by Jeff Johnson
They let that sink in. It did.
“I’m being chased by a porno guy?”
Pressman shuffled back to the table. His gray face was even more gray than it had been when I walked in. He looked ill, in a profoundly real way.
“We don’t know,” Pressman continued. He looked at Dessel. “Holland is a piece of shit, but not this kind.”
Dessel evidently agreed. He lit a cigarette and when he did his mask dropped a little more. He was as bad off as his partner. Worn. He got up and started pacing, slower than usual, and the spring, that characteristic tight pop that ran from his calves to his boyish butt was flat.
“The man in that photo actually has no name,” Agent Dessel began. “His teeth are implants. Fingerprints chemically removed at some point along the line. No DNA on file, which is amazing. Amazing.” He said it the second time like he was suddenly talking to himself. “He takes on the name of a flower, sometimes. More often than minerals, but there’s that, too. He’s the, ah, he’s the meat.” He stopped talking, searching for the right words.
“The guy with the dick,” Pressman intoned.
“Right.” Dessel rubbed his eyes. “Midnight is for hire. The case came to us with a thousand question marks and redacted pages. Cold and lost and rambling, just a collection of half-mad bullshit from Quantico and Homeland, some rookie crap out of Scranton PD.” He took a breath. “Midnight has a market angle, I guess you call it. Shame. This last one, the one we downloaded last night, on my personal fucking computer!” His voice had risen sharply. He controlled himself. “Which I will have to burn now. It was a housewife. They, ah, it’s a montage? Series of vignettes? Help me, Bob.”
“Episodic documentary.”
“Right,” Dessel said lifelessly. “They have her on camera. Maybe three months of it. See . . . they destroyed her life, this woman. Followed her while they did it, so it was really clear what was happening. Got her fired from a good job. Then evicted. Fucked up her bank account. Isolated her, very carefully.” He stopped talking. Pressman picked it up.
“The camera footage from the bank, we have no idea how they did that. Lots of it came from security cameras. That’s what tipped us off to the street cam system.”
“Such perfect evil,” Dessel said then. “In the end she was ruined. Made hopeless. She went from person to animal and they filmed the entire transformation.” It was Dessel’s turn to sit by the window. He talked as if to himself again. “Last clip is of her in this shitty motel. Alone, like . . . alone. Desperate. So confused at it all, too, and so sad there at the end. Blows her brains out. God knows where she got the gun. They probably arranged that, too.”
“That’s when the Mineral Flower Man enters,” Pressman said, his voice the voice of a ghost. “Wrapped in clear plastic, but it’s him. He . . . does things to her then.” He pointed at my place at the table, the empty coffee cup. “Agent Lopez is in the bathroom puking.”
No one said anything as Dessel returned to his chair. He sorted through the mess in front of him and came up with a second photo, stared at it.
“There is one shot of the Mineral Flower Man’s employer,” he began. “From the Scranton PD.” He turned it around in. Two men, talking in front of a warehouse. One of them was their mineral flower monster, dead from Santos’s shovel. “You recognize the other guy?”
Riley Wharton. Alive.
“Shit.” It just came out of me. Pressman and Dessel were stunned.
“Who is this, Darby?” Dessel leaned in. “Please, please don’t lie. Not this time. This is the nightmare man. The animal after midnight. We can show you this video, but you’ll never sleep with the light off again for the rest of your life. This one time, no shit. This time tell the truth.” He leaned back. Pressman put his hands flat on the table. He was trembling. I watched as he reached under the table and clicked something. The recorder.
“No shit, Holland. These guys need to die.” Pressman’s vice was a low growl. “This isn’t about the law anymore. This isn’t even about right and wrong. We’re past that.”
“Who is this?” Dessel hissed. Abruptly, he dropped the photograph and started wiping his hands on his pants again, rhythmically, like a broken toy.
“Off the record? I mean all the way off?”
They both nodded without looking at each other.
“The new lady,” I said. “I mean her, too. This goes no further than the three of us.”
