Obsession. Lisa Jackson
won’t be long, he thought, his own lips twitching. Reaching deep into his pocket, he rubbed the worn picture between his thumb and forefinger.
Just wait for me. I’ll come to you. Soon.
“Who is this?” Zane Flannery demanded, his fingers clutching the phone’s receiver in a death grip.
“Ted.” The voice was barely audible; rough as a shark’s skin. Zane couldn’t identify the caller as a man or woman.
“Okay, Ted. So what is it?” Zane’s mouth had turned to cotton, and the numbing fear that had gripped him ever since “Ted’s” call the day before gnawed at his guts.
“It’s Kaylie. She’s not safe,” the voice grated out.
Kaylie. Oh, God. A knot of painful memories twisted his stomach. “Why not?”
“I told you. Lee Johnston’s about to be released.”
Zane managed to keep his voice steady. “I went to the hospital. No one there is saying anything about letting him out.” In fact, no one had said much of anything. Dr. Anthony Henshaw, Johnston’s doctor, had been particularly tight-lipped about his patient. Phrases like patient confidentiality and maintaining patient equilibrium, had kept spouting from the doctor’s mouth. He’d even had the gall to tell Zane point-blank that Zane wasn’t Kaylie’s husband any longer. That Zane had no right to be involved. Just because Zane was owner of the largest security firm on the West Coast didn’t give him the authority to turn the hospital upside down or “persecute” one of his patients. Zane liked that. “Persecute.” After what Johnston had attempted to do to Kaylie.
The man had nearly killed Kaylie, and now Zane was accused of “persecuting” the maniac. Figures.
In the well-modulated voice of one who weighs everything before he speaks, Henshaw had informed Zane that Johnston was still locked away and that Zane had nothing to worry about. As a patient of Whispering Hills hospital, Johnston was being observed constantly and there was nothing to fear. Though Lee was a model patient, Dr. Henshaw didn’t expect Johnston to be released in the very near future. He assumed Johnston would remain a patient for “the time being.”
Not good enough for Zane. He didn’t work well with words like expect or assume.
Pacing between his desk and window, stretching the phone cord taut, Zane felt as helpless as he had seven years ago when Lee Johnston had nearly taken Kaylie’s life.
“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