When the message was sent, he went back and reread the memo accompanying the photos. Caroline was using the name Alice Stevens. She lived with Nan Birmingham on a ranch several miles outside the town called Storm Pass. The laughing man in the photo was Ken Kincaid, former safety for the Kansas City Chiefs. The fact pricked at something in Porter’s memory. He remembered reading about the guy in the paper a few years back. His career had been cut short by an injury. His wife left him for one of his teammates. Porter shrugged. Son of a bitch got what he deserved.
Porter closed the file, switched off the computer, and sat in the still office.
He had no choice now. This was all her doing. “Damn it, Caroline,” he said, his voice strange and loud in the empty room. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he dug at them with the backs of his knuckles. Inside his mouth his teeth began to work, shredding the inside of his cheeks until he tasted blood.
“Why, Caroline?” he whispered. “Why?”
But he knew the answer. She had been destined for this. He had known it from the day they’d met. Known it and ignored it, allowing himself to be lulled, drawn in by her sensual youth, fooled by her keen intellect into thinking she could heal the wounds of her childhood and become the soul mate he had yearned for. He had tried and tried to make her see the dark corruption that was seeded inside her, poised and waiting to unfurl when it would render a permanent shadow on her mind like a poisonous cloud.
But it was no use. His beloved bride had closed her mind against him. She, who had married a man who would trade his soul to save her, a man who had devoted his entire life to the intricacies of the human mind. The one man in ten million, perhaps, who could understand her flaws and even, perhaps, one day cure them. Caroline’s resistance to Porter and his love was ironic, a tragedy in the classic Greek tradition.
His gaze fell on the couch where so many patients had lain, spewing the intimate details of their private pain. And now he, Dr. Porter Moross, was experiencing a pain equal to the one he had suffered once long ago. It was the inevitable conclusion of their life together, his and Caroline’s, sealed by fate when she walked away.
The way his mother had.
He went to the couch and laid himself down, resting his head on the cushion where his patients rested theirs.
There and then he surrendered to his pain, fresh and sharp as the first night without his mommy all those years ago. Pulling his knees to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them in an effort to stop the shivering that wracked his body. But he was not able to stop the sobs that rose up inside him. He was not crying for himself, for the pain he had endured and would continue to endure. He was crying tears of sorrow for her.
For Caroline. For the price she would pay for ruining Porter’s life, for the steps he would have to take to rectify her mistake.
CHAPTER 16
Nan took a sip of coffee. “Weather’s turning.”
The morning after the parade was bright and clear in Storm Pass. But Nan was right. Something had changed. The angle of the sun had shifted, the air had a sharp scent.
More than that, something had changed inside Caroline. Her sense of safety was fading. She was jittery after her careless mistake in town yesterday. She tried to lose herself in work, installing storm windows under Nan’s direction. The physical activity helped lessen Caroline’s anxiety.
They were about to tackle Caroline’s bedroom at the back of the house when the sound of an approaching car set her nerves on edge once more.
Caroline froze, unable to hide a sharp intake of breath.
A knock on the door sent the dogs into a snarling fit.
“I’ll get it.” Nan said. “I’m sure it’s Federico or one of his men with news from the stables.”
Caroline stayed where she was, rooted to the spot, dismayed at the feelings that were flooding through her. Fear. Anxiety. The tapes were playing once more in her mind, telling her she would never be safe. And all because she had been stupid enough to spend the day in town yesterday, and clumsy enough to lose her dark glasses and hat on Main Street.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she whispered miserably. She did a quick inventory of her belongings and cash reserve, which had dwindled on the trip out here and more after she’d bought some new clothes, but still amounted to several thousand dollars. Three thousand, one hundred forty, to be precise. She could leave on five minutes’ notice if she had to.
The dogs stopped barking, and she heard Nan’s voice, calm and welcoming.
Next came the rumble, low and deep, of a familiar male voice.
Ken Kincaid.
