Too Dark To Sleep

by Dianne Gallagher

  It was one long ride back to the greystone in Old Town. Only a little over eight miles, fifteen or twenty minutes in good traffic. Still, with the dark pressing in, the ride felt like hours. Rayney left the car in the driveway and carried Maggie into the dark house. He hadn’t turned the lights on before they left. The idea of staying anywhere long enough for the sun to set seemed ludicrous. Now he made a dash, carrying Maggie as he awkwardly flipped switches. He put her down in the library under the big reading lamp.

  “Jesus,” Rayney mumbled. It wasn’t good. Her face had no color. Her eyes were darting everywhere. She was fighting to breathe. But she was still fighting. He ran to the kitchen and came back with three pills and a glass of water.

  “You gotta take these,” he said. “You gotta take them now.”

  Maggie pulled herself to his voice, heard the words and nodded. He helped get the pills in her mouth and held the glass as she drank. But her throat closed up and the pills and water came right back out. Rayney ran back to the kitchen and returned with a syringe and vial.

  “Sorry. We gotta do this.” In a moment, the syringe was loaded and Maggie’s sleeve was up.

  “No,” she said, pulling away.

  “Yeah,” Rayney muttered, the plastic cap from the needle between his lips. He pinned Maggie down. She struggled, but he was fast and the sedative was in. Seconds later, she calmed.

  Cold.

  It was so cold. Sweat drenched through Maggie’s clothes and was now evaporating. Rayney saw her body shake and disappeared again.

  Don’t, she tried to scream. Don’t leave me.

  The dark was scratching at the windows. It wanted to come in. It wanted to curl up with her again. Like the crocodile in the story, it developed a taste for Maggie Quinn. She could feel it pressing, pressing the glass in, pressing the windows in, pressing the walls of the house in around her. Where the hell was Rayney?

  Beside her, peeling off the wet sweatshirt and t-shirt below. He rubbed her damp skin with a towel and quickly pulled a dry sweatshirt over her head, then tossed a down comforter on top. Maggie reached out, bracing herself against walls that seemed only inches from enveloping her. She pushed against them and felt the pulse of the darkness. Felt its metallic heat.

  “What the fuck.” Rayney checked his watch. He gave Maggie enough sedative to knock her out fast. She sleeps and he has a drink. Maybe two. That was the plan. But her eyes were still darting around the room. He pulled all of the lamps close, making a protective field, then entered the safe place. Wrapping his arms around Maggie, Antoine Rayney waited.

  “It’s okay,” he repeated over and over, stroking her hair. “It’s okay.”

  Two minutes later, Maggie Quinn was out and Rayney had a glass in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A beautiful night that started as a beautiful day. He read the article twice at breakfast. He had been waiting to hear official news and there it was tucked away on page eight of the Metro section. Former Detective Maggie Quinn was called in to consult on a recent murder case. That was it, but it was enough. Of course she was working the Phillips case. That made sense. She would be looking at the two previous strangulations. The article said none of these things, but it didn’t have to. It was logical. Maggie worked the two strangulations before she… degraded. Which meant they did suspect a single killer.

  He felt a twang of anger every time the thought crept in. Phillips was so sloppy, so coarse. Maggie would know. She would see the differences. Maybe. Or maybe not. He hit the gas and spun around a curve, purposely squealing the tires. It took a moment to pull back. There was no reason to draw attention. There was no reason to lose control. His sudden spike of anger toward the quality of Phillips’ death fed into anger toward his wife. She was going out of town again. She worked too much lately. Their marriage should come first. Taking care of him should come first. She would be dealt with. When he was calm. In control. She would be apologetic. She was always apologetic. He would be benevolent. Kiss her gently. Forgivingly. On the forehead. Like Christ must’ve kissed the Magdalene. Then all would be right with the world again.

  He inhaled deeply. Still, having her out of the way was fairly convenient. It afforded him the freedom he needed to do his work. His style was perfect. That was the name of the game. Perfection. Perfection in strength and skill. Sheer mastery. He possessed it which was why it was so intriguing to explore this new possibility. His gift was waiting and it would be a beautiful night.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Maggie opened her eyes and saw the young man asleep in the recliner next to the couch. An empty glass was in his hand. She reached for it, smelled. Whiskey. The clock read three a.m. Still a long time till morning. Had Rayney left the knives out? The medication? Maggie thought about it for only a moment. It felt like someone stuffed her head with cotton. God, she hated tranquilizers.

  Caffeine. Maybe that would clear her out so she could think. Caffeine meant going to the kitchen. She paused, looking out the library door. It was a long way. The dark cooed, inviting her to take the walk. It swirled and tumbled across the floor and up the walls like otters playing.

  If she pushed out a few of the lamps, Maggie could make it to the desk. Where there was a flashlight. She would definitely need a flashlight. Then move the lamps to the door. As far as the cords would reach. That would get her to the hall light. Maybe. From the hall light, to the living room. Damn it. No overheads. That meant hitting each individual lamp. Maggie took a second to calculate the best sequence. It would work, if she kept her shit together. Then just a few more steps to the kitchen. Yeah, it would work.

  Or she could just curl up with the lamps around her till morning. But Phillips was waiting. And Cramer. Rosenberg. All waiting for someone to help them.

  Maggie bit her lip and started the assault.

  The lamps to the desk.

  Easily enough light to push the shadows back. The flashlight wasn’t in the top drawer. Shit. It was probably still in the car. Not a problem. She could still do this. Maggie stepped back, her elbow brushing against the curtain.

  Claws reached out. Tried to pull her back. Pull her to the dark behind the curtains. Maggie yanked her arm away. It knew something was up.

  Lamps to the library door.

  The cords weren’t quite long enough. That meant reaching out in the dark to hit the switch. She didn’t need any light to tell her where it was. The light switch had been in the same place her entire life.

  Arm out.

  The dark reached for her, digging in, burrowing to the bone.

  The switch and light.

  A shriek as it disappeared into the walls, behind the doors and rugs.

  Maggie held her arm. The pain was incredible. Like something stripped the flesh off her bones. She trotted down the hall to the living room door and peered in. She could just make out the bags of evidence on the sofa.

  “Thank you, Antoine Rayney,” she whispered.

  Her eyes surveyed the rest of the room. It would be waiting, Maggie thought. The dark knew what she was up to now and would have its own plan in place. She looked back at the library. There was light back there. Safety. Waiting till morning wouldn’t be so bad.

  Melinda Phillips, Nancy Cramer, Brittany Rosenberg.

  A deep breath in, then out.

  End table light.

  Across the sofa.

  End table light.

  Over the recliner.

  Reading light.

  She sank back into the recliner that was now bathed in a warm halo. Maggie steadied her pulse as she scanned the room. Nothing. The dark hadn’t touched her. That wasn’t right.

  The kitchen.

  A foot of shadow, then six feet of dark to get to the light. That’s where she would lose. It knew not to waste energy in the living room. Even if the shadows
did bring her down, Maggie could still get to light.

  But outside the kitchen. One foot of shadow. Six feet of dark.

  “Bastard,” Maggie whispered.

  The dark giggled a reply.

  One foot of shadow. Six feet of dark.

  Melinda, Nancy, Brittany.

  Maggie thought for only a moment, then moved.

  To the closet. Inside. There it was. The dark wasn’t expecting that. It wasn’t waiting there. She grabbed what she needed.

  The kitchen.

  One foot of shadow.

  She flipped on the huge camp flashlight.

  Six feet of dark.

  Slid it across the floor.

  The beam from the camp light illuminated the doorway.

  Screeching. Like rabbits being killed.

  “Gotcha,” Maggie grinned as she ran into the pool of light, spun around, sweeping her hand in the doorway and slapping on the switch.

  She caught her breath as she sat on the kitchen floor. The room was bright and warm. Safe. The dark peered at her through the windows. It was pissed.

  “Sorry,” she whispered. “Not today.”

