[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum

by Michael Lilly

  “I would have, but there seems to be a severe shortage of those these days.”

  I stride to the door, noticing at once how sore and achy I am. Everywhere.

  Indeed, I’m met with the fragrant aroma of coffee beans.

  “Morning,” says Beth when I enter the kitchen. “Sleep well?”

  “Yes, actually. How about you?”

  “Like a god damn log.”

  I fish the parts of my phone out of the bowl of rice. After slapping the battery back into place and shoving its cover on, I hold the power button, hoping for a miracle.

  It turns on. After the brand name jingle and startup animation play, I am bombarded with the notifications that I would have gotten since my phone drowned last night.

  First, a text from Sanders, which would have arrived while I was en route to the station last night: “ETA?”

  Another text from Sanders: “Sureforce 0717 H22 18 2 44”

  Huh.

  Next, an onslaught of “Homicide, gunshot wound to the chest, Pine and Crescent.” And “Where the fuck are you? Get here now.” Oops.

  “Beth,” I say. “Look at this.”

  Coffee pot in hand, she crosses the kitchen and looks at it, then furrows her brow. “The fuck?”

  “Right?”

  “What’s up?” Todd joins us in the kitchen.

  “Look at this.”

  “Hmm,” says Todd. “Wait. Look at the time he sent it. 1:37 a.m. We were on the run at that point. Did you see him get out his phone?”

  “No,” Beth says. “But that might’ve been … after he got shot. He knew he wasn’t going to make it. But what the hell is ‘Sureforce’?”

  A quick Internet search reveals that there’s a family-owned storage unit facility in Portland named Sureforce.

  “I’ll bet you anything that that’s a unit number and the combination,” I say.

  “What about those first four digits?” asks Beth.

  “Maybe the passcode to get into the facility itself. Most storage facilities have those, don’t they?”

  “Yeah. So do we go now?” I say.

  “I don’t see why not,” says Beth. “One problem, though. My car is at the station.”

  “We’ll take mine,” Todd says.

  Todd drives a forest green Honda Accord. Beth insists I take shotgun (“Besides, I want to be able to lie down and have a bit of a nap if I feel like it.”) I know that it’s bullshit, but there’s no way to call her out on it without seeming like I’m making too big of a deal of things. Which, I suppose, I am.

  “Where are we headed?” Todd asks, pulling out of the driveway. I load my GPS while he takes the appropriate route to get him to the interstate.

  I give him the few steps that it takes to get him there, and he memorizes while I speak. He handles the vehicle carefully, but smoothly, in such a way that makes me feel as though even my tempestuous anxiety would allow for a nip of a nap on a car ride captained by Todd.

  To Beth’s dismay, conversation on the way to the facility is limited; we’re all trying to bury our thoughts and emotions of the aftermath of Sanders’ murder under the pressure of performing optimally to assure that it’s not in vain. We need to wrap this up before Keroth has a chance to order a hit on whichever of his guys shot Sanders. And to do that, we need to be focused singularly on the goal from now until its completion.

  Don’t get me wrong; Beth’s sentiments are appreciated and heartwarming to the point where I’m almost convinced that I have a heart. But now is the time for laser focus and an absolute, immovable resistance to distraction.

  While it’s sunny, the air is thick with the remnants of last night’s rain storm. Usually our rain is more ethereal, seeming to form right in the air around us rather than dropping like missiles from the sky. Last night, it seems, was a rare gift from Mother Nature.

  I find myself wondering whether the outcomes of last night would have been different had it not been raining with such force and substance.

  Before I know it, Todd flicks on his turn signal and we exit the freeway, two turns away from our destination. Beth didn’t take advantage of her abundant nap space, instead folding her arms across her torso and staring out the window, evidently in a time or place far from these.

  “Remy,” she says suddenly, “didn’t you say that Sanders was looking for me? The day you found me at that scumbag’s house?”

  “Yeah,” I recall. “He said it was urgent.”

