As Night Falls (5 page)

After a minute or two it occurred to Nick that the car had never been turned off. He tested the gas pedal, which indeed emitted a rush, the engine straining against being set in Park. The motor purred so gently, Nick hadn't even realized it was on. Only then did he spot a round glowing button. Cars turned on without a key now. Did they drive themselves, too?

He shifted into gear. The car took off like an arrow instead of something made of two tons of steel.

“How come?” Harlan asked miserably as Nick adjusted to the easy, seamless spin of the wheel. “How come we're going to that hill—that road—that Long Hill Road?”

Nick glanced over at him, surprised. Harlan wasn't usually one for questions.

He took his time before returning his gaze to the road. This thing really did practically drive itself. “I told you already. To get some things we're going to need.”

Harlan's face pocked with confusion.

“You escape from prison in two parts,” Nick explained for the fifth time. He should know better than to trust Harlan's memory. “First you have to get out. Then you have to stay out.”

Harlan still didn't appear to understand, but the mention of their former residence made him fold in on himself, his body dwarfing the wide leather seat.

Nick took a right onto a closely coiled road. Switchbacks, turns, drop-offs into a rounded bowl of forest. Trees like a million skewers down there.

“Nick?” Harlan said, and snuffed in deep.

“Yeah?”

“No more, okay?”

The SUV clung to the edge of the road as if glued. “Sure, Harlan.”

Harlan extended his fist, settling it around Nick's upper arm. His thumb met his fingertips on the other side of Nick's biceps. Nick tried to shake him off, but he didn't stand a chance.

It had never really occurred to him before, what would happen if Harlan turned his might against Nick, instead of allowing Nick to use it. The thought was so surprising that even as Harlan bore down, Nick didn't feel any anger mounting. That horizon lay far off in the distance, enabling him to focus on the matter at hand.

So long as their goals stayed aligned, everything would be fine. He and Harlan both wanted to get away. No more and no less.

The car swerved, difficult to maneuver while thus encumbered. Dirt and dry leaf matter skittered under the tires, and the SUV lurched dangerously close to a sheer drop into the valley.

Nick braked. He let his gaze meet Harlan's, tilting up his neck.

“Yeah, okay,” he said. He would've agreed to just about anything so long as it brought Harlan back in line. Whether he meant it or not. “I promise. No more.”

Harlan released him and settled back in his seat, making the whole car rock.

“Now come on,” Nick said, rubbing his arm. “Help me look.”

Harlan turned his head. “Look for what?”

Nick spotted lights shining from a house of wood and glass that sat high on a rise. He braked, then let the SUV roll back, coming to a stop behind an overhang of sweeping fir boughs. Nick made sure the vehicle was completely concealed. Then he peered out between the branches, watching as the house gazed back at him.

“That,” Nick said.

S
andy poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot she'd brewed earlier, aware that her hand was shaking. The coffee was dark and dense from sitting too long. It would probably only worsen her nerves. She pushed the cup away, sloshing black liquid onto the counter.

Where had Ivy's accusation come from? It had been like lying on a tropical beach, then all of a sudden getting hit by a tsunami. The one thing Sandy prided herself on and relied upon was the harmony of her family. Even the sudden onslaught of teenage moodiness consisted mostly of Ivy sequestering herself away in her room under a sullen cloud that never quite burst.

It was a precarious way to live, Sandy realized. Pending storms eventually arrived.

But the charge Ivy had hurled was absurd. Sandy had treasured her daughter from the moment she was born, and worked hard to weave closeness between the two of them. She'd never lied to Ivy—not even taking advantage of the shortcuts all parents used: substituting a
maybe
when the answer was clearly
no way,
or promising that the goldfish was going to live.

Now Sandy was glad that Ben wasn't home yet, caught up with some last minute booking probably. She wouldn't have wanted him here for what had just taken place.

Sandy got down off the stool she'd been perched on, and glanced upward at the ceiling. It was quiet up there, just the slow breathing of an occupied house. Sandy could picture Ivy stretched out on her bed, earbuds inserted, Mac lying below her on the floor since he was no longer able to clamber up. She turned toward the wide set of glass doors. A sinking orange globule of sun trembled on the horizon.

Sandy's breath began to level out. Storms came, yes, but they also blew over.

She heard the grit of wheels on gravel and went out to greet Ben.

Stepping outside was like a plunge into cold water. Sandy wrapped her arms around herself. “It must've dropped fifteen degrees today,” she called to Ben.

Even after twenty years, the sight of her husband still made her smile. For a moment the dusk turned warm, and Sandy started to walk forward.

Ben slammed the door of the Jeep, looking up at the sky. “I just booked the first skiers of the season backcountry. There's going to be at least two feet by tomorrow.”

Ben ran an outfit called Off Road Adventures, which catered to weekend warriors coming up to the Adirondacks for a taste of adventure along with a well-contained dash of risk. Ben occasionally scoffed at his clients' approach to sport—
when you don't have any real danger in your life, why not scale a cliff to add some
—but it was a bit hypocritical, since his veins too pumped with forced adrenaline. Ben had pursued adventure sports for decades, artificially inflating the level of peril in his life until he was expert enough to help the novices.

