Because I'm Watching Read online

  Was he really so shallow that the act of animal passion cured his angst?

  Or did the advice she gave him make sense? Was he finally learning to live again?

  Good advice from a woman. What a concept. His mother would faint that he even acknowledged the possibility.

  The construction crew worked late, trying to get back on schedule, and at 7:00 P.M. they closed in the front of his house. The windows were covered with plywood. It was dark. The sound was muted. He didn’t have to come out and face life anymore. He was happy. Except he couldn’t see what was happening on his street.

  The crew packed up their gear and headed out.

  Jacob was alone. He waited for night to fall. He would take a couple of sandwiches and something to drink. He would sneak across the street and knock on Maddie’s door. She would open it, take his hand, draw him inside, they would—

  From across the street, Maddie shrieked with such volume and terror he found himself on his feet and trembling, in the grip of a brutal flashback.

  If he reacted, Dr. Kim would increase the torture.

  But no. Jacob wasn’t in Korea. He was in Virtue Falls. He wasn’t bound by shackles or cruelty. He could move. He could help.

  He jumped off the porch and hit the ground running. He sprinted across the street and slammed his shoulder into the door. “Maddie. Let me in. It’s Jacob. Let me in. Maddie!” He heard the crash of furniture, the shatter of glass. “Maddie, damn it!” Damn it was right. He needed to get a key to her house.

  The screaming went on.

  He was ready to break a window when the lock clicked. She peered around the door but kept the chain on. “Are you really here?” she whispered. “Or are you an illusion?”

  “I’m really here.” He reached out to touch her.

  She shrank back. The door started to close.

  He stopped, hand extended. “Touch me.”

  As she reached out to him, her fingers shook. They paused directly above his skin, then in a rush she clasped his fingers. “You’re real.” She undid the chain, flung open the door, and pulled him inside, talking all the while. “Jacob, I was so afraid. First I heard the back door open and close and heard a man’s voice call, I’m home! It was Easton. Easton called me.”

  Never taking his eyes off her, Jacob shut the front door behind him. “Were you asleep?”

  “Yes!” She paced in tight circles. “I lifted my head off my desk and realized I’d been asleep.”

  She looked it; her dark hair was tousled, her oversize white shirt was wrinkled, the right side of her face appeared to have been resting on a pencil.

  “Hang on.” Jacob headed into the kitchen.

  She followed. “What are you doing?”

  He opened the back door and felt the metal handle. No, it had none of the scratches associated with picking the lock. “Does anyone besides you have your house key?”

  Fierce and annoyed, she said, “Why does everyone ask me that? No!”

  “All right.” He shut the door. “Go on. You heard Easton.”

  As if she couldn’t keep still, she started pacing again. “I sat up and there he was, standing in the kitchen, a ghost in a gray suit. He smiled at me. Then I saw blood on the tile floor, running in slow, red rivers along the grout lines.”

  He looked at the hardwood floor. “You don’t have tile.”

  “I know.” She stopped to wring her hands, then started those circles again, each getting tighter and tighter until she was almost meeting herself when she turned.

  He avoided her, wandered to her desk, looked at the drawings there.

  The ones at the bottom were spare black-and-white pen-and-ink. Then they became wild, sprawling across the paper, with black blotches where her pen had stuttered and sudden assaults of color—red pencil mostly, but some bright, hot yellow and a blip of purple. These were works of disturbing madness.

  He advanced on Maddie, taking his time, trying not to alarm her. Reaching out a slow hand, he brushed her arm.

  She jumped and looked at him, her face flushed, her blue eyes wild and big and black, as if the pupil had expanded to swallow the iris.

  Startled, he leaned back. He took her by the arms, held her in place, and stared. “Have you been taking drugs?”

  “No! Why?”

  “Prescription drugs? Maybe something the doctor gave you?”

