A Dark Love

by Margaret Carroll

  No, he didn’t dare place a call to Caroline’s cell phone. If Lisa was hip to checking cell phone records, it was a sure bet that Porter Moross was checking Caroline’s call records and then some.

  Moross was a freak. They’d all seen it the very first night Caroline brought him to a kegger up on the roof of Mitchell Hall. Tom Fielding had the hots for Caroline Hughes back then. Everyone knew it and just assumed they’d wind up together. But Caroline was really shy, so Tom decided to play it slow out of respect for her. He had regretted it ever since. They all mocked the medical resident she’d brought with her that night looking like a circus sideshow. As Moross stalked his skinny ass out of the party that night, Tom caught a glimpse of something else that was much worse: a flash in Moross’s intense blue eyes of pure rage.

  “Just let him go,” Tom said, reaching for Caroline’s hand as she hurried past.

  “You don’t understand, he’s just really shy,” she’d said, brushing Tom’s hand off so she could catch Porter at the elevators.

  And that, as Tom’s roommate Kent used to say, was the situation in microcosm.

  Thinking back on it even now made Tom Fielding shake his head. He stared at Caroline’s e-mail. The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that she didn’t write that e-mail. Porter Moross had written it. Which meant things in the Moross household had gone from bad to worse.

  Tom drummed his fingers harder, faster. Considering things. Caroline wasn’t happy and hadn’t been for a long time. Hell, who could be with an asshole like that?

  What if she’d finally left him? Where would she go? She had a mother and stepfather, once upon a time. They had shown up at commencement so drunk the old man was thrown out for heckling. Poor Caroline. She wouldn’t have gone there.

  Tom scrolled opened his “Sent Mail” folder and reviewed his reply:

  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.

  Tom Fielding groaned aloud. Because if what he suspected was true, he had just steered Moross in exactly the right direction.

  “What’s wrong?” Tom’s wife appeared in the doorway.

  Tom nearly jumped out of his seat. How come his wife didn’t make noise like normal people when she walked down a hall? “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She shrugged, pissed off, the way he knew she would be. “I just got here. What’s up?”

  “Ah, it’s nothing, no big deal.” He fingered the mouse, frowning, and studied his computer screen. “I can straighten it out with an e-mail.”

  “Hey C,” he wrote. “Are u ok? Call me on my cell. Urgent.” Lisa was still watching from the doorway but Tom didn’t care. He typed in his cell phone number, even though Caroline already had it. He requested notification of when the message was opened by the addressee, and hit send. That should call Moross’s bluff.

  Asshole.

  Tom checked his watch. He’d give it a day or two, just to be sure, even though Caroline usually wrote back on the same day. And then he’d figure out what to do next.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Everything changed for Porter Moross after the discovery of his wife’s e-mail correspondence with Tom Fielding. His emotions made the transition from panic at being abandoned by his wife, into something else. Something far less stable. Far more dangerous.

  Porter tried to be patient, awaiting confirmation of her whereabouts from Beltway Security Investigations and their freelance agent in Colorado.

  Deep inside him a tectonic shift was taking place, as he shed the mantle of pleasant civility he had adopted long ago. In its place was something else, emotion that ran deeper and truer to Porter’s core. Anger, the kind that simmered at a constant steady burn, ready to erupt on a moment’s notice, all the while roiling and building into something that had the heat and predictability of molten lava.

  The fact was, Porter Moross had developed the propensity at a young age for rage that could scorch everything in its path, leaving behind a landscape of ruin.

  Which was fine with him. He had taught himself early on that anger was preferable to the helpless despair of hurt.

  STORM PASS, COLORADO

  The next day brought cooler air from Canada down across the continental spine that was the Rocky Mountains. Nights turned cold, and the tall grass in the pasture crunched underfoot when Caroline went for her morning swim.

