Furious Jeffrey Higgins (english love story books TXT) 📖

“I have insomnia. I tried to sleep, but I can’t. My throat hurts.”

More symptoms of rabies.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It had been almost two weeks since Brad first displayed flu-like symptoms and he had experienced two days of acute symptoms. If my diagnosis was correct, he could be dead within a week. I could not believe it. Sure, I wanted to divorce him, but I did not want him to die. This trip had been hard, and what should have been a transformative experience had turned into a nightmare.

Poor, poor Brad.

I went below to check on him and paused outside the stateroom door to listen for his snoring. It sounded like he was talking to someone. I cracked open the door and leaned into the berth. He slept, facing away from me.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said.

I froze when I heard him utter our daughter’s name. He was dreaming. I had experienced my share of those nightmares myself, and I wanted to wake him, but I hesitated because he needed to sleep.

“I know, you’re dead,” he said.

Icy fingers stroked my spine. I stood in the doorway with one foot in the passageway. I did not wish to wake him, but I hated to see him suffer, and I could not listen to his dream about Emma.

“I did not murder you,” he said. “No, I didn’t mean to kill you.”

What did he say? Did he think he killed Emma? My mouth parched, and the room spun.

“An accident . . . yes,” he said. “What? Don’t say that. You’re mean.”

I could not take it anymore. I had to wake him. I walked around the bed and stopped cold—Brad’s eyes were wide open.

“Look Emma, Dagny’s here too,” Brad said, looking directly at me. “Say hello to Emma, Dags.”

I covered my mouth with my hands and stepped backward. He was delirious, hallucinating.

“Wake up Brad, you’re dreaming.”

“I can’t sleep. I’m talking to Emma.”

“Emma’s not here.”

“She’s standing right beside you.”

My chest tightened and tears filled my eyes.

“You’re scaring me. Stop it.”

“I have a little secret,” Brad said, grinning like a madman. “Want to hear it?

“No, Brad. I don’t want to hear anything. Go to sleep.”

“She’s a little bitch.”

“Who’s a bitch?”

“Emma. She’s a lying bitch.”

“Stop it, Brad. Stop it. Don’t talk to about our dead daughter like that. How dare you!”

“I told her not to tell, but that little bitch wants to blame me.” Spit flew from his mouth. “I’m not sorry. I’m not.”

I opened my mouth, and a sob escaped my lips. I could not catch my breath. What was he saying? Had he done something to Emma? My pulse thumped in my ears.

“You’re hallucinating,” I said. “Emma’s not here. You didn’t do anything.”

“Poor little Dags. Always the good one. Always so sad. You don’t know what it means to be sad.”

Brad sat upright, his eyes red and full of hate. The beast had returned.

I willed my body to move and exited the berth, shutting the door behind me. My hands shook and tears flowed. He could never hurt Emma. He was hallucinating. It was the fever talking. That’s all.

Just the flu.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

We were in trouble. Big trouble.

Brad’s condition worsened, and if he had contracted rabies from that bat, it was a death sentence. I studied the empty horizon. Under diesel, we made eight knots, but it would take three or four days to reach port, maybe more.

Last night, I had slept on deck for hours, unable to cope with Brad’s delirium. He scared me. The sleep had helped, but mental and physical exhaustion consumed me. His hallucination had terrified me, and I could not bring myself to consider whether he had killed Emma, a possibility too horrible to contemplate. I could not entertain it. Not here.

I needed advice; confirmation I was doing everything possible. I slipped down the companionway into the salon and listened. Faint snoring drifted out of the stateroom. I plopped into the captain’s chair and powered up my laptop.

Who should I call? I could contact Boston Pediatric Surgical Center, but if Brad did not have rabies, I would sound like an alarmist and the staff already seemed concerned about my mental well-being. But I could not ignore the obvious diagnosis because it was too nightmarish to accept. Who could help me?

 Eric.

When Jessica and I had seen Dr. Eric Franklin outside the hospital, he had said to call if I needed anything, and he had seemed sincere. Eric had the expertise I needed, and I could count on his discretion. Hearing a friendly voice would help too.

I checked my watch. We floated off the coast of India, ten and a half hours ahead of Boston, which made it eight o’clock at night there. I found Eric’s home number in my email contacts and typed it into Skype. The call went right to voice mail. He had an iPhone too, so I tried him on FaceTime.

The screen changed and Eric’s face appeared. Seeing him, I almost burst into tears. He appeared confused for a moment, then his face brightened with recognition.

“Dagny, it’s good to hear from you. How are you?”

Seeing Eric—someone I trusted and cared about—overwhelmed me. I smiled, but a tear ran down my cheek. “Hi Eric. I’m glad you answered.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“I have a problem, and I need your advice. Can you talk?”

“Always. Is this about you or a patient?”

“It’s my husband, Brad.”

Eric nodded, seeming less happy than a moment ago. “What can I do for you?”

“I’ll probably sound a little paranoid, but I need a second opinion.”

“Go on.”

“When Brad and I visited Bali, a bat flew out of a cave and hit him on the head. It’s possible it bit him, but he—”

“Did he begin treatment?”

“He didn’t notice the bite, but two days ago, I found a minor puncture on his head and it’s still bleeding. Do you—”

“Is he symptomatic?”

“Flu-like symptoms. He’s diaphoretic, low fever, headaches, nausea, weakness . . .”

“Has he manifested any neurological anomalies?” Eric asked.

“Delirium. I don’t know. It could