Into the Dark (13 page)

“That’s not true, huh?” Nick smiles. Brenna is leaning on him and she can feel his
lips moving against her hairline.

“It was three weeks ago!” Her speech is thick and slurry. “If Maya was still friggin’
teething three weeks ago, she’s gotta be a friggin’ shark.”

Nick laughs.

“I’m serious. I better call animal control. Or . . . like . . . a top-secret scientific
division of the navy. Tell ’em I’ve got some kind of chemical mutant shark-girl on
my hands because my mother said she was teething and my mother is always right.”

Nick laughs again. Brenna likes his laugh. She turns to look at his face and feels
his fingertips on the back of her neck and around her waist and his lips . . . like
that, yes, just like lips should be and she leans into him. It’s so easy, like melting . . .

“You want me to wait here till you get your door open?”

Brenna turned to Morasco, put on a smile. “Nah. I’m fine,” she said.

He gave her a quick wave and pulled away from the curb and she watched him go, still
remembering that parking lot. God, she wished things had happened differently.

Brenna glanced up at her apartment. The lights were on, the shades drawn, shadows
moving behind them.
Maya
.

She thought about finding a good movie on TV, ordering in pizza with Maya and eating
in front of it. It felt like heaven. She was achy, exhausted. So exhausted, it wasn’t
until she was heading up the stairs that it hit her: Behind the drawn shades, Brenna
had seen not one, but two figures.

She hurried up the stairs, shoved her key in the lock, and opened the door. Maya came
running at her. “Mom!” She threw her arms around her and Brenna held her tight.
My baby . . .

“Is someone else here?”

“I’m sorry,” Maya whispered. “I told him what happened to you. I was scared . . .”

Brenna pulled away. She opened her eyes, and that’s when she saw him. Leaning against
the wall by Brenna’s desk, as if he belonged here, as if . . . just like . . .
No, no, no
.

“What happened to your eye, Mom?” Maya said.

Brenna couldn’t answer. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t look at him, couldn’t say anything,
except the name of the other person in the room. “Jim.”

Chapter 11

E
rrol Ludlow did not tolerate lateness. He viewed it as a sign of hostility—the unsaid
implication that another person’s time is not valuable, and can be wasted at will.
And though in Gary Freeman’s case he had every right to be hostile, it was definitely
not in his best interests to keep Errol waiting. He’d given Freeman a specific deadline.
Five
P.M.
And he’d blown it by seven minutes.

Errol checked his cell phone, made sure the ringer was turned up.
Maybe my phone is broken
. He picked up the hotel phone and called his cell with it. Of course it chimed like
St. Patrick’s on Easter Sunday.

“What part of ‘You have until 5
P.M.
EST’ don’t you understand?” He said it out loud, as if Freeman were here, sitting
next to him on the king-sized bed at the MoonGlow Hotel on 108th and Second Avenue.
Errol didn’t like the tone of his own voice, the pleading in it. He picked up his
cell and prepared to call Gary Freeman, talk to him about this man to man . . .

This, by the way, was why Errol Ludlow preferred to hire women. His critics—Brenna
Spector being one of far too many—would say that he enjoyed having pretty young girls
do his dirty work. But that wasn’t the case at all. Young, pretty, or neither, Errol
preferred women because they behaved like human beings. Men were dogs—every last one
of them, Errol included. Stupid, dirty, jealousy-driven animals who were all too prone
to pissing contests.

Freeman was a perfect example. Backed up to a wall, the fate of his marriage in Errol’s
hands, and what was he doing? Making Errol wait by the phone like a love-struck schoolgirl.
How logical was that?

Errol’s phone chimed. He glanced at the screen—a number he didn’t recognize, but Freeman’s
same Southern California area code. He crossed his fingers—literally crossed his fingers,
on both hands. He hated himself for doing that. “Ludlow.”

“Hello, Errol. It’s Gary.”

Errol exhaled. “You’re late.”

“I know, and I’m really sorry about that,” Freeman’s voice was surprisingly friendly,
apologetic, even. “I had to get a new disposable phone, and I wasn’t . . . uh . . .
I wasn’t able to safely get away and use it until now.”

“I understand,” said Errol. Well, he did. Who wouldn’t? He cleared his throat. “So,
Gary, do we have a deal?”

“Yes, we do.”

Errol’s heart leaped.

Freeman was saying, “I’m afraid, though, that I won’t be able to get you the first
payment until Monday. I have to rearrange my accounts in order to make this work . . .
you know . . . without it being noticed.”

Errol grinned. “Not a problem. I will expect payment on Monday.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved. Thank you for being so understanding.”

Was this guy for real?
Was he suddenly on medication? Gary Freeman had been so cold during that earlier
phone conversation—during all his phone conversations with Errol, come to think of
it—and now here he was, bending over backward to accommodate him, complimenting him
even, when basically what Errol was doing—not that Freeman didn’t deserve it, keeping
such secrets from his wife—but it was, after all, a form of blackmail.