  Nan Birmingham observed a change in her young employee. Alice’s face had opened up some and the tight lines around her mouth had relaxed. Once, Nan overheard Alice humming. Nan was grateful the young woman was finding relief from her troubles, which led her to make a request of Alice she wouldn’t have dreamed of making even yesterday. She asked Alice to take her to Storm Pass for the town’s annual Heritage Day Festival.

  She was surprised and pleased when Alice agreed.

  Caroline had vowed to avoid town at all cost but she was feeling bolder, buoyed by her attraction to Ken, and she knew Nan would be unable to attend without her. Caroline owed a lot to her new employer.

  Despite the chill the day was brilliant and bright. They piled lawn chairs, lemonade, and sandwiches in the tiny backseat of the Porsche and drove down after breakfast.

  A white bedsheet was draped high across two telephone poles on Main Street, proclaiming the town’s motto in hand-painted letters: “Storm Pass, A Great Place to Rest Yer…!”

  Caroline parked in the grassy lot next to Kincaid’s Garage. The bright red car attracted some looks, and she wondered uneasily if coming here had been wise. She unloaded quickly and they headed for the sidewalk in front of the service station door, open wide to the room inside that served the dual purpose of office and den for the proprietor.

  Gus Kincaid ambled out to greet them, his steps slow and labored.

  Caroline glimpsed a walker inside, which she noticed he was not using. It was easy to imagine Gus had been a lady-killer in his day.

  “Mornin’, ladies,” he said, tipping his baseball cap.

  “Mornin’, Gus,” Nan said.

  Gus’s big cat leaped up to the counter and hissed.

  This set off a frenzy of barking from Pippin and Scout, who strained at their leashes.

  “Where are your manners, Midnight?” Gus said in a voice that was gruff and soothing at the same time.

  The cat sank down on her haunches and glared.

  Gus reached inside a jar, pulled out a large biscuit, and broke it in two before bending slowly to give each dog a half. He took a long time to straighten up.

  “How are you feeling?” Nan asked.

  “Comin’ along,” he replied.

  “And where’s your son today?”

  It was as much of a direct question as anyone in Storm Pass ever asked. Caroline shifted the lawn chairs against one hip and waited to hear the answer.

  “He’s around. Just back from the pass.” Gus motioned north with his chin. “Had a Denver group overnight for some angling.”

  “It’s late days for trout fishing,” Nan remarked.

  “Just about the end of the season,” Gus agreed. “Good day for a parade, though. Let me give you a hand with those chairs.”

  “No need,” Caroline protested, while Nan waved him off with the cane she used in town.

  Gus looked none too steady on his feet.

  Not wanting to cause him any embarrassment, Caroline hurried to the curb to prop open the lawn chairs, already regretting her decision to come. The narrow main street was packed with locals, and she knew there were bound to be out-of-towners as well. All it would take was one person, one chance overheard remark, for someone to put the pieces together. But it was too late now.

  A clash of cymbals and the beating of a drum signaled the start of the parade.

  First came the children and pets, mostly dogs, a good number of cats, a monkey, and a crateful of rabbits. Next were historic cars, or just reall
y old cars, or even any car at all. Bikers followed, revving their engines and setting the dogs into a frenzy. Next came the marching band from Storm Pass’s single tiny school. And finally people on foot passing out fliers on a variety of subjects, everything from La Leche League (pro), to nuclear weapons (anti), to rBGH-enhanced dairy milk (definitely anti).

  “There you have it,” Nan said when the last peaceable demonstrator had passed. “Storm Pass on parade.”

  Caroline was grateful it was over. She folded the chairs, gathered their belongings, and turned to go.

  A Harley-Davidson revved nearby and backfired, startling her so she lost her hold on the lawn chairs and they clattered to the ground, sending the dogs straining at the ends of their leashes.

  She tried to rescue the chairs but got tangled up, losing her hat and sunglasses in the process. Leaving her exposed. She bent over, making a mad grab for them.

