by S. D. Perry
He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. “I’m not mad,” he said finally. “I just—I mean, this is a big thing in your life, what you’ve been seeing, and we’ve been friends for a while, and I guess I’m kind of…I feel like I’m getting shut out of this totally important thing for you so you can play hide-the-bone with the new guy, you know? I mean, you’ve been seeing him like every day.”
Amanda leaned back against the wall, letting the shirt fall open. The apartment seemed stuffier than usual. Even with the fan blowing directly on her, she was already sweating from the heat. “I know, I know. But he’s…he’s only here for, like, another month, and I’m really liking him, OK? And you’re right, about me being an ass. Let’s hang out tomorrow, OK? I won’t make any plans.”
“We had plans for tonight,” Devon sniffed.
“For a stakeout that we’ve pretty much vetoed the need for, right? And which you haven’t mentioned for, like, ten days or something?”
“Whatever,” Devon huffed, but he was only pretend offended, she could hear it in his voice. “And tell me you’re using protection, by the way.”
“Well, duh.”
She could hear a grin in his voice. “Are we a Magnum Plus? Or does Mr. Eric suffer from the teeny-peeny? You never said.”
“Fuck off.” She hesitated, then added, “We’ll be up at the lighthouse later, if you want to sit on our blanket.”
“Fireworks are for fags. I’ve got a hot date later, anyway.”
On the computer, she silently finished. “You still with, uh, gguy7?”
“I’m so over him,” Devon said. “Actually, my new Romeo is local. Like, meet-me-in-Kehoe-so-you-can-suck-my-cock local.”
Amanda remembered Devon’s blind, staring eyes, filled with water, and felt a touch of apprehension…and hurt, that he’d kept such big news to himself. “You gonna tell me his name?”
“Can’t. It’s strictly on the DL.” Devon sounded pleased. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyway.”
That was her cue to start pumping him for details, but Eric would be over in twenty minutes. Less. “You’re so gay. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Whore,” he said breezily, and she hung up on him, smiling—
—and there was a knock at the front door. Eric was early.
She tossed the phone on her bed and ran her fingers through her hair, fluffing it up. “Just a sec!” she called, throwing her makeup back in the bag. She dropped the bag on the floor, next to a stack of books, and did a last look around as she hurriedly buttoned the bottom half of the men’s work shirt. It wasn’t what she planned on wearing to the lighthouse, but fuck it, they were going to have sex before they left, anyway—and she thought she looked kind of sexy, wearing just a big men’s shirt. The room was appropriately cluttered, but not dirty. She’d done the dishes and picked up the living room, too.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” she said, hurrying down the hall—and as she turned to face the front door, it opened, and there was Peter, stepping quickly inside, closing the door behind him. He still held the key in one hand—and he slipped it into his pocket as he grinned at her, his eyes dark and roving. She reflexively crossed her arms, blocking his view.
“Hey,” he said, his voice low and insinuating. “I left something here. Thought I’d drop by and get it, if that’s OK with you.”
“Whatever,” she said, backing away, back toward her room. Eric was coming; he’d be there any minute.
“Where you going?” he asked, and stepped closer—and dropped his hand to the front of his jeans. He rubbed his thumb over the bulge there, still smiling. “Don’t you want to help me look?”
“Jesus, Peter,” she said, unable to believe he was touching himself, feeling sick and shocked…but not entirely surprised. “Get your shit and get out, right now.”
She wanted to sound tough and mean, but her voice was shaking, her thoughts tumbling—why hadn’t she done something, said something to her mother? Grace had been in a crappy mood lately, distant and irritable, but she should have talked to her, anyway. There was no lock on her bedroom door, but the bathroom had a lock, a wimpy little door lock, but she just had to keep away until Eric came, and—
—and what’s he going to do? Knock? Go home when no one answers?
“Come here,” he said, and took another step, and she turned and ran, and made it about three steps before he grabbed her arm, almost jerking her off her feet. He pulled her to him, grabbed her in a rough embrace, and she shrieked, a startled, angry sound. Peter clapped a hand over her mouth, talking soft and fast.
