Obsession

  With each agonizing tug, his muscles shuddered and sweat poured over his bleeding head. “Somebody help me!” he said again and again until he reached the door. His bloody fingers surrounded the knob and he tugged. But the door didn’t budge. He tried again, then realized that the door was locked from the outside.

  Swearing, Rick fumbled on his belt for his keys only to discover that his entire key ring—the keys to the hospital, his apartment and his car—was missing.

  “Oh, God,” he cried, using his last ounce of strength to pound on the door before slipping into unconsciousness again.

  * * *

  “Answer, Kaylie, answer!” Zane whispered, before giving up. “Damn it all to hell!” He swore violently as he slammed the receiver into the phone cradle. His heart was thudding, his palms sweating as he stared at the phone message stating that Lee Johnston had escaped from Whispering Hills Psychiatric Hospital.

  Zane’s hands were shaking as he walked into the reception area where Peggy was bent over her word processor. “Dial 911. Ask for the police. Tell them that a patient who escaped from Whispering Hills threatened Kaylie once before and give them Kaylie’s address—her apartment in the city as well as the house in Carmel.” Uncapping his pen with his teeth, he scribbled out the information for her. “But first order the company helicopter to stand by,” he commanded. “Tell Dave I want him to take me to Carmel and drop me off at the Buxton building.”

  “He’s already waiting,” Peggy said. “He was going to fly Hastings to—”

  “Cancel that and have him wait for me.”

  “Will do.” Peggy turned to the telephone and Zane raced out of the office. Heart thumping with fear, he took the stairs two at a time.

  On the roof the helicopter was waiting, its gigantic blades churning in the night. Rain and wind lashed at Zane’s face as he dashed across the wet concrete to the pad where Brad Hastings was climbing out of the passenger seat.

  Covering his head with his briefcase Hastings yelled over the whir of the helicopter blades, “You just about missed us!”

  “Emergency,” Zane yelled back as he climbed into the copter and Brad dashed for cover. Glancing at the pilot, he said, “Carmel, on the double. Radio ahead for a company car—a fast one. And get me a backup.”

  “You got it,” Dave replied, talking into his headset as Zane strapped himself in. The helicopter lifted off and Zane sent up a silent prayer. Fear tore at his guts as his worst nightmare played through his mind. He only hoped they weren’t too late.

  * * *

  Kaylie grabbed her purse and squared her shoulders. She wasn’t very good at eating humble pie, but Zane was worth it. This time, she decided, her pride wouldn’t get in her way. Snatching a raincoat and umbrella from the hall closet, she headed through the kitchen and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder.

  She punched the answer button on her answering machine and locked the door behind her. In the garage, she heard the phone ring, but ignored the call. Even if the caller were Zane, she found the idea of surprising him in person appealing. If only she had a set of keys to his apartment, she’d turn the tables on him and wait for him in the dark… maybe in his bed with champagne?

  She smiled to herself and reached for the button to open the garage door when she heard the sound—a small sound—like the scrape of leather on concrete.

  Kaylie froze. Her skin crawled. Telling herself the noise was only her imagination, she strained to listen. Maybe she heard the scurry of a mouse or the neighbor’s tabby cat. He was always hanging around when she stayed here. He could have been locked in the garage.

  She punched the button but the door didn’t open. Nothing happened. When she flicked on the light switch next to the opener, the garage remained dark.

  Fear cut a swath into her heart, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys. She glanced nervously around the garage, to the shadowed corners. “Who’s there?” she called, but heard nothing. “It’s just your nerves,” she told herself. Something moved in her peripheral vision.

  Kaylie didn’t wait. She shoved open the door to the house, letting the interior lights illuminate the darkened garage. Two steps inside a cold hand grabbed hold of her arm. Kaylie screamed.

  Lee Johnston, his icy blue eyes blank, stared straight through her.

  “Kaylie.” His voice was rough and gritty. His flamered hair was plastered to his head and the drip of rain ran down his neck and beneath the wet collar of his blue shirt.

  Her knees went weak, but she pulled hard, intending to escape.

