At Home in the Dark

by Joe Hill

  He tells himself to stop it. Solve the problem—don’t get morbid.

  Lonergan realizes it’s not so much the height that’s the issue, but the width. He’s not sure how wide the Crack is. Wide enough to accommodate a falling Challenger. But was it wider than he was tall?

  Because if he can get himself into the right position, he could plant two feet on one side of the Crack, then press his hands against the opposite side. Even if his fingers gave out completely, it wouldn’t matter because Lonergan would be using his hands as one end of a wedge.

  Inch by inch, he could move his hands and feet and gradually make his way up to the surface.

  Possibly.

  There is no other option.

  Time for one last sit-up.

  12

  Lonergan grunts as he bends his body in half and grabs hold of his ankle. He laces his fingers together behind his leg, which hurts like hell, but he can complain about it later. Now that he’s upright again, Lonergan can see that his foot has indeed been snared by an exposed root. Thank you, Mother Nature.

  The next part is going to be the real bitch. He’s going to have to force himself to hang on long enough to get himself into position. Which shouldn’t take more than a few seconds, but his fingers have been notoriously unreliable today.

  Stop the excuses. Jovie and the kids are waiting for you.

  Lonergan sees no point in delaying the inevitable. He grunts again and tries to lock his body into this crunched position, then grabs the exposed root and pulls his leg. He’s still stuck. Lonergan tries again and realizes, with more than a little horror, that his leg has gone numb. He pumps it a little, trying to get the blood moving again. His plan won’t work with a bum leg.

  Mid-pump, however, his foot slips free of the root. He screams and tightens his grip as his legs fall out from under him like deadweights. He writhes against the rock wall, knocking it with his knees and trying to get a foothold, any kind of leverage. His hands are numb to the point that Lonergan doesn’t even know that he even has hands anymore. Are they still holding onto the root? They must be, because he’s not falling. Not yet anyway.

  Lonergan grunts as pulls himself up then throws his legs out behind him like pistons.

  The tips of his shoes scrape rock. The other side of the wall is reachable! But they instantly slip off and all of Lonergan’s weight is pulled downward, straining his arms and non-existent hands.

  The exhaustion that washes over him is powerful and profound. He would like nothing more than to let go right now, because it’s too much, and he’s reasonably confident he’ll pass out long before his body hits the bottom of the Crack.

  But Jovie and the kids are waiting for you.

  Screaming now, Lonergan throws out his legs with everything he’s got while simultaneously pushing away from the rock. The sound echoes throughout the crevice.

  And he doesn’t fall.

  For the moment.

  • • •

  He’s managed to wedge his body across the span of the Crack like he’d planned, but his arms and legs are already trembling. And the top is so very far away.

  There’s also a new problem:

  Lonergan has to throw up.

  No, for real now. It’s coming. There will be no stopping it. Of all childhood maladies, puking is the universally agreed-upon worst. You have zero control over what your body is doing. It’s like an alien presence has taken over your brain and decided: Hey, you know all of this stuff in your stomach? Let’s get rid of it! Right now!

  And while you’re forcibly ejecting the contents of your stomach, a stubborn animal part of your brain makes you curl up.

  Lonergan has never heard of a man being able to remain standing perfectly straight while blowing chunks. It just isn’t possible. So if Lonergan pukes, he’s going to curl up, and if he curls up, he’s going to fall, and from there it’ll just be a question of which reaches the bottom first: his body or the contents of his stomach.

  Lonergan takes slow, deep breaths, even though they hurt his chest and draw power away from his quivering limbs.

  Don’t throw up, he tells himself. I’m the brain, which means I’m in charge of the body. So I’m telling you body, don’t throw up.

  It occurs to him that confessing and going to jail for murder might have been a more pleasurable experience than the one he’s enduring right now.

  Stop that. The tough part is behind you. Now start climbing. At the very least, it’ll take your mind off the nausea.

  Lonergan presses his arms forward with strength he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have and shifts his left foot up a few inches. Then his right. He’s tilted forward now, which makes the nausea even worse. He worries his guts will come sliding up his throat and out of his mouth. He pushes out again then moves his left hand up a few inches. And then his right, even though both feel like cold slabs of lunchmeat.

  There. Progress.

  And still so very far to go.

  Don’t think about that. Don’t think about throwing up. Don’t think about your rapidly dwindling reserves of strength.

  Just think left, right. Left, right. Left, right. Left right.

  All the way up to the top . . .

  • • •

  Lonergan throws an arm over the edge of the Crack, hooking the edge with the crook of his arm. The arm trembles. After a long moment his other arm appears.

  He is exhausted. His spent legs dangle over the abyss. He twists his body like a worm until his right knee clears the edge, too. He feels like he’s on his 99th push-up, and he has to reach one hundred, but all of his muscles are failing at once. Wouldn’t God or karma or whoever laugh if he slipped now. He holds his breath and grits his teeth and pushes so hard that he doesn’t even remember pulling himself up and over. He remembers vomiting. After that, it’s all a white blur.

  He’s out for a while.

  It’s not too long, though, because when his eyes pop open it’s still morning, and the puke on his shirt is still fresh. Lonergan’s entire body burns in an alarming way, like he’s already frying in Hell.

