Darkness First

by James Hayman

  Maggie double-clicked the file labeled A Slender Thread. In the column labeled ‘Date Modified’ she read that the last changes had been made to the manuscript just this morning, August 22, 2009 at exactly 1:12 A.M. At 1:12 A.M. both Tiff Stoddard and Emily Kaplan were still lying on Port Road. Still being rained on by passing thunderstorms.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Sam.

  Actually all the ‘Date Modified’ entry indicated was that someone had made and saved a change, perhaps as simple as a single key-stroke, at 1:12 A.M., more than four hours after Tiffany Stoddard’s throat was cut. If Sam was counting on that to establish his innocence, he was mistaken.

  ‘You work late,’ Maggie said and closed the computer. She swiveled around in the chair. ‘Now it’s time for you to answer my original question. What was your relationship with Tiffany Stoddard?’

  Sam drank down the last of his champagne, put the flute on a coffee table and sat down in the blue couch across from the desk.

  ‘Okay, I didn’t kill her. But I did have sex with her. A number of times.’

  ‘When was the last time?’

  ‘A few months ago. May, I think. At the end of the semester. Having achieved her A-plus she dropped me for someone else. Someone younger I suppose.’

  ‘Where did you do it?’

  ‘Have sex you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Usually here. In what was once my marriage bed. Let me see, where else? We had a lovely time one evening on a blanket down on the beach in front of a fire. Then there were a couple of times in my office in Kimble Hall.’

  ‘Ever go to her apartment?’

  ‘Only once. It was a grubby little place on the other side of the river from campus and, frankly, a little too close for my taste. I didn’t want to be seen going in and out of a student’s apartment.’

  ‘But your fingerprints might be there?’

  ‘Do they last that long?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then they might. We also did it a couple of times here in the studio while we were discussing my book.’

  ‘Did you know she was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes. Though I doubt the baby was mine. In any event she wanted to get rid of it.’

  ‘When did she tell you that?’

  ‘Yesterday. Early afternoon. She showed up here. She was a mess. Somebody had beaten her up. Broken her nose. Blackened her eye. I asked her who did it. She told me it was none of my business. Then she asked me if I knew anyone who could abort a pregnancy. I asked her if she was the one who was pregnant. She said yes. I asked if the lucky dad was the same guy who beat her up. She wouldn’t say. I told her I didn’t know any abortionists but I did tell her about Emily and the drugs she sometimes prescribes. She wrote down Em’s name and address and left. The next thing I know is you showing up and telling me she’s been murdered. That’s it, Maggie. Really.’

  ‘So it wasn’t you who beat her up? It wasn’t you who killed her?’

  ‘You really think I’m capable of that?’

  ‘Sam, I’ve seen your rages. I know you threatened Emily with physical violence on more than one occasion. I also know you were arrested three and some years ago for beating up a woman named Kristen Hauser who you picked up in a hotel bar in Philadelphia. You attacked Ms Hauser ostensibly because, when you couldn’t get it up after your seventh or eighth martini, she made fun of your sexual prowess. Guests in the next room heard the ruckus and called hotel security. Hauser only dropped assault charges because you wrote her a check with a whole bunch of zeroes on it.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘Jesus, who told you about that? Emily?’

  ‘No. The arresting officer. Detective Louisa DelCastro of the Philadelphia PD. She and I had a chat just before I drove out here. Turns out Detective DelCastro feels just about the same way I do about assholes who beat up women.’

  Sam refilled his champagne flute, this time with vodka. He started pacing around the studio. He was considerably more wobbly on his feet than before.

  ‘Did Tiff ever mention the name Conor Riordan?’

  Sam looked at Maggie curiously. ‘Yes. Conor Riordan is the name of one of the characters in my book. The bad guy. The killer. I was looking for an unusual name and Tiff suggested it. It seemed to fit the character perfectly.’

  Maggie managed not to visibly react. Just said, ‘Oh, really? Did she say where she got it? If maybe it was the name of somebody she knew?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘No idea. I assume she just dreamed it up.’

  ‘Did she make other suggestions for the book?’

