In the Dark aka The Watcher

by Brian Freeman

  “Mary was lucky to have you,” he said.

  Her face twisted with emotion. She put a hand on his face, and her skin was warm. He thought he would be able to feel that touch all night.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said.

  Clark nodded. He watched his ex-wife as she navigated the crowd and disappeared through the oak door into the restroom. This could have been a night like so many they had spent in their early years. He could imagine Donna as she had been at twenty-one years old, when their bodies were fit and their hormones racing. Before their dreams grew up, got old, and died.

  He shoved a tip into the bartender’s jar and got off the bar stool, swaying as he tried to walk. No one paid any attention to him. He balanced himself against strange shoulders until his head cleared. Through the sea of drinkers, he saw the two tables of teenage girls, sipping Coke, laughing with mouths full of white teeth and braces, their innocent giggles like music. Some had dirt on their faces; others had their baseball caps turned backward. Under the table, they were all bare legs and white socks. Clark felt as if he had been stabbed in the heart.

  He made his way to the bar door. The girls had piled their softball equipment in the corner there. He opened the door into the night, but before he left, he grabbed one of the wooden baseball bats by its knob handle and took it with him.

  39

  Tish sat with the manuscript of her book open on the laptop screen. Her fingers lingered over the keyboard, but no words came. She was at the point where she had to decide. Lie or tell the truth. She had postponed the decision on the belief that, by the time she reached this crossroads, it would be easy. But it wasn’t. She was nearly done, but she wasn’t sure now if she wanted to finish it at all.

  She reached for a cigarette, but even the solace of smoking didn’t appeal to her tonight. Angrily, she slapped the cover of the laptop shut.

  When she had first opened the door to the past, it had felt right, as if the time had finally come in her life to flush out the night creatures from their hiding places. To fulfill her promise to Cindy. To come home. Now she wondered if it would have been better for everyone if she had stayed away.

  She crossed to the glass door that led to the porch, built high above the slashing waters of the lake. She opened the door and took a tentative step onto the deck without looking down. Fear of heights was an odd thing. People who didn’t have it didn’t understand it. They could shimmy up cliff faces or stand on rooftops or dangle their feet from ski lifts and feel nothing at all. For her, just thinking about those things made her flinch and sweat. It wasn’t the height that scared her. It was her own lack of self-control that brought terror. What frightened her was the idea that some foreign, desperate part of her soul would cause her to fling herself over the edge whenever she was faced with a sharp drop. It didn’t matter where she was. An escalator. A mountain. A bridge. She had to hold on tight and clench her fists to make sure she didn’t panic. It was bad enough to die, but she didn’t want to die by falling.

  Her breath fluttered in her chest.

  She went back into the apartment and shut the door. In the bedroom, she saw her suitcase lying open on the floor, mostly packed. There was no reason to stay in the city any longer. She had the answers she needed, and she would be happy to do what she had done years ago. Escape. Get away. Put as many miles between herself and Duluth as she possibly could.

  Tish went into the bedroom and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her suitcase. Her clothes were neatly folded. She reached across the main compartment to the zipped pouch at the back and tugged it open. The envelope was inside, faded and wrinkled with time. She pulled it out and let it sit in her hands. She had caressed it so many times that the paper was shiny. The ink on the envelope was thin and black.

  The handwriting was Cindy’s.

  Tish read the words again: For Jonny.

  She had held on to the letter ever since Cindy died. It wasn’t right to leave town without giving it to him. On the other hand, she wondered if it was fair to stir up his life any more than she already had, to reawaken the past when he had managed to lay it to rest. Let him go on with Serena and not think about Cindy anymore.

  Lie or tell the truth.

  There was no need to protect William Starr. He had never earned an ounce of her compassion. She didn’t need to protect herself, either. Not anymore. It was time to let go of the shame she had felt when Cindy told her the truth.

