The Dark Man

by Desmond Doane

  We do, and the tabletop is cold underneath my forearms. Mike leans back, hands in his pockets, leg bouncing in anticipation.

  Detective Thomas grabs the chair opposite from us, spins it around so that the back of it is facing his chest, and sits down, grunting as he does so. He leans forward, arms across the top, clucks his tongue like my grandma used to do. I can’t help but feel as if he’s disappointed in us for something, yet it’s likelier that he’s frustrated with the situation.

  “Mr. Craghorn,” he says, tapping one long, bony index finger on the tabletop, “was found last night at the first rest stop heading west on I-64, swinging from the rafters.”

  I don’t know the area well enough to be familiar with the one he’s talking about, but Mike says, “But that’s a couple of hours from here, isn’t it?”

  “Give or take.”

  I can’t believe this. “Hanging? Are you positive he wasn’t mur … mur …”

  Damn. Why can’t I get that word out? I’ve talked to dead people for over ten years now, both murdered and not. Perhaps it’s a different mindset, given the situation, and considering the fact that I was trying to help the poor bastard a little over twelve hours ago. I think—yeah—Dave Craghorn is the first person I’ve known that’s died since Grandma Ford passed six years ago.

  Detective Thomas clasps his fingers together, nibbles at his bottom lip, and nods. “Look, I shouldn’t even be sharing this with you guys since technically the investigation is ongoing—and please keep your damn mouths shut since I could lose my job for this, okay?”

  Mike and I nod. Of course we do.

  “I just—” He interrupts himself with a cough that’s designed to mask emotion that gets the better of him. “It’s a damn shame, and I thought you should know. I’ve been working this case off and on for years now and Craghorn wasn’t a friend, but I felt for the guy. Right? Every indication says that no foul play was involved and that it was a suicide. Some woman up from Charleston found him swinging. Nearly gave her a heart attack. According to the reports, Craghorn was wearing the same clothes he had on when I saw him last, there was no luggage in his car, nothing, so it appears that he left you guys and bolted. And this lady, she said in her statement that there was nothing else but an overturned chair. You gotta figure, that late at night, he could’ve done it hours earlier.”

  “Or,” Mike says, “if someone did it to him, they’d be long gone.”

  “True, but nothing points to it.”

  I ask, “Aren’t there security cameras there?”

  “Nah, not at that one. That particular rest area probably hasn’t been updated since Lee surrendered at Appomattox.”

  “Did they find a note? Anything like that?”

  Detective Thomas nods and fishes in his pants pocket, and for a moment, I think he’s going to pull out Dave Craghorn’s exact suicide note. The butterflies in my gut swoop, swirl, and drop far into my nether regions.

  He extracts a pair of black-rimmed, rectangular glasses from another pocket, then rests the bifocals across the bridge of his nose. “Before I let you look at this, did you notice him acting strangely?”

  “You mean any weirder than he already was?”

  “Beyond that. Out of Dave’s ordinary.”

  I frown and tell him no. Mike does the same. I say to the detective, “No, he wasn’t acting weird, per se, but we both noticed something about him and wanted to bring it up to you.”

  “Which was?”

  “You knew about his scratches, right? All the supposed claw marks all over his body?”

  Detective Thomas nods. “I didn’t tell him to strip down and inspect him from head to toe, but yeah, that shit looked rough. And you think the, uh, the demon did that?”

  Mike looks at me, I look at him, and we exchange a simple questioning glance, silently asking each other which one should proceed.

  Mike does. It’s probably better that way. He’s more matter-of-fact, where I would lean toward padding what I felt was true, sorta like using the bumpers when bowling, rather than risking the wrath of the gutters. Mike says, “He was hiding something. Had to be.” Mike gently strikes the table with the karate chop side of his palm once, twice, three times. “Had to be, had to be.”

  Detective Thomas rubs one dry, rough hand over his stubble. “Why do you say that?”

  “We’ve been doing this a long time, and there’s no way in hell that a right-hander—sorry, an upper-level demon—is going to discriminate against where he chooses to scratch somebody. Craghorn may have been marked up like the bosun’s mate got after him with a cat o’ nine tails—”

  “Nice one,” I interject.

