Dark Debts

by Karen Hall

  She was the most grotesque thing he’d ever seen. Her skin was a transparent, slimy white and covered with open, runny abscesses. Her eyes were blue, but the whites of them were laced with red, and the look in them was pure hatred. She smiled at him; her mouth was full of sores and half her teeth were missing. The ones she had were yellow and pointed, like a vampire’s. She looked at him like she owned him.

  He tried to push her away, but it was like pushing a brick wall. He tried to roll himself out from under her. She laughed, a howling, mocking laugh. The more he struggled, the louder the laugh became, until the woods were echoing with it. He screamed at her to leave him alone, and she stopped laughing. The silence was almost worse. She looked in his eyes, and he couldn’t move. Somehow her gaze had the power to paralyze him. He couldn’t do anything but watch as she wrapped her bony hands around his throat and started to squeeze. He tried to move, but he couldn’t. He could feel her fingers digging into his throat with a strength that was not human. In seconds, he couldn’t breathe at all. She started that laugh again, and as she leaned her head back to howl, he was suddenly able to move. He grabbed her hands, but her grip was like iron. He thrashed, trying desperately to throw her off him. He had to breathe. His chest felt like someone had run a hot knife through it. In a wild attempt that he knew would be his last, he summoned every ounce of strength and shoved himself to the side. Her grip slipped just enough, and he managed to shove her off and roll away. He sat up, gasping for air. He looked around quickly, to see where she was, and realized he was awake.

  He sucked air into his lungs in visceral gasps. His eyes scanned the apartment. The late-morning sun was bright and he could see right away there was nothing wrong. He lay back down on the pillow and took deep breaths. His head felt like someone had it in a vise.

  The phone rang, making him jump. He glanced at the clock. Christ, had he really slept until eleven? The machine picked up. He heard his own voice; the one that followed the beep was not Rick’s.

  “Yes, I’m trying to locate a Mr. Jack Landry. This is Bill Warren at the Los Angeles County coroner’s office and I need you to return my call at your earliest convenience. The number here is (213) 343—”

  Jack turned the machine off, then stared at it in disbelief. There was only one reason he’d be getting a call from the Los Angeles County coroner’s office.

  Cam is dead.

  He didn’t move for a long time. Just lay there, staring at the phone.

  Cam is dead.

  What the hell was he supposed to do about it? When he finally picked up the receiver, it was to call Rick and say he wasn’t going to work at all this week, pretending he had the flu. Then he dressed and headed down the road, on the two-mile walk to the liquor store.

  He sat in the vacant lot behind the train depot, where he and Ethan and Tallen used to play. He took the pint of Jack Daniel’s out of the paper bag and looked at it. He’d felt as nervous buying it as a kid with a fake ID. He hadn’t gone near alcohol in ten years, no matter how much he’d needed to escape, but he’d always told himself it would be there if things got bad enough, and that it would be okay as long as he was careful. He twisted the cap and broke the seal, and was halfway amazed that there was no ensuing thunderclap.

  He opened the bottle and tilted it, letting half the contents spill onto the ground. He watched the copper pool soak into the dirt until he was satisfied the right amount remained in the bottle—enough to spread a soothing fog over him, but not enough to do any real damage. He put the bottle to his lips, paused for a moment, then tipped his head back and felt the welcome burn slide down his throat. A few minutes and a couple of ounces later, he let himself think about Cam.

  What on earth could have happened? It was hard to believe Cam and death could travel the same axis, much less collide. It made him think about nights when he was a kid, lying in bed, fantasizing about smothering Cam with a pillow and letting everyone think Cam had died in his sleep. His plan included comforting his mother with a theory he thought she’d buy—that the angels had decided they just couldn’t live without Cam another day. The whiskey dulled the pain in his head, but it was getting back at him in other ways. It stirred the old voices and, as always, brought him closer to the anger. Pictures flashed through his head. His father holding Cam by the hand, waving Cam’s report card like it was the goddamned flag. Looking at the rest of them like he wished the ground would open and swallow them.

  “At least I’ve got one son who’s gonna amount to something. The rest of you combined ain’t worth the breath it’d take to cuss you.”

  And now the Boy Wonder was gone. Jack suddenly saw clearly what he’d known since the moment he’d heard the message. The LA County coroner would have to move on to plan B. Even if Jack had loved Cam the way he’d loved the others, he wouldn’t have been able to do it again. He couldn’t do one more funeral.

  At least he could comfort himself with the knowledge that it was all but over. There was no one left to die. No one but him. And when he died, there would be no phone call, no stricken faces, not even one ambivalent drunk wrestling with his conscience. Just a quiet end to the chain of misery.

  He drained the last of the whiskey. He put the cap back on the bottle, stared at it for a moment, then hurled it at the side of the depot, where it shattered and fell to the ground in a violent spray of a thousand pieces.

  FIVE

  Driving her rented car down I-75, Randa began to feel it—the almost tangible poignancy she always felt in Atlanta, and had felt ever since she first went there on a second-grade field trip. Memories whirled over her, and she could feel her throat tighten into what she had come to think of as the Atlanta knot.

