[Darkthorn 01.0] Pond Scum

by Michael Lilly

  Beth is tough, and can definitely handle herself. I find brief, sickly amusement of her tormentors trying to intimidate her, only to be verbally gut-punched (and maybe not so verbally, at times).

  Your boy’s going to be put away soon, they’d say. He’ll die or get caught. Either way, he won’t be doing much moving before long. We’ll see to it personally. In the meantime, a pretty girl like you’s gotta have some fun now and then, right? Then they’d wink perversely.

  Without missing a beat, she’d probably reply with, Ah, a damn shame. If he does go down, maybe you can do a double funeral, bury your dick at the same time, for all the action it’ll see.

  I love Beth.

  Part of me realizes that this joking is most likely a way to cope with a potential horror waiting within those walls. Maybe they have her tied to a chair or a pillar in the basement, or maybe they have her in a locked and guarded room.

  Maybe she’s already dead, wrapped up in somebody’s trunk, waiting for the order to be dumped in a ditch three states away.

  Our sibling-like relationship is a double-edged sword. On one hand, we’re more likely to agree with one another on things, which itself is both advantageous and hindering; we get along beautifully, but on cases that require in-depth thinking and mental gymnastics of two detectives at top speed, we often do the work of one detective, being that our minds are on the same track, going the same speed.

  In this instant, our relationship is an advantage. Perhaps the adversary views our relationship as more than platonic, or maybe less than friendly, but that’s irrelevant. The power and advantage of our relationship lies with us, with me. I know that she’s strong, and that leaves a large part of my mind able to focus on what I need to do, rather than occupy itself with worry about what they may be doing to her. Simultaneously, she trusts me, and I’m sure that she knows that I’m doing everything I can to come to her aid.

  After several more minutes with no visible movement, I decide that it’s time to move in. I look both ways before crossing the street, on the lookout more for my watchers than for oncoming traffic, and cross the yard to the front door. Crouching, I put on gloves and reach into my pocket for my lock picks.

  I insert the pick itself, as well as the tension lever. One pin, two pins, three, four.

  The lock turns and the door eases open soundlessly.

  I’m greeted by a scent that, under the circumstances, seems far too sweet and welcoming: sugar cookies. As made evident by the ashtray on the porch, the smokers of the household light up outside rather than in. The age of the house, while fairly evident from an outside perspective, is much better concealed within its walls; the frescoed walls are immaculately white, with coats of paint only interrupted by an occasional landscape print or shelf, displaying antique guns or framed pictures of Martin with two of his friends. The photograph appears to be decades old, featuring a fully-haired Jackson brimming in life, unaware that he was to grow into a man seeking to suck it out of others. The carpet is short, the kind owned by mothers insistent that you remove your shoes before entering.

  My phone rings, and I nearly have to change my pants. I hit the button on the side to silence the ringing, and fly out the way I came, hoping that, if anyone is inside, they don’t hear me. I don’t have the time to assess the noise I make as I make it. I zip back across the street to the refuge of the cluster of trees in which I hid before. My phone is still ringing silently. It’s Sanders.

  Accepting the call and doing my best not to sound winded, I answer.

  “Hey, where did you say that hair sample came from?” he asks. He seems a lot more focused now, which could spell trouble for me. Sanders may like me, but not enough to risk his career helping me impose on a case I shouldn’t be working.

  “I found it in the evidence box on an old case and saw that it hadn’t been run. Why?”

  “It’s Connors’s ex.”

  Eight

  “Do we have much on him in the database?” I’m trying to keep my voice calm. My talent of keeping level-headed and virtually unaffected by emotion wavers; it needs fuel in the form of caffeine and the fattiest burger I can find.

  “Not a lot. There was that one case with the two of them, then a couple of traffic tickets. He was arrested on possession a few months back, but it was dismissed due to most of the evidence being either circumstantial or inadmissible entirely.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A couple of years back. Not long after that thing with Connors, actually.”

