Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  “I heard.”

  “So, do we have a deal?”

  “Maybe,” I tell him. “But I need the license back first, and—”

  “I can’t give it to you now. It’s not here.”

  “Then, I can’t help you man. No license, no deal. I’m sure the cops will be interested to hear about your little night escapades…and your reading habits.” He blinks his wide eyes in shock, and I shrug. “It fell. And, given the circumstances, I figured it was fair game.”

  “Butch, please. I swear to you I had nothing to do with that murder. I’ll show you. I’ll show you where I go.”

  We both startle when Richert knocks. “Hey, you two. Get downstairs.”

  Sebastian’s eyes are desperate, darting. He looks fresh off the boat. A regular fish. And I must be a real sucker, because I give him a nod. “Tonight. Or else.”

  ****

  It’s 2 a.m., and I’m officially breaking curfew. With a creepy-as-hell ex-con who’d just disabled his GPS monitor by jerry-rigging it with aluminum foil he kept folded in the bottom of his shoe. Go big or go home, right? We’re only a block from the house, and I’m sweating bullets even in the unforgiving cold that’s chased out the rain.

  “They say those ankle bracelets are tamper proof,” I tell him, wishing I had eyes in the back of my head. The smallest sounds become the clink of handcuffs, the footfalls of a cop waiting to put a knee in my back. “Are you sure that thing won’t go off?”

  “It hasn’t yet.”

  The ground is still wet, the streets emptied. And the air is thick and gauzy with fog. Like I’m walking in a dark, dark dream. And I can’t help but think of Evie. Because it was her neck I’d strangled in my sleep. I hadn’t seen her face, but I knew it as surely as I’d known those were my hands—these hands—with the purpling, half-moon bruise on my thumb. My nightmares about Gwen made sense at least. But Evie? That scared me. Like the old me was waking up a little at a time. A diabolical butterfly splitting its cocoon after twenty-three years’ rest. Hungry and desperate and full of rage.

  “Butch. Earth to Butch. Did you hear anything I said?”

  “Just trying to figure out how I’m gonna explain this one to Agent McElroy when we get busted.”

  “Well, my PO hasn’t figured it out yet. I doubt yours is any smarter. Besides, the GPS signals are pretty iffy anyway. So I wouldn’t worry about it. We’ll be quick.” He gestures up ahead to Broadway, and we jog across the street. Jaywalking. The least of my problems.

  “That’s really comforting, Sebastian. My ass is on the line here.”

  “Yeah, well. You wanted to be here. And believe me, I won’t fare any better.”

  “Hell no. You’re not blaming this on me. You started it.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree on that. But thanks for covering for me back there.” The cops and a lady detective had gathered us downstairs and given us a talking to—that’s what my dad would’ve called it. A stern warning. If we had any information, we’d better cough it up now. And they’d saved the worst for last. The cattle prod meant to spur us to action. Fliers with the victim’s photograph: Violet Kurchell. Only fifteen, her eyes had already looked sad and weary, like she’d known her fate.

  “Just remember, my silence is temporary. And it’s certainly not free.”

  He holds up a hand and points to a bus stop that’s covered in gang graffiti and smells about as rank as the dorm at Folsom, where I’d finished my last five years. “This is where you wait.”

  “Lovely. And where exactly will you be?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Sebastian opens his backpack and takes out a pair of surgical gloves and a dark-colored T-shirt. He wraps the shirt so that only his eyes and nose show through. Then he pulls his hoodie down as far as it will go. Until he’s virtually faceless. Just a shadow man. Next, come the cans of spray paint he loads into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Finally, he stretches the gloves over his hands. “Enjoy the show.”

  He sprints across the street and down a block, lithe. Almost graceful as he lines up his target. The front window of Merrill’s Motors. Then, he fires. Hot-pink paint shoots out the camera above the door, and he goes to work.

  I should run. Hide, at the very least. The cops are gonna show up any second. But I don’t. I’m transfixed. Awestruck, really. And in less than two minutes, he’s done. The cans are wiped clean and tossed into the trash, and he’s booking it back across the street. Like nothing happened.

