(2002) Chasing Darkness

by Danielle Girard

  Nick took a long drink of his coffee. “What are you doing up so early, Dougie D?”

  “When you say that shit, sounds all fucked up, you know?”

  “Okay, Dougie. Why are you calling?”

  “I been out last night, talking, you know. I heard some shit. Thought you’d want to hear.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Nah, man. I can’t tell you over the phone. We got to meet, you know.”

  “You saying you hungry?”

  “Now you talking. I’m hungry, all right.”

  Nick leaned back on the futon. “If you’re jerking me around, Dougie, I’m going to show you a world of hurt. You understand me?”

  “Hey, I ain’t busting your chops. I got real stuff for you. It’s good. About the horses you talked about last time.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the diner. I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  “That’s too soon, man. I got some business now. How about later—four o’clock okay?”

  “Four’s fine. See you then, Dougie D.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see you. And don’t be making fun of the name, man.”

  “No fun. Later.” Nick flipped the phone shut and put it on the table. Dougie’s sickly, drug-fiend figure flashed through his mind. His eggs were cold now, and he’d lost his appetite. He was tired and should’ve slept, but now sleep seemed like a waste of time. They had solved Martin Herman’s murder, but he was still no closer to the killer he wanted.

  Nick pulled a little black notebook out of his coat pocket and slumped back down onto the futon couch. He opened the notebook and found his notation of Sandi Walters’ death. July 12.

  Eva Larson had been killed the night of July 21. The twelfth and the twenty-first. Was there some connection between the dates? He found a clean page and made two columns with the women’s names—Walters first, then Larson. Under Walters, he wrote “12th, abuser, eucalyptus, naked, Mt. Diablo, heroin, semen.”

  Next he turned to Larson, filling in the same data: “21st, abuser, eucalyptus, clothes, home, no heroin, no semen.” Beside the dates, he wrote “opposites?” and then thought about the two women. There were some similarities—both of them single mothers, both accused of abusing their daughters, who were only children and were in early grade school. The mothers had both been known to use, if not abuse, drugs.

  But besides the abuse, there wasn’t that much more in common. They lived in different neighborhoods, had different lifestyles. Eva Larson’s life had been spent from fix to fix. Sandi Walters had worked somewhat steady jobs and had had boyfriends. According to her mother, she’d even remained friends with her daughter’s father. He put a star by “abuse” in both columns and moved on. The fact that they were Sam’s cases still seemed to be the best link between them.

  He moved down the list. Was there a reason the killer had used heroin with Sandi but not with Eva? Or had Sandi done that herself? Had the killer been angry enough to subdue Eva Larson without drugs because of the dead girl? Or perhaps because Eva Larson was so physically wasted? What did that say about him? The killer wasn’t very big? And while he’d have needed help subduing Sandi Walters, he could handle Eva Larson on his own? Nick wrote down his questions and moved to the next item on the list.

  Had the killer gone to Eva’s home because he’d been unsuccessful in luring her out? Or had he simply become more brazen? He wrote again, smaller this time, barely fitting all the information on the page. There didn’t seem to be any answers—only more questions.

  Laying the book beside him, he retrieved the phone and dialed the lab. He was still waiting to hear the results of some of the tests.

  “Zimmerman,” his favorite lab tech answered. Linda Zimmerman radiated good cheer. In their line of work, it was as rare as innocence. She’d been with the department only two and a half years, and for a while many had suspected she wouldn’t last. No one so happy would really want to do police work.

  But she was still there. She worked odd hours and occasionally brought in her seven-month-old son, Ben. Ben had inherited his mother’s disposition and a set of green eyes that would make most women jealous. He took to everyone, and Nick couldn’t help picking the little guy up when he was around.

  “It’s Nick. Ben in there with you today?”

  “Hey, Nick. Nope. He’s running errands with Daddy today.”

  “What’s going on over there?”