  Tish slipped her hand inside the suitcase pouch again and extracted the plastic zip-top bag in which she kept the clipping. She removed it delicately, careful not to rip the yellowed newspaper. It was a fragment from another era. A lifetime ago. She unfolded the creases and held it at its edge with the tips of her fingers.

  The headline screamed at her. Tore at her heart.

  HOSTAGE SHOT, KILLED IN BANK STANDOFF

  She read it for the thousandth time and then carefully refolded it and slid it back inside the plastic bag. As if, by putting it away, it didn’t exist. She got angry all over again to think of William Starr hiding this clipping in the pages of his Bible. Until Cindy found it.

  The phone rang in the other room. Tish secured the envelope inside her suitcase and went to answer it.

  “This is Tish,” she said.

  “This is Peter Stanhope.”

  She thought about hanging up, but she didn’t. “What do you want?”

  “First, I want to apologize.”

  “Oh?”

  “I know you had ulterior motives during our rendezvous the other night, but I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “If you expect me to apologize, too, you can forget it.”

  “I understand. I’m not asking for anything in return.” He added, “I saw the press conference tonight. The authorities are essentially walking away from the case. I was wondering what that means for your book.”

  “What I write in my book and what the police and prosecutors do are two different things,” Tish told him.

  “So what are you going to write?” Peter asked.

  “You’ll have to read it and find out.”

  “You don’t still think I’m guilty, do you? I heard that Finn admitted to you that he killed Laura. I also heard about his mother and her murder. It’s a tragic story.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m sure you’re disappointed that no one is going to answer for Laura’s death,” he said. “All I can tell you, as a lawyer, is that getting to a courtroom doesn’t mean that you’ll find justice. Don’t judge yourself a failure because you couldn’t convince prosecutors to file charges in a thirty-year-old murder.”

  “I know that. I feel sorry for Finn, but not for you, Peter. At least Finn had an excuse. He grew up in an abusive family. You were a stalker and an attempted rapist, and your only excuse was arrogance and money.”

  “As to being rich and arrogant, I plead guilty.” He laughed.

  Tish hated the fact that he was so smooth. So unflappable. Even now, with the truth coming from Finn’s mouth, she was reluctant to give up the idea that Peter had been the one to swing the bat.

  “Tell me something, did you know Finn was in the woods that night?” Tish asked. “Did you see him there?”

  “No.”

  “What about his family background?”

  Peter responded with an exaggerated sigh. “What is this about?”

  “It just occurred to me that Finn makes a very convenient fall guy,” Tish told him. “Particularly if you knew about his mother’s murder.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So why were you so quick to hire a detective to look into his past?”

  “That’s how lawyers win cases,” Peter said. “We dig up secrets.”

  “I just wonder if you already knew what Serena would find.”

  “I didn’t. Don’t go looking for conspiracy theories, Tish. I had no idea Finn was in the park, and I didn’t know a thing about his past.”

  Tish said
nothing.

  “You may hate me, but wishing I was guilty doesn’t make it true,” Peter added.

  “Ray Wallace thought you were guilty. So did your father.”

  “They didn’t know about Finn.”

  “If you were innocent, why did you let the police hide and destroy evidence for you?”

  “Because plenty of innocent men have gone to jail,” Peter snapped. “I’m getting tired of this, Tish. People like you assume that being rich makes you guilty.”

  He sounded defensive. Nervous. As if she had struck a chord.

  “Pat Burns may be done with you, but I’m not,” Tish said. “I was planning to leave town, Peter, but now I’m not so sure. Maybe Finn only thinks he killed Laura, because he saw who did. Maybe he saw you.”

  ____________________

  Maggie was almost asleep when she heard what sounded like the angry chatter of an insect somewhere in her bedroom. Her eyes sprang open. Disoriented, she fumbled for the lamp on her nightstand and blinked at the bright light. The buzzing sounded like a june bug, one of those brown summer beetles that flies blindly into screen doors and then drops like a rock and beats its wings in agitation. She realized, however, that the muffled noise was too melodic. When it continued into a third chorus, she remembered that she had switched her cell phone to vibrate mode during the press conference and then left her phone in the pocket of her black slacks draped over a chair.