  ‘Yes. Quite a few, actually. As I told you, Tiff was both talented and imaginative.’

  ‘Would you print out a copy for me? I’d like to read it.’

  ‘No. Not till it’s finished.’

  ‘Sam, this is not about literature, it’s about murder. I promise I won’t criticize its literary merit.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Think again. I can always get a warrant if I need one. Also, since you were one of Tiff Stoddard’s sex partners, I need you to come to the Sheriff’s Department first thing tomorrow morning and provide us with a set of fingerprints and a DNA sample.’

  Sam sighed. ‘Very well. Is that all?’

  ‘No. I thought you might be interested in knowing Emily was injured last night by the same guy who killed Stoddard. But don’t worry. She’ll be fine.’

  23

  11:37 P.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009

  Machias, Maine

  It was Saturday night and even late on a Saturday night in August the Musty Moose was jammed. Maggie waited for a twenty-year-old Ford Bronco to pull out of a close-in parking spot and hustled to beat an equally ancient Corolla to the space. The driver scowled but didn’t make an issue. Maggie smiled sweetly and offered a little wave of thanks.

  Maggie had wasted more than a few good hours hanging out at the Moose back in the day. Though it had been a while since she’d been there, when she walked through the door it looked as if nothing had changed. The big horseshoe bar in front of her was jammed with drinkers. Three full-sized pool tables in a separate room to the right appeared to be as busy as ever. The booths and tables to the left where dinner could be had before the serious drinking began were pretty much full.

  Perhaps the most defining feature of The Moose was the dozens of stuffed heads that stared down from the walls through beady glass eyes. More heads, in Maggie’s opinion, than you’d be likely to find in most museums of natural history. She always thought it would be a nice touch if they included among the deer and moose and bears, a few of the heads of local drunks who’d dropped dead in the place over the years. Among them would be Charlie Harbison and Duane Cuyler, both of whom were grossly overweight and both of whom suffered fatal heart attacks, three years apart, falling off the same stool at the bar. Perhaps the most famous Moose incident of them all was the killing of Clarence ‘Squidgy’ Kelly, who choked to death on a cue ball stuffed down his throat by a 300 pound logger who was irate he’d come in second to Squidgy in a high-stakes game of straight pool. It had taken a much younger Sheriff John Savage and three of his deputies to wrestle the logger to the ground and get the cuffs on him. He ended up doing twenty to life at the old prison in Thomaston for murder.

  Maggie scanned the main room but didn’t spot any familiar faces. A bluegrass group, Bobbie Rae and the Sunrise Pickers according to the sign propped in front of them, were making some nice sounds in the far corner. Since The Moose was the only real bar in town it drew a wildly eclectic collection of both casual and serious drinkers. Pretty much everybody within a ten-mile radius who had an inclination for booze and the money to pay for it hit the Moose at one time or another. Tonight, as on most Saturdays, especially in summer, the bar was packed three deep with a noisy, laughing mass of ex-hippies, aging rednecks, gray-haired bikers, some with ponytails and one with dreadlocks, a few local business types and a bunch of college kids, most of whom may or may not have been legal but sure
as hell didn’t look it.

  She took a deep breath and plunged into the maelstrom, finally managing to squeeze in close enough so that one of the two bartenders might actually notice her. For a couple of minutes neither did. The one Maggie didn’t recognize was a sour-faced young woman in her twenties who couldn’t seem to handle the stream of orders being thrown her way. Tiffany Stoddard’s replacement, Maggie supposed. C’mon, honey, she silently urged, if you don’t get that scowl off your face and prove you can handle the hustle better than this, Tommy’ll toss you out on your ear.

  The other bartender was, of course, the maestro himself, Tommy Flynn. Tommy could do it all simultaneously. Take orders, mix drinks, throw out a cheerful Irish insult and never miss a beat. Tommy had been a fixture at the Moose as long as Maggie had been old enough to go there. Matter of fact, it was Tommy who mixed and served her her first legal drink. A frozen margarita. Salt on the rim. Tab on the house. A twenty-first birthday present. Seemed exotic as hell at the time.