  “—but his face and neck weren’t scratched at all. Any place that couldn’t easily be hidden by long sleeves or jeans or pockets was clear. Initially, when Ford and I talked about it, that made me think that Dave might’ve had something to do with Louisa’s death, and he was trying to use this right-hander in his house as an alibi. Six months ago, new evidence shows up, confirming that his wife was cheating, and now he’s gotta figure out how to draw the attention away from himself. Demon comes strolling around, stops in for a visit. Craghorn figures that if he can shred himself to pieces and play the victim to a supernatural beast, he’d be the last place you’d look. That was my thought process on the whole scenario, but then Ford told me that he had a clean alibi for Louisa’s murder, so that squashed that theory.”

  Detective Thomas lays the sheet of paper in his hands onto the table and smoothes it out. The small crinkling sound is big enough to fill the room. “Well, it would’ve been a perfect theory, and, yes, I noticed and thought the exact same thing because I never bought into the whole demon nonsense. At least not until the fucking thing attacked me at Dave’s. I went back and tried to find a hole in his alibi. Made phone calls, tried everything I remembered. The people we questioned back then, I tried them, too, but they couldn’t recall much. Long story short, I couldn’t find anything. He was innocent of everything except for giving in to his emotional pain.”

  “Giving in?” I ask. “How?”

  “Cutting.” Noticing Mike’s questioning squint, the detective explains. “Self-damage, Mr. Long. Some people feel that creating physical pain helps alleviate their emotional pain.”

  “Gotcha.”

  “We got a court order to search his laptop and found entry after entry on some underground website for cutters where they talked about methods and reasons, almost like it was therapy for some and sexual arousal for others. Initially, all Dave Craghorn did was talk about losing his wife. Some of the people who responded to him called him a pussy and said he wasn’t worthy of being around there. Wasn’t long after that he started talking about how he wasn’t cutting himself, that he had a demon in his home who was doing it to him, you know? Beyond that, for the next few months, he was like a celebrity on those sites. I guess after a while he started believing his lies. He had detailed discussions with people about his rituals, how he used a Ouija board to draw it out, stuff along those lines.”

  I’m more than angry. I could’ve used this information before I went into that fucking hellhole unprepared for the strength of what we were about to face. “And you didn’t think to tell me this beforehand?”

  “I didn’t want to cloud your judgment.”

  “But—”

  I can hear Mike’s perturbed huff as Detective Thomas holds up his palm. “That’s all it was. Nothing more, nothing less. Unconventional methods call for unconventional tactics, and if you had gone in there with preconceived notions about him, then you might have approached it differently.”

  “Hell yes, I would have,” I say. “I would’ve gone in with a swimming pool full of holy water and an army of Catholic priests.”

  “Which is precisely my point.”

  “Craghorn probably wasn’t making that stuff up about the séances and rituals, Detective. That’s how the dark man showed up at his house. And, honestly, while I don’t fault your motives, that’s somet
hing that would’ve been fucking nice to know.”

  Detective Thomas gives us a pressed-lip, understanding frown as he smoothes out the paper under his palms again. “All I can say is sorry, guys. Integrity of the investigation and all that. Next time, yeah?”

  “Forget it. No, seriously, forget it.”

  He slides the sheet of paper over to us. “Here’s a copy of the suicide note that was found in his pocket. From what I can tell, it proves you’re right about the whole demon-summoning thing. Yet the question remains, who murdered Louisa? We brought you here for a reason, Ford. Did you learn anything new last night?”

  As I scan through Craghorn’s heartbreaking note, his last words scrawled out to anyone who might read it, I find a tale of misery and the need to connect with someone and any thing after the death of his wife. I stop for a moment and close my eyes. A sad man took his own life, and yet, the world continues to turn.

  Maybe one of these days, I’ll try to communicate with him. Surely that’s a soul that won’t rest for a long, long while.

  The detective asks me again. “Hey. You find anything?”

