Dean hesitated, then nodded. The man looked at the scratches on Dean’s face.
“She did that to you?”
Dean nodded again. His hands were trembling. The man saw that.
“Where do you keep your booze?”
Dean nodded toward the kitchen. “In there.”
The man turned, entered the kitchen, searched the cupboards till he found a bottle of bourbon. In his pocket was the vial of powder they had used on all the boys, and on Kane. He thought about how easily he could slip it into Dean’s drink now, hand the glass to him, tell him to drink it, then wait till Dean dropped to the floor and put the gun to Dean’s head, pull the trigger, then put the powder-burned leather gloves onto Dean’s hands, put the gun in his palm, and leave. No time for a note, but that didn’t matter. People didn’t always leave notes, and for whom exactly would Dean have left one? He had no one, lived a horribly lonely life. The man had always planned on Dean’s “suicide.” It would be necessary to bring closure to the investigation. But not yet. He would need Dean for a while longer, even more so now that Colette was out of the picture.
The man stepped back into the living room, stopped, like he had before, just inside the door. He held out his hand, offering the drink to Dean, making him come and get it. Dean walked to him, took the glass, and drank down the bourbon in one gulp. It would be that easy, when the time came, the man thought. A toast to their success, something simple like that. The drink had calmed Dean some, but the rage was still in him, moving just below the surface. The man could sense it, had sensed it from the start.
Dean looked at the empty glass, then up at the man. His left eye was swollen a little, bloodshot. Colette’s handiwork, no doubt. She had once spent a week in the county lockup, had learned how to fight there, fight dirty, had learned it the hard way. The man had always enjoyed her stories about her stay there—the other inmates, the guards. She had probably learned to embellish these tales a little, for his benefit—she was good that way, that was her genius. Forced sex, intimidation, flesh as currency. And the hose, the fire hose, the freezing water. She had a gift for knowing what a man wanted, and then giving it to him. Thinking about the hose now only brought the man back to the business at hand, to what was left, what now needed to be done, and quickly.
“Is the boy downstairs?” he said.
Dean nodded. “Yeah.”
“We’re going to need to kill him right now and get rid of his body tonight.”
“He still has the cut on his forehead.”
They were going to hold this boy for a few days, give the cut he had received during his capture time to heal a bit. They had held the others alive for twelve hours only so the drug would dissipate from their system, and had devised a way of containing them that would leave no telltale marks on their bodies. The device was in Dean’s basement, would be there still after Dean was dead, to be found by the police.
Torture Chamber In Basement, the newspapers would report.
And if the cops connected all the dots, followed the trail left for them, they’d see the reason for the device and the dead boys, the reason the white-haired man wanted them to see, and at that point look no further, leaving him in the clear.
The cut on this boy’s forehead up till now had been a problem, a cause for delay. Now, though, it was an asset, an excuse to move things along faster than originally planned.
“I figured out a way to cover for his cut,” the man said. “To make it work for us. So we don’t have to worry about that now. And even though we’re still safe here, I think we need to pick up the pace. Just to be sure. So after you finish with the kid downstairs, we grab the last one, kill him, and then we’re done, we’re home free.”
Dean nodded. The man watched him for a moment, then said, “Is the boy scared?”
“Yeah. Very.”
The white-haired man imagined that, imagined the boy in the tub of water, his muscles weakened by the cold, scared out of his mind. “Good,” he said. “When you’re done, pack up his body, get rid of it after it gets dark, then go and wait for the last one. If things go our way, we could be done with all this by tomorrow night.”
“And you’ll pay me then?”
“Once you get rid of the last one, yeah. That was our deal. Just make sure there are no more screwups. Do you understand me? That’s important right now. Just because we’re down to the wire doesn’t mean we can afford to get sloppy.”
“Okay, yeah.”
“Keep sharp.”
Dean waited, took a few breaths, then, just as the man began to turn to leave, said, “What was she doing there with him, Krause?”
The Professor stopped mid-turn. He looked at Dean, could imagine the pain Dean was in, knew the torment Colette had caused him. But he couldn’t care about that. He had a long time ago come to care only about his own pain. Still, he needed Dean to do his part, needed to humor the guy for now.
“Try not to think about that,” he said.
“Just tell me. Please. What was she doing there with him?”
“She was keeping an eye on him. Leaving him with one more night he’d have trouble accounting for. And she was telling him what we needed him to hear.”
Dean nodded at that, absently. The Professor hadn’t answered his question, and knew it.
“I waited outside till morning,” Dean said. “They were alone in that room all night. Do you think she fucked him?”
“She was just doing her job, Dean. Try to keep your mind on yours.”
“The cops’ll think he was behind all this. That Kane guy. They’ll think he was behind the killings. Is that it?”
The Professor nodded. It was close enough to the truth. Dean didn’t need to know more than that. If he did know more . . . well, that was why the Professor carried the revolver.
Dean seemed to find some comfort in the knowledge that Kane would suffer, and for the crimes Dean had committed. “Is this payback for something he did to you?” he said.
“No.”
“So why him then?”
“Just the luck of the draw. Bad luck, in his case. Call me when you get back tonight, okay? No need for the last kid to suffer longer than necessary. He’s just to tie up the loose ends. Kill him quick. Kill him like the others, but do it quick.”
Dean nodded. The Professor watched him a moment. “You should put something on those scratches.”
“I will.”
“After you pack the kid up, you should maybe get some sleep. You look pretty tired. Don’t want you falling asleep behind the wheel.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you tonight.”
Dean said nothing to that, