“That’s what she said.”
Clay shrugged, thinking about what he’d just been told. “What else did she say?” he asked finally.
“She told me that if I went to check the place out, I should keep an eye out for the campus security.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I mean, the police are calling this a suicide, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And no one’s even considering the possibility that this was anything other than that, right? I mean, there’s been nothing like that in the papers, or on the radio or TV, right?”
Clay nodded. He hadn’t told Miller anything other than that Colette Auster was a friend of the boy that had been found the night before, and that he needed to talk to her. Clay had felt that Miller didn’t need to know anything more than that. There was no way that Miller could know about the bloodhound, what it had found and what that meant. Of course Miller had sources of his own, sources inside Village Hall, which was one of the reasons why Clay hired him from time to time. But he couldn’t know that, not now, not yet.
“As far as I know,” Clay said, “no one’s considering it anything other than a suicide, cops or press. In fact, it’s pretty clear that’s what they want it to be.”
“Yeah, well, this Auster girl was telling me that the campus security was made up of a bunch of pricks, that they had threatened to charge a friend of hers with trespassing just because she was on the campus but wasn’t a student there.”
“Tommy, what does this have to do—”
“She told me that if I went to the campus to check out the chapel, I’d better look out for security because they’d probably be acting a lot worse than usual now that one of their students had been killed.”
Clay looked at him, saying nothing.
Miller said, “I mean, she could have meant to say ‘now that one of their students had died.’ But she didn’t. She said ‘killed.’ ”
“You didn’t say anything that would make her want to jump to that conclusion, did you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah.”
“She could have just misspoke.”
“Maybe. But it was almost as if she wanted me to go check out the chapel. Like she was baiting me. It was almost as if she wanted me to go there tonight. She even offered to take me there herself after she got out of work.”
Clay said nothing.
“She knows something, Reggie,” Miller said. “She wants someone to check that chapel out.”
“Why, though?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did she seem afraid, like maybe she knew something but didn’t want to say what?”
“I really don’t think that girl is afraid of anything. She’s something else, I’ll tell you that much.”
“What do you mean?”
“She knows how to play men. You should see it.”
“Maybe she was playing you.”
Miller nodded. “Maybe. But you’ve got to wonder why, right? What does she think we’re going to find out there?”
Clay looked toward the gym then. After a moment he turned and looked out over the campus. Miller knew he was surveying the scene. The northeast entrance to the campus was directly across the street from where they were standing. Set a hundred yards back from the entrance was a small wooden booth. It was big enough for just one occupant. At night a security guard—campus police, they called themselves—sat in it, on a stool, checking incoming cars for parking stickers. From this distance Clay could just barely make out the man sitting inside. Parked not far from the booth was a Crown Victoria, one of the cars in which security guards made their rounds on the campus. This was the only security presence that Miller or Clay could see.
Clay turned forward, looking at Miller again. “You said on my voice mail that you found her at the Water’s Edge.”
“Yeah. Why?”
Clay shook his head, saying nothing.
“What?” Miller asked.
“Nothing.” Clay was preoccupied now. He looked toward the gym again. “Go home, Tommy,” he said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Go home.” Clay walked around to the back of his Intrepid and opened the trunk. He removed a long Maglite flashlight, turned it on. The bulb was bright white. He turned the light off again and closed the trunk.
“I want to come with you,” Miller said.
“No.”
“Look, you wouldn’t know any of this if it weren’t for me.”
“You really want to remind me of that?”
“I want to go with you. I want to know what’s out there.”
Clay closed his eyes at the words. Then he reopened them.
“Look, this Auster girl was right, Tommy. The college is private property, and this is trespassing. If they show up, I don’t think you should be at my side. The cops aren’t all that fond of you. And, anyway, you’ve already drawn enough attention to yourself as it is, don’t you think? You’re only good to us if as few people as possible know you’re working for us.”
“Most of the guys who work security here used to work for my father. They got fired when the new chief took over. If they started to give you trouble, it might work out better for you if I was with you.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He started walking toward the gym, leaving Miller behind.
Miller waited a moment, then called out, “Look, all I want is a second chance. All I want is to make up for some of the things I’ve done.”
Clay walked a few more steps, then stopped. He looked back at Miller.
“You think you can do that? Make up for the stupid things you’ve done in the past?”
“I hope so, yeah. And I’m not the only one, by the way.”
Clay said nothing to that.
“I need this, Reggie. You know that.”
Clay took in a breath. His chest swelled. Then he let the breath out. White mist shot straight from his mouth for a good foot, then rose fast in a cloud.
“You’ll do everything I say?” he said finally. “Yeah.”
“I mean, not just tonight. From now on.”
“Yeah.”
Clay nodded. “All right, c’mon. But don’t get in my way, okay?” He turned and started walking again. “And don’t bug me.”
