Night Tides

by Alex Prentiss

  “I’m looking for Ethan Walker,” Rachel said.

  “He’s not in at the moment. May I take a message?”

  What message could she leave? Came by your office to see if I still get weak-kneed at the sight of you? “No, thanks, I’ll try back later.”

  “He won’t be in the office at all today,” the receptionist said.

  “Thanks,” Rachel said, and turned on her heel. When she got to the stairs again, she stopped, leaned against the rail, and took several deep breaths, surprised at how nervous she had been. What did she expect to happen? That he’d appear, throw her across the nearest desk, and act out the fantasy that kept replaying in her mind?

  A sudden wave of weariness made her sit on the top step and lean against the painted concrete wall. She licked her lips, tasting salt from sweat unrelated to temperature. Then she dialed the cell-phone number on the business card.

  It rang twice before a confident masculine voice said, “Ethan Walker here.”

  “Is this Ethan Walker?” Rachel asked before she could stop herself.

  He chuckled. Some sort of engine rumbled in the background, and voices shouted in Spanish over it. “Yes. And who’s this?”

  Grateful that he could not see her blush, she said with extra dignity, “This is Rachel Matre.”

  “I’m sorry, there’s a lot of machinery here. Who?”

  “Rachel… Matre,” she repeated, her voice echoing in the stairwell. “I own Rachel’s Diner, off Willie Street.”

  There was a long pause, during which she heard more Spanish and the sound of metal pounding on metal. Finally Ethan said stiffly, “What can I do for you, Ms. Matre?”

  “Uh, actually, I thought I could do something for you.”

  Did she imagine the little catch in his voice when he asked, “And what’s that?”

  “Buy you lunch.”

  “At your diner?”

  “Well, that’s an idea, but I’m in the stairwell of your office building downtown, so it might be closer, and maybe better, if we meet on neutral ground.”

  Again the silence and the noise of whatever construction he was supervising. Then he said, “Yeah, okay. Do you know where the Angelic Cannery is?”

  “On Johnson Street?”

  “That’s it.”

  She looked at her watch. “I can be there in five minutes.”

  “It’ll take me thirty.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  She snapped the phone closed and put it back in her purse. She was breathing quickly and shallowly all of a sudden. There was no way this could go well; at most she would end up with a clear conscience, knowing that she had tried and could therefore look Marty Walker in the eye when he asked what happened. Besides, she was certain Ethan Walker didn’t date women like her. His type was probably blond, professional, with an immaculate ward robe and a solid golf swing.

  Someone like that Cap Jo reporter, she bet.

  ETHAN STARED at the phone in his hand. Had that just happened? He opened it again and pulled up the recent calls. Sure enough, there it was. She had called him, and they had made a lunch date. Son of a gun.

  He ran a hand through his hair. He’d committed himself without thinking it through and suddenly felt both foolish and, inexplicably, afraid.

  His foreman, Richie, stopped a few feet away. “You all right? Did you get some bad news?”

  “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I’m okay. I just… I have a meeting downtown in half an hour. I’ll be back around two. Keep things moving, will you?”

  “As if you were an angel on my shoulder,” Richie assured him.

  FAITH LUCAS and Carrie Kimmell looked silently at each other over their duct-tape gags. The basement was sweltering again, and the dim light that filtered around the edges of the tiny blacked-out window allowed them to just make each other out. Both women were exhausted, thirsty, and starved, and their bodies burned with pain. Their captor would bring them water soon and maybe another handful of saltines, just enough to keep them alive. But their thoughts were entirely focused on the fate of the Asian girl who’d been taken away and had not returned.

  Faith sat with her bare shoulders against the wall. Her wrists were raw, and she felt blood trickle from the furrows cut into them by the handcuff ties. The slippery lotion smeared on her skin made her thighs slide together, but the pain there was so insistent that she sat awkwardly bowlegged, her tied ankles crossed. She slowly worked her hands back and forth, gasping behind the duct-tape gag whenever the plastic strip worked into a sore spot. She was no longer terrified, she was simply numb, her feeble escape attempts now a mere reflex. The plastic would not break; she would not escape.

  Suddenly the basement door banged open. Both girls jumped, and Carrie inchwormed back against the wall, her shoulder against Faith’s. Their captor stood in the door, breathing heavily, and clearly alone. There was no sign of the Asian girl taken away the previous evening or the bottles of water they’d been expecting. Instead, the hand that pointed at Carrie trembled with either weariness or fear. “Now. You.”

  Faith sighed with relief. Carrie began to cry.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  WHY DID SHE HAVE to wear that skirt? Ethan thought as he stepped into the air-conditioned restaurant. Those exquisite legs as she rose from the bench beside the door made his own knees wobble. And, worse, the cold air had the usual effect it did on women’s nipples, and he had to force his eyes to remain above her neck. “Ms. Matre,” he said with a smile, feeling unaccountably like he had on his first date back in junior high. Christ, he thought, should he have brought her a corsage?

  RACHEL’S STOMACH did flips as she stood. He was silhouetted in the doorway like a chiseled statue, and as he moved into the amber-tinted interior light, his skin seemed bronze. Again she realized how young he was; he couldn’t yet be thirty. Was she metaphorically robbing the cradle, or at least the middle school?

