Long After Dark Read online

  OK, he thought, staggering back toward the den, my lungs are clearer but I’m having a stroke. Perfect.

  Though the cape had an open floor plan downstairs—the kitchen flowed into the den and a staircase which led to the bathroom and two bedrooms upstairs—the house felt unusually claustrophobic, the ceilings lower than normal, the walls closer. Harry stopped to look at a row of photographs on the wall. Kelly had hung them over the years, adding one or two now and then, but most had been there for quite some time. Odd how he walked by them numerous times each day and rarely noticed them. Yet they chronicled their lives together, and the lives that had come before them, those who had led them here, to this day, this moment. There was something so profoundly significant about that, how could it be ignored?

  The lightheadedness lessened, and the purple psychedelic flowers had all but dissipated. Slump-shouldered, he studied the photographs arranged into neat rows, and was confronted by a feeling of such overwhelming sorrow he thought he might cry.

  The wedding picture caught his eye first, he and Kelly striding down a church aisle, beaming on the happiest day of their lives. Then he locked on a picture of his parents, both gone now but so alive in the photograph, sitting posed and holding hands, smiling for the camera. Next to it, a baby picture of Garret followed by a first or second grade school picture. How tiny that boy had been when he’d first held him. So delicate and beautiful, Harry could still remember the feeling of wanting—needing—to protect this child, his son. And from that moment forward he knew little of his own life or happiness mattered. It was all about that little man. Everything he’d do from that point forward would be about being the best father he could be, the best husband, and providing the best life for his family he could. He hadn’t always succeeded, but more often than not he had, and no one could fairly accuse him of not trying.

  He moved past a picture of Kelly’s parents—both still alive—and he smiled, remembering how differently they’d behaved on the day he’d married their daughter. Kelly’s father was thrilled—Harry and his father-in-law had always gotten along famously—but her mother was sullen and behaved as if attending a funeral, heartbroken that her daughter was being taken from her by a man apparently not quite up to her standards, whatever those were. Harry had never understood why his mother-in-law disapproved of him so, and to this day it remained something of a mystery. He was a loving husband and father, a good provider, a steady and reliable presence in her daughter and grandson’s lives, what exactly was there to disapprove of? On the rare occasions when he mentioned it to Kelly she dismissed it as “just her mother’s way.” They were very different people, she’d say, as if that explanation should suffice.

  Harry reached out and gently touched a small frame, this one housing an old black and white photograph of himself as a six-year-old boy playing outside the house where he’d been raised. He carefully pulled it from the wall and stared at it awhile. His eyes filled, though he wasn’t sure why.

  So many memories, he thought. So many—

  Lies.

  Harry spun round, heart leaping into the bottom of his throat as his eyes frantically searched the kitchen behind him. He clutched the photograph and stumbled back into the wall, the silver frame cool against the clammy flesh of his palms. He’d heard it. He’d heard someone say “lies.” He was certain. It wasn’t in his head, disguised as a renegade thought, but a voice, a man’s voice, deep and guttural and clear as day, spoken as if not more than ten feet from him.

  But there was no one there.

  Trembling, he moved back into the kitchen, fully expecting someone to jump out at him. “Who’s there?” The moment the words left him it felt like someone was choking him. He dropped the photograph and began to cough, his chest rattling as sharp pains shot through his throat. Still trying to keep the kitchen in focus, he staggered about, coughing as he lumbered into the den.

  It too was empty.

  When the coughing fit finally subsided, Harry was left breathless, back in the kitchen and collapsed over the sink, spitting up phlegm into the drain. He wiped his mouth with a paper towel, then splashed some water on his face. The cold snapped him to attention, shocking him awake. Chest heaving, he looked to the small photograph he’d dropped to the counter. Evidently it hit harder than he’d realized, as the glass was cracked. A perfect lightning bolt fracture ran the length of the frame, splitting the little boy he’d once been in two. He gently touched it with a fingertip to be sure it was real. The rough and uneven edge of broken glass scraped his flesh. This isn’t a dream, I’m awake.

  He knew he had to sleep, but he couldn’t. Something well beyond his comprehension was taking place here. Something bad…something—

  Another sound distracted him, faint but unmistakable.

  He held his breath and listened. A repetitive vibrating sound came from the far side of the kitchen, a dull buzz he recognized. Harry hurried to the back door and the coat rack on the wall next to it. His trench coat hung on the last hook, and in the side pocket was his Blackberry. He’d never heard it ring but it was vibrating in quick double intervals, signaling someone had left a message.

  Fumbling it from the deep coat pocket, he looked to the screen and saw the identity of the caller displayed in bold black letters.