For the first time since he’d come up with the idea, Errol felt guilty about it. He’d
get over it, of course. But still, something nagged at him . . . Maybe this was how
Freeman had become such a successful talent agent—the ability to inspire this feeling
in others.

Errol said, “I will do my best to make sure your wife never finds out about Lula Belle.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line, a deep breathing, in and out. “Thank
you,” he said. “I really appreciate that.”

“It’s only common courtesy.”

“Actually, you don’t know how
un
common courtesy really is.”

Errol smiled at the phone.
A kindred spirit
. “Oh, now that’s where you’re wrong, Gary. I know. Believe me, I do.”

“Errol?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think, under different circumstances, we might have been friends?”

Errol sensed something in Freeman’s voice—a type of melancholy.
Strange
. He wondered if Gary Freeman ever felt the way he did—too big for his surroundings.
It had nothing to do with Errol’s being six-eight, either. Most men—most people, really—could
be so petty, so small. He saw it all the time in his job—not just the cheating husbands,
but the wives, living and dying to catch them in the act.
He’ll be sorry he ever messed with me
, they would say, their eyes so hard and cold it would frighten Errol a little. More
than a few of them had even suggested entrapment (
Could you get one of your girls to . . . you know . . . and videotape it?)
Not to sound like a sentimentalist, but weren’t these men and women who once pledged
to love each other, above all else?

Sometimes, Errol felt as though he’d spent his whole life searching for someone he
could see eye to eye with, not physically but cerebrally, emotionally. Not a soul
mate—that was a ridiculous concept. Just a fellow human, traveling through this dark,
sick world, someone he could look in the face and say,
Stinks in here, doesn’t it?

“I do think we would be friends, Gary,” he said.

“Thank you, Errol.”

After he ended the call, Errol stood staring at his reflection in the bedroom mirror.
He’d expected to feel elation, but instead he felt rather the opposite—as though Freeman’s
melancholy were catching. He had an urge to make good on his promise to him—to keep
him safe from the wrath of his wife, forever.

A thought crept up on Errol, an ugly thought: What if he hadn’t warned Jill off as
well as he’d thought?
What if she’d called another number from her husband’s phone, and what if that person
had told her the truth?
No. That couldn’t happen. If his wife had found out, she would have gone straight
to Gary, wouldn’t she? And Errol wouldn’t have a deal right now. Gary never would
have called.

But what if Jill Freeman is just biding her time?

Just ask. Put your mind at ease
. Without another thought, Ludlow called Brenna Spector. She didn’t pick up. “Damn
it,” he whispered. He didn’t want to breathe a word of this into her voice mail, and
so he ended the call, more melancholy than ever—and now paranoid to boot.

He sighed. Part of it was this crappy hotel room, quite frankly. He’d suggested the
Carlisle for the payday celebration, but Diandra had insisted on this fleabag—dark
and noisy, with such a creaky old elevator and a lobby that looked like it hadn’t
been remodeled since Cher had her natural nose. The room smelled of something, too.
Errol wasn’t sure what—he shuddered to think at what a luminol test could bring out
in here . . .

In his early career, Errol had experienced more than his fill of rooms like this one.
He didn’t even think he could count how many of them he’d holed up in alone after
paying off desk clerks, snapping pictures through alleyways or through cracks in adjoining
doors. So much depravity and filth and escape . . .

But she’d told him that no-tell motels turned her on, told him over the phone in that
purr of hers, hadn’t she, his Diandra? And who could say no to a purr like that?

Let’s make the celebration dirty, Mr. Ludlow.
Just remembering was enough to lift Errol’s spirits—in more ways than one. His paranoia
started to fade.

He looked at his watch. She was due here in half an hour, his flower of the gods.
He had a bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket, a black silk robe to change into,
along with that . . . that ring she’d given him.
You slip it on, like this. See? Oh, it’s snug.
God, she was adorable.

He had Viagra, because adorable as she was, Errol was also close to sixty and on prostate
meds, so when it came to his own physiology, it was always best to call for backup.
He popped one, and smiled. Errol had all these things—plus an extra $20K a month.
And soon he would have Diandra. Repeatedly.

There was nothing to be melancholy about. Absolutely nothing at all.

“I
’m so glad you’re all right,” Jim said.

They’d been standing face-to-face for easily a full minute, Brenna and her ex-husband,
yet she couldn’t bring herself to speak.

“We’re both glad, Mom,” Maya squeezed Brenna’s hand, as though she was trying to anchor
her here, in the present. Maya’s palm felt sweaty, and, Brenna noticed, she was shaking
a little. It had to be so strange—her mother and father, together for the first time
since she was in kindergarten
.
Brenna wanted to tell her,
It’s all right, honey
, yet she couldn’t get her mouth to open.
Jim
. What was he doing here? If he wanted someone to be with Maya, why not send Faith—and
while we were at it, why wasn’t Faith here with him?