  “If there’s a floater available, would you have them look into him have them call me if anything noteworthy shows up?”

  “Will do. Any reason you’re looking into this now? Should I be worried?”

  “Not yet,” I lie again.

  “How you holdin’ up?”

  “I’m doing all right. I think a return to routine will be good for me.” And good for the world, if I can pin down Keroth and get Beth back. One of the things I like most about Sanders is that he cares just the right amount. He doesn’t pry, which means I don’t have to make up lies about crying myself to sleep, reminiscing the good ol’ days when Dad and I would go fishing and then out to ice cream.

  “Yeah, that may be best. Anything else you need?” He’s asking professionally, with the tonal suggestion of a friend’s reliable shoulder.

  “No, that’s it. Thanks for your help, man.” I end the call and exhale, suddenly aware of how tense I’ve been for the past few minutes, and swimming in gratitude that I didn’t explore Jackson’s house any more than I did. For the course of several breaths, I feel my nerves twitching back into place, as though the call encased me in an ice case that melts off of me with every breath.

  Another trip to the station isn’t necessary; I don’t need a database to find out where Patrick Dodd lives. The couple dated two years ago, but only for about six months. They got together in April, and fell into puppy-like love with each other, just like in the movies. Beth was no softy then, but she was much more so than she is now. These days, having been hardened by the icy winds of heartbreak, she comes off as just as cold, but underneath that front, she hides a warmth as steady and reassuring as a mother’s embrace is to her infant.

  After four months of dating, he started to become possessive in a more-than-jealous way. He told her to leave the force because she had so many male coworkers, and she told him to suck a fat one. Two months later, after rapidly escalating fights and emotional abuse, the abuse became physical and she left him. She never went into detail and I never pressed for them, but I’d imagine that the reason she didn’t beat the hell out of him back then was more out of self-restraint than out of submissive victimhood.

  He started off sending her apology letters and leaving gifts on her porch, and when she didn’t respond, they became slightly more extravagant. He sent a bouquet of roses with a cheesy poem that he certainly didn’t write and almost as certainly didn’t even read, and she told him to fuck off. From that point, he began sending her progressively less veiled threats of violence to her and to her family (her mother is a sweet, near-deaf and near-blind woman who lives in town; nice and accessible).

  After a week of surveillance on him and his house, and a uniform tailing her mother almost everywhere she went, he finally relented, which was a good move; I insisted on being part of the task force keeping her safe, and I wouldn’t have hesitated to blast his brains out if he made an ill-intentioned move.

  Now, his thin, curly hair drawn back into a pretentious ponytail bubbles back to the surface of my consciousness, threatening to bring with them the wellspring of anger that I’ve always reserved just for him.

  Beth likes a clean cut. After she left him, none of the gifts that he sent her got looked at twice, nor did they even make it into the house; she saw whatever the heart-vomit of the day was, picked it up, and took it directly to the garbage can at the side of the house. She likely would have thrown away anything else that had been associated with him throughout their relationship; phot
os, other gifts, etc. She also moved into her current house about a year ago, well after they had last seen each other, ruling out the idea that a single hair had somehow survived Beth’s relentless cleaning onslaught.

  Pat has been in her house. Recently. Probably last night. Whether or not it was connected to my current battle with Keroth remains to be seen, but regardless, I need to get her safe. Patrick should know better than to enter a detective’s house and kidnap her; surely he must suspect that he’ll be tracked down and caught, especially since his title of ‘asshole ex-boyfriend’ would earn him an automatic spot at the top of the potential suspects list.

  Unless, of course, he was bribed or coerced. I doubt he’d need much convincing to reunite with what he thought was his anyway. Hell, a couple of drinks and a mere suggestion that she did, in fact, belong to him, may have done it. His emotional volatility is symptomatic of his vulnerability, which, at first, was one of the things that attracted Beth. But when insecurity overwhelmed him, rather than gratitude, trust, and love, volatility won over and fueled some drastic moves.

