Saturday, January 7, 2012

Waterlilies Over My Grave: Chapter Two page one

who is this man Annie O'Brien was married to? What drives him into his madness? Why such obsessive behavior?

Chapter 3

Restraining order my ass.

Duncan, now calling himself Edgar Allenton, turned up his
air-conditioning and re-focused his binoculars. She’d closed her
blinds, but not before knocking over that vase. He’d scared her.
Served her right. She’d worn that suit with the mini-skirt he’d
bought. How dare she wear anything he’d bought her?
All he’d done for her. Him--the elite of the psychiatric
community. He’d made her. He could break her. She’d never be rid
of him. Never. The ridiculous little giggle he’d been repressing came
out again.

He peered into his rear-view mirror. He’d done a good job
with his disguise, if he did say so himself. Thanks to contact lenses,
his gray-blue eyes were brown. The shaggy steel-gray professor hair
that had turned on so many of his young female graduate students
was gone; now cut short and dyed blonde, making him look ten years
younger than his forty-plus. Hell, he’d lost weight and was
physically fit. An athlete, he decided. A salesman on a quest for a
good time mingling business with pleasure alongside the Fourth of
July vacationers at Lake Nager, home of the best fireworks in the
state of Wisconsin.

A prickly sensation crept down his neck. The sweet smell of
water lilies filled the air. Even though no flowers lay in his SUV and
he was miles from the lily pond at the far edge of Lake Nager. His
imagination? Or sensory premonition.

Duncan shook off a shudder and scanned the employee’s
parking lot. Many cars. No people. Middle of the afternoon shift, he
guessed. He picked up the stolen cell phone he’d used to call
Annabelle, opened the door and slid out.

Suddenly, something made him turn around. What the... He
could have sworn eyes were on him. He walked toward the pine trees
at the far side of the lot, trying not to be seen. But no matter what he
did, he couldn’t get rid of the feeling. Somebody was watching him.

He shivered. Could his illness be turning into paranoid

Granted, he was smelling flowers that weren’t there,
but he knew he didn’t hear voices. No, he wasn’t schizophrenic.
Maybe a bit psychotic. Erotomanic would have been his own
diagnosis of himself. But paranoid. Never.

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