Dark Hollow (9 page)

Tara looked incredible, and I told her so again.

“I’m glad you like it.” She thumbed the nightgown’s thin material. “It doesn’t really fit me anymore. I’m too big for it.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “You really do look beautiful.”

She blushed. “Really? Tell me more, Mr. Senft.”

I grinned. “You look good enough to eat.”

She rolled her eyes. “Men.”

“Hey, I meant it.”

“If you insist.” She drained her glass.

Smiling, Tara rose from the table, glided over, and sat in my lap. She put her arms around me, and our lips met. There was hunger in her kiss, a passion I hadn’t felt since before the miscarriages. Our tongues met, dancing over each other. She tasted sweet, and I breathed in her scent, savoring it. My heart rate increased as her fingers ran through my hair. Her fingernails lovingly massaged my scalp, and she playfully nipped my nose with her teeth. Then she kissed me again. I brought my hands to her breasts and gently squeezed, running my thumbs across her nipples. They hardened at my touch, and my penis swelled in response.

Tara’s lips left mine and she nuzzled against my neck, sighing.

“I should shower first,” I said.

“Don’t bother. You’re fine. I like the way you smell.”

I heard Big Steve’s tail thumping under the table, and I fought to suppress my laughter.

Tara heard it too. She giggled. “Sounds like somebody’s happy.”

“He’s not the only one.” I kissed her chin and throat, and then teased her earlobe with my tongue. That was her secret spot, and it never failed to work magic.

Shivering, she leaned close, squeezed my hand, and whispered in my ear, “Let’s go upstairs.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I scooped her into my arms and stood up. My back cracked like a gunshot and we both started laughing.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “That didn’t sound good.”

“Put me down,” she insisted. “I’m too heavy.”

“No, you’re not.” I crossed the living room and carried her toward the stairs. “It’s just like when we got back from our honeymoon and I carried you over the threshold.”

“I’ve gained twenty pounds since then.”

“And it looks good on you.”

“No, it doesn’t. And besides, you’re not as young as you were then. You’ll be forty in a few years.”

I kissed her cheek. “You really know how to romance a guy.”

Big Steve got up to follow us, but I told him to stay. He lay back down, looking lonely and dejected.

With a little more effort than I cared to admit, I climbed the stairs with her in my arms. At twenty-five, or even thirty, I could have done this, no problem. But Tara was right—I was almost forty, and I felt it. I was winded by the time we reached the bedroom, and my back was screaming.

Ignoring the pain, I laid Tara down on the bed and slid in next to her, still cradling her in my arms. We kissed again, long and lingering, as we slowly undressed eachother. She was so warm. Our hands caressed each other’s bodies, tracing familiar topography, stroking and touching in all of the right places, spots we knew blindfolded, our own version of Braille. She cooed and moaned, and I whispered words of love in her ear.

Grinning, I grabbed a bottle of long-unused massage lotion from the nightstand. Reading my intent, she rolled over onto her stomach. I rubbed the lotion into her back, massaging her shoulders and neck, and then working my way lower, to her tail bone, buttocks, and inner thighs. I took my time, enjoying the feel of her oiled skin as much as she enjoyed my attentions.

Finally I gently rolled her over and brought my mouth to her breast, encircling her nipple with my lips, and flicking it with my tongue. Purring, she arched her back. I moved my hand lower, delved my fingers into her slick wetness, and it felt like returning home. It had been so long since I’d felt her there. Tara squirmed with pleasure as I gently massaged her clitoris. It pulsed beneath my thumb. She reached down and stroked me, and my penis felt ready to explode. Her fingers were electric.

“I want you,” she breathed. “It’s been so long, Adam.”

“I want you too. I need you so much.”

“Put on a condom. I don’t want—”

I silenced her with a kiss, and then reluctantly pulled away. I reached over to the nightstand and pulled open the drawer. Tara wrapped her fingers around me and began to stroke me again. Groaning, I fumbled for the condoms. It had been so long since we’d used them, and they were buried beneath all the other assorted junk: a paperback, tissues, a bottle of aspirin, and a flashlight.

