A Name in the Dark

by G S Fortis

  “I’m a mess,” she says.

  “Well, that too.”

  She kicks me through the blankets but also smiles a bit. “I guess that’s why we get along so well, since you’re a disaster.”

  “We’re quite the duo.”

  Chapter 17

  ____◊____

  I WATCH AS PAIGE falls asleep wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. She still clutches a single tissue. With empty teacup in hand, I sneak out the door. For better or worse, Paige’s early night has afforded me the opportunity to pursue the next step in my search for Elizabeth—alone.

  Paige hasn’t let me out of her sight since Lupe’s death. She was with me when Hugo pursued us, she was there when I confronted Carmen, she experienced the Santa Muerte temple with me, and she was on the receiving end of Yury Yury’s threat. Things are getting more and more dangerous, and I don’t want her getting hurt as I continue my investigation.

  Tonight, I’m going to find Sebastian. Despite Yury Yury’s claim that he’s skipped town, I still need to confirm that for myself. Seeing as how Sebastian was recently at the temple, I believe he still loves Elizabeth and is looking for her. I grab my jacket, car keys, and the photo Sebastian left at the temple, with the words I’m sorry on it.

  “What are you sorry for?” I ask myself. I also make sure to grab my trusty Taser this time. Aside from a missed dose of Klonopin and Dudley on the bench, that’s going to be my only defense for tonight.

  Using the photo I took of Sebastian’s ID, I enter his address into my phone’s map and drive out to Harvard Park in South Los Angeles. Despite its name, Harvard Park is neither prestigious nor parklike. My little car nearly loses its muffle as I drive over one pothole after another. Each house I pass on this dark street is small and in disrepair, and every single one has bars on the windows and doors.

  I picked a bad time of day to drive here. I don’t like guns, and I never have. My father used to take me shooting when I was young and ingrained in me the long and proud history of gun ownership. It didn’t take. Despite my profession, I don’t own or carry a gun. But at times like this, I think I should. There’s no telling what I’ll find in here.

  My navigation app brings me to a block where the homes are either abandoned or unkempt—it’s hard to tell which. After I park, I walk slowly to my destination. The house is dirty, with drab olive paint peeling off the walls and an overgrown brown lawn. I step up the stone steps onto the bungalow porch then look around the empty neighborhood. There are no streetlights on this street, only the glowing windows from a few houses. At least some people are home.

  It’s important that I talk to Sebastian and I find out why he was at the temple. If Sebastian was willing to go back to there after everything he told me, he must be convinced that Elizabeth is in real and immediate danger. And if he’s sorry, as the photo says, he must have done something.

  I consider my options. Call the police? No. Call Paige? No. I have to knock on the door and man up.

  My fist slams on the door. Or really, I pound with authority on the iron gate that blocks the door. It rattles under my fist. No one comes.

  I pound on the door again. The door cracks open. A man stares at me through the metal screen. He keeps himself in the shadows of the dark room, so I can’t make out too many details of his face.

  “Is Sebastian here?” When the guy doesn’t answer, I continue. “He told me to come by.”

  “Who’s Sebastian?” His voice is deep, with a guttural toughness and a distinct Latino accent.

  “Don’t screw around. Is he here or not?”

  Sure, it’s a little suspicious that someone like me would pound on a door like this in the middle of the evening. I can tell he’s trying to shake off the fog of whatever narcotic he’s recently taken. He keeps looking at my eyes, probably trying to figure out if he’s imagining their yellow hue.

  He sniffs and wipes his nose. “Are you a cop?”

  “Do I look like a cop?”

  “If you’re a cop, you have to tell me.”

  That’s not true. I can tell this guy gets his legal advice from movies. “I’m not a cop. Where can I find Sebastian? He’s not answering my messages.”

  “Why are you looking for Sebastian?”

  I sigh as though this is a terrible inconvenience. “He didn’t tell you I was coming by? Maybe he didn’t want you to know. Ugh!” I feign anger, and I can tell this guy is unsure how to deal with me. “I’m so pissed at him right now. This, and blowing me off at the concert… you know what? Screw him!” I pull out my phone and start to walk away.