“Don’t be like that, baby, you’re going to love it; I bet you love to suck dick, don’t you?” His breath was sour with beer and cigarettes. “With your pouty little baby mouth. I’ll make you come, too, I’ll eat you out till you scream, you’ll fuckin’ love it.”
He lowered his hand while he was talking, cupped his hand around her left breast, still holding her waist tight with his other arm. Tight enough that she could barely breathe.
“I’ll tell my mother,” she gasped, realizing how stupid that sounded as she said it, how ineffectual, as if the threat would be enough to make this stop.
Peter smiled, squeezing her breast. “I already told her about how you’ve been when she’s not around,” he said. “Dressing up, flirting, asking me to sit by you. A little crush on Mommy’s boyfriend. She was mad, but I told her it was normal, I told her to let it alone, that it would pass once you realize I’m her man. And she said if you tried anything else, she’d pack your fuckin’ bags, so you might want to think about what you want to say to her. About whether you want to say anything at all.”
She could actually see her mother’s face, tight with anger, could see how he’d set it up, no wonder she’s been such a bitch—
“Now we can do this fun or you can make me hurt you, but we are going to fuck, Amanda-pie.” He used her mother’s nickname for her, from when she’d been a baby. Hearing him say it made her feel ashamed and dirty, like he’d already raped her.
“Let me go,” she said, looking into his eyes, searching for mercy. She’d never liked him, but they’d been nodding acquaintances for months; he was her mother’s boyfriend, for fuck’s sake—he couldn’t, could he? It sounded like a plea, it was a plea, and there was nothing in his eyes but determination and raw lust, and she could feel his erection against her stomach, a hot urgency, pressing. He leaned in to kiss her, still holding her breast—and she’d been in shock, maybe, but at the thought of his tongue in her mouth, she jerked her head away, bringing her arm up, pushing at his face as hard as she could.
“Let go, I’ll call the fucking cops, you let me go now!” she shouted, and he grabbed her wrist and squeezed tight. She gasped with pain, looking into his flushed face, and saw clearly that he wanted to hurt her, that he was OK with that—that he had expected it.
“You do that,” he said, and his grin was a terrible thing. “You can tell them that I fucked your brains out, and you said no—and I’ll tell them what really happened, I’ll tell them that you begged for it, and I’m only human, right? And when I felt bad, after, said I was going to tell Grace, you changed your tune. They going to believe you, you think? The slut daughter of the town lush?”
Amanda stared at him, determined to fight but frozen suddenly by the reality of the situation, the possibility that no one would believe her—
—and someone knocked on the door.
“Eric!” she screamed, and Peter squeezed her wrist tighter, and she screamed again, as loud as she could. Immediately, there was pounding at the door, Eric calling her name, and Peter let her go, an expression of rage contorting his features, his gaze darting to the door and back to her as he pulled away.
“Amanda!” Eric shouted, and started kicking the door, and Peter stuffed his hand into his jeans, readjusting himself, plastering a smile on his thwarted face.
“You just made a mistake,” he said, almost too quietly to be heard over the pounding. He reached for the door, st
ill glaring at her, flipped the lock, and jerked it open. Eric half fell inside, and Peter pushed past him, was outside and gone before Eric righted himself.
He looked at her, confused, looked back outside. She heard a door slam, heard Peter’s truck peel out of the lot a beat later.
“You OK?” Eric asked, and suddenly he was there, putting his arm around her, puffing his chest out as he looked back toward the parking lot, his expression grim. “Did he—was that Peter?”
Amanda nodded and leaned into him, expecting tears to come, but there weren’t any. She felt strangely resigned that she’d just been forced into some nightmare confrontation with her mother, that her date with Eric was fucking ruined, that she wanted to shower for ten hours, but even if, she’d still be able to feel the warmth of his hand, the insistence of his hard dick at her belly. Overshadowing these things, she saw her life as the tiny, insignificant thing that it was, really. She’d been lucky, but she just as easily could have been violated and her life ruined and the world would have kept turning, turning.
