Heartstopper (48 page)

“I was watching that show,” she yelled as he dragged her down the hall to the bathroom.

“You can finish watching it after your shower.”

“I’ll miss the best part.”

“You won’t miss anything.” John stopped. Were they really arguing about some dumb late-night TV show she’d probably seen a hundred times already? “Just get in the damn shower.” Holding tightly to her arm, he managed to open the shower door and turn on both taps full blast. “Get undressed.”

“Get stuffed.”

“Fine. Don’t get undressed.” He picked his wife up by
the waist and deposited her in the middle of the stall, the torrent of tepid water soaking her hair and tumbling from her forehead into her open mouth. It quickly saturated her silk shirt and linen pants.

“My shoes!” she shrieked, tearing the beige leather pumps from her feet and hurling them at John’s head.

He ducked the shoes, but was unable to avoid her fingers, which somehow managed to latch onto the silver buckle of his gray pants. She yanked, and he tumbled forward into the shower, his knees slamming into the butterscotch-colored tiles, as he wrestled with Pauline under the water’s steady downpour. He grabbed for the wall, found Pauline’s breast instead, and pulled his hand away, as if he’d been burned. The last thing he needed was for her to accuse him of assaulting her.

“What’s the matter?” she chided. “Did I scare you? Did you forget what a real breast feels like? God knows it’s been a long time since you’ve been interested in mine.” She began pulling at her blouse and eventually succeeded in peeling the clinging, wet fabric from her arms, although it took slightly longer to undo the buttons at her wrists. In the next seconds, she managed to remove the rest of her clothes—her bra, her slacks, her panties—until she was standing in front of him fully naked. “Look at me!” she cried. “This is what a real woman’s body looks like.”

John’s eyes traveled reluctantly across his wife’s naked torso. He saw the large, pendulous breasts, the slight rounding of her stomach, the dimpled thighs, the thatch of dark brown pubic hair, the still shapely legs. And he realized, with no small measure of alarm, that he was aroused. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

Pauline saw it too, and in the next minute she was pulling his pants down around his ankles and taking him in her mouth, the water from the shower cascading over them both. And then he was lifting her up, using his left
hand for balance as his right hand guided his penis inside her, and soon they were crashing against the spigots and bouncing between the tile and the glass, and the water was pouring into his eyes and nose and mouth, so that he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he could barely breathe. The rest of the night fell away—the accusations, the embarrassment, the fatigue. All he could feel was his body slamming into hers, and it felt good. God, he’d forgotten how good it felt. Hell, it felt great. Until his hand lost contact with the wall, and his feet got tangled in the puddle of his pants around his ankles, and he lost his balance, and they both crashed to the floor. Even then they kept at it, and he was reminded of the story of the two copulating dogs whose owners finally threw a bucket of water over them to pry them apart, and he laughed because not even a shower full of water was enough to stop him and Pauline.

“Come here often?” she asked after the water had finally been turned off, and the two of them sat gasping on the shower floor.

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and she looked surprised, but pleased.

John thought of saying, I’m sorry, but he wasn’t sure what he’d be apologizing for. For being a lousy husband? For his multiple affairs with Kerri Franklin? For not loving his wife the way she needed to be loved? And would saying he was sorry change any of those things?

“I’m sorry,” he heard Pauline say at that moment. “I haven’t been a very good wife to you, have I?”

“I haven’t given you much of a chance.”

A slight pause, a shake of the head, a sigh.

“So what now?” Pauline asked.

“We get dry, get into bed, get some sleep.”

“There are things we still need to talk about.”

“Agreed. But not tonight.”

“Maybe we could go on
Dr. Phil,”
she said.

“Who the hell is Dr. Phil?”

In the distance a door slammed. “Mom? Dad? Are you up?”

John checked his watch, the only thing he still had on. Thank God it was waterproof, he thought as he pushed himself to his feet, stepped out of the shower stall, and wrapped a towel around his hips just before Amber came bursting through the bathroom door.

“Dad, are you—” Amber’s eyes shot from her father to her mother and back again. “Whoops.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” Pauline said, as if she weren’t sitting naked on the shower floor, surrounded by two sets of sopping-wet clothes. “Did you have a nice time tonight?”

