The House Beyond the Dunes, page 4
The side mirror again catches the mired car and its helpless occupants. Raised in the city, I’ve only had concrete and asphalt under my feet. I’ve had flats before, but I can fix those. But a car mired in quicksand is beyond my skill set.
The Range Rover bucks as the front tire slams through a patch of soft sand. I grip the door, and my seat belt keeps me from pitching forward. For an instant, I’m certain we are now stuck. “Are we stuck?”
Kyle grins and presses hard on the accelerator. “We’re fine.”
“What’s the weekend weather like?”
“We’ve got weather coming in, so we might be trapped at the cottage for a few days. When do you have to be back?”
I grip the door tighter. “Wednesday.”
“What if we’re stuck here for weeks or months?”
His teasing is unsettling. “We’ll just have to walk out.”
Laughing, he lobs an amused glance my way. “You aren’t scared, are you, baby?”
“Of course not,” I lie.
He speeds up, zooming past tree stumps that are echoes of a migrating shoreline and a long-lost forest. The sand smooths out for a stretch, and he drives close to the ocean. Waves glistening with sunlight crash within feet of the Range Rover.
The beach is deserted. I’ve read that in the summer it’s filled with tourists and parked four-wheel-drive vehicles. I’ve also read that the 4x4 beach, as it’s called, is home to over one hundred wild horses who come with nonnegotiable no feeding or touching rules. The horses were brought to the Outer Banks by the Spanish four hundred years ago and now live in a fenced-off sanctuary in the woodlands behind the dunes.
I open my window more and reach out into the cool air. Driving this close to the water is exciting. “This day is perfect.”
Kyle turns toward me. His dark eyes spark as if he’s devouring a delicious morsel. My skin warms knowing soon after we arrive at his cottage, we’ll be naked and in his bed.
“The weather doesn’t get any better than this,” he says. “It won’t last. Heavy rains tomorrow afternoon, but we’ll be inside.”
Four or five miles up the beach, there’s a house on stilts that stands almost dead center on the beach. The hurricane fencing along the dunes is broken like snapped twigs in several sections.
Kyle angles his car close to the water and around the house. He keeps driving, and when I glance in the rearview mirror, there’s nothing but empty beach for as far as I can see. We drive for another ten or fifteen minutes. There’s no traffic on the beach, and the cottages beyond the barren dunes are dark.
In the distance, I see a fence that stretches from the water, along the beach and over the dunes. According to my research, this fence marks the Virginia and North Carolina border. It’s designed to keep the horses from wandering north.
When it seems that we are running out of beach, Kyle takes a sharp left and arrows the Range Rover directly toward a channel cutting through the dunes. My heartbeat ramps up in a fight-or-flight leap, and I hold my breath. The front wheel hits a rut, and the vehicle tosses me against the door. Finally, we break through to the other side of the dunes and roll onto hard-packed sand.
The breath trapped in my lungs leaks out. “Feels like we’re leaving the world behind.”
Kyle looks at me and grins. “Sure you aren’t afraid?”
I scoff. “What’s there to be afraid of?”
He arches a brow. “Can’t fool me, Lane. I know you too well.”
I learned at a young age to guard my thoughts. Safer not to put all the cards on the table. I’ve revealed more to Kyle than anyone else, but my jokers and aces remain tucked up my sleeve. Ingrained habits don’t die easily.
“Maybe I’m a little nervous,” I concede. “This is a first for me.”
His hand shifts from the steering wheel to my thigh. He squeezes. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
When he calls me baby, I feel protected. Ex–foster kids tend to like their security. How did I get so lucky with Kyle?
Lucky.
I don’t feel lucky now.
Mine has been a long, hard journey from foster care, but I’ve made it. My life is on track, I’m making a difference. And until yesterday at 1:00 p.m., I wasn’t alone anymore.
