Before She Knew Him Read online

  Before leaving, he bent down to Mira and whispered in her ear. “I’m taking a walk, honey,” he said. “Can’t sleep.” She responded with a throaty sound, more annoyance than a reply. He thought of waking her and telling her again, but decided he didn’t need to do it. His only worry was that she’d need to pee, and that would force her out of bed. Should he leave a note just in case? The desk in the room had a pad of paper and a pen, both embossed with the name of the inn, and he scrawled a note to say he was on a walk and he’d be back soon. He put a water glass on top of the note, covering some of the words, so that he’d know, when he returned, whether she’d read it.

  He left the hotel room, taking the back stairwell that led into the rear parking lot of the hotel. He stepped outside into the cold night and pulled his gloves on. There was no one visible in the parking lot, but in the distance he could hear the whoops of a group of people out on the street, going from one bar to another.

  He got into his Fiat and began the drive to New Essex. On the way, he thought of Mira, safe in bed, in a locked hotel room. No one could hurt her, even if they wanted to. And then he thought of Michelle, visiting her dying father while her boyfriend fucked a waitress on the side. A wave of almost suffocating rage surged through Matthew. If you gave a man just the smallest amount of power—a handsome face, the ability to sing, a little money—the first thing he’d do is destroy a woman, or two if he could. He allowed himself to briefly think of his father, the way he shrank the world so that he was its dictator, and how his mother had no choice but to live under his rule. Matthew had no choice, either. Neither did Richard, for that matter.

  The green sign indicating that his exit was two miles away flickered in his headlights. He rolled down his window and breathed the salt-tinged air into his lungs. He’d memorized the directions to the Rusty Scupper, having left his phone back in the room.

  He passed through two traffic lights, crossed a short bridge over the inlet, then turned right onto Seagrass Lane, the road that led to the bar. With the window rolled down, he could hear the distant thump of a bass line as he passed the Rusty Scupper’s parking lot. The air now smelled like low tide, marshy and dank, plus Matthew caught the distinctive tang of marijuana drifting in from a group of four figures huddled around a pickup truck.

  He drove another two hundred yards and parked in the back lot of a small insurance agency. He’d studied Google Maps and knew that there was a footpath that ran along New Essex River toward the back of the bar. It was easy to find—a small sign marked it as the New Essex River Walk—and Matthew casually walked down the wooden pathway toward the bar. As he walked, a fish broke the surface of the river, and something scuttled through the stunted brush. Once he was near the bar, all he could hear was the familiar sound of the C-Beams doing their cover of “Positively 4th Street.” If the previous show was any indication, they were near the end of their set. Matthew looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve.

  He walked into the parking lot, quickly scanning vehicles, looking for Scott’s Dodge Dart. He spotted it parked toward the rear of the two-story brick bar, just underneath the back patio where patrons smoked. It was next to a van that Matthew recognized as belonging to the drummer of the band. His own car was in such a perfect location, parked in the dark shadows, that Matthew couldn’t suppress the buzz that was telling him that tonight was actually going to work. Things were falling into place.

  Glancing around to make sure that no one was within sight, Matthew flicked open his jackknife and punched a hole in the rear left tire of Scott’s car. The knife stuck briefly, stale air already escaping in a ragged hiss. Matthew yanked it free, then walked back to the river walk. There was a bench that faced the river, but if he twisted his body he could see back toward the bar, with a view of the Dodge Dart. He waited. Only one person passed him, a middle-aged man smoking a filthy-smelling cigar. Matthew put his chin on his chest and pretended to be asleep, hoping that the cigar smoker wasn’t a do-gooder who might check and see if he was okay. He didn’t.

