A Dark Love

by Margaret Carroll

  Porter watched Crowley work to maintain his footing, shifting his stance so the toes of his brand-new cross-trainers were now pointing squarely across the street at his own front door, signaling this get-together had come to an end.

  Lindsay murmured something about keeping Porter and Caroline in her prayers. She did not ask if there was anything she could do to help.

  “What was that about? You nearly took my ankle off.” John Crowley basked in the air-conditioning as he locked their townhouse door behind them and kicked off his costly new exercise shoes.

  “That man,” Lindsay muttered, bending down to untie her laces before removing her exercise shoes one at a time.

  “He’s worried about his wife, who seems to have taken off,” he pointed out. He had met Caroline just once and she had seemed shy and ill at ease. The memory tugged at him. He made a mental note to call their daughter at college in Austin tonight before he went to bed.

  John Crowley had a well-earned reputation for being tough in business, but fatherhood had mellowed him. “Sounds like she’s in trouble.” The truth was, Moross seemed in need of help.

  “No.” Lindsay’s tone was sharp. She pulled off her socks and straightened up, wriggling her toes against the cool floor. “She’s not in trouble. She just got herself out of trouble.”

  John pulled his socks off and followed suit. It felt good.

  “I thought you said you saw her this morning at CVS drug store, and something seemed wrong. If it was nine o’clock that would be just about the time she walked away. The guy seems upset.”

  Lindsay jutted her chin into the air and blew a breath out through her upturned nose, a move John had come to know over the years. It showed his wife cared little for the facts surrounding a situation because her mind was made up.

  “I know he’s upset,” Lindsay said, meeting her husband’s gaze. “But there’s something about that man I just don’t trust.”

  “Yeah,” John said, reaching down to tuck a piece of Lindsay’s hair behind her ear. It was something he did out of habit as he reflected what he had learned during a career spent negotiating deals with Wall Street investment bankers, union lawyers, and even the president of the United States.

  “But if that girl walked out, it’s not because she’s crazy. It’s because she needed to get away from that man.”

  That man. Lindsay had made up her mind, no two ways about it.

  “It would be good to stay in touch with that girl,” Lindsay said thoughtfully. “But that man is someone I would not trust even one little bit.”

  John Crowley generally made up his mind after careful consideration of the evidence and all the facts, while his wife went with her gut in an instant. Ninety-nine times out of one hundred they reached the same conclusion. His wife had the sharp instincts of a jackal, a trait that had served team Crowley well over the years. “You know,” Crowley said now, “I don’t trust him, either.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Caroline must have dozed sometime during the night. She had wanted to stay awake, so as to savor every minute of her life here in the eighth row from the front of the Greyhound bus, where it didn’t matter that she had no identity, no home, no family, no friends. Just her and Pippin, safe inside their cocoon.

  As the morning wore on, the bus slowed, weaving its way through traffic. By eleven A.M. Chicago’s famous skyline came into view.

  The first leg of Caroline’s journey was coming to an end.

  The bus rumbled through downtown to the terminal. She followed the crowd inside, her eyes aching with lack of sleep, jumpy with nerves. She expected someone to grab her at any moment and force her to go back home. She waited in line at Amtrak and purchased a one-way ticket to Denver on the California Zephyr, departing that afternoon. She stowed the ticket carefully inside her tote before heading out into the searing midday sun. She had three hours to kill.

  A stiff breeze blew off Lake Michigan, whipping bits of trash around in tiny eddies. She released Pippin and the little dog stood, unsteady after so many hours in the tote. He shook himself top to bottom, panting heavily.

  “C’mon, fella.” Caroline gave the leash a gentle tug and was relieved to see him prance along beside her, his usual self, none the worse for wear. She made her way quickly along the unfamiliar streets, checking signs to get her bearings. She had charted it out beforehand on MapQuest.

