Darkness My Old Friend

Mercifully, the children slept. It wasn’t late, not yet seven thirty. But they were exhausted. Claire was in her portable crib in the corner of the large room, and Cameron sprawled, belly exposed, on the double bed beside her. The room was okay. Not hideous, clean. She had the shades drawn and the light beside her bed on dim, and she just lay there, looking up at the ceiling. Her parents wanted her to come back home. But she couldn’t do that. She’d taken the children. Legally it was kidnapping. She’d left the family home. There was no evidence of physical abuse. In fact, in their final conflict Kevin had borne the brunt of the injuries. He could say that she’d assaulted him and taken their children. Technically he was right. She had the gun.

It was possible that he had called the police, that even now they were looking for her car. But a kind of numbness had settled over her. She’d been weeping at night after the children went to sleep. The days were hard, drifting from one restaurant to another, finding playgrounds so Cameron could play, nursing Claire in the backseat of the car while Cameron whined and complained in his car seat: Where’s Dad? I want to go back to school. This is the worst vacation ever. Why can’t we go to Disney World again?

But tonight she didn’t have the energy to cry. She had to get strong, think about where they were going. She had a friend in Maine, her old college roommate. They’d reconnected on Facebook last year. Come by and see me anytime you’re in the area! Paula wondered if she’d meant it.

The blue truck had taken Kevin’s right leg out from under him and sent him crashing to the floor. The gun had sailed through the air and landed harmlessly on the couch. She ran for it, but he turned and grabbed her ankle, bringing her heavily to the floor as well, landing hard on her right knee. She heard a snap, ugly and loud, then a rocket of pain up her thigh. He straddled her, sitting on her hips, holding her hands over her head, immobilizing her.

“Paula, let’s talk about this,” he said. The words came through gritted teeth, a horrible grimace.

She turned her face away and started to weep. He was so strong she couldn’t even move her arms.

“Okay,” she said. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her a moment, suspicious. She tried for a sad smile. And after a moment he released her left arm to wipe the sweat from his face.

“Okay, good,” he said. “I don’t want it to be like this.”

She couldn’t believe how rational, how normal he sounded, as if this were any old argument a married couple might have. He smiled down at her, pitying, sympathetic. She felt a lash of rage, and it was over before she realized that she’d clenched her fist and slammed it against his face, purposely aiming her big diamond ring for his eye. She was thrilled to hear him wail in pain, his weight reeling off her. She ran for the gun. When she turned around with it in her grasp, he was right there. He stepped back, put his hands up. A thick line of blood ran down his face; his eye was red and already swelling. She’d hit him hard. But not hard enough.

“Paula,” he said. “Be reasonable.”

Her voice came out in an unintelligible shriek. “Get away from me!”

She backed up the stairs; the baby’s wailing had reached a fever pitch. It was like a siren in Paula’s head. In slow motion they moved up the stairs, her backing up one step at a time, him pacing her.

“This is not good, Paula,” he said. His voice was a warning. “What are you going to do, huh?”

She took a deep breath, willed her voice calm. No more screaming; it made her feel out of control. She held the gun; she had the power now.

“Don’t make me kill you, Kevin,” she said. “Please. I don’t want to. But I will.”

She wasn’t even sure what he saw on her face or heard in her voice but he stopped in his tracks. She would kill him; he knew it. And he knew she could, too. She knew how to use a gun; her father had taught her. She knew she had a Glock in her hand, a semiautomatic without a safety feature. She knew there was a round in the chamber and nine in the magazine. She was a good shot; she knew to aim at center mass.

He stood in the doorway of the nursery while she gathered the baby in her arms. Claire stopped crying against Paula’s chest, started rooting, rubbing her mouth against Paula’s breast. Her chest ached with engorgement.

“If you let me leave here, I’ll call the bank once I’m safe, and give you access to that account. You can have the money if you let me leave with the kids.”

He blinked at her, considering.

“My mother is the beneficiary on that account,” she said when he didn’t answer. “If you kill me, it will go to her.”

That part wasn’t true; it wasn’t even possible. She’d tried to do that at the bank, and they’d told her that she’d need written consent from her husband. All assets transferred to the spouse in the event of her untimely demise. But maybe he didn’t know that.

He lifted his palms, offered an appeasing smile. “You’re overreacting, baby. Let’s talk this through.”

What was weird was, even in that moment she could almost believe that she was overreacting, that she was acting like a crazy person. He’d come after her with a gun and she’d effectively defended herself, and now she was wondering if she’d lost her mind. That’s how good he was. Or how weak she was. At this point who could tell?

Everything was in the car. She’d packed enough for all three of them. It had been sitting there for months. Stroller, portable crib, toys, clothes, diapers, wipes, even a breast pump. She backed her way there, holding the baby in one arm, the gun in her free hand. He trailed her slowly, talking to her softly.

“I love you, honey. Don’t do this. Look at me. I’m bleeding.” He started to cry. “Don’t take my children from me.”

“Don’t call the school. Don’t call the police,” she said. “And when I’m safe, I’ll get you access to that money.”

Inside her was a hurricane of terror and guilt, hatred and sorrow. But when she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her face looked hard and cold. She didn’t even recognize herself.

Getting the baby into the car seat was tricky with one hand, but she did it. Mothers could do almost anything with one hand. Once the doors were locked, she stowed the gun under the front seat and backed down the driveway slowly, as if it were any other afternoon and she was off to get Cammy. She pressed the button on the visor to close the garage door. It came down, erasing the sight of her monster of a husband, who was no longer crying but smiling.

The baby shifted in her sleep, sighed. Paula wanted so badly to call her mother. It had been three days and three nights that they’d been traveling. She’d read on the Internet that you should avoid using credit cards and cell phones, because that was how the police tracked people. So she’d been using the cash she had stashed in the car. She’d been very careful-until tonight. Tonight she’d had to use her card to book the room in this hotel. It was much nicer than the dumps they’d been staying in, horrible motels off the highway. Last night she’d stayed up all night with the gun under her pillow, listened to people walking by, voices raised in the other rooms, a television blaring. The police probably weren’t looking for her. After all, she’d made her deal with Kevin. A deal she had no intention of keeping.

This hotel wouldn’t accept cash without a credit-card guarantee. She’d offered a cash deposit for incidentals. But they said it was their policy to allow check-in only with a card, even though she could pay in cash when she left. And she had to get a good night’s sleep. She was frayed and edgy with the kids. So she’d used her old card, one she hadn’t used in years. Maybe it wouldn’t show up until she checked out, though she’d seen them run it through a machine. And maybe no one was watching after all.

She fought a few more minutes and then picked up the phone to call her mother collect.

“Paula,” her mother said. “Honey, where are you?”

“We’re okay, Mom. Has he called you?”

“No,” she said. “He hasn’t. But a man named Jones Cooper has been leaving messages.”

She’d forgotten all about him. How had he gotten her parents’ phone number? Why was he looking for her? There was only one explanation: Her husband had seen his number on her cell phone records and called him. Now Jones Cooper was looking for her.

“Don’t tell him anything,” Paula said. “He’s a private detective.”

“He said he wanted to help you. Do you think Kevin hired him?”

“I don’t know.”

She was getting that panicky, confused feeling she’d had on and off for days. They’d been driving in circles;