So when he called the DA for the Capitol district, his call was put through immediately.
The young woman was guarded. Relations between the feds and local lawmakers were not known for warmth. Which was fair enough, John Crowley reasoned, and in keeping with the way the nation’s founders had intended things to be. He kept his request simple. “I am calling to ask a favor if you feel it is appropriate for you to do.”
“Of course,” came the guarded reply. “I’ll be happy to help if I can.”
“My wife is quite concerned about the well-being of a neighbor of ours, a young woman who appears to have gone missing,” he explained. “She has voiced her concerns and filed a report with our local police—”
The DA didn’t wait for him to finish. “What area?”
“PSA 2.” Georgetown, the crown jewel of the D.C. tax base. Crowley chose his next words carefully. “My wife was assured that they would send someone over to look into it, but the husband seems to have left town. We are quite concerned.”
He waited. The DA could either move this to the top of her inbox or not. It was her call.
There was the sound of a breath being released on the other end of the phone. “Let me look into this, Mr. Crowley, okay? I’ll take some information from you and see what I can find out.”
“Thank you.” Crowley waited while the DA took down Caroline Hughes’s name and address. Then she asked for the name of the person they both knew was the real reason behind Crowley’s call, the one whose actions perhaps would render his home and property liable to search and seizure by D.C. law enforcement under terms of a warrant that would be issued if there was probable cause.
“And the husband’s name?” The DA’s tone was professional and still guarded.
“Porter Moross,” John Crowley replied. “Allow me to spell that for you.”
CHAPTER 22
STORM PASS, COLORADO
Caroline spent the early part of the day working at a feverish pace, readying the ranch for her departure. Coming to a small town in the off-season had been a mistake, she realized. “Hide in plain sight,” Ken had explained. And so her next move would be to seek anonymity among the crowds of a large city.
She would leave Colorado soon, and she needed to be ready.
She topped off containers of rock salt from a giant bag at the back of the garage, stowing them near the back patio and front. As though by keeping Nan’s steps free from the ice to come she could thaw the chill in her own heart. She drove herself in the Porsche to a warehouse-style store, loading up on supplies Nan would need.
“Are we expecting an army?” Nan watched, eyebrows raised, as Caroline lugged boxes into the kitchen.
“Just wanted to make sure you don’t run out.”
Nan frowned. The way Alice talked, it sounded like she had no plans to eat any of the five-pound bag of basmati rice, wash her clothes using the jumbo box of laundry detergent, or feed Poppit from the twenty-five-pound bag of dog food. Nan Birmingham was not the fretful sort, but she was worried. Alice hadn’t smiled at all today. In fact, she had reverted to the girl she had been when Nan first laid eyes on her. Nervous. Distant. Silent. Nan resolved to bring it up at dinner tonight.
A problem shared was a problem halved, was what the Colonel always said.
With that plan in mind, she stayed out of Alice’s way, leaving the young woman to go about her business like a whirling dervish.
Caroline washed all the bedding including dust ruffles and winter quilts, dusted, vacuumed the place including lampshades and down between the couch cushions, and even changed the light bulb that had burned out years ago in the crawl space below the house.
By the middle of the afternoon, Caroline’s lower back ached.
Still, she cleaned. Every pass of the mop across the oak floors bought time for Nan to locate a new housekeeper, she told herself. But something else drove her. It came to her when she was on her knees under the kitchen sink, scrubbing the far reaches of the cabinet before replacing its contents in size order, smallest in front and largest in back.
Her life with Porter had been governed by a series of rituals and rules. Looking back, she realized she had no idea how far they had strayed from normalcy.
No bathmats or kitchen sponges were allowed. Porter had majored in microbiology, a fact he credited with his fear of germs. Caroline was not allowed to pet Pippin without washing her hands immediately using antibacterial soap. Nor could she speak to the dog. Porter believed the transference of emotion would weaken their marriage.
Once, she had left a blob of toothpaste lying in the sink. As punishment, Porter hid the toothpaste for an entire week, wrinkling his nose in disgust whenever she opened her mouth to speak.
Caroline learned to do everything his way, in an attempt to avoid the vortex that always lurked, ready to suck them down. But she made mistakes.
One night in bed, he noticed a spiderweb where the plastered walls met the low timbered ceiling. A workman had told her there was no way to rid a two-hundred-year-old house of spiders.
“Damn it, Caroline. It’s your job to check Akua’s work,” Porter said, his face draining of all color. The cleaning lady had come that day for her twice-weekly visit. “Why did you allow this?”
It was midnight. Caroline was tired. “Porter, I didn’t notice. I’ll get rid of it in the morning as soon as I wake up.”
He grew still, and she knew she’d made a serious mistake. He pursed his lips and rolled out of bed, reaching down for the box he kept underneath.
Caroline sprang from her side of the bed. “I’ll clean it now.”
But it was too late.
“This isn’t about your filthy housekeeping, Caroline, and you know it,” he said without looking up.
“Porter, I’m sorry,” she began.
He waved off her protest, directing her to remove her nightgown, and she did.
He took his time, studying the contents of the box while she waited, shivering.
