Absence of Faith (26 page)

Linda walked down the straight,
creaking flight of stairs to the living room and picked up the
channel guide. She thumbed through a few pages, checked the
listings, and turned on the TV. She flipped through a few channels
as she had flipped through the pages of the guide. She wasn't
particularly interested in watching TV. She picked up the book she
had started the other night. It was
No Greater Love
by
Danielle Steel, her favorite author. She read romance novels like a
chain smoker - one right after another. She had hoped to write her
own one day, but she wanted to have children first and be there for
her husband when he needed her. Each time her friends and family
prodded her to start one the words would not flow. She knew it
wasn't time yet, and sometimes she wondered if the time would ever
come when she felt a great need to express her passions, her
emotions, her inner being. She knew that inspiration could not be
turned on and off like a light. It came like a dream – unexpected
and random. She had no inspiration to write a romance novel; she
needed to read them; she needed to start a family, and she needed
to take care of Carson. Perhaps, she read them because she secretly
wanted her life to be like the heroines portrayed in those steamy
books. Maybe she wanted to be alive in the days when men were men
and ladies were ladies when women were not treated as equals, but
were placed on high pedestals and remained there. Perhaps, as
farfetched as it sounded, she had lived in another era in another
life. Perhaps, she had been one of those women, who lived during
the Victorian age, who was pampered with the mores of the day. She
loved things from the past - antiques, old clothing, and vintage
jewelry. Perhaps, it was her way of escaping the loneliness of a
doctor's wife, of escaping the empty nights, the enduring solitude.
She grew tired of thinking of her situation.

She sat down on the colonial sofa
with its blue and pink flora-pattern and opened the book. She
plucked her bookmark out of Chapter 4 and began reading. A few
minutes later, she felt a draft on her neck. She moved to the other
side of the sofa and resumed reading, but the draft seemed to
follow her. She endured for a few minutes until she began to
shiver. She got up and walked over to the window facing the ocean.
She pushed the mauve drapes aside and checked the window latch. It
was open because the window would not shut all the way - decades of
paint layers and a rusty pulley system inside the window frame made
it stubborn to close. She looked at the bottom of the frame and saw
the window was open only a quarter of an inch or so, but that was
enough for a draft to get through and waft around the room. She put
all of her 115 pounds on the window frame, but the window did not
move. She tried several times until she was out of breath. She went
into the hallway linen closet, and pulled out a towel, rolled it
up, and placed it on the windowsill to stop the wind. She also took
an Afghan from the closet that was a gift from one of Carson's
aunts in New Hampshire and covered herself with it as she lay down
on the sofa.

Several hours later, Linda put the
book down on her chest and fell asleep to the howling wind and
constant tapping of the loose clapboards. She slept soundly.
Suddenly she heard the window open and saw several figures climb
through it. They were dressed in red and black robes with hoods
over their heads. They moved closer and closer, seemingly
swallowing her in the darkness that followed them. She tried to
scream, but nothing came out. She screamed in silence. Then there
was nothing. Occasionally she thought she saw figures hovering over
her holding red and black candles and her fear mounted. She heard a
ringing, but it lasted only a few seconds, then there was nothing.
She felt something tugging at her arm, opened her eyes, and saw
Carson's face. She could not focus on his eyes.

"What are you still doing here on
the sofa? Are you sick? It's ten and Mrs. Vanderbilt called three
times. Do you feel ok? You’ve really overslept."

"What time is it?" Linda replied.
"Why are you so blurry? Oh, my head..."

Carson put his hand on her
head.

"You don't have a fever. You'd
better stay home just in case you're getting something. I'll make
you some tea and call Mrs. Vanderbilt," Carson said.

"Oh, yeah. School...damn," she
replied.

Linda sat up and felt like a
thousand drummers were inside of her head. She kept blinking trying
to focus. A sliver of fear swam around in her stomach as she still
could not focus. Carson went into the kitchen and called Mrs.
Vanderbilt, the principal of Linda's school. He hung up the phone,
and then put a chromed teapot on the stove. He waited several
seconds for the gas to ignite and then he went back to
her.

"You know. You didn't give me a
kiss when you came in. Did you forget?" Linda said as he approached
her.

"Oh. I just didn't expect to see
you here when I got home," he replied.

He bent down and kissed her gently
on the lips, and then wrapped his arms around her.

"I missed you and I'm glad you're
home," he said. "But I was worried when I saw you."

"I missed you, too. I wish you
didn't have to work all night," she said.

"Me, too. It'll be over sooner than
you think," he said. "What is that you have on? It smells like
antiseptic," he said.

"I don't know," she
said.

"It smells like ether," he
replied.

"Well, I assure you Doctor Carson
Hyll, I haven't been hitting the furniture polish while you were
away," she said jokingly and put her arms around him a second
time.

They hugged for several minutes,
but Carson was still curious about the hospital-like
odor.

"Want to make a baby? Come on,
let's go make a baby," Linda said and got up from the couch pulling
Carson by his hand.

When she stood up, she collapsed.
Carson quickly caught her and pulled her back onto the
sofa.

"I feel drunk, Carson," she said.
"Oh, my head. I feel like I didn't sleep all night."

"Come on. You're going right to
bed. Put your arm around my neck," he told her. "You need to
rest."

"I want to take a shower - that
will wake me up. I'll be all right after the shower," Linda
protested.

"Sure. You're going to take a
shower, fall and crack your skull open on the tub and then bleed to
death while I have breakfast," Carson said. "You're going to bed.
Doctor's orders."