  The live music from the Rusty Scupper had ceased, and Matthew watched as patrons spilled outside and weaved their way back to their cars. Everyone was talking loudly, snatches of inane conversation reaching Matthew on his bench. In between keeping an eye on the bar’s exit, Matthew looked at the river, black under the starless sky. But despite the darkness, he could feel its swiftly moving current, the water pulled by the ebbing tide back toward the ocean. Lights went on in the second-floor windows of the Rusty Scupper, the few remaining customers being shamed into leaving. The parking lot was nearly empty now. A middle-aged couple stood by a truck arguing about who was going to drive home. A set of double doors at the back of the building swung open with a metallic clang, and Matthew recognized the two other members of the C-Beams trucking out their equipment, the drummer beginning to load the same van that Matthew had seen that night at the Owl’s Head. The bass player was helping the drummer with his kit. Where was Scott? Probably surveying the remaining groupies in the bar for his next victim. It was actually good that he wasn’t there. Matthew was hoping that his bandmates would leave first and that he would have to change his tire alone. He knew it was still a long shot that Scott would be by himself in the dark parking lot, but if he was, then Matthew was ready.

  Another twenty minutes passed and the drummer and the bass player both left. Shortly afterward, Scott emerged from the rear entrance of the building, but he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him, and although she was dressed differently—a tight dress that could have been a T-shirt—it was clear that she was the waitress from the Owl’s Head. Matthew wasn’t surprised she was there, but he was disappointed. Scott slung his guitar case into the backseat of his car, then they both got in. The engine started, and the Dart reversed swiftly along the tarmac, then stopped just as swiftly. Scott jumped out of the car, examined his back tire. Matthew heard an audible “fuuuck” float his way, then the sound of another door slamming shut. The waitress was out of the car as well, now crouched beside Scott. He could hear their voices—his exasperated, hers querulous—but not the words. Scott opened his trunk and pulled out a spare, plus what was probably the jack. He crouched by the car again while the waitress stood two feet away, her arms across her middle. Even from a distance, Matthew could tell she was shivering. Scott, wearing a fleece-lined jean jacket, had begun to jack up the car.

  The waitress said something—the words were still unclear—and Scott, still focused on his task, responded without turning his head. The waitress went back to the heavy double doors and banged on them. Five seconds passed, and the doors opened, the waitress sliding inside.

  Matthew felt a surge of adrenaline. He realized that, until this moment, he hadn’t really believed he’d get his chance. But here it was.

  He stood, pulled his cap farther down his forehead and around his ears, and surveyed the parking lot. There were still a few cars, but no one was visible. He whipped the telescoping baton so that it snapped to its full length, twenty-one inches of solid steel. With the baton down by his leg and the stun gun, just a precaution, in his other hand, Matthew walked purposefully, but not too rapidly, toward the Dart, then came around it to stand behind Scott. The car was jacked up, and Scott was trying to twist the lug nut wrench. He hadn’t noticed or heard Matthew, who was right behind him. For five seconds, Matthew just stood there, the steel in his hand, savoring the immense power he had over the insect crouched in front of him. Then he reared back and swung, bringing the baton down with as much force as possible across the top of Scott’s head. Scott made a guttural sound in his throat, then dropped onto his side, unconscious.

  Matthew knelt on one knee, lifted the baton again, and brought it down as hard as he could on the same spot he’d hit before. Instead of a solid thud, this time the sound was more like a splintering crack. Matthew stood quickly, prepared to jump back in case there was blood. He very much wished he had brought a plastic bag with him and his duct tape, although he didn’t think he’d have time. B
esides, Scott was most likely dead. That in itself was enough satisfaction. He wondered if he should hit him again, just to make sure, but was worried about overdoing it, about his baton sinking into brain matter. He would never be able to stomach that.

  He did crouch one more time, collapsing the baton by pushing its tip against the pavement. He studied the body for any signs of life, telling himself if he heard the double doors open behind him to just bolt back down onto the river walk.

  Satisfied that Scott was dead—felled by two powerful strokes—Matthew stood. About twenty feet away, a woman in a knitted hat stood in the middle of the parking lot and stared back at him. Their eyes briefly met.

  Chapter 17

  Hen opened her mouth to say something to Matthew Dolamore, but no words came out. He looked right at her—she thought there was recognition in his eyes—then he turned and walked swiftly away. She lost him almost immediately in the dark shadows of the Rusty Scupper.

