Prologue (from Waterlilies Over My Grave)
Patricia A. Guthrie
LSP Digital ISBN: 978-0-9792030--8-4

Betrayal.
Sentence--death. A judge and jury of one.
“No mother, no! Oh God no!”
The movie ‘Psycho’ muffled the noise coming from the New York City streets that ran in front of Dr. Duncan Byrne’s private study. The large cherry hutch that encased the television stood against heavy dark maroon curtains, blocking all illumination from the window. A corner desk lamp and the doctor’s lap top screen provided the only light he needed.
A ‘to-do’ list lay by his laptop, scrawled in a handwriting virtually unreadable by anyone but himself. No matter. He’d shred it anyway. No sense condemning himself with the evidence.
She would die.
Her divorce papers lay in a picture perfect neat stack next to his legal pad. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Nobody got rid of Duncan Byrne unless he wanted to be gotten rid of, and he wasn’t quite through with Annabelle Lee just yet.
He grabbed a bottle half-full of Johnny Walker Red, poured the amber liquid into a crystal whiskey glass. He took a sip and let the liquid swirl around on his palate before letting it slide down his throat.
What method shall I choose next?
He eased into his office chair, his hands behind his head. Thinking. The ideal set-up, should have had Annabelle standing precariously close to the edge of the over-crowded Lexington Avenue Subway platform. An express barreling its way through the station. One firm push.
But, it hadn’t worked. Someone grabbed her as she pitched forward.
No. This new method had to be full proof. He’d been wrong to think a public accident would kill her. He needed a more fitting and private death.
The face of his beautiful Annabelle Lee perched in a sterling frame on the corner of his desk. The broken glass from when he’d smashed it, formed a mound at its base. He stared at the photo. A beautiful woman--a modern day Helen of Troy. A contemporary Jezebel. He eyed his gun cabinet and frowned. To pierce her beautiful, voluptuous body would be sacrilege.
He sipped his whiskey and stared into that ethereal face, with those perceptive eyes and the long, silky hair that even Helen of Troy would envy. So innocent when he’d married her, so diabolical when she’d divorced him. So much like--
An image of her fall down the stairs last month drummed up a song in his mind:
She flew through the air with the greatest of ease
The daring young girl on the flying trapeze
He gulped. The whiskey burned his throat. After coughing for a few seconds, he sipped it slower.
Annabelle had flown through air all right. She’d struggled to keep her balance, bounced off the stairs, swirled like a top and crashed onto the hardwood floor below.
The scream he’d heard sounded more like a child than a woman. It must have come from that She-Devil she carried inside her. He shuddered and took another sip.
So much like his mother. Sooner or later they’d all betray him. Bitches; all.
As far as he could tell, Annabelle had no cognitive recall of the incident. She’d woken in the hospital with Disassociative Amnesia. She couldn’t remember the push down the stairs. But, her subconscious knew, and it would surface, sooner or later. The police had ruled the whole unfortunate affair an “accident.”
Gulping down the last remnants of his whiskey, he pondered killing methods that would not pierce the skin, yet would provide glorious, exquisite agony. He’d like there to be bubbles. Bubbles and bubbles and bubbles. Just like in his bathtub as a child.
First the paralyzing fear of being held under, then the struggles and frantic splashing of water as the body, hungry for air, would starve. Duncan shuddered. There’d been a time when he was paralyzed with fear. When he’d been the one desperately splashing. When his body had been the one starved for air. And there’d been laughing in the background.
This would be no joke.
Something caught in his gut. The visualization was no longer Annabelle Lee. It was his mother.
The phone interrupted daydreams of terror.
Damn. He’d been enjoying this.
“Morning.”
The woman on the other end was pleasant, almost bubbly. He hated bubbly.
“Good morning. Is this Dr. Duncan Byrne?”
“Yes, Dr. Byrne speaking, can I help you?”
“Dr. Byrne. This is Dr. Julia Driscoll from the Lake Nager Medical Center in upper Wisconsin. We received an application from one of your students. I believe she recently received her PhD?”
His eyes rolled up. Another one? “Yes?”
“She’s applied for a position at our medical center here in Lake Nager, Wisconsin.”
“Her name?”
“Dr. Annabelle O’Brien.”
Well, well, well. He still might have control over her destiny. He hadn’t been sure where she was going. Whether or not she’d even stay in New York. Now, apparently, she was planning to move--far. And, he’d know exactly where she went.
Dr. Byrne cleared his throat. “I can’t recommend Dr. O’Brien highly enough. In fact, she was my best student. Has a great deal of insight and excellent with patients. Yes, I’d be happy to recommend her.”
“Thank you, Dr. Byrne. May we have a letter of . . .”
“Of course. I’ll send one out to you on our official stationary, if you’ll just give your address to my secretary?”
He transferred the call and sat back to think.
I know where you’re going,
my darling Annabelle Leeeee.
I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth
‘til you come back to meeeee