Her fingers continued stroking my shaft, keeping me hard, while I finally found a condom and tore the wrapper open with my teeth. I’ve often wondered why somebody can’t design a condom that’s easier to open. It kills the mood when you’re biting and tearing at the wrapper, trying all the while to maintain an erection and keep your partner interested. I slid it down my length and then we embraced again. Tara leaned back on the pillows and arched her hips. I climbed between her widespread legs, looked at her glistening sex, and felt a wellspring of emotion and need erupt inside of me.

“Go slow,” she whispered. “It’s been a while.”

I did, resisting the urge to plunge into her slick warmth all the way. I took my time, inch by excruciating inch. She flinched, and her body tensed.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She nodded. “It’s just a little tight. You’re okay. Just keep going slow like that.”

When I’d entered her completely, we lay still, kissing and caressing each other. I felt her inner walls begin to relax. Then, very slowly, Tara began to work her hips. I felt her stretching to accommodate me. After a moment, she relaxed.

“Better,” she gasped. “Oh, God, that’s much better. You feel so good.”

“So do you.” I kissed her neck. “I missed this so much, Tara.”

Slowly I began to slide in and out of her, and she moved her hips in time with me. Soon we found that familiar old rhythm that we both knew so well. We gasped each other’s names, and our speed increased in time with our mutual need. We moaned each other’s name, tasted each other’s sweat, and breathed in each other’s scents. I sensed that she was close to orgasm, and even with the condom on I knew I wouldn’t be able to last very long either. Our movements took on greater urgency as we built toward a mutual climax. Tara was dripping wet and I felt like a steel girder. Both of our bodies became tense as our orgasms approached.

Then Tara grew stiff and silent.

I leaned down to lick her cheek. It was wet. At first I thought it was just perspiration, but as I kissed her eyes I realized that she was crying.

I stopped midstroke. “Tara, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry. I just…”

She broke down, unable to finish. I pulled out, lay down beside her, and put my arms around her. I was confused—and, in truth, a little disappointed as well. It had been so long since we’d made love, and something had gone terribly wrong. Now I felt rejected, and my balls were swollen and aching for release. It was painful, both physically and emotionally.

We lay there in the darkness and I held her, promising her that it was all right, even though I secretly didn’t understand what had happened. I wondered to myself if I’d done or said something wrong. Had I hurt her in some way? I racked my brain, trying to figure it out, while Tara shook against me, her head buried in my chest.

“Do you want a tissue?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“How about a drink?”

“No.” She sniffled and looked up from my chest. “No, I’m fine. Just stay here with me?”

“Of course.” I grabbed my cigarettes from the nightstand and shook one out of the pack. I lit it, inhaled, and settled back against the headboard. Tara lay across my chest. Her tears and mucus dried on my skin.

I stroked her hair. “Do you want to talk about it? I don’t understand.…”

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again. “It felt so good, and all of a sudden I just started thinking about the baby. I guess it reminded me.”

I nodded.

“I couldn’t help it. I started thinking about the miscarriage, and the harder I tried to push it from my mind, the worse it got.”

“Why didn’t you tell me to stop?” I asked.

“I didn’t want to upset you. It’s been so long since we made love. I didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“I’m not,” I lied.

She sniffled. “Are you sure?”

“Very much so. I totally understand.” And I did, despite my own selfish need.

Tara sat up and wiped her eyes. She went to the bathroom while I lay there and smoked my cigarette down to the filter and tried to ignore the dull ache in my groin. While she was gone I heard Big Steve’s nails tapping on the stairs. He padded into the bedroom and jumped up on the bed with me. He stared into my eyes and then offered me his paw. I shook it.

“What are you looking at?”

He curled up next to me, facing Tara’s pillow.

The toilet flushed, and Tara came back to bed. She lay down next to me and took my hand.

“I tried, Adam. I really tried. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know, honey. Let’s not talk about it anymore tonight. Just get some sleep.”

