Little Death by the Sea

by Susan Kiernan-Lewis

  “It is,” Darla agreed, hefting her gym bag to her other shoulder. “It’s coming into town I find unnerving.”

  “Oh,” Maggie made a face of understanding. “Coming into Buckhead, huh?”

  “Gerry just about shit when I told him where I was meeting you.”

  “I’m surprised he let you come.” Maggie led the way to a set of empty lockers. She tossed down her duffel bag. “He’s so paranoid about the crime in town these days.”

  “We had words about it,” Darla admitted. “Maybe it’d be best for my marriage if you and I agreed to have lunch together someplace in Roswell or Smyrna next time, Maggie.”

  Maggie sat down on the bench in front of the lockers and looked up at Darla. “Is that all that’s bothering you, Darl?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Darla said. She placed her bag down and began rummaging around inside it, extricating gym clothes, deodorant, aerobic shoes and socks. “I’ll tell you about it sometime when we’re both too bored with talking about everything else first.”

  Maggie continued to watch her friend.

  “Really?” she said.

  Darla stopped digging in her bag and looked at Maggie.

  “Really,” she emphasized. “Besides, it’s you I want to hear about. What happened in France? Gerry said you met someone.”

  “I did meet someone but it turned out to be nothing.” Maggie pulled off her slacks and folded them loosely before placing them at the bottom of one of the lockers.

  “How, nothing? Come on, Maggie, this is Darla, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. Well, okay.” Maggie held her lycra biking shorts in one hand and looked at them as if doubting the chances of squeezing into them. “He was one of the guys who helped us get Nicole back. He and I had a thing.” She shrugged. “I fell for him, Darla,” she said, tossing the shorts down and sitting on the little metal bench. “He was so capable and kind. I wish I could tell you. He was soothing to be around but also exciting....and I fell for him. Really hard.”

  “And you haven’t heard from him since you got back.”

  “It’s been nearly three months.”

  “You really didn’t know him very long.”

  “True.”

  “Was his English very good?”

  “Better than my French.”

  “But y’all were able to communicate okay?”

  “We managed, I’d say, wouldn’t you, Darla?”

  “Oh, dear. Gerry hadn’t mentioned this part. You mean you slept with him?”

  “God, Gerry is such a prude. I guess he thought he was protecting my reputation or something by not telling his own wife?”

  “You know Gerry.”

  “Anyway, yes, I slept with him. It felt right at the time.”

  “And now it feels like you got used. I’m sorry, Maggie.”

  “Me, too. You know, Darla, I hate to forever destroy the sophisticated image you probably had of me but I haven’t slept with a lot of guys and none that I didn’t know pretty well.”

  “So he was special. I can understand that. I don’t think the man who preaches the Baptist service at our church would, but...”

  “But this one just hit me hard, you know?” Maggie pulled off her blouse and slipped a T-shirt on. “I mean, where the hell am I going these days? I work ten hours a day, work out in an all-women’s gym—for what, I might ask?--so I can continue to look good in my Macy’s designer dresses to impress clients?” Maggie pulled on her socks and aerobic shoes and began lacing them up. Darla sat down next to her on the bench and put a hand out to calm her.

  “Hey,” she said. “It’s okay, Maggie. It’s not all for nothing.”

  “I want stuff that I don’t have, Darla,” she said. “Stuff I don’t even see on the horizon, you know? Husband-stuff, children-stuff, sharing my life with organisms other than a cat kind of stuff.” She paused. “I don’t even own a cat.”

  “Sweetie, you’re just lonely. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “How long were you single before you met Gerry?” Maggie asked.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, really. How long were you on your own before—“

  “I didn’t get a chance to be on my own. I envy you that, Maggie. I really do. I mean, you know for sure that you can take care of yourself, all by yourself.”

  Maggie shook her head and resumed lacing her sneakers.

  “It makes a good story, Darla,” she said. “And I appreciate the effort, but you know as well as I do that it takes no great brains or skill to buy your own groceries and get the rent check into the apartment office on time. Living alone is not that tricky. So, failing that,” Maggie stood up. “what other reason can you think of to envy me?”

