John Lutz - Serial

In the dark woods that spread out behind the store, a man stood in the dim moonlight and watched Beth’s progress. He was wearing tight jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. A bulky man, he had long dark hair hanging lankly to below his shoulders, and a big belly that overhung his jeans.

As he watched Beth, he shook his head in wonder on his bull neck. What the hell was a piece like that, with those legs and tits, doing out wandering around by herself at night? She could be a hooker who worked the trucks that stopped at the convenience store or to gas up. That was always possible. But she didn’t look like a hooker, didn’t walk like one. Wasn’t even carrying a purse, like almost all hookers did.

No, she didn’t look like a working girl.

What she looked like was what he needed. He took a swig of beer, watching the roll of the woman’s hips, and smiled. Nice…

Then he thought, The hell with it. What the girl looked like was trouble.

But trouble appealed to him. That had been his problem all his life. It was almost as if he had to get himself in trouble to validate the kind of screwup he was. Trouble always tugged at him like a magnet, even though he knew in his heart that trouble was… trouble.

And this leggy creature in the Levi’s shorts certainly represented trouble.

At least she was the kind that could be avoided. If a man wanted to avoid her.

He retreated back into the shadowed woods in case she might glance over and see him.

Wouldn’t want to scare her away.

When Beth reached the store, Willis smiled at her as he always did. He was old enough to be her father, but she’d seen him glance at her in that way now and then, so she was careful around him. She acted like a lady. Didn’t want any kind of negative word getting back to Roy.

“Six-pack do you?” he asked, when she plopped down a carton of cold beer on the counter.

“It’ll do Roy,” she said.

Willis laughed. “Won’t he drink a brand comes in a carton with a handle? That’s six-pack’s gotta be plenty heavy, by the time you walk all the way back to the house.”

“Get real, Willis. Six little beers?”

“Well, you ain’t no Charles Atlas.”

“Who’s that?”

“Before your time,” Willis said. “Unfortunately, not before mine.” He rang up the six-pack of Wild Colt beer and fit it into a paper sack so it would be easier for her to carry.

Beth stuffed the change, including the coins, into a back pocket, then smiled a thanks to Willis and went out the door, carrying the beer tucked like a football beneath one arm. He could see the outline of the coins against the taut denim that covered her ass.

That religious nut Roy doesn’t know what he’s got, he thought, wishing he were twenty years younger.

Ten, even.

Beth hadn’t gone far when she realized Willis was right-the beer was getting heavy. And Pick Road was just as rough to walk on going back toward the house as it had been going toward Willis’s. And the weedy, rocky ground along the shoulder was just as uneven. Burrs now and then worked between her rubber thongs and the soles of her bare feet, causing her to stop and balance on one leg while she let the thong dangle and shook her foot until the burr dropped out.

But worst of all, because she was making slow time, the beer was getting warm.

Roy didn’t countenance warm beer. In fact, he liked it cold enough that there were tiny flecks of ice in it.

She stopped and looked up at the moon. It was half full and tilted like a luminous boat. There should be enough light for her to take the shortcut through the woods. She might pick up a few scratches from branches, but she could reach the house twice as fast that way.

But what really made her decide to take the shortcut was that despite herself she felt a little afraid of the dark woods, and she resented that fear. She was afraid of Roy, but that was different-he was her husband. And she had to admit that the punishment he meted out was just and not applied very often. There were only so many things in life that Beth would or could allow herself to fear. The woods at night wasn’t one of them.

She was nearing the narrow path leading into the trees, so there would soon be no turning back. That would make less sense than anything she might do.

The phrase entered her mind: Point of no return.

With another reassuring glance up at the moon floating in the cloudless summer sky, she entered the woods.

New York, the present

Nora Noon rode the subway to within two blocks of her apartment. All the way on the crowded train, she’d had the feeling she was being observed.

And of course she was. Any attractive woman on a packed New York subway train was the object of male attention. Bodies pressed bodies. Sometimes, when the train jerked or swayed on its tracks, supposedly accidental contact was made. Nora was used to that kind of thing.

But this was different. Or maybe she felt that way because she was tired, and because of her rapist being released from prison.

She still found herself trusting her memory and doubting the DNA evidence. DNA used in criminal trials couldn’t be as foolproof as defense attorneys would have people believe. Nothing, even in science, was that certain. Maybe especially in science. Not that long ago science was telling people to avoid the night air and go to barbers to have their blood drawn when they were ill.

But everyone else accepted DNA as absolute proof, and Nora felt the weight of that, the crush of disapproval. With her wrong identification, she had caused an innocent man to spend over five years in prison. She should pay for that. Somebody should pay.

The train lurched. Nora slid a few inches across the plastic seat until her body met that of a man reading a folded Times in his lap. He didn’t seem to mind. She found herself staring at the newspaper. She’d heard that perverts on the subway used newspapers to conceal their erections.

Don’t be an idiot! Don’t believe everything you hear. This guy’s probably a clerk or accountant or editor, taking the train home to his wife and kids.

Besides, I can take care of myself.

She wasn’t sure about that last part. Six weeks of karate lessons had made a difference, but not that much difference. And it had taught her just how strong men in general were. The smallest man could generate more strength than even a large woman. It had to do with percentage of muscle mass.

Hunters. The bastards are hunters.

Knock it off, Nora.

The train’s wheels squealed on iron rails as it slowed approaching her stop. She waited for the complete stop and then the sudden backward lurch before standing up and elbowing her way toward the sliding doors and the concrete platform.

Fear slipped away as she pushed through the metal turnstile and climbed littered concrete steps to the upper world.

The evening was still bright and the sidewalks crowded with human energy.

About half the outside tables at Perfect Pizza were occupied. On impulse, she stepped through the opening in the iron fence that separated the dining area from the wide sidewalk and found a table beneath an umbrella. A waitress named Emma, whom Nora knew somewhat, immediately came toward her. They exchanged greetings, and Emma smiled the smile that could break the resolve of a professional mourner. Nora was glad she’d decided to come here. She ordered a slice of pizza with ham and pineapple on it, and a glass of burgundy.

She sat back and let her gaze roam over the diners. What would really cheer her up was if she could spot a woman wearing a Nora N. original. It had happened once before; a woman in the neighborhood had bought a T-shirt with a sequin design and asymmetrical neck, and a month or so later here the woman had been in Perfect Pizza, flaunting Nora’s creation. It could happen again, but the odds were long. Like a writer spotting someone reading his or her book.