Instead of making the turn onto 417 that would have led him home again—the place he knew he should have gone, the only place he truly belonged, where no harm could be done to anyone but himself—he continued straight for another quarter mile, then followed the signs to the interstate, and twenty minutes later parked his car across the street from Laraine’s Cape Cod. He hated himself for the weakness that kept returning him here, two nights in a row now; hated his inability to shake off the naive belief in change.
He silenced the engine and slipped a CD into the player. Norah Jones sang to him about darkness and shady corners, sang, “Hot like to burn my lips. I know I can’t win.”
A light from Laraine’s living room shone pale blue through the curtains. He told himself, She’s probably reading, maybe listening to music. She was a teacher of English at an Erie prep school, taught literature and creative writing. She used to read to him in bed. Now she reads to herself, he thought. Reads to herself and picks up strangers in bars.
Sooner or later, she would lift her head and glance out the window. She seemed to always know, always intuit when he was out there. He told himself he didn’t want it to happen tonight. He told himself he would listen to Norah sing four songs—only four—and then he would start the engine and drive home again. He told himself that was what he wanted to happen.
In the middle of the third song, the porch light snapped on. He drew in his breath, winced as the old ache deepened, felt the disturbance in his chest that was like a stone dropped into a very deep well. So, she had looked out and seen his car. And now the front door would be unlocked. Next she would turn out the living room light… There, the window went dark. She’s going upstairs now, he thought. She’s waiting there at the top but I won’t go in this time. This time I’m not going in.
Norah sang, “Truth spoke in whispers will tear you apart…”
When he eased the front door open and stepped inside, she was standing in profile at the top of the stairs, facing the bedroom, her hand on the banister post. She was a shadow in a darkened house, and he felt heavy with the darkness that had brought them both to this place, always brought them here, kept them always in this darkness. She went into the bedroom then without looking down at him. He leaned against the door. Go home, he told himself.
But he knew he would not. He would not have come into the house if he intended to go home. He pried off his shoes and locked the door. First he went into the kitchen, washed his hands with dish soap. Then he went up the stairs.
In the darkened bedroom, with the curtains drawn, as always, and with even the radio turned to face the wall so that its dim blue glow cast no light upon the bed, he eased himself down beside her, smelled her scent in the darkness, felt the hollowness engulf him. “How are you?” he asked. His voice was a whisper and whiskey hoarse.
She said nothing. After a minute or two, she rolled onto her side and faced him. He could not see her body yet, but he felt its heat and knew that she was naked, and he wanted to fall against her, wanted to pull her close and drive this ache from them forever. But all he did was to raise a finger to her face, trace the softness beneath her jaw.
She moved her hand against him, slid her hand between his legs, cupped her hand around him through his khakis. He told her, “We don’t have to do this.”
She said nothing. She always said nothing.
He told himself he wished they could throw away the script for once, but he also knew he had come here counting on the script to be followed. With her hand moving against him and her scent filling the darkness, he suddenly wanted only that the script be played out as written. She would not kiss him but he could touch her, so he laid one hand between her breasts and slipped his other between her legs. He was always surprised by how wet she was when he touched her, always wondered what it was about these infrequent nights that excited her. Was it the thought of how much he needed her? The thought of the grief he would feel afterward when he drove home alone?
She touched him without words until touching was not enough for him. Then he rolled away and stood and removed all of his clothing. When he eased onto the bed again, she rolled onto her side and presented her back to him, and when he entered her and gripped her waist, she sucked in a quick breath but otherwise remained silent.
Because of her passivity he always tried to go slowly. Now and then a nearly inaudible moan would escape from her, but she would give him nothing more, would never lay her hand atop his or say a word to him. He concentrated on being gentle and slow and hoped he would feel the muscle on the inside of her right leg begin to quiver, hoped that her back would arch toward him and that she would let herself go the way she used to before the accident, back when she would cry out so loudly that they had to close the windows in the summer, and after Ryan was born had to press her mouth to the pillow so as not to wake him.
But of course it did not happen that way anymore. As per the script she had written a long time ago, all that happened now was that her breath quickened and her stomach muscles went rigid and she held herself hard against the mattress. Then he came too, and he tried to be as quiet and controlled as her, but he felt himself falling and falling and disappearing into blackness.
Half a minute later, he opened his eyes and felt her stillness beside him. He ran a hand up her stomach and felt her arms crossed at the wrist atop her breasts, both hands clenched.
Finally he pulled away and lay there looking at her. When he touched her spine between the shoulders, she jerked and went stiff.
He knew he should not talk, but he hoped it might be different this time. He hoped that maybe she was ready now and that this woman who loved words and who taught the beauty of words to eleventh-grade boys might permit him a few words to attack the circles of sadness rippling through him.
“Laraine,” he said.
She pulled away and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
“Laraine, wait.”
She went into the bathroom and locked the door and turned the hot water on so that it gushed and splashed and steamed into the tub.
When he drove home that night, he played a Paul Winter CD filled with songs that had no lyrics, no voices, no heartfelt, useless words.
