Desire Lines (39 page)

The site, when she reaches it, is barren and nondescript. She stands for a moment breathing heavily, trying to get her bearings. To the left is the spot where they parked their cars. To the right, where there used to be a clearing, brambles and weeds have grown up. She had expected to be overwhelmed, to feel immensely sad, but instead she feels nothing. It’s just a place.

She runs along the edge of the long dirt road leading back to the main road that parallels the river. At the fork she bears left, her feet slapping the pavement, following the route Jennifer took that night. In the ten years since, much has happened on this stretch of road. New developments have sprung up, streets have been paved, trees cleared. But somehow it still feels secluded; the infusion of people and activity seems less to have transformed the wilderness than to have been absorbed by it.

After a mile or so she comes to the intersection of Griffin Road, the place where Jennifer’s gum wrapper was found and where the police dogs lost her scent. Kathryn stops and looks up and down the road. A logging truck rumbles by, its wheels sizzling in the rain. Several cars pass, and then a small black pickup heading north slows and comes to a stop in front of her with the motor running.

The passenger-side window scrolls down. “Are you all right? Need a ride?” a young woman shouts, leaning toward her across the seat. She’s wearing a floppy straw hat and tortoiseshell glasses. Sodden bags of mulch are piled in the truck bed.

“No thanks,” Kathryn says. “I’m in the middle of a run.”

“In this weather?” The woman screws up her face.

“I’m almost home. But thanks anyway.”

“Okay, whatever you say.” She waves and starts to close the window. “Wait,” Kathryn says. “Where are you going?”

She shrugs. “I could drop you anywhere.”

“No, I mean, where are you headed? What’s up that way?”

“Oh.” She looks out the windshield. “I live about eight miles from here, on Mud Pond. There’s not much else but fish and bears up there.”

“You anywhere near Pushaw?”

“Sure. Is that where you wanna go?”

“No, I just wondered.” Kathryn smiles and steps back, waving good-bye.

Standing in the rain, she watches the pickup pull away, its red tail-lights glowing smaller until they vanish over a rise. She tilts her head up and closes her eyes, feeling the soft raindrops on her eyelids, tasting their metallic sweetness on her tongue. Then she turns around and heads for home.

Chapter 29

H
unter is sitting on a round stool at the counter with his back to the door when Kathryn gets to the diner that night, a few minutes late. He’s drinking coffee and talking in a low voice to the waitress, who’s leaning against the ice-cream cooler and laughing in a familiar way, as if she knows him.

Kathryn takes the stool beside him. He doesn’t look up. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d show,” he says.

She slips off her jacket, puts it on the empty seat beside her, taps her wet umbrella on the floor and lays it at her feet. “I said I would.”

He laughs. “I don’t take much stock in what people say.”

The waitress raises her eyebrows at him and slides a laminated menu toward Kathryn. “Coffee?”

“Do you have tea?”

“Lipton.”

“Okay.”

Turning to the shelf behind her, the waitress opens a box. Kathryn looks around. The diner is tattered but comfortable, with blue-vinyl booths and framed car ads from old
Life
magazines. Edsels, Fords, Chevys, Coupe de Villes. Two sixtyish men in flannel shirts are sitting at a booth in the back, playing cards. At another booth, an elderly woman with her hair in a net is daubing her face with powder and peering in a small compact mirror. “Runaround Sue” is playing on the jukebox. “I never even knew this place existed,” Kathryn says.

“It’s a local hangout.”

“I grew up in this town.”

He laughs again. “You’re not a local.”

The waitress sets a cup of hot water in front of Kathryn, a tea bag in an envelope on the saucer. Then she refills Hunter’s coffee and moves away.

“You know each other,” Kathryn says quietly, glancing at the waitress.

“I’ve spent some time in this place.”

“She likes you.”

“I like her, too,” he says evenly.

“Are you dating her?”

“No.”

“Are you ‘involved’ with her?”

He turns and looks at Kathryn. “You ask a lot of questions.”

She tears open the envelope and pulls out the tea bag, then drops it in her cup. “I’m curious about you.”

“What makes you think I’m going to give you a straight answer?”

I don’t, she thinks, but she says, “Why wouldn’t you?” She looks in his eyes, at the blackness of his pupils.

He takes a long sip of coffee. “Everybody holds something back.”

“You could refuse to answer. You don’t have to lie.” She pauses, then presses forward. “Then again, I guess refusing to answer is basically a tacit admission.”

“Not necessarily. Sometimes things are complicated. Not everything can be explained with a yes or no.”

“I’m not talking about yes or no. I’m talking about articulating the complications.”

He purses his lips. “All right,” he says, shifting tack. “How about you? Aren’t there things you’d rather not talk about?”

Lifting the tea bag out of her cup, she shakes it slightly and puts it on her saucer. “Not really.” She raises the cup to her mouth, looking at him over the rim. “Ask me anything.”

He smiles at the challenge. “Why did Paul leave you?”

She sloshes the cup against her lip, burning her tongue. “He didn’t leave me. I left him.”

“Why did he make you leave him?”

She smiles slightly. “I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

“Because I wasn’t—I couldn’t … engage.” She puts down the cup. “He wanted more. I can’t blame him.”

“But you do blame him.”

“I wasn’t the only one at fault. He could be selfish.”

“But you drove him away.”

He’s goading her. She furrows her brow, annoyed, trying not to show it. The small clock above the pastry case says 7:17
P.M. “NOW
it’s your turn,” she says. “Why did you put that envelope in my car?”

“What?”

“The tape, the photograph …”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“The message on my machine …”

Shaking his head, he says, “You may have a secret admirer, but it isn’t me.”