“Faith is in Pennsylvania for an interview,” he said, reading her thoughts. “We had
to talk her out of taking the
Sunrise Manhattan
chopper to Inwood Hill Park.”

Brenna laughed, because she could actually see it—Faith charming the pilot into going
a whole state out of his way, Faith leaning out the open door of a TV helicopter in
one of her perfect suits, the wind rippling her blonde hair as she peered out over
the Hudson, calling Brenna’s name through a megaphone. “I’m very glad,” Brenna said,
“that Faith is on our side.”

Jim started to say something, but it turned into a sigh. He watched Brenna’s face
for a while, ran a hand though his hair. “Your eye.”

“It’s from the air bag.”

“You scared Maya.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“You scared
me
.”

She started to reply, but the way he was looking at her . . . her voice went to dust.
It became August 9, 1994, and she was sitting with Jim in Madison Square Park. She
could feel the cool metal bench beneath her legs again, the hot sun on her back. And
she could see Jim, young Jim with his buzz cut and his skinnier build and that white
oxford shirt with the fraying collar.
She’s got his hand in her lap, and she’s tracing the lines. She’s pretending she knows
how to read palms, but really all she wants to do is touch him. She wants to circle
her fingers around his thick wrist, to bring the big hand up to her lips, those long,
elegant fingers . . . Does he know? Can he read her mind? Jim Rappaport, reporter
for the
Science Times
. His hands are amazing, powerful. She envies his keyboard, his steering wheel, the
wallet in his pocket . . . any object lucky enough to receive his touch.

“Now this is your heart line,” says Brenna, full of crap. “It is very strong.” His
skin is so warm.

Brenna’s phone vibrated. It brought her back. She blinked at Jim a few times. “You
changed your hair.”

“Faith’s been taking me to her hairdresser,” Jim said. “Stylist. Whatever you’re supposed
to call the guy. He cuts three hairs and rubs a bunch of gunk in it, and for that
you pay seventy bucks.”

“I like it,” Brenna said. She did. In particular, she liked that it was no longer
the buzz cut she’d loved to stroke while he was driving their old Volvo and she was
in the passenger’s seat, her arm curled around his shoulders. She liked that it probably
no longer felt like velvet under your palms, that it laid smooth and flat against
his scalp and covered the scar he still had from a seventh grade basketball accident.
(
Eight stitches in the left temple. Tripped by that jerk Joey Tablone just as Jim was
going for a three-pointer and everybody knew it was on purpose.
) She liked that the new length made the gray in Jim’s dark brown hair all the more
obvious, that it played up the passage of time and made Jim so different, almost another
person from the man Brenna had married, someone she was meeting only just now.

Her phone vibrated again. She plucked it out of her pocket, looked at the number on
the screen.
Errol Ludlow
. If that wasn’t ironic, Brenna didn’t know the definition of the word. She folded
it up again, slipped it back into her pocket. Had to be a butt-dial.

“You need to take that?”

“Absolutely not.” She took a breath. Maya was still squeezing her hand. Brenna turned
to her. “Why don’t you go order us a pizza? I’m starving.”

“Okay!” Maya rushed into the other room like she’d just been released from a cage.

“I can’t stay,” Jim said.

Brenna called after Maya: “Order a large! Anchovies on half, please!”

“Gross!”

“Just half, it won’t kill you!”

Jim smiled. “You still like anchovies.”

“Yep.”

“How about that Hostess obsession? Still can’t go three days without a Twinkie?”

“Oh no, I’ve totally branched out.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. I mix it up with a Yodel every now and then. Sometimes I’ll even have a
Sno Ball if I’m feeling really adventurous.”

He laughed a little. She couldn’t look at him laughing.

“I don’t change, Jim.”

“I know,” he said. “I know you don’t.” Yes, his hair was longer and he was in a suit
and tie Brenna had never seen before and there were lines around his eyes and mouth
that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. But the look that crept into
his eyes, the set of the jaw . . . it was the same way he’d looked at her fifteen
years ago, when she was holding his hand in her lap, pretending she was able to read
the future.

“Maya, can you get them to bring a Caesar salad, too?” she called out. “And an order
of mozzarella sticks!”

“Brenna,” he said.

“Don’t, Jim. Please.”

“You could have died today.”

“I didn’t die.”

“Maya was scared, I was—”

“I’m okay.”

“I . . . I need to say it. I need to tell you, but it’s so hard.”

Brenna’s phone vibrated again. She couldn’t have been gladder for the interruption.
She looked at the screen
. Errol Ludlow
. “Seriously?”