The Shape of Night

by Tess Gerritsen

  “This boat doesn’t look fifty years old,” I say.

  “She’s wood so she’s a lot of work to maintain, but she belonged to my dad. He’d roll over in his grave if I didn’t take good care of her.” He glances up at the mainsail and unties the jib sheet. “Okay, ready about!”

  As he turns the bow through the wind, I scurry across to the port side. The boat heels, tilting me once again over the water. “How long ago did your dad pass away?” I ask.

  “Five years. He was seventy years old and he still had a full-time medical practice. He collapsed while making rounds in the hospital. Which is not the way I want to go.”

  “How do you want to go?”

  “Certainly not while at work. I’d rather be out on the water, like today. Having a good time with someone I like.”

  His answer seems casual enough, but I hear his emphasis on that last phrase, someone I like. I turn away and gaze toward the shoreline, where the forest tumbles down to the sea. There are no beaches here, only woods and granite cliffs where seagulls circle and swoop.

  “Right around that point, there’s a nice little cove,” he says. “We can anchor there.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Not a thing, Ava. I’m used to sailing solo, so I’ve got this.”

  With a few expert tacks he steers Callista around the point and into a secluded cove. I’m only a spectator as he lowers the sails and drops anchor, and he moves around the deck so efficiently that even if I did try to help, I’d probably slow him down. So I busy myself doing what I do best: uncorking the wine bottle and laying out our picnic. By the time he’s secured the sails and coiled the lines, I’m ready to hand him a glass of wine. While Callista gently sways at anchor, we relax in the cockpit, sipping perfectly chilled rosé.

  “I think I could learn to like this,” I admit.

  He gestures toward the cloudless sky. “A summer’s day, a sturdy little boat. It doesn’t get better than this.” He looks at me. “Think I can talk you into staying beyond October?”

  “Maybe. I do like it here in Tucker Cove.”

  “You’ll have to stop being my patient.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m hoping I can call you something else.”

  We both understand where this is going. Where he wants it to go, anyway. I haven’t yet decided. The wine makes my head buzz and my face feels pleasantly flushed from the sun. And Ben Gordon has the most striking blue eyes, eyes that seem to see too much. I do not turn away as he leans toward me. As our lips meet.

  He tastes like wine and salt and sunshine. This is the man I should be attracted to, the man who is everything a woman could want. This will happen if I let it, but is it really what I want? Is he what I want? He pulls me against him, but I feel an odd sense of detachment, as if I am standing outside my own body, watching two strangers kiss. Ben may be real, but his kiss fails to ignite any flame inside me. Instead, it makes me yearn even more for the lover I miss. A lover I am not even sure is real.

  I’m almost relieved when his cellphone rings.

  He sighs and pulls away. “I’m sorry, but that’s a ringtone I need to answer.”

  “Of course.”

  He retrieves the phone from his boat bag. “This is Dr. Gordon.”

  I reach for the wine bottle and am refilling my glass when I hear the abrupt change in his voice.

  “This is the final report? He’s sure about this?”

  I turn to look at him, but he doesn’t see me watching him. His face has darkened and his lips have tightened into grim lines. He hangs up and says nothing for a moment, just stares at the phone as if it’s betrayed him.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “That was the medical examiner’s office. About the body they pulled out of the bay.”

  “Do they know who she is?”

  “They haven’t identified her yet. But they have the results of the toxicology screen, and there were no drugs or alcohol in her system.”

  “So she wasn’t drunk when she drowned.”

  “She didn’t drown.” He looks at me. “They’re calling it a homicide.”

  Seventeen

  We are quiet as we motor back to the harbor, both of us silently processing the news, which will no doubt be all over Tucker Cove by this evening. For a town that relies on tourism, in a state whose motto is The Way Life Should Be, this news will not be welcome. We tie up at the dock and when I step out of the boat, I see the village of Tucker Cove with new eyes. On the surface it is still a pretty New England town with white clapboard buildings and cobblestoned streets, but now I see shadows everywhere. And secrets. A woman has been murdered, her body tossed into the sea, yet no one knows—or wants to reveal—her name.

  At home that evening, I comfort myself the way I usually do; I cook. Tonight I roast a chicken and slice bread into cubes for croutons, a meal that’s so familiar I can put it together in my sleep. Automatically I chop parsley and garlic and toss it with olive oil and bread cubes, but my mind is still on the murdered woman. I think back to the day her body was recovered. I remember the blue tarp glistening with seawater and the look of horror on Ben’s face as he lifted that tarp and stared at what lay underneath.

  I take the chicken out of the oven and pour myself a second glass of sauvignon blanc. Good for me, it’s nine P.M. and I’m only at glass number two. After what I’ve seen today, this second glass is well deserved and I take a deep gulp. The alcohol flames its way through my blood like a kerosene fire, but even as my tension melts away, I’m still thinking about the dead woman. Was she young or old? Pretty or plain?

  Why has no one reported her missing?

  If I tumbled down the stairs and broke my neck tonight, how long would it take for anyone to miss me? Eventually Donna Branca would notice, of course, but only because she’d miss my monthly rent check. People always take notice when you don’t pay your bills, but that could take weeks. By then my body would be well on its way to decay.

