You’ve Been Warned

Chapter 65

CONSIDER THIS your last warning, Kristin.

But who’s warning me?

And why?

Somebody from the police? Is Detective Delmonico involved?

“So are we actually going somewhere?” asks the cabbie, interrupting my manic train of thought.

“ Manhattan,” I answer. “Please.”

I barely manage to give him my address before sinking down in the seat, ready to pass out. I’ve been awake for a day and a half. I’d almost find it funny if I had the energy to laugh anymore.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay back there, lady?”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just another day at the beach.”

Any mild relief I’m feeling is squashed by my lingering fear. It’s as if he’s still sitting next to me, warning me about the Turnbull family.

I’m shivering and feeling dizzy. What’s more, my body is one big itch. Hives again? Whatever it is, I’m scratching all over like mad.

In fact, it’s going from bad to worse. I feel as if my skin’s crawling. What’s going on with me?

We pass a streetlamp, the backseat filling with a hazy yellow glow. I quickly push up my sleeve to look at my arm. I expect to see bright red from all the scratching.

Instead I see something else. Something is moving!

I jolt up in the seat as the rear of the taxi goes dark again. I’m swatting at my arm, at what exactly, I don’t know. But I definitely feel something.

“What the hell are you doing?” asks the cabbie, surely wishing he had run me over at this point.

“There’s something on me!” I shout.

He flips the overhead light on. I immediately see it and scream my head off. It’s a cockroach… except it’s not on me.

It’s in me.

The thing is crawling under my skin, the ghastly shape unmistakable – legs, body, antennae – marching up toward my elbow. I keep striking myself, beating my arm.

Then I see another roach and another after that, forcing their way beneath my flesh. And what I can’t see, I feel. In my legs, my stomach, my face. The cockroaches are everywhere!

I’m thrashing in the backseat, my arms flailing. I have to get out of this taxi! But as I reach for the door, the locks snap down. At least I think that’s what just happened. I pull in vain on the handle. I’m trapped.

“UNLOCK THE DOOR!” I yell at the cabbie, but he doesn’t. Maybe because I’ve succeeded in scaring the hell out of him.

Up ahead, I see the brick wall of a building getting close in a hurry. It’s a dead end in the worst sense of the word.

I can’t bear to look at this. I close my eyes and cover my face with my arm.

Then WHACK! BAM! CRASH! As though my life is a cartoon.

Everything goes black.

Chapter 66

“WHAT’S THE NAME of this hospital?” I ask the thirty-something doctor as he looks up from the clipboard in his lap.

“Our Lady of Hope,” he answers.

“And how did I get here again?”

“A cabdriver dropped you off. He said you started screaming in his backseat so he slammed on the brakes. That’s when you hit your head on the divider. Apparently, it knocked you out.”

Dr. Curley, as his name tag reads, squints at my hairline. “Now, are you sure I can’t get you some more ice for that nasty bump?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m okay.”

But I’m clearly not, and he knows it. The nurses and doctors in the emergency room were quick to grasp it too. All it took was five minutes of my rambling on about bizarre photographs, devils, a recurring dream, the Ponytail, and subdermal cockroaches before the consensus concern for my head officially had nothing to do with the nasty bump on it.

Kristin, say hello to Dr. Curley – our staff psychiatrist here at the hospital.

I’m sitting across from him in a small office near the waiting room. There’s no desk, no pictures on the wall, no phone – just two folding chairs. Cozy.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” I ask.

Dr. Curley, a warm and fuzzy type with a mop of longish blond hair, taps his pen a few times on his clipboard before shrugging. “Do you think you’re crazy?”

“I must be if they called you down here to see me. Don’t you think so?”

“Don’t read too much into that.” He leans in as if sharing a secret. “Between you and me, the hospital is usually just trying to get their money’s worth from having a shrink on staff. And they like to protect their butts.”

“Though I suppose I can’t blame them in my case,” I say.

He glances down at the notes he’s been taking. He certainly seems nicer than my ex-therapist, Dr. Corey, and from what I can tell, he doesn’t smoke a ridiculous pipe.

“Well, you’ve definitely had an eventful week,” he says, looking up again with a reassuring smile. “I’d like to try something if you don’t mind. Won’t take long, I promise.”

