The Grey Door Read online

  The GREY DOOR

  a DÄNNA WILBERG novel

  Copyright © 2019 Dänna Wilberg

  Second Edition

  The GREY DOOR

  Book Two in the Grace Simms Trilogy

  Cover Art by Karen Phillips (phillipscovers.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or in any information retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author intends no resemblance to actual persons, living or dead.

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the women who inspire me, encourage me, and keep me sane.

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  T he GREY DOOR is a novel with much reality. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is real. Many Veterans suffer from this affliction. Thank you to those who have served our beautiful country. I hope readers gain a new understanding and tolerance of those who live with PTSD. Elderly abuse is real, and I thank my late friend, Sharon Smith, who helped me understand the pitfalls of assisted living.

  Bone marrow donors save lives.

  Thank you to my paranormal community for insight into premonitions and manifestation.

  I am grateful to Kirk Colvin, and the El Dorado Writers Guild for their critiques and editing suggestions. I attribute this group with my success as a writer.

  Again, I thank my sister Kathy Partipilo for being my sounding board, and I thank my late mother, Sonia Dennis, for being my best critic and biggest fan. Gratitude to my children, Dawn, Elia, Ashleigh, Erika, and Olivia for inspiring me to do my best, and my husband for keeping the lights on while I pursue my dreams.

  I’d like to thank my professional advisor Mark Yankauer, MA, MFT. I also want to thank Karen Phillips for, once again, creating gorgeous cover art.

  I want to acknowledge my readers. Your feedback, encouragement, and longing for more of my stories keep my imagination alive and well nourished.

  PROLOGUE

  J ess Bartell pulled forward, his wheels hugging the curb. He cracked the window an inch. Can’t fog up the windows. He turned off the motor and waited. His mood matched his reflection in the rearview mirror—dark brooding eyes, stones beneath thick lashes, rich brown waves needing a trim flipped above his collar. His dimpled face, flocked in thirty-six hours of stubble, said it all: You’re a fucking mess.

  Twenty-two minutes ticked by before Grace Simms emerged from behind the grey door. Her long stem legs descended the wooden staircase, heavy with woe. No work today? Grace’s usual business attire was replaced with baggy jeans and fleece. Did she feel challenged to aid her clients wage war against worry and despair today? Was she too distraught to coddle the hurt with her soothing words? Make the meek feel strong and mighty? Poor Grace. A piece had been ripped from her heart, leaving her vulnerable.

  A wicked smile brightened the image in the mirror. Weeks had gone by. No change.

  Wait. Watch.

  The time to strike would have to be right, thus prolonging his desire. His needs. For her. Only for Grace.

  He ached inside, his mind justifying his evil intent. I’ll take her far away, where even shadows won’t find us. Life will be glorious. Whole. Eventually, she’d come to understand, hold him to her breast. Quiet the beast. In time, she’d surrender–body, mind, and soul. She’ll be my bride, my angel, my whore. Like her? His mother’s face loomed in his vision.

  He shook his head, warding off the memory of being inside the bitch as he burned each soft orb in its socket. Her screams muffled by the blood-soaked rag stuffed between her treacherous lips. His blood. Jess quivered. Good ol’ Harry.

  CHAPTER 1

  RABBIT HOLE

  “G

  race Simms,” the psychotherapist announced, picking up the phone on the fourth ring. “Yes, Miss Knowles, I’ve been expecting your call,” she said, glancing at the clock. She pressed her ear to the phone and nodded silently. Her hand dropped to her clenching stomach. “I’m on my way.”

  As soon as Grace hung up with Miss Knowles from the hospital, she tumbled past the point of self-control. Sobs wracked her body in waves. The woman’s words echoed, circling vultures inside her head. “It’s time.”

  Misery wrestled Grace to the floor, crumbling her into a heap. She searched her brain for a reset button, one that would “delete” agony and “return” sensibility. “Not fair!” she cried hoarsely. “It’s not fair.”

  Life changed for Grace Simms the day she was taken hostage. Fear tarried at the edge of her sanity. Despair threatened to drag her into an abyss. Not a day went by that she didn’t envision Candy pulling the trigger. The horror of that one final moment etched on her psyche before losing consciousness, that moment when blood, bone, and brain matter soaked Sergeant Garret Weston’s chest, that instant before her world turned black and she thought, He’s dead. No, not dead.

  She later thanked God for the bullet-proof vest that saved Garret’s life and then cursed Him one week later when a drug dealer’s bullet to the head twisted their fate. And yet…destiny prevailed.

  As she drove west on Highway 50, Sacramento stretched ahead in panoramic splendor. The sun dipped low on the horizon. Golden rays pierced coral rouge, rendering a Michael Angelo masterpiece. Motorists rubbernecked to catch a glimpse, but as carnelian and crimson stained the sky, Grace’s heart began to pound.

  Breathe.

  She pressed the gas pedal harder.

  Breathe.