Caroline’s stomach twisted when she saw his choice. “No,” she moaned softly. “Porter, please. I’ll clean the cobweb. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
His blue eyes glittering with excitement, he flicked the horse’s tail he had chosen so each long strand of hair swirled like original sin. He motioned at the floor. “Get down.”
Arguing would only make him angry. She dropped to her hands and knees, doggy-style.
He stepped out of his briefs, keeping his grip on the horse’s tail. He fondled his penis, now erect, with his other hand.
Closing her eyes, she pleaded. “No, Porter, no.”
He kicked her once in her side.
The bruise on her ribs would take weeks to fade.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
She drew in a breath, searching for words that would convey progress, authenticity, and sincerity. Not that, after more than a minute or two, it would matter.
He moved behind her now. “Do you see what I have?”
This was part of it, what he wanted. Caroline turned her head.
The horse’s tail was bunched in a tight knot at its base, which consisted of a black rubber shaft that was knotted at intervals with round knobs of increasing size.
He shook it again. “Do you know why I chose this?”
“Because I’m stubborn,” Caroline whispered.
“Yes.” He reached into the box again and withdrew a leather riding crop, snapping it so it whistled through the air and landed near the tips of Caroline’s fingers.
She tried not to jump. That would just make it worse.
He tucked the riding crop under one arm and stood over her, fondling himself with his free hand. “You like to live in filth, Caroline. Tell me why.”
“Because of what happened to me,” she whispered.
“And what was that?”
She shook her head. “Porter, please, don’t do this to me.”
“I’m trying to help you even though you are probably beyond help. Tell me what you did.”
“I let my stepfather touch me…” She stumbled over the words.
“Touch you?” Porter snapped the crop again, and this time it landed on her fingers. “How?”
They had been over this many times. She knew what he wanted to hear. “I let him fuck me,” she whispered.
Porter began jerking his penis, licked his lips with excitement. His voice was hoarse. “Where did you let him fuck you?”
“In my ass.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know, maybe ten times.”
Porter bent over her and she felt his breath, ragged and hot on her back as he worked the tail into place. “Why did you do that, Caroline, tell me.”
“Because I liked it,” she said, willing herself to be still, forcing her mind to go to the empty place she had built so long ago. “I wanted it because I was born a filthy whore.”
Later that night on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, Caroline plotted her escape. One week later, she was gone.
CHAPTER 23
Porter was not prepared for the pleasure he derived from driving the SUV. He had denounced them as the transport of choice for the uncouth, but he quickly discovered the Yukon had its benefits. He enjoyed making cars scatter in front of him on the highway, signaling fast to change lanes when they glimpsed the Yukon barreling down on them in their rearview mirror.
The last leg of the journey passed quickly.
The weak light of late afternoon worked its way inside the high, narrow windows of the shower room inside the Pueblo, Colorado, truck stop. Porter had the place to himself. He snipped off his beard as his whiskers fell in tight, colorless coils into the chipped basin. He lathered his face and cut long, even swaths with a razor. He rinsed and got his first good look at his face since college days. He was patting it dry when the door opened.
A trucker walked in, acknowledging Porter with a short nod. Porter watched in the mirror as the man’s eyes widened in surprise, mixed with something else. Revulsion.
Porter’s skin was ghost white, dotted with purple splotches like overripe fruit. Pustules along his jaw bled where he had cut them with the razor. He had grown used to curious stares that lasted long enough for most people to figure out that the dense, colorless beard adorned the face of a young man, not an old one. Now it was gone, revealing the pocked skin beneath that announced his weakness to the world.
Porter Moross hated his face.
He took a bottle of Caroline’s makeup from his leather portfolio, poured some into his palms, and rubbed it into his cheeks. The makeup did nothing to disguise the weak lines of his chin, but the lesions were less purple. He surveyed the results in the mirror and decided he was no longer recognizable at forty feet.
He did not want to be identifiable until someone was at close range.
He gathered his things to go.
A door slammed and the trucker emerged from the shower area. He chose a sink at the far end and prepared to shave.
The man was large, dressed in a flannel shirt, dungarees, and scuffed work boots.
The sort of man Porter had always found intimidating. He lingered now, patting the top of his leather portfolio, feeling the comforting bulge of the pistol inside. Its presence made him bold.
Porter stared at the trucker.
The man pretended not to notice, whistling while he shaved.
But Porter could see he was nervous.
The man nicked himself and swore. He put his razor down and reached for a paper towel, careful to avoid Porter’s stare in observance of the etiquette that was the rule in bathrooms between heterosexual men. When the trucker had finished patting himself dry, he could avoid Porter no longer, and his gaze traveled to Porter’s face.
Their eyes locked.
The man’s eyes widened with revulsion and he looked away. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair before dabbing at a fresh cut on his chin.
Porter continued to stare, licking his lips loudly and smirking, watching in satisfaction as the big man at the sink hunched over to avoid the confrontation.