  When he touched her hand, she got a sudden intimate tingle that almost choked her voice. This was no little boy. “Call me Rachel,” she said, glad the shiver hadn’t reached her throat.

  They followed the greeter to a table in the back, near the glass wall that displayed the huge beer vats. Ethan tried to hold her chair for her, but it was so unexpected that she ended up knocking it to the floor, where its crash echoed through the restaurant. Blushing, glad for the dim lighting, she picked it up and sat.

  “Sorry,” Ethan said as he took his seat opposite her. “Habit.”

  “It’s a nice habit,” she said too quickly. “It’s just something I don’t get very often.”

  The waitress brought menus and water. Rachel’s mouth was dry, so she drank most of hers in one swallow. She ordered a beer; Ethan requested a martini, extra wet. “I have to go back to work later,” he explained. “You know all those warnings about operating heavy equipment? They’re there for a reason.”

  After both had ordered their meals, Ethan said, “First things first. I apologize for last night. I just… I was out, you crossed my mind, and I drove by the diner to just… I don’t know. I didn’t realize you lived there too.” He spread his hands helplessly and smiled.

  “I’ve had some bad experiences with men being a little too pushy, so I’m probably oversensitive. If I’d come outside and said something to you at the time, we could’ve cleared it up without the police.” She took a deep breath. “And now it’s my turn. I’m sorry for throwing you out the other day. That was an overreaction. You meant well, and no harm was done.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a nod.

  They sat in awkward silence until Rachel finally said, “So you’re in construction?”

  He nodded. “It’s a small company, but we’ve gotten some nice contracts. Condos around the lakes and such. Might lead to bigger and better things.”

  “Are things that are bigger necessarily better?” Im mediately she winced at her choice of words, but he seemed not to
notice.

  He said, “No, I don’t think size is the only criteria for something’s value.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of beautiful property replaced by things that were bigger and heard all the reasons it was better. I’m not convinced. The old battery factory needs to be torn down, but God only knows what they’ll replace it with. More of your condos, probably. Homes to keep people from ever having to meet their neighbors.”

  He kept his tone light. “Well, everyone’s idea of beauty is different, I suppose.”

  She leaned slightly toward him, her eyes intent. She tried to keep her tone from growing shrill, but this was an issue she had strong feelings about. “Beauty? You call those new McBuildings beautiful? If we’re not careful, everyplace will look like everyplace else. If I see one more Walgreens go up where something original and special used to be, I’ll turn corporate terrorist.”

  He sat back, reacting to her intensity. After a moment he said lightly, “Good thing I don’t build Walgreens, then.”

  “I know, but you do build. Whether there’s a need for it or not.”

  “If you’re going to start by ripping me a new one over my chosen career, then we won’t have much to talk about,” he pointed out.

  She paused, then smiled and looked down. “I suppose you’re right. I actually do have manners, I promise.” She looked back up, tossing her head to get a stray curl from her eyes. “So, to be fair, is there anything you want to get off your chest about diners?”

  “No, I generally approve of them.” He paused, then added, “And the beautiful women who run them.”

  Their eyes met. A long moment passed before they simultaneously looked away.

  Finally Rachel said, “And own them.”

  “And own them,” he agreed.

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  He drank from his martini. “I guess it’s not really news if I say that I find you very attractive and would like to get to know you better.”

  “No, I’ve caught on to that,” she said coolly, hiding all the volcanoes erupting within her.

  “How do you feel about it?”

  She took a swallow of her beer. “I guess… well, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t also been thinking about you.”

  “So it’s mutual?”

  “It is.”

  He smiled.

  “But I should warn you, I don’t have a great history with relationships.”

  “With men in general, or just builders?”

  “Oh, it’s everyone. I was married once, and that ended badly. I haven’t really dated much, because I tend to attract—no offense—men who want to turn me into something else. And I have a lot of other… issues.” To put it mildly, she thought.

  “I’ve hit some relationship speed bumps too,” he said. He might’ve turned red as well, but she couldn’t tell in the uncertain light. “I think the trick is to start slowly and make sure we don’t cross any lines prematurely.”

  She nodded. “Okay. So how do we start?” Her body knew exactly how it wanted to start, and finish as well. But she kept that to herself.

  He thought for a minute, in that exaggerated way that meant he already knew the answer. “Why don’t we try dinner tonight and then see what happens?”

  She looked at him closely, suddenly seeing things she’d missed. He was physically big and had the confidence that went with that, but there was also something quieter, an assurance that came from self-knowledge more than any external source. He was who he was, and he was content with that. There was none of the self-pity the other men in her life had worn like a badge. The realization was almost like a breeze on a hot day.

  “Why don’t we, then?” she said at last, and smiled.

  THE BOY WAS looking for a quiet, shaded place to study for his upcoming physics test. He left the park’s worn path and climbed down the bank to where the big gray rocks marked the shoreline of Lake Monona on the isthmus’s southern edge. The century-old oaks blocked the sun, and the only sound was the irregular slap of the waves. He found a comfortable spot, kicked off his sandals, and prepared to open his laptop.

