Page 42 of Jealous of the Clouds
She sees a crowd has gathered near the lakefront—pale, moony faces staring, waiting. They all look the same—long, dark coats, pale skin, and white eyes devoid of pupils.
Camille runs, but drops quickly as she trips over a cat, lying prone. “Mrs. Davis?” She wonders aloud. “How did you get here?”
There’s no time. He’s on her.
Stabbing. Stabbing.
The blood arcs into the air.
Mrs. Davis rises up, hisses, then dashes away.
Sirens.
Applause from the onlookers near the shore…
Camille lies, twitching, on the concrete, framed by dirty snow.
*
I wake, bathed in sweat and tangled in the sheets. Is Camille all right? Did she make it home? Or was the dream a vision?
Sleep will not grace me with a return tonight. I kick off the covers. Stand.
And try to call Camille.
Voice mail.
It’s late, I tell myself.
She’s sleeping.
Chapter 18
Karl
Ted was frantic. I tried to calm him down, my iPhone pressed tightly to my ear. I paced my small apartment while I talked. “We don’t know a thing. Not yet. All could be fine.” The words were, I knew, what was expected. They were also empty and I hope my voice didn’t convey my lack of conviction. I was worried about his friend, Camille, just as he was. Ted had begun calling her in the wee hours of the morning. Now, it was noon, and she still hadn’t answered.
“But shealwayspicks up. At five in the morning, I could understand. She was asleep, her phone on its do not disturb setting. But now it’s long past the time when she’d be awake. That woman is up with the dawn, working, downing coffee, smoking cigarettes.
“I had this nightmare—”
I cut him off. “I know. You told me. What do you want to happen, Ted? I’ll do what I can to help you. You know that.” Ted had told me everything—all about yesterday and seeing Josh outside Camille’s building when she was taking him to what he called hissafe house. I wondered if such a place existed, especially in our world, where Josh was a constant, almost supernatural threat. And supernatural aside, I wouldn’t put it past Josh to furtively slip a tracker on a car or into a phone.
“Listen,” I said as I pulled on my shoes and grabbed my keys from the secretary near the front door. “I’m coming over there. I don’t know if it’s a good idea, but we’ll go together to her place and make sure she’s okay.”
“What do you meannot a good idea? She’s my friend. She’s in harm’s way. We have to do all we can.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Ted—and you miss my meaning. I understand your worry, but breathe, please. I only said it wasn’t a good idea because we both know Josh has her place staked out. If he’s there again this afternoon, he’ll be sure to see us. This time we might not be so lucky and he’ll be watching from his car.” I didn’t want to add to his worry by also saying,and thenhe can follow us wherever we go. “I’m on my way.” I hung up, knowing I could do more good with him in person than I could via this electronic, and less effective, connection. I also didn’t want to give him a chance to speak more. It sounded cruel and unsympathetic, but I’ve talked with enough people over the years to know that sometimes panic will rile you up and talking about it, rather than serving as a release, can also be the wind stoking the flames of anxiety.
I hurried downstairs and to my car, parked on the next block west of my building. I was due to record another podcast today and I certainly had enough material to fill the forty minutes it typically ran, but, but… Well, priorities.
As I drove up Lake Shore Drive, the lake at my right, I pictured Ted in that seedy motel, wringing his hands and pacing, worried sick that something had happened to one of his dearest friends.
Alone with my thoughts, I had to admit that maybe something had happened to her. She knew too much. She was an obstacle. She could be a thorn in Josh’s side, a wrinkle in his plans. None of this made sense, of course not. But Josh was not a rational man. I was pretty sure he wasn’t even a saneone. Everywhere, in his mind, were people out to get him, to persecute him, to prevent his happiness. We were all the bad guys and he was forever the victim.
What if he’d been lying in wait for her when she returned from dropping Ted off at the motel? What if he demanded to know where Ted was and, when she didn’t cooperate, felt enabled to torture her for the information he needed? And if she held fast to her silence, to her damning false admission that she just didn’t know? What then? Would he kill her, too?
It seemed absurd.