  The phone was ringing.

  She glanced at the clock and saw that it was midnight. She climbed out of bed and retrieved the phone. The bedroom curtains billowed like sails in the lake breeze.

  “Maggie Bei.”

  “Ms. Bei, I’m sorry to be calling you so late. This is Donna Biggs.”

  Maggie wandered to the window with the phone in her hand. Outside, the night clouds were black. She smelled a storm. “What can I do for you, Donna? Is something wrong?”

  She heard hesitation in the woman’s voice. “I don’t know. I think so.”

  “What is it?”

  “Clark and I were together at a bar in Gary this evening. We saw the press conference that Ms. Burns held.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” Maggie said. “I tried to reach both of you to tell you what you were going to hear, but I couldn’t connect with you in time.”

  “I understand.”

  “I hope you realize that I’m still chasing the peeping incidents aggressively. I’m not giving up on this case. I only wish I could be more encouraging about charges related to Mary’s death.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Donna replied. “I’m just afraid that Clark is very upset. I could see it in his eyes tonight. He’s devastated.”

  “I know this has been terrible for both of you,” Maggie said.

  “Clark disappeared from the bar, Ms. Bei. He left, and he didn’t tell me where he was going. He was drinking heavily. I went to his house to find him, and I’ve been here for several hours now. I was hoping he’d come home, but he hasn’t. I’ve tried his cell phone, but he must have it turned off.”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Maggie asked.

  “Nothing. I went to the restroom, and when I came back, he was gone.”

  “Have you called 911?”

  “No, I wanted to talk to you first. I’m not sure what I should do.”

  “I’ll put out an alert for Clark and his truck,” Maggie told her. “Don’t worry, we’ll find him.”

  “I’m afraid of what he might do,” Donna added.

  Maggie thought about Clark’s face when she had come upon him in the woods where Mary died. “Does Clark own a gun?” she asked softly.

  “He owns hunting rifles, but they’re all still here at the house. I checked. He doesn’t own a handgun.”

  “That’s good news,” Maggie told her. She waited a beat and then added, “I know that Clark has been depressed, but has he talked at all about harming himself? Are you afraid he might commit suicide?”

  “No, that’s not it,” Donna said. “I’m not worried about Clark killing himself. I’m worried that he might kill someone else.”

  “Someone else? Like who?”

  “They talked about that man on the news tonight. The one you’ve been investigating. Clark knows his name now. He knows where he lives.”

  “You mean Finn Mathisen?”

  “Yes. I think Clark might try to do what you can’t. Get justice for Mary.”

  Maggie swore under her breath. “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  “Ms. Bei, you have to find him. You can’t let Clark do this.”

  “I understand.”

  “No, you don’t. I don’t care about this other man. He deserves whatever happens to him. But I don’t want Clark throwing away his life. He can’t. Not now.”

  Maggie heard the pleading in Donna’s voice. “What are you saying?”

  “Clark doesn’t know,” Donna told her. “He doesn’t know I’m pregnant.”

  40

  Midnight in the rural neighborhoods of Superior was quiet. The media trucks that had surrounded Finn’s house for the ten o’clock news were gone. The house was dark and silent. Even so, Clark knew that Finn was hiding there, sitting in some room with the lights off. The silver RAV sat like a ghost truck in the driveway. He hoped that the man who had killed his daughter couldn’t sleep.

  He thought about breaking in. Kick down the door or smash a window. He told himself that all he wanted to do was confront Finn and look for the guilt in his face, and tell him that he had robbed two lives when he set his sights on Mary. But that was a lie. Clark had darker things in his heart.

