Dancing in the Dark (17 page)

“Me neither,” Sammy agreed.

After they’d finished eating and were waiting for Sammy to wolf down
his dessert, Matthew pulled out the newspaper and showed Diane the
section about Carly’s babysitting for a tent family named Richey on
Bath Avenue. “I think we should head over there next,” he said. “Get
pictures of the tent, see if someone will talk to us.”

“Each one of these is cuter than the next. They’re all so charming,”
said Diane as they walked down Bath Avenue. The tents, with their
colorful striped awnings and hanging baskets full of summer flowers,
created a scene from another world. A simpler, safer world, where young
women didn’t have to think about being abducted in the dark of night.

Sammy and Gary went about shooting the street and the various tents,
knowing it was important to give the video editor as
many choices as possible for when he or she put the piece together at
the Broadcast Center. Meanwhile, Diane and Matthew tried to find
someone to tell them which was the Richeys’ tent. But the tent porches
were empty, their usual residents driven either inside or away by the
afternoon heat.

“I guess we’ll have to start knocking,” said Diane.

There was no answer at the first two tents they tried. At the next,
a little blond girl opened the screen door.

“Hello. Is your mother or father home?” Diane asked.

“My daddy’s out, but my mommy’s here.” The child stood staring at
Diane.

“Could I speak with your mother, please?”

The child let go of the screen door and turned away. “Mommy,” she
yelled into the tent. “There’s someone here.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know.”

Diane was about to tell the child who she was when the mother came
to the door. Diane thought the woman flinched slightly as she
introduced Matthew and herself. “We’re looking for the Richey family’s
tent.”

“This is it. I’m Helen Richey. May I help you?”

“Oh, great,” said Diane. “I suppose you can guess why we’re here,
Mrs. Richey. The article in the
Asbury Park
Press
said Carly Neath was working here the night she
disappeared.”

Helen Richey turned and called back into the tent. “Girls, I’ll be
out on the porch.” Closing the door behind her, she indicated that
Diane and Matthew could take seats in the wicker chairs. “I don’t want
the children to hear anything,” she said.

“Of course not,” said Diane.

“We were hoping you could tell us about what happened that night,”
said Matthew, looking over Helen’s shoulder to see if he could spot the
camera crew and signal them to come over.

“We’ve told the police everything,” said Helen, twisting her slim
gold wedding band as she decided to corroborate her husband’s story.
“Carly babysat for the girls for about four hours. We got home after
eleven o’clock. We paid her, and she left. It was a night like so many
others when she’s worked for us.”

“So Carly went home on her own?” asked Diane. “No one walked her?”
She tried to keep her tone from sounding accusatory. But she could
sense the tension in Helen Richey’s voice when she answered.

“Carly lives just a few blocks away. She was insistent that she walk
home on her own. My husband and I thought it would be safe enough.” She
bit her lower lip, and tears welled in her eyes. “We made a mistake in
letting her walk home alone, and if something terrible has happened to
Carly, we’ll never forgive ourselves.”

The tops of his feet were red, Anthony noticed as he sloshed through
the salty water lapping over the sand. He supposed he should go back
and slather on more of the sunscreen in his aunt Emily’s bag, but he
didn’t want to. He had no desire to hang out with his aunt and his
sister. He wanted to be by himself. He was still bummed out over
missing his chance to go to the Grand Canyon. This boring beach
vacation wasn’t cutting it.

He took a picture of a sand castle, deserted by its architects,
before he kicked the structure over. Then he bent down to pick up a
piece of sea glass and continued his walk up the beach. Anthony watched
the kids on boogie boards surfing in the waves, deciding that he was
going to get his mother to buy him one of his own. Over the ocean, a
windsurfer, tethered to a motorboat in the water below, glided through
the air. Maybe he could get his mother to let him give that a try too.

She owed him. Big time. Even though he knew, deep down, his mother
was doing everything she could to make him and Michelle happy, and he
knew he should appreciate it and stop giving
her a hard time, he was ticked off. He had bragged to all his friends
about the cool trip he’d be taking this summer. Now, when school
started and they found out he hadn’t gone, they’d say he’d been full of
crap. Coming on top of his father’s going to jail, Anthony couldn’t
afford one more thing to make him look bad.

Maybe he could figure out a way to put a different spin on things.
But what could possibly happen in Ocean Grove that would impress his
friends? His mother would kill him if he tried to get involved in the
search for that girl. But it would be neat if he could find her. That
would be so cool. He’d probably be on the news.

“Anthony. Annnnthoneeee.”

He turned around. Emily was standing down the beach, waving her
arms, calling him like he was a little kid. Resigned, he started to
trudge back through the water. He hadn’t gone far when he saw the man
dressed in army fatigues slip from beneath the concrete that surrounded
the big round brick building. Anthony stared as the man planted himself
in the sand and curled up in a fetal position. He snapped a picture
before he hurried down the beach.

God forgive her. She’d made it sound as if Jonathan had been with
her when Carly was paid for babysitting that night—that he was in the
tent with his wife when Carly insisted on walking home by herself.
Helen had misled Diane Mayfield and the KEY News producer just now, as
she had stood by when Jonathan lied to the police yesterday. She prayed
that God would forgive her.

In order to be forgiven, Helen knew she had to be truly repentant.
God could see into her heart, so He would know that she was truly
sorry. But He must also see that she didn’t know what else to do.
Jonathan was her husband, the father of her children, and there was no
way she was going to point a finger at him.

