Afraid of the Dark js-9

by James Grippando

  “Who did this to you, huh?”

  “You did.”

  “No! Tell me who it was.”

  “Me.”

  “Who made you into such a little slut?”

  “I did.”

  “No!” he shouted, emerging from his thoughts. “That’s the wrong answer!”

  The outburst made him stop, and he worried that his voice might have been heard outside the cellar. The girl looked up from the bed, her eyes wide with fear.

  “I didn’t say anything,” she said.

  He knew she hadn’t, but the anger inside him was uncontrollable. Girls blaming themselves used to work for him, but not anymore. Not after what had happened in Mogadishu.

  A scream-not the girl’s-cut through the silence as the closet door flew open. It was as if the Dark had been hit by a charging rhinoceros. He was suddenly on the floor, flat on his back. The weight of his attacker was on his chest, and a pair of very strong hands was at his throat. He gasped for air, but his windpipe was closed.

  There was another scream-it was the girl this time-and the Dark had just enough oxygen flowing to his brain to process what was happening to him. His eyes were bulging, his head was on the verge of exploding, and the man with his hands around his throat was obviously not taking prisoners. The Dark hadn’t come this far to die on the cellar floor. His backpack was within reach, right where it had fallen. Even though it had seemed heavy a minute earlier, he found the strength to grab it by one strap and launch it from the floor with the force of a catapult.

  Something cracked inside the backpack-or maybe it was the attacker’s skull. The grip on his throat eased for an instant, as if the blow had dazed his attacker, and the Dark seized the moment. He pushed with all his strength and sent the man flying across the room. But he came right back at the Dark, and the momentum sent them both crashing into the wall. A hot wet spray slapped the Dark across the face.

  Am I bleeding?

  The man grabbed the Dark by the hair and slammed his head against the floor-once, twice, a third time. Each time, the Dark felt that hot spray on his face, but each blow was weaker than the last. With the fourth, his attacker fell backward, a battered heap.

  It’s not my blood!

  The Dark tried to push himself up from the floor, but the cellar was awhirl, and he couldn’t move. He couldn’t even turn his head. He thought he saw the girl standing over him, but he was barely able to focus. She stepped past him. The Dark heard her voice, but she wasn’t speaking to him. The words didn’t register, but her tone was one of concern. She wasn’t talking to a stranger.

  She knows the guy.

  It was his last conscious thought before the dimly lit room turned completely dark.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Jack went out looking-for what, he wasn’t sure. For Vince. For Shada. For answers. He was finding none of them.

  His coat was barely warm enough for a Miami winter, and his new leather gloves were touring around London in the backseat of the cab that he and Vince had grabbed at the airport. But he braved the chill, needing to get out of the hotel room and clear his head. Walking certain areas of the East End after dark was not a good idea, so Jack stuck to the route suggested by the concierge. London’s streets were laid out long before surveyors with precision instruments platted the emerging cities of the New World into grid systems. Jack soon learned that it was not unusual for London streets to change names three times in the space of three blocks.

  How the heck is Vince getting around here?

  He stopped at the corner to check his map, but the one he’d picked up from the hotel was essentially a walking tour of World War II memorials. The East End was especially hard hit by Hitler’s air raids, partly because of its proximity to the docks, partly because the attack on its heavily Jewish population fit nicely with the Nazi agenda. The dates on the memorial plaques along the route-the bombing of the Great Synagogue, Duke’s Place, May 1942; the Bethnal Green Tube Station disaster, March 1943-were right around the time period that Jack’s grandfather had been talking about. It got Jack to thinking about Grandpa and General Swyteck. Petrak. Whoever. Maybe he could stop by the Czech Centre in the morning and straighten it out: Excuse me, my eighty-seven-year-old grandfather, who talks to a dead pope and who suddenly thinks our family is Jewish, says we’re related to an ex-pat Czech general from World War II. Can you help me? Oh, and did I mention he has Alzheimer’s?

  “Come with me!”

  Jack resisted the strange woman pulling on his arm, and when she tugged harder, he swung in self-defense, forcing her to duck out of the way.

  “It’s me, Shada Mays!”

  Jack froze, but her grip tightened around his forearm as she led him into the pub at the corner. They settled into the darkest booth available, where Jack stared at her from across the table, too stunned to talk. She seemed out of breath, and for a moment Jack wondered if Shada had been running one continuous marathon since they’d bumped into each other outside the Carpenter’s Arms.

  “Where’s Vince?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She glanced nervously over her shoulder, and in the dim glow of a neon sign in the window, Jack noticed the abrasions and swelling on the side of her face.

  “What happened to you?” he asked.

  “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “Vince?”

  “No. This guy who… it’s a long story.”

  “Do you need a doctor?”

  “No, I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

  “Tell me who did this to you.”

  “His name’s Habib. He fooled me for a long time, but I’m starting to think he killed my daughter.”

  Jack was speechless for a second. “Okay, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  Even the short version took several minutes. She covered everything from her infidelity before McKenna’s death to the recent blows that marked her face. Jack leaned close as he listened, arms resting atop the table, trying to absorb the enormity of what she was saying.

