"Don't fight it. Fighting makes it worse. Just close your eyes and enjoy the ride. That's it," he said in a soothing voice, coaching her, guiding her through new terrain. Her own Timothy Leary. "There you go. That's better, isn't it? Much better. The first time's the toughest because you don't know what to expect, and because you're scared shitless. Kinda like sex," he said with a laugh. "The second time will be better. You'll see."
Second time?
She felt something against the side of her face, a sensation she couldn't quite place, then realized he was stroking her numb cheek as he mumbled soothing nonsense, whispering words meant to calm and hypnotize as if trying to talk her down from a bad acid trip.
It worked.
She began to relax.
She began to float.
Float out of her body, up, up to the ceiling, where she could see herself on the floor with James LaRue beside her, one arm looped around her head, his fingers stroking her cheek.
"It's like playing dead, isn't it?" he whispered seductively.
She was looking down on them both, but his words were tickling her ear, stirring her hair. "As close as a living person can get to the real thing."
He was insane. Completely, totally insane.
"Let go," he coaxed. "You have to let go."
She let go.
Chapter 25
Elise gave a scissors kick and broke the surface of the black-water swamp. A stale breeze skimmed her cheek. The hypnotic croak of frogs floated to her in waves.
She collapsed faceup on shore and lay there breathing hard. Fan blades circled above her, struggling to push the heavy, stagnant air.
She was where she'd always been: in the kitchen of LaRue's cabin, a hard floor beneath her, pressing into her shoulder blades.
She tested herself, lifting her head a couple of inches, then letting it drop. She shifted her arm and heard something scrape, vaguely recalled the broken glass.
LaRue.
Where was he?
Her head was thick as she automatically reached for her gun.
Still there.
Fumbling, she slipped her hand inside her jacket.
Her fine motor skills suffering from the effects of the drug, she struggled with the snap of the leather case to finally pull the weapon free. She rolled to her side and shoved herself to a half-sitting position, steadied by one hand.
The sudden movement sent nausea washing over her.
She strained to listen for peripheral sounds, her ears ringing. With her gun drawn, she made an assessment of her surroundings, then staggered to her feet, gun hand trembling.
"LaRue?" Her voice came out a faint croak.
She slowly made her way through the cabin, making sure the bathroom and bedroom were empty, doors banging as she shuffled from one room to the other. Returning to the kitchen, she looked outside.
Her car was still there.
She checked her pocket and felt the rough edge of her keys.
Her fingers were sticky.
She lifted her hand to find a shard of glass embedded between two knuckles. She pulled it out and shook more glass fragments from her jacket. On the floor where she'd been lying was dried blood.
She'd let LaRue get the better of her.
Shameful.
She wanted to go home, shower, crawl into bed. Instead, she made herself take another pass through LaRue's house. Without a search warrant, she couldn't touch anything. She had to suppress the urge to open the books that lined the walls, to read his e-mail.
Her phone rang.
She pulled it out and stared blankly at it for an undetermined length of time before finally lifting it to her ear.
Gould.
The signal was weak, and his voice broke.
"Where the hell are you?" was what she finally deciphered.
"Gone where the goblins go…" The words came out a harsh whisper.
"What? I can't hear you."
He went on to say something about trying to reach her all afternoon.
She looked at her watch; she'd lost four hours.
The signal fell from one bar to none and the phone went dead.
She tried to call him back but couldn't connect. She shut off the phone and dropped it in her pocket.
An enormous amount of energy exerted for nothing.
She slid her gun into the shoulder holster, jacket open and the leather strap free. Before leaving the house, she collected several pieces of broken glass and wrapped them in the fake map LaRue had drawn.
Then she stepped onto the front porch and scanned the area. Was he out there watching? Waiting for her to leave?
Her tires were okay. He hadn't slashed them or let the air out.
With the shards of wrapped glass in her pocket, she slipped into the driver's seat.
It was getting late.
It would be dark soon.
After locking the doors, she forced herself to proceed at a sedate pace. The nausea had passed and she felt she was thinking clearly until she found herself half asleep at the wheel in the middle of the deserted road with no sense of how long she'd been there.
She turned up the air-conditioner of the idling car, letting it hit her full in the face, and continued to Savannah. At one point, she deliberately stopped and pulled out her mobile phone. The signal was strong. There were at least ten messages from Gould, left over the course of the afternoon. The latest said he was heading home and to get in touch with him as soon as she got his message.
She called his cell phone, then his home number, getting voice mail at both.
She'd been to his apartment only once, but Mary of the Angels was easy to find. A place all Savannah residents knew about. A bleak, compelling piece of architecture with a dark past, clinging to the edge of the Historic District.
Time was weird, and it seemed she'd just made the decision to head for Gould's when she found herself there-pulling into the parking lot adjacent to the four-story building.
Darkness had arrived.
There were no stars.
At the front door, she found Gould's name on the intercom and buzzed his room.
No answer.
She leaned against the stone wall and closed her eyes, legs trembling. Why had she come here? Why hadn't she driven to the police station?
She couldn't think.
Sleep. She just wanted to sleep. Could she even make it back to her car? Could she drive herself home?
She pressed the button again… and kept pressing.
A voice crackled over the intercom.
"Yeah."
Gould. Annoyed.
Elise leaned close to the speaker. "Let me in."
"Elise?" His annoyance was gone, replaced by confusion. "I was in the shower. Come on up."
The entrance door buzzed and Elise stumbled inside. She took the elevator to the third floor, went down a dark hallway of red carpet and wall sconces, to 335. The door was unlocked.
Inside the apartment, she heard a shower running. A puddle of water had been left on the wooden floor near her feet. The only illumination was a small light attached to the hood of the stove. Nearby, a window air conditioner hummed.
The apartment was a corner unit that probably would have been light during the day if the windows hadn't been covered with ivy. Near those windows was an overstuffed rocking chair. She shot straight for it and collapsed, tipping back her head with a deep sigh.
Something landed on her lap. She looked down to see Gould's Siamese cat. What was its name?