Sally is exiting the beach now, walking up onto the asphalt parking lot, her hands gripping the shoulder straps of the backpack. The muscles in her legs straining, well defined. Her arms are hard, too—long thin slivers of muscle.
But his favorite part is the backpack. It means she’s passing through. Not a native. A loner.
No friend or spouse or lover expecting her home tonight.
Holden is smart. Maybe not school-smart. But he isn’t dumb.
And he knows his history well:
A peasant, any peasant will do, and better still a stranger;
Whosoever shall not be missed is welcome in my chamber.
He walks over to his motorcycle and throws on his helmet but keeps the shield up. Climbs onto the bike. Looks over at Sally as she passes. Nods to her.
Too nervous to speak, though. And probably best that he doesn’t. His voice might shake. He’s still a little nervous. A little rusty.
He drives off, lets time pass, the sun disappearing in a burst of color to the west.
He uses his secret entrance into 7 Ocean Drive, the one specially for him. The one he used when Annie and Dede were staying there. The one he uses when he wants to sleep there himself, which he does from time to time.
It’s his house, after all. Even if nobody else knows it.
Once he’s inside, down in the basement, he drops his Fun Bag and gets to work. He lays down the tarp, tests the chain’s connection to the ceiling, locks and unlocks the handcuffs.
Tonight he’s going to feast on duck and pheasant, on grapes and cheese.
And then he’s going to find the girl named Sally and bring her back to the chamber.
52
SALLY PFIESTER STRETCHES her legs in the cushy sand and rests her head against her soft pack, the water crashing to the shore only ten yards away. She looks up into a purple sky and lets out a satisfied breath. This is just what she needed, this summer. After a soul-killing desk job for two years and a ridiculous decision to accept that marriage proposal, she was starting down a road from which she would not be able to turn aside. Oh, he was a nice enough guy, and he had a terrific smile, a good sense of humor, but he didn’t ignite that pilot light inside her.
Isn’t life supposed to be exciting? Aren’t you supposed to love, not merely tolerate, your job? Aren’t you supposed to commit to a man not because it’s “time,” or because you want kids, or because he’d be a good provider—but because he makes your heart go pitter-pat?
Of course. Yes to all of that. It seems so obvious now. It didn’t when she was stuck in that rut, like a hamster on a wheel. But once she opened her eyes and broke off the engagement, quit her shitty job and gathered up her savings for a year of travel, it revealed itself to her so clearly. She wants to explore. She wants to meet people and experience new things. She wants a man who’s adventurous, nonjudgmental, not materialistic. She wants a man who is patient and at ease with himself. She wants a man who transports her to a world she’s never known. Or fuck it, she’ll do without a man altogether.
The decision to travel alone—deemed by her mother insane, by her envious friends awesome—was the best she could have made. She’s only nine weeks in thus far, traveling the beaches of Long Island this summer by foot before heading to the West Coast and then Europe, but she’s learned so much about herself, about what she wants and needs and expects from life.
And damn, all this walking has restored her triathlon physique from two years ago. She feels like herself again.
She’s reaching for her smartphone—because solitude has its limits; she still posts regularly on Facebook and texts with her friends—when she sees something out of the corner of her eye, a figure emerging from the ocean in a wet suit, the glow of moonlight on him. She’s a night swimmer, too, but it’s a bit chilly this evening, so she took a pass.
The man trudges up the beach in her general direction, but then stops. For the first time, she notices that he’s staked out a spot on the beach just like her, about twenty yards to her left. There aren’t that many people sleeping on the beach tonight, but then again, she chose this remote beach for that very reason.
A light comes on by the man’s spot—a flashlight? No, a battery-charged lantern—and he seems to be settling in for the night. She watches him for a time and then returns her gaze to the sky.
Sometimes she likes company and seeks it out, hangs out at bonfires, shares a bottle of wine or a joint, but other nights, like this, she prefers the quiet of her own company. It’s her choice. That’s the best part. It’s her decision entirely.
And then: Faint at first, and then her hearing adjusts to it, over the sound of rolling waves—music. The soft whine, the dramatic upward lilt to the impossibly high notes, so sweet and despairing.
Cello music, she thinks. He’s listening to cello music.
53