Darkness, Take My Hand

by Dennis Lehane

  I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes and listened to the German engine rumble.

  “How do you live with yourself, Patrick?”

  I slid the shift into first and didn’t speak again as we drove through Southie and down into the neighborhood.

  I left the Porsche in front of my house and headed for the Crown Victoria, parked a few cars back, because a ’63 Porsche is just about the last thing you want to be driving in my neighborhood if you want to remain anonymous.

  Phil stood by the passenger door, and I shook my head.

  “What?” he said.

  “You’re staying behind, Phil. I’m alone on this one.”

  He shook his head. “No. I was married to her, Patrick, and this prick shot her.”

  “Want him to shoot you, too, Phil?”

  He shrugged. “You think I’m not up to this?”

  I nodded. “I think you’re not up to this, Phil.”

  “Why? Because of the bowling alley? Kevin—he was someone we grew up with. A friend once. So okay, I didn’t handle him getting shot real well. But Gerry?” He held his gun up on the car top, worked the slide, and jacked a round into the chamber. “Gerry’s dogshit. Gerry dies.”

  I stared at him, waited for him to see how silly he looked working the slide like a character in a movie, spitting out his bravado.

  He stared back, and the muzzle of his gun slowly turned until it was facing me over the roof.

  “You going to shoot me, Phil? Huh?”

  His hand was firm. The gun never wavered.

  “Answer me, Phil. You going to shoot me?”

  “You don’t open this door, Patrick, I’ll blow the window out, climb in anyway.”

  I looked steadily at the gun in his hand.

  “I love her, too, Patrick.” He lowered the gun.

  I got in the car. He rapped on the window with the gun and I took a deep breath, knowing he’d follow me on foot if it came down to it or shoot out the window of my Porsche and hot-wire it.

  I reached across the seat and unlocked the door.

  The rain started around midnight, not even a drizzle at first, just a few spits that mingled with the dirt on my windows and bled down to my wipers.

  We parked in front of a senior citizens home on Dorchester Avenue, a half block up from The Black Emerald. Then the clouds broke and the rain clattered the roof and swept down the avenue in great dark sheets. It was a freezing rain, identical to yesterday’s, and the only effect it had on the ice still clinging to sidewalks and buildings was to make it seem simultaneously cleaner and more lethal.

  Initially, we were grateful for it, because our windows steamed up, and unless someone was standing right beside the car, he wouldn’t be able to see the two of us inside.

  But this worked against us, too, because pretty soon we couldn’t see the bar very well or the door to Gerry’s apartment. The defrost in the car was broken, and so was the heater, and damp cold bit into my bones. I cracked my window, and Phil cracked his, and I used my elbow to wipe at the condensation on the inside until Gerry’s doorway and the doorway to the Emerald reappeared, diluted and rubbery.

  “How’re you so sure it’s Gerry who’s been working with Hardiman?” Phil said.

  “I’m not,” I said. “But it feels right.”

  “So why aren’t we calling the cops?”

  “To tell them what? Two guys with fresh bullet holes in their heads told us Gerry was a bad guy?”

  “What about the FBI then?”

  “Same problem. We don’t have any proof. If it is Gerry, and we tip him too early, maybe he slips away again, goes into hibernation or whatever, only kills runaways nobody’s looking for.”

  “So why are we here?”

  “Because if he makes a move, any kind of move, I want to see it, Phil.”

  Phil wiped at his side of the windshield, peered out at the bar. “Maybe we should just go in there, ask him some questions.”

  I looked at him. “Are you nuts?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because if it is him, he’ll kill us, Phil.”

  “There’s two of us, Patrick. We’re both armed.”

  I could see he was trying to talk himself into it, to suck up the courage necessary to go through that door. But he was still a long way from doing it.

  “It’s the tension,” I said. “The waiting.”

  “What about it?”

  “Sometimes it seems a lot worse than any confrontation could be, like if you could just do something, you’d stop feeling like you need to climb out of your skin.”

  He nodded. “That’s the feeling, yeah.”

  “Problem is, Phil, if Gerry’s the guy we think he is, the confrontation will be a lot worse than the wait. He’ll kill us, guns or no guns.”

