by James Hayman
The path forks more than once. Each time, unlike the poet Frost, I take the path more traveled by. The one I fear most. The one that leads to the bridge.
After a two-mile hike the pine and spruce become sparser. I climb the short steep rise that leads to the tracks that cross the bridge. I see her almost immediately. She’s standing in the middle of the bridge, holding the rusty guardrail, looking down at the water that’s rushing below carrying large chunks of ice with it.
“Hannah,” I call out.
She turns her head in my direction. “No!” she cries. “Please no! Please let me go!”
I’m afraid to come any closer. She’s balanced precariously on the edge of the rail bed looking down through the rusting steel crossbeams of the bridge. I want to rush toward her but I’m afraid any sudden movement will panic her. Send her over the side and into the freezing water twenty feet below. I’m even more afraid that it’s her intention to let herself fall into the water on purpose. Not to hurt herself but to avoid being raped.
“Hannah, please come to me.” I say it just loudly enough for my words to reach her ears. I hold out my hand. “Please. We’ll make it all right. I promise. We can make it all right.”
“I want it! I want it! Please fuck me!” she screams into the night, and I know that no matter what I say she isn’t here in this place on this night but in another place I have never forgiven myself for bringing her to on a night twelve years ago when we were both young and hopeful. Looking forward to happy and fulfilling lives stretching endlessly before us.
With a last cry of pain, she climbs over the low guardrail faster than I can move to get to her. She falls and disappears into the darkness. Then I see her. Her arms, trapped inside the heavy parka, struggling against the flow. I watch the icy, fast-moving water carry her under the bridge. I run to the other side and jump in myself. My flashlight goes out. I lose sight of her. I become disoriented turning this way and that in the water. Once or twice I think I see her and try swimming toward her. But my heavy jacket pulls me under. As I struggle to get back to the surface, I look everywhere but I know that she’s gone. I pull off my jacket and manage to swim to the side and scramble up the bank. I’m freezing and I know I won’t last long at eighteen degrees, soaking wet and without a coat. I force myself to jog the quarter mile or so to the main road. I wave frantically at the first pair of headlights I see. Thank God they belong to a police cruiser. A sheriff’s deputy I’ve seen before pulls up. Practically incoherent I babble, trying to tell him what has happened. Trying to tell him to hurry. He calls it in. Sends for help. He turns the car’s heater on high, flips on his siren and flashers and drives me to the emergency room at the Wentworth-Douglass Hospital in Dover eight miles away.
Hannah’s body washed up after daybreak some two hundred yards downstream from where I emerged. The medical examiner lists hypothermia as the cause of death. Perhaps I’m the only one who knows the medical examiner is wrong. I am the only one who knows that the true cause of Hannah’s death is what happened twelve years ago in a filthy room at Holden College. And at that moment I swear to myself I will take the lives of those who took hers.
Chapter 2
Portland, Maine
March 2014
FOODIES HAVE LONG considered the Port Grill one of the best restaurants not just in Portland but in all of New England. During high tourist season reservations have to be made weeks in advance and even in winter the place is jammed just about every night. However, by ten o’clock on this particular Tuesday night in early March, the last of the diners have finished their desserts and coffee, paid their bills and cleared out. Except for the remaining kitchen and waitstaff, the restaurant was nearly empty when a single woman walked in, hung up her coat and found her way into the small, cozy bar. She looked around. A pair of twenty-somethings occupied a small table to her left, each apparently enthralled with the other’s questionable charms. Ahead, alone at the far end of the bar, sat Joshua Thorne.
He was sipping a martini and chatting up the female bartender who, judging by the rapt expression on her face, seemed to be buying whatever Josh was trying to sell. And why not? At thirty-four, he retained the trim athletic build of the star quarterback he’d been twelve years earlier at Holden College in upstate New York. A Division III star but a star nonetheless. Given that he was even better-looking in person than he was in his photo, and since he seemed to be telling his tales with an easy, attentive charm, a lot of women no doubt bought his bullshit. And yes, the bartender definitely seemed to be one of them.