  He squirmed in his seat because he needed to piss. He opened the door of his pickup and climbed down to the dirt. Overhead, there were no stars, only angry clouds growing blacker and more threatening as he stared at them. Wind drummed on his back. He stood between the steel rails of the tracks and unzipped and drained a clear stream of urine into the crushed rock. When he was done, he went back to the truck and reached across the seat to grab the baseball bat he had stolen. It was heavy and satisfying in his hand, like an instrument of justice.

  Before he could close the truck door, he heard a voice over the howl of the wind, whispering in his ear.

  “No, Daddy.”

  Clark spun around. “Mary?”

  He looked for her spirit in the darkness, but he was alone. His mind was playing games with him. Even so, the memory of his daughter’s voice, which was as clear and familiar as if she had been standing next to him, softened the fury in his heart. Clark stood for a long moment, hesitating. The storm was close and violent. The brittle air felt as if it would snap.

  He wondered if Mary had come back to stop him. To tell him that what he was doing was wrong.

  He threw the bat back into the truck, where it banged against the far door. He pulled himself up into the driver’s seat and held tightly to the steering wheel. The gales rattled the pickup. He took out his wallet and removed the photograph he kept of himself and Mary on the beach. The picture had been taken two summers ago. After staring at it silently and remembering the perfect Sunday afternoon they had spent together, he craned his neck back until his skull bumped against the head rest. His mouth hung open, gulping air. The tears he had been waiting for finally came. They were a silent army, marching out of his eyes, streaking his stubbled chin. He didn’t move or react, or feel his shoulders clench with sobs. It was just his grief letting go in a calm rain.

  When it was over, Clark straightened up and wiped his face. He couldn’t do what he had been planning. He couldn’t kill in cold blood. He reached for the key, wanting to be away from this terrible place. He hoped that Donna was waiting for him at home. Maybe she was right. Maybe something could be salvaged between them. There had been an old yearning in her eyes at the bar, like an ember in a fire that could be coaxed back to life with a warm breath.

  Before he could start the engine of his truck, however, he saw a ripple of movement on the front porch of the house across
the tracks.

  The door opened like the lips of a black monster, and someone tall and skinny sneaked out into the night. It was Finn, nearly invisible in dark clothes. He took each step awkwardly, like a sick man. He stopped at the bottom step, and his head swiveled, surveying the neighborhood. Clark held his breath as Finn’s eyes lingered on his pickup, but the darkness protected him. When Finn thought he was alone, he crept beside the towering lilacs in the front yard and made his way stealthily to his RAV.

  Clark knew exactly what Finn was doing. It was the watching hour. It didn’t matter that a sweet girl had died. It didn’t matter that his face had been exposed to the city as a suspect. He was off to find another window, another girl.

  That was something Clark couldn’t allow.

  He shoved the photo of Mary into his front pocket. He apologized to Donna in his mind. He waited until Finn’s RAV pulled out of the gravel driveway, then started his own truck and left the lights off. He hung back several blocks, but the taillights of Finn’s vehicle were easy to follow. Finn led him on a crisscross path through the neighborhood, past unlit houses and oak trees slumping like giants over the road. On Stinson Avenue, Finn turned diagonally toward the northeast, heading into wasteland behind the municipal airport. The road cut through cornfields and past the stinking smokestacks of the oil refinery. Clark felt the bump of railroad tracks under his tires.

  After several miles, the road led into the East End neighborhood, not far from the main highway and the harbor basin. Clusters of houses built on open lots dotted both sides of the road. The blocks here were laid out in neat squares. Clark noticed the red lights on the RAV grow larger as Finn slowed down, and he braked, not wanting to get too close. Finn turned, and the lights disappeared. Clark cruised past the intersection and eyed the street on his right. He did a U-turn and swung into the street, driving slowly and peering at the road ahead. There were more trees here, like parkland. He saw a playground and an old fence surrounding twin tennis courts.