Rising, I move to the kitchen, pour cold coffee from the urn, and put it in the microwave. The bell dings, and the coffee is hot, but also bitter. Outside, the mailman’s keys rattle as he opens the mailboxes. I wait until his footsteps recede before I grab my extra key and move slowly down the stairs and out my front door. As I open my box, I glance up and notice a manila envelope resting on top of the boxes. It’s addressed to me. No return address. A mystery. I hate mysteries. I’m a Leo. We like having answers.
Back in my apartment, I curl up on the couch, cup in hand, and sip hot bitterness. I stare at the envelope.
A knock on the door startles me out of my melancholy. I’m in no mood to deal with the detective. A fist raps against the door again. Drawing in a breath, I open it and am surprised to see Shelly.
“Shelly. Everything all right?” I ask.
She nibbles her lip. “I should be asking you that.”
It’s not like her to hover or wonder how I’m doing. “I’m okay.”
“Checking in,” she says. “It’s not the kind of thing I do, and tomorrow I might forget about you altogether, but I’m remembering now.”
Her fleeting kindness is touching. “Thanks, Shelly.”
“That guy that was here last night . . . was he the one from the parking lot?”
No sense getting into a story she won’t remember tomorrow. “He’s gone, and that’s all that matters.”
She frowns. “He’s not the type that gives up.”
“How do you know that?” I ask.
Shelly’s eyes spark with wisdom and mischief. “I’ve been around enough to know when a man won’t go away. I’m guessing he’s not a stalker, but he’s trouble.”
“He’s a cop.”
Her eyes narrow. “Did you see his badge?”
“Yes. I asked.” When she looks more worried, I add, “He’s gone. He asked a few questions and was satisfied.”
“If you say so.”
“Are you doing okay?” The few times we’ve passed on the front porch, I’m the one reaching out.
“It’s going to be a good day. I have a painting in mind.”
“That’s great.” Shelly has lots of paintings in her head. She starts many of them, but few make it fully to the canvas. The one I’ve seen was stunning, which makes me wonder what other works of art are trapped inside her. “Want to come in for coffee?”
“No, thanks.” She rubs her palms over her jeans. “Just checking in.”
“Thanks, Shelly.”
“Our kind needs to stick together.”
Her expression is serious, touching. “Right. Thank you.”
Shelly chews her bottom lip again. “Anyone can get a badge, Lane. Anyone.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I don’t know. Just came to me.”
She has a point, and it’s not the least bit comforting. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Be careful, Lane. The world is full of crazy people.”
“Will do.”
Back in my apartment, I gulp coffee and reach for the manila envelope.
Threading my finger under the flap, I tear it open and remove a collection of handwritten notes. I don’t recognize the handwriting.
A yellow sticky is pasted on the top page. The thick, bold script reads, Don’t say I never gave you anything.
I thumb through the diary pages and read the first and last lines of the note attached to the journal. July 7, 2023. Stevie Palmer.
Stevie Palmer is the woman Detective Becker mentioned. The woman I swore I didn’t know. Is this a cop trick? Could Becker be testing me?
My gaze drops to the first line. I’ve written it all down because, well, life always goes sideways, and I’ve learned to hedge my bets. Trouble and I know each other well. Hell, we’re almost besties after all these years. But everything is changing. The ground under my feet is steady today, but that never lasts. Not sure how long I can hold it together, but I’ll fight the good fight while I can. No one gets out of here alive, right?
I thumb through the ten or so pages. It looks like Stevie Palmer’s journal. Reading another person’s diary, even if it’s a Detective Becker fakeout, feels like a terrible invasion of privacy. Stevie is none of my business. We don’t know each other, despite the subtext humming under Detective Becker’s words.
The handwriting is bold and creases the yellow paper, and that kind of intensity fits with Detective Becker. But the loops and swirls feel slightly feminine. I can’t tell if the writer is a man or woman.
Normally, I wouldn’t read anything so personal. I don’t want people poking in my life, so I extend the courtesy. I kept a diary as a teenager, but those filled spiral notebooks have long been lost.
Tracing the handwriting with my fingertip, I think about the missing women. Beyond Detective Becker, is anyone else asking about them?