  She needed to escape before another flashback consumed her: Bloodspray.

  Anxiety waned as the burning globe disappeared behind the horizon. Time became indistinguishable. This feeling can’t last forever, she ruminated, stuck in a nothing place. No moon. No stars. Just grey...

  You’re tired, her voice of reason professed as she stifled a yawn. Very tired. Reoccurring dreams plagued her sleep. A violation to the sanity of a trained professional, she concurred, but now is not the time to dwell. The day would be over soon enough, and she had more important things to dread.

  A blue sign with white letters pointed the way to Sutter General. Grace’s patterned performance led her to section B, where she parked at the end of row four. Her long legs stretched until she found her footing on the blacktop. After clicking her key fob to lock her car door, a familiar feeling of foreboding reared its ugly head. Chills crept along her spine. Goosebumps gathered her flesh. Someone is watching me. She turned, slowly. No one there.

  Apprehension quickened her pace to the diagonal-striped path leading to sliding, double doors. The security guard on duty provided safety, but relief was short-lived. “All firearms are prohibited,” the loudspeaker blared, pushing Grace’s post-traumatic stress to the brink. She cringed, re
living the sound of a single gun blast. Keep going.

  A high-pitched “ping” announced the elevator’s arrival, yet, she stood frozen in her thoughts. A murderer lurking inside would be a welcome reprieve, a menacing voice whispered from the damaged part of her brain. Let’s end it; right here, right now.

  Stop it! A voice of reasonable health commanded. No options here.

  The door opened.

  She stepped inside to face her demons. No one there.

  ***

  Arriving at the fourth floor, her body automatically veered to the right, past the nurse’s station, and then to the left. Not fair. She stood in the doorway of room 408 and fought for composure. Too soon.

  Inside, machines orchestrated a song for the dying. Oxygen hissed. A heart monitor beeped. A compressor added its own rhythmic beat—thunk, whoosh, thunk, whoosh—raising and lowering the chest of the man whistling through a tube. No one volunteered to hum along.

  “Hello, my love.” Grace went to the heavy curtain framing a steel cased window to draw the cord but reconsidered. Too much gloom already, she thought, opting for cold, fluorescent light.

  Once the room was to her liking, she removed a copy of Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll from Garret’s nightstand and took her place in the red chair. She began reading aloud:

  “I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”

  Ten pages into the chapter, the resident chaplain entered the room. Grace placed the prayer card between the pages of the book and lifted her gaze.

  “He was a good man,” the priest said, closing the door behind him.

  “So I’m told.”

  “You love him?” the chaplain asked.

  “Yes. Too bad love isn’t enough to bring him back.”

  “Love is powerful. One never knows how deeply it flows.”

  “So they say.”

  “I believe it’s God’s way.” The chaplain moved closer, his tone consoling. “Love permeates at a cellular level.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “You will in time,” he said, patting her shoulder, “when love finds you again and grows in your heart.”

  Grace shrugged his hand off her shoulder. Running her finger along the tubing taped to Garret’s wrist, she inquired, “What time are they going to pull the plug?”

  “You have an hour. Be with him. Love him. Have no regrets.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, curtly. “Alice is about to fall down the rabbit hole. I don’t want Garret to miss out.”

  “Anger won’t bring him back.”

  “God’s way won’t either.” Grace wiped fresh tears.

  “Duty called,” the man spoke softly, “Garret Weston vowed to keep the streets safe—for you and me.”

  Her lower lip began to quiver, “We were supposed to have dinner that night.”

  “You didn’t shoot him.”

  “No, I didn’t shoot him, Father,” she said, her chin wet with tears and trembling. Her words were bitter. “But I’d sell my soul to have the person who did shoot him in this bed instead of him!”

  “Justice will be served.”

  Grace refrained from throwing the book across the room. She wanted to scream. For what? Garret can’t hear you. Nothing has changed in three months.

  “His family made the decision, Grace. It’s time to let him go.”

  ***

  Depression held Grace in a stranglehold all evening. Imagining life without Garret proved too hard to bear. Sleep didn’t come easy, and when it did, her subconscious hit replay and the nightmare began…

  She dreamt she was leaving the hospital where she had worked as a psychotherapist for several years. The corridor leading to the exit was draped in plastic. When did construction begin? She hadn’t received notice. Strange.

  Following others, who seemed to know the way, she entered an unfamiliar area. A huge door opened wide. People walked in. People walked out. She went through, hoping to get her bearings.

  Where am I? Tall cement walls led to steel beams looming overhead. A garage? Her eyes were drawn to the black liquid, pooled on the floor. Oil? She moved closer. No, blood. The people milling around didn’t notice it, nor did they pay attention to her screams when she ran away.