  “Wait,” he says.

  I stop and try not to smile, knowing I’ve gained some trust. I turn around. He pulls opens the door as wide as it will go and leans his face against the iron gate. I can see him clearly now. The two sides of his face are different. The left side is scarred from a deep and violent burn, the healed wounds giving the appearance that his skin is melting. His left lower eyelid droops slightly and glistens with constant tearing.

  “What’s your name?” Two-Face asks then takes another deep sniff.

  “Tiffany.”

  “Tiffany.” He unlocks the metal gate and steps onto the porch. A rough skinny hand reaches out to me. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  I don’t even realize there’s someone behind me until an arm wraps around my neck and a damp, pungent cloth covers my mouth. I struggle, but the sweet-smelling fumes fill my lungs with each desperate breath I take. The more I fight back, the more quickly I get drowsy. I know it’s a losing battle. I know when I wake up, I’m a dead woman.

  * * *

  My eyes flutter open, and it takes me a few moments to remember my last waking moments. I try to sit up but can’t. My arms and legs are pulled to the far corners of a metal table by some rope I can’t see. I’m gagged and can still taste the remnants of sweet chloroform in the rag in my mouth.

  “She said her name was Tiffany, but her driver’s license says Darcy. Darcy Caine.”

  I tilt my head up and can see Two-Face and three other guys surrounding me. My cell phone is in his hands. He rifles through the credit cards and IDs tucked inside its case. The rest of his group hovers over me, blocking my view of the room, which is no matter, because my vision is blurry. I see only the four Latino males of various heights and builds in wifebeaters and Dickies jeans.

  Am I in the house? Have I been moved somewhere else? All my clothes still appear to be on, so I silently thank God for that small miracle.

  “She was looking for Sebastian—that’s why I called you!” Two-Face is pretty agitated and talking on the phone. He keeps wiping his nose with his arm, which can only mean he’s tweaking right now. A nervous, violent meth head—this is not going to end well.

  He looks at me. “Black hair. Twenties.”

  With all eyes on me, there’s not much I can do. I struggle against my binds—I’m trapped.

  Two-Face paces around the room and continues to go through my wallet. “Are you coming down here or not?” Then he freezes as he stares at the last card from my wallet. “Shit, man. She’s a private detective?” He flashes my ID in my face as if that’s information I didn’t already know. He is not happy with the response from the other line. “You know what? Fine. We’ll handle this.”

  He hangs up and throws my phone and cards on the floor. The others follow him as he moves away, and my line of sight is opened to the rest of the room. It looks like a shop of some kind, with a low ceiling and metal shelves all around. Glass tubes and plastic jugs litter each tabletop. Beakers. Pipes. Hoses. I’m in a meth lab.

  As my vision clears, I can see a giant crucifix hanging on the far wall. I strain to look, and the image comes into focus. Not a crucifix. A person.

  Sebastian. Long copper pipes pierce his arms, legs, and body and impale him on the wall. Blood drips from his mouth onto his bare chest. A slice carved along the base of his stomach allows his entrails to dangle from his drying wound.

/>   Panic sets in as I register what I’m looking at. I try to scream out, but the gag muffles my voice. My wrists chafe as I struggle against the rope.

  One of the cohorts pipes up. “What do we do with her?”

  Two-Face stares at me. I can guess what he’s debating. He approaches me and gently touches my leg. I kick and struggle, trying to recoil from his touch.

  “Get my knife,” he finally says.

  I try to use all my strength to break the binds, but I can’t.

  “Open her shirt,” orders Two-Face.

  One of them rips open my shirt, and buttons go flying. I feel exposed, violated, and for the first time in a long time, powerless. My arms continue to push and pull against the ropes holding me down.

  The alarm on my watch goes off, but no one pays attention. Two-Face stands over me. I stop struggling and brace myself for their next move. The goons start praying in unison. Some chant in Spanish I don’t understand.

  What the actual hell are they doing? Again, I struggle against the restraints, trying to escape—trying to warn them through my gag that things are going to end badly… for them.

