In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

“It worked for Jessica, which tells me that the owner of the wish would need to make an effort to overturn the original wish. You have quite the debt to settle with Pat and Benny, not to mention every victim that was bumped off by Agnew.”

  I cannot argue with his logic, but I’m paralyzed at the prospect of being inside that hole. “How could I even get inside the well? It isn’t like it would be easy to lower a ladder inside, other than maybe a portable one like you see hanging from the side of a cruise ship. If the ladder happens to fall inside, I’d be forced to shimmy up the side of the well. That sounds like a terrifying ‘no-win’ situation.”

  “You don’t have to worry about attaching a ladder because metal rungs are pounded into the cement inside the well that descends to the water below,” Clancy enlightens. He seems to be a textbook of knowledge. “They originally put those in for municipal workers to retrieve the coins before winter set in. After a few accidents, the town no longer allowed the workers to go inside. There must be thousands of coins collecting down there.”

  “Accidents? Jesus Christianson! That isn’t what I wanted to hear.”

  “The accidents did not happen because the well was trying to keep them out,” he informs. “It had more to do with the size of the individuals they had sent inside. As long as you are physically capable of climbing up and down a ladder, you should make it in and out without any problem. From what I remember, the wishing well is only 44-feet deep. That’s like stacking eight of you on top of each other. That isn’t that far down when you consider it that way.”

  “I suppose not,” I murmur, but it sounds deep as fuck. I’m barely comfortable being in a basement and that’s only about 10 feet below ground level. Then again, going down 44 feet to rescind a ‘wish gone terribly wrong’ may not be as horrific as it sounds. What am I saying? It’ll be that far down inside a narrow cylinder. It would be like crawling 44 feet through those sewer pipes below the sidewalks. Clancy doesn’t understand that I often hyperventilate when my legs get entangled in a bunched-up bedspread.

  “Ms. McAllister, do you know anything about Evel Knievel?”

  “Just that he was a motorcycle daredevil,” I say. “He was a little before my time.”

  “He was more than a daredevil; the man was crazy as a fox,” Clancy says. “With a motorcycle, he would jump over cars and buses because he loved facing death in the eye. After what happened at Caesar’s Palace, anyone else would have retired and entered the professional landscaping game. Not Evel. Back in the day, he redefined what the word ‘fearless’ meant.”

  How come ‘back in the day’ is always better than what is presently happening?

  “I did see a YouTube clip of him jumping once. Didn’t that hurt his balls when he landed?” I ask. “I can’t imagine how he kept the handlebars steady when his nuts ended up in his throat like that.”

  “You’re missing the big picture,” he says, slightly irritated. “That man faced his mortality in front of sold-out audiences. Almost every jump was shown on TV. When he would crash, everyone had a front-row seat to witness his grueling defeat. After his bones healed, the man was out there doing it again.”

  “You know, this example would be more effective if I actually saw Evel Knievel more than just one time. It’s kind of an out-of-date reference.”

  “The point I’m illustrating is that when you make a mistake, you need to get out there and try to make it right. It’s not you getting hurt; it’s other people that are paying for your blunder. In case you’re not aware, Agnew has been on the news this afternoon. Chances are quite good that he’s killing people as we speak.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Clancy grabs his remote control and clicks on the television. The news is showing dozens of armed police officers surrounding a six-story building. “That place is sealed up tighter than a nun’s pucker, but he’ll most likely give them the slip,” he says. “The people he’s holding may not be so lucky. He’s probably deciding which hostages to kill at this very moment. You must fix this predicament, young lady. Any murder he commits from this moment forward will be on your head.”

  I can’t argue with him on that. What he’s suggesting, though, is just terrifying. The only bright spot is that I’ll be able to climb out of the hole upon retrieving the pistol. 44 feet. Just remember that number. “Okay, fine,” I exclaim. “I will retrieve the gun first thing in the morning.”

