The Bright Silver Star Read online

  THE BRIGHT SILVER STAR

  ALSO BY DAVID HANDLER

  FEATURING BERGER & MITRY

  The Hot Pink Farmhouse

  The Cold Blue Blood

  FEATURING STEWART HOAG

  The Man Who Died Laughing

  The Man Who Lived by Night

  The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald

  The Woman Who Fell from Grace

  The Boy Who Never Grew Up

  The Man Who Cancelled Himself

  The Girl Who Ran Off with Daddy

  The Man Who Loved Women to Death

  FEATURING DANNY LEVINE

  Kiddo

  Boss

  THE

  BRIGHT

  SILVER STAR

  DAVID

  HANDLER

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS

  ST. MARTIN’S MINOTAUR

  NEW YORK

  THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

  THE BRIGHT SILVER STAR. Copyright © 2003 David Handler. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Handler, David, 1952–

  The bright silver star / David Handler.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-312-30714-4

  1. Berger, Mitch (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Mitry, Desiree (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Motion picture actors and actresses—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. African American police—Fiction. 5. Film critics—Fiction. 6. Policewomen— Fiction. 7. Connecticut—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3558.A4637B73 2003

  813'.54—dc21 2003050619

  First Edition: November 2003

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR PAMELA BOND,

  WHO WELCOMED US HOME

  THE BRIGHT SILVER STAR

  PROLOGUE

  JULY 25

  ONE OF THE THINGS that almost no one knew about him was that he was an awful driver. The worst. Not only was he easily distracted from the road in front of him but his eyesight was bad. Especially at night. Especially on narrow, unlit country roads.

  Especially when he was stoned off of his gourd, had his foot jammed hard to the floor, and didn’t care whether he kept on living or not.

  A dense river valley fog hugged low to the ground in the heavy stillness of the summer night. Whenever the twisty road dipped down into a gully the fog became so thick he could see only his headlights before him in the mist, his wipers swishing back and forth, back and forth. Briefly, he would rise back up out of it, catching occasional snapshot glimpses as he tore along—of granite ledge crowding right up against the narrow shoulder. Mountain laurel and hemlocks. A guardrail where the shoulder dropped right off, the rain-swollen Eight Mile River rushing by a hundred feet below. The distant lights of a remote, lonely farmhouse. Then he would plunge back down into the moldy, overripe fog.

  And into his own nightmare.

  He hurtled right down the center of the road. If anyone happened to be coming toward him it would all be over. But there was no one else out after midnight on the Devil’s Hopyard Road. Just him, with Neil Young cranked up full blast on the CD player. An old album with Crazy Horse called Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere, which had to be the single most hopeless, painful album that had ever been recorded at any time by anyone. The man made Nirvana sound like the Cowsills.

  It fit his mood much too perfectly.

  He hunched low over the wheel, left hand gripping it tightly, right hand groping on the seat next to him for the pint bottle of syrupy peppermint schnapps that lay next to his cell phone. It had been his best friend back when he was in junior high school. He drank it whenever the Bad People came.

  He took a deep gulp as he came tearing around a curve, tires screaming, and suddenly two of them were standing right before him in the middle of the road. He swerved to avoid them, scraping the guardrail, a harsh, grinding sideswipe that startled him and sent sparks flying through the air. He did not stop to take a look at the damage he’d done to the car. He did not care about this car or any car. He kept right on going.

  He had to keep on going. He was a man on a mission.

  And the knowledge of what he was about to do gripped him with such panic that neither the schnapps nor the joint he’d smoked could even begin to help. He was sweating. His hands trembled, his breathing was shallow and quick. But he had no choice. No way out. And he knew this. And it hurt. God, how it hurt.

  I have at long last met my soul mate, my one and only love, only it so happens that this person is not my wife. And so tonight I must say good-bye.

  Honestly, he could not even believe he had gotten himself into this. How could he fall in love with someone else? God, it was all just so pathetically middle-aged and tawdry. But none of that mattered anymore. All that mattered was that it did happen and he had to end it right now.

  He drove, suddenly spotting two more Bad People ahead of him in the mist, darting for cover in the brush. He sped his way past them, knowing full well he could not lose them. Whenever he felt frightened and lost and alone, they came.

  He had started calling them the Bad People when he was no more than four and he’d lay awake at night with his heart pounding, waiting for them to come. They lived inside of his bedroom wall. He could hear them rustling around in there when they were coming out, and he could see them if he flicked on his light real fast. Theywere tiny creatures with horns and tails and hooves that made little clip-clop noises on the wooden floor. They had slimy purple skin, eyes that were narrow yellow slits, teeth that were sharp and dripping with saliva. He did not know why they had chosen him. He only knew that they meant him grave bodily harm.

  And that no one else on earth could see them. Just him.

  He remembered crying out for his mother when they came. Often, she would ignore him—just leave him alone with his terror. But sometimes she would come and sit there on the edge of the bed so they couldn’t get at him. Dab at his damp brow with a wadded tissue. My good little boy, she would call him. My good strong boy. But then she would leave and there would be only him and the Bad People and the fear.