  There was a bank of black clouds on the horizon, and every now and then a streak of lightning would split them. Randa was driving right into the storm, and had to force herself not to look at it as an omen. Thunderstorms were high on the list of reasons she had left Georgia. She reminded herself of all the reassurances she’d heard about a car being the safest place to be, and how statistically slight her chances were of being struck by lightning. Those statistics never calmed her, though, since they had likewise applied to anyone who ever had been struck by lightning.

  The storm seemed to be stalled somewhere. By the time she was within three exits of Barton, it was still off in the distance. Maybe it would stay wherever it was until after she was safely back in her hotel room.

  Barton was a little town about an hour south of Atlanta. It was also the town where Will Landry had finally done his version of settling down, and the town the Landry boys had spent their youths terrorizing. Randa had never been there. It was one of those towns there was no reason to visit. Its biggest claim to fame was the country’s oldest still-standing buggy factory. Once a year everyone got decked out in antique clothes and celebrated Buggy Day by riding buggies up and down Main Street. But that event was hardly worth the time it would have taken her to drive down there when she was growing up in Gainesville, two hours north.

  Chances were slight that anyone in Barton would know where Jack lived now, but she had to start somewhere, and it seemed like the logical place. (Not that any of this had anything to do with logic.) She took the exit, followed the signs to the downtown area (such as it was), parked in one of the diagonal spaces on Main Street, and surveyed the landscape. Typical small-town Georgia. A little row of shops that hadn’t been updated in decades. The lawn in front of the courthouse was dotted with silver historical markers and a large statue in honor of the Confederate war dead. She’d been gone long enough to find it all quaint.

  She spotted a small coffee shop, always the best place to go for information in a small town. A sign painted on the window read TILLIE’S GOOD FOOD COFFEE SHOP. Randa left her car unlocked and headed inside. Tillie was not doing a booming business. A few customers, mostly elderly ladies, were beating the dinner rush. As Randa passed them, they stared hard at her, their eyes squinting with the intense mistrust of strangers only rural Southerners
can muster. Randa ignored them and made her way to the counter, where a pudgy waitress greeted her with a forced smile.

  “Do you need a menu?”

  “No. Actually, I’m trying to find someone. I wondered if you could help me.”

  “I’ll try. Who is it?”

  “A man named Jack Landry. He grew up here and moved away. He’s in his late forties, probably blond . . .”

  “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  Randa stopped, a bit surprised. “You do?”

  “He eats here sometimes.” She lowered her voice. “Is he in some kinda trouble?” Her tone was not one of concern.

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” Randa tried to hide her amazement. “Does he live around here?”

  “I think he lives in that boardinghouse out on Thirty-Six. That’s what I heard.”

  Randa was too stunned to know what to say. If Jack still lived here, why hadn’t Cam been able to find him? Had Cam lied about it? Why would he do that?

  “The road that goes past the courthouse is Thirty-Six. Go east, it’s about half a mile.”

  Randa thanked the girl, who had already gone back to filling the napkin dispensers. As she turned and headed for the door, the early diners seemed to be glaring even harder. Evidently they’d overheard. Evidently the Landry reputation had not diminished with time.

  The boardinghouse was a run-down Victorian, sitting by itself out on one of the two-lane highways that ran into town. The place had obviously been a nice house at one time. Now it was badly in need of a paint job and a new roof. Randa parked her car on the side of the road. The wind had begun to pick up and the thunder was sounding closer.

  She took a moment to breathe deeply, bracing herself. She hadn’t expected to have to face him so soon. She wondered what he would look like. She’d only seen photos of him as a child. She’d been intrigued by him since the first time she and Cam had gone through the family albums. Jack stood out because he was cutting up in every photo—sticking his tongue out, rolling his eyes, making devil horns behind someone’s back. Looking at the photos, anyone would have picked Jack as the one who would wind up where Tallen had. Randa had made that observation aloud once, but Cam had disagreed. “That’s just it. Jack got it all out of his system.”

  Randa took another look at the dilapidated boardinghouse and told herself that Jack must have gotten a lot of things out of his system. She picked up the shopping bag containing the scrapbooks and headed for the front porch.

  There was an elderly woman sitting on the porch swing. She eyed Randa suspiciously as Randa made her way to the front door and knocked.

  “He ain’t in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mr. Overby. He works during the day, at some bank over in Griffin. His wife is usually here, but she had to go to the store. I don’t think there’s any rooms available anyway, except that attic room, and nobody in their right mind wants that thing.”

  “Well, I wasn’t looking for a room, actually, I was looking for a boarder.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone who lives here.”

  “I live here.”

  “No, I mean . . . I was looking for Jack Landry. Do you know him?”

  “Know him? Don’t nobody know him.” She cocked her head a little, seeing Randa in a new light. “You kin to them?”

  “No. I’m a friend of his brother’s.”

  “Which one?”

  “Cam.”

  “Is that the one in California?”

  Randa nodded. Her clothes must have given her away.

  “That’s the only other one still alive, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.” Randa was in no mood to get into it. “Could you tell me which room is Jack’s?”

