Personal Effects: Dark Art

by J. C. Hutchins

  The wallet.

  I picked it up, glanced at my tribe. Rachael was pointing-and-clicking. Lucas was still standing, thumbs tapping on Drake’s phone, reinvested in Tetris.

  As my fingers slid across the wallet’s brown pebbled grain, I felt a sudden rush of guilt. Of all the things I’d done over the past two days—digging through databases, breaking into the man’s house, stealing his lockbox—this felt wrong. Voyeuristic.

  I unfolded the wallet and gingerly removed the items. Some cash. A state-issued ID. A credit card. An insurance card.

  I tugged at the contents of a small pocket. Two items fell onto the table. One was a white card, featureless save for a row of Braille on its surface. I set it aside, frowning.

  The other card was well-worn, its ink slightly faded. It was an appointment card, dated for August 7th, two years ago. The appointment was with a Dr. Sophronia Poole, Psychiatrist.

  I gasped. He hates doctors, my father had said.

  “She was Drake’s shrink,” I said. “Poole, Dad’s friend.”

  I flipped it over. On the back, in crisply-drawn letters, was a list. Payard chocolates. Coltrane, Davis. Sunflowers. J. Deaver, D. Baldacci. Sushi (spider roll).

  Beneath this, in more ragged lettering: W. Taylor. D.A. B-friend.

  “Man oh man,” I said. “I think he had a thing for her … and so did Dad. Poole and Dad were dating, guys. I have no idea how Drake found out—shit, we didn’t know—but it’s here. The man wrote a grocery list of the things she dug, including Dad.”

  “Ménage à yeesh,” Lucas muttered, glancing up from the game. “Patient falls for his doctor. That’s pretty commonplace, right?”

  “Transference, yeah.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t fall for you,” he said.

  Rachael looked up from her computer. “Boy, you pick the winners, Z. Daniel Drake has been arrested four times in as many years. Disorderly conduct, driving under the influence, two counts of assault. Loves the bottle. He lives up north in Haverstraw. Rural area. No current employment record—he’s on disability for a burn leg after he was involved in a hit-and-run last year; he was the ‘hit.’ I don’t have a phone number for him. It’s unlisted.”

  Lucas interrupted, reciting seven digits from the cell phone’s screen. “It’s here, under ‘Danny,’” my brother said. “Can’t tell if he ever called the guy, though.”

  I waved my hand, motioning him to toss me the phone. I snatched it in the air, saw that Daniel Drake’s number was highlighted, and hit the “call” button.

  “What are you doing?” Rachael asked.

  “Besides mooching off the dude’s minutes,” Lucas said.

  I put a finger to my lips. The phone on the line rang once. A woman’s voice announced that the number was disconnected.

  Haverstraw. Rural. That’s where Claytonville Prison was located.

  Uncle Henry.

  “I have to see them,” I murmured. “Get answers.”

  “‘Them?’”

  I glanced at Rachael. “Him. We’ve got a good start here. But what was Richard Drake like before he started hopscotching the state, running from his Dark Man? What did he do in the Soviet Union? I need more. Maybe his son can deliver.”

  Rachael closed the laptop, gazing at me over her glasses again. “More what? Zach, you’re supposed to find out if Drake’s fit to stand trial, that’s it. You’re not supposed to cure him.”

  “I’m not trying to …”

  My voice trailed off. That was a lie. I was trying to, or hoping to. The blind man was broken. I’m a fixer. To shoot for anything less would be … wrong. And was there even more to it? Didn’t I want to prove something? Didn’t I want to prove the world wrong about Drake? About me?

  “It’s what I’m wired to do,” I said quietly.

  She leaned over and kissed my lips. Her blue eyes met mine.

  “I know. Take my car tomorrow, head up there. I’ll work from home and see what I can dig up on this Alexandrov guy.”

  She yawned. It was contagious.

  “Aww, night-night time for the oldsters,” Lucas said. He walked to the front door. Lucas always knew when he was welcome, and when it was time to go. He’d been that way that since we were kids.

  “Yo, take the blind dude’s keys when you go,” he said, opening the door. “If his kid’s phone number’s in the cell, maybe he’s got a key to the place, too.”

