Slowly he ran his fingertips through her hair, mesmerized by its weight and texture; he felt it play on his face and neck. Her hair was a lovely, dark brunette, long and straight. “Your hair is so nice,” he whispered as he stroked it.
She pulled back a bit and looked up at him. He gently pushed her hair out of the way and studied her face in the moonlight. She had told him she was a blend of Native American—Cherokee, he thought—and English. She had a hint of the high Cherokee cheekbones mellowed by the complexion of a fresh-faced English milkmaid. He traced her finely cut nose, lips, and chin with his finger. His gaze came to rest on her full mouth. Her lips glistened with a light sheen of lip gloss. Leaning in close, he very gently touched his lips to hers. He kissed her delicate upper lip first, brushing up against it, then backing off. Then he turned his attention to the lower, fuller, more sensuous one. She murmured and cooed as he did this.
Rob cradled her head and neck in one hand, caressing her silken hair. His other hand settled on the small of her back and drew her to him. He kissed her deeply now, pressing, sliding, all the while amazed by the heavenly smoothness of her lips. She ran her hands through his hair and pulled him in tight.
After an unknowable amount of time, Gwen pulled back and shifted her position on the concrete block so she could face him better. She smiled up at him, looking a little sheepish. She had a dreamy look in her eyes. “That was so nice.”
He nodded and smiled. “I wanted to do that for a while.”
“Me too,” she said. “You do that well—kissing, I mean.”
“Thanks. So do you. I wasn’t sure I remembered how.”
She laughed heartily. “You’re a natural,” she said and pulled him in for more.
The tender kissing soon gave way to a more heated, passionate exchange. She moaned softly and her body shuddered with pleasure as they smothered each other with kisses. He gripped her all the more tightly, letting her feel the hardness of his body. His tongue explored her mouth and he became familiar with her taste; it was pleasant and unique and became indelibly imprinted on his brain.
After what may have been thirty minutes or an hour, they took a break, each pausing to catch their breath. “Did I mention you were trouble for me?” he asked, his voice sounding huskier than he would’ve thought possible.
“Yes, you did,” she said, another smile surfacing, this one a little naughty, but adorable nonetheless. “Likewise, to be sure.”
In that moment, Rob felt bonded to her forever, and the point of his existence had remarkably simplified. Time stood still. As he leaned in to kiss her again, his cell phone vibrated on his hip, but he ignored it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 10:00 P.M.
Luke went to bed around ten o’clock, a little earlier than usual. He was exhausted, but his mind was still strangely alert and he didn’t feel all that sleepy. It had definitely been good to talk to Kim about his case today. She had worked her usual magic and put his mind at ease about it. She was such a special person, and he knew he was lucky to have her as his wife.
She was still up reading—in the living room, so she wouldn’t disturb him. Yes, it was also nice to be at home in his own bed; he hated the nights he spent at the hospital, away from Kim, in the lonely call room. And the delicious chicken dinner, complete with real mashed potatoes and gravy, was comfort food at its best. But, despite all the cozy warm-fuzzies, he was still too keyed up to sleep.
Too many things were spinning about in his mind. What was the point of Katz bringing up his probation period? Was that a serious threat about his job? Just what he needed to go along with the pressure of fatherhood. He hadn’t mentioned this little part of the dialogue with the chief to Kim. No need to worry her about anything, with the baby coming. He knew she would be understanding, but it was time for him to pull his weight around here for a change. She had basically supported them through the four years of his residency.
Luke rolled over in bed and stuffed the pillow further under his head, trying to get comfortable. He also kept seeing that old bus he would pass on his bike route. It was parked on display on the front lawn of the American Antique Automobile Museum on Route 39. He could see it clearly in his mind; Ride the Red and Tan Line was painted on its side and a placard reading World’s Fair was placed in the front marquee. What was so special about the bus? He didn’t have a clue. Luke had never been to a world’s fair so he couldn’t fathom the connection. He pondered this for a long time until he finally drifted off to sleep.