The woman’s eyes took in Josh’s broad shoulders, flat stomach and slender waist. Her briefer told her he worked out strenuously and regularly and it showed. His dark hair revealed a few hints of gray around the temples. These lent his face a kind of youthful gravitas that she guessed helped make him as successful as he was.
Walking across the room, she could feel his eyes slide from the bartender to her. Could feel him studying her as she climbed onto a stool. Not the empty one next to him but three down. Not so close as to seem obvious. Not so far away as to seem distant. She acknowledged his look with a glance and a perfunctory smile, then turned away.
He continued watching with obvious interest as she took off her jacket and hung it onto the back of her barstool, revealing a creamy silk blouse, one selected to show her nearly perfect figure to best advantage. And to offer Josh, at this angle, just a modest hint of cleavage.
Aware that he was still studying her, she found herself thinking she might just allow herself to enjoy a side benefit or two. Why not? No one ever said she couldn’t have a little fun on the job.
Like her, Josh had hung his suit jacket on the back of the barstool. Even from three stools away its soft, dark gray pinstripes looked well-cut and very, very expensive. She’d been told Josh had his suits custom-made, bespoke as the Brits called it, by a London tailor named Henry Poole at number 15 Savile Row. More than five thousand bucks per suit. And why not? Why shouldn’t someone like Josh spend that kind of money on himself? He worked insane hours and earned a generous seven-figure income. With all that dough who could argue with five thousand dollars for a suit? Josh, no doubt, figured he deserved the best, not just in clothing but in whatever interested him, most particularly in the women he liked to spend his nights with. And if he wanted the best, well, for tonight at least, that was unquestionably her.
The woman took note of his shirt. Blue and white striped cotton. French cuffs riding just high enough to reveal a gold Rolex. The cuffs themselves held together by a pair of gold cuff links, which, from where she sat, looked like they had his initials engraved on them. His shirt was set off by a dark red tie with a small diagonal pattern running upwards from left to right. Hermès, she thought. Or perhaps Ferragamo. Attached to his trousers, a pair of suspenders in the same shade of red. She wondered if Josh called them braces. Probably. One of the affectations guys like Josh made part of their persona after hitting it big on Wall Street.
As the bartender approached to take her order, she could feel his eyes still focused on her. He seemed to like what he saw. No surprise there. She had shoulder-length blonde hair. A more than pretty face and a body to match with slim shapely legs set off tonight by a black pencil skirt and a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes. She’d chosen the shoes because she suspected Josh would recognize the trademark red soles and appreciate the thousand dollar price tag. Her only jewelry was a simple, gold Elsa Peretti open-heart pendant around her neck and a $38,000 diamond studded Patek Philippe watch on her left wrist, which, sadly, she’d been instructed to return after the job was done. Her fingers were bare, adorned neither by elaborate diamonds nor simple gold bands.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked, looking a little grumpy at being aced out of her evening with the QB.
“Vodka martini,” the woman said. “Extra dry. Double Cross if you have it.”
“We do,” said the bartender, “but I should mention we’ll be closing in twenty-five minutes.”
<
br /> “More than enough time for one martini.”
The girl nodded and went off to mix the drink.
Joshua Thorne was still looking at the woman with obvious interest.
“Double Cross?” he asked from his corner seat. “I don’t know that brand.”
She turned her head and smiled. “You should. It’s very good. Very expensive but very good.” She didn’t add she enjoyed the irony of the brand name given the nature of the occasion.
The bartender set the drink in front of her.
Josh drained the remaining drops from his own glass. Rose and moved toward her. “Mind if I join you?” he asked, indicating the stool next to her.
She paused for a moment before responding. “Not at all.” She smiled. “In fact, I’d enjoy the company.”
He signaled the bartender. “I’ll have what she’s having,” he said.
The woman’s smile morphed into a soft throaty laugh. “When Harry Met Sally?” she asked.
Josh’s face betrayed no recognition of the film, the line or even Meg Ryan’s famous fake orgasm. Perhaps he had no time for old movies. “I guess that depends if your name is Sally,” he said.
