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FOR ABIR,
MY KELLY

Epigraph

That pain is old …
it has seen a million dawns.

—ANONYMOUS

ONE

ONE

The first sensation Matt Connor felt when he awoke that morning of all mornings was pain. For a long time he had come out of unconsciousness to a feeling of loss in his chest, and he had come to accept it as inevitable. It was ironic that the pain was quickly followed by a wave of love. Thoughts of her smile and hair caught forever in a yellow ray of sunshine. He still loved Amy Techer, always would, and he hated her more than words could say.

That morning was special because it was the start of the day Matt planned to fake his death and disappear from the face of the earth. A bold plan, and he was not by nature a bold man. Yet Amy had changed him into something he was not.

He had set the alarm for six but his eyes opened at five. He closed them and rolled over but sleep was lost. He felt unsettled on top of his pain. When he left his bed, he would never return to it. He would never see his apartment again—his stuff. Not that he had much. Thirty years old to the day, he thought grimly, and how little he had to show for it.

The brief reflection hardened his resolve. His stomach was knotted and his heart pounded but he would go through with his plan. If he could not have love then she would not have it either. He wondered how many other men throughout history had come to the same conclusion.

Matt got out of bed and took a hot shower. Tonight, if he was not careful, he would suffer a cold bath. He was an excellent pilot but an inexperienced skydiver. Of course, not many people riding a parachute to earth were required to hit a boat at night in the middle of the sea. Yet that particular challenge did not daunt him as much as others. Those other tasks would come later, after he was dead to the world, when he could no longer be blamed. Until then he just had to be systematic—do the job and not think.

Still, he thought of her, of Amy. The name alone was a curse.

He had scarce food in his apartment: a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, two overripe bananas. He made toast and spread jam and butter on it and wolfed down the milk while he dialed his mother. She lived in Santa Barbara, ninety miles north of his Santa Monica apartment. His mother had always hated that he never chewed his food. He supposed he had a streak of impatience in him, along with other things.

Although early, his mother answered on the second ring. She was unhappy that he wouldn’t be arriving for his birthday party until seven that night. The insignificance of that particular concern troubled him deeply. His mother would never see him again.

“Why do you have to finish your scuba lessons today?” she asked after they had talked a minute.

“I’ve wanted the certificate for a while. To get it on my birthday makes me feel like things are coming together for the next decade.”

“You already have everything going for you, Matt. Now that Cindy’s in your life. Should I expect her early this evening?”

“I’m not sure. I’m going to call her in a few minutes.”

“She didn’t spend the night?”

His mother was being coy. She liked Cindy, much more than she had liked Amy. None of his friends or family had cared for his ex-girlfriend. They saw what she had done to him; they thought they saw.

He liked Cindy Firestone as well. A nice girl, but made of papier-mâché when touched by his wretched hands. He could not really care for her because she was not Amy. It was so unfair to her, but he continued to date her even though he saw she was falling for him. She was his insurance; she provided extra cover for his plan. He had a girlfriend, the police would say to themselves, he had a life for godsakes. His death would be seen as an accident, nothing more.

“No. She didn’t spend the night,” he replied. He didn’t know what to add. At this point, the less he said, the better.

“How are you two getting along?”

“Great.” He had to take a breath to lie. “I care about her a lot.”

“She’s excited about your party. She struggled over what to get you. You’re going to be surprised.”

“I like surprises.” He added suddenly, “I told you about that bathroom I have to finish in Orange County? I better get going.”

“You shouldn’t be working Saturdays. On your birthday, of all days. You have to have more fun. You won’t be young forever.”

“I’ll have fun soon.” He had a lump in his throat. The last time he would hear his mother’s voice. She’d had him late, at forty, and his father had passed away the previous year. He had no brothers or sisters. He was the center of her universe. She had a weak heart—his death could kill her. He had thought about that endlessly. Yet the thoughts had not halted his plan. His pain cut deeper than blood ties. He had to say goodbye. He added, “We’ll have fun tonight.”

