The Dark House

by John Sedgwick

  “I didn’t know.”

  “You didn’t want to know. It was a mark of your goodness that you didn’t. Please, son, forgive me. I need that from you.”

  Anger gave him strength. “Put down the gun, Father.”

  “Forgive me.”

  “Father, please. Not like this.” Rollins stretched out his hand toward his father and reached for the gun barrel. “Put down the gun, please.”

  “No!” His father sprang up. Rollins grabbed for the barrel with one hand, and thrust the tip up toward the ceiling. With the other, Rollins tried to free his father’s hand from the trigger. The gun was nearly vertical between them. His father strained against Rollins, grunting and panting, his face tight with effort. Rollins could feel the coldness of the gun barrel as it tipped this way and that. “Let go!” he screamed.

  “No!” Father’s voice was almost all air as he struggled to wrest the gun away. “You let go. Goddamnit. I need—I need to do this.”

  The tip of the gun was just inches from his father’s reddened face. “No—don’t! Father! Please! No!” But he was losing his grip. The barrel was angling closer and closer toward his father. “No!”

  “Just—watch out for Sloane.” The words were all breath, cutting through his father’s teeth. “He’s—dangerous.” Then his father’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped as if he’d had a vision. There was an ear-ripping explosion, and a bright blue flame leaped upward. His father’s head snapped back, and his whole body followed, his chair skidding away, until his father struck the kitchen wall and slumped down onto the floor, blood gushing from the underside of his chin down onto his chest. He lay there, motionless, his head propped up awkwardly on his shoulders, his cold, dark eyes still fixed on his son.

  Twenty-five

  Rollins stood there for several minutes, staring at his father’s blood-soaked body. The sound of the gunshot rang in his ears, and he kept seeing that awful spurt of blue. His father stared at him through glassy eyes. To calm himself, Rollins concentrated on breathing, drawing the air in, letting it out. Over and over. Otherwise, he was afraid that his mind might shatter. Finally, with a sweep of his fingertips, he closed his father’s eyes.

  Then his chest clenched again. Sloane. He was coming at nine.

  Rollins craned his neck around to check the clock. It was 8:53.

  He would never be finished until he was finished with Sloane.

  The rifle was coated with his father’s blood. He started to reach for it, then stopped. He’d never even touched a gun until the struggle moments before. Now he was going to shoot Sloane—kill him in cold blood?

  He brought his hands to his face, pushed his fingers in to the bone. “God, oh God.”

  The fear squeezed him, pressed against his chest, ground into his belly.

  He stepped away from his father’s body. Slowly at first, then faster. He raced out the back door. He slipped through the trees, the low brush whacking against his legs as he angled back to where he’d left his car on the road. His lungs heaving, he climbed in the Nissan. He was ready to hit the ignition, to flee.

  But, safe in his car, he paused for a moment, caught his breath. The sound of the gun blast receded; the image of his blood-drenched father dimmed.

  Watch out for Sloane. He’s dangerous. What made his father say that? What had he meant? Sloane must have done something, something his father had known. Why else would Sloane have agreed to cut Father in on Neely’s inheritance? Sloane knew that Father had raped Neely, hurt her. That was his leverage. But what did Father have on Sloane? Had Sloane killed Neely? Was that it?

  Rollins’ eyes jumped about the car—to the passenger seat, the dashboard, the radio, the slot under the radio, which contained a spare tape. A tape. To create a record.

  He popped open the glove compartment, pulled out his Panasonic, and stared at it. He needed to get Sloane to talk while the tape rolled in secret. To confess. To provide evidence for the police, enough to justify Sloane’s arrest and conviction. To put him away.

  He pulled out the recorder, weighed it in his hand. The only voice it had ever received was his own. But couldn’t it also record others? Like Sloane’s voice, telling what he’d done?

  Rollins switched on the recorder and stuffed it into his pants pocket. A test: “Can you hear me?” he asked quietly. “Am I coming through?” He pulled the recorder out again, rewound the tape, and pressed Play. Can you hear me? Am I coming through? His voice was only slightly muffled. The tape heard.

  He thrust the tape recorder back into his pocket. Through the trees, he could see light stream from the kitchen, sending out blades of yellow through the night.