  Cold Pepsi waited in the refrigerator. She grabbed two cans. Maggie wanted a third, but that meant risking a trip to the bathroom before dawn. She drank one of the sodas as she sat at the table. Nothing ever tasted so good. The second can Maggie took with as she padded back to the library, leaving all the lights on as she went.

  Rayney didn’t wake up until eight the next morning. He expected to find Maggie still asleep. There was easily enough tranquilizer to knock her out until then. But she wasn’t on the couch. He remembered bringing the bags in. The last thing he wanted was to make another trip to the warehouse because something got fucked up or lost out in the car. Shit, did he put the knives away? No, he left them out. He didn’t expect her to wake up. All the meds were out, too. The young man flew out of the recliner.

  The sunlight from the windows spilled in and soaked Maggie as she worked at the crowded desk. The lights were moved from the couch and arranged in a path to the closet where Maggie must’ve gotten the card table now butted against the desk. Another path took her to the living room. That’s where he left all the bags, the notebooks, everything from the day before. Like runways at night, every path was defined by light.

  Maggie was talking on the phone. To who, Rayney wondered as he rubbed his eyes? Had it rung? If it did, he didn’t hear. Maybe Maggie made the call. The thought was ridiculous.

  “Just come over after your shift,” was the last thing Rayney heard before she hung up.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  Maggie nodded. Her eyes were hollow like she just landed after a very nasty trip… which was basically true.

  “You hungry?” he asked, not expecting any answer.

  “How about oatmeal?” Maggie flipped through some of her notes.

  It took a moment for the request to register. “Yeah, sure. Oatmeal.” Rayney shook his head as he walked out into the living room. All the lights were on. And in the kitchen. More lights.

  “Fuck me.” The young man smiled as he tossed the two empty Pepsi cans into the recycling bin and started breakfast.

  There was something about oatmeal. Erin asked for it on cold mornings. Hot cocoa on rainy days or when it snowed. Oatmeal if the temperature was below freezing. Rayney made the old-fashioned kind. Maggie’s favorite. She liked the extra chew. Erin liked quick oatmeal. They both agreed that instant didn’t taste right. It didn’t carry the weight of real comfort food.

  That morning she and Rayney had old-fashioned oatmeal with heavy cream and brown sugar. Maggie silently stirred, mixing the thick white and syrupy brown into a steaming swirl. The smell filled her. Oatmeal. With buttered toast. Rayney made four pieces. Two for each of them. He didn’t say a word as he watched Maggie eat without being nagged for the first time since he’d known her.

  Oatmeal. It was fall. The first frost. Erin playing in piles of leaves in the backyard. Oatmeal. A sick day. Erin had thrown up all night. When she finally stopped, it was four a.m. Maggie made oatmeal that morning and Erin ate half a bowl with 7UP and dry toast. Oatmeal. Twenty below without the wind chill. Saturday. No school. No work. Lying in pajamas on the living room rug and watching cartoons. With oatmeal and toast. And Erin.

  It took her fifteen minutes to finish the bowl. Antoine Rayney said nothing while she ate, didn’t rub her nose in it. He just asked one simple question.

  “You want more?”

  “No.” Maggie sipped her coffee. “I’m full.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A black guy answered the door. Late twenties, early thirties, Nick guessed. Five foot, nine. 160 pounds, maybe 170 because of the muscle mass. Wearing jeans, a blue long-sleeved polo… and a hell of an attitude.

  “Yeah, what do you want?” the guy asked.

  The tone and the expression threw the young detective. “Well… I’m sorry. I probably have the wrong place. Does Detective Quinn live here?”

  “Maggie Quinn lives here, if that’s who you want,” Rayney said.

  “And you are?” Nick wanted to make sure he had names in case the chief asked.

  “A friend.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “Your name would be?”

  The young man shifted on his feet, crossed his arms. “And you are?” he mimicked.

  “Nick Dublowski. Detective Nick Dublowski. I’m with Area One.” Nick fumbled getting his shield out, then showed it to the man. “I’m here to talk to Detective Quinn. She called me.”

