Brian Freeman - In the Dark aka The Watcher

“I panicked. I was scared to death.”

Randall Stanhope interrupted. “I’m sorry, Detective. Obviously, my son should have made efforts to see if his girlfriend was safe. I’m very disappointed in his behavior.”

Peter’s eyes flashed with anger. “Hey, what could I do? If I’d gone after him, I’d be dead now, too. Is that what you want?”

“Shut up, Peter,” his father told him.

“Let’s get back to this man who assaulted you,” Ray said. “What else do you remember about him?”

Peter shrugged. “He was big. Like a bear. I think he had dreadlocks.”

“Have you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

Ray nodded. “Jon saw a black man matching this description in the woods that night, too.”

“Ah,” Randall said. “Well, that’s good. Another witness. Do you think you’ll be able to find him?”

“Jon says he’s a vagrant who lives down by the tracks,” Ray said.

“Oh, so you’ve seen him before?” Randall asked Stride.

Stride nodded.

“Isn’t that lucky,” Randall said. “Detective, I hope you can apprehend him. Of course, I know that these people are often desperate itinerants. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s long gone by now. He must know that the police will be on his trail.”

“No doubt,” Ray said.

“Do you need anything else from Peter right now?”

Ray shook his head. “Not for the moment.”

“That’s good. Do you have another minute, Detective? I’d like to share something with you privately.”

Ray rubbed his mustache and nodded at Stride. He tossed him the keys to the Camaro, which Stride caught in midair. “Wait outside for me, okay, Jon? I won’t be long. Play the radio, if you like.”

Stride and Peter left the room together. The waning sunlight gathered through the high windows in the vault of the foyer, but where the two boys were, the room was filled with dusty shadows. Stride heard a clock ticking. A gamey smell of venison rose from the downstairs kitchen. Peter escorted him silently to the front door, and Stride felt a frozen tension between them.

“You weren’t dating Laura,” Stride said.

“What are you, a cop? Leave it alone.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No, I didn’t, you asshole. Get the hell out of here.”

Peter yanked the heavy door open. Stride shoved past him and heard the door slam as soon as he had cleared the threshold. He kicked at the loose gravel, then bent down and picked up a loose rock and hurled it into an oval duck pond. He walked past Ray’s Camaro and found a black wrought-iron bench in the gardens, where he sat down, his long legs stretched out. He waited. Silhouettes of birds flitted among the fir trees. The air outside was humid, and he began to sweat. Twenty minutes later, the front door opened again, and Ray came out alone. Ray lit a cigarette and strolled over to the bench.

“Hey, Jon, sorry that took so long.”

“No problem.”

Ray exhaled a cloud of white smoke. “So what do you think?”

“I think Peter is lying.”

“Maybe,” Ray said, “but his story about this guy Dada tracks with what you saw. You didn’t spot this guy until after the storm hit and you left the softball game, right?”

“Right.”

“Any chance Peter saw him hanging around before the game?”

“Not likely,” Stride said. “I was already in the field when Peter arrived, and I didn’t see Dada anywhere around there.”

“So Peter must have seen him after you did. After the storm. When Laura was coming back to the softball field.”

“I guess so,” Stride said.

“Do you think Laura could have been hiding her affair with Peter?”

Stride frowned. “I think Cindy would have known.”

“Sisters don’t always tell sisters everything.”

“Well, yeah, that’s true. Cindy and Laura weren’t best pals or anything. But Peter didn’t make it sound like he was dating Laura when he talked to me during the game.”

“That could be him keeping it secret.”

“Maybe.” Stride wasn’t convinced.

“Anyway, can you stay with me a while longer? I could use your help again.”

“Sure,” Stride said.

Ray reached inside his sport coat and withdrew a long-barreled revolver. He opened the chamber and checked it. Stride could see the silver jackets of bullets loaded inside. Ray spun and locked it with a solid click and shoved it back in his shoulder holster.

“Okay then,” Ray said. “Let’s go get Dada.”

Donna Biggs pulled off Highway 23 near the river overlook at Perch Lake Park. She shut off the car and sat silently by the water, which was drenched in the orange glow of the dying sunlight. The river here was broken up by narrow swirls of land, like chocolate ribbons dropped into vanilla cake batter. From the bank at Fond du Lac, it was a cool hundred-foot swim with the stars overhead to the beaches and birch trees of the nearest island. She remembered midnight skinny-dipping here as a teenager, when a dozen or more kids would steal off from the fishing pier to drink, smoke weed, and have awkward sex in the sand. She and Clark had hooked up for the first time on one of those nights.

Mary tugged at her sleeve, demanding attention. “Mama?”

Donna knew what her daughter wanted. They had made a ritual of these stops on Friday nights. A few final peaceful moments together before the lonely weekend. “Would you like to sit by the river for a while?” she asked.

Mary’s head bobbed vigorously.

“Come on then.”

They were only a few miles from Clark’s home in Gary. She was late dropping Mary off, and Clark had already called twice, wondering where she was. Usually, Donna had Mary at his house in time for the two of them to go to dinner, but tonight, she had had to work late, and she stopped at McDonald’s to get Mary some chicken nuggets and French fries because she was hungry. Donna herself didn’t eat at all; she felt tired and nauseous. By the time she had packed Mary’s bag and got on the road, it was after eight o’clock.

Mary clambered out of the car and ran in her gangly way toward the water.

“Careful, honey, not too close,” Donna called.

She stretched her legs and took a seat on an old wooden bench. When she looked through the maze of trees to her right, she squinted into the sinking sun. On her left, a narrow dirt trail climbed away from the river. Thin green vines and white flowers dangled over the path, blowing off pollen dust in the warm breeze. Honeybees buzzed near her face, and she shooed them away with a flip of her hand.

Mary chased a monarch butterfly with orange-and-black wings. The fluttering insect dotted up and down, and Mary held out a finger, hoping it would land there. She ran back and forth, following the butterfly until it disappeared over the water.

“Come sit by me, sweetheart,” Donna told her.

Mary plopped down heavily on the bench. Donna wrapped an arm around her big girl’s shoulder and pulled Mary’s head into the crook of her neck. She kissed the girl’s blond curls and poked a finger into her cheek. Mary giggled. They were an odd mismatch of mother and daughter. Mary got all her tall, heavy genes from Clark. Donna was small, at least six inches shorter than Mary and fifty pounds lighter. She knew it looked strange, this oversized teenager clinging to the tiny hand of her mother. Mary was still a child. Donna was the one who had gotten older and more conscious of the burden of being a parent. It was one thing to care for a child when you were twenty-five and something else altogether when you were almost forty.