He excused himself and slipped back upstairs to the master bedroom. Before he was even at the bedroom door, he had a lie prepared in case anyone asked him why he was up there.
I had to pee, he’d say. The bathroom downstairs was busy.
Once in the room, he grabbed the family photo off the dresser. Then he shut the door. His fingers worked quickly to open the frame, to take out the picture.
The treasured family photograph seemed delicate out of its frame. This, though, did not stop him from shoving it into the pocket of his windbreaker and hiding the frame underneath the nearby armoire. Then he started back down the stairs.
He was three steps from bottom when the door to the deck slid open and Diane ran inside. She was crying. Her hand was pressed to her cheek.
Martin appeared a second later, shouting, “Everybody out!”
At first, everyone looked confused, but he kept shouting until the guests started to move—grabbing coats, dropping paper plates wherever they could. A pair of women had huddled around Diane. They used tissues to wipe away her tears, whispered comforting words.
Suddenly, after most of the guests were outside, she pushed the two women away. “He slapped me! That’s what that is!” she shouted at one of them as she pointed to the bright red spot on her cheek.
“You three get out, too!” Martin said, pointing in Diane’s direction.
“You don’t mean that,” Diane responded.
“Why’s he so mad?”
“How would you know what I mean? You’re drunker than I’ve ever seen you. Hell, you’d have to be to let that cat out of the bag!”
“What’d you say?”
Diane wailed and staggered toward the door. Her two friends followed, one on each side. Ethan was still standing on that third step, watching the room clear.
When Ethan was the only guest left, the door was still wide open. Martin glanced at him. His face was sweaty and red with anger. He closed the door and collapsed onto the couch.
“I can’t believe it. I can’t believe what she did.”
Finally, Ethan moved. He sat down in an adjacent chair, with his elbows on his knees, and listened to Martin’s story.
NOW
ETHAN WOKE UP disoriented. He stared into the blinding light of the flashlight, trying to remember where he was and how he’d gotten here. Then he realized he was unable to move. His wrists had been bound to his ankles. He pulled his arms and legs, trying to separate them, to break the shoelaces holding them together, but the effort was futile.
THEN
MARTIN RETOLD DIANE’S story—complete with the time she barged into his mother’s house to announce the abortion and the eyedropper she’d used to drip fake tears down her cheeks.
Ethan listened without moving until he was done.
“I still can’t believe she kept it a secret for all these years.” Martin rubbed his temples as he spoke.
Ethan patted his knee and said sympathetically, “It’s like what I said, life will fuck you over if you let it.”
Martin exhaled a chuckle. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Don’t take this personally, but I think I want to be alone.”
“You sure? Because I know this hot little bitch. I bet she could hook you up with one of her friends, and you could get those memories fucked out of you.”
“That’s not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
“Well, whatever it was supposed to be, I don’t think it’s a good idea. . . . Just go home and get some rest. I’ll see you Monday at the bar.”
Ethan stood up. “Sure. Whatever you want. I got things to do tomorrow, anyway. Before I go, tell me something, though. Did you really slap her out there?”
Martin nodded, his eyes never meeting Ethan’s, and then added, “After I tried to choke her.”
“Are you serious?”
“It was just for a second. Before I realized what I was doing.”
“How’d it feel?”
Martin thought about that. It felt . . . strange, empowering, but mostly it felt “Scary.” I shouldn’t be capable of something like that.
Ethan smiled. “I’ll see you Monday.”
And left.
Martin spent the weekend at his mother’s house. There was something peaceful about being back in the place he grew up. He was safe here—surrounded by 1950s trinkets and overwhelmed by the memories of his life before Diane.
Saturday night was spent reminiscing with his mom about his boyhood. “Remember how much you used to love Superman?” she said. “How you wore that costume I made you every day of the summer after third grade?”
It was her favorite memory.
“How could I forget?”
“I think the neighbors thought I couldn’t afford clothes for you kids anymore.” Her eyes twinkled as she spoke—it had been a long time since the two had been alone together, and Martin’s mom was thrilled to see him.
They were up until late into the evening, retelling stories they’d each told a thousand times. But it was better than talking about Diane, and Martin was glad that his mom had the good sense to realize that.
The only comment she’d made was just before bed. “Don’t worry, I won’t say a word about it when your sister comes over tomorrow. I think dealing with this new boyfriend of hers will be enough for one day.”
NOW
GINA HAD EXHAUSTED herself trying to dig a way out and eventually gave up. If she wanted to get away from Paul’s corpse, she’d have to go out the same way the others did. But there were obvious risks in such a decision. She’d likely never find them, she’d probably get lost, and she’d more than likely end up as pale and dead as her boyfriend.
Ex-boyfriend.
She sat down beside Paul’s body and stared, with slow steady breaths, at his peaceful face, closed eyes. Thank God his eyes were closed. She couldn’t bear looking into those deep, aqua-colored pools, now deserted. His body abandoned like a condemned building.
