Night Moves: Dream Man/After the Night (39 page)

T
he telephone drove her crazy that day. Faith thought about unplugging the damn thing, but reminded herself that she still had a business to run. She didn’t have a separate line for the fax, so the phone had to stay in operation. She did let the answering machine screen her calls. Unfortunately, most of them were from Gray.

His tone in the first message had been both exasperated and soothing. “I wanted to see you today, but I had to go to New Orleans first thing this morning. I’m there now, and it looks like I won’t get back until late tonight.” Well, that was a relief, she thought. Now she wouldn’t be on edge, afraid he would show up on her front porch at any moment.

The message continued, his voice sliding into a deeper, more intimate tone. “We need to talk, baby. Do you want me to come by tonight when I get home? I’ll call you back later.”

“No!” Faith shouted at the phone as he hung up and the answering machine clicked off.

It was about half an hour later when realization dawned on her. Gray was in New Orleans. She wasn’t anxious to return to the summerhouse, but at least if she went now, she knew she would be safe from detection. This might be the
best chance she’d ever get, and she wouldn’t even have to walk through the woods.

If she broke out the window, Gray would immediately suspect she had done it, since he had caught her slipping around the boathouse the night before. Besides, climbing through the window would be difficult without a ladder, and she didn’t own one. But it wasn’t night now, and she was a good swimmer. What had been unthinkable the night before was very doable under a bright morning sun.

The phone was ringing when she left the house with her supplies in hand. Not normally prepared for this kind of adventure, she made do. She had changed into her old swimsuit, and covered it with slacks and a blouse. In a bag she carried two towels and her flashlight, which she might need for searching dark corners. The flashlight wasn’t waterproof, so she had sealed it in a Ziploc plastic bag. For her safety, she also carried the longest butcher knife from the kitchen. She didn’t know what use she would have for it—she hoped she wouldn’t be close enough to an angry snake that she had to stab it—but carrying it made her feel better, so she did.

She was almost gleeful as she drove out to the summerhouse. Twice before she had tried to search the place, and twice Gray had caught her. The third time was the charm.

When she reached the lake, she resolutely refused to look at the summerhouse, but she couldn’t entirely escape the memories of what had transpired there on the porch. How could she, when she felt the soreness between her legs with each step she took? But she also felt a faint throb of desire, and she hated herself for it.

Hurriedly she undressed, and beat on the door to the boathouse to roust any inhabitants. She didn’t hear any scurrying, or the plop of anything into the water, so perhaps the place was clear. Nevertheless, she beat on the door again, and rattled the chain for good measure. Satisfied that she had done all she could in that regard, she walked out onto the dock until she was even with the garage door that sealed the boathouse on the lake side.

Gray and Monica and their friends had swum here often
during the summers; Faith had sneaked into the water for a swim on more than one occasion herself, but never when anyone else was present. She wasn’t afraid of being in the water alone, and she knew how deep it was around the dock. Clutching the plastic-enclosed flashlight in one hand, she entered the water with a shallow dive, and surfaced with a gasp at the coldness. By July and August, the water would be pleasantly warm, but this was the end of May and it still held some of the winter chill. She swam briefly back and forth, acclimatizing herself to both the water and the activity, and in a moment the temperature felt much better.

It would be dark under the boathouse. Fumbling through the plastic, she switched on the flashlight, then didn’t give herself any more time to think. Taking a deep breath, she dove beneath the edge of the door.

Visibility was poor, even with the flashlight, and beneath the boathouse it was almost stygian. Above her was a rectangle of light, thankfully unoccupied by a boat, which would have made climbing out more difficult. Faith kicked for the light, and her head popped out of the water almost before she realized she had broken the surface. She reached out and grasped the edge of the boat slip to steady herself, and placed the flashlight on a solid surface. Only then did she brush her hair out of her face so she could clearly see her surroundings.