  He stepped out of the car. He stole through the trees. He made for the light.

  The dog barked at him, but Rollins shushed the animal, and it retreated to the front door, whimpering.

  Inside the kitchen door, Father was propped up against the wall. The blood had soaked through his T-shirt, oozed onto the floor. The gun lay across his lap.

  Rollins bent down over the body, loosened his father’s index finger from the trigger. The skin was cool, the joints stiff. The blood was wet and sticky, like paint, on the gun’s underside. Rollins swabbed it off with a paper towel, threw that in the trash.

  He looked up at the clock: 8:59.

  He’d draw Sloane to the body, then surprise him from behind, then get him talking.

  There was a radio on the counter. He switched it on, and classical piano played. A Chopin nocturne. A haunting sound, pale as moonlight. It would lure Sloane.

  Quick. To Father’s study, gun in hand. Rollins waited there in the shadows behind the door, breathing, his hands tight on the gun. Waiting.

  Nine o’clock came and went. 9:05. 9:10. The nocturne ended, and a spirited Schubert piano trio picked up. In the distance, a car rumbled up the road. The headlights lit up a rectangle of flowery wallpaper on the study wall, a patch of brilliance that slid sideways as the car turned in.

  A car door slammed; the dog barked.

  “Hello there, Scamp,” said a cheery voice. It was Sloane. “Your daddy inside?”

  Footsteps on the loose dirt of the driveway.

  The dog continued to growl.

  “Henry—you here?” Sloane called out by the door. The screen door opened and then banged shut behind him. “Henry?” The Schubert played on.

  A heavy tread on the hall. “Henry?” Sloane shouted again. The footsteps continued on toward the kitchen, following the music just as Rollins had planned. The tape recorder was running inside his pocket.

  Pointing the gun ahead of him, Rollins opened the door and crept after Sloane. He drifted like air through the dining room, then waited, his brain pulsing, just outside the kitchen door.

  “Jesus Christ,” he heard Sloane whisper as he kneeled before the body.

  Rollins passed through the doorway into the kitchen. Sweat blurred his eyes, and his hands hurt from clutching the gun. He pointed the rifle at Sloane’s head. “Don’t move.”

  Sloane stayed where he was, facing the body. “Oh, shit. You.”

  “Come to finalize the deal?” Rollins asked.

  Sloane’s voice hardened. “Screw you.” He started to move his hands to his waist.

  “Hands up!” Rollins screamed. Every pulse was going.

  Sloane jerked his hands up to shoulder height.

  The sweat trickled down Rollins’ face, gathering at his chin. His left eye twitched. He stared at Sloane’s hands—pudgy, bright with thick rings—sure they’d fly at him any second.

  “You weren’t going to call the police, were you?” Rollins’ jaw was so tight, it was hard to talk.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re glad he’s dead. Saved you a lot of trouble. You get all the money—and your secrets die with him.”

  “Fuck you. I haven’t got any secrets.”

  “Look at me.”

  Sloane turned.

  Rollins sighted down the gun barrel at the
spot between Sloane’s eyes, every muscle tight.

  “He did her, you dumb fuck!” Sloane was getting edgy now. “Your old man.”

  Rollins continued to sight down the gun. He needed to concentrate on Sloane. “You helped.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Rollins cocked the gun. “You helped,” he repeated.

  Rollins had Sloane’s full attention now.

  “You left your fingerprints on her watch.”

  “No fucking way. He took off the fucking watch! I didn’t touch it.”

  Dryly, with no triumph in his voice: “So you were there, Jerry?”

  Sloane just stared at Rollins.

  Rollins could feel the anger. It came at him in waves. He took a few steps farther into the room, keeping his eye down the barrel on Sloane. “Okay. Easy now. Reach the telephone for me, would you?”

  Rollins watched Sloane stand up, move toward the wall phone, and pick up the receiver.

  “Okay, now dial 911.”

  Sloane pushed in three digits.

  “Now hold the phone up for me.” Rollins inched toward him.

  Sloane reached out with the receiver.

