A Dark Love (17 page)

M
ODESTO
, C
ALIFORNIA

T
om Fielding had spent a restless night, wedged onto an ever smaller area of their queen-sized mattress by a cranky febrile twin. Sometime around dawn, he gave up and went to the couch in the den.

But still, he could not sleep.

He had received a notification message in his inbox indicating his e-mail to Caroline had been opened and read, but no phone call. Not even a reply to his e-mail.

This bothered Tom, but he didn’t feel any real sense of urgency about it until he was lying there in the darkness just before dawn, trying to stay warm beneath a small SpongeBob blanket that smelled of milk.

That’s when the truth struck Tom Fielding, in that awful way of truth.

Caroline Hughes was in danger. He knew it then with such certainty he wondered why he hadn’t seen it before.

The two hours that followed were the slowest of Tom
Fielding’s life, but he found himself at last in his office with the door closed so he could talk on the phone without interruption.

He entered the number he had Googled on the Web, hoping he wouldn’t come across sounding like a nut.

A woman answered on the second ring, her voice robotic with efficiency. “Washington, D.C., Police Service Area 2. What is the nature of your call?”

Tom took in a breath. “I, ah, I am very concerned for the safety of one of your residents.”

D
ENVER
, C
OLORADO

Porter Moross watched a look of pure elation wash over the car salesman’s face. The guy tried hard not to show it. He was in his late forties, with a thickening middle and ruddy patches of skin around his nose and mouth. A drinker who fought for every sale. And those, Porter suspected, would come fewer and further between with each passing year.

The salesman swallowed and licked his lips, tilting his head closer to make sure he’d heard Porter right. “You’ll take it?”

“Yes,” Porter said with no hint of a smile. He kept his features neutral, enjoying the salesman’s nervous attentiveness. The man had offered Porter a shitty deal, and now he couldn’t believe Porter was taking it. Porter kept his steely blue eyes locked on the man’s face, certain the guy was probably creaming in his pants right now.

“We have on-site financing with a bank here in
Denver,” the salesman began, his eyes darting around the showroom floor.

In search, no doubt, of another salesman he could do a mental high five with, to celebrate selling the biggest gas-guzzling SUV ever to roll off a Detroit assembly line. Porter cut him off. “I have cash.”

The man swallowed again, his bushy eyebrows yanking up into his forehead. “Okay. Okay, then. I’ll just get the paperwork going, Mr. Moross.”

“Doctor.”

“Doctor. Dr. Moross.”

There was, Porter thought, nothing like cash to improve someone’s attention to detail. Especially for the specimen of shallow humanity who even now was pounding his keyboard as fast as his meaty fingers would go, no doubt trying to calculate whether he’d get laid tonight if he blew some of his commission on dinner with his wife at the local chain steakhouse.

“There we go,” the salesman said, reverting to his smooth, professional bullshit voice. He pressed one last key, and a nearby printer whirred to life. He busied himself with things on his desk, opening and closing drawers with an air of importance like he had just unlocked the genetic code for cancer. But not too busy, Porter noticed, to check out the ass on one of his coworkers when she walked by. The salesman collected the papers from the printer and brought them back to his desk, bouncing them several times on the Formica. He raced through the contents, tapping at places for Porter’s signature with an expensive gold-plated pen.

“This signifies your agreement to sell us the Saab at the price we agreed on.” He watched Porter sign, keep
ing his voice bland as though what he had just witnessed wasn’t the best thing since Guinness started bottling ale for export.

“This is your agreement to the terms of purchase for the Yukon, including the discount for your trade-in.” He tapped the paper again with his pen and waited for Porter’s signature. “So, Dr. Moross, once we, ah, finish up, I can get you temporary plates and get you on your way. Once we receive payment,” he sat, eyes narrowed, waiting.

A deal wasn’t a deal until money changed hands. The basic fact of every salesman’s life. This was the moment when the guy sweated bullets, because the pendulum would take one last swing in favor of the customer he had just spent hours or even days greasing. The time when the guy’s thoughts were no doubt running through the list of repairs needed on the crappy tract house he shared with the wife, smiling in a dated wedding gown from the frame behind his desk.

Porter sat for several moments longer than the salesman would have liked, enjoying the stillness that settled around them. He watched as the guy fumbled for a tissue, pretending to wipe his nose.

“Allergies,” the salesman mumbled.

But Porter saw him mop at beads of sweat that had clustered along his upper lip.