We snuggled close together, with Big Steve sandwiched between us, and I whispered my love and patience and understanding until she fell asleep. I lay there in the darkness for a very long time, listening to both Tara and the dog snoring, and thought about things. I was frustrated, and though I’d done a good job of hiding it from my wife, I couldn’t hide it from myself. And I hated myself for feeling that way. It was selfish and insensitive—Neanderthal.

After a trip to the bathroom, I walked downstairs and went out into the backyard, hoping that the night air would tire me out. I turned off our motion-activated floodlight so that I wouldn’t wake up the neighbors, lit a cigarette, and then stared up at the stars. Someone had once told me that the stars were God’s eyes. I wondered if that was true, and then decided to find out. I stuck out my arm and extended my middle finger.

“Fuck you,” I whispered. “This is all your fault. You’ve got a kid of your own. Why did you have to take ours? Oh, that’s right—you let yours die on the cross.”

The stars stared back at me, cold and silent and faraway. I wasn’t struck down for my blasphemy, and hadn’t expected to be. A grim sense of satisfaction settled over me. I snuffed out my cigarette on the sidewalk and continued stargazing.

My thoughts were interrupted by Cliff’s voice. He stepped around the corner of his building, shirtless and barefoot, smoking a cigarette, his cell phone to his ear. Judging by the conversation he was talking to one of his many girlfriends. He jumped when he saw me, and I waved. He feigned a heart attack, waved back, and then went back around the corner.

For a moment I wondered what it would be like to have Cliff’s life, being a bachelor in my early forties and having sex with different women every weekend. Then I gazed up at our bedroom window and felt guilty for thinking like that.

I went back inside and fooled around on the computer. Eventually I surfed my way to a free porn site. After looking at the pictures I masturbated, careful not to make any noise. My orgasm was brief and unsatisfying, and when it was over I felt guiltier than ever. I wiped myself with some tissues and buried the evidence at the bottom of the trash can.

I started getting sleepy sometime after midnight, so I went back upstairs and crawled into bed. Big Steve wiggled over next to me, sighed, and then went back to sleep. I closed my eyes. As I drifted off, floating in that comfortable zone between awake and asleep, I imagined I heard the sound of a shepherd’s pipe on the breeze, outside on the street. It was faint and ghostly, and faded almost as suddenly as it had appeared.

I sat up and listened, but the music wasn’t repeated. I glanced at the clock, pushed Big Steve’s head off my pillow, and then lay back down. I figured I’d imagined it.

I closed my eyes again and went back to sleep, but it wasn’t a peaceful slumber. My dreams were filled with eerie music and crackling flames. Naked female figures pranced around a bonfire deep inside the forest to the sound of beating drums. The satyr cavorted with them, playing a tune on his shepherd’s pipe. In the dream I could even smell the smoke from the fire. On the outskirts of the ring a man had been nailed to a tree. His mouth was open, silently shrieking.

I woke up again, gasping and bathed in sweat, with the sounds of a shepherd’s pipe floating through my head. Tara stirred beside me, but did not wake. Big Steve watched me intently, and I wondered if I’d woken him, or if he’d been having bad dreams too.

Sighing, he snuggled closer to me, and I breathed in his dog smell and hugged him tight, like a big old teddy bear. He licked my hand.

“It’s going to be all right,” I whispered in his ear. “Isn’t it, boy? Things will get better. They’ve got to.”

We stayed like that for a long time.

Tara rolled over and moaned in her sleep. I kissed her forehead, slick with sweat, and her breathing grew shallow again. The worried crease in her face smoothed. She smiled, and then softly snored.

I fell asleep while thinking about the miscarriages, and how maybe it wasn’t just our babies that had died. Maybe it was something more, a part of our relationship that could never be resurrected.

I dreamed no more that night.

And while the rest of the neighborhood slept, something prowled our streets with cloven feet.

SIX

Tara apologized again when she woke up the next morning. I reassured her that everything was okay and told her to stop being silly. There were dark circles under her eyes, and it didn’t look like she’d slept well. Even though I’d turned in late, I’d gotten up half an hour before she did. I surprised her with coffee and breakfast in bed, and despite the sadness still etched on her face, she smiled when I brought it to her, which made me feel better.