Sandy used to accompany him on these journeys: free-climbing, biking, and skiing off-trail. But once Ivy came along any such activity was difficult to schedule, and Sandy couldn't justify the hazards. Ben craved challenge; Sandy had accepted that when she married him. But Ivy needed at least one parent who stayed on the ground.

She followed Ben's gaze to a sky smeared with pasty clouds. “Looks like it.”

Ben closed the distance between them, mounting the stone steps of the porch. He reached out and their cold fingers tangled in greeting. “How are things at the ranch?”

“Had to do a little rustling today, cowboy,” Sandy said.

“Bad?” Ben said with a look that could've been a grimace or a grin.

Sandy shrugged. “Ivy's in one of her moods.” A pinch of tears surprised her. Sandy couldn't remember the last time she had cried, and knowing not to get rattled by a teenager's mood swings wasn't exactly something for which you needed a degree in psychology. She looked away, hoping Ben would assume that her eyes were just stinging from the cold. “Come on,” she said, adding a deliberate shiver. “Let's go in.”

Ben was facing their driveway again.

“Honey?” Sandy said.

“Did the Macmillans come up for the weekend?”

“What?” Sandy asked. She glanced toward what Ben called the no-longer-so-great camp. “Hmmm, I don't know. No one's been by.”

“Never mind.” Ben ringed her waist with one arm. “Thought I saw something moving around in there.”

“Probably just the wind,” Sandy said, and shivered again, this time for real.

In the kitchen, Sandy turned the stove light on, bringing the water back to bubbling. She held her hands near the flame for a moment, warming them. Then she went to raise the heat in the rest of the house.

“Give me a sec and I'll start a fire,” Ben said.

He reached into the fridge, snapping the tab on a can of Red Bull. Ben could drink three of them, or down a whole pot of coffee, and still sleep like a baby. Sandy figured it went along with his choice of career. Her husband could tolerate more stimulation than most people. In fact, he seemed to require it.

He went out onto the side porch, and after a moment Sandy heard the
thunk
of the ax as it sliced into the wood stump Ben used for cutting. He liked to split logs himself, refusing to have a cord of firewood delivered at the start of the season. Ben didn't come from around here, but in many ways he seemed to. Self-reliance was the anthem of the Adirondack old-timers.

Ben staggered back into the kitchen underneath an armload of wood, then crouched by the stove. “Think Ivy would mind fetching me a little kindling?”

Sandy let out a snort and turned to leave the room. “I'll go.”

Ben called, “Hey, San?”

She rummaged around in the closet they used for outerwear; no more impromptu trips outside coatless for the next five or six months. “What?” she asked, walking back to Ben while pulling on a pair of gloves.

“Tell Ivy to do it, huh?”

“Honey…” Sandy was torn. If she said she didn't think Ivy would do it, then she'd reveal just how recalcitrant their daughter had become, the extent of which she'd kept hidden from Ben. But if she asked Ivy to take on the task, the same thing would become apparent, and there'd probably be a big battle, to boot.

Ben dropped a match into the pile he'd constructed, shutting the stove door with an iron
thud,
and propping up the poker in its slot on an ornate stand. “Never mind. I have enough for now. Why don't we just eat?”

Sandy shot him a fast, grateful glance. She wondered if he knew any of what had been running through her head, or if he'd simply decided to wait a little while before sending Ivy out.

Either way, best to begin dinner.

Sandy left Ben setting the table, and went upstairs to fetch Ivy.

Her daughter was lying just as Sandy had pictured, stomach-down, her calves in skinny jeans at a right angle in the air. Red licorice wires dangled around her neck and her head bobbed in time to a silent beat.

Sandy said Ivy's name loud enough to be heard over the song that was playing, and Ivy twisted around. Mac, lying on the rainbow-patterned rug beside the bed, opened one eye without getting up.

“Dad just got home,” Sandy said. “Want to come down for dinner?”

Ivy ripped the wires from her ears and tinny music entered the room. “This is unreal.”

Sure. Do you need any help?
Sandy heard in her head. Once that would've been Ivy's response. Not all that long ago even.

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “I know. It is a bit late for him.”

Ivy bit back a smile.

Encouraged, Sandy dropped down on the bed.

“Get up, Mom,” Ivy said. “It wasn't that good a joke.”

Sandy laughed. “Scooch,” she said, and Ivy shifted, making room.

After a moment Sandy asked, “Paper or plastic?” It was a game they'd played in one form or another practically since Ivy could talk. One of them would give the other a set of choices, always pertaining to some relatively inconsequential matter. Sometimes the game led to discussion, sometimes to debate, occasionally just to giggling. Sandy figured it could serve as both icebreaker and peace treaty now.

“Paper,” Ivy said. “It's greener.”

Sandy nodded. “Of course.”

Mac's furry side rose and fell as he panted on the rug. Ivy was right: the dog's breath did smell. Of old, tired, closed-in spaces. The next time she was in town, Sandy would get some of those rock-hard biscuits from the Blue Chair bakery. Her dog-owning patients swore by them.