Porter hated the salesman. Not because the man had just ripped him off, deepening the fissure of corruption that ran through his personality. Not because the guy would never scratch below the surface of his stupid life to understand the reasons he’d never make district sales manager for southern Colorado, or why, after a
few beers, he was compelled to stop at the local whorehouse on his way home. No, the reason Porter hated the guy was that it didn’t matter in the end. Because the man across the desk, who had been sneaking sideways glances for the last hour at Porter’s too white skin and albino hair, had achieved everything he had bargained for in life.

Whereas he, Porter Moross, had not.

To his credit, the salesman said nothing. Only waited.

Porter opened his portfolio, black leather handcrafted in Milan. It contained a mixture of old and new, including keys to the townhouse in Georgetown as well as those few items he needed now, such as a heavy manila envelope he had obtained from Riggs National Bank in Washington, D.C., and his gleaming .38 semiautomatic.

Porter undid the purple string outside the envelope now and withdrew a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, counting them out with his slender fingers.

Across the desk, the salesman shifted in his seat and mopped once more at his lip.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

From his office window, John Crowley could see historic Blair House, official guest residence for visiting dignitaries and heads of state, located just across Pennsylvania Avenue. The view did not quite make up for the tiny office he was squeezed into, at the end of a twisting hallway that led through the rabbit warren that comprised the Old Executive Office Building.

What the place lacked in comfort, it made up for in prestige.

So when he called the DA for the Capitol district, his call was put through immediately.

The young woman was guarded. Relations between the feds and local lawmakers were not known for warmth. Which was fair enough, John Crowley reasoned, and in keeping with the way the nation’s founders had intended things to be. He kept his request simple. “I am calling to ask a favor if you feel it is appropriate for you to do.”

“Of course,” came the guarded reply. “I’ll be happy to help if I can.”

“My wife is quite concerned about the well-being of a neighbor of ours, a young woman who appears to have gone missing,” he explained. “She has voiced her concerns and filed a report with our local police—”

The DA didn’t wait for him to finish. “What area?”

“PSA 2.” Georgetown, the crown jewel of the D.C. tax base. Crowley chose his next words carefully. “My wife was assured that they would send someone over to look into it, but the husband seems to have left town. We are quite concerned.”

He waited. The DA could either move this to the top of her inbox or not. It was her call.

There was the sound of a breath being released on the other end of the phone. “Let me look into this, Mr. Crowley, okay? I’ll take some information from you and see what I can find out.”

“Thank you.” Crowley waited while the DA took down Caroline Hughes’s name and address. Then she asked for the name of the person they both knew was the real reason behind Crowley’s call, the one whose
actions perhaps would render his home and property liable to search and seizure by D.C. law enforcement under terms of a warrant that would be issued if there was probable cause.

“And the husband’s name?” The DA’s tone was professional and still guarded.

“Porter Moross,” John Crowley replied. “Allow me to spell that for you.”

S
TORM
P
ASS
, C
OLORADO

C
aroline spent the early part of the day working at a feverish pace, readying the ranch for her departure. Coming to a small town in the off-season had been a mistake, she realized. “Hide in plain sight,” Ken had explained. And so her next move would be to seek anonymity among the crowds of a large city.

She would leave Colorado soon, and she needed to be ready.

She topped off containers of rock salt from a giant bag at the back of the garage, stowing them near the back patio and front. As though by keeping Nan’s steps free from the ice to come she could thaw the chill in her own heart. She drove herself in the Porsche to a warehouse-style store, loading up on supplies Nan would need.

“Are we expecting an army?” Nan watched, eyebrows raised, as Caroline lugged boxes into the kitchen.

“Just wanted to make sure you don’t run out.”

Nan frowned. The way Alice talked, it sounded like she had no plans to eat any of the five-pound bag of basmati rice, wash her clothes using the jumbo box of
laundry detergent, or feed Poppit from the twenty-five-pound bag of dog food. Nan Birmingham was not the fretful sort, but she was worried. Alice hadn’t smiled at all today. In fact, she had reverted to the girl she had been when Nan first laid eyes on her. Nervous. Distant. Silent. Nan resolved to bring it up at dinner tonight.

A problem shared was a problem halved, was what the Colonel always said.

With that plan in mind, she stayed out of Alice’s way, leaving the young woman to go about her business like a whirling dervish.

Caroline washed all the bedding including dust ruffles and winter quilts, dusted, vacuumed the place including lampshades and down between the couch cushions, and even changed the light bulb that had burned out years ago in the crawl space below the house.

