by Harvey Click
“Of course, my dear,” Howard said. “His mind was not polluted by public school.”
Okpara continued. “We know nothing about them until the evening of August 12, 1992, when Eva called the local police and two deputies found Gus in the barn, dead from a heart attack. They also discovered Darnell buried in the basement in what Eva called the ‘bad box.’ This was a small homemade footlocker, very sturdy but scarcely large enough to hold the child. It was placed in a four-foot-deep pit dug in the cellar floor. There were a few breathing holes drilled in the lid of the box; they were at the end opposite from his face, possibly so he wouldn’t be able to peer out. There are similar holes in the casket that we found yesterday.
“The report states that it had been raining all day and the pit was filling up with water. When the deputies opened the footlocker it was half-filled with water. Another inch or so, and Darnell would have drowned. He was unconscious and didn’t awaken until several hours later at the hospital. He apparently didn’t remember being put in the box. He was treated for dehydration and was released to an orphanage, where he stayed until he turned 18.
“The deputies noticed more evidence of digging a few feet from the pit for Darnell’s box. They got a warrant and dug up another homemade box with Angela’s body in it. The body was badly decomposed and had been dead for several months. Cause of death was undetermined.”
“How very grim,” Howard said. “So very horrible.”
“Yes, it is,” Okpara said. “I regret having to tell such a depressing story.”
“Go on,” Sarah said.
“The night Darnell was found was the twelfth of August. He had turned nine the day before. His birthday probably had been spent inside the box. Eva said she thought he’d been in there for two or three days; she wasn’t sure and didn’t seem very concerned about it. She said Gus put him in there at least once a month, sometimes once a week, whenever he misbehaved. He was usually in the box for a day or two at a time, she said.
“Eva saw nothing unusual about the punishment. She admitted that Gus probably had sex with both of the grandchildren and with his own children before that. She wasn’t sure, but she wouldn’t put it past him. She was charged with child abuse but was never tried because of dementia, and she died a few months later in a rest home. Her brain was riddled with tumors.”
Howard had silently slipped out to the kitchen. He returned with a pitcher of iced tea and refilled their glasses, his face pale and his hand unsteady as he poured.
“It sometimes happens that a child abused so severely will develop a split personality, in some cases even several distinct personalities,” Okpara said. “This is called multiple personality disorder. The other personality apparently is a means of escape from an intolerable situation. The other personality, the imaginary one, suffers the punishment, while the real child remains oblivious to the horror. Perhaps one could say it’s a great gift of the human mind to be able to create another person to endure the terrible pain.
“But there’s a price to pay. Once the torture is gone, the other person doesn’t go away. It’s possible that this is what Angela Dietrick is: the other person, the one with all of the rage. After his sister died, or maybe even before, Darnell would escape into her personality whenever he was put in the box, and now that personality still lives.”
“I don’t understand,” Howard said. “If her grandfather was such an ogre, why would she take his last name?”
“Possibly it’s just a convenient alias,” Okpara said. “On the other hand, serial killers sometimes drop clues and riddles as if daring the police to find them. But it’s also possible that Angela identifies with her cruel grandfather, the monster who in effect created her. We suspect the casket discovered in Angela’s apartment is the one Gus Dietrick was buried in. Seven years ago, his grave in Mount Vernon was robbed. His remains were found at the bottom of the hole—the only thing missing was his casket.”
He pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket and touched it to his forehead. “In order to understand the suspect, we must understand Angela as well as Darnell. That is not so easy. Darnell may be unaware of Angela’s crimes, or he may be perfectly aware, we don’t know. At this stage of the investigation, we have little more than conjectures.
“But if there should be an encounter, don’t believe that you can reason with this creature or appeal for mercy. All of the anger, every memory of every outrage, is locked up inside her. Whatever conscience or empathy may exist, Darnell has kept to himself. Angela has no pity to give you.”
