Devil's Creek

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  She was screwed up, really bad. She couldn’t help it, could she? He was supposed to be there for her during all the tough times. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t that his role? To support her? To help her through her trials?

  He rolled onto his back and sighed. “Where are you, Grace?”

  Tempted to call her again, he reached for the phone. Played with the screens. Almost pressed call. Backed off. Then went for it.

  The thing went right to voicemail.

  He thumbed it off and tossed it onto her side of the bed.

  “Damn you, Grace.”

  He thought of the other men at times like this, in the deep, dark night. He pictured them fucking her. All those hairy, muscular, disgusting bastards who’d arched their backs over her and drilled into her tender flesh.

  God, how he hated them.

  How he hated her.

  And, God forgive me, how I still love her. I’m the world’s biggest idiot.

  But how could she do this to him?

  And here he was. Lying in bed, doing nothing. NOTHING.

  He was supposed to be the reasonable one. The academic who used his brains instead of his brawn. The understanding hero who saved her from drugs, yet who was taken advantage of at every opportunity. But what he wanted to do was use some of the skills he’d learned in his two tours of duty in Iraq to punish these creeps who took advantage of her.

  Or was it the other way around? Did she take advantage of them?

  It was impossible to tell.

  How could he survive this? She was supposed to have recovered, for crying out loud.

  Tomorrow he’d call her shrink. Would she speak with him? Or would she quote him some damned HIPPA law? If she’d talk, he’d see if he could get some advice on how to lure Grace home again. So far, what he was doing wasn’t working.

  Rolling over, he sat up and put his bare feet on the cold floorboards. Maybe he’d check his email. Or browse around Facebook. Anything to take his mind off her. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep.

  He shuffled into his slippers and grabbed a sweater from the bedpost, settling in the desk chair. He flipped open the laptop. The screen came to life, showing a Facebook page he didn’t recognize.

  Chandler somebody. His Facebook cover showed a tranquil woodland scene. Something generic he’d probably stolen off the Internet. His photo was small, not a headshot but a full body pic, and the guy behind the shades and under the baseball cap could have been anyone.

  Chandler?

  In the lower right corner, a conversation box was still open, showing a long line of messages going between someone called Candy and the man to whom this page belonged.

  Candy?

  Oh, Grace. Is that what you’re calling yourself these days?

  She’d never done this before – left the evidence right in front of him, right out in the open. Was she trying to taunt him? Did she want him to catch her in the act? Or had she been hurrying, late for work?

  He scrolled up and discovered that Chandler and Grace had begun talking about a week ago.

  The list of short notes started with his first message to “Candy.” “Hi. I’m new in town. Have you lived here long?” and ended with her message from last night, telling him when and where to meet her. He scrolled past a small beefcake picture of the guy that could have come off some cowboy romance novel. And there was her picture, neatly attached to her last message. It was the one he’d taken at the barbecue last year at his in-laws’ horse farm, Bittersweet Hollow. She’d looked gorgeous in that red and white polka-dot halter-top and those tight white jean shorts.

  Damn. How dare she use a picture he took of her to lure another man to her bed?

  And geez Louise. The Lone Stallion Inn? That was pretty lame. It was only ten minutes from home. Anyone from town could recognize her there.

  With a grunt, he decided to get up and drive to the Inn. Maybe they were staying in one of the rooms and he could drag her out of there without too much hollering and screaming.

  Maybe.

  Chapter 9

  Anderson arrived at the Inn fifteen minutes later, dressed in yesterday’s jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. And there, off in the corner of the parking lot, was Grace’s Mustang, sitting primly under a large oak tree.

  He swore and walked inside.

  He hadn’t combed his hair or even looked in a mirror, and the reflection he caught in the Inn’s entrance hall window made him cringe.

  Crap. I look desperate.

  Combing his fingers through his hair, he pasted on a feeble smile for the young girl behind the desk.