  She nods. “I wonder if it was this.”

  “Or maybe he was trying to warn you, to keep you from getting kidnapped,” offers Todd.

  “Yeah,” says Beth. “Maybe.” It’s apparent that she still hasn’t entirely phased back into this world.

  Todd rounds one last corner and we find Sureforce Storage (The Safer Safe!) on our left. The chilly humidity seeps right to our bones, rendering our jackets almost useless. It mocks the sunlight, daring it to attempt to warm up the day.

  We pull right up to the entry gate and Todd keys in 0-7-1-7 on an electronic keypad, a silent sentinel that protrudes from the ground. A small light on its face turns green and the automated gate rolls open to allow us entry.

  A thought strikes me: If Keroth somehow found out about the text that Sanders sent me, he’d know we’re here. If that’s the case, surely he has his guys guarding whatever it is that lies in that storage facility. My hope is that Sanders’ phone suffered a more permanent death than mine did, that the rain shorted its hardware so thoroughly that no amount of rice could revive it. Of course, Keroth could subpoena the phone company for my phone records, in which case the conversations would be there, plain and readable. However, that can be a lengthy process, and he would first have to explain to a judge why he wanted a subpoena regarding a detective on the case while no other evidence relevant to that detective had surfaced.

  Slowly, cautiously, we roll through the tops of the rows of storage units. We pass F, then G. I’m about to tell Todd to keep driving, and that we can circle around, just so that we can get a glimpse of row H before committing to driving down it, but it seems that he’s already had that idea. He keeps his own eyes on the narrow pathway, relying on us to get a good look down the row.

  It appears deserted. We exercise the same caution going back the other way, in case there are any people or obstacles that would reveal themselves from the new angle, but alas, none are visible. On our third pass, going back the same way as the first time, we turn down the row and approach it with more speed this time.

  H22 looks the same as all of the other units, though it seems that, instead of using the standard, company-supplied padlock that the rest of the units are using, it has a heavy-duty piece hooked through its holds that makes my lock picks cower in their pouch. I really hope that the combination that Sanders sent us is accurate, because picking that sucker could take a good while, and I didn’t bring a hacksaw.

  I pass a pair of gloves each to Beth and Todd.

  Todd doesn’t question it, but Beth raises and eyebrow. “Do you just carry these around everywhere?”

  “Yes,” I say simply. I leave it to her to remember what I do with my spare time. “You two okay with standing guard for a sec while I open it?”

  “You got it,” says Beth.

  Fortunately, there are only two ways to approach; from the east and from the west. With two people watching my back, my coverage is absolute.

  From memory, I turn the dial. It clicks smoothly, quietly. 18, 2, 44.

  It clicks open.

  With some help, the teal, garage-style door rolls upward, revealing its insides.

  The walls are lined with stacks of cardboard boxes, labeled with neat Sharpie writing in some organizational system that I can’t understand at a glance. There’s a shelving unit against the back wall with several more boxes, though these ones differ in size from the ones on the side walls, and have no labels. The single light bulb casts a sickly glow throughout the room, illuminating that which swallows light.

  And
in the corner, swallowed almost entirely by shadows, a young girl shivers. She’s either unconscious or so far withdrawn into her mind that our presence goes unacknowledged. She’s curled into a tiny, pitiful ball, with duct tape over her mouth and binding her wrists and ankles. She’s maybe eight or nine years old, with blond hair that I’m sure used to be full of life, but is currently matted and ratty. She’s covered in bruises and is alarmingly malnourished. She’s wearing pajamas that she was most likely wearing when she was kidnapped.

  She notices us and whimpers, and an almighty righteous rage wells inside me, one that has been more or less under control since Ellen Dodge’s case found its way to my desk just over a year ago. I remove my gloves, the better to handle her bindings deftly and gently. I remove the tape from her face and her lower lip bleeds slightly, a piece of her skin having come off with the tape.

