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  Saul noticed, but didn’t seem troubled by it. Instead, he simply started his car and sped down the street in the opposite direction of the oncoming sirens. “Like that is it?” he replied with that salient smile of his. “Well, as long as you don’t mind being up in the mountains for a while, I know the safest location for you.”

  I was wary of his answer. “And that is?”

  “My place.”

  Chapter 11

  Claudia

  December 26, 2010

  12:35 pm

  THEY ARE GENERALLY the same, my dreams, the same scenario, the same sequence of events and the same central focus, a large, intimidating door.

  I am standing at the forefront of what seems a very long hall, almost too long to be real. I often have a vague sense that there is something in my hand but I don’t look at it; the hall is of more importance.

  The walls on either side seem oversized and climb high into nowhere. The same fixtures and paintings decorate them. I am unable to make these out with any clarity, but they leave me with a feeling of being otherworldly.

  It is dark. And yet it is not, which gives me the impression of some lighting being present. Its existence only increases the eeriness and the gloom, creating an incessant stream of ghostlike shadows appearing and disappearing along the walls.

  I feel fear in stepping forward, but some unrecognizable force pushes me to do just that. As I walk along the hall, the wall on my left ends and gives way to a spiral staircase. It is made of dark iron. Occasionally, I pause long enough to take in the intricacy of its design, the swirls and curls that career downward.

  To my right there is another painting. This one, I do recall, a portrait of a man, quite fierce in his expression and quite conservative in his demeanor. Large bushy eyebrows rest over cold, grey eyes that give me the impression of being followed. For a moment, I remain paralyzed before it, fascinated by the detail but at the same time frightened of it. Sometimes, I sense it speak to me, instructing me to go back to where I came.

  But I know I can’t.

  An abrupt movement to the left of me catches my eye. Slowly stepping up the shadowy staircase is a woman. She stops; her hand grips the iron railing. The expression on her face is changeable, sometimes impassive, sometimes jubilant but always staring at me. She is saying something but I cannot make it out. My mouth moves as if I’m answering, but the words are silent, lost in the ethereal void between us.

  She then turns and fades downwards into nothingness.

  I turn my attention back to the door. Interestingly enough, the markings on the door continue to increase in detail with each dream. It is almost as if it is a living thing, maturing, developing its own characteristic designs.

  In addition, there are voices. I’m certain of that. Barely audible, but definitely present. Soft, colorless voices, humming. In some of the dreams, I imagine that I can actually decipher intermittent words, but their nonsensical disorder lacks any meaning.

  In spite of it, it never takes me long to establish the origin of the voices. The door, ever dominant, ever formidable, continually reigning in its hold over me, drawing me closer and closer.

  When I finally arrive in front of it, as I always do, I am immediately taken aback, not just by the sheer magnitude of it and all its curious markings but also by the swift shot of terror overpowering me.

  Ordering me not to open it.

  The feeling consumes me, saps my energy.

  In every dream, it is precisely at this point that I wake up.

  ***

  My body lurched with an enormous inhalation of air.

  My dress was drenched, my body quivering. I sat upright, raised my arms behind my head and concentrated on inhaling several deep breaths, a ritual I often did to steady my reaction to the dreams. Gradually, my heart stopped its thumping; my body its shaking and my senses returned to some normality.

  As they did, I slowly began to take in my surroundings. I was on a queen-sized bed, in a room of contemporary taupe and white furnishings. To my left, soft, gossamer curtains fanned from partially opened sliders, revealing a bushy stretch beyond. To my right, a glistening white ensuite. In front, large paneled doors, most likely the wardrobe.

  I bit my lip and tried to recapture the events that led to my being there, the family Christmas and all it epitomized, and the gruesome incident in my car. I dropped my head in my hands, wishing I had not remembered. Soon, another image began to form. That of a man.

  Saul Reardon.

  I remembered him coaxing me from the nightmare and me freely driving off with him, off to his house. I remembered arriving and an elderly woman greeting me with worried words like shock and exhaustion. I remembered her guiding me into this room and my sinking into the folds of the soft, welcoming bed.

  And then I remembered nothing.

  I glanced at my watch. It had been almost four hours. Had I been out that long? And if so what had happened since? Had the police found out the identity of the person in my car? Were they looking for me? Was I now a fugitive?

  I stood up and hurried towards the glass doors, pulling aside the white fabric. The view of the tree-studded hills was breathtaking and the only sound was the melodious warble of a magpie.

  The quiet surprised me. There were no police cars, no reporters, no sticky beak spectators. Not like the Alice Polinski incident.

  I returned to the bed and caught sight of a piece of paper lying on top of a bedside table along with my beaded handbag. The neatly folded object had my name scrawled across it. I grabbed it, opened it and began reading. There was something reassuring upon discovering the letter was from Mel.

  Claudia,

  I’ve brought some of your things for you. You were sound asleep, so I didn’t want to wake you. Anything else you need, please call me. Your parents are going ballistic but I think Saul has calmed them, at least for the moment.