  Within a short while, she reached her destination. A pawnshop. She was becoming schooled in the business of hocking jewelry, trading it for the cash she had smuggled out in her Keds. Just yesterday morning. It already seemed eons ago. She was already growing wise in the ways of her new life. Pawnshops, she now knew, were conveniently located near bus stations and train depots.

  She got buzzed in and deposited her wedding and engagement rings on a worn velvet mat of midnight blue. She waited while the man behind the counter studied them with the aid of a jeweler’s loupe.

  He named a price.

  Giving a quick shake of her head, Caroline named a price that was nearly double and waited, unsmiling. She had already learned the first rule of survival on the streets. Smiling was a sign of weakness.

  A short time later, she was six hundred dollars richer. She dined on a park bench overlooking Lake Michigan before heading back to Union Station to board the westbound Amtrak express.

  She collapsed against the upholstered seat, reciting a silent prayer as the train pulled out, carrying her from the Midwest and into her new life.

  Porter awoke to the persistent buzzing of the doorbell. It was not yet seven o’clock in the morning. He closed his eyes again, indignant, deciding to ignore it. And then realization hit him like a tidal wave. The bed next to him was empty. Caroline was not where she belonged. She was gone.

  Someone pressed the downstairs buzzer again in four long, persistent, evenly spaced bursts.

  Porter flew out of bed. He decided against his robe, pulling on his clothes from yesterday instead. Whoever was now rapping firmly on the brass knocker, Porter preferred to face in wrinkled clothes rather than wrapped in the fuzzy vulnerability of pajamas.

  He stopped long enough to grab his eyeglasses and run a hand through his hair. Hopefully it was the PI from Beltway Security Investigations with news of Caroline, news that could not be delivered by phone. An image came to mind of his wife far from home, badly injured or worse. The thought moved through Porter like a jolt of electricity, setting his nerves on end, as he undid the locks.

  And so his heart, already primed for bad news, was hammering uncontrollably when he yanked open the door to find two uniformed police officers on his front stoop.

  They watched unblinking while Porter stared, struggling to grasp the implications of their presence on his property at this unlikely hour of the morning.

  A radio squawked.

  Porter jumped, aware that this made him appear jittery.

  “Porter Moross?”

  He nodded, tried to swallow past the lump in his throat and failed, which made him queasy. He told himself they couldn’t hear the thumping of his heart inside his chest no matter how loud it sounded in his ears.

  The man doing the talking was shorter than his partner but no less broad across the shoulders. Together they took up every square inch of space on the tiny brick stoop and, it seemed to Porter, every last molecule of oxygen in the hot, humid air.

  The stocky one spoke again. “You have a wife, Caroline Hughes, who resides at this address?”

  “Yes.” An icy shudder began at the top of Porter’s head and traveled down his spine with lightning speed. This was bad. He squeezed his eyes shut and groped for the railing with one hand. “Oh, God, no.”

  “Take it easy, sir, everything’s okay.”

  Porter opened his eyes.

  The stocky one frowned. “I take it your wife is not at home with you now?”

  The hammering in Porter’s ears turned to thunder. He blinked uncertainly, forcing his mind to grasp what was being said. They had not come with news of his
wife.

  The stocky one repeated his question, louder now. “Is your wife here with you?”

  They were here to seek out news of his wife. “No,” Porter said warily as his mind shifted gears, racing ahead now.

  Lindsay Crowley.

  Bitch!

  He had been wrong to approach the Crowleys last night. He had hoped to prevail upon John Crowley to locate Caroline in the nationwide databank of commercial airline passengers. Porter knew Crowley and his nosy wife might come up with their own reason for Caroline’s sudden disappearance. He had no control over that.

  But Dr. Porter Moross knew the value of a half truth, how it could be used to ease doubts.

  So he had crafted a version of the truth, one that would appeal to a man like Crowley with daughters who lived out of state. Namely, that Caroline was not well and needed to be found and brought home. Which was true. But Porter’s gamble hadn’t paid off. Crowley had seemed cautious but willing to help. His meddling wife had not. She didn’t like Porter and never had.