She shook her head. “No, ‘I’ll have what she’s having’ is just a classic line from an old movie. My name is Norah. You’re not, by any chance, called Harry, are you?”
“No. I’m Josh.” He offered a hand. She shook it.
As she did, she glanced down at the fourth finger of his left hand. No ring. No surprise. After all, why give the game away when you’re so obviously on the prowl?
“So shall we call this particular movie When Josh Met Norah?” he asked.
“Why not?”
“So what kind of movie shall we make it? A romantic comedy?”
“A bit soon for romance.” She smiled. “As far as comedy goes, who knows? Are you funny?”
“Oh, absolutely. A regular Woody Allen.”
“A little taller, I think.”
“Yes, just a bit. Though for a funny-looking short guy he certainly attracts some interesting-looking women.”
“That’s what being a powerful director will do for you.” She decided to change the subject. “Do you live in Portland, Josh, or are you here on business?”
“Business. I live in New York but I come to Portland quite often. I have a client here.”
“I see. And does your wife come with you?”
He held up his left hand with its ringless finger. “Divorced. Three years ago,” he said with the practiced ease of the habitual liar. “How about you?”
“No. Never married.”
“Why not?” he asked. “Haven’t met the right guy yet?”
“It’s more that I don’t put much faith in long-term relationships.”
“Probably wise.”
The bartender returned and set Josh’s martini in front of him. “Your Double Cross, Mr. Thorne.”
“Thank you, Andie.”
“It’s my pleasure to serve you.” The girl’s sarcastic tone betrayed the irritation she felt at Josh’s interest having shifted so quickly from herself to this last-minute replacement. She went back to the task of getting the bar tidied up for closing, now only fifteen minutes away.
“Andie? I guess you’re a regular here.”
“Not really. She told me her name earlier. As in ‘Hi, I’m Andie. What can I get you?’”
“And you told her your name?”
“I did.”
They raised their glasses, clinked and sipped.
“Umm, you’re right,” said Josh, “this is good. Very smooth. So do you live in Portland?”
“No, I live in New York as well. Lower East Side. But I come to Portland quite often. I keep a house here in town.”
“Oh really? And why is that?”
Before she got a chance to answer, Josh’s phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, then put it back in his pocket.
“I’m sorry. Just a text from an old friend.”
“Oh, do you need to answer it?”
“Nah. Nothing urgent. I’ll take care of it later. You were telling me why you keep a house in Portland.”
She shrugged. “Nothing mysterious. I’m from here. It’s the house I grew up in and it holds a lot of memories. So when my parents died and I inherited the house I decided to keep it.”
“And what do you do in New York?”
“I work for an ad agency. Account management. How about you?”
“Wall Street. I’m with a small investment bank.”
“A small investment bank? Now would that mean you make small investments? Or that the bank is small?”
Josh thought that was funny. “No, our investments are mostly quite big. Very big, in fact. It’s the bank that’s small. Just a couple of hundred employees.”
“Sounds big to me. My agency only has a dozen or so.”
The bartender came over and handed them each a check. “I’m very sorry but we’ll be closing in a couple of minutes,” she said, now eyeing Norah more with resignation than hostility. “You can finish your drinks but I’ll have to cash you out.”
Norah reached for her check. Josh’s hand got there first. “Please let me.”
“There’s no need.”
“No, but I insist.” As he signed the bill, he said, “Listen, this has been fun. I’d love to have a little more time to chat. Maybe get to know you better. I’m staying at the Regency up the street. Their bar’s open late. Why don’t you join me there for a drink?”
Norah wrinkled her nose. “Hotel bars are boring,” she said. “I have a better idea. Why don’t we go to my place? It’s only a few minutes away and not only is it more comfortable than a hotel bar there’s also a whole bottle of Double Cross in the freezer just waiting to be opened.”
The surprise on Josh’s face was subtle, but definitely there. Norah wondered if she’d been too aggressive. Made the invitation too obvious too soon. Would the fish slip the hook and swim away? Or was Joshua Thorne so eager to get into her pants that directness didn’t matter? She suspected that was the case.