If I’d gotten a better vibe from Detective Becker, I might call and give this to him.
But I don’t have a good feeling about him. He gets under my skin. Makes me nervous, even a little anxious.
Drawing in a breath, I reread the date. Stevie wrote this note six months ago, right before she vanished.
Not sure how long I can hold it together, but I’ll fight the good fight while I can. No one gets out of here alive, right?
I start reading the diary.
Chapter Four
STEVIE PALMER’S DIARY
Saturday, July 1, 2023
8:00 p.m.
When I wake up, I realize I’m in my car. It’s hot, and I’m sweating. My back aches, and my head is spinning. I blink, look around, and realize I’m parked in an alley. The car’s passenger side is inches from a cinder block wall. The engine is dead, and the windows are open. The smell of trash floats up from a nearby dumpster.
“Shit. What have I done this time?” I push a thick shock of muddy-brown hair out of my eyes. I do a quick check. My jeans and T-shirt are dusted with dirt, but otherwise intact. I have both shoes and my small wallet. No cell phone, but I don’t own one. Jackpot. At least I wasn’t rolled or raped this time.
As I sit up straighter, my head spins. I blink. Bright orange drains over the side of the building and splashes on the hood of my car. Sunset. Must be about 8:00 or 8:15. Leaning against the steering wheel, I give my mind time to settle.
In my rearview mirror, I notice a parked truck and see a couple in the back seat. The woman sits up, and the flat of her palm presses against the rear window’s glass as she raises her head. For an instant our gazes meet. Her panic pins me. A man rises behind her, puts his hand over her mouth, and pulls her backward. She grips the back of the seat, like a drowning woman reaching for a life preserver.
I blink again, look around, and seeing no one, grab the baseball bat I keep on the passenger-side floor. Gripping it tight, I get out and stride toward the truck’s back taillight. I note the plates are Virginia but don’t register the numbers as I raise the baseball bat like a major league player and hit the truck’s red plastic light. It cracks. I draw back again, and the second blow breaks it. As I move to the next light, the man jerks his head up. I’d have thought the first blow would’ve gotten his attention, but he’s clearly focused on what he’s doing. The woman screams for help.
As I draw back the bat, the back driver’s-side door opens and a tall, lean man scrambles out. He’s reaching for the fly on his pants, zipping and cussing.
The passenger-side door opens, and a girl tumbles out. She’s young, maybe midtwenties, and has curly light-brown hair and a mascara-smudged face. She’s wearing a purple sequined top, a short skirt, and one silver ankle boot with rhinestone accents. She might have gotten into the truck willingly, but it’s clear she doesn’t like what’s happening now.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the man yells at me.
I keep the bat cocked. It doesn’t take much pressure to break a knee, but you’ve got to be dead-on with the aim. “Looks like the lady is telling you no.”
He glowers at the young woman. “You don’t get to say no after I’ve paid.”
The woman hovers in my side vision. She’s straightening her skirt and wiping the smudges from under her eyes. The other boot is now in hand.
“You okay?” My question is directed to the woman.
“Yeah.”
“Is he hurting you?” I ask.
“Yes.” She glances toward the guy. “I mean no.”
“No?” I don’t ease up on my grip. “Want me to walk away and mind my own business?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I have to get to work.”
“You haven’t finished with me,” the man complains.
“Where’s work?” I ask.
“Next door. Joey’s Bar.”
I smile. “Sorry, pal. Lady said she’s got to go. Time to move on.”
“You busted my taillight,” he rages. “This is bullshit.”
“I had to get your attention somehow, didn’t I?”
He lurches toward me. So predictable. I let the bat swing, and the end catches the side of his knee. He goes down hard.
I might have come looking for trouble, but I wasn’t expecting it this fast. It usually takes an hour or two.
The young woman moves to my side as the man grips his knee. “Be careful. He can be mean.”
“I swear to God, I’m going to kill you both,” the man shouts.
Tensing, I stand my ground and ask the woman beside me, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. You okay?”
