Mad River Road

Book by Fielding Joy

Prologue
Three o'clock in the morning. His favorite time of day. The sky was dark, the streets deserted. Most people were asleep. Like the woman in the bedroom down the hall. He wondered if she was dreaming and smiled at the realization that her nightmare was just about to begin.
He laughed, careful not to make a sound. No point waking her up before he'd decided the best way to proceed. He imagined her stirring, sitting up in bed, and watching him approach, shaking her head in a familiar mixture of amusement and disdain. He could hear the scorn in that gravelly, low-pitched voice of hers. Just like you, she would say, to go off half-cocked, to rush into something without a clear plan.
Except he did have a plan, he thought, stretching his arms above his head and taking a moment to admire the leanness of his torso, the hardness of his biceps beneath his short-sleeved, black T-shirt. He'd always taken great pains with his appearance, and now, at thirty-two, he was in better shape than he'd ever been. Prison will do that for you, he thought, and laughed his silent laugh again.
He heard a sharp noise and looked toward the open window, saw a giant palm frond slapping against the top half of the pane. An escalating wind was whipping the delicate white sheers in several different directions at once, so that they looked more like streamers than curtains, and he interpreted their frenzied motion as a sign of support, as if they were cheering him on. The Weather Channel had promised a major downpour would hit the greater Miami area by dawn. Seventy percent chance of severe thunderstorms, the pretty blond announcer had warned, although what did she know? She just read whatever was on the cue cards in front of her, and those stupid forecasts were wrong at least half the time. Not that it made any difference. She'd be back tomorrow with more unreliable predictions. Nobody was ever held accountable. He cocked his gloved fingers into the shape of a gun, pulled an imaginary trigger.
Tonight someone would be.
His sneakered feet cut across the light hardwood floor of the living room in three quick strides, his hip knocking against the sharp corner of a tall wing chair he'd forgotten was there. He swore under his breath -- a rush of colorful invectives he'd picked up from a former cell mate at Raiford -- as he lowered the window to a close. The gentle hum of the air-conditioning unit immediately replaced the tortured howling of the wind. He'd made it inside just in time, thanks to an agreeable side window that had proved as easy to manipulate as he'd always suspected. She really should have installed a burglar alarm system by now. A woman alone. How many times had he told her how easy it would be for someone to jimmy that window open? Oh, well. Can't say I didn't warn you, he thought, remembering the times they'd sat sipping wine or, in his case, guzzling beer, at her dining room table. But even in those early days, when she was still being cautiously optimistic, she couldn't help but let him know that his presence in her home was more tolerated than welcomed. And when she looked at him, if she deigned to look at him at all, her nose would twitch, a slight, involuntary reflex, as if she'd just caught a whiff of something unpleasant.
As if she was in any position to look down that pretty little upturned nose at anyone, he thought now, his eyes growing comfortable with the darkness, so that he was able to trace the outlines of the small sectional sofa and glass coffee table that occupied the center of the room. You had to hand it to her -- she'd done a nice job with the place. What was it everybody always said about her? She had flair. Yeah, that was it. Flair. If only she'd been able to cook worth a damn, he scoffed, remembering those awful vegetarian concoctions she'd tried to pass off as dinner. Hell, even prison food was better than that god-awful crap. No wonder she'd never been able to find herself a man.
Not that he didn't have his suspicions about that either.
He walked into the tiny dining area adjoining the living room, ran the palms of his hands across the tops of several of the high-backed, fabric-covered chairs grouped around the oval glass table. Lots of glass in this place, he noted with a smile, flexing his fingers inside his tight latex gloves. He wasn't about to leave behind any telltale prints.
Who said he was always going off half-cocked? Who said he didn't have a plan?
He glanced toward the kitchen on his right and thought of checking out the fridge, maybe even grabbing a beer, if she still kept any around. Probably didn't, now that he was no longer a regular visitor. He'd been the only one of their crowd who ever drank the stuff. The others clung stubbornly to their Chardonnay or Merlot, or whatever the hell garbage it was they insisted on drinking. It all tasted the same to him -- vaguely vinegarish and metallic. It always gave him a headache. Or maybe it was the company that had given him the headaches. He shrugged, remembering the hooded looks they'd shot one another when they thought he wasn't looking. He's just a passing fancy, those looks said. Amusing in small doses. Full of facile charm. Grin and bear him. He won't be around long enough for it to matter.
