The Cold Nowhere

17

He parked near the beach after nightfall.

The black Charger was nearly invisible under the cloud-swept sky. There was no moon to make the lake glisten. The rain would come soon. He stayed off the main street of the Point, tramping through the dunes that led down to the water. As he made his approach, he listened to the swoosh of the waves, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

The sand slowed his pace, but he was in no hurry. The ridge of dunes, mostly covered by twisted trees, blocked everything but the lights from a few higher-floor windows. The beach itself was empty. It was too cold for secret lovers and too wet for the exercise freaks.

He closed in on the house from the south.

It was one of the new mansions for the new rich. Lots on the Point were narrow, so people built up, sometimes three or four stories. Big decks. Glass everywhere. If you had the money, you could build whatever you wanted. A million dollars. Two million dollars. Play money.

He recognized the weather vane on the roof, shaped like a lighthouse. He’d scouted the place in the daylight. With a quick glance up and down the beach, he made his way over the ridge and followed the grassy trail to the back of the house, where the steps of the deck were anchored on concrete footings that had been swept over by blowing sand. He could see the curving driveway. Empty. Lights glowed on the first floor but there was no movement behind the windows.

They weren’t home yet. That was good.

He remembered another house. Another night. The number of the alarm code stuck in his head: 1789. Weird, the things you couldn’t get out of your brain.

He stayed in the shadows at the base of the deck and slid out his phone. He made the call. ‘It’s me.’

There was silence on the other end. Finally: ‘I know.’

‘I’m at the house,’ he said.

‘Okay. Fine. Just get it over with.’

‘You better be right. You’re sure this is the place?’

‘That’s what I was told.’

‘I’ll call you when it’s done.’

‘Then it’s over. Right?’

‘Then it’s over.’ Except for you.

‘Thank God.’

‘I have to go.’

More silence. Then: ‘She’s not alone, you know.’

‘I know. You told me.’

‘So how will you … Jesus.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘There has to be another way.’

‘There isn’t. This is the best way. Trust me, there won’t be any more questions. She’ll disappear. Tomorrow she’ll be gone and no one will ever see her again.’

‘How will you …?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘A gun?’

‘I think it’s better to use a knife,’ he said. ‘That’s more appropriate, don’t you think?’