  Rollins didn’t hear a voice coming from the receiver, but he couldn’t wait. “I need help!” he shouted. “I’m out Bald Mountain Road. There’s a man here, trying to—”

  Suddenly, the receiver swerved. It caught the tip of the rifle and knocked Rollins off balance. Rollins squeezed the trigger, but the gun made only a click.

  Sloane ripped the rifle out of Rollins’ hands and hung up the phone. “You stupid shit.” Sloane swung the gun at Rollins. It crashed into the side of his face and staggered him. “That’s for yesterday,” Sloane shouted. “This is for today.” He kicked Rollins in the belly, the toe of Sloane’s shoe plunging nearly all the way into Rollins’ spine. It knocked all the breath out of him, doubled him over, and sent a shock wave of pain through his body. “Doesn’t feel too good, does it, Eddie boy?”

  Rollins was hunched over, unable to breathe, unable to think. It was all he could do to keep from collapsing onto the floor. He kept his arms down, to protect himself from any more blows. A grunt, and Sloane’s shoe smashed into Rollins’ side, ramming him hard into the counter. Rollins felt a stabbing pain in his ribs. Sloane’s fist cracked into the side of Rollins’ head. The room spun and blurred.

  Rollins stayed low, like an animal.

  “There, we’re even,” Sloane said. “Now—outside.” He gave Rollins another kick. Rollins staggered toward the kitchen door.

  “Open it.”

  Hunched over, Rollins opened the screen door and stepped outside. It was cool now, and gusty. The trees thrashed in the wind. The lawn was glazed with moonlight.

  Sloane rammed what felt like a handgun into the small of Rollins’ back to shove him ahead. “That way.” Rollins stumbled ahead, weaving past the slim wickets, which seemed like tiny grave markers. “You’ll go where she went.”

  “So you—you did know.”

  “Course I knew. It was my idea. Your old man doesn’t know shit about anything. Just like you. What a patsy. I had to kill her. She was groveling around, a fucking mess. I did her with one shot. It got me into your dad big-time.”

  “And him into you.”

  Sloane gave him another whack from behind. “Keep going.”

  The wind eased, and the stench rose from the septic tank.

  “It’s not—it’s not going to work.” Rollins’ mouth was swollen from the blows; it was hard to force out the words.

  “It worked for the girl.”

  “Too many people know I’m here. They’ll come looking.”

  “They’ll figure you shot him and ran off.”

  “They’ll know it’s you.”

  “I’ll clean up a bit, then I’ll call the cops myself. Tell them how shocked I am to find my good friend dead.”

  “They’ve got a record of my call to 911.”

  “Nice try. I dialed 411. Information, not the cops.”

  The stench was fierce. They were nearing the septic tank.

  Rollins heard growling and looked up to see Scamp coming around the far side of the house. Rollins’ hopes lifted as the dog charged up at Sloane, barking furiously. Sloane tried to quiet him with a kick, but the dog continued to growl and bark. Sloane brought his gun down and fired a single blast that echoed around the trees. The dog spun and tumbled, writhing, to the ground. Sloane touched the gun to the dog’s head. A second blast finished him off.

  “Now get going.”

  Rollins didn’t move.

  “Get going!” Sloane thrust the gun into his back.

  Rollins’ body was there, but his mind had flown. It had taken off into the trees, where it flitted about among the branches. He was with Neely again.

  Then a roar of a car engine, coming around the house.

  Sloane’s gun slid across Rollins’ back, toward the sound.

  Then lights probing the field, swinging to brightening them. Twin lights. Headlights.

  His arm up against the glare, Rollins could see a car. A small car. Schecter’s Cressida! It rumbled across the lawn.

  Sloane grabbed Rollins by the back of his shirt, yanked him up. “Back off, you motherfucker!” He screamed at the car. “Back off!” Buttons popped as Rollins was jolted to his feet. “I’ll shoot him! I swear to God, I’ll shoot him!”

  The car stopped. The lights stayed on. Two spotlights.

  “Stay there or he dies!” Sloane screamed. “Don’t move!”

  Using Rollins as a shield, Sloane slowly stepped back across the lawn. He pressed the gun tightly into Rollins’ back.

  Rollins stumbled as he moved backward across the uneven ground. His thoughts collided inside his head. His whole body was on fire.

