The Dark

by Ellen Datlow

  “I didn’t figure you for a music lover,” said Broillard.

  “That song, the one that went into a seven-four break after the second verse …”

  “‘Three Fates.’” Broillard looked at him with renewed interest, “You play?”

  “Used to,” Shellane said. “I liked that song.”

  “Yeah, well,” said Broillard dismissively. “Cool.” He gave the brunette a squeeze. “Annie, this is …”

  “Michael,” Shellane said when Broillard couldn’t dredge up the name.

  “Right. Mister Michael is a writer. Crime novels.”

  Annie blinked vacantly up at Shellane, too blitzed to say “Hi.”

  Somebody caught Broillard’s shoulder, claiming his attention. As he turned away, he smirked and said to Shellane, “Stick around, man. It gets better.”

  OVER THE NEXT two days, Shellane was kept busy in detailing a new passport, setting up bank accounts on-line. Twice he caught sight of Grace walking along the shingle and considered calling to her, but her air of distraction reinforced his belief that she was a woman with time on her hands. Such women had a need for drama in order to give weight to their lives—he did not intend to become the costar in her therapy. But he continued to speculate about who she was. He remembered no wedding ring, yet she displayed a kind of cloistered unhappiness that reminded him of married women he had known. Perhaps she removed the ring to give herself the illusion of freedom. Or to give someone else that same illusion.

  Around noon on the third day, he took a couple of beers, a sandwich, the new James Lee Burke novel, and went down to the shore and sat with his back against a boulder that emerged from the bank, a granite stump scoured smooth by glaciers and warm from the sun. He read only ten or fifteen minutes before laying the book aside. If he had done crime in Louisiana, he thought he might have stayed with it. The crews there were more interesting than the Southie ratboys he’d worked with in Boston … at least if he were to trust the novel. Burke might be exaggerating. Crews were likely the same all over, just different accents. He stared out across the sunstruck lake, watched a motorboat cutting a white wake, too far away for the engine noise to carry over the sighing wind and the slop of the water. He half-believed nothing bad could happen here. That was ridiculous, he knew. Yet he felt serene, secure. He felt that the landscape had adjusted to him, reordered itself to accommodate his two hundred and twenty-six pounds and settled around him with the perfection of a tailored coat. No way he could hack it here for three years as he had in Detroit. But the fit was better here and he didn’t understand why this was. He stuck out in Champion. There was no cover, no disguise he could successfully adopt.

  He finished a beer, ate half the sandwich and went back to the book, but his attention wandered. Wind ruffled the shining reach of the water, raising wavelets that each caught a spoonful of dazzle and making it appear that a school of jeweled lives were surfacing from the depths. The trees stirred in dark green unison. The shingle was decorated with arrangements of twigs, matted feathers and bones, polished stones. Mysteries and signs. Shellane closed his eyes.

  “Hello,” said Grace, and his heart broke rhythm. He let out a squawk and sat up, knocking over his freshly opened beer.

  “I’m sorry!” She put out a hand as if to repair the damage. A fearful gesture, and her face, too, reflected fear.

  “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  She relaxed her pose, but still seemed wary, and he had the idea that she was used to being frightened.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “No big deal.”

  She had on jeans, the plaid jacket, and a T-shirt underneath—black with sequined blue stars. Her hair, loose about her shoulders, shone a coppery red under the sun. Even her skin seemed faintly luminous.

  “Did you eat yet? I’ve got half a sandwich going to waste.” He held out the baggie containing the sandwich.

  She stared at it hungrily, but shook her head. The wind lifted the ends of her hair, fluttered the collar of her jacket

  The depth of her timidity astonished him. Broillard might have a lot to answer for.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  He showed her the book.

  “I don’t know him,” she said.

  “It’s detective fiction, but the writing’s great.”

  She cast an anxious glance behind her, then sank to her knees. “I mostly read short stories. That’s what I wanted to write … short stories.”

