by Lane Diamond
The short drive home usually took about four minutes. I arrived in two.
Parked in the driveway was Frank's car, in front of the open garage that contained Dad's car, to the right of.... Oh shit! A police cruiser.
God, this can't be good.
It had to be Alex. He was probably hurt—something minor—or in some kind of trouble. But something that required the police? What could that be?
I parked in the grass alongside the garage, bolted from the car almost before cutting the engine, and ran into the house.
It wasn't as bad as I thought, or it was worse. Alex was missing. His baseball cards were sprawled haphazardly over his bedroom floor, an ominous sign for those of us who knew the Hoopster. Nobody we knew had heard from him. His bicycle, his only mode of transportation besides walking, remained in the garage.
Dad provided Officer Sam Weaver with a recent picture of Alex, to go along with my description of what he wore when I last saw him. I explained to Weaver the earlier events and exactly why Alex had been home alone. It had seemed so reasonable at the time, so innocent. Yet at that moment, guilt and anger beat me like the proverbial redheaded stepchild. If the look on his face was any indication, Dad felt essentially the same about himself.
Sleepy little Algonquin had been enjoying one of its usual slow nights, and the police immediately began their search. Weaver took it seriously enough and assured us that they'd look throughout the night. They would also notify the county sheriff and the police departments of the small neighboring towns. He offered lighthearted encouragement, however, confident that we'd hear from Alex or one of his friend's parents any minute.
I had my doubts.
That terrible premonition clawed at me again. A shadow was building in my mind, and it would become a raging storm if I let it. I walked outside and sat in a lawn chair to escape the madness inside the house.
Nobody thought anything terrible could happen in Algonquin, but I knew Alex, Mr. Ten-going-on-Eighteen. He'd never leave the house with the TV on, the doors wide open and pizza on the way, let alone with his precious baseball cards in a mess. Not without leaving a note or making a point to call.
Emptiness and loss assaulted me. I'd known that feeling once before: I'd been thirteen and Mom's blood had dripped from my hands.
I was desperate to chase away the feeling, but it nagged me like the bugs I swatted absent-mindedly on the humid night. I rested my chin on my chest and stared unseeing at the ground. I had let Alex down. I should have protected him. I should have been out searching for him, but where should I look? What could I do?
After two hours of futile attempts, Diana got through on our phone. I cut her off in mid-yell and explained the events of the evening, the reason she got all those busy signals, the reason I forgot about her. She caught her breath, apologized and offered to help. What could she do?
Exactly what I did: nothing. I said I'd call her the next day.
Yes, that next day.
***
Return to June 7, 1995
Last night's dreams, the memories of seventeen years ago, are too persistent.
Earlier in the evening, I said goodbye to Linda at the bar, but first I agreed to meet her for breakfast today. She didn't invite me to her hotel room, nor did she ask to accompany me home, nor did I breach the subject in any way. There was an underlying tension, a thought that we might rekindle the flame from three years ago. I sure felt it, and I believe she did too, but in the end, we said goodnight and went our separate ways.
Until now.
I've anticipated this meeting from the instant she offered to buy me breakfast, yet as I drive to her hotel, the lingering effects of last night's dreams distract me. I attempt to drown them out in a blast of music from a cassette, an upbeat, kick-ass mixed tape designed to improve my mood and get me going on days like this.
Robin Zander of Cheap Trick screams that he's All Wound Up. I could use a little of that myself.
Linda said last night that she wanted to talk about Mitchell Norton.
What's to talk about? I want to return to the job I started seventeen years ago and failed to finish.
I want to slit his goddamned throat.
Chapter 16 – June 7, 1995: Tony Hooper
"I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act, but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act." – G.K. Chesterton
~~~~~
The eggs are so runny on the plate that I consider using a spoon to scoop them up, but the bacon is properly crisp and the pancakes perfect. Linda has no objections about her breakfast. Then again, how does one make a mess of half a grapefruit and one slice of dry wheat toast? You call that breakfast? She's probably trying to watch her figure.
