A Thousand Years of Darkness: a Thriller

by Charles W. Sasser

  The sky dumped another bucketful of water on the city. Old Styrofoam cups, tatters of paper, food scraps, dead pigeons and other debris gurgled down the gutters. Nail reached Sharon’s apartment building well ahead of the cars. It was a tall, stately red stone set back on a side street lined with scraggly Boston pear trees. Nail ducked into the alley halfway down the block and hunkered next to a dumpster that belonged to an Italian restaurant where he commanded a good view of the front of the Hampton Arms. Gray sheets of rain and the cloudy twilight of approaching evening camouflaged his presence.

  He recovered an old square of plywood he had used before and held it over his head like an umbrella. Rain falling straight down into the concrete canyon drummed on it deafeningly while he waited. He tried not to think of the consequences if Sharon were headed elsewhere instead of coming home.

  Nail had worked many gang crimes during his years with the TPD. Everything from drive-by shootings in wars over drugs and territory to Mafia-type networks that corrupted businesses and politicians through vice and greed. Until now, however, he would never have believed that the federal government could have developed into one massive ideological criminal enterprise run by real-life commies who would do anything to accumulate power and achieve their goals. The only difference between it and some Don in Chicago or Miami trying to control the dope or whore trade was the much-longer reach of government’s arm.

  He was shivering again from exposure by the time Sharon’s company car pulled up and stopped at the apartment complex. She and Shoulders jumped from the back seat in their rain gear and ducked through the rain to the building’s protected entrance. Sharon tapped in a code, the door opened and both disappeared inside. The car left with Big Neck still in the backseat. Nail knew the routine; Big Neck would relieve Shoulders at midnight. Obviously, neither had detected the tail.

  Down the block, the cab turned the corner into the side street and slowed until the way was clear. It crept past the apartment building. The Fu Manchu character was clearly casing the place and up to no good. The cab went on and turned at the next intersection.

  Nail waited while evening began earlier than usual because of rain and lowering clouds. Worker ants hurrying home to their nooks and crannies thinned out as rush hour ended. Nail stepped clear of the alley to take a look and almost collided with a big man walking past wearing an ankle-length black raincoat. The guy shoved Nail out of the way, muttering, “Fucking vagrants.”

  Nail repressed a response and slunk back into the alley.

  Full night fell. Street lamps glowed weakly in the watery air, casting strange wavering shadows. Nail had about decided nothing was going to happen tonight when Fu Manchu from the cab suddenly appeared on foot, as though washed up out of the shadows. He glanced furtively into the mouth of the alley, but Nail hugged the wall out of sight in the darkness.

  Fu Manchu trotted across the street to the entryway of Hampton Arms, into the light washing out through the glass doors. Nail watched him peep inside. Then he looked up and down the street before turning back and taking a dimly-lighted walkway that led alongside the building toward the rear courtyard. Even though no one was apt to be out this late in this weather on this side street, no real pro would have taken such a chance at being seen and later recognized. A real pro certainly wouldn’t have taken a cab to the scene—unless the cab wasn’t a cab.

  As soon as the prowler was out of sight, Nail ducked across the street after him, Big C’s little .38 Featherweight in hand. It was darker around back of the building, but there was still security lighting. He caught up to Fu Manchu peering around the next corner into the fenced courtyard that contained the swimming pool. Nail approached cautiously, puzzled by the guy’s behavior. Sharon lived on the third floor. Was this guy a cat burglar—or was he merely reconnoitering for some future action, getting the lay of the land? The best way to find out was to ask.

  He was two paces away when Fu Manchu apparently sensed his approach and whirled around. Nail stuck the .38 in his face. The intruder slowly lifted his arms. Rain hissed on his hat.

  “My wallet’s in my inside pocket. There’s no need for this to get messy.”

  “It’s already messy.”

  Nail snatched the guy and slammed him against the wall. “Assume the position.”

