Daughter of Darkness (15 page)

    "Why don't we talk a bit?" Coffey said.

    "Yes. That'd probably be good." He told the bouncer that he would no longer be needed. The bouncer looked like a child whose favorite toy had been snatched from his hands. He frowned but walked away.

    They sat down.

    "Who are you?" David Foster said.

    Coffey told him about how he'd met Jenny. He also told him that he'd once been a homicide detective. He didn't tell him about the motel room.

    David Foster said, "Then we're on the same side?"

    Coffey thought that was a strange thing to say.

    Foster said, "The good guys."

    "Meaning what exactly?" Coffey said.

    "Meaning we both want to help Jenny." He looked sad. "I'm partly to blame for all this. I-sort of dumped her a while back. She might not be as messed up today if I hadn't-"

    Coffey recognized the sound and look of guilt. Being out bowling while your wife and daughter were being murdered made him familiar with what Foster was going through. He surprised himself by actually liking Foster.

    "I wish we had longer to talk," Foster said. "I've got International Investigations checking some things out for me about Jenny. I'd like to bring you up to date. Are you in the phone book?"

    Coffey gave him his address.

    "How about if I call you tomorrow sometime?"

    "How about giving me a hint?" Coffey said. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

    But just as Foster seemed on the verge of saying more, Jenny appeared. She was obviously surprised to still see Coffey here. Foster leaned over to Coffey and said, "I can't talk more now. Not with Jenny here."

    Coffey stood up. "I'm sorry for any trouble. I guess I thought you were someone else."

    She looked at him with eyes that reflected no comprehension of who he was or what he'd done for her.

    "We appreciate the apology," David said heartily. "Now we'd like to get back to our dinner."

    Coffey nodded and left.

    

    

    David kept suggesting places they might go. He loved nightclubs, loved sitting in a large booth with friends his own age, smoking expensive cigars and watching all the freaks on the dance floor. The fat kid still reveling in his new thin self. "Too noisy, too smoky, too freaky," Jenny always said. She rarely danced, and always got him to take her home early. He was trying to make up for what he'd done, of course.

    They were in his Jag on Lake Shore Drive. The car heater made her drowsy. David had a Debussy tape in the deck. For her. He preferred rock. He'd been sweet and caring all night. She wished she'd been half as nice to him. She felt so badly about David lately. He worked so hard to get their relationship back on track. He'd wanted to run around some more, that's why he'd left her. He'd temporarily fallen for another girl, but what it was really all about was David getting to play the Neat Guy in all the trendy clubs. And that was hard to do when you had a steady woman in your life. But then he'd discovered-as in every romance novel ever written, and all too true nonetheless-that being the Neat Guy wasn't so neat after all. So, realizing his mistake, he'd come back to her. But it was too late. All she had for him now were excuses. I have a headache. I'm depressed. I'm tired. I thought I'd just stay in tonight and watch an old MGM musical on TV. All the excuses to lovers down all the ages. The black water of Lake Michigan to her right stretched all the way to where the moon hung low on the line of horizon. There was something pagan and cold about the moon tonight, and it unnerved her somehow. The building fronts-stores and condos alike-were bathed in a variety of electric colors, gold, mauve, light green.

    He said, "Feel like driving around some more?"

    "I think I'd like to go home."

    His disappointment was obvious. She'd crushed his spirit. She didn't feel good about it.

    "I'm sorry," she said. "You should go out and have fun. David. I'm just not in the mood."

    "I'm worried about you, Jenny. I really am."

    And she knew that was true. He really did regret walking out on her. And she believed that he really did love her. But she didn't love him anymore. Great fondness, yes. But love… no.

    He looked over at her. "I love you. You're my life, Jenny. So we don't go dancing. So we don't hang out in nightclubs. I'd rather have you than any night spot in the world." He reached across the distance between them and touched her hand. "We're going to have a family together. Jenny. And a house on the hill. And we're going to be happy. We're going to forget everything bad in the past and just be very, very happy."

    It all sounded so simple and sure. Two or three kids. A nice big white house overlooking a small ocean of green, green grass. A fireplace crackling with light and heat on Christmas Eve as they all sang carols together…

    So simple and sure.

    But it was a dream long dead now.

    "The man who came to our table tonight-Did you know him?" Jenny said.

    "Know him? What do you mean?"

    "You know,
know
him. Recognize him from somewhere."

    "No. Why?"

    "There was something-familiar about him. I'm not sure what."

    She settled deeper into her seat, watched the panorama along the side of the freeway blur past.

    The stranger who'd sat down… he'd looked familiar to
her.
Maybe that was why she'd also thought he might have looked familiar to David.

    But why? Looked at objectively, he evoked no memories at all. Yet there was something in her mind… something about him.

    She was beginning to think that her parents were right. She felt exhausted suddenly, physically
and
mentally. Maybe she should have stayed in tonight. Maybe she should even have scheduled another appointment with Priscilla for the evening… started right to work on the days and hours she'd lost.

    David had a device that automatically opened the gates leading to her home. The Jag sedan was quick and sure on the winding road.

    "Mind if I come in for a nightcap?" David said. He tried to sound jaunty, as if he didn't care one way or the other.

    "I'm awfully tired, David. I'm sorry."

    He smiled, but there was grief in it. "It isn't always easy, loving you."

    "I'm sure it isn't, David."

    She wanted to say,
So why don't we end it, then
? He'd parked the car, shut off the lights. Only a few feet separated them physically. Spiritually, it was another matter. Spiritually, thousands of miles separated them.

    He started to say something. She quickly leaned over and drew his face to hers and kissed him. Kissing was easier than talking.