She sipped her coffee, an ice cube floating in it, just the way she liked. “You didn’t have to do this, Adam.”

“Sure I did. I had a good reason.”

She chewed a strip of crisp bacon. “Oh, really? What’s that?”

“Because I love you. That’s all the reason I need.”

“I love you, too. And this was really sweet. Thank you.”

After she’d finished breakfast and I’d cleared the plates away, Tara hopped in the shower. While she got ready for work, I lay back on the bed and turned on the television. Shannon’s disappearance was all over the local morning news, and I saw Paul’s house, the alley and playground, our houses, and even a shot of the forest on every station. Shannon still hadn’t turned up. Paul was in the hospital, and his condition was guarded. They said he’d been treated for emotional stress, and that the police were waiting to speak some more with him.

Tara came out of the bathroom and began getting dressed. She pulled on a pair of nylons, and that drew my attention away from the television.

“Any news on Shannon?” she asked.

I clicked the television off. “Not yet. She’s still missing, and Paul’s in the hospital, being treated for stress. They’re not saying much else.”

“Do you think she’s okay?”

I paused. “I don’t know, hon. I hope so.”

She responded, but the words were lost beneath the whine of her hair dryer. I closed my eyes while she brushed her hair. I’d awoken with a bad headache, and it wasn’t going away, even after I’d swallowed two aspirin while making Tara’s breakfast.

She turned the hair dryer off. “What’s the matter?”

“Headache,” I mumbled.

She walked over and gave me a quick kiss. “Are you sure you’re not upset about last night?”

“Honey, I promise you that I’m not upset. It’s okay. Really.”

She sat down in front of the vanity table. “You’d tell me if you were, right?”

I nodded, and she leaned close to the mirror and began putting on her mascara.

“Maybe we can try again tonight,” I suggested.

She looked up from the mirror, mascara brush in hand.

“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see.”

But I could tell from the tone of her voice that we probably wouldn’t. Our troubled sex life was back to square one again. It was frustrating and depressing, and I still didn’t truly understand what had happened. I thought about how I’d jerked off the night before, and daydreamed about Cliff’s bachelor life, and the guilt welled up inside me like a balloon. I lit a cigarette. It tasted like shit, but I smoked it anyway. My headache grew worse.

After she’d left for work I took Big Steve outside for his morning walk. He stopped in the yard, sniffed the grass beneath our bedroom window, and then started barking. I looked around, but didn’t see the source of his aggravation. The grass smelled strange, musky, but there was nothing amiss. I had to tug the leash hard to get him to move, and we walked to the alley.

Once again there was no sign of Shelly Carpenter. I wondered if she was avoiding me, maybe out of embarrassment or anger. Perhaps she’d found a new jogging route. Maybe she couldn’t face me now that I’d seen what she was getting up to in the forest with her boyfriend, or she was freaked out that the local author whom she often stopped and talked to was a Peeping Tom. But she certainly hadn’t seemed to mind when I caught them. She’d seemed to enjoy it.

The weather was still nice, but it didn’t feel like spring anymore. It felt…muted. Stale. The grass was brown. The lilac bush had no scent. The tree limbs slumped dejectedly, and their budding leaves seemed frozen in mid sprout. There were no squirrels running around in the treetops. They were gone, along with the birds and the bees.

We had to thread our way through the media camp, and six different reporters asked if they could interview me. I declined. Big Steve peed on the power cables running to one of their vans. Law enforcement was present as well, both township and state. Big Steve pressed against my leg, trembling, so freaked out by the crowd that I had to cut his walk short.

When we got back to the house I flipped through the newspaper while my second pot of coffee brewed. Paul and Shannon dominated the front page, relegating the president’s trip to Saudi Arabia to the lower left-hand corner. The rest of the news was child molesters, serial rapists, religious extremists, and corporate stock scandals; in other words, the same old shit.