Miller smiled. He followed Clay along the north side of the gym. It was a large building, built thirty years before, and looked more like an airplane hangar than the athletic facility of an institute of higher learning. But the college itself didn’t look like much more than an air force base. Behind the gym lay a long field of scrub pine. There were no lights here, and the moon was just a whitish glow somewhere below the northeastern horizon. Clay switched on the Maglite, and he and Miller walked out onto the field. The ground was uneven, the soil sandy. At the far end, maybe a hundred yards away, was a row of dark trees. They had walked maybe a quarter of that distance when they came across a small building, half buried underground. It didn’t to Miller look like a chapel. Clay got close to it, shined the light on it.
“It’s a skeet shed,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s where they launch skeet from. This must be an old shooting range. Doesn’t look like anyone has used it for a while.”
Clay shined his flashlight toward the trees at the other end of the field. The light barely reached them. Still, it was enough to see something.
“Over there,” Clay said.
Miller looked and saw it, the faint, ghostly outline of a structure in the shadows of the border trees. They started toward it. The terrain was hard going for Miller, hard on his bum knee, but he ignored the discomfort. He stayed behind Clay, making a point of stepping in Clay’s footsteps. It seemed to Miller the thing to do. It wasn’t till they were about twenty-five yards from the trees and Clay shone his light at the structure again that they saw it clearly.
It was small, barely more than a one-room building, made of gray stones.
Two stories tall, it sat silent in those shadows. Its roof was two steep slopes that met at a sharp peak. Each slope was covered with tiles, many of which were broken or missing altogether. As they moved closer, Clay and Miller saw that the windows were boarded over from the inside. Miller thought of the bar where he had found Colette Auster, thought of its boarded-up windows. Clay paused to look around for a moment. Miller stopped behind him. Then they walked on again.
They reached the building, stood close enough to touch it. The front door was located on the side that faced south. Miller and Clay had approached it from the west. They looked at the front door, Clay shining his light on the padlock that secured it. The lock looked like new, but the hinge and the eyebolt from which it hung were well rusted. Clay aimed the light at the ground in front of the door. He spotted something, stepped to it, softly kicking at it with the toe of his shoe.
“What?” Miller said.
“It’s a piece of metal. The U-bolt part of a lock. It looks like it’s been cut.”
Miller looked and saw it, glimmering in the circle of white light.
“There’s no rust on it,” Miller said.
Clay nodded, saying nothing.
“Should we take a look inside?”
Clay moved the light, swept the white beam up and down the building.
“Should we take a look inside?” Miller said again.
“No.”
“But we’ve come this far.”
“Breaking and entering is against the law, Tommy, you know that.”
“But we’ve got to know what’s in there.”
“Not like this we don’t.”
“I could break a hole in one of the boards. It’s only plywood. We could shine the light in, maybe see something.”
“We’re done here for now, Tommy. Let’s go.”
Clay started walking away.
“You’re kidding me.”
“There’s a way to do things, Tommy.”
“But we’re here. We’re this close.”
“I’ve got a license to protect. Let’s go, now.”
Miller waited, took one more look at the dark chapel, then turned and followed Clay. They crossed the field quickly and returned to the parking lot. Clay unlocked his car door and tossed the Maglite inside. Then he reached into his back pocket, removed his wallet, and opened it. He pulled out two one hundred dollar bills and held them up for Miller to take.
Miller just looked at them.
“For last night and for tonight,” Clay said.
“You could leave and I could go back there myself.”
“Not while you’re working for us.”
“Keep your money then. If I see something weird, I’ll call the cops.”
“And tell them what?”
Miller said nothing.
“There’s a way to do things, Tommy. Just trust me, all right? We’ll find out what’s in there, without breaking any laws.” Clay waved the money. “Take the money. You earned it. Go home.”
“I’m not in this for the money,” Miller said.
“I know. It’d almost be better if you were. But take it anyway, okay? Donate it to charity, if you want. Just take it before it blows away.”
Miller reached out, took the two bills, slid them into his pocket.
“Is there anything more I can do tonight?” Miller said.
“No. We’ll let you know if we need you.”
“Maybe I could talk to the cops for you, find out what they know about the Foster boy.”
“Something tells me you already did that.”
“That was this morning. I could find out what they know now.”
“Go home, Tommy.”
Clay slid in behind the wheel of his Intrepid. He pulled the door closed, started the engine, and drove off. Miller watched him till he was gone from sight, then looked back toward the gym. He thought of what was behind it, what was just waiting there. He considered going back and taking a look. He stood there in the cold and considered that for a while. But then he thought better of it and climbed into his truck and got out of there.
He followed Tuckahoe Road to Montauk Highway, then turned right, heading east. He wondered if Abby was at his place waiting for him, thought then of calling her. If she didn’t answer, he’d try her at her place. He was reaching for his cell phone when he realized there was a vehicle behind him. It was riding closely behind him. No one had followed him on Tuckahoe Road, and Montauk Highway had been completely empty in both directions when he had pulled out onto it. Now, though, out of nowhere, someone was behind him, riding close, right on his bumper. How could that be?
