Darkness My Old Friend

Once upon a time, it was well known that they turned a blind eye to even the least convincing fake ID.

“It’s private land,” Jones said. “The Grove family owns it and still pays taxes on it-just like the abandoned O’Donnell farmhouse about a mile north from here. It’s a mess like this, too.”

They left the clearing and walked a little farther west. The girl had been unsure about where she’d seen Holt digging, hadn’t even been able to find it herself again. But Jones thought there was another clearing about five minutes from where they stood.

“I’m going to head back, Jones, if you don’t want to talk about anything else.”

Jones wished he could shake the feeling. He’d had it years ago when they’d talked about Marla Holt. Henry Ivy wasn’t being completely honest. There had been five calls from Hollows High over a three-day period. That was more calls than the average person would make if he were mildly concerned about a running partner, wasn’t it?

“Just do some thinking for me, will you, Henry? I suspect that the Hollows PD is going to reopen this case. And even if they don’t, the Holt kid has hired Eloise Montgomery and Ray Muldune.”

There it was. A flash of something across Henry’s face, a slow blink.

“Okay,” he said. He pressed his mouth into a line, as if he were already working on it, gave a quick nod. “I’ll do some thinking.”

There was a rumble of distant thunder in the sky, odd for that time of year.

“I hear there’s rain coming,” said Henry.

“Oh, yeah?” They were both looking up at the sky. The light of the day was almost gone.

“Yeah, they’re saying heavy rainfall.”

“Well,” said Jones, “stay dry.”

Henry turned and started to move quickly away. Jones didn’t necessarily want to be caught out there, alone in the dark. He had his flashlight, though he didn’t carry a gun with him every day anymore. Not that he was scared. But you didn’t grow up in The Hollows without a healthy respect for these woods, without those warnings and cautionary tales forever ringing in your ears. You never listened when you were young. But the voices lingered, came back at you when you were, ostensibly, old enough to know better.

It was only when he got back out to the street that Henry realized he’d have to walk back to the school. He’d ridden over with Bethany Graves and had intended to ride back with Jones Cooper. It wasn’t a long walk, not even half a mile. But it seemed to Henry that for some reason he always found himself walking back somewhere alone. Not that he was feeling sorry for himself. It’s just that it did seem to be the way of things.

He kept to the shoulder of the road in the gloaming. All he could hear were his own footfalls crunching the dirt and gravel beneath his feet. He thought about jogging it, but he was still wearing his work clothes. If anyone saw him, they’d think it odd. And he really didn’t need people thinking that. Although, given his being a bachelor past forty-five in a small town, people did think him odd. Or pitiable. Or gay. Which he wasn’t.

The night he’d met Marla Holt, it had been spring going on summer. It was one of those nights, the air full of pollen, a little warmer than it had a right to be yet. It was humid enough that he broke a sweat in the first quarter mile. The leaves on the trees around him were that bright, vibrant new green that promised a long, lazy summer. That was one of the many things he loved about being a teacher-he could still feel excited about the seasons. Summer loomed with its hot days and swimming pools, trips to the beach, the vow to make good headway on that novel he’d wanted to write. Fall was the excitement of fresh beginnings, crisp textbooks and notebooks, new book bags and school clothes. The first snow brought the anticipation of the holidays, the Christmas play, and the formal dance at school. He loved all those things, and he’d never lost that, that excitement for the markers of the year. Even though the years hadn’t really delivered any of what he’d hoped for or expected. He’d never written that novel. He’d never married or had children. He’d never really done any of the things he’d thought he’d do.

He’d seen her up ahead of him, moving slowly. She wasn’t an easy runner, he could see that. Some people, lean and light, with big lungs and small frames, seemed designed for speed. Others, like himself, like the woman ahead of him, had to work for every mile, felt every footfall. He slowed his own pace, because he didn’t want to run past her. It was so discouraging when people overtook you, glided by with ease. He hated to hurt anyone’s feelings, even someone he didn’t know, doing something that most people would do without a second thought. Then, in the next second, he saw her fold to the ground, issuing a little cry of pain and distress. He picked up his speed and came along beside her.