  Me, on the other hand, I can’t swallow the lump in my throat. It’s my heart. I’m sure of it. It’s finally figured its way out. Because my chest is as hollow as an empty barrel.

  “You alright?” he asks, after we’d fast-walked for two blocks with only the sound of my ragged breathing between us. He drops the mask and studies me. “I thought you’d be…”

  “What?”

  “A little less square, I guess.”

  His brutal honesty earns a laugh, but it’s more of a gasp than anything. Like the sort of sound that sputters out when you’ve been kicked me in the gut. “I’m too old for this. Aren’t you?”

  “My prison shrink said a lot of guys stop growing up when they come to prison. So technically, I guess I’m still seventeen.”

  I can’t argue with that. I know exactly how he feels. Stunted on the inside. Like the world just kept going on without me. “Yeah, well, I thought you were gonna blow a gasket when the cops showed up earlier.”

  “Revenge will steel anybody’s nerves. Mine anyway. It makes me feel alive.”

  His eyes are lit up from within, and I wonder if I’d been wrong about the urge card. If anger is his demon. Or something else. “Piggy, huh?”

  “Told ya. I am Piggy.”

  “So what did Merrill ever do to you?”

  “The list is long, my friend. Merrill is my stepdad. And the proud owner of twenty-five used car dealerships throughout the East Bay. And a complete swine.”

  “Let me guess. You plan to tag them all with a giant, hot-pink pig?”

  “Something like that. I figure it’s better than slitting his throat.”

  I sit with that one and follow him through the parking lot of Evie’s office building, feeling like a thousand years have passed since this afternoon. That’s another thing you learn in prison. Time is a bitch. Always thumbing her nose at you, doing the exact opposite of what you want. Speeding up when you need her to go slow. Or making you feel every goddamned second of those twenty-three years.

  “You know you’re gonna get caught,” I tell him, sounding every bit like the square he thinks I am. “Are you sure it’s worth it?”

  I recognize his arrogant chuckle. I’ve heard it before, tossed in my direction. “He’ll never turn me in. I know too much, and he knows I know. Besides, I only want to see my mom and stepsister. Is that too much to ask? I’ll stop when I get what I want.”

  “That sounds familiar. Speaking of which…”

  Sebastian waves me away. “I’ll meet you at the tree in five. With the license.”

  He heads to the woody corner of the lot, back where the trash gets emptied into a row of dumpsters. I turn and pretend to leave, peering into the dark long enough to watch him crouch beneath the trees. Before he catches me, I hightail it out of there and into the park.

  I try not to look at the tree. I hate it. As silly as that sounds—hating a tree. But I do. Its gnarled limbs that look like a witch’s fingers, the grey-brown bark, thick as rotting skin. The way it had kept growing, flourishing while I’d been locked away. And most of all, the silent judgment I feel every time I pass. Because it knows the last of my secrets.

  I press my hand against it. Hold my breath. And I swear I feel a heartbeat. I’d read an article once that plants have a memory, and right now, I believe it. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nothi
ng to apologize for, man.” Funny, the tree sounds a lot like a smart-ass. A lot like Sebastian. “Here.” He passes me an envelope—covered in dirt from his hands—a hard rectangle tucked inside it. “Your precious license. Just don’t get busted jacking off to it, okay?”

  I snatch it from his fingers and shove it into my pocket like it’s my last chance at redemption.

  “Well, aren’t you gonna look at it?”

  “I’m going back to the house.”

  “So, you believe me now?” He’s right behind me, so I quicken my pace, anxious to put him and this night—the whole day, really—behind me. “I didn’t murder anybody. But, if you want to know the truth, I think I saw her. Violet.”

  “What?” That stops me. I have to see his face. And when I do, I’m sickened with dread. He’s not joking.

  “I can’t be positive. I went through the parking lot of the building just like we did tonight. To stash my stuff. And something caught my eye—I thought it was a prowler. But there was this girl, and she put something under Dr. Maddox’s mat. I swear she looked just like the girl in the picture. The one that got killed.”

  “Did you tell Evie…uh, I mean, Dr. Maddox?”

  “Not exactly. But I made sure she got the envelope. It was still there on Monday. Under the mat. I don’t know if she ever would’ve found it.”