  “Basement. It’s got a separate entrance back around the other side of the house.”

  “Thank you.” Randa turned to go.

  “He ain’t there, though.” Randa stopped, discouraged. “I seen him go out about an hour ago and he ain’t come back.”

  “Oh. Well . . . I guess I could leave a note.”

  “Why don’t you go on in and wait?”

  “Go in?”

  “He never locks it. Mr. Overby told me he wouldn’t even take a key.”

  “Well, I can’t just go into someone’s place.”

  “Suit yourself. It’s comin’ up a bad storm.”

  “Still . . .”

  Raindrops were beginning to strike the tin roof. There was a flash of lightning and a crack of thunder that was sharp, though it was still in the distance.

  “Lord!” the old woman exclaimed. “That was bad somewhere.”

  Randa looked at the car. She was debating going back to it when it suddenly started to pour. The old woman was watching her.

  “Car’s the safest place to be, unless you’re sitting under a power line. Or a tree.” Randa’s car was sitting under both. She was starting to rethink the ethics of going into Jack’s apartment. How could he be annoyed with her for wanting to come in out of the rain?

  “I’m gonna get myself inside,” the old woman said, standing up. “They’re worse if it takes them a long time to get here, and this one’s been coming all day.” She gathered her needlepoint and headed for the door. “I wouldn’t stay out here under this tin roof if I were you.”

  As soon as the screen door slammed behind her, Randa headed for Jack’s apartment.

  The door was indeed unlocked. Randa made sure no one was watching, then went inside. She closed the door behind her and stood facing it for a moment, savoring the last few seconds of not knowing what the place would look like. She shivered with a chill that was not from the rain, flipped the light switch, and turned around slowly.

  She had told herself to be ready for anything, but nothing had prepared her for how utterly bare the place was. The room she had entered served as the bedroom and living room. It was furnished in Early Yard Sale. There was a chair and a coffee table that threatened to match. Behind the sofa was a double bed with an old iron headboard, graced by a nondescript grayish-blue blanket and a couple of pillows in plain white pillowcases. The dresser beside it was bare. There was no television, no radio, not even a window, with the exception of the one in the top half of the door, which was covered by a faded blue curtain. On the nightstand sat a telephone, an answering machine, and a clock. She couldn’t imagine why he would need any of them.

  She wanted to sit down, but it seemed wildly inappropriate. Not that her being here at all wasn’t wildly inappropriate. But the bareness of the apartment made her presence feel like that much more of an intrusion. At least it was dry in here. And clean. That was the other thing that surprised her. Everything was so clean.

  A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room, followed immediately by a sharp crack of thunder. The lights flickered but stayed on. If he’d been working an outdoor job, they would have packed it in and he’d have had time to get home by now. He must have stopped somewhere to get something to eat. Deciding that she had a little time, Randa gave in to the irresistible urge to snoop. She slid one of the closet doors back and looked inside. A few pairs of jeans in various stages of disrepair. Work shirts, work boots, a gray sweatshirt, a pair of khaki pants permanently stained with white paint. Something in a garment bag. The only thing even remotely personal was a tan corduroy shirt that looked as if it had been hung hastily, the sleeves still rolled up. The shelves were empty.

  Sliding the closet door back into place, she tried to put it all together. She thought about the cute blond kid in the photographs, always eager to draw attention to himself, always looking so full of life . . . How had that kid ended up in this apartment? It was as if he had sentenced himself to his own prison. But what was his crime?

  She had only glanced into the darkened kitchen. Now she turned on the light and looked inside. A small white wooden table, bare. Two chairs. Inside the cabinets were plain white dishes; a couple of pots and a frying pan that had seen some years but were otherwise nondescript. A bottle of Ivory li
quid soap on the counter was the only sign any of it was ever used.

  She was about to check out the refrigerator when something caught her eye. There was a small hallway that led to the back door. It was obviously a service porch—just enough room for a small washer and dryer. Instead—she moved closer to make sure she wasn’t imagining things—there was a desk and chair. It was a nice desk, obviously an antique and made of some rich wood like mahogany or cherry. In front of it was a matching Windsor chair with a worn maroon cushion, and on the desk stood a beautiful Tiffany lamp. It all looked so incongruous, shoved back into this dim corner like a secret hideaway; which, she guessed, was exactly what it was. She felt vindicated. She had been sure there was no way a person could live without giving a single sign of who they were, or where they had come from. The desk definitely spoke to the latter. She was sure it had belonged to Lucy. She gave the drawer a slight tug, somehow convinced it would be locked. It wasn’t. She fairly collapsed into the chair and pulled the drawer to her. It was full of all sorts of odds and ends. She reached for the first thing she could find—an old, yellow photo, torn around the edges. She recognized it immediately: it was almost identical to one she’d seen in Cam’s photo albums. A picture of Jack, Tallen, and Ethan as kids, dressed in cowboy costumes and posing proudly beside a large, crudely carved pumpkin. In spite of all the holiday trappings, there was something tentative in their faces, as though they were afraid they’d get into trouble for smiling.