Thirty-Five
Morning brought the kind of clarity that only a chill November morning can. At a few minutes after eight, DeMarco stood sipping coffee on his front porch, using the bite of the air to wash the heaviness from his eyes. The grass in his yard shone neon green in the new sun and sparkled with frozen dew. Shadows from the slender poplars around the perimeter striped the grass. Everything looked clean and new to him in the morning and he hoped the illusion would last. He was determined not to beat himself up anymore over his weaknesses; he needed to stop sapping his energy and concentration with regret. A woman and her three children had been slaughtered and the primary subject was still at large, a man DeMarco knew and had liked. It was DeMarco’s responsibility to bring the suspect in, not to determine his guilt or innocence. He did not want to let another day pass without making some progress on the case.
With enough caffeine and sunshine, maybe he could have a productive day.
When he first entered his office that morning at the barracks along Route 208, he stood for a while at the window behind his desk. Across the road, the digital sign outside Citizen’s Bank registered a temperature of thirty-seven degrees. Behind and on both sides of the bank, a cornfield of stubbled stalks continued in shades of khaki and sage to the distant woods. Those woods, he knew, continued northward all the way to Lake Wilhelm, broken only by a few villages and asphalt roads and the ceaselessly rumbling four lanes of interstate highway.
“You’re out there somewhere,” he said. “You’re cold and you’re hungry, and as far as I know, you’re completely out of your mind. But you’re out there. And I’m coming to get you. I’ll find you, my friend.”
He turned then and sat at his desk and pulled
from his shirt pocket the slip of paper Bonnie had given him the night before. He had already passed the first name, Tracy Butler, on to Trooper Carmichael. The other name, Danni Reynolds, would keep him busy for the next two hours.
He ran the name through a couple of databases on known criminals. No priors, no hits. He checked the Department of Motor Vehicles, both Pennsylvania and Ohio. No vehicle registered in the name of Danni Reynolds. He did a background check through the court records. He called the Registrar of Deeds at three county courthouses for a listing of any property held in the name of Danni Reynolds. He keyed in the name on Google, Classmates.com, Facebook, EmailFinder.com, People Finder, Zabasearch, ThePublicRecords.com. He tried four different zip codes on Whitepages.com. No address available for a Danni Reynolds. No Danni Reynolds. No Danielle Reynolds. No Danna, Danique, or Danica Reynolds.
As a last resort, he ran the name through the cell phone registry. No hits on either Danni or Danielle or any of the other variations, but there were seventeen listings for D. Reynolds. Only four—two D. Reynolds, a D. J. Reynolds, and a D. L. Reynolds—were within fifty miles of Whispers.
He used the office landline and blocked the number. The first call was answered by a deep male voice. DeMarco said, “Is this D. J. Reynolds?”
“Who’s this?”
“I’m a friend of Danni’s, Mr. Reynolds. Would you happen to know where I could reach her?”
“Hell, I don’t even know who Danni is, pal.”
The number for D. L. Reynolds connected to the voice mail for a landscaping business. The call to the first D. Reynolds was answered by the recorded greeting of what sounded like a teenage girl. “Hi, guys! I can’t take your call right now. Leave me a message!”
DeMarco circled that number on his notepad and dialed the last. This call was answered by another female voice but older, tired. “Hello?”
“Hi, Ms. Reynolds. My name is Bob Leland. I’m with the County Census Bureau and we’re doing an update of our records in anticipation of the next census. Could you just confirm for me that I am speaking with Danielle or Danni Reynolds?”
“Sorry. My name is Darlene.”
“Well, that’s a good name too. Yep, there you are, three names below Danielle. And you are residing at the same address as provided during the last census?”
“Unfortunately I am,” she said.
“Okay, thank you very much, that’s all I needed to know. Unless…any chance you would know the address for a Danni or Danielle Reynolds? I’m having a heck of a time tracking her down.”
“Sorry. Nobody I know.”
“Well, thank you anyway. Have a beautiful day.”
Next DeMarco did a reverse lookup of the number he had circled. Thirty seconds later, he had what he needed. D. Reynolds, 14 East Pearl Street, Apartment 2C, Albion, Pennsylvania. She lived fewer than fifteen miles from the strip club. “You’re my girl,” he said aloud.
It was 10:09 a.m. If he left now, he could be in Albion around eleven. “A good time,” he told himself. A stripper who worked until two or three in the morning would probably still be in bed, but not so soundly asleep that a phone call wouldn’t rouse her. She would be groggy, not thinking straight, might blurt out a few words he could use.
He stuffed the notepad into his jacket pocket, then walked down the hall to Carmichael’s desk. “You get me anything?”
The trooper handed him another small slip of paper. “Cell phone number, that’s it. No address yet.”
DeMarco looked at the listing, then took out his cell phone, blocked his number, and made the call. Tracy Butler answered on the third ring. Her voice was throaty and slow, still groggy with last night’s Xanax. “Hello?”
“Annabel?” DeMarco said.
“Who, baby?”
“I’m looking for my Annabel. Are you her?”
“Not last time I looked. But it’s a pretty name, isn’t it?”