  It only took him a minute to notice her.

  ‘Well, my God, if it isn’t the love of my life.’ He leaned across the bar and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Up visiting the old man?’

  ‘You got it, Tommy. Can’t believe you’re still working here.’

  ‘Darlin’, I’m just like your father. Never give up a gig that works. Anyway, I don’t just work here any more. I own the place. Half of it anyway. Josh Bender sold me fifty percent for a whole bunch less than it was worth and took off for the sunshine three years ago.’

  While he was talking Tommy flipped the caps off three bottles of Pabst Blue Ribbon and handed them to three of the college kids and mixed and poured two icy martinis, which he set down in front of a pair of aging preppies propped up at the other end of the bar. ‘Anyway, what can I get you?’ asked Tommy. ‘Saturday nights, I give away the PBR for two bucks a pop.’

  PBR had its fans, but Maggie wasn’t one of them. ‘No thanks. Have any Geary’s Summer?’

  ‘Just in the bottle.’

  ‘That’ll do.’ Maggie looked around at the crowd. ‘Anybody I might know in tonight?’

  ‘Your baby brother got here just a while ago. Last time I looked he was working a couple of suckers in the other room at table three.’ Maggie glanced over. You couldn’t see the third table from where she was standing. Tommy got the beer and set it down in front of her then grabbed a bottle of Canadian Club and started pouring whiskey over ice. ‘How long you in town for?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe a while. Heard you lost one of your bartenders last night.’

  Tommy looked up, instantly getting it that Maggie might be here for more than a beer and a chat.

  ‘Former bartenders. Tiff hadn’t worked here in a while. Hell of a way to go, though. Got her head damn near cut off is what I heard.’

  ‘That’s close enough.’

  ‘You working this case?’

  ‘Just helping the staties out,’ she said. ‘Can I pull you into a quiet corner for a couple of minutes?’

  Tommy thought about that. ‘Sure. I guess I owe Tiff that much. Must be due for a break anyway.’ He looked around and called over a young man who’d been waiting tables and told him to take over at the bar.

  ‘Let’s go out back,’ he said. ‘It’s quieter there. Less public.’

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink?’ she asked. ‘My treat.’

  Tommy smiled. ‘Never touch the stuff while I’m working.’

  Tommy led her through the kitchen, where the cooks were frying up a storm. Haute cuisine it wasn’t. Practically everything on the Moose’s menu that wasn’t a lobster, a burger or a side-salad was either deep-fried or barbequed. Only place she knew that actually served chicken-fried artichoke hearts. The two of them went out through a back door on to a small deck. The noise behind them, while still audible, was no longer deafening.

  ‘Tell me about Tiffany Stoddard.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘You’ve got a good eye. Let’s start with your general impression.’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘I’ve got nothing but good to say about her. Pretty girl. More than pretty, actually. Good bartender too. Unlike that sourpuss I’ve got now, Tiff could bullshit with the customers and handle the drinks at the same time. Smart, too. Like you in that regard. Nothing much got by her. I always figured Tiff Stoddard could go as far as she wanted in this world. Do anything that took her fancy. Never dreamed anything like this would happen to her.’

  ‘Any idea what it was she wanted to do?’

  ‘Talked about being a writer sometimes.’

  ‘Really? You mean like fiction?’

  ‘Nah. More like working for a newspaper. Or maybe a TV station. Y’know, a reporter.’

  Same thing both Sam and Donelda had said. Maggie took a swig from the Geary’s bottle. ‘How long was she working here?’

  ‘A couple of years. Ever since she started at UMM. Washington County kid. Folks live up in Eastport.’

  ‘Was she an addict?’

  ‘Oxycontin?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No way. Tiff was too smart for that.’

  ‘Think she might have been dealing?’

  ‘Jesus, I wouldn’t have thought so. Tiff was a girl who knew where she wanted to go.’

  ‘Why’d she quit?’

  ‘Said she had enough saved up and wanted to concentrate on her studies. But I don’t know. Even if she had the savings, I would have thought she would still want to make some money. Sure as hell enjoyed spending it.’

