The River Is Dark

by Joe Hart

  He heard the faint sound of a door closing in the living room. The sheriff.

  Liam swiped at his eyes and sniffed, inhaling a last odor of his brother’s study, and got to his feet. He couldn’t let the sheriff see him in this state; Barnes would think he was unfit to continue investigating. Liam stepped out of the office and walked down the hall, his feet padding on the carpet without a sound. He heard a click in the kitchen just as he came into the living room. He stopped, looking around for Barnes.

  “Sheriff?” His voice sounded odd, and for a moment he wondered why, the niggling instinct in the deepest part of his brain beginning to awaken.

  He stepped into the kitchen, its floors and counters awash in the spill from the living room’s lamps. Barnes wasn’t there either. Liam walked to the windows lining the living room and peered into the night, cupping his hands around his face.

  The sheriff’s car was nowhere to be seen.

  The lights went out.

  Liam froze, the muttered warning in his mind becoming a screaming cry of fear. Trap. How foolish had he been to follow the directions of a letter without checking it first? Dani’s earlier question echoed in his head. You won’t do anything stupid? Too late.

  His hand found the grip of the Sig as he tried to control his breathing. He would call for help, but his phone was in the Chevy. He could go right out the door and jump into his truck and run away, or he could face the ones that had spilled his brother’s blood on the very floor on which he stood. It wasn’t even a choice.

  Liam crouched, making sure the safety was off with only the touch of his fingertip, and closed his eyes to force his pupils to expand faster. He listened, waiting for a sound of movement from the kitchen. Nothing. When he opened his eyes, the shapes of the furniture around him became malignant hiding spots, and he resisted the urge to cover the spaces they concealed with his weapon. He knew where he had to go.

  The garage.

  Since the house was one level and he knew no one was at the end where he had come from, there was only one place they could be. Liam sidled into the kitchen, glancing again at the counter and the empty area behind it. His heart surged into his throat and battered his eardrums as he moved toward the door to the garage. It was closed, but he could feel life behind it. Someone waited for him on the other side in the darkness, someone who was banking on him not running away. He exhaled and blinked, trying to clear his eyes of excessive moisture. He wanted to kick the door in, but he remembered it opened toward the kitchen, not away from it. With one hand, he reached out and grasped the knob, feeling it slip in his sweaty palm. He mentally counted down, tensing every aspect of his mind and body. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .

  With a jerk of his hand, Liam tore the door open and thrust the gun forward, first to one side of the doorway and then to the other, his senses firing faster than his thoughts. The garage was even darker than the house; two sloping shapes took up the bulk of the space, his brother’s SUV and a lower car on the far side. The last stall was empty.

  He waited, listening as he panned the gun back and forth across the garage. He smelled something, a briny stink of sweat and feces. Liam stepped toward the Escalade, careful to keep his feet away from the underside of the vehicle. Dropping to his haunches, Liam put one hand on the floor and squinted at the space beneath the SUV. He saw no deeper shades of darkness there and stood again, turning both ways before reaching out to pull the door handle of the Cadillac. The handle moved without releasing the door. Locked.

  He heard something, and for a moment he thought it was only leaves skittering across the apron outside the doors. But he listened harder, concentrating on the sound as his mind identified it.

  Whispering.

  It was low, the words indiscernible, but there. He tried to get a lock on where it came from, but immediately it ceased, leaving the garage in a quiet that almost hurt his ears. Crouching again, he edged around the front of the SUV, keeping low enough so he wouldn’t present much of a target. When he reached the passenger side of the bumper, he poked one eye around the corner. No one stood in the gap between the car and the Escalade. He listened, hoping to hear a soft inhalation or the scratch of a shoe on the concrete floor. The garage was silent save for the breeze outside that licked at the bases of the three overhead doors.

  With the Sig held out before him, he duck-walked between the vehicles to the car’s door, put a hand on the handle, and pulled.

  The door to the kitchen slammed shut.

  Liam jerked around, moving to aim over the Escalade’s hood, but the darkness in the garage was complete. The meager light provided by the open door was sealed away from him, and the garage was now a tomb. Scraping footsteps ran away from the door, and he fired in their direction. In the muzzle flash he saw a short figure duck toward the rear end of the Cadillac as a shadow detached itself from the front of the car to his right and lunged toward him.

  Liam spun and cried out, trying to step back as he aimed. Something hard struck his gun hand, making his fingers burn as he squeezed off another shot. The gun flew free of his grip and over the car’s roof. He heard the Sig clatter to the floor on the opposite side. In the bullet flare he saw an impossible face oozing with deformity, head much too large, eyes full of hatred. He fell backward and landed hard on his ass, sparks of impact popping behind his eyes in the darkness. A whooshing sound filled the air above his head, and something collided with the door of the SUV beside him. He heard the rending of metal and saw flashes of steel biting through paint and aluminum.

  Scrambling back, he nearly collapsed with the pain of his hand, aware that the other person was behind him. With a rolling motion, he flipped his feet back over his head, kicking out with his right leg. His shoe connected with flesh and he heard a grunt of pain as the assailant behind him fell back and bounced off the garage door. Liam kept his momentum and turned fully over so that he landed on his feet. The hulking mass in between the cars lurched, and the shriek of steel on steel filled the garage as the weapon sprung free of the Cadillac’s door.