  He’d expected the place to be closed. Or at least for them to have a button to push that would summon some old innkeeper out of bed wearing a nightcap and squinting through his spectacles.

  His mind whirled. Worrying about Grace was making him nuts. He realized he was picturing Ebenezer Scrooge from the production of “The Christmas Carol” they’d done at Woodlyn Prep, a private school just outside Albany where he’d worked for the past year.

  The girl behind the desk did not resemble Ebenezer in any way. Short, plump, and cute, she wore her dirty blond hair in a loose ponytail. As if delighted to see someone actually awake during her shift, she brightened and answered in a tiny elfin voice. “May I help you, sir?”

  Her expression dimmed a little when she took in his rumpled clothes. Next, she scrutinized his scruffy beard and tired eyes. “Um. Sir? Do you need a room?”

  He pulled himself to his full height and gave her his rueful smile, noting her nametag. “I hope you can help me, Stephanie.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’m looking for my wife. She’s missing.”

  “Missing, sir?”

  “Yes. I'm afraid she’s not well.” This time his face almost broke—for real. No thespian skills needed now.

  “Oh, wow. I’m sorry.”

  Her expression melted into one of empathy and Anderson was pretty sure he’d be able to win her over.

  “Can we talk?” he said, motioning to the couch and coffee table in front of a gas fireplace.

  Stephanie looked left and then right, checked her watch, and gave a guilty smile. “I guess. But just for a minute. I don’t want to get in trouble for leaving the desk.”

  “I promise. Just five minutes.”

  She skirted the counter and met him at the couch, sitting primly with folded hands on her lap. “So. You said she’s missing. What’s her name? What does she look like?”

  Anderson pulled a photo out of his wallet. It was a headshot taken of his wife before they were married, when he was her professor in college. She’d starred as “Sandy,” in a remarkable production of “Grease.”

  “Her name is Grace. Her hair’s a little shorter now. But that’s her.”

  “Oh! I know her.” The girl took the photo and stared at it. “She’s pretty. I saw her earlier in my shift. All dolled up.”

  Anderson nodded. “Yes. We’ve been married two years. And she’s not entirely well.”

  “She was with a man,” Stephanie said, returning the photo. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yes, I know. But what I don’t know is if this guy is safe.”

  She leaned toward him, speaking in a low whisper. “He looked okay. Drove a nice, new Lincoln. And wore a suit coat and tie.” She ducked her head. “Sorry. I notice stuff like that.”

  “Did they check in?”

  “Goodness, no.” She blushed. “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s okay. Did you see them leave together?”

  The girl nodded. “Yes. Again. I'm so sorry.”

  Anderson smiled. “She’s not well emotionally. Not stable.”

  Stephanie tilted her head in sympathy. “Oh, dear. How difficult for you.”

  “I’m just worried about her.”

  “I’ve never seen the man before. He wasn’t one of our regular bar customers or restaurant patrons. And I’d have remembered that car. It was long and sleek and really shiny. Almost like a limo.” Her eyes shone
for a minute, and then she blushed again. “I just like cars.”

  “So do I,” Anderson lied, patting her hand. “Did you happen to see which direction they went?”

  “No. I just watched them walking out to the car through that big picture window.” She pointed to the window, looking wistful. “I like imagining people’s lives. Wondering where folks come from. Where they’re going. You know?”

  “Sure. It’s gotta get pretty boring standing behind the counter all day.”

  “It does.” She stood and smoothed her skirt. “I should get back. I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

  He walked her back to the counter. “Listen. If you see her, would you consider giving me a call?” He pressed a card into her hand.

  She glanced down at it and her eyes widened. “Oh. You’re a dean at UV? Wow. I didn’t think… ”

  He shrugged. “I don’t exactly look the part tonight.”

  “Professor Rockwell, I’ll call you if I see her. And good luck. I hope she turns up safe and sound.”

  “Thanks, Stephanie.”

  Anderson stumbled out to his car and sat behind the wheel.

  Now what?