The next thing Luke knew, he was sitting on his mother’s lap, cuddled up close to her. He could smell her warm mother’s smell and he felt more peaceful and relaxed than he had been in a long time. She was speaking, but he couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. Her voice was soothing, as always.
She was reading him a bedtime story. He looked at the open pages of the book and saw an illustration of lots of old–fashioned cars driving on a busy city street. He looked closer—there at the old-fashioned traffic light was the Red and Tan Line bus. It was leaning forward slightly, and its headlights had been drawn as eyes, the front grille curved up as if smiling. He snuggled closer to his mother, sensing the softness of her body through her warm flannel bedclothes. He felt completely safe, here in her lap.
Soon, however, the cuddly scene dissolved, and he was in the family room watching TV with his dad. They appeared to be watching the History Channel, a program about the Blitzkrieg and the bombing of Poland in 1939. His father asked him a question. Luke couldn’t quite hear him; it was as if the sound in the room wasn’t working properly. Luke asked him to repeat it, but his father didn’t seem to notice. Instead he looked disappointed, then asked another question. Luke leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear this one. All he got was something about Churchill and the Battle of Britain, maybe. He tried to ask him to repeat it again, but nothing audible came out of his mouth. His dad looked even more disappointed and a bit peeved now.
Suddenly his dad was out of his chair, stomping and huffing about the room. He began to take on a bull-like appearance and the brown rug turned to green grass, long and thick, threatening to trip him. He looked quite distraught, and even had a hint of fear on his face, which became bright red; his breathing sounded like a freight train. Smoke trailed out of his ears. Were those horns coming out of his head? Luke was scared. He tried to look away but his head wouldn’t move—in fact, his whole body seemed incapable of movement.
His dad approached him and Luke thought he was going to hit him—or worse, gore him with the horns. There was something in his hand/hoof; Luke couldn’t quite make it out. There, closer now. He could almost see it. His father’s face was no longer red, but was turning deepening shades of gray. Luke’s fear was also swelling into panic—if he could’ve gotten out of his chair and run, he would have, but he remained paralyzed.
His dad was very close to him now. Steam jetted out of his flared nostrils. Luke felt sure his dad would strike him any second now with the object in his hand. His bluish fingers—they were human fingers now—were wrapped tightly around the thing and he was waving it around. If he would just hold still for a second, Luke could make out what it was. Finally his dad’s arm came to an abrupt stop; he appeared to be pointing the thing accusingly at Luke. It was a TV remote control. Luke screamed as loud as he could.
Luke awoke drenched with sweat and shivering. Another dream about his father. Except now, he had to admit, the dreams were becoming more vivid, and scarier. Ghoulish, even. What the hell was going on? His dad had been dead for over twelve years.
CHAPTER NINE
TWO MONTHS LATER
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, 4:00 P.M.
Bart Hinkle pulled out of the law office parking lot, his car fish-tailing slightly on the wet leaves as he made a left onto Front Street. He jammed his Bluetooth headset into his ear and dialed as he wove his Mercedes E-class between cars in the rush-hour traffic.
“Law offices of Schmidt, Evans and Knobe.”
The minivan slowed further.
“Fucker!” Bart whipped his car into the right lane, ignoring the horn from the guy he’d cut in front of, and floored the accelerator. As he raced by the minivan, he shot the driver, a middle-aged woman, a nasty look and gave her the finger.
He drove along several side streets, finally turning into the parking lot of his townhouse. His windshield wipers started to squeak as the rain slowed to a drizzle. He punched the remote garage door opener and pulled in, almost scraping Mimi’s Cadillac. The Caddie, he noted with displeasure, was parked crooked, making the tight two-car garage almost unmanageable.
He found Mimi in the family room, sacked out on the leather sofa. The TV was blaring; Oprah was chatting it up with Dr. Oz.