  1 NEW MESSAGE FROM: KELLY.

  The voicemail had come in at nine thirty-seven a.m. his time. According to the wall clock it was now 12:08. After verifying the time on his watch, he stabbed the key to retrieve his message and listened.

  “It’s going to voicemail,” a man said, voice bored with indifference. “Do you want to leave him a message?”

  From a distance of what sounded like several feet away, just before the call ended with an abrupt click, Harry heard his wife answer.

  “No.”

  4

  When Garret was a little boy, eight to be exact, Harry took him to a local park for the afternoon. It was a Saturday, and Kelly had stayed home to work around the house so Harry and Garret could have some exclusive father-son time. Harry planned an entire day. They were up early, had breakfast out as a treat, then drove over to the park, which was only a few miles from the house. They took along a couple baseball mitts, a ball, a bat and a small cooler filled with sandwiches, a six-pack of Coke and some juice boxes for Garret. It was a beautiful late summer morning, and once they parked and began walking across the dirt lot, Harry realized there was some sort of antique show taking place at the beginning of the park. Tables were set up to display various dealer goods, and a fairly large crowd was milling about. He and Garret went to another section of the park where there were only a few people sitting on blankets or playing with their dogs and settled in there.

  The first half hour or so was great. He and his son talked while throwing the baseball back and forth awhile, enjoying the day and more importantly, each other. It was times like these where all of Harry’s fears of not measuring up as a parent vanished. These were situations he’d once fantasized about, days he’d spend with his son, imparting words of wisdom and sharing special moments both would remember for years.

  Unfortunately, while that particular day was certainly memorable, the memories associated with it were anything but pleasant. Things turned when Harry went to the restroom, which was located along with a snack bar in a large cement block building about fifty yards from where he and Garret had been playing catch. Garret came with him but didn’t have to go, so he remained just outside the door. Harry told him to wait right there and that he’d be out in a minute.

  When he emerged from the men’s room Garret was gone.

  At first he assumed he’d wandered back over to the field, distracted by a dog or perhaps another child. But he could clearly see nearly the entire park from his position, and Garret was nowhere to be found.

  Suddenly Harry was running, frantically calling his son’s name as he bolted along the walkway, eyes bouncing rapidly back and forth, trying to cover as much ground as he could, his heart smashing his chest and hi
s mind racing. No, please, no—where is he, where—God help me, where is he?

  Every newscast or story he’d ever heard about children being abducted and vanishing came to him in a frenzied rush as his baby’s face blinked across his mind’s eye. Not my boy. Please God, not Garret.

  A young woman walking her dog asked him if everything was all right, and Harry explained he couldn’t find his son and gave her a quick description. She smiled, then pointed toward the parking lot, which was not visible from where they were located, said she’d just seen him walking in that direction by himself and that he looked perfectly fine.

  Thanking her profusely, Harry took off for the parking lot.

  He found Garret standing next to the car drinking a juice box. The moment he saw him and realized he was all right, all he could focus on through the sea of relief was how deeply and desperately he loved his son, and how grateful he was that he was safe. He scooped the boy up, peppered him with kisses, then hugged him so hard Garret spilled his juice. With sincere confusion his son asked what was wrong, but by then relief had again turned to fear, this time manifested as anger. Harry put him on the ground none-too-gently, grabbed hold of his wrist and spun him around. “If I tell you to stay somewhere then that’s where you stay! You scared the hell out of me! Don’t you ever, ever wander off like that again, do you understand me?” He spanked him three times. Hard. It was the first time he’d ever hit his son. It was also the last. Heartbroken, Garret nodded, his bottom lip quivering as his bright blue eyes filled with tears. And then Harry’s heart broke too, and he was hugging him again, attempting to explain how frightened he’d been that something had happened to him.

  “It’s over now,” Harry assured him. “Let’s go back and play catch and have a nice day, OK?”

  But at that point Garret only wanted to go home and see his mother, and Harry really couldn’t blame him.

  “He’s not a moron,” Kelly had scolded later. “You could’ve just explained it to him and been stern about it. Wasn’t yelling at him enough? You had to hit him too?”

  “Oh for God’s sake, I gave him a spanking.”

  “You’re a lot bigger than he is. How could you hit someone so small?”

  “I panicked, OK? I lost it, I admit it, but I thought someone had taken him, I—look, with all the crazies and perverts out there he needs to do what the hell he’s told! He can’t just go wandering off whenever he feels like it.”

  “Absolutely, I agree. All I’m saying is hitting him wasn’t necessary.”

  “If he’d done as I’d told him it wouldn’t have come to that.”

  “Is that the message you want to send Garret? That when someone does something wrong, makes a mistake or doesn’t listen properly that the appropriate response is to physically assault them?”