  “Hey,” she managed to yell, her voice sounding strange and helpless to her own ears, then she jogged toward the Dodge Dart and around the back. Scott Doyle lay on the pavement, curled as though he were asleep. She shook his shoulder, knowing he wasn’t going to respond, but he rolled over, his eyes open and staring. He managed a few garbled words, sounding as though there was liquid in his throat.

  She pulled her cell phone from her jeans and called 911.

  She’d actually enjoyed the C-Beams. It had been a while since she’d seen a genuine bar band, a band that actually wanted the bar patrons to dance. She’d arrived at the Rusty Scupper just after they’d started playing and found a place at the bar, in between two sets of couples. She’d ordered a dirty martini—probably not the best bar to get a martini in, but she was craving one—and spun her chair so that she could get a look at the band, playing what she thought was a Kinks cover. She looked around the bar, trying to see if Matthew was there, but she didn’t spot him. She hadn’t yet decided what to do if he did turn out to be there. Probably just watch him. Try to make sure he didn’t see her. She was slightly disguised, wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a flannel shirt. On her head was a knitted newsboy cap, something she’d bought several years ago but never wore.

  The martini came, its surface dangerously close to the rim of the glass, and she dipped her head and took a sip of the salty, ice-cold drink. She felt somehow good in her disguise, completely anonymous. What would someone see, looking at her? She really did wonder, since she had no idea. She knew she was attractive, but she also knew that there was something off-putting about her, something cold that people reacted to. She lifted the glass and took a larger swallow. Across the U-shaped bar were two women, one in a Patriots jersey and the other with tight jeans, a shiny black shirt, and spiky hair. Hen caught one of them looking her way. At one point in her life, Hen had been intrigued by same-sex relationships. For no good reason, she sometimes believed that if she’d been a lesbian, her life would be more interesting than it was. She still thought it, even though she savored her uninteresting life.

  The band was playing a song she didn’t recognize, and she assumed it was their own song. The Rusty Scupper had a small stage and a small dance floor, but people were actually dancing, even to the original. It was an unusual sight; Hen had become so used to going to see Lloyd’s favorite bands, mostly arty lo-fi bands that attracted men in jeans and black T-shirts and with the beginnings of a middle-aged gut who stood and appreciated the music, their arms crossed. Occasionally, some of them would bob their heads to the beat, but they never danced. Here, there were two couples dancing, plus a group of middle-aged women clearly out on a girls’ night. And there was a lone woman on the periphery of the dance floor, wearing a gray-and-white-striped T-shirt dress and high black boots. She looked too young to be at the bar, but she held a bottle of Miller High Life down by her thigh, and Hen could see that she was mouthing the words of the song. She must be one of the band members’ girlfriends, and Hen wondered if she was the one who got in the car with the lead singer that night at the Owl’s Head. It seemed likely.

  She finished her martini—far too fast—and ordered a vodka tonic, telling herself to nurse it. Periodically, she’d look around the room, scanning faces for Matthew. When she got up to go to the bathroom, she passed a separate room that had two pool tables and wandered through it, just to make sure he wasn’t in there. A man asked her if she wanted to play pool, and she told him that she was just looking for someone.

  “Oh, he’ll show up for you,” the man said. He wore a Lowell Spinners cap, and Hen wanted to tell him he shouldn’t wear a hat indoors, but remembered that she was wearing one as well.

  “It’s a she.”

  “Nice.”

  Back at the bar, she felt a little light-headed and asked if they were still serving food.

  “Kitchen’s closed, but we have potato chips.”

  Hen ordered a Diet Coke and two bags of salt and vinegar chips. She thought of Vinegar, Lloyd’s cat, back at home, most likely asleep on Lloyd’s recliner in the living room. And then she thought of Lloyd, at Rob’s bonfire party. He’d be very stoned and talking rapidly with Rob or another one of his college friends. What would they be talking about? Years ago, it would’ve been music, or Lloyd would be going on about the documentary he wanted to make, a music documentary that would profile a band without ever letting the audience hear one of their songs. Or something like that. Now, they’d probably be talking about politics, the ways in which they could fix the world.