  Darla leaned over and gave Maggie an unexpected hug.

  “I love you, Maggie,” she said.

  Later that night, Maggie returned to her darkened apartment on Peachtree Road. She flipped on the lights, made herself an iced tea—knowing the caffeine would probably keep her awake but not caring, kicked off her espadrilles and heaved herself onto her couch. Her polo pullover was stained and she felt the weariness of the hot day settle onto her shoulders. The air-conditioner in her apartment hummed loudly, reassuringly. She glanced up at the stark, high-tech wrought-iron clock on the living room wall. A little after seven. She wished she’d stopped in for dinner at Brymsley now. Wished she’d just showered there, changed into something cool and crisp of Elise’s (her sister still had most of her clothes in her old room, although, it was all in black or checkered gray, hardly cool and crisp attire for a 102-degree Atlanta evening) and just burrowed deep into the cozy recesses of her family.

  Instead, she’d come home to shower and eat alone. She fingered the brief postcard absently. A bill from Macy’s, the electric bill, and a postcard from Cyprus.

  It was just like she’d told Darla. She’d been stupid and she’d gotten hurt. She looked at the postcard again.

  Dear Maggie -Hope this finds you well. Having a bit of a holiday in

  Cyprus...and an adventure too, I must say. How is little Nicole?

  Doing well, I trust? Take care of yourself, then—

  Best regards, Roger Bentley.

  Maggie caressed the little dog-eared postcard, an artist’s pretty blue and white rendition of the city of Paphos in watercolor on the picture side. Even bloody Roger felt pity enough to drop her a line, she thought.

  The phone rang and she debated whether to let the answering machine handle it. She was in no mood to have to be polite or social. On the other hand, it could be some poor, unsuspecting telemarketing rep and that might prove to be just the thing for her current temper. She picked up the phone before the answering machine engaged.

  “Yes?” she snapped into the receiver.

  “Mademoiselle Newberry? This is Margaret Newberry?”

  Maggie held her breath, then,

  “Laurent?”

  “Comment?”

  “Who...who is this?”

  She sat up straight on the couch, the postcard fluttering from her fingers.

  “Je m’ap...I am Gerard Dubois. You are knowing me, yes? I am Elise’s boyfriend? Votre...your sister?”

  Good God! Gerard. Was he in Atlanta? Maggie stood up slowly, her heart pounding furiously in her chest, the hand holding the phone was immediately clammy.

  “What do you think I want, do you think?” The voice was high and nasty. Maggie dully detected a fuzziness to it too, as if alcohol had been the aperitif to the call. “I want my little bèbè that you and your family stealed from Gerard. You are surprised, yes? You are not thinking Gerard would come for his little girl?”

  “You can’t prove anything.” Maggie felt the panic creep over her like a painful acid. This cannot be happening, she thought with horror.

  “I am not needing to prove anything, Mademoiselle. I have talking to Monsieur Roger Bentley, yes? You are familiar, yes? Monsieur Bentley?” Maggie’s eyes flicked automatically to the postcard on the floor. “He is
telling me that you have Nicole. Is true, n’est-ce pas?”

  Maggie suddenly understood why he was calling her. This phone call had nothing to do with getting the child back. It had to do only with how much the Newberrys wanted to keep her.

  “You want money.”

  “And Elise said you were so stuupeeed.”

  “Shut-up about my sister, you filth!” Maggie was trembling with rage and almost didn’t hear the click as the man disconnected the line. “Hello?” Shaken, she dropped the receiver back into its cradle and sat down hard onto the couch.

  Oh, God, now what was she going to do? She couldn’t contact him and he was going to try to take Nicole away and she couldn’t even go to the police. (“Exactly how did the child come into the United States, Miss Newberry?”) She covered her eyes with her hands and hunched over her knees.

  The phone rang again and she snatched it up.

  “Yes?”

