The Inside Dark

by James Hankins

  “I have to figure out a way to keep that from happening.”

  She looked at him, frowning. “How you are going to do that?”

  He shrugged.

  “You’re not thinking about . . .”

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking.”

  “Killing him?” she asked. “Could you even do something like that? Haven’t you been telling me for two years . . .” She shook her head. “You can’t do that, Jason. It’s dangerous and . . . you just shouldn’t do anything like that. I’m not sure how I’d feel if you did it . . . if you actually could do it. You understand what I’m saying, right?”

  He understood.

  “I don’t want you to open that door, Jason. There must be another way.”

  “There’s no door, Sophie. I never wanted—” He shook his head, frustrated. “I don’t want to kill anyone. I never have and I never will. Not even someone like Ian Cobb. I wish you’d just believe me.”

  She regarded him a moment longer. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. She obviously wanted to believe him.

  “So what can you do, then?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet. But hey, I write mysteries and crime novels—at least I used to. I should be able to come up with something.”

  They fell silent, lost in their own thoughts. He wondered if perhaps he shouldn’t have reminded her that he was a crime writer. She was no doubt still troubled by that, still wondering about the inspiration for some of the more disturbing ideas that found their way into his books. And if he were being completely honest with himself, there had been moments since she first expressed her concern two years ago when he wondered that, too. Maybe it was simply because she had put the idea into his head . . . but were his black thoughts of murder and torture—the twisted actions of the killers and psychopaths he imagined—nothing more than grist for the story mill? Or could they be his own dark fantasies?

  “Is it the money?” she finally asked. “Is that why you don’t want to call the police? Because of the book deal and movie deal and—”

  “No,” he said firmly, though he wasn’t being completely honest. He truly believed everything he’d said about why he couldn’t go to the police—how it would put Max and her in danger and probably land him in prison, perhaps for the rest of his life. And while he rotted away behind bars, Cobb would be free to do whatever he wanted, go wherever he wanted, and start all over again . . . maybe in some new locale, with a new serial-killer persona, one to whom the media would give a shiny new nickname. But all of that aside, he had to admit that he didn’t want to reveal to the world what he knew. He didn’t want to lose everything they were now being offered. And though a part of him certainly wanted the book deal and the movie deal and a customized van for Sophie . . . most of all—and here he was confident he was being totally honest with himself—most of all he wanted to see Max get the expensive drug he needed to treat his blood disease. It meant more than anything, anything, to Jason.

  “It’s not the money, Sophie. And it’s not my career. It’s because of Max . . . and you.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to take risks for me, but Max . . .”

  “I know.”

  “But Jason, if Cobb kills again . . .”

  She didn’t complete the thought. She didn’t have to.

  “It will be on my head. I realize that. I have to make sure it doesn’t happen.”

  “I’m scared,” she said.

  “Me, too.” And he was, but panicking wouldn’t help matters. “I won’t let him hurt you, though. I promise.”

  She looked into his eyes, then nodded.

  “To keep you safe, I need you and Max to slip out of town for a little while.”

  “How long?”

  He shrugged.

  “What about my mother?”

  “She can go, too.”

  “She’d never agree. She’d want to call the police.”

  “If she does, they’d probably end up arresting me instead of Cobb.” Sophie said nothing. “Which probably wouldn’t trouble her a great deal, I suppose,” he added. “It’s probably better if she stays here. If Cobb drives by the house now and then, we don’t want him to think nobody’s home. It might alert him that something’s up.”

  “You want to her to stay here? In danger?”

  “I really don’t think she’s in any danger.”

  “Why not?”

  He hesitated. “He probably wouldn’t think that hurting her would . . . affect me enough.” She frowned at him. “I think he could tell I’m not her biggest fan. But seriously, he wouldn’t go after her. If he’s going to try to hurt me, he’d do it through those I love the most. That’s you and Max.”

  She thought for a moment, then nodded. A few minutes later she called her friend Geri, who lived in the small, picturesque town of Woodstock, Vermont. The two had met in college, become close, and when Sophie said she and Max needed to get away for a few days, Geri didn’t hesitate to invite them to stay with her. She was a little curious as to the reason and voiced her suspicion that it had to do with Jason, and Sophie let her think that she might be right. Given their separation, it was both plausible and easier that way.

  Within a half hour they had packed suitcases for Sophie and Max and explained to Janice that Jason was using some of his newly acquired wealth to send her and Max to a fancy resort in New Hampshire for a few days.

  Outside in front of the house, Jason scanned the street in both directions, looking for Cobb’s white van. As he knew from when he’d arrived that morning, it bore the words COBB & SONS PLUMBING in bright red on its sides, with the first letter of SONS designed to look like a length of pipe in the shape of an S. It would have been easy to spot on this residential street. At the moment, it was nowhere in sight.