Disgusted, I tossed the paper in the trash and started the day’s writing. Some of the magic was gone, and I had to force the words to come. Big Steve assumed his usual position under my desk, and we stayed like that, uninterrupted, until around ten, when I heard a police siren race by on Main Street. I debated going to the window, but I knew that if I got up, my concentration would be shattered and there’d be no more writing for the day. I resumed typing until eleven, when I was interrupted again, this time by a knock at the door.

Big Steve jumped to his feet and barked, pretending to be the vicious guard dog. I told him to be quiet and turned off the stereo, silencing White snake’s “Still of the Night” in mid–power chord. I went to the door, and Big Steve nervously trotted along behind me.

A well-dressed Hispanic man, about my age or maybe a little older, stood on the front porch. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and there were dark stains under his arms. I made him for a cop right away. He had a manila folder in one hand and a badge in the other. A black leather briefcase sat at his feet. I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster strap beneath his suit coat.

“Hello, sir.” He flashed the badge, tucked it into his suit, and stuck out his hand. “Sorry to bother you. I’m Detective Ramirez.”

Caught off guard, I hesitated for a second. He smiled. I opened the screen door and shook his hand. It was slick with perspiration, but strong and firm. He smelled faintly of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke. Big Steve growled and the detective peered apprehensively over my shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “Big Steve’s a pussycat. If you get any closer to him, he’ll run and hide.”

“He’s a big dog.” The officer released my hand. “Nice to hear his bark is worse than his bite.”

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence, and we stared at each other. I grinned, and felt idiotic doing it. The cop grinned back, and twitched his eyebrows up and down.

“Can I help you with something, Detective?” I finally asked.

“Sorry,” he apologized again. “I’ve been knocking on doors all morning. We’re investigating the disappearance of three of your neighbors: Shannon and Paul Legerski, and—”

I interrupted him. “Wait a minute. Paul’s missing, too?”

The detective frowned. “Do you know Mr. Legerski, sir?”

“Yeah, I know them both. They live a few houses up the street.”

“May I come in, sir? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

My heart beat a little faster. There was no logical reason for it. Obviously I’d done nothing wrong. I wasn’t involved in Shannon’s abduction, if that was what it was. But still, when an officer of the law says that they want to ask you some questions, it’s human nature to be nervous.

“Sure.” I held the screen door open. “Come on in.”

He picked up the briefcase, cast another wary glance at Big Steve, and then stepped past me. The dog immediately ran into my office with his tail between his legs and hid underneath the desk.

The detective laughed softly. “You weren’t kidding. Cute dog, though.”

“Thanks.”

He glanced around the living room. “Nice place. I like the motif.”

“My wife’s doing. She’s got a real flair for home decorating.” I swept my hand toward the couch. “Please. Have a seat.”

“Thank you.” He sat down, loosened his tie, and pulled some photographs out of the manila envelope.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.

He shook his head. “No, thank you, Mr.…?”

“Senft. Adam Senft.”

Detective Ramirez blinked. “Adam Senft, the mystery writer?”

I did my best to smile humbly. “That’s me. You’ve read my books?”

“As a matter of fact, I just finished
Heart of the Matter
last weekend.”

“No kidding? Small world.”

“Yes, it is. I knew you were local and lived here in York County, but I had no idea where.”

“I don’t like to be specific with my address,” I explained. “I’ve known other authors who had trouble with intruders and overzealous fans. You know, disturbed people who wanted them to read their manuscript or accused them of psychically stealing their story ideas.”

The detective grunted. “I can understand your need for privacy. The world is full of crazy people these days.”

I laughed politely. “Well, Detective, I hope you enjoyed the book.”

He shrugged. “I did, up until the ending. To be honest, I thought maybe my book was missing a page or something. Couldn’t believe you ended it like that.”

“Yeah, I hear that a lot.”

“I’ll bet. You got your facts right, though. I liked that. A lot of writers seem to make it up as they go along, but you obviously did some research on armed robbery methods and police procedural responses to them. The book was a lot stronger for it.”

