Uncharted (8 page)

She manufactured a laugh. “I was yelling?”

“When I came in you were screaming something about David, but you weren’t making any sense.”

Karyn looked around the room, saw that everything was where it should be, then bent her knees. “Shouldn’t have had that frozen yogurt for dessert. I think it froze my brain.”

Sarah backed away. “You’re weird, Mom.”

“So you’re always telling me.”

“Well . . . good night.”

“Hey.” Awareness crept into Karyn’s brain. “What are you doing up at this hour?”

Sarah took another half step back. “I was reading.”

“A
book
? I know better. You were IM-ing your friends. Turn off the computer and go to sleep. You’re going to be a grump tomorrow if you don’t get your rest.”

A half smile flitted across her daughter’s face. “I don’t think I’ll be the only grump in this apartment.”

“Maybe not, but get some sleep anyway.”

After Sarah left, Karyn stared at the walls that had been ripped and torn only a few moments before. Diana Taylor, one of her fellow cast members, believed every dream had a meaning, but Karyn could make no sense of this one.

She’d have to describe it for Diana. Either Diana or her astrologer was bound to have an interpretation.

Karyn turned out the lamp and lay down to wait for sleep. Odd . . . David had seemed a mere product of her imagination in the lamplight, but inchoate fragments of her nightmare still coated her pillow. She breathed them in and felt David’s presence, then she recognized the book he’d held:
Happily Ever After
, the thin volume she’d sold in college.

The book they’d all sold: David, Susan, Kevin, Lisa, Mark, and Karyn. John Watson’s story.

She sat up, turned on the lamp, and settled back down, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She’d sleep with the light on tonight.

What a ghastly dream. She closed her eyes. Why would she dream of David Payne, an earthquake, and that old book?

Houston

Susan Brantley Dodson stiffened and clutched at the mattress, then caught her breath and opened her eyes.

She had fallen asleep on top of the silk comforter, surrounded by fashion magazines. The evening news was no longer playing; the black-and-white images of Robert Duvall and an unfamiliar actress occupied the television screen.

But Susan’s eyes were filled with the image of David Payne and . . . cliffs. A moment ago she was standing near the edge of a red-and-orange rock canyon with David. She often dreamed of him, and in her visions he was always pleasant and loving.

Not tonight.

She swallowed hard and wrapped her arms about herself, then rolled onto her side and stared at the television as a voice-over announced the name of the movie:
Tomorrow
. A classic from 1972.

She was beginning to feel like a classic herself. An antique, really. Something that should be protected and sheltered and kept out of the sun.

David was haunting her dreams again. The amount on the check she’d written him must not be enough to satisfy her guilty conscience.

She’d double her contribution in the morning. Then, perhaps, David Payne would vacate her dreams and leave her alone.

13

Cocoa Beach

“If you can’t sell a Titan”—Mark narrowed his eyes as he glared at Keith Cardinal, his lowest-performing salesman—“I swear I’ll find someone who can. So get out there and show me what you’re worth. If you can’t sell five of those vehicles by next Friday, I’ll expect to have your resignation on my desk.”

Cardinal, a thin, sallow-faced young man who seemed more comfortable behind his computer than on the sales lot, licked his lower lip. “Five in a
week
?”

“The Titan practically sells itself,” Mark snapped as he moved out of the cubicle. “So get busy. You’re not going to sell anything sitting at your desk.”

Cardinal stood and sidled past, cringing as he passed Janice at the reception desk. The young woman caught Mark’s eye. “This a good time to remind you of a couple of things?”

He smiled to demonstrate that none of his ire was meant for her. “Always a good time for you. Come on in my office.”

She followed him, then stood before his desk with her hands behind her back. “First, some of the e-mails in your in-box are a couple of days old—you’d better check those. And these phone messages came in while you were, um, talking to Keith.”

She pulled a stack of pink slips from behind her back, darted forward to drop them on his desk, then retreated to the doorway.

So . . . he might need a little more time to win her over. That was okay; she’d soon learn he was more than reasonable as long as people did their jobs.

He flipped through the messages—a call from his housekeeper, two from his first wife, one from Allison, and one from someone named Julia Lawson.

Nothing that couldn’t wait. He dropped the notes onto his desk and gave Janice a benevolent smile. “Anything else?”

She pressed her lips together. “That’s it. I’d better get back to my desk.”