  So goes it. Business as usual. “Nothing that makes any sense. Not now, anyway.” I had brought last night’s DVR tapes along with me, just in case, and I shove them across the table. “Here. They’re yours.” I’m a few notches beyond pissed at the guy—let him sit in a quiet room for hours and review the evidence. “You can take a listen if you want, but it’s mostly some random stuff from Louisa’s spirit and that right-hander talking shit.”

  Mike says to me, “Shouldn’t you listen to that first?”

  “Nah, I’m done. Detective, I’ll review the video evidence when I get a chance, within the agreed-upon time frame of our contract. I’ll let you know if I find anything else.” I have two weeks, officially, to get my report back to him, and given the dickhead move he made, I plan to wait until 11:59 p.m. on the due date before I send the e-mail.

  Petty? A little, though I feel it’s deserved given the fact that we risked a demonic possession. I’ve never been a doormat, and I have no plans on becoming a possessed doormat, either.

  Speaking of, what would be printed on a possessed doormat?

  “Hellcome” to our home?

  I continue, “However, I feel like if you’re going to find any new evidence, anything you can use, it’ll be on the audio.” And, I’ve always wanted to say this in a snide, movie-star tone, but I’ve never really had the chance. I push myself up from the table and look down on him. “Good day, sir.”

  Mike slaps the table and says, “Hell, yeah. Billy Badass,” as he stands up beside me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It’s a quiet ride in the rental car back to the oceanfront hotel. It feels like Mike and I had our moment, together again, and now it’s over. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I have a little bit of, “Well, now what?” going on.

  I have a long flight home, made bearable by first-class seats paid for with points, even though I could afford my own small jet. Truth is, I enjoy the company of my fellow travelers, along with the recognition of “Hey, you’re that guy, right?”

  I don’t hide from my fading celebrity status. The “used to be” doesn’t bother me, no matter how much fun it would be to get back to zero and beyond. I’m looking forward to hanging out with Ulie, giving belly rubs and rawhide treats. I’m already thinking about taking him back to the farmhouse to see if Papa Joe will give me any more information.

  And when I go to pick him up from Melanie’s place, given what Mike told me about her, I may ask her to dinner—you know, as a way to say thanks for watching the Best Dog in the World.

  Maybe it’s the right time to tell Mike what I know, that I’ve already been peripherally reinvestigating the Hopper house and Chelsea’s tormentor, and that we just encountered the rotten asshole again and didn’t even know it until the end. Mike is silent, though, leaning on the armrest, propping his chin up, and staring out the window. He looks pensive, and I leave him alone. Traffic rolls by. A naval jet carves a path across the blue sky.

  I’ll keep it to myself for now. I’m still not ready for the back-and-forth about the documentary, and he’s not badgering me, so I’m cool with letting this car ride be what it is—a short end to another chapter.

  Brake lights pinball across the highway in front of us, pinging from car to truck to delivery van, and four lanes ease into a slow crawl.

  “Accident?” Mike asks. “You see anything?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Shit. I better call Toni.” He does, and I listen to him cajole her into forgiveness for having spent the night, and for having entertained my tomfoolery.

  He actually uses that word.

  Tomfoolery.

  Funny. He doesn’t look like he’s eighty years old.

  Mike Long, Taker of No Shit, King of You Can’t Tell Me What To Do-ville, has always been humbled in the presence of Toni, whether she’s in the same room or on the other end of the line. I’m sure it would drive me nuts, but he likes the challenge.

  When he promises he’ll be home as soon as he can and hangs up, I ask him a risky question. “Do you miss it at all? The show, I mean.”

  He ponders this while we inch forward, then says, “The long shoots, being away, inhaling a cheeseburger between Carla’s call times, nah, not in the slightest. Not one fucking bit. What I do miss, honest to God, is being able to help people that were afraid. I miss being able to tell a frightened mother or some old lady that they have nothing to fear, that the evidence we caught would make them happy, you know? A chance to say goodbye one last time, or that somebody’s nice uncle was there watching over them. That stuff. I miss being able to tell people that the things that go bump in the night aren’t all bad. Well, at least ninety-nine times out of a hundred.”

