[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum

by Michael Lilly

  “I dunno. Perhaps I’ve finally hit my rebellious phase.”

  “So is it time for my violent phase, then?” She folds her arms and lifts her eyebrows at me in a way that makes me ruefully aware that she’s at an appropriate height to punch me square in the crotch. “Out you get, Love has a lot of healing to do.”

  That it does.

  “Yes ma’am. When can I come to visit?”

  “Tomorrow morning, weather permitting.”

  “Weather?”

  “This is a storm you don’t want to be caught in.” She gestures to herself and winks. “Call ahead, get an okay from me first. Out.”

  I steal one more glance at Todd before I’m whisked away by the gale winds of Gale Quispitt, and something within me clicks into place, lending stability to my core, my soul, whatever you want to call it.

  On my way through the white, echoing corridors, it takes herculean effort to yank my consciousness with me after it found such a welcoming nook with Todd. But there is still much to be done.

  The prosecutor must be well under way with the interview with May and her mother, and by the time I arrive there on foot, I should have a clearer idea of what I’m looking at. Aftermath in these cases is never fun to sort out, and this instance, more than any other, proves that. I typically busy myself with assuring that the investigation is airtight and locked onto the target that I’ve chosen. This time, I’m simultaneously playing offense and defense, hunting a wolf while it hunts me right back, its pack in stride.

  I take precautions to be as inconspicuous as possible throughout my walk from the hospital to the station; at this point, I’m not sure whether or not I should be worried about Keroth’s guys patrolling the area, but I can spare the additional minute or two that it costs me to take such precautions.

  I walk through the front doors, small lobby, and bullpen without engaging anyone, and at last reach the interview hallway. In the middle of each side of the hallway, between the interview rooms, an unmarked door leads to a room where one can observe the interviews taking place through both a one-way mirror and camera feed, complete with audio. This is a convenient upgrade; in past years, we’ve had to stand attentively at the door, sometimes waving frantically to try to tame the mighty roar that was the bullpen on a Friday afternoon.

  I stop for a moment to ascertain where she is, and I find her in what seems to be the beginning of the interview with the prosecutor.

  The prosecutor, a Mr. Benjamin Driff, has finished with the cautions and outlined the structure of the interview with May. We call him Benadryl due to his tendency to put court attendees to sleep from his immensely boring lack of charisma, notorious for tossing entire juries into a collective state of glazed-over absence. However, when speaking one-on-one, he has the gift of gentle, caring kindness, and in that regard, I love him in this role. He’s a bit beyond middle-aged, wears bronze-framed bifocals, and sports the exact same suit-tie-shoes-belt combination every time I see him. Standing at six feet four inches, he towers over everyone at the station, but is in no way intimidating, unless you’re a defendant in the courtroom.

  As I seat myself quietly in the observation room and click on a monitor so I can hear their conversation, I notice that Benadryl has lowered his office chair to the lowest possible height, so as to match May’s eye level. He listens intently and doesn’t interrupt her, encouraging her to continue speaking. He has become the Van Gogh of his own art, and I can only appreciate it at this point.

  Before turning on the audio, I hesitate. I don’t know that I could handle listening to this tale. I’ve lived my own, and known of cases who have died to theirs, but this story is still breathing. That there may yet be a happily ever after for May inspires hope in me, but simultaneously assails my heart; in every other case I’ve worked for this type of tragedy, the deed had been done and, if nothing else, the victims at least had the quiet embrace of death. On all of those occasions, I assumed that dying would be the only real mercy left in the world, that due to the perversion of another man (or, in rare cases, woman), the remainders of the victims’ lives would be joyless, labored by default. A life to be endured rather than lived.

  When I broke free from the home of my upbringing, I was emotionless to a depth that convinced me that feeling happy (or anything beyond fear, really) was no longer a possibility for me throughout the duration of my life. Over the years, I shed the fear like a husk, but I emerged simply without feeling, where part of me had expected that to return my heart to its unbroken state.

