It works! Beth replies promptly, as usual: “Yeah. We’re almost done. Why?”
“Don’t leave.” My thumb hovers above SEND as a possibility strikes me: If they had already gotten Beth and Todd, they would have taken their phones. Beth keeps her phone locked, but she’d give them the passcode (1419) if not doing so would endanger Todd, and if they wanted access to her phone, it certainly would mean that. If that’s the case, this text will reveal that I at least suspect some sort of interference, which could prompt an alert back here.
I tap SEND.
Again, promptly: “Okay. Hunters on the prowl?”
“Most likely.” At least, this way, I don’t sound so certain of myself. And if it does mean I get caught in this dinky coat closet and blown to smithereens, well … so be it. Better me than them.
For the first time since I left the station tonight, my mind visits the possibility that I may never see Beth again. Or Todd. The list of people I’ll see in my future may be as short as four people—four aggressive, armed people. But this is a possibility that I can’t afford to dwell on.
Beth: “We’ll stay put. How’re things going there?”
“I might be in a slight pickle. Is anyone else at the station?”
“Just a floater following up on some old evidence from an old case.”
“Be cautious.”
“You know me.”
As far as I can tell, the composer of Beth’s texts used all of the same wording, linguistic mannerisms, and punctuation as Beth. She’s the type to get annoyed with things like ‘ur’ and ‘k’. Her thoughts are complete, and she feels that her texts should reflect that. I don’t disagree.
A reply from Todd: “Beth told me. We’ll be careful. You do the same.”
“Will do. See you soon.” My confidence in that statement is nowhere near as solid as I’d like it to be, and my knowledge of Todd’s texting habits is nigh-on nonexistent.
The deluge overhead drowns out the sound of the conversation; at this point I’m convinced that they’re just sitting together in my dad’s room appreciating the same ambience. I border on panic when I consider the possibility that this is their meeting place. But, in time, I hear the creak of a bed being relieved of its occupants and the muffled shuffling of tired perverts. They fill the hallway and the floor groans under their weight.
I try to stifle my breath, partly so that they don’t hear me, but mostly so that I can hear them.
“Sanders says they won’t leave.”
Oh shit. So beyond Keroth, Sanders is their other guy on the inside. That’s how they can know everything. Two minds like that working side-by-side are intimidatingly formidable indeed. This changes the game, arms him with a small army of rooks and bishops to stare down my pawns. I slip into my mind, dissecting any interactions I’ve had with Sanders recently.
The hair. I asked him to run the hair that I pulled from Beth’s place. As soon as Cross’s name showed up, he threw me a curve ball in the form of Patrick. Whether they involved him specifically for that purpose or that was a happy coincidence is beyond me. Or maybe it really was Patrick’s, and it was only by an equally coincidental chain of events that I found Cross. Either way, I feel lucky to have navigated the minefield laid out for me thus far.
Lucky. I hold back a giggle. I am aware that my current circumstances are almost entirely a result of my own actions, but even so, ‘lucky’ seems a bit of a stretch, all things considered. But at any rate, I’m still alive, yet to be cornered by the honing nose of the demon. Nonetheless, I’m injected with panic, infused with the same hopeless paralysis one might experience in the moment before being swept away by a hundred-foot wave. The opposition is not only efficient and organized, but each link in the chain is competent and well-fortified.
The three or four guys finally descend the stairs and leave the house in the same state of empty, silent darkness in which I found it. I wait a full five minutes before I dare open the closet door, and check the bathroom to make sure the other comb is still there. To my relief, it’s there, along with its little red passengers. Out of curiosity, I check the bedroom, too. That comb is gone.
They took the decoy.
This is a colossal step in the right direction for me, but at the same time, I need to be on the defensive; he’s sure to strike soon, and Keroth is a one-hit-wonder kind of guy. He won’t bother creating conversational trends and subtly filling people’s heads with the idea that maybe I killed my dad. He wants it all at once. He’ll lay out a platter full of whatever evidence he’s been able to plant or procure, with a side of ‘fuck you.’ The problem is that, in order to disrupt him, I need to know what he’s doing, which, in itself, is quite the daunting task.
