No Woods So Dark as These

by Randall Silvis

  Sixty-Three

  DeMarco lay awake a long time after his dream. A cold front had swept in and made the house shudder and creak. Only when the wind subsided was he able to drift into sleep again. When Hero’s damp nose woke him to the rosy tint of dawn, he slid out of bed and realized how cold the room was. He pulled on his boxers and T-shirt and eased a sweatshirt out of the dresser drawer and pulled it over his head while tiptoeing down the stairs. At the back door he slipped into his sneakers for the chilly trip outside.

  He hadn’t expected to be startled by the morning, but he was: the world had changed overnight. Frost sparkling on every blade of grass, most of the leaves that had been brightly colored little flags filling the trees now lay scattered on the ground, many with their paler bellies exposed as if some mad giant had raced throughout the neighborhood taking angry swipes at the trees. Even Hero was flummoxed. He walked gingerly about the yard, not quickly as he usually did but lifting his paws high and slowing frequently to look at and sniff the ground. Tentatively he tasted the frost, and then, apparently finding it to his liking, he went about more confidently, pausing only to lick or tinkle or sniff.

  DeMarco thought how oddly lovely the morning was and how interesting that the change could fill him with such ambivalence. So much beauty, so much pain. Hero must have felt the same way because he stopped for a few moments to consider the red horizon, then to turn and regard DeMarco with a grin that seemed to ask, Are you seeing all this?

  DeMarco chuckled. “I know.” The coming winter would be Hero’s first, whereas DeMarco had experienced half a hundred of them and enjoyed not one. To his mind the beauty of winter was the beauty of death, sterile and imprisoning.

  As Hero occupied himself with an old bird nest that had been blown to the ground, DeMarco, shivering, turned his thoughts to the day ahead. The bad guys were still at large, and not just his bad guys but tens of thousands more of every ilk, in tattoos and leather jackets and cleric robes and tailored suits, in the alleys and barrios and classrooms, in the halls of Congress and every secret government agency in every government in every country, in the mosques and churches and synagogues, in the homes in all of the Otter Creeks and all of the Georgetowns and all of the Nuevo Laredos everywhere, and in every neighborhood and town and city. Despite the burst of color scattered over his yard and the bracing chill and the glittering frost, evil still populated every corner of the world, every shadow, and there would be no abatement of misery on this day or any other.

  “It would be a beautiful world, wouldn’t it, Hero,” he said, “if only there weren’t any people in it?”

  Hero stopped in place, cocked his head and gave DeMarco a long look, as if considering the possibilities of that proposition.

  “Hunh,” DeMarco said in the silence, and felt a last shiver rattle his spine. “We done here? My toes are cold and I need coffee.”

  Sixty-Four

  By the time Jayme came downstairs, mumbling and groping for a coffee mug, he had cleared all the recent texts and voice messages from his cell phone, had a skillet filled with scrambled eggs and fried ham warming in the oven, and had devised a plan of action for the day. She was wearing a pair of flannel pajamas pants, checkered black and red. He watched her fill a coffee mug from the decanter, and when she turned to the table he was sitting sideways on the seat, a soft smile on his lips.

  “What?” she said.

  “Every morning, another work of art.”

  “Shut up,” she said, and kissed the top of his head. As she took the seat to his right, Hero stood and moved from beneath DeMarco’s chair to hers. She rubbed him with her heel and asked, “What kind of trouble has your daddy cooked up for the day?”

  “We need to get him back to Dr. Lisa for a checkup soon.”

  “Today?”

  “We can wait a day or two. Did you realize we missed group Thursday night?”

  “I did remember that once or twice.”

  “Mac sent me a text yesterday, asking if everything was okay.”

  “I love Mac,” she said. “Did you return the text?”

  Mac Vanko, group leader, the burly Gulf War vet with what he called a pogo stick for a right leg. “Told him we’d be back as soon as we wrapped up the case. He wished us luck.”

