Stay Close Page 4

  "Neither was found?"

  "Right."

  Sarah swallowed. "So maybe it's not the day. Maybe it's February and March."

  "I don't think so. Or at least, I didn't. See, the other two men--Peter Berman and Gregg Wagman--could have disappeared a lot earlier. One was a drifter, the other a truck driver. Both men were single with not much family. If guys like that aren't home in twenty-four hours, well, who'd notice? You did, of course. But if a guy is single or divorced or travels a lot..."

  "It could be days or weeks before it's reported," Sarah finished for him.

  "Or even longer."

  "So these two men might have vanished on February eighteenth too."

  "It's not that simple," Broome said.

  "Why not?"

  "Because the more I look at it, the pattern gets even tougher to nail down. Wagman, for example, was from Buffalo--he's not local. No one knows where or when he vanished, but I was able to trace his movements enough to know that he could have gone through Atlantic City sometime in February."

  Sarah considered that. "You've mentioned five men, including Stewart, in the past seventeen years. Any others?"

  "Yes and no. Altogether, I've found nine men who sort of very loosely could fit the pattern. But there are cases where the theory takes a bit of a hit."

  "For example?"

  "Two years ago, a man named Clyde Horner, who lived with his mother, was reported missing on February seventh."

  "So it's not February eighteenth."

  "Probably not."

  "Maybe it's the month of February."

  "Maybe. This is the problem with theories and patterns. They take time. I'm still gathering evidence."

  Her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them away. "I don't get it. How did no one see this--with this many people missing?"

  "See what?" Broome said. "Hell, I don't even see it that clearly yet. Men go missing all the time. Most run away. Most of these guys go broke or have nothing or got creditors on their ass--so they start new lives. They move across the country. Sometimes they change their names. Sometimes they don't. Many of these men... well, no one is looking for them. No one wants to find them. One wife I spoke to begged me not to find her husband. She had three kids with the guy. She thinks he ran off with some--as she put it--'hootchy whore,' and it was the best thing that ever happened to her family."

  They were silent for a few moments.

  "What about before?" Sarah asked.

  Broome knew what she meant, but he still said, "Before?"

  "Before Stewart. Did anybody disappear before my husband?"

  He ran his hand through his hair and raised his head. Their eyes locked. "Not that I could find," Broome said. "If this is a pattern, then it started with Stewart."

  4

  THE KNOCKS WOKE RAY.

  He pried open one eye and immediately regretted it. The light worked like daggers. He grabbed hold of his head on either side because he feared that his skull would actually split in two from whatever was hammering on it from the inside.

  "Open up, Ray."

  It was Fester.

  "Ray?"

  More knocks. Each one landed inside Ray's temple like a two-by-four. He swung his legs out of bed and, head reeling, managed to work his way to a sitting position. Next to his right foot was an empty bottle of Jack. Ugh. He had passed out--no, alas, he had once again "blacked out"--on the couch without bothering to pull out the bed beneath it. No blanket. No pillow. His neck was probably aching too, but it was hard to find it through the pulsating pain.

  "Ray?"

  "Sec," he said, because, really, he couldn't get more sounds to come out.

  This felt like a hangover raised to the tenth power. For a second, maybe two, Ray didn't remember what had happened the night before, what had caused this massive influx of discomfort. Instead he thought about the last time he had felt like this, back before it all ended for him. He had been a photojournalist back then, working for the AP, traveling with the twenty-fourth infantry in Iraq during the first Persian Gulf War when the land mine exploded. Blackness--then pain. For a while it looked as though he would lose his leg.

  "Ray?"

  The pills were next to the bed. Pills and booze--the perfect late-night cocktail. He wondered how many he'd already taken and when, and then decided the hell with it. He downed two more, forced himself to stand, and stumbled toward the door.

  When he opened it, Fester said, "Wow."

  "What?"

  "You look like several large orangutans made you their love slave."

  Ah Fester. "What time is it?"

  "Three."

  "What, in the afternoon?"

  "Yes, Ray, in the afternoon. See the light outside?" Fester gestured behind him. He took on the voice of a kindergarten teacher. "At three in the afternoon, it is light out. At three A.M., it is dark. I could draw you a chart if that would help."

  Like he needed the sarcasm. Weird. He never slept past eight, and now it was three? The blackout must have been a bad one. Ray slid to the side to let Fester in. "Is there a reason for your visit?"

  Fester, who was huge, ducked inside the room. He took it in, nodded, and said, "Wow, what a dump."

  "Yeah," Ray said. "On what you pay me you'd figure I'd have a mansion in a gated community."

  "Ha!" Fester pointed at him. "Got me there!"

  "Something you wanted?"

  "Here."

  Fester reached into his bag and handed Ray a camera.

  "For you to use until you can buy a new one."

  "I'm touched," Ray said.

  "Well, you do good work. You're also the only employee I have who isn't on drugs, just booze. That makes you my best employee."

  "We're sharing a tender moment, aren't we, Fester?"

  "That," Fester said with a nod. "And I couldn't find anyone else who could work the George Queller job tonight. Whoa, what have we got here?" Fester pointed to the pills. "So much for the not on drugs."

  "They're pain pills. I was mugged last night, remember?"

  "Right. But still."

  "Does this mean I lost employee of the month?"

  "Not unless I find needles in here too."

  "I'm not up for working tonight, Fester."

  "What, you going to stay in bed all day?"

  "That's the plan, yes."

  "Change plans. I need you. And I'm paying time and a half." He looked around, frowned. "Not that you need the cash or anything."

  Fester left. Ray put the water on to boil. Instant coffee. Loud Urdu-language voices were coming from upstairs. Sounded like the kids were coming home from school. Ray made his way to the shower and stayed under the spray until the hot water was gone.

  Milo's Deli on the corner made a mean BLT. Ray wolfed it down as though he feared it might try to escape. He tried to keep his mind on the task at hand without looking forward--asking Milo how his back was holding up, reaching into his pocket for the money, smiling at another customer, buying the local newspaper. He tried to be Zen and stay in the moment and not look ahead because he didn't want to think about the blood.

  He checked the newspaper. The LOCAL MAN MISSING article featured the same photograph he had seen on the news last night. Carlton Flynn made a kissy face. Classic asswipe. He had dark hair spiked high; tattoos on gym-muscled, baby-smooth skin; and looked as though he belonged on one of those obnoxious Jersey reality shows that featured self-obsessed, arrested-development numb nuts referring to girls as "grenades."

  Carlton Flynn had a record--three assaults. He was twenty-six years old, divorced, and "worked for his father's prominent supplies company."

  Ray folded the paper and jammed it under his arm. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't want to think about that photograph of Carlton Flynn on his computer or wonder why someone had attacked him to get it. He wanted to put it behind him, move on with life, day at a time, moment at a time.

  Block, survive--just as he had for the past seventeen years.

  Ho
w's that been working for you, Ray?

  He closed his eyes and let himself slip into a memory of Cassie. He was back at the club, balmy from the booze, watching her give some guy a lap dance--totally, positively in love with every fiber of his being--and yet not the least bit jealous. Cassie gave him a look over the man's shoulder, a look that could melt teeth, and he'd just smiled back, waiting to get her alone, knowing that at the end of the day (or night) she was his.

  The air had always crackled around Cassie. There was fun and wildness and spontaneity, and there was warmth and kindness and intelligence. She made you want to rip off her clothes and throw her on the nearest bed, all while writing her a love sonnet. Sudden flashes, smolder, slow burn, hearth warmth--Cassie could do them all at the same time.

  A woman like that, well, something had to give, right?

  He thought about that photograph by those damn ruins in that park. Could that have been what the mugger was really looking for? It seemed unlikely. He ran through the scenarios and possibilities and made a decision.

  He had hidden long enough. He had gone from the big-time photojournalist to that horrible rehab center to the times of joy here in Atlantic City to losing everything. He had moved to Los Angeles, worked as a real paparazzo, gotten himself into another mess, moved back here. Why? Why move back to the place where he'd lost everything unless... unless something drew him back. Unless something demanded he come back and figure out the truth.

  Cassie.

  He blinked her away, got back into his car, and drove to the park. The same spot he'd been using nearly every day was still open. Ray probably couldn't verbalize what brought him here. So many things about him had changed, but one hadn't--his need for the camera. Many things make a photographer, but in his case, it was more about need than want. He didn't really see or process things unless he could photograph them. He saw the world through that lens. For most people, something doesn't exist unless they see, hear, smell, taste it. For him it was almost the opposite--nothing was real until he captured it on his camera.

  If you took the path on the right corner, you could reach the edge of a cliff that overlooked the Atlantic City skyline. At night, the ocean behind it shone like a glimmering dark curtain. The view, if you were willing to risk the trek through the underbelly, was breathtaking.

  Ray snapped pictures as he started up the remote path, staying behind the camera as though it offered protection. The old ruins of the iron-ore mill were on the edge of the Pine Barrens, New Jersey's largest track of wooded area. One time, many years ago, Ray had gone off the path and deep into the woods. He found a long-abandoned cement hut covered with graffiti, some of it appearing satanic. The Pine Barrens were still loaded with ruins from ghost towns. Rumors swirled of the deeper malfeasance within the bowels of that forest. If you've ever watched any cinematic Mafia portrayal, you've seen the part where the hit men bury a body in the Pine Barrens. Ray thought about that too often. One day, he figured, someone will invent a device that will let you know what is buried in the dirt beneath you--differentiating between bones and sticks and roots and rocks--and who knew what you would find then?