  “I will not have you speaking to me like that. You are a pig, comprenez? Pig? That you steal m’enfant. And now, you will give me five thousand American dollars from your rich papa, I do not care...you will give me it ce soir. Immediately! You are understanding me?”

  Maggie’s mind raced: her father would still be at the club. Did he have that kind of money lying around? The banks wouldn’t open until nine tomorrow.

  “Where?” She watched the hands on her living room clock spasmodically twitch off the seconds across its face. It looked vaguely malevolent to her now.

  A high-pitched giggle assaulted her from the other end. Then:

  “You will come with the money to the car park at the Lenox Mall, you understand? Les grandes magazins? The shopping stores?”

  “How will I--?”

  “Park your automobile. Gerard will find you. Perhaps when I find you, I will screw you first, eh? And then you give me the money. Ha! Ha! You will pay Gerard to be screwed!”

  Maggie felt perspiration form on her face. The man might be insane, she thought. Could he have somehow gotten into the country with a gun? Could he have gotten one since arriving?

  “What time?” she said, her stomach twisting in nausea.

  “Three hours. Exactement.”

  Maggie looked at the wrought iron clock again.

  “Twelve o’clock,” she said.

  He hung up.

  Maggie took a deep breath, then picked up the phone again and dialed the number of her father’s club. Would he have the money? What if he didn’t have it handy? Should she call Brownie? How can our customs and immigration people let such scum into the country? Don’t they have eyes? Does this Gerard-monster look normal? Does he look like some sort of safe, boring French tourist or something? Should she bring a gun? Her dad would have one. God! She thought suddenly: she couldn’t tell her father the full story behind why she needed the money. He’d never let her meet this creep all alone in a darkened mall parking lot.

  “Hello? Cherokee Country Club.”

  “Yes, could you please see if my father is there tonight? John Newberry?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Newberry is upstairs. One moment and I’ll connect you.”

  “Thanks.” How were they going to make sure Gerard Dubois didn’t bother them again? How were they going to get him out of their lives permanently?

  Then, her dad’s strong, gentle voice was on the line.

  “Hello, sweetheart? What’s up?”

  3

  The towers surrounding Lenox Square, the Southeast’s once super-eminent shopping mall, loomed over all avenues leading to the retail complex. Mingling with the massive, full-leafed trees that lined nearly every street in Atlanta were the “me-too” office structures, strange testimony to an architectural confusion the city seemed intent to promote. The combination of trees and towers gave the part of Peachtree Road that led directly to the front of Lenox Square a feeling of secrecy, as if anything could be hiding behind them, from an upscale book store to a fast food restaurant, to a maniac with a hunger for killing.

  Maggie left the lights and late-night traffic of Piedmont Avenue and, turning right, drove slowly down the subdued stretch of Peachtree Road in front of the Financial Center and the Swissotel.

  She glanced briefly at her purse in the seat next to her. Five thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills. Almost like her father had expected to need it handy one day.

  “Are you sure this will be enough to help your friend, Maggie?”

  “Yes, Dad. I’ll be able to give you full details later.”

  “I understand.”

  “It has to do with Elise, Dad,” she’d blurted.

  “I understand, Maggie. I trust you that you, personally, are in no danger?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Very well. Call me when it’s done.”

  And he hadn’t wanted any more than that.

  Maggie shivered. A part of her was sorry that he didn’t want to know it all. That he hadn’t demanded the truth. But he really didn’t want to know. He wanted to throw money at it, to trust Maggie that this would be the end of it or, if not the end, then that money would handle it again next time. Did she really believe that about him? She stared at the slightly winding, too-dim road ahead. Elise would have believed it.

  Maggie waited at the light and glanced up briefly at the Swissotel which ascended to the west of the shopping complex and wondered if Gerard Dubois was registered there. More likely, he was settled in at one of the pimp-cribs downtown where shootings and drug overdoses were as prevalent as clean towels. Probably more so.