He left his phone in his pocket and kept his eyes on the rearview mirror. The headlights of the vehicle behind him were set high up, so it had to be another truck or an SUV or something like that, not a car. The lights were bright, clearly the high beams. They cut into Miller’s eyes. He was coming up on the bar called The Still. It was just ahead, on the right. He was maybe twenty-five feet from its parking lot, doing fifty, just below the speed limit, when a car he had not seen before pulled out from behind the van, raced past it with its engine roaring, then cut in front of Miller, sharply, crossing the nose of his pickup, nearly clipping it with its back bumper. Miller hit the brakes, turned the wheel hard to the right, aiming for the shoulder of the road. But he had turned too hard, had oversteered. His truck skidded, for what felt to Miller like a long time but was really only two seconds, then went into a sideways slide. He lost all control of it then. The truck spun around and was facing backward when it went off the road. It sailed, almost smoothly at first, then cut through a sandbank and was popped up in the air by its own suspension. That was when the real ride began.
Miller felt the change in pitch, the change in the earth’s pull on him. He felt that almost immediately. His left shoulder was slammed against the driver’s door, and that was when he knew for certain that his truck was going into a roll. It happened fast, sickeningly fast, like a carnival ride. He watched the view out his front window tilt, turn upside down, then turn back again. It was all a blur. He braced himself, as best he could, his hands holding the wheel tight, his elbows locked so he was pushed back into his seat as far as he could go. But there wasn’t anything more that he could do. He was a rag doll in the mouth of a wild dog.
He watched helplessly as the view through his windshield rotated one more time. His shoulder slammed against the driver’s door again. His head snapped around like a boxer’s speed bag. Then, suddenly, the truck landed on its wheels, hard. It bounced once, leaning again to the right, as if ready to begin another roll. There was a moment when Miller wasn’t certain what was going to happen. He just sat there, holding the wheel, his senses reeling. That moment seemed to last forever. The truck continued its lean, and it seemed certain to Miller that he was in for one more roll at least. But then the truck fell back, landing squarely on its wheels. It bounced once more, and then was still, suddenly still.
Outside was a swirling cloud of dust and dirt. Miller couldn’t see through it. His mind was still spinning, still in that roll. The engine had stalled but the lights were on, and the heater fan was blowing. Miller waited, his insides scrambled. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for now. It took him a moment to realize that he was holding his breath. He let it out, took in air. He was alive. He was alive.
But there wasn’t time to celebrate that fact. He knew that much. He looked at his windshield, meaning to look through it. But a long crack that ran through it from top to bottom caught his attention. He looked past that, through the dust still churning in the air, and saw that a panel van had pulled over to his side of the road. It was the vehicle that had been behind him, following him closely, with its high beams on. Miller’s mind was working well enough for him to understand that right away. The car that had cut him off, a black Volkswagen Jetta, had turned around and was speeding away, heading west on Montauk. Miller could hear its engine screaming. The panel van pulled ahead so that it was perpendicular to Miller�
�s truck. It stopped there. The driver of the van didn’t move. He remained behind the wheel. There was something about the way he was looking at Miller that Miller didn’t like. It was an instinct. Miller reached up then and clicked on his high beams. The driver of the van quickly raised his right arm to shield his eyes, or maybe block his face. But in the second before that Miller had seen him, seen the man’s ugly face. Then the van took off, did a fast U-turn, and sped west on Montauk, heading in the same direction as the Jetta, its tires squealing.
Miller listened till he couldn’t hear the sound of the van any longer. It was all he could do. He was still badly stunned. He didn’t know for sure how much time had passed when he first heard the sound of sirens in the distance. They were faint at first but grew stronger, coming from the east, from the direction of town. Miller figured that someone must have heard the crash and called the cops. He didn’t really want to be around when they arrived. He had no way of knowing which cop would respond, so there was no way of predicting what kind of treatment Miller would get. He forced himself to focus. He saw that the truck was still in gear, so he shifted into park, then turned the ignition. The starter motor groaned, trying to turn the engine over. Miller cranked the ignition several times, the accelerator hard to the floor, in case the engine had flooded. Finally, though, it caught. But it was running very rough. Miller eased back on the accelerator, tapping on it only whenever the engine threatened to stall. After a moment of this the engine finally cleared out and began running smoothly, or smoothly enough. Miller shifted into drive and grabbed the steering wheel, easing down on the accelerator. The tires spun but the truck didn’t move. He shifted into reverse, backed up a little, then shifted into drive again and tried the gas one more time. The wheels spun. He did this several times, rocking the truck back and forth till it finally grabbed hold of earth and shot forward.
On the shoulder of the road Miller paused for a second, listening to the engine. It seemed to be running fine now. He drove forward a short way, listening for the sound of the tires rubbing against the body. He didn’t hear that. The truck seemed capable of forward motion, so far at least. That was all Miller cared about. The sirens were louder now, nearer. Miller had to leave. He pulled out onto Montauk Highway. The dark road was empty. He slowly got the truck up to fifty again. It took everything he had not to speed out of there, not to floor it. He detected a slight pull to the right, knew by that that the front end was out of alignment. But it wasn’t so bad that he wouldn’t be able to make it home. He drove the half mile to where Montauk Highway turned into Hill Street. It was there he saw the first patrol car, racing west. The car passed him in a flash, its lights flickering. Another followed fifteen seconds later. They were both part of the same commotion. A minute after that, Miller was turning onto Moses Lane.
The Darkest Place Page 11