Then came footsteps on the front stairs, heavy but fast. She had just enough time to check her reflection in the mirror that hung over the Jenny Lind bureau before he appeared in the doorway.
She whirled around to face him.
“Hey, Alice.” His voice was low and sweet, the way she remembered. He wore Levi’s, hiking shoes, and a green plaid shirt. “Relief crew’s here.”
“Hey.” Caroline jammed her hands into the pockets of her jeans, suddenly conscious of her messy hair and the smudge of dirt she hoped she’d wiped clean from her cheek.
He gave the room a swift glance, taking in the bed and its pretty chenille spread. “I didn’t mean to barge in. Nan said there’s a window up here giving you trouble.”
That was not true.
Caroline looked down at the storm window she was balancing against one knee.
“Let me get that.” He took the storm window from her and crossed the room to throw open the back window. The window slid smoothly into place. He repeated the process on the remaining windows before turning to her with a look of satisfaction on his face. “That should do it,” he said, leaning over to smooth a wrinkle his knee had left on the spread.
“Thanks,” Caroline said.
“No problem. If it happens again, all you need is some silicone oil. Or, better yet, call me.” He stood, his posture easy and relaxed, and grinned.
Caroline found it impossible not to smile back.
“You’ve got a great view of the peak,” he observed.
She nodded.
“It’s a good sight to see when you wake up in the morning.”
Caroline thought of how cozy it was to lie here, watching the peak come into view by moonlight. That first night her worries had kept her up, her stomach in knots, her heart pounding at every sound. She woke each morning to find a bit more of her tension had drained away during the night. “It’s beautiful by moonlight, too.” She regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. Her basic rule was to reveal nothing about herself. But Ken Kincaid made her forget that rule. He was so easy to talk to, so laid-back, that she just couldn’t help herself.
He skipped the opportunity to make an obvious pass at her, a fact for which she was grateful. “We’ll make a mountain girl out of you yet. You’ll have to change your name to Elly May,” he teased.
Caroline’s eyes widened in alarm. Had he guessed Alice was a made-up name? “I don’t feel like an Elly May,” she said cautiously.
He laughed. “Give it a winter up here and we’ll be calling you Elly May. ‘A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet,’ you know.” He continued to check out the view, looking up at Ute Peak. “Stick around for all four seasons and you’ll know how special this place is.”
She could tell by the look on his face he meant it. “I bet you missed the mountains when you were away.”
“Pretty much. I guess it’s in my blood.”
Her mind jumped. She wondered if there was a place that would ever be inside her blood but she didn’t know the answer to that. All she knew was that her time in Storm Pass had given her a taste of freedom from the prison Porter had built with her help. That was over now. But she knew the prison cell remained, ready and waiting for her return. Caroline became aware of Ken’s eyes on her. Curious. Thoughtful. Judging? The possibility unnerved her. She cleared her throat, shifting her weight as her glance drifted involuntarily to her bed. “Well, thanks for hel
ping out.” Coloring, she looked away.
He gave a quick nod but stayed put. “Any time, Alice.”
They heard footsteps on the stairs and Nan appeared in the doorway.
Not a moment too soon, Caroline thought.
Nan saw the windows and gave an approving nod. “Good work. They’re up. How’s Gus?” She directed this last at Ken.
“He’s doing okay, Nan, thanks for asking.”
“Glad to hear it. Have you come to join us for lunch?”
He cleared his throat. “Actually, I came by to see if I could take Alice fishing. If she’s not too busy, that is.”
They both looked at Caroline.
“That’s a fine idea,” Nan said quickly. “We’re about done here for today.”
Caroline shifted her weight. The prospect of an afternoon with Ken made something flutter inside her like a butterfly preparing for flight. And yet it was a risk she could not, dared not take. Looking down, she traced a pattern in the wool rug at their feet, studying it as though a good excuse might be written there.
