I moved closer and a shaft of sunlight cut the trees, causing me to squint. “Rick said that?”
Bernard nodded. “See, that way if she got all mad we could just take off running like it was a big joke… but if she doesn’t get mad, then we could try something else and see what happens.”
“Rick said all this?”
“Yeah.”
Another Bernard lie. “Bullshit.”
“We’re going over his house in a couple minutes,” he reminded me. “Ask him.”
“You guys could get in major trouble doing something like that, man. Seriously.”
“She wouldn’t tell.” Bernard’s eyes narrowed. “They never tell.”
Something in his tone caused my stomach muscles to clench. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Girls usually don’t tell when stuff like that happens to them,” he said.
“How the hell would you know?”
“Saw a show about it on TV. That’s what they said.”
“Whatever. I wouldn’t do anything like that anyway,” I told him, still not certain he was serious.
“You wouldn’t want to make it with Julie Henderson?”
“Of course I would, but… but, Jesus, I’d want her to want it too. If she doesn’t then it’s assault, dude—rape—that’s what it is.”
“So what?”
“So I don’t want to fucking rape her, what’s wrong with you?”
“But if she never told on you, and no one knew… then would you?”
“She’d know,” I answered. “I’d know.”
“She’d know,” he said mockingly, holding his chest like he was dying and repeating in a high-pitched voice, “I’d know! I’d know!”
“You asshole.” I laughed and threw a fake punch at him. “I thought you were serious.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Yeah, and maybe you aren’t,” I said as we turned and together, headed out of the forest.
“Besides, being a huge homo, you wouldn’t know what to do with a girl anyway.”
“OK, gay-boy, whatever.”
Our laughter echoed through the trees. As we followed the path on our way from the forest, we continued to insult each other with homophobic phrases and endlessly creative uses for profanity, as most teenage boys are wont to do.
In that regard, my memory of that afternoon seemed in no way out of the ordinary. Confronting Julie Henderson in the forest never came up in conversation again, and I dismissed it as nothing more than Bernard’s wishful thinking.
But I now found myself questioning what until that point had seemed a harmless discussion between two boys huddled over an old porno rag. Had Bernard simply been trying to work through his own sexual awakenings, confusion and desire like the rest of us, talking typical teen male bravado and pretending to be something he wasn’t? Or had it been a signal I’d missed—a warning that something else existed in him even then? Something dark… diseased… deadly.
She wouldn’t tell. They never tell.
I hadn’t thought about that afternoon in a very long time, yet the images that remained most vivid were also the most disturbing; even after all these years.
Glancing at the desk, I noticed three more empty beer bottles sitting in a neat row. I scooped them up, tossed them into the gym bag then propped my feet up and tried to get as comfortable as one can in a hard plastic chair.
A misting rain had replaced the snow. The night had grown darker it seemed.
My belly warmed with brew but my mind still reeling, I closed my eyes and searched for more memories, more clues.
It was just after two in the morning when I saw her.
A thick fog had rolled in off the water, making visibility a few feet at best. The street was quiet, hadn’t seen another living soul or even a car pass in more than an hour, and I was digging through my gym bag for another beer when I noticed movement from the corner of my eye.
I stood up and looked more closely at the fog, a small lamp and a night security bulb over the interior showroom provided the only nearby light. Two powerful beams on the roof sliced a canal through the fog, illuminating portions of the lot and the rows of cars. At the very edge of the property was a woman—a woman just standing there—thin arms dangling at her sides, vines of slow-moving fog curling about her, cradling her with ghost-like fingers.
I returned the unopened beer to my gym bag and moved around the side of the desk, never taking my eyes from her. Slowly, I slid closer to the showroom window. She was looking right at me, everything but her eyes masked in night and mist.
And while gazing into those eyes, it came to me. She looked like the woman with the little boy at Rick’s apartment building. You here about the plumbing?
She looked exactly like her, from what I could remember. I moved so close to the window that I was able to place a hand against it. Had to just be some hooker out wandering the streets in the middle of the night, I told myself. In that neighborhood—even at that time of night—it wouldn’t be unusual. But the woman looked sickly, and New Bedford was miles from Potter’s Cove. It seemed wildly far-fetched, and yet, deep down, I knew it was the same woman.
And from the way she was staring at me, she recognized me too.
Curiosity won out over fear, and I made my way to the door. I unlocked a series of deadbolts on the front entrance, the sound of them disengaging unsettling somehow in the otherwise quiet night.
The woman was still there; arms now folded across her sunken chest.
The weight of the nightstick on my hip reminded me of its presence as I pushed the door open and stepped into the fog. The air was brisk, a bit cooler than it should have been, and the fog seemed to dissipate somewhat. The steady thud of my heart echoed in my ears. I slowly, casually dropped a hand to the nightstick, felt my fingers wrap around the handle and tighten.
I’d either had more to drink than I realized, or the recent events combined with an overall lack of sleep and the recurring Bernard nightmare had finally taken their toll. Or, I told myself, all of this is actually happening.
“Ma’am,” I said through a hard swallow, “you all right?”
The woman gave no discernable response.
“Are you OK? Do you—you need some help, ma’am?”
Without saying a word, the woman let her arms drop back to her sides and left them dangling there, swaying as if broken and no longer of any use to her. But something in those eyes changed. They seemed to be imploring me, beckoning me.
My legs shuddered and I broke eye contact long enough to glance quickly across the front lot. I needed to know she was alone. The lot and street beyond were empty and still. My eyes returned to the woman in the fog.
“Can’t be the same woman,” I mumbled. “Can’t be.” I clutched the nightstick at my side but left it in my belt. “You live around here?”
Again, no response.
“You lost, lady?”
The woman turned away and drifted off.
I stood there, frightened, despising my weakness. “Are you lost?” I asked again, louder this time.
The woman continued on and slipped away into the fog, one final glimpse of her visible through the rolling clouds before they swallowed her completely as she reached the other side of the street.
With a deep breath, I held the nightstick tight and started across the lot after her.
CHAPTER 7
The fog thickened and embraced me from every direction, a giant specter with no beginning, middle or end. I moved to the outskirts of the lot, aware that the dealership was well behind me now and that from somewhere back there the two showroom roof lights were cutting the darkness and fog. Yet, what little light I could discern seemed to be coming from a solitary streetlight just across the width of road separating my position from the beginnings of the abandoned factory. I hesitated, waited for my eyes to adjust, and listened. There was no sign of the woman, and although the normal din of the city was still evident in the distance, it was quiet here, and but for the slow rolling fog, utterly still.