Mimi startled as he walked in; her eyes flew open and she struggled to focus on him. “You’re home early.”
“My last appointment canceled.” Bart reached for the remote control and turned down the volume. “My head’s killing me. Where’s the Motrin?”
“In the kitchen—corner cabinet.” Mimi rubbed her eyes.
Bart retrieved the Motrin and dry-swallowed some. “Any plans for dinner?” he called out from the kitchen.
“I didn’t make anything yet. I didn’t expect you home for another couple of hours.”
Bart walked over to the granite countertop and leafed through a pile of mail. “Right,” he said, not bothering to look up.
“I thought maybe we could go out,” she said.
“Did you deposit those checks I put out this morning?”
“Oh—”
“I put them right here.”
“I had a hectic day.”
“What? You forgot?” Bart ran his fingers through his thinning hair. “Jesus, Mimi. I ask you to do one thing all day—”
“I was busy.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Don’t start with me, Bart.”
“Driving to the liquor store? Buying cigarettes?”
“And don’t use that tone of voice with me.” She glared at him.
He threw the mail down on the countertop. “You mean this fucking tone.”
“Watch your language. Joey might be upstairs.”
“Might be?” Bart could hardly believe his ears. “Christ, you don’t even know where he is, do you?”
Mimi looked down and fidgeted with her hair.
Bart rubbed his right temple vigorously; it was sore to the touch. “Don’t worry. I’m sure Joey’s at the football game. His car’s not outside.” He looked at her closely for the first time. “You’ve been drinking again, haven’t you?”
“No.”
He walked over and grabbed the empty crystal tumbler from the end table and held it up accusingly. Several ice cubes clinked before one flew out onto the carpet as he waved the glass at her. “And I suppose this is Diet Coke?” He sniffed the glass. “Jesus, Mimi! It’s not even four o’clock.”
He spun around and paced toward the large expanse of glass that made up the back of the house. Even on such a gloomy afternoon, the view of the city was spectacular from their perch high above the western bank of the Susquehanna. He took several deep breaths and tried to collect himself.
“It’s none of your damn business,” she said.
He turned to face her. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He could feel his heart pounding and the throbbing intensified in his head. “It is my damn fucking business.”
Mimi labored to get off the sofa. “I don’t have to take this,” she said, breathing hard. She headed for the staircase.
“In case you forgot, dearie, we have a seventeen-year-old son living here. What kind of example do you think you’re setting for him, being hammered all the time?”
She whirled to face him, a little unsteady on her feet. “Now look who’s calling the kettle black. I suppose you think he doesn’t know about your trips to the strip joints and massage parlors on Route 22? Mister fucking good example!”
Bart felt the blood run to his face and his heart pounded even harder. Mimi turned again and stomped up the stairs. Bart went out the garage door and slammed it behind him. Standing next to his Mercedes, he quickly pulled his wallet out, ignoring his car keys as they slipped from his fingers. With hands that were still shaking, he clumsily fished around in the wallet for a business card.
Ten minutes later, Bart was standing at a pay phone on Second Street in downtown Harrisburg, close to the Hilton. He dialed and waited.
“Hello,” a man’s voice answered.
“Hi,” Bart said, “Who is this?” He jammed the receiver up to his ear, straining to hear above the rush-hour street noise.
“Where did you get this number?” The voice sounded brusque.
“I have a business card with a number on it.” Bart waved the card in his hand. “A friend gave—” A Capitol Area Transit bus whooshed by, not three feet away from him, loudly hissing exhaust. “I said, a friend gave it to me,” Bart practically shouted.
“Who might this friend be?”
“Look, I have a problem.” Bart was never a fan of the twenty-questions routine. “Can you help me or not?” His headache was intensifying and his right eye was twitching to beat the band.
