Slippin' into Darkness

1:38 A.M.

The sex was great. Amy Peyton-Price was sure of that.

Ethan Russell lay at her side, so enamored of her that he couldn’t even blink. “I know men aren’t supposed to say this kind of thing anymore,” he began, “but you’ve got the greatest body…you really drive me nuts…you’re perfect.”

“I weigh the same as the day I graduated high school.” Amy took Ethan’s hand, guided it over her flat belly. “Women aren’t supposed to brag about that kind of thing anymore, either, but I’m proud of it. So I guess we’re even on the political incorrectness scale.”

Amy laughed as Ethan’s hand drifted lower, tickling now. She wasn’t lying about her weight. But she wasn’t going to tell Ethan that she had graduated from high school eighteen years ago. He was only twenty-two, and she didn’t want to scare him off. Half of those eighteen years didn’t show, anyway. On a good day-or in the afterglow of good sex, as tonight-a few more years could be subtracted.

And sex with Ethan was more than good. It was great. Amy was sure of that. She snatched his fingers, stopped his tickling. A smile played at the corners of her lips. She knew her smile meant everything to him.

“You could do a lot better than me, you know,” he said. “I mean, sometimes I wonder what you see in me. I’m just a guy who sells ties.”

“No you’re not.” Her smile turned evil. “You’re a tie salesman who happens to be outstanding between the sheets.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He pulled away.

Amy almost laughed. And men thought that they were so tough.

“I’m sorry.” She chose another tack. “I wish I could explain how much you mean to me, Ethan. God, even your name is wonderful. Ethan. You’re a world away from all those Bill’s and Bob’s and Danny’s and Doug’s I dated when I was younger. And you want to do all the things I used to dream of doing. You want to visit Paris, live in New York. I’d almost forgotten those dreams. You’re young, but you’re not like the young men I used to know who wanted me just because I was blonde and pretty and would look good on their arm while they grew old. You want to do more than fill your father’s shoes at the shipyard. You don’t talk about the NFL or Playboy centerfolds or multi-barreled carburetors.” She took his hand in hers. “I know what this town can do to people. How it can steal their dreams, make them feel so small. That’s what happened to me before I met you. I’d fallen into a life that made me wonder what I was doing, and why. You gave me back my dreams.”

Ethan shook his head. “I gave you the dreams of a tie salesman.”

Want to hear a confession?” Amy asked, and he nodded. “When I was twenty-two, I was a bank teller.”

He laughed. “I can’t picture that. Not the way you spend money.

“Oh, that’s why I took the job. See, my first husband was all talk. He sold cars, if you can believe that. Well, he sold Jaguars, but when you come right down to it a car salesman is a car salesman. You should have seen him. Always grinning while he gave me the details: what a shark he’d been selling this Jag, the pound of flesh he’d sliced low-balling that Triumph trade-in, how he’d jack the price on said pound of flesh the next time a wannabe Brit wearing one of those little tweed touring caps came into the showroom. He was full of big plans and clever patter, but it never amounted to much.”

“So you got the bank job to make some extra money?”

“No. I divorced husband number one. I got the job to pick out husband number two. I know it sounds awful and calculating and all that, but I was scared of having nothing. I want to snag a guy who was more than hot air, and I wanted a look at his bank statements to make sure I was getting what I bargained for. You know what I got.”

Ethan didn’t say anything. Neither did Amy. She’d told him all about husband number two. He was a corporate lawyer who spoke the same language as husband number one, but his bank account backed it up. He had everything squared away in that department. But there were just some things a sixty-four-year-old man couldn’t square away for a thirty-five-year-old woman. Not a woman like Amy, anyway. No matter how hard he tried, husband number two couldn’t make her feel young the way that Ethan Russell, stud-puppy tie salesman, could.

She hugged Ethan, hoping he knew how much he meant to her, hoping her confession had proven that he was the man she’d waited so long to possess.