  And now, as I picture May having gone through the same kind of abuse, I ache desperately for her to experience life in the manner of any other person: triumph, joy, love, togetherness and community, complemented by anguish, grief, sorrow, and melancholy. I want for her access to her emotions to remain undamaged, but I know that that is no longer an option.

  Yet, as I think it, my mind drifts to Todd. I recall that brief moment when I was leaving his hospital room that seemed to pump life into the formerly barren, desolate areas of my heart that I have long presumed dead. It frustrates me that I don’t know precisely what it is about him that grants me a key to the safe where my personality has been hiding, but I suppose if a key exists for me, that’s reason enough to believe that one exists for May, too.

  I’m still debating whether or not to turn on the audio when Beth walks into the interview room with the collection of pictures that I made. Now I can’t engage the audio feed fast enough.

  Benadryl’s is the voice I hear first. “—of these pictures look like the man?”

  May nods and, even through the one-way mirror, I can see tears starting to form in her eyes. I look at the monitor and the waterworks are not lost on the camera, either. Hang in there, May; just a while longer and you can go home with your mom and take some serious relaxation time.

  “Would you point out to me which one it was?”

  May freezes and my heart follows suit. For a moment, I fear that Keroth will walk free, but ever the bullheaded, strong girl we’ve gotten to know today, May leans forward and jabs a finger into the picture of Keroth, sending a violent ripple through the poster board. ’Atta girl.

  “Let the record show that Maylynn has pointed out a picture of … of Detective Jeremy Keroth of Portland Metro.” Even Benadryl’s voice strains slightly under the enormity of the words. That’s all I need. I turn off the audio as Benadryl navigates his way through the more difficult questions about what he did to her. I watch and try to be attentive, but my mind, as though having developed a will independent of my sentience, keeps flying back to the hospital, as if sensing what sorts of trauma are most certainly being related in the interview and fleeing to the safest haven it knows.

  At length, I cease to resist the pull and let my mind have its way. As is typical of my mind, it analyzes the past and present, while working furiously to divine a number of potential futures of varying degrees of likelihood.

  It explores every moment that Todd and I shared since he showed up at my desk as an anonymous floater: rescuing Beth, escaping to my place, and finding common ground in the pain of our pasts. Or past, rather. The incomprehensible amount of relief I felt when he and Beth arrived at his place safely last night (dear god; that was just last night). The mutually understood relenting of the universe, if only for a moment, while we saw each other at the hospital.

  My eyes close without my noticing, and what-if scenarios are forming and taking place in my mind like a talented improv group with an audience of one.

  In the first of these sketches, concocted no doubt by the shadowy tendrils of despair that took up residence in my mind years ago, I return to the hospital to share the news of May’s interview with Todd, only to find Nurse Gale finishing up the last of the cleaning and sanitization. She wears a solemn look on her face that can only mean one thing.

  I yank the reins of my imagination from that particular area of my mind and hand them to a more hopeful driver.

  I timidly approach the door to his room, and
he’s simply sleeping. Recovering. And as long as I’m quiet, Gale lets me stay in there for as long as I want.

  It surprises me how simple of a situation I put together, having given the reins to the normally dormant optimist in me, but then, given the immensity of this week’s shitstorm, I suppose that a brief pause of quiet, calm neutrality can offer reprieve beyond what we could ever normally expect from it.

  Still, given the immense imaginative power of the human mind, it intrigues me that, with the virtually endless possibilities of scenarios to imagine, the most simple is sufficient to put my mind at ease.

  My muscles ache. My clothes are still damp. My joints throb. The knuckles on my right hand are scraped from something to which my adrenaline blinded me, and I feel a bruise forming somewhere on my right calf. There’s a small possibility that I’ll go to prison, and a less small possibility that I’ll be unsafe in my home town after this all blows over.

