Violent Delights

by Helena Maeve

  “Aisle seat?”

  “Sadly, no,” I murmured. “Window. But maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll bump me up to first class…”

  “I’ll cross my fingers,” Ashley promised. We were both silent for a long moment, the static on the line creeping in as a disembodied voice on my end announced that boarding was open for passengers flying to Chicago. “That’s you.”

  “I know.” Me and the other hundred-something passengers shuffling slowly to the gate.

  “Nervous?”

  I couldn’t deny it. “I’ve never flown alone before. It’s a little daunting.” So was knowing that the end goal of this visit was seeing my father in his orange jumpsuit, a windowpane between us. I tried not to think about that too much. There was still time to change my mind.

  “You’ll be okay,” Ashley assured me. “I asked my Magic 8 Ball.”

  “Did you ask if I was going to enjoy myself?” It seemed unlikely.

  Ashley snorted. “It said, and I quote, ‘Better not tell you now.’ Sound advice. We wouldn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

  I smiled, chewing my bottom lip. “Will I see you when I get back?”

  “Of course.”

  There was nothing of course about it as far as I was concerned, but I didn’t want to contradict Ashley. We were skating on thin ice as it was.

  “I can pick you up. Just let me know which flight you’re on. And if you’re not sure about doing this—”

  “Don’t tell me I can stay home,” I begged. “Hearing it from you makes it sound tempting.” I needed to do this. I felt it in my bones, the urge to fix what my father had wrecked. We believed in reparations in my family—as well as in grudges.

  Ashley was silent for a long beat, then, so quietly I might have missed it, he added, “You know I love you, right?”

  My breath caught. I smiled, aware that he couldn’t see me. “’Course I know,” I quipped. So do I. I had just enough self-control not to let the words pass my lips. “Okay, they’re going to start calling my name soon.”

  “Right.”

  “I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “You will.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “I know,” Ashley shot back, a smile audible in his voice. “Bye, Laure.”

  He loves me. I let the sentiment carry me from the plastic seat at the gate to the plastic seat on the plane. He loves me. For values of love that were possible in a scant three weeks of arguments, misunderstandings and awkward run-ins with our respective families.

  I buckled my seat belt as we pulled away from the terminal, my heart leaping into my throat for reasons other than fear. What are three reasons you shouldn’t believe a word Ashley tells you?

  Oh, shut up, I told that niggling voice at the back of my mind and closed my eyes. The engines revved with a dull hum, the floor vibrating beneath my feet as we lurched in motion—slow, at first, rattling over bumps and divots in the runway, then faster, picking up speed. My stomach bottomed out as we left the tarmac. The sky was as dark as pitch outside my window, but soon enough I could see the glow of street lamps, then the silver ribbon of the highway to the south. Paris looked like a jewel from high altitude. Somewhere in that tangle of crooked lanes and crowded apartment buildings of every shape and size was Ashley.

  I clasped the thought of him to my chest, clinging as we soared into the cloud cover, on course for the States.

  Chapter Eight

  I woke to a loud blast of noise and jolted up in bed, my thoughts reeling. From the ceiling came another thump, then another, followed by a loud, female bellow. I fell back against the pillows. The sheets were rough against my back. I hadn’t been able to turn down the heat despite my earnest efforts and two visits by the sullen concierge. As such, I’d gone to bed in a tank top and underwear, both of which felt uncomfortably clammy now.

  Another bang echoed from right above my head. So much for sleep. I slapped a hand to the bedside table in search of my phone. My fingers encountered candy wrappers, two Coke cans and the TV remote. I’d employed every distraction I could think of to stay awake—to no avail. It was just six in the evening. I must have conked out around four, maybe a little earlier.

  The Young and the Restless was playing, muted, on my TV.

