The Darkest Place

by Daniel Judson

  Gregor had checked the phone books, checked fifteen years back, which was as far as his library of local phone books went. But he found nothing, and it was decided then that Clay would cash in a favor with his friend at the Press, search their database for any reference to Krause, maybe find a copy of the article that Clay had seen in Colette’s apartment. He went to the newspaper’s office after being diverted to town to meet Miller and get the news about the Dolan kid, and see firsthand the crowd and the television reporter—the quiet before the chaos and panic.

  Almost immediately Clay found in the database the article on Krause. Written twenty years before, it was a human interest story—a large photograph and fifteen paragraphs. In the photo Krause looked the way he always did—an old man with brittle, untamed white hair, wearing a black cape and wool scarf and dark suit, his clothes as old as he was. The photo had been taken in wintertime, during a snowfall. Blurred flakes hung suspended in front of a long face. Wrinkles, wiry eyebrows frowning over dark, squinted eyes, a hard-set and broad mouth.

  The article reported that Krause had fled Nazi Germany when he was nine years old, taken out of the country by a neighbor shortly after Krause’s own family—mother, father, and sister—had been captured by the Gestapo and killed. Krause’s father was Catholic, but his mother was Jewish, and both had been active against the Nazis in the early years, vocal—too vocal. Krause had grown up on the lower East Side of New York, lived in miserable poverty till a benefactor, someone from his youth who had survived the war and made it to America, had shown up in time to send Krause to Princeton, where he was reunited with Einstein, whom he had known casually in his youth. Later he taught mathematics at Princeton, till his health took a bad turn and he retired early and moved to the East End in 1998 to live a quiet life; a pensioner grateful for the opportunities his adopted country had afforded him.

  But it was clear from the article that Krause had been haunted most of his life by the loss of his family. He had once taken a sabbatical from Princeton to return to Germany, to try to find out exactly what had happened to his parents and sister. He found records indicating that the Gestapo had suspected them of belonging to an underground group and had taken them to a makeshift prison and tortured them for information. Though there was no way of knowing by which means his family had been tortured, Krause did learn that the method favored by the captain who had arrested them was water torture.

  Clay could find nothing more on Krause in the database. But the mention of the Gestapo and water torture caused him to remember a book he had read in high school, about a man called Intrepid, the head of British Intelligence during the Second World War. Clay, a fan of the French Intellectuals who came out of the war, was drawn to Intrepid’s story for its references to the French Resistance. He remembered now an account of a Gestapo interrogation technique—a long plank on a fulcrum, a large bucket of water at one end, the victim tied facedown, his or her head lowered into the bucket, held there till water was breathed in, then quickly lifted out. The angle of the plank was such that the victim’s head was lower than the rest of his or her body, which allowed the lungs, with the aid of violent coughing, to drain. The men operating this device were, it had said in that book, well trained, knew just how long to keep someone under, and how much rest to give them between immersions. The torture could go on more or less indefinitely, the book had said. The water was always cold, often filled with ice, having the effect of waking the victim up with every dunking, preventing passing out and prolonging the ordeal.

  Did Krause believe that his family had been tortured in this way? Clay wondered. Was this trauma what drove him to serial murder? But Krause had lost a father and mother and sister. Why, then, young men? There had been no mention in the article of Krause ever having been married. No mention at all of a life partner of any kind. A politically correct omission, maybe? The article was from the early eighties. Attitudes then weren’t what they were now. Didn’t serial killers generally kill members of the sex to which they were attracted? Was Krause then a homosexual? Could this be it, the motive, the reason?

  Clay had access to the Internet in this basement room, and his friend, Pat, had run out to get them some coffee from the 7-Eleven. He decided to look deeper, find anything that he could on the subject, brought up a search engine, typed the phrase “Gestapo Water Torture,” then pressed the enter button.

  What he got was a list of pornographic Web sites, an entire subculture dedicated to what was called water bondage. He entered a few of the sites, navigated to the preview page, saw photographs of naked victims being held underwater, then photographs of them being lifted out again, gasping, water pouring from their hair. Most of the victims were women, being tortured by men or other women, though in some cases the victims were men being tortured by women. In all cases, the water containers were what looked like glass aquariums, large enough to completely submerge an adult person. Some of the victims hung upside down by block and tackle, were lowered head first into the water, others secured to the bottom of the tank by straps or manacles, the tank slowly filled by a hose as the victim struggled against the restraints. There was even a tank resembling the one made famous by Houdini, a Chinese Water Torture tank. All the photographs were clearly posed, set in basements that were made to look like dungeons. The torturers were invariably dressed in leather outfits, though some were themselves naked. One woman, dunking a man in a monk’s robe, was even dressed like a member of the SS. Hanging on the wall behind them was a swastika flag.

  These photos, clearly fake, so clearly posed, were unsettling to Clay, disturbing, but it was the last Web site that he visited that alarmed him. He had found this one when he typed into a search engine the words “young men water bondage.”

