Russell Andrews - Aphrodite

Where was Hector? Why hadn't that occurred to her before? He was always in the garage during the day. He complained about it all the time. Sunny outside but I'm underground all day long, that's what he constantly said to her. He'd leer at her a little bit, especially when she looked like she did today. He'd leer and complain about being inside and underground breathing in car fumes. Where was he now?

She screamed out his name.

Hectorrrrrrrrrrr!

No answer. Was Hector the one doing this? It seemed inconceivable. But still, the way he looked at her sometimes. Had she ever told him she was afraid of the dark? She might have. Everyone said she was too gabby. She might have told him and now here he was, wanting her and knowing she'd be terrified.

There was another noise, a ssssstttt. A match being lit. Then a tiny speck of light. She saw something. A man. Not Hector. Nothing like Hector. A tall man. Tall and thin with short-cropped white-blond hair. Handsome and pale.

Then the match went out and the light was gone. And so was he.

Back in the dark.

That's when she realized that if she couldn't see him, he couldn't see her. So, as terrified as she was, her brain began to work: It told her to crouch down and kick off those eggshell high heels and move quietly, quietly but steadily, toward the door by the driveway…

She wondered if they'd realize she was late checking into the hotel. She had told them she'd be there by five. They knew her there by now, at the Marriott in Virginia. The desk clerk no longer bothered to take her credit card imprint when she checked in; he'd just wave her away and say they'd take care of it on her way out. Then she'd pay cash. Her story was that she was from out of town, coming in repeatedly on business. She said she lived in East End Harbor, on Long Island, in New York, and that wasn't really a lie. More like a fib. She also told him she was a lobbyist for the Nature Conservancy, and that was a lie. She didn't know why she'd said it, maybe because that's what she wished she were. That's what she would be, one of these days. But the clerk certainly remembered their conversations because when he saw her he always called her Ms. Greer, he always asked how her lobbying was going, and then he'd hand her the key to her room, always the same room, 1722. He knew not to bother to call a bellhop; she had made it clear that she preferred to carry her small overnight bag herself. The only question he ever asked was, "Early or late checkout?" and after she told him she'd smile to show she was very satisfied with the service, then head straight for the bank of elevators that went to the seventeenth floor. All she'd have to do after that was wait for the love of her life to arrive. She always arrived on time, she was never late. So maybe they'd realize that something was wrong; maybe they'd come looking for her.

Another ssssstttt. Another flash of light. He was far from her now, the blond man. He was guarding that door all the way to the left, and she'd moved maybe fifteen feet closer to the driveway. She could make it. He was looking around, he didn't see her, but she could see he was wearing a khaki suit with an open-necked blue shirt, and now she thought: I can do it. I can make it. He's not even looking in my direction and, okay, I see the clearing, I see the door. As soon as the match goes out, just run like hell. I can make it…

The match went out and she took off.

She banged her knee into the corner of a car-the darkness was dis-orienting, but that didn't really slow her down. She was hauling ass and there was no way he was going to get her. She didn't even hear footsteps; he wasn't even trying. He knew it was impossible, knew that he'd lost, and she reached the door, grabbed for the doorknob and started to turn it, started to yank the door open and yes, there was the crack of sunlight, she had made it…

And that's when she felt the hand on her arm.

She looked up and there he was. The light from the crack in the door showed the short blond hair, the khaki suit, and the blue shirt. But it wasn't possible. She'd seen him, knew he was all the way on the other side of the garage. She hadn't heard him running. He couldn't have beaten her to the door. It was not humanly possible…

She felt a pain in her wrist now, realized he was twisting it, pulling her away from the door. She heard it shut with a click and a quiet whoosh. She started to scream-maybe someone on the other side would hear her-but his hand was over her mouth and she couldn't scream. She couldn't move and she couldn't make a sound and she couldn't even see him anymore. She couldn't see anything. She was back in the dark.

There was a strange and overwhelming pressure on her throat now and she was having trouble breathing. She felt her head twisting and it hurt, it really hurt, and then she heard a little snap and started to fall to the concrete floor. She was vaguely aware that the man was holding her up, that he was dragging her to the back of a car. She felt herself being lifted up, realized that the trunk of the car was open, and she started to squirm.

And then she felt another tug at her neck and heard another crack and then she didn't feel anything.

Maura did not hear the trunk of the blond man's car close on top of her. She did not know that the Donna Karan blouse she was wearing now had a long tear under her right armpit or that the Jimmy Choo spike-heeled shoes were streaked with grease and carelessly tossed inches away from her bare feet. She did not see or feel the body of Hector, the garage attendant, which was already stuffed in the trunk next to her.

As the blond man's car slowly pulled out of the parking space and moved toward the exit ramp, Maura felt like she was floating, like she was drifting off into space, weightless. She was surrounded by blackness, blacker than she'd ever imagined. She tried to make herself come back, tried to stop herself from fading into the dark, but she couldn't. And as she floated farther and farther away, she thought: It's not fair. It's not fair, it's not fair, it's not fair. He has to tell me he loves me. He has to take me to meet all the famous and powerful people. And he has to know about Aphrodite.

I have to tell him about Aphrodite.

And then the terrible feeling that had been with Maura Greer her entire life disappeared. There were no more shadows. No more terrifying shapes. And no more fear.

There was only a new and different kind of darkness. London, England March 2 The lecture hall was packed.

The turnout was more than a little surprising to Joseph Fennerman because over the past twenty-four hours a steady stream of cold, hard rain and a numbing winter dampness had re-arisen, and the combination seemed to permeate not just every English person's clothes or even skin, but life.

Fennerman was delighted with the event. For one thing, the size of the crowd guaranteed that his lecture fee would remain at the exceedingly high level he now commanded for an appearance. For another, he was autographing the hardcover edition of his latest book, The Morality of Numbers, already a best-seller on the other side of the Atlantic, and judging from the buzz in the room he'd sell every copy on hand. Finally, prior to taking the stage he had been approached by a rather awestruck grad student, a somewhat bony brunette wearing a man's rose-colored collared shirt, a short black skirt, and black leggings. She was not particularly attractive but, after a remarkably easy ten-minute conversation, she not only seemed charmed by his awkward demeanor, facial tics and all, she also agreed to meet him after the lecture to continue their discourse over a late supper at his favorite London restaurant, Rule's. Fennerman was astonished by his successful pickup, and he was so eager to meet up with her he did something that went totally against his normal behavior pattern: He rushed through his material, knowingly omitting several salient and key points, trying to get to the end of his speech as quickly as possible. When the moderator opened up the floor for questions, forty-eight-year-old Dr. Fennerman, for the very first time in his distinguished career, was wishing that his audience would stop making him the center of their world and let him get off the damn stage.