One more thing sticks out in my mind, stealing my attention away as I hurry out of the house: When I first talked to Sanders, he said that he had something urgent to tell Beth. If he was in on this all along, he’d have known that Keroth’s guys had already taken her at that point. Perhaps he was trying to get a reaction out of me.
Additionally, he had an opportunity to fuck with me before, when I asked him to put a floater on the old case. He could have given him some random bullshit busy work, or just not carried out my favor at all. He had to have known what I was doing, given the circumstances.
Maybe Sanders isn’t in league with the Pedo Patrol after all? He certainly has them convinced that he is, but based on what’s happened thus far, he’s on Team Not-Pedophiles. In that case, he knew that he couldn’t give me Cross’s name outright, but knew that Patrick was involved and that I could likely get him to talk.
Suddenly I feel much more at ease about Sanders being at the station with Beth and Todd. He’s been our guardian angel this whole time, and rather than worrying that he’ll be waiting around a corner to drive a shank into one of them, I can let that worry flutter away on the wings of security and certainty. I knew I liked Sanders. And now that I have this information, the game board is abuzz with opportunity again. I can only hope that, in Keroth’s eyes, Sanders is an integral part of his plan to take me down.
As though my thoughts are being transmitted directly to him, I get a text from Sanders: “They’re waiting to ambush you at the station. Don’t come here. Don’t go home. Don’t go to Connors’. I don’t know where you are, but this is the first time you’ve slipped out of their sight since last week. Don’t put yourself back in their field of vision. If you have anywhere else to go, get there. I’ll see if I can figure out a way to keep Connors and Love safe. You’ve really gotten yourself into some shit here, man.”
I reply: “Thanks for the heads up. How’d you get mixed up in this clusterfuck anyway?”
He replies after about five minutes; I’ve taken refuge behind a garbage can in my dad’s carport, where I’m sheltered from the rain and the risk of my phone’s light being spotted is minimal. I can’t stay long, though; the fact that they haven’t seen me yet probably has them worried, so they may come back here.
Sanders: “I fucked up some work a few years ago. REALLY fucked it up. Keroth pulled some strings, made some magic happen, made it disappear. So when this all started happening, he threatened to bring that work back out again if I didn’t cooperate. Fuck that guy, right?”
“Yeah. Well, thanks for your help thus far; any chance I can talk with you in person at some point without the direct supervision of the Asshole Brigade?” I’m still trying to decide on which team name fits them most accurately.
“Not much. I’ll let you know if any opportunity rises.” His reply comes more quickly this time.
I’m not sure whether I’m more appreciative or worried that he didn’t mention the fact that I murdered my dad. But in any case, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it, so I file it under ‘Overanalyze Later’ and move on.
But where to go now? I definitely can’t stay here; even if not for my safety, for my sanity. Obviously Beth’s and my places are off limits. I consider going to Patrick’s for a moment, but realize that he would possibly notify these guys if I s
how up at his place. Not great for invisibility. Plus, fuck that guy.
I compose another text to Sanders: “Do they know where Love lives?”
“Not as far as I know. But if you do go there, don’t turn on any lights. Don’t even use your phone if it can be seen from the outside. These guys are serious. I don’t know whether Keroth is paying these guys mounds of cash or he’s got ’em by the balls like he does me, but either way, they seem happy to be doing his business. Be careful.”
“Aye aye, cap’n.”
With that, I’m off.
I text Todd and Beth again, my head whipping around to look for other people. “Heading to the Love shack. Stay put. Sanders is on our side, but being blackmailed by Keroth. You guys may need to pull an all-nighter in order to assure your safety when you leave.” I hope they pick up on the capital ‘L’. If their digital communication is in fact being surveilled, I’ve just screwed Sanders over, but I’m running low on options. I shove my phone into my pocket and take the fastest route to Todd’s house I can think of without exposing myself to too much traffic or light.