  I greeted the next ceiling-borne thud with a groan. “All right, all right, I’m up. Asshole.” I glanced around for something I could pitch or tap against the ceiling in answer. There were no brooms lying around, no casually anachronistic spears. I’d picked the hotel on budget criteria rather than aesthetics. But even if the décor was a little dated, I couldn’t claim to be disappointed. For the money I’d paid, the room was clean, the sheets crisp and overly starched. I could smell ammonia in the bathroom when I went to use the facilities and splash water on my face.

  My reflection in the mirror revealed black bags under my eyes and tufts of hair poking out comically over my ears. I didn’t look entirely sane. I must not have been, to make this trip in the first place.

  I spared a thought for Ashley, back home. Six o’clock in Kansas City was middle of the night in Paris. As much as I wanted to hear his voice, I didn’t want to wake him.

  I couldn’t call anyone. All the friends and family I had were abroad. There was no one left in Kansas who knew me.

  My stomach gave a noisy rumble. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since breakfast on the plane—a couple of finger sandwiches and a Coke. No wonder I was hungry. Yet the prospect of going to dinner by myself seemed oddly daunting. I scrolled restlessly through my phone contacts, eventually alighting on the Bs.

  B for Barnes.

  Might as well, I thought, and pressed ‘Call’.

  He picked up on the second ring. “Ms. Reynaud? Is everything okay?”

  We were supposed to meet tomorrow morning for breakfast, then drive to Leavenworth together. I guess he was counting on briefing me in the car. “Everything’s fine,” I said. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet.”

  “Now?” Barnes sounded perplexed. “Uh, sure.”

  I gave him the name of my hotel and we agreed that he’d come pick me up in twenty minutes. As I hung up, it struck me suddenly that I was really set to do this. I’d flown over the Atlantic mostly in a trance, committed to a course I had set largely on a whim. In a few minutes, I’d meet one of my father’s victims—my first since I’d left the country as a child.

  One of the living ones, anyway.

  Naturally, I overdressed for the occasion. I realized it when I was already in the lobby, anxiously tapping my Louboutins against the tile floor. Heads turned. I pretended not to notice. It might have been admiration I saw in the eyes of the staff and other hotel guests, but I still felt like a caged animal at the zoo. My camouflage made me stand out.

  I cast another glance at my watch. Twenty-five minutes had already elapsed. Had Barnes changed his mind? Maybe I’d made a mistake telling him where I was staying. Paranoia, my old friend, wrapped around me like a comforting shroud as the lobby door swung open.

  A tall, stocky figure entered. He swept his gaze over me, but there was no flash of recognition. I watched him approach the reception desk, my gut churning with more than hunger.

  And releasing, as soon as I heard his voice.

  “Hi, I’m looking for Laure Reynaud—”

  “Mr. Barnes?” I said, rising from my paisley perch on the couch. I smoothed down my Just Cavalli dress even though it was so form-fitting it hardly moved. I resisted the urge to tug at the hem. I was in no way indecent. The neckline went all the way up to my collarbones.

  Barnes blinked. “Oh, I didn’t see you there!”

  I smiled tightly.

  “Must be the print…” He cleared his throat and extended a hand. “It’s nice to meet you. At last.”

  The softly chiding note in his voice was as unwelcome as it was deserved. I took his hand, tamping down a flash of annoyance. “Thanks for making time for me tonight. I don’t really know my way around town anymore.” Not that I ever
had. “Is there somewhere private we could talk?”

  I glanced meaningfully toward the reception desk, where the clerk was doing a great job of pretending not to eavesdrop.

  Barnes caught my drift. “Sure thing. Restaurant’s just around the corner.” He led me out into the chilly evening and I cursed myself for not wearing trousers instead. I did my best not to let my teeth chatter. I’d heard so much about Americans only ever getting around in their cars that it felt like poetic justice to discover that Barnes was a big walker. His idea of just around the corner translated into two huge blocks in the frigid cold—me steadily turning blue from the chill and Barnes regaling me with tales of chili fries and onion rings.

  I could have kissed the linoleum floor when we finally arrived at the restaurant. I refrained and instead asked the waitress for a glass of wine.

  “Kind of wine, sweetheart?”

