen lungs, she stumbled into the first stall. She slammed the door closed and slumped against it, then sank to the floor and rested her head against the wall. Again, the coolness seemed to help. After suffering from similar episodes for the past twelve months, she knew what to expect. And what helped.

  The shaking took over then, and she chanted her mantra through gritted teeth until she felt her color return, her pulse slow.

  I am in control. She’d say it until she believed it.

  Oh God, Brad. What I wouldn’t give to speak to you today. And every day for a full lifetime.

  A knock came at the ladies’ room door, followed by David’s hesitant voice as he slowly pushed it open a crack. “Maggie? You okay?”

  She pulled herself up from the floor and was grateful when her legs supported her. “Yeah. Just a stomach bug or something. I’ll be right out.”

  After splashing water on her face and holding a cool paper towel to the back of her neck, she examined the damage. Eyes dilated. Cheeks flushed. But nobody but a doctor would recognize the symptoms. Or they would mistake them for some passing ailment.

  “Fake it ’til you make it,” she muttered to herself.

  She balled up the paper towel, then tossed it with more force than necessary into the trash bin. Angry now that she’d allowed herself to become upset again, she embraced the increased adrenaline. The sooner she could wrap things up at work, the sooner she could get home to familiar, safe surroundings. To Sigmund, whose purring would soothe her fears.

  Fear. Anxiety. The very words had her wanting to sink to the floor again. Of all the things she’d said in the past hour, why would Owen pick that as a point of contention? Did he know about her panic attacks, or had he just followed the news last summer, like everyone else within a hundred-mile radius of Chicago, and made an educated guess?

  She found David waiting for her in the break room, concern etched in his forehead. “You’re sick? Why didn’t you take the night off? We could have played a tape of an old show.”

  She shrugged and attempted a smile. It came off weak, she knew. “It kind of hit me at the end. I’m fine now.”

  He looked closer, but she turned to the fridge to grab a can of juice. Adopting a lighter tone, she strived for normalcy. “Got any plans?”

  “For tonight?”

  “It is the Fourth of July in the big city. Even past midnight, there’s got to be a party somewhere.”

  After a shrug, he seemed to decide she was back to her usual self and smiled. “I didn’t, but now I think I’ll give Sharon a call and fill her in. She’s usually up late.”

  “Gives you an excuse to talk to her.” His crush on the girl was evident to everyone within fifty feet of the pair. She wondered if Sharon knew that he flushed bright red all the way to his ears whenever anyone so much as mentioned her name.

  God, sometimes she felt so old. When was the last time she’d had that zing of new love? College? That had been years ago. At thirty-three, she’d given up feeling that kind of electric connection again.

  Brad had been in love. Her younger brother had even talked engagement to his long-time girlfriend before… Well, it was best not to go down that road now. Not unless she wanted to spend some more quality time in the ladies’ room tonight, slumped against the wall.

  David grinned. “Exactly. We could use her help anyway, right? If Owen calls back, we’ll have a big show on our hands tomorrow night, just like last time. We’ll be golden.”

  She frowned. “Not everyone was happy about his opinions last time.”

  “Yeah, he set off several nights of angry response calls, not to mention the letters.”

  That he’d upset people was putting it mildly. In fact, his discussion about personality disorders had almost sparked an all-out war of words with her listeners. And Owen had clearly enjoyed it. She’d responded to every one of the calls and letters.

  “But Steveroni was happy,” David added.

  Since he was turned away, pulling his usual post-show energy drink from the fridge, David missed her eye roll. The station manager, Steve Marconi, was not her concern. Technically, he was her boss, and therefore should be important to her, but she’d lost respect about the twelfth time he’d “bumped” into her. The not-so-innocent brushes of his hand were usually followed by an invitation to “dinner.” She couldn’t get much clearer than no, other than maybe hell, no. But she strived for professionalism and she couldn’t let herself say that to him. She was not interested in making Steveroni happy.

  “Maybe we can encourage Owen to call again, maybe even more frequently.” David popped the top to his drink and took a gulp. He paced the room as he had before, excitement reddening his cheeks so that the freckles that dotted them almost disappeared. “I’d bet we can increase listener numbers by double, maybe triple.” Maggie blanched. Seeing her negative reaction, David hurried on. “I’m not saying you don’t already have a large audience. You’ve become the most popular radio personality in Chicago.” He misunderstood her scowl, and continued to press his point. “I’ve heard Steveroni grumble that you would leave if some other, non-university station offered you more money.” That was news to her. “It’s only that if you had a regular verbal exchange with Owen, more people might tune in.”

  She didn’t want the popularity. She’d rather be an unknown. But she wanted to help people, and her radio show was the best way she knew how while still protecting her…boundaries.

  “I mean, he loves to talk with you. He can be a jerk about it, but your topics seem to challenge him. He almost can’t resist calling in to argue.”

  Maggie cocked her head. “And you want to create a stalker out of him.”

  It was David’s turn to blanch. “No. That’s not what I’m talking about. Oh God, Doc, is that what you thought?” He shook his head adamantly as one finger picked at the tab at the top of his drink. “I would never encourage that.”