Nan spoke up. “Alice needs to get to know the area before winter sets in. My niece is pestering me again to fly down to Florida for a visit. I might just do it. Me and Scout.” She looked down at the little dog waiting at her feet. “Won’t be gone long. Alice could keep an eye on the place.”
Caroline nodded. She couldn’t hold back a twinge of excitement at the thought of having this big, beautiful place all to herself for a week with time on her own to paint or hike or read or do anything she wanted.
“That’s a great idea,” Ken said. “I’d just be a phone call away.”
Caroline couldn’t hold back a smile, even though in her heart she knew it was best for all of them if she kept her distance from Ken. Starting now.
But Nan’s next words silenced the protest Caroline planned to make about the fishing trip. “Besides, I could use an afternoon on my own. And I wouldn’t turn down fresh trout.”
“You’ve got a deal, Mrs. Birmingham,” Ken said. “We’ll bring you back plenty of fish. That’s a guarantee.”
Ignoring the look of hesitation on Caroline’s face, Nan smiled. “Good. It’s settled. I’ll pack a lunch.”
Ken waved her off. “No need. I’ve got us covered.” He looked at Caroline and winked. “I was betting you’d say yes.”
Caroline was at a loss for words. The fluttery feeling in her chest got bigger at the prospect of spending time with him, or maybe it was due to the warning bell clanging in her head. Not to mention she was suddenly aware of how sweaty she was from wrestling all morning with the storm windows. “I, ah, am not much of a fisher,” she said finally.
Nan chuckled. “Don’t you worry about that, Alice. You’re headed out with the highest rated wilderness guide in the state of Colorado. Bring me back some trout and have fun.” She led the way downstairs.
Caroline swallowed. Nan made it sound as though they were going on a date. But one look at Ken’s face, lit from inside with a big, relaxed smile, was enough to push Caroline’s misgivings aside at least for the moment. “Well,” she said slowly, “I suppose I’m ready for my fishing lesson.”
Ken nodded happily. “I guess you are, Alice. Come on, I’ll show you the prettiest place in the world.”
CHAPTER 17
Porter Moross woke up shivering. His office was eerie, unfamiliar viewed from this angle, where he lay on the therapy couch. Too quiet at this hour, late on a Sunday afternoon. His gaze drifted and he saw this as his patients did. Except the wing chair was empty. There was no mommy figure to provide comfort.
His heart ached with the old, childhood ache and he rose stiffly, feeling hung over, and walked to the window. The street outside was bleak, deserted at this hour. His breath left a small circle of fog on the pane.
A change had come. Autumn, harbinger of the season of death.
Porter checked his watch. Barely four. He had many things to attend to.
He took one last look around the office, his heart heavy with sadness. This place had been his and his alone. This was where he had spent his days, confident in the one aspect of his life where he excelled. Dr. Porter Moross, nationally renowned psychoanalyst. People sought him out for his expertise. They had read his quotes in the New York Times or the Washington Post, or simply heard him mentioned by word of mouth. It astounded Porter how little his patients actually knew about him, about what he did and what sort of results they could expect, when they came to him. His patients were accustomed to seeking out and demanding the best. They led lives of privilege and power. Here, they were reduced to children, clamoring for Porter’s attention.
And now it was over. This space, like the home above, had been profaned.
He went upstairs to shower and change, donning clothes that were identical to the ones he’d slept in. Black mock turtleneck, black sport jacket over black jeans, and black loafers. He brewed coffee, not bothering to wipe up the loose grounds that spilled on the granite countertop. Cleanliness didn’t matter any longer. The place already had an abandoned feel, like a college dorm the day after final exams.
He returned to his office and settled in his desk chair, not allowing himself to mourn the fact that it would be for the last time. He set about his tasks with the precision that had placed him at the top of his graduating class.
He scanned his BlackBerry until he found the contact information for a fellow psychoanalyst he’d met last year at an annual Freud conference in Miami, a man who practiced in the elite suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. Porter dialed the after-hours emergency number that was printed on the card.
