Daughter of Darkness

by Ed Gorman

  She slipped from his arms, then, and turned toward the river. He reached for her, grabbing the shoulder of her blouse, tearing the material, ripping downward, so that a large part of her blouse was torn all the way to the beltline. She just kept thinking about his inability to swim. He both hated and feared the water. She had to make it to the river…

  And then, from behind him, a voice said, "Stay right there."

  Gretchen stood behind Quinlan, a .45, his .45, pointed directly at the back of his head.

  "I want her to go," Gretchen said.

  "What the hell're you doing here? I told you to go back to the commune."

  "You don't really think that I believed you, did you?" Gretchen said. "That you just wanted to go for a walk by yourself? I knew you were coming back here." She looked at Jenny. "For the first time, I believe you, Jenny. That you don't want him for yourself. I see how it is now. How it really is." She waggled her weapon in a northerly direction. "There's a path over there. Take it and in about half a mile you'll see a highway leading to the city." She smiled. "Save you from swimming."

  "Thanks, Gretchen."

  Gretchen hit Quinlan on the side of the head with surprising force, enough force to drop the man to his knees. There in the dark, Quinlan held both sides of his head and moaned. The blow had been severe.

  "Now, you're going to listen to me," Gretchen said. "And do just what I tell you. You understand me?"

  And with that, she clubbed him again. He sank a little lower, shoulders dropping, knees sinking into the soft earth.

  The whole thing was comic, really, a little girl scolding her bad brother-or her bad dog.

  "And even if I have to get you saltpeter," Gretchen said, "you're going to give up having sex with anybody but me. I'm the only one who cares about you, and you can't see that. But you will." She stood over him. He was bent over, his arms covering his head.

  She slammed the gun against his skull for the third time. He cried out and then moaned. And then he said, "You don't understand what's going on here. If you let her go, you'll destroy everything."

  "You just want to keep her here for yourself," Gretchen said. "I'm trying to help you, can't you see that? Out of sight, out of mind. Now you start behaving yourself." She was using her bad-doggie tone. To her, Quinlan was as much as fantasy as Jenny was to Quinlan.

  Gretchen looked up and saw Jenny still there. Jenny had been hoping she'd be able to get the gun from Gretchen and bring Quinlan in herself. But she could see that Gretchen was in control of things here. "Go on, Jenny. Get out of here."

  Jenny took a final look at both of them, and then started walking quickly away.

  Not long after, as she crested a hill, she got her first glimpse of a two-lane blacktop that stretched toward the city.

  She needed to get to a phone. Fast.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The Sigma Corporation was housed in a new two-story glass-and-rusted-steel building that looked almost gauche against its backdrop of forest and an artificial lake. Sodium vapor lights made the imposition of man upon nature even more ominous. Moonlight was much prettier than mauve electrical light. There was only one car in the small parking lot. No lights shone in any of the windows on the front or southern side of the building. Apparently Sigma lacked the Boomer spirit of eighteen-hour workdays a la Bill Gates. Probably all at home waxing and shining their family vans and Saabs.

  He drove around the entire building. He still didn't see any lights. Surely, there was a security man in there. Most likely, he had a room where he stayed when he wasn't making his rounds. There was a good chance the room was windowless-like a large storage closet-and the light wouldn't show externally. There would also be a state-of-the-art security system in place. Sigma was all but impenetrable. He needed to get in there. He needed some evidence to link Sigma and Jenny together. He stood even less of a chance sneaking into the hospital grounds. He had to get his evidence here.

  Then he got an idea. Shrinks always had answering services that could beep them in case of an emergency. Priscilla Bowman would be no different.

  He used his cell phone to reach information and get Bowman's number. The answering service woman took his name and noted that this was an emergency and then took his number. She said, "May I tell her what this is about?"

  "Just say it involves Sigma. She'll know what I mean."

  "Sigma? S-i-g-m-a?"

  "Right. And thank you."