His mother might have heard something in his voice.

“Take care, son,” she said quietly.

“You too, Mom.”

He set down the phone and closed his eyes. His heart no longer pounded. Inside was cold. The icy sting of the ocean tonight—should he hit it—would be welcome. He deserved to suffer for the suffering he could not bear.

Cindy slept late on Saturdays but did not mind being awakened. He had met her three months earlier at a coffee shop in Santa Monica. One of those late-night encounters that usually held more promise than substance. She was studying architectural diagrams, ones she had designed. They struck up a conversation about the Los Angeles skyline. Her knowledge of the city’s major buildings was impressive. He did not remember who said hello first, but when they parted she was the one to offer her number. She liked to take risks. Later, she told him she was intrigued that he might be a dangerous character. The remark had amused him.

It was rare that women hit on him. Six foot and well-built—with a shock of choirboy brown hair and intense dark eyes—he supposed he was handsome enough. But he was very shy; he did not invite casual attention. Cindy was the opposite. She would find out where the busboy who cleaned the table went to school. It was important for her to connect to people. She felt they were connected. But she was still trying to understand why they had not been intimate yet. She suspected Amy was a lingering problem. Matt had been vague when describing what had happened.

Like his mom, Cindy was quick to answer the phone. He could imagine her sleepy smile. Red hair and freckles, she was a lanky doll stitched together with enthusiasm. She jogged five miles each morning before going to work at a design firm in the valley. One day, she swore, she was going to build the perfect home. She saw him living in it with her. He promised to help her put the pieces together, knowing it would never happen. Sometimes being with her made him think of Amy even more.

Of course, the essence of their relationship would have been obvious to a first-year psychology student. He treated Cindy as Amy had initially treated him. Their bond was a sixties pop song—he kept her hanging on. Amy had not even let him kiss her for several months. When he made out with Cindy, he kept his eyes tightly shut. He knew what he did to her was wrong and he did it anyway.

“I was just thinking of you,” she said in a drowsy voice.

“You were asleep.”

“Then I was dreaming of you.” She yawned. “I’m glad you called. Hey, happy birthday. How does it feel to be thirty?”

“Good.” Nothing felt good. “How are you doing?”

“Great. Looking forward to your party tonight. Wish I could fly over to Catalina with you. Why don’t you take me?”

“It’s better you get to my mom’s before me. You can keep her company.” He was glad Cindy would be with his mother when she received the news that his plane had gone down. Cindy was strong; she would get his mother through the first dark days.

She groaned. “You’re so difficult. Hey, I need that guy’s number who taught you how to fly. You said he might want to come with his girlfriend. Was it Clark?”

“Yeah. I can get it for you later.” He did not want Clark at the party. He did not want an expert—personally connected to him—going to the Santa Barbara Airport and studying the radar tapes that described the course of his plane before it crashed. Not that Clark should be able spot anything unusual, but one could never be sure.

“When?” she asked.

“I’ll call you from the road with it.” Another promise he would not keep. He did not want to contact Cindy again. If his cell phone records were later examined, they could show that he had not been in Orange County during the first half of the day.

“Great.” Her voice softened. “I miss you. I wish I was there with you now, lying beside you.”

They had slept together eight times and not had sex. He told her he opened up slowly—a favorite Amy line. The odd thing was that Cindy was every bit as attractive as Amy. But to lie naked beside her in bed did nothing for him. While the mere thought of being close to Amy filled him with longing.

“You okay?” she asked when he did not respond.

“Yeah. Just thinking about the day.”

“Do you miss me?”

“Sure. But I’ll see you tonight.”

She hesitated. “Can I sleep with you at your mother’s house?”

She wanted to make love. Normally, he would have responded with his standard, “We’ll see.” But now all his promises were moot. There was no reason not to leave her with a dream. Amy had not bothered to do the same for him.

“That would be great,” he said.

She sighed. “I think I could love you, Matt.”