“Are you okay?”

She looked up at him and then back down at her ankle. “Oh, I’m okay. Just clumsy. I fall all the time.”

He offered his hand, but she shook her head and pushed herself up. She limped a little circle.

“I’m just going to try to walk it off,” she said. But he could see that she was in pain.

“We should get some ice on that,” he said. “Keep the swelling down.”

“Oh, you’re sweet. But I think I’ll be all right.”

He pointed down the street. “I’m right down the road, let me run and get you an ice pack.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile, and he noticed for the first time how beautiful she was. It was more than the sum of her features, her lush body, her creamy skin. It was more than that. She offered him her hand.

“I know. We’re neighbors. I’m Marla Holt. Henry Ivy, right?”

He took her hand in his, and he felt a kind of heat rush through him.

“My son, Michael, came to your door the other day,” she went on. “You bought some candy from him for his baseball team. I waved from the curb.”

“Of course,” he said. He did remember her son, who was striking with black eyes and very tall for his age. “Of course.”

“I wasn’t a sweaty mess then, lying in a heap on the ground.” Her laugh was lovely, somehow managing to be self-deprecating and seductive at the same time. He walked her home that night. And then, without a word of arrangement between them, they started meeting out on the street, doing their miles together. It was nice, comfortable. They became friends. He wished it could have just stayed that way.

Anyhow, it was a long time ago. He thought about her now and then, wondering where she had gone and with whom. He hadn’t imagined her to be the kind of woman to leave her children. But then again he didn’t know much about women, did he?

He walked up the back drive to the school and then returned to his office. There he packed up his paperwork, including Willow Graves’s file. He closed and locked his door and started down the hallway. He felt like he’d been walking down these hallways all his life. He was going to head to the gym and then go home for dinner, like most nights.

He hadn’t dated in a while. That last woman he’d met on Match.com had turned him off the process a bit. Not that there was anything wrong with her, or with any of the women he’d met through dating services over the last few years. But there was a problem with misrepresentation. Henry was always meticulous in his descriptions of himself, his interests, his hobbies, and what he was looking for in a mate. What was the point of lying? What was the point of looking good on the page but not measuring up in person?

On the drive to the gym, he thought about Jolie Marsh, Cole Carr, and Willow Graves. As a teacher, someone used to separating kids in class and in the cafeteria to minimize horseplay and conflict, he knew a bad combination of personalities when he saw one. It was a chemistry thing. Some people were good together, some were bad together. Jolie was a girl in pain, someone who acted out from that place, caused trouble, got herself in trouble. Willow was a pleaser, the perfect sidekick. And Cole Carr? Henry wasn’t sure yet. Cole was quiet, not a bad student. He hung out with some bad elements, like Jeb Marsh, Jolie’s older brother. Jeb was one of the kids Henry had lost, a dropout working now at the gas station-dealing weed, LSD, and Ecstasy if the rumors were true.

But Cole Carr hadn’t been in any trouble at Hollows High. All his teachers said he was smart, did his work. More than one had commented that Cole might be exceptional if he applied himself. But he didn’t seem inclined to do that, skated by on the minimum he could get away with. If Henry had to guess, there were problems at home. The boy had that look to him-that lost, sad look Henry had seen before.

He wondered if he’d made a mistake being lenient with Willow, if Bethany Graves had unduly influenced him. He was a little starstruck. It wasn’t often you met a bestselling author. But it was more than that. She was lovely, everything about her-the sound of her voice, the way she smelled. She was a good mother, gentle with Willow but not weak, not overindulgent. Anyhow, she was way out of his league. Wasn’t she? He didn’t even like to get his hopes up anymore. When it came to women, he’d learned that the old adage was