  And sensed the presence of a large man at her side, close enough to gain a whiff of his scent that was woodsy and clean like the pine trees lining the town.

  There was no mistaking that scent.

  Ken Kincaid’s arm brushed hers as he reached down and scooped everything up in one motion. “I’ve got you covered,” he said, straightening up.

  Caroline stood. In the afternoon sun, he looked like the golden boy he was. Colorado’s gift to the NFL. “Hi.”

  He reached out and gave her shoulder a squeeze. “How are you today, Alice?”

  “Okay.” Lie. If she had said she was doing great, it would have been closer to the truth. But that would only move things further along in a direction she could not afford to go.

  Her response did nothing to dim the wattage of the smile Ken was shining her way. “Just okay? What can we do to change that to great?”

  He leaned in close, and the nearness of him melted something inside her.

  Ken Kincaid was like a big, happy puppy. Disarming and sweet, he would win her heart and make her forget she could never give him a proper home. Caroline looked away.

  “How about an ice cream soda? We got a real old-fashioned soda fountain here, just across the street.”

  The offer would have been corny coming from anyone but him, anywhere but here. As it was, her insides swelled with happiness and turned as light as a sunbeam. She felt like she was inside a movie set about a happy life in a small town.

  Ken was smiling down at her while she tried to figure out how to turn him down without hurting his feelings, which seemed, thankfully, pretty hard to do, and while they were standing this way the sound of nearby laughter made Caroline freeze.

  A group of teens had stopped to watch. One of the boys cleared his throat. “Hi, Ken.”

  Ken turned and waved. “Hey, guys. You came out to watch the parade?”

  There was a round of nodding heads and hellos.

  “It was a good one. I’ll see you all at practice.” He turned back to Caroline. “I coach the high school team.”

  There were people like this, Caroline thought, people whose lives were peaceful and ordinary and what Porter would call boring.

  Ken handed over her sunglasses and hat. “Personally, I think you look better without these.”

  “Thanks.” Caroline couldn’t remember what it was like to be on the receiving end of attention from a man. She mumbled something about taking a rain check, aware the kids were still watching. They were interested in Ken, not her. But that didn’t change the fact that a small crowd had gathered with her at its center. She was standing next to a celebrity, the hometown hero who had made it big playing safety for the Kansas City Chiefs.

  Caroline had broken her first rule of survival, to draw as little attention to herself as possible. She jammed the hat and sunglasses back into place with hands that shook.

  She was too jittery to notice the man who had come to a standstill across the street. He stood close to a family eating ice cream cones in the shade of a pin oak. In his hand, at waist height, was a small digital camera aimed directly at Caroline.

  She drove back to the ranch a short while later, her mind whirling with images of her day in town.

  Little did she know, those same images were at this very moment being broken down into a million tiny pieces of data before hurtling through cables for reassembly two thousand miles away.

  CHAPTER 15

  Bingo.

  Porter stared at the letters on the tiny display screen of his cell phone. He had programmed his computer to place a call automatically if it received an urgent message from Beltway Security Investigations.

  And it had.

  The implications made his blood dam up and stop flowing. He traced a finger across the screen of his cell phone as a tingle of excitement tripped up his spine, raising the tiny hairs along its length.

  The chase had begun.

  He pushed his chair back from the table, his takeout lunch of steamed vegetables and chicken forgotten, and raced down the stairs. He activated the keypad and the lock clicked open. His office was silent on a Sunday, save for the ticking of a mahogany grandfather clock and the hum of his computer, which he always kept on.

  He scratched at the bumps that were beginning to rise on his face. An excess of emotion already.

  The mailbox contained a single message, flagged in red, from Beltway.

  Every nerve ending in Porter’s body froze as he double-clicked.

  What he saw next sickened him.

  “Oh, Caroline,” he whispered. “Oh, Caroline, no.”