“I feel the same way,” he replied, the worst lie of all. He had to get off the phone before he caused more harm. “I better go.”

He sounded too abrupt. He should not appear conflicted.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Matt?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

They exchanged goodbyes. Time to start the long day.

NOW IT was time to change into his alter ego, Simon Schiller. The transformation took several steps. First, he had to get his other car, an old Honda Civic that he had registered two months ago under that name. The vehicle was parked five blocks from his apartment—at present—although he seldom left it in the same place twice in a row. In the car he kept his disguise: a blond wig, mustache, beard, and green contact lenses. Plus he had a makeup kit. When he walked the world as Simon, he gave his skin a deep tan. It was incredible how powerful the simple disguise was. With sunglasses on, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him.

The morning air was brisk, February’s gray hand. He walked the empty streets and tried not to think. Every detail of his plan had been worked out long ago. The only thing that could sabotage it now was a failure of will. However, pain over Amy’s betrayal dogged his steps. He did not have to contemplate the actual atrocities she had committed to feel it. He merely had to exist for the pain to exist. In the end that was why he had formulated his plan. He could not go on living without seeking retribution.

But what happened if the pain did not stop when he finally had his revenge?

A question he preferred not to dwell on.

Once at the car, he drove to a deserted supermarket parking lot and applied his disguise. He had bought the stuff at—literally—a disguise shop in Hollywood. The beard adhesive gave him an itch. Later, he would have to grow a full beard to take the place of the disguise. It was the small things that could destroy his plan. But he was practiced at being Simon Schiller. The disguise took him less than fifteen minutes to put on.

His next destination was the marina, a few miles south. The day’s schedule was tight. Nevertheless, he swung north toward Brentwood, where Amy and her husband lived. A nice house bought with real money. David had purchased her as well.

Or at least that was Matt’s main rationalization for why she had betrayed him.

He parked half a block down the street from their house and turned off the engine. Staring at their dark windows and brick walls, he wondered what they were doing that very second. It was early; they would still be in bed together. The weather was cold but they could be lying naked under the blankets. David would roll over and gently touch her nipples. She would stir and smile and lower her hand to his crotch and the ordeal would start all over. For him …

It was a cliché to say it was a nightmare but so it was. He could not wake up from the horror he had fallen into seven months ago when he had caught them together. Kissing on a side street in Westwood after a late movie. He had been out for a snack; he never had food at his apartment. She had said she would be out of town that weekend but she had only gone a few miles from home. To fuck another guy when she wouldn’t even fuck him. Not even after a year and a half of dating. Not even after she had performed oral sex on him a hundred times and promised him that soon they would be together forever. His Amy, in the arms of her old boyfriend, a guy she had sworn she hated.

His Amy, not really his at all.

He had cracked then. All that was joyful and worthwhile in life evaporated. He continued to breathe but the air was filled with vapors. Everything hurt, even his hair, and the weird thing was that it had not gotten better with time. He wondered if it was because she was his soul mate. If he hurt her, did he harm his own soul? Whatever—fuck that and fuck her. He hoped when he died it was forever because the thought of seeing her again—even in another body—made him want to vomit.

Yet he still missed her terribly.

He was about to leave when the door opened and out stepped Amy, many months pregnant, in a white bathrobe. The size of her belly startled him. He had known she was expecting but had not seen her in eight weeks. Staking out their house was a habit he was desperately trying to break. Neighbors had eyes and ears. The stalking could destroy his plans. He was not sure how many months she was along. He only knew it could not be his baby because they had never had intercourse. When they had finally talked—after he had caught her with David—she had sworn she had only started to see her ex a month before. But she had lied about so much. What did it matter what she swore?

Whether his or not, Amy was very pretty. Half Colombian, half English, she had long brown hair and doe-like brown eyes large and deep enough to suck the heart out of the unsuspecting. He remembered how when she used to look at him, he had felt like the luckiest man in the world. Her magical gaze, clear windows to a soul just as pure.