  Unless he’s done some serious changing over the past two years, there is no reason this isn’t him.

  When I whip back to the present, I’m already headed toward his place, a block or two removed from the center of town, two blocks north of the park where my dad met his end. Perhaps Patrick will meet a similar one.

  I’m walking faster than I would normally advise for a person who wishes to remain invisible, but right now, speed is more important than invisibility. I dart from street to street, while they seem to lengthen in front of me, drastically slowing my progress. Eventually I round the corner to where Patrick lives; a big, but modest, apartment building. Perhaps one of the biggest buildings in Riverdell, but that doesn’t say much, as there isn’t much heavy competition. The parking lot is full, save for a handicap spot in front of the side entrance.

  My gloves still on, I pull open the door and opt to take the immediately adjacent stairwell rather than wait for an elevator. I ascend to the third floor and try to convince myself that my increased heart rate is a result of sudden and unwelcome cardio and not the potentially grisly scene that awaits.

  Room 308 looks just as it did two years ago, including the chunk that had been torn out of the jamb when Beth stormed out. I find myself mildly impressed that he’s able to let that be, but dismiss that sentiment when an image comes to mind of Patrick telling a guest about how it adds to his aesthetic. Shut up. Pretentious asshole.

  I listen at the door for a minute, still amidst efforts to steady my breathing and heart rate. After several arbitrarily deep breaths, I have control of my respiration once more, but my heart still will not comply. This will have to do.

  There’s no sound beyond my own heartbeat throbbing in my ears. Even the normal sounds of a town in life—passing cars, barking dogs—no longer reach me, and I wonder whether that’s because there isn’t much traffic at the moment or because the intensity of the situation has yanked me to a point in which reality is distorted just slightly enough to drive a man mad.

  Fortunately, I’m already mad.

  I hope to hear something from the inside, even as much as someone rising from a couch or the chink of a cheap plate being set down on a cheap countertop. But the apartment offers nothing, calling for me to show my hand.

  Allow me to clarify something: I don’t think of myself as one of those stoic protagonists who thrive on masterfully delivered one-liners and have a daily breakfast of steroids and their enemies’ tears. I also don’t think of myself as a vigilante, one called upon to do the work that the court system would not, could not. I don’t have any special powers other than the supernatural capacity to worry and overthink things. I am a killer, and that part of me was born of a dire need for balance, rules, and rightness. I know that murder is generally frowned upon, as is manipulating evidence to lock up a man (or woman, but more on that later) who didn’t commit that murder.

  But some people need to be removed from society temporarily.

  Some, not so temporarily.

  That being said, there’s nothing wise about what I’m about to do. In the interest of self-preservation, this is one of the dumbest things I could be doing. I recognize that there could be a man (or multiple men) armed and waiting for me, his gun trained on the exact place where my head will be in less than five seconds. But, Beth needs me. This began as a game of chess, and now my opponent has taken my queen, a rook, my bishops, and a knight. I have only one knight and a rook left to protect my pawn as it makes its way to the other end of the board to rescue my queen.

  Keroth delivered a challenge to my apartment, wrapped it up, and left it lying on my pillow, and here I am, rising to it as much as I can. I’m fully aware that there’s a palpable likelihood that this is a trap. But again, regardless, this isn’t a situation that can be ignored lightly. Were this a game of poker, I would have no qualms about calling a bluff, but in stakes this high, I must meet the ante and every raise from every player. Foolish, maybe, but in the interest of Beth’s safety, it remains the optimal philosophy.

  Grateful that no neighbors have come through the hallway, I feel my tension lever slide with a satisfying, yet barely audible, grind. The apartment welcomes me. The hairs on my arms and neck stand on end, deepening the tension imposed on me by my senses. Suddenly I feel as though the tiny tickles of my hairs are bugs, and I become flagrantly aware of the parts of my body that could be blown to smithereens upon my intrusion.