  “Are we going to need it?” she asked, and tapped the yellow legal pad that lay in front of him. Half of the page was covered with his messy handwriting. He sometimes wrote so quickly that only the first letter or two of a word was legible, the remainder a squiggle. Several greasy fingerprints also marked the paper, indicating that he had gone back and forth from the stove to the paper, thinking and cooking and writing and thinking.

  “I also had two texts from Chase Miller. I haven’t answered them yet.”

  “I’ve gotten three. He’s chomping at the bit for something else to do for us.”

  “I also had a text from Ben Brinker.”

  “He said with an ominous tone.”

  “The FBI traced the explosives to a plant in Canada. Which suggests that either Khatri or one of his lackeys is already here.”

  She shook her head. “I just don’t get it. Why would he risk capture to come back here and taunt us?”

  “Because we’re the mice that got out of his trap and sicced the feds on him. His entire MO is manipulation. He needs to show us that he can do whatever he wants. He needs to keep playing with us.”

  “Cats usually end up eating the mouse,” she said.

  “We need to keep our heads on a swivel. Every single moment of the day.”

  “Such a lovely, gut-twisting thought to start the morning,” she said, and sipped her coffee.

  “Ben offered to send us a couple of vests. It might not be a bad idea.”

  “He wants us to wear body armor?”

  “The new ones are down to about seventeen pounds. That includes the metal inserts.”

  She pursed her lips but offered no immediate response.

  The look on her face broke his heart. He said, “I thought one of us might check in on Georgina today too. See how she’s adjusting.”

  “We’re collecting quite a little brood, aren’t we, Papa?”

  “It’s exhausting,” he said with a smile.

  “I’ll call her later. What else?”

  “Carmichael still hasn’t cracked Reddick’s website. If we want to nail him for anything, we need somebody to talk. And the only person left is Cheryl McNulty. Micki. According to Jakiella, she’s been with Reddick the longest.”

  “Then let’s go get her. Do we have enough for a warrant to search the house?”

  He shook his head. “There’s no sheet on her. All we have is what Jakiella told us.”

  “If she has epilepsy, like he said, what do you bet she’s collecting SS disability?”

  “Good thinking. You want to track down her vitals? It would be good to know if her mailing address is the same as Reddick’s.”

  “Can do,” she said. “Are you going to feed me first?”

  “Immediatamente,” he said, and pushed back his chair, startling Hero.

  As the conversation continued, DeMarco took plates from the cupboard and filled them with cheesy scrambled eggs and ham. “And that leaves us with Mr. Miller.”

  “Be nice,” she told him.

  “I have been. Haven’t I?”

  “You know there’s this strong father-son vibe going on between you two, right? You’re aware of that?”

  He nodded. “Flores, Georgina, Chase…”

  “Don’t forget Sully.”

  “My football coach in high school had eight kids. Eight. Can you imagine that?”

  “It hurts to even try,” she said. He set a plate in front of her. “This smells so good.” She took the fork he handed to her. “So back to Chase. Are you cutting him loose or what?”

  “I’m thinking we send him
to Reddick’s house. Posing as an antique collector.” He returned to the table with his own plate and fork.

  “I don’t know about that, babe. In light of Reddick’s homicidal tendencies and all.”

  “I’m betting that if a young, handsome college kid shows up with a handful of cash, Reddick might be downright friendly. As I see it, the worst that could happen is Reddick slams the door in his face. The best is that Chase comes away with a bag of coke or a good description of this McNulty character.”

  “Whoa, babe. A sting operation? You could get crucified for that. We both could.”

  “Not if it gets Bowen’s stamp of approval.”

  “He’s never going to approve that. Chase would go for it, I’m sure, because he’s young and stupid and desperate for your approval. But Captain Bowen? I don’t see it happening.”

  “You can be very charming sometimes,” he told her. “Eat up. I’ll text Chase to meet us at the station house.”