“Goodbye—”
“Wait, don’t hang up! His name is Kyle Schmidt—the Kyle Schmidt of Schmidt, Evans and Knobe.” There, that should impress this guy. “And I’m his partner, Bart Hinkle.” He paused to catch his breath. “Now, who am I speaking to?”
“Counselor, you really are naive. No names here. Phones are not always safe. The less you know, the better. Now what is it that you want?”
“It’s my wife,” Bart stammered. A police cruiser rolled slowly by and Bart could’ve sworn the cop was looking right at him. He waited until the cruiser was gone, then shot a glance over his shoulder. “I have a problem with my wife.” This was tougher than he had thought.
“You sound a bit desperate.”
“I am.”
“Good. To demonstrate your interest, you must electronically transfer ten thousand dollars into the account number I’m about to give you. When the money arrives, we’ll contact you about further steps.”
“You must be kidding. Fork over ten grand to someone I don’t even know? That’s fucking ridiculous!”
Click.
Bart slammed down the phone. Un-fucking-believable! But as he stood there by the phone and simmered down a bit, a smile slowly spread across his face. He was in. This guy sounded very professional. He knew he’d risk the ten thousand—the money was never an issue. Fuckin’ Kyle Schmidt—Bart had always known better than to underestimate him, but this connection was the real deal.
A Lincoln Town car pulled up to the Hilton entrance. A beautiful blond babe wearing an ultra-short dress got out and sashayed into the hotel. Probably meeting some lucky guy. Soon he’d be free of that drunken bitch and it’d be open season. Bart would rejoin the hunt. His smile broadened as he redialed the number.
CHAPTER TEN
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29, MIDNIGHT
Careful to tread lightly on the carpeted floor, Rob Gentry walked down the second-floor hallway toward the master bedroom. He certainly didn’t feel like explaining his whereabouts tonight. He sniffed his shirt again, searching for any telltale signs of Gwen’s perfume. The door to the guest room was closed and he figured that Cindy was already asleep there—this was nothing new; she spent many nights there. Steven’s room was next. The door was half open and his sixteen-year-old was sprawled on the bed, softly sawing wood. Jessica’s room was across the hall from Steven’s, altho
ugh thankfully her door was closed. Rob was struck with a renewed sense of guilt as he remembered that he had missed Jessica’s play tonight. He shook his head and felt oddly like a stranger in his own home.
Rob entered the master bedroom and noticed the light to the bathroom was on. He paused for a moment to listen. Satisfied he didn’t hear any sign of life, he studied his face in the mirror over the dresser, searching for any stray lipstick smudges or marks that might betray the fact that he had spent the last several hours parked along a deserted road with Gwen. Everything appeared normal.
It had been a very pleasant night, he had to admit. He smiled foolishly at his own reflection. Kissing Gwen was one of the most enjoyable things he had ever experienced in his life. He knew that sounded ridiculous, but it was true. He doubted many people would understand. In fact, he knew if anyone had asked him a year ago, he might’ve politely agreed, but inwardly would’ve dismissed the notion as romance novel gibberish.
He paused for a moment, lost in the memory. It all started with her smile. Again, he realized this teetered on the edge of Hollywood hype, but after all, he had been to the mountain, had seen the other side. When she met him and flashed him that smile—that hungry, come-hither smile—he’d been thrilled to the core and already imagined he was kissing her. Her gorgeous eyes would always twinkle just so and he often felt he could read her thoughts—and one of the thoughts she radiated was an unmistakable desire for him. This was what really pushed him over the edge.
“I thought I heard you,” Cindy said, coming out of the bathroom. She was wearing her pink bathrobe and slippers.
Rob’s heart pounded in his chest. He quickly took a step back from the mirror. “I didn’t expect to find you still awake. What are you doing up so late?”
“I’m working on a dumb newsletter—you don’t want to know.” She paused to look at him. “You look beat. Rough night?”
“Yeah.” Rob swallowed hard and looked away. “Tough ectopic pregnancy. Big-time blood loss.”
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