Lisa Unger - Darkness My Old Friend

“I remember there were phone records. You called, or someone called, from the school.”

Jones saw Henry’s cheeks flush-effort or embarrassment, it was hard to tell. “I did try to call her.”

“After her husband left for work?”

Henry sighed and shook his head. “She’d seemed odd at the door. Upset about something. And, honestly, I was concerned. Then, of course, a few days later I learned she was missing.”

“You were never a suspect, Henry. I’m not grilling you.”

“Really? It seemed like you were looking at me pretty hard back then. It doesn’t feel much better now.”

“You were crushing on her a little bit, right?”

“A little bit, yes. But I wouldn’t do that. She was married with children. I’m not that kind of man now. I wasn’t even when I was younger.”

And Jones knew that to be true. Henry Ivy was a good man. He ate dinner at their house, had cheered for Ricky at Little League, written him letters of recommendation for college. Sometimes he even came for Thanksgiving, when for whatever reason he couldn’t make it down to Florida to see his parents. They’d all been friends for a long, long time. But Jones also knew that Henry had always been at least a little in love with Maggie. That he’d never really, as far as Jones knew, had a serious relationship with a woman. And Jones wondered why Henry always wanted the women he couldn’t have. Maybe it was just bad luck. But maybe it was something else.

“What else do you remember about her?” Jones asked.

Henry stopped walking again, shoved his hands into his pockets.

“I thought she was the saddest woman I’d ever met. She seemed lonely. But lonely at the core, as if there were no amount of love and attention that could ever make her not lonely. Does that make sense?”

Henry’s words made Jones think of Abigail. Abigail Cooper, his mother, had been a black hole of need, a space that could never be filled. He’d spent his entire life trying and failing, until the day she died.

“It does make sense.”

“I don’t know what happened to Marla Holt, Jones.”

They were standing before a clearing now. The locals called this place the Chapel. Toward the edge of the clearing stood an enormous, dilapidated barn. It had become kind of a local gathering place. Because of the way the sun shone in from the holes in the roof, creating golden fingers that reached into the darkness, the frescoes of graffiti on the ceiling, it had earned its name. They’d all been in there at one time or another over the years, though the thing looked like it could collapse at any time. Parties, make-out sessions, a few years ago Hollows PD had broken up a rave out here. Even from where Jones stood, he could see that the ground was littered with bottles and cans.

The flecks of gold in the grass were shell casings. People in The Hollows liked their guns; they liked to come out here and fire off some rounds, teach their kids how to shoot a bottle off a wall. It was one of the big tensions in the community, between the wealthy people who had settled here in the last decade and the people who’d lived here for generations.

“What are you looking for out here, Jones?”

Henry walked into the clearing and squatted down to pick up a spent shell. He held it up under the beam of Jones’s flashlight.

“I’m a little curious about what Michael Holt was doing,” said Jones.

“He’s a caver, gives tours around here and in some of the other mining towns. I think he’s writing a book.”

Jones hadn’t heard any of that. “Is that so? Have you ever heard that story about the mine where a body is buried?”

Henry shook his head. “Nope.”

“Me neither,” said Jones. Jones knew a lot about The Hollows, its past and its present, more than most. “We’ve both been here a long time. I feel like that’s a story someone would have told before now.”

“I could do some research,” said Henry.

Jones regarded Henry again. “That’d be great, if you have the time,” he said.

“Happy to,” he said. “As you know, I’m a bit of a history buff, especially about this region.”

Poor Henry , thought Jones. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. But he still retained that nerdy aura he’d carried around since grade school.

“Someone needs to take the initiative to get this place cleaned up,” said Henry, apropos of nothing. He kicked at an empty vodka bottle. The label was mostly worn off, but Jones could tell that it came from the Old Mill Bar, where they distilled some of their own liquor. It was truly terrible, an instant headache and upset stomach if you weren’t used to it. But as kids, they all drank it. The Old Mill Bar was the only place where they could get served. Once upon a time, it was well known that they turned a blind eye to even the least convincing fake ID.

“It’s private land,” Jones said. “The Grove family owns it and still pays taxes on it-just like the abandoned O’Donnell farmhouse about a mile north from here. It’s a mess like this, too.”

They left the clearing and walked a little farther west. The girl had been unsure about where she’d seen Holt digging, hadn’t even been able to find it herself again. But Jones thought there was another clearing about five minutes from where they stood.

“I’m going to head back, Jones, if you don’t want to talk about anything else.”

Jones wished he could shake the feeling. He’d had it years ago when they’d talked about Marla Holt. Henry Ivy wasn’t being completely honest. There had been five calls from Hollows High over a three-day period. That was more calls than the average person would make if he were mildly concerned about a running partner, wasn’t it?

“Just do some thinking for me, will you, Henry? I suspect that the Hollows PD is going to reopen this case. And even if they don’t, the Holt kid has hired Eloise Montgomery and Ray Muldune.”

There it was. A flash of something across Henry’s face, a slow blink.

“Okay,” he said. He pressed his mouth into a line, as if he were already working on it, gave a quick nod. “I’ll do some thinking.”

There was a rumble of distant thunder in the sky, odd for that time of year.

“I hear there’s rain coming,” said Henry.

“Oh, yeah?” They were both looking up at the sky. The light of the day was almost gone.

“Yeah, they’re saying heavy rainfall.”

“Well,” said Jones, “stay dry.”

Henry turned and started to move quickly away. Jones didn’t necessarily want to be caught out there, alone in the dark. He had his flashlight, though he didn’t carry a gun with him every day anymore. Not that he was scared. But you didn’t grow up in The Hollows without a healthy respect for these woods, without those warnings and cautionary tales forever ringing in your ears. You never listened when you were young. But the voices lingered, came back at you when you were, ostensibly, old enough to know better.

It was only when he got back out to the street that Henry realized he’d have to walk back to the school. He’d ridden over with Bethany Graves and had intended to ride back with Jones Cooper. It wasn’t a long walk, not even half a mile. But it seemed to Henry that for some reason he always found himself walking back somewhere alone. Not that he was feeling sorry for himself. It’s just that it did seem to be the way of things.

He kept to the shoulder of the road in the gloaming. All he could hear were his own footfalls crunching the dirt and gravel beneath his feet. He thought about jogging it, but he was still wearing his work clothes. If anyone saw him, they’d think it odd. And he really didn’t need people thinking that. Although, given his being a bachelor past forty-five in a small town, people did think him odd. Or pitiable. Or gay. Which he wasn’t.