Immediately following her betrayal his main emotion had been confusion. Because she could not have done such a thing. She was neither a liar nor a cheat. He knew because he had stared into those eyes. But it had all been fun house mirrors. The love they shared had emanated from him alone.

Freckles sprinkled her light brown skin, particularly around her nose, which was short and cute. Her face was round but exotic. She cloaked herself in a silence that was often mistaken for depth by strangers. In reality, Amy was more shy than himself and did not socialize well. She had difficulty carrying on a conversation until she knew someone well. But alone with him she had been wonderful to talk to. Her great loves were movies and books. She could dissect and re-create a story from a dozen different angles, each one unique.

Her prize was her mouth; large and full lipped, with teeth so white they could have been bought at Cartier’s. When she used to kiss him, he had felt if he died tomorrow he would have already attained everything life had to offer.

“Hey, honey,” he whispered as she picked up the paper. On her way inside, she paused and turned in his direction. A picture to cherish: the long fall of her hair; the grace of her movements, mysteriously enhanced by her pregnancy. He remembered what it had been like to hold her, that delicious warmth.

He did not panic. She could not see him through the morning shadows. Besides, he was Simon Schiller, just a guy, no one she knew, sitting in a car.

She stared in his direction a moment, then went inside.

He felt the familiar ache: pain and love, the devil stabbing the angel. But soon he would give her such pain, it made him wonder if he was the demon. Yet he had been through these mental gymnastics before; he would not change his course. Starting his car, he drove toward the freeway.

He had been to the marina before, as Simon Schiller. He had rented the same boat he was renting today, even driven it north to the waters off Ventura. He had secured the rental with cash, as he planned to do this morning. He had a fake credit card he had purchased on the Internet—there was nothing you couldn’t get on the Web—but he was reluctant to use it in case it was traced back to him.

The boat was a wide-decked thirty-footer, with twin two-hundred horsepower engines. The width was critical because he planned to parachute onto the deck. Because he intended to return the boat, there should have been nothing worrisome about renting it. Nevertheless, if the police checked on rentals in the harbor and showed his picture around, it was possible he could be identified, even with his disguise. Then people might wonder. For that reason, he wanted to get out of the harbor fast.

It was not a wish he was granted.

There were three unusual items he needed to bring aboard: an inflatable dinghy, signal lights, and an extra anchor. His dinghy was not small, nor was the motor he planned to attach to it to drive him back to shore. A man from Harry’s Ocean Rentals came over to give him a hand. Matt waved him away but the guy was probably anxious for a tip. He followed him back to his car after Matt had obtained the keys to the boat. When Matt opened his trunk, the man saw the deflated dinghy, and looked puzzled.

“Are you going diving or what?” the guy asked.

That would be one reason to bring along a dinghy. But Matt could not hide the fact that he had no diving equipment. Then he had an idea.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I’m picking up friends on Catalina. We’re going to rent our equipment there, then check out the caves on the backside of the island.”

“You need diving equipment? We rent that as well. I bet you could get a deal from Chuck since you’ve already paid for the boat.”

“No thanks. My pals have already got their stuff reserved.”

“Hey, the name’s Timmy.” He offered his hand and Matt had to take it. “You sure? Chuck will give you a deal.”

“I’m sure.”

Timmy was straw-blond with a crooked mouth and sloppy feet. He had bumped Matt twice on the short walk to the car. Now he gave him a peculiar look. “I thought you told Chuck you were heading south to fish?” he asked.

Timmy must have been in the back when Matt had spoken to Chuck.

“Later I’ll head that way. I have the boat for two days,” Matt said.

He nodded as Matt bent over the trunk. “Let me help you with that motor.”

“It’s not necessary.”

Timmy touched the lights and the supporting car battery. “What are these for?”

“Oh. They’re stage lights. Leave them.”

“You’re not taking them aboard?”

Matt shrugged. “No. What would I need them for?”

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