  “No, I … After I left the asylum I wouldn’t take drugs anymore. They made me … I don’t react well. I screamed and screamed when they stuck the needles in me, and they laughed. I tried to scream when they shoved the pills in my mouth and held my nose and mouth shut until I swallowed. Finally they put them in my food. All the food, drugged to make me crazy.” She shivered convulsively. “They laughed.”

  “Who laughed?”

  “Them. Barbara and Gary. Nursing assistants. It wasn’t fair.” One by one she removed his hands from her arm and started pacing again. “I don’t like drugs.”

  He didn’t believe her. She was too vehement, with a slight slur to her voice. And those eyes … This explained so much. The outbursts, the hallucinations—he should have realized it sooner. She needed help. She could be helped … when she stopped lying about her problem.

  For now, she needed something to do to keep her busy, stop that awful pacing, wear off some of the drugs. “Maddie, I’d like coffee. Could you make some coffee?”

  She stopped pacing and stared at him through those wide black eyes. “Yes. Coffee! You like coffee. I’ll make coffee.” As if her pacing had wound her like a spring, she turned in two circles in the opposite direction. Stopping, she took a breath, then hurried into the kitchen. She moved fast, burning so much energy she left a virtual heat trail behind her.

  He followed more slowly, watching, not understanding, not wanting this to be true. For if it was, if she truly was a drug addict, how had she remained with him all last night without withdrawal symptoms? Last night, she had seemed so kind and loving, generous to a lost man groping for meaning in a life blasted by avid cruelty. She had seen no ghosts, no visions of murder and death. She had remained in his arms, sane and intelligent, keeping him safe from his nightmares.

  Now she rattled around in her cupboards, muttering all the while. “Coffeemaker. Filters. Coffee. I can do this. Coffee will help. Coffee bonds people together. Coffee takes away the need to sleep. I don’t want to sleep. I can make coffee.” She shoveled too many grounds into the filter and poured in the water, frowning as if it took effort to remember the process. Her hands shook, her breath caught, and she pushed the button to start the brewing, announcing in a bright tone, “Maddie, this will help!”

  He eased into a kitchen chair. “Tonight—what else did you see?”

  She flung herself around and stared at him as if she had forgotten he was there. “My God, look at this mess. Did I do that?” She got the broom and dustpan and hustled toward her broken lamp. She began to sweep and said, “Maddie, be careful not to cut yourself.” She was avoiding him.

  So there had been another hallucination. “What else did you see, Maddie?”

  She stopped suddenly, as if she were a puppet and somebody had cut her strings. “On the wall over my desk, I saw the scene from my dorm room. All the girls sprawled there in their own blood. Ragnor the Avenger dead, too. Of them all, only I am missing…”

  “That’s because you’re still alive.” Tonight he had come to make love, to find and give comfort. Now he was experiencing a totally different Maddie, the original Mad Maddie of legend.

  She put her hand over her heart. “I am, aren’t I? For now.” With a clatter, she dropped the broom and the dustpan. The glass she’d swept up spread once again all over the floor. “The coffee’s ready.”

  The machine hadn’t beeped yet, but she pulled mugs out of the cupboard, spoons out of the drawer, and put the canister of sugar on the table. By the time she got done fussing, the coffee was ready, and she poured the mugs full. She stared at them for a few minutes, then whirled to face him. “Do you w
ant milk?”

  “No. I take my coffee black.”

  “I have to have milk. And sugar. I can’t stand the taste otherwise.”

  “You do that. Milk and sugar will do you good.”

  She put his mug in front of him and headed for the refrigerator. She leaned down and rummaged inside.

  He remembered this morning when he’d caught her leaning into his refrigerator. Same nice ass, but now she jiggled one foot as she looked for the milk … which he could see from here on the top shelf. Absentmindedly, he lifted the mug. A split second before he took a sip, an off smell hit his nose. Too late. He had hot coffee in his mouth—hot poisoned coffee.

  He spit it across the table, leaped up, and ran to the sink. Flipping on the water, he leaned down and rinsed his mouth over and over, trying to rid himself of the taste of rat poison.