  Or eaten by my cat, I think, as Hannibal hops up onto the dining table and stares at the slices of chicken on my plate.

  Third glass of wine. I’ve been trying to cut down, but tonight I don’t care whether I’ve had too much. Who’s here to see me, scold me? Only Lucy ever really cared enough to get in my face about my drinking, but she’s not here to protect me from myself, as she’s always done.

  I sit at the table and stare down at my meal, so perfectly presented: slices of chicken drizzled with gravy made from drippings and white wine. Roasted new potatoes. A salad tossed with fresh-baked croutons and Spanish olive oil.

  Lucy’s favorite dinner. The same dinner I cooked for her birthday.

  I can see them again, both smiling at me across the table. Lucy and Nick, their wineglasses raised in a toast to the chef. “If ever I have to choose a final meal, I want it to be cooked by Ava,” Lucy said. And then we went around the table, each of us talking about what we’d choose for our last meals. Lucy’s would be “Ava’s roast chicken.” Mine would be a rustic cacio e pepe with a glass of crisp, chilled Frascati. Nick’s choice was beef, of course. “A rib-eye steak, medium rare. No, make it beef Wellington! If it’s my last meal, why not get a little fancy?” he’d said, and we’d all laughed because even though Nick had never eaten beef Wellington, he thought it sounded delicious.

  If only I could go back to that birthday dinner, a night when we were all together and happy. Now I sit alone in this cavernous house. If I die here alone, I have only myself to blame.

  I leave my scarcely touched dinner on the table, pick up the bottle, and carry it upstairs with me. The wine’s no longer cold but I’m beyond caring how it tastes. I crave only the oblivion it offers. Up in my bedroom I finish off the bottle and flop onto the mattress. Dead woman in the water, drunk woman in the bedroom.

  I turn off the light and stare at
the darkness. The ocean is restless tonight and I hear waves pounding the rocks. A storm far off at sea has generated those waves, and here they come rolling in, crashing against the cliffs with wind-driven fury. The sound is so unnerving that I rise to close the window, but even then I still hear those waves. I can smell them too, a scent so powerful that I feel I’m drowning. That’s when I suddenly realize: He is here.

  I turn from the window. Jeremiah Brodie stands before me.

  “You have been with a man today,” he says.

  “How do you…”

  “You carry his scent.”

  “He’s just a friend. I went out on his sailboat.”

  He moves closer and I shiver as he lifts a strand of my hair and lets it glide through his fingers. “You were close enough to touch.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Close enough to be tempted.”

  “It was just a kiss. It meant nothing.”

  “Yet I sense your guilt.” He is so close now, I can feel the heat of his breath in my hair. “Your shame.”

  “Not about that. Not about today.”

  “You have cause to feel shame.”

  I stare into his eyes, which reflect the cold and pitiless gleam of starlight. His words have nothing to do with Ben Gordon and our innocent kiss. No, this is about what happened before I came to Maine. This is about New Year’s Eve and the sin for which I will never forgive myself. What he smells on my skin is the permanent stench of guilt.

  “You allowed him to touch you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Defile you.”

  I blink back tears. “Yes.”

  “You desired it. You desired him.”

  “I never meant it to happen. If I could go back to that night, if I could live it again—”

  “But you cannot. That is why I’m here.”

  I stare into those diamond-bright eyes. I hear righteous judgment in his voice and the promise of what will come. My heart pounds and my hands shake. For days I’ve longed for his return, hungered for his touch. Now that he stands before me, I am afraid of what awaits me.

  “To the turret,” he commands.

  My legs are unsteady as I walk out of the bedroom. Is it from drinking too much wine or is it fear that makes me stumble in the hallway? The floor feels like ice beneath my bare feet, and the damp air penetrates straight through my nightgown. I open the door to the staircase and halt, gazing up at the flickering candlelight above.

  I stand at the threshold of his world. With each step I climb, I leave my own world farther and farther behind.

  Up the stairs I go, the candlelight growing ever brighter. He is at my heels, his boot steps heavy and inexorable on the steps, preventing my retreat. There is only one direction I can go, and I ascend toward the room where I know both pleasure and punishment await.

  At the top of the stairs, I swing the door wide open and step through, into the turret. Golden candlelight washes over me and I look down to see the skirt of coppery silk swishing at my ankles. No longer do I feel the night’s chill; a fire burns in the hearth, its flames licking at birch logs. The light of a dozen candles flickers in wall sconces and in the sea windows I catch a glimpse of my own reflection. The gown molds itself to my hips and my ivory-white breasts swell above the low-cut bodice.

  I am in his world. His time.

  He crosses to the curtained alcove. Already I know what lies behind those drapes. I have lain spread-eagled on that bed, felt the pleasure of his brutal attentions. But when he slides open the curtain, this time he reveals more than a bed, and I shrink away.

  He holds out his hand. “Come, Ava.”

  “What will you do to me?”

  “What would you have me do?”

  “You’re going to hurt me.”