  “We’re working the holdup at West Sun Bank downtown. You hear about it?”

  “I think I caught some of it on the radio. Catch the son of a bitch?”

  “They ought to. He left his prints everywhere and smiled right into one of the outside surveillance cameras after dumping his ski mask.”

  “That’s good news. Anything more on our eucalyptus guy?”

  “I tell you about the blond hair that matches one taken from the Walters scene?”

  “No. You done up a profile with the DNA yet?” Nick was waiting for the day when they could feed a piece of hair into a machine that would spit out a picture of their perp. Blond hair brought thoughts of Sam, and he hoped this wasn’t more evidence linking the case to her. The police had collected hair samples when they came to her house. He didn’t want to think about it.

  Linda laughed. “Soon, I hope. For now, you’re going to have to bring me a live suspect.”

  “Damn.”

  “Sorry I don’t have more.”

  “Hey, no problem. Good luck with the robbery,” Nick said, keeping the disappointment out of his voice. He knew how these cases went. If it wasn’t solved in the first forty-eight hours, the chances for solving it decreased exponentially.

  He set the phone on the couch and pulled himself to his feet. His mind was back where it should be—on the case. But the case wasn’t going anywhere. He dialed the station and got put through to one of the clerks.

  “Anything on tracking who sent the package to Special Agent Sam Chase yet?” he asked.

  “Hang on,” she said, smacking gum in his ear. “We heard anything on a package to a Sam Chase?” she screamed across the room.

  Nick waited while people talked in the background.

  “Nothing yet,” she said, popping the gum as she hung up.

  Nick slapped the phone against one palm, trying to make sense of everything that had happened to Sam. Was it possible that someone in her office hated her enough to target her? He had to agree with Sam—somehow the trouble there felt different than the murders, more personal. Less violent.

  The Sloan case felt all wrong, though. Sloan’s lawyers had stalled on the wrongful death suit and Nick knew it was just a game they were playing. Sloan had been as guilty as Nick was male. No, this was something different. He had a hunch it couldn’t be traced back to Sloan at all. He shook his head. But besides one lousy hunch, he couldn’t make any sense of what was going on.

  Nick picked up his plate and set it in the sink with three dirty glasses. He turned the water on and let it fill the dish. He didn’t bother to do the dishes—he still had another glass and a few plates before he ran out.

  His eyes drooped and he padded toward the bedroom. Stopping by the stereo, he turned the music up and lay down on his bed, exhausted. He closed his eyes and pressed his face into a pillow, promising to sleep for only an hour and then get up and stir up some ideas on the case.

  This bastard wasn’t going to get away.

  Nick pulled into Alf’s diner at five to four and dragged himself out of the car. He was too old to be staying up all night and sleeping all day. His bedroom had western exposure, and the afternoon sun had streamed through his shades. It was too hot to sleep comfortably. Instead, he’d tossed off his blankets and gotten his ass to the shower. The only things keeping him moving were that Dougie had some news for him and that he would see Sam in three hours, if only briefly. He was picking Rob up for practice tonight, and he hoped she would be at home.

  Nick met Dougie coming in the door and they made their way to a back booth without speaking.
Nick was relieved to see that Dougie looked healthier this time and hoped whatever he’d been on last time was in his past.

  As was their tradition, they ordered before talking business. Dougie ordered the works, as always, and Nick ordered a Coke instead of coffee. He figured it would be a stretch for them to make that worse than the coffee.

  Dougie slumped against the red vinyl of the booth and let his head drop back as though it had taken all his energy just to order. Nick waited.

  The waitress returned with their drinks and Nick took a sip. Too much syrup and not enough fizz. He put the drink down and reminded himself to stick with coffee next time.

  Propping his elbows on the table, Dougie took a long drink of his own Coke. Nick kept his head angled at Dougie, but checked out the diner with his peripheral vision.

  Dougie pulled the picture of Lugino from his shirt pocket and slid it back across the table, face down. “I talked to my boys on the street about that horse.”