  The world seems to have gone mad! Please, Claudia, whatever you’re thinking, just stay put. It’s the best place to be right now. Don’t even think about returning home. It’s chaos there! Heaven knows how you’re handling all this. Just remember I’m here for you. Call me when you can.

  Love Mel

  p.s. Really like this Saul character. He assures me he can help you. Listen to him and for goodness sake, Claudia, TALK to him. This is definitely not going away!

  p.p.s. He’s also really cute! Ciao.

  I rolled my eyes. Was there any man alive that Mel didn’t think was cute? I re-read the letter. I couldn’t bear to think about my parents’ emotional level; I could scarcely think about my own. Mel was right. The world, my world, was going mad.

  I thought again of the man I met today, and wondered why he was at the complex. Was it because of what had happened? And if so, how did he know? Who was he really?

  A week ago, I had avoided him. Today, I had completely entrusted myself to him, allowing him to remove me from the scene of a crime and bring me to his own home without one observable sniffle of dispute.

  This is not like you, Carino. I could hear Papa say. What have I always taught you?

  Never to get in a car with a stranger. I know, Papa.

  I thought of Tony Braga, of Matty Galloway and Mel and whispered, but he’s not a stranger… not in the real sense.

  And I wondered if Papa would agree.

  I redirected my thoughts to Saul. I recalled his promise to help, the sincerity in his calming voice, and the concern in his eyes. A strong part of me considered that perhaps, this time, I should accept the support that he seemed so prepared to give.

  An even stronger part of me was now regretting I hadn’t done so earlier.

  I entered the wardrobe, instantly struck by the amount of clothing Mel had brought. Thumbing through the items, I wondered, with some unease, at how long she thought I was staying. Were things so bad that returning home in the near future was such an unrealistic option? Or was she just being overly cautious?

  Some of the items she had packed, my togs, dinner
wear and even several lacy G-strings took me aback. What did she think? That I was on some island holiday? I shook my head, knowing that this was so typical of Mel. However, I did thank her for the several packets of pink musk sticks alongside my bras.

  Looking past my so-called necessities, I noticed a rather out of place object, a rectangular wooden box, one that I had owned for many years. Inside it were things of personal value. I wondered why Mel had brought it.

  Deeming every minute now a waste, I pushed the box as far out of sight as I could and pressed on. Selecting a pair of denim shorts and a lime-colored, sleeveless top, I showered and dressed. I quickly clipped back my hair, threw on a little make up and after checking myself in the mirror, ventured out to whatever fate had waiting for me.

  Chapter 12

  Claudia

  December 26, 2010

  1:12 pm

  WHEN I STEPPED from the bedroom, I recognized the soft, mellow sound of Pete Murray singing ‘Saving Grace’. Using my instincts as a guide, I turned right and followed the hall around the corner until I was at the foot of a large, open living space.

  On one side was a long, spacious kitchen, on the other, a dining/lounge area positioned against a full wall of tinted glass. The glass revealed not only the remarkable views of the countryside, but also those of the distant coastline. Everything in the room was white, the lofty walls, the floor tiles, the minimalistic, contemporary furnishings with only occasional splashes of bright, ornamental color to break the sterile monotony.

  It was very tasteful, very modern and very striking.

  “You’re finally up.”

  I turned and at once recognized the woman I’d met when I had first arrived. In her small hands was a pile of white folded towels.

  “I’m Shirley Svenson,” she said, baring a set of almost white but crooked teeth. She parked the towels on the breakfast bar then sidled towards me. “I work for Mr. Reardon.”

  I returned her smile and began to introduce myself.

  Shirley Svenson chuckled. “Oh, I know who you are, dear. You don’t have to tell me.” She bent her head a little closer. “However, if you ever feel the need for a woman’s ear, mine is always available. Know what I mean? Woman to woman like.”

  I was touched by her offer. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  “Anyway,” she chirruped, “I’m sure it’s Mr. Reardon you’d want to talk to right now.” She hobbled into the hallway. I followed accordingly. “Just mosey yourself down the passage there, right to the very end,” she directed with a point of a finger, “and then turn left. His study is a little ways down on your right.”

  I thanked her and then began my mosey down the hall. Turning left as instructed, I made out a deep, smooth voice in the distance, one that became increasingly clearer with each step.

  I felt a little nervous. If anyone had said twenty-four hours ago that I’d be skulking around the house of a man I barely knew, I’d have scoffed in their face. I shook my head, recalling it had been only yesterday that I was having Christmas with my family.

  I shifted forward and soon was standing at the study’s entrance. With his back to me, lounged in a rather officious looking chair, was Saul Reardon, speaking to someone on the phone. I studied the room, but settled my gaze on the bookshelves. They were enormous and held an inordinate number of books. I fought off the natural urge to explore the many titles. Instead, I remained at the door, waiting for Saul to finish his conversation.

  I watched his every movement, the way he rested one ankle upon the opposite knee, the playful way he ran his long fingers through his hair, the way his sinewy body would move forward with such fluidity and then just as easily fall back. I didn’t know why, but I found it fascinating.

  Before long, he ended his call. As if sensing my presence, he spun around, looked at me and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Hey,” he said.