I listen to him explain his “simple exercise.” All I have to do is fill in the blank.

“For example,” he says, “I consider myself a blank person. And you would answer…?”

Nothing.

I sit there like a lump. “It sure would be easier if this were multiple choice,” I say, stalling, trying to figure out what the game is here and if I really want to play.

He chuckles. “I suppose you’re right. Just remember there are no wrong answers, so don’t overthink it. All I ask is that you be as honest with your answers as possible.”

“Because there are no wrong answers,” I say.

“That’s right.”

He repeats the sentence for me. I consider myself a…

“Decent person,” I answer.

“See? Nothing to it. Okay, next one,” he says, picking up the pace. “The world is getting moreblank. ”

“Dangerous,” I say. No indecision about that one.

“I think most people are…”

“Lonely.”

“When I’m under stress I like to…”

“Work in my darkroom.”

“If I could change one thing about myself it would be…”

“My career. I mean, I’d like to be more successful at it. I’m a photographer.”

“The last person I got upset at was…”

“Myself.”

“The most important person in my life is…”

Without thinking, I open my mouth to answer “Michael.” I barely catch myself. I can’t tell him that!

“What’s wrong?” asks Dr. Curley.

“Uh, nothing,” I say, shifting in my seat. “I had to think about it for a second. The most important person in my life is Connie, my best friend.”

He nods. He’s been nodding all along, only this one is a little different, slower. Does he know I’m lying? Of course he does. The guy’s no dummy.

“Okay, last two,” he says. “I had a blank childhood.”

I hesitate before answering. “Difficult.”

“And last, the thing I’m most afraid of is…”

That’s easy. “Dying.”

Chapter 67

I WATCH AS Dr. Curley makes a few more quick notes, his pen gliding back and forth across his notepad. Given my lack of sleep, the effect is like the swinging pocket watch of a hypnotist. I can barely keep my eyes open. But I do not want the dream to come again!

“Still with me, Kristin?”

I snap to. The pen’s down, and he’s staring at me. “Yes. Sorry about that,” I say.

“Quite all right. No problem.”

“So, did I pass?”

“Like I said, there are no wrong answers. No trick ones either. But I do appreciate your honesty.”

“What now?” I ask. Speaking of honesty.

He adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “Here’s what I’m thinking,” he begins. “It’s getting late, you’re miles from home, you’ve suffered a minor concussion, and you’re clearly exhausted. How would you feel about spending the night here at the hospital?”

When you put it that way…

The thought of not having to make the trip back to Manhattan immediately appeals to me so much. So does the prospect of – at long last – a good night’s sleep. Who knows? Maybe being in a hospital will stave off that damn dream, the burning smell, the bug thing.

“Sure, why not?” I say.

Dr. Curley tells me to “hang out and relax” for a moment, as he needs to clear it with another doctor. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

I sit and wait. I’m getting a little bit antsy now. And paranoid? Of course.

A few minutes go by, followed by a few more. I’m hanging out, but I’m definitely not relaxing. Where is he? C’mon, c’mon. I’m clearly exhausted, remember?

I get up from the chair and walk to the door, opening it just enough to poke my head out. Sure enough, I spot Dr. Curley down the hall, talking on his cell phone. He’s standing with another man, who I assume is the doctor he mentioned. But I can’t quite see him thanks to Curley’s bushy blond hair.

Then Dr. Curley shifts his feet, and I manage to catch a glimpse of the other doctor’s face. I immediately do a double take, and my heart does a little flip-flop. Make that a big flip-flop.

I know him!

Or at least I used to.

Before he was murdered in my hometown of Concord, Massachusetts.

Chapter 68

THIS IS A MONSTER CLUE in the ongoing mystery called “my life of late.” It has to be.

I whip my head back from the hallway, quickly shutting the door. I’m alone in the room and desperately want to keep it that way.

I have no idea how Dr. Magnumsen, my pediatrician from my hometown, could be alive, let alone working in Brooklyn. What’s more, he hasn’t aged a day. He looks exactly as he did when I last saw him.

Back when I was twelve years old.

The doubts creep in like a heavy fog. Is it really him? Maybe this doctor just looks like Floyd Magnumsen. Right down to the cleft chin?