    "Wow," he said when they broke apart. "You haven't kissed me like that in a long time."

    "I know."

    "That was like the old days."

    Like all lovers, they'd spent their earlier times physically fixated on each other. Though she was a shy girl, David had made love to her in a number of semipublic places that now embarrassed her to think of.

    "I needed that," he said.

    "I did, too." She hated lying to him. She didn't know what else to do.

    "It really gives me hope, a kiss like that. That it can be the way it used to be again."

    He sounded like a very young boy who was both hopeful and frightened at the same time. In eleventh grade a boy had broken her heart-had kept on going with her long past the time when he really cared about her-and she could still remember the feeling of desperation she'd walked around with for weeks, months. She would have done virtually anything to get him back. But nothing worked. A new girl had come to school, and he and most of the other boys were bedazzled by her. She was a real femme fatale. Jenny had great looks, but she was no femme fatale. She lost weight, she started having headaches, she missed a couple of periods (thank God, she hadn't been pregnant), and she couldn't concentrate on anything except this terrible, overpowering need to see this boy again (Paul Denning was his name, not that that mattered). Her grades suffered; her mother and father canceled a European vacation because they were so worried about her.

    It would be like this for David when they finally broke up. And she wouldn't wish that on anybody. David was too sweet to suffer that way. He didn't have it coming.

    But she had decided at some unknown point tonight that it was over between them. Over. With no turning back.

    "I really need to go in now, David."

    "Just a few more minutes," he said, and she recognized the desperation in his voice. The same desperation that had been in
her
voice when Paul Denning had been breaking things off.

    "All right," she said softly, "a few more minutes."

    He didn't try to kiss her. He sat with his back to the driver's door, comfortable. "You know what my mother said at dinner the other night?"

    "No, what?"

    "That you and I would have beautiful children. And she's right."

    "Oh, David, listen, please-"

    "It'd be a great marriage, Jenny. It really would. I know you've been going through a lot of things lately. But don't you see? Our marriage could be your safe harbor. You'd be safe inside it. And loved. Oh, God, Jenny, I love you so much."

    With a man as self-confident and sometimes ferocious as David, it was difficult to see and hear him cry. But cry he did. No big melodramatic moment. Just sort of silent tears that glistened in his eyes and made his voice raspy.

    She couldn't stand to see him like this. She took him to her and held him. She felt embarrassed for him, and sorry for herself.

    Finally he said, laughing harshly, "I'll give you a trip to London if you never tell anybody about this. You know, that I was crying."

    She smiled. He'd always had a nice sense of humor about himself and his little joke now slightly redeemed the moment.

    "How many days in Paris?" she said, sustaining the moment of humor.

    "Six."

    "Oh, it'd have to be at least seven."

    He snuffled up tears. Sat back on his side of the car. Looked out at the night. "I pretty much had my life planned out. You know, where we'd live and how many kids we'd have and where we'd build our summer home." The humor was gone now. He sounded dismal. "I guess I got a little ahead of myself."

    "I'm sorry, David."

    He snuffled up some more tears. "That's something I was always afraid of."

    "What?"

    "Crying in front of you. I mean, I never even thought about it with any other girl. But we've always had so many ups and down. And sometimes, I'd get so sad-"

    She reached over and put her hand on his shoulder. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, David."

    He turned toward her. He looked both sad and angry. "But I guess it wasn't enough, huh?"

    "Oh. David," she sighed, "don't make it any worse than it has to be."

    "Maybe you'll change your mind."

    "Maybe."

    "I'm not really a bad guy," he said, "except that I cry sometimes."

    She laughed. She could sense his shame. A big, proud man like David, the crying had to be very difficult for him to handle. "I cry all the time."

    "Yeah, but you're a woman."

    "Abraham Lincoln cried a lot, too," she said.

    "Yeah, but look what happened to him. You think I want to get shot in some theater?"

    The strained quality of the joke signaled that it was all over, at least for tonight. She leaned close enough to kiss him tenderly on the mouth. Then, "I'd better get inside."

    "Yeah. I know you're tired." For the first time, he sounded bitter. "Tired of me."

    "C'mon, David. Walk me to the door."

    Hundreds of other nights he'd walked her to the door. But this was different. This was one of the last times he'd ever see her and they both knew it. Most nights, one of them would comment on the beautiful moon, or the sweet scent of the pine trees, or what tomorrow night would hold for them. But there was no such talk tonight. They didn't even hold hands. They just walked from the garage area up to the front of the mansion.

    At the door, when he tried to put his arms around her, she slipped away from his embrace, and simply gave him another tender but very quick kiss on the mouth.

    She would always remember the stricken look in his eyes here in the darkness; and he would always remember her scent and the way she could not quite meet his gaze.

    "G'nite, David," she said softly, then hurried up the steps. She had to use her key, but that took only moments. Then she was inside, the door shut and locked behind her.

    Molly hurried out of the living room to embrace her. "You're home early."

    "I was just tired." She didn't want to get into the subject of David tonight.

    Then her father came down the hall from the den. In his blue cardigan, white shirt, and dark slacks-his graying hair neatly combed and his handsome face the epitome of masculinity-he looked like an old-time sitcom dad. Father knows best.

    He slid his arm around her, too. "You're home early."

    Molly laughed. "I already pointed that out. And she said she was tired."

    "You shouldn't have gone out in the first place, honey," he said. Father really
did
know best.

    "I think I'll go up now," Jenny said, looking at the winding staircase.

    "You don't want a snack?" her mother said. "Milk and cookies. Something like that."

    She wondered if her parents would ever quit patronizing her. They'd treated her much more like an adult when she was in high school. Of course, she hadn't been a mental patient back then.