  Sigma sat on unspoiled land near Oak Park. A lot of aggressive new corporations were building out here. While he waited to hear from Bowman, he rolled down his window, closed his eyes, and took in the smells of autumn. He thought of his wife and daughter playing in piles of leaves, gold and russet and yellow leaves spraying up into the air like water in a pool. And the Saturday afternoon Northwestern games, their alma mater. And the Sunday afternoon drives over into Wisconsin to see the miles and miles of autumn foliage, God's own theme park.

  He was drifting pleasantly on memories when the cell phone buzzed like an angry insect. He picked up, punched in.

  "I wish you wouldn't use my service for something as inane as this," Priscilla Bowman snapped.

  "How do you know it's inane? You don't even know what it is yet."

  "Listen, Coffey. You've made the same mistake any number of other men have-they've fallen desperately in love with the beautiful, virginal Jenny Stafford. That's how she appears on the outside, anyway. But inside, she's not very beautiful and she's anything but virginal. She's sociopathic, Coffey. Totally. And she's killed at least two people that we know of. I'm sure she's killed even more. That's her real nature we're talking about. It's not something that I instilled in her-or anybody else, for that matter. She's like the woman in the east who has had this ongoing love affair with her fourteen-year-old student. You look at her and she looks like an angel. So much so that nobody wants to attach the word 'pedophile' to her. But that's what she is. Nothing more, nothing less. A pedophile. If she wasn't beautiful and elegant and the daughter of privilege, she would have been carted off to prison and nobody would have paid any attention to her. How could somebody with a face like that be a pedophile? Well, it happens, and it happens more frequently than we want to admit."

  "That's a very nice speech."

  She laughed. "I appreciate a good audience."

  "But it's all bullshit. At least the part about Jenny."

  "You're doing exactly what I said you were, Coffey. You're saying that nobody that seemingly sweet could possibly be a killer."

  "I'm in a hurry, Priscilla. So I'm going to say this simply. I'm out at Sigma Corporation. I need you to come out here and help me find proof of what you and your friend Quinlan have been doing to Jenny. There's still time to help yourself with the DA, Priscilla. But once I start talking to the cops, they won't be willing to cut any deals with you. They'll go after both of you."

  There was a long silence. "I don't think you can prove anything."

  "You know better than that. You know it's just a matter of time now."

  Another silence. "How much do you know?"

  "Not all I need to know. But one way or another, I'll find out. It's inevitable at this point."

  "It would take me a while to get there."

  "Leave now."

  "I'll have to think about it, I guess."

  "No, you won't." Then, "Leave now. Right now, Priscilla."

  He broke the connection.

  ***

  She wasn't going to come out here, of course. The pauses in her conversation were her trying to figure out how to handle this matter.

  And she handled it just the way he'd thought she would.

  He sat in his car and put together the scenario. Guard getting her phone call. Guard getting his shotgun. Guard taking a shadowy window spot to locate Coffey's car in the lot. Guard going out the opposite end of the building. Guard circling around through the woods, Coffey's car conveniently parked right up next to the line of forest. Guard in a crouched position sneaking up on C
offey's car and-

  "Get out of the car." Guard standing on the other side of the passenger window.

  Guard was white. And young. And big. And military-sharp in his dark blue uniform with the snappy zipper jacket and the wine-red beretlike headware. If they ever did another Star Trek spin-off, this guy was ready. On beret and jacket arms was sewn the distinctive Sigma logo. This was not a rent-a-cop. This was a full-time employee of Sigma. Which meant that he would probably do just about anything Priscilla Bowman told him to.

  "One more time, pal, get out of the car."

  He was a hard-ass, a real one, this lad. He looked as if he would take a genuine spiritual pleasure in carrying out Priscilla Bowman's orders.

  Coffey had the small spray can ready in the palm of his right hand. It had been ready since he'd called Priscilla. He would have to be very, very quick. Guard was looking forward to World War III.

  Coffey opened the door. The night air felt good, even if it was tainted by the coloring of the sodium vapor light.