  He was wearing that striking smile, and when he spoke, it was as I remembered; like hot, oozing chocolate. Once again, I felt mesmerized and I wondered if everyone felt like that in his presence.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  My head danced from side to side; my hands wrung themselves dry. “I’m not sure.” My voice sounded as brittle as my legs felt. “A bit numb, perhaps?”

  “Hmmm… no doubt.” He stood and strode towards a very lengthy, very classy built-in bar. “I was just about to have a coffee. Like one?”

  “White with one, thank you.” And then I proceeded to make myself comfortable on the soft, lavish sofa. As I did, I took note of the marked contrast of the room as compared to the remainder of the house. It cast darker, deeper shades, more color, less clinical. It was intriguing.

  Saul passed me a mug of the fresh brew. He then sat on the opposite end of the sofa. One of his hands laid outstretched along the sofa’s top; the other framed his mug. He was quiet, watching me. It should’ve bothered me but it didn’t; everything about him was so remarkably reassuring. On the other hand, maybe that was the case because I wanted it to be. “I don’t know how to thank you,” I said.

  He tilted his head, looking bewildered.

  “For today. I don’t know why you were there, but I was so fortunate you were.” The alternatives alone made my stomach spin.

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “I’ve a feeling this is just the beginning.”

  “So, the … person in my car….”

  “Was murdered.”

  Even though I thought as much, the certainty of it still shook me. “This makes no sense.”

  “No, I can’t imagine it does.”

  I used my grip on the coffee mug to control my skittish fingers. For some reason, I wanted to appear more resilient than I was; for some reason it mattered what Saul Reardon thought.

  More silence followed.

  Again, it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. I had the impression he was allowing me time to absorb, make the next approach. I took a sip of coffee; it was good, very good. My family, coffee connoisseurs. I threw a look in the direction of the glass doors. “I hear things are a little crazy out there.”

  “Crazy is probably an underestimation. However, short of Mel, very few people know you’re here. So, for now, you can forget about them and just concentrate on you.”

  That seemed fine with me.

  “Hope you didn’t think me brazen in calling Mel. I wasn’t sure how long you’d be here. And, I thought there’d be some things you’d need. I also knew Mel would be worrying about you.”

  How would he know that exactly? “And my parents?”

  “I’ve let your father know you’re safe. Followed Mel’s advice and told him I was a friend of hers.” He winced in a roguish way, if that was possible. It made him appear younger and for the first time I wondered how old he actually was. “Didn’t want your parents thinking you’d just go off with any stranger.”

  I flinched at the irony of the situation.

  “Anyway,” Saul continued, “I didn’t tell them where I lived. That’s up to you.”

  I would in time, but not yet.

  “Of course, I had to let the police know you’re with me, but they’ll keep your whereabouts quiet.”

  I raised both my eyebrows. “So I’m not a fugitive from justice?”

  Saul grinned. “You sound disappointed. No, nothing as exciting as that. The police discovered you had a solid alibi. Your family confirmed it. Naturally, Weatherly still wants to interview you, but I delayed that until morning.”

  I recalled the daunting detective, and wondered how Saul managed such a ruse.

  “Also, if you need anything else, Shirley Svenson will help you. She’s here throughout the day. Otherwise, she has a residence on the grounds, a few hundred yards away. She’s on speed dial on the phone in your room. Don’t let her stern manner put you off. Underneath it all she’s really caring and no doubt will enjoy having another female around.”

  I thought of the woman from earlier whose actual manner seemed anything
but stern. “What do I do now?”

  Saul took a sip of his coffee and looked at me. “I’m assuming you still want my help.”

  I stilled. To me, employing his help was now unquestionable. “Of course,” I said. “I know, I… well… before.” I awkwardly groaned.

  He obviously sensed my groan as an affirmative. “I promised you I’d figure it out and I will; just need the assurance.”

  He paused for a while, brows furrowed. Something else was bothering him. In several swift motions, he aligned his coffee mug on the table with mine, propped both elbows on either thigh and clasped his hands together. He then angled his head towards me. “Listen Claudia, there are a couple of things I have to make clear before we start. I don’t want you to think I’m insensitive after what you’ve already been through, but it’s important.”

  Now it was my turn to need assurance. His abrupt sternness was a little unsettling. He was watching me carefully, almost without blinking. “I’m not sure what your perception is about whatever’s happening to you. But let’s just say that this is bigger than it first appeared.”

  How big?

  “Because of that, there’s something I need from you.”

  “Is this about money, payment?” I instantly regretted the question. There was no mistaking Saul’s horrified expression.

  “I don’t do this for money.” Something shadowy danced in his eyes. I swore beneath my breath as I realized my question had truly upset him. He spun his face from me. When it spun back, the shadow had gone.

  “What I’m trying to say is,” he continued, “we could uncover some pretty unpleasant things. So you need to be prepared for it, to deal with it. No running, no hiding.”

  The unmistakable emphasis on Saul’s latter words left me wondering just how much he knew about me. Yes, it was true I had a history of retreating into my own world when things got too much. But how did he know this? And what unpleasant things? More than what had already happened?