  Back in the corridor, a coffee kiosk appeared to the right. It wasn’t there before. Panic. How could she be lost? She knew the hospital like the back of her hand. She ran towards the vendor at the coffee kiosk, seeking directions. Suddenly, the light around her turned dismal and surreal. She became keenly aware of the man dressed in dirty, tattered clothes. She thought she recognized the man, despite his long greasy hair, scraggly beard, and gnarly fingers. Dad? The man pushed a rickety grocery cart past an old woman wearing a limp, cotton housedress. The woman shooed something from her shoulder—something only she could see.

  Mom!

  Without warning came commotion. Two adolescents tumbled toward her. Her mind had difficulty interpreting the scene. A young girl with two heads stuck below the waist of a screaming boy. “Stop!” he cried. “Stop! It’s gonna go!” The two-headed girl ignored the boy’s pleas as they fell to the ground at Grace’s feet.

  The two heads laughed. The boy zipped his pants.

  Grace winced against flashes of bright light.

  >Click< flash. >Click< flash. >Click< flash.

  Sickened by what she saw, Grace lashed out at the girl. “What are you doing?”

  “Shut up,” the girl snarled.

  Disgusted, Grace wanted to flee, but her conscience intervened. Stop! Don’t walk away. You can help her this time. Grace spun around, grabbed the two-headed girl by the hand, and marched her down a different corridor.

  “Why did you do that?” Grace scolded.

  “For the money,” the girl snapped.

  “Money? You’re a child!”

  “So.”

  “I’m telling your mother.”

  “She don’t care.”

  Grace tossed and turned as the illusive scene morphed into a dingy hallway filled with cooking aromas, mingled with sweat and garbage. The two-headed girl opened the grey door. Her lovely, dark-skinned mother stood on the other side, wringing her hands.

  “Dinner’s ready,” the mother announced, sweetly.

  “Your daughter is being paid to perform sex acts on young boys, did you know that?”

  “Wash up now my angel,” said the mother, looking through Grace as if she were a ghost.

  “See?” The two heads sneered succinctly. One head sticking its tongue out at Grace.

  “Thank you for bringing my angel home,” said the mother, her eyes distant, vacant pools. “It’s not always safe out there,” she crooned through shimmering red lips that parted the gates of hell.

  Grace bolted for the door, bumping into a dark-haired man with cameras dangling from his neck. He held one camera to his eye, clicking incessantly, the flash blinding. >Click<, flash, >click<, flash, >click<, flash.

  “Stop!” she cried, raising her forearm across her face. “Who are you? What are you doing?” >Click<, flash.

  “Enough!” she warned. He continued to stalk. >Click<, Flash. She lunged for his camera, exposing his face.

  ***

  Grace woke in the middle of a scream, gasping for air. Her heart pounded as though it would burst. Her eyes fought to adjust to a sliver of light creeping beneath swarthy Roman shades. No cameras. She frantically searched the room, assimilating the black lacquered dressers standing like sentries in the shadows. No crazies.

  Crab-crawling to the edge of the bed, she inspected the dark patch stretching across the carpet. No blood.

  She feigned relief, throwing herself back against the pillows. “I’m a survivor, not a victim. I’m a survivor, not a victim,” she repeated like a mantra. Squeezing her eyes shut, she p
rayed out loud, “God! Do you hear me? I don’t need this shit!”

  High pitched whines preceded a pitiful bark. Tan brows danced above concerned brown eyes.

  “Sorry, girl. Another bad dream.” Running her fingers through the shepherd’s black, silky fur eased Grace’s trembling and helped her back to reality. She scratched the dog’s fluffy ears. “I’ll bet you’re waiting to go out, huh?” Once she untangled herself from the wad of blankets and crumpled silk sheets, she slid out of bed.

  Sneaky padded downstairs. Soon deadbolts and latches were unfastened, allowing sunshine to flood the kitchen. The dog darted toward the bushes lining the backyard. Birds, enjoying a morning snack, flew in all directions.

  Grace stood in the doorway, feeling listless. Her nightmares were becoming more frequent, more unsettling. As a psychotherapist, she knew why she was experiencing them; however “knowing” didn’t make them any less frightening. The nightmare was a symptom—post traumatic stress triggered by trauma. Her inability to cope made her feel like the hairdresser with messy hair, the housekeeper with the filthy bathtub, the dentist with crooked teeth. Why can we do for others, but not for ourselves?

  Unfolding the morning paper, caused her mood to slump further. Garret was back in the news.

  Sacramento Mourns Police Sergeant Garret Weston

  Grace pulled a cup of stale coffee from the microwave, grabbed a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer, and headed outside with a manila folder tucked under her arm. Perched on the edge of a patio chair, she sipped bitter brew. Her heart ached. She began turning pages until she found the section she was looking for. She clipped the article and opened the folder. Before adding it to the pile, she glared at the photo of Charro Vasquez, the four-foot-seven drug dealer being handcuffed by her handsome, six-foot-one hero. Why did Garret return to duty that day? To her, it hardly seemed fair. She knew underneath his bulletproof vest, a bandage covered the near death experience from the week before. Bullet fragments from Candy’s gun had burned through his vest.