  At this sudden pain, she wakes. After blinking herself into reality, she looks at me, and is stricken with a bout of panic, but only for a moment.

  “Y-you’re … not him,” she says. Her voice is stronger than I would have thought.

  “No, I’m not,” I say.

  “But you look like him,”

  I almost ask who, but am washed over with a wave of clarity, followed by one of disgust.

  “Don’t worry about him anymore,” I say, doing everything I can to offer steady security in my voice. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” She’s suspicious, and with good reason. She turns her head to the side, eyeing me carefully. Beth and Todd have both observed what’s happening, but they’re holding their respective vigils and are apparently, thankfully, aware that abandoning their posts may allow trouble in through our already battered doors.

  “Dead,” I say. Normally I avoid using a word with such absolution, such power, with children, but in this case, it may prove to be more relieving, empowering, than devastating.

  Death is interesting, in that way. Those who lead lives of innocence, and who surround themselves with people who also live lives of innocence, often regard death as a negative thing, because for them, it is. But in reality, from a purely objective standpoint, death is the essence of neutrality. It swings its scythe upon us all, at one point or another, whether we are vehement perpetrators of evil or the sinless guardians of the innocent.

  Whether death is experienced as a good thing or a bad thing depends on the recipient and those within his or her immediate influence. If Beth or Todd were to die, it would be bad for me, but good for Keroth. If Keroth were to die, it would be good for untold numbers of children, but seen as a catastrophe by his family and friends—really, anyone left unaware of his dealings.

  In this case, the news of my dad’s death brings comfort and security, a hope for which this girl didn’t previously dare to reach.

  Indeed, she exhales a breath of relief.

  I reach in my back pocket and she flinches. I withdraw a multi-tool and present it, keeping my other hand up, revealing its emptiness.

  “Want me to do your wrists? Then you can do your ankles.”

  She considers for a moment, then decides that, if my intentions were malicious, I would already have manifested them. She nods, holding up her trembling wrists. With extra care, so as not to let her shaking cause a mishap, I cut the duct tape. She rubs her wrists.

  I hand her the multi-tool, gently coaching her through severing the tape around her ankles. Without her bindings, she looks like a ghostly figure from a low-budget horror film, the returned spirit of vengeance of a child taken before her time (and, in a less forgiving timeline, that could well have become the case). The parts of her that aren’t bruised are layered with dirt.

  She draws her knees to her chest, then looks over them at me. “What about the one with red hair?” she asks. Keroth.

  “We’re figuring that out,” I say.

  “What happens now?” she asks.

  “We need to get you safe,” I say. I hold out a steady hand, and she eyes it warily. I don’t insist, via language of the body or that of the mouth, that she take it; if I’m to establish the essential modicum of trust, I need her to take my hand on her own time. Her will and agenda must be respected.

  Eventually, she reaches out and takes it, allowing me to lift her to her feet. Her pajamas are even more dirt-stained than she is.

  I begin leading her out of the storage unit and, upon seeing us coming, Todd and Beth hurry to the car. It’s started before we get to it, and we slide into our seats, Todd and I up front and Beth in back with May.

  I don’t have to tell her to buckle up. “What’s your name?”

  Her name is Maylynn Brotcher, resident of Portland. She lives on the north side of town, in a quiet suburb, and was snatched from her house one Saturday morning while her parents were on a quick errand. She had a friend coming over and isn’t tall enough to use the peep hole in the door, so she opened it when the doorbell rang. She can’t remember how long ago it was, but by the state of things, I’d venture to guess at least a week. In any case, I don’t know that Keroth would have been so careless as to kidnap another child while my dad’s murder was ongoing.

  “Let’s get her to the police station,” I say.

  “Wouldn’t it be better to get her home?” says Todd. “Then we can wait with her there, and call the police.”

