Footsteps in the Dark

by Josh Lanyon

A shadow loomed over me. I tried to lurch aside, but a boot caught me hard in the back. My phone went flying as I crashed down into the grave with Sam and the corpse.

  A pained whimper escaped Sam. I scrambled off her. My knee burned and my wrist throbbed, but nothing was going to stop me from bounding up and reaching for the edge of the grave. My heart pounded deafeningly as adrenaline raced through my body. I heaved myself up.

  The beam of a headlamp flashed on, and the silhouette standing at the edge of the grave swung a shovel down. I jerked my hands back and fell just as the shovel slashed a deep gash into the soil. Gritty, damp dirt sprayed across my face.

  “Stay down.” Troy’s voice floated from the dark figure standing above us.

  “Troy? What are you doing?” Sam called out. “It’s us! Sam and Drew!”

  “I have eyes in my head, Sam,” Troy snapped. “Goddamn it, Samantha, you just can’t stop screwing things up, can you? What are you doing down here?”

  He raised the shovel, and I thought he was pondering taking a swing at my head. I tensed. If I had the chance to yank that thing out of his hands, I would. But then Troy stepped to the right.

  “If you’d taken the damn deal, we could have all gone on just fine. But you had to fuck it up.” His headlamp shone across the mound of freshly turned dirt. He scooped up a shovelful.

  “I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Troy hurled the dirt down onto us. A terrified gasp escaped Sam.

  I spit out a mouthful of dust, scooped up a fistful of dirt, and hurled it back at Troy. No fucking way was I just going to let him bury us alive. I grabbed another handful of dirt, compacted it, and hurled it hard. This time the mass of damp grit slammed into Troy’s head.

  “You little motherfucker!” Troy hefted his shovel. “Do that again and I’ll take the top of your head off.”

  “You don’t have to do this!” Sam shouted. “Whatever happened here, Drew and I won’t say anything about it. You can have Eelgrass. We’ll just go.”

  “If it was just you, Sam, maybe I’d believe that.” Troy scraped up another shovelful of earth. “But we all know Andrew is trouble.”

  “I’m trouble?” It was a minor slight, but at that moment it filled me with outrage. “You’re attempting to bury us alive! And you have the gall to claim that I’m trouble? What? Because I wouldn’t let you con Samantha out of her half of Eelgrass?”

  “The restaurant isn’t hers! It’s mine!” Troy shouted as he hurled the dirt down onto me. “I was going to help her set it up and run it just how it should have been. But then YOU came along!”

  The light of Troy’s helmet burned into my eyes.

  “Everyone loses their minds over you, because YOU’RE a hotshot Seattle chef. I was a chef! They just turned up their noses and kept stuffing greasy burgers and fries into their faces while I lost more and more money!”

  Troy slammed his shovel into the heap of dirt and leaned against it. He struck me as agitated and exhausted at the same time. And what was he talking about? When had he ever been a chef?

  “I was up to my neck in debt. The bank was foreclosing on my house,” Troy went on, and I wondered why he was telling this to Sam and me. Then I realized. He was in the process of justifying killing us. He was explaining everything—as if we’d somehow concur with his reasoning and lie down and let him bury us. But the more he talked the more our chances improved because these slow shovelfuls of dirt would eventually provide me with enough ground to get out of this hole.

  “That’s the business,” I replied. “It’s tough.”

  “No one gave a damn. And Troy! Troy just laughed at me. Wouldn’t give me a penny, but he offered to help me fake my death. What a brother, offering me a fucking penniless fresh start at forty-six. He deserved what he got.”

  Any time any guy speaks about himself in the third person, it’s a sign of insanity, but Troy didn’t seem crazy. Just furious. So if “Troy” deserved what he got, the man singing me a dirt nap lullaby must be…

  “So you’re Charlie.” I stole an instinctive glance to the corpse at my feet. I thought I saw the glint of a cuff link. Probably a match to the one Dorian had locked away in the safe-deposit box. “After Troy kept his part of the deal and reported you dead, you lured him down here?”

  “I didn’t lure him. I was hiding down here in Dad’s old man-cave, and he came to show me the blueprints of the improvements he’d make to my place. The joke was on him.” Charlie gave a dry laugh. “I’m running his shop better than he ever did, and not a single goddamned one of the people in this town even noticed the switch.”