  “Want to join us for a drink?”

  It was one-half of the lesbian pair—the one in the shiny shirt. She turned her head to indicate her butch friend in the Pats jersey.

  “Sure,” Hen said, and followed her around the U of the bar.

  “What’ll you have?” the woman asked, after introducing herself and her friend to Hen. The band was playing a revved-up rockabilly version of a Beatles song, and Hen couldn’t quite hear their names. She thought they were Stephanie and Mallory, neither of which fit the women in front of her.

  “Narragansett looks good,” Hen said, and Stephanie/Mallory ordered three.

  They hung out and chatted while the band finished their set—half the patrons stepped out onto the deck to smoke cigarettes—and then came back on, playing “November Rain,” then a Bob Dylan song that Hen liked but couldn’t remember the name of. Hen and her new friends danced through the encore in the crush of the dance floor. Everyone smelled of smoke and sweat, and most everyone sang along—“You got a lotta neeerve”—and Hen forgot all about the reason she was here in the first place. She was having fun—unironic fun—and she had new friends.

  Back at the bar, in the relative quiet now that the band was finished, Hen told the two women she’d driven to the Rusty Scupper all the way from West Dartford.

  “Why?”

  “I saw this band at a bar near me, and I was all alone tonight, so I thought I’d go somewhere new to see them. Glad I did.” She sucked the foam off the top of her new can of beer.

  “That’s a long drive back,” said Stephanie (it was definitely Stephanie—Hen had heard the girl in the Pats shirt call her that). “We’re right down the street if you wanna crash on our couch.”

  “Oh, no, no. I’m fine.”

  “We’re not hitting on you.”

  “No, I know. I just . . . I should get back.”

  “We could call you an Uber.”

  Hen suddenly realized that they were trying to make sure she didn’t get in a car and drive. She put her can of beer down and said, “I’ll be fine, but maybe I’ll skip this beer.”

  The lights popped on, and Hen realized the bar was closing. She looked around. The place was nearly empty, and in the glare of the overhead lights, everything looked a little shabby. She spun to look at the stage, and the band had packed up and gone. “What time is it?” she asked.

  In the parking lot, Hen said good-bye to the two women, hugging each in succession. She bummed a cigarette from Mallory, who lit it for
her before they took off. It had been many years since Hen had smoked; she took two deep drags, then felt dizzy and ground it out on the paved parking lot. She got into her car, trying to assess just how drunk she was. Maybe it would be foolish to drive. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, almost fell asleep, then opened them again. The inside of the car windows had fogged up, and she opened the door to let some air in. There were now only a few cars in the parking lot. She unfolded herself from the driver’s seat and bounced on her toes for a moment in the chilly air. The Rusty Scupper, filled an hour ago with people and music and drinking and dancing, was now a dark, unremarkable two-story block of brick. In the shadows toward the back, a long, boxy car looked familiar. She took a few steps toward it, as though she were being pulled. She heard a muffled shout coming from its direction, and the car seemed to buck a little. A feeling of real fear surged through her body, sobering her up. She took another two steps forward, then saw a figure appear behind the Dart, standing almost perfectly still, then moving fast, dipping out of sight. There was a sound like a hard tennis serve, then another sound, the crack of a bat hitting a baseball. Her legs almost disappeared out from under her, but she moved two steps closer. The figure stood up behind the car. He was in the shadows—how did she know for certain that the figure was a man?—and wearing a tight black cap, but light from somewhere caught his eyes as he stared back at her. It was Matthew Dolamore. He turned and ran.

  Immediately after she called 911, doors loudly opened behind her, and a woman—more a girl, really—emerged, looked confused for a moment, then ran to Scott Doyle, now on his back on the ground.

  “I called 911,” Hen said.

  “Is he . . . what happened?”

  “Someone was just here. I think they hit him with something.”