The Beast of Barcroft Read Online Free PDF Page B

of a panic attack.
    Racing heart
.
Chest pains
.
Breathing difficulties
.
Sense of terror, or impending doom or death
.
    “Bingo,” he said.
    He looked over his shoulder, then did another search on the properties of his antidepressant. After scouring through several websites, though, he could not find panic attacks as a sudden withdrawal symptom.
    He reclined in his chair. This was new. Never in his life had he had a panic attack. Not in the navy. Not during his father’s long illness. Not when it became apparent that Rachel was serious about leaving, and not when she left. Was it a withdrawal symptom, or could it really be because of the attack, of losing Bucky? Or was it both? Or could it all be cumulative? It had been the worst year of his life, and if he was being honest with himself, he had not handled it particularly well.
At least your heart is fine,
he thought.
    You’re just crazy
.
    He sat up and went back to the website on panic attack symptoms. He read the list again. One in particular caught his eye.
    Sense of terror, or impending doom or death
.
    “Terrific,” he said.
    —
    He spent the next day cleaning the house. Junk thrown away. Paperwork filed or shredded. Dusting, disinfecting, organizing. Spring cleaning in the fall, everything ninety-degree angles and dust-free. Order, it felt good again. Rachel had always said he was tough to live with after his father died, too demanding, too angry at the little things. But he handled the big things well, he had always replied. I’m getting up every day, functioning just as before. Not missing a beat at work. Still, she wanted him to talk to someone. He could handle his own shit, he told her. Between the stress of living next to Madeleine and the stress of living with him, she threatened to leave. They had just moved in together, had just bought a house together, so why would he take it seriously? When he finally realized she meant it, it was too late. He agreed to talk to someone, take medication, anything. The irony was, with her gone and no one to clean up after him, the house became a fucking mess, and thanks to meds he never wanted to be on in the first place, he had no longer cared.
    Now, with the house back in shape, he moved outside. He was full of energy. He tingled. The more he accomplished, the more energy he had. He raked. He called a lawn service and arranged to have all the brush rimming the fence line cleared from his property over the next weekend. All of the trees would need to be trimmed back too. It looked unkempt. Plus, he wanted a clear line of sight. Standing in sunlight again, looking at the corner of the yard where Bucky had been killed, he realized the feeling scratching at the back of his mind. An old friend who hadn’t come around in a while: anger.

Chapter 4
    T HURSDAY, N OVEMBER 13
    Lindsay Clark’s thighs burned from the ready stance. The white smock she wore was thick and heavy and perspiration pooled around her mesh helmet, and she felt it begin to slide around her face, like a scuba mask that did not have a proper seal. It made her think of the beach.
No, concentrate,
she thought, as she parried another attack.
Stop wishing this to be over and do what you came here to do
.
    She lunged with her foil, but her opponent parried, and just as quickly launched a riposte over the top of her blade. She lifted her elbow and the tip of his blade glanced off the bell guard and past her mask. That was a close one. She retreated to gather herself. They say fencing is the chess of sports. As she shuffled back, she thought perhaps she should have taken a chess class first.
    This fencing match had been three minutes, maybe four, but it felt like an hour. Her thighs burned. Her shoulder carrying the foil ached. The opponent she had been paired up with in class, a man probably ten years younger than her thirty, had fifty pounds on her and a swimmer’s build. Was he even sweating?, she wondered. It was hard to tell beneath all the gear. All she