Down the Darkest Road

17

Renee Paquin walked out of the practice room, violin case in hand, down the hall, and out into the hot, dry California afternoon. The warmth felt like velvet against her skin—especially coming out of the chill of the air-conditioned building. She breathed deep of the eucalyptus-scented air and smiled.

Her neck was tight and her shoulders were sore, but practice had been good, and she was pleased with herself. The summer music festival was coming. She would be playing in concert with her chamber group, but had also been chosen to play as a soloist at one of the evening concerts—a prestigious coup for any McAster student, but especially for a sophomore.

Life was good.

Her hard work was paying off. To play in the festival was to prove to her parents she had done the right thing in staying for the summer instead of going home to Michigan to loll the months away on the lake.

She walked across campus with a smile on her face. She would go back to the house to change clothes and do some laundry, then meet Michelle, Xenia, and Jenna for a few games of doubles tennis. Then they would all go downtown for a light dinner at one of the sidewalk cafés on the plaza.

It was only a ten-minute walk from the practice rooms to the sorority house, a big Victorian house situated on the corner of a street lined with huge oak trees. She went first to the garage, where she had dropped a bag of laundry the day before and never got the time to do it. She had to get some of it done today because she was running low on underwear.

The laundry bag had been left on the floor, which she knew better than to do because bugs could crawl into it. One time Jenna had dumped out her laundry and three mice had scurried out of it.

The idea made Renee’s skin crawl. She picked up her bag and held it by the very bottom so she could drop it and run screaming if she needed to. But only clothing tumbled out onto the table.

Right away she noticed that it didn’t smell right. She blamed it on a week’s worth of sweaty tennis clothes. It smelled as if all the body odors had fermented or something. She wrinkled her nose. Gross. It almost smelled like stale sex, which was impossible, of course, since she and Jason had broken up months ago and she had yet to get the bad taste of that relationship out of her mouth.

She scooped up the underwear and threw it in a washer. She had better things to do than think about boys.

She came out of the house dressed in a crisp white tennis outfit with a scandalously short skirt. She was tall and willowy with long tanned legs. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail that was pulled through the opening at the back of her white cap.

As he photographed her he wondered which one she was. He knew the names of half a dozen of the girls who lived in that house because he had made it his business to find out. He had waited on several occasions to watch the mailman make his delivery for the day, and when the mailman had gone out of sight and no one else had been on the street, he had gone onto the porch of the big house and casually sorted through the mail that had been left.

He had a list of the girls from this house on a page in his notebook. Holly Johnson, Jennifer Porter, Sarah McCoy, Natalie Witman, Heather Ortiz, and Renee Paquin. He had added the name Renee Paquin last night. The name that had been written in marker on the laundry bag he had taken the panties from.

At the reminder of her name he could smell her. He could taste her pussy. He wished he had her panties with him now so he could put them in his mouth again and suck on them. He set his camera aside on the passenger seat, then reached inside his open fly. He fondled himself even as he watched the lithe tennis player walk away down the street.

If he was lucky, she was Renee Paquin. He remembered seeing tennis clothes in the laundry bag.

As she turned the corner and walked out of sight, he stopped playing with himself, zipped his pants, and cleaned his hands with a moist towelette. Then he took a moment to jot a few notes in his book.

He was very organized and methodical by nature. Even as a small child he had always kept his possessions and his thoughts compartmentalized and orderly. His notes were a reflection of his nature. His handwriting was small and precise, his observations meticulous.

He used only quality materials, purchasing his notebooks and pens in an art supply store. The paper was slightly thicker and more absorbent of the ink than that of cheaper notebooks available in common retail outlets. The pens he used were the ultrafine-point pens favored by architects.

In fact, he had stolen pens from the home of the Lawtons in Santa Barbara. Lance Lawton had been a well-respected architect. Roland had enjoyed using his pens.

At the top of the page he had written the address of the sorority house and had made a detailed description of the house—not just what it looked like, but where it sat on the block, how it was situated on the lot, what the landscaping was like, the sight lines to the neighboring houses.

To the right side of the page he had made a small, very detailed sketch of the house, and beneath the sketch had made a very precise overhead line drawing of the lot, the garage, the house, where the doors were located, the location of the windows, and so on.

On the lower left side of the page he had printed the names of the girls he knew resided in the house, and noted what kind of mail they had received on the days he had looked in the mailbox.

Jennifer Porter: 1 picture postcard from Lucerne, Switzerland. Dated June 27, 1990. Handwritten note states: Wish you were here. The guys are gorgeous and so is Switzerland. Love, Denise.

Sarah McCoy: Envelope from Physicians Group of Oak Knoll. Possibly a bill.

Natalie Witman: 1 Hallmark card in purple envelope. Return address: M. Dorne, 1128 Via Morada, Paso Robles, CA 93446. 1 postcard appointment reminder from Bright Smile Dentistry stating: We’ll see you on July 22 at 10:30 AM! Alternate spelling of name on mail: “Whitman.”

And so on.

Now Roland turned to a fresh page and carefully printed: Renee Paquin? Tall. 5’7” to 5’9”. Slender. Small breasted. Long legs. Tan. Straight dark brown/black hair to mid-back, worn loose or in ponytail. Plays the violin. Plays tennis.

He blew lightly across the page to make certain the ink was dry before he closed the notebook and returned it to his messenger bag on the passenger’s seat. Then he started the van and pulled away from the curb, heading for the tennis courts.