Ghost Light (16 page)

“Hey, hey, don’t start getting all indignant with me, you miserable fuck! We can both cut out the bullshit, all right?”

He smacked his fist into his hand again. The sound was almost as sharp as a gunshot, and it made Harry flinch.

“I know all about the little afternoon love sessions you have here,” Alex said. When he focused on the ice bucket, still clutched uselessly in Harry’s hand, his smile went even wider. “What, were you just heading out for some ice… maybe so your slut girlfriend could do that little trick she does with the ice cubes in her mouth?”

“Jesus Christ! H-h-how’d y-y-you—how’d y-y-you k-k-know about t-t-that?” Harry said, his voice stammering on nearly every word. He was frantically trying to remember if he had seen evidence that anyone was staying in either of the rooms on either side of him. He hoped that, by raising his voice, he might draw attention.

As Alex stared at him, still grinning sardonically, he kept moving forward, making Harry back away until the backs of his knees bumped into the edge of the mattress. Another low roll of thunder came, sounding closer. The nervousness churning in Harry’s stomach was getting steadily worse. His legs didn’t feel like they could support him much longer, and he was afraid he was going to vomit.

“You see now, Harry, I know a lot of things about you that you didn’t think anyone else knew. Actually—” He punched his open hand again. “—there’s only one thing I
don’t
know, and that’s where the fuck your wife has taken my kids!”

He took another threatening step closer until his and Harry’s noses were almost touching. Harry winced, scowling as Alex’s hot, sour breath washed over him.

“And that’s why I’m here, Harry, to find that out. Before I leave, I’m gonna make
damned
sure you tell me where she is, because there’s one thing—” He held his rubber-gloved forefinger up so close to Harry’s face he was afraid he was going to poke his eye out. “—Only
one
thing that’s more important to me than anything else. I want my fucking kids back, Harry, and I intend to get them!” Taking one step back, he reached behind his back and pulled the knife from his back pocket. He brought the blade up close to Harry’s face and twisted it back and forth so it caught the dull reflection of light in the room.

“And I’m gonna find out… even if I have to fucking kill you, I’m gonna find out!”

“No… no, you—you have to believe me,” Harry stammered. “I have no idea—no idea at all where she is.”

He forced as much strength and conviction as he could into his voice, but he could tell by Alex’s expression that he wasn’t buying it. “Honest to Christ, I’d tell you if I knew. She—right after she took your kids, she cleaned out our bank account and ran out on me. I haven’t—”

“Cut the bullshit,” Alex said. “That was
my
money in that account! Your fucking wife stole it from me! And I’ve seen your fucking phone bill with all those calls from the east, so don’t think you can fuck with me!”

“What—? How’d you—”

Before Harry could continue, Alex, obviously enjoying having the superior hand, tipped his head back and started to laugh. The instant the eye contact was broken, Harry tensed and made his move. Gripping the ice bucket tightly with one hand, he dodged to one side, away from the hand holding the knife, and swung up and around in a whistling arc. With a dull, hollow
thunk
, the flat bottom of the bucket caught Alex a solid blow on the side of the face that sent him staggering back, his arms flapping crazily as he fought for balance. Harry didn’t consciously think about what to do next; his mind was nothing but a white blur as he dropped the bucket, clenched his fist, and swung wildly at Alex—

—and missed.

The momentum of his swing carried him around so his right leg banged against the mattress edge, making his knee buckle. When the lightning bolt thought struck him that he had to make a run for the door, he was already off balance. Nearly blind with panic, he rapidly tried to process what he would have to do: get to the door—throw the deadbolt—undo the security chain—twist the doorknob—open the door—and then run like a son of a bitch out into the parking lot, yelling for help.

Before he could take the first step, though, something snagged at his ankle. For a blinding instant, he thought his foot was tangled up in the bed sheets, but then whatever it was hanging onto him suddenly pulled back. Harry fell forward and hit the carpeted floor so hard the air was hammered out of his lungs along with a grunting shout of pain.

From somewhere far away, he heard another rip of thunder as Alex yelled, “Hey, hey, not so fucking fast!” Frantic to save his life, Harry rolled over onto his side and started kicking wildly in an attempt to get free.

But the grip on his ankle held fast, and before he could shake it off, another kind of pain grabbed his attention. A fiery sting flashed up the inside of his thigh like lightning, accompanied by the harsh ripping sound of tearing cloth. It took several seconds for the pain of the knife wound to reach Harry’s brain, and by then, Alex had his shoulders pinned to the floor with his knees planted on his shoulder sockets as he leaned over him. Twisting back and forth like a drill, the knife blade pressed painfully into the angle just below Harry’s jaw.