  "Turn around and spread 'em," Guard said. The way he savored these particular words told Coffey that he was probably a cop wanna-be who'd failed the psychological test. Under "Hobbies," the phrase "Killing people" almost always failed to impress.

  This was Coffey's one and only chance and he took it. As he started to turn to his car so he could get himself in the position Guard wanted him in, Coffey raised his right hand and let Guard have some industrial-strength mace right in the face.

  Guard screamed. Guard cursed. Guard started waving blindly with his formidable rifle.

  Coffey kicked him in the nuts.

  It was a good kick, too, a lot better than the kicks the Bears had been delivering these past two weeks.

  Guard sank to his knees and as he sank, Coffey kicked him upside the head. This kick put Guard out.

  Coffey opened the trunk, dragged Guard around, hefted him inside, and then bound and gagged him with various odds and ends and shut the trunk. But not before relieving Guard of all his keys.

  Coffey got in the cab and drove to the far side of the building, the point from which the Guard had come. A few minutes later, Coffey was inside. He knew he didn't have long. Priscilla Bowman would be calling soon to see how Guard had done with Coffey.

  The thing he hadn't counted on was how dissimilar all the keys looked to the lock in the door he'd chosen. It took him longer than he'd hoped to get inside, and then, once inside, he realized that he had no idea where he was going or what he was looking for.

  The logical place to start, he figured, was the building maintenance staff supervisor. Guarded have floor plans for the whole places plus the names belonging to the various offices. Priscilla's would probably be the best place to start.

  He went looking for the building supervisor's office.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  She used the john at a convenience store to clean herself up some. Finding the freeway hadn't been as easy as Gretchen had promised. A lot of brambly terrain had had to be traversed. Jenny was a sweaty mess.

  The restroom was relatively clean as these places went. There were plenty of paper towels, the H faucet actually dispensed hot water, the air smelled pleasantly if artificially of pine-scented freshener, and no brown little things were to be found floating in the toilet bowl. Almost like home.

  She stayed a long time in the john, just sitting on the closed toilet lid after doing all her business. Instead of a claustrophobic feeling, the john inspired a peaceful feeling. Nobody could get her in here. She was safe at last.

  The knock on the door took her feeling of security away. "I got a little girl here, she really needs to use the can," a female voice said. "You been in there a long time."

  Jenny felt guilty, embarrassed, keeping a little girl waiting. She got up, splashed cold water on her face and then went to the door.

  She was all ready to say "Sorry," when the teenage clerk who'd given her the john key shouted, "That's her!"

  In a moment, Jenny took it all in. The hefty woman in the Western clothes standing in front of her was a cohort of the clerk's. She looked very spiffy, the woman, in her white cowboy shirt with red piping, her white Stetson and her Levis and lizard cowboy boots. She'd lied about having a little girl in bad need of a john, just so she could lure Jenny out and the clerk could be satisfied that Jenny hadn't escaped out the john window or something.

  "Grab her!" the clerk shouted.

  The way her face had been on TV and in the newspapers, she was bound to be recognized eventually. And eventually was now.

  The woman made a grab for Jenny. She had thick arms and thicker hands. She would have made a good professional wrestler. She gripped Jenny's arm and then slammed her back into the john.

  She wanted to have a little fun, the lady wrestler. She slapped Jenny hard across the face a couple of times and then flung her into the wall. Jenny cracked the back of her head against a female napkin machine.

  The clerk was in the doorway now. "Hey, take it easy, Merla! I already called the cops! They won't want you to rough her up!"

  The cops, Jenny thought, as she ducked a slap. Everything pointed to her guilt. They wouldn't listen. Nor would the press. A rich girl made the best copy of all. Especially when two murders were attached to her name.

  Then Jenny remembered Gretchen's knife in her pocket. At the same time she reached for it, she made a quick assessment of the two people in the john with her. The clerk was skinny and pale and looked extremely nervous about this whole thing. Not even the small gold rings he wore in his nostrils seemed to give him much courage. He'd be a lot easier to deal with than the lady wrestler.

