Darkness My Old Friend

by Lisa Unger

  He heard the logic in her words. But he thought they weren’t the words of a fighter. She’d given up on herself. She didn’t think much of herself or her abilities. Perfect prey for someone like Kevin Carr. The sun moved from behind the clouds, and a milky light shone in on them. She turned her face to the window, a flower seeking the sun.

  “He was Prince Charming until I got pregnant, every girl’s dream. Handsome, wealthy, intelligent. Beyond that, you never see until it’s too late. It’s not until you get older that you realize only kindness matters, the courage to love and be loved. All the rest of it is a lie.”

  In all that time, not a car had passed on the road. No one peeked out from the back of the restaurant to see what she was doing. She seemed small and young. He wanted to take her home and tuck her in somewhere, bring her some tea.

  “You want your boy back?” he asked.

  She drew in a sharp breath, looked at him with some mingling of hope and fear. “I do.”

  He told her about what Paula Carr had said, how she knew that the things Kevin said about Robin couldn’t be true, because Cole was such a good boy. He told Robin how Paula said that Cole was so sad, missed his mother so much.

  “It was more than just letting Cole go,” she said. She wiped tears from her eyes with the napkin folded on the table.

  “You were afraid of Kevin.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not like he gets physical. There’s a strange blankness to him, like he’d be willing to do anything to get what he wants. When he was in my apartment, I was terrified. I couldn’t tell you why. He never threatened me, never put his hands on me.”

  Jones knew that it was the blankness that terrifies. When you look into the eyes of the sociopath, either you see the mask or you see the abyss. That’s what’s so frightening, just the absence of anything warm or familiar, anything human.

  “Paula was afraid of him, too.” Jones said.

  “And now she’s gone,” she said.

  Jones felt that angry rise he fought so hard to control. He thought it might be time to pay a little visit to Kevin Carr.

  “How long can you stay here?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said. She wiped her eyes again. “I’m already living on Patty’s good graces.”

  “Well, the service here is excellent,” said Jones. He had a hundred dollars in his wallet, his weekly “allowance.” He gave it to the girl; his wife would find this annoying, but not out of character. Besides, he knew she’d do the same thing.

  “I can’t take this,” she said. She pushed it back across the table. But he stood up.

  “Just stay here until I call you. This should keep you a couple of nights, right?”

  She looked at the money sadly. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said, and moved toward the door.

  “Are you going to bring him back to me?”

  He didn’t like to make promises. The world conspired against the heroic statements he often wished he could make. “I’m going to try.”

  They both knew it was the best he could do.

  chapter thirty

  Mercifully, the children slept. It wasn’t late, not yet seven thirty. But they were exhausted. Claire was in her portable crib in the corner of the large room, and Cameron sprawled, belly exposed, on the double bed beside her. The room was okay. Not hideous, clean. She had the shades drawn and the light beside her bed on dim, and she just lay there, looking up at the ceiling. Her parents wanted her to come back home. But she couldn’t do that. She’d taken the children. Legally it was kidnapping. She’d left the family home. There was no evidence of physical abuse. In fact, in their final conflict Kevin had borne the brunt of the injuries. He could say that she’d assaulted him and taken their children. Technically he was right. She had the gun.

  It was possible that he had called the police, that even now they were looking for her car. But a kind of numbness had settled over her. She’d been weeping at night after the children went to sleep. The days were hard, drifting from one restaurant to another, finding playgrounds so Cameron could play, nursing Claire in the backseat of the car while Cameron whined and complained in his car seat: Where’s Dad? I want to go back to school. This is the worst vacation ever. Why can’t we go to Disney World again?

  But tonight she didn’t have the energy to cry. She had to get strong, think about where they were going. She had a friend in Maine, her old college roommate. They’d reconnected on Facebook last year. Come by and see me anytime you’re in the area! Paula wondered if she’d meant it.

  The blue truck had taken Kevin’s right leg out from under him and sent him crashing to the floor. The gun had sailed through the air and landed harmlessly on the couch. She ran for it, but he turned and grabbed her ankle, bringing her heavily to the floor as well, landing hard on her right knee. She heard a snap, ugly and loud, then a rocket of pain up her thigh. He straddled her, sitting on her hips, holding her hands over her head, immobilizing her.

  “Paula, let’s talk about this,” he said. The words came through gritted teeth, a horrible grimace.

  She turned her face away and started to weep. He was so strong she couldn’t even move her arms.

  “Okay,” she said. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

  He looked at her a moment, suspicious. She tried for a sad smile. And after a moment he released her left arm to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “Okay, good,” he said. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

  She couldn’t believe how rational, how normal he sounded, as if this were any old argument a married couple might have. He smiled down at her, pitying, sympathetic. She felt a lash of rage, and it was over before she realized that she’d clenched her fist and slammed it against his face, purposely aiming her big diamond ring for his eye. She was thrilled to hear him wail in pain, his weight reeling off her. She ran for the gun. When she turned around with it in her grasp, he was right there. He stepped back, put his hands up. A thick line of blood ran down his face; his eye was red and already swelling. She’d hit him hard. But not hard enough.