Carson put Linda to bed and turned
on the TV in their bedroom.

"Now you can watch all those silly
daytime shows," he said smiling.

"Yes, doctor."

Carson brought her tea in a white
mug covered with many colored balloons.

"How come every time you bring me
tea you bring in it that cup?" she said smiling. "You like that cup
or something?"

"I just want to remind you what a
great person you are," he replied. "Make you feel
better."

He took off his hospital greens and
snuggled under the covers next to Linda. He fell asleep within
minutes. Linda awoke a couple hours later and tried to salvage the
day. She felt a lot better and decided to take a shower.

"Carson! Carson!"

Carson jumped out of bed his heart
beating like a hummingbird. The sleep in his body washed away like
a sandcastle hit by a raging wave. Linda sat on the toilet in
tears.

"What is this!" she said pointing
to her inner thigh of her left leg.

Carson saw three symbols about two
inches high on her thigh - a diamond flanked by two inverted C's.
The symbol was made with a felt marker.

"What?" he bent down to get a
closer look and then he ran his fingers over the
letters.

"Damn!" he said.

"I had a nightmare last night that
people came in the window in the living room - the one that's hard
to close," she said trembling.

Carson ran down the stairs to the
window and drew back the drapes. Linda followed.

"What's this?" Carson said and
picked up the towel off the floor.

Linda looked on in horror. Carson
turned and felt her fear pierce him like a thousand razor
blades.

"Oh, baby. What's the matter?" he
said taking her into his arms.

"I put…put that towel on the window
to keep the draft out!" Linda said.

"Wind probably blew it off. It was
gusty last night," he said.

"It's a pretty heavy towel," Linda
said.

"Wind blew it off," he
said.

D
etective
Nick Vancuso was on his way to his home in Little Silver after an
all night drug-related stakeout in Asbury Park when he decided to
drive through Ocean Village and catch a glimpse of the ocean. He
was frustrated, tired, and wished he could jump out of his body
because of the constant, dull pain in his joints and muscles, but
he figured the ocean air might invigorate him. The stakeout had
been a washout - bad information or someone got tipped off. He
hated to be unproductive, and especially having to chase leads that
went nowhere. He wondered at times how he lasted fifteen years in
the police business and had made head detective of a special task
force on violent crimes. He was the best detective in the county
with the highest number of arrests and convictions and he had the
awards to prove it. He was a survivor of New York City.

"If you could work in New York, you
could work anywhere," his chief told him when he was a rookie
starting out in the 23rd Precinct. After he had married an Irish
girl - Katy McFadden - from his neighborhood in the Bronx, and
after the second child was born, the couple decided they wanted to
move to the "country." To Nick, the "country" was anywhere outside
of the city, where they had grass and trees that covered more than
one lot.

They settled in Woodbridge, a
rapidly growing community right off the New Jersey Turnpike. All of
their friends said they had moved to a farm. Nick had chosen the
location because it was where his car had broken down, and the area
was not too much "country," he told his friends. The couple
purchased a small two-bedroom house in a newly developed
subdivision, and Nick joined the Woodbridge Police Department. They
welcomed him warmly since it was rare that they would get someone
of Nick's caliber. Nick considered the police department amateurish
compared to the sophisticated techniques used in New York City at
the time, but the crime rate was considerably lower so it didn't
matter. Eventually, he brought those new techniques to the
department long before they became commonplace among police
departments across the country. He rose to the rank of detective
very rapidly because of his expertise and knowledge. He was very
happy - recognized as an outstanding professional in his field, a
loving husband and a good father. Then one night it all changed. A
tractor-trailer driver had fallen asleep and his truck drifted
across the center of the highway slamming head on into Katy's car
killing her instantly along with his eight-year-old son, Matthew
and ten-year-old daughter, Constance. Nick didn't know life could
be so cruel. He had seen plenty of life's tragedies on his job -
enough for a hundred lifetimes, but this was far worse. A year
later, he quit the force, sold his house and moved to Little Silver
so he could be near the water. The water seemed to soothe his pain
somewhat. He joined the Middletown Police Department as a detective
and he worked all the time. Soon his coworkers nicknamed him
detect-a-holic.

"Don't you ever rest?" his
commanding officer asked him one night when the shift was
over.

"Crime never rests," Nick replied.
"Besides, I don't have much to do at home anyway."

"There's more to life than this
job, Nick. Why don't you come down to the pub with us tonight and
have a few?"

"Thanks. But, I'm afraid there
isn't much for me except this job."

"Nick, you can't go on punishing
yourself for Katy's death. You have to go on - live a little," the
older, burly man said.

"I know, but I don't want to. This
job is all I need right now," Nick said.

"Okay, but I think you're missing a
lot. Take care and don't stay too late!"

The police radio in his car
suddenly came to life and the dispatcher barked out an all-car
bulletin about a possible break in and entering.

Nick glanced at the GPS unit on the
dashboard and slammed on his brakes.

"Jesus! That's right there!" he
said to himself. He turned the red Chrysler Crossfire around and
pulled up to the address on the GPS display. He didn't fit the
sleek, sporty look of the car with his receding hairline and gray
tweed sport jacket. He had shed his New York City, stereotypical
image of a dumb Italian years ago, who spoke with "da's" and who
wore an over abundance of gold chains around his neck and a gold
ring on every finger.

Nick picked up the microphone and
told headquarters he was taking the call.

"You're nuts, Vancuso! Go home and
get some sleep. This is a job for a uniformed," Charlie, the
dispatcher, gawked back at him.