  “It was a spanking, not an assault. I didn’t hurt him. I’m his father.”

  “And he’s your son, what’s your point? It was an innocent mistake. He wasn’t intentionally defying you, Harry. You could’ve just reprimanded him and explained things intelligently.”

  “He’s old enough to know better.”

  “He’s a little boy. And in case you haven’t noticed, he worships you.”

  Though he was too stubborn to admit it that day, Harry knew she was right. Even years later, whenever he thought about that afternoon, he was gripped with the same relief he’d felt when he realized some maniac hadn’t kidnapped his child, but also a sense of deep sorrow for how all the emotions he’d felt had culminated in him humiliating his son. A good talking to would’ve sufficed, as Kelly contended. Right or wrong, sometimes love ran so deep it hurt, but when it turned to anger or even violence it became something else entirely.

  Didn’t it?

  Faced with that memory he attempted to hold his emotions in check and sort through the voicemail message logically. His first impulse was to behave as if wounded, with anger and suspicion, but he distracted himself by playing it again and listening more closely to the man’s voice. He couldn’t be certain, but the man sounded a lot like Aaron Searcy, Kelly’s boss and someone Harry knew had gone on the trip as well. He’d met Searcy and his wife Gloria at a few Christmas parties over the years, and Kelly mentioned him in conversation quite often, but Harry had only spoken to him over the phone perhaps half a dozen times. Still, even if it was Searcy, why had he called the Blackberry rather than the home phone, and why wasn’t Kelly making the call herself? It had come in at nine thirty-seven Harry’s time, which meant the call was placed from San Diego at six thirty-seven in the morning. What was Aaron Searcy, or anyone for that matter, doing in his wife’s suite at such an early hour?

  Using his Blackberry, Harry tried her cell rather than calling the hotel again. Apparently whatever problems her provider had been experiencing were solved, as this time the call went through and the line began to ring.

  “Kelly Fremont.”

  “Kel,” he said, stunned he’d actually gotten her.

  “Harry?” Her professional voice relaxed into her non-work version.

  “Yeah, it’s me, I—”

  “You sound awful, are you all right?”

  “No, I’m not. I’ve got the flu.”

  “You looked tired when I left, I had a feeling you might be coming down with something. Did you call the doctor?”

  “Yes, I—look, where are you?”

  “In a cab heading back to the hotel, just got out of a meeting. Turned out to be quite productive, actually.”

  “Didn’t you get my message? I left one on your voicemail at the hotel.”

  “I left really early this morning. I’ll look for it when I get back.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you since you left.”

  “Well I tried calling you this morning but you didn’t answer.”

  “Yeah, that’s because you called my Blackberry instead of the home phone and I had the ringer off. I got your voicemail, though, nine-thirty my time.”

  A few seconds of silence came and went before she answered. “But I didn’t leave a message.”

  “Why would you call my Blackberry and not the home line, Kel?”

  “You’re listed in my cell under your name and the home phone is listed as Home, it was just a mistake.”

  “I guess that’s what happens when someone not entirely familiar with your cell phone uses it to call me, huh?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you think I mean?”

  “Harry, what are you talking about?”

  “I heard some guy ask if you wanted to leave a message and you said no. Who was that?”

  “Oh, that was just Aaron,” she said, as if his question was the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “Sorry, I didn’t understand what you meant.”

  “What was Searcy doing in your hotel suite at six-thirty in the morning?”

  Dead air answered again. “What’s with the accusatory tone?”

  “Just answer the question, Kelly.”

  “Well, Mr. Prosecutor, we met in my suite before heading out for a meeting this morning. I was in the bathroom straightening my hair and I asked him to do me a favor and dial your number for me. He must’ve seen your name on the list and hit that number instead of the one marked Home, which explains why it went to your Blackberry rather than the house. He said it was going to voicemail so I figured you’d gone out or were in the shower or something. Rather than leave a message I just thought I’d catch up with you later.”

  Her nonchalance irritated him even more than the tone of faux persecution. “I asked why Searcy was in your suite at six-thirty in the morning.”

  “I just told you, we had a meeting and—”

  “Nobody has a business meeting at six-thirty on a Saturday morning.”

  “They don’t, huh?” She laughed, but it was clear she found nothing humorous about their conversation. “How about someone who owns a chain of pastry shops here in the city that wanted to host us for breakfast at his largest location? Think maybe someo
ne like me, you know, working for a coffee company and all, might be interested in attending something like that? What do you think I’m doing here, Harry, sightseeing? And the meeting wasn’t at six-thirty, it was scheduled for seven-thirty, but it’s on the other side of town so we wanted to head out early. OK? Are we all set with the interrogation now? What is this, high school? God, I’m so glad you called. What a treat.”