Nan watched her new employee work with the dogs, her face relaxed and animated for the first time since they’d met. Alice was young, beautiful, and in a heap of trouble. Nan had seen her share of trouble in seventy-seven years of life, enough to know this girl had plenty. Which was why Nan had offered her a job on the spot at Maebeth’s. Nan had taken an instant liking to Alice, and it was good to have company. The ranch was too quiet since the Colonel died last spring.
Caroline cupped a treat near Scout’s mouth and tapped his paw with her free hand. “Shake,” she ordered.
They had been practicing with little result.
“Scout, shake,” Caroline repeated the command.
The little dog finally lifted his paw the barest centimeter off the ground before snatching his treat greedily.
“He’s learning.” Caroline beamed.
Nan laughed. “Are you training him or is he training you?”
A smile lit Caroline’s face. “It takes time. You just have to keep at it every day. An animal can be trained to do just about anything.”
“Relax, Caroline, relax.”
She would never forget the heat of his breath on the back of her neck as he repeated the words that would become for her a dark mantra. Soft and beseeching at first, increasingly strident as his own sense of urgency grew. Each time pushed her farther down a path that turned and twisted on its way into a realm she dared remember only with pain and fear. But something else lived there, something too dark to acknowledge.
Caroline gave away more of herself each time, despair seeping inside her like drops of ice-cold rain.
“Relax.”
She learned to tell Porter the words he wanted to hear, all the time focusing on her mantra from long ago, burned in the brain of that little girl who got used up and left alone.
“Relax.”
Adult Caroline closed her eyes and opened herself to Porter so he wouldn’t tear open the old wounds. But on the inside she bled.
Porter’s breathing turned ragged, his voice hoarse with excitement. “Say it.”
She lay facedown, screwed her eyes closed, and whispered in the dark. “I want this.”
Looking back, Caroline wondered when her life with Porter had spiraled so far out of control. It hadn’t started out that way. She’d met him on a crisp fall afternoon that was full of possibilities. She had walked the short distance from her dorm across Foggy Bottom along E Street past the historic Octagon House to the Corcoran Gallery of Art. She preferred this area, rich in history and relatively quiet, to the Mall that was always jammed with tourists.
There were few people about in mid-afternoon, with the semester young enough that Caroline could afford a couple of hours off to admire the Corcoran’s private art collection instead of locking herself away to study it in the school library.
The Corcoran was the first stop on a worldwide tour of select works by J. M. William Turner, the English painter of romantic landscapes.
With a thrill of anticipation, Caroline crossed Constitution Avenue, entered, and waited in a short line to check her coat, noting with satisfaction the place wasn’t completely jammed yet. She passed up the audio tour kit. She had already researched the featured works.
Caroline Hughes was twenty years old, midway through her senior year studying art history at the Columbian College of Arts and Sciences at the George Washington University.
The exhibit was overwhelming. She stopped to rest in front of a particular favorite, Arundel Castle.
She pondered the mural, her printed guide forgotten, until the lights and colors danced before her eyes, and the room receded from her consciousness in the presence of such exquisite beauty.
So she was shocked to hear her private thoughts spoken by a soft male voice. “He uses light to draw us closer, always closer to the center. Pure genius.”
Caroline found herself nodding in agreement even before she turned to look. The man sitting beside her was older than she by a number of years, she estimated. Well dressed in what looked to be a black Armani suit jacket over black sweater over black designer jeans, and black ankle boots of fine leather. The overall effect was distinguished, she decided. His hair was long and wavy, prematurely white, as was his close-cropped beard. His skin was white as porcelain.
His eyes were fixed on the canvas, oblivious to Caroline’s gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, his tone refined. Reverent. “He uses light and shadow to invite us in, steering us always to the center. The mark of a master.”
Intrigued, Caroline turned back to the painting. Indeed, the colors were deeper in the center of the canvas. “The artist wants us to find our own way,” she offered, feeling a little like she had just been called on during a school lecture.
The man nodded. “He draws us in and presents us with his truth.” He turned, revealing the palest blue eyes she had ever seen, beneath lashes that were startling and pure white, as were his brows. He wore round steel glasses like John Lennon. All of which had the effect of intensifying his gaze.
“Few people appreciate the subtle power of Turner,” he said.
Caroline might have pointed out that plenty of people appreciated Turner, enough to have an entire wing named after him at London’s Tate Gallery, but already she sensed the man beside her was too sincere, too sensitive, to tolerate undergrad sarcasm. She searched instead for something intelligent to say, something to convince him she shared his appreciation for life’s subtleties. “Turner wasn’t very popular in England during his lifetime,” she said finally. “Critics didn’t take him seriously.”
The man smiled and nodded again, taking in the printed guide and backpack on her lap. “They underestimated him.”
Something about the expression on his face told Caroline the man in black knew all too well the pain of not being appreciated. She nodded. “Nobody had ever used light in this way.”
