It's Only Temporary

Chapter 20: I Need You

"Power On. Welcome."

David barely registered the message that scrolled across the treadmill's LED display. He felt the familiar sensation of the ground shifting beneath his feet, and broke into an easy jog, lifting his eyes to look out the floor-to-ceiling window at the view.

Not that he could see much at this hour. It was well past sundown now. The twinkle of city lights illuminated the skyline, diffusing into an unfocused glow where they reflected on the surface of the East River. Two parallel strands of bright white dots stretched out across the water, following the pair of cables that held up the Brooklyn Bridge. Solid steel, those cables. Thicker than your head if you looked at them up close - as he used to do in the old days, back when he used to run across the bridge on his morning jog. But from here, at night, the cables turned invisible. There was only that trail of lights to let you know they were still there. Like two long strings of Christmas lights that no one ever remembered to take down.

The treadmill clicked into a new gear. David grabbed the top of the control panel with one hand to keep his balance and quickened the rhythm of his steps to keep up with the pace.

It was still new to him - running at night. He'd always been an early morning jogger. He wasn't exactly sure why he'd felt the urge to change his routine to twice a day. He certainly didn't need the extra exercise. If anything, he'd been losing weight, but he hadn't had much of an appetite lately. Maybe it was the insomnia, driving him. It was starting to get bad again. When was the last time he'd had a truly restful night's sleep? Not since....

David closed his eyes and sucked the air deep into his lungs. A light misting of sweat had started to break out on his forehead. He swiped his hand across his hairline to keep it from dripping into his eyes.

What was it about the treadmill? In all the months since he first began using it, he couldn't remember a single treadmill workout when his thoughts hadn't drifted in the same direction. The same woman. The same face. The same eyes, fluttering closed. The same lashes: pale white-gold.

He knew why, of course. Or at least he had an inkling. It was all jumbled together in his head... Christmas, the December before last, when the treadmill had first shown up here in his living room. Somewhere along the line, his mind had formed an association:

A treadmill with a pretty red bow.

Penny with a pretty red cableknit sweater.

That damned sweater.... Was that the only time he ever saw her wear it? The day they'd met with Hancock Interactive? The Friday after Christmas. She'd never worn it to work again. Why was that? It looked expensive. Maybe she returned it to the store.

Maybe she had formed her own associations.

It wasn't the sweater that did him in, though. He'd admired the view that day in the office, but nothing untoward had passed between them. Nothing beyond a little harmless flirtation. No rule against looking, right?

She'd popped into his office before she left him for the night. 

"David, did you need anything else? I was going to head out."

"No, I'm all set. Have a good weekend, Penny."

And that was the last he ever saw of the sweater. She wasn't wearing it anymore, when he saw her next.       

The treadmill reached full speed now. David felt his heart rate start to quicken, but it wasn't from the run. He closed his eyes and tried to turn his train of thought in a new direction, but he knew it would do no good. That was the main problem with running on a treadmill, wasn't it? You could change the speed - fast and furious, or slow and steady - but the route remained unalterable. Pace after pace. Stride after stride. Always in the same place. Always the same destination.

He'd been having trouble sleeping back then, too, but it was different then. He could fall asleep all right, but he'd always wake up sometime in the night, shivering and drenched in sweat, still half-dreaming of a fog-cloaked jogging path on the edge of Battery Park. Always the same dream. At least he knew what to expect.

He had a whole routine worked out for how to deal with it. Each night before he went to sleep, he'd take the pink notecard from his wallet and leave it on his bedside table within arm's reach, just in case.

917-555-2338

If you need me, you only have to pick up the phone, and I will be here right beside you. Anytime. Any reason. Day or night. Always.

Every night, he'd wake up from the dream and run his thumb across the handwritten words, over and over, until he felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease, and gradually he drifted back to sleep. It had always worked well enough - until that night.

The dream was different that night. He never would know why. Maybe it was the sweater. Seeing her in red. That night, the running path had started out deserted as usual, but then he'd heard the footfalls of someone running up the path behind him. He turned around and saw that it was her. Penny. His mind told him to make her stop, but there was no time to react. The shot rang out like always. He looked down and watched the crimson stain blossom and slowly spread. But not on his chest, this time. Not his chest, but hers.

He'd woken from the dream and reached for the notecard, but the terror didn't ease. He couldn't erase the image from his mind - the look of shock on her face. Why was she there? Why was she following him?

He ran his thumb across the words and forced his eyes to focus: "If you need me, you only have to pick up the phone...."

But the vise around his chest only seemed to tighten.

And tighten.

And tighten.

Until he had to struggle with every ounce of strength to get any air into his lungs at all.

The sensation seemed to change then - from tightness to a searing pain. Heart attack? The thought flickered through his mind and only made the vise grip firmer. He reached blindly for his phone. An ambulance, he thought. 911.

Somehow his fingers didn't listen. They dialed the number on the notecard.

"Hello?" Her voice had been thick with sleep when she answered. "David? It's the middle of the night."

He hadn't been able to speak - only clamp his jaw against the pain and grip the phone to the side of his face as he listened to her voice grow more and more alarmed.

"David? Hello? David? Is that you? What happened? Are you OK? David, say something!"

He'd taken one more tortured breath and forced out a hoarse whisper: "I need you."

"What? Now?"

"I need you."

A pause. And then her voice, calm. With certainty.

"I'm on my way."

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