  Two-Face raises the knife above my chest. My heart races, and sweat beads down my face. My body is heating up. Adrenaline is pumping.

  “Muerte Santisima…” he says.

  Not this shit again. The secondary alarm goes off. I’m in fight-or-flight mode now.

  The room starts to shake. Two-Face wavers, looking at what is happening around us. It’s like an earthquake in here. Bottles and lamps crash to the floor. A shelf tips over and spills glass jars everywhere. A wind blows through the house.

  The praying stops as the air pressure increases. My ears pop. Two-Face turns his attention down to me. I look him dead in the eyes. The last thing I remember is the horrified expression on his face when my binds snap apart like Silly String.

  * * *

  It’s sticky. That’s the first thing I realize when I wake up. I open my eyes but see nothing. Am I blindfolded? No, it’s still night out, and there are no lights on inside. I struggle to stand and realize I’m no longer bound. My hands and arms are covered in some weird viscous glaze.

  I feel my way to the door and find a switch. Reluctantly, I turn the light on.

  There’s so much blood. It’s everywhere—on the floor, splattered across the walls, covering me. Most of my clothes are torn, and I’m not sure by whom. I walk around the space, careful not to step on the many shards of glass, and examine what I did. Or rather, what Dudley did.

  I find the first body. He lies on the floor, his chest ripped open. It looks like someone tore him open like a bag of potato chips.

  The next body is nearly decapitated, except his lower jaw remains attached to his neck. I find the rest of his skull slammed against the wall and lying on the floor.

  The third body I find is impaled against the floor with chair legs. It looks like he’s been stabbed many times. He never stood a chance.

  I finally locate Two-Face. He got the worst of it. As best as I can tell, he was trying to run away, perhaps trying to hide in the bathroom. His body has been folded in half backwards. The back of his head lies on his ass. This contortion resulted in breaking open his abdominal lining, spilling his guts onto the floor.

  Unable to control myself, I vomit where I stand. Not that it makes much of a difference in this mess. I know I should hurry up and leave, and I know I need to hide my tracks. I can’t. I collapse to the floor and cry.

  I knew Dudley would come out again someday. Part of me always felt safe because he was inside me, ready to take over as a survival mechanism. But I didn’t anticipate this. I feel a regret I haven’t felt since Bennet died.

  Now four more people are dead because of me. For the past ten years, I’ve been able to control this darkness in me. I’ve been able to keep this demon from hurting anyone. And now a terrible mistake has been made that can never be undone. It can never be fixed. The pain I feel isn’t just emotional—it’s deep in my gut. And I sob.

  Eventually, I pick myself up, knowing what I have to do. I begin the process of self-preservation. I find all my personal effects—my Taser, my ID, my credit cards.

  My phone rings. I struggle to silence it in case someone is outside. The caller ID shows it’s Paige trying to call me. Shit. Now I’m really in trouble.

  I find every scrap of my clothes and put it in a bag. Realizing I can’t walk out the door looking like Carrie drenched in blood, I decide to take a quick shower. I put a plastic bag over my scalp, to prevent my hair from falling into the tub, and rinse as much blood off as I can.

  Through a window, I peer outside to get a sense of where I am. I haven’t gone anywhere. This is the house I arrived at hours ago, on the same shitty block in Harvard Park.

  My phone vibrates with a text from Paige: Where are you?

  Unfortunately, I don’t have time to respond. I put on some sweatpants and a hoodie I find lying around and proceed to wipe my fingerprints from anyplace I can remember touching. It’s still not good enough. I find a jug of isopropyl alcohol and pour it over everything. Before I walk out the door with all my belongings, I light a match.

  With the hood over my head and my eyes down, I walk out the door. The night sky shrouds me in darkness, and I’m happy for the nearly vacant street. Head down, I charge in the direction of my car.

  The only other soul around is a man walking a pit bull. As I approach to pass, the dog starts barking at me. Animals hate me. And just my luck, this stupid mutt is bringing some unwanted attention my way.

  “Easy, Bruno.” The guy pulls on the choke chain as I try to pass. “Sorry, he’s usually not this aggressive.”

  I nod my thanks as I try to walk by. By pure stupid luck, I glance up as a car drives by, and its headlights illuminate my face. I quickly turn away and hurry to my car.

  Behind me I can hear the dog owner yelling, “Fire! Fire!” as I slide into the driver’s seat.

  Safely inside, I jam the key in the ignition and twist. The engine turns. I peel out and speed away as fast as I can.

  * * *

  On my way home, I steer my Mini onto San Julian Street in Skid Row. The sidewalk is one long tent city, with homeless people gathered together over burning trash cans to keep warm. My car barely slows to five miles an hour as I roll down my window. The pungent smell of body odor and urine punches me in the face.

  At this moment, I appreciate having a right-side steering wheel as I toss my clothes into a burning trash can. I’m bummed that my jacket was in that bag. I really liked that jacket.

  My Mini continues its slow crawl, and my eyes connect with a particularly homely woman. She’s slim and, like so many others here, haggard. The flames from the trash can illuminate her features. Once upon a time, she may have been beautiful, with smooth skin and long blond hair. Now her skin is dark and wrinkled like weathered leather. Her hair is matted with a layer of filth and dirt. But her eyes reveal an intense madness, like she’s about to snap.

  I think about what Judge Whitaker said about Paige’s mom. You cannot help her. I drive away.

  * * *

  I arrive home and rush to get inside the loft. Paige is pacing in the living room. She freezes when I walk through the door.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she yells. “I’ve been freaking out all night! Why didn’t you answer my texts?”

  I charge past her toward our bathroom. Paige rushes to intercept me. She blocks my path with a stiff arm across the doorway.

  “Darcy!”

  I look up at her, the cowl of the hoodie still covering my head.

  She reads the expression on my face and registers that I’m wearing different clothes. Her arm falls. “Oh shit. Dudley?”

  Without answering, I move past her and hurry into the bathroom. I take a Silkwood shower in scalding-hot water and make sure to clean myself completely. Only when my skin turns pink from the scrubbing do I finally shut off the water.
/>
  Paige is standing outside the door when I emerge with only a towel wrapped around me. “What happened?” she asks. She sounds worried and confused.

  The only thing I say is, “You and I were together all day.”

  My damp feet slap against the kitchen tile as I grab a bottle of water and a granola bar. She doesn’t say anything to me, but she looks afraid. “Where were you?”

  I don’t answer her. After what I just went through, I don’t know how.

  “Darcy?” she asks, her voice trembling with fear.

  “Lock me in.” I pull my sliding door shut and wait.

  Only when I hear the metal arm bar barricading me in do I allow myself to relax. I make a cocktail of Xanax, Klonopin, and Excedrin PM and go to sleep.

  Chapter 18

  ____◊____

  IT TAKES ME A moment to discern the pounding on the door from the pounding in my head. I pull myself out of bed and drag my sorry ass to the door. “What?”

  Paige says from the other side, “You have a visitor.” Her voice is oddly casual, especially considering how I left her last night.

  “I’m not entertaining today. Tell them to go away.”

  “It’s David,” she says in a singsong voice.

  Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  I change out of my clothes and into something nice—too nice. Then I change out of that outfit into something more relaxed but still flattering. Despite telling myself I don’t care what other people think, there are times I do care and people I want to impress. Right now is one of those times, and Detective David Resnick is one of those people.

  I jerk on the door. It doesn’t budge. “Paige? It’s still locked.”

  “I need to hear it,” she replies.

  Oh God, no.

  “Is he out there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Please don’t make me.”

  “Sorry,” she says.

  I sing as fast as I can.

  “Cheer, cheer for old Notre Dame,

  “Wake up the echoes, cheering her name.”

  Before I’m even finished, the hook scrapes out of its lock, and the door slides open. Paige offers an apologetic look. I ignore her and walk briskly past to find the young police detective sitting on the couch. The first thing I notice is David is wearing a new suit—a taupe two-button and a significant upgrade from his Kohl’s collection. His thick hair is still unkempt, and his perpetual four-day-old beard could still use a shave, but he looks much more refined.