  “Sebastian, you have to tell the police.”

  “So, what exactly am I supposed to say to them, Mr. Upstanding Parolee? I tinfoil-cheated my GPS monitor so I could graffiti one of my stepdad’s dealerships—and oh-by-the-way, I just happened to see a girl who turned up murdered the next morning. I’d be on my way back to Quentin faster than you can say rapo.”

  I cringe at that word, though I’d probably used it a time or two. It sounded different in the free world. With hard edges that would cut when you spit it out. I’m trying to think of what to say—he does have a point—when we round the corner and spot the house. The police car out front, lights flashing. High beams aimed straight at us. Oh shit.

  The last time I had this feeling I’d been holed up in my room at the Blue Bird, puking my guts out and shaking like a leaf. Butch Calder, we know you’re in there. Come out with your hands up. Just like a Bruce Willis movie. Except that Bruce usually played the good guy.

  I’d seen them through the small sliver of light between the motel curtains, their barrels aimed at the front door. And I’ll tell you this much—it didn’t feel real. I don’t even remember opening the door or taking my last steps of freedom. That whole first year I’d wished I had. That I’d counted those steps, relished them.

  The last time I had this feeling, I hadn’t known yet what it meant. What it would cost me. I was still young and stupid and filled up with hope, fat as a tick. Now, I know. Prison will leach out every drop of a man’s hope until his soul is nothing but a shell. I can’t go back there. But I walk toward the blue lights anyway. Like a man headed to his own funeral.

  ****

  Well, this is familiar. My legs splayed, rough hands patting me down, digging through my pockets. Two cops with the same face, somewhere between tired and angry. You’ve seen one cop, you’ve seen ’em all. That’s what Wade used to say. And after the hundreds I’d dealt with in the joint—tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones, bad and good—I can say he wasn’t wrong.

  Cop One takes the envelope and lays it on the hood. I stare at it, wishing I could set it on fire.

  “You boys missed your curfew. Two hours ago. We tossed your room.”

  I know better than to say anything. And when I look at Sebastian, his eyes are as hard as mine. Two dark stones, unyielding. We’ve both put on our prison masks, and his is better than I thought.

  “Which one of you is Delacourt?”

  “Me.” Sebastian’s voice sounds a little off, like a flute, out of tune, and his mask slips a little. “Me,” he says, again. Bolder this time.

  “You tamper with that thing?” Cop Two says, eagle-eyed on Sebastian’s ankle. I risk a quick glance. No tinfoil. But just beyond the bright halo of the street lamp, something crumpled and shiny catches the light.

  “No, sir. It probably just needs a charge.” Both cops snicker the way boys do when they’re thirteen and cruel is cool.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s what all the sickos say. We’ll check it out down at the station.”

  “This yours?” Cop One holds up Lord of the Flies, proud, like it’s a head on a stake. In his other hand, he’s got the picture, mutilated by Sebastian’s hand. “What about this photo?”

  “Yep.”

  “And what about you?” he asks, grinning at me, wicked and wide as a jack-o-lantern. He fingers the envelope, and I’m done for. Sayonara, Butchy. “What’s this?” His question, not a question at all. An assumption. Of guilt.

  I should keep quiet, but fuck it. If I’m going down, I’m going down a smart-ass. “Only one way to find out.”

  Butch

  May 7, 1994

  Six days before I killed her

  “You got the scratch fixed.” Gwen ran her hand along the side of the ’Cuda, sounding disappointed.

  “Not really. I just used a touch-up paint stick. Doesn’t it look better?” It still stung to look at the mark Trey left. But I couldn’t bear to be without the ’Cuda for a whole two weeks, waiting on a new paint job. No ride meant no Gwen—Butch of the Filthy-Rich Calders didn’t do public transportation—and no Gwen meant the end of everything.

  Gwen pursed her lips into a totally kissable blood-red pout. “I kinda liked the scratch. It fit you. It was…” Damaged. “Tough. Badass, you know?”

  I smirked at her trying to look as badass as she thought I was. I definitely had the look. Or I’d bought it anyway, for another five bills at Nordstrom. A black leather jacket that I’d hoped would make Gwen swoon. At some point tonight, I’d planned to drape it over her shoulders, real gentleman-like, and pull her in for a kiss.