  “Is that not what you deserve?”

  I do not have to answer him; he already knows that I can never punish myself enough for what has happened. He knows that guilt and shame are what have led me to this house, and to him. That I deserve whatever torment he chooses to deliver.

  “I’m afraid,” I whisper.

  “But you are also tempted, are you not?” I flinch as he reaches out to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand. “Have I not taught you that pain is merely the other face of pleasure? That a cry of agony sounds no different from a cry of ecstasy? Tonight you will enjoy both, without guilt, without blame, because I am the one in command. Do you not feel yourself craving it, longing for it? Are you not already wet, your body preparing itself to accommodate what is to come?”

  Even as he speaks, I feel heat building between my legs, the ache of a hollow crying out to be filled.

  He reaches for my hand. Willingly I take it.

  We cross the room and I step into the alcove and stare at the wrist shackles dangling from the beam overhead. But those shackles are not what frighten me. No, what scares me is what I see displayed on the wall. Leather whips. A riding crop. An array of billy clubs.

  He tugs me toward the shackles and closes the manacle over my left wrist.

  There is no going back now. I am at his mercy.

  He grasps my right hand and efficiently snaps the second manacle around it. I stand with both my hands shackled over my head as he studies his prisoner, savoring my helplessness. Slowly he walks behind me and, with no warning, rips open the back of my gown, exposing my back. With the gentlest of touches, he strokes down my skin and I shudder.

  I do not see him reach for the whip.

  The first crack of leather against my back is so shocking, I jerk against the manacles. My skin throbs from the sting of the leather.

  “Is this not what you deserve?”

  “Stop. Please—”

  “Tell the truth. Confess your shame.” Again the whip cracks. Again I scream and writhe from its bite.

  “Confess.”

  The third lash of the whip makes me sob. “I confess,” I cry out. “I am guilty, but I never meant for it to happen. I never wanted—”

  The next lash makes my knees buckle. I sag, my body suspended by those merciless manacles.

  He leans in close and whispers into my ear, “But you did want it, Ava. Didn’t you?”

  I look up at him and his smile chills me. Slowly he strides a circle around me, comes to a stop at my back. I do not know what he will do next. I don’t know if even now he’s again raised his whip, and I brace for the next sting of his lash. Instead he unlatches both shackles. My legs give way and I kneel, quivering, waiting for whatever torment comes next.

  I do not see what he reaches for, but I hear him slap it against his hand. I look up and see he is holding a billy club, its wood polished and gleaming. He sees my look of alarm. “No, I will not beat you. Never do I leave scars. This instrument is for a different purpose entirely.” He strokes it against his palm, admiring its polish in the candlelight. “This one is meant only as an introduction. A training device, small enough for the tightest virgin.” He looks at me. “But you are not a virgin.”

  “No,” I murmur.

  He turns to the wall and reaches for a different billy club. He holds it before me and I cannot look away, cannot stare at anything but the monstrous object looming before me.

  “This one is meant for a harlot who’s been well-ridden. One seasoned enough to accommodate any manner of man.”

  I swallow. “That’s impossible.”

  “Is it?”

  “No woman can take that…thing.”

  He slides the club across my cheek and the wood is smooth and terrifying. “Unless she is properly initiated. It’s what whores do, Ava. You learn to please. Because you never know who will walk in the door and what he will demand. Some men just want to ride you. Others prefer to watch. And then there are those who want to see how much you can endure.”

  “This isn’t what I want!
”

  “I am but a reflection of your own shame. I give you exactly what you desire. What you expect. Even if you do not know it.” He tosses aside that monstrosity of a club and I flinch as it thuds to the floor. “You are your own cruelest judge, Ava, and you yourself hand down your punishment. I merely wield the instrument. I bend to your will, just as you bend to mine. Tonight, this is what you want. So this is what I deliver.” He wrenches apart what remains of my dress. I do not resist as he grasps my hips and uses me like the whore I am. The whore I’ve proven myself to be. I am nothing but flesh, bought and paid for.

  I give a scream of release and together we fall forward as he collapses on top of me.

  For a long time we do not move. His arms curl around me and I feel the beating of his heart against my bare back. How can a dead man seem so alive? His skin is as warm as mine, his arms solid with muscle as they encircle me. No real man can match him.

  No real man could understand my desires so completely.

  He rolls off me. As we lie side by side on the floor, he gently traces a circle on my bare flank. “Did I frighten you?” he asks.

  “Yes. You did.”

  “You need never be afraid.”

  “But fear is part of your game, isn’t it?” I look at him. “The fear that you might hurt me. That you might actually use that thing on me.” I glance at the billy club, lying a few feet away, and I shudder.

  “Did it not excite you, just a little?” He smiles and I see the gleam of cruelty beneath the surface of those dark eyes.

  “You wouldn’t really use it on me, would you?”

  “That is the mystery, is it not? How far will I go? Will I use the whip too savagely and tear your beautiful back? You do not know. You cannot predict what I will do next.” He slides his fingers down my cheek. “Danger is intoxicating, Ava. So is pain. I give you only as much as you want. As much as you can bear.”