  The guy spread ’em, leaning against the wall like he had done it before. Nail relieved him of a Beretta 9mm from underneath his trench coat. He stuck it in his belt. He pressed the cold, wet steel of his .38 against the base of the man’s skull.

  “Whether or not you walk out of here depends on your answers,” he offered.

  “I’m Homeland Security,” the man blurted out, sounding almost unglued. “I have ID. I’m working on a case.”

  “Is that a fact? Who’s the name?”

  “Walter. Walter Roland.”

  “Not yours. The case?”

  “I... It’s federal business.”

  “Careful now.” Nail pressed the muzzle harder against the agent’s neck. “Sharon Lowenthal? Am I right?”

  The agent said nothing. Nail felt him trembling.

  “Who gave you your orders?”

  “I—Everything comes down the chain.”

  “What were you supposed to do?”

  “Nothing. I swear. Just look.”

  “Didn’t your mama teach you not to swear?”

  It was at that moment he caught a whisper of movement to his rear. Feeling like an idiot himself, an amateur to have been caught off guard, he wheeled around to find a gun pointed at him, center of mass. Behind the gun was a clean-shaved face and the black raincoat of the asshole who had shoved him earlier. He should have figured on Fu Manchu’s cover.

  This one meant business. A gut feeling and the guy’s eyes told Nail he was a trigger pull away from death.

  Nail bounced back and away from Fu Manchu. Crouching, he swept his .38 on target and fired. His opponent’s gun blossomed flame at the same instant. The bullet slapped his rib cage like a sledgehammer, knocking him flat on his back. Everything blurred before his eyes. He felt himself blacking out like when he was shot at the ORU Center.

  Chapter Fifty

  Washington, D.C.

  At almost the same time that James Nail was shot in New York, Dennis Trout’s “Bimbo Eruption,” as Wiedersham referred to Judy, was in the bathroom putting on too much makeup and touching up her Lady Clairol. Trout had dropped in on her unexpectedly after having been summoned by his wife back to Washington for a function at the White House. He had needed his ashes hauled in the worst way before going home to face Marilyn and her pink poodle.

  “Damn you, Trout,” Marilyn said when she issued the summons. That was her way of letting him know not to fuck with her. “Don’t let your attitude screw things up. The President invited us to attend a state dinner for the Chinese premier. Everyone who’s anyone will be there.”

  Congressman Trout. He had to keep reminding himself.

  One of these hallelujah days he was going to dump his bitch of a wife. When he had the balls. And the money. But—listening to Judy in the bathroom—not for any Bugfuck, Oklahoma. He could do better than that. In the meantime, Judy threw a wicked Lewinsky and kept her mouth shut otherwise. She knew who buttered her toast as well as he did.

  He was unwinding by writing in his notebook and watching TV after a quickie roll in the sack to relieve campaign pressure. Judy had been watching reruns of The Bachelor and Trout didn’t bother changing the channel. He was only half paying attention when a Public Service Announcement came on, paid for by federal stimulus funds. The ad showed a morgue scene with a background of somber music. A fat man lay on a gurney with one exposed hand death-gripping a half-eaten Big Mac. His wife sobbed uncontrollably.

  “High blood pressure, high cholesterol, heart attack,” droned a voiceover. “Tonight, make it vegetarian.”

  The shot closed with a shot of the villain—the Golden Arches of McDonald’s.

  The ad made Trout uncomfortable. As an “insider
,” he understood what lay behind it. Regulatory czar Sam Shrader’s job was to “fundamentally transform” the lives of ordinary Americans through rules and regulations. That meant everything from their diets to their medications to the way they interacted with each other. The ads were a “nudge.” If they didn’t work, next came taxes—and if that didn’t work, punishment. One way or another, people were going to behave the way their government wanted them to.

  He shoved such thoughts from his mind when Judy peeked out through the bedroom doorway. She giggled coyly. “Do you want to use the powder room after we’ve—? Well, you know.”

  “I’m fresh enough. What I need is a drink before I have to go.” He had changed into khaki slacks, Dockers and a blue short-sleeve shirt she kept for him in his closet.