  He hurried back into the house, then returned to the car with the two suitcases, which he stowed on one side of the back seat. The other side was for Max. The trunk would be for Sophie’s wheelchair. When he turned toward the house again, Max was pushing Sophie down the ramp, though she was doing most of the work. He was the only one she allowed to push her anywhere. When they reached the car, he hopped into the back with his Curious George book and his favorite stuffed animal, a ragged black cat named Boo, while Jason helped Sophie make the transfer into the front passenger seat.

  The trip took a little more than two and a half hours. The drive was pretty and the way through Woodstock was especially lovely. It was a beautiful little town, and Jason found himself wishing they were a real family again, heading for a bed-and-breakfast and some quality time together.

  Geri’s house was on the far side of town. She welcomed Sophie and Max warmly and regarded Jason curiously, maybe a little suspiciously, but without evident animosity. He knew she would grill Sophie later, and Sophie would tell the story they had concocted about needing some distance from her mother for a little while.

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a ramp,” Geri said. “Once we get you inside, I’m afraid you’ll be trapped in there until you leave.”

  “That’s okay with me, as long as you don’t mind.”

  Geri, who was recently divorced, said she was happy to have the company. She’d even taken a few vacation days from work to spend with her guests.

  Sophie wheeled herself to the bottom of the porch stairs. There, she let Jason lift her from her chair. To ease his burden, she put an arm around his neck. It was the most physical contact they’d had since the accident. He hated the circumstances, but he had to admit that he liked the feeling of her in his arms.

  He stood inside the foyer, cradling his wife and waiting for Geri to carry the wheelchair into the house. She placed it down, opened it, and Jason set his wife gently into the chair.

  “Thank you,” she said and wheeled off behind her friend, who led them into a living room.

  “I have a guest room on the first floor here that will be perfect for you,” Geri said. “Max can camp in there with you in a sleeping bag, or he can have his own room
upstairs.”

  “I wanna camp with Mommy.”

  “Sleeping bag it is, then. But bedtime’s not for hours, right, Max?”

  “Right.”

  “Your mom says you like puzzles.”

  “I do!”

  With a quick glance at Sophie, she said, “Well, I think we have a few in the other room. Let’s go look for them.”

  She held out her hand. Max looked to his parents. Jason smiled, leaned down, and kissed the boy on top of his head.

  “I love you, Max. I’ll come get you and Mommy in a few days, okay? Now go with Geri and find the best puzzle in the house.”

  “I will!”

  He took Geri’s hand and Jason blinked away the beginnings of a tear as he watched his son walk away. He sensed Sophie looking at him and met her eyes.

  “Have you decided yet what you’re going to do to get out of this?” she asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “You won’t consider going to the police?”

  “Not unless I absolutely have to. I’m hoping I’ll think of something else instead.”

  “I’m worried, Jason.”

  “You and Max will be fine here.”

  “I’m worried for you. Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “I mean it.”

  “I know you do.”

  “I want you to call so we know you’re safe.”

  He nodded, then stood there for a moment, uncertain exactly how to make his exit. She made the decision for him by taking his hand, pulling him gently down toward her. When their faces were close, she tilted his face down and kissed him on the forehead.

  He smiled slightly and took a last glance around the living room. His family seemed fine here but he was nonetheless loath to leave them. It couldn’t be helped, though. There was nothing he could do about Ian Cobb from here. Whatever it was he was going to do, it had to be done back home.

  Hopefully before Cobb killed again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  As always, Carolyn appeared in the kitchen within mere seconds of Cobb’s arrival home, almost as if she had teleported from upstairs. He didn’t care. If she wanted to put the day with his father behind her and get on with her night, that was fine with him. He needed to talk to someone but it couldn’t be her, so the sooner she was gone, the better. And with Wallace Barton dead and Jason Swike not yet interested in listening to his proposals, Ian was left with his vegetable of a father for conversation.

  As soon as the door closed behind Carolyn, he thumped up the stairs, entered his father’s room, and stalked over to the ventilator in the corner. His fingers stabbed at the machine’s controls, completely disabling the alarm designed to sound when the patient ceases breathing.

  “Hope you’re feeling talkative tonight, Dad. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  No answer but the whoosh, whir, click, whoosh of the machine breathing for Arthur Cobb.

  Ian dropped into the chair by the bed. His father stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Something white encrusted the corners of his mouth.

  “Hector and Alan screwed up today,” he said. “Installed the wrong pipes on a sauna job. Not up to code. I had to go and straighten things out. Lost us most of a day. I’ll have to eat that cost, of course. God forbid I dock them for it, even though they should have known better.”

  He sighed, shaking his head. That wasn’t what he really wanted to talk about.

  “I killed three guys since I saw you last,” he said. “Bludgeoned one, broke one guy’s neck, and strangled the last one. And none of them did me any good. Can you believe it?”

  He took the blue, ribbed intake tube leading from his father’s tracheal tube to the ventilator and gave it a sharp twist. A moment later, the old man started to wheeze. After several seconds, Ian allowed the air to flow again.

  “Don’t lecture me,” he said. “I had to do it. I had to see how it would be to kill by myself. And when that didn’t work, I needed to see if it would help if someone watched me even though . . . he didn’t want to. And it wasn’t the same. It gave me no relief at all.”