  Liam rolled to his right, onto the car’s trunk. As he twisted away, he heard the same rush of air, and a jagged line of fire streaked across his exposed back. He screamed as the pain hammered his brain. There was nothing else besides the burning in his back. He gagged under the weight of it and tried to catch his breath as he crashed to the floor, his arms almost dropping him onto his face. The concrete tilted beneath him, and he bit down on the side of his cheek, knowing he would be dead if he passed out now.

  Heavy footsteps rounded the rear of the car, and he crawled forward, his knees skinning open through his jeans against the rough floor. He heard the now-familiar sound of the weapon cutting air and tucked his legs close to his body. A hollow crack of steel meeting concrete resounded in the close air of the garage, and Liam felt chips of the floor pelt his pant legs. He crawled forward again, wetness running down his back, into his jeans, and around his sides. His hand fell on the polymer handle of the gun, and he tipped onto his shoulder, firing as he did so.

  The garage flashed into brilliance, and he heard the whining song of a ricochet and saw a shower of sparks a few feet in front of him. He pulled the trigger again, the muzzle spitting fire, and caught a glimpse of the hunched form skittering toward the kitchen door. A rage, distilled enough to cut through the pain in his back, encompassed every inch of his body. He thrummed with its energy and flung himself to his feet.

  Rounding the end of the Cadillac, he saw the smaller figure dive through the door into the kitchen. He jerked the trigger twice, sprinting forward, the empty cases flying past his face and over his shoulder. An animalistic sound barreled up from within him as he leapt through the door. The two figures sprinted across the living room toward the picture window. He fired again, shattering the glass, and the attackers jumped through the falling shards.

  The window exploded into the night, catching moonlight on each edge as it fell in a mi
llion pieces around the two bodies. Liam tried to run forward but stumbled, his vision dipping unnaturally. He caught himself on an easy chair and raised the Sig again. The two people were only outlines now, running full speed for the safety of the woods. Liam braced the pistol with both hands, concentrating on the larger figure, and fired twice more before the gun locked open, empty. Smoke hung in the air, and cordite burned his nostrils as he stepped to the window and searched the yard, hoping to see a slumped form at the edge of the woods. The light of the moon revealed nothing as the floor surged again beneath his feet.

  Liam steadied himself on the empty window frame and took a few deep breaths, willing his vision to stabilize. When it did, he moved to the door and flung it open, the outside air molding to the beating pulse in his face. He jogged to his truck, yanked the door open, slid into the seat, and twisted the keys in the ignition.

  The moon guided him down the side of the bluffs, his headlights sometimes wandering to the high grass beside the road and then across the centerline. It was years and only minutes before the parking lot of his hotel came into view. With a last rallying effort, he focused on the parking space near the entrance and slid the Chevy to a stop, keying the engine off without putting the truck in park.

  The air inside the cab throbbed in time with the wound on his back. He sat in a sticky wetness that reminded him of falling into a mud puddle as a child. His hand groped for the door handle, but it eluded his aching fingers. He felt himself tip back until his shoulder met the center console.

  Liam grabbed at the steering wheel, but it was too far away now. The phone. He could use the phone to call for help. His fingers twitched along the console until they found the familiar rectangular shape. Just as he raised it in front of his face, it slipped from his grasp and slid away at almost the same time as his consciousness.

  CHAPTER 15

  Sunlight pried its sharp fingernails beneath his eyelids.

  Liam tried to move an arm to block the offending rays, but it felt as if his body was encased in quicksand. He blinked instead, and rolled his eyes away from the eastern sky, where the sun, an inferno of orange, hovered. He studied the roof of his truck. Why was he here? He squeezed his eyes shut and worked his mouth, feeling the sticky paste of dried spit on his gums. What the hell was going on? He tried to sit forward, and a stripe of pain more intense than the morning light bloomed across his back.

  Liam opened his mouth to release a moan, and the night before came rushing back. The letter, the trap, the attack in the garage, his hazy drive back to the hotel. Reaching out, he managed to grab the steering wheel and tried to hoist himself from his slumped position. A Velcro sound filled the cab, and for a moment he wondered how a dozen fishhooks had become embedded in his back. Reality took over a second later—he was glued to the seat with his own blood.

  Liam settled back into his original spot, his shoulder thudding with the renewed pressure against the console, his fingers alive with pins and needles.

  “Holy. Shit.” His voice came out in a croak. Nausea wormed its way through his guts, and he refused to make more of a mess than he already had. Clamping his teeth together, he strained against his dried injury and felt the sickening pull of the seat separating from his body.

  “FUCK!” he yelled, sitting up straight. A trickle of heat traced the channel of his spine, and he almost passed out again. “Fuck that shit, you piece of fucking—”

  Grabbing the door handle just in time, he half stepped, half fell from the cab of the truck. His head felt like it was full of Novocain, his limbs not much better. When he attempted to shut the door, he realized the fingers on his right hand wouldn’t open or close all the way, their joints swollen so much that his digits resembled cooked sausages.