“Thanks,” I said, genuinely pleased. “Glad it rang true for you.”

“Oh, believe me, it did. I used to work robberies myself.”

“Why the switch?” I asked.

His face grew clouded. “Remember the bank robbery in Hanover about two years ago? The really
bad
one?”

I did remember, and told him so. It had been big news at the time, receiving nationwide coverage. A bank robbery turned into a hostage standoff. There were three robbers, one of whom, a young guy named O’Brien, had supposedly been dying of terminal cancer, and another who was wanted for a string of armed robberies on the West Coast. When it was over several hostages were dead, including a young boy, a deliveryman, the bank manager, and one of the robbers. The boy was killed by cross fire when one of the suspects refused to drop his weapon and was gunned down by police commandos. The other two robbers went to jail and died in prison about a year later. I recalled the tabloids had also been interested in the case. O’Brien, the robber who’d supposedly had cancer, insisted that the boy had healed him, and that the other robber was possessed by demons.

“That was the weird one, right?” I asked. “In that jailhouse interview the robber claimed he’d killed the Second Coming of Christ.”

The detective nodded. “That’s the one.”

“I remember watching that interview. He really seemed to believe it. And they said he wasn’t crazy, right?”

“He was able to stand trial. In truth, I wish I had the strength of his convictions. Fantasy or not, he was convinced he was telling the truth.”

“So you didn’t believe him?”

“I’m short on belief about a lot of things, Mr. Senft. I often wish I could believe. Maybe I just haven’t been presented with the truth.”

He grew quiet for a moment, his expression troubled. I sensed a kindred spirit, someone else who was struggling with what he’d been raised to believe versus what the world continued to show him.

“Anyway,” Detective Ramirez explained, “I was in charge of the response to that hostage standoff. I didn’t do a very good job. People died because of decisions I made. I gave the order to storm the bank vault. It was a mistake. After it was all over the brass made me take a sabbatical, and when I came back I got reassigned to homicide. Not really a punishment. Homicide is the pinnacle of any cop’s career. But I enjoyed working robberies, so they knew it was a demotion, far as I was concerned.”

“Homicide? You think Shannon was murdered?”

His smile was tight-lipped. “This is an ongoing investigation. I’m afraid I can’t say.”

I anticipated more questions about my writing, the same ones I was always asked when somebody found out who I was and what I did for a living: where I got my ideas and how come they hadn’t made a movie out of one of my books and did I know James Patterson, and if so, what was he like. But surprisingly, Detective Ramirez didn’t ask any of them. Instead he spread three photographs across the sofa cushions and got down to business.

“I take it you recognize two of these individuals?”

I nodded. “Sure. That’s Paul and that’s Shannon. I don’t know who that third woman is, though.”

He handed me the third photograph. “That’s Antonietta Wallace. She lives a block away from here. Take a good look at it.”

“Is she connected to Shannon’s disappearance?”

“Again, I’m not at liberty to say, Mr. Senft. But I assume you haven’t watched the news this morning?”

“Just the six-o’clock roundup. I’ve been working on a new novel all morning. Oh, and I read the paper. But I don’t think there was anything about her.”

“Mrs. Wallace is also missing, and since the details were already leaked to the press—although apparently not in time for this morning’s editions—I can tell you that it happened sometime last night, while she and her husband Walt were supposedly sleeping. The husband says that when he woke up this morning, she was gone.”

My stomach sank. “Gone?”

He nodded, watching me carefully.

I studied her picture closely, and my dread increased. An older woman (probably in her mid-fifties but still strikingly beautiful) stared back at me. She was smiling. Her hair had streaks of white, rather than gray, and she wore wide-rimmed glasses, making her look like a librarian. Now that I had a closer view, she looked familiar. I’d seen Antonietta Wallace on the street, going into the antique shops and walking her dog, a miniature poodle. But I didn’t actually know her, like I knew my neighbors.

I handed the photograph back to him. “Sorry to hear that. Is there a possibility she just went away on her own?”