  “Whatever kind you have.” I felt cold in my bones, far past the point of what coffee could mend.

  Barnes arched an eyebrow, but said nothing. For himself, he ordered a PBR. “Want me to hang up your coat?” he offered, gentlemanly and a little awkward.

  I shook my head. “I didn’t realize the South could be so cold in February.”

  “Bite your tongue,” he snorted. “Around here, they like to think of themselves as Midwesterners. The literal heart of America…” Barnes shook his head like he disputed the soppy moniker. I wondered if, like me, he pictured hearts less like Valentine’s Day chocolates and more like thumping fists. He squirmed in his seat. “It’s worse in Missouri.”

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  Barnes nodded slowly, shifting to balance his forearms on the table. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than Ashley. I had only a vague idea that Donna had been seventeen or so when she disappeared into the ether—with my father’s help. That could put Barnes at forty- or fifty-something. It was hard to judge. His face was mostly clear of wrinkles, but he’d already started going gray at the temples. He wore a checkered shirt under a corduroy blazer, no tie. His winter jacket smelled faintly of mothballs.

  “I’m from Topeka,” I added, when he said nothing further. “But I guess you already knew that…”

  Thanks to my father’s crimes, my childhood was public knowledge. I tried to imagine what it would’ve been like if I’d stayed in the States. Adolescence was hard enough without people whispering about my family wherever I went. But was it really fair that I had the luxury of moving on while people like Barnes were forever stuck in limbo?

  I played with a sugar packet, flicking the cheap paper with a painted fingernail.

  Barnes eyed me across the table, his expression unreadable. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you finally decided to talk to your father.”

  “If I can help…” I trailed off, uncomfortable with the intensity of his focus. Mercifully, the waitress returned with our drinks before either of us could further the awkwardness.

  I ordered a burger and fries, one of my staple foods back home, while Barnes had the steak. We were promised a side dish of lettuce—management’s nod to a balanced meal, I suppose.

  Barnes quickly picked up the thread of the conversation once we were alone again. “You haven’t talked to your father since the trial, is that right?”

  The interrogation was back on. I tipped my head in acquiescence. “My grandparents thought it was for the best.” And I hadn’t pushed the envelope because I didn’t want to relive the ordeal of the trial. I’d grown up motherless and despising my father. It was easier to do that when we were thousands of miles apart.

  That didn’t explain why even now, as an adult, I still couldn’t fathom telling my grandparents where I’d gone or what I was doing here.

  “They may be right,” Barnes grunted. “I wouldn’t let my daughter talk to a man like that, either.” He sipped his beer straight from the bottle, fingertips leaving four round smears in the condensation on the glass. “My other daughter,” he added, though I hadn’t asked.

  The one your father didn’t get to.

  “Ah… What’s her name?”

  “Georgia.” He flashed me an absentminded smile. “She’s a good girl. About your age.”

  And he still talked about letting her talk to strange men? Maybe that’s what happens when you lose a child. I was no stranger to bizarre coping mechanisms.

  In the ensuing lull, I recognized The Kinks warbling about sunny afternoons through the diner’s PA.

  “Donna would’ve been thirty-nine this year,” Barnes blurted out and wiped a hand over his face.

  “Really?” I asked before I could stop myself. I had miscalculated.

  Donna had been seventeen when she was abducted, but that was twenty-odd years ago. I tried to imagine spending two decades wondering where my mother’s remains were, unable to mourn her properly. I couldn’t.

  “Does… Does Georgia have any kids?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. I couldn’t promise Barnes that I’d bring him closure and I didn’t want to apologize on my father’s behalf. His crimes weren’t mine.

  I wasn’t like him.

  “Two,” Barnes replied. “Two little boys.”

  “Bet you and Mrs. Barnes dote on them…”

  Barnes flashed me a tepid smile. “The missus and I parted ways ‘bout eighteen years ago.”

  “Oh… I’m sorry.”