  “Do you really want more murders on your conscience?” he asks. “That boy is clearly in the middle of what is likely to be another murder spree. He has eight or nine hostages at the moment, but the casualties in the building may be higher. Plenty of daylight remains to get in and out of the wishing well. It shouldn’t take you more than a few minutes to reach around inside the water until you locate the weapon.”

  “A few minutes? Oh, this idea sounds beyond horrifying.”

  “With a couple of flashlights, being down there won’t be quite as scary. I have a few low-grade sedatives to help take the edge off. You will need to be relaxed enough to get in there and get the job done.”

  So many variables still exist. How many of those rungs are there leading down? How deep is the water at the bottom? Jessica managed to get in and out, so it stands to reason that I won’t be completely immersed.

  “Remember, darling, what you do is your choice, but it will depend on how much guilt you’ll be able to tuck away in your soul as dead bodies begin to pile up,” he says. “Don’t let your irrational fears prevent you from taking the necessary action. You have some amends to make.”

  As I reflect on what he has told me, I’m beginning to wonder if Abbey has been waiting in the wings since the day I found that penny. Was the purse spilling on the cement nothing more than some crafty setup? Did she have some score to settle with Benny? When a woman harnesses the power to travel through time, she must have been able to foresee the chaos that such a revision to my life would bring about. My new motto will be, “Never trust a beautiful stranger that offers what hasn’t rightfully been earned.”

  “There has to be a silver lining here,” I mumble. After I remove the gun from the stupid wishing well, maybe it will all come to light.

  Chapter 20

  Melinda James

  I’ve always been a bit of an atheist, but I’m praying for God to intervene and free me from this situation. Over the past thirty minutes, Agnew has murdered everyone in the boardroom except for Richard and myself. I’m no longer confident that he is going to let me walk out of this room alive. My life is down to a coin flip. He must be waiting to see which of us cracks first. Between the two of us, I probably seem the least fearful. It’s all a façade. The piss running down the inside of my pantyhose is physical proof that I’m terrified beyond belief.

  Why is it taking so long for the cops to break down the door? The area must be teeming with armed marksmen with high-powered rifles. They probably haven’t heard the shots because this room was made soundproof to keep the employees from hearing any of the bullshit decisions made by the board.

  “I’m still waiting for an explanation as to why you ran that fucking story last night,” Agnew says, waving the gun between the two of us. Why did they seat me this close to Richard?

  “There’s an excuse for running it,” I say, “but I doubt you’ll like the answer.”

  “That’s for me to decide, superstar. Let me hear what you have to say before I put a bullet in your leg to motivate your mouth.”

  “I ran the story to get higher ratings,” I foolishly admit. This might be the first honest thing I’ve said all week. I can just imagine how it’s going to feel to have my brains blown out like poor Edna and Bill. I hope it’s painless and quick.

  Agnew turns his head to focus on Richard. “So, Mr. Danbury, am I correct to assume that you are her superior?”

  “Yes, I am the CEO of the company, and she reports directly to me,” he says, voice wavering like he’s being interrogated by the mob over skimming funds.

  “Doesn’t the buck st
op with you? Surely, a company reaching such a large number of viewers has a few fact-checkers on staff.”

  “We do have fact-checkers, but what is often written on the teleprompter isn’t always what comes out of Melinda’s mouth.”

  “Thanks for selling me out, asshole,” I yell. After letting a man indulge his smuttiest fantasies almost daily, there should some elongated loyalty—even when a loaded gun is deciding your fate.

  “I’m just telling him the truth, Melinda,” Richard says. “Not that you’d have the slightest idea what the truth would sound like.”

  “You two were once lovers,” Agnew says, interrupting our spat. We don’t respond to the statement. There’s no point validating his suspicions since he obviously knows the answer. We just stare ahead, hoping he’ll switch to another subject. “This is wonderful. Do you know how many times a former lover wished that their ex would get run over by a train or would have an air conditioner dropped on top of their head?”

