9 Tales Told in the Dark 10

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#10

  © Copyright 2015 Bride of Chaos/ All Rights Reserved to the Authors.

  First electronic edition 2016

  Edited by A.R. Jesse

  Cover by Turtle&Noise

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  9TALES TOLD IN THE DARK#10

  Table of Contents

  IDENTITY DISCLOSURE by Kenneth Nichols

  LATE RETURNS by Todd French

  DEADBOY LIVES by Sara Green

  ACROSS A DESK by Stephen Millard

  TRANSPLANT HORROR TO BEYOND SPACE! by Tim McDaniel

  THE WASHING OF THE BONES by Jeff C. Stevenson

  THE MAN IN MY EYE by Dustin and Adam Koski

  REVENANT by Kevin Wetmore

  PRECIPICE OF INSANITY by Frank A. Schury

  TALES

  TOLD

  IN THE

  DARK

  #10

  IDENTITY DISCLOSURE by Kenneth Nichols

  The same drama would play out on the face of each new hire when Melanie gave them the Internet Identity Disclosure form. First, they would recoil, shocked that Melanie expected them to write down their usernames and passwords for Facebook, e-mail and any other digital communities to which they might belong. Next, their eyes would lose focus as they thought of the unpaid bills resting on their desks, the hungry mouths they needed to feed. Finally, Melanie saw her new co-workers assume a defeated posture as they scribbled away their privacy.

  Melanie thought they made too much of surrendering their passwords. If a new hire were polite enough, she would calmly explain that all she did was take a quick look around the Internet to ensure that Mohawk Compudata wasn’t employing a neo-Nazi or some other kind of political extremist. Mohawk Compudata and its partners, Melanie would say, simply have a responsibility to protect themselves from embarrassment that could harm business or the brand.

  When Devin Carson recoiled at the IID form, Melanie said: “Look, everyone thinks I’m digging for your deep, dark secrets. In reality, I take a quick look at your Facebook page to make sure you’re not in al-Qaida. I do a quick search of your e-mail to make sure you’re not in the habit of blackmailing former bosses.”

  Melanie got a good feeling from Devin. She could see why the bosses had hired him in spite of the mostly true rumors about the sorry state of Mohawk Compudata’s finances. He looked like a businessman in his pinstriped suit; a lot more professional than the rest of the bearded trolls who darkened the fourth-floor IT department. Devin’s resume had given them some pause because of his habit of giving notice and leaving town after several months. On the other hand, there were plenty of letters in his file from mystified superiors at top-notch firms—Devin had been an exceptional employee and they wished he hadn’t left.

  Melanie admired the playfulness in Devin’s eyes as he scribbled out his personal e-mail address. Some employees had dirty e-mail handles that made Melanie blush when she typed them, but Devin’s was simply his name. She liked his hands, thick-fingered and strong and soft; she was about to think of them touching her body until her eyes reflexively fell upon the picture of her husband staring her down from beside her computer monitor.

  When Devin was finished filling out the stack of forms, he shook Melanie’s hand and she said goodbye. The IT folks seldom left their hot, humming dungeon and Melanie doubted she would see much of him. Before she left for the day, Melanie surfed through Devin’s Internet identities. She allowed herself to admit that she was hoping to find some dirt, but found none. Devin had a brother in the area. But that was all. They hunted and fished together. But that was all. No girlfriend, no wife, no long list of porn stars on his friends list, nothing that lingered on Melanie’s mind on her way home.

  Melanie’s home routine was as regimented as her office schedule. She would check to see if Alex needed anything. He could still get around with a walker—for now—but the MS made it difficult for him to grab objects on the top shelf and to take care of some aspects of personal hygiene. Reminded of her husband’s condition and her wedding vows, she would check the mail for letters from the insurance company. She knew they were kicking back claims on a routine basis, knowing that most folks wouldn’t have the skills necessary to negotiate the labyrinth through which a person must pass in order to receive payment on a claim. Melanie knew that if she weren’t an HR professional herself, able to wage war during lunchtime telephone calls, she and Alex would be in an even worse financial state. Finally, she would cook dinner, something Alex had loved to do until he was no longer able to slice and stir and sauté. If she grilled steaks, she’d have to cut his for him; if she made soup, it would have to be something thick like split pea or most of it would end up on the table instead of in his mouth.

  As always, Alex remained on the living room sofa, watching Melanie treat him like a child because she had to. He would never speak until Melanie presented him with dinner and pretended everything was as perfect as it once was. “Here you are, baby,” she said. “How was your day?”

  Alex’s words were slurred, but still understandable. “Same as yesterday. I tried to do my exercises and watched television.”

  Melanie dropped a straw in his glass of soda. “Well, I had a good day. I did paperwork for a new employee. That could mean the company is coming out of the recession.”

  Alex clammed up and focused on the news. He didn’t like thinking about what would happen to them or to Melanie if Mohawk Compudata went under.

  After a few hours of television time, Melanie helped Alex prepare for and to get into bed. The mood of each day was colored by the unspoken dilemma of their lives: how would they get by when Melanie would be too old to lift his curled body and was it a good thing that Alex might not live that long at all?