  Retrieving a light, long-sleeved button-up from the backseat, he strained to put it over his shoulders, his back screaming in agony the entire time. After steadying himself against the truck for another few minutes, he picked up his phone and hobbled into the hotel and past the front desk, giving the clerk as much of a smile as he could muster.

  In his bathroom he stripped both shirts off, his T-shirt coming away in a crackling layer, pulling one last time at the wound. He closed his eyes and turned just enough so that he faced the mirror in the corner of the small room, his back exposed to another mirror behind him. He opened his eyes.

  A saw-toothed gash ran in a horizontal line beneath his shoulder blades. Dried blood coated most of his back, interspersed with a few dripping lines from where the truck’s seat had pulled the scab free. The wound was fairly deep and almost a quarter inch wide. When he moved, he felt the snagging pain of the cut, but the muscles beneath didn’t seem to be damaged.

  Reaching back with one arm, he tried to touch the area, but only got close to one edge. He sighed and turned to lean against the sink. He couldn’t disinfect it himself.

  “Shit,” he said to his haggard reflection, and walked to the table, where his phone lay.

  When he stepped out of the shower twenty minutes later, he heard knocking at the door. Liam wrapped a towel around his waist and considered putting on a shirt, but knew he would only have to take it off in a minute. When he opened the door, Dani’s eyes widened a little at the sight of him in a towel.

  “Always answer the door like this?” she asked, stepping past him.

  “Only for beautiful women and the pizza delivery guy,” he said, shutting the door. “You didn’t bring any pizza, did you?”

  Dani started to say something but caught sight of his back when he turned away from her, and she let out a small gasp.

  “Oh my God, Liam! You’re bleeding! Are you okay?”

  “Well, that’s what I was hoping you could tell me.” He smiled and went to sit in a chair close to the bed. “I had room service bring up some antiseptic and a little gauze. I figured you could play nurse.” He looked up and saw her raise her eyebrows. “You don’t have to put on an outfit or anything.”

  Dani laughed and shook her head as she positioned herself on the bed behind him. “What happened?”

  He relayed the story as she began to clean the wound. She paused to listen as she dabbed hydrogen peroxide. At times he forgot to continue speaking, the feeling of her delicate fingers moving gently over his flesh nearly sending goose bumps outward from the gash. When he finished talking, Dani sighed behind him.

  “That was really stupid.”

  “I know.”

  “Really stupid.” Dani punctuated her words with an extra, cold dousing of peroxide across the cut, which made him stiffen.

  “Yeah, I know. I don’t need you to rub it in. The part about me being stupid, not the antiseptic. You can rub that in.”

  “Can you be serious for a second?” Dani’s voice was shrill, and she stopped cleaning his back.

  “Sorry,” he said, and turned his head toward her. “I’m sorry.”

  Her face softened, and she returned to wiping the gash clean. “What the hell did they cut you with?”

  “The murder weapon—some sort of sword or piece of jagged steel. I couldn’t see anything in the garage.”

  “But you were able to see enough of the guy’s face for an ID?”

  Liam recalled the image of the monstrous head above him in the muzzle flash, bulbous growths bulging beneath the skin like tumors. “Yeah, pretty sure I could ID him.”

  “Could you describe him enough for me to do a sketch?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good.” She applied a bandage and smoothed the medical tape along his back. “God, you are so lucky.”

  “I know. As soon as we’re done, I want to go back up to Allen’s and see if I hit either of them. I have a feeling I missed, but I want to be sure.”

  “No, you need to leave that to the BCA. Call them and have them go up there to check it out.”

  “Dani, I—”

  “No, you listen.” Her
voice sapped the argument from him, and he fell silent. “You almost bled to death last night. It’s a miracle you didn’t. I know you want to catch these people, but there’s a line between seeking justice and being reckless.”

  Liam opened his mouth to respond, but a sharp knock on the door cut him off. He stood and crossed the room, glancing at Dani over his shoulder.

  “Who is it?” he asked, putting his hand on the doorknob.

  “Agents Phelps and Richardson. We need to ask you some questions, Liam.”

  Liam clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling before pulling the door open. Both agents stood in the hallway, Phelps with his hand on his belt and Richardson sipping from a coffee.

  “I was just going to call you guys,” Liam said, sweeping an arm toward the hotel room.

  “That so?” Phelps said, moving past him.

  “Yep.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Oh, just this,” Liam said, shifting so that both agents could see his back and the white bandage spanning it.

  “How did that happen?” Phelps said, leaning against the wall as he eyed Dani on the bed.

  “I was attacked at my brother’s place last night by two people.”

  “Attacked?”

  “Yes, attacked. I found them in the garage, and one of them cut me with a weapon of some kind. I managed to fight them off, and they escaped through the living room window.”

  Phelps stared at him like a wax sculpture. “And why didn’t you report this last night?”

  “I barely made it back here and passed out in my truck. Dani was just helping me clean the wound. I was going to call you in a few minutes,” Liam said, adjusting the towel tighter around his waist.