The Dark Game

by Jonathan Janz

  Wells ignored her. “Storytellers have existed since the beginning of time. Even though society regards them as mere entertainers, their role is a sacred one. An essential one. And though they deal in fantasy, in fabrication, the essence of their power resides in truth. No one is more honest than the storyteller. No one has greater power. They have the ability to create life.” He looked at Marek. “Or to bring death.”

  There was a loud thump from the foyer. Then another.

  Wells rose. “Your escort is here.”

  “That’s not possible,” Will said. “It’s only been, what? A minute?”

  “I contacted the chief earlier,” Wells said. “After I discovered Mr. Sokolov’s deception.”

  Wells exited the library.

  Lucy glanced at the others. “Shouldn’t we fight this? Or at least ask for proof?”

  “There’s no need,” Marek said.

  Bryan leaned back in his chair. “I guess we’re down to nine.”

  Voices approached from the hallway.

  “I’ll get my things,” Marek said, going out.

  Lucy glanced at Rick, but there was no help there. He was staring at the door as though it would explode inward at any moment and immolate them in a sheet of flame.

  The door opened. The policeman who entered was at least six and a half feet tall. His head was proportionate to his vast frame, but the square jaw and protruding features made him look like a caricature – a college mascot made flesh. He was handsome in a brutish way. His legs were Doric columns, his feet great black slabs. He had a gut, but even this looked granite hard. He wore a brown cowboy hat.

  The chief grinned at Lucy, doffed his hat. “Ma’am.”

  She gave him a half-hearted wave.

  The chief glanced at Evan. “What about you, young man? You enjoyin’ it out here?”

  Evan’s smile was almost a grimace. “Sure I am. What writer wouldn’t?”

  The chief nodded. “I’ve never read Mr. Wells’s work myself, but my wife loves him.”

  Evan’s smile brightened. “Your wife has excellent taste.”

  “Does she?” the chief answered.

  Evan’s smile faded.

  “I’m ready,” a voice said.

  Marek stood in the doorway, a faded brown knapsack slung over his shoulder.

  The chief turned. “You have anything to say?”

  Marek raised his chin defiantly. “I have nothing to apologize for.”

  A corner of the chief’s mouth twitched. “Just as well. Come on then.” Marek exited, and the chief was halfway through the door when he paused and turned.

  To Rick he said, “Much obliged.” And he went out.

  Lucy exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath. She said to Rick, “What did he mean by that?”

  Rick’s face was bleached of color.

  “Rick?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “That’s him,” Rick said in a small voice.

  “What do you—”

  “John Anderson,” Rick said. “He’s the villain from my novel.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The police chief said nothing on the way through the forest, nor did he speak after they’d climbed into the cruiser. That was fine with Marek. He didn’t feel like talking anyway.

  He imagined the other writers celebrating his departure. Marek had considered himself the favorite to win. For one, he was the oldest. Maybe that didn’t count for much in the minds of the youth-obsessed, the fad-chasers perpetually on the lookout for the newest, youngest thing. But Marek could write, goddammit. He could write. And that should have counted for something.

  He glanced out the window, watched the black forest whir by. It was so damned unfair, being ousted this way. It was inexplicable how little the others had stuck up for him. Marek thought of his favorite novel, Lord of the Flies, of the innocent child hacked to pieces by his peers.

  “You’re nothing like Simon,” the big cop murmured.

  Marek turned. “What did you say?”

  The cop’s expression was bland. “You heard me.”

  Marek gazed at the huge man. He remembered a night in Belarus, caged in the back of a police car.

  You’re nothing like Simon.

  Marek shifted in his seat. Just coincidence. Nothing more. The big cop was a corn-fed hick. There was no conceivable way he could know what Marek had been thinking. No way he could have referenced the first character to be killed in Lord of the Flies.

  He could stand the silence no longer. “How long have you been an officer?”

  “We gonna be friends now?”