“I’m good. What do we do with him?”
“You’ll leave, won’t you, Pete?” the woman asks. “He doesn’t want trouble with Joey.”
“The bar owner?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
I look at Pete. “Joey sounds like a badass. That true?”
Pete glowers.
“We can get Joey, if you’re not sure,” I offer. I can finish him off myself, but if someone else will do the work, let ’em.
Pete rubs his knee, winces. “Never mind.”
I watch as he limps toward the driver’s door and slides behind the wheel. Wounded animals can be very dangerous, so I keep a close eye on him.
“Come inside,” the woman says. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“I don’t need a drink.”
No one does anything for free, and certainly not out of the goodness of their heart. Everyone has an agenda. Even me. Best to know what it is.
Pete fires up his engine. The one working taillight blinks, signaling he’s shifted into drive. I stand ready to fight, but Pete pulls out of the alley and onto the main road. I glimpse his license plate and commit the numbers and letters to memory.
I’m tempted to ask the young woman where I am but don’t. Salt air suggests near the ocean, indicating I’ve likely returned to my favorite place. And when I say favorite, I mean most hated.
“My name is Nikki,” the young woman says as she rubs her arms, a sign adrenaline is rocketing through her body. I also feel jittery and flushed.
“I’m Stevie.”
“Where did you come from?” Nikki asks.
“Just happened by.” My voice is rough, forcing me to clear my throat.
“I saw your car parked in that spot an hour ago. You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Don’t worry about me.” The last words sound awkward, rusty. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m a bartender at Joey’s.”
An engine revs, tires screech, and a truck with a broken taillight races past the alley. “Who was your friend, Pete?”
Nikki drags shaking fingers through her hair. “A really big mistake.”
“You make a lot of mistakes like that?” I lower the bat but decide to keep it close.
“Sometimes. Not all the time. I only said yes because rent is due in four days. Well, technically rent is due today, but I get a four-day grace period.”
“Sometimes is all it takes, Nikki.”
“I know. I know. You really saved my ass. Pete was in a mood.” She leans forward as if sharing a secret. “He had a big fight with his wife.”
“Doesn’t bartending pay the bills?”
“I haven’t been here long, and I’m still learning, so the tips aren’t great. And sometimes I need extra cash.”
“Stick to bartending.”
“Joey says I’ll get a handle on the drinks eventually.” She rolls her eyes, grins. “I’m not sure he means that.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“A couple of weeks.”
A man and a woman walking arm in arm pass by on the street. They’re laughing and leaning heavily into each other. I’m a little jealous of their connection. It looks nice. But self-contained is safer. “Take care of yourself, Nikki.”
“Thank you, thank you, Stevie. Like I said, Pete isn’t always so rough.”
Pete likely wouldn’t have killed Nikki, but he’d have made her wish she was dead. It’s such an old story, and it’s replayed too many times.
Nikki’s smile wanes. “Get a coffee or soda. Seriously, you look dead on your feet. No charge. Joey would be pissed if I didn’t offer you one.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. The heat is now catching up to me, and I could use a cold soda. “Why is Joey so giving?”
Nikki rolls her eyes. “He’s not exactly. But he comes around if I ask nice. He’s a teddy bear.”
A cold soda might chase off the headache starting to pound behind my eyes. “Sure. But I’ll pay.”
“Let’s get you inside.” She reaches for me, but I tense so her hands drop. “Follow me.”
“Sure.”
I’m expecting my legs to work, but I misstep on the broken asphalt. Without chaos fueling me, my muscles lock. Drawing in a breath, I steady myself, and like a baby learning to walk, I master movement and follow Nikki to the back door. She opens it, and I’m hit with a rush of light and movement from a bar kitchen. There’s a tall, burly guy wearing a red bandanna on a bald head by the griddle. Beside him is a younger kid with dark hair and a wiry frame who’s working the fryer. My stomach grumbles, and I realize I’m hungry. When was the last time I ate? In Elizabeth City? I can’t remember.