***
After Okpara left, Howard sat smoking and brooding in silence. Sarah stared out of the window, trying to convince herself that it was the same world out there that it had been before this nightmare started. For over two years she had been collecting boxes full of articles about child abuse and other crimes, but still the world had seemed reasonably safe and comfortable. Just facts and figures and faceless stories.
“I’ve never heard a more dreadful story,” Howard said at last.
“I shouldn’t have stuck you in the middle of this crap,” she said. “Tomorrow I’m—”
“Sare, if you say one more word about finding an apartment, I swear I shall lock you in the closet. Sorry—a clumsy choice of words. I need to leave in a few minutes—I have a three o’clock to teach, but I’ll be back by 5:00. I have an idea, why don’t you come with me and sit in on my class? Nothing very sinister ever happens during one of my classes, except maybe a few students expiring from deadly boredom, and I hate to leave you here alone.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I have a lovely idea,” Howard said. “Whatever you do, don’t eat any dinner before I get back. Oh, and one other thing—if that cruel little Adonis should call, tell him that I expressly told you not to tell him where I am. I want him to believe that I’ve quite washed my hands of him.”
“Sure,” Sarah said.
She had gathered from a couple of Howard’s remarks that he hadn’t heard a word from his new flame for at least a week. Like most of his infatuations, this one seemed to be woefully one-sided.
As soon as the door shut, Sarah began to wish she had gone with him. She wasn’t in the mood to sit here alone. It was a big house with many windows, and each window felt like an eye staring at her. Her throat began to ache again as she remembered Peter’s hands clamped around it. She remembered Finney’s body, remembered the pile of bones in the closet and the dreadful stink of the box. Gus Dietrick’s dug-up fucking casket, for God’s sake!
She wished that she had a gun. She would have it right here in the pocket of her shorts, ready to protect her from whatever asshole might be staring in at her through the windows.
Howard’s phone rang. Why did he have to be the last person on earth to have a home phone with no caller ID? It kept ringing, and finally she picked it up.
“Hello?”
There was a long silence, then a chuckle. “Hi, Sarah,” Peter said. “Are you wearing panties?”
Chapter Twenty
It was a nice day despite everything, still too hot but a bit cooler than it had been, and she decided to take a walk. Surely she would be safe out there in broad daylight, safer than she was in this house. Still, she looked cautiously in both directions before she stepped out. No sign of a bogyman, but no sign of a squad car either.
She liked Howard’s neighborhood, a beautifully restored German quarter a few blocks south of downtown. The old brick houses had tiny yards that their owners had crafted into colorful gardens. The narrow streets, also brick, had been built for carriages and pedestrians, and the few cars that travelled them bumped along slowly. There were coffee shops and candy stores, restaurants and bars, an enormous bookstore that she was eager to explore, a park where it would be pleasant to watch the sun set.
She like Howard’s neighborhood, she liked his house with its antiques and its clean airy comfort, and most of all she liked Howard’s company, so pleasant after the Kafka-bug loneliness of her apartm
ent. He had given her the larger of his two guest rooms, with a luxurious pillared bed and a nice big table for her computer.
In different circumstances he would probably be the ideal roommate; hospitable, cheerful, considerate, kind, he had every trait she had always wanted in a lover without the complication of being a lover. She liked the fact that he didn’t look at her the way other men did. It was nice to be able to feel as relaxed around a man as she would around a woman, without the imp of sexual desire to confuse everything.
Apparently the imp was tormenting Howard, needling him to brood over his indifferent Adonis, who probably was a callow brat not worth the fuss. But how many people had seen Peter the same way, back when her heart was still skipping foolishly at the sound of his name? Now that the imp’s spell was shattered, she marveled that she had ever wanted him.
Yeah, Howard would probably be the ideal roommate—but not in these circumstances, not when she was likely to get him killed. Despite his protests, she was going to find her own place tomorrow, even if it was just a dumpy room somewhere, and then the Kafka-bug loneliness would be back, but at least Howard would be safe.