  “Leave me alone,” she screamed, but the words were only in her mind. Her throat was frozen. Light from the kitchen refracted off the knife in his hand.

  Dizziness overwhelmed her. The premiere of Obsession. Her life flashed to a series of stills. Zane, oh, Zane, I’m so sorry, she thought.

  “Kay-lee,” her assailant mumbled and she tried vainly to wrench herself free. But he was strong and compact and determined. Thoughts ran through her mind. She needed a weapon. Tools in the garage. Knives in the kitchen. Anything!

  “Kay-lee,” he said again, his voice as chilling as the howl of a wolf. She backed up, stumbling over the edge of rakes and shovels. Lee kept up with her, his fingers biting into her arm, the knife’s blade somewhere in the dark beside her.

  “Let—let me go,” she demanded, trying to stay calm, to hold at bay the panic that surged through her brain. Maybe she could talk him out of this! He’d never hurt anyone before—not really. But then, as he passed by the window, she saw the dark smudges on his shirt and knew the stains were blood. Not his, certainly. But whose?

  Zane’s? Her thoughts rambled crazily, and she thought for a blinding moment that Johnston might have sought his revenge on the man who had captured him years before. The only man she’d ever loved. Oh, Zane. No, please, God, let him be alive. Why hadn’t she listened to him? Why?

  Her knees threatened to buckle. If Zane were dead or lying hurt and wounded…

  “No!” she wailed, throwing her body hard against Johnston. He tripped on a rake or shovel, and his fingers slackened. She leaped forward, and he lost his balance. The kitchen! If she could just get into the kitchen and run outside.

  “Help!” she screamed, and scrambled past her car.

  She rounded the trunk, moving slowly backward, listening to Johnston’s movements in the dim light. Was he following her or trying to cut her off by rounding the front of the car? If only the garage door weren’t locked! Think, Kaylie, think! There was an ax—Oh, God, where was it? Or a crowbar. Anything to protect herself. And the garage door opener—by the back door.

  Heart pounding, she inched toward the door.

  She heard voices—or was it her imagination? No, there were voices. Johnston heard them, too. He quit moving, though his breathing sounded close—between her and the kitchen. But where?

  She stopped, listening, trying to focus. Moments passed. Tense, terrible moments.

  Footsteps outside. “Kaylie! Kaylie!” Zane’s voice rang through the house. “Oh, God, where are you?” He was alive! Kaylie’s heart soared.

  From a shadowy corner, Johnston lunged at her.

  She screamed. “Zane! Don’t come in here!” she cried. “He’s got a knife—” But Zane came flying through the door, and in one quick motion, he threw himself into the darkness.

  “Oh, please, no!” Kaylie cried as Zane propelled himself through the air and landed on Johnston and his raised knife. The blade flashed up, then swiftly down, landing with a thud in Zane’s back before being torn out with a hideous sucking sound.

  The two men struggled, and Johnston freed himself, struggling to his feet. Zane pulled himself upright, but swayed.

  Kaylie thought she’d be sick. “No!” she screamed as Johnston raised his bloody knife again. She fell back against a shovel. Without thinking, she picked up the rusted tool and using all her strength, swung it, catching Johnston’s knees. He dropped like a stone.

  Zane sprang, quick as a cat. Blood o
ozed from the sleeve of his shirt. He rolled on top of the flailing man.

  “Freeze!” A strong male voice yelled from the doorway, and Kaylie looked up to see a man in jeans and a sweater training a gun on Zane and Johnston.

  “No!”

  “Kay-lee, Kay-lee!” Johnston cried.

  Kaylie shuddered.

  “Back off!” the man in the doorway ordered, his face contorted in rage, his revolver aimed at Johnston’s chest. “You okay?” he asked Zane.

  “I thought you’d never get here.”

  “I radioed the police. Now, come on, let’s get this lowlife out of here.”

  Sirens screamed outside. As Zane struggled to restrain Johnston, two policemen ran through the house and, pistols drawn, charged into the garage.

  “Police! Everybody hold it!” the taller man said, his gun trained on Johnston and Zane.

  “Call for an ambulance!” Kaylie cried, watching in horror as a scarlet stain spread across the back of Zane’s shirt.