I know one way to find out. Walk right up and ask. If I’m right, he won’t even have to answer. Given the past – why and how he was killed – the look on his face will say it all.

Christ, listen to yourself, Kristin! If you’re right, that means you’ll be talking to a dead man!

And if I’m wrong? If I go into that hallway and make another insane scene?

Suffice to say, the hospital will put me up in a room, all right. One with wall-to-wall padding. And a little window so they can watch me at all times.

But it’s Magnumsen; I know it is.

Like I know I saw my father. I even have the pictures to prove it.

Wait. Pictures!

I rush over to my shoulder bag and grab my camera, checking for film. It’s ready.

Am I? And for what? The next test?

I pause by the door, swallowing hard, my cheek resting against the cool wood. I need to be quick and I need to be quiet. I can’t let anyone see me take the shot. Not Dr. Curley, and especially not Magnumsen. Why is that, Kris? Because the dead don’t like having their pictures taken?

Carefully, I peek into the hallway again. The two men are still together, but Dr. Curley and his blond hair have moved again, blocking my shot.

Camera raised, I watch through my lens, waiting for the Kodak moment. C’mon, Doc, move a little!

He doesn’t. The man’s a statue.

Which means I am too. How long can I stand here before someone -

Now!

For a split second, Dr. Curley shifts his feet as he tucks away his cell phone. I’ve got the shot! More proof that I’m not a mad person, just that the world has gone mad all around me. Makes sense – if you’re in my shoes, anyway.

Right as I snap the pic, I hear a scream over my shoulder. I spin to see a very pregnant woman hunched over at the entrance to the emergency room. She screams again, and two nurses rush toward her.

She’s pointing at the room I’m in – looking and pointing right at me.

She screams again and utters just one word: “Satan!”

And she’s not the only one looking my way. So is Dr. Magnumsen.

If I wasn’t sure before, I am now. It’s been nearly fifteen years, but it’s as if I haven’t aged a day either. This man who molested me – my pediatrician – recognizes who I am in an instant.

The wretched look on his face says it all.

Chapter 69

“KRISTIN, PLEASE unlock the door,” says Dr. Robert Curley in the perfect tone for reading Dr. Seuss to preschoolers.

I don’t. I don’t even respond to this complete fraud.

“Whatever’s bothering you, I’m sure we can help.” Did you say “we,” Robbie?

I hear the strain in his voice as he tries to remain warm and fuzzy. There must be a book somewhere, How to Talk to a Nutcase. Lesson one: Never, ever lose your cool.

“C’mon, Kristin, I’m not the enemy,” he says.

It’s an interesting choice of words, and I speak up.

“Is he with you?” I ask. “Is he still out there?”

“Is who with me?”

Ha! I know Floyd Magnumsen is standing right there; I can feel it. Why is Robbie playing dumb now, I wonder? Unless, of course, he’s part of all this.

I fall silent again, listening as Curley repeatedly tries to coax me out of this tiny box of a room. It’s no use, and he knows it. His frustration mounts, and soon warm and fuzzy turn to piss and vinegar.

“JUST OPEN THE DOOR!” he yells. “OPEN IT THIS INSTANT.”

Curley begins pounding the door with his fist. I keep my eyes glued on the knob with its push-button lock, terrified that it might pop out from all the rattling.

“YOU CAN’T STAY IN THERE FOREVER!”

We’ll see about that.

The shouting and pounding stop, quickly replaced by whispering. I press my ear against the door. Magnumsen is talking. I can barely make out what he’s saying, but what I do hear is enough.

“The key. Who has the key? We have to get her out of there.”

Immediately, I grab one of the chairs and try to wedge it under the doorknob. It’s not tall enough.Now what?

Although I may be desperate, I’m not stupid. I won’t be able to hold off Curley and Magnumsen once they have the key.

But I know someone who can.

My hands trembling, I dial a number on my cell. I’ve got one bar of signal, and it’s flashing in and out. Through bursts of static, the line rings once, then twice.

On the third ring, I hear footsteps out in the hallway followed by a key sliding into the lock.

Pick up! Pick up! Pick up!