  This was a different Web site, he could tell that right off. All the victims were young men in their late teens and early twenties, many with a model’s good looks, each one being held underwater by a pair of hands as someone else took the picture. The water sparkled, lit by sunshine—clearly someone’s pool. In none of these photographs were the young men struggling against the hands that held them down. Many looked into the camera, which was either just above the water or beneath it, just a few feet away; they looked at the camera with docile, almost tranquil expressions on their faces. These photos, this Web site, had an eerie quality that the others did not. This looked more real than the other Web sites, less staged, less overtly over-the-top. These were young men, attractive young men, simulating a drowning death, not some wild fantasy of bondage and torture.

  Later, back home, in his kitchen, Clay wondered if he had stumbled onto what was in fact happening to the boys who were being found dead. Didn’t Kane claim that he had been told by Colette that the Professor liked taking photographs of unconscious young men? Could Krause be taking this a step further? Instead of simulating drowning for sexual gratification, as was clear by these Web sites that some did, could he actually be drowning these boys? For his pleasure? To release his grief? For another reason Clay could not yet think of?

  Unable to locate where Krause was now living, there was nothing more Clay could do tonight except wait till morning, when Gregor would call a friend at the phone company and try to get a copy of Colleen Auger’s phone records. Maybe they’d get lucky, do a reverse lookup and get to Krause, get to him before it was too late.

  But in the meantime, while he could, Clay needed to sleep. He was exhausted. He stood up from the table, poured his orange juice and vodka into the sink—he’d only taken a few sips—then turned out the light, went into the bedroom, got out of his clothes, and climbed in next to Sophia. She didn’t stir, never did anymore, had long since gotten used to his climbing in and out. He lay in the dark beside her, looking up at the ceiling, his mind, despite his exhaustion, racing. He lay there on his back for a long time, a good half hour, maybe more. He wondered how much longer he could keep this up, how much longer he could do this job. He saw ten kinds of ugliness in any given week—people at their most despera
te, people at their worst, the hurt and those who handed out hurt, who for some reason, some flaw, just didn’t fucking care about anyone or anything.

  But if he quit, then what? He certainly hadn’t gotten rich in the past five years, hadn’t hoarded away enough money to take care of him and Sophia for the rest of their lives. And anyway, he couldn’t do that to Gregor, no matter what Sophia said about him. Gregor had done his years in the trenches, had earned his place behind the scenes. Clay always figured that at some point he’d join him there, somehow, while they were still young even, the two of them secure in the knowledge that they had done their part, maybe even more than their part.

  Clay finally realized that as much as he needed it, sleep wasn’t in the cards. He sat up, moved to the edge of the bed, was considering maybe making another drink, actually drinking this one this time, when the quiet of his apartment was shattered by his phone.

  The ringing sounded to Clay like something smashing to pieces across his floor. He reached toward the nightstand, grabbed the receiver before the second ring could begin. Sophia stirred, but he couldn’t tell if she was awake or not. He spoke into the mouthpiece, in a quick whisper.

  “Clay.”

  A male voice, with an accent—South American, maybe. Whatever it was, whoever he was, Clay didn’t know the man, hadn’t spoken to him before now.

  “I need to meet with your boss,” the voice said.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Jorge Castello. Do you know who I am?”

  Clay nodded, then said, “Yeah.”

  “It is important that your boss and I talk, face-to-face. It is important that we do this right away.”

  “What about?”

  “I have an exchange to make.”

  “What kind of exchange?”

  “One hour. A bar called the Oceanside. Do you know it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “In the parking lot. Him, and him alone. If not, I leave.”

  “I can’t guarantee—”

  The line went dead.

  Nine

  A DESERTED EAST HAMPTON BEACH CLUB, BOARDED UP FOR THE season, on a strip of road that hugged the long edge of the ocean. Three in the morning. The parking lot was empty when Gregor arrived in his Grand Prix. He parked at the ocean side of the lot, where the asphalt was broken into chunks and dead beach grass stood half bent. He killed the lights but of course kept the motor running for the heat. The news had said the temperature at Montauk Point was a few degrees above zero tonight, warmer than it had been the last three nights, finally out of the negatives. Small comfort, Gregor thought. There were houses down the beach, in both directions. He knew that because he had been here before, a few times in his life. There wasn’t anywhere on the East End that he hadn’t been at least once. But these houses weren’t much more to his eye right now than dark shapes set against a dark horizon. The sky was overcast, low clouds blocking out the stars and the late moon like a curtain. No streetlights for a mile in any direction, no floodlights on in the parking lot, not even any lights out at sea. A complete darkness then, and no matter how long Gregor waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to it, to find the available light, they did not. He could close his lids tight, open them again, and not detect that much of a difference between the two. The darkness remained till, a few minutes after Gregor had arrived, a pair of headlights appeared in the road. The car turned, the lights crawled across the parking lot, and a car rolled slowly toward him.

  It was a twenty-year-old Benz sports coupé, white, in less than vintage condition. It parked about thirty feet away. The driver left the lights on, got out, walked around the back bumper. Gregor got out, stood by his door. After a moment they both started walking, meeting halfway between cars. They stood with their hands in the pockets of their coats, their shoulders hunched against the cold, white fog bursting from their nostrils with every exhalation.