  “That might alert Keroth’s guys,” I point out. “And I’m not a fan of what might happen if they get to you before the police do. Plus, the police station is nice and public. We can remain unknown until we get there, then even if they do come after us, we’re in the safety and public of the police station. They won’t dare act against us there.”

  Todd considers. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Who’s Keroth?” Maylynn asks.

  “The red-haired guy,” I say.

  “I hate that guy.”

  “So do we.”

  We don’t bother closing the storage unit before leaving; if it’s registered in his name, its discovery can only help our case. I stow the industrial strength padlock in my jacket.

  Approaching from the inside, the gate opens at our approach without the requirement of a passcode. As we exit, the front desk worker looks out the small window of the small, one-room building and his eyes widen. Uh-oh.

  But it’s too late; the gate has already opened sufficiently to allow the Accord passage, and Todd lays into the gas pedal to propel us eastward.

  Were we on the equator, the sun would be directly overhead, but instead it lies not far above the southern horizon; Beth uses her arm to block the rays from roasting her face, but to her left, Maylynn basks in the sunlight, turning her face toward its source for maximum effect. She closes her eyes, and the faintest whisper of a smile flickers across her face. In the winter sunlight, the gaping hole where the child’s innocence had previously taken residence is ever clearer.

  We head toward the heart of the city, but as none of us are from around here, we must use GPS to navigate the bridges and canals of the city. Beth has a general knowledge of the area, but a familiarity with the interstates and main roads can’t compete with the GPS’s complete knowledge of the roads (including traffic updates). After we get our bearings, we find ourselves speeding along Willamette River, minutes away from getting Maylynn to safety. However, where we are to turn right, two cars block the road.

  “Uh-oh,” I say.

  Each car is equipped with a man, leaning against the exterior, and each man is equipped with a gun. They stare at us as we pass, suddenly looking alert and reaching into their pockets, presumably for cell phones or radios. The bloodhounds are incoming, and we’re dripping with the scent of prey’s panic.

  “What do we do?” Todd asks, taking for granted that Beth and I both took note of the roadblock.

  I need to think. If Keroth has his guys out here looking for us, they will find us. They’ve already seen us, which surrenders to them both the car we’re in and the direction we’re going. I don’t know whether they saw Maylynn in the back seat, but it wo
uld have been difficult, as she’s in the middle and Beth is sitting right behind me on the passenger side. If they’re already mobile and on the lookout for us, they know that we’re in the city, and really, what reason would we have for being in Portland at such a time other than that we found out about the storage unit? And assuming that they know all of this, it’s likely that they would be operating under the understanding that we have Maylynn with us.

  In other words, it doesn’t matter whether they saw her. They know we have her, they know what we’re driving, and they know that we’re trying to get to a police station. I scan my mind for some way they could know that we’re here, and my mind lingers for a moment on the gate operator at the storage facility.

  “I think we head out of the city,” I say. “I hate it, and I want to get her home, but I get the feeling that every police station in the city, in addition to her home, will be under armed surveillance. I don't want to risk putting her in that danger. What do you think?”

  “We could find somewhere to hide in the city,” offers Beth. “As soon as the heat’s off, both here and back home, we can come out and take her to a station.”

  “The problem is that we don’t know what our predators look like,” I say. “They could walk right up the street at us and we wouldn’t know it until they had a pistol jammed into our sternums.”

  Beth and Todd both sigh in frustration.

  “Yeah,” says Beth. “You’re right.”

  “Todd,” I say, “keep an eye out for any car that lingers behind us for more than a minute or so. I don’t want us being followed. Do we have enough gas to get us back home?”

  “Barely,” he says. “Might be cutting it close.”

  “Let’s focus on getting out of the city for now, and if it looks clear by the time we’re out of Portland, we’ll find somewhere to stop for gas.”

  Todd nods. While his actions remain steady, smooth, and confident, I can see that his nerves are being worn down under the onslaught that has been the past three days. His features take on a slight harshness. Nonetheless, his hands on the wheel are firm and he guides us through traffic with careful ease.