  “When I ran from you today,” she continued, “I went over to his flat. After we were together, Habib went out, but he wouldn’t tell me where he was going. I had a bad vibe, like something was about to snap. Sure enough, he came back a couple hours later looking like he’d been fighting. He started shouting, accusing me of double-crossing him and setting him up. Crazy stuff about how I’d blown six months of work.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Jack retrieved his cell phone from his coat.

  “Who are you calling?” she asked.

  “I agreed to keep the police out of this until Vince and I were able to talk to you. Now I’m hearing that the man who beat you up may also have killed your daughter, but clearly you’re not telling me everything. So I’m calling the police.”

  She grabbed his phone. “I’m not ready to go to the police.”

  “You mean Chuck’s not ready to go to the police.”

  Her mouth fell open, and the reaction confirmed Jack’s suspicion: Coordination of some sort was stretching across the ocean. “What kind of weird thing do you and Chuck have going on?”

  Again, she had no answer. Jack snatched his phone back from her. Lawyer’s instinct told him to make the phone call and turn this over to the police-to let Scotland Yard find McKenna’s killer, perhaps Neil’s killer, too. But tonight might be his only chance to find out what Shada knew. Neil would have run with an opportunity like this-and that was a good enough barometer for Jack.

  “He’s tracking me, isn’t he? Chuck has GPS spyware tied to my cell phone, and that’s how you found me on the street.”

  “Well… that may be.”

  “I’m giving you five minutes to make sense of this,” said Jack.

  “I hardly know where to start.”

  “Start by telling me why you think this man may be your daughter’s killer.”

  “Habib told me
he was there-in the house-when she was killed.”

  “He told you that today?”

  “No. We talked the day after McKenna died. That was when he told me.”

  Jack paused, not comprehending, not sure what to ask next. One question loomed largest. “How in the world could you run off to London with the man who murdered your daughter?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “In fact, a big part of the reason I left Chuck-left the country-was to get away from the reminders of what had happened to McKenna. I didn’t think I was running off with her killer. I was sure Jamal did it.”

  “Because McKenna named him?”

  “Not just that. Habib told me what happened.”

  “His version of what happened, you mean. What was his story?”

  She winced with pain, not from his question but from the bruises. Jack slid out of the booth, quickly got some ice from the bartender, and wrapped it in a napkin for her. She pressed it to her face as she spoke.

  “That day McKenna died, Chuck was out of the country. Habib came over to see me. I wasn’t there, but as he was walking back to his car, he heard a scream from inside the house. He knew where we hid the house key-under the pot on the porch-and when he opened the door he saw Jamal running down the stairs. Habib chased him through the kitchen and into the garage, and Jamal hit him over the head with a rake or something. Habib came to after a few minutes and heard another noise. He tried to get up but was so shaky he knocked over the garbage can. Next thing he knew, the door flew open and Vince Paulo shot at him. The bullet hit the propane tank on our barbecue. You know the rest.”

  It was barely plausible, and Jack called it what it was. “Everything he told you is a crock. Jamal wasn’t even in the country when McKenna was killed.”

  “I didn’t know that at the time. I kept getting threatening e-mails from Jamal all the way up until Habib and I came up with our plan-until I became Maysoon and went to live with him here in London.”

  “Jamal was in Gitmo when you were getting those messages.”

  “How was I supposed to know that? I wanted to believe what Habib was telling me. It wasn’t Chuck’s fault-the way he took McKenna’s death so hard and blamed himself for being out of the country. But honestly, if I had stayed around Chuck another day, I probably would have ended up committing suicide for real. I thought I could start over with Habib. I thought I knew him.” She moved the ice to the darkening bruise on her cheekbone. “Until today.”

  “You need to tell me how it got to this point.”

  “I told you: This is the first I’ve seen this side of him.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think I would have given up my life in Miami and moved to London for this?”

  “Do you think I came all the way from Miami to get half the story? Talk to me, Shada. Now.”

  She looked away, ashamed, then spoke in a soft voice of resignation. “My relationship with Habib had its kinky side, I guess you’d say. Never anything illegal, but he was after me to find women and set up a threesome for him. But is that so bad? Isn’t that every man’s fantasy?”

  Jack let that one go. The walls had ears, and Andie’s middle name was Walls.

  “Anyway,” she said, “Something set him off today.”

  “What set him off? That’s the thing I’m trying to understand.”

  “I really don’t know. He’s been edgy lately, and when he came back from wherever he went tonight, it was like a bomb exploding. I had to fight my way out of the apartment. Thankfully, I can outrun just about anyone.”

  Jack could attest to that.

  “Anyway,” said Shada, “I started this conversation by asking you where Vince is.”

  “Chuck doesn’t know?” asked Jack. “Why doesn’t he just track him down with his cell phone spyware the same way you found me?”

  “We tried,” said Shada. “But the spyware doesn’t work if you remove the battery from the cell. Vince knows that, and that’s what has Chuck a little worried.”