  And he still has the walk home to look forward to.

  Lonergan rolls over and his exhaustion is so complete he’s tempted to just stay in that semi-fetal position, for a good long while. Maybe even a few days. But that would be stupid. It was already foolish passing out right next to the scene of the body-and-car dump—though it’s not like he had much choice.

  Come on. Up and at ’em. Jovie and the kids are waiting.

  Anyone watching from nearby would see a broken man rising like a zombie that had just crawled out of that crack in the Earth. Fortunately, nobody is watching. Hopefully nobody is watching.

  At any rate it’s all downhill from here, both figuratively and literally. Once he’s home and has had the chance to recuperate, they can systematically erase all signs of Isaiah Edwards ever visiting their home. Nobody will ever find him, or his car. Lonergan is certain of this because there is another body and another car down there, and no one’s disturbed that in 20 years. Jovie’s first husband was a real prick.

  Lonergan makes his way down the mountainside and thinks about the money in that bag. They’re going to have to be smart about that, too. Figure out how to hide and invest the lion’s share of it for the kids’ education someday. See them through college. Give them the shot that Daria threw away.

  Maybe this was simply the torture he had to endure to earn this boon for the kids. If that was the case, Lonergan would happily do it all over again.

  Though not this very second.

  Whistling in the Dark

  Richard Chizmar

  “What’s up with you?”

  Frank Logan, bald head, double-chin, wrinkled suit, looked over at me from the passenger seat of our unmarked sedan. “What do you mean?”

  “You were just whistling. You’re almost acting like you’re . . . happy.”

  “I wasn’t whistling.”

  “You were whistling, Frank.”

 
“You don’t think I would know if I was whistling?”

  “That’s precisely my point. You’ve been acting strange all week.”

  “And you’re acting precisely like an asshole.”

  “You’re a child.”

  “Maybe.” He stared out the car window. “But I wasn’t whistling.”

  • • •

  A few more miles of dark highway and I spotted a cluster of patrol cars parked on the grassy shoulder up ahead, both State and County boys, their lights flashing, casting kaleidoscope shadows on the trees and cracked asphalt.

  I parked at the end of the line and we walked thirty or so yards to the scene, nodding at the usual cast of uniforms standing around and pretending to be busy.

  Trooper Michael Hughes saw us coming and stepped away from the fresh-faced officer he had been lecturing.

  “Ben. Frank. Glad they called you guys.”

  Frank grunted. “Another thirty minutes and we’d have been home in bed.” Now that was the Frank Logan I was used to all these years.

  “What do you got?” I asked.

  Hughes flipped open his notepad, gestured for us to follow, and started walking. “Adolescent female. Caucasian. No ID. Multiple stab wounds in torso and shoulder. Looks like she’s been there awhile.”

  “Who found the body?”

  “Two mowers working a road crew. They’re both still here waiting to talk to you.”

  “M.E.?” Frank asked.

  “Got here ten minutes before you did.”

  A pair of spotlights had been set up near the treeline and a tarp stretched out between two patrol cars to block dust from the highway. A commercial riding lawn mower was parked off to the side.

  Hughes stopped walking and stepped aside so we could get a better look. The body was tucked under some brush, most of the girl’s bare legs hidden beneath the thorny branches. She was wearing tan shorts and a yellow t-shirt. Her hair was long and tangled and brown. Animals had been at her face.

  “Evening, gents,” Harry Marshall said without looking up at us. He was kneeling next to the body, carefully examining the young girl’s fingers.

  Marshall had been Baltimore County Medical Examiner for as long as I had been on the job. He wore thin wire glasses, had a full head of wavy grey hair, and was in remarkably good shape for a man in his sixties. The women in the Eastern Precinct called him the Silver Fox behind his back.

  “Heard you bowled a two-twenty last week,” Frank said.

  Harry looked up and smiled. “Two-twenty-six.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Just my grandson and his friend. But I took a photo of my score up on the monitor. It was a legit two-twenty-six.”

  “And I’m the tooth fairy,” Frank said under his breath.

  “What was that?” Harry asked.

  “You get an age on her yet?” I said.

  “I’d say nine, maybe ten years old.”

  “What else?”

  “I counted six stab wounds—neat, the weapon was very sharp—but I haven’t moved the body yet. There might be more.”

  “Defensive?”

  He nodded. “Both hands and arms. She definitely put up a fight.”

  “How long you think she’s been out here?”

  Harry studied the body. “Week. Maybe longer.”

  “What do you think did that to her face?” Frank asked.

  “Could have been anything really. Deer. Raccoons. Groundhogs.”

  I stared at the smiley-face on the front of her yellow t-shirt. “Sexual?”

  “I won’t know for sure until I get her back to the office . . .” He leaned closer and reached inside the girl’s mouth with two gloved fingers. “. . . but I would answer no as of right now. Doesn’t have the look.”

  “Any idea what—”

  “Well, now, this is interesting,” Harry interrupted.

  “What is?” Frank asked, stepping closer.

  Harry looked up. “Someone cut out her tongue.”

