Stay Close (6 page)

A woman like that, well, something had to give, right?

He thought about that photograph by those damn ruins in that park. Could that have been what the mugger was really looking for? It seemed unlikely. He ran through the scenarios and possibilities and made a decision.

He had hidden long enough. He had gone from the big-time photojournalist to that horrible rehab center to the times of joy here in Atlantic City to losing everything. He had moved to Los Angeles, worked as a real paparazzo, gotten himself into another mess, moved back here. Why? Why move back to the place where he’d lost everything unless… unless something drew him back. Unless something demanded he come back and figure out the truth.

Cassie.

He blinked her away, got back into his car, and drove to the park. The same spot he’d been using nearly every day was still open. Ray probably couldn’t verbalize what brought him here. So many things about him had changed, but one hadn’t—his need for the camera. Many things make a photographer, but in his case, it was more about need than want. He didn’t really see or process things unless he could photograph them. He saw the world through that lens. For most people, something doesn’t exist unless they see, hear, smell, taste it. For him it was almost the opposite—nothing was real until he captured it on his camera.

If you took the path on the right corner, you could reach the edge
of a cliff that overlooked the Atlantic City skyline. At night, the ocean behind it shone like a glimmering dark curtain. The view, if you were willing to risk the trek through the underbelly, was breathtaking.

Ray snapped pictures as he started up the remote path, staying behind the camera as though it offered protection. The old ruins of the iron-ore mill were on the edge of the Pine Barrens, New Jersey’s largest track of wooded area. One time, many years ago, Ray had gone off the path and deep into the woods. He found a long-abandoned cement hut covered with graffiti, some of it appearing satanic. The Pine Barrens were still loaded with ruins from ghost towns. Rumors swirled of the deeper malfeasance within the bowels of that forest. If you’ve ever watched any cinematic Mafia portrayal, you’ve seen the part where the hit men bury a body in the Pine Barrens. Ray thought about that too often. One day, he figured, someone will invent a device that will let you know what is buried in the dirt beneath you—differentiating between bones and sticks and roots and rocks—and who knew what you would find then?

Ray swallowed and pushed the thought away. When he reached the old iron-ore furnace, he took out the photograph of Carlton Flynn and studied it. Flynn had been standing over to the left, moving toward that path, the same path Ray had been on seventeen years ago. Why? What had Carlton Flynn been doing here? Sure, he could have just been another hiker or adventurer. But why had he been here, in this very spot, seventeen years after Ray had been here, and then disappeared? Where had he gone from here?

No idea.

Ray’s limp was hard to notice anymore. It was still there if you looked closely, but Ray had learned to cover it up. When he started
up the hill so that he was standing exactly where he’d been when he’d taken the photograph of Carlton Flynn, the always-present twinge from his old injury flared up. The rest of his body still ached from last night’s attack too, but for now Ray was able to move past it.

Something caught his eye.

He stopped and squinted back down the path. The sun was bright. Maybe that was it—that and the strange angle on this little hill. You wouldn’t see it if you were on the path, but something was reflecting back at him, something right at the edge of the woods, right up against the big boulder. Ray frowned and stumbled toward it.

What the… ?

When he got closer, he bent down to get a closer look. He reached his hand out but pulled back before he touched it. There was no question in his mind. He took out his camera and started snapping pictures.

There, on the ground almost behind the boulder, was a streak of dried blood.

M
EGAN LAY IN BED READING
a magazine. Dave lay next to her, watching television, the clicker in hand. For men the TV remote control was like a pacifier or security blanket. They simply could not watch television without holding one close, always at the ready.

It was a little after ten
P.M.
Jordan was already asleep. Kaylie was another story.

Dave said, “Do you want the honors or should I?”

Megan sighed. “You did it the last two nights.”

Dave smiled, eyes on the television. “The last three nights. But who’s counting?”

She put down her magazine. Kaylie’s bedtime was a firm ten
P.M.
, but she never went on her own, waiting until one of her parents insisted. Megan rolled out of bed and padded down the corridor. She would yell out, “Go to sleep NOW!” but that was equally exhausting and could potentially wake up Jordan.

Megan stuck her head in the room. “Bedtime.”

Kaylie didn’t even glance away from the monitor. “Just fifteen more minutes, okay?”

“No. Bedtime is ten
P.M.
It is almost quarter after.”

“Jen needs help with her homework.”

Megan frowned. “On Facebook?”

“Fifteen minutes, Mom. That’s all.”

But it was never fifteen minutes because in fifteen minutes the lights would still be on and Kaylie would still be on the computer and then Megan would have to get out of bed again and tell her to go to sleep.

“No. Now.”

“But—”

“Do you want to be grounded?”

“God, what’s your problem? Fifteen minutes!”

“NOW!”

“Why are you yelling? You always yell at me.”

And so it went. Megan thought about Lorraine, about her visit, about her not being cut out for kids and those mommies in the corner at Starbucks and how your past never leaves you, neither the good nor the bad, how you pack it into boxes and put it in some closet and you figure that it will be like those boxes you pack in your house—something you keep but never open—and then one day, when the real world closes in on you—you go to that closet and open it again.

When Megan returned to her bedroom, Dave was asleep, the television still on, the remote control in his hand. He was on his back. His shirt was off, his chest rising and falling with a light snore. For a moment Megan stopped and watched him. He was a big man, still in shape, but the years had added layers. His hair was thinning. His jowls were a little thicker. His posture wasn’t what it once was.