  “And yet that’s exactly the characteristics I hear in Owen.” She rubbed her arms to ward off another sudden chill, then rose. “Look, let’s just let things lie for now, shall we?”

  Shamefaced and deflated, he nodded solemnly. “Whatever you say.”

  Maggie felt as if she’d kicked a puppy for licking her face. Kicked him hard, with steel-toed boots. David was always supportive, always upbeat and a great production director. He was also filled with the naive idealism of untested youth.

  She sighed. “I said for now. We’ll talk about it later.”

  He tossed a glance back over his shoulder, his mouth curved upward. “Okay. Let me close up shop and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  It was their usual routine, but tonight Maggie welcomed the company more than other nights. Entering the dimly lit parking lot in the wee hours of the morning was always a bit scary, but after her odd conversation with Owen, she wouldn’t leave anything, especially her safety, to chance. The lot was on campus but on the edge, and a dark, weed-choked empty lot bordered it on one side. There were bushes over there large enough for a grown man to hide behind.

  “All set,” David said fifteen minutes later, poking his head into the break room where Maggie was reviewing her notes for tomorrow’s show. Depression was always a topic that hit home with a lot of people. She tried to touch on it every couple months.

  After gathering her things in the soft leather tote her family had given her when she graduated from med school, she went with David down two flights of stairs to the ground floor, then out the double glass doors. Her heels clicked on the pavement, and she wished she’d thought to change into running shoes.
Just in case.

  A sudden boom made her jump, but the streak of red and white that lit up the sky was innocent enough. Someone in a nearby neighborhood was doing some late celebrating of the nation’s birthday. It was now July fifth, but the sound of Black Cats pop-popping in the distance told her more than one person was planning to continue celebrating.

  David, apparently unaware of her nerves, sent her a smile as they reached her car. She’d parked in her usual spot, not too far from the front doors—as close as she could get—and under the dim orange light of the parking lamp. The light was hazy, the air thick with the humidity that proclaimed a summer storm was in the making. They needed the rain after the heat wave that had seized hold of Chicago the past few weeks. But the heat kept burning off the clouds.

  Not wanting David to think she was totally paranoid, Maggie resisted the urge to look under her car. Instead, she hurried to unlock the door to her old, practical Volvo while help was still nearby. Closing herself in, she locked the doors and rolled down the window, smiling in relief at her companion. “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing.” He turned to leave, but hesitated and turned back to her. “And don’t worry, Doc. What happened before will never happen again.”

  Maggie ignored the prickles that stabbed her skin at the thought of the past. Why did he have to bring that up now? She sucked a breath through her nose and blew it out through her mouth. “I know.”

  “I mean, what are the chances? That was a one-in-a-million type thing.”

  There was a time she wouldn’t have thought it could have happened at all. She’d been young and foolish and had believed if she was good to people, they’d be good to her. Nearly a year later, she was all too aware of the lengths a person could go to if pushed.

  “Good night, David.” She tried to soften the stern tone with a tight smile.

  He thumped the roof of the car with his knuckles. “Good night.”

  As he walked away, she immediately checked the back seat to be sure nobody was hiding there and turned the key in the ignition. All before David got too far away. He could still hear her shouts for help at this distance, if need be. Or, there was always the panic button on the car alarm she’d had installed. Thankfully, however, everything was okay. She was alone.

  Within minutes on the drive home, her grip relaxed and her knuckles regained their pink color. She’d chosen the shortest of her three routes home today. She usually varied her route a bit. But short was best today. She longed to be home, behind familiar, solid walls and the protection of a state-of-the-art home security system.

  Pulling into the two-car garage of her modest home in Wilmette, a pleasant older suburb a short drive from the university, she closed the garage door behind her. She sat, watching it descend in the rearview mirror before getting out of the car.

  “Here, kitty,” she called as she entered the house and flipped on a light. She moved to the wall, quickly punching in the code to rearm the security system.

  Sigmund usually met her in the hallway between the garage and the rest of the house, skidding down the polished wood floor before recovering his dignity and weaving between her legs. The chubby orange-striped cat, who reminded her of Garfield except for his shorter hair, could move impressively fast for an overweight beast. But tonight there was no sign of him.

  Maggie switched on another light in the kitchen, dropping her bag on the countertop. The warm glow of the lights soothed her shattered nerves.

  “I’m home, baby.” She tossed her keys down next to her satchel before moving back into the hall. Maybe the cat was napping on her bed. Still, he usually met her at the door, wanting his dinner. He’d adapted to her late hours months ago.

  “Are you hungry?” Making her way toward the living room, she paused in midstep, an acrid smell burning her nostrils. And not the lingering scent of the dinner she’d cooked before she’d left for work that evening.

  Wet copper. Warm pennies.

  She stopped at the archway into the living room and flipped on another light. Her hand flew to her mouth. Dark smears violated her pristine cream-colored living room walls. The smears formed letters, the same letters over and over again. F. E. A. R. Splashed and dripping across the long wall over the couch. Letters six inches or three feet, cursive or block. The four-letter word was written repeatedly across the living room in various styles and sizes. But all in blood.