Except he was.
And it did.
And now I'm back, he thought, a cruel smirk tugging at the corners of his full lips.
A wayward strand of long brown hair fell across his forehead and into his left eye. He pushed it impatiently aside, tucking it behind his ear, and headed down the narrow hallway toward the bedroom at the back of the tidy bungalow. He passed the closet-size room where she practiced her yoga and meditation, catching a whiff of leftover incense that emanated from the walls like a fresh coat of paint. His smirk widened. For someone who worked so hard to stay calm, she was surprisingly high-strung, always ready to argue some obscure point, to take offense where none was intended, to jump down his throat at the slightest provocation. Not that he hadn't enjoyed provoking her.
Her bedroom door was open, and from the hallway, he could make out the shape of her narrow hip beneath the thin white cotton blanket. He wondered if she was naked underneath that blanket, and what he might do if she was. Not that he was at all interested in her that way. She was a little too toned, a little too brittle for his tastes, as if, with the slightest degree of pressure, she might break apart in his hands. He liked his women softer, meatier, more vulnerable. He liked something you could grab onto, something you could dig your teeth into. Still, if she was naked...
She wasn't. He could see the blue-and-white cotton stripes of her pajama top as soon as he stepped inside the room. Wouldn't you just know she'd be wearing men's pajamas? he thought. Shouldn't be surprised. She'd always dressed more like a guy than a girl. Woman, he heard her correct as he approached the queen-size bed. Fit for a queen, he thought, staring down at her. Except that she didn't look so queenly now, curled into a semifetal position on her left side, her normally tanned skin pale with sleep, chin-length dark hair plastered across the side of her right cheek, and straying into her partially opened mouth.
If only she'd learned to keep that big mouth shut.
Maybe he'd be visiting someone else tonight.
Or maybe he wouldn't have had to visit anyone at all.
The last year might never have happened.
Except, of course, it had happened, he thought, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. And it had happened largely because old Gracie here couldn't keep her stupid thoughts and opinions to herself. She was the instigator, the agitator, the one who'd turned everyone against him. Everything that happened had been her fault. It was only fitting that tonight she be the one to make things right again.
He looked toward the window on the other side of the bedroom, saw the sliver of moon winking at him from between the slats of the white California shutters. Outside, the wind was painting the night with a surreal brush, combining disparate colors and surfaces; inside all was still and serene. He wondered for an instant whether he should leave without disturbing her. Probably he could find what he was looking for without having to wake her. Most likely the information he sought was secreted in one of the side drawers of the antique oak desk that was squeezed into the corner between the window and the dresser. Or maybe it was stored safely inside her laptop computer. Either way, he knew everything he wanted was within easy grasp. All he had to do was reach out and take it, then disappear into the night without anyone being the wiser.
But what fun would there be in that?
He slipped his right hand inside the pocket of his jeans, felt the hardness of the knife's handle against his fingers. For now the blade was tucked safely inside its wood casing. He'd release it when the time was right. But first, there was much to do. Might as well get this show on the road, he decided, lowering himself gingerly to the bed, his hip grazing hers as the mattress slumped to accommodate him. Instinctively, her body rotated slightly to the left, her head lolling toward him. "Hey, Gracie," he cooed, his voice as soft as fur. "Time to wake up, Gracie-girl."
A low groan escaped her throat, but she didn't move.
"Gracie," he said again, louder this time.
"Mmn," she mumbled, her eyes remaining stubbornly closed.
She knows I'm here, he thought. She's just playing with me. "Gracie," he barked.
Her eyes shot open.
And then everything seemed to happen at once. She was awake and screaming as she struggled to sit up, the horrible catlike wail assaulting his ears, then racing wildly around the room. Instinctively, his hand reached out to silence her, his fingers wrapping tightly around her neck, her screams turning to whimpers beneath the growing pressure on her larynx. She gasped for air as he lifted her effortlessly with one arm and pinned her to the wall behind the bed.
"Shut up," he ordered as her toes strug...