A Dark Love (2 page)

But he didn’t believe it. She was gone. He knew it. He tightened his grip on the change purse until the metal hasp hurt his hands.

He ran back down the stairs and outside, stepping into a heat so stifling it took his breath away.

He looked toward Wisconsin Avenue, which would be filling with tourists at this hour despite the ungodly heat. Caroline avoided crowds. She had, he was pleased to note, brought her habits into alignment with Porter’s and had come to share his preference for spending time alone with him, just the two of them, without the distraction of other people.

Porter turned and walked quickly away from Wisconsin, to the Twenty-ninth Street Park at the end of the block. Heat hung like a thick layer of molasses over the row of immaculate townhouses dating to Thomas Jefferson’s presidency. Porter’s breath burned at the back of his throat.

The park was nearly deserted except for a handful of students lying in the shade. There was no sign of Caroline or her dog.

Swearing under his breath, Porter checked his watch. The air weighed in his lungs like burning ashes. He reached his front stoop and paused, one foot on the antique brass boot scraper.

Why, Caroline, why?

He squinted one last time toward Wisconsin Avenue. It was no use. She wasn’t there. He shook his head and tried to clear his mind. He needed to concentrate now.

He reached for the polished brass doorknob, hot to the touch, and stepped inside.

His next patient was seated on the deacon’s bench under the stairway. “Dr. Moross? Is everything okay?” She was the wealthy, American-born second wife of a former aide to the late Shah of Iran.

Beads of sweat rolled into Porter’s eyes. He pushed his steel-rimmed glasses aside and rubbed. “Fine,” he replied. “Go inside and get settled. I’ll join you in a moment.”

She hesitated. Her abandonment issues had no doubt flared at Porter’s unprecedented tardiness. Porter insisted on punctuality and perfect attendance. It was the most basic component of the patient-therapist relationship. He refused to treat anyone who could not abide by his rules. Nor were his sessions covered by health insurance. In spite of this, Porter Moross had a reputation for being one of the best Freudian psychoanalysts in the nation. His roster of patients read like the venerable Green Book of Washington’s social elite.

The woman on the bench tugged anxiously at the hem of her Chanel summer suit. She looked down at the blue carpet with its gold fleur-de-lis pattern. Beneath her abandonment issues was a desperate need for security. She liked being told what to do.

“I’ll be right in,” Porter said more forcefully, mopping at the beads of sweat that lined his brow.

With a meek nod, she collected her belongings and went.

Porter took the stairs two at a time up to the residence. He went directly to the desk, opened his BlackBerry, and
obtained the private cell phone number of his third and final patient of the morning.

The phone was answered on the first ring by the editor-in-chief of one of the world’s largest daily newspapers.

Porter canceled their appointment and offered to reschedule.

The editor, six years into his treatment, thanked Porter for the call.

Porter entered another name into his BlackBerry as the brief exchange took place, found the next number he wanted, and dialed. He left a message requesting a meeting at his office in one hour’s time. He knew his request would be given the highest priority. Porter Moross was a steady customer of Beltway Security Investigations.

The cab dropped Caroline in a seedy part of town, one block from the Greyhound bus station. Pippin let out a small whine of protest when she hoisted the tote onto her shoulder. Her destination was a fast-food restaurant she had visited several times in preparation for this day. The lunch crowd hadn’t arrived yet, and the staff behind the counter didn’t even glance up when Caroline entered. She made a beeline for the bathroom.

The place reeked of cigarettes and homeless people, perfect for her purposes. It was, thankfully, deserted. With her heart hammering inside her chest, she made for the roomy handicapped stall at the end. Bolting the stall door behind her, she set the tote down. Pippin stuck his nose out, sniffed, and yawned before curling into a ball and drifting back to sleep.

She pulled out the scissors and comb, looked in the mirror, took a deep breath, and began snipping. Her
thick brown hair drifted to the floor like leaves from a dying tree.

Caroline cut in a line around her neck, just above her chin. Pulling the ends straight up in sections over her head, she jabbed straight down in short strokes, the way her hairdresser did. The result was passable, she decided.

She swept the loose hair from the floor and flushed it. Tearing open the dye, she mixed it up in the sink. She knew exactly what to do. She had purchased a box several weeks ago and memorized the instructions before tossing it into a public trash can on the way home.

Porter didn’t approve of women who dyed their hair.

She lined the neck of her T-shirt with paper towels before donning the disposable gloves and applying bleach beginning at the roots, all the way through to the ends. She took care not to drip any on her shirt.

She needed to wait twenty minutes. Ammonia stung her nose and eyes. Her shoulder and back muscles ached. She had spent the night locked in the bathroom, curled on a bath towel on the cold tiled floor. Praying Porter wouldn’t try to break the door down. Too frightened to sleep. Tempted to unlatch the window and climb out, taking her chances in the narrow airshaft that separated their house from the one next door. But she was afraid the noise would attract Porter’s attention. She had made up her mind. Today would be the day. And now it was happening.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the full impact of her actions hit home. There was no going back.

He would kill her if she did.

