Darkness My Old Friend

by Lisa Unger

  Henry and Jones had both walked these woods hundreds of times, in spite of endless parental and teacher warnings about the abandoned mines and condemned structures scattered throughout the acreage. But as kids they all went back there to drink and smoke and make out. They went back there to explore, to escape the eyes of authority, to make believe. There was something about it, the sighing quiet of the old-growth trees, the coolness, the light through the canopy. How suddenly you could come across a sagging barn or an old house. And yes, the mines, of course.

  There wasn’t a boy in The Hollows who hadn’t walked into one of those death traps. Most of them walked out unharmed, he supposed. Now, as a parent and a cop who’d personally pulled two boys from bad falls back here, he found that the thought of kids exploring filled him with dread. But that was the hypocrisy of adulthood: You never wanted the children you cared about to do things you’d done when you were heedless of the fragility of life. He’d been hard on Ricky, too hard, only because he’d made so many mistakes himself as a young man, mistakes for which he’d paid a heavy price, for which others had paid with their lives.

  “I haven’t been back here in so long,” said Henry. “I think you stop doing that when you grow up, you know. Just walking with no destination, just being outside to be outside.” Jones was feeling a little breathless from the walk, but Henry seemed energized and light on his feet. He didn’t answer Henry, because he didn’t want the other man to hear how out of breath he was.

  “So what did you want to talk about, Jones?”

  Jones came to a stop, pretended to look around at the trees and up at the dimming sky. The air was cool but humid; it felt like rain.

  “Actually,” he said when he could breathe a little easier, “I was coming to talk to you about Marla Holt.”

  “Oh,” said Henry. A frown creased his forehead. “Really? What about her?”

  “Do you remember when she disappeared?”

  “I do.” Henry rubbed his crown. “It was a long time ago. She ran off. She left her kids and went away with someone.”

  Above them Jones heard cardinals. They were issuing the danger-alert call, a kind of shush-shush sound that cautioned the others to be still or hide. He looked up for the flash of their red feathers, but they’d hidden themselves well. In the sky above, two hawks circled.

  “I remember we talked, Henry,” Jones said. “You just lived a few doors down from the Holts.”

  “We did talk,” said Henry. He’d folded his arms around his middle. “Quite a bit, as I recall. It was your first case.”

  “There were rumors back then.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Henry. He looked down at the ground, moved some leaves with the toe of his brown leather shoe. “But Marla and I were just friends, if you can even call it that.”

  “Refresh my memory.”

  Henry offered a polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We jogged together every so often. I’d met her out on the street one evening. She’d been running ahead of me, turned her ankle, and fell. I helped her get home, and after that we were friends. We ran in the evenings sometimes after her kids were asleep, when her husband got home from work.”

  “Mack Holt didn’t have a problem with that?” asked Jones.

  In the early years of his marriage to Maggie, Jones hadn’t been thrilled about his wife’s relationship with Henry Ivy. Maggie and Henry had been best friends since high school. But Jones didn’t have any female friends, and he hadn’t understood why she needed Henry. Maggie wouldn’t budge. She’d said, A man who asks you to give up your friends will, over time, ask you to give up other important parts of yourself. Over the years Jones had come to accept their friendship.

  Henry shrugged. “If he did have a problem with me, she never mentioned it.”

  “Did you have feelings for her?”

  Henry rolled his eyes, gave Jones a weak smile. “Come on, Jones. She was a knockout. Everyone had feelings for Marla Holt. But I was-what? Twenty-five at the time, just starting as a teacher at Hollows High. I had no confidence, even less money. She was untouchable. I couldn’t believe she’d even talk to me.”

  Henry started walking again; Jones followed.

  “Did she ever confide in you?”

  “About what? An affair, plans to run off? No. I knocked on her door for our Thursday-evening run. She told me her husband wasn’t home, that she had the baby to care for. We chatted for a few minutes.

  Then I left.”

  “I remember there were phone records. You called, or someone called, from the school.”