  “There’s some Scotch in—”

  He cut her off. “You’re out of it.”

  “Heavens to Betsy! I clean forgot to buy some more.”

  She came out brushing her hair and looking as cheap as ever in half-exposed boobs, between which dangled the gold locket he gave her. She bent over to peck him on the lips. Her breath smelled like tobacco.

  “Is that your little insurance notebook?” she asked him.

  “It’s private.”

  “Like a diary?”

  “What am I—a school girl?”

  “You sound like you could use some Maalox.”

  “Judy, what I can use is to go out for a drink and forget about Illinois.”

  Unperturbed, she continued to brush her hair. She glanced at the TV.

  “I seen it when that nasty bitch hit you square dab in the face with the pie. You looked so awful I almost cried.”

  “Judy, if you’re ready, let’s go.”

  She paused with brush in hand to study him. “Dennis, you’ve changed like day to night since you started running for Congress.”

  “Politics is nasty business.”

  “I seen you on TV and your wife—”

  “Let’s not do this again,” he interrupted. “I’ve told you, it’s all show for the campaign.”

  “You don’t never let me finish what I got to say. I see ya’all on TV and she’s all giggly and hanging on your arm. But you look miserable. I hope you ain’t looking like that when you and me gets together.”

  “Stop it, Judy. Just stop it.”

  He stood up abruptly, stuffing his pen into his shirt pocket. On their way out, he absently-mindedly left his notebook on the dinette table. They locked the door. Then he unlocked it again and returned for his notebook. He didn’t want to forget it there. He trusted Judy no more than he did Marilyn not to open it. They were both women, weren’t they?

  Chapter Fifty-One

  New York

  Nail knew it was the end if he let himself black out. He bounced up from the ground on nothing but raw grit, still gripping the .38 in his fist. Fu Manchu took his little Fu Manchu and hauled ass. The other Fed was down for the count, his legs twitching in death spasms.

  Nail’s only thought was to put distance between himself and the “crime scene.” He stumbled off in the blinding downpour. Police in Manhattan were quicker to respond to gunfire than were cops in Harlem or the Bronx where they heard it every night.

  He dropped Fu Manchu’s Beretta in the first trash receptacle he came across and shambled on, hunched over his wound and attempting to hold himself together with his hands and arms. Cold rain soaked him to the skin, but his ribs felt wet and warm. He didn’t know how hard he was hit, but he was bleeding pretty badly and getting short of breath. At least he wasn’t stretched out like the other guy waiting to be slabbed and tagged.

  His intentions had been to scare the piss out of the Fu Manchu guy; let his bosses know Sharon was protected, not kill him. It hadn’t worked out exactly that way. The black raincoat guy was the fourth man he had killed since all this had started—more gunplay than during Desert Storm and his years on the TPD put together. No regrets, just making note of it. Connie would have been horrified.

  He had to keep going. It was all over for Sharon if the Homies captured him—or he died. The predators were circling. They weren’t about to let up until they destroyed her as they had Jerry Baer.

  He dared not seek medical help. Doctors were required to report bullet wounds. He mustn’t let the Feds make the connection between the dead man and Sharon and bring all this down on her. The Homies were looking for a reason to arrest her.

  Out of breath, panting from pain and loss of blood, he leaned against a wall in the drenched shadows and looked back. Lights were flashing on all over the apartment complex. He opened his shirt and gingerly examined his wounds, discovering with his fingers a puncture entrance on his right side and a ragged exit in the meaty part of his back. Pressing against his ribs produced crackling, grating sounds of shattered ribs, accompanied by piercing pain. He feared he might be hemorrhaging internally and that shock was imminent.

  Scattered traffic passed in the dark rain with headlights diminished and driver vision restricted. He moved on in his awkward, limping side-to-side gait. Sirens wailed in the distance. He headed for Central Park and managed another block before flashing blue lights telegraphed the approach of a police car. He ducked for the nearest alley as a prowl car squalled around the corner of the intersection ahead. Its headlights washed across him briefly before he blended into alley shadows. Emergency lights slapped buildings on either side of the street as the cruiser slowed and stopped.

