Into the Dark

14

San Marino, California

Amber had unlocked her car in the parking lot and reached for the handle.

A hand shot out from behind her, stopping the driver’s door from opening. Amber whirled around, her skin prickled as she recognized the man with a steel-vise grip on her door.

“Eric! What’re you doing here? You’re not supposed to contact me!”

“I only want you to listen to what I have to say. I need to talk, Amber.”

“No! There’s a court order! Let go of my door!”

“Baby, please.”

“Have you been following me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Eric, let go of my door!”

He continued holding it.

Amber cast glances to the street, then the building, hoping someone, anyone, would come by. He was six foot two to her five foot three and he weighed about two hundred thirty pounds. His biceps bulged as he moved closer. She caught her breath.

“The judge extended the restraining order and fined you for not showing up in court,” she said. “Didn’t your lawyer tell you?”

“I know.”

“Then just leave me alone and we can let this go.”

“We’ve got too many judges and lawyers between us.”

“Don’t do this, don’t make things worse.”

“You’re still my wife.”

His big hand clamped Amber’s shoulder and he backed her against her car. Her heart was thundering. She couldn’t escape, couldn’t get into her purse for her phone.

“Eric, let me go or I swear to God I’ll scream.”

“Calm down, please. I need to talk to you without lawyers. That’s all.”

“No, we have to move on with our separate lives.”

“No, no, baby, don’t give up on us.” Eyes brimming, he’d softened his tone, presenting the tender side of him she’d once loved. “Baby, I know I’ve got problems. I hurt you, I know, I’m so goddammed sorry.”

“Stop it, Eric.”

“No, just listen. I don’t expect you to forgive me. That’s not what I’m asking. I’m begging you to stop the divorce. Come back to me. Give me another chance. Let’s start over. I’ve got a new job with my brother in Sacramento and I’m getting help. We can make it better than it was before.”

Fighting tears, Amber shook her head slowly.

“Baby, I promise, I give you my sacred vow I’ll change.”

She kept shaking her head.

“Please, baby,” Eric sniffled. “Please.”

“No.”

“No?”

“Eric, I’ve heard this before. What we had is gone. I can’t be with you.”

“What are you saying?”

“We can never, ever go back.”

All the blood drained from his face.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“But without you, I’ve got nothing, Amber.” His grip on her shoulder tightened. “I’ve got nothing left in this world to lose.”

“You have to let me go.”

“I can’t.”

Amber struggled to break free, thinking she could run into the office building or down the street, or into traffic. Eric’s eyes narrowed until something inside them snapped. He seized her shoulders and shook her with such force her head whiplashed.

“Do you think I’m going to let this happen? You want me to beat some fucking sense into you?”

“No! Please, you’re hurting me.”

“Let her go!”

They both turned to Claire, who was standing in the parking lot a few feet away. She had one hand deep inside her shoulder bag. The other gripped the strap, braced for action.

“Who the fuck are you?” Eric maintained his hold on Amber.

Claire did not identify herself.

“This is none of your fucking business,” Eric said. “So fuck off, bitch.”

“It is my business,” Claire said. “I’ve alerted police that you’re in violation of a protection order. They’re on their way. Take your hands off of her and step away.”

Eric turned back to Amber, his breath tearing in and out of his lungs.

“She’s your fucking shrink, isn’t she? She’s the one putting ideas in your head, turning you against me, getting between man and wife!” Eric pulled Amber forward, then crushed her hard against the car. “I’m going to give her the same goddamned medicine!”

As he pulled Amber forward to slam her a second time, something hissed and a liquid stream splashed into his eyes. He doubled over screaming and cupping his hands to his face.

“Oh, you fucking, whoring goddamned bitch! You are fucking dead!”

Claire stood over him, gripping her can of pepper spray, ready to douse Eric again. Amber got into her car, locked the door and sobbed as they heard the sound of an approaching siren.

Eric sat on the pavement, writhing.

“Fuck! My eyes are burning! Fuck!”

A marked patrol car, its lights flashing and siren yelping to silence, braked in the parking lot and two uniformed officers with the San Marino Police Department took control.

Moments later, an ambulance arrived. Paramedics checked on Amber.

It was over in minutes.

The police officers handcuffed Eric and placed him in the backseat of their car. One of the officers dealt with Eric, checking his ID and processing it with the dispatcher. The second officer, D. Freeman, according to her name tag, spoke with Claire then Amber, taking initial statements while paramedics examined Amber and Eric.

“He’ll go before a judge for violation of his protection order,” Freeman said. “Most likely he’ll be charged. He’ll get jail time, but will likely be out in days.”

“Under the circumstances, I think we have to get Amber into a women’s shelter,” Claire said. “We also suspect he’s been stalking her and may have illegally entered her residence. We need you to check her home.”

“Okay, once we process him, we’ll meet you there.”

The paramedics said Amber had suffered some neck strain and might feel some swelling and tenderness later. If it became painful, she should go to a hospital, they advised while making a summary report.

“Are you comfortable with everything, Amber?” Claire asked. “Want us to call anyone?”

After tearful nods Amber said, “I’ll call my girlfriend.”

Officer Freemen finished noting their concerns then returned to the car. Claire and Amber could see Eric seething in the backseat. As it rolled away, he turned to them and his tearstained, inflamed gaze found Claire’s, telegraphing a raw, savage hate for her.

She did not flinch.

15

Santa Clarita, California

The address was in a residential section of the city that sat in a valley bordered by low, dry hills just north of San Fernando.

The area was once an expanse of rural emptiness, home to tranquil ranches and farms before it had surrendered to suburban sprawl—vast coral-stucco neighborhoods of schools, parks, big box stores and shopping centers.