Amber’s mouth opened, but no words emerged.

“Is something wrong?” John asked. Could this night get any stranger?

Amber’s eyes traveled between the ceiling and the floor, afraid to touch down. “We can’t find Megan.”

“Megan Crosbie?” Pauline stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a white terry-cloth robe.

“Yes. Tim’s sister.”

“What do you mean, you can’t find her?” John asked.

“She disappeared from the party a couple of hours ago. Nobody’s seen her since.”

“She probably went home. Have you checked with her mother?”

“Tim called her half an hour ago. He didn’t want to worry her so he just asked if he and Megan could stay out a little later, and she said okay. So obviously, Megan’s not at home.”

“Is there any chance she’s with a boy?” Pauline broached.

“That’s what everybody thought at first,” Amber agreed. “She and Greg have been pretty tight lately.”

“Greg Watt?” John asked, and Amber nodded.

“My, my,” said Pauline.

“But apparently they had a fight, and that’s when she left.”

“Anybody see her leave?”

“Delilah said Megan ran right past her, and she yelled after her, but Megan just ignored her. And then Greg took off a few minutes after that.”

“Well, there you go. He probably caught up with her, and they’re somewhere making up as we speak.” Case closed, John thought, every muscle in his body aching to climb into bed. Which is where he was sure Greg and Megan were right now—if not in bed, then in the closest thing to a bed they could find, most likely the backseat of Greg’s van.

Amber was shaking her head furiously back and forth. “No. We just came from Greg’s house. He was there, and Megan definitely wasn’t with him. He got real upset when we told him we didn’t know where she was. He said he was gonna go out looking for her.”

Just what I need, John thought. “Okay, okay. Just because she wasn’t with Greg doesn’t mean anything’s happened to her.” Alarm bells were beginning to ring in the back of John’s head. He pretended he didn’t hear them. “Did anybody else leave the party early?”

“Victor Drummond’s the only one I can think of. It was so crowded, and people were going in and out all night. I only know about Victor because I saw him sneak out just before the fight started.”

“What fight?” John asked.

“There was a fight?” Pauline echoed. “Are you all right? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“I’m fine. Everybody’s fine. Except Joey.”

“Joey Balfour?”

“Yeah. Brian clocked him pretty good.”

“Brian?” Pauline asked. “You don’t mean Brian Hensen, do you?”

“You should have seen him. He was like a madman. It was amazing.” Amber’s eyes grew wide with admiration.

“Okay. You’re losing me,” John interrupted. “Let’s start again. You’re at the cast party …”

“At Lonny Reynolds’s house,” Amber elaborated.

“Aren’t his parents out of town?” Pauline asked.

John gave his wife a look that said, Please, let me handle this, and she fell silent. “Okay, so you’re at the party and a fight breaks out …”

“Not right away,” Amber qualified. “At first everything was fine. Everybody was dancing, having a good time. Everything was great.”

“Anybody there you didn’t know?”

“Maybe a few kids. It was very crowded. People were all over the place—the living room, the kitchen, the bed—” Amber stopped. “You couldn’t keep track. That’s why nobody realized Megan was missing until later.”

“Okay, so you’re dancing and having a good time …”

“Yeah. And Joey’s being his regular, obnoxious self, calling everyone ‘faggots’ and stuff like that, and suddenly Brian just took off on him. And then Perry Falco took a swing at him, and before you knew it, everybody was getting in on the act. Turns out Joey’s not nearly as popular as he thought.”

“Is he all right?” Pauline asked.

“Yeah. I think his pride’s more hurt than anything else.”

“Where is he now?”

“Don’t know. He took off. The rest of us stayed to straighten up a bit ’cause Lonny was freaking out about the mess and his parents finding out, and that’s when Tim realized his sister wasn’t there.”

“And Delilah was the only person to see her leave?”

“She was all upset, kept saying she should have gone after her. She’s the one who drove Tim and me to Greg’s house.”

“Where is she now?”

“She was gonna drive Tim home, and then she said she was gonna check on her grandmother before seeing if she could find Megan.”

John shook his head. God save me from these amateur detectives, he thought. Although he was grateful Delilah had been around to drive his daughter home.