I'm doing plenty of that myself—watching her figure. She's dressed casually in jeans and an orange blouse that hangs loose at her waist, and her hair is down and flows freely every time she moves her head, which she does often.
Is she doing that on purpose, to make her hair bounce so enticingly? Speaking of bounce, is she...? Whoa, she's not wearing a bra. I gulp down my unwelcome anticipation. Good heavens, she looks positively yummy.
The conversation remains relatively one-sided as she tells me about her job. She mentions a problem with a member of her team, the office politics she hates, recent cases—anything but the one subject that dominates both our minds: Mitchell Norton, the devil.
I've dreaded this conversation. What can I say that will satisfy her? I could lie to her, but she'd see through that in a second. She doesn't know me that well, when you get right down to it, but she caught a glimpse of me at the most critical time, shared with me the most relevant experience—in California, the death of Ronald Allen Stegman.
Now she's here right on the heels of Norton's release.
Her gaze shifts between her coffee cup and me as the conversation reaches an impasse, and I signal the waitress for more coffee. Linda may have given up on the small talk, or perhaps she's thinking it through, determining how best to approach the real reason she came to Algonquin. Her look strikes me as designed to prod the conversation. I maintain eye contact and a pleasant smile, but I don't take the bait.
I occasionally drop my eyes lower and linger for a few seconds. I know I shouldn't stare but....
Why isn't she wearing a bra, damn it? Look at— Uh-oh!
She catches me staring. I have no idea the proper reaction here, but I'm sure my rooster-in-the-henhouse grin is not it. She doesn't appear upset, at any rate. In fact, I'd swear she's rather pleased, if not at my staring, then at least at the "gotcha" moment, which she has the good graces not to mention.
Her smile fades and she glances around the dining room at nothing.
Keep your eyes up, Tony. Eyes up!
She takes a deep breath and exhales a heavy sigh, and returns her gaze to me. "It would be an awful shame if I had to put you in custody, if I had to be part of an investigation that lands you in jail."
I've been preparing for this. "The real shame will be when you have to notify the next of kin that Mitchell Norton has killed again."
She comes up short, and pauses to sip her coffee while she considers a response. I have difficulty reading her expression—sad resignation, perhaps.
She strains through a low voice, "It's not that simple."
"No?"
"No. There are times when I wish it were, believe me, but the laws serve many purposes, and we mustn't condone or encourage vigilantes."
"Vigilantes?"
She rolls her eyes and looks at me as though.... Yeah, she knows.
Well shit, Tony, you already knew that, didn't you? I snap at her. "I suppose you learned that in one of your seminars."
"You're damned right I did! I've also learned it repeatedly during almost twenty years on the job. They say there is no black and white, that there are only shades of gray, but in my world, the gray can lay upon you until you suffocate. It must be black and white! In my world, the alternative is unthinkable."<
br />
"I understand that but, and I say this with the utmost of respect and in all seriousness, you and I live in different worlds."
"I'm sorry. I forgot that you're above the law. You don't make mistakes. Therefore, you may do what you please. You're so God-like."
The sarcasm is so thick I could pour it over my pancakes. Once more, I must wonder why she's here. Perhaps she thinks she owes me.
"You forget that my ways are the only reason you're still alive." I said it too brusquely, and the cheap shot knocks her back a notch. "I'm sorry. I had no right bringing that up."
I tap my fingers on the table and squirm under her steadfast gaze and persistent silence. Shit! This would be an excellent time to change the subject.
"By the way, did I mention how fantastic you look?"
She slaps her hands on the table and rolls her eyes again—she's good at it, and getting lots of practice today.
What the hell, it was worth a try.
My smile is barely repressed laughter. I can't help myself. I laugh through what I'm sure must be one giant, shit-eating grin.
"Not buying it, huh?" Come on, Linda. Please lighten up.
She sighs and shakes her head and, in spite of herself, a slow smile sneaks to the corners of her mouth.
"You should buy it," I say. "I mean it. You look...."
She wants to hang onto her anger, I think, but she can't quite muster it. Her eyes grow wide as she waits for me to finish the sentence, but I don't.
"I look what?"
My eyes wander freely this time—no coy glances, no shame, a thorough examination. The blush that resides forever on her cheeks deepens.
I keep my voice low, private. "Yummy."
Her face remains rosy but her expression softens. Her eyes soften. Her breathing softens.
Man, she sure looks soft. I want to reach out and—
"Thank you," she says, "but you're just being nice after taking that shot at me. I'm not even wearing make-up."
"You should try that more often—not wearing make-up, I mean. That may be a problem for some women, but it sure works for you."
Now I can't take my eyes off hers—emerald wells that hold me in a trance. I wish I could tell what she's thinking, but all emotion has retreated from her face. I know what I'm thinking. I have this overwhelming urge to kiss her, but she's on the other side of the table. Perhaps I should reach for her hand.
"That's a nice compliment," she says. "Thank you."
Her smile is more evident now but I return to her eyes, which hint at something I can't quite figure—perhaps desire or expectation, perhaps sadness or regret, perhaps last night's Red Sox game. Hell, I don't know.
The waitress breaks the uneasy silence to offer us more coffee. I ask for the check.
Linda huffs. "Hey, this was my invitation, remember?"
"What can I say? I'm an old-fashioned guy."
"Sure, there's a shocker."
Is it more sarcasm? Is it a compliment? Does she think I'm a gentleman? Or an ape? Her face changes again and she looks at me. More like reels me in.
Her voice is the perfect extension of that look. "So, what's there to do in the greater metropolitan area of Algonquin for a girl on vacation?"
Damn, what is that she's doing with her eyes? What kind of look is that? "Uh, figuring out a better place to vacation would be high on the list."
She laughs, a sound that conjures from my memory our night three years ago. She exudes such light and warmth. I must remind myself that she's unmarried and uninvolved. How is that possible? It's a crime against humanity—against men, at any rate. And manly women.
She wants to stop at her room before we head to a bookstore. I told her I'd be right behind her—an excellent idea. She has nice jeans, and the sort of hips one might expect to see on a forty-five-year-old woman who works hard to stay in shape. Her feminine curves work magic.
I wonder if she knows I'm staring. What am I saying? Women always know, as if they have eyes in the backs of their heads or something.
Does she always shake her ass that much when she walks?
A woman will often complain if we stare at her ass or at her breasts. Then again, she'll also complain if we don't notice. It's hard to win sometimes.
Her room is no wellspring of luxury but it looks comfortable enough. She grabs a sweater from a drawer and sets it next to her purse on a chair. A sweater? It's supposed to reach the upper-eighties today.
She stands at the vanity for several seconds and stares at herself in the mirror. "Damn, it's your fault, you know?"
My jaw drops and I spread my hands out, palms up. Geez, what did I do now?
"I planned to put on a little make-up before going out, but...."
I step up close behind her and my nose goes reflexively to her soft, coconut-scented hair. She watches me in the mirror, and I see the desire. It's unmistakable.
I whisper through her hair, "You don't need any make-up."
I reach over her left shoulder and under her chin with my left hand, and touch her right cheek to turn her face toward me. Her blazing green eyes are pools of expectancy. Her perfume fills my senses. My left hand remains on her face as she leans into it ever so slightly, and she closes her eyes for a few seconds.
She opens them again, and pleads, and I know that she feels what I feel. We've known this desperate need before; it was but a single night three years ago. No matter. We know it again.
I caress her left hip as I lean into her face, and our lips almost touch—almost. My heart beats faster. My breath quickens. My nerves buzz. I want to enjoy the experience for a minute, and I think she feels the same, but she waits for me.