  Ray swallowed and pushed the thought away. When he reached the old iron-ore furnace, he took out the photograph of Carlton Flynn and studied it. Flynn had been standing over to the left, moving toward that path, the same path Ray had been on seventeen years ago. Why? What had Carlton Flynn been doing here? Sure, he could have just been another hiker or adventurer. But why had he been here, in this very spot, seventeen years after Ray had been here, and then disappeared? Where had he gone from here?

  No idea.

  Ray's limp was hard to notice anymore. It was still there if you looked closely, but Ray had learned to cover it up. When he started up the hill so that he was standing exactly where he'd been when he'd taken the photograph of Carlton Flynn, the always-present twinge from his old injury flared up. The rest of his body still ached from last night's attack too, but for now Ray was able to move past it.

  Something caught his eye.

  He stopped and squinted back down the path. The sun was bright. Maybe that was it--that and the strange angle on this little hill. You wouldn't see it if you were on the path, but something was reflecting back at him, something right at the edge of the woods, right up against the big boulder. Ray frowned and stumbled toward it.

  What the... ?

  When he got closer, he bent down to get a closer look. He reached his hand out but pulled back before he touched it. There was no question in his mind. He took out his camera and started snapping pictures.

  There, on the ground almost behind the boulder, was a streak of dried blood.

  5

  MEGAN LAY IN BED READING a magazine. Dave lay next to her, watching television, the clicker in hand. For men the TV remote control was like a pacifier or security blanket. They simply could not watch television without holding one close, always at the ready.

  It was a little after ten P.M. Jordan was already asleep. Kaylie was another story.

  Dave said, "Do you want the honors or should I?"

  Megan sighed. "You did it the last two nights."

  Dave smiled, eyes on the television. "The last three nights. But who's counting?"

  She put down her magazine. Kaylie's bedtime was a firm ten P.M., but she never went on her own, waiting until one of her parents insisted. Megan rolled out of bed and padded down the corridor. She would yell out, "Go to sleep NOW!" but that was equally exhausting and could potentially wake up Jordan.

  Megan stuck her head in the room. "Bedtime."

  Kaylie didn't even glance away from the monitor. "Just fifteen more minutes, okay?"

  "No. Bedtime is ten P.M. It is almost quarter after."

  "Jen needs help with her homework."

  Megan frowned. "On Facebook?"

  "Fifteen minutes, Mom. That's all."

  But it was never fifteen minutes because in fifteen minutes the lights would still be on and Kaylie would still be on the computer and then Megan would have to get out of bed again and tell her to go to sleep.

  "No. Now."

  "But--"

  "Do you want to be grounded?"

  "God, what's your problem? Fifteen minutes!"

  "NOW!"

  "Why are you yelling? You always yell at me."

  And so it went. Megan thought about Lorraine, about her visit, about her not being cut out for kids and those mommies in the corner at Starbucks and how your past never leaves you, neither the good nor the bad, how you pack it into boxes and put it in some closet and you figure that it will be like those boxes you pack in your house--something you keep but never open--and then one day, when the real world closes in on you--you go to that closet and open it again.

  When Megan returned to her bedroom, Dave was asleep, the television still on, the remote control in his hand. He was on his back. His shirt was off, his chest rising and falling with a light snore. For a moment Megan stopped and watched him. He was a big man, still in shape, but the years had added layers. His hair was thinning. His jowls were a little thicker. His posture wasn't what it once was.

  He worked too hard. Every weekday he woke up at six thirty, donned a suit and tie, and drove to his sixth-floor corner office in Jersey City. He worked as an attorney, traveling more than he should. He seemed to like it well enough, but he lived for those moments he could run home and be with his family. Dave liked coaching his kids and attending the games and he cared way too much how well the kids performed. He liked chatting up the parents on the sidelines and having a beer with the guys at the American Legion and playing in his old-man soccer league and doing an early morning golf round at the club.

  Are you happy?

  She had never asked him that. He had never asked her. What would she say anyway? She felt an itch right now. Did he? She was keeping it from him. Maybe he was doing the same. She had slept with this man and this man only for the past sixteen years--and she had lied to him from day one. Would that matter to him now? W
ould the truth make any difference? He knew nothing about her past--and yet he knew her better than anyone else.

  Megan moved closer to the bed, gently took the remote control from his hand, turned off the television. Dave stirred and turned onto his side. He mostly slept in the fetal position. She moved into the bed next to him and slid into a spoon. His body was warm. She put her nose up against his back. She loved the way he smelled.

  When Megan looked at her future, when she saw herself old and living in Florida or some retirement village or wherever she ended up, Megan knew that it would be with this man. She could not imagine anything else. She loved Dave. She had made a life with him and loved him--should she feel bad that she wanted something more or just different every once in a while?

  It was wrong. The question was, she guessed, why was it wrong?

  She rested her hand on his hip. She knew that she could sneak her fingers under the elastic waistband, how exactly he would react, the little groan in his sleep. She smiled at the thought, but for some reason, she decided against it. Her mind drifted back to her visit to La Creme. It had been so wonderful to just be there, to just feel that much.