  Great, Marek thought. An asshole.

  Why should he be surprised? Weren’t all cops assholes? In Marek’s experience they were.

  Try a different tack. “You know Wells a long time?”

  Instead of answering, the cop glanced at him. “You know, you don’t look so good,” he said. “You shouldn’t steal so many damned cigarettes.”

  Marek’s belly dropped through the seat. He couldn’t feel his limbs.

  Because the cop hadn’t said smoke so many damned cigarettes, he’d said steal so many damned cigarettes. But that was impossible. Beyond impossible. It was paranoid and deranged. Please, Marek thought. Just get me out of this forest.

  The cop’s expression was neutral, like he’d commented on the weather. But Marek knew what the man had said, and what he’d said had frozen his fucking marrow.

  You shouldn’t steal so many damned cigarettes.

  He can’t know about that! Marek thought.

  But he did. Marek was sure of it.

  The cop eased to a stop, slid the cruiser into park.

  “Go sit in the back,” the chief said.

  Oh God. Was this an elaborate setup? To undo the plea bargain? Or, Jesus Christ, to extradite him to Belarus?

  “Don’t have a conniption fit,” the policeman said. “I just want everything to look kosher.”

  “Kosher?” Marek asked.

  “Folks around here, they like things done traditionally. If I’m to take you through Shadeland to the bus station – which is what I assume you want…?” His boulderlike head tipped forward, eyes wide, awaiting Marek’s confirmation.

  Marek nodded.

  The cop nodded too. “Then it would appear awful strange if you were sitting next to me as we rode through town. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know why.” Marek tried a laugh, but it came out tinny. “I’m not your prisoner after all.”

  The cop didn’t say anything to that. The chill in Marek’s bones deepened.

  “You ready?” the cop asked.

  Marek tapped his fingers on his knees. “It just seems…excessive.”

  Genuine mirth in the cop’s eyes. “Why don’t you let me decide that?”

  Marek sighed. The chief was on his home turf, there were no witnesses nearby. And even if the man weren’t a giant, he carried at least two guns – what looked like a Magnum .44 on his hip and a .38 Smith & Wesson on his ankle. Marek had gotten a good look at both, since the cop wore the .44 on his right side, and the man’s pant leg rode up when he sat down. Maybe, Marek reflected, that was by design. Maybe the cop wanted him to see the guns.

  But why?

  Because he likes the power, a voice in Marek’s head explained. Have you ever met a cop who didn’t? Just let him have his fun, and it’ll be over soon.

  Marek opened his door and climbed out. The cop did too. Briefly, Marek considered making a run for it, just bolting blindly into the forest. But that was unwise, he knew. If the cop did mean him harm, the man would have no trouble gunning him down. Marek was in horrid shape. He drank too much, smoked even more, only exercised when there was no other alternative.

  “It’s unlocked.”

  Marek turned, discovered t
he cop’s monolithic form watching him over the cruiser’s roof.

  Marek got into the back and shut his door.

  The cop climbed in beside him, the whole car dipping with the man’s weight.

  Marek frowned. “Why did you sit here?”

  Leaving his door ajar, the cop leaned back in the seat. “That’s better.”

  Marek’s heart boomed in his chest. “Please take me to the bus station.”

  “There’s no bus station.”

  “What?”

  The cop laughed. “Hell, I’m just kiddin’. I figured we’d take a few minutes, get things out in the open.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Why did you bring a phone?”

  Marek sagged. So that’s what this was about. “I don’t know. I guess I hated the idea of being cut off completely.”

  “How does it feel to sell out your best friend?” the cop asked.

  Marek tried to swallow, but it was as though someone had lined his throat with straw. “Did Wells.…”

  “I like to know something about the people who come under my jurisdiction. I checked out every one of you little shits.”

  Marek’s thoughts raced. So the cop knew about the smuggling. That was bad – maybe extremely bad.

  Marek swallowed. “What do you want to hear?”