“These weren’t love notes.”

“Ahh,” he says as if he understands.

“Why would somebody try to scare me?”

“Why do you think?”

“I assume it’s to stop me from asking questions.”

He shrugs. “You shouldn’t assume.”

“Why not?”

“Because once you start making assumptions, you’ll ignore what’s in front of you, and then you’ll never find what you’re looking for.”

“You think I can find what I’m looking for?”

He drains his coffee cup and puts it down. Then he swivels on his stool so he’s facing her. “How badly do you want to know?”

“I want to know,” she says.

Sitting back on his stool, he crosses his arms and rubs his chin. “Ever been orienteering?” he says abruptly. “Not really,” she says.

“It teaches you a lot about yourself,” he says. “How aware you are of the world around you. How in touch you are with your natural instincts.”

She looks at him steadily.

“You have to stay sharp or you’ll lose your bearings,” he says.

“I think I lost my bearings a long time ago.”

He smiles—a faint, ironic smile—and says, “You can follow the signs, if you know how to look.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“I’m not sure you do either.”

“What are we talking about here?” Kathryn asks in a level voice.

He reaches up and touches her face, running two fingers down her jawbone, and she flinches, lifting her chin. “What’s the story with Jack Ledbetter?”

She swallows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t be coy, Kathryn.”

She laughs, trying to keep her voice steady. “What do you want to hear, that I’m sleeping with him?”

He squints at her, waiting for her to continue.

“In his dreams, maybe,” she says.

“Uh-huh.” He says it slowly, and she can tell he’s trying to decide
whether to believe her. The waitress saunters over with a pot of coffee and fills his cup. “More water, honey?” she asks Kathryn, and Kathryn shakes her head.

When the waitress leaves, Kathryn turns to face him. “What’s the story with Rachel?” she says.

“She’s a nice girl,” he says.

“But the two of you—”

“I told you,” he says coolly. “There was something. Some time ago.”

“For how long?”

“A few years. Off and on.”

“How many years?”

He looks at her for a long moment, as if he’s inspecting her. “A few.”

“She’s in love with you, isn’t she?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“No. She’s been … convenient.”

“What would she do if she heard you say that?”

He gives Kathryn a funny smile. “She won’t.”

Patsy Cline is singing “Crazy.” The flannel shirts are standing to go, pulling change out of their pockets and counting it on the table. Over in the corner the old woman is hunched over a bowl of soup, patting her mouth with a napkin between slurps.

“What are you doing here, Kathryn?” Hunter asks.

“What?” Though she knows to expect it, his bluntness shocks her.

“Why are you here?” His voice is dry and cold.

She feels a panic rise in her chest. What does he want to hear? What might he be willing to believe? She doesn’t answer at first; she looks into her cup and toys with the soggy tea bag. Then she says, “You know why I’m here—I told you before. Jennifer was always in the spotlight. It took a long time for you to notice me.” Though she hates to acknowledge it, even to herself, there’s a part of her that means it. She knows it’s this part that will persuade him, if he’s willing to be persuaded. “What about you?” she asks. “Why are you here?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he says. “I’m trying to figure that out.” He slides off his stool and stands close to her—a little too close. She resists the impulse to pull away. He takes out his wallet, riffles through it, and lays a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Don’t play games, Kathryn,” he says quietly.

She feels a spider of fear crawling up the back of her neck. “I’m not playing games.” She looks up at him, her wide eyes full of deceit, and he returns her gaze.

“I’ll need a better answer than that,” he says. He turns to leave, then looks back at her. “I’ll call you,” he says, and he’s gone.

IT’S ALMOST MIDNIGHT
when Kathryn gets to Jack’s. She rings his buzzer and then, finding the door open again, slips inside and makes her way upstairs. His door is open at the end of the long hall. When she gets there, the apartment is dark, lit only by a streetlight and a slice of moon outside the window. Beethoven is playing softly; Kathryn can see the small lights on the receiver at the end of the room jump and flash.

She shuts the door behind her and pulls her silk sleeveless turtleneck over her head. Then she unzips the long skirt she’s wearing and lets it fall to the floor, stepping out of her sandals and the skirt and walking blindly to the middle of the room. Closing her eyes, she tilts her face upward. She’s filled with some strange unfocused desire. Running her hands down her body, she catches her underwear in her fingers and bends to pull it off.

All at once Jack is behind her, his warm hands on her waist, his breath on her neck, the hair on his bare thighs rubbing the backs of her legs. She leans into him, and he pushes his hands under her bra, finding the clasp and unsnapping it and then pushing the straps off her shoulders. He slides his hands down between her legs and she moves them apart, sensing the wetness already, feeling him hard against her back, wanting him inside her, wanting him now. Reaching back, she
pushes his boxer shorts down and takes him in her hand, trying to guide him, but he pulls away, grasps her hands in his and kisses the back of her neck, her ear, rubs his scratchy cheek against the side of her face. He begins to caress her again, willing her to follow his lead. She’s never done this before, not with anyone watching, and she’s self-conscious at first, timid in her movements. But after a few moments his hand rises to her breast and she continues, stroking herself the way he was doing, then letting herself enjoy the nuance of her own touch. When she starts to come, he braces against her and she lets herself fall back, writhing in his embrace, his body moving with hers as the motion subsides. Then he turns her around and kisses her hard on the mouth, maneuvering her back toward the kitchen table, where he sets her on the edge. “Just a moment,” he murmurs. He disappears and then comes back; hearing him rip open the little foil packet, she smiles in the darkness. Then he pulls her toward him, hooking her knees around his hips, and pushes inside her. She’s so wet now that there’s no hitch; they slide together like two parts of a machine.