Porter walked out, stopping at the door long enough to give a short laugh. “Who’s afraid now? Just tell me, who’s afraid now?” He kicked the door so hard it hit the wall and bounced. In the parking lot after, he eyed an eighteen-wheeler that was idling, debating whether to shoot out all its tires. He decided against it. Apprehension for vandalism now would keep him from his larger objective. Still, the encounter in the restroom buoyed his spirits.
After a career spent coaching people about taming their inner demons, Dr. Porter Moross had discovered just how good it felt to let one’s inner demons run wild.
After a late lunch of huevos rancheros, Caroline made one final trip into town to stock up on fresh eggs and dairy at the local co-op so Nan wouldn’t have to shop for the next week, at least. Early tomorrow morning she would go to the community college the next town over. There, she could gain Internet access to research bus schedules and connections to her next destination: Seattle, Washington.
Clouds were rolling in when she left the co-op late in the afternoon. She drove back to Storm Pass with the windows down so she could draw in deep breaths of the mountain air, wishing she could stamp the memory of the place inside her. The wind had picked up, tossing piñons and brush. As though the mountain itself was in torment. A large bird soared overhead, and Caroline leaned over the dash, wondering if it was a bald eagle.
A vehicle up ahead brought her attention back to earth. A white SUV was coming toward her, too fast, in the oncoming lane.
Caroline braked and signaled to turn right.
The SUV was almost abreast of the Porsche when the driver apparently decided to make the turn as well. He jammed on his brakes and banked hard to his left, cutting Caroline off in the Porsche.
The Yukon made the turn but just barely, bouncing across Caroline’s lane before careening off onto the shoulder of the road to Storm Pass.
Caroline took evasive action, jamming on the brakes and steering the Porsche hard to her right. The sports car clamped down hard and tight, screeching to a halt just short of the Yukon’s massive rear bumper.
Porter pulled off the highway late in the day at the exit for Storm Pass. Darkness was already settling in the heavy forest that pressed up to the edges of the road, and he marveled that his timid mouse of a wife had found her way here, far beyond the bounds of any community she had ever known. All on the basis of an e-mail from some pimply-faced kid she had known from the GW dorms.
The scheming bitch.
Porter tightened his grip on the wheel. It had been two long days of hard driving. And now he was here. He would see her soon. His heart raced as he reviewed his plan to get her alone, talk to her, convince her to come home. They would work things out. They both needed to change. He glanced down at the leather portfolio on the passenger seat. He hoped she wouldn’t require convincing to get into the car and come with him, but the .38 was there if she did.
His mind turned to his other plan, the one that had sprung to mind the night he sat in his office contemplating photos of her with the man. Kincaid. Porter was prepared for that, too.
The SUV bounced across a dip in the road. A large, wet dollop of bird shit hit the windshield from a great height, startling Porter. He cursed and fumbled for the windshield spray. The wipers came on first, smearing the mess across the windshield in a broad, blue path.
He cursed Caroline for leading him here, to this ass-wipe of a place.
He almost missed the turnoff but spotted it at the last minute, thanks to a bright red sports car coming toward him with its turn signal flashing. Porter yanked his wheels hard to the left and made the turn just in time, gravel crunching beneath the Yukon’s giant tires. He hit the brakes hard, stopping so fast his seat belt cinched tight across his chest. The leather portfolio tumbled to the floor.
The red Porsche car screeched to a stop behind him. He glanced in the side mirror long enough to make out a young woman in a baseb
all cap behind the wheel. A young woman who had witnessed Porter’s mistake.
His shoulders hunched down with embarrassment. Until he remembered his SUV was so big he could drive right over her and her lousy Porsche without even scratching his bumper.
The polite thing would be to get out and apologize. But he didn’t. He stomped the gas instead so the Yukon roared to life, leaving the Porsche and its driver fading in his rearview mirror. Porter laughed out loud. A woman like that had no business behind the wheel of a sports car anyway. He never once allowed Caroline to drive the Saab.
There was, indeed, a freedom in allowing one’s demons to roam free. They didn’t teach you that at Yale.
Caroline sat in the driver’s seat, shaking. She had narrowly avoided the SUV’s rear bumper. She had come so close to impact, in fact, that the Porsche’s nose had come to a rest underneath it. One more inch and the two cars would have collided.
Luckily, there were no other cars on the road.
She’d learned in her short time here that people helped each other. It was the only way to survive. The wilderness around them was unforgiving. Shifting the Porsche into reverse, she edged it back a car length before parking it. She undid her seat belt.
Before she could leave the car, however, the Yukon lurched to life in front of her. She glimpsed a pale, thin man behind the wheel as the SUV bounced back down onto the pavement and roared off.
Eyes wide with surprise, Caroline recalled Nan’s words of caution about the perils of sharing roads up here with SUVs. “City folk with more money than sense,” she’d said. With a shake of her head, Caroline put the Porsche in gear and headed into town, keeping a generous distance between herself and the Yukon. He turned onto Main Street, no doubt headed for the inn. A tourist.
She caught herself. She was beginning to think like a native.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Officer Mike Hartung felt a yawn coming on. His shift had ended an hour ago and he was knee-deep in paperwork.
The appearance of his commanding officer stifled the yawn.
A Dark Love Page 18