“Works for me,” he said, sliding off the barstool. “Not only good booze but I get to see where you grew up.”
They put on their jackets and retrieved their coats. Norah led the way out of the restaurant onto a wet, chilly and totally empty Fore Street. They turned left and went down a short flight of stairs to a parking lot reserved during dinner hours for the restaurant’s customers. Norah’s rented Nissan Altima was the only car still in the lot. They climbed in; she pulled out and turned right onto Commercial Street.
“You said you come to Portland often?” she asked.
“Quite often. Particularly in the last six months. I’ve been working on financing a deal for a company called Trident Development and there’ve been a bunch of glitches delaying closure.”
“What kind of glitches?”
“Mostly political. Your hometown’s planning board is frankly a humongous pain in the ass. But I think we’ve overcome most of the problems. With any luck the deal should be signed and sealed by tomorrow or the next day at the latest.”
“I’m wondering,” said Norah, “if you’re talking about that huge condo complex Trident wants to build on the waterfront? Down at the foot of Munjoy Hill?”
“Yup. That’s the one.”
“I’d be careful who you mention that to,” Norah said with the barest hint of a smile. “There are people in this town who’d stone you to death if they found out you were the guy financing that one.”
“Really? I’d be stoned?”
“Stoned.”
“I’ve always kinda liked getting stoned.” Josh grinned. He seemed pleased with his own questionable wit.
“Sadly,” she said, “the stoning I was referring to would be more biblical in nature.”
“Ah, I see. And are you one of the ones who’d be stoning me?”
“If that monstrosity ever gets built, it’s certainly a possibility. I like t
his town the way it is.”
Norah decided it was time to change the subject and started pointing out the sights of the city as she took a series of rights and lefts. A little more than five minutes later she pulled the Altima into the driveway of a modest wooden house that looked like it had been built during the Eisenhower administration. She clicked a remote control. The door to an attached garage rolled open and the interior lights went on. She drove in. The garage door closed behind them.
Chapter 3
RACHEL THORNE CHECKED the time on her phone. Nearly two in the morning and she still couldn’t sleep.
It had been more than an hour since she’d gotten into bed. More than three hours since getting home from a depressing Chinese dinner and a stupid rom-com she’d bullied Annie Jessup into seeing because she, Rachel, thought she needed both company and distraction. And maybe she did. But, as it turned out, Annie wasn’t the best choice. During dinner she wouldn’t stop bitching about her latest boyfriend, who seemed more interested in her as good-looking arm candy and a more than willing fuck-buddy than as a serious and complex human being with many admirable traits and a worthwhile career of her own.
Join the club, honey, was Rachel’s first thought but she didn’t say anything. She hoped the movie would serve to cut off Annie’s bitching. Which it did. Unfortunately, in spite of praise from the Times’s reviewer as a “light, frothy feel-good confection,” the film turned out to be a cloying two-hour bore filled with stupid sight gags and unfunny bathroom humor.
When Rachel finally got back to the apartment she was feeling both on edge and not in the least sleepy. Instead of going straight to bed she poured herself a large glass of red wine. A fifty dollar Cabernet from a vineyard that Josh had proclaimed “really exceptional.” She plopped down in her favorite oversized easy chair, tucked her legs beneath her and sat, sipping wine that, as it turned out, was okay but in no way exceptional. Rachel drummed her nails impatiently on the table next to her chair. She so wanted this day to be over. But it wasn’t. At least, not technically. As she sipped she looked out over the spectacular view of the lower Manhattan skyline through the floor-to-ceiling living room windows and tried to clear her mind of ugly thoughts. She briefly considered trying the ohm, ohm, ohm chant Annie told her would help but decided not to. That kind of woo-woo stuff never worked for Rachel. Probably because she thought it was all kind of stupid anyway. She finished the last few drops of wine and decided a second glass wouldn’t hurt. She poured it, returned to her seat and dug her phone from her jeans pocket. Still nothing from Josh. Maybe there wouldn’t be anything, but she supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go on record as trying again.