  He swallowed once, then nodded.

  For a full minute I stared hard at the door to the Emerald. In the time we’d been here, I’d seen no one enter or exit, and that was more than a little odd just after midnight at a bar in this neighborhood. A solid sheet of water the size of a building swept along the avenue, its edges curling, and the wind howled distantly.

  “How many people?” Phil said.

  “What?”

  Phil tilted his head in the direction of the Emerald. “If he is the guy, how many people you think he’s killed? Over his entire lifetime? I mean, taking into consideration that maybe he killed all those runaways over the years, and maybe a shitload of people no one even knows about and—”

  “Phil.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m nervous enough. There are some things I don’t want to think about just now.”

  “Oh.” He rubbed the stubble under his chin. “Right.”

  I stared at the bar, counted off another full minute. Still no one went in or out.

  My cell phone rang and both Phil and I jerked so hard our heads hit the roof.

  “Jesus,” Phil said. “Jesus Christ.”

  I flipped it open. “Hello.”

  “Patrick, it’s Devin. Where are you?”

  “In my car. What’s up?”

  “I just talked to Erdham with the FBI. He pulled a partial print from under the floorboard in your house where one of the bugs was placed.”

  “And?” The oxygen circulating through my body slowed to a crawl.

  “It’s Glynn, Patrick. Gerry Glynn.”

  I looked through my steamed windows and could just make out the shape of the bar, and I felt unequivocal terror like I’d never felt in my life.

  “Patrick? You there?”

  “Yeah. Look, Devin, I’m outside Gerry’s place now.”

  “You’re what?”

  “You heard me. I came to the same conclusion an hour ago.”

  “Jesus, Patrick. Get out of there. Now. Don’t fuck around. Go. Go.”

  I wanted to. Christ, I wanted to.

  But if he was in there now, packing a bag with ice picks and straight razors, preparing to head out to pick up another victim…

  “I can’t, Dev. If he’s here and he moves, I’m following him wherever he goes.”

  “No, no, no. No, Patrick. You hear me? Get the fuck out of there.”

  “Can’t do it, Dev.”

  “Fuck!” I heard him bang something hard. “All right. I’m on my way over there now with an army. You got it? You sit tight, and we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. He moves, you call this number.”

  He gave it to me and I scribbled it on the pad velcroed to my dash.

  “Hurry,” I said.

  “I’m hurrying.” He hung up.

  I looked at Phil. “It’s confirmed. Gerry’s our guy.”

  Phil looked at the phone in my hand and his face was a mixture of nausea and desperation.

  “Help’s on the way?” he said.

  “Help’s on the way.”

  The windows had fogged over completely and I wiped at mine again, saw something dark and heavy move out of the corner of my eye, near the back door.

  The
n the door opened and Gerry Glynn hopped inside and put his wet arms around me.

  38

  “How you guys doing?” Gerry said.

  Phil’s hand had slipped into his jacket, and I looked at him so he knew I didn’t want him pulling a gun in the car.

  “Good, Gerry,” I said.

  I met his eyes in the mirror and they were kind and slightly amused.

  His thick hands patted my sternum. “I surprise you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Sorry. Just I saw you guys sitting in here and I thought to myself, ‘Now why are Patrick and Phil sitting in a car on Dot Ave. at twelve-thirty in the morning during a rainstorm?’”

  “Just having a chat, Ger,” Phil said and his attempt at sounding casual came out sounding forced.

  “Oh,” Gerry said. “Well. Hell of a night for it.”

  I looked at the wet red hairs spreading limply down his forearms.

  “You looking to get lucky with me?” I said.

  He narrowed his eyes at me in the mirror, then looked down at his arms.

  “Oh, Jeez.” He removed his arms. “Whoops. Forgot how wet I was.”

  “You’re not working the bar tonight?” Phil said.

  “Huh? No. No.” He propped his forearms on the back of our seat between the two headrests, leaned his head in. “Bar’s closed at the moment. I figured, weather like this, you know, who’s going to come out?”