  • • •

  A few minutes later, I left Frank at Harry Marshall’s side and followed Trooper Hughes back to the shoulder of the highway where he introduced me to the road crew. “This is Detective Richards. He has some questions for you.” And then Hughes was gone, melting back into the crime scene.

  The two men—Ronald Alvarez and Louis Vargas—were both in their late twenties. Faces deeply tan and creased from the sun, arms muscular and smeared with dirt. They were the kind of men who were used to hard work and long hours. Probably without a word of complaint. Right now, they looked nervous.

  “This won’t take long,” I said, pulling out my notepad and a pen.

  Both men nodded but didn’t say a word.

  “Relax. I only have a few questions and then you can go.”

  “We can go home?” Vargas asked.

  “That’s right. I’ll just need to get your contact info when we’re done here in case my partner or I need to talk to you again.”

  “We both have cell phones,” Vargas said.

  “So tell me what happened. Which one of you found the body?”

  Vargas looked over at his friend.

  “I did,” Alvarez said, clearing his throat. “Carlos was riding the mower up ahead and I was running the weed-eater.”

  “We usually take turns,” Vargas said. “One day I ride, the next day he rides.”

  “At first I thought it was a mannequin.”

  “A mannequin,” I said, surprised.

  “Yes, sir,” Alvarez said. “We find all kinds of strange things along the highway.”

  “Including a mannequin?”

  “Two,” Vargas said, holding up a pair of thick fingers.

  “No kidding,” I said, glancing back at the woods.

  “One was dressed as a soldier,” Alvarez said. “The other wasn’t wearing anything.”

  “Mostly it’s junk,” Vargas said. “But sometimes we find things of value.”

  “What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever come across?” I asked, my curiosity humming.

  Vargas thought for a moment. “For me, probably a big velvet framed Elvis Presley. Perfect condition. It’s hanging in my living room right now. My wife loves it.”

  “I found a shoe box full of ashes once. Remember that?”

  Vargas nodded. “We couldn’t figure out whether it was a person or maybe a dog or cat.”

  “Would’ve had to have been a big animal,” Alvarez said.

  “What did you do with it?” I asked.

  “I buried it in a field behind my apartment building,” Alvarez said, shrugging his shoulders. “It felt like the right thing to do.”

  “I found an old Rolex once,” Vargas said. “It didn’t work, but I sold it to a guy at the pawn shop for fifty bucks. Ronnie and I split the money.”

  “That’s the deal. We always split the money if one of us finds a ditch treasure,” Alvarez said.

  “Ditch treasure?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s what we call em. One time I found two brand new fishing rods and reels. Not a scratch on them. Another time, I found a brown paper bag with three hundred and sixty dollars inside.”

  I whistled and, with my curiosity satisfied, got back to business. “So, Mr. Alvarez, you found the body.”

  “Yes, sir. Like I said, at first I thought it was a mannequin so I walked right over to it. But once I was close enough and could smell it, I knew I was wrong.”

  “He came running down the shoulder toward me, waving his arms like a crazy man,” Vargas said. “I turned off the mower and hopped down, thinking maybe he’d been bitten by a snake or something.”

  Alvarez crossed himself at the mention of a snake.

  “Ronnie couldn’t even talk he was so upset. He dragged me over to the woods and showed me. I called our boss and he told us to wait right here while he called the police.”

  “Neither of you touched the body?”

  “No, sir, we did not,” Vargas said.

  “Did you disturb the area
close to the body in any way? Touch or pick up anything?”

  “No, sir. The smell was very bad . . . and we were scared . . . we did not get too close.”

  “Do the two of you usually mow this area?”

  “It depends,” Vargas said. “We go where the boss tells us to go. The truck drops us off in the morning and picks us up at the end of the day.”

  “How about this past summer? How often was this area cut?”

  “Again, that’s the decision of the boss,” Vargas said. “What do you think?” he asked, looking over at Alvarez. “Every two weeks maybe?”

  “Less in the summer,” he said. “I remember it was almost a month ago that we cut here. Right around my birthday.”

  “And no sign of the body at that time?” I asked.

  “No, sir, I did not see anything,” Alvarez said and glanced at his friend. Vargas shook his head.

  I flipped the page in my notepad and was just about to ask for their boss’s name and contact info when Frank called out from behind me. He was standing halfway up the grassy embankment.

  “Need you, partner. Harry found something else.” He turned and hurried back to the scene before I could answer.

  I waved over a county uniform and instructed him to take down Vargas and Alvarez’s phone numbers and addresses, as well as that of their boss.

  Then, I was hustling toward the bright lights at the edge of the woods.

  • • •

  “So, wait, let me get this straight,” Trooper Hughes said, as we stood on the side of the highway two hours later and watched Harry Marshall’s taillights disappear into the darkness.

  “Jesus Christ, Mike, no wonder you never made detective,” Frank said. It was almost comforting to have my cranky partner back again.

  “Just give me the short version one more time,” Hughes said. “So you guys found her tongue stapled to a business card and stuffed in her short’s pocket?”

  “Well, Harry found it, but that’s right,” I said.

  “And the business card belonged to that hotshot lawyer from the television commercials, and the little girl was his daughter?”