Eric held her, and she felt how much he wanted to protect her, the sense of it suddenly so strong that she felt like she was inside him, loving her…
No. Not love. Infatuation…and something else, a kind of need that she didn’t know, that was beyond her experience. The feeling was as mysterious and fathomless as some oceanic trench. It wasn’t love…but it was something, a connection, more than she’d ever had with a boy, and she was thrilled that she’d inspired such a depth of emotion, even if she didn’t understand it…or understand how she knew, exactly.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself, and let him comfort her, thinking that knowing such a thing wasn’t so bad.
Karen and Sarah had packed a picnic dinner for the guests staying at Big Blue, and they had all gone to the fairgrounds together, two aging couples and the two sisters. Tommy was off with his father in Seattle, and Karen was surprised to find that she missed her nephew. She’d never particularly cared for children, but Tommy was bright and good-natured, and she’d gotten used to having him around. Sarah, too.
Sarah donned a hooded sweatshirt and stood with the others. “Are you coming?”
Karen looked over the table, at the piles of picnic plates and empty containers. The guests would walk directly back to Big Blue after the fireworks, and she didn’t want to return to clean up by herself. It was silly, she knew, in a town Port Isley’s size, but she disliked being by herself outside at night. Too many years in the city, she supposed. Besides, the way her stomach was burbling, she thought she might need to visit the bathroom soon. She’d overindulged on the brie.
“I’ll pick up here,” she said, “be along in a few minutes.”
“I can help.”
Karen glanced around. Someone had started a bonfire in the pit near the bathrooms, and another group had turned up their music, classic rock spilling through the gathering dark. There were still a few dozen people milling about; there’d be no shortage of groups to walk with in the next hour.
“No, you go ahead,” Karen said, and lowered her voice slightly. “I think they could use a guide,” she added, nodding toward her two couples, already starting for the road. The youngest of the four was in her sixties, and all of them had drunk wine. The Kasdens were from California and were celebrating their forty-fifth anniversary, and the Jacksons were summer regulars. Thurman and Maz Jackson were a sweet couple and had always been as sharp as knives, but this summer, both of them had seemed…confused, perhaps, was the best word for it. Thurman in particular. He’d taken a walk the day before and come home nearly three hours later, drawn, his hands shaking, saying only that he’d taken “a wrong turn or two.” It didn’t seem to have occurred to him that he could have asked directions, or used someone’s phone. Karen had been saddened to realize that this would perhaps be their last summer at Big Blue.
“You should be the guide,” Sarah said. “You know the way better than I do, and you’re friends with the Jacksons…”
Karen smiled. “Enjoy the show, sissy. You’re on vacation too, remember? And I need to use the restroom, anyway.”
Sarah grinned. “Too much fruit in your pie? Need to sit for a while, make some brown water?”
“Don’t be crass,” Karen said automatically. Sarah reveled in being gross around her, knew that it bothered Karen no end, although she’d been depressed and anxious for so long after she and Jack had separated that it was nice to see her regaining her sense of humor, however crude. Sarah had mentioned a number of times how strange it was that she suddenly seemed to be over Jack, but Karen wasn’t surprised. Sarah was much stronger than she gave herself credit for; she always had been.
“Oh, OK, Mom,” Sarah said. “She used to say that all the time, you know.”
“Not to me,” Karen said.
Sarah was already walking toward the guests but shot a smile back at her, her light hair tied in a loose ponytail. She looked like a teenager sometimes. Karen watched her walk for a moment, fading into the gloom—and felt her gut rumble again. She hoped it was just her and not the food, or she’d have some unhappy houseguests.
Bathroom first, she decided. She picked up her purse and headed for the squat block building at the park’s far edge. A little boy with a sparkler ran in front of her, his face lit by happiness, and somewhere in the deepening night, a mother called for him in a worried tone.