  “Too bad,” Phil said and coughed out a ragged half chuckle. “Could have used a drink tonight.”

  I looked at the driver’s wheel to conceal my fury. Phil, I thought, how could you have just said that?

  “Bar’s always open to friends,” Gerry said happily and slapped our shoulders. “Yes, sir. No problem there.”

  I said, “I don’t know, Ger. It’s getting a little late for me and—”

  “On the house,” Gerry said. “On me, my friends. ‘A little late,’” he said, and nudged Phil. “What’s with this guy?”

  “Well—”

  “Come on. Come on. One drink.”

  He hopped out of the car and opened my door before I thought to reach for it.

  Phil was giving me a What-do-we-do? look and the rain was spitting through the open door into my face and neck.

  Gerry leaned into the car. “Come on, guys. Trying to drown me out here?”

  Gerry kept his hands in the pouch of his hooded warm-up sweater as we jogged to the bar door, and when he removed the right to open the door with his key, the left remained in the pouch. In the dark, with the wind and rain in my face, I couldn’t tell if he had a weapon in there or not, so I wasn’t about to pull my own and attempt a citizen’s arrest on the street with a jittery partner for back-up.

  Gerry opened the door and swept his hand out ahead of him so we’d pass first.

  A muted halo of yellow illuminated the bar itself, but the rest of the place was dark. The pool room, just beyond the bar, was pitch black.

  “Where’s my favorite dog?” I said.

  “Patton? Up in the apartment, dreaming doggie dreams.” He snapped the bolt-lock, and Phil and I looked back at him.

  He smiled. “Can’t have any regulars stumbling in, getting pissed at me for closing up earlier.”

  “Can’t have that,” Phil said and laughed like an idiot.

  Gerry gave him a quizzical look, then glanced at me.

  I shrugged. “Neither of us has slept in a good while, Gerry.”

  His face immediately jellied into an expression of the deepest sympathy.

  “I almost forgot. Jesus. Angie was hurt last night, wasn’t she?”

  “Yeah,” Phil said and now his voice was too hard.

  Gerry went behind the bar. “Oh, guys, I’m sorry. She’s okay, though?”

  “She’s okay,” I said.

  “Sit, sit,” Gerry said and rummaged in the cooler. His back to us, he said, “Angie, she’s, well, special. You know?”

  He turned back to us as we sat and placed two bottles of Bud in front of us. I removed my jacket, tried to appear normal, shook my hands free of rain.

  “Yes,” I said. “She is.”

  He frowned at his hands as he popped the tops off the bottles. “She’s…well, every now and then you get someone in this town who’s just unique. Full of spirit and life. Angie’s like that. I’d rather die myself than see harm come to a girl like that.”

  Phil was gripping his beer bottle so hard I was afraid it would shatter in his hand.

  “Thanks, Gerry,” I said. “She’s going to be fine, though.”

  “Well, that calls for a drink.” He poured himself a shot of Jameson’s, raised the glass. “To Angie’s recovery.”

  We touched bottles to glass and drank.

  “You’re okay though, Patrick?” he asked. “I heard you were in the middle of the firefight, too.”

  “Fine, Gerry.”

  “Thank the good Lord for that, Patrick. Yes, sir.”

  Behind us, music suddenly exploded in our ears and Phil jerked around in his seat. “Fuck!”

  Gerry smiled and touched a switch under the bar, and the volume descended rapidly until the wall of noise became a song I recognized.

  “Let It Bleed.” Absolutely fucking perfect.

  “Jukebox kicks on automatically two minutes after I come through the door,” Gerry said. “Sorry to spook you.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “You okay, Phil?”

  “Huh?” Phil’s eyes were the size of hubcaps. “Fine. Fine. Why?”

  Gerry shrugged. “You just seem a little jumpy.”

  “No.” Phil shook his head violently. “Not me. Nope.” He gave us both a broad, sickly smile. “I’m aces, Gerry.”

  “O-kay,” Gerry said and smiled himself, gave me another curious look.

  This man kills people, a voice whispered. For fun. Dozens of people.

  “So anything new?” Gerry asked me.