This gave them pause. What I was asking would officially put us in bed together as conspirators. It was a pension wrecker for Pressman and a career-ending move for Dessel if they followed me into the dark and got caught in it.
“No DA would give a shit what happened to these guys if he saw one of the videos, Holland.” Pressman rubbed the patch of chest over his heart. “You give us this and we will take it to the wall. But if you pull one of your vanishing acts, where this guy is never seen again and no one can ever find anything, keep in mind the woman in the video we told you about. There are almost a hundred of them that we know of. People hire Midnight Rider Productions to do this horror shit and it’s all done via encryption. The names are in their heads. We need that list.”
“We need every single name of everyone who ever hired them,” Dessel said emphatically. “This isn’t about my career or having Bob land a promotion on his way out. This shit is real. Everyone has to go down, every last one of them, every single motherfucker who ever got involved.”
I got up and looked at the door. Then I looked back at them. It amazed me, but I was going to tell them. The truth, too. It was every bit as ugly as it could be.
“Bob,” I began. “Gimme your flask.”
Pressman didn’t even flinch at my use of his first name. Without missing a beat, he reached into his suit coat and took out the flask we all knew was there, tossed it to me. I spun the cap and took a big pull, set it on the table so I could finish the rest as I ratted out the devil. There was a camera high on the wall, so I walked over and unplugged it. I didn’t know if it was recording, or even if it worked, but I’d seen people do it in the movies. Then I picked up the photograph of the Mineral Flower Man and showed it to them.
“This sack of shit is already dead.” I tossed the photo back on the table, face down.
“How?” Dessel was not fazed, relieved, or irate. Neither was Pressman.
“Followed me earlier. Long story I’m not going to tell so don’t even ask, but essentially he was going to abduct me and the gangster I was babysitting killed him with a shovel.”
Pressman closed his eyes. Dessel nodded and looked at the back of the photo, reached for it, changed his mind.
“He have a computer?” Dessel asked. “Cell phone? What happened to his personal effects?”
“Gone. For good kinda gone.”
“Fuck. What about his boss? The other guy in photo number two?”
“He was called Riley Wharton when I knew him.” The name caught in my throat. It all came back in a gutty heave when the sound of it left my head. The fire. The screaming howl of sirens. All the blood. The train tracks and the rusted tire iron. A lone tooth, glinting in the moonlight.
“Darby,” Dessel prompted softly.
“It was after the last foster home,” I continued. “I was fifteen.” I drained the last of Pressman’s booze. The crap whiskey tasted like weed killer. “Denver. This one night, God it was cold. I was so broke and so hungry. Neither of you guys have ever been there. I mean right on the edge of where the body gives out and you sit down and you feel warm. Right there at the end. I could see it.”
I stopped talking. I’d never told anyone what I was about to tell them, not even Delia. It came out of me like broken light bulb glass.
“Denver. Two a.m. I—I wanted to find a warm place to look at the stars. Can you believe that? Like an air vent or a patch of roof with a hot pipe sticking out of it. I could see them as I walked but it was too cold to stop.” My hand went out at the memory. All my memories changed after that night, but in some bi
tter paradox I could still remember the difference. “So many stars! Oh, and they were so bright. That was the night I met Riley, and I was young enough to still believe in something. I thought he’d been sent to save me.” I laughed. “One thing led to another, and a couple hours later we were at some rich guy’s house. That’s where Riley brought the street kids. Rich guy had a thing for ’em.”
I stopped. Pressman and Dessel were frozen.
“They made the mistake of giving me food. I got away that night, but two, maybe three nights later this boy Owen tells me a story. Owen, he ran away from a foster home in Boston. Fourteen years old. Loved the Grateful Dead. Owen didn’t get away when Riley picked him up. They threw him out three days later. He could hardly walk.”
I finished the bug poison and lit a cigarette.
“A week later I had nine kids together in this crappy coin-op laundromat. We met Riley there and told him what was up. The rich guy was gonna pay and we were all gonna leave.”
I smoked. It was Dessel who finally said it.
“Riley killed them all, didn’t he?”