The air has adopted a surreal quality that I usually only experience within the minute after waking up from an intense dream. I almost believe that if I reached out my hand, I could stretch and ripple the canvas of darkness around me like the surface of a lake on a cloudy night. The rain does not relent, soaking me. I put my phone in one of the plastic bags where the combs lived.
I reach the top of the street where Todd resides. There’s a bit of tree cover on the sides of the street, but not enough to conceal me as completely as I’d like. The solar-powered lamps that light Todd’s short walkway don’t help. I stop a couple of houses away and plan my route: halfway up the driveway, over the low hedge onto the front lawn, over to the stoop and in through the front door. Obviously I’d prefer a less conspicuous entrance, but I’m not sure there is one, and I’m not in the mood to poke around for a rusted over back door.
I’m sure it takes less than ten seconds to get to the front door and less than a minute to pick the lock, but the process in its entirety feels like an hour. While I work the lock, I imagine a swarm of little red dots on my back, originating from a team of trained snipers ready to take me out at their superior’s order.
Nineteen
The inside of Todd’s house is just as cozy in the dark as it was in daylight. The darkness here has the serene, mercifully mellow quality that I always crave in it. It’s the creamy filling to my Oreo.
I do my best to navigate into the hallway and find somewhere to attempt to relax. I don’t expect to find a guest bedroom, but it feels rude to invite myself into Todd’s house and lie in his bed. I find myself amused at the thought of worrying about rudeness under these circumstances, and plop onto his squashy full-size mattress.
Suddenly my mind flits this way and that, stopping only at the end of its leash in any one direction, then immediately rebounding off to another subject.
First: What might I be doing right now, had I let my dad continue on in his sick activities? Maybe I’d be at home. Actually, definitely I’d be at home. Without pants on. Reading, eating a grilled cheese sandwich, hanging out with Odin. I might be stressing about some old cold case, wondering whether any of the witnesses were even still around, or maybe just preoccupying myself with TV until it’s an acceptable hour to go to bed. Whatever worries plague the mind of the Remy Thorn from that universe seem bland against the backlight of my current predicament and far, far too distant to be captured by the Hubble.
Next: What is all of this like from Todd’s perspective? Most likely this question came about as a result of my lying in his bed, but I can’t help but wonder. I wonder, too, whether he thought the same thing lying in my bed. Then I remember that he considered my perspective long before we had even met. But to be in Todd’s position, and to have come from where he came from … that’s plain old courage and strength.
I pull the covers up over my head and pull my phone out to find that I have two text messages.
Uh-oh.
One from Beth: “Any news?”
Okay. Maybe not uh-oh.
One from a number that I don’t recognize: “Hide all you want. It’ll all be over soon, and no amount of hide and seek will save you.”
Nope. Definitely uh-oh.
I take a screenshot of the text from the unknown number and send it to Beth, in reply to her own text.
“Oh shit.”
“Do you recognize the number?”
“Negative. Most likely we don’t have access to it, either.”
“Yeah. Fuck. I sure hope it’s all over soon. I’m totally on board with that part of the text. Sorry to have dragged you into this. I had planned to go it alone.”
“You’re fine. But when it’s all over, you’re definitely going to have to come over and explain everything. This is some prime time TV material we’re dealing with right now. We just need some shitty beer commercials to complete the experience.”
I almost laugh. Leave it to Beth.
I reply: “Hah, yeah.” She takes the cue that the conversation is over and we both need to think. Beth is great at that.
The rain continues to hammer away at the window, affording me an oasis of peace in this otherwise desolate, merciless emotional wasteland. In spite of the potential coming of my own demise, I’m actually rather cozy. A more primitive part of my mind wants to stay under the duvet, wait out the storm, and emerge only when I’m guaranteed safety.