  “Already done. Okay, someone called in about an escapee from Whispering Hills. What’s going on here?”

  Zane, his face white and drained, tried to explain, but Kaylie, frantic for his life, told the police that she’d answer all their questions once Zane was in the hospital. She wouldn’t listen to the officers when they demanded answers. Instead she climbed into the back of the ambulance and held Zane’s hand all the way to the hospital. He tried to smile, but failed, and his eyes closed wearily.

  “You’re okay,” she said, her voice trembling as she assured herself more than him.

  But he didn’t respond, and she knew that he’d lost consciousness.

  “Don’t die, Zane,” she whispered, clinging to his fingers as if she could will the life to remain in his body. She heard the whine of ambulance tires spinning against the rain-washed streets. She only wished she’d told him how much she loved him—how much he meant to her.

  Lord, she’d been stupid; she knew now. Because of her stubbornness, Zane had nearly been killed. If only she’d listened to him, trusted him, relied upon him, leaned on him! If only she’d loved him enough to work with him to save their marriage. Oh, Lord, she’d been such a fool, she thought, tears tracking down her cheeks.

  Now it was too late. Too late. Maybe much too late….

  Chapter Thirteen

  Kaylie didn’t leave Zane’s bedside. The doctors assured her that Zane was fine, that the wound was shallow. The blade of Johnston’s knife had only penetrated Zane’s shoulder muscle. Though he would be sore for a while, the team of experts at Bayside Hospital were convinced that Zane would be “good as new” in no time. Nonetheless, she camped out at the hospital that night.

  “He’s sedated. He won’t wake up for hours,” Dr. Ripley predicted. “You can’t do anything for him now. Tomorrow, unless he takes a turn for the worse, I’ll release him.”

  “I want to be here when he wakes up.”

  “I’ll have the nurse call you.” Ripley was a thin man in his early fifties with freckles splashed all over his face, neck and arms. His once-red hair was turning to gray, but he seemed as fit as most thirty-year-olds.

  “I’d rather wait. It’s important,” Kaylie insisted.

  The doctor slanted a brow. Motioning toward Zane, he said, “He might not be in the greatest mood when he wakes up.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Well, okay. Have it your way,” the doctor finally agreed, instructing the nurse that Kaylie was to spend the night.

  She spent the night in a chair, alternately dozing and waking with a start, her muscles cramping. The small room was never dark. Light from the parking lot street lamps filtered through the blinds, and illumination from the hall made the shapes in the room visible.

  In her fitful hours of sleep, she relived, over and over again, the horrible moments in the garage. The knife. The blade plunging into Zane’s shoulder. Blood pooling on the floor. Johnston, dead-blue eyes staring at her, laughing maniacally as she threw herself on Zane’s unmoving body. Tears choked her throat. She couldn’t lose him… she couldn’t….

  “Zane! No! Please, no!” She woke to find herself in the hospital room, Zane sleeping on the bed, the worst over.

  Relief brought tears to her eyes.

  * * *

  Zane blinked twice, shifted and felt a brutal pain rip through his shoulder. He sucked in a swift breath. Shadowy images flitted through the mists in his mind—terrifying visions of the madman and his knife. Kaylie—where was she? His eyes blinked against an intense light.

  “Zane?”

  Kaylie’s voice was like a balm to the pain. Thank God she was alive! Relief flooded through him. Those last frightening minutes in the inky garage, the maniac with his weapon…

  Through the fog of his memory, Zane recalled leaping into the dark garage, flying at Johnston and struggling for the knife.

  Now he focused with difficulty and discovered Kaylie standing on the other side of the bars of his bed, her hands white as she gripped the rails, her eyes clouded with worry. Her hair was tangled and mussed, her makeup long washed away, her clothes, the same as she’d been wearing the night before, wrinkled and smudged with blood—his blood. Her eyes were red-rimmed and cloudy green and her eyebrows pulled together with worry.

  And she was gorgeous. He managed a smile. “You look like I feel.”

  Letting out her breath, she blinked against a sudden bout of tears. “So you’re going to rejoin the living after all?”