  “That isn’t necessarily the case with us,” Richard says.

  “Speak for yourself,” I say, crudely. “If not for the controversy I cause for this station, you’d have replaced me the second I quit bending over your desk.” Why did I say that? The fear of my impending death is making impulsive thoughts erupt from my mouth. Please don’t let those be my last words.

  “Well, here’s where it gets fun for me,” Agnew says. “I’ve killed all kinds of different people—married couples, boyfriend/girlfriend combos, and single people that couldn’t get any action. Anyway, I’ve yet to take the life of a jilted lover in the company of the other. No one breaks up without collecting a stack of painful memories.”

  “That doesn’t have to happen,” Richard protests. “We can patch up our differences if that would help create a better atmosphere for a more beneficial outcome. We both want to leave here after your demands are met.”

  “You are quite the kiss ass,” Agnew says. “Do you not realize that I have no demands? This isn’t a hostage crisis. I came here to kill the people responsible for last night’s perversion of the truth. Since you are deluded enough to think you’ll be walking out of here in one piece, you’ve made my decision a no-brainer.”

  He raises his gun, smiles, and fires two rounds into Richard’s forehead. The impact of the bullets snaps his neck back. A repellant splash of blood decorates the wall behind him. The white walls suddenly have a series of scarlet streaks splattered upon them. The vermilion blotches are not from my body, making it easy to overlook the updated motif in the room.

  Holy shit—I’m the lucky lottery winner!

  I predicted that Agnew wouldn’t take me out. I shouldn’t be feeling such glee while surrounded by a room of dead bodies. As long as my racing heart continues beating, I can deal with the morbid ambiance caused by this unfortunate collection of stiffs.

  “And then there was one,” Agnew says, placing a fresh magazine of live bullets into his weapon. What else does the asshole have hidden inside that flower vase? “Icing these seven assholes should have brought about some relief, but I still find myself rather upset. We are going to have a chat about some of what you said about me last night. Since I’m still allowing those lungs to inhale air, be mindful of the words you plan to use. You know, cupcake, I wouldn’t want to be in your place right now!”

  Chapter 21

  Derek

  With each word I muttered about Mandi’s seemingly-outrageous claim, Carmen grew confrontational. I couldn’t reveal enough particulars to make the story sound authentic without mentioning Mandi’s name, indirectly implicating Willie, and potentially blowing up their world. Admittedly, my little specs of information may have mirrored a book missing every other word. Her deprecating reaction was hypocritical considering that she sells “hope” that I suspect rarely comes to fruition. She may be empathic, but she has suffered through as many broken hearts as I’ve endured. Therefore, her judgment isn’t always spot-on.

  During Mandi’s testimony, she claimed to have accomplished her “alteration to the past” in 87 minutes. Since that was also the time stated in that old document, it all feels connected. For argument’s sake, let’s say that the baby inside Bethalyn’s womb was Abbey. Tons of hatred would have built up from losing her family in such a brutal manner. She’d probably have no hesitation turning Mandi’s world into complete chaos. Before getting all obsessed in speculation, I’m taking a detour to speak with my counselor. Bridget has put some of my life choices into perspective lately.

  After Agnew’s unsuccessful murder attempt, I found myself with some unexpected time off. Recuperation from a bullet wound was the closest I’ve come to a sabbatical like the college professors receive when writing their course book for the upcoming year. I had big plans to write my own books for hours at a stretch. What happens when you return from the hospital is the undoing of habits you acquired while staying there.

  After a brush with death, those first days in the hospital were spent evaluating my life between extended stretches of sitcoms like Friends and King of Queens. I wanted to return to the life I had before being hospitalized, but I inevitably felt sorry for myself. I fully realized that those people that make it past the 80-year mark were probably not spending 50 hours each week slogging away at a dangerous or stressful job. Due to the location of the wound, nurses were checking in on me at the oddest hours. I was in a constant state of needing straight sleep with no luck getting much.