All of my training as a nurse, and what good has it done me?
She took his cold palm into one hand and softly ran the fingers of her other over it. In her exhaustion, she was able to think clearly for the first time since she awoke to find his lifeless head in her lap. This was simply the cycle of life, she told herself. Even here, in the darkness of the cave, there was no reason to be scared. He wasn’t going to turn into a zombie. He was just going to lie there, still, until somebody came to carry him away.
I’ll be here with you. I won’t leave your side, she promised. Then she mouthed the words to a silent prayer.
THEN
ETHAN HAD SPENT his lunch hour on Friday scanning the Yellow Pages in search of a reputable, but affordable, private investigator. After he found several that looked promising, he placed calls to get prices and, in doing so, realized how limited the information was he had to offer.
“What do you know already?” he was asked repeatedly.
Each time before answering, he glanced around the diner to make sure no one was close enough to hear him. “Bastard’s name is Frank Campbell. Father of Martin Campbell, ex-husband of Janice Campbell.”
The conversations that followed went mostly the same.
“That’s it?” the investigator would ask.
“All I can tell you for sure. But I got a picture.”
“How recent?”
“Probably twenty years ago.”
“That’s not much to go on.”
“Can you do it?”
“Yeah. But it’ll take time, and it won’t be cheap.”
“How much?”
“It depends on how long it takes.”
Their evasiveness on this last point made Ethan suspicious. Without a specific number, they could easily rack up billable hours while sleeping or watching television. Based on that concern, every conversation ended the same: “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.”
After all, how could he know the exact number of hours it might take to track down Frank Campbell?
There had to be another option. By three o’clock, he had it. With all that high-tech equipment, certainly Dallas could find him. And Dallas, with all his paranoia and shady dealings, was far less likely to go to the police if he got word of Frank Campbell’s untimely death.
Martin’s first encounter with Paul Dixon was—as it was with most of Gina’s boyfriends—awkward. He was polite, yet ever so slightly nervous; the tremor in his hand when they shook gave that away.
Instead of trying to hide it, he admitted, “Meeting the family is never an easy thing.”
“How many families have you met?”
Gina stomped her foot on the living room floor. “Martin! What kind of question is that?”
“It slipped out.”
“I don’t know,” Paul said, with a nervous smile. “A couple, I suppose. I guess not enough, that’s why I’m uncomfortable.”
Martin chuckled. “Relax. I’m just messing with you.” The tension in the room fell a notch or two. “Come on into the kitchen. I think Mom’s just about finished with the salads.”
For the next hour, the Campbell family sat at the kitchen table, completely engrossed in the stories Paul told of his adventures in the mountains. Except for the occasional question—during one of which he tightened his ponytail—he talked uninterrupted.
By the time lunch was over, Martin had counted four stories that included rain or snow, two that began with Paul getting lost, and one that could have (but luckily hadn’t) ended with a bear attack.
“Let me just say how glad I am that we got away from that beast unharmed,” Paul said. “I’d much rather be here with you guys than six feet under somewhere.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Martin’s mom said.
Gina rubbed his knee, lovingly winked at him.
At the same time Martin was clearing the dishes, and in a drab, dingy apartment building not too far away, Ethan slammed his fist against Dallas’s door.
“I know you got to be in there!” Ethan shouted. “The chick down at Starlight told me you were here! Open up! I need to ask you something!”
Locks crunched. The door squeaked open.
“Don’t shout,” Dallas said, his hair a mess and his eyes baggy. “I’ve got neighbors.” He looked like he had been up all night.
“Can I come in?”
“Look, you got a problem with the ID I sold you? Too bad. That’s not how this works.”
“No, it’s perfect. I’ve got another job for you, though.”
Dallas opened the door wider and moved out of the way. After closing it behind them, he put a finger over his mouth, telling Ethan to be quiet. A quick pat-down revealed no hidden mike, no weapon. “What do you need?”
“I need you to locate somebody for me.”
“Who?”
“How much will you charge?”
“It depends on how much you already know.”
“I know his name,” Ethan said, stepping over computer wires and sitting down in a swivel chair. He was now able to see one of the computer screens Dallas had recently been using; but before he could read anything on it, Dallas pressed a button to turn it off.
“That’s all?”
“I know the names of his ex-wife and son.”
“That’s something, but—”
“And I’ve got this.” He pulled out the stolen photograph.
Dallas took it from him and examined it closely. “It’s old. Fifteen, twenty years, it looks like.”
“That’s about right.”
“That’s the ex and their kid, I bet, huh?”
“Can you find him?”
Dallas pointed at the boy. “Is that you?”
“No.”
He dropped the picture onto a nearby keyboard. “Can I ask why you’re looking for him?”
“It’s for a friend.”
“Whatever. Sure.”
“Can you find him or not?”
