“I’ve got it,” Lauren said, scooping up the sack and heading away from the mass of people.
“Have a nice day,” the man called after her.
Lauren’s agoraphobia had begun four years ago when her attempt at running her own practice had come to a screeching halt. A friend of hers, another psychologist who had moved to Placerville, California, several years earlier, had suggested the two of them form a partnership and go into practice together. Wanting desperately to get out from under the rigors of institutional care, Lauren had jumped at the idea.
Two years later, with their practice growing slower than anticipated, Lauren’s partner announced she had purchased a thriving practice from a retiring psychologist. She informed Lauren she was dissolving their agreement—and that, effective immediately, she was taking the staff and her patients with her. With a decimated practice, the next three months proved devastating for Lauren.
Now, as she drove her car, she thought of the day Michael had sat her down and helped her see what had to be done.
“You’ve given it everything you have, honey,” Michael had told her. “But things are out of control. We need to make a change.”
“Close the practice?” Lauren asked, fidgeting with her gold necklace, trying to maintain control.
“What’s left of it, yes. The lease is coming due in five weeks. I just don’t see things turning around overnight.” He stroked her hair. “I know this is not what you wanted to happen, but your ex-partner abandoned you. None of this is your fault.”
Lauren buried her face in her husband’s chest and cried.
Over the next few weeks, Lauren fell into a deep depression. Michael bore the burden of handling the closure, selling off what few assets she had—furniture and various pieces of office equipment—and finding another psychologist in town who would assume care of Lauren’s remaining patients. Had it not been for Michael’s constant attention, she would never have gotten through it.
As she exited the freeway, she realized for the thousandth time today just how much she missed her husband. She made a few turns and headed deeper into the rural area of Placerville. The headlights of the car that had been behind her since she had exited the freeway were annoying and distracting. On such dark roadways, the lights stood out painfully against the background, poking at her eyes like needles.
Lauren made a left turn and the car stayed with her. She made another left and then two rights, and each time, remaining a good two blocks back, the other vehicle shadowed her moves.
Perspiration began trailing down her back again, and her breathing became labored. Here it was, the day after her husband had failed to return home from a ski trip, and she already had more stress than she was equipped to handle. Now, a car was following her. Or was it? Was her propensity for anxiety making simple coincidence into something more significant?
Her heart began pounding and her mouth was so dry it felt as if her throat had closed down on her. She knew these symptoms well, and she fought them hard. Though she had given up her dependence on antidepressants a year and a half ago, the occasional Xanax remained her sole residual crutch. And although it should have reached full strength by now, she felt as if she had never taken it.
Just then, something exploded in the rear of her vehicle. The car swerved right, but she steered into the slide and quickly regained control. She had only felt this sensation once, many years ago, but it was unmistakable: she had a blowout. She accelerated hard, but the car responded sluggishly.
She glanced up at her rearview mirror. The headlights seemed to be bearing down on her. As she slowly gained speed, she started having more difficulty controlling the car as it thumped along, yawing left and right. But there was no way she was going to stop.
She knew the streets in this neighborhood of Placerville like the layout of her house, and twenty yards ahead was a one-lane dirt road that was nearly impossible to see at night if you did not know it was there.
Going forty-five miles an hour, she pulled the steering wheel hard to the right. The car’s wheels left the pavement as they, too, were surprised by the sudden turn. Lauren swerved wide into a narrow ditch along the left side of the shoulder-less road. She floored the accelerator, but the rear wheels spun aimlessly in the loose gravel and dirt.
Lauren cut her lights and quickly got out of the car. She glanced over her shoulder for the headlights, but didn’t see them. Was she just being paranoid, like one of her patients?
Not willing to take the chance, she scampered up the slight embankment, pushing the brush aside with frantic hands. As she ran, she struggled to maintain her balance on the hard-packed underlying ground that was pocked and uneven. She caught her toe in a crevice, and before she could adjust, her other foot landed in a deep indentation and she plunged forward, face first, slamming her chin into a large rock half-buried in the ground.