The door flies open, smacking against the wall. I don’t see Magnumsen. Dr. Curley immediately grabs for the phone, but I won’t let go. I’m clinging to my cell like a pit bull when I hear another pop of static and the voice I’ve been waiting for.

“Hello?”

I scream the name of the hospital as Curley and I fall to the ground in a tug-of-war. One by one, he begins prying my fingers loose. It hurts like hell.

“Help, Michael, you have to save me!”

Chapter 70

“ARE THE DOORS LOCKED?” I whisper. “You checked?”

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure? I know I sound a little crazy right now.”

Michael reaches for a button on the ceiling of the limo and lowers the tinted-glass divider halfway. “Vin, the doors are locked, right?”

“Yes, sir,” grunts Vincent. But just to be nice, Vincent unlocks and locks them again.

Up goes the divider with a mechanical hum. Michael and I are in our own little world again. I’m lying across the backseat with my head in his lap as he gently caresses the nasty bump below my hairline. That bump isreal. So is the rest of what happened. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he assures me.

What I wouldn’t give for him to be right. For the time being, though, I’ll take being out of that hospital.

“I didn’t think that awful jerk Curley would ever release me,” I say.

Michael nods. “He was pretty stubborn, wasn’t he?”

“What did you say to make him change his mind?”

“Oh, nothing, really. I simply suggested that since you came to the emergency room voluntarily, you should also leave that way.”

“That’s it? That’s all you said?”

Michael flashes his trademark smile. “Well, I did mention one other thing.”

I knew it.

“I told him that by the time I was done suing Our Lady of Hope Hospital for false imprisonment, it would be renamed Our Lady of Bankruptcy.”

That’s the man I love.

Michael doesn’t press me for details on what happened, and as much as I want to tell him, I’m torn. He just came to my rescue and vouched for my sanity. If I try explaining everything right now, what’s he supposed to think? I’m afraid he’ll tell Vincent to turn the limo around: “Quick, let’s get her back to the hospital!”

Besides, I don’t want to work myself into another frenzy quite yet. I’m finally feeling a little relaxed. Or maybe the word is safe. Either way, it occurs to me that the last time I felt this way was the last time I was in this limo with Michael. Does that mean something in this damn puzzle? What part does Michael play?

“I did it again, didn’t I?” I say. “I interrupted one of your business dinners.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Michael takes a peek at his platinum Rolex. “As long as I return in time to pick up the check, no one will care.”

“Do you really have to go back to the restaurant?” I ask as I take his hand.

“I’m afraid so. Besides, what you have to do is get some rest.”

He couldn’t be more right. My body’s officially running on fumes. Except I don’t want him to leave me. Couldn’t we just drive around in his limo for the rest of our lives?

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Will you make love to me?”

He answers with a soft kiss to my lips, barely touching them with his. Just what I need.

Slowly, he undresses me. For a moment my eyes drift from his, and I glance up through the sunroof into the night, the long steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge hovering above. They’re lit with a dreamy yellow hue that reminds me of a vintage photograph, something beautiful and lasting.

Timeless.

Chapter 71

IT’S SO HARD saying good-bye to Michael as we pull up to my building, I almost break into tears. It’s even harder to be alone again in my apartment. It feels like forever since it’s been home sweet home for me.

The second I get inside my door and lock it, lock myself in, the phone starts to ring. I don’t want to answer, but maybe it’s Michael. He’s had second thoughts and he’s coming over. Please, let that be it.

I pick up on the fifth ring, and it’s an operator. “I have a collect call from Kristin Burns.” I want to throw down the receiver, but I think about it and I accept the call.

I hear my own voice. “Help me. Please help me. Somebody make it stop!”

Now I throw down the receiver. MAKE WHAT STOP? WHAT IN THE NAME OF GOD IS HAPPENING? HOW CAN I GET A PHONE CALL FROM MYSELF?

The nasty bump on my forehead is definitely real and already ripening to a deep purplish bruise. It’s well beyond any cover-up stick, so I fiddle with a new hairstyle – bangs down.

Then I throw on a T-shirt and sweats and crawl into bed. I should be asleep before my head, bump and all, hits the pillow.

So why am I still awake?