The interior of the boathouse was dim and mostly empty. She hauled herself out of the water and stood dripping, looking around and letting her eyes grow accustomed to the dimness. Once the boathouse had been littered with air mattresses and inner tubes, with life jackets festooned on wall hooks. The ski boat had rocked gently against the padded edges of the slip, and cases of marine oil had been stacked in one corner. All of that was gone. The boathouse had been emptied and cleaned; all it held now was a lawn mower, of the push variety, a yard rake, and a worn broom. There was no chance a single shell casing would have remained in place for twelve years.

Knowing it was useless, she looked anyway. She shone the flashlight into every corner, got down on her hands and knees and looked from that angle. Nothing.

Well, it had been a long shot anyway, she consoled herself. She had tried, and had enjoyed a nice morning swim.

She dove back into the water and under the door, surfacing into bright sunlight. This time there were no surprises waiting for her. Uneventfully she climbed onto the dock and stripped off the wet swimsuit, then toweled dry and dressed, having also had the foresight to bring along dry underwear. Except for her wet hair, she looked perfectly normal as she drove back to her house.

The answering machine held two more messages from Gray.

“Where are you, baby? Are you sleeping late, and have the phone turned off? I’ll call back.”

She buried her face in her hands. The machine beeped, and played another message. “You can’t put it off forever. You have to talk to me sooner or later. Pick up the phone, baby.”

She went to shower the lake water out of her hair. She heard the phone ringing even with the water running, and tried to ignore the sensation of being hounded. It wasn’t easy. The calls continued all day long, each message becoming more and more irritated. He stopped cajoling, and started demanding.

“Faith, damn it, pick up the phone! If you think I’m going to let you ignore me—” He hung up without finishing the threat.

In between calls from Gray, she placed one to New Orleans, but Detective Ambrose wasn’t available. She left a message for him, and waited for him to return her call.

It was late afternoon before he did so. She snatched up the receiver as soon as she heard the detective’s voice. “This is Faith Hardy, Detective. Have you found Mr. Pleasant yet?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Hardy. I’m sorry. His car hasn’t been found, either.” His voice gentled. “Frankly, it doesn’t look good. He doesn’t fit the profile of someone who would disappear voluntarily; he had nothing to run from, and nothing to run to. He could have lost control of his car, had a heart attack, gone to sleep . . . If the car left the road and went into a bayou or river . . .” He let the sentence trail off,
but Faith didn’t need it spelled out. He thought a fisherman would eventually find Mr. Pleasant.

“Will you let me know?” she whispered, blinking back tears.

“Yes, ma’am, just as soon as I hear anything.”

He wouldn’t hear anything, though. Faith replaced the receiver in its cradle. Guy Rouillard had been murdered. It wasn’t just a theory now; her mother had witnessed it. Mr. Pleasant had been asking pointed questions about Guy’s disappearance. Would the murderer just have sat tight, figuring there was no evidence to be found, or would the fact that Mr. Pleasant was an investigator make him nervous? Nervous enough to commit another murder, perhaps?

That sweet little man was dead, and it was her fault.

No sooner had the thought registered than she rejected it. No, it wasn’t her fault, it was the fault of the murderer. She wasn’t willing to absolve him of one iota of blame.

Finding proof of Guy’s murder would be extremely difficult, after twelve years. Mr. Pleasant had been missing less than two weeks. It would be smarter to concentrate on finding Mr. Pleasant. The evidence wouldn’t be destroyed by time.

If she had killed someone, where would she hide the body? In Guy’s case, the most likely answer was the lake. At the time of the murder, the boat had been right there. What would have been easier than to take him out to the deepest part of the lake, weight his body, and push him overboard? Such a convenient means had been lacking in Mr. Pleasant’s case. For one thing, he probably hadn’t been at the lake, and for another, there was no boat. So where would the killer try to dispose of the body?

Someplace where he wasn’t likely to be seen. There were plenty of woods around for a hasty burial. Every so often, hunters would stumble across a body that had lain hidden for months, even years. But the killer had already successfully concealed one murder, so wouldn’t he be likely to use the same method to dispose of a second body? If she thought so, and she did, then the Rouillard private lake was the place to search.

She couldn’t do it by herself. She was willing to tackle
almost any job, but she had sense enough to know when she needed help. The lake would need to be dragged. That required boats, people, equipment. The sheriff could order it done, but she would have to convince him there was cause, and that the lake was the place to look. She couldn’t do that without telling what she knew about Guy.