  He now realized he had underestimated Lindsay Crowley. She was a loose cannon who had gone to the police with her concerns. She could have said things to arouse their suspicions so they would think him capable of almost anything, Porter realized.

  “She’s out of town.” Porter glanced down, licking his lips that had turned dry. He tasted salt. The sweat on his face prickled his skin. He took a swipe at it, willing himself to drop his hands before he scratched at the hives that were bubbling beneath his beard, making him itch.

  The cops merely watched him.

  The tactic was tried and true, as any mental health professional knew.

  And right now it worked like a charm on Porter, a fact he was aware of but had no control over. “She’s visiting her mother.” His mind skipped to his mother-in-law, sallow-skinned and in the end stages of alcoholism, staring out over the muddy waters of the Gulf from her third husband’s condo.

  Porter realized his mistake. It would take no more than a phone call to unleash a tirade about the hurt she suffered as the result of her only daughter’s longtime estrangement.

  The police would have something to go on if they caught him in a lie.

  “It’s a surprise visit. She might not be there yet,” he added, flailing about for options.

  “Guess she didn’t fly.” The tall one spoke for the first time.

  How could they know that? Porter’s eyes widened and he took a step back, aware that his unease was showing.

  “Sanitation turned these in last night.” The tall one, smiling now, handed Porter two small booklets that were a familiar shade of royal blue.

  Relief washed over Porter. “Thanks,” he murmured, accepting the passports with a hand he tried to keep steady. He let out a deep breath and forced a smile.

  “Sanitation found them in a trash can on Wisconsin yesterday, just up the block.” The taller one motioned with his chin.

  So Lindsay Crowley wasn’t behind this. Porter looked down, turning the passports over in his hand, fingering their compact weight. “Thanks,” he said again.

  “No problem,” the tall cop said. “Glad we could help.”

  The stocky cop was not smiling. He continued to watch Porter with a gaze that did not waiver. “Any idea how you and your wife’s passports went missing?”

  “Yeah.” The flood of adrenaline and its aftermath was too much. Porter dug at his beard, long and hard, giving in to the urge that always plagued him in times of stress. The move bought him a precious few seconds. “Someone broke in a couple days ago. They got some of my wife’s jewelry as well.”

  “Did you file any report with the police?” The tall one’s smile faded.

  Porter shook his head slowly for effect. “I know I should have, but I feel sorry for the guy. I mean, I know who it is.” He let out a long, deep breath. “Our cleaning woman is in some kind of trouble. Her husband came here on a tourist visa and I know for a fact it expired. I had to let her go. They’re here illegally. I’m sure they’re desperate for money.”

  The cops exchanged glances. “You know where this guy lives?”

  Porter nodded. “I should probably report him to the INS.” He hated cops.

  The shorter one spoke. “Look, Mr. Moross, I think you should come down to the station and file a report.”

  “Good idea. I should have done that right away,” Porter replied thoughtfully. “I’ll do it as soon as I grab a shower.”

  “That’ll be a help to us,” the shorter cop said, taking out a business card and handing it to Porter. “I’m Officer Mike Hartung.”

  Porter took the card, helpful now. “Thank you, Officer Hartung. Will do.”

  “We appreciate your time, Mr. Moross.”

  “No trouble, no trouble at all,” Porter said. “And, by the way, it’s Dr. Moross.”

  CHAPTER 5

  WESTBOUND AMTRAK CALIFORNIA ZEPHYR

  Caroline settled into a state that was neither full wakefulness nor sleep, willing herself to be lulled by the rhythm of the rails racing past beneath the train car.

  She tried, unsuccessfully, not to dwell on her chance encounter with Lindsay Crowley yesterday morning, and the possibility that this information might work its way back to Porter.

  It could be the death of her.

  Porter would use this information to his advantage, the way he always used every shred of information to his advantage in every situation, especially when it came to Caroline.