“She’s actually a pretty nice girl,” Amber said, as if reading his mind.

John marched from the bathroom to his closet, began rifling through his drawers for a fresh pair of boxers.

Pauline was right behind him. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t have a bunch of kids out there doing my job.” He stepped into a pair of jeans, pulled a white sweatshirt over his head.

“Can I come with you?” Amber asked, following him to the front door.

“You certainly can’t.”

The phone rang. John waited while his wife answered it.

“It’s Sandy Crosbie.” Pauline approached, handed John the portable phone.

“Has Amber talked to you?” Sandy was crying, even before John got the phone to his ear. “Has she told you that Megan’s missing?”

“We don’t know that she’s missing,” John tried to reassure her. How many times had he had this conversation in the last few months? First with Candy Abbot’s mother, then with the Martins, and finally with Cal Hamilton? He shuddered. Three different discussions. Two dead bodies. Cal Hamilton had been arrested and was safely locked up, awaiting his trial. So there was nothing to worry about. Megan had had a fight with her boyfriend and probably hooked up with another guy as a way of getting back at him. She’d turn up in the morning, sheepish and apologetic, like that Vinton girl over in Collier County. “Is there any chance she’s with her father?”

“I just called him. He hung up on me before I could get a word out.”

“All right. What’s his number? I’ll talk to him.” John
repeated the number she gave him as Pauline ran for a pencil and piece of paper.

“I’m going out to look for her,” Sandy said.

“Please don’t do that,” John urged, knowing his plea was falling on deaf ears. “Look, at least let me talk to Dr. Crosbie first.”

“You’ll call me right back?”

“As soon as I speak to him.” John pressed the button to disconnect. “Shit,” he yelled. “Women! Why can’t you just stay home and”—he looked at his daughter—“eat!” he bellowed.

Amber stared at him defiantly. “Aren’t you going to call Dr. Crosbie?”

John took a deep breath to calm himself down as Pauline placed the call to Ian Crosbie’s cell phone.

“What is it, Sheriff?” Ian said instead of hello. Clearly a subscriber to caller ID. “I’m kind of busy here.”

John didn’t have to ask where Ian was. He could hear Kerri in the background.

“Is that the ambulance?” she was saying.

“Is there a problem?” John asked.

“Kerri’s mother had a heart attack,” Ian said, before lowering his voice to a whisper. “She’s dead.”

John tried to absorb this latest piece of information. What else could possibly happen tonight? “Please give Kerri my condolences,” he said as Pauline stiffened beside him. “Is Megan there, by any chance?”

“Megan? No. She’s at the party. Look, you’ll have to excuse me.”

The phone went dead. John immediately called Sandy back. “She’s not with him,” he told her. “I’ll pick you up in five minutes. We’ll look for her together. And, Sandy,” he added with quiet conviction, “we’ll find her. I promise.”

M
egan awoke to the sound of distant moaning.

The eerie sounds wafted toward her as part of a dream.
Can you save me in the morning?
Liana Martin was singing beside a glowing campfire, her girlfriends gathered around her, mouthing the words to the song along with her.

I’ve got another void to fill

I’ve got another urge to kill.

And then Joey Balfour arrived with a case of beer, and everyone was drinking and talking loudly, and the beautiful words to the song—

Give me a chance to be somebody else, ’cause it’s so easy

—were being drowned out.

I’ve got another bone to pick

I’ve got another wound to lick.

And the delicate trill of Liana’s voice was wavering, deepening, veering from soprano to alto—

Can you save me in the morning? Can you save me in the morning?

—until it became distorted, the words catching on one another, the chords skipping and disconsonant. The song became a lament, the lament a long and mournful cry.

Come on, sugar. Let’s be brave.

Don’t have to participate

In anything that makes you feel

You’re anywhere except for here….

Megan opened her eyes and sat up. This time there was no unpleasant jolt of surprise, just a sad acknowledgment of her now-familiar surroundings. She was nowhere
except for here.
Nothing had changed since the last time she’d dozed off. She was in the same awful, little room, with the same empty plastic bucket beside the same uncomfortable, narrow cot, under the same flickering, dim light. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, whether it had been minutes or hours, whether it had been longer or shorter than the last time she’d drifted off, whether it was night or day.