Dallas sat down on an old corduroy sofa against the window. “I can find him.”
“How much will it cost?”
Dallas quoted an hourly rate.
“You can’t be any more specific?”
“Sorry, man. It’s a common name. I’ll do the best I can, that’s all I can tell you.”
Ethan put his hands on his hips, dropped his head. He paced a couple of steps forward and then back. “Fine.”
He still preferred Dallas to any of the other investigators he’d called.
“The picture, though—that’s going to help.”
“That’s why I brought it,” Ethan said. Then he told Dallas that he’d be back in a few days for an update and left.
NOW
MUSCLES SORE, ETHAN was about ready to give up when he looked around and had another idea. There was a rock over that way that might be sharp enough to grind through the laces. He squirmed toward it and went to work.
THEN
MARTIN REMEMBERED OVER beers with Ethan that he still had the key to Diane’s apartment in his glovebox.
“What’s it doin’ in there?” Ethan asked.
Martin pretended he hadn’t heard the question. He didn’t want to answer it. He didn’t want to say that when they were together, he’d kept her key in the glove box because he didn’t want to be reminded of her all the time. Every time he went into his house or started his car, he didn’t want her face coming to mind. Who needed that?
Instead, he said, “I should go drop this off. I don’t want to hold onto that thing any longer than I have to.”
“Drop it off? What for? Just toss it.”
Martin shook his head. “If I don’t return it, sooner or later, she’ll come around asking about it.” He stood up.
“You’re going now?”
“Like I said—”
“Yeah, ‘sooner or later,’ I got it.” Ethan finished his beer and stood as well. “I guess if you’re going, I’m coming with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Of course I don’t. Let’s go.”
The four-story building where Diane lived was on Wideland Avenue, and part of a sizeable complex called Night Forest. Manicured shrubs and scattered trees surrounded the perimeter of the property.
“Building D,” Ethan said, looking at the large letter on the upper-right corner of the building. Then he turned to Martin, who had already removed the key from the glove box and was holding it—cupped in his hands and staring down at it. “You want me to run it up?”
“I’ll do it.”
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“It’s just I ain’t so sure you should be seeing that bitch right now.”
“I won’t see her. I’ll leave it under the matt.”
“What if she’s outside? Or what if she opens the door while you’re leaving it and she catches you? Then what?”
“I guess I’ll hand her the key and walk away.”
“I’d better go with you anyway. For backup.”
Ethan was being absurd, Martin thought, as he got out of the car. He was just dropping off a key. But if Ethan wanted to come, what difference did it make? “Suit yourself.”
They climbed two flights of stairs and walked to a door at the back of the building. Martin placed the key under the matt. They never saw Diane. When they got back to the car, Martin said, “I told you there wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m still glad I came.”
NOW
THE LACES TORE. Ethan tugged and jerked until his arms were free. Then he untied his ankles, strung what remained of the laces into his shoes, and grabbed the flashlight.
So that’s the way they went, he thought, shining the flashlight into the south tunnel. The traitor and his bitch.
NOW
THE AIR GREW increasingly damp. Water dripped from stalactites. Just over a ridge, at the end of a long tunnel, the light from Cynthi
a’s headlamp twinkled on the exposed part of an underground stream.
To get around it would be a daunting task.
Martin licked his lips at the thought of taking a drink, but did not do so for two reasons: the water was too far below the ridge to reach without diving in, and, in Martin’s opinion, drinking from an underground stream could be dangerous to his health.
It was as useful to him as a mirage.
Martin tossed the backpack on the ground, and they climbed the ridge, anyway, to take a peek—to see how deep it was, how they might get around it. That was when Cynthia noticed the candy wrapper bobbing against the east wall, trapped on a rock.
THEN
MARTIN STARTED DRINKING more to numb the pain of Diane’s betrayal and to slow the thoughts that spun in his head—ideas, philosophies, beliefs Ethan had shared with him night after night at the bar.
Revenge. Justice. Freedom.
“Whatever you want can be yours. You just have to have the balls to take it.”
Then there were the nights they spent popping off BBs at strangers from the top of Ethan’s apartment building. A good hit was always dead center on the butt or the balls.
“It ain’t powerful enough to kill anybody,” Ethan said the first time they went up to the roof. “It’ll just give ’em a good sting.”
And that it did.
A solid shot sent several passersby to their knees, hands cupped on their crotch.
“Think about it like you’re popping one off at your old man,” Ethan had said, and Martin liked that idea.
Later, he was dragged to Poppy’s apartment building and introduced to one of her friends. The four drank and talked until nobody was sober enough to think clearly.
The next thing Martin remembered was waking up in a stranger’s bedroom—his arms wrapped around a girl he didn’t know, his head pounding.
Ethan was standing over him, shaking his shoulder.
A Reagan Keeter Box Set: Three page-turning thrillers that will leave you wondering who you can trust Page 54