Sharp pain shot through her jaw.
Lauren shook it off and got to her feet again, moving with purpose toward her house, which sat about a stone’s throw up ahead on the hill that was now visible.
Before she had gone ten feet, a flash of light hit her in the back and silhouetted her form against the tall brush. She spun and saw a car turning onto the road, approaching the spot where her disabled vehicle was parked. She stumbled forward, pieces of the high, prickly thistles slicing at her lips and cheeks as she ran by.
Twenty yards to go, ten until she reached her backyard, where Tucker, her black Doberman, would be standing watch. Maybe her pursuer would see the dog and leave her alone.
Off to the left was the back of the Andersons’ house, but Lauren knew they were out of town. Beyond the Andersons’ property sat an older one-story ranch where an elderly couple resided. The house was dark—but even if they were home, the man was ill and the woman was nearly deaf. They probably wouldn’t be able to render any substantial assistance.
As Lauren climbed the low wooden fence that lined her property, she whistled. “Tucker, come!” she said in a frantic whisper. But the dog did not appear. “Tucker!” she called again, somewhat louder, to no avail.
She reached the back door and fumbled with her keys, finding the correct one but having difficulty inserting it into the lock. She let out a whimper of frustration as she repeatedly stabbed at the metal cylinder with a nervous hand. Lauren took a breath, calmed herself, and made one more attempt. The key slid in and she turned the knob.
Lauren slammed the back door behind her and flipped the locks shut. Tears were running down her face and her lungs were burning from the run through the cold January air. She pressed her back against the door and rested for a moment as her mind cleared. Was someone really following her, or could it have been a neighbor—someone who lived on the same block or even a block or two over?
She should’ve made a few nonsense turns, just to be sure—but she hadn’t. She took a breath to calm herself. She suddenly felt foolish. This whole situation with Michael was getting to her, putting her on edge.
Get a grip,
she told herself.
Just then, a loud thump coming from the other room startled her. She immediately froze and her heart began banging inside her chest. The adrenaline that had cleared from her bloodstream only seconds before was again surging through her body.
In the seconds that she took to decide what to do, Tucker came bounding around the corner, his stubby tail wagging.
“Jesus, you scared the crap out of me.” She bent over and hugged the dog, smiling at how silly she had been. “You’re supposed to be outside. Did I leave the door open? Is that how you got in here?” Lauren walked toward the garage, expecting to find the side door ajar. She flipped on the light and peered in. The door was closed.
Then, it hit her. “Michael! Michael, where are you?”
Lauren moved swiftly through the house. But the doors and windows were locked. There were no notes. And Michael’s Chrysler was not in the carport.
Lauren stood there for a second, then looked down at the dog. “I know I left you outside this morning.” She began wandering from room to room, again hoping to find some kind of explanation.
Her mind flashed on the headlights in the darkness... on the car that had been following her. Or
had it
been following her?
She walked into her room, sat down on the bed, and stared at the antique bureau where her wedding picture sat. Happy times, the photo said, full of blissful promise for the future. That was only four years ago, yet it felt like an eternity. So much had happened since then, little of it good.
She curled up on the bed, hugging her knees tightly against her chest. As tears began to roll from her eyes, Tucker came over, sat down, and licked her face. He nuzzled her cheek and did not move until she touched his snout and stroked it. He loved it when she did that. The dog stayed right there by her side, the only calming influence in her life other than Michael.
And right now, Tucker was all she had.
Lauren lay there for several minutes. Unable to step out of her role as psychologist, she couldn’t help but analyze her own thoughts and feelings. She concluded that, despite all that had happened this evening, the fact that Michael was away—that he hadn’t returned home when he was supposed to have—was wearing on her. She glanced at her watch. He was now thirty-four hours overdue.
Suddenly, Tucker lifted his head. His eyes were wide and his ears straight up, like radar zeroing in on an errant noise.