Ethan didn’t return her hug. His eyes were wary, brimming with tears.

“Tell me the truth. Amy.” His voice shook. “I’m going to be more to you than husband number three, right?”

It took some time to straighten things out with Ethan, but Amy managed it. They talked about love and money, and how the two things could get mixed up. They didn’t talk about power, or control, and Amy was just as glad to have left those subjects alone.

She circled behind the apartment building, fishing her keys from her purse. Husband number two was out of town on a trial. In the last few days she had enjoyed plenty of quality time with Ethan in his little apartment. It wasn’t the most romantic love nest, but, after all, Ethan had the bank account of a tie salesman. Still, it was great to catch a break from the usual running around-snatching an hour here or there when her husband was home, playing little telephone games behind his back, praying that he’d spend more time on the golf course. It was a real luxury to watch the hours flow one into another without concern for the time.

And the sex was great. She wanted it to last forever. Lately, talk of retirement was turning up in husband number two’s conversation. That worried Amy. She couldn’t imagine dealing with him twenty-four hours a day.

No sense worrying about that. After all, she already had her options lined up.

The keys were cold in Amy’s hands, but it was a good and solid kind of cold because they belonged to a Mercedes. In a moment she’d be behind the wheel, singing along with a Sade tape, and in a half hour or so she’d be alone in her own bed, the smell of her lover still on her, remembering Ethan’s kisses and Ethan’s hands as she drifted off to dreamland.

Amy’s heels clicked lightly over the parking lot blacktop, marking a completely confident rhythm that came to an abrupt end the moment she noticed the man sitting on the front bumper of her Mercedes.

Cautiously, Amy moved forward. She threaded the keys between her fingers and made a fist around the key ring, a tip she’d gleaned from a rape-prevention video.

Political correctness aside, Amy generally believed in non-racial stereotypes. The guy sitting on the Mercedes was fat. Not just a little tubby. He was gross. The Mercedes actually leaned to one side under his bulk.

Amy concluded that the man was perfect rapist material.

He glanced up at Amy as if she’d spoken. There was something familiar about his blue eyes, which were somehow scheming and innocent at the same time.

The fat man was the first to look away. Amy had won the stare-down. The blob had recognized her strength, just in that glance. Maybe he would shuffle off, knowing that she would put up a fight.

Okay. Maybe he knew that. But, very suddenly, even with the sharp keys fisted in her grip. Amy wasn’t so sure that she knew-

The fat man removed his left shoe.

He held it up, at arm’s length, well away from his nose.

He shook out a pebble.

Amy almost laughed. Sighing, the man slipped on his shoe and rose from the bumper. The Mercedes suspension groaned in perfect harmony.

Amy hurried by, unlocked the door, and got in. Didn’t bother to lock the door. Keyed the engine. Shoved the Sade tape into the cassette deck.

A sphere of light exploded before her eyes. She blinked. Glowing white spots danced around the fat man. The spots faded. The fat man didn’t.

Sade was singing about a finger on a trigger. Amy was shaking. There was a camera in the fat man’s hands, and that was bad.

His hauntingly blue eyes were all over her.

That was worse.

The fat man grinned, leaning on the hood, the fingers of his big hands tapping as if he could crumple the metal.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. This couldn’t be happening. Amy had been so careful. Her husband hadn’t shown the slightest indication of suspicion.

The fat man came around the driver’s side of the car.

Amy was tempted to floor the gas pedal, speed away.

But nothing could be wrong. There had to be a mistake. She’d been careful. Her husband called every evening at seven. She’d never missed a single call. There was nothing to worry-

The fat man tapped on the window, his grin holding firm.

The camera lens glinted. Impulsively, Amy lowered the window. “I don’t know what my husband is paying you,” she began, “but I’m willing to pay more for your silence.”

The fat man’s eyes narrowed. His doughy face seemed to sag.

His big voice trembled with sudden disappointment.

“You don’t remember me,” he said.