  “Paula,” he said. “Be reasonable.”

  Her voice came out in an unintelligible shriek. “Get away from me!”

  She backed up the stairs; the baby’s wailing had reached a fever pitch. It was like a siren in Paula’s head. In slow motion they moved up the stairs, her backing up one step at a time, him pacing her.

  “This is not good, Paula,” he said. His voice was a warning. “What are you going to do, huh?”

  She took a deep breath, willed her voice calm. No more screaming; it made her feel out of control. She held the gun; she had the power now.

  “Don’t make me kill you, Kevin,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to. But I will.”

  She wasn’t even sure what he saw on her face or heard in her voice but he stopped in his tracks. She would kill him; he knew it. And he knew she could, too. She knew how to use a gun; her father had taught her. She knew she had a Glock in her hand, a semiautomatic without a safety feature. She knew there was a round in the chamber and nine in the magazine. She was a good shot; she knew to aim at center mass.

  He stood in the doorway of the nursery while she gathered the baby in her arms. Claire stopped crying against Paula’s chest, started rooting, rubbing her mouth against Paula’s breast. Her chest ached with engorgement.

  “If you let me leave here, I’ll call the bank once I’m safe, and give you access to that account. You can have the money if you let me leave with the kids.”

  He blinked at her, considering.

  “My mother is the beneficiary on that account,” she said when he didn’t answer. “If you kill me, it will go to her.”

  That part wasn’t true; it wasn’t even possible. She’d tried to do that at the bank, and they’d told her that she’d need written consent from her husband. All assets
transferred to the spouse in the event of her untimely demise. But maybe he didn’t know that.

  He lifted his palms, offered an appeasing smile. “You’re overreacting, baby. Let’s talk this through.”

  What was weird was, even in that moment she could almost believe that she was overreacting, that she was acting like a crazy person. He’d come after her with a gun and she’d effectively defended herself, and now she was wondering if she’d lost her mind. That’s how good he was. Or how weak she was. At this point who could tell?

  Everything was in the car. She’d packed enough for all three of them. It had been sitting there for months. Stroller, portable crib, toys, clothes, diapers, wipes, even a breast pump. She backed her way there, holding the baby in one arm, the gun in her free hand. He trailed her slowly, talking to her softly.

  “I love you, honey. Don’t do this. Look at me. I’m bleeding.” He started to cry. “Don’t take my children from me.”

  “Don’t call the school. Don’t call the police,” she said. “And when I’m safe, I’ll get you access to that money.”

  Inside her was a hurricane of terror and guilt, hatred and sorrow. But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her face looked hard and cold. She didn’t even recognize herself.

  Getting the baby into the car seat was tricky with one hand, but she did it. Mothers could do almost anything with one hand. Once the doors were locked, she stowed the gun under the front seat and backed down the driveway slowly, as if it were any other afternoon and she was off to get Cammy. She pressed the button on the visor to close the garage door. It came down, erasing the sight of her monster of a husband, who was no longer crying but smiling.

  The baby shifted in her sleep, sighed. Paula wanted so badly to call her mother. It had been three days and three nights that they’d been traveling. She’d read on the Internet that you should avoid using credit cards and cell phones, because that was how the police tracked people. So she’d been using the cash she had stashed in the car. She’d been very careful-until tonight. Tonight she’d had to use her card to book the room in this hotel. It was much nicer than the dumps they’d been staying in, horrible motels off the highway. Last night she’d stayed up all night with the gun under her pillow, listened to people walking by, voices raised in the other rooms, a television blaring. The police probably weren’t looking for her. After all, she’d made her deal with Kevin. A deal she had no intention of keeping.

  This hotel wouldn’t accept cash without a credit-card guarantee. She’d offered a cash deposit for incidentals. But they said it was their policy to allow check-in only with a card, even though she could pay in cash when she left. And she had to get a good night’s sleep. She was frayed and edgy with the kids. So she’d used her old card, one she hadn’t used in years. Maybe it wouldn’t show up until she checked out, though she’d seen them run it through a machine. And maybe no one was watching after all.

  She fought a few more minutes and then picked up the phone to call her mother collect.

  “Paula,” her mother said. “Honey, where are you?”

  “We’re okay, Mom. Has he called you?”

  “No,” she said. “He hasn’t. But a man named Jones Cooper has been leaving messages.”

  She’d forgotten all about him. How had he gotten her parents’ phone number? Why was he looking for her? There was only one explanation: Her husband had seen his number on her cell phone records and called him. Now Jones Cooper was looking for her.

  “Don’t tell him anything,” Paula said. “He’s a private detective.”

  “He said he wanted to help you. Do you think Kevin hired him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was getting that panicky, confused feeling she’d had on and off for days. They’d been driving in circles; she probably wasn’t more than two hours from The Hollows. She had no idea where she was going to go or what she was going to do.