DeMarco pressed End, crumpled up the slip of paper, and tossed it onto Carmichael’s desk.
“Sorry,” Carmichael said.
DeMarco patted his jacket pocket. “No worries. I have her in here.”
Before leaving the building, he stepped inside his station commander’s office. “I’m headed north to check out a person of interest. She might know something about Thomas Huston’s current whereabouts.”
“How does she know him?” Bowen asked. “University stuff?”
“Whispers stuff.”
“Say again?”
“It’s a strip club just east of Pierpont, Ohio.”
“You telling me the man had a secret life?”
“Research for his novel.”
“That’s a handy excuse, isn’t it? Covers just about everything a guy could get into.”
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
“You taking a cruiser?”
“Not this time. Low profile.”
“Well, that piece of shit of yours is certainly low profile. Think it will get you there and back?”
“I’ll buy a Lincoln when I get your job.” He turned toward the hall.
“Hey!” Bowen said.
DeMarco looked into the room again.
“You taking 62 west to the Interstate?”
“I am not bringing back any fucking spinach rolls,” DeMarco told him.
“They make them one day a week. What’s the harm?”
“Do I look like a delivery boy to you?”
“You drive a delivery boy’s car.”
“Fuck you and die,” DeMarco said.
“If you go past the place. That’s all I’m saying.”
“If I go past,” DeMarco said. He turned away and started down the hall.
“And this time don’t forget the dipping sauce!”
Thirty-Six
With fewer than two thousand residents, Albion has three distinguishing characteristics. The B&LE occasionally rattles through the south end of town, loaded with coal and other freight on its way to the Lake Erie loading docks in Conneaut, Ohio. A medium-security state correctional facility opened for business just outside of Albion in 1993 and now housed a few hundred more adult male offenders than the town had residents. But the thing most locals remember Albion for happened on the last day of May 1985, the day forty-one tornados ripped across Canada, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. The F4 twister that swept the quiet streets clean of all cars, trucks, and Amish buggies hit Albion at 5:05 in the afternoon, two minutes after the warning was issued from the Erie National Weather Service. It obliterated a hundred or so homes.
DeMarco had heard all the stories. A man had been watching from his porch as the writhing black mass approached, only to have his leg sheared off by flying debris. House trailers were lifted off their foundations, spun through the air, smashed into the ground. A car was sucked two hundred feet into the funnel, heaved over top of a silo, and slammed into a field, a young woman and her dog inside. Bodies were found as far as two miles from where they had been yanked into the air.
The neighboring towns of Wheatland and Atlantic had also been laid flat. Dozens of lives lost, thousands forever damaged.
DeMarco thought about that twister, thought about the sudden, random violence of life as he drove into Albion an hour before noon on a sunny autumn day. He remembered what Samuel Butler had said, that life is a long process of getting tired. He and Laraine had laughed when she read that line to him out of Bartlett’s Quotations. But DeMarco knew now that Butler had had it wrong. Life is a long process of being destroyed, he thought. And not, in fact, a very long process at that.
Danni Reynolds’s apartment was on East Pearl Street, a street that had been wiped clean by the tornado and rebuilt in a hurry. The building was of post-and-board construction, two stories high, with slapdash balconies, railings and stairways that looked as if they could not withstand a heavy breeze. Where the yellow
vinyl siding was buckled or missing in places, wisps of pink insulation stuck out like dirty cotton candy. Most of the windows were covered with towels, sheets, or heavy curtains to keep out the drafts.
DeMarco parked across the street and studied the building. Four apartments on the first floor, four on top. Apartments A and B in the front, C and D in the rear. Danni lived in the rear.
He drove around back to a paved parking area. No access from there to the next street behind the building unless she climbed a chain-link fence. She had two ways to get to ground level. Down the rear stairway to the parking area. Down the side stairway to East Pearl Street. He guessed that she owned a car, one of the five compacts in the parking area, none newer than four years old, none without a few scrapes or indentations. Chances are, he told himself, if she runs, it will be to her car. And if she ran, it would tell him a lot. Everything he needed to know.
DeMarco drove back toward East Pearl but parked his car at the end of the driveway, blocking its entrance. Then he climbed out and crossed to the side stairs. On the second floor balcony, he walked just past the door of apartment D, close enough to Danni’s apartment that, if she were inside, he would hear her phone ringing. Then he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and dialed her number. Four rings, then her voice mail answered. “Hi guys! I can’t take—”
No faint ringing sound had emanated from her apartment, no muted musical ringtone. Maybe she kept the phone on vibrate. Maybe she shut it off when she slept. Maybe she wasn’t home.
He waited ten seconds and hit redial. Then again. Then one more time.
“Hello?” she finally said. Groggy, she sounded even more like a little girl, a child.
He tried to soften the gruffness of his voice, gave her little more than a whisper. “Annabel?” he said.
He was answered with silence. He waited.
“Thomas? Is that you?”
“No, Danni,” he told her. “This is Sergeant Ryan DeMarco of the Pennsylvania State Police. And I need to speak with you.”
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