  Sitting at the traffic light, a movement caught her eye, like shifting vapors behind the trees whose unruly branches were so long they reached out and nearly touched her car. Would Gerard come on foot, she wondered? She stared into the somber web of trees and thought she could make out the form of someone standing there, watching her. Within seconds the light changed and the half-seen figure dissolved into the deepest shadows until she wasn’t sure she’d seen anything at all. Slowly, she turned into the nearest parking area of Lenox Square.

  Her eyes darted to the full width of the parking lot as she drove cautiously to the building entrance. There were only a few other cars in the lot, the mall having closed two hours earlier.

  She decided she was too nervous to park very far away from the mall itself. Even as a darkened, abandoned hulk, it seemed to serve as a source of security to her, perhaps from years of mindless, depression-solving shopping junkets there. She peered closely at the nearest car—about a hundred yards away—as she parked her Mitsubishi. There didn’t appear to be anyone in it, but of course, he could be hiding, crouched down on the floor boards.

  A cold wave of fear fluttered over her. Carefully, while scanning the dimmed parking lot, her fingers fumbled for the small leather-encased tube of mace she kept at the end of her key chain. The parking area was almost quiet. Only the faint hum of traffic from Piedmont came filtering down to her in the little cement valley.

  Don’t these places have mega security? But there seemed to be no activity, no movement anywhere, as if, when the doors had closed at ten and the last shopper had finally been expelled, the whole shopping arcade had been vacated by managers, restaurant workers, maintenance and clerks as well.

  She had tried to call Brownie earlier but there was no answer. Probably on one of those “sexless” dates he insists he has, she thought. She was sorry now she hadn’t left a message on his machine. She gripped the steering wheel tightly and felt the knots in her stomach clench and unclench and clench again.

  Would this be the end of it? Would he just take the money and fade away? Was Roger okay? What about Laurent? Does Gerard know Laurent too? Her stomach tightened again.

  She heard the car before she saw it. Sitting bolt upright, clutching her mace tightly, she held her breath as the car approached. It crept slowly towards her, its headlights turned off. Inside, Maggie could see two people, one head—considerably lower than the driver’s—looked like it belonged to a small child. For one irration
al moment she thought: my God, he’s taken Nicole! The dark-colored car pulled up next to her and stopped.

  Maggie gaped at the car’s driver. His face was illuminated by one foggy streetlight overhead and Maggie could see, with surprise, that Gerard was handsome. She was stunned that the man who would destroy her sister, torment her niece, and blackmail her entire family—could actually be something other than physically repulsive. Even reminding herself of Ted Bundy’s precedent didn’t change the mixed feelings she now had as she looked at the man.

  “Mademoiselle?” His voice broke the silence. High and ugly, it distorted his pleasant face and created a leering visage of wickedness. “Gerard is here, n’est-ce pas? You have the money?”

  Afraid to take her eyes off him, Maggie fumbled for the packet of bills in her purse and tossed it through her window into his hands. Instantly, she started her car and pushed the gear into place, ready to peel out and away from the man.

  “Attendez!” he shouted at her and she thought for a moment he was going to get out of his car. The form next to him, huddled in the shadows, hadn’t moved at all.

  “You don’t have to count it,” she said breathlessly. “Now, leave us alone, do you understand?” Maggie knew her voice sounded frail and she hated herself for it.

  He laughed, a shiny web of spittle forming on his lips. How could Elise have loved this? Slept with this? Maggie shivered, the hand on her stick shift still holding her tube of mace.

  “I give you a little something too, eh?” He pushed his face through his driver’s side window, so close that Maggie could smell the wine on his breath. She was suddenly angry to think he had been out having dinner somewhere, enjoying a glass of wine or two, while she’d been scraping up five thousand dollars and worrying her father.

  “Never contact us again. Do you understand? We’ll call the police next time.”

  He spat at her, a fleck of the spume grazed her cheek as it splattered against her car door. Her foot slipped from the clutch and the car stalled. Before she had time to re-start it again, she saw Gerard lean over the child seated next to him in the car, jerk open the passenger side door and push the form out onto the parking lot tarmac.