  Kills, the voice whispered.

  “Huh?” I said.

  “Anything new?” Gerry repeated. “I mean outside of getting in a shootout last night and all.”

  He dissects people, the voice hissed, while they’re still alive. And screaming.

  “No,” I managed. “Outside of that, everything’s been pretty status quo, Ger.”

  He chuckled. “A wonder you’ve made it this far, Patrick, the life you lead.”

  They beg. And he laughs. They pray. And he laughs. This man, Patrick. This man with the open face and the kind eyes.

  “Luck of the Irish,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it.” He raised his glass of Jameson’s and winked, downed it. “Phil,” he said as he poured another, “what’re you doing these days?”

  “What?” Phil said. “How do you mean?”

  Phil clung to his seat like a rocket to its booster, as if the countdown had already begun and any second he’d shoot up through the roof.

  “For work,” Gerry said. “You still work for Galvin Brothers?”

  Phil blinked. “No, no. I’m, ah, a private contractor now, Gerry.”

  “Steady work?”

  This man opened Jason Warren’s body up and amputated his limbs, severed his head.

  “What?” Phil sucked some beer from the bottle. “Oh, yeah, pretty steady.”

  “You guys are a little slow tonight,” Gerry said.

  “Ha-ha,” Phil said weakly.

  This man hammered Kara Rider’s hands into frozen dirt.

  His fingers snapped in front of my face.

  “You still with us, Patrick?”

  I smiled. “Take another beer, Gerry.”

  “Sure thing.” He kept his eyes on me, steady and curious, as he reached behind him into the cooler.

  Behind us “Let It Bleed” had given way to “Midnight Rambler” and the harmonica sounded like a persistent chuckle from the grave.

  He handed me the beer, and his hand touched mine around the icy bottle as he did so and I resisted the urge to
recoil.

  “FBI interrogated me,” he said. “You hear about that?”

  I nodded.

  “The questions they asked, my God. Sure, they’re just doing their jobs, I understand, but the miserable cunts, I swear.”

  He flashed his smile at Phil, but it didn’t fit those words, and suddenly I was aware of a smell that had been in here with us since we entered. It was a sweaty, musky smell, commingled with the stewy stench of matted hair and flesh.

  It wasn’t coming from Gerry or Phil or me, because it wasn’t the smell of a human. It was the smell of an animal.

  I glanced at the clock over Gerry’s shoulder. Fifteen minutes exactly since I’d talked to Devin.

  Where was he?

  I could still feel his hand where it had glanced off mine around the beer bottle. The skin burned.

  That hand plucked out Peter Stimovich’s eyes.

  Phil was leaning to his right, peering at something around the corner of the bar and Gerry looked at both of us and his smile evaporated.

  I knew the silence was heavy and uncomfortable and suspicious, but I couldn’t think how to break it.

  That smell rose into my nostrils again, and it was sickly warm, somehow, and I knew it came from my right, from the pitch black of the pool room.

  “Midnight Rambler” ended and the silence that replaced it for a moment filled the bar.

  I could just barely hear a low, almost imperceptible chugging sound coming from the pool room. The sound of breathing. Patton was back in the dark somewhere, watching us.

  Talk, Patrick. Talk or die.

  “So, Ger,” I said and my throat felt dry, as if the words would strangle in my throat, “what’s new with you?”

  “Not much,” he said, and I knew he’d given up on small talk. He watched Phil openly now.

  “You mean outside of being interrogated by the FBI and all?” I grinned, tried to bring the forced lightness back to the room.

  “Outside of that, yeah,” Gerry said, his eyes on Phil.

  “The Long Black Veil” took “Midnight Rambler’s” place. Just one more song about death. Wonderful.

  Phil stared at something around the corner of the bar, on the floor, out of my eyesight.

  “Phil,” Gerry said. “Something interest you?”

  Phil looked up sharply and then his eyes half-hooded over, as if he were completely nonplussed.

  “No, Ger.” He smiled and held out his hands. “Just looking at that dog bowl on the floor, and, you know, the food in there’s wet, like Patton was just chewing it. You sure he’s upstairs?”