Mark propped his chin on his hand and watched her go, then blew out a breath and turned to the computer behind him. He hated computers. Machines had taken all the fun out of business; at the corporate office, computers predicted sales curves, trends, and patterns. His supervisors no longer got pumped about an unusually good sales month; instead, they praised the computer that predicted the sales spike. And heaven help the dealer who failed to meet the computer’s expectations . . .

He clicked on his e-mail program, then glanced at the list of names in his in-box. Two messages were routine corporate mailings about sales incentives, at least a dozen were spam, and one bore David Payne’s name.

Mark selected the familiar e-mail address. He was about to open it when Janice stuck her head into the office. “That Julia Lawson lady called again. She sounded upset.”

“Find out who handled the sale. I’m not going to handle any complaint until the salesman’s had first crack at it.”

“I don’t think she’s a customer. She said she was calling about an old friend of yours—David Payne.”

Mark looked at the e-mail on his screen and laughed. “Don’t tell me—she’s his secretary and she’s calling to talk me into going on a trip.”

“She’s his wife. She wants you to know that David Payne is dead.”

Atlanta

Who dies at forty-two?

In the men’s room at the Genuine Old Time Candy corporate office, Kevin Carter looked into the mirror above the sink and studied a face that suddenly seemed years older.

The note from the general office receptionist was still crumpled in his hand. He spread the paper against his palm and reread the message:
David Payne killed yesterday in auto accident. Funeral Monday,
Boston. For more information, call Julia Lawson, 617.555.1214.

Hard to believe David would be the first of their group to go. Kevin had always expected to get this kind of news about Mark, who could have been voted most likely to be killed in a hunting accident or racing down some interstate in a sports car.

But
Payne
? David was the salt of the earth, the most settled man Kevin knew. He’d set out to be a surgeon back at FSU, and though Kevin privately thought the guy might as well aim for the moon, David had hung tough through medical school, an internship, and his residency. He’d specialized in pediatric surgery, a choice that made no sense to Kevin until he held Sarah in his clumsy hands and realized that David must have known what he was doing. Sarah was a squalling bundle of health, but if she had been born with a problem, Kevin would have kissed the feet of any surgeon with the ability to save his little girl’s life.

A gust from the overhead AC vent blew the message into the sink. Kevin watched it fall, then gripped the porcelain rim with both hands. Something roiled in his gut, and for a moment he was sure he would lose his breakfast.

The world was royally screwed up if someone like David Payne could be wiped out for no reason. The man had a wife, a young kid, and God alone knew how many others who counted on him. He had been ready to take that adventure trip, so somewhere on the other side of the globe, other people were depending on David Payne too.

Kevin turned on the water, wet his hands, and splashed the dampness of perspiration from his temples. After pulling a length of paper towel from the dispenser, he wiped the back of his neck and stared into the mirror again.

This was going to be rough, but death had to strike their group eventually. After all, none of them were invincible . . . even if they once thought they were.

He wadded the paper towel and tossed it in the trash, then stepped out to tell the executives in his office to continue the meeting without him.

He needed a minute at his secretary’s computer to book a flight to Boston.

Houston

Susan Brantley Dodson curled in the center of a dozen decorator pillows and pressed her fist to her mouth in a stifled scream. She’d been crying ever since receiving Julia’s call; now she wanted nothing more than to lie here and shriek that life wasn’t fair.

How could David be dead? He’d never been a reckless driver; he wasn’t a daredevil. He was so calm and steady. Karyn used to joke that David was the most likely to be elected president.

Susan would have surrendered the family silver to be his first lady, but at FSU David had been more concerned about getting his degree than starting his family. So she went her way while David went to medical school and a Boston hospital. Eventually he married and had a son; what was the kid’s name? Nicholas. The boy had to be school-age—

And now the poor kid had no father.

Fresh tears flooded Susan’s eyes. The situation was crazy, absolutely insane. But life had a way of spinning out of balance, just as it had left her reeling the morning she woke up to find a dead man at her side. Charles had been eighty-three and a heart patient, so his passing in their second year of marriage hadn’t come as a complete surprise. But David—

She pulled a tissue from the gilded box on the nightstand, then picked up the phone and pressed the speed dial to ring her travel agent.

“Emma,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, “Susan Dodson here. I need a flight to Boston on Monday, and I need to be at an event by three. Can you make that work for me?”