  When he straightened, she stood beside him, staring. “What’s wrong? I know it tastes awful, but I thought you liked it.”

  “Damn you, woman! You tried to kill me. You drink it!”

  She frowned as if she couldn’t make sense of this scene. Lifting the mug, she took a sip and grimaced, then took another sip.

  He knocked the mug out of her hand and across the counter. Coffee splattered the backsplash and the cupboards. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

  Her face crumpled into tears. “Why did you do that?”

  “You’re crazy and on drugs.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” She bunched her fists and put them to her mouth. She backed away.

  “What’s wrong with you? You tried to poison me and you tried to poison yourself.” He poured the pot of coffee down the drain. He picked up the bag of ground coffee and took a sniff. Yep. Rat poison. “You’re sick. You’re crazy sick.”

  “I am not!” she shouted. “I have a certificate saying I’m sane!”

  “You’d better burn it then.” He stalked toward the door. He heard the patter of feet behind him. He turned quickly, hands up, prepared to defend himself.

  But she held no weapon, nothing but her wild eyes and pretense of concern. “Jacob … I adore you.”

  “You pick a funny way of showing it.” He went out the door and across the street, confused, angry, unhappy. And stopped short at the outer edge of his lawn.

  Someone was there, watching in the shadows beside his porch.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  “Hello?” Jacob said. “May I help you?”

  A woman stepped forward, coming to meet him, and in the streetlight’s glow he saw that she was older, perhaps fifty, attractive, with a ramrod stiff military posture. And angry. By her body language he could see she was angry.

  He could relate to angry.

  “Are you Jacob Denisov? I assume you are. You look totally healthy.” The words were civil enough, but her low voice vibrated with resentment.

  Was this another crazy lady? He didn’t think he could face two in one night. “I am Jacob Denisov. I’m fine, thank you.”

  “Of course you are. My name is Vera LaFreniere.”

  He tensed. “Brandon’s mother.” Why was she here at his house? Why so late?

  “Yes. I’m Brandon’s mother. I brought you a letter.” She thrust a legal-size white envelope into his hand. “Take it.”

  He did, held it firmly, lifted it to the light, read his name printed awkwardly on the front.

  “Sorry about the lousy handwriting, but Brandon … he insisted on writing that himself.” She wasn’t really apologizing. She was snapping. “He never did learn to write well with his left hand.”

  Jacob knew he did not want to hear the answer, but he asked anyway, “Why are you bringing me a letter?”

  Bleakly she said, “Because Brandon made me promise I would … if he died … in surgery.”

  Jacob was suddenly aware the air had grown too thin to breathe. “Brandon’s dead.”

  She smiled a terrible smile. “Didn’t he tell you? He didn’t have a real good chance of surviving. No more than fifty-fifty.”

  “He didn’t tell me he was having surgery.”

  “Of course he didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t want to worry you, his hero. But he couldn’t stand the idea of being maimed and paralyzed, and that was what was coming up next. So he rolled the dice. That’s what he said before he went in. I’m going to roll the dice, Mom. Surely I’m due to win. But he didn’t. After Korea, he could never win. He couldn’t have children. He was missing an arm and a leg. Now he’s dead because the surgeons couldn’t remove that piece of shrapnel beside his spine without killing him.” She must have thought the air was thin, too, because she stopped to breathe hard. “He said to tell you not to feel guilty. So I’m telling you he didn’t want you to feel guilty.”

  She wasn’t subtle; he got the unspoken message. “You want me to.”

  “Because your job was to watch a bunch of bright kids and make sure they didn’t do anything stupid, and you were asleep?”

  Yes. He had been asleep. So what? A man had to sleep. But this time …

  South Korea … day after day, crappy weather all the time, nothing to do but watch his brainiacs build dumb projects that never worked. Their top-secret mission kept them effectively isolated from the rest of the base. The base commander was a bully and the only one who knew what they were doing there; he despised them for not being real military, begrudged them every resource, and hated Jacob in particular for standing between him and the brainiacs. The brainiacs had banded together, but Jacob had no one to talk to. No one who knew a thing about real life in the military or real civilian life or just … life.