  Jones saw Henry’s cheeks flush-effort or embarrassment, it was hard to tell. “I did try to call her.”

  “After her husband left for work?”

  Henry sighed and shook his head. “She’d seemed odd at the door. Upset about something. And, honestly, I was concerned. Then, of course, a few days later I learned she was missing.”

  “You were never a suspect, Henry. I’m not grilling you.”

  “Really? It seemed like you were looking at me pretty hard back then. It doesn’t feel much better now.”

  “You were crushing on her a little bit, right?”

  “A little bit, yes. But I wouldn’t do that. She was married with children. I’m not that kind of man now. I wasn’t even when I was younger.”

  And Jones knew that to be true. Henry Ivy was a good man. He ate dinner at their house, had cheered for Ricky at Little League, written him letters of recommendation for college. Sometimes he even came for Thanksgiving, when for whatever reason he couldn’t make it down to Florida to see his parents. They’d all been friends for a long, long time. But Jones also knew that Henry had always been at least a little in love with Maggie. That he’d never really, as far as Jones knew, had a serious relationship with a woman. And Jones wondered why Henry always wanted the women he couldn’t have. Maybe it was just bad luck. But maybe it was something else.

  “What else do you remember about her?” Jones asked.

  Henry stopped walking again, shoved his hands into his pockets.

  “I thought she was the saddest woman I’d ever met. She seemed lonely. But lonely at the core, as if there were no amount of love and attention that could ever make her not lonely. Does that make sense?”

  Henry’s words made Jones think of Abigail. Abigail Cooper, his mother, had been a black hole of need, a space that could never be filled. He’d spent his entire life trying and failing, until the day she died.

  “It does make sense.”

  “I don’t know what happened to Marla Holt, Jones.”

  They were standing before a clearing now. The locals called this place the Chapel. Toward the edge of the clearing stood an enormous, dilapidated barn. It had become kind of a local gathering place. Because of the way the sun shone in from the holes in the roof, creating golden fingers that reached into the darkness, the frescoes of graffiti on the ceiling, it had earned its name. They’d all been in there at one time or another over the years, though the thing looked like it could collapse at any time. Parties, make-out sessions, a few years ago Hollows PD had broken up a rave out here. Even from where Jones stood, he could see that the ground was littered with bottles and cans.

  The flecks of gold in the grass were shell casings. People in The Hollows liked their guns; they liked to come out here and fire off some rounds, teach their kids how to shoot a bottle off a wall. It was one of the big tensions in the community, between the wealthy people who had settled here in the last decade and the people who’d lived here for generations.

  “What are you looking for out here, Jones?”

  Henry walked into the clearing and squatted down to pick up a spent shell. He held it up under the beam of Jones’s flashlight.

  “I’m a little curious about what Michael Holt was doing,” said Jones.

  “He’s a caver, gives tours around here and in some of the other mining towns. I think he’s writing a book.”

  Jones hadn’t heard any of that. “Is that so? Ha
ve you ever heard that story about the mine where a body is buried?”

  Henry shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Me neither,” said Jones. Jones knew a lot about The Hollows, its past and its present, more than most. “We’ve both been here a long time. I feel like that’s a story someone would have told before now.”

  “I could do some research,” said Henry.

  Jones regarded Henry again. “That’d be great, if you have the time,” he said.

  “Happy to,” he said. “As you know, I’m a bit of a history buff, especially about this region.”

  Poor Henry, thought Jones. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. But he still retained that nerdy aura he’d carried around since grade school.

  “Someone needs to take the initiative to get this place cleaned up,” said Henry, apropos of nothing. He kicked at an empty vodka bottle. The label was mostly worn off, but Jones could tell that it came from the Old Mill Bar, where they distilled some of their own liquor. It was truly terrible, an instant headache and upset stomach if you weren’t used to it. But as kids, they all drank it. The Old Mill Bar was the only place where they could get served. Once upon a time, it was well known that they turned a blind eye to even the least convincing fake ID.