“What is it?” Lauren asked, straining to hear what had caught Tucker’s attention.
The dog looked at her, then, satisfied that the noise was not a threat, rested his head back on the bed.
Lauren chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then pushed Tucker aside and knelt at the edge of the bed, reached underneath, and pulled out her trunk. It was the same wicker case she’d had as a child, the one she had lugged from dorm to apartment to its final resting place beneath their bed shortly after marrying Michael.
Lauren opened it and moved aside some personal effects: an old jewelry box with the chains, rings, and necklaces she had worn as a teenager; the dress her mom had bought for her sixteenth birthday, folded neatly and sealed in a small cardboard container; and a weathered oak container that had been in the family for fifty some odd years.
She removed the box, pushed the trunk aside, and sat cross-legged on the floor. She reached around her neck for the delicate chain she had worn for the past twenty years and fingered the small metal key that hung from it. Although Michael did not know the whole story behind it, he knew it had been a gift from her father, and that it held special meaning for her. Just after Lauren’s partner announced her intention to leave the practice, Michael had had the keepsake gold-plated in an attempt to lift her spirits.
Using the key, Lauren unlatched the tiny lock that sealed the wooden box. She lifted a velvet-covered object from the container and held the heavy weight in her left hand. She sat there staring at the soft bag for a long moment before reaching inside and pulling out her father’s Colt six-shooter pistol. The chrome was tarnished and dull, the handle worn ... but the letters N. R.—her father’s initials—were still visible. She held the weapon in her left hand and slowly caressed it with her right. Gentle strokes, the smooth ridges of the cold metal passing beneath her fingertips. Had it been her lover, it would have enjoyed the intimate contact.
She brought the pistol over to the desk in the loft and flicked on the halogen light. As she began to clean it, she thought back to the night when she had first become acquainted with this old friend.
It was 2:46 in the morning twenty-five years ago when Lauren was awakened from her sleep by shouting from her parents’ bedroom. She ran down the hall in the direction of the commotion. There, in the dark, she heard the sobs of her mother... then the scream “Lauren, get out!” and the gunshot, the one that sent her father hard to the floor. The dark-masked figure had then turned and pointed the gun at Lauren. She stared at the barrel, the fear welling up in her chest as her mother screamed, “No!”
And then the gunshots, the two that struck the intruder in the chest, and the one that whizzed by her head as the man fell to the floor, blood pooling out around his body in a matter of seconds as she stood there. Too scared to move—
Until her father called to her, in a weak voice.
He was flat on his back, his own blood pumping from a hole in his abdomen, the Colt lying in his open hand. Young Lauren looked at her mother, who was crumpled in a corner, her face frozen in shock.
The terrified ten-year-old grabbed the phone and dialed 911, gave the location of their house, and told the woman, “My dad’s hurt, there’s blood all over. Please hurry!”
Lauren set down her brush beside the Hoppe’s cleaner and cotton patches. As she thought about that night, she remembered the paramedics carting her father away. He survived that injury but had been paralyzed from the waist down, a condition that caused his premature death five years later. He had left her a gun in his will, along with an apology for not being able to leave something more valuable to make things easier for her. But having the gun that had saved her life was far more precious than he could ever know.
She polished it lovingly and brought the chrome to a bright, reflecting shine, just as her father had liked it. One by one, she inserted the six bullets and took aim at the wall in a phantom shooting stance. But she felt strangely repulsed by the thought of using the weapon. In the years since his death, she had viewed the firearm with conflicting emotions: it may have saved her life, but one just like it had sent her father to an early grave.
With the immediate threat now behind her—if that car was even a threat to begin with—Lauren returned the Colt to its box and placed it on her night table. She lay back on the bed and Tucker spread himself out across the wood floor in a spot where he could see clear down the hallway to the staircase.
She grabbed Michael’s pillow, closed her eyes, and gently rubbed her face against the soft cotton, taking in her husband’s familiar scent.