Five minutes, ten minutes, a half hour passes, and all I can do is toss and turn. The past few days play over and over in my head, an endless loop of fear and confusion. All the stress that seemed to melt away in Michael’s arms begins to seep – then gush – back in.

There’s only one thing I can think to do.

I jump up and grab my camera. I can almost hear the voice of Dr. Curley playing his little fill-in-the-blank game with me. When I’m under stress I like to…

I close the door to my darkroom and start to develop the shot I snapped at the hospital. I don’t rush, since there’s little doubt as to what I’ll see. Dr. Curley wasn’t standing there alone; I know I didn’t imagine it. And that goes for everything else too.

Now, if I could just figure out what it all means, or at least how it could be happening.

I hold up the picture. There was a time I couldn’t look at the face of Dr. Floyd Magnumsen without breaking into tears.

His hands were so cold. He always wore gloves during my checkups, except for that one time. Why is he locking the door? I thought. And then I understood: because he didn’t want anyone to know that he was a monster.

I felt so ashamed and confused afterward. And then, when no one believed me, I wanted to die.

Dr. Magnumsen wasn’t only a respected pediatrician, he was a war hero… and I was a twelve-year-old girl with an “active” imagination. Even my parents suspected I was making the whole thing up. “Are you sure you’re not just trying to get attention, Kristin?” my mother asked me. “Are you sure this really happened?”

But then someone else came forward. A sophomore at Concord High School. Dr. Magnumsen had told her he needed to feel for bumps “down there,” and that it was okay if it felt good. She’d kept it a secret for over four years.

But when she read about me in the paper and heard the talk on Main Street, the proverbial scarlet L for “Liar” being plastered on my faded overalls, she could no longer stay silent. She told what Magnumsen had done to her.

I wasn’t alone. I was telling the truth.

Two days later, the girl’s father stormed into Magnumsen’s office and aimed a shotgun at his face. It was a closed-casket funeral, said the newspaper stories.

But here Floyd Magnumsen is now, in my hands, back from the dead. There’s not a scratch on him. It’s as if I took this picture fifteen years ago.

I pin it up on the wall and add the shots I took to show Javier. I take a step back and study it, knowing this has to be a key to everything that’s happening.

But what could Dr. Magnumsen possibly have to do with my father? Or Penley and Michael?

And what do they all have to do with the Fálcon Hotel?

I lean in for a closer look at the gurneys lined up on the sidewalk. Four body bags right in a row.Who are those people? How did they die?

Reaching out, I run my fingers across the pictures. As my hand approaches the weirdest of them all – the one of Michael on the floor that I never took – it stops.

I hear something. I’m sure of it.

There’s a noise outside the darkroom.

Footsteps.

Someone’s inside my apartment!

I stop everything – every movement, every muscle. I’m not breathing. I’m not even blinking.

Just listening for another sound.

Only it’s gone. I no longer hear anything. My exhausted mind is playing tricks, and here’s another reminder that I should be in my bedroom, not my darkroom.

Seriously, call it a night, Kris!

Stifling a yawn, I’m about to head out of the darkroom.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

I hear the footsteps again.

They’re right outside the door.

They’re not in my head.

And unfortunately, that’s not exactly good news.

Chapter 72

I GRAB THE STEEL tripod stashed in the corner of the darkroom. If there’s danger waiting for me on the other side of the door, I’m at least going down swinging.

In the sliver of space beneath the door, I can see the shadow of feet -big feet – creeping near. I grip the tripod tighter with both hands and pull it back over my shoulder. Batter up. Whoever’s out there is going to get hurt. I’m in the mood for it.

“Ms. Burns, are you in there?”

I recognize the voice.

I open the door and I’m staring at Detective Frank Delmonico. “How did you get in here?”

“I walked,” he answers sardonically. There’s not even the hint of an apology from him. “You think maybe I flew in an open window?”

The cocky line works. I’m speechless.

“Your door was open,” he says. “I knocked, and I guess you didn’t hear me, huh? Now, if you’re done with your third degree, it’s my turn to ask a few questions.”

Delmonico removes the same pen and tattered notepad from inside the same dark gray suit. I smell his aftershave, or whatever it is, and tobacco. Even more than before, the detective gives me the creeps.

This is happening too fast – and too late – I think. It’s near midnight. What is this guy doing in my apartment?