  Only when her bottom hit the hardwood floor did Maggie realize she’d lost the strength in her legs. Her eyes swiveled down the hall to the alarm, noting the red light that marked it as armed. It had been armed when she walked in, too, hadn’t it? Yes, she clearly remembered the red light being on when she’d punched in her code. Was the intruder still in the house? And how had he gotten in to begin with?

  And, dear God, where had all of that blood come from?

  “Sigmund!” she called past vocal cords strung tight with fear. The sound of panic in her voice had her breath coming in short bursts for the third time this evening. Damn it. She should have taken a pill after the last time. She carried one with her at all times, just in case. But she’d foolishly thought she could control it. On this, of all days.

  “Sigmund!” she called again, but it was more of a pathetic croak as she couldn’t muster enough air into her aching chest. Whimpering, she slid backward until her spine hit the wall, then hugged her knees to her chest. A large ball of orange fur bolted from somewhere in the back of the house, skirted the edge of the living room and leaped into her arms. Maggie gasped in relief, then ran her fingers through Sigmund’s fur, holding on for dear life as her muscles shook, fighting for control.

  The harsh ringing of the phone jolted through her. Holding Sigmund to her chest with one arm, she crawled her way to the phone in the kitchen, unwilling to trust her legs to support her. Jerking the cord to pull the phone down from its cradle, she ducked to avoid it hitting her head. With a shaking hand, she managed to bring the receiver to her ear.

  “Hello?” It was barely a whisper as she gasped for air.

  “Maggie,” the cheerful voice said. Owen’s voice. “You got home safe, I see.” He chuckled as her grip tightened on the phone. “And by now, you’ve learned tonight’s lesson.”

  “Lesson?” She was pleased that her voice sounded stronger. Stronger, but not strong enough.

  “About fear, of course. Did I scare you, Maggie? I believe I did,” he said when she didn’t answer. “I proved my point. But then, I knew you’d be an apt pupil. After all, you earned the highest marks in all of your classes in medical school.”

  “Why did you do this?” The man was insane.

  Again, Owen’s voice flipped from thrilled to threatening in the space of a stuttering heartbeat. “There is only fear. All other emotions are born of fear. You have to understand that before we move on to your next lesson.”

  The click of the receiver hummed in her ear for a long time before she loosened her hold enough to let go. Even then, it felt like an eternity passed before the grip of her panic lessened enough for her to act.

  The next lesson, Owen had said. And he’d apparently appointed her teacher’s pet.

  July Fourth was Ethan Townsend’s least favorite day, and it was finally over. As his red-rimmed eyes bypassed his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, they found confirmation that it was indeed well past midnight—nearly two in the morning, actually, according to the clock high above the bottles of liquor that lined the wall. He tipped the final drops of Scotch down his throat and welcomed the burn as he silently toasted a welcome to July fifth.

  He wasn’t unpatriotic. It was just that the day everyone else in America was consuming vast quantities of beer and apple pie and setting off small explosives to celebrate the birth of the nation, Ethan was recalling fireworks of his own. And the life that had been lost three years ago because of them.

  The bartender announced last call, which was a joke because Ethan and only one other customer, who’d nursed his drink for
a good hour now, were in the godforsaken place. It was a dive, but it had what he needed on the one night a year he truly needed it. Solitude and alcohol.

  His gaze rose to the mirror, again skipping over his own image and resting on that of the man in the corner, whose eyes were on him. Apparently interpreting the eye contact as an invitation, the man stood and wove his way unsteadily around empty chairs and tables to join him. It seemed his precious solitude was about to come to an end.

  “I knew it.” The man’s breath stank of stale beer and cigarettes as his beady eyes peered at him. His jowls shook as he nodded vigorously. “You’re that guy. The one from the TV a couple years back. The one that got that little girl killed.”

  Grief twisted Ethan’s gut. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “No,” he insisted, stabbing a finger at him through the suddenly charged air. The bartender watched them warily from the other end of the bar. “It was all over the news for weeks. You are that guy.”

  Ethan’s jaw, stubbled with a day’s growth of beard, slid to the side. Of all the rotten luck… His hair was longer than three years ago, skimming the collar of his shirt, and his eyes were red with exhaustion, yet this guy recognized him. Fuck. He didn’t want to explain or make excuses. Not to a stranger. He couldn’t even explain it away to himself. And there were no excuses.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t kill anyone.” He felt the lie fall from his lips like lead. The thump of it echoed in his head as it settled in his stomach. “It wasn’t my finger on the trigger.”

  “Yeah, but,” the guy began, taking a step toward him, his finger still pointed accusingly.

  Ethan’s hand clenched around his glass. If the man touched him, so help him God…

  Probably sensing trouble, the bartender brought his tab then, and Ethan quickly signed, rising off his barstool as he did so. At six feet, he was a good six inches taller than the other guy. And a good thirty pounds heavier. Thirty pounds of muscle. The fight wouldn’t be fair, and this guy wasn’t worth a visit to jail.