  But seeing her strut out of the Shaw mansion in her party dress—short and tight and red—I had no intention of covering that up. Unless it involved my body on hers.

  “So where does Matthias live?” I asked, opening the door for her and watching, like a total perv, her skirt ride up as she slid inside. Who says chivalry is dead?

  “Out in the boonies near Pinole. Cherice said it’s actually his half-brother’s place. He’s old, like thirty or something, but I hear he’s got the hookup on some E.”

  I’d never heard Gwen talk about drugs before, and I was partial to alcohol myself, but as usual, I just rolled with it. “Cool.”

  Once we hit the freeway, she fiddled with the radio until she found a song she liked. And when she belted out Sinead, I started to wonder if she was already tipsy. “It’s been seven hours and fifteen daaaaaays since you took your love awaaaaaay…” She leaned in, nibbling my neck, and I caught my answer in a whiff of cognac.

  “Did you start the party without me?” I teased.

  “Mom and Dad left early for their hoity-toity charity thingie, so I might’ve had a sip or two. Just to take the edge off.”

  “Do they know what a lush you are?”

  “You’re one to talk, Calder. If I remember correctly, you’ve got booze hidden in here somewhere.” Guilt whacked me in the face and called me a moron. She was right. But I’d sucked down that bottle of Jack just before I’d watched Trey have his wicked way with Evie’s friend, doing absolutely nothing to stop him. And the filthy thoughts I’d had about Gwen that night—well, at least I could blame it on the alcohol.

  “Actually, I think I already…” I went mute when Gwen reached between my legs, gliding her hand down my thigh, my knee, my calf, and searched the empty space beneath the seat. “…drank it.”

  “It’s a good thing I brought this then.” She unzipped her purse and plucked out a bottle of Hennessy.

  “Your dad’s?”

&
nbsp; “Nope. I got this one myself.” She fluttered her hands at me. “Five-finger discount.”

  “Geez, Gwen. You really are a klepto.” Instantly, I wanted a take back. Her bright eyes dimmed, and she pulled away when I tried to touch her. “That came out wrong. I just meant you don’t have to take things.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious. You sound exactly like my ex.” Bingo. So I’d been right to hate Russ. The infamous ex. The fool stupid enough to let Gwen get away.

  “So why do you…take things?”

  She sighed and shut off the radio. Then she took a long swallow from the bottle. “My answer or my shrink’s?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “Well, it feels good. When I’m doing it. Like a high. There’s this bad part of me, the part that gets off on it. But later, I feel dirty. Like the worst person in the world. So it’s this vicious cycle. That’s my answer.”

  “And what does your shrink say?”

  Her laugh came out bitter and sharp, and when she spoke, she put on a throaty voice. A man’s voice. “Gwen, the reason you feel the urge to steal can be traced to your childhood. To your feeling emotionally neglected and deprived of love. By taking things, you attempt to substitute that feeling of happiness and to express your anger at the people you hold responsible.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. I know. I guess that’s why I like music so much. When I play, I feel like a halfway decent person, and if I miss a note, it’s not the end of the world.” I could tell she was fighting tears. “I’m f’d up, Calder. Royally.”

  If I had been a better man—or a man at all—I would’ve spilled it right then and there, come clean about everything. It was on the tip of my tongue. “Are you f’ing serious? You play an f’ing viola! How f’d up can you be if you don’t even say the f word. F!”

  She shook her head at me and giggled. And what did I do? I grinned back, grabbed the Hennessy, and washed down the truth in one stiff gulp.

  ****

  The party was totally wrong. Right from the get-go. After we got off the freeway, already buzzing, we drove ten minutes on a dirt road to get there, kicking up dust and gravel all over the ’Cuda. For this. A sprawling field littered with junk and a ramshackle house barely standing at its center. A bonfire licking the sky. Metallica throbbing from a car stereo. And a crowd way older than Gwen and me, milling around dead-eyed like zombies. The whole scene was straight out of a slasher flick. Direct from Charles Manson’s compound.