Ben didn’t budge when I tiptoed into the bedroom. Or as I gathered my clothes, or even when I accidentally tripped over the alarm clock on the floor and caused it to clang like a tricycle bell for a second or two. I envied Ben’s ability to sleep soundly. He lay on his side, arms wrapped around his pillow the same way they’d embraced me. When I finished dressing, I knelt down next to the bed and watched him sleep. All traces of the ornery Ben had disappeared. His expression was sweet, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly, as if he were smiling at some happy thought. I had to fight the urge to kiss him. He’s a good man: a good father, a good friend. Loyal and true. He’s lost the love of his life, and he’s trying to start over. He’s opening his heart to me. But my heart wanted to run and hide. If Ben knew about the sleepwalking, how would he react?
I’d told Hugh about my distressing sleep history and its genesis: the mobsters showing up at the cinema to strong-arm my father. “That same night, I woke up wielding a golf club. The next night, a knife. I think I wanted to protect us.” Ashamed of how vengeful it looked, I didn’t share how I’d mutilated Axel’s sweatshirt years later.
Hugh was sympathetic and reassuring—even a little intrigued. “Those bastards must’ve scared the hell out of you, poor kid. This explains something.”
“What?”
“You’ve always given off a kind of dark mystery. I thought it was the Russian in you.”
But Hugh had hidden his own darker feelings. That “disturbing” picture he’d painted of the “Nora beast” standing over him while he slept? The one I read about in the review of his Scenes from a Marriage show? That was Hugh saying, “This is my ex-wife, the repulsive sleepwalking fiend.”
If Ben learned about the sleepwalking, he might also be repulsed. He might even begin to add things up differently. He could have doubts about whether the killer really did arrange a frame-up. He might suspect that I’d murdered Hugh and Helene. How could I expect him to trust me when I was having trouble trusting myself?
Ben’s eyelids began to flutter. What was he dreaming? Was I in there with him? Were we opening his door to the ocean, crossing the threshold together and diving deep? I wished I could swim by his side over the coral reefs and discover fish and plants I never knew existed, explore underwater caves and ancient shipwrecks with him. I didn’t want our great adventure to end before it started. But I couldn’t see having a relationship until I cleared my name of suspicion.
I quietly took a pen from my purse and, fearful that tearing a page out of my comp book would be the thing that would wake him, went back to the kitchen. I returned, righted his nightstand and set my note down on top of it.
A brilliant moon lit my path. The surf slapped against the wooden pilings of the empty docks as I jogged along the edge of the water with my shoulder bag slung across my chest like a bandolier. A halyard pinged against a flagpole. Cold, salty air bit my face, drawing tears from my eyes. Tiny daggers of ice stabbed my lungs. I was headed for the Courier. We’d driven to Ben’s apartment in his car, and mine was still parked in front of the office. Though blood drummed in my ears and my chest wheezed, I kept moving through the frigid early morning. In a little more than an hour, it would be light, and I’d meet up with Grace at Van Winkle Lanes. I’d tell her everything. She would have some idea of what to do. She always did.
Soon I was making the left on Pequod Avenue and heading toward the golden glow of one of Pequod’s solar streetlights. I stopped short when I saw him. He stood a few yards ahead of me under the canopy of the Pequod Bookstore, nibbling on the ornamental cabbage in the window box. A white-tailed buck. Noble, elegant tines sprouted upward on either side of his head. His ears twitched and he lifted his snout. He turned and stared at me, still chewing the cabbage leaves. Daring me to do something about it.
He was fearless, confident. I’d need more of his moxie to deal with what lay ahead.
From the Pequod Courier
Letters to the Editor
Dear Editor,
The Point Killer isn’t the only one getting away with murder in Pequod. What about that new traffic camera on the signal by the expressway exit? The county sent me a $100 ticket for running the red light there last week. I did not run the light. But they have “photographic evidence.” I don’t know how they’ve rigged this one, but I’m not the only resident it’s happened to. I demand an investigation.
Nick Lyons
12 Conklin Street
Pequod
Chapter Fifteen
I heard the tires screech before I saw anything.
“What the hell?”
The black van peeled around the bowling alley’s back corner as I turned into the Van Winkle Lanes parking lot. I braked hard and sent the thermos of coffee rolling off the passenger seat. The van careened onto Old Route 20 and sped away with its engine roaring and gray-blue smoke trailing out its tailpipe. Shaken, I parked near the darkened Van Winkle Lanes sign. That made the second van sighting in less than ten hours. Clearly, the driver wasn’t following me this time. But this guy was dangerous. Reckless. Why was he always in such a rush?
I’d managed to read the faded logo on the van’s dented side panel: MASSAMAT DIRT BUSTERS: WE GET YOU CLEAN. It was possible the driver worked as a janitor here. I’d ask Kelly about it when she came in.
I leaned over to retrieve the thermos on the floor under the passenger seat, and as I straightened up, I noticed the tip of Kelly’s blue Mini parked at the rear of the building. The dash clock said 7:13 a.m.—way too early for Kelly. She usually arrived five minutes before class to let us in. My breath caught in my chest. Something wasn’t right . . . the way that van came racing out of the lot. I turned off the engine and, with a growing sense of foreboding, went to check.
Music seeped out of the rear of the building. Amy Winehouse’s smoky, muffled voice. The metal door to the Thunder Bar was unlocked. I cautiously pulled it open and entered. Inside, the music was set at CIA-torture level, and it blasted my ears. The strong stench of ammonia stung my nostrils. I ran my hand over the wall for a light switch, found one and flicked it on, but nothing happened. The faint glow from the crack at the entrance door’s bottom was all I was going to get.
“Kelly?” I yelled.
Pointless. How could anyone hear over the din? I stuck my fingers in my ears and, hugging the wall, made my way down the hall in the dark while the pounding bass line pulsed under my skin.
The only light in the Thunder Bar shone from a single hanging fixture with a stained-glass shade. Behind the bar, a mirrored wall reflected some of the glow into the wood-paneled lounge area. The bowling lanes that filled the rest of the vast, hollow space were hidden in darkness. A quick survey revealed a closed cash register, clean glasses stacked on the counter and liquor bottles displayed in orderly rows on the shelves. Aside from the overly loud music, nothing was amiss. But where was Kelly? I located the stereo in a cabinet next to the minifridge and turned it off. Blessed silence. Then, from the back corner—a faint whimpering.
“Kelly?”
The whimpers turned into soul-wrenching sobs. They were coming from the cluster of wooden café tables at the rear of the Thunder Bar. Shadows obscured the farthest ones. I found another light switch and flipped it. In the back corner, a shapely calf dangled off the red vinyl banquette.