  I step inside, greeted by a cool stillness. There’s no heat running or air circulating. The apartment smells like coffee and sage. Suddenly I’m hit with a realization that perhaps should have been obvious before: there’s very little chance that they would keep Beth here. It’s too close to neighbors. Unless they kept her so sedated that she couldn’t move, or kept a gun trained on her the whole time, she could easily cause a ruckus that would have police here within minutes. Under a minute, if Perkins was driving.

  Still, my invasion continues, searching for any clues I can find to indicate that Pat was indeed at Beth’s house last night.

  Removing the pests (well, pest) from the apartment, along with his questionable decorating taste, I’ve always liked the bones of the apartment. Upon entry, a coat closet door appears to the left, the kitchen on the right. The kitchen has a wraparound countertop that offers plenty of cooking space, and the dark wooden cabinetry goes all the way to the ceiling. Beyond the counters and cabinets sits a small dining area, framed in the slatted sunlight in just such a way that one wouldn’t be lost for light, but it’s still not overbearing. A wall separates the dining area from the living room, which I enjoyed on the few occasions that I visited before now; whether visitor or host, the interfering noise of food preparation creates disruption, which in turn breeds awkwardness. Along the left wall, just beyond where the dining room breaks into the living room, a hallway opens to the left, which contains a powder room, the boiler and utilities room, and the singular, master bedroom. The living room is painted an ugly snot green, and decorated with art that calls itself abstract but looks more like it was assembled, drawn, painted, etc. on a bad acid trip.

  The shades and curtains are drawn, leaving relatively little light in the flat, but the midday sunlight is still plenty to illuminate the living room and kitchen. The kitchen betrays nothing but a dirty dish in the sink, bearing what remains of a translucently pink sauce. A series of expensive-looking knives occupy a knife block on the counter, leaving no empty slots. The cupboards, counter, and floor are immaculate.

  The living room is almost equally clean, but one of the throw pillows is near the center of the couch, rather than on the end, where it would be symmetrical to its counterpart. A book lies open beside it; probably Patrick was reading on the couch recently, with the pillow underneath his chest. Nietzsche.

  Patrick doesn’t have cable, but owns a television that he uses to watch VHS copies of French indie films or some shit. The bookcase containing his sizeable col
lection is neat and alphabetized, their cardboard cases having escaped the wearing-down that seems to have assaulted the rest of the ’90s.

  Last time I was here (with permission, no less), there was a series of mismatched ceramic bowls spread out on the counter bearing hummus, nuts, edamame, assorted vegetables (though without ranch dressing in which to dip it; the heathens), and pita chips. It was a controlled mess, like how Beth likes things, but imbued with the anxiety of someone who gives a shit what people think. Music (which was actually pretty decent) played from the record player, and people in turtlenecks (I wondered where they all came from; surely if I saw one of these people around town, I would have remembered them, but the folders in my mind containing the memories of them were freshly made and nearly empty, populated only with the images of that night) played a game where they would see who could boast the most about their charity and volunteer work without coming off as pretentious.

  They all lost.

  I roll my eyes just recalling this event, and open the half bath, with expectedly clean surfaces and some abstract painting on the wall that looks like it was probably an accident. No surprises in here.

  The bedroom is the last place in the apartment. It stands ajar, its dark depths swallowing any ray of light that manages to sneak through the front room. I listen hard and my breathing quickens and deepens once more. Still nothing. I ease open the door and flick on the light with my left hand, my right drawing my handgun from my hip.

  Nine

  Between relief and frustration, I’m not sure which is the more prominent emotion as my gaze sweeps the room and I find nothing of note. The bedroom features a queen-sized bed with a sleek, dark wooden frame that reminds me of Patrick’s cabinetry. On the left side, a nightstand bears a lamp that, in relieving contrast to the rest of his apartment, bears no loud floral pattern or thoughtless streaks of color. Instead, the lamp itself is cast-iron, with an eggshell-white lampshade. The right side has no side table, but has a desk with a vintage typewriter on it, for which Beth tormented him mercilessly.