  “I did,” Sam whispered.

  “You did not,” Charlie snapped.

  “I did. I thought I was going crazy. At first Dorian teased me about how I kept confusing you with Charlie…” Sam bowed her head and then sank to the ground.

  “And then he realized you were right,” I finished.

  “You should’ve kept you mouth shut, Sam.” Charlie swung the shovel and hurled dirt across us, then swept up another mound and tossed that after quickly.

  I watched Charlie closely, trying to sync up to the rhythm of his movements. If I could grab the shovel and give it a hard enough yank, I felt pretty certain I could pull him down. Or at least take the shovel from him.

  Sam remained hunched with her head down, as if she’d withdrawn entirely into herself to await her fate. Then I saw light flickering beneath her hands. The whisper of tapping sounded just beneath the noise of Charlie scraping up more dirt.

  Sam had my phone. And it looked like she was getting a signal—talking to someone. Most likely Mac. I put my plan to grab the shovel on hold and tried to do what I could to keep Charlie from noticing Sam.

  “So I guess it was you who killed Dorian as well.”

  “I don’t have to answer that.”

  “Why did you do it? Did he discover this grave? Who are we standing on? Your brother?” I asked.

  “No, he did not discover the grave,” Charlie corrected me. “He just found some junk that fell out of Troy’s pockets three years ago when I was dragging his corpse back here. A cuff link. He took it to the sheriff. Mike and I had a good laugh over the whacked-out little kook’s paranoid delusion.”

  Charlie tossed another mass of wet earth at me, but it fell short. He was getting tired and distracted. I edged a little nearer.

  “But if the sheriff didn’t take it seriously, then why did Dorian have to die?”

  “Because he just would not give it up. He contacted Mike’s nephew Big Mac.” Charlie gave a frustrated, snarling noise. “He’s dumb but persistent.”

  “Mac’s not dumb,” I spoke without thinking.

  Charlie gave a derisive snort.

  “What? Are you some kind of boy badge bunny? Dream on. He’s a Mackenzie. They’re not trash like your lousy employees. Fucking Dorian… The one time I come back just to make absolutely sure there’s nothing left here that he could have used against me, what happens? All of you show up to have some idiot after-hours party. And he comes traipsing down the stairs with a chef’s knife and starts laughing at me.”

  “That’s when you took the knife away and killed him.”

  “Yeah. He looked pretty surprised by it too.” Amusement sounded in Charlie’s voice. “If he really thought I’d murdered Troy, what was he expecting me to do to him? He never did think things through.”

  “Chief?” Lionel’s voice sounded far away.

  Charlie switched off the headlamp immediately. “You call him for help and I swear to God, I’ll take him out,” Charlie hissed at Sam and me.

  “Chief, you down here?” Lionel quieted, and I think we all strained to hear if he was coming any closer. For his sake, I prayed he wouldn’t.

  “I have a new crock of kimchee. This time my mom told me…” His voice trailed off in a curious way that made me feel certain he’d encountered the open door to the tunnel.

  Charlie sighed. He hefted his shovel up.

  I
had to stop him from taking a swing at Lionel, I realized, even if it meant taking a blow from the edge of that shovel.

  I bounded forward, caught the edge of the grave, and heaved my chest out of the hole. I swung one leg up and looped an arm around Charlie’s leg to drag him down.

  Charlie spun on me and kicked me off. I fell back into the grave with a heavy thud.

  Then suddenly a huge dark mass burst up from behind Charlie and wrenched him back and off his feet.

  “Mac?” Even through the dark I knew there was no one else that size on the island. But where had he come from? How long had he been here? Then behind him I glimpsed the light of the staircase that must have led up to Troy’s shop.

  Charlie swore and cursed as Mac slammed him into the dirt and mechanically Mirandized and cuffed him.

  Then Mac pulled out his flashlight and shone the glaring beam on me.

  “Are you hurt?” Mac demanded.

  “No.” I pulled myself up out of the grave and tried to brush the dust off.

  “Ms. Eider?” Mac called.

  “Present.” Samantha stood up, shading her eyes from the flashlight’s full force. I reached down and helped her climb up.