Robert Bowen needed to see the home, a compulsion that had reached out from a dream. Have I not been here before? He was uncertain what he was searching for, only that he would know when he found it, he thought as he drove north from Van Nuys.

Earlier that morning, Allen Pace, who had been the team physician for the Dodgers before becoming ExecuGlide’s corporate doctor, gave him a going-over. Blood pressure, heart, breathing, eyes, reflexes, the usual.

“All your vitals are fine. You’re good to take your next trip, Bob. I’ll fill out the form. Everything’s normal.”

If you only knew, Bowen gazed at the driveways rolling by as he counted down house numbers, if you only knew.

Last night, when Bowen couldn’t sleep, he was suddenly battling the urge to talk to Cynthia as he contended with another “episode.” Then other torments emerged and he’d found himself online looking for this specific address. When he got it he was surprised and pleased to learn that it was for sale. It gave him the cover he needed to see it.

To get even closer.

And there it is.

He parked across the street, glanced at the for-sale sign. The ranch-style house was sky-blue stucco with wood trim. It had a curved driveway, sweeping front lawn and tidy landscaping. The clank of tools floated from the side yard.

Bowen got out and walked along the lush lawn toward the sound of hammering. A man, crouched near a garden bed, had just driven a nail into a piece of loosened trim. When Bowen’s shadow fell over him, he looked up, hammer in hand.

“Can I help you?” the man asked.

“Hi, I saw the sign. Is the house still for sale?”

“It is.”

“Are you the owner?”

“I am.”

“I’m interested in it. Would it be possible to have a quick tour? My wife and I are looking for a house in Santa Clarita.”

The man stood. He was in his late fifties and wore jeans and a flannel shirt over a faded T-shirt. His brush cut gave him the air of a retired soldier. His black eyes gleamed as they assessed Bowen.

“The agent handles that, everything’s supposed to go through her.”

“Well, I was in the neighborhood looking at another property,” Bowen said. “I’m not sure how long it will be before I’m back this way.”

The man twirled the hammer in his big, tanned hand as he thought.

“All right, seeing that you’re here, I suppose I could show you around.”

They entered the house through the front door. The living room was spacious with hardwood floors and a brick fireplace.

“You can burn gas or wood.” The man passed Bowen a listing sheet from the coffee table, after he’d set his hammer down. “I’m asking four-seventy-five. Taxes are just under five a year. It’s a three-bedroom. It’s all there on the page. Don’t worry about your shoes. We’ll go this way.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name?” Bowen asked.

“Meadows, Louis Meadows.”

“And what’s your line of work, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I retired from the navy. I was a cook on the Abraham Lincoln.”

Although the place was pleasant, there was an underlying sadness and a trace of Old Spice. The house had an eat-in kitchen, ample tiled counter space, a dishwasher, a double sink with a sprayer and garbage disposal.

“The kitchen’s new.”

Bowen nodded approvingly, glanced around with an ear cocked for anyone else in the house.

“My wife had it redone last year just before she passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

“It was cancer. She never got to enjoy the renovation.”

The dining room had a dark wood table and matching china hutch. Bowen wondered about the last time it was used. The bathroom was tidy. The master bedroom was neat. On the night table he saw a copy of From Here to Eternity and an old edition of Jane’s Fighting Ships. He also saw framed photos of two women. One of them was in her fifties. The other resembled her and was in her early twenties.

They moved to a second smaller bedroom with a desk and two-drawer steel file cabinet. A U.S. flag and map, with colored pushpins piercing various countries, covered a wall.

“This could be a guest room. I use it as a study,” Meadows said.

They moved down the hall to a room with a closed door.

“That’s the third bedroom. It’s bigger than the second one.”

Keeping his hands in his pockets, Meadows stared at the door in mild trepidation.

“Is this your daughter’s room?”

Meadows shot him a look, as if Bowen had read his mind.

“Sorry,” Bowen said. “I saw the photograph in the other room and I’d just assumed.”

“Yes.” Meadows made no move to show the room.

“Guess we don’t want to disturb her,” Bowen said. “I understand.”

But Bowen knew.

He damned well knew as he concentrated on the pain in Meadows’s face the way a patron absorbs the aftermath of it in a work of art, like Michelangelo’s Pietà. Bowen drank in Meadows’s pain, as he’d done with the fear of the woman he’d pulled from the car accident.

“No,” Meadows said. “My daughter’s not there.”

“Is she away at college?”

Twisting the knife in the wound.

“No.”

“May I see the room?”

Meadows hesitated as if waiting for the will to open the door.

“Yes.”

The room was cooler and smelled musty. Sunlight had caught the fine dust particles that were sent churning into the air when the door opened. On the wall, he saw a poster of Meryl Streep and a framed watercolor of flowers. He noticed the bulletin board with a calendar. Notes with hours under the word work were penned in for some dates.

The walls were an opaque bluish-green. The single bed was made with a white comforter. A stuffed bear was the lone occupant. There was a white desk with a laptop, a jar full of paper money and change, labeled Tips. The closet was open and empty save for a tower of cardboard boxes, sagging from age and marked in felt-tip pen with Leeza’s Things.

The room was a tomb to the life that had resided here.

“That’s a good-sized closet,” Bowen said, turning to his guide.

Meadows was oblivious. His eyes were going around the room as if he were seeing something from another time. He nodded slowly, took one last forlorn inventory before leading Bowen out and closing the door.

They moved to the laundry room—“All the appliances are included”—then to the family room. It opened to the patio and a view of the hills. They stepped back outside and Meadows leaned against his picnic table and folded his arms across his chest.

“It’s a good house. It’s a good neighborhood, a quiet family neighborhood,” he said as he contemplated the horizon. “Sorry, the agent’s better at showing the place. I’m not much of a people person.”

“No, I imposed,” Bowen said. “May I ask why you’re selling?”

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