  A digital photograph filled the screen, larger than he could bear. Caroline with short hair, bleached a freakish shade of yellow, standing someplace in the mountains, a place Porter had never been. Storm Pass. A place she had never been, as far as he knew. This fact alone sent pain like a dagger working its way deep into his heart. His sense of injury increased the longer he studied the photograph. She looked different. Her face was rounder somehow, the cheeks fuller beneath a ridiculous baseball cap and sunglasses that were too big. There was no mistaking the curve of her lips, or the roundness of her hips inside a tight pair of jeans. She had deliberately altered her appearance.

  Porter tapped his fingers on the desk, considering this, as the implication settled over him like a heavy weight. She had done this to herself to hide from just one person, him. The only person in the world who would give his life for her.

  Tears stung Porter’s eyes.

  What he saw next stopped Porter’s tears in their tracks, however. As he scrolled down, his grief turned to rage.

  The next image showed Caroline laughing up into the face of a strange man. Her mouth open, her lips full. Inviting. Sensual.

  A flame of hot jealousy tore through Porter, searing his loins and curdling the food in his stomach.

  Whore.

  He stared at the photo, barely aware of the switch it tripped inside his brain, turning his sorrow to rage. The wetness of her lips. The way she leaned in close to the man. The contours of her breasts, easy to make out, in a tight jersey knit shirt. But it was the expression on her face that fueled Porter’s rage. She was laughing. Laughing out loud so the sound echoed here in his office, cold and still as a funeral parlor.

  He had known it would come to this.

  The tiny measure of triumph he felt disappeared as he studied the man beside Caroline. Large body, athletic build. Broad jaw with wide lips and big white teeth. Sunlight played on rich, dark hair. The sort of man who would draw Caroline to him like a moth to a porch light. The man leaned over Caroline, dwarfing her body with his. His hand rested on her arm in a gesture of proprietorship. His mouth hung open, hungry, so Porter could almost hear his booming laugh.

  First step in the classic mating dance.

  Whore!

  Jealousy snaked through Porter, spreading heat in his loins, turning him hard. He felt himself stiffen and grow until the fabric of his trousers strained in his lap. He stared at the screen, studying the look on Caroline’s face. Her mouth open, her lips shining, wet.

  Porter�
��s fingers slid from the mouse. He unzipped his trousers, his breath coming like a ragged bellows as the heat inside mounted. Keeping his gaze on the screen, his fingers warmed to their task with each stroke.

  He climaxed quickly.

  Slumping back in his chair he waited for his breathing to steady. He felt sick, disgusted. He grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on his desk, one of several placed strategically around the office, and mopped at his trousers and skin.

  On the screen, Caroline continued to laugh in silent mockery.

  Cold now and spent, Porter shuddered as he scrolled through the remainder of the e-mail.

  He found another photo of his wife, her mouth now open in a round O, reaching to take a pair of sunglasses and bright red baseball cap from the man. Her disguise was in place in the next, but the heart shape of the chin, the delicate lips and teeth were unmistakable.

  Porter ran a finger along the lines of her jaw. A wave of grief washed over him for the life he’d hoped for, planned for. Now it was lost forever.

  That realization filled him with mourning as he contemplated the garish woman that had taken his wife’s place. The clownish hair, the hat, the sunglasses, all part of a twisted lie told for his benefit. So that he, Porter, would never find her. The knowledge hollowed him with grief. He would have given his life for her. His fingers slid slowly off the screen, leaving tracks of moisture like tears.

  He scrolled down. In the next photo Caroline was seated in a lawn chair next to an old woman. Nan Birmingham, her new employer, according to the accompanying memo.

  A heavy sigh escaped him now. He had dreaded this since she left, vanishing like a ghost into the shimmering heat just eight days ago, taking with her everything that mattered, everything that gave his life meaning. That day had changed everything. Now they were deep into autumn, the season of change that led to death.

  Porter typed a brief message to Beltway Security authorizing preparation of a full dossier.