Lisa Jackson – Obsession (страница 2)

“Why should I believe you?” Zane asked the caller, and there was a long silence. Ted was taking his time.

Zane waited him out.

“Because I care,” the raspy voice stated. The phone went dead.

“Son of a bitch!” Zane slammed down the receiver and rewound the tape he’d made of the call.

Startled, the dog lying beneath Zane’s desk barked, baring his teeth, dark eyes blinking open. Hairs bristled on the back of the brindled shepherd’s neck.

“Relax, Franklin,” Zane ordered, though his own skin prickled with dread and cold sweat collected on his forehead, underarms and hands. “Son of a damned—”

The door to his office burst open, and Brad Hastings, his second in command, strode in. A newspaper was tucked under his arm. “I called the police,” he said, obviously aggravated. His dark eyes were barely slits, his nostrils flared. Not more than five-eight, but all muscle, Brad had once been a welterweight boxer and had been with Flannery Security since day one. Hastings was a force to be reckoned with. “There’s nothing new on Johnston. He’s locked up all right, just like Henshaw told you. As for the doctor, he seems to be on the level. He’s been Johnston’s shrink for five years.”

And in those five years, Henshaw hadn’t told Zane anything about his patient. Zane had checked in every six months or so and been told curtly that Mr. Johnston was still a patient and not much more.

When Dr. Loyola had been at Whispering Hills, things had been different. Loyola had been the admitting doctor. He understood the terror his patient inspired and he’d kept Zane informed of Johnston’s progress or lack thereof. But Loyola was long gone, and no one now employed at the hospital considered Johnston a threat.

Except “Ted.” Whoever the hell he was. Zane tried to concentrate. “What about this Ted character?” Zane played back the tape, making a second copy as he did, and as Hastings listened, Zane tried to envision the man who was giving him the warning.

The tape ended. Zane rewound it again and took the copy from the recorder.

Hastings scratched the back of his balding head. “No Ted at Whispering Hills. No Ted listed as a friend or family member of Johnston.”

“You checked all the workers at the hospital? Cafeteria employees, nurses, orderlies, janitors, gardeners?”

“No one with the name Theodore or Ted. The last guy to work there named Ted left two and a half years ago. He lives in Mississippi now, doesn’t know a thing about what’s happening at Whispering Hills these days. I talked to him myself.”

Zane felt helpless, like a man struggling to desperately cling to a rope that was fraying bit by bit.

“What about a woman? Teddie, maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “or Theresa, Thea, something like that?”

“You think that—” Hastings motioned skeptically toward the tape “—is a woman?”

“I couldn’t tell, but I thought whoever called was disguising his or her voice…” He felt another wave of bone-chilling fear. What if the caller were Johnston himself? What if he’d had access to a phone and Bay Area phone book? What if that madman was calling Kaylie at the station?

Zane grabbed the phone again, punched out the number of the television station where she worked and drummed his fingers impatiently as the receptionist answered, then told him that Kaylie had left for the day.

Cursing under his breath, he hung up and dialed her apartment. A recorder answered. He didn’t bother to leave another message, but slammed the receiver down in frustration. Get a grip, Flannery, he ordered himself, but couldn’t quell the fright.

Why hadn’t Kaylie returned his calls? he wondered, panicking. Maybe it was already too late!

“Look, she’s all right,” Hastings said, as if reading his boss’s thoughts. “Otherwise you would’ve heard. Besides, she was on the show this morning, and you know for a fact that Johnston’s still at the hospital.”

“For now.”

Glancing surreptitiously at Zane, Hastings snorted. “I hate to bring up more bad news, but have you seen this?” He slapped the newspaper onto Zane’s desk. The paper opened, and Zane realized that he was staring at page four of The Insider, a tabloid known for its gossip-riddled press. A grainy picture of Kaylie and the cohost of West Coast Morning, Alan Bently, stared up at him. They were seated at a table, laughing and talking, and Alan’s arm was slung over Kaylie’s shoulders. The bold headlines read: Wedding Bells For San Francisco’s Number One Couple? And in smaller type: Is Kaylie Still His Number One OBSESSION?