  She laid down her fork. “Seriously? You would seriously put Chase in that kind of situation?”

  “We’ll coach him first. About staying outside the house, getting either Reddick or McNulty in the doorway. Boyd has a brand-new toy he’s itching to put to use.”

  “A drone?”

  “Correct. Plus, you, me, Boyd, and Flores will be stationed a few seconds away. We’ll wire Chase, and the moment Reddick incriminates himself or McNulty shows her face, we get him out of there.”

  She was shaking her head. “I still don’t like it. Not in the least.”

  “We have to get Reddick or McNulty on something. Just a few words. Enough for a warrant. Then we can search the house and maybe actually nail him. With him in jail, Sully or Sonny or Micki is going to have second thoughts about covering for him.”

  She said nothing. Looked at him with her jaw set.

  He said, “Can we at least leave it up to Chase and the captain? They both have to agree.”

  “We haven’t even talked to Micki yet. Why don’t we try that first?”

  “Because it will put both her and Reddick on high alert. As it is, he’s probably already expecting to see us at his door again. What he will not be expecting is a street-savvy kid looking to get wasted.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” she said.

  “You say you want me to respect the boy. The young man. You want me to trust him. Well, I’m doing that. I’m trusting and respecting his ability to help us out with this. To be part of the team. Which is exactly what he wants to be.”

  She seemed unable to stop shaking her head. “I do not feel good about this.”

  “Baby, I have spent the entire morning trying to come up with another way. How about if you finish your breakfast, get dressed, and I’ll clean up here. And if you can think of any other option, we’ll go with that instead. Okay?”

  She said nothing.

  “Okay?” he repeated.

  “Damn you, DeMarco.”

  “I know,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”

  Sixty-Five

  By 10:00 a.m., Flores, Boyd, Miller, DeMarco, Matson, and Captain Kyle Bowen were seated around the conference table in a room in the Troop D station. Most had cardboard cups of coffee in front of them, Miller’s a thirty-two-ounce cup from the Sheetz in Greenville, DeMarco’s and Jayme’s sixteen-ounce cups from the Country Fair on the way to the station house, and Bowen’s and Boyd’s ceramic mugs from the Troop D break room. Flores held a bottle of apple juice. Only Miller was grinning.

  “This is what I do,” he told them. “It’s what I’m good at. I can be very convincing. Besides, Reddick has no idea who I am. None whatsoever. My photo’s not on my website, not in the papers I write for, nowhere. He doesn’t know me from Adam. He’s a businessman. What’s he going to do?”

  “A possibly homicidal businessman,” Captain Bowen said. “Whose businesses are, in all likelihood, illegal.”

  “So I knock on his door,” Miller said. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Flores told him, “You haven’t seen this man.”

  “There’s a picture of him on his website,” Miller said. “He doesn’t scare me.”

  “He’s a head taller than you and twice as wide.”

  Miller grinned. “I’ll wear my running shoes. He’ll never lay a hand on me.”

  Even DeMarco had grown uneasy with the plan. But what were their options? To Boyd, he said, “How noisy is that drone of yours?”

  “Reddick won’t be able to hear it inside the house. And I’ll keep it high enough that he won’t hear it even if he steps outside.”

  “And if he sees it?” Jayme asked.

  “He won’t unless he’s outside or has a big skylight. And if he sees it, I see him seeing it.”

  “And then what?” Jayme asked.

  “Then I zoom away. Leave him wondering.”

  DeMarco looked to Chase Miller then, was about to speak but saw movement at the door, a face in the pane of glass. Trooper Carmichael. Bowen saw it too and waved him inside.

  Carmichael entered and held up a small sheaf of papers. “Louisville finally confirmed IDs of the three vics.” He reached between Jayme and DeMarco and laid one sheet of paper in the middle of the table: a mug shot of a thin, pretty white woman with jet-black straight hair, purple lipstick and eye shadow, flecks of glitter on her cheeks.