“Pretty much,” I replied. “The rich guy hired two killers, pros, and they worked the neighborhood. One by one they all went down. Hard, too. No bullets. All of them died bad hard deaths. Except for me.”
I could still see their faces. We were all so dirty.
“Tell us the rest,” Dessel said softly. “I’m sorry, but we have to know.”
“Riley took pictures of the carnage with one of those old Polaroids. He knew everything. He had all the cards. I was hiding out when the two hit men vanished. Then Riley went to ground. I knew something was going down. Rich guy was named Roberto Montoya. I figured if I could get them together. I dunno. Maybe I could kill them.” I looked up. Pressman was unreadable. Dessel licked his lips.
“But you didn’t.” Dessel clearly wished I had. I shook my head.
“No. But I put it all together. They were going to meet in front of this place by the university. Riley was going to hand over his photos in exchange for ten grand.” I laughed. “Ten grand.”
“Jesus,” Pressman growled. “That’s where it all started. Those photos. They were his first documentary.”
“I followed Riley after the exchange. The hit men were waiting for him, but he didn’t go home. He went straight from the blackmail meet to the train tracks.”
I smoked the rest of the cigarette in silence and tried to calm down. They let me try. It didn’t work.
“What happened then?” Dessel asked. “That was a long time ago, Darby. A different life.”
“A train was coming and I knew what he was going to do. He had a backpack stashed in the junk and the weeds. He’d get on that train and no one would ever see him again. So I stopped him. Or maybe that’s when he saw me. I can’t remember. But I asked him the only thing I could think of, the only thing that could stop for a second what was about to happen. I asked him, ‘Why did you do that?’” I dropped my cigarette on the floor and ground it out. The flask was empty. I took a deep breath.
“He told me he knew everything. He knew I’d find him at the tracks. He laughed and took my picture with the same camera.” I stopped talking. I could see it so clearly, the look on his face, the logic of it, how he believed he was a hero of some kind. The lights of the train spilling over my shoulder, the sound of the horn.
“What, ah—what then?” Dessel’s voice was barely audible. I focused and looked at him, back in the room again, and for the first time in all the long nights I’d been grilled by them, in all those hours, Dessel looked sad. I didn’t know his face could do it, but I could tell in that instant that it was his default expression. Dessel was sad all the time.
“I beat him to death. Or I thought I did. Took his backpack and the money and hopped the first freight train, went into hiding after that because so much shit had gone so crazy fuckin’ wrong. And I just stayed hid. Until you guys.”
They were quiet for a solid minute. Pressman spoke first.
“And he’s been looking for you all these years. And all these years you’ve been hiding because of crimes he committed.” Pressman looked like he was going to vomit. Dessel’s lips were blue.
“Then the big question is how did this fucking guy find you? If we can understand that, then we can maybe catch some part of a trail.” Dessel stared into space then, listening to his impressive brain as the wheels spun him out to nowhere.
“I think I know.” I took my phone out and dialed Delia. While it rang I looked at them. “Go get the new chick’s head out of the toilet. Shit just went from bad to worse.”
Delia got there ten minutes later. She was angry.
“Now you’ve gone and done it,” she spat at me. Dessel unconsciously recoiled at her fury. Pressman folded his arms. Agent Lopez opened her mouth. “You went and let them play with your Legos, didn’t you?” Delia tossed her thumb at Lopez. “Who’s this bitch?”
“Easy.” I raised my hands. “We’re on the same side tonight.”
“Have a seat, Ms. Ashmore,” Dessel said, rising. “We have a few questions if—”
“Lawyer,” Delia said. She pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “I’ll wait till she gets here.”
I sat, too. Then Dessel. When no one moved to make a call, Delia took her phone out and began doing it herself.
“Sweetie,” I said. “The, ah, don’t do that. All the cameras are off. This meeting is off the books.”
“Wait a minute,” Lopez said, turning to Dessel. “What the fuck is he talking about? If this shit—”
“Everyone shut up,” Dessel snapped, suddenly furious. He glared at me. “Darby. Tell her.”