“True,” the man murmured. “But that wasn’t the reason.” He turned back to the painting, lost in his own thoughts. “It was his style, his use of space. It gives the landscape the feeling of floating, not being anchored. Almost as though he wasn’t certain he wanted to be present in the work himself. It poses a challenge to the viewer. Upsetting for most people.”
Caroline was anxious to show him she was not Most People. “You have to work to know Turner.”
She was rewarded with a smile that revealed two tiny rows of perfectly spaced teeth.
“Most people don’t get Turner,” he said sadly. “Even at the Tate, few people take the time to understand him.”
The Tate Gallery was located on the banks of the River Thames in London, a fact he hadn’t felt the need to explain. Caroline was flattered. She liked the long pauses he took, considering things she said before opening his mouth to reply, giving weight to each word they uttered. As though Caroline’s contribution to the conversation held deep meaning. She felt listened to, not just simply heard. They chatted, quickly discovering a shared love for the visual arts. He had traveled to Florence many times. He was a Freudian psychoanalyst with a medical degree from an Ivy League school.
He invited her to dinner Saturday night at a French restaurant she had heard of but never dreamed of dining in.
Caroline skipped pizza and beer in the rathskeller that night, dressed with care in a twin set and borrowed pearls, and headed out in pumps for her first date with an older man.
A security alert had all but shut the city down. Caroline arrived at the restaurant twenty-five minutes late.
Porter Moross was seated at the bar, dressed head to toe again in black, nursing a whiskey on ice. He did not smile when she rushed in, breathless and apologetic.
“Sorry I’m late. They shut down the whole block around the Old Executive Office Building. It took forever.”
Porter took another sip without looking at her, and Caroline wondered whether he had heard.
“Porter?”
He set the glass down, hurt etched around the corners of his mouth. “I was about to leave
.”
“Leave?” Caroline was caught off guard and laid a hand on his arm. “Look, I’m really sorry. I couldn’t help it.”
His arm was stiff, unyielding.
She drew her hand away.
His voice was tight. “If you had taken a cab, you would have gotten here in time. I assumed you had changed your mind and decided not to come.”
Caroline felt her cheeks color. Her budget didn’t allow for cabs, a fact she was too embarrassed to admit. “I’m so sorry,” she said, putting her hand back and squeezing his arm a little.
She felt his arm muscles tighten inside his sports jacket. Somewhere deep inside, her mind registered the fact that Porter Moross was a complicated man. But at the moment, she was too preoccupied to notice. At the moment, she was concerned with wiping the sad look off his face. She threw her arms around him in the sort of casual hug she’d bestow on a roommate. “I’m usually never late. I’m so sorry.” She shrugged, helpless now that she’d said all she could.
He was visibly moved by the hug, and it occurred to Caroline that Porter Moross was in need of simple physical affection. This fact was captivating to her. Caroline Hughes collected wounded people in much the same way that some people collected stray animals.
“Okay,” Porter said after a long pause. “I accept your apology. Our table is ready. I’ll tell the maitre d’ that you’ve arrived.”
He took her coat and motioned her to sit. “Shall I order you a glass of wine?”
Caroline slid onto the tall, smooth bar stool and nodded as he signaled the bartender before excusing himself to check her coat.
Something none of the boys from GW would have done.
Porter’s steady gaze on her at dinner, combined with the way he leaned forward to listen when she spoke, made Caroline feel for the first time in her life like she was at the center of someone’s universe. Porter did everything with a careful deliberation that, she decided, was the hallmark of a genius.
Porter asked the waiter to explain each of the main selections in detail. Then he asked if the waiter would choose their entrees.
“Excuse me?” The waiter spoke with a heavy French accent.
Porter repeated his request.
Frowning, the waiter shifted his weight onto one leg. “I don’t know what you and the young lady would like to eat. You should order what you think she would like.” He shrugged.
Porter was undeterred. “But I have asked for your help. I want you to suggest something.”
It was somewhat odd. Caroline felt her spirits flag and her cheeks redden, even as she carefully arranged her features into a smooth, reassuring smile. Porter was, after all, only trying to ensure that they would have the best possible dining experience.
The waiter glanced around the crowded dining room, letting his impatience show on his face. “They are all good, sir.”
Porter said nothing.
The waiter sighed.
Porter glared.
Caroline squirmed in her seat, searching for some way to end the standoff. She wound up blurting out a request for the only dish whose name she could remember.
She had no idea until the sweetbreads arrived that they were brains.
And so that night over dinner in Washington’s best restaurant, frequented by senators and heads of state, known the world over for its menu that featured the meat of rare and endangered species, Caroline adopted her mission in life. It was one that had its roots planted long ago with the little girl on the bed. Caroline would dedicate her life to doing whatever was required to please Porter.
CHAPTER 11
Porter stared at the computer screen glowing grayish green in the darkened office, throwing bits of dust on the keyboard into bas-relief. His office at this late hour was silent as a grave.
He should turn the computer off. It could be hours or days before he got a response from tf_activewearmodesto. Perhaps longer.
But Porter’s gut told him otherwise.
And so he sat, waiting. Each time the second hand on his watch swept past twelve, he aimed his mouse at the refresh button and clicked.