  “Diana Constance Moore,” Carmichael said. “A.k.a. Lady D, Princess D, Vixen Queen of the Night.”

  “Queen of the Night?” Bowen asked.

  “I don’t make this stuff up, sir. She was an exotic dancer. That was her stage name. This photo is from her one and only arrest. Two years ago. Which would have made her twenty-six at the time of her death. Solicitation and misdemeanor possession. Two years probation.”

  He gave everybody a few moments to look at the photo, then laid another sheet of paper beside it. “Phan Thi Vinh, a.k.a. Suzi Phan. She was eighteen when this photo was taken.” Large dark eyes in pools of black eye shadow, a broad, flat nose, sensual lips closed atop an overbite. “Picked up at the same time as Lady D, but Suzi got belligerent with the judge and pulled thirty days along with the probation.”

  Seeing the young women’s faces, DeMarco felt a heavier gravity fill the room. Suddenly the vics had become actual people, flesh and blood, daughters and sisters. He remembered the scent of the smoldering vehicle in which they had lain, the acrid stink of burned rubber. Nobody should have to die like that. He felt a particular sympathy for Lady D, who had been, if only briefly, Georgina’s friend. And in both of them, he saw Sully. Three young women derailed by drugs but hungry to redeem themselves and reclaim their lives. The same sad history three times told.

  “And this,” Carmichael said as he laid down the final sheet of paper, “is Mr. Clarence Barclay Knox, a.k.a. CB, Choo Choo Charlie, Choo Choo, and K-man. Charged four times for assault, and all four times the charges were dropped.”

  Jayme said, “Can you say witness intimidation?”

  DeMarco asked, with the hint of a grin forming on his lips, “His first name is Clarence?”

  “Yes, sir. Clarence Barclay Knox.”

  DeMarco offered Jayme a smirk, which caused her to scrunch up her mouth and thumb her nose at him.

  Bowen said, “You two want the rest of us to leave the room?”

  “Sorry,” DeMarco said. “Inside joke.”

  “You will appreciate this, Sergeant,” Carmichael told him. “Do you know how he got the name Choo Choo?”

  “I bet it wasn’t from eating Good & Plenty.”

  “Star running back in high school. KFCA Class 4-A Player of the Year. He had this jerky way of running, like a train picking up speed. Was offered full rides from Georgia, UK, and South Carolina. He went with the Wildcats but was cut halfway through the first season for peddling PEDs to his teammates. Second offense.”

  DeMarco stud
ied the photos a few moments longer. “So now we know them,” he said. “Now they’re real.”

  Captain Bowen added, “And whatever their crimes were, it doesn’t justify what happened to them. They didn’t start out life wanting to be what they became. They were somebody’s children, and they probably had the same dreams that all of us had. We need to keep that in mind moving forward.”

  Everybody in the room nodded their agreement.

  To Miller, DeMarco said, “Reddick has to buy your pitch. How are you going to convince him that you’re for real? In thirty seconds or less.”

  Miller thought for a moment. “I have a couple names I can drop. Names he’ll recognize.”

  “Customers?” Jayme asked.

  Miller nodded. “But you all have to promise to never repeat those names or hassle the people. If word gets out that I can’t be trusted, nobody will ever talk to me again. And some of these people, you know…it’s hard to tell what they might do to me.”

  Jayme said, “That is exactly why this is a bad idea.”

  Everyone sat silent for a few moments. Then Flores said, “We don’t even know if Reddick is at home, do we? He might have spooked after our door-to-door.”

  Boyd said, “We need to review the most recent footage at Mr. Shaner’s place.” To DeMarco, he said, “I had planned to head up there until you called.”

  “Then let’s do that first,” DeMarco said. “Let’s get Chase rigged up, then he can ride to Otter Creek with Jayme and me.” He turned to Jayme. “We haven’t used your car at all since we started this, have we?”

  “I haven’t driven it in at least a week.”