By the middle of the afternoon, Caroline’s lower back ached.

Still, she cleaned. Every pass of the mop across the oak floors bought time for Nan to locate a new housekeeper, she told herself. But something else drove her. It came to her when she was on her knees under the kitchen sink, scrubbing the far reaches of the cabinet before replacing its contents in size order, smallest in front and largest in back.

Her life with Porter had been governed by a series of rituals and rules. Looking back, she realized she had no idea how far they had strayed from normalcy.

No bathmats or kitchen sponges were allowed. Porter had majored in microbiology, a fact he credited with his fear of germs. Caroline was not allowed to pet Pippin without washing her hands immediately using antibacterial soap. Nor could she speak to the dog. Porter be
lieved the transference of emotion would weaken their marriage.

Once, she had left a blob of toothpaste lying in the sink. As punishment, Porter hid the toothpaste for an entire week, wrinkling his nose in disgust whenever she opened her mouth to speak.

Caroline learned to do everything his way, in an attempt to avoid the vortex that always lurked, ready to suck them down. But she made mistakes.

One night in bed, he noticed a spiderweb where the plastered walls met the low timbered ceiling. A workman had told her there was no way to rid a two-hundred-year-old house of spiders.

“Damn it, Caroline. It’s your job to check Akua’s work,” Porter said, his face draining of all color. The cleaning lady had come that day for her twice-weekly visit. “Why did you allow this?”

It was midnight. Caroline was tired. “Porter, I didn’t notice. I’ll get rid of it in the morning as soon as I wake up.”

He grew still, and she knew she’d made a serious mistake. He pursed his lips and rolled out of bed, reaching down for the box he kept underneath.

Caroline sprang from her side of the bed. “I’ll clean it now.”

But it was too late.

“This isn’t about your filthy housekeeping, Caroline, and you know it,” he said without looking up.

“Porter, I’m sorry,” she began.

He waved off her protest, directing her to remove her nightgown, and she did.

He took his time, studying the contents of the box while she waited, shivering.

Caroline’s stomach twisted when she saw his choice. “No,” she moaned softly. “Porter, please. I’ll clean the cobweb. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

His blue eyes glittering with excitement, he flicked the horse’s tail he had chosen so each long strand of hair swirled like original sin. He motioned at the floor. “Get down.”

Arguing would only make him angry. She dropped to her hands and knees, doggy-style.

He stepped out of his briefs, keeping his grip on the horse’s tail. He fondled his penis, now erect, with his other hand.

Closing her eyes, she pleaded. “No, Porter, no.”

He kicked her once in her side.

The bruise on her ribs would take weeks to fade.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

She drew in a breath, searching for words that would convey progress, authenticity, and sincerity. Not that, after more than a minute or two, it would matter.

He moved behind her now. “Do you see what I have?”

This was part of it, what he wanted. Caroline turned her head.

The horse’s tail was bunched in a tight knot at its base, which consisted of a black rubber shaft that was knotted at intervals with round knobs of increasing size.

He shook it again. “Do you know why I chose this?”

“Because I’m stubborn,” Caroline whispered.

“Yes.” He reached into the box again and withdrew a leather riding crop, snapping it so it whistled through the air and landed near the tips of Caroline’s fingers.

She tried not to jump. That would just make it worse.

He tucked the riding crop under one arm and stood over her, fondling himself with his free hand. “You like to live in filth, Caroline. Tell me why.”

“Because of what happened to me,” she whispered.

“And what was that?”

She shook her head. “Porter, please, don’t do this to me.”

“I’m trying to help you even though you are probably beyond help. Tell me what you did.”

“I let my stepfather touch me…” She stumbled over the words.

“Touch you?” Porter snapped the crop again, and this time it landed on her fingers. “How?”

They had been over this many times. She knew what he wanted to hear. “I let him fuck me,” she whispered.

Porter began jerking his penis, licked his lips with excitement. His voice was hoarse. “Where did you let him fuck you?”

“In my ass.”

“How many times?”

“I don’t know, maybe ten times.”

Porter bent over her and she felt his breath, ragged and hot on her back as he worked the tail into place. “Why did you do that, Caroline, tell me.”

“Because I liked it,” she said, willing herself to be still, forcing her mind to go to the empty place she had built so long ago. “I wanted it because I was born a filthy whore.”

Later that night on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, Caroline plotted her escape. One week later, she was gone.