It wasn’t quite 4:00 when she got back, so of course Howard’s car was still gone, and she hated entering the house when he was away. She walked completely around it, checking to make sure the windows and the back door were properly shut, but of course that meant nothing—if Peter or Darnell had jimmied a lock he wouldn’t leave the door open to advertise his presence.
The house sounded quiet, too quiet, the foyer holding enough silence to fill a cathedral. The place had enough closets to hide a legion of demons, and then there was an attic big enough for another army of horrors, and then there was the basement . . . She wished she had a gun in her purse.
Grasping her pitiful can of pepper gas, she yanked open the door of the foyer closet. Just Howard’s impressive array of coats, but they looked sinister enough, skinny scarecrows on hangers. She stuck her head into the front living room. Had someone moved that hookah an inch or two?
The phone rang.
Jeez. She let it ring five or six times, but it showed no inclination to quit. So what if it was Peter? He already knew she was staying here, and at least if he was on the phone that meant he wasn’t lurking in the attic—unless he was up there with his cell phone.
She grabbed the receiver. “Who is it?” she snapped sharply.
“Sarah? Is that you?”
No, it couldn’t be . . .
“It’s me. Darnell.”
Sarah tried to say something, but her mouth didn’t work.
“I’m sorry. I know what you must think of me. A monster. Two monsters. But I had to call. I have to talk. I haven’t been able to. Angel’s much stronger now, she’s taking over. But right now she’s exhausted. I think she’ll be gone for a little while, at least for an hour. I hope.”
“How did you get this number? How do you know—”
“She knows where you’re staying. I found your phone number in her purse. She knows your address too.” Darnell recited the street and house number.
“Tear it up!” Sarah shouted.
“Sure. I already did. But it won’t do any good. Angel won’t forget. She wants to kill you because you know me too well. I mean, you and I have a sort of connection . . .”
“Where are you?”
“I can’t tell you. The police would come. They’d put me in prison or an asylum. I can’t let that happen. I’m claustrophobic, you see—I couldn’t bear it. There were experiences in my childhood . . .”
“Yes, I know what happened.”
“I thought maybe you would. The police must have told you. So you see, it’s just not possible, I can’t allow myself to be locked up.”
“Darnell, you have no choice.” Sarah spoke crisply and clearly, the way she would to a child. “Do you want other people to be killed? Do you want me to be killed?”
“No, of course not. I like you. But don’t worry, that won’t happen. There won’t be any more killings. When I’m done talking to you I’m going to put an end to this. I’m going to cut my wrists. I know how to do it, along the veins instead of across, so even if an ambulance came . . .”
“Darnell, you’re . . .” No, Sarah thought—don’t say you’re nuts. “Darnell, you’re making a mistake. You need a doctor. A doctor can help you.”
“No. A doctor can’t help her. You don’t understand. Angel doesn’t want to be helped. She’s having too much fun.”
“You’ve got to turn yourself in. Listen to me! If you can’t bring yourself to do it, then I will. You tell me where you are, right now!”
“I told you, I can’t. I won’t let anyone put me in a box again. When I’m done talking to you I’ll put an end to this . . . in my own way. But I don’t have much time. She’s much stronger now, she won’t be gone for long. So please listen to me for the little time I have. Someone has to know these things, someone has to write them in a book. The world needs to know.”
Sarah listened; she didn’t know what else to do.
“I want you to understand, I didn’t know anything about her. I knew that I’d once had a sister and I knew she was dead, but I didn’t like thinking about her. I tried to keep all that stuff out of my mind, Grandpa and Grandma, the farm, all that terrible stuff. If I thought of Angel at all, it would be back before . . . back when my parents were alive. Sometimes I liked to think of my mother, I’d try to remember her face, and then I’d think of Angel, but I didn’t do that too often. Mostly it was like I didn’t have a past. If I tried to think of Angel, I couldn’t focus. I felt uncomfortable, I felt a wall of anxiety. My mind would drift off. So I just told myself, well, I had a sister once but she’s dead and that’s that. Do you believe me, Sarah?”