  He was bored.

  That night … that night, those kids were all heads together, giggling, playing some stupid drinking game. He had known something was going on. But he was bored and tired and he’d gone to bed. He’d gone to sleep. He had neglected his duty and someone had to pay the price.

  Vera LaFreniere said, “From the day they were born, those young men and women were privileged because they were brilliant. They thought the world was their playground. That they would always be cosseted. And the Koreans treated them like pieces of meat. Your fault.”

  “Yes.” He should have paid the price.

  “All your fault.”

  “Yes.” He would pay the price.

  She seemed to grope for a way to blame him again, to make the words new and sharp and painful. At last she put her fist to her breastbone. “I don’t care. Feel guilty. Feel good. Feel nothing. All I care is what I feel. Pain. So much pain. And resentment that your mother has a living son. It’s not fair.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  They stared at each other.

  “Read the letter,” she said.

  He did as he was ordered; tore the envelope, pulled out the thin piece of paper, read the painfully written message. He closed his eyes, seeking composure, then opened them and asked, “Do you know what he wants from me?”

  “He wants you to deliver his eulogy.”

  “Yes.” Why had Brandon asked him? Did he imagine Jacob’s presence would soothe his mother, his relatives, his friends?

  She said, “Although he hoped you would never see the contents, he worked hard on that letter.”

  “I am honored.” Jacob knew what he would say. He would talk about his esteem for Brandon … and it was true. He did admire him. He wished he would emulate him, but now the darkness possessed his soul and he was … truly ruined. “I’m sorry for your loss.” Words. Inadequate words.

  “Thank you.” Now that Vera LaFreniere had delivered her message, she was crumpling like a demolished building; her shoulders slumping, her head drooping, her whole body losing that formal stiffness. “I hear you never leave the house, but I see that’s not true—you certainly feel free to visit your neighbor—so if you care to attend, Brandon’s funeral is Friday at three. He would be honored by your attendance.” Her voice cracked.

  He had no choice. No choice. “I’ll be there. I will do my best for him. I will … stand for him.�
��

  She nodded wearily and walked away toward the car parked at the curb. She opened the driver’s door, paused, shut it, and came back. “I’m sorry. What I said to you—that was unfair. I had no right to complain that your mother has a living son. But Brandon was my only child and I’m so … I encouraged him to go into the service. He was a smart kid, a wild kid, and I thought it would help him grow up. Now he’s dead and I encouraged him … I simply wanted him to be a man. Not like his father, not some Peter Pan flitting around without purpose, but a real man. I helped kill him.”

  “It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I was asleep when they flew off. And when I went to get them, I failed … for too long. I didn’t get them—him—out soon enough.”

  Vera LaFreniere laughed, and the sound was like dry leaves on the wind. “Brandon always said it wasn’t my fault or your fault, it was that freak show of a doctor’s fault. I guess we both need to remember that.” This time she made it into the car and drove away.

  Jacob mounted the steps and sat in his recliner, numb with shock and horror.

  Brandon was dead.

  Across the street, Maddie shrieked and screamed. Glass shattered.

  She had rescued him only to send him back to hell.

  On Friday, after Brandon’s funeral, Jacob would come home, and when the sunlight was gone, he would jump off that cliff and see if hell’s flames burned as hot as they said. It was no more than he deserved.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The next morning, Kateri wasn’t surprised to hear her doorbell ring.

  She was surprised when she looked through the peephole and saw who stood on her step.

  She tightened the belt of her robe.

  She opened the door.

  Without preamble, Luis crowded his way past her. “She lied.”

  Kateri flattened herself against the wall, held onto the doorknob, and kept the door wide open. “Um, Luis, you shouldn’t be here at this time of the morning. Not after your engagement party.”

  Forcefully he said, “There is no engagement. Didn’t you hear me? She lied. About the pregnancy. Sienna’s not pregnant. She lied.”