However, I have work to do. I wonder whether this will all end as soon as Keroth goes to jail. If his goons are any sort of loyal, I might have some aftermath to deal with, but hopefully their loyalty only extends as far as he can pay for, thus rendering it virtually nonexistent once Keroth is behind bars.
On the other hand, they could be one of those closer-than-brothers sorts of gangs, and if I put Keroth in bars, especially for a murder that I committed, I may as well dig myself a hole right now, because they know where I live and are likely familiar with my schedule by now. I determine that this is a risk that I’m willing to take.
I check my phone: midnight. It’ll be an unbearable wait for normal people to begin filtering into the station around six, or even for the early risers to do so at five. Even with Todd and Sanders with her, I feel bad about leaving Beth there for so long, but as I see it, I don’t have many other options. If Keroth’s pet stupids are waiting at the station to ambush me, they’re just as ready to ambush Beth and Todd. And, while I know that they’re not going to kill me, I can’t say the same for those two. Surely they’re not waiting at the station, due to the coming and going of patrol cars, but judging by the organization and manpower I’ve seen thus far, they likely have every route surveilled carefully.
I need to think. I need tea and a slice of banana bread. I need a shower and for the universe to just stop for a minute. I need the overly cognitive parts of my brain that usually fire on all cylinders to return to their old habits, rather than sputtering and squealing and gasping to a halt.
I need to be enough.
My eyes may have been bigger than my stomach on this one, but god damn it, I need to power through it. And not just I. We. We need me. Beth, Todd, even Sanders. They’re all smart, calculating, and analytical individuals, but this isn’t their mess. Or, at least, it wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for me.
I can’t make this burden theirs. I need to do this, and they need me to do this. But how?
I compose a text to Sanders: “How’s everything going there?”
“So far so good. The vultures are getting a bit antsy, though. I’m not sure how much longer I can stall on behalf of these two…”
“I have an idea.”
“Thank god. We need one of those. Like, an hour ago. What do you have in mind?”
“Text the guys waiting outside. Act like Beth and Todd just took off. Along the lines of ‘Did you get ’em? They just ran north!’ While they frantically spread themselves in search, they slip out the bathroo
m, the way I did. And for the love of god, have them stick to the dark. What do you think?”
“I mean, on the surface, it works, but if I’m caught, we’re all fucked.”
“Damn it. You’re right. Give me thirty.”
“Are you going to do something stupid?”
“Yep. Make it twenty-five.”
“And then what?”
“I text Beth, they wait twenty seconds, then they bolt.”
“And you?”
“I text Beth, I wait zero seconds, then I bolt. On my way.”
I see my phone light up signaling his reply, but I don’t check it; I’m back into the rain, heading toward the station, hoping to Orion that my high school obsession with parkour and my affinity for darkness will be enough to pull me out of the hole into which I’m about to plunge.
The night feels the same way as a couple of nights ago, when I was on my way to Beth’s house: urgent, purposeful. Determined in a way that meant high stakes. My strides are powerful, complete, without counting or measuring. As more and more pavement passes underfoot, I grow steadily more confident.
I can do this. I can be what they need. I’m enough.
Street by street, my charge swells within my chest, imbuing me with a conviction that I haven’t known for some time. My brisk walk turns into a run, darting through the shadows, still taking as much care as possible to avoid light and detection. I’m a block away from the station a solid ten minutes sooner than I told Sanders. Cars dot the curbs surrounding the station, a Civic here, an F-150 there. I think one of them drove a smart car.
Shaking myself of the amusing visual that is a smart car in a car chase, I crouch beside a letter box to better gauge the scene while minimizing the risk of detection. I’m a block west of the station, on its south road. There are two visible cars against the curb directly across the street from the station. From where I’m crouching, I can see two more on its west side, hugging the station’s parking lot. To the east, there are houses and yards.
As far as I can tell, that’s my entrance. I need to appear to come from the station, and unless I clamber back into the window on the north side where I dropped from the bathroom, there’s no reasonable, inconspicuous way for me to come straight from the building.
[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum Page 14