  “Very quick thinking calling us, Sam. Maybe next time don’t ask Lionel to provide distraction, though.”

  “He was on his way over anyway. There were like a million texts on Drew’s phone.” Sam handed me my phone. “You really should read these, Drew. Mac totally called Troy trying to murder us and told you to stay in plain view from the street until he got here.”

  “Nice.” I brushed a glob of dirt off Mac’s shoulder while Sam stepped gingerly around her prone cousin, heading for the staircase up. “But did you also figure out this asshole on the ground is really Charlie, the twin?”

  “Yes, I did.” Mac switched off the flashlight and pulled me into a crushing hug. His arms felt comforting, and his breath was warm against the side of my shoulder. He kissed me, and I kissed him back, my previous anger swept away by a rogue wave of relief.

  Over Mac’s shoulder I saw Lionel standing goggle-eyed, holding a celadon pickling crock in front of himself like a shield.

  “Woah, chief,” he said. “Get a room.”

  THE END

  Twelve Seconds by Meg Perry

  A mysterious phone call, a missing executive, and an exploding rocket throw space reporter Justin Harris and Air Force Special Agent Greg Marcotte into an investigation that will change their lives…if it doesn’t kill them first.

  Chapter One

  When his phone rang at 3:12 a.m., Justin answered half-asleep. “’Lo?”

  He was resigned to being awakened by his phone. As a space reporter for the Hughes-Simmons news syndicate, parent of the Orlando Tribune and other major newspapers around the US, Justin Harris was expected to respond to space news regardless of the hour. If an air leak developed in the International Space Station, if a rocket failed on a launch pad in French Guiana or Kazakhstan, if Elon Musk tweeted anything, Justin needed to hear about it.

  The voice was male, and low, as if the caller didn’t want to be overheard. “Justin Harris?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Roy Shaw with Skyose. I have a scoop for you.”

  Justin sat up in bed, shoving his hair out of his eyes, immediately alert. Roy Shaw was the chief operating officer of Skyose, a relatively new company, which was launching its first rocket in under twelve hours. Whatever scoop he had would be worth waking up for. “Okay, Mr. Shaw, what is it?”

  “I can’t explain it over the phone. This is something you need to see. Meet me at the Wawa on US 1 in Vero Beach at five.”

  Justin squeaked. “Vero Beach?” Even at this time of night, Vero was over an hour from Justin’s house in Cocoa Beach.

  “Yes. We can’t be seen. You won’t regret it.” Shaw hung up.

  Justin stared at his phone and said out loud, “What the hell?”

  But he had no choice. Whatever this news was, it must be huge.

  He switched on the bedside lamp and swung his legs out of bed. In so doing, he dislodged Elton and Bernie, his orange-and-white tabby cats, who turned baleful glares on him and meowed their displeasure. Justin meowed back, then thought, Good God. I’m the guy who meows at his cats. He said in English, “Get over it.”

  The cats curled up in the warm spot Justin had vacated. He showered and dressed, added food and water to the cats’ automatic dispenser, and checked his messenger bag even though he knew it was packed perfectly. He’d readied it last night for the launch. When it came to his work, Justin left nothing to the last minute.

  He wasn’t quite so organized in the rest of his life.

  At 3:45 a.m., Justin was in his car, heading west over the 520 Causeway toward I-95. At this time of night—morning, really—the only other drivers on the interstate were big rigs and older model cars with New York plates, traveling at precisely one mile per hour under the speed limit. Drug runners.

  Justin stayed well clear of all of them. As he drove, he tried to imagine what Roy Shaw might possibly have to tell him this close to launch. The SkyCatcher was scheduled for liftoff at two that afternoon. Ten hours away.

  Justin and his fellow reporters had placed their remote cameras at the launch site yesterday morning. They’d then attended a press conference, where officials from Skyose had answered questions for nearly two hours. Shaw hadn’t spoken at the conference; the discussion had been dominated by the Skyose engineers and the company’s CEO.

  Justin had already submitted his story on the press conference and had opened a file for the one he’d write after the launch. Which might be modified considerably depending on what Roy Shaw had to say.