“No… please… don’t,” Harry whimpered, his eyes filling with tears.

“Don’t fuck with me, asshole, and you won’t get hurt,” Alex whispered close to his ear; but as Harry looked up into Alex’s eyes, he was filled with the sudden sinking conviction that it was already too late—there was nothing more Alex wanted to do in the world then gut him, right here on the motel room floor.

Tensing his legs, in spite of the pain, Harry thrust himself upwards, bucking like a bronco. The movement caught Alex by surprise and almost dislodged him, but he squeezed his legs together tightly, crushing Harry’s ribs so hard it was impossible for him to catch his breath. Bright spinning lights flashed in front of his eyes, and a sour, burning sensation surged from his stomach up into his chest and then into his throat. He tried to say something, but all that would come out was a strangled, choking sound.

“I said,
don’t… fuck… with… me!
”

And then something ripped into Harry’s throat, burning like a splash of acid. From faraway, he heard a low, whistling noise. As the darkness at the edges of his vision began to swell and close in around him, he wondered crazily if he might not still be back at home… yeah, that was it… he was still in the shower, whistling and singing while he washed up, getting ready for his afternoon with Elizabeth… and maybe he’d fallen and banged his head or something maybe he was imagining all of this. It was crazy, though, because he didn’t recognize the tune—it had a thick, bubbly sound that made him think of a clogged drain backing up. Then there came that other voice he’d heard before—the voice that didn’t sound at all like the voice he usually heard inside his head. It was shouting with an odd thundering reverberation that made it sound oddly close, maybe inside his head but also far, far away.

“You fucking idiot!… I told you not to fuck with me!”

Harry tried to understand the words, but the darkness was collapsing around him like a smothering wave. As the whistling song faded with a high-pitched, rising note, he fell deeper into the darkness…

And then he was gone.

A Knock on the Door

D
ark, heavy-bellied rain clouds drifted in off the ocean, obscuring the Portland skyline. At the top of the Casco Bank building, the huge flashing digital time and temperature sign was lost in a gray pall that looked as dense as smoke. Cold rain lashed in fitful gusts against the windows. A bone-deep chill penetrated the apartment, making Cindy wonder whether or not, come winter, this place would be able to keep out the razor-edged winter winds. After lunch, Krissy had gone into her bedroom to play with her dolls while Billy played Nintendo in the living room. He had the sound turned all the way down so Cindy, who was sprawled on the couch, could concentrate on her reading, though her mind wasn’t really on the book. Every few seconds, she would realize that she had lost her train of thought and would have to go back and re-read whole paragraphs and pages.

Ever since this morning, when Krissy had mentioned the woman she had seen watching them from the narrow opening of her door, Cindy had kept her ears tuned, listening for the sound of any activity coming from next door. She had honestly assumed that the adjoining apartment was empty. After living here for three days, she still hadn’t heard anything or seen anyone either coming to or leaving apartment 3-A. Then again, the people upstairs usually made enough noise to drown out just about every other sound in the building. Cindy was pretty much convinced this woman, like that “blue lady” Krissy had mentioned several times over the past few weeks, was just another one of her wild imaginings. At least there was one thing to be thankful for, Cindy thought: ever since they had moved into the apartment, both kids, but especially Krissy seemed genuinely much happier than they had been throughout the drive east. Maybe, this was all going to work out.

Her biggest worry right now was Harry. She hadn’t spoken to him in over a week. Although she still had friends back in Omaha, Cindy had been closest to her sister. Now that Debbie was dead, Cindy didn’t trust anyone else well enough to contact them and ask if they would check up on Harry for her. She also was hesitant to call anyone in Omaha because the police could be looking for her and the kids

Anyway, Harry’s just busy with work and trying to get the store sold
. She had told herself this so many times, she should have believed it by now, but she still didn’t.

She was certain that something had happened. Something was wrong…
very
wrong!

After a few seconds of private debate, she picked up the phone and dialed her home number yet again. Her heart pulsed heavily in her throat as she waited for the line to begin ringing. Then it did—once… twice.

“Three… and four,” she counted out loud; then she cleared her throat, preparing to leave
another
message after the beep.

“What the hell?” she whispered when the phone rang a fifth time and the machine didn’t click on. Her face went suddenly hot as she waited, thinking she had miscounted, and
now
the answering machine would start.