  “All of it.”

  He hesitated. “What if you’re recording this?”

  The cop gave him an easy smile. “How about we trust each other?”

  Looking into the chief’s black eyes, Marek felt hypnotized. And a little disarmed. The man was a giant, but he seemed a gentle one. So he wanted to talk about Marek’s indiscretions, so what? Maybe the cop had his reasons.

  Marek nodded. “Can we maybe roll down the windows? It’s a bit close in here.”

  Had the cop tightened, his smile growing strained? “I can only control them from the front seat.”

  That made sense, Marek supposed. But he still didn’t like it. The big cop took up over half the back seat by himself. His right knee was touching Marek’s, and Marek was huddled against the door.

  Tell him what he wants to hear.

  “My father left when I was young. I began stealing so we could—”

  “Skip the Oliver Twist bullshit,” the cop snapped. “Tell me about the plea bargain.”

  Marek’s throat constricted. “That was later. That was—”

  “—when you were twenty-five, I know. You were scared shitless of going to prison because you knew you’d become someone’s bitch, so you sold out your best friend.”

  Marek began to tremble. “Why ask if you know it already?”

  “I know the facts of the case,” the cop said patiently. “What I’m asking you for is the personal stuff. The details. I’m asking you to explain how it felt to betray your friend to save your own lily-white ass.”

  A tear slipped down Marek’s cheek. He wiped it away, the wet stubble rasping against his palm. “You know how it felt.”

  Something swooped toward him, and then his head was snapping back, his ears ringing. Liquid pumped from his nose, and as he pawed at his mouth, the pain flooded in, like a torch blowing its blue jet of flame at the center of his face.

  “You can’t hit me,” Marek said, his voice querulous. “You were supposed to—”

  “To fuck you?” the cop interrupted.

  Marek stared at him in horror.

  The chief roared laughter. “Jeee-zus Chrrrr-ist, you’re a pussy. You know that, Suckalot?”

  “It’s Sokolov,” Marek protested. “My name is Sokolov!”

  “‘My name is Sokolov!’” the cop crooned in a ghastly falsetto, his voice like Count Dracula on helium.

  “You can’t assault me,” Marek persisted. “You can’t flash those guns and do whatever you want.”

  The cop drew back, his black pupils wreathed by huge white coronas. “You think the guns matter? Well, shit.” He threw open the door, and in two brisk movements discarded first the .44, then the .38.

  Marek clambered over him, thinking to tumble into the grass and squirm his way into the concealing underbrush.

  But the cop caught him and hoisted him bodily into the air. The back of Marek’s head cracked against the open doorway, his shoulders bashing the ceiling. The pain was extraordinary. Marek was wrenched sideways, his left eyebrow crashing into the cop’s battering ram of a forehead. Blood drizzled over Marek’s eyes. He was too dumbfounded to fight back, so when the cop thrust him toward where he’d been sitting, Marek crumpled to the floor and grasped his bleeding face.

  The chief’s tone was so jocular he might have been recollecting a fond childhood memory. “One of my favorites was a pretty blond girl. Just a kid, really. She’d gone home with a trainee of mine – he was married, mind you – and they were gonna get busy.” The chief tittered. “But I followed them inside – they didn’t lock the door, too horny for that – and I told the girl to pick up a pillow and hold it to her face.” The chief slapped his knees. “And can you believe it? She did what I asked! Jesus H. Christ, I never can figure why folks’ll go along with whatever you tell them. ‘Put the pillow to your head.’ ‘Get in the back of the cruiser.’ ‘I promise I won’t hurt you.’” He whistled. “Bunch of ignoramuses.”

  “What else was I supposed to do?” Marek wailed.

  The cop went on as though Marek hadn’t spoken. “I figured the pillow would dampen the sound, but it was still plenty loud. Her face sprayed like a bowl of pink soup.”

  “I’m sorry for what I did to Aleksei,” Marek said.