And she couldn’t tell what she knew about Guy without first telling Gray. She couldn’t let him find out from someone else, couldn’t let his family be dragged into this mess without warning. Despite the hurt that still compressed her chest, despite the fact that she was too ashamed of herself to face him, she would somehow have to bring herself to tell him his father had been murdered, and she didn’t know if she could do it.

Right on cue, the telephone rang. Faith closed her eyes.

“Goddamn it, Faith!” The muted fury in his voice came through loud and clear. “If you don’t pick up the phone and tell me you’re all right, I’m calling Mike McFane to come out there—”

She grabbed the receiver. “I’m all right!” she yelled, and slammed it back down. The
persistence
of the man!

The phone rang again, after just enough time for him to have redialed the number. “All right,” he said when the machine answered, his voice under control now, though the anger still seethed in every word. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was an asshole, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry you’re an asshole, too,” Faith muttered at the phone.

“You can kick my ass or slap my face tomorrow, whichever you want,” he continued. “But don’t think you’re going to avoid me forever, because I’m not about to let it happen.”

The line clicked as he hung up, and she sent up a hopeful prayer that he would stop calling now.

The phone rang again. She groaned. The machine picked up.

“I didn’t wear a rubber last night,” he calmly informed her.

“I noticed,” she said sarcastically.

“I’d bet my ass you aren’t using any kind of birth control, either,” he said. “Think about it.” The line clicked off again.

“You
fiend!”
Faith shrieked, her face turning red with rage. Think about it! How was she supposed to think about anything else, now that he’d so kindly brought the matter to her attention?

She stomped around the house, angry at both Gray and herself. They had no excuse; they weren’t irresponsible teenagers, operating on hormones instead of brains—but that was exactly how they had acted. How could they have been so careless? She should have thought of the possibility of pregnancy before, but she had been so upset and miserable that consequences hadn’t occurred to her.

Well, they were occurring now, with a vengeance. As if she didn’t already have enough to worry about!

She was so panicked that it was half an hour before she thought to consult the calendar and count days. When she did, she sagged with relief. Her period was due to start in a week, and she had always been very regular. Nothing was certain, but the odds were on her side.

•  •  •

The next morning there was another note. Faith had been careful to keep her car locked since the first one, so this one was secured under the windshield wiper. She noticed it when she glanced out the window, and went out to investigate. When she saw what it was, she didn’t touch it. She didn’t want to know what it said. It had evidently been there all night, because the paper was wet with dew, the ink smeared.

She hadn’t heard anything last night, even though she had slept restlessly once again. At least it was just a note, rather than another mutilated animal.

She was still in her pajamas, having just finished breakfast. Leaving the note where it was, she returned to the house. Within fifteen minutes she had dressed, put on her makeup, brushed her hair, and was on the way out the door.

She unlocked the car door and dropped her purse into the seat. Being careful not to tear the soggy paper, she lifted the windshield wiper and retrieved the note, holding one corner between thumb and forefinger. Then she got in the car and drove straight to the courthouse.

She parked in front of the square and, holding the note exactly the way she had before, marched up the three long, shallow steps. There was an information desk stationed just inside the doors, and she paused to ask a blue-haired little woman exactly where the sheriff’s office was located.

“Just down this hall, dear, and to the left.” The little woman pointed to her own left, and Faith obediently turned.

The smell of the courthouse was surprisingly pleasant, settling her jangled nerves a bit. It was composed of paper and ink, cleaning compounds, the ever-changing mix of people, and the cool gray scent of the marble floors and halls. The courthouse had been built fifty or sixty years before, when buildings had individual character. It had, of course, been “updated” several times over the years, with fluorescent lights replacing the original incandescent ones, so the clerks could have headaches to go along with the cheaper lighting costs. Window air-conditioning units were attached like barnacles to the building, growing randomly from office windows. In some places, though, particularly the hallways, ceiling fans still whirled lazily through the workday, keeping the air moving and fresh.