  Chapter 10

  Grace woke at six in the morning to the sun streaming in a window as wide as two Ping-Pong tables set end-to-end. She could get used to this lifestyle. She stretched, smiled, and turned to see the man sleeping beside her.

  Oh, crud.

  Chandler looked even older than she’d remembered. In the dark restaurant and car, outdoors in the hot tub… he’d seemed younger.

  Then she caught sight of a little blue pill on his nightstand.

  Makes sense. He went all night with her, screwing her until they both fell asleep at two AM, exhausted.

  The last few times had been pretty good. He’d worked hard at it, with her encouragement, and had been quite generous with his ministrations, especially when he went under the blankets between her legs.

  She smiled again, feeling the throbbing sensations of last night still pulsing in her most delicate parts.

  Yes, it had been good in the end.

  Maybe one more time this morning? Then she’d call Anderson to come pick her up. A twinge of guilt hit her, but she ignored it with her usual skills, and quietly slid from the bed.

  She tiptoed into the bathroom and found another closetful of clothes, including some women’s dresses and robes. She slid a silky purple robe off the hanger and wrapped up in it. Snooping a little, she found female toiletries in the top drawer of the vanity. And a few handbags hanging in the back of the closet.

  So. Either this Denny guy had a live-in paramour since he was dumped by his wife, or Chandler made up the story about him. But why would he do that?

  Probably the clothes belonged to Denny’s lover who came to stay off and on. That’s it. And now the two of them were probably frolicking on the shores of the Riviera.

  She liked that image.

  She reached beneath the sink and found a pack of fresh toothbrushes. Thank God. She brushed her teeth thoroughly before running down to grab her purse and phone from the first floor. Upstairs again, she worked on her face and hair until she was satisfied. In the mirror, she whispered, “You’re ravishing, Grace.”

  She dumped the robe, climbed back into bed, and poked Chandler. Turning on her side, she pretended to be just waking up when he opened his eyes and moaned.

  “Morning, handsome.”

  His eyes slowly came into focus and he leered at her. “Morning, Candy.”

  She rolled onto her back, letting one breast peek through the sheets. “It’s a beautiful morning for a swim. Shall we?”

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Six.”

  “Whoa. That’s early.”

  “Too early for… ” She wiggled one eyebrow suggestively.

  “Hell, no. Let me visit the bathroom first. I’ll be right out.”

  She heard him brushing his teeth and gargling. Then she heard a pill bottle shake. More Viagra? He emerged in a pair of swim trunks. “Ready.”

  She grabbed the purple robe again and slid into it. “Okay, stud. Let’s go see that creek.”

  They cavorted like teens on the way to the water’s edge. In the morning’s golden light, the pond shone like smooth glass. Not a ripple or wave broke its surface. A morning dove cooed in the background, and the sun warmed the air.

  Grace shed her robe and leaned over to pull down Chandler’s trunks. “Take these things off. You won’t need them.”

  He’d already grown hard, and that satisfied her more than she could explain.

  He wanted her.

  Badly.

  It felt so good.

  He stepped out of his trunks and slid one hand between her legs, probing her dampness. “Nectar of the gods,” he said.

  His expression was almost a sneer, but she ignored that, just like she’d ignored the signs of his aging. She was good at this, and she could imagine him as the hottest stud in town. She looked down at his needy body, instead.

  “You want me.”

  He reached further inside her, wiggling two fingers upward. “You know it.”

  She leaned against him, moaning. “Let’s do it in the creek.”

  He motioned to a half-submerged log. “Over there?”

  “Perfect.”

  They waded into the pond. The water was warm in the shallow pool, and he led her to the log, were he sat down, pulling her atop him. He slid inside her, and they rocked back and forth in the water until they both shattered the morning air with their cries.

  When it was over, she felt a veil lift from her eyes, like it always did.

  This man. This horrible, grotesque creature thought he owned her.

  Well, he didn’t. She belonged to Anderson, and it was time to go home.