  “Wanted to write?”

  “I just … he … I couldn’t … I …”

  She stalled out and Shellane resisted the impulse to touch her hand.

  “I wasn’t very good,” she said.

  “Who told you that?”

  As he spoke, he recognized that he was casting aside his resolve and making a choice that could endanger him. Something about her, and it was not just her apparent hopelessness, pulled at him, made him want to take the risk. Her face serially mapped her emotions: surprise and alarm and fretfulness. Green eyes crystaled with reflected light.

  “Your husband,” Shellane said. “Right?”

  “It’s not …” She broke off and glanced off along the shore road. The blue Cadillac was slewing toward them from the direction of Broillard’s cabin. Grace scooted behind the boulder. As the car turned onto the access road, Shellane saw that the brunette from the tavern occupied the passenger seat. The Cadillac skidded in the gravel, then sped off among the evergreens.

  “Did he see me?” Grace emerged from behind the boulder. “I don’t think he did.”

  He ignored the question. “He brings ‘em home? His fucking bimbos? You’re there, and he just brings ’em home?”

  Her nod was almost imperceptible, hardly more than a tucking in of the chin.

  “Why do you put up with it? What does he do? Does he hit you?”

  “He never … no. Not for a long time.”

  “Not for a long time? Terrific!”

  She opened her mouth but only shook her head again. Finally she said, “It’s not entirely his fault.”

  “Sure, I can see that.”

  “You don’t understand! He’s very talented and he’s been so frustrated. He …”

  “So he takes his frustrations out on you. He makes you feel bad about yourself. He tells you you’re worthless. He blames you for his failings.”

  Shellane reached for her hand. She looked startled when he touched her wrist, but let him pull her down onto her knees. “If that’s how it is,” he said, “you should leave him.”

  The boat that had been racing around at the far end of the lake swung close in along the shore, the sound of its engine carving a gash in the stillness. The driver and the woman with him waved. Neither Shellane nor Grace responded.

  “He doesn’t deserve you,” Shellane said.

  “You don’t know me … and you don’t know him.”

  “Twenty-five years ago, I used to be him.”

  “I doubt that. Avery’s one of a kind.”

  “No he’s not. I had a girlfriend who loved me. A beautiful girl. Smart. Doing great in grad school. But me, I couldn’t get it together. I was too damn lazy. I thought because I was smart, the world was going to fall at my feet. Eventually she left me. But before she did, I did my best to make her feel as bad about herself as I felt about myself.”

  “Did you ever get it together?”

  “I got by, but I never did what I wanted.”

  “What was that?”

  “It’s kind of a coincidence, actually. I wanted to be a musician. I wrote songs … or tried to. Screwed around in a garage band. But I settled for the next best thing.”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “Maybe I’ll tell you sometime.”

  They sat without speaking. Shellane told himself it was time to pull back. This pause was the perfect opportunity. But instead, he said, “Have dinner with me tonight. We can drive into Marquette.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not? He’ll be
playing tonight.”

  “He plays every night.”

  “Then why not have dinner? You afraid someone will see us?”

  She gave no reply, and he said, “Come over to the cabin, then. I’ll cook up some steaks.”

  “I might have to eat at home.” She flattened her palms against her thighs. “I could come over after.”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I don’t want you to think … that …”

  “I promise not to think.”

  That brought a wan smile. “We can just talk, if that’s all right.”

  “Talk would be good.”

  She appeared to be growing uncomfortable, and watching her hands wrestle with one another, her eyes darting toward the lake, he timed her and said to himself, the instant before she spoke the same words, “I should go.”