  And yet, despite the overwhelming hellishness of my circumstances, I’m not tense. My mind is hard at work, as always, but it’s not pumping anxiety into my system, like it usually does. Instead, that part of my mind feels numb. Certainly it’s due in part to my adrenal gland having been worked into near impotence, but also it comes from having an anchor; a safe thing to which to cling.

  Slowly, I rise from my seat in the observation room. May has gained momentum and confidence, and is adamantly relating her tale to the prosecutor. I want to listen, to empathize. But I can’t. I leave the room.

  Twenty-Six

  In the interview hallway, I assess that my presence here is no longer necessary. May and her mother are being taken care of. In reluctant submission to an itch to be doing something helpful, I decide to get dinner for Beth and myself, along with coffee; despite our night of sleep last night, the day has been wearing, and only threatens to be more so as it surges on. Plus, perhaps by the time I return, they will have finished with the interview.

  While I’m aware that the streets may still be infested with Keroth’s guys, the part of me that cares is dwarfed by the part of me that wants to pound an obscenely greasy burger, complete with fries and a shake. And fortunately, being a frequent customer of the local diner, all I have to do is text my order to Kev, its owner and manager.

  “Can I get the usual for Beth and me to go? Be there in a bit. Thanks.”

  It’s typical of Kev to take a minute or two to reply, as his hands are often full, greasy, or both. He responds before I hit the edge of the parking lot: “Coming right up!” I can taste it already. My mouth waters.

  Evidently, my mind has recharged its anxiety core, as I picture Odin at the apartment. He’s surely out of the food I left for him. While he knows that he’s only supposed to eat what’s in his bowl, the bag containing his food is on the floor of the open pantry; if he gets too hungry, he will most likely tear it open and have a meal. And as for water…well, I cleaned the toilet recently. The rush of panic lessens moderately, but I recall what Keroth’s guys did last time they were in my apartment (that I knew of) and pray that they didn’t take him.

  In movies and TV shows, if the villain wants a trump card, all they have to do is kidnap the significant other of the protagonist, and inevitably, that will incite action, fight scenes, and helicopter explosions á la Michael Bay. In my case, the surest way to prod me into action (and simultaneously piss me off) is coming between me and my dog. As soon as Beth is free, I’ll have her come with me to my apartment to check out the situation there.

  At long last, today’s light has yielded completely to the horizon, and the first stars’ light bursts through the sky overhead. A crisp breeze blows, similar to the one that embraced me the morning after I killed my dad. I welcome it; the cold grounds me, thus keeping me sharp in the present rather than the conditional.

  The diner is on a corner, across the street to the south of the coffee shop. I open the door, triggering the familiar jingle of the bell.

  “Hey Remy! Your order’ll be up in just a minute. How’re things?”

  I grunt. Kev is a great guy, if overwhelmingly optimistic. He’s a wizard on the grill, griddle, and if needs be, even the microwave. He was born and raised in New York, with wealthy parents who wanted him to grow up and be a dentist or an attorney. But Kev preferred the modest things: broke, artsy friends, camping (actual camping, sans RV or running water), and greasy breakfast foods. He moved to Riverdell three years ago as an act of young adult rebellion. The old owner, James Hersch, gave him a job as a line cook and passed away two years later. Kev worked hard and learned fast, though, and to no one’s surprise, the diner was left to him in James’s will. He stands at a little over six feet, and utilizes the extra length in his arms to manage several small projects at once while working the griddle.

  “Hang in there, my man!” Oh yeah. Also, everyone is ‘his man.’ It bothered me at first, but now it’s endearing in a way that only Kev has license to use.

  “Hey, thanks. You, too.” I sit on a stool at the bar for only a minute before my food arrives.

  “I threw in an order of jalapeño poppers, too. On me. Take care.” The look of genuine sympathy Kev gives me catches me off guard until I remember that I’m still supposed to be sad about my dad. I reply with only a nod and a solemn half-smile, collect my food, thank him, and take my leave. The smell wafting from the bag and kitchen make my mouth water and stomach growl.