  ***

  There was a Wawa right at the I-95 interchange in Vero, but Shaw had specified the US 1 location. Justin turned east toward the Intracoastal, then south a couple of blocks when he reached US 1. Wawa stood like a glowing beacon in the otherwise sleeping town. Justin parked and went inside. There was one other customer, a young guy with a baby strapped to his chest, walking the aisles, drinking a soda, and crooning softly to the baby. The cashier, a burly guy in a muscle shirt, growled, “Welcome to Wawa.”

  “Thanks.” Justin ordered a breakfast burrito and coffee and sat down to eat. He checked his watch. Shaw was due in two minutes. Justin scarfed down his burrito and dug his notepad and pen out of his messenger bag.

  Twenty minutes later, Shaw still hadn’t arrived. Justin was concerned. Sometimes a big crash on I-95 would close the highway for hours; maybe he was stuck behind a wreck.

  But he could have called…

  At 5:45, Justin was mad. The guy was a no-show and hadn’t bothered to call. He’d better have a fucking good reason if I see him at the post-launch news conference. He called Shaw, ready to bawl him out over his excuses…but the call went straight to voice mail.

  Justin muttered, “Shit,” and didn’t bother to leave a message. He sent a text to Tim Farmer, his coworker and the reporter responsible for the space-related video content of the Hughes-Simmons website, who’d recorded yesterday’s press conference. Hey Tim, will you send me the link to your raw footage from yesterday? Want to review it. Then he bought a carton of milk and a donut, chastising himself for the junk calories as he did so, and headed home.

  ***

  He started a load of laundry, then settled onto his sofa with his laptop and clicked on Tim’s link. The pre-launch press conference at Skyose’s Port Canaveral headquarters had been scheduled for an hour but had lasted almost two. Cabo Barnes, the CEO of Skyose, hadn’t seemed to mind answering the same inane questions again and again.

  Justin didn’t remember hearing anything out of the ordinary, but then he hadn’t been listening with Roy Shaw’s phone call in mind. He clicked Play and attempted to listen between the lines of the mind-numbing repetition.

  He rolled his eyes at the cliché as, on video, Cabo Barnes described his company’s SkyCatcher rocket as “a giant leap in rocket technology.” Bar
nes was yet another eccentric billionaire who wanted to fly to space, but he wasn’t nearly as quotable as Musk, Bezos, or Branson. He’d made his fortune not by building companies, but by investing in them early and often. He’d bought Apple, Google, Microsoft, and Amazon stocks low and sold high. Rumor was he was an idiot savant when it came to investing and didn’t know shit about anything else related to his business. The company was managed by the COO, Roy Shaw, and by the CFO, Lyle Briggs.

  On Justin’s screen, Shaw and Briggs were sitting to Barnes’s left. Briggs, who had the misfortune to resemble an oversize hamster, was tapping on his phone, not bothering to hide his boredom. Probably playing a game, Justin thought. Shaw, a slender, intense guy, seemed nervous; Justin could see his left knee bouncing up and down under the table.

  Hmm. He hadn’t noticed Shaw’s tension yesterday.

  Two Skyose engineers were sitting to Barnes’s right, along with two executives from a communications company called Ideodax, Sam Boone and Glenn Pietras. Ideodax was the manufacturer of the unidentified payload that was along for the ride on the SkyCatcher.

  Reporters kept asking Boone and Pietras about the payload, and they kept responding, “No comment.” Justin didn’t understand the secrecy. He figured the cargo must be a communications satellite. Nothing else made sense.

  As Barnes and the engineers droned on, Justin mentally reviewed what else he knew about Skyose. The company was the newest private rocket venture, hoping to divert business away from Elon Musk’s SpaceX and Jeff Bezos’s Blue Origin. Their home base was in New Mexico, where they built their rockets in a sprawling factory southwest of Las Cruces, and rented space to test them from Sir Richard Branson’s Spaceport America. Their Port Canaveral office building was vast and state-of-the-art, with a shimmering exterior that seemed to change color with the position of the sun. No expense spared.

  So far, Skyose had struggled to get a rocket off the ground. They’d suffered several spectacular disasters during testing and had redesigned their engines over and over. But their latest iteration, the SkyCatcher rocket, had been relatively trouble-free. Its initial flight this afternoon would be the event of the year for the space journalism community.