  There were always Dipsy Dumpsters in alleys. Nail clambered painfully into the nearest one and pulled the heavy lid down. He was somewhat relieved to find himself waist deep in plain household-type trash, probably apartment house wastes, rather than garbage from some restaurant or grocery store.

  Peering through the crack between the lid and the receptacle, he saw the shadow of the cop stretched long in his direction by the headlights of his parked cruiser. A Kell flashlight probed the rain-swept alley, flaring against the dumpster. Nail cringed away from it, holding his breath and trying not to give himself away in his suffering.

  Rain howled against the metal lid above Nail’s head. Water dribbled down his back. For what seemed an eternity, the patrolman’s flashlight beam searched and picked at the dark. He must have left his car door open or his window partially down, for Nail heard a continuous stream of police calls crackling from the cop’s radio.

  The cop was entering the alley for a closer inspection. Nail left his gun stuffed in the waistband of his trousers. He could never take another street cop’s life. This was just an average Joe, not a Homie. A flatfoot fighting crime and evil with little or nothing to do with the vast federal apparatus that was on its way to taking over the nation.

  He wondered if Sharon’s God would listen to him if he prayed.

  His vision blurred and split into various sight patterns, like that of a spider. The cop morphed into four or five images, all of whom were headed directly for him. He realized he was losing consciousness. He’d probably wake up in a jail cell or, as his granny used to say, he’d wake up to find himself dead.

  The officer walked past the dumpster and shined his light behind it. He hesitated as though uncertain whether he had seen anything after all. Maybe he had had enough of the rain, perhaps he heard himself being paged over the radio. Whatever the reason, he gave up and returned to his car. Blue lights still flashing, it left in a hurry toward the scene of the shooting. Darkness returned to the alley.

  Nail toppled backward into the trash. Shock was setting in. He fumbled for the TracPhone in his front pocket. He couldn’t recall Big C’s number. Then he remembered it had been programmed in. He felt for the dial button and pressed.

  Homeland Agent Ambushed

  (New York)—A Homeland Security agent was shot to death tonight in an upscale apartment complex where Rightwing talk show hostess Sharon Lowenthal is believed living. Authorities identified the agent as Roth Bennett, 37.

  A second agent, Walter Roland, witnessed the murder. He said he was workin
g a case in the Hampton Arms Apartments when a man with a gun confronted him and questioned him about Lowenthal. When Agent Bennett came to Roland’s assistance, he was gunned down in cold blood. Bennett had not drawn his weapon...

  The assailant’s description, plus other details surrounding the crime, lead police to believe the assailant may have been former Oklahoma Police Detective James Nail...

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Birmingham, Alabama

  Big Corey Brown sat in Ruby’s Ribs at a Formica table with two other crew who had lost their previous jobs and were now doing road construction under a Federal Stimulus Plan. One was “Skinny Jim” Jefferson, the other “Squeaky” Talbot, both as dark as Big C but rougher looking in a southern country boy sort of way.

  Big C’s TracPhone buzzed, but there was no one on the other end when he answered it. The callback said “unidentified caller.”

  “That you ol’ woman, Vernon?” Squeaky teased.

  Skinny Jim guffawed. “Keepin’ tabs on his black ass, wonderin’ why he ain’t home. I bet she six-foot-fourteen and with an ass broad enough to last till sundown next year.”

  “Vernon” was Big C’s cover name. Vernon Smith. He figured his best bet of blending into the population until things cooled off—or heated up, whichever came first—was to find a big southern city full of African-Americans. First day in Birmingham, “Vernon” hooked a job working on a mostly-black crew for a minority construction company with a federal contract. The crew, it seemed, survived on barbeque, fried chicken and beer. KFCs and B-B-Q joints down south also served collard greens and fried okra. The only thing missing was watermelon. Posing as Vernon, Big C felt like he was living the stereotype.