“Yes,” she said sharply, impatiently. Darnell was speaking so slowly, babbling on and on, and she was thinking that if he was going to kill himself, then she wished he would get it over with before he changed his mind or before Angel returned to take the reins. She wanted to say, “Shut up and get it done!” but that probably wasn’t a good idea.
“But things were foggy and confusing,” he continued. “For example, I couldn’t figure out where my money was going. I mean, Angel was buying clothes and paying rent for the apartment across the hall, but I didn’t know that. I tried keeping a list of my expenses, but the list never added up, and somehow it caused me anxiety just to wonder about it, so I had to stop keeping the list and stop thinking about money. I just told myself, well, money has a way of disappearing and that’s that.
“There were blackouts. I’d wake up feeling tired and awful and I couldn’t remember anything I’d done the night before. I could remember coming home from work, and then nothing. I’d wake up with dreams sometimes, and they were horrible, but I couldn’t remember them clearly. Just images and feelings. I told myself it was depression. I mean, what kind of life did I have? Work, and then I’d come home and eat some macaroni and cheese or a hamburger by myself and maybe I’d read and then I’d go to bed. What was there worth remembering? So I said, sure I don’t remember. What is there to remember?”
“Look, Darnell,” she interrupted, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“And then there was the apartment next door. Every time I stepped out of my apartment and saw that door across the landing, it gave me a bad feeling. I wondered why I’d never met whoever lived there. Just the sight of that door upset me. I felt there was something terrible in there, but I didn’t know why I felt that. Sometimes I thought I remembered seeing her going down the fire escape, but I wasn’t sure if I’d seen it or dreamt it. So my life was weird. It has always been weird.”
“Darnell, you can’t just go on talking like this. You need to get help, right now.”
He ignored her. “But everything has changed. Your friend had something to do with it—you said his name is Peter. The last time I saw you, I was beginning to get an inkling of the woman next door, like the memory of a nightmare, something too horrible to g
rasp. That’s because she’d just grown more powerful. Her thoughts were . . . were leaking over, so to speak. I was starting to get a glimpse. I tried to warn you. Before Peter was up there, I knew nothing about her. I hope you believe me. But now I can see some of the things she’s been doing. This is weird—sometimes when she’s asleep, like now, I can actually hear her dreams. They’re not very pleasant. No, not very nice at all. She’s dreaming about some woman, a prostitute I think . . . some woman she must have killed . . .”
“What woman? Where are you?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I need to tell you about her friend, that’s what’s important. He’s the one who has made her more powerful. He gave her something. It’s not the first time—it’s happened before. Each time he gives her something she grows more powerful. The first time he gave her something was in childhood. He brought her to life, Sarah. That’s what the world needs to know. Before that, she was just . . . she was just my fantasy, so I could imagine I was someone else, my dead sister, because I couldn’t stand to be in that box. She was just an imaginary thing that I invented until he made her real by giving her the first gift.”
“What gift? What are you talking about? Look, Darnell, you’ve got to tell me where you are. You’ve got to. Please!”
“A name.”
“Yes, give me a street name, anything.”
“No, I mean her friend gave her a name. And the name brought her to life. And he’s given her more names since.”
For a minute she had forgotten he was crazy; she had been expecting him to make sense. This new lunacy about the names had caught her off guard.
“You have to let the world know about her friend,” he babbled on. “Psychiatrists don’t believe in evil. They’re materialists. To them everything’s just an illness. Dysfunction, syndrome, complex, they use all those words, but they don’t know the word evil. You commit the worst crimes imaginable, and they say what’s wrong with you is just something like mumps or measles except it’s in your brain. But I know, and I’m telling you so you can let others know. There is such a thing as evil, pure evil, and it’s a living force that can take over your brain but isn’t created by your brain. Evil gains power because people don’t believe in it. It doesn’t want people to believe. It prefers for us to believe that human beings are faulty mechanisms, dysfunctional little animals with measles in the brain.”