  “It’s private land,” Jones said. “The Grove family owns it and still pays taxes on it-just like the abandoned O’Donnell farmhouse about a mile north from here. It’s a mess like this, too.”

  They left the clearing and walked a little farther west. The girl had been unsure about where she’d seen Holt digging, hadn’t even been able to find it herself again. But Jones thought there was another clearing about five minutes from where they stood.

  “I’m going to head back, Jones, if you don’t want to talk about anything else.”

  Jones wished he could shake the feeling. He’d had it years ago when they’d talked about Marla Holt. Henry Ivy wasn’t being completely honest. There had been five calls from Hollows High over a three-day period. That was more calls than the average person would make if he were mildly concerned about a running partner, wasn’t it?

  “Just do some thinking for me, will you, Henry? I suspect that the Hollows PD is going to reopen this case. And even if they don’t, the Holt kid has hired Eloise Montgomery and Ray Muldune.”

  There it was. A flash of something across Henry’s face, a slow blink.

  “Okay,” he said. He pressed his mouth into a line, as if he were already working on it, gave a quick nod. “I’ll do some thinking.”

  There was a rumble of distant thunder in the sky, odd for that time of year.

  “I hear there’s rain coming,” said Henry.

  “Oh, yeah?” They were both looking up at the sky. The light of the day was almost gone.

  “Yeah, they’re saying heavy rainfall.”

  “Well,” said Jones, “stay dry.”

  Henry turned and started to move quickly away. Jones didn’t necessarily want to be caught out there, alone in the dark. He had his flashlight, though he didn’t carry a gun with him every day anymore. Not that he was scared. But you didn’t grow up in The Hollows without a healthy respect for these woods, without those warnings and cautionary tales forever ringing in your ears. You never listened when you were young. But the voices lingered, came back at you when you were, ostensibly, old enough to know better.

  It was only when he got back out to the street that Henry realized he’d have to walk back to the school. He’d ridden over with Bethany Graves and had intended to ride back with Jones Cooper. It wasn’t a long walk, not even half a mile. But it seemed to Henry that for some reason he always found himself walking back somewhere alone. Not that he was feeling sorry for himself. It’s just that it did seem to be the way of things.

  He kept to the shoulder of the road in the gloaming. All he could hear were his own footfalls crunching the dirt and gravel beneath his feet. He thought about jogging it, but he was still wearing his work clothes. If anyone saw him, they’d think it odd. And he really didn’t need people thinking that. Although, given his being a bachelor past forty-five in a small town, people did think him odd. Or pitiable. Or gay. Which he wasn’t.

  The night he’d met Marla Holt, it had been spring going on summer. It was one of those nights, the air full of pollen, a little warmer than it had a right to be yet. It was humid enough that he broke a sweat in the first quarter mile. The leaves on the trees around him were that bright, vibrant new green that promised a long, lazy summer. That was one of the many things he loved about being a teacher-he could still feel excited about the seasons. Summer loomed with its hot days and swimming pools, trips to the beach, the vow to make good headway on that novel he’d wanted to write. Fall was the excitement of fresh beginnings, crisp textbooks and notebooks, new book bags and school clothes. The first snow brought the anticipation of the holidays, the Christmas play, and the formal dance at school. He loved all those things, and he’d never lost that, that excitement for the markers of the year. Even though the years hadn’t really delivered any of what he’d hoped for or expected. He’d never written that novel. He’d never married or had children. He’d never really done any of the things he’d thought he’d do.

  He’d seen her up ahead of him, moving slowly. She wasn’t an easy runner, he could see that. Some people, lean and light, with big lungs and small frames, seemed designed for speed. Others, like himself, like the woman ahead of him, had to work for every mile, felt every footfall. He slowed his own pace, because he didn’t want to run past her. It was so discouraging when people overtook you, glided by with ease. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, even someone he didn’t know, doing something that most people would do without a second thought. Then, in the next second, he saw her fold to the ground, issuing a little cry of pain and distress. He picked up his speed and came along beside her.