  Lindsay had spotted Caroline in CVS drug store at just after nine A.M., had seen Pippin with her, and might or might not have noticed the box of blond hair dye in Caroline’s shopping basket. It was not likely Lindsay would have had a chance encounter with Porter over the last two days and, if she had, it was even less likely she would have mentioned any of this to him. Caroline was certain Lindsay disliked Porter. Still, Caroline couldn’t help but think of the older woman’s easy chatter with everyone she met.

  That fact had made their friendship possible in the first place, despite Caroline’s goal of keeping to herself once she and Porter moved to Georgetown. The tall, elegantly dressed woman was impossible to ignore, despite the fact that Caroline had learned early in her marriage that she would pay dearly for any remark or interaction of which Porter disapproved. Caroline came to dread social occasions.

  So when an invitation to dinner was extended from their friendly neighbor across the street, Caroline murmured something about having other plans. The fact was she had no intention of telling Porter about it.

  “You must come and meet everyone, my dear,” Lindsay had said. “It’s so nice to see a young family move into our neighborhood. You’re adorable and I can’t wait to meet your adorable husband.”

  The next day an invitation was dropped inside their brass mailbox. The envelope was ivory, of an expensive vellum stock.

  Porter set it down in the center of the table. “What do you know about this?”

  Caroline’s heart sank. She picked up the envelope, turned it over, and knew by the address engraved on the back that it was the invitation to the Crowleys. “Oh, yeah,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “I think I remember.”

  The envelope had already been opened. Caroline removed the card that was engraved with a hot pink monogram.

  Porter watched her in silence. Waiting.

  The pleasure of their company was requested for supper at the home of John and Lindsay Crowley the following night.

  Lindsay had scrawled a note along the bottom in a loping hand as big as Texas. “Welcome to the neighborhood. Look forward to chatting more. Can’t wait to meet your DH!”

  Caroline’s heart raced. She took a breath and tried to sound nonchalant. “I guess I forgot to mention it. I met one of the neighbors.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday. I was out walking Pippin and we got to talking.”

  Porter removed his glasses, revealing two red spots on the bridge of his nose. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. It was somet
hing he did when he was upset. “Caroline.” He sighed, not bothering to open his eyes.

  Caroline searched for the right thing to say. “She seems really nice,” she offered finally.

  Porter’s eyes widened. “Nice?” He spat the word out with a mirthless laugh. “Is that your word for everything? Nice?” He stared at her, incredulous.

  Still, she said nothing. She didn’t suppose he wanted her to answer that question.

  Porter shook his head as though he had trouble grasping the situation he found himself in. He frowned. “Do you just walk around all day, talking to people who look like they’re nice?”

  This time he wanted an answer.

  “No,” Caroline said, trying not to sound defensive. “Not at all. That’s not it at all. We just got talking, that’s all. She’s a sweet older lady, she lives right up the block and she was having this party and…” Her voice trailed off. She licked her lips and swallowed. She didn’t want this to turn into something that would last all day. “She wants to meet you, Porter. She seems really ni—” Caroline stopped herself. “You’d like her.”

  Porter’s eyes narrowed. His voice was low, his tone steely. “Then why didn’t you tell me about her?”

  In the end, they went to the Crowleys’ dinner party. Lindsay and her husband were a good deal older than Caroline and even Porter, and Caroline hoped this fact would make Porter fit in and feel comfortable. Porter showered for the second time that day after work, then dressed with care in his usual black collarless shirt under a dark charcoal jacket. He combed his hair, then went back to check his reflection in the mirror and combed it again. He hated meeting new people.

  Caroline felt sorry for him.

  She had chosen her own outfit after much thought and planning. She wore a royal blue tunic, high-cut with long sleeves, over wide white palazzo pants. The clothing was new. She had stopped wearing short skirts except when they dined at home, which was their usual routine. The tank tops that had been a staple of her college wardrobe were long gone. Tonight she chose ballet flats with enclosed toes even though the summer night was warm. Porter was just half an inch taller than her five feet, seven inches, and hated when she wore heels. She pulled her hair back in a tortoiseshell clip he had bought for her on their honeymoon.