Night Film

52

I reached the end of the hall, followed it right, running toward the emergency exit door at the end. An alarm began to sound from an intercom.

The manager must have alerted a security breach.

I shoved it open, sprinting outside.

It was a brightly lit loading area, the driveway packed with supply trucks, two black Escalades. A lone waiter sat on a crate, smoking a cigarette. He smiled as I walked casually past and jogged down some steps, then along a stone pathway winding around the side of the house.

It had to be the eastern side.

Rounding the corner, I stopped dead.

In front of me was the mansion’s entrance, an elaborate columned porte cochere crowded with security guards dressed in black. A silver Range Rover was parked out front, the backseat window unrolled—whoever sat there clearly being checked on a guest list. The driveway curved left through dense trees, probably heading north toward Old Montauk Highway—the way out of here. Visible farther to my left beyond the foliage was a lawn, quite a few cars parked there.

I couldn’t make it out this way. The guards had obviously been alerted, because they were fanning out, heading inside. One turned in my direction, motioned to another—taking off toward me.

I backtracked and broke into a sprint, dashing past the loading dock again and the lone waiter. He stood up, shouting something as I raced past, veering around the next rambling wing of the mansion, the windows dark, though for a split second, maybe it was the wind through the brush, I swore I heard a man’s dull, prolonged moan.

Christ. I kept going, racing toward the backyard through flower beds and shrubs, rounding the corner.

I froze.

The back lawn was flooded with light. Guards were milling around the patio and pool, two of them far across the lawn, inspecting the stairs where Hopper and I had climbed up.

I whipped around, checking behind me. I could hear the guards’ footsteps, getting closer.

I scrambled past the piles of garbage bags, up onto the stone wall, racing across the strip of grass into a tall hedge, forcing my way through, the branches so dense it was like fighting through a tightly woven net. I crouched down, breaking the limbs with my hands, crawling through headfirst.

There was shouting behind me cutting through the rumbles of the ocean.

I tore free on the other side and stumbled to my feet.

I wasn’t in another backyard as I’d hoped, but in an empty expanse of moorland — no house or lawn, only darkness and tangled shrubbery shoulder high, impossible to walk through. I slipped along the hedge I’d just crawled out of, where the understory wasn’t as thick, fighting through what felt like holly or rosebushes, heading in the direction of the ocean.

I had to find another flight of stairs down to the beach. I reached the bluff, squalls of wind barreling off the Atlantic. I headed unsteadily along it, but could see within minutes there were no stairs.

This had to be a wildlife preserve. I was trapped. There wouldn’t be another flight of steps or a house for miles.

I checked behind me. The hedge was shaking, black forms emerging through the branches, flashlight beams sweeping the gnarled thickets, heading in my direction.

They were still coming. The manager had probably declared a fatwa on my ass.

I scrambled to the edge of the cliff. It wasn’t a sheer drop to the water, but a slight incline, jagged with shrubs. Grabbing a plant to brace myself, I began to slide down it, feet first, creating an avalanche of loose rocks and sand. Flashlights were already inspecting the vegetation directly above me, the men’s shouts barely audible over the waves. I pressed my back against the rocks, waiting until they moved farther down, then hurriedly continued on, many of the shrubs pulling out in my fists so I dropped in a free fall until I managed to seize a root that held my weight.

I reached a rock promontory jutting out over the beach.

The tide had come in. There was no beach — only five-foot waves, which receded for a few seething seconds, exposing spiky crags along the cliff’s base, before they somersaulted aggressively forward, erupting in wild explosions against the rocks.

I waited, checking above me for movement.

I was safe. No one would be idiotic enough to follow me down here.

Yet the instant I figured this, I could see two dark figures bending down, clamoring after me.

I groped my way down a few more feet, reaching some boulders. I began crawling between them, heading westward, moving quickly when the waves receded. After a few minutes, I could make out the spindly skeleton of what had to be Duchamp’s staircase, far ahead, rising out of the waves.

I edged toward it. Flashlights suddenly appeared at the top of the cliff, searching the shoreline, the beams sliding along the rocks just a few feet from where I was crouched.

They were waiting. The light slipped right over me.

Shouting cut through the waves. I took off again, faster, half expecting a ricochet of bullets clattering against the rocks around me.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I wedged my boots between two rocks to steady myself and looked up. A guard was actually attempting to climb down, the whole structure trembling under his weight. I seized the most rotten of the beams and after a few attempts managed to wrench it loose, a large section of the railing detaching with it. I threw it into the water behind me and took off across the rocks, drenched by another onslaught of waves.

After another few yards, I quickly checked behind me.

The guard on the staircase had fallen through a section of stairs above what I’d dismantled and was clinging to the cliff face, seemingly awaiting help. I moved on, scaling a precarious section of the cliffs where there wasn’t much to hold on to and had just started to let myself think that I might be home free, when a massive wave suddenly lobbed itself against the rocks.

I lost my grip. I fell backward, my ears filled with deafening thunder as I was tossed upside down, choking on salt water. I managed to fight my way to the surface, gasping for air, but within seconds, another wave surged forward, pulling me back before throwing me toward the cliffs. Kicking as hard as I could, I was shoved against another boulder and managed to sling myself up onto it, coughing up salt water.

I lifted my head, my eyes burning. I was alone in a narrow inlet. I sat crouched on the rock, waiting for one of the guards to appear.

No one came.

When the sky was turning a silvered gray, I saw, as I squinted down the beach, a ribbon of sand. I dropped down onto it, breaking into a jog, trekking past silent condos and along the wooden fence bordering Whaler’s Way, the deserted alley coming into washed-out focus in the pale morning.

I stopped, staring at the empty parking space.

My car was gone.

Bewildered, I headed to Emerson Street and the Sea Haven Diner, scanning the parking lot. There was no sign of my car, only a silver pickup and a Subaru. Entering, I saw the place was empty, apart from an old man in a back booth and a redheaded waitress slumped over the counter, reading a magazine.

“You look shipwrecked,” she said as I approached.

“I’m looking for a young woman. Blond. Green dress. Was she here?”

She smiled in recognition. “You mean Nora?”

“Exactly.”

“Sure, she was here.”

“Well, where the hell is she?”

“Beats me. Got up and left about an hour ago.”

I slid onto one of the counter stools, pulling off my leather jacket, still drooling salt water.

“I’ll have some coffee, three eggs easy, bacon, toast, orange juice.”

The waitress disappeared through the swinging doors. When she returned with my coffee, she sighed heavily, crossing her arms.

“She got a call from some guy. Ran out of here real excited.”

I glanced at her, taking a sip. “A call on her cell?”

“No. Cell service sucks out here. Just one bar. He called the diner, asked for her by name. You’re her dad, I take it, comin’ to pick her up?” She didn’t wait for my response, only nodded knowingly. “Don’t know how you dads put up with it. Girls always going after the bad boys. Then there’s the Internet, which makes it ten times worse with the stalkers and the sex predators.”

My breakfast came quickly, thank Christ.

A few locals wandered in, but there was no sign of Hopper or Nora.

After I ate, I tried calling them — I was surprised to see my cell still worked — but the waitress was right: no service. I used the phone at the cash register, but for both of them it rang and went to voicemail.

When I boarded the 9:45 A.M. Long Island Rail Road train, taking me back to civilization — if you can call Manhattan that—I’d conked out cold before we left the station.