Our lips touch, and I forget where I am for a second; it could be somewhere in the Horse Head Nebula. She moans and I rush back to the moment, and she throws her arms around me and pulls me toward her. If I were any closer, I'd be inside her.
Our bodies touch from ankle to mouth, and I think she might swallow me whole. My body reacts instantly and, the way she grinds against me, there's no way I can hide it. She again moans in response, and I again swoon in space. She leans into me and pushes me backwards.
The backs of my legs hit the bed and we fall onto the mattress. I hold her to my chest as our continuing kiss sets me ablaze. She sits up and unbuttons my shirt. I do the same for her, and both shirts soon fly across the room. She grabs my wrists and guides my hands up to where they do each of us more good.
This I can handle.
I sit up and ease her farther up the bed, and I unbutton her jeans and unzip them. She arches her back to accommodate me as I pull them off, and again when I remove her panties. I stand and look at her for a few seconds before removing the rest of my clothing.
She looks yummier than ever.
I settle back over her and we kiss again, and I take my time as I trace my way down her body. I want to explore her. I want to get lost in her. She places her hand on my head and occasionally strokes my hair, and then applies slight pressure as she gently guides me. She knows what she wants, and she's not particularly shy about it.
I'm happy to oblige.
Some unknown minutes later, she sits up, pulls my head up urgently, and guides me onto my back.
Every sensation is a cannon burst up my spine. She lets escape a series of erotic sounds that excite me as much as anything we do. There's no mistaking the magic, the fire, as she places her hands on my chest and rocks rhythmically above me. My hands roam everywhere in wonder and gratitude as her burning, velvety skin transports my fingers back to that other galaxy. I can only hope she shares my extreme pleasure.
We collide in a deep, delirious destination—a place where I could remain for a long, long, long time. I might as well be swimming in lava or flying into the sun. She remains above me as she nibbles on my ear and on my neck, and we kiss again.
God, it's been so, so long.
I feel close to her, comfortable, as though we know each other much better than we do. She slides off next to me and w
e embrace in a silent shroud of warm, damp skin. I brush her hair with my fingers and look at her face.
Wow, look at those eyes! "This sure beats the hell out of any bookstore that I'm aware of."
She lays her head on my chest and laughs. "You'll get no argument from me."
We enjoy another minute of silence before she says, "There's one more thing I want you to do for me."
"Good heavens! Already? Don't I get a few minutes to recover?"
She laughs and slaps my chest. "Not that! I think a nice bubble bath is in order. I've got a big spa tub with lots of room." She drills me again with her eyes. "We can talk about your recovery in there. Care to join me?"
***
The bath, and our further explorations following my record recovery, lasts almost an hour. We then dress and agree to take that trip to the bookstore.
"I have so little opportunity," she says, "to read for pleasure, given the demands of my job. I'm determined to do so while on vacation."
I still don't believe that's why she's here, but I let it go. At the bookstore, she picks up two romance novels—not exactly my style. I take advantage of the opportunity to pick up Mark Helprin's latest, Memoir from Antproof Case.
We leave the store and stand for a moment in the warm sunshine, as though neither of us is sure what we should do next. Now fully recovered—again—I have a definite idea about that, but she has something else on her mind.
"I'm starving," she says. "Let's get some lunch, and this time I'm paying."
"In that case, I know where they serve an excellent steak and lobster, along with a fine, exclusive bottle of wine, of course."
Perhaps a little humor will enhance the moment.
"That sounds nice," she says.
I need to work on my timing. Some funny material would help.
At the Barn of Barrington, an upscale restaurant in an upscale town, we enjoy a spectacular late lunch that will undoubtedly double as dinner. We huddle at a nice out-of-the-way table, side-by-side instead of across from one another—she insisted on being close. Perfect. We make small talk again, and tell jokes and laugh.