  “I do not want a repeat performance of this afternoon, thanks,” I said.

  Lucas eyed me. “Can’t hurt to have ’em. I know you can’t argue with that.”

  I sighed and nodded, and looked on the steamer trunk for Drake’s key ring. It wasn’t there. I rummaged in my canvas satchel —I’d slipped his keys inside when we broke into his home, I remember that—but they weren’t there, either. What the hell?

  I heard the smug voice of Monopoly Cop, the bastard who’d grilled me in the halls of the 67th Precinct police station: You won’t be getting everything back.

  “Fuck,” I said. “The keys are gone.”

  “Want me to help you look?” he asked.

  I shook my head. Either they’d spilled out of my bag as Lucas had escaped, or they were spinning on some cop’s finger right now. Either way, I wasn’t going to go hunting for them.

  “Splitsville for me, then. Hey, Hochrot, if you want help with this spy stuff, let me know. I’ll swing by after morning class.”

  Rachael snickered. “You just wanna frag the Bloodwire noobs on the widescreen.”

  “In surround sound,” he agreed. “Martini shot, everybody.”

  He closed the door. I heard him bounding down the hallway, and then the wall-trembling clomp-clomp-clomp as he took the stairs, likely two at a time, to the street.

  “One thing before,” Rachael said. I turned to her. Her face was worried now. I reached for her hand.

  “I’ll be careful tomorrow,” I said. “I will.”

  “Oh, it’s not that,” she said. “It’s about us. We don’t lie, you and me. We don’t hide anything from each other.”

  I thought of Uncle Henry. My stomach tightened.

  “I’m the reason why the cops crashed Drake’s apartment,” she said. “It was me. I called you today. You were on the train, said you were in trouble. Said to tell your dad.”

  I began to breathe again. “The connection was bad. I said to not tell my dad.”

  She gave a half-chuckle. “Yeah, I gathered that later. He called after we were disconnected, said you’d turned off your phone. Asked after you. I was worried; I told him.”

  I raised her hand to my lips, kissed it. “Hey, it’s okay. You did what you thought was right. It worked out.”

  “Bad communication,” she said, “sucks.”

  She brought our hands to her cheek. She kissed my finger. “I ’dore you, ya know.”

  I smiled at the Lucasism, but my heart ached. I couldn’t tell her. Couldn’t.

  “‘Dore you back.”

  “You’re worried about the keys,” she said, looking at me.

  “I’m worried about a lot of things. The keys. The case. The job. Mostly the job.”

  “All will be well.” She leaned in now. “Let’s get you to bed, 007.”

  She kissed me. Her tongue slid inside, swirled around mine. She stood. Her smile was sly, delicious. “I’ll be your Bond girl, if you have the energy.”

  I watched her hips as she slinked into the kitchen, toward our bedroom.

  I had the energy.

  We’d never done this on stairs before.

  We moaned as our bodies moved together, arms and legs slipping against each other, slick with sweat. We faced each other, gasping, now kissing. Her fingernails dug into my shoulders, leaving red crescents on my flesh. My tongue rushed to her neck, trailed up to her ear. I told her to keep doing what she was doing, God yes, and she commanded me to go harder, deeper, that’s it, fuck, that’s it, right there.

  Her legs, lickable inked skin, wrapped around my waist, pull
ing me closer. I gripped the wood behind her, my knees digging, rubbing, burning, against the carpet beneath me. My toes slid on the hardwood floor. Her hands raced down my chest, then hers. My lips found her breasts, and I nipped and sucked to our rhythm.

  She cried out, fingers tearing through my hair. We rocked, building up, edging closer, growing hotter and brighter together. I heard music now: faint, delicate notes, like leaves scattering in the wind.

  And then the world went dark. Cold.

  I looked at my lover. Rachael’s face was covered in electrician’s tape, two black Xs where eyes should be. Tar-like oil began to spew from her nose, her mouth. It rushed down her chest, pumping out of her as I pumped inside.

  I shrieked, bolted backward, nearly falling on the slick floor. Before me, my anchor, my darling, my love … liquified. She lost form and mass, bursting into a black mess, splashing against the wall and stairs.