She was almost to the bathroom when someone called out.
“Hey! Hey, excuse me, can you help me?”
There was a teenager standing at the back of the building, where the trees began. Light from the bonfire cast flickering shadows over his face. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, just a few years older than Tommy.
“I dropped my mom’s cell phone back here,” he said, and smiled, a quick, embarrassed smile. “I’ve got a flashlight—” he held up a dark cylinder “—but I can’t find it. Do you have a cell? Maybe you can call her number, we can find it that way.”
Karen considered her disgruntled bowels—considered, too, that she didn’t know the boy—but another look at his anxious, youthful face and she was reaching into her bag, stepping off the worn path to the bathrooms, moving toward the trees. She pulled out her phone, smiling at the young man. It would only take a minute.
“What’s the number?” she asked, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the music, something by AC/DC—and the teenager stepped back, disappearing into the shadows behind the building, and then a hard, sweating hand grabbed her wrist, and she dropped the phone as she was jerked away from the light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
John was pleased when Bob Sayers showed up on his doorstep just after sunset on the Fourth of July. He’d made no plans for the holiday, except to relax; it had been a long, surprisingly difficult week. His workload had gone from easily manageable to barely so in a matter of days, and while he welcomed the break from his mind-movies of Annie’s murder, he felt more than a little overwhelmed by the sudden step-up in intensity of some of his clients’ issues. One of his regular clients had been arrested for beating up his ex-wife, a turn John had truly never expected. Dale had grown up in an abusive household, but had worked hard to deal with his temper; he hadn’t had a physically violent outburst in years, since a college bar fight. After his divorce, Dale had been struggling with his anger…and had been doing pretty well, John thought. Except that the ex-wife now had a broken collarbone, wrist, and two ribs, plus about eighty stitches; Dale had beat her with a belt after learning that she meant to remarry. John had visited his client in county lockup, a strained conversation in a cold, stale room. Dale had seemed honestly baffled by his own behavior, like he couldn’t understand what had happened, or how. Which made at least two of them.
John had also had to refer one of his retired files, a woman he hadn’t seen in years, to a psychiatrist he knew, to put her through a full medical workup—the pleasant, outgoing woman he remembered had begun to exhibit symptoms of an acute psychosexual disorder
. In barely a month’s time, she’d progressed from sudden, inexplicable fantasies to picking up strangers and taking them home with her. Such a sudden change without any apparent trigger suggested something physiological, an organic problem. He was worried about her; Nina McAndrews had sold John and Lauren their house and had come to see him a few years later for about six months, when she’d separated from her husband; overall, she’d struck him as fairly well-adjusted, if a little repressed. They’d never talked about her sex life—like a lot of Catholic ladies of her generation, Nina had felt uncomfortable talking about “those” things—but he’d never had any indication that she was headed toward such extreme behavior, either.
Dale and Nina were perhaps the most dramatic examples, but many of his clients were in trouble just lately, it seemed, and he’d been busy—not just seeing people, but digging through file notes and articles and the latest DSM for help; he was dealing with things he’d only read about, or seen as a resident: signs of late onset schizophrenia, borderline personality disorders, megalomania. For the first time since moving to Port Isley, he’d had to stop taking new patients. Candice was in a dither over the mountain of paperwork, insurance companies wanting estimates, forms to fax, addresses to bill…
“Think you can handle it all?” Bob asked. They sat on John’s back porch, drinks in hand, and listened to firecrackers off in the distance, only the die-hard and drunk still setting them off. It was probably after midnight. The woods of the park were cool; both men wore long sleeves.
John sipped his beer and leaned back in his sagging lawn chair. “Yeah, I can handle it. It’s my job, right?”
Bob hesitated, then said, “I mean, after what happened with Annie.”
It was the first time his friend had brought up the murders since arriving. John sighed, sinking farther into his chair. “Work is solace,” he said. “You’re a man’s man, you’re supposed to know that.”