  At the far corner of the house, Sloane jammed the gun hard into Rollins’ back. “Faster!” Sloane told him. “To my car. Go!” He forced Rollins ahead of him.

  The driveway scratched under Rollins’ shoes. The moon up above—serene, indifferent. Sloane grunted behind. “Go! Go!” The gun hard against his back. Panting. They reached the Land Cruiser, and Sloane jerked open the driver’s door.

  “Get in!” Sloane shoved Rollins into the driver’s seat. “You’re gonna drive.” Keeping the gun on Rollins, Sloane stepped around the front of the big car, heading for the passenger side.

  His only chance. Shielded by the high dashboard, Rollins slid his left hand down the steering wheel, then groped the control panel. He found the headlight switch, and yanked. A blast of light. Sloane swung his arm up to shield his eyes. Rollins ducked down under the dashboard. Sloane fired, shattering the windshield, spraying glass over the seat. His hand stung, Rollins fumbled for the ignition. The key was in the switch. He turned it. The engine roared to life.

  Sloane screamed—“No!”—and fired again. Hunkered down under the dash, Rollins jammed the gearshift into forward, and then shoved a hand down onto the accelerator. The car shot ahead, jerking Rollins backward onto the seat front. A frightened gasp from Sloane, and thunder on the hood, as if a load had dropped on it. Sloane wailed—a hideous, pitiful sound. Above Rollins, the tip of Sloane’s hand slapped down on the edge of the remaining windshield. Then the pop of gunshots—one, two, three, four—from far away, but coming closer, and another scream from Sloane. This one guttural, of agony, and the hand slid away. Then Rollins lurched forward again as the SUV smashed into the house.

  Twenty-six

  “Hey—you okay?”

  It was Schecter, underwater.

  No, Rollins was underwater.

  No, there was no water. It was Schecter. Just Schecter, bending down to him. “You all right there?”

  Everything felt so tight all around, and it was black behind. Then his eyes started to focus, and he remembered. He was in the SUV, squeezed between the dashboard and the seat. “Yeah.” He reached back behind his head, felt a lump. “My head. God, it aches.”

  “You must’ve got quite a whack when you hit the house
there.”

  Schecter brushed away some broken glass, then helped Rollins ease himself up onto the seat.

  Rollins stared out through the shattered windshield. The house rose up right in front of him. “God.”

  “You clipped Jerry pretty good, too.”

  “Sloane?”

  “You ran him into the fucking wall.”

  Schecter held the door open so Rollins could step out. He walked unsteadily around to the far side of the car. Sloane was sprawled out on the driveway. He was barely moving. Blood had drenched his trousers. His face was sweaty and bone-white in the glare of the headlights. His breathing was brisk and shallow, like a dog’s in the heat. His life seemed to be draining out of him.

  “You stay with him,” Schecter said. “I’m going inside to call the cops.”

  Slowly, painfully, Rollins leaned down and touched Sloane’s shoulder. “Take it easy,” Rollins told him. “We’ll get an ambulance.”

  Sloane pushed Rollins’ hand away with a moan.

  Schecter came back out and the two of them crouched beside Sloane. Finally, Rollins heard sirens. Flashing lights were coming up the road. In moments, three cruisers and a pair of ambulances filled the driveway, and the brightness careened about the trees.

  Several policemen burst out of the cars. “What have we got here?” one yelled.

  Schecter leapt up, beckoning. “Over here! There’s a guy down here.” He gestured toward Sloane. “He needs help. He’s all smashed up.”

  Two men from the ambulance rushed over and bent down to him. “We gotta do something to stop this bleeding,” Rollins heard one of them say.

  Schecter called out to the other crew: “And there’s another one in the kitchen. He’s dead.” He pointed toward the house. “In there to the left.”

  “Jesus Christ—what happened?” one of the cops asked Rollins as he surveyed Sloane’s broken body.

  “He tried to kill me,” Rollins said.

  “Kill you?” the officer replied, incredulous.

  “He was going to shoot me.” Rollins felt the icy chill of the barrel pressing against his back. The fear had frozen his mind around a single thought—that he might never see Marj again. “But I got free and I—I guess I hit him with that car.” He pointed toward Sloane’s Land Cruiser.