Brian Freeman - In the Dark aka The Watcher

Someone already wanted her gone.

Stride lay in bed on his back and stared at the ceiling. The bedroom window was open, and he could hear the surf on Lake Superior where it assaulted the shore on the other side of the sand dune. The narrow strip of beach was only steps from their back door. Tish was right that hardly anyone lived on the Point year-round in the old days. Cottages like this one were mostly summer getaways then. Today, it was prime real estate. The old houses were being torn down and replaced by castles and condos. Anything on waterfront anywhere was gold. He liked it better when he and Cindy had first moved out here, when people wondered why anyone would want to live in the eye of the Superior storms. Stride wasn’t always sure himself, except that the lake was so vast that he sometimes felt as if he were staring at eternity.

Serena sat cross-legged on the bed, watching him. The lights were off. Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he expected that he would open them again and see Cindy sitting there, in the same pose, a crooked smile on her face. As if all the time that had passed had been in his imagination. He wasn’t really closing in on fifty years old. He wasn’t really bruised by death and loss. He was a teenager. A new cop. A young husband. Everything that was going to be lay ahead, not behind.

“You know what I remember about that night?” he told her. “Other than me and Cindy, I mean. I remember the bat.”

Serena didn’t say anything. He could see it like a video clip on a loop that played over and over in his head. Close up. That bat going around and around.

“It was Peter’s bat. One of those aluminum ones. Bright silver. He never let anyone else use it. I remember him taking practice swings at home plate and hearing the whoosh of the bat. I can still see that bat in his hands. All I can think about is that, not long after, someone used that same bat to beat an innocent girl to death. A girl who would have been my sister-in-law. Someone hit her and just kept swinging and swinging.”

“If it was Peter’s bat, how did it get into someone else’s hands?” Serena asked. She spoke so softly that she was almost whispering.

“You’re assuming it did.”

“Well, you said someone else’s fingerprints were on it.”

“Yes, that’s true,” he admitted. “Someone else had it. Someone who killed Laura. That was the only explanation that made sense to me all these years.”

“How did the bat wind up at the murder scene?”

Stride remembered. He saw the bat again in his mind. Close up. In the field.

“The rain came,” he said. “We all went running. The storm was severe. Everything turned black. It sounded like a train, the way a tornado does. I went to the woods to find Cindy and Laura down by the lake. Peter was on second base, and he took off as the storm hit. As I ran for the trail, I saw Peter’s bat lying in the weeds. He must have forgotten all about it. So anyone could have picked it up. There were a lot of guys with us in the field.”

“But?” Serena asked, hearing him hesitate.

“But I remember thinking that Peter was going to come back for that bat.”

Stride was distracted, watching Cindy and Laura go. He was anxious for the game to be over. He could still taste her lips, which always tasted the same way, like a cherry Popsicle. When they kissed, they were connected, electricity passing between them. He had an erection, thinking about what they would do later. If they really did it. If she really meant it. He could tell she was nervous. He wondered if she had brought Laura with her as a shield, so that she had an excuse not to go all the way. As the two girls disappeared into the trees, though, he saw Cindy look back at him, and her face told him that nothing had changed. She wanted him. She was waiting for him.

He glanced at the black sky. Time was short. He hit the pocket of his mitt impatiently. Dave McGill was at the plate, and he kept tipping foul balls that dribbled to the edge of the field, where Raymond Anderson, who was the catcher, had to retrieve them. Stride thought they should call the game right now. He could taste rain, and he already felt the sky leaking drops onto his face. No one else paid any attention.

McGill finally struck out. Peter Stanhope took his place, swinging his silver bat theatrically, sporting an arrogant grin. Stride didn’t really know Peter, other than by reputation. They weren’t friends. They didn’t hang out together. The only thing they had in common was baseball. The longest conversation he could remember having with Peter was about Rod Carew.

Peter swung violently and missed. Strike one.

Stride saw a bright flash and imagined Peter’s bat, held high over his head, attracting the current like a lightning rod. Less than five seconds later, thunder washed across the field in a drum roll.

Peter swung again. Strike two. His face contorted in effort and frustration. His jaw worked his gum furiously. He was a good hitter, but overeager, always looking for the home run on every pitch. He struck out as often as he connected. On the third pitch, though, his aluminum bat swatted the ball with a loud ting, and the ball lofted over Stride’s head into the outfield, where it dropped for an easy single. Peter loped to the base. He bent down and picked up a half-full bottle of Grain Belt and swigged it empty, then tossed the bottle toward the weeds. He wiped his mouth with the bottom of his red tank top.

“So it’s you and Cindy Starr, huh, Stride?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“You know, her sister is the real prize.”

Stride didn’t reply.

“Laura’s the one with the tits,” Peter continued. “Half the guys here got boners when she walked by. Why aren’t you going after her?”

“Because I like Cindy.”

“Yeah? What’s she like?”

“Why do you care?” Stride asked.

“I’m not hot for her, if that’s what you think. I just wondered if the princess act runs in the family.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean that Laura walks around like some kind of ice queen,” Peter replied. “Somebody needs to thaw her out.”

“Shut up,” Stride said.

“So how about Cindy? Is she a frigid queer like her sister?”

Stride threw off his baseball glove and shoved both bare hands against Peter’s chest. Peter stumbled backward, lost his footing in the damp grass, and landed on his ass in the mud. Stride stood over him, fists clenched and cocked, ready to fight. He heard shouts from some of the other boys in the field. The pitcher dropped the ball; the batter threw the bat away; they all began to converge on Stride.

Peter laughed and got up, brushing dirt from his skin. He waved them away. “Hey, it’s okay, I had it coming.”

Stride watched carefully, expecting a sucker punch.

“Don’t sweat it,” Peter said. “I like to see how far I can push people before they push back. It’s a little lesson I learned from my dad.”

“Apologize,” Stride told him.

“Yeah, all right. I’m sorry. That do it for you? You need to lighten up, Stride.”

Stride ignored him. The game continued. The batter at the plate struck out, and another took his place. One inning to go, and it was over. He could barely make out the action on the field, as the night drew closer and the dark clouds massed.

“You seen The Deep yet?” Peter asked.

Stride grunted. He and Cindy had seen it the previous weekend.

“Saw it three times,” Peter said. “Fuck, Jackie Bisset in that T-shirt? Holy shit. I wish porn actresses looked like her. I saw Teenage Sex Kitten downtown last week. What a bunch of losers. Pimples and no tits.”