The man answered on the first ring, his tone cordial and measured. He remembered Porter and said the usual pleasantries, asking about Porter’s family and whether he was headed to Miami for their annual conference next week. All the while trying not to show he was taken aback when Porter revealed the nature of his call.
“Aaahh, yes,” he said, “I can take on new patients. Shall we set up a meeting to review?”
What he meant was he wanted to know why Porter was clearing his roster. Porter explained there wasn’t time due to a family emergency.
The man offered regret for Porter’s family emergency.
Behind the expression of sympathy was a question, and it was one Porter chose to ignore. “I will provide my patients with referrals to you at once.”
The referrals were priceless, and they both knew it.
In the end, the man agreed to treat Porter’s patients, but not before he made one more attempt to pry into Porter’s business. “Dr. Moross?” His voice transformed from colleague to caregiver, oozing with professional concern. “Is everything okay? I mean, if there is anything you’d like to discuss, I could even see you this afternoon.”
It was the line used for reeling people back from the ledge. Porter was the superior psychotherapist of the two and they both knew it, a fact he was tempted to point out. He closed his eyes instead, against the pain of countless tiny pinpricks digging at the insides of his lids. Porter’s skin condition worsened at times of stress. “I’ve got things under control. Thank you for asking.”
There was a pause. “I see.”
Which meant, of course, that he did not see. But Porter had, after all, just handed him a portfolio that young residents would bid ten years’ salary to get. Porter pushed his glasses aside and knuckled his eyes, which only intensified the ache.
“I do appreciate your confidence in me,” the man said. “Please call if I can ever return the favor in any way.”
His voice held a question.
Porter pictured him now, stocky and balding, with his ordinary face. “Will do.” As though they both didn’t know they would never speak again.
Porter hung up and drew a line through the first item on his to-do list. He looked at the framed photo of Caroline on his desk. Happy, laughing, young. His grip tightened until the tip of the pencil snapped, shattering the surface of his desk with jagged lead shards.
He called
patients while his long, thin fingers raced across the keyboard, shifting funds in his accounts, canceling his newspaper subscription, and checking e-mail once more, both his and Caroline’s.
He found the latest message from Tom Fielding, flagged urgent. Reading it made him double check the postage on the envelope containing Fielding’s e-mail correspondence with Porter’s wife. That asshole. Porter hit delete.
Finally, he signed on to MapQuest and ordered driving directions from Washington, D.C., to Storm Pass, Colorado.
CHAPTER 18
STORM PASS, COLORADO
Ken drove through town and then out past his house before heading north up into the state wilderness area. The road climbed higher in a series of switchbacks carved against the side of the mountain.
Caroline’s ears popped with each hairpin turn. She was grateful for Ken’s skilled driving, because the higher they climbed, the smaller the guardrail looked. The landscape changed as the air thinned, turning cooler. Once, they rounded a turn and saw what looked to be a dozen white tails bobbing as a herd of elk bolted into the brush.
They stopped at a scenic overlook. A series of neighboring peaks rippled up from the earth’s mantle. Ken explained the Rockies had been formed by a violent collision of tectonic plates during the last Ice Age.
Caroline traded her fleece jacket for the down parka Ken offered. They had gained two thousand feet in elevation and the air was fifteen degrees cooler here. He handed her a wool stocking cap, watching with interest as she pulled off her baseball cap and shook out her hair. “It’s a day for rare sightings. First a herd of wild elk and now Alice Stevens without her St. Louis Cardinals cap,” he teased.
Caroline ran a hand through her hair. The breeze felt good on her scalp, like everything else about this day so far.
They drove higher to the end of the county road. A rustic wooden sign warned they were leaving the area of regular patrol by Colorado authorities, and entering a private wilderness area. All visitors were urged to sign in on a yellowing loose-leaf pad that sat beneath a battered plastic cover inside a wooden shelter. Caroline shivered, mindful of local pueblo lands that were strictly off-limits to day-trippers.
A Dark Love Page 15