  Alone in the bathroom, Melanie reflected on the routine that ruled her life and wondered what, if anything, she could do to break free.

  Months passed in this manner: she dealt with a mountain of paperwork, made her lunchtime defense of her husband’s needs and served as his caretaker in the evenings. Melanie only saw Devin a few times, usually in the elevator. He would always smile at her as though they shared a small secret, which she supposed they did. She remembered he loved to hunt and fish. She found it hard to imagine a man like Devin—always clean-shaven, his suit always pressed, his nails immaculate—tramping through the woods, doused in doe urine or wading through a muddy stream, rod in hand. The most Alex had ever done, Melanie thought, was remove the giblets from a goose he had bought at Whole Foods.

  Melanie didn’t ordinarily do a follow-up Internet Identity check until the employee’s one-year anniversary unless there was a pressing cause. A couple years earlier, for example, the Mohawk Compudata family was scandalized during their national sales conference when one of the graphic designers invited a salesman into her hotel room and forgot she had a roommate. It had fallen to Melanie to check e-mail, phone and Facebook messages to see how long the relationship had been going on.

  On a rainy Tuesday, Melanie thought about Devin a
nd decided upon an early follow-up for Alex. His e-mail was reassuringly boring. He had bought some thirty-pound fishing line and a serrated knife she guessed was strong enough to cut it. She supposed that you would ruin your kitchen shears pretty quickly trying to cut marlin line. He sent an occasional, boring e-mail to his brother, who must live nearby, as Devin always mentioned seeing him on weekends.

  Melanie wasn’t expecting much when she signed into his Facebook account. At first, nothing was all she got: no one had written on his Wall, no status updates, no uploaded pictures. Then she checked his messages. There were only a few, and they were all between Devin and his brother, Brent. The thread had begun two weeks earlier.

  Brent: U ready to go again? Just let me know. U gotta

  fish when they r biting.

  Devin: Pretty soon. Things are going pretty well here and

  it’s not too hot.

  Brent: We’re gonna need a nice out of way place.

  Devin: I know. I was looking around. There’s an old

  hunting shack in the woods near Weedsport. It’s near the southern bank of the Seneca River about two miles west of the Thruway. It doesn’t look as though anyone has used it in decades. I’d have to put a new lock on the door. We’ll just use it for a couple weeks.

  Brent: Cool. Let me no when ur ready. I’m getting hungry.

  Devin: I’ll call you this weekend.

  Melanie was not an expert outdoorswoman, but she wondered why a couple guys would need a cabin during the summer. Wasn’t deer season in the Fall? Why wouldn’t a couple strong young men simply haul their catch home when they live less than half an hour away?

  The thought of what the hunting trip would be like sustained Melanie for the next week. She wasn’t excited about the killing, but she loved the idea of spending all of that time outdoors, free from all responsibility but simply to be. Alex was now in no condition to go hiking, but they had gone before they were married and Melanie missed the feeling of being lost in an unpaved world.

  Melanie broke her routine a week later and checked his messages again. Devin’s only conversation was with his brother.

  Brent: I think we r about ready, man. There’s a big grand

  re-opening of the expanded Super Wal-Mart in Oswego. We r expecting to make a big pickup Saturday morning. We should have cash by sat. afternoon.

  Devin: What about your partner?

  Brent: Don’t u worry. When you flash ur piece at Jack,

  he’ll turn his underpants into a fudge factory.

  Devin: The shack is set. I change the lock and double-

  checked the ground cover. Aside from deer, nothing bigger than a squirrel has been around the place in years.

  Brent: Looking forward to it. I’ll call u tonite after

  last run.

  Her hands shaking, Melanie logged out of his Facebook. She tried taking a sip of her tea, but the mug wouldn’t remain steady in her hands. She looked around the office, frightened her coworkers could read her mind, only to find a sea of unhappy faces doing mundane work.

  Could she be misunderstanding? He and his brother were clearly going to rob an armored car—the one Brent was working. The money would be stashed in some long-forgotten shack in the middle of nowhere. But why keep the money in such a place? Melanie felt a small tickle of pride that she was clever enough to reason it out: you hide the evidence until you’re sure you got away with the crime.

  Melanie hadn’t had much time to read with her responsibilities at home, but she recalled a story about marijuana farmers who plant their stash in the middle of national parks. After all, if some forest ranger or some tourist looky-loo happens upon ten acres of pot plants, how would they know who to blame? It made sense, Melanie reasoned. You shouldn’t plant weed in your backyard and you might not want to keep tens of thousands of stolen dollars under your mattress.

  Melanie was too shaken to do any work for the rest of the day. The hour until quitting time passed with all the deliberate speed of a caterpillar crossing the street. At long last, she shut down her computer and raced for the stairs. Could she really be working with a thief? It occurred to her that Devin could be job-hopping for more than “personal reasons.” Was he moving around, waiting until he and his brother were ready for their next big score?