  And he needed some of that relief now. It was overdue.

  Another twist of the tube, more rusty wheezing from his father before Ian allowed the air to flow again.

  “That’s a fair question. The reason I let Wallace be killed even though I don’t want to do this alone was that he wanted us to kill Jason . . . and I didn’t want that.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “It’s hard to explain, Dad, but ever since I took Jason, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him. If you met him, you’d see how much like Johnny he is. If I’d killed him, it would have felt like . . . killing Johnny. Like having him die all over again. His body was totally broken in the crash, Dad, remember? And remember all the bones of his that Uncle Joe broke when he was little? You must remember that. Well, the last thing I’d want to do is break Johnny’s bones myself . . . kill him myself.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Yes, I’m hurting. I’m almost always hurting. You know that. And it’s getting bad now. This thing inside me is awake again, and it’s angry. I know you don’t believe in it, that you think I’m crazy, but you’re not the one it’s stabbing and burning and chewing up from the inside.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Jason asked me the same thing and I’ll tell you what I told him: I won’t kill myself because I don’t want to die. It’s as simple as that.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Now that’s an excellent question. And yes, I do have a plan.”

  He told his father about his discussion with Jason, how he’d invited him to kill with him.

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . . wheeeeeeze . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Whoa, slow down. I know it was a bit risky. And he said no, of course. But he’ll come around. You know how I know? The same way I knew that Wallace would join me. And I was right about him, wasn’t I?”

  Ian knew how strange it would sound to other people, but the pain inside him—the living pain that had taken up residence in his mind and body—recognized kindred spirits. Johnny had told him the same thing once, long ago. He’d said it was the reason he knew Ian would hurt people if he asked. His Inside Dark had told him so. It could see deep into Ian and knew that in the darkest corners of his mind, he wondered what it would be like to do bad things to people. And he’d been right. Johnny asked and Ian agreed. And when that black, shadowy thing later crept into Ian and began to torture him, and threatened to keep torturing him unless he tortured others, and whispered that Wallace Barton was secretly eager to be a part of what Ian did . . . Ian listened. And when he asked Wallace, the man didn’t even hesitate.

  And in the stable, when that same voice told Ian that Jason was a kindred spirit, too, Ian believed without a doubt. But Jason was resistant. So Ian was giving him time to come around.

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “I haven’t given that much thought yet. If he doesn’t, I guess I’ll have to do something about it. I’d rather not hurt his wife or son. You know how I feel about hurting women, Dad, and his little boy, Max . . . well, he’s like Stevie was, so I don’t want to hurt him, either. But I might have to hurt one of them, maybe both, if I’m going to get Jason to give my proposal some serious consideration. We’ll see.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Well, I guess if that doesn’t work, I’ll have to kill Jason after all. I don’t want to—he reminds me so much of Johnny . . . I swear to God, Dad, you wouldn’t believe it. But if he doesn’t want to be my partner, that won’t matter. I’ll have no choice. He’ll have to go.”

  Twist . . . wheeeeeeze . . .

  “Ah, why the hell do you keep asking me the same questions when I give you the same answers every time? I keep telling you—I don’t know if I’d be the way I am if you hadn’t gotten drunk and crashed the car with Mom and Stevie in it. Or if you hadn’t turned the other way every t
ime Johnny came home from Uncle Joe’s house with a broken bone or a fresh set of bruises.”

  Many times Ian had overheard his mother begging his father to confront Uncle Joe about it, but Arthur Cobb would only say that he didn’t want to get his brother in trouble. And besides, he was a cop. No one would believe it. So he never said a word about what that bastard was doing to Johnny, to Arthur’s own son.

  “But I’ll tell you what . . . if it wasn’t for the things you did, or the things you should have done, I probably wouldn’t be the way I am. So does that make you responsible for all the people I’ve killed? Hmmm . . . maybe it does. So how does that make you feel, you son of a bitch?”

  He sat and listened to his father breathing through the machine. Whoosh, whir, click, whoosh.

  “Suddenly not very chatty, are you? You make me sick.”

  He walked over to the ventilator and as he was resetting its alarm, his phone rang. Cobb recognized the number of his father’s primary physician.

  “Yes, Dr. Howe?”

  “Good evening, Ian. Sorry to call so late. I just finished rounds and—”

  “No problem.”

  “First of all, how are you? We haven’t spoken since you—”

  “I’m fine, Doctor. What’s going on?” he asked, though he had a suspicion about the reason for the call.

  “I’m glad you’re okay. I watched the news, of course. It must have been . . .” He trailed off. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve raised this subject . . .”

  “Good, because I’m still not interested.”

  “Your father’s condition—”

  “I know.”

  “His situation isn’t going to—”

  “I know that, too.”

  “It wasn’t that long ago that he went into cardiac arrest, if you’ll recall. He would have passed away in relative peace if we’d had a DNR order in place. But because you didn’t, Carolyn was able to resuscitate him and—”

  “Well, it’s a good thing I haven’t signed a Do Not Resuscitate order then.”