  Nick took another sip of the awful Coke to give him something to do.

  “None of ’em sold to your guy in the photo.”

  Nick didn’t tell Dougie that he was nearly two weeks late with that info. “Who’d they sell to?”

  Dougie looked around and then leaned forward. “Heat’s on with the smack out here, you know.”

  Nick narrowed his gaze. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, rumor is you get caught selling heroin, you go down harder than some other shit, you know?”

  Nick nodded. He could believe it. “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying no one’s selling it now.”

  “Someone’s selling it,” Nick countered.

  “Yeah, man, sure. But no one’s admitting that they are. It’s bad news. So I talked around, but people are—” He zipped his lip. “You know what I’m saying?”

  “So you didn’t find out who bought the shit?”

  “People ain’t talking about it. That’s why I didn’t get back with you sooner. Last night, I was down by the tracks with some guys. Real fucked up, you know, bitching about some lady he’d been selling to—real strung out.”

  “What did the lady look like?”

  Dougie shrugged. “Just some lady.”

  Nick wondered if Sandi Walters had gotten her own heroin. “Can you get a description of her?”

  “Uh, white.”

  Nick leaned forward. “I need more than that.”

  “Blond.”

  “That could be a thousand people. I need more.”

  “All I know is she was a blond bitch and some asshole on a motorcycle was following her.”

  “What kind of motorcycle? What was the guy like?”

  Dougie shook his head fast and hard. “No way, man. That’s all I know and I can’t ask for more. They’re not talking. I’m telling you, they’re spooked. I raise it again and they’ll figure me for a snitch.”

  Nick didn’t remind him that hewas a snitch. He pulled a picture of Sandi Walters out and slid it across the table. “Bring this around. Let me know what you find out.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “Do it, Dougie, or the free meals are over.”

  “Yeah, man. I’ll try. I promise.”

  Nick took out his wallet and pulled out a ten and a five to cover the food. He was frustrated that Dougie hadn’t offered him anything more specific. “Tell them not to sell that stuff anymore, Dougie. I mean it. It’s bad shit and they’ll fall hard.”

  Dougie raised his hands in defense. “I don’t sell it, man. I swear.”

  “Pass the word on, then.”

  “Yeah, man, sure. I just told you they don’t. The heat’s on, man. The heat is on.”

  Nick heard a tune in the back of his head and pushed it away. He passed the waitress carrying Dougie’s platter of food, and, handing her the cash, murmured thanks. Heading home, he felt as deflated as the fizzless Coke.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Gerry woke up in heaven. It was warm and bright and a dark-haired angel looked over him. She wore white, although it was not the angelic white he had seen in the movies. No, her top was slightly more yellow than he would have expected. But she was a child. Even God had a sense of humor about children. They could never keep anything white.

  Her round face was familiar. Wide brown eyes gazed down at him, and it looked as though she was floating several feet off the ground. He saw that she was gripping the handle of a stepstool and smiled. She was so lifelike, so real, not even floating but standing on a stepstool beside his bed.

  He felt instantly as though she was meant for him. Her familiar face, her childlike qualities—God had chosen this angel especially for him. She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and continued to stare. It made him smile, and although his eyelids were heavy he fought to keep them open. He wanted to memorize her face.

  His eyes won the battle and he closed them, feeling more at peace than he could ever remember. In God’s eyes, he wasn’t a sick pervert. God had sent this child, this angel, to prove it. His faith restored, Gerry was prepared to die.

  He pressed his hands against the soft, warm sheets and opened his palms to the sky. At any moment he expected to see bright light, feel incredible warmth or even pain. He waited for the sign that the next stage was starting, but nothing came.

  He opened his eyes and looked back at the angel. She didn’t speak and he wasn’t sure what to do. He waited. He watched her. He blinked. She blinked. They repeated the dance several times, and he got the impression she was mimicking him.