Caroline tried to push the thought from her mind. She didn’t want to lose her nerve.

The door to the ladies’ room swung open, making her jump. She prayed it wasn’t anybody requiring use of the handicapped stall. But luck was with her. She listened to sounds from another stall as the minutes ticked by, trying not to think.

When twenty minutes had passed, she stood stiffly and rinsed in the sink, blotting her hair as best she could with paper towels. She ran the drugstore comb through her new short locks and surveyed the result.

A stranger gazed back at her. Short blond hair and a neck that was exposed, vulnerable. Her eyes were hollow, haunted. She couldn’t bear the sight of them. She donned the oversized sunglasses, blinking to get used to the dim light.

She checked her watch for the thousandth time. She was on schedule.

By now, he knew.

The thought sent a jolt of fear sizzling through her like an electric current, robbing her breath and making the stall spin dizzily. Caroline squeezed her eyes shut, reached out and grabbed the cold porcelain sink for support. She took a deep breath, licked her lips, and tried to swallow. But her throat refused to close around the ball of solid fear inside her. Because she knew as sure as she stood there that his search had begun.

She opened her eyes and reached with unsteady hands for the CVS tote bag, which now held all her earthly belongings. She took one last look in the mirror at the frightened stranger.

“Alice Stevens,” she whispered. “Good luck.”

C
aroline didn’t doze despite the rhythmic motion of the bus as it headed north and west, the engine working overtime whenever they left the Interstate and downshifted across blacktop roads that coiled through the mountains of West Virginia and then, toward evening, Ohio. The edge of the Great Plains. She was too nervous even to get carsick.

She willed the bus to roll on. Each mile should have been a victory but she couldn’t think that much about it. She was grateful just to sit in the back as the bus rumbled through a time and place that did not have Porter in it. Her world consisted of nothing more than the inside of the Greyhound bus, and she could manage that.

Passengers got on and off. A baby squalled. Children fought over an electronic toy. A heavyset woman mouthed words from a well-worn Bible. Tinny sounds of hard rock drifted from the headphones of a young man sprawled across two seats.

Dread settled over Caroline like a heavy blanket, stealing her breath, each time the bus pulled off the highway. She scanned the people waiting to board, looking for…what? Whom would he send? She didn’t know.
Relief flooded through her at the sight of mothers with children in tow, old men smoking cigarettes, a young German couple with backpacks.

They made a scheduled stop for a meal break as the sun dipped below an impossibly flat horizon. They had left the mountains behind and now they were in farm country, a landscape that could have been the background for Grant Wood’s
American Gothic.
The solid smell of earth hit her when she left her seat for the first time all day. She stepped off, legs stiff and cramped, into air that was hot and humid, buzzing with the whine of traffic on the Interstate.

“Departure in twenty-five minutes,” the driver called.

Caroline didn’t follow the others inside to a plaza where the signs promised showers, a Laundromat, and twenty-four-hour dining. She couldn’t risk being remembered for having traveled with a dog, not to mention the fact she didn’t want to be kicked off here. She hadn’t gotten far enough away.

She walked on shaky legs to the far end of the parking lot, where dusk was already settling in a grove of trees. Pippin wriggled from the tote and shook himself. He sniffed the grass and lapped at the water, gobbling the cheddar cheese snack she offered. A second pill was buried inside.

Caroline finished off the bottle of water in a single swig and forced herself to eat the remaining cheese snack. Her stomach made loud rumbling noises. She hadn’t eaten since early this morning, at the small round oak table outside the galley kitchen of the townhouse. She had prepared the brand of Irish oatmeal Porter preferred, served with unrefined brown sugar and sliced bananas the way he liked it. She had forced herself to
chew quickly as though she was hungry, although fear had robbed her mouth of saliva so the oatmeal stuck to her lips like glue.

Porter watched her over the rim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. He swallowed, his lips pursed into a thin line, and shook his head. “I don’t know how you can eat after what you did.”

Caroline nodded silently. She had apologized, and her apology had not been accepted. But she was afraid to decline breakfast. She didn’t want him to see how nervous she was.

He patted his mouth with his napkin and tossed it onto the table. He checked his watch and shook his head. “We need to talk about this,” he said wearily. “But I don’t have the time. My first patient is due any minute. We’ll talk tonight. I think you need to consider the source of your behavior. What’s driving you, Caroline? I mean, if you could just see yourself.” He slammed his fist against the side of her head so hard it banged against the wall and bounced back off. He flexed his hand a few times and shook it where it was sore. Pushing his chair back, he stood and let out a sigh. “We’ll talk later, Caroline.”

That had been thirteen hours ago. She drew in a deep breath of air that smelled of cornfields and held it in her lungs as long as she could. As though it could anchor her, steady the shaking in her limbs. It did not.

She gathered Pippin in her arms. “Sorry, pal,” she murmured, planting a quick kiss on his head before setting him back inside the bag. She went inside to the ladies’ room, where she used the toilet and splashed water on her face. The water felt good and cold on her bruised skin.