He was rewarded before many minutes had passed.
“Wassup? Re: Re:” popped into Caroline’s inbox.
Hardly daring to believe his eyes, Porter double-clicked on the header. He was in.
Storm Pass. Great little town near Durango. Denver has more flights tho and drive up is awesome. Good hiking but weather is iffy now. I want a pic of you soaking in a hot spring…Yummy!:- ). Gotta run, duty beckons.
Porter stared at the screen.
Yummy!
The flirtation between tf_activewearmodesto and Porter’s wife had progressed, edging ever closer to the line between fantasy and reality. Left to their own devices, that line would be crossed because both of them wanted it.
That realization filled Porter with sorrow. Caroline had failed him. Because somehow he had failed her.
As he reached for the phone, Porter uttered a silent wish that he would get to Caroline in time, before she found some other way to act out her fantasies of betrayal.
He listened carefully to the after-hours message from Beltway Security Investigations, directing callers with business of an urgent nature to a beeper for immediate callback. Porter dialed the number, making note of it for future reference in his leather-bound folio.
He busied himself waiting for a callback by printing out hard copies of Caroline’s e-mail correspondence with Tom Fielding. These he ordered by date and stapled. He reached for a FedEx mailer at first but thought better of it. The end result would be further enhanced, he realized, if the recipient had no way to trace the origins of the package. This realization made Porter smile.
He slid the packet into a plain manila envelope and applied postage stamps in an amount he judged to be double what was required. Using his customary neat handwriting, he carefully wrote out the name and address of the sportswear firm in Modesto. When he was done he reviewed his efforts carefully. The devil, Dr. Porter Moross knew, lay in the details. Satisfied the address was perfectly legible, he sealed the envelope and wrote across the bottom in large block letters: FOR THE PERSONAL ATTENTION OF MRS. TOM FIELDING.
He stowed the envelope in his leather portfolio, ready to drop in any mailbox at such time that he judged to be to his best advantage.
The callback from Beltway Security Investigations was prompt, as promised, and within minutes Porter had contracted for surveillance in Storm Pass, Colorado, to be dispatched from Denver within twenty-four hours.
Porter hung up. Mixed in with everything else, he felt a small measure of satisfaction. He had regained some control. His limbo had ended.
The hunt for his wife had begun.
Two thousand, eight hundred miles away, Tom Fielding hit the send button and sat staring at his computer screen. Something wasn’t right. Caroline Hughes knew the name of the town Storm Pass, for one thing. He had told her the story many times about some locals who had turned him on to peyote while soaking in a hot springs there, in what he and his friends had jokingly referred to as Tom’s spiritual awakening, his “Rocky Mountain High.”
Tom Fielding was not an airy-fairy kind of guy. Which was why the weird vibe he was getting right now caught him off guard, and creeped him out enough to make him turn a deaf ear to repeated buzzing of his office intercom.
Over the last year and a half, his e-mails with Caroline had gotten more intense. They had even toyed with the idea of meeting up in Storm Pass, if Tom could sell his wife on the idea he had business prospects there. Yeah, right.
If Caroline Hughes needed a break and wanted to head out West, why wouldn’t she check with Tom first to see if he could get away and meet her? And why, for the love of God, would she plan a trip with that asshole husband of hers?
Almost all of their communication since Caroline’s marriage had been via e-mail, but she made sure Tom always knew her latest cell phone number. He lifted his desk blotter now to where he kept it hidden on a sticky note.
Tom dropped the blotter. “Just finishing up.”
Lisa’s eyes narrowed.
He knew that look. “Sorry,” he muttered, powering off the computer and switching off the desk lamp. He stood. “Let’s go.”
She threw him a look, and Tom knew that look. Even though she was justified, she had no way of knowing she was justified, and this fact irritated Tom Fielding. So he picked a fight. “You wanna go, so let’s go. I was ready fifteen minutes ago but you weren’t.”
Lisa glared but did not take the bait. She shrugged. “So, let’s go.”
This was so out of character for her that it had the effect of amping up the volume on Tom’s weird vibe. He had never given much thought to ESP, but the hairs on the back of his neck were telling him loud and clear that Caroline Hughes was in trouble.
He wanted to call her but Lisa was hanging back, waiting for him to walk out first, and so he did, but not before he noticed Lisa took one last hard look at the blotter on top of his desk. It had been sitting there, undisturbed, since his father-in-law promoted him and he moved into this office.
“We’re late,” Lisa said. “The sitter will be pissed.”
Tom Fielding made a mental note to hide that sticky note somewhere else first thing tomorrow.
CHAPTER 12
The day turned out sharp and clear, the coldest since Caroline’s arrival in Storm Pass almost a week ago. High, puffy clouds skittered across the sky and around the peak like distant gray smoke. Wind gusted off the mountain. The dogs were inside, preferring to nap where the sun warmed the oak floorboards.
Caroline tracked the source of the banging she’d heard in the night to an overgrown branch from an Austrian pine near the garage.
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