He worked too hard. Every weekday he woke up at six thirty, donned a suit and tie, and drove to his sixth-floor corner office in Jersey City. He worked as an attorney, traveling more than he should. He seemed to like it well enough, but he lived for those moments
he could run home and be with his family. Dave liked coaching his kids and attending the games and he cared way too much how well the kids performed. He liked chatting up the parents on the sidelines and having a beer with the guys at the American Legion and playing in his old-man soccer league and doing an early morning golf round at the club.

Are you happy?

She had never asked him that. He had never asked her. What would she say anyway? She felt an itch right now. Did he? She was keeping it from him. Maybe he was doing the same. She had slept with this man and this man only for the past sixteen years—and she had lied to him from day one. Would that matter to him now? Would the truth make any difference? He knew nothing about her past—and yet he knew her better than anyone else.

Megan moved closer to the bed, gently took the remote control from his hand, turned off the television. Dave stirred and turned onto his side. He mostly slept in the fetal position. She moved into the bed next to him and slid into a spoon. His body was warm. She put her nose up against his back. She loved the way he smelled.

When Megan looked at her future, when she saw herself old and living in Florida or some retirement village or wherever she ended up, Megan knew that it would be with this man. She could not imagine anything else. She loved Dave. She had made a life with him and loved him—should she feel bad that she wanted something more or just different every once in a while?

It was wrong. The question was, she guessed, why was it wrong?

She rested her hand on his hip. She knew that she could sneak her fingers under the elastic waistband, how exactly he would react, the little groan in his sleep. She smiled at the thought, but for some
reason, she decided against it. Her mind drifted back to her visit to La Crème. It had been so wonderful to just be there, to just
feel
that much.

Why had she opened that closet door?

And the less abstract and philosophical question: Could Stewart Green really be back?

No. At least, she couldn’t imagine it. Or maybe, when she stopped and thought about it, his being back explained everything. Suddenly the excitement turned to fear. There had been good times back then, vibrant times, fun times. But there had also been very, very scary times.

When you thought about it, didn’t those go hand in hand? Wasn’t that part of the draw?

Stewart Green. She thought that was one ghost that had long been buried. But you can’t bury a ghost, can you?

She shivered, put her hand around Dave’s waist, and nestled in closer. To her surprise, he took her hand and said, “You okay, hon?”

“I’m fine.”

Silence. Then he said, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Megan figured that sleep would never come, but it did. She dropped into it as though off a cliff. At three
A.M.
, when her mobile phone buzzed, she was still right up against her husband, her arm still around his waist. Her hand shot out for the phone without hesitation. She checked the caller ID, though there was no need.

Still half asleep, Dave cursed and said, “Don’t answer it.”

But Megan simply could not do that. She was already rolling out of bed, her feet searching for the slippers. She put the phone to her ear. “Agnes?”

“He’s in my room,” the old woman whispered.

“It’s going to be okay, Agnes. I’m on my way.”

“Please hurry.” The terror in her whisper couldn’t have been more obvious if it came with a blinking neon sign. “I think he’s going to kill me.”

B
ROOME DIDN
’
T BOTHER FLASHING HIS
badge when he walked into La Crème, a “gentlemen’s lounge”—a euphemism in so many ways—located two short blocks geographically (but long blocks in many other ways) from Atlantic City’s Boardwalk. The bouncer, an old-timer named Larry, already knew him.

“Yo, Broome.”

“Hey, Larry.”

“Business or pleasure?” Larry asked.

“Business. Rudy here?”

“In his office.”

It was ten
A.M.
, but the place still had a few pathetic customers and even more pathetic dancers. One staff member set up the always-popular, all-you-can-eat (“food only”—ha-ha) buffet, mixing congealed food trays from Lord knows how many days ago. It would be trite to note that the buffet was a salmonella outbreak waiting to happen, but sometimes trite is the only sock in the drawer.

Rudy sat behind his desk. He could have worked as an extra on
The
Sopranos,
except the casting director would deem him too much on type. He was a big man, sporting a gold chain thick enough to pull up a Carnival Cruise anchor and a pinkie ring that most of his dancers could wear around their wrists.

“Hey, Broome.”

“What’s happening, Rudy?”

“Something I can do for you?”

“Do you know who Carlton Flynn is?” Broome asked.

“Sure. Little pissant poser with show muscles and a booth tan.”

“You know he’s missing?”

“Yeah, I heard something about that.”

“Don’t get all broken up about it.”

“I’m all cried out,” Rudy said.

“Anything you can tell me about him?”

“The girls say he’s got a tiny dick.” Rudy lit a cigar and pointed it at Broome. “Steroids, my friend. Stay away from them. They make the cojones shrivel into raisins.”

“Appreciate both the health advice and imagery. Anything else?”

“He probably frequented a lot of clubs,” Rudy said.

“He did.”

“So why bug me?”

“Because he’s missing. Like Stewart Green.”

That made Rudy’s eyes widen. “So? What was that, twenty years ago?”

“Seventeen.”

“Long time ago. In a place like Atlantic City, it’s a lifetime.”

Boy, did that make sense. You live in dog years here. Everything ages faster.

And, yes, though it was not widely reported, Stewart Green, doting dad of little Susie and Brandon, devoted husband of cancer-stricken Sarah, enjoyed La Crème’s bottle service and the company of strippers. He kept a separate credit card with the bills coming to his office address. Broome had eventually told Sarah about it, in as gentle terms as he could, and her reaction had surprised him.