  Then he noticed the clothes.

  Jeans, shoes, socks, bra, and sleeveless T-shirt. No panties. The boy, an avid reader of The Lady of the Lakes blog, immediately suspected what he’d found and called 911 on his cell phone. Thanks to the driver’s license and debit card tucked into a pocket, the police quickly determined that the clothes’ owner was, or had been, Patty Patilia. She had last been seen leaving her nearby apartment three hours earlier. She’d been snatched in broad daylight barely four blocks from the state capitol.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE MAN CLOSED the basement door and got a beer from the refrigerator. It was so hot down there that he always felt like he needed a shower after each visit. His sweat-soaked underwear made him itch. Yet his beauties repaid him for their water by the way their skin glimmered and trembled in the light, and that was worth any discomfort. He discovered it was ridiculously easy to forget the Asian one who’d died.

  He sat at the kitchen table, lit a joint, and looked at his watch. It was only dinnertime, nowhere close to night. He longed for darkness, for the time to get behind the wheel of his truck again and go cruising for Rachel Matre. He’d learned her habits well enough now to know she would be out late, jogging along the lake, just as she’d done the night before. Finding her was just a matter of patience and luck, the former of which he could control. He trusted fate for the latter. After all, with the exception of the Chinese girl dying on him, everything had gone perfectly. And even that hadn’t really been his fault.

  He took a long drag off the joint. His fingers tingled as the chemical lethargy settled in. It would be time soon enough; for now, he could luxuriate in the anticipation.

  “THAT WAS NICE,” Rachel said as Ethan opened his truck’s passenger door for her.

  “You sound surprised,” he said as he took her arm and helped her down. She saw him admire the way the summer dress crept up her thighs; she appreciated the arm muscles visible past the cuff of his short sleeves.

  “Well, with all the misfires between us, I wasn’t getting my hopes up,” she said. She smoothed down her dress, a bright green floral pattern that she knew brought out her eyes. It stopped just above the knee, not far enough to be scandalous but certainly well within the come-ahead-Fred range. In a pinch, though, it could also mark the no-way-José line. She was still uncertain how to designate it for the evening, although the moment of truth was approaching fast.

  Ethan clicked the key chain, and the little chirp told him the truck was locked. She smiled at this little act of faith. What would he do if she left him stranded on the doorstep after a quick peck on the cheek?

  When she turned to face him, she tottered a little, as if the dress shoes were unfamiliar, and saw him suppress a chuckle. What he didn’t know was that the stumble was completely unrelated to the shoes. Instead, she was struck anew by his masculine silhouette, by the way his chest and arms strained against the polo shirt’s fabric while his waist didn’t even touch the material where it dangled over his belt. There was nothing threatening about this either, like with some muscular men. It simply made her knees wobble and filled her with the desire to run her hands over his chest.

  How will I get through this, she wondered, with my dignity intact?

  DINNER AT MADISON’S unique Ella’s Deli had been a delight, not least because Rachel didn’t have to cook any of it. Afterward, Ethan took her for a ride on the old-fashioned carousel outside. Finally they stopped at the Harmony Bar for drinks and left when the live music started.

  They’d both learned their lesson at lunch. All evening the conversation had steered mercifully clear of politics, religion, or anything remotely controversial. Instead, they discussed favorite songs, movies that made them laugh, and books that meant a lot to them. She was pleasantly surprised that he was so well read and delighted that he loved John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb.” And, most surprising for a male, h
e hated anything involving Adam Sandler. She told him about running and listened politely while he described his weight-training routine.

  The physical tension between them could’ve lit a cigarette, but she didn’t mention it. She forced it down, afraid of disconcerting him with the intensity of her erotic response. But she sensed that it was reciprocal, and by the time they arrived back at her diner’s door, she was sure they both wanted to simply rip off their clothes, throw themselves onto a bed, and get at it.

  Rachel put her key into the lock and stopped in mid-turn. This was the moment when she would decide what the hem of her dress represented. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face him. “I really enjoyed tonight, Ethan. Really.”

  “Me too.”

  She fingered one of her shoulder straps and looked up at the indigo sky. The Wisconsin summer sun stayed obstinately around until 9:00 P.M. Watching the last pink clouds to the west, avoiding his eyes, she said, “I know it’s still early, but part of me wants it to end right now, so that it’ll stay a good memory.”

  She could hear his disappointment, but he said, “I can understand that.”

  She forced herself to meet his gaze, faking an assurance she didn’t remotely feel. “Other parts of me are recommending somewhat… bolder action.”

  He put one hand on the doorjamb and leaned in close. Since she was on the first step, their faces were at the same level. He said, “Will you think less of me if I admit that the same thought has been on my mind most of the evening?”

  “Only most?”

  “Well, that steak was really good.”

  She laughed. She felt his breath on her lips, smelled the slight mix of beer, beef, and the Altoid he’d chewed on the way here. Then their eyes locked, and the moment seemed to go into that thicker realm of time where instantaneous events pass slowly enough to really absorb them.