  The man was young, maybe thirty at the most, handsome. He was as tall as Gregor, had roughly the same build, wore expensive clothes—wool pants, three-quarter-length leather coat, dark sweater, and shoes. His hair was black, neatly trimmed, just like Gregor’s, though not as thick. His complexion was darker, significantly so, and he moved with ease, an air of confidence, the way people with money, who have always had it and know they always will, can move. Gregor, as he always did, in all situations, carried himself differently, with more caution, moved more deliberately, as if deep thought preceded everything he did. There was a quality, too, to the way he stood that said he was ready at any moment for violence to occur, that he wouldn’t be surprised by it. There was a good six feet between them, and there was clearly no need for that to change, no intention that either had to change it. They stood face-to-face, offered each other respectful nods, braced against the killing cold.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Castello said.

  Gregor scanned the parking lot, casually but carefully, then nodded toward the closed-up beach club. “Why here?”

  “You live in Montauk. I wanted to make the gesture of meeting you halfway. It seemed to me the thing to do. Also, I felt our meeting should be in private. I was fairly certain you’d feel the same.”

  Gregor nodded, thought about that. Castello’s accent was thick but his English was good. Educated.

  “How did you know where I live?” Gregor said finally.

  “I have my resources. Besides, I know a lot about you, have known a lot about you for a while.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I know that a friend of yours died five years ago, that you came into some money and started your PI firm with it. I know you own the only two cab companies on this part of the island, and that you have interests in some other businesses as well, one of which is a home security company in Southampton. I also know that you apprenticed under a private investigator named Frank Gannon.”

  “I worked for him a few times is all,” Gregor said. A few times was enough. He kept his voice calm. Frank Gannon was a long time ago. A different life. A ghost now.

  “Gannon did some work for my family,” Castello said, “until he was killed.”

  Gregor wasn’t surprised to hear that, ignored it. “You own the Water’s Edge, among other properties,” he said.

  “That’s my father, Jorge Sr. I’m Jorge Jr. I just manage the place for him, fill in behind the bar when necessary. In fact, that’s where I was the night your man came in to talk to Colette.”

  Gregor doubted that managing and sometimes bartending was all the younger Castello did. There were stories about him, about things he had done, or was supposed to have done, to a young girl who had once been in his employ. The details of his actions, and the nature of the girl’s employment, were sketchy, but there was no reason for Gregor to doubt them. He knew what the Water’s Edge really was, knew the kind of family the Castellos were. But this was a topic for another time perhaps, another conversation.

  “What man of mine was that?” Gregor said.

  “Miller. A kid, really. But word is he does things for you now and then.”

  “Clay said you wanted to talk to me about an exchange of some kind.”

  Castello nodded. “Like I said, I know all about you. I know the things you’ve done, the people you’ve brought down. And not just since you’ve officially been in business, either. I know the things you did before that, before you came into your money and changed your name. Listen, there’s nothing wrong with a man deciding he’s someone else, wanting a fresh start. With the enemies you’d made, it was probably a smart thing to do. So, as we can both now see, I know all about you and you know all about me. And with all that we know about each other, I thought it might be best for the both of us if we tried to strike a bargain of sorts.” It took Gregor a long time to respond that.

  “It’s cold, man,” he said softly. “Is there a point coming soon?”

  “An hour ago, Colette Auster’s apartment was cleared out. Everything that was in it is now gone, in the process of being destroyed. When my peop
le got there, they found that her door had been broken in, and that some things were missing—her television and stereo and computer, the kinds of things a thief would take, or maybe someone trying to look like a thief. We assume that wasn’t your man Clay’s doing, that those things were already gone by the time he got there and had his look around.” Castello waited, but when Gregor said nothing, he resumed. “Everything else that was there, however, everything she owned, is gone.”

  “Why?”

  “My job is to protect my family, protect the business. I take it very seriously.”

  Gregor thought about the evidence, the prescription bottles and the letter naming Krause. It was all they had, not much but something. But he said nothing about that. Castello wouldn’t care, couldn’t even if he wanted to. Gregor knew the world in which Castello lived and worked, in which Castello’s family lived and worked. He knew it well, knew that six feet was as close as he wanted to get to that world tonight, or any night, for that matter, or to anyone who moved in that world with such ease, made their living from it, got rich from it, was willing to protect it at all costs.

  The letter, what it meant, what it would prove, was gone, as gone as if it had been tossed into the ocean.

  “It’s unlikely that anyone will even notice her absence,” Castello said. “She came out of nowhere and then just disappeared, the way people who come out of nowhere do. I doubt anyone will miss her.”

  It took Gregor a moment to realize what it was Castello was telling him, just how far his act of self-preservation had gone.

  “You got rid of her body,” Gregor said finally.

  “A dead girl in the parking lot is not very good for any business, particularly ours. Her body won’t be found anytime soon. No dead body, no murder, so no police investigation. No investigation, no need for the police to find out where she lives and have a look at her things. Still, it’s best that there’s no trail, no possibility of anything somehow connecting her to my family. She was, I believe, up to something. No way of knowing what exactly, so better safe than sorry.”