The phone rang six times—seven… and then eight.

Before it could ring again, Cindy quickly hung up. Her face was clammy to the touch as she wiped her forehead and took a deep breath. Billy was so involved with his game, he apparently didn’t notice her reaction. Her hands were shaking as she slowly, carefully dialed the number again, whispering each number to herself as she pressed it.

A chill shook her shoulders, and she held her breath as she waited for the phone to start ringing.

Jesus, it isn’t like Harry to leave the answering machine off
, she thought. He was compulsive about making sure he got all his messages—and they had agreed before she left that he would make sure he left it on all the time!
Oh, God! What if something’s happened to him?

The thought that Alex would harass Harry gnawed at Cindy’s nerves. But she knew they had worked out a plan for that. Even if Alex got the police and lawyers involved; which they more than half-expected, Harry was supposed to maintain that Cindy had left him, and he had no idea where she had gone.

Of course, it would be easy enough to disprove this story if the police tapped his phone or got a list of Harry’s incoming calls. She had no doubt they could do that and had tried to think of some way around it, but she had no idea how to start assuming a completely new identity in a different state. She still had to use her real name on things, and she was still driving a car that was registered in her and Harry’s names. With a rising sense of panic and dread, she acknowledged that if anyone came looking for her, she wasn’t going to be all that hard to find.

She jumped and let out a high, little squeal when the phone clicked in her ear and then started to ring at the other end.

Once…

Please, Harry! Please be there! Pick it up!

Twice…

Come on, Harry, please don’t do this to me! Please pick it up!

Three…

Come on, come on, COME ON! Goddamnit, you’ve GOT to be there!

Four…

Okay, okay, now the machine will click on, and I’ll hear his corny message about having the right number but the wrong time!

Five…

A wild roaring filled her ears as an icy wave crashed over her head, engulfing her body. She wanted to jump up off the couch and start screaming.

No, please! Please! This can’t be happening!

In the back of her mind, a small voice was whispering that she was over-reacting, that for some innocent reason the answering machine had been switched off, and if she called back later tonight, she would get through to Harry. But that tiny voice was all but drowned out by the blaring of the sixth ring and a louder voice that shouted inside her head—
Something’s wrong! Something’s happened!

And although she tried not to think it, her first thought was that Alex had to be involved.

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, trying to stop the flood of tears she felt building up there, she hung up the phone before it could ring again. Feeling drained and exhausted, and wanting to do nothing but cry out her nervousness and frustration, she sank back in the couch. Before she could even take a breath, there came a light, rapid knocking on the apartment door.

2

H
arry’s blood poured like spilled ink from his throat wound and onto the motel room floor. Almost instantly, it started soaking into the cheap, beige carpeting, leaving a widening, reddish-black stain.

Alex couldn’t help himself; he started chuckling softly when he realized what had happened. He was still straddling Harry, pinning his shoulders to the floor with his knees. Glancing down, he saw that only a tiny splotch of blood had stained his left pant leg. The rubber glove on his knife hand, however, was streaked with blood, making it hard to get a grip on the knife. The handle almost slipped from his hand as he wiggled the blade in deeper and then dragged it slowly, steadily across Harry’s throat, severing the windpipe.

A high, whistling sound rushed from the wound when Alex dropped his weight on the dying man’s chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. A thick, bloody foam bubbled from the open wound.

“You fucking idiot,” Alex whispered, still snickering as he leaned close to Harry’s ear. “I
told
you not to fuck with me!”

A wild tremor shook Harry’s body, but Alex knew this time that he wasn’t trying to shake him off; it was Harry’s leg and back muscles going into spasm as death gripped him. After a few seconds, with Alex continuing to pin Harry’s shoulders to the floor, the shaking stopped. With a final, shuddering sigh, the color drained from Harry’s face. His head sagged to one side, and his body relaxed.

Feeling wrung out and numb, and curiously elated, Alex leaned forward and looked deeply into Harry’s eyes. He recognized the distant, glassy stare. He had seen it many times before—first in Vietnam, on friends and enemies alike, and more recently in Debbie’s eyes that night he had to teach her a lesson.

Yeah, well, maybe just like Debbie, good ole’ Harry, here, had to learn his lessons the hard way,
Alex thought, barely able to repress the gale of laughter that filled him as he stared down at Harry’s slack face. In a flash, though, his mood shifted, and he was suddenly filled with fiery rage at Harry.