  I looked down. The floor was gone, replaced by more liquid. Blood. A face emerged from the shin-deep pool, smiling up at me.

  Would you be mine? Mom said. Crimson bubbles—dozens, tiny things—rose from her lips. Could you be mine?

  A hiss, from atop the stairway. My skin was awash in wave after wave of gooseflesh, every hair electrified. My vision blurred as I wept, as I looked. Looked up.

  It was there in the shadows, holding Lucas in its snake arms, and Lucas was a baby again, Lookie-Luke, he giggles when I tickle him. My brother wailed.

  I went to climb the stairs. My mother’s hands clutched at my legs.

  Mine, she gurbled.

  Mine, the dark man affirmed … and Lucas slipped into its inky chest, black quicksand, filling my brother’s tiny nostrils as his arms flailed. And then, he was gone.

  The music grew louder. Thunder.

  The dark man did not descend this time, not like before.

  He screeched … and then pounced.

  15

  The nightmare haunted me long after it woke me, a little after four; I couldn’t fall back to sleep. I paced the living room, fretting about its meaning and obsessing about my state of employment. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in more than six years, but Jesus, I wanted one that dark morning.

  It was seven o’clock—time to call. My fate and the fate of Richard Drake hinged on the next five minutes. I’d been reckless yesterday, leaving work early. And there was the embarrassing matter of Dad calling Dr. Peterson, trying to yank me off the case. If I was done at Brinkvale, Drake was, too.

  Peterson was a “first to come, last to leave” kind of manager. I dialed The Brink. He’d be there.

  The sleepy switchboard operator patched me to Lina Velasquez, Peterson’s ever-present hummingbird assistant, who then put me on hold. As I endured a horrid Muzak version of The Beatles’ “Love Me Do,” I imagined Peterson at his desk, surrounded by piles of paperwork, pining over an office supply catalog. ORGANIZE YOUR LIFE, its cover read.

  “Peterson here.”

  “Uh, Dr. Peterson,” I blurted, “do I still have a job?”

  I immediately blushed, feeling very young, very graceless … and very stupid.

  “And good morning to you, too, Zachary.” The old man chuckled. “This must be about yesterday.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, of course you do. In the future, the Brinkvale team would appreciate notification before you take an unexpected leave. Our patients expect us to be completely dedicated to their well-being. I also expect no less.”

  I exhaled, felt my shoulders unwind. “Of course.”

  “Dr. Xavier did complain about the day’s missing paperwork, however.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Of course.”

  “But yes, yes, all is well,” Peterson said airily. “Since I have you on the phone, I’d like to discuss your progress with Martin Grace. But first, how is your lady friend?”

  “Rachael? Uh …”

  “Malcolm told us about the emergency, why you departed so unexpectedly. Something about your lady friend taking a fall?”

  “Oh,” I said, smiling. Good old Malcolm. Now I owed him a favor. “She’s all right. Just a few stitches.”

  “And your patient?”

  I had to be careful here. I didn’t want to lie any more than I already had, but ..

  “Honestly, Dra—ah, Grace is resisting treatment,” I said. Peterson gave an mmm-hmm, as if he anticipated this. “But I’ve used some resources beyond his admittance report to learn more about him. Internet, mostly. I’ve found a family member who may tell me something to help, ah, facilitate a better bond. I plan on meeting him in person.”

  “You’re tenacious, Zachary,” Peterson said. “Going outside the box. I like that.”

  More like inside the box—the lockbox, I thought. And lock-ups, too. Meeting another long-lost relative along the way.

  “I’d like to take the morning to see him,” I said.

  “That sounds wise,” Peterson replied. “Be sure to follow protocol, identify yourself as a Brinkvale employee. You’ve done off-site interviews before. You’re aware of the responsibilities.”

  I bit my lip. Responsibility.

  “Listen, Dr. Peterson, about my Dad—”

  “Zachary,” he said. “Did I not convince you of your qualifications when I assigned you Grace’s case? Your enthusiasm and dedication are reasons enough, to speak nothing of your talents. Besides, there are people far more important than your father who are interested in the outcome of Grace’s trial.”

  I frowned.

  “Like who?”

  The old man paused.