  She was nearly through the front door when she locked eyes with Devin, who was standing just outside, talking on his cell phone. Her knees wobbled, but she kept her pace, even as she wondered if the wicked smile on Devin’s face was for her.

  Melanie ripped over the rumble strips three times as she sped home, her mind preoccupied by hunting shacks and sacks of money and Facebook messages. A police cruiser blew by her in the passing lane. Melanie realized she could call the cops and tell them what she had found. Would they have enough to arrest Devin and his brother? Would they even believe her? And what if Devin found out she snitched? She thought she could protect herself. But Alex? He wouldn’t even be able to dial 911 before Brent planted a pipe wrench in his head.

  Melanie hid her anxiety from Alex as she went through her evening routine. She did the dishes and cleaned up Alex’s mess in the bathroom and started dinner: chicken breast and French fries.

  While the food was in the oven, Melanie checked the mail: bill, credit card statement, magazine, letter from insurance company. Sighing, Melanie opened the envelope. What did they want now? Of course: Alex’s last visit to the specialist wasn’t going to be covered. For twenty minutes with Dr. Pederson and two tests, they wanted $1,500.

  Melanie and Alex ate in silence. Melanie thought about telling her husband what she had discovered about Devin, but she didn’t want to worry him. She cleaned up after supper and told Alex she wanted to do some work in her office. She put the claim denial in her purse so she could call about it on Monday. The indignity of the money was what killed her. The man she loved was having his life and vitality stolen from him a little each day and they could barely afford the privilege of sharing the tragedy.

  Devin would have money within twenty-four hours. A lot of it. The plan struck her in an electric instant, the jolt of adrenalin swelled her body.

  She could take the cash. Devin and Brent wouldn’t suspect anything. They certainly wouldn’t have shared their plan on Facebook if they thought anyone would be reading what they wrote. Devin even said the shack was completely isolated. Even if they did suspect her at some point, what would they do? Call the cops and say, “Officer, my company’s HR rep stole the money we picked up jacking a Brinks truck…would you mind getting it back for us?” Of course not.

  As Melanie’s ideas flowed, she jotted them into a notepad. She needed some insurance in the form of a letter. If she didn’t come home tomorrow night, Alex could present the police with an account fingering Devin and Brent.

  Surely, there must be some record of their previous crimes. Devin had last worked in Scranton. She searched the Times during the proper range of dates. Sure enough, Scranton PD needed your help to solve an armored car robbery on the west side of town. A single gunman had snuck up on the driver and his partner, fleeing the scene with $60,000. The date was right. What did they call it on those crime shows? Melanie remembered: the M.O. was right. She printed the article and added it to the envelope with a note. DEVIN AND BRENT DID THIS ONE, TOO.

  When she laid down with Alex that night and fell into his warmth, she felt a rare tinge of excitement. For once, she had trouble sleeping. All she could think about was stalking through the woods, branches cracking under her feet and how good a pile of money would feel in her arms.

  The next morning, Melanie went through her usual weekend checklist. She deep-cleaned the bathroom and kitchen and vacuumed the carpets and helped Alex with his exercises. Melanie had seen Alex for the first time on the quad at college. He was playing catch with his dorm mates, snapping pitches into their gloves and chasing down errant throws. Now, his chest heaved and he broke a sweat if he tried to stretch an elastic band a dozen times.

  As dusk finally fell
, Melanie kissed Alex on the check and said she was going to have a drink with her friend Kayleigh and she would be home late. Alex said that he would just fall asleep on the sofa and she should go and have fun. He didn’t comment on the duffel bag she carried as she said goodbye.

  Before she pulled out of the driveway, she changed into black sweats and sneakers. Melanie knew the roads near Weedsport pretty well, but had never traveled them with a destination in mind. The forest was dark; she totally understood how a person could get lost in their expanse. She parked on a farm road, backing in behind a large evergreen tree so she could pull away with a quickness if necessary.

  Melanie had always had a good sense of direction. That served her well as she made her way through the woods. She didn’t want to turn on the flashlight, in case Devin was around. She staggered her steps to sound like a deer and frequently stopped to scrutinize the air for any hint that he was around.

  After a tense, slow hour, she found the cabin. It was right where Devin had said it would be. The Seneca River trickled by to the north, dappled by the light of the gibbous moon. The shack was indeed run-down, but it looked solid. Leaning slightly to the side, it had been pounded together from rough-hewn planks, probably by some long-dead farmer who wanted to keep seeds and other dried goods away from wildlife during the winter.

  The ten minutes she waited felt like an hour as she waited for any sign of the men. The coast was clear. She covered the quarter mile and pressed a palm to the wall of the windowless building to make sure it was real.

  Melanie wanted to get it over as quickly as possible. She turned the doorknob with a sleeve so as not to leave fingerprints. She went inside and flicked her flashlight to life. To Melanie’s left was a wooden bench that ran the length of the interior. Melanie thought she would faint when she saw the duffel bags on the bench. She stuck the flashlight under her arm and pinched the canvas, shocked at how firm money was when it was stacked upon other stacks instead of slipped into a wallet.