“You rotten son of a bitch!” he shouted. He slapped the dead man’s face hard, once, leaving a bright red hand print on his cheek. “Now, see what you made me do!”

He shook Harry’s shoulders as he stared into the glazed, sightless eyes.

“Things weren’t bad enough before, huh, you fucking moron! Look at the fucking mess I have to deal with now!”

3

C
indy’s legs felt like they wouldn’t support her as she walked slowly to the door. The whole time, Billy was watching her, his mouth hanging open in shock. He never even noticed when something spiked and green bounced onto the TV screen and killed Mario.

“Probably just a salesman or something,” Cindy said. She was trying to fight the nervous waver in her voice, but she didn’t believe her own words. The whole time her mind was screaming:
This is it! They’ve found us! This is it!

Her heart was a cold, motionless lump in her chest when she bent down to peer through the fish-eye security lens. A sigh of relief escaped her when she saw that it was a solitary woman, not the FBI and the entire police force of Portland, Maine, outside her door. She glanced back at Billy and smiled reassuringly, then snapped the lock and opened the door to the full extent of the security chain.

“Yes…?” Her voice didn’t sound quite right, but she didn’t care.

The woman outside the door was dressed in a baggy green t-shirt and faded jeans. She looked to be in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Her shoulder-length hair was mostly black but had streaks of dusty gray that immediately reminded Cindy of the rain clouds outside her window. The woman was smiling, and her pale blue eyes reflected a friendliness and humor that seemed like a single ray of sunshine in the otherwise gloomy hallway.

“Hi,” the woman said. Her voice had a warm, mellow tone. “I’m Alice… Alice Crowther, your neighbor in 3-A.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder toward the door across the hall. “I figured, now that you’ve had a few days to get settled, it was about time I came over and introduced myself.”

“My name’s Cindy… Cindy Toland,” Cindy said. She wanted to say more but concluded with a smile and nod. The only thought in her mind was:
So this must be the woman Krissy says has been spying on us in the hallway
. Well, she certainly didn’t seem threatening in the least, but the last thing Cindy wanted was to start meeting new people; she had no idea how much of the truth of her situation she would need to reveal or hide, and she didn’t want any added pressure. Almost against her will, she undid the security chain and let the door open halfway.

Alice smiled and, clearing her throat, shifted from one foot to the other. “I—umm, well, it’s such a dreary day, you know.” She flapped one hand uselessly at her side. “I thought to be neighborly I’d invite you over for a cup of tea or something.”

“Well, I—” Cindy couldn’t think of what to finish the sentence with except a shrug. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Billy, who was watching them intently.

“Your kids are welcomed, too,” Alice said, “or we can leave the doors open so you can keep an eye on them. Whatever you feel comfortable with.”

Still, Cindy hesitated, but Alice continued talking as if she didn’t notice—or wasn’t concerned—about her standoffishness.

“I don’t want you to feel any pressure or anything,” Alice said. “I just figured, you know—well, I don’t want to appear to be nosey or anything, but I had noticed you have Nebraska plates on your car, and I figured—well, that you might not know anyone around here.”

“No, that’s true,” Cindy said. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, but she almost didn’t mind; Alice seemed like the kind of person you could talk to about things easily.

“Come on, then,” Alice said, waving her hand. “We’ll leave both doors wide open so you can keep tabs on things over here.”

“Yeah, sure—okay,” Cindy said, nodding agreement. “Let me just tell the kids where I’m going. I’ll be right over.”

“Sure thing. I’ll get the tea kettle boiling.”

4

“G
ood Lord,” Cindy said, leaning forward and rubbing her lower belly as she laughed heartily. “I’ve had so much tea, I’ll probably be up all night, peeing.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we weren’t drinking wine or beer,” Alice said, joining in with her laughter, “or we’d be blind drunk by now”

Over the course of the last two hours, Cindy had learned a great deal about Alice Crowther. She was a divorced woman who for the last eleven years had taught English at the junior high in Westbrook. She had been born and raised in northern Maine, in a little potato-growing town Cindy had never heard of called Presque Isle, and had moved to Portland in the early seventies, right after graduating from the University of Maine. She had married Russ Parker, her college sweetheart, but the marriage had dissolved after five years, more out of a general lack of interest than any other single factor. She maintained that she was happy living alone, making a livable salary, at least for a single person, and was still cautiously looking for the “right” man but in absolutely no hurry. Several times, however, she expressed her envy that Cindy had two children of her own, since she knew her own “biological clock” was ticking away.