  “S’all right. Ain’t like you’re to blame.” Barnes picked up his beer, then set it back down on the table, restless. “She didn’t like me writing to your dad. Said it was sick stuff. Maybe she was right…” He was silent for a moment, enough for me to wonder if I was supposed to assure him that no, he’d done the right thing. It was a short-lived reprieve. “I didn’t know what else to do, you know?” Barnes fixed me with a watery stare. “I thought if I could just find her. If I knew what happened…” He laughed, short and miserable, pointing a meaty finger at me. “Your father’s a wily bastard. No straight answers for twenty goddamn years—and now this.”

  He gestured toward me with his chin, like my presence was a cross he had to bear. It galled me. It made me want to duck under the table and hide.

  Instead, I stayed where I was, the picture of the distinguished European woman, and sipped my wine. It was vinegary-sour, but it hit the spot. “One visit from me is all he wants? He didn’t ask for anything else?”

  Since we were apparently broaching the subject now, I figured I might as well know what I was getting into.

  The waitress returned before Barnes could speak, a brief interruption to allow for two giant dinner plates topped with steak and burger and fries, and two considerably smaller salad bowls—a sad helping of green leaves with two cherry tomatoes for variety. I had no cause to quibble. My diet these days was a far cry from healthy.

  Barnes took his time unpacking fork and knife from the napkin they were wrapped in. Only when he had them completely unfurled on the Formica table did he pick up the thread of our harmless little chat. “Your father’s getting old, miss. Think he’s looking for some kind of grip on life. You’re his only child, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Guess he must look to you as the one thing he did right in this life.”

  “I doubt it,” I answered dryly. I didn’t feel like my father’s achievement by any stretch of imagination. “Does he write many of his victims or just you?”

  “Oh, he’s got fans.” Barnes chuckled. “He’s one of the more popular inmates, from what I gather. Serial murderers always draw attention, you know… Dahmer, the Zodiac killer, they’ve all got fan clubs—even among the sane. People are messed up that way, I guess.”

  “Yes. I’m aware.”

  My twelfth birthday, I’d gotten a Myspace friend request from someone purporting to have known my mother. Took me a couple of weeks of very disturbing, very invasive personal questions to realize that the ‘friend’ was actually one of my father’s followers—my grandparents had the account reported and we got in touch
with the police. As far as I knew, that was the last of it. I still received pictures and newspaper clippings in the mail sometimes, but now I mostly ignored them. Terror became tiresome after a while. People wanted me to move on, so I did. I turned the page and fed the book through a shredder.

  “He’s a very charming man,” Barnes said when I started picking at my fries. “Must be the preacher’s son in him.”

  “Preacher’s son?” I frowned. My grandparents had never told me about that.

  “You didn’t know?” Barnes cocked his head. “His daddy was a born-again Christian. Started his own ministry in the seventies. Baptist, I think. He still has kin down in Colorado or someplace… ’Course, they probably don’t want to be associated with him.”

  “I know the feeling.” Still, it rankled to think I was so ignorant of that side of my family tree. I made a mental note to find my way to a computer before I went to bed tonight. I couldn’t very well venture into battle without knowing what I was dealing with.

  My father, the killer.

  My father, the preacher’s son.

  We ate in silence for a long stretch, both of us wolfing down our meal like we hadn’t eaten in weeks. I would’ve been embarrassed if Mr. Barnes’ appetite hadn’t matched mine so thoroughly. Conversation dwindled between bites. We discussed Barnes’ hardware store for a bit—how the economy was giving him an ass-kicking, how he’d had to lay off half of his employees because most of their clients now shopped at Best Buy and Walmart. Then, when that font of trivial details dried up, I delivered meaningless details about Paris.

  I kept Ashley out of my anecdotes, but he was on my mind all the same.

  “A friend of mine said there’s a rumor going around in the media that there’s about to be a big break in your daughter’s disappearance,” I said as we were winding down. Across from me, Barnes narrowed his eyes and drew up his shoulders as though bracing for a fight. It was all the confirmation I needed.