  “Chelsea,” I say quietly. “Number one hundred.”

  “Yeah. That girl—”

  “Mike, man, don’t start, please? I don’t need another lecture.”

  “I wasn’t going to. What I was going to say was, other than the money …”

  Oh, God. Here we go. Me and my big mouth.

  “Which I really need, I’m sure it’s our chance at redemption.”

  Magically, traffic picks up speed for no apparent reason, after having been stalled for no apparent reason, and I nudge the rental faster to keep up. “What do you need redemption for? You tried to stop it.”

  “I didn’t try hard enough,” he answers, and there’s more weight in those words than I’ve heard in Mike’s voice in a long, long time. “One man can’t do it by himself. He needs people on his side.”

  I understand that it’s his subtle attempt at telling me I should have been with him two years ago, and not on the side of glory, fame, and television history, but it causes something else to click.

  Since the show was forced off the air—since the lawsuits and having my name trashed on every single news outlet—I’ve felt like I was riding the subway of life alone. I pushed Melanie away and fell into the beds of other women because they were connections that would be with me for an hour, and then I could retreat again. I hired a personal assistant to answer my fan mail because I couldn’t bear interacting with too many people. I’ve worked with dozens of different police departments doing this paranormal private investigator thing, but always alone on night investigations and research gathering, refusing help, refusing to allow anyone to come along.

  I don’t know why it hits me so hard. Maybe because it’s Mike that’s saying it. Maybe it’s because I finally grasped that I won’t be able to take on Chelsea’s demon by myself, like I’d planned. Mike or no Mike. Documentary or no documentary.

  Either way, that goddamn thing is strong, wherever it is, wherever it went, and whatever is coming, I’m going to need someone on my side.

  “You’re right,” I say, shifting lanes, squeezing between two semis, as I head toward the hotel. “A man certainly does.”

  We say our goodbyes in the parki
ng lot, the smell of salt air hanging over our heads, poofball clouds drifting west out over the ocean, as Mike shakes my hand, saying, “It’s been real.”

  “It’s been fun.”

  “But it hasn’t been real fun.” He gives me a thumbs up and steps backward to his navy blue Audi. “Promise me you’ll think about the documentary, okay? Carla’s not so bad after all those FCC fines. Lightened her up a bit.”

  I tell him okay, I will, yet I don’t believe for a second that Carla Hancock has changed. That cobra will always have her fangs.

  As he’s getting into his car, I quickly say, “Hey, Mike?” before he closes his door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can I send you some audio files to review? I caught something in this old farmhouse back home. Pretty amazing stuff.” I leave it at that. I’ll tell him what it is when I’m ready.

  He considers this for a moment and seems to be weighing whether he wants to get involved again with the almighty Ford Atticus Ford for something other than the documentary, and then says, “Sure. If you send a package instead of e-mail, don’t put your return address on it. Toni will have them in the trash before I even know they’re there.”

  “Cool. Will do. You have a safe trip home.”

  “And you have a good flight. See you on the other side.”

  I smile because it’s reassuring to hear him say our catchphrase that ended every episode of Graveyard: Classified.

  “Yep.” I wave as he drives off. “See you on the other side.”

  I’m late getting to Melanie’s condo in the Pearl District of Portland. My direct flight from Norfolk International was delayed due to mechanical issues, so we had to deplane. I sipped free scotch in the Billion-Mile Member Lounge for about an hour and a half, then was sufficiently tipsy enough to pass out and sleep all the way home. I needed it after the previous night’s war against—well, shit, I want to call that right-hander Azeraul, even though that’s not its name.

  As I parallel park my Wrangler—it’s essential to have a boxy, compact vehicle while you’re trying to park in this city—it occurs to me that Louisa Craghorn’s spirit never actually said, “His name is Azeraul.” The demon was enraged enough to insist that it wasn’t, too, which very well could’ve been a complete lie. Although, I suspect that we would’ve gotten an entirely different reaction out of him if it had been his name. I’m talking, like, a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, lying on the floor and stomping its feet, only this would be an ancient demon slinging a couch like it’s nothing more than a sippy cup of juice.