  A minute later she squinted at him, turning her head as she did.

  He blinked again.

  She blinked. “You awake?” she asked.

  He nodded, feeling nervous at the sound of her childlike voice.

  The angel opened her mouth to speak but stopped. Her head cocked toward the door and she listened.

  He did too. He heard a click and then the slam of a screen door.

  The angel’s eyes widened, and she jumped off the stool and spun to the door. He wanted to stop her, to tell her to wait, but he couldn’t. He knew instinctively that he would have to wait through whatever was coming—whatever journey would lead to the other side.

  Thump, thump, thump.The floor seemed to shake beneath him. He felt his breath catch like dry cotton in his throat. He tried to avoid cowering but found himself shaking.

  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the sound came closer. He could hear the strained breathing of the other creature. He imagined the evil monster, a giant, lumbering beast trying to pull him to hell. How could that little angel fight such a monster? How could he?

  He squeezed his eyes shut harder and prayed. Come back, little angel. Don’t leave.

  He heard a low whistling, and his body settled. With a deep breath, he opened his eyes.

  What he saw stole the breath right back. Bobby’s wife, Martha, was standing over his bed.

  “Finally awake, are you?”

  He looked around the room. He wasn’t dying. He was at his brother’s house, out in the room off the barn, healing from the attack. The realization was empty of any relief. He wished he could go back to the dream. He knew why the little girl had looked familiar. She was his brother’s daughter, his niece, Jane. He wished he could be with his sister instead. But he knew he couldn’t. She couldn’t have helped him. Her husband wouldn’t have allowed it, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight him.

  Martha got in his face and blew hot, raw-fish breath on him. “I’m not happy ’bout you being here, you hear me?” She was close enough that he could see the roll of skin under her chin and the thick, bristly whiskers that stuck out from its surface.

  He nodded.

  “I’m taking care of you because you’re family. While you’re here, you’ll obey my rules, you hear?”

  He nodded again, pressing his head back against the pillow and fighting to escape the disgusting smell of her breath. But the harder he pushed, the closer she got.


  “You so much as look at my daughter and I’ll cut you into pieces.”

  He blinked hard, feeling the tears fill his eyes. He was pathetic. God didn’t forgive him. He hadn’t sent an angel to take him away to heaven. Gerry wished he’d died in the hospital.

  “I brought you soup.” She put the soup on the table with a resolute clank and turned and lumbered out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Gerry rolled onto his side, pulled his legs to his chest, and began to cry.

  That evening he made his way out to the oak tree at the far side of his brother’s property. No one would find him there and he felt safe beneath the thick, crooked branches. From one of the higher ones, a white rope dangled and Gerry wondered if anyone had ever killed himself out here. Hanging from a lone oak tree. He thought he’d heard a song about that when he was a kid, and it was nice to know someone related to how he felt. At least the injuries were healing. He still had some stiffness in his back and neck, but it was much better.

  He had dug the paper out of the recycling bin in the back of the house and brought it here to read start to finish. He knew that his brother had books in his house, but Gerry was afraid to ask to borrow them. Martha had never liked him, so he didn’t want to push things by asking for anything else. All day long his little niece, Jane, had followed him around like a puppy. Gerry knew what would happen when Martha caught him with her. He wasn’t safe in his room in the barn. Jane came in and sat beside his bed or hid in a closet. She scared him to death the way she kept showing up. He always expected Martha to come in with a shotgun at any second.

  He leaned his head back against the tree and felt the wind on his cheeks. It was nice out here, the way some days had been in the prison yard. If only he could keep Jane away, he might actually be okay to stay.

  Gerry opened the front section of the paper and read an article about the conflict with China. The paper was a few days old, but it didn’t much matter to him if he was a few days behind. There were really important things going on in the world, he reminded himself—more important than himself or Martha or even little Jane. He rarely understood all the news, but he caught bits and pieces when he could.