“Delia. You told me that before you left you were going to drag the Lucky and me into the twenty-first century. Explain.”
“Now?” she asked incredulously. “What the fuck, man? Me and Hank were just getting ready to—”
“He’s asking if any of this upgrade, or whatever you call it, involved any mention of Darby and his past on any websites or social media,” Dessel said. “Any mention of Denver.”
Delia looked from them to me and back again.
“Someone from Denver found me,” I said. “If we can figure out how, it might help.”
“Shit,” she said, clearly thinking fast. “Shit shit shit. Who?”
“The worst fucking guy I’ve ever known.”
All four of us watched Delia think. She was wearing a wet black raincoat, a black bra, and bright red pants, but even Lopez could tell some impressive calculation was going down. Eventually, Delia looked right at Lopez, whose eyes widened.
“Name,” Delia demanded.
Lopez frowned. Delia didn’t let her say anything, just raised her hand and turned to me.
“Let’s roll.”
Everyone rose, me last.
“Delia,” I said, close to pleading, “if you can just calm the fuck down—”
“Not gonna happen,” she snapped. “You talk to me first. In private. Then I decide who gets to know what.”
“This is a crisis—” Dessel began. Delia stopped him with a finger.
“Get the new chick up to speed,” she said, “or out of the picture. If it’s a crisis I’d hurry the fuck up.”
She took my arm and pulled me from the room. I looked back. Pressman had turned to Lopez and the two were about to get into it, I could tell, but Dessel was staring right at me. The door closed.
“Delia.”
“Not here,” she whispered. “Not yet. Fill me in while they get their shit straightened out.” She pulled and I went with it. “I don’t know what kind of deal you were striking with the Boy Wonder and Bat Cow but the chick wasn’t in on it. So no dice. Keep quiet until we get out of this fucking bug-infested building.”
“Christ.”
We silently made our way down the empty hall to the elevator, then out through the lobby. It was still raining. Delia had her arm through mine, and I allowed her to guide me down the steps to the sidewalk. Her c
ar was parked across the street but we weren’t headed that way. At the corner we stopped. When she didn’t say anything, I realized she was waiting for me to take the lead.
“Denver,” I began. “I told you I came from Denver.”
“Something bad happened,” she replied. “You came here. It was a long time ago.”
I blew out a breath. “Not long enough. It will never be long enough. Let’s walk.”
Over the next hour, I told her everything. We wandered all the way up to the edge of the Pearl and then headed back. I started to wrap it up as we got back to her car.
“Squarespace,” she said when I finished. “I started a Lucky Supreme website. Your name and some pics of your work. A little bit of your story but not much.” She looked at me then. “After all this time I don’t really know that much.”
“Any mention of Denver?”
“I didn’t think it would be a big deal.”
I wiped my face. I was soaked. She must have been cold, the way she was dressed. We stood under a streetlight looking at each other.
“I’m surprised, too,” I said. I looked up. “I . . . I thought . . . fuck. That night all those years ago changed my life. Now it seems like, like, like—”
“Darby.”
I looked down at her. She reached up and cupped my cheek with one cold hand.
“You didn’t kill those kids. Turns out you didn’t even kill this guy Riley.”
“What now?”
“Depends.” She put her hand back in her pocket. “Let’s go back to your place. If Dessel and Pressman have the new gal on the same page, we need to give them everything and then lend them a hand. If they don’t”—she shrugged—“we still give them everything and help out, but we get an immunity deal. But before we do anything, we need food. You need a drink. I need to think.”
“What about Hank?”
“He’s asleep,” she said. “If he isn’t he’s off with one of the idiots from the band. I’ll be glad when I can have his nights to myself.”
On the drive back to my place, we were quiet. Surrounded by monsters. Again. I looked over at Delia. Her wet hair was plastered to her skull and her makeup was a mess. She was thinking. Thinking about the feds, about Riley, about the sick video business, about me, about how I was going to get out of it. If I was going to get out of it. What Suzanne would think when some awful thing bubbled up from my sketchy past and tried to eat me alive.