  “Maybe I should check in with his wife.”

  “Chuck did already. If you call, she’ll just worry even more.”

  The only other option was to call the police, but he knew the cops wouldn’t help find someone who’d been missing for just two hours.

  “Let’s go to the hotel and wait for him,” said Shada. “I need your computer.”

  “To find Vince?”

  “No.” Shada put down the ice. “I’ve been getting more and more suspicious since I heard Jamal was dead. Once I get a bad feeling about someone, I don’t just sit around and play victim.”

  “Meaning what?” said Jack.

  Shada dug into her pocket and pulled out a handful of USB flash drives. “While Habib was out today, I copied some files from his laptop.”

  “Does Chuck know about this?”

  “Why do you think we tracked you down so fast when we couldn’t find Vince?”

  Jack was suddenly feeling better about the trust issue. “Can I see those files?”

  “Not without Chuck.”

  “Naturally,” said Jack, wondering how the world had turned before Web conferences. “Let’s patch him in.”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  It was a ten-minute walk to the hotel. Not surprisingly, Shada was facile with the computer, and Jack zoned out as she set up communication with Chuck. Funny how the mind works, but Jack spent half that time trying to remember the name of the pub they had just left. Too many authentic pubs had converted into gastro bars-not much profit in Scotch eggs, but tuna tartare was a whole new world-and Jack thought he might want to return someday with Andie, when this insanity was over.

  Hamilton Hall. That’s it.

  “We’re good to go,” said Shada. “Chuck, can you hear me?”

  Jack expected to see Chuck’s face on his computer screen, but it was his usual desktop even when Chuck’s voice came over the speaker.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  Shada explained. “Chuck has control over your computer now. We can watch what he clicks on, what files he accesses. It’s as if he’s in the room with us and we’re looking over his shoulder.”

  Jack wondered how many times Chuck had done one of these remote-access jobs without people knowing it.

  “Go ahead and insert the flash drive,” said Chuck. He was talking about the files Shada had copied from Habib’s computer.

  “Which one?” she asked.

  “How the fuck would I know, Shada?”

  “You don’t have to be nasty about it,” she said.

  Jack detected the tone of a man none too keen on his wife’s sleeping habits. So much for any likelihood of long-term coordination between these two.

  “I really don’t know which one to choose,” she said.

  “Just pick one that has video content. I’m most interested in seeing what this fucker has been downloading.”

  His tone wasn’t getting any sweeter. Jack just hoped Chuck could control his anger long enough to get the information they needed from Shada.

  Shada sorted through the flash drives. She’d numbered them, presumably based on the order in which she’d copied the files. Jack filled the lull with what was on his mind. “Chuck, do you know where Vince is?”

  Chuck didn’t answer right away, and it was more than just a Web transmission delay. Finally, the response came over the speaker: “I haven’t heard from him.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” said Jack.

  More silence. Jack pressed. “Chuck, do you know something?”

  “Vince is a big boy. I’m sure he’s fine. Shada, the flash drive, please.”

  Shada selected one and inserted it in the USB port.

  “I don’t like being kept in the dark,” Jack said.

  “You’re seeing the files the same time I’m seeing them,” Chuck said. “How is that being kept in the dark?”

  “I’m talking about Vince. You don’t sound very happy with Shada, and I have this feeling that you’ve pressured her into
creating this complete diversion to keep me from finding out what Vince is really up to.”

  “The files are encrypted,” said Chuck.

  Jack was being ignored.

  “Can’t you break the code?” asked Shada.

  Ignored by both of them.

  Jack’s cell rang. He checked the number but didn’t recognize it. He answered on the third ring, and the urgent voice on the line was strangely familiar.

  “Mr. Swyteck? Is this Jack Swyteck?”

  “Yes, who is-”

  Jack stopped himself, suddenly recognizing the voice. It was the teenage girl who’d called him from Bethnal Green, who’d talked to Jamal right before he was killed, who’d claimed to know McKenna’s killer-and who was too frightened to call the police. Jack drew a breath and tried not to spook her this time.

  “I was hoping you’d call again,” said Jack in a calm voice. “Are you doing okay?”

  “No-I don’t know,” she said, straining with confusion.

  Jack wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to say, but he said it anyway: “You may not know this, but I’m in London right now. Probably not too far from where you are.”

  “How do you know where I am?” She sounded more than a little paranoid.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not following you. But I would like to meet with you, if-”

  “No! I’m not meeting with anybody!”

  Jack glanced at Shada, who was suddenly more interested in Jack’s phone call than in Chuck’s work on the computer screen.

  “That’s okay,” Jack said into the phone. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Is he dead?” she asked.

  “Is who dead?” asked Jack.

  “The man who killed McKenna Mays.”

  “We don’t know who killed McKenna. Do you?”

  “Yes! I told you before, and I told Jamal, too. He’s creepy and scary and showed me pictures on his computer, and he said if I ever tried to escape I’d end up just like McKenna Mays.”