She boarded the bus and found her way back to her
seat, her cocoon. The last rays of daylight faded on the horizon as the bus picked up speed and merged back onto the Interstate.

The smell of French fries drifted from across the aisle. The woman had set her Bible down to focus on her takeout dinner. Still chewing, she offered Caroline a French fry. “Help yourself, dearie,” she said in a mountain accent.

Caroline shook her head and gave a small smile but the woman was undeterred. She leaned closer.

Pippin stirred inside the tote.

“You look like you missed a couple dinners, and some breakfasts and lunch while you were at it.” The woman grinned.

Pippin let out a small whine and the tote began to move.

Caroline placed a hand on top of the mound that was Pippin and held it, willing him to be quiet.

One of the kids with the Game Boy peeked around the edge of her seat and gave Caroline a curious look.

Not willing to risk more turned heads, Caroline accepted the limp fry and bit it in half.

The woman across the aisle smiled approvingly.

Caroline waited till the woman glanced away before slipping the remainder of the French fry inside the tote. Pippin’s mouth closed around it, licking her fingers eagerly.

The woman smiled. “That’s it. Girl, you’re too thin. Take some more.” She shook a white Styrofoam container in Caroline’s direction.

Caroline took another, forcing herself to chew and swallow. Grease coated the insides of her mouth and lips, making her stomach heave.

“Where you headed?” The woman shifted in her seat to get a better look at Caroline.

Another kid at the front of the bus poked his head around the seat and giggled. It was a game now.

Caroline searched wildly for a phrase in a language the woman wouldn’t know. She remembered only a few words from her semester abroad in St. Petersburg. She spoke them now, soft and low so the children wouldn’t hear. “Happy Easter,” she said in Russian.

The woman’s eyes widened.

“Happy Easter,” Caroline repeated in Russian. “Christ is risen.”

“I get it.” The woman across the aisle smiled and spoke slowly, louder now. “You’re on vacation. Well, you just enjoy yourself then.” She pushed the Styrofoam container once more in Caroline’s direction before returning to her meal.

The miles rolled on beneath the wheels as the coach carried them west into the night.

John Crowley turned his full attention to the tiny television that was always tuned to CNN. Lou Dobbs was interviewing a government spokesman about the latest attempt to breach security at one of the nation’s airports.

“That young man handled himself nicely,” John’s wife remarked when the piece ended.

John nodded, satisfied. He had personally signed off on the statement for the Lou Dobbs show and seen to it that the spokesman was fully briefed on the incident. John Crowley had resigned as CEO of a Texas-based airline after 9/11 to take the helm of a brand-new federal agency charged with airport security. Crowley
turned his attention back to the low-fat, low-cholesterol dinner his wife had prepared. Grilled seasoned chicken breast, fully trimmed and skin removed, with steamed vegetables, brown rice, and sesame crackers on the side. He picked one up and crunched loudly, to prove a point.

Lindsay Crowley fluttered her eyelids mildly. “Now, this isn’t so bad. We’ll get that ol’ cholesterol back down to where it should be. You’ll see.”

She meant every word. Once his wife had made up her mind about a thing, well, that thing was settled. John took a bite of chicken and smiled to show his appreciation for her efforts on behalf of his diet.

Lindsay smiled back sweetly.

The Crowleys had been married for more than thirty years and their union was, by any measure, a success.

“As I was saying, I ran into little Caroline today.”

“Mmmm, hmmmm.” John surveyed his plate. He had already devoured his six ounces of lean chicken and rice. All that remained was steamed broccoli and julienne strips of something he didn’t recognize. He pitched in his fork, resigned.

“Don’t you think?” His wife was frowning at him from across the tiny round glass-topped antique table the decorator had insisted they buy after their kids had left home. John hadn’t seen what was wrong with the old one, but Lindsay had been happy with it and that was the important thing.

“I mean, it’s not like there’s any law against shopping in the Foggy Bottom CVS,” Lindsay said. “But why go there first thing in the morning when there’s one right up the street? And in this heat?”

“It’s a mystery,” John observed mildly. He knew from
long experience to let Lindsay run her mind over something till she got it settled one way or the other.

She easily spotted the twinkle in his eye, and made a face. “It wasn’t anything you could put your finger on,” she protested. “But there’s something with that little gal and her husband.”

Their newest neighbor was an odd duck, no doubt about it. One of those skinny New York intellectual types dressed head to toe in black. Way too interested in the artwork Lindsay had chosen with the help of her gay decorator. But John Crowley was not a gossip, a fact that sometimes put him at odds with his wife, who was a social being all the way to her very innermost core. He harrumphed now, signaling he was finished with this conversation.

Lindsay, he knew, was not near half done and would have liked to discuss the odd pairing of the couple who had moved into a row house across the street. But she began clearing the plates away instead. His wife knew when to let a subject drop, a fact John appreciated more the longer he lived with her. Although she had another trait, one he had also come to respect.

Lindsay Crowley always evened the score.

She did so now, flashing a sweet smile his way before heading to the kitchen. “Get your sneakers on, my love. Time for your fitness walk.”