  “Are you okay?”

  She looked up at him and then back down at her ankle. “Oh, I’m okay. Just clumsy. I fall all the time.”

  He offered his hand, but she shook her head and pushed herself up. She limped a little circle.

  “I’m just going to try to walk it off,” she said. But he could see that she was in pain.

  “We should get some ice on that,” he said. “Keep the swelling down.”

  “Oh, you’re sweet. But I think I’ll be all right.”

  He pointed down the street. “I’m right down the road, let me run and get you an ice pack.”

  She gave him an embarrassed smile, and he noticed for the first time how beautiful she was. It was more than the sum of her features, her lush body, her creamy skin. It was more than that. She offered him her hand.

  “I know. We’re neighbors. I’m Marla Holt. Henry Ivy, right?”

  He took her hand in his, and he felt a kind of heat rush through him.

  “My son, Michael, came to your door the other day,” she went on. “You bought some candy from him for his baseball team. I waved from the curb.”

  “Of course,” he said. He did remember her son, who was striking with black eyes and very tall for his age. “Of course.”

  “I wasn’t a sweaty mess then, lying in a heap on the ground.” Her laugh was lovely, somehow managing to be self-deprecating and seductive at the same time. He walked her home that night. And then, without a word of arrangement between them, they started meeting out on the street, doing their miles together. It was nice, comfortable. They became friends. He wished it could have just stayed that way.

  Anyhow, it was a long time ago. He thought about her now and then, wondering where she had gone and with whom. He hadn’t imagined her to be the kind of woman to leave her children. But then again he didn’t know much about women, did he?

  He walked up the back drive to the school and then returned to his office. There he packed up his paperwork, including Willow Graves’s file. He closed and locked his door and started down the hallway. He felt like he’d been walking down these hallways all his life. He was going to head to the gym and then go home
for dinner, like most nights.

  He hadn’t dated in a while. That last woman he’d met on Match.com had turned him off the process a bit. Not that there was anything wrong with her, or with any of the women he’d met through dating services over the last few years. But there was a problem with misrepresentation. Henry was always meticulous in his descriptions of himself, his interests, his hobbies, and what he was looking for in a mate. What was the point of lying? What was the point of looking good on the page but not measuring up in person?

  On the drive to the gym, he thought about Jolie Marsh, Cole Carr, and Willow Graves. As a teacher, someone used to separating kids in class and in the cafeteria to minimize horseplay and conflict, he knew a bad combination of personalities when he saw one. It was a chemistry thing. Some people were good together, some were bad together. Jolie was a girl in pain, someone who acted out from that place, caused trouble, got herself in trouble. Willow was a pleaser, the perfect sidekick. And Cole Carr? Henry wasn’t sure yet. Cole was quiet, not a bad student. He hung out with some bad elements, like Jeb Marsh, Jolie’s older brother. Jeb was one of the kids Henry had lost, a dropout working now at the gas station-dealing weed, LSD, and Ecstasy if the rumors were true.

  But Cole Carr hadn’t been in any trouble at Hollows High. All his teachers said he was smart, did his work. More than one had commented that Cole might be exceptional if he applied himself. But he didn’t seem inclined to do that, skated by on the minimum he could get away with. If Henry had to guess, there were problems at home. The boy had that look to him-that lost, sad look Henry had seen before.

  He wondered if he’d made a mistake being lenient with Willow, if Bethany Graves had unduly influenced him. He was a little starstruck. It wasn’t often you met a bestselling author. But it was more than that. She was lovely, everything about her-the sound of her voice, the way she smelled. She was a good mother, gentle with Willow but not weak, not overindulgent. Anyhow, she was way out of his league. Wasn’t she? He didn’t even like to get his hopes up anymore. When it came to women, he’d learned that the old adage was true: Nice guys finish last.