  ‘You know anything about any boyfriends she might have had?’

  Tommy shrugged. ‘Just about all the unattached guys who came in this place hit on Tiff from time to time. Some of the attached ones too. She was happy chatting them up but far as I know none of them ever scored. None she ever talked about anyway.’

  ‘Was there anybody she saw regularly?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. But, come to think of it, you might want to ask your brother about that.’

  ‘Harlan?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw the two of them leave together more than once. But do me a favor. Don’t tell Harlan you got that from me. Sonofabitch has an unpredictable temper and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’

  24

  11:45 P.M., Saturday, August 22, 2009

  Eastport, Maine

  That night, Tabitha Stoddard dreamed she saw the December Man again.

  In her dream it wasn’t summer any more but every bit as dark and icy as it had been just before Christmas, when Tiff brought him to the house to give Pike the money for the boat.

  Tabitha dreamed she was outside by the breakwater. Snow was falling. Millions of small, hard flakes swirling in circles all around her. She was walking down a long wooden dock that seemed to stretch forever out into the cold, black sea. She was carrying Harold in both arms. He still had Tiff’s package inside him, still wrapped in layers of newspaper and packing tape exactly as it was when she’d gone to meet Tiff in the playground. Having the package scared her and she wanted to give it back to Tiff.

  She walked past fishing boats that were tied up, one after the other in parallel lines on either side of the dock. The Katie Louise was at the end, the very last boat in a very long line. In spite of the darkness Tabitha could see her father’s boat clear as day, its silhouette outlined in tiny white Christmas lights, its diesel engine idling, churning up the water behind. In the dream, the Katie Louise wasn’t dirty and beat up any more, but freshly painted bright red and white. She was brand new all over again.

  She saw Tiff standing in the stern dressed, in spite of the cold, in a gauzy white summer dress. Her high school graduation dress. Her hair was down and she was smiling and waving. Tabitha had never seen her look more beautiful.

  ‘C’mon, slowpoke,’ Tiff called to her. ‘We’ll never get out of here if you don’t hurry.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. You just have to hurry.’ />
  But Tabitha didn’t want to hurry because the December Man was standing behind Tiff, staring at her with icy eyes and holding a big knife.

  The December Man wasn’t smiling.

  Tiff called out to her again. ‘Come on, goose. A promise is a promise.’

  She wanted desperately to warn Tiff the December Man was there. Warn Tiff the December Man was going to kill her.

  But, try as she might, she couldn’t get the words out, and so she just watched as the December Man reached around Tiff’s head with the knife and drew the blade across her neck. Tiff screamed. Blood poured from the wound. Waves of blood. Oceans of blood that just kept coming and coming until it turned Tiff’s white dress and the deck of the Katie Louise and even the black ocean itself a bright, blood-soaked red.

  ‘See, just like I told your father,’ said the lady cop who for some reason was standing beside Tabitha, one hand on her shoulder. ‘Cut her open like a hog in a slaughterhouse.’

  Tabitha turned and ran. The December Man jumped down from the deck and ran after her, still holding the knife, wanting to cut Tabitha’s neck open as well.

  Tabbie ran as fast as she could but she was just a fat little kid and her fastest wasn’t even close to fast enough. Before she was halfway up the dock, she felt a hand grab her by the wrist. The December Man turned her around and grabbed Harold from her arms. Then he pulled her toward him. Lifted the knife. Tabitha closed her eyes and screamed and screamed waiting for the knife to cut her throat. But instead, all she felt was a pair of strong hands lifting her and holding her, a familiar voice telling her it was all right. It was just a bad dream. Nothing but a bad dream. She opened her eyes. The December Man was gone and her mother was there.

  Donelda pulled Tabitha toward her, held Tabbie’s rigid body tight against her bony chest, rocked her back and forth and told the last of her three daughters that it had only been a bad dream. A nightmare. Told her that everything was all right and she mustn’t be frightened. But Tabitha couldn’t stop sobbing because she knew very well her mother was wrong. Everything was not all right. Nothing would ever be all right again.