  They did hide during daylight hours. But his fear was with him from sunrise until sundown. Always, it was with him. If only people knew just how hard it was for him to get through each and every day without giving in to it. But they didn’t know. No one did.

  They see me but they don’t see me. No one knows me. No one.

  He drove. Somehow, he made it all of the way to the end of the deserted road, where the entrance to the falls was. The state park closed after sunset. A barrier was lowered to keep people out of the parking lot. He pulled over onto the shoulder of the road and shut off the engine and the music. His was the only car there. He was the first to arrive. He sat there for a long moment, hearing the steady roar of the waterfall, his agitation mounting. He needed to hear a sane voice. It was imperative. He lunged for his cell phone and called Mitch. They hadn’t known each other for long. But Mitch actually understood him—who he was, who he wanted to be. Plus he wanted nothing in return. Only honesty. And this was unusual. Hell, this was unheard-of.

  Although right now the voice on the other end of the phone just sounded groggy and disoriented. “H-Hello . . . Whassa? . . .”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you. I just wanted you to know something.”

  “Okay . . . Uh, sure . . .” Mitch sounded semialert now. “Where are you?”

&nbsp
; “I’m on Sugar Mountain, with the barkers and the colored balloons.”

  Long silence. “Wait, give me a second. I know what that’s. .. Neil Young, right?”

  “You are.”

  “What’s that whooshing noise? Are you hanging out in a men’s room somewhere?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What time is it anyway?”

  He sat there breathing in and out, feeling much less fear now. More an overbearing sadness. “It’s too late. The damage is done. The hangman says it’s time to let her fly.”

  “What hangman? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Good-bye, Mitch.”

  “Wait, don’t—!”

  He flicked off the phone and hurled it out his open window, hearing it clatter to the ground. Got out of the car and staggered his way blindly down the footpath toward the falls, clutching the schnapps bottle in one hand and a book of matches in the other.

  It was so dark he kept stumbling over the loose rocks and exposed tree roots. He lit a match, squinting. Ahead were the picnic tables where they’d made love that first night. It all started here. And there was the walkway to the top of the falls. During the day, people came from miles around to see the waterfall, to photograph it and wade in the cold, clear pools at its base, to eat their gray, greasy junk food and drink their carbonated sugar water and do the other normal, stupid things that normal, stupid people did.

  He staggered on. A wooden guardrail hugged the edge of the cliff, smelling of creosote. Wire mesh was stapled to the posts to keep small children from slipping under the rail and falling to their death. He lit another match. Now he stood before the warning sign that read: Let the Water Do the Falling. Stay Behind This Point.

  He paid no attention. Climbed right over it and out onto the flat shelf of granite ledge, directly over the falls. This was their place, the secret haven where they came to make feverish, forbidden love, nightafter night, as often as they dared. They were alone here. Just them and the water and the darkness.

  The bare granite was slick from the fog and the spray. And it was a bit cooler here. But still he was sweating. He crouched here on the ledge; feeling the full power of the river as it tore right past him into the darkness of space, smashing down onto the smoothed hollows of granite a hundred feet below, swirling and foaming and cascading before it bottomed out into a river once again. He did think about hurling himself right off the ledge right now, sparing himself the pain of what was about to come. But he could not will himself to do this, no matter how much he wanted to. The words had to be spoken.

  And so he waited in the fog for his one true love to come.

  He didn’t hear the other car arrive over the roar of the falls. Or hear the quick, sure footsteps until they were very close to him. He couldn’t see the shimmer of golden hair or the shiny, trusting blue eyes. He didn’t need to. He could see everything with his own eyes shut, just as his lips knew the achingly soft, sweet lips that were now kissing him, kissing him.

  “Hey, baby,” he said as they sat there in each other’s arms. They didn’t have to raise their voices as long as they stayed very close.

  “God, I’m so glad you’re here. I wasn’t even sure you’d make it tonight.”

  “I said I’d be here, didn’t I?” he responded lightly, hearing the quaver of insincerity in his own voice. “Want some peppermint schnapps?”

  “Ugh, no.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be here?”

  “You sounded funny on the phone. Was she standing there?”

  “Not really.” He groped in the darkness for a hand, clutching it tightly, knowing that once he said the words he had to say that he would never, ever feel its caresses again. “But I do have something kind of heavy to lay on you . . . about you and me.”

  “What about us?”

  “We can’t do this anymore,” he blurted out.

  “W-What are you saying to me?” They were no longer holdinghands. They were apart, now and forever. “You don’t want to be with me anymore?”

  “No, I do want to be with you. That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “That it’s over. That it . . . it has to be over.”

  “Just like that? You’re insane!”

  “I know this,” he admitted, hearing only the roar of the falls for a moment.

  Until he heard a gut-wrenching sob. “My God, do you actually think that you can just snap your fingers and the love’s not there anymore? Like it’s some kind of a-a choice? Paper or plastic? Smooth or chunky?”