  “The families of the victims, of course,” he said, his voice suddenly hasty. “My point, Zachary, is that your father’s insistence has clashed against my obstinance. Unless a higher authority than your father orders otherwise, you’re the one I want on the job.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I should be back at The Brink this afternoon, easy.”

  “Brinkvale, Zachary,” Peterson replied. “And yes, good luck with your interview.”

  I thought of the day ahead, of the strangers I would soon meet.

  Luck. Yes. I needed all the luck I could get.

  I piloted Rachael’s red Saturn, heading to Haverstraw and Claytonville Prison. The long upstate trek was an autumnal art show. Hillside trees rushed by, glowing golden in the early morning sunlight. What would I say when I finally met him?

  Hi, Henry. I think every memory I have of my dad from early childhood was actually of you. You’re the loving father Lucas and I should’ve had. So why did you kill our mom?

  I thought of the nightmare and my mother’s face, the blood-bubbles streaming from her mouth. Would you be mine?

  I shuddered, suddenly desperate for distraction. I switched on the radio, jabbed the “scan” button, growled at the lousy reception. I attached my iPod to the stereo and hit play.

  Richard Drake’s piano rendition of “Night On Bald Mountain” surged from the dashboard speakers. This was the only genuine clue Drake himself had provided me—and he wouldn’t have done even that, had he known about the Casio’s memory card.

  I listened to the entire song, puzzling over its significance. Did it represent Drake’s time in Russia? His fear of the Dark Man? Something else?

  The exit sign for Claytonville emerged on the horizon. I took the exit and drove toward the prison, toward a past I never knew.

  As I was processed through Claytonville’s “visitor” system—and as far as I could tell, I was the only visitor of the day—I saw enough to know that to be incarcerated here was to be sentenced to an earthbound Hell.

  From the outside: Fence after fence of rusted razor wire and desolate weed-strewn prison yards; guard towers and sharpshooters; chair leg-thick ivy vines enveloping the building’s crumbling limestone walls. The air was still and silent, as if the land itself was too frightened to breathe.

  Inside, water dripped from cracked ceilings. Hallways sloped. Stone walls writhed with fearless spiders and cockroaches. The place reeked of piss
and disinfectant. Men howled in their cells. Everywhere, the shriek of warning bells and rattling of bars. This was Brinkvale’s Golgotha on its worst day.

  A corrections officer—a dull-eyed bulldozer of a man—opened the rusted door of the visitor’s room and waved me in. I was alone, facing a row of ten semi-private nooks. Each nook had a chair. Each chair faced a floor-to-ceiling pane of thick shatterproof glass. Beyond that, a chair for the inmate.

  There were no tables in these nooks, nowhere to lean or take notes. Both inmate and visitor were completely visible here. A half-dozen security cameras swept the room. Claytonville trusted no one.

  I felt naked. All of my belongings, from satchel to spare change, had been confiscated during processing. A cheap plastic visitor’s pass, which I had to return when I left, hung from my shirt.

  I sat down. There was no phone receiver like in the movies. Just a circle of finely drilled holes, resembling a sink strainer, at eye level. I couldn’t quite believe I was here … and I couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

  From beyond the glass, a trilling alarm bell sounded. The metal door at the room’s far wall opened.

  Out stepped Uncle Henry. A guard followed him.

  Henry walked the length of the room, toward me. His stride was slow, deliberate.

  “Ten minutes,” the guard said. My uncle nodded.

  I didn’t move, but I was reeling on the inside—feeling seasick from a wave of memories. It was an onslaught of half-remembered things, flashbulbs of smiles and high-fives and piggyback rides and love yous; things I thought Dad and I had done and said. But Dad was barely there back then, I realized. It had been Henry, all Henry.

  He was tall and thin like my father, but more handsome in a rugged, weathered way. He was bearded now, something he wasn’t in the old photos I’d seen of him. His gray hair graced the shoulders of his orange jumpsuit. A bracelet jangled from his left wrist. It was identical to the Invisible Man’s bracelet I’d seen two nights ago.

  I wondered how many years it had taken for Henry to earn the privilege to wear that bracelet again.

  He sat before me, his blue eyes cataloging my clothes, my hands, my face.