  She’d had enough.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, his face still slack from pleasure. He still kneaded her breasts, circling her nipples with his thumbs.

  “Nothing. I’m just cold.” She pushed his hands away and stepped off him. “Let’s go in.”

  “Really?” His face hardened and he stood. “Just like that?” He grabbed her wrist. “What happened to my cute little vixen? My randy little sexpot?”

  “I said,” she almost screamed, “I’m cold. Let me go.”

  “Really, Grace?”

  She wasn’t really cold, of course, but now her blood froze for real. She stood still. “What did you say?”

  “Grace. Grace Rockwell. Married to the great Professor Anderson Rockwell.”

  “How did you—”

  He smiled and stepped into his swim trunks. “I know who you are, lady. I know where you live. And I know your husband, the bastard who… ” He paused and grabbed her arm, yanking her closer.

  “The bastard who what?” she shrieked.

  “Never mind. Get dressed. We’re going inside.”

  Chapter 11

  Anderson pulled into the Lamont’s horse farm at five-thirty, knowing Boone would be up and already working in the barn. He hadn’t gone home; he’d driven around town since he left the Inn. He ducked into the main aisle and heard a shovel scraping in a stall at the far end.

  “Boone? You down there?”

  A shaggy blond head popped out of a stall door. “Anderson? What the hell?”

  Boone maneuvered a wheelbarrow through the door and bolted the latch. “Don’t tell me. She didn’t show last night?”

  “No.”

  Boone grabbed a hay bale and motioned for Anderson to carry one, too. “Help me bring these out to the paddocks, and then we’ll go in for breakfast and we can talk this out.”

  Anderson picked up a bale and followed Boone outside. They cut the bale strings and tossed flakes of hay to their eager audience. The black Morgan stallion, Mirage, received two flakes in his special partitioned paddock, tossing his head with excitement. He was the pride of Bittersweet Hollow.

  “Okay. Let’s go inside,” Boone said.


  They shuffled up the porch steps and into the kitchen, where Boone automatically poured a cup of coffee for them both. They’d grown close since the episode last year when a sick killer had stolen both Portia and Grace, and they’d gone after him up in the dark woods near Devil’s Lake, in Baraboo, Wisconsin.

  Anderson sat still for a few minutes, stirring cream and sugar into his cup. Boone waited patiently.

  “She answered the phone when I called last night. So I know she’s alive. Or at least she was last night.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Around nine, I think.” He took out his phone and checked. “Yes. Five past nine.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “To leave her the hell alone. That she’d be home in a few days. She’d call me for a ride.”

  “Hell,” Boone said. “She really pisses me off. You shouldn’t be treated like that. It’s so freaking wrong.” He slammed his cup on the table, glancing up at the ceiling. “Shit. I hope I didn’t wake them. Daisy had a bad night last night and they’re all supposed to be sleeping in.”

  Anderson felt his heart drop. Daisy had just beaten cancer last year. “Is she sick again?”

  Boone shook his head. “No, thank God it’s not that. She’s still in remission. But she’s got the flu. Real bad.

  “In the summer?”

  “Yeah. It’s weird. Her system’s all messed up with those chemo drugs, you know?”

  “Right.” Anderson grimaced, rubbing his fingers over his eyes. “Christ, Boone. I can’t go through this again.”

  “Hey. She’ll come back. You know that.”

  Anderson locked eyes with him. “Until she seduces the wrong guy. One of these days… ”

  “I know. She’s a mess. I saw her at her worst, you know. When she was a teen. She was so screwed up.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I have a bad feeling this time. Like I did when Caroline disappeared all those years ago.”

  “Caroline?” Boone lifted one eyebrow.

  “Didn’t Portia tell you about her? About my past?”

  “I knew something real bad happened a long time ago, but I never got the details.”

  Anderson swallowed hard. “It’s still hard to talk about.”

  “Hey, man. No worries. If you don’t—”