“I told you I’d answer any questions, but does it have to be now?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve been leveling with me,” he says. “And I’ve got a problem with that.”

In light of his tone, that’s the understatement of the year.

Be careful, Kris. “All right, how can I help you? I don’t know anything about those murders,” I blurt out.

“The morning I first saw you outside the Fálcon Hotel, why were you taking so many pictures?” he asks, basically ignoring what I just said to him.

“I’m into photography.”

“Is it your profession?”

“Hopefully, one day. I’m up for an important gallery showing. I have an agent. You could talk to her if you want. Maybe tomorrow. ”

He peers over my shoulder. “Is that your darkroom?”

“Yes.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Delmonico says, and he takes a step forward.

I shift my feet to block the way. “Actually, I do.”

He smirks. “Are you hiding something from me? Maybe the pictures you took at the hotel? Or is it something else you don’t want me to see?”

“No. My photographs are personal, that’s all.”

“Duly noted,” he says.

Then Delmonico pushes past me.

Right into my darkroom.

Chapter 73

“HEY, WHAT ARE YOU DOING? How dare you!”

Delmonico stops in the middle of my darkroom, staring left and right. My pictures are everywhere. They’re like wallpaper. He seems either impressed or overwhelmed by what he sees. “My, my, my,” he mutters. “Such a busy, busy girl.”

“I didn’t give you permission to be in here!” I snap.

He turns to me, his dark eyes boring into my head. “If you’d like, I can come back with a search warrant and turn this entire apartment upside down. Do you want that? Or I could forget about the search warrant and toss your place anyway. You know that good cop-bad cop routine? I’m the bad cop, Kristin.”

“You’re saying I’m a murder suspect?”

“What I’m saying is that you’re not cooperating with a murder investigation.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He takes a step toward me. He’s nearly twice my size. “In case you conveniently forgot, Ms. Burns, people died that morning. Four of them.”

“I know that. I was there.”

“And you were acting rather strange, as I recall.”

“I was upset.” I still am, buster!

“Yet you said you didn’t know any of them.”

“I was upset. I told you that. They were sitting out there on the sidewalk,dead. ”

“But you thought one of them was still alive. That’s what you told me, anyway.”

“No, what I thought was… I mean, yes, but I didn’t actually… uh…”

The more I hesitate, the harder the detective looks at me. I know I’m not making total sense. Worse, I’m digging a deep hole for myself.

“Which is it?” he asks. “Did you or did you not see a dead person come back to life?”

“This is ridiculous. You know I had nothing to do with those murders.”

“You’re just an innocent bystander, right?”

“Yes.”

He laughs in my face. “Is that really what you think you are? Innocent? So virtuous that I have some nerve even talking to you?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I don’t like it. I’m done answering your questions. You can leave.”

Delmonico nods, tucking his notepad and pen back into his pocket.

Thank God! He’s going.

No.

He’s just freeing up his hands.

In a blur, he grabs my shoulders, slamming me against the wall. I hit hard, and pictures go flying, the pain shooting up my spine. I can’t believe he just did that.

“Listen to me! Listen to the bad cop!” he says, breathing fire. “You’re not done with anything until I say you are. You’re wondering whether you’re a murder suspect? Yes, you’re a murder suspect, Miss Burns. For starters.”

I can’t talk, I’m terrified.

“You really think you’re hot shit, don’t you? A real independent woman,” he says. “Well, guess what? It’s only a matter of time before I take you down. Because you are involved with those four murders. That much I know.”

I open my mouth, fighting first for air, then words. “You’re… hurting… me,” I manage.

He shakes his head. “You don’t know the meaning of hurt. But you will.”

The back of one of his hands slowly drifts down from my neck and across my chest.

This is really happening.

What’s he going to do now? Take me in? Arrest me for murders I didn’t commit?

His hand stops just above my breast. It’s right over my heart, which is beating wildly.

“Do you feel that?” he says. He leans in, his eyes mere inches from mine. He doesn’t blink, not once. “When you think of me, you remember that fear.”

He pulls back, letting go of me. I start trembling as he walks to the door and turns around.

“I know where you live, Miss Burns,” he says. “And I know what you did at the Fálcon Hotel. Both times you were there.”