Helen went back into the tent and admired her children’s artwork as
they colored at the kitchen table. “That’s beautiful, Hannah. I think
we should hang that one up. Yours too, Sarah.”

She taped the crayoned seascapes onto the refrigerator, knowing that Jonathan would be back soon from
his run on the beach. Fueled by suspicion and fear, she went to the
bedroom dresser to find her husband’s wallet. Inside the leather
billfold there was a couple hundred dollars in cash to get them through
the week, a Visa and MasterCard, a new high-tech New Jersey driver’s
license, and a white business card. “Surfside Realty” was stamped
across it in blue block letters. Helen turned the card over and read
the handwritten notation. “Thursday, August 18. 4:00.”

It didn’t make sense. Jonathan couldn’t have had an appointment to
look at real estate on Thursday afternoon. He hadn’t even been here on
Thursday. Jonathan hadn’t come down to the shore until Friday.

“I’m always going to love this town,” said Carlos, taking his
partner’s hand as they and their real estate agent walked along the
near-empty boardwalk. “Asbury Park issued us our marriage license.”

“Well, you and Kip would be very smart to buy something here as soon
as you can,” said Larry, pulling off his tie in the heat. “The prices
have already escalated dramatically, and now that the billion-dollar
development project has the green light, you can be sure things are
only going to get more expensive.”

“Yeah,” Kip agreed. “Once they pour that money into developing all
this empty space on the waterfront, Asbury Park should really return to
life.”

“I hope to God they don’t ruin things by tearing down all the
interesting and historic places.” Carlos frowned. “I’m still sick about
the Palace. Who’d have thought a wrecker’s ball would demolish the
nation’s oldest indoor amusement park? It was on the National Register
of Historic Places and everything. I’ll never understand what passes
for progress.”

They slowed as they reached the decaying old Casino, with its
wind-scarred copper filigree work. “You haven’t heard that they’re
going to tear this place down, have you, Larry?” Kip asked. “I’d die if
they destroyed this place. It’s my favorite building in Asbury Park.”

“Well, I know there’s a few preservation groups who say they’ll
never let it be torn down,” said Larry. “But I guess you can never say
never.”

The three men stood looking out toward the ocean and discussed the
fact that gays and lesbians had found a tolerant community in Asbury
Park, a town grateful for the help these newcomers were giving to its
revival.

“Asbury Park is what South Beach, Florida, was twenty years ago,”
said Carlos. “We want to get in on the turnaround.”

Kip agreed. “Yes. We love the way we have been welcomed in Ocean
Grove, and we’re thrilled with our inn. We already have reservations
for next season. But by the end of the year, we’ll be finished with our
renovations on the Dancing Dunes. We’ll be ready to take on another
project.”

“Well, should we start looking at what’s available now?” asked
Larry. “Even though you don’t think you’re ready to buy quite yet, you
can start educating yourself on the Asbury Park market. I have a couple
of listings right now that, with some tender loving care, could be
fabulous bed-and-breakfast places.”

“Sounds good,” said Kip. “And, Larry? Before I forget. Can I have a
few of your business cards? I have some friends who are interested in
finding something in Asbury Park as well.”

As Larry took out his billfold and handed over the white cards, a
police car skidded to a stop in front of the Casino.

A small crowd gathered in front of the old Casino as the police led
the man from the beach.

“It’s going to be all right, pal,” said one of the officers. “We’re
going to get you some help.”

The man stumbled through the sand, flanked by two policemen, who
struggled to keep him walking. His camouflage shirt was open, his hair
mussed. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glassy. Arthur didn’t utter
a sound.

They searched for as long as the light held out, knocking on doors,
looking under the boardwalk and up and down the streets. Since it was
church property, the Ocean Grove Camp Meeting Association gave
permission for the volunteer search parties to look under every tent on
its grounds. Tenters themselves readily opened their doors, sure that
Carly Neath was not going to be found in their tiny canvas homes.

It was just after nine o’clock when everyone returned to Lavender
& Lace and called off their search for the day, not knowing where
they could possibly look tomorrow.

When it had been dark for a few hours and
it came time for the second dance, Carly’s blindfold was off. Her gag
was gone too, though her hands and feet were still bound.

Behind the deserted refreshment counter
inside the Casino, the beam from the flashlight illuminated Carly’s
lifeless face. Her mouth hung open. Fine blue veins showed beneath the
translucent skin of her eyelids. Her cheeks and beautiful golden hair
were matted with vomit.

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to
happen. It was supposed to go off just like the last time.

The yellow beam searched the littered
ground, finding the discarded blindfold and gag. The rags were tied
back in place, just as they had been the last time. But now, it would
be different. The young woman the guard found this time would be dead.
There was no sense in holding her for the full three days. The police
would likely be able to figure out that Carly had not survived even two
days in captivity.

MONDAY
AUGUST 22

Diane awoke to the sound of her ringing cell phone. She felt on the
bedside table for her watch. In the early morning light, she was barely
able to see that it was only six o’clock.

“Hello,” she answered groggily.

“Diane. It’s Matthew. You’ve got to get up.”

“What?” She rubbed at her eyes.

“Meet me at the police station. A satellite truck is on its way
down, and you have a seven-twenty live shot for
KEY
to America
.”