  When I return, the prosecutor has indeed finished with May and Mrs. Brotcher. They’ve been cleared to leave, but wanted to stay behind to thank me, providing my first interaction with May’s mother.

  “Thank you … just thank you. So much. I can’t believe … I just thought … it really can happen to anyone, can’t it?” The fire in her eyes has been reignited. While shaken, deeply disturbed even, she recognizes that this situation requires strength, and she’s opting to rise to the occasion rather than shrink from it. I’m glad for this; May will need to draw on that strength frequently in the coming months.

  “Just about,” I say. “But we’re doing our best to make sure it happens as infrequently and to as few people as possible. May is strong, and with her help, we can get a lot done on that front. How did it go in there?”

  “May probably handled it better than I did.” She tears up.

  So do I.

  “You should get her home,” I say. “I’m sure she’s dying to get back to her own bed.”

  Mrs. Brotcher nods. “That man on the side of the road, is he okay?”

  “He’ll be fine,” I say. “A bit banged up, but nothing serious. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “Right, right,” she says. “Seems to be the sentence of the day.”

  “Get May home. We’ll have one of our guys take you in a squad car.” I smile, and she smiles back.

  One of the floaters nearby overheard our conversation and volunteers to drive them. Just in case he’s in with Keroth’s crew, I assign a random floater to go with them and hope that they’re not both in that boat.

  Beth has already started eating, having snatched the bag while I was talking with Mrs. Brotcher. She holds her already half-eaten burger in one hand and three fries in the other. When she finds a moment to come up for air, she says, “Dear god I forgot how good this shit is.” Despite our last couple of days, it’s strange for me to see Beth shed her professionalism at the station. For general consumption, she prefers vanilla shakes, but she likes to dip her fries in a chocolate one, and she’s already broken ground on mine.

  I sit with her and start into my own burger, sweet potato fries, shake, and jalapeño poppers.

  Between bites, I say, “Will you come with me to my place after this? I need to check on Odin and I’d feel better with backup.”

  She nods. “So Love is doing all right, then?”

  “Yeah. Nurse Deathglare shooed me out before we really got a chance to talk, but he seems in good spirits.”

  “Good to hear.”

  We finish our meals quickly—partially because of the inh
erent hurriedness of our evening, but mostly because we’re starving. Beth tosses the trash out on our way through the lobby, and we’re off into the night once more. We don’t bother getting a car from the pool, but nonetheless, we take precautions when approaching and getting into Beth’s.

  We don’t talk during the drive to my place for the sole reason that we are exhausted. When we get to my place, we both ascend the rickety steps, guns drawn. I try my door handle once first, on the off chance that they broke in and forgot to lock the door on their way out, but it’s locked. I insert the key into the lock, turn, and push my door in.

  As far as I can tell upon examining the front room, everything is where and how it should be, but I derive little hope from that, as, in the past, their deeds have been deposited in my bedroom, not the front room. The balloon of anxiety in my chest is punctured, however, when I hear light panting and the jingling of Odin’s collar tags.

  Despite my certainty that he’s been drinking from the toilet, I let him lick my face; I’ve missed him more than I realize. A fast yet thorough inspection reveals nothing more out of place, nor does it betray any evidence that anyone has been here at all, aside from the mess that Odin made when he tore into his food bag. I clean it up and fill his bowls, and Beth and I sit and watch while he eats and drinks properly. He left a small mess on the bathroom floor, but that’s a consequence of not being able to take your dog out for a couple of days, I suppose. Never again.

  Beth’s phone vibrates as Odin chews up the last of his food.

  “Ah shit,” she says. “They can’t find Keroth. He fled.”

  “Mother fucker,” I say. “Where have they checked?”

  “His house, our station, Portland’s stations. Questioned his wife and she doesn’t know. Apparently she’s a fountain at the moment, though.”

  “A fountain of information or of tears?”

  “Tears, mostly.”

  “I would be, too,” I say.