  “You sent him to prison, Suckalot. Let’s not mince words here. Not at this late hour.”

  “I’m sorry! Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “You think I care about your friend?”

  “So why are you doing this? If you don’t care, then why—”

  “Because I like killing people.”

  Marek began to weep.

  The cop gusted laughter. “Shit, buddy, don’t get so bent out of shape. I ain’t really gonna hurt you. How about you sit by me again?”

  Facedown, Marek began the job of pushing himself off the floor, but his hips became wedged between the seatback and the seat.

  “Here,” the cop said. “Lemme help you.”

  The cop jerked back on his arm. Pain slammed Marek’s shoulder, unspeakable, reddish-black pain that writhed like vipers. Marek was sobbing, but he didn’t care.

  “Whoops!” the cop said. “Damn thing just snapped like a defective toy. Here.…” And he pushed Marek face first onto the floor. Before Marek knew what was happening, the cop placed a boot on his rear end and hauled back on his shoulders. Marek realized distantly that he was being bent backward, bent in half. Something in his innards popped. He wanted to go numb, but he didn’t. He could feel everything. And the policeman was folding him over backward, bearing down on him until his shoulder blades rested on his calves. Marek could feel himself ripping open somewhere in the vicinity of his abdomen.

  Then, mercifully, he didn’t feel anything.

  Part Two

  Shadows

  Chapter One

  Rick knocked on Wells’s door again, and again there was no answer. He hesitated, heard sounds from within. Rick hammered on the door, waited.

  Nothing.

  He tested the knob, found it locked. He cocked his fist, about to pound the door so hard he’d rattle the frame, when he heard it. Grunting. Feverish grunting. And moaning. Roderick and Amanda Wells.

  For God’s sakes, Rick thought.

  He’d anticipated an argument, telling Wells off and stalking away into the night. What he hadn’t anticipated was intruding on a violent lovemaking session.

  Rick lowered his fist, stood a moment. Turned and descended the stairs.

  Behind him, a voi
ce called, “Mr. Forrester?” Wells emerged from his room. “I was preoccupied.”

  Rick stared sourly at Wells’s sweaty hair, the man’s chest glistening out of his burgundy robe. Despite Wells’s disheveled appearance, the man looked younger than he had in the library. Had Wells shaved since then? His eyes were certainly clearer, less bloodshot.

  “You celebrating?” Rick asked.

  “You came to ask me a question,” Wells said.

  Rick opened his mouth, hesitated.

  Wells watched him. “Yes?”

  Yes, Rick? he asked himself. What exactly do you want to talk about? That the man who showed up to take Marek away is a character you created?

  Madness.

  Wells placed a hand on Rick’s back and led him down the staircase. “Let’s walk together. There’s something you need to see.”

  They moved down the stairs in silence. Wells led him to a hallway behind the kitchen. At the end, Wells opened a door and flicked on a switch, revealing a flight of wooden steps that burrowed into darkness. A puff of musty air assaulted Rick’s nostrils.

  “The basement?” Rick asked.

  “My dungeon,” Wells said with a broad smile.

  Rick discerned the challenge in Wells’s eyes. “What’s down there? A menagerie of your former students?”

  Wells moved past him into the murk. Rick followed. A moment later a naked bulb spilled light over a spacious circular room ringed with steel doors.

  Wells said, “Police Chief John Anderson.”

  Rick felt the bulge of his heart as it strained within his chest.

  Wells smiled. “You honestly believe you wrote the gentleman who escorted Mr. Sokolov off my property?”

  Rick said nothing.

  “You believe you…what? Conjured him with your imagination and, God-like, made him flesh?”

  Rick could feel his Adam’s apple bobbing. “How do you explain it? The voice, the face, even the sense of humor, they all—”

  “—come from your memories, Mr. Forrester.”

  “I’ve never met anyone like that sheriff.”

  “Police chief,” Wells corrected. “We’re all products of our experiences. So is our fiction.”