  Rayney looked at the man for a moment, then motioned him in. Nick stepped into the house. Nice place. Lots of wood. Lots of character. Must be worth a couple million. All Nick knew was he couldn’t afford the property taxes, let alone the monthlies. How the hell could any cop live like this? Quinn’s husband, Nick remembered, was a lawyer. Must be one hell of an alimony.

  What kind of shape would Maggie Quinn be in? He conjured quite a few pictures in his head. Everything from frothing lunatic to rocking savant. That was before he talked to her on the phone. She didn’t sound crazy. Tired, but not crazy.

  “You’re gonna wanna take off your coat,” Antoine Rayney said as he closed the front door.

  “I’m fine.”

  Rayney chuckled as he led the Dublowski to the library. “You got company.”

  The room was lit up like a Christmas tree. Rows of track lighting in the ceiling were aimed at every corner and every window. All the curtains were gone so the backyard with the six-foot privacy fence was clearly visible. And everywhere there were lamps. Even in the closet. All the 100 watt bulbs raised the temperature several degrees hotter than it should’ve been. Nick Dublowski just stood in the doorway with his mouth open.

  “The better to see you,” Rayney smirked. He spent the day putting up lights and getting Maggie anything she asked for. Tables, computer paper, ink cartridges for the printer. Even a grilled cheese sandwich with ketchup.

  Nick Dublowski waited as Maggie walked up and down the length of two long tables set end to end. Her back to them, she was wearing cordless headphones and had hands behind her back, pacing, stopping briefly every few feet. Dublowski stared at the table. The sheer volume of material was staggering. There had to be close to a hundred photos. At least a few dozen Ziploc bags, even more envelopes.

  “Hey, I said you got company,” Rayney yelled.

  Nick was prepared for just about anything when Maggie Quinn turned around, anything but what he saw. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Her face, worn with eyes hugged by bags. A gray sweatshirt and loose jeans hung on a tall, thin frame. Everything about the woman should’ve read frail, but it didn’t. It was like looking at a knife blade in the sun. Cold. Hard. Sharp.

  Maggie tossed the headphone
s on the couch across the room. The faint echo of wailing violins spilled out. U for Ululate. Her bloodshot eyes flitted from Nick’s face to his clothes, then his shoes.

  “Have fun,” Rayney said as left the room.

  “Detective Dublowski.” Her voice was even, calm, stronger than on the phone. The sleeves of Maggie’s shirt were pushed back, giving Nick a good look at the red seams running down her forearms.

  Jesus Christ, thought Nick, she must’ve had at least a hundred stitches.

  “Seventy-two.”

  “What?” Nick said as he watched Maggie pull down her sleeves. “I’m sorry. I just… I’m sorry.” Nick forced a smile as he tried to keep his eyes on her face. “Nick Dublowski, Detective... Miss Quinn.” He held out his hand.

  Maggie hesitated, then took it. Warm, firm. A little too much action. Like an overzealous salesman.

  “You can call me Nick.”

  Maggie flipped off the stereo. “Why don’t you take off your coat, Detective. You’re sweating.”

  The room was like an oven. He should’ve listened to Rayney when he first came in. Nick tossed his trench over the back of the chair.

  “You might want to go with black.”

  The young man looked confused.

  “Your coat. Blood doesn’t stand out as much on black.”

  Dublowski twisted around to see the hem of his coat. Dried blood. And on the tips of the belt, too. Every time he bent down at a scene, the hem and belt dragged in the gore. And he never noticed. “My wife bought it for me,” he said.

  “Next time, tell her black. Or just get a shorter coat. Saves on cleaning bills.” Maggie snapped her gum. She never did understand the Boys’ fascination with trench coats. Maybe it was something akin to a dog peeing. The coat, like urine, let everyone know who you were. Too bad they were so impractical.

  Nick snuck a quick look at his watch. Shit, he should be driving home now. He and Cheryl both agreed to make some compromises. Nick’s first compromise was tonight. He promised Cheryl he’d only be an hour late, instead of two. He assumed all he had to do was pick up the files and get a quick briefing. As usual, traffic was a bitch, so he was already running behind.