  Jenny subtly reversed positions, moving backward to the door. The woman put her arms out. Flexed her hands. "Rich bitch," she said. Then, to the clerk, "I spotted her, Mikey. That means I get seventy-five, you get twenty-five."

  "Hell, the reward's only $10,000, Merla. My mom'll make me pay taxes on it, and I won't have hardly nothin' left." Mikey sounded as if he was about to cry.

  She grabbed him. She felt a weird sort of pride. She just grabbed him, got him around the neck and dragged him half-out the door. She took Gretchen's knife out of her pocket and put it to the kid's throat.

  "Do you have a car?"

  "Oh, God, please put that knife away."

  "Do you have a car, I said?"

  "Yes'm."

  "Good. Then take me to it."

  "Yes'm."

  "You leave that boy alone, you rich bitch," Merla said.

  "C'mon, Merla," Mikey said. "Don't go pissin' her off."

  "That's right, Merla," Jenny said. "Don't go pissin' me off."

  In the distance, she could hear sirens. Mikey had said he'd called the cops. Apparently, he hadn't been lying.

  She dragged him down an aisle. On one side were soaps and sundries. On the facing aisle were cookies and candies. She kept her arm good and tight around his neck. She also kept the knife point very close to his throat. Merla stalked them, three, four feet back, constantly looking for her chance to snatch Mikey away from Jenny. But Jenny didn't give her the chance.

  As they came abreast of the cash register, Jenny said, "Grab me some money."

  "The boss'll be real mad if I do, ma'am."

  "I'll be real mad if you don't."

  He managed to glance at her. "You're so pretty and high-class and all. I sure don't know why you're doin' this."

  "The money, Mikey," she said, jabbing him a bit with the point of the knife. "The money."

  When they got out on the drive, Mikey said, "It's over there."

  Jenny almost laughed. This would have to be Mikey's car, a beat-up junker that had been painted a crude red with the word SATAN painted with equal crudity on the driver's door. There was also a small painting of a horned Satan on the back end of the car. Just in case you missed the point. "The keys," she said.

  He gave her the keys.

  Merla was still with them, standing nearby, glowering. She looked like the world's most forlorn
cowgirl.

  Jenny dragged Mikey back with her to the car. She had to move fast. The sirens were only a few blocks away now. And Merla would want one more shot at her.

  Jenny moved. And at that instant, Merla moved, too.

  Jenny pushed Mikey into Merla just as the cowgirl leaped for Jenny. This gave Jenny time to get into the car and get it started. It had a pair of thunderous mufflers.

  Then, somehow, Merla's hands were on Jenny's throat and she was quickly choking Jenny into unconsciousness.

  All Jenny's breeding, all Jenny's self-doubts, all Jenny's temerity, said she shouldn't able to do it-too many social and psychological forces working against it.

  Yet she did it. As soon as she saw that there was only one way she could escape, she raised the knife, the knife that Merla had apparently forgotten about, and dragged the point of it halfway down Merla's arm. Not enough to do any real damage. But enough to make a shocked and stung Merla jerk her hands away from Jenny's neck.

  Jenny peeled backward at maybe fifty miles per hour, the smell of burning rubber tart on the chill night.

  Merla flung herself at the car but missed by a half foot and went sprawling facedown onto the drive. Mikey bent over to help her up but Merla angrily refused his help.

  Jenny knew she wouldn't get far driving a red car with SATAN painted on the door. People tend to notice cars like that. But she needed to escape the sirens. And then find a cab.

  She took alleys. The cops were never far behind. Other cop cars joined in. The sounds of the sirens swelled. When she was halfway down one alley, she saw a cop car starting to turn in to the alley.

  Fortunately, she found an ancient, open garage. She'd kept her lights off, so pulling inside wasn't exactly easy. As soon she was parked in the garage, she jumped out and dragged down the old-fashioned rope-pull door. The cop car was slowly working its way up the alley. The cop riding shotgun was flashing a big-beam flashlight on both sides of the alley. She crouched in a shadowy corner, hunched into herself, all sweat and fear and confusion and hope and despair and determination to persevere.