  “Paula,” said her mother. Her voice was stern now. “You need to come home to us with those children. I’ve been making some calls. I found a lawyer, a good one who specializes in situations like this. He says you need to come home and file for divorce, get emergency temporary custody of the children, and file a complaint and a restraining order with the police. Let’s work this out the proper way.”

  It sounded right, a good course of action. But she was so afraid.

  “But what if he comes after us? Like that man in California. He came to the house during that Christmas party and killed all those people.”

  Her mother was silent on the line for a minute. Then, “At least we’ll all be together. I can’t have you out there by yourself with Cameron and the baby. I’m sick with it. Let us help you and protect you. We’re your parents, for God’s sake. We have to be safer together than you are alone.”

  Paula didn’t say anything. She wanted to go home. She needed to go home. The truth was, she wasn’t equipped to run with her kids, to stay in some shelter, hiding from her husband. She felt a wave of relief.

  “Okay, Mom,” she said. “I’ll come home in the morning.”

  She heard her mother release a long, relieved breath. “We’ll come get you right now. Where are you?”

  “It’s okay. I need to get some sleep, and then, first thing, I’ll load up the kids and come home. Maybe you can make an appointment with that lawyer for tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Are you sure?” her mother said. “We’ll get in the car right now.”

  She looked at Cameron and Claire, sleeping so peacefully. They needed to rest, and so did she. She couldn’t stand the thought of waking them up.

  “I’m sure.”

  She told her mother where they were staying, so that her mother could call if she wanted to, if she got worried in the night. Then she hung up, feeling better, as if everything somehow was going to be all right. She got up and checked the locks on the door. Then she placed the desk chair under the knob. She kept the light on but got under the covers and closed her eyes. For the first time in three nights, she slept, the gun in the drawer beside her.

  chapter thirty-one

  Just when it seemed to Willow as if her life couldn’t get any worse, Mr. Ivy came to dinner. Really? Really? Was she really supposed to put up with this? Once upon a time, wouldn’t it have been socially unacceptable, morally wrong, for your mother to be dating? Widowed, divorced-why didn’t she just give up?

  And to have it sprung on her like it was nothing. Oh, Willow? Did I tell you I invited Mr. Ivy to dinner?… What? When?… Um, tonight. And then Willow noticed that her mother was wearing a dress and not her usual leggings and big sweater. That her hair was down, not up in a bun. And she was wearing makeup! Oh, my God-do you like him?… I’m not a teenager, Willow. It’s just nice to have a friend… So he’s your friend… He’s not anything right now… Then why are you wearing perfume?

  And now he was sitting across from Willow. Eating. Slowly, deliberately-as of course he would. He was probably chewing everything twenty bites, just the way every mother in the world told you to do. He was that kind of guy. At least he’d lost the argyle sweater. He wore a denim shirt that was halfway cool. His hair wasn’t completely dorky. Maybe this was his date look, not his principal look. Because it was a date. They didn’t talk about Willow or how she was doing in school. The conversation wasn’t focused on her, though they had tried to include her.

  But he was literally hanging on her mother’s every word, leaning forward, laughing, smiling. Oh, they were having a grand old time. Over salad she could still convince herself that this was a big nothing, that her mother was just trying to be sociable. By the time they were finished with dinner (Bethany’s special Chilean sea bass in hoisin sauce with baby bok choy, which was so good that even Willow liked it), she knew. Willow realized by the blush on her mother’s face-and an interesting smile that Willow wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before-that Bethany did in fact like Mr. Ivy. By dessert Willow wanted to be sick. She couldn’t take it anymore.

 
“So what time is Richard coming this weekend?” she asked. “Didn’t you say he was coming? That he might spend the night?”

  Her mother looked at her with a cool smile. They knew each other so well.

  “Richard’s my ex-husband, Willow’s stepfather,” Bethany said to Mr. Ivy, who had stopped chewing. “And no, he won’t be spending the night. Nor has he ever, as Willow well knows.”

  Bethany and Mr. Ivy exchanged a look, a kind of knowing smile.

  “It was her second marriage,” said Willow. “Did you know that?” Oh, she felt it, that dark meanness, that black hole inside her. She was chastened for a minute by the look on her mother’s face. It wasn’t anger; it was pain.

  “Um,” Bethany said. Her mother looked down at her plate for a second. She had a death grip on the napkin in her hand. Willow noticed that Mr. Ivy had leaned back in his chair and looked down as well.

  “My first husband,” Bethany said finally, “Willow’s father, died when she was three.”

  He looked up at her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “That must have been… really difficult.”

  Bethany issued that little embarrassed laugh she had when things weren’t funny but she was trying to make light. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes,” said Willow. “She’s forgotten all about him.”

  When Bethany looked up again, Willow saw her awfulness reflected in her mother’s eyes. Willow knew she was a terrible girl for saying that; her mother missed her father every day. She knew that; Bethany talked about him all the time. How he had a beautiful singing voice, how he loved to clown around and make them laugh, how he could cook, how he loved to read and always believed that Bethany would be a successful writer, long before she’d finished her first novel. Willow knew all this, and she couldn’t stand to see that look on her mother’s face.