  “Look, it’s not you, okay?” he said, his own voice rising helplessly. “It’s me. I can’t keep doing this. It’s not going to be easy to stop. In fact, I think this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my whole life. But I have to do it.”

  “But how? We’ll still see each other every day. How can we pretend that nothing’s happened?”

  “We’ve been pretending that ever since we got involved.”

  “You mean, ever since you came after me, don’t you?”

  “I warned you about me from the very start,” he shot back, growing defensive now. “I told you what would happen.”

  “You told me you’d break my poor little heart. You didn’t tell me you’d stab me in the chest with a dull knife and . . . and why are you doing this to me?” Now he heard another sob in the darkness. “God, listen to me. I sound like a pathetic old lady.”

  “No, you don’t. You sound great. You are great. And I wish we could go on like this forever. I swear, I’ve never been this happy in my whole life.”

  “Only because your whole life is a lie. You are living a lie.”

  “Hey, your marriage is just as dead as mine.”

  “This isn’t about me. It’s about you.”

  “I know, I know. . . .” He breathed in and out, his chest beginning to ache. “I just can’t keep chancing it like this. Not in Dorset. Peopleare bound to find out, and when they do they’ll talk. It’s what they live for—to talk about people like us.”

  “So let them. Who cares? I don’t.”

  “Well, I can’t risk it. I won’t risk it.”

  “Every day you get out of bed there’s risk. Without risk, you’re as good as dead.”

  “Right now, I wish I was,” he confessed.

  “Screw you and your self-pity. You’re not the one who’s getting hurt here—I am. And I hate you. Do you hear me? I hate you!”

  “Look, this doesn’t have to end badly,” he said soothingly. “It just has to end.” He drained the schnapps bottle and set it down on the stone next to him, climbing unsteadily to his feet. He’d said what he had to say. Now all that was left was the ugliness, the words that hurt.

  “Wait, where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home.”

  “What about me?” They were both standing now. “Don’t you realize how much I’ve risked?”

  “Yes, I do,” he said, even though it was not nearly the same. Not even close. “And, believe me, this is better for you, too.”

  “God, you are so totally full of shit. Our lives were dead until we found each other. We’ve got something special together. How can you turn your back on that. How can you walk away?”

  Now the sob was coming from his own throat. “I have to. You know I do.”

  “I don’t know anything—except that I won’t let you walk away from me. I’ll . . . I’ll tell her about us. I swear I will.”

  He stood there in choked silence, realizing that he was trapped in a love he could not get out of. No way out. No good way, anyhow. And now it began to creep into his mind—the terrible thing he had been trying not to think about. Which was that this secret place of theirs, this private, perfect perch where they made love, was also a private, perfect place to kill. And, worse, that he was totally capable of doing it.

  I am one of them. I am one of the Bad People.

  Maybe he had known this all along. Maybe that was why he’d been so freaked out all evening. Beca
use he was coming here to murder the great love of his life and he damned well knew it.

  He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, preparing himself for what he was about to do. “I have to think about my future,” he explained.

  “You say that as if you have one.”

  Which he didn’t.

  “No, don’t!” he cried out as he felt himself suddenly being shoved toward the edge of the cliff.

  And it was all so unexpected, so ferocious, so unthinkable that he had no chance to hold his ground. He did try, in that desperate last fraction of a second, to cling to the slick stone, digging at it with his fingers and his toes like a wild, desperate animal. But now he was pitching over backward into the blackness with his arms waving wildly and the roar of the falls growing louder and now the roar was coming from out of him as his head smacked into something hard. And everything went from black to red.

  As he lay there on the rocks, he thought he heard a sob coming from somewhere far away, but that may have been his own last groans he was hearing. He felt no pain, no fear, no regret—only a powerful rush of relief.

  I am free of them. I am free of the Bad People. They can go torment someone else now, because they can’t have me. Not anymore. Because I am free . . . I am free . . . I am . . .

  EIGHTEEN HOURS EARLIER

  CHAPTER 1

  THERE WAS NO LOLLYGAGGING in the feathers on Big Sister Island. Not in July. Not when the sun came beaming through the skylights in Mitch’s sleeping loft at five-thirty in the morning. Not a chance. These days, Mitch Berger, creature of the darkness, got up when the sun got up.

  And he loved every glorious minute.

  He loved the cool, fresh breezes off Long Island Sound that wafted through his antique post-and-beam carriage house no matter how hot and sticky the day was. He loved the blackberries that grew wild all over the island and the fresh vegetables that he had brought to life in his own garden. He loved mowing his little patch of lawn with an old-fashioned push mower, which had to be one of the great lost pleasures of the modern age. He loved parking his pudgy self in a shell-backed aluminum garden chair at sunset, cold beer in hand, waiting for Des to come thumping across the rickety wooden causeway in her cruiser. He loved the bracing dips in the Sound they would take together. He even—and this was the truly amazing part—loved those disgustingly healthy dinners of grilled fish, brown rice and steamed vegetables she would cook for them.