“Hot or iced?” Ivy asked.

“Hot,” Sandy replied, indicating the weather outside. “Self-explanatory.”

It was Ivy's turn to nod. Then she got herself into a sitting position, and laid her head on Sandy's shoulder. She began to thread long, looping strands of her own hair through her fingers as she rested there.

Sandy felt herself holding her breath. The mingled scents of Ivy's shampoo and breath and sweat entered her nose, the silky feel of her daughter's cheek caressed the skin on her neck. Sandy wished the spell would last forever, that she and Ivy could stay like this, no push/pull, in exquisite balance, one atop the other. The moment swelled, a balloon consuming air until it threatened to pop.

“Upstairs or down?” Sandy said at last.

There was a pause.

“Are we just going to eat dinner and pretend like nothing happened?” Ivy blew out a breath, lifting her head. “Like I didn't say anything?”

So the storm hadn't passed. Here it was back to catch Ben up in its rush of hurled debris. But here also was her little girl, so vulnerable just a moment ago in her splayed-out position, smiling and playing their shared game. And Sandy had to try to protect her, too.

Ivy read her dilemma, challenging Sandy with a gaze that also beseeched.

Sandy's finger wandered to the spot on her wrist before she could stop it. “Honey,” she said, aiming for a return to levity, “if I responded to every single thing you chose to say these days, I would be all talked out. I'd have no words left.”

A curtain came down and Ivy's eyes went dull and gray. “Okay, Mom,” she said. “Okay. I'd better let you save your breath. I'm not hungry anyway.”

Sandy shut her own eyes for a moment. There were things she should do right now—she could feel them brushing against her like underwater fronds—but Sandy couldn't settle on a single one. She pushed herself up off the bed.

Ivy stood also, shifting Mac's body over with her foot, and walked to the door. She held it ajar, gesturing for Sandy to leave.

Sandy obeyed the invitation extended by her daughter's outstretched arm, wondering how an open door could feel so much more final than a closed one.

In the hall, Sandy paused by a stack of clean folded towels that hadn't made it to the linen closet. She chose to put the towels away mostly to allow herself one last peek at Ivy. These upstairs closets were connected by a run of narrow passages—Ben's clever idea for extra storage space—and since Ivy's own closet door usually stood ajar, Sandy could see into her room.

Ivy didn't seem to be reconsidering her dinner boycott. She'd flopped back down on her bed, reinserted her earbuds, and looked permanently affixed, like some kind of art installation.
Teenage girl, sulking.
She hadn't turned on any lights, and the only illumination came from the roving dot of Ivy's cell phone as she tapped out a text. After a moment or two, perhaps sensing Sandy's presence, Ivy got up and closed her closet door with a firm
click.

Sandy went back down the broad-planked staircase, hand trailing along the single spear of railing, to join Ben in the kitchen. He had drained the pasta, begun to heat up the sauce.

Sandy lowered the flame, and Ben came up behind her. She could smell ash from the now crackling fire, feel the smoke of his breath.

“Dinner for two tonight?” he said.

Sandy turned around. “Well, Ivy does have a lot of homework—”

“Hey,” Ben said, and she stopped.

“What?”

“Don't do that.”

Sandy frowned at him. “Don't do what?”

“Make excuses for her. She's fifteen. She's in a snit. Big deal. She'll probably be in some mood or other for the next three years.” Ben leaned forward, cupping Sandy's hand on the wooden spoon so he could sample its contents. “That is some sauce.”

Sandy spoke dryly. “Tomato. I'm creative, I know.”

She checked around for Mac, but he had stayed upstairs with Ivy. They'd always been diligent about not feeding him from the table, so mealtimes didn't provide any particular lure.

Ben took the spoon and laid it in the pot.

“Ivy will be fine,” he said. “And you and Ivy will be fine, too. The two of you have always been close.” Only for a moment did Ben look away, past the shiny stainless appliances, the copper pot ring overhead, beyond the walls even, and out into the darkening night. “You know, I used to be jealous.”

“What?” Sandy asked, though she thought she knew what he meant.

Can't we try for one more?
Ben used to say, over and over, during the years when Ivy was little.
It doesn't matter what we get. I don't even care if it's a son.
And with that relinquishment, Sandy's last excuse evaporated. Before that she'd been able to hold Ben off, take birth control pills with the fervor of an addict, saying that she knew he wanted a boy, and what if they didn't have one? A boy would've completed their unit. Two matched sets, one parent to tag-team each child in public restrooms, during weekend sports and Scouts. But then Ben decided that what he really wanted was a second to raise, for Ivy not to be an only. While Sandy wouldn't have had another baby unless a gun had been pressed to her head, and possibly not even then. She knew how hard it could be for parents to love more than one child.

Ben was still talking. “Not because Ivy loved you more—I figured that was normal for a daughter. But because
you
loved
her
so much.” He leaned forward, toying with Sandy's hair in a way that sent shivers down her back. “I'm just saying that it might not be such a bad thing if we got some alone time for a while.” He touched the knob of her neck, igniting another rain of shivers. “You know, we used to be pretty good at this.”