  “The jury’s still out on that one,” he grumbled, realizing he was in a hospital bed, bandaged and swathed, an IV dripping fluid into his wrist. Wincing, he attempted to sit up, but Kaylie’s hands, cool and soft, restrained him.

  “Slow down, cowboy,” she said, and he noticed the tremor in her voice and saw the tracks of recent tears on her cheeks. “We’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “Do we?” he asked, his gaze locking with hers.

  She sniffed loudly. “The rest of our lives.”

  “Why, Ms. Melville,” he drawled, suddenly feeling no pain, “is this a proposal?”

  She laughed, though her eyes were wet. Sniffing loudly, she brushed her tears aside with the back of her hand. “You bet it is. And I don’t expect to end up a widow before I’m a bride, so you just take care of yourself.”

  “So now you’re giving orders.”

  “And you’re taking them,” she announced firmly, though she swallowed hard. “After all, someone’s got to protect you.”

  He laughed at that. “So what’re you? My personal bodyguard?”

  “No, Zane. Just your wife.”

  He reached up, and pain seared through his shoulder. Emotions clogged his throat. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say those words,” he admitted, then with his free hand, playfully grabbed her. “I wish I had a tape recorder, because, no matter what, I’m holding you to it.”

  Her fingers linked through his. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “Breakfast time.” A nurse, pushing a rattling tray, shoved open the door. “But first I need to take your temperature and pulse and…”

  Zane groaned, and the nurse winked at Kaylie. “Looks like he’s out of the woods. Why don’t you run down to the cafeteria and get yourself something to eat and a cup of coffee.”

  “Sounds like heaven,” Kaylie admitted.

  While the nurse tended to Zane, Kaylie made her way to the ladies’ room where she washed her face as best she could, repaired her makeup and ran a comb through her wild hair. Glancing in the mirror, she snorted. “Not exactly the glamorous talk-show hostess today, Melville.”

  For the first time, she thought about her job, and tucking her comb and brush into her purse, she walked toward the lobby. Spying a pay phone near the admitting area, she dredged up a quarter and dialed the station. The receptionist answered on the second ring.

  “Hi, Becky, it’s Kaylie.”

  “Oh! Kaylie, let me put you through. Jim’s been trying to
get hold of you.”

  “I’ll bet,” Kaylie remarked as the phone clicked several times and Jim Crowley finally answered.

  “You made the front page,” Jim announced. “And not of The Insider for once. You’re in the Times.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she drawled.

  “You okay?”

  Kaylie wondered. She was still shaken by the incident, no doubt about it. Her skin prickled at the horrific memory, and yet she felt better than she had in years. She loved Zane, and planned to be with him for the rest of her life. “I’m fine,” she assured Jim.

  A pause. “You sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s pretty late. I don’t suppose you’ll be in.” He sounded hopeful.

  She laughed without much mirth. “Not today.”

  “That’s okay. Alan already said he’d fill in, though he’d like to interview you about last night.”

  “No way.”

  “I told him that’s what you’d say. Anyway, since it’s Friday, I’m asking Chef Glenn to add a couple of appetizers to go with whatever today’s concoction is.”

  “Hot and Spicy Chicken Linguine,” Tracy said in the background.

  Jim snorted. “Yeah, some Italian thing. I’ll see you Monday.”

  She rang off and took the stairs to the cafeteria. There she ate alone, devouring a bagel and cream cheese and fresh fruit along with two cups of coffee. She felt more than one curious look cast in her direction and heard a few whispered comments.

  “Kaylie Melville…yes, channel fifteen…a crazed mental patient went after her…. Yeah, maybe it was the same guy…the guy she was with is up on the second floor…no, not Bently…some other guy…you know those Hollywood types…. Her husband? Ex-husband, you mean…are you sure…? Well, what’s she doing with him?”

  Ignoring the wagging tongues, Kaylie cleared her tray and picked up a newspaper near the lobby. Page one was splashed with the story. Pictures of her house in Carmel, photos of the retreating ambulance, and older shots of Zane and Johnston and her at the premiere of Obsession years before graced section two under Local News. “Terrific,” she muttered under her breath. “Just great.”