  Upon returning home, the doctor had me coming to the office twice a week, and I was also expected (more “forced”) to see a grief counselor. Reduced duty meant I was only able to work at the junior high school. After dozens of school shootings across the nation, a police officer is required to be present at the local high schools and middle schools every day. When I grew up, we didn’t need metal detectors in front of every entrance or a police officer babysitting the student body. Being an armed monitor at the school is light work, but those long stretches of boredom can catch up quickly. A member of the faculty is usually within eyeshot, so I’m unable to jot down story ideas all day. When writing, it’s at the oddest times when a great line or phrase jumps out to you.

  Initially, I pissed and moaned about the mandatory counseling, but all that time spent sharing my feelings has been quite beneficial. I’m not angling to get back on full duty. Not yet! Eventually, Bridget will be required to sign a form that declares whether I am mentally and physically capable of performing all of the responsibilities listed in my job description. It is a good idea not to share anything I wouldn’t want to be scribbled in the report, but she has this tricky way of pulling delicate information from me.

  One indisputable fact regarding Bridget is that her outward beauty indirectly makes it effortless to open up about subjects that I usually stay clamped about. The only drawback is that she wears her brunette hair in a bun and rarely smears on lipstick. Even in a stripped-back state, the woman is quite alluring. She has this habit of pointing her knees toward each other with her tiny feet tilted inwardly. This seductive posture is much like that of a pinup model from the ’50s and can be quite distracting. I sound as if I’m all caught up in what she projects outwardly, but my head is focused on connecting all the dots from Mandi’s testimony. Basically, I want her to validate that this hunch is worth pursuing.

  While I generally schedule an appointment ahead of time, she made it a point to mention her “open door” policy several times. I haven’t abused the privilege, and this is a rare day when I need confirmation that I’m not losing my grip on reality. Carmen sure acted like I was out to lunch. Bridget will probably tell me that using all this energy to chase a dubious time-traveling claim is not an acceptable use of the limited time I have available. She’s always pushing me to write rather than hypothesize. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s against me being a cop.

  When I walk into her compact office, she is sitting in the lobby flipping through a fashion magazine. She looks up. “Mr. Delaney, what do I owe this honor?”


  “Do you possibly have some time available? I’m in the middle of a tricky situation and could use your expertise.”

  She glances down at her silver watch. “I only have 36 minutes until my attention is required elsewhere. You are more than welcome to a reduced appointment, but this will not count towards a mandatory session.”

  After agreeing to the limited counseling time, I follow her into the comfy inner office where I get situated. Ten minutes into the conversation, Bridget picks up on my frustration. I scheduled this day off to devote time to creative pursuits, yet I’m on the verge of driving to Wilkinson Creek to follow up on a testimony.

  I leave the names out of the conversation and tell her a spattering of what Mandi claimed to have happened late last night. I also weave in a few components from Carmen’s folder—especially the brutal death of a witch named Bethalyn. Reluctantly, I mention the detailed trance about visualizing an iron door and stone room while in Carmen’s reading room. Incidentally, I almost fell into that same meditative state on the drive over to her office. I was fortunate that the vision only lasted a few seconds. Bridget immediately thinks I’m reaching bizarre conclusions as a result of still being overly stressed.

  “Mr. Delaney, it is unhealthy to sacrifice your personal days to follow up on work-related suspicions. Didn’t we decide that the scheduling of personal days was to be part of your recovery?”

  “We did.”

  “While it’s in your nature to be involved in such an enthralling case, you need to learn where to draw the line.” She sets her notepad on her lap, slides on her sexy reading glasses, and glances down at the page. “Mr. Delaney, from my notes, you tend to look deeper into most cases than necessary. This is frowned upon while on reduced duty. Part of the reason you were sent to this office was that you claimed to have seen a spiritual reflection in two pictures you were unable to produce. In some instances, hallucination can be a direct result of overwork.”