“How can they print this stuff?” Zane growled, more irritated by the story than he had any right to be. Half of anything The Insider printed was purely sensationalism—nothing more than rumors. Yet Zane was infuriated by the picture of Alan and Kaylie together, and he was sickened at the hint of their marriage. It had to be a rumor just to boost ratings. He was certain Kaylie would never fall for a clown like Bently.

Worst of all was the reference to Kaylie’s last movie, Obsession, a film that was, in Zane’s estimation, the beginning of the end of his short-lived but passionate marriage to Kaylie.

Tossing the paper into the trash, Zane didn’t comment, he just strode across the room and opened his closet door. He yanked his beat-up leather jacket from a hanger, and while shoving the copy of the anonymous caller’s warning into the pocket of his jacket, he pushed aside any lingering jealousy he felt for Alan Bently. Zane didn’t have time for emotion, especially not petty envy. Not until Kaylie was safe. A plan had been forming in his mind ever since the first chilling call from “Ted.” It was time to put it into action.

Kaylie wouldn’t like it. Hell, she’d fight him every step of the way. But that was just too damned bad. This time she was going to do things his way. He explained his plan to Hastings, instructed his right-hand man to take care of business and put Kaylie Melville’s safety at the top of the list. “And give a copy of the tape to the police!”

Satisfied that Hastings could handle the business, he said, “I want every available man on the case. I don’t give a damn about the costs. Just find out who this Ted is and what his connection is to Kaylie. And start tracing calls—calls that come in here, or to her house, or to the station where she works. I want to know where this nut case is!”

“Is that all?” Hastings mocked.

“It’s all that matters,” Zane muttered, shoving his fists into the pockets of his jacket. He whistled to the dog, and the sleek shepherd lifted one ear, then rose and padded after him.

Kaylie would kill him if she realized what he had planned but he didn’t care. He couldn’t. Her life was more important than her damned pride.

Outside, the morning air was warm. Only a few clouds were scattered over the San Francisco sky. Zane unlocked the door of his Jeep, and the dog hopped into the back. He had one more phone call to make, he thought, pulling into the clog of traffic.

He made the call from his cellular phone.

Once his plan was set, he went about finding his headstrong ex-wife.

* * *

Hours later, Zane had tracked her down. She hadn’t been at her apartment, nor had she gone back to the station, so he guessed she’d decided to spend the evening alone, at the house they’d shared in Carmel.

He parked in the familiar driveway and second-guessed himself. His plan was foolproof, but she would be furious. And she might end up hating him for the rest of her life.

But then, she didn’t much like him now. She’d made it all too clear that she didn’t want him in her life when she’d scribbled her signature across the divorce papers seven years before.

So why couldn’t he forget her? Leave her alone? Let her fend for herself as she claimed she wanted to do?

Because she was in his blood. Always had been. Always would be. His personal curse. And he was scared.

He let the dog out of the Jeep, and the shepherd began investigating the small yard, scaring a gray tabby cat and sniffing at the shrubs.

“Stay, Franklin,” Zane commanded when the dog attempted to wander too far.

Pressing on the doorbell, he waited, shifting from one foot to the other. The house was silent. No footsteps padded to the door. Leaning on the bell again, he heard the peal of chimes within. Still no response.

Don’t panic, he told himself, unnerved that he couldn’t find her. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a set of keys he hadn’t used in years and slid a key into the lock.

The lock clicked. The dead bolt slid easily.

So she hadn’t bothered to change the locks. Not smart, Kaylie.

With a grimace, Zane pocketed his key and shoved on the familiar front door. It swung open without the slightest resistance, and he stood staring at the interior of the house that had once been his.

Swearing under his breath, he ignored the haunting memories—memories of Kaylie. Always Kaylie. God, how could one woman be embedded so deeply in a man?

With another reminder to Franklin to stay, he closed the door behind him. Tossing his battle-worn leather jacket over the back of the couch, he surveyed the living room. Nothing much had changed. Except of course that he didn’t live here, and he hadn’t for a long, long time.