  LATE THAT AFTERNOON, it seemed that deep November arrived at the lake in all its dank and gray displeasure, a cold wind pushing in a pewter overcast and spatterings of rain. As the dusk turned to dark, a fog rolled in, ghost-dressing the trees in whitish rags that clung to the boughs like relics of an ancient festival. Shellane, who had gone for a walk just as the fog began to accumulate, was forced to grope his way along, guided by the muffled slap of the waves. He had brought a flashlight, but all the beam illuminated were churning walls of fog. He must have been within a hundred yards of the cabin when he realized he could no longer hear the water. He kept going in what he assumed to be the direction of the shoreline, but after ten minutes he was still on solid ground. He must have gotten turned around, he thought. He shined the flashlight ahead. A momentary thinning of the mist, and he made out a building before him. If anyone was at home, he could ask directions. The visibility was so poor he couldn’t see much until he was next to the wall. The boards were knotty, badly carpentered, set at irregular slants and coated with pitch. He ran his hand along one and picked up a splinter.

  “Shit!” He examined his palm. Blood welled from a gouge and a toothpick-sized sliver of wood was visible beneath the skin. He shook his hand to ease the hurt and happened to glance upward. Protruding from the wall twenty feet overhead was a huge black fist, perfectly articulated, twice the circumference of an oil drum. From its clenched fingers hung a shred of rotting rope.

  Shellane’s heart seemed itself to close into a fist. Swirling fog hid the thing from view, but he could have sworn it was not affixed to the wall, but rather emerged from it, the boards flowing out into the shape, as if the building were angry and had extruded this symbol of its mood.

  He heard movement behind him and spun about, caught his heel and fell. Knocked loose on impact, the flashlight rolled off, becoming a mounded yellowish radiance away in the fog. Panicked, he scrambled up, breathing hard. He could no longer see much of the building, just the partial outline of a roof.

  A guttural noise; pounding footsteps.

  “Hey!” Shellane called.

  More footsteps and another voice, maybe the same one.

  “Hey! Quit screwing around!” he shouted. The hairs on his neck prickled. Who would own a place like this? Pissant Goths. Rich kids who’d never gotten over The Cure. Another movement, this time on the left. Something heavy and ungainly.

  Fuck directions, he told himself.

  He started away from the building, walking fast and holding his arms out like Frankenstein’s monster to ward off obstructions. Less than ten seconds later, he hit a drop-off and staggered into cold ankle-deep water. He overbalanced and toppled onto his side, raising a splash. He pushed up from the silty bottom, found his way to shore and stood shivering. Listening for voices. The only sound was that of the water dripping from his clothes onto the sand. He felt foolish at having been spooked by, probably, a bunch of twits who wore eye liner and drank wine out of silver cups and thought they were unique.

  That fist, though. What a freak show!

  If things were different, he thought, he’d give them a lesson in reality. Blow a couple of nine-millimeter holes in their point of view. But his annoyance faded quickly, and after squeezing and shaking the excess water from his clothes, he trudged off along the shore.

  HE DOUBTED THAT Grace would show that evening. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. His experience in the fog had rekindled his caution and he thought it might be best for them both if she blew him off. He could be no help to her and she would only endanger him. At nine o‘clock he switched on the laptop and called up his crime file. Seeing Marty Gerbasi in Detroit had made him realize it was time to add a more personal reminiscence. He’d been having a beer in the Antrim back in Southie, the winter of ’83, when Marty had come in with Donnie Doyle, a pale twist of a kid with peroxided hair and a rabbity look who occasionally hooked on with a crew as a driver. Stupid as a stopped clock. They’d sat down next to Shellane and all three of them had tried to drink the bar out of Bushmills. Marty was buying, playing the grand fellow, laughing at Donnie’s stories, most of them lies about his gambling prowess, and winking broadly at Shellane as if to say he knew the kid was bullshit. Around 1:00 A.M. they staggered out of the bar—at least Donnie staggered. Marty and Shellane could handle their liquor. No one ever saw Donnie Doyle after that night, and afterward Shellane understood that having Marty buy you drinks was not a good thing. Like so many of Shellane’s associates, he lacked the necessary inch of conscience to qualify as human. Over the years, Shellane’s recognition that he was involved with a company of affable sociopaths had grown more poignant, eventually causing him to rethink his future, to realize that sooner or later Marty would offer to buy him drinks. He never found out what Donnie Doyle had done to deserve his night out with good ol’ Roy Shellane and the guinea angel of death, but he figured it was nothing more than some unfortunate behavior, maybe a tendency toward loquaciousness or—

  A knock on the door. Ignoring his determination that he was better off without her, he jumped up to let Grace in. The plaid jacket and jeans again. Ponytail.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said as he stood aside to allow her to pass.

  “I didn’t know if you’d make it at all, what with the fog.”

  She sat at the table, shrugged out of the jacket; she had on a green turtleneck underneath. “It’s nice and warm in here,” she said, then pointed to his hand, which he had bandaged after removing the splinter. “What happened?”

  Her eyes widened when he told her about the black house.

  “You know who owns the place?” he asked.

  A shake of her head. “It’s really old. Lots of people stay there.”

  “Have you met any of them?”

  “They don’t talk to me.”

  Shellane went into the kitchen and poured two fingers of bourbon. He glanced at her inquiringly, held up the bottle, expecting her to refuse.

  “I’ll try it,” she said.

  He poured, set the glass in front of her. She touched the rim with her forefinger, closed her hand around it, then had a sip. She sipped again and smiled. “It’s good!”

  She was easier around him than before, and this both elated and distressed him. What he felt for her, when he tried to isolate it, was less defined than what he felt toward her husband. He was attracted, but the basis of the attraction perplexed him. True, she was sexy, with her green eyes and expressive mouth and strong, slender body. Her vulnerability made him feel protective and this enhanced his other feelings. But he could not help thinking that a large part of the attraction was due to the danger she presented. For several years he had limited his contact with women to those he met through outcall services; now, alone with her in this secluded place, he wondered if he was not toying with fate, pretending there was something for them other than the moment. She finished her drink and asked for a refill. He doubted she was much of a drinker and thought this might be her way of signaling that she was ready to take a step. He did not believe her capable of discretion. Her spirit was so damaged, if Broillard were to get a whiff of another man and pressured her, she might confess everything.
Broillard might no longer care about her, but in Shellane’s experience, men who abused their women were extremely possessive of them.

  She asked what he used the laptop for and he told her the lie about his book. She pressed him on the subject, inquiring as to his feelings about his work, and he fended off her questions by saying he didn’t know enough about writing yet to be able to talk about it with any intelligence.

  “You were a songwriter,” she said.

  “I was a wanna-be. That doesn’t qualify me to talk about it.”

  “That’s not true. If you want to do something, you think about it. Even if it’s not conscious, you come to understand things about it. Techniques … strategies.”

  “Sounds like you should be telling me about your work,” he said. When she demurred, he asked what she would write about if she regained her confidence.

  “It’s not my confidence that’s the problem.”

  “Sure it is,” he said. “Having enough confidence to fail is most of everything. So tell me. What would you write about?”

  “The lake.” She tugged at a strand of hair that had come loose from the ponytail, stretched it down beside her ear as if to contrive a sideburn. “It’s all I know. My father and I lived here from the time I was four. My mother died when I was a baby.”

  “It’s your father’s house you’re in now?”

  She nodded. “After he died, Avery came along. He helped me with the business.”

  “The Gas ’n Guzzle?”

  “Avery renamed it. It used to be Malloy’s. I wanted to keep the name, but …” She gave another of those glum gestures that Shellane was beginning to interpret as emblematic of her attitude toward an entire spectrum of defeats.

  “So Avery moved right in, did he?”

  “I guess.” She held out her empty glass again and he poured a stiffer drink.

  “Looks like I’m going to have to call you a cab,” he said

  She giggled, lifted the glass and touched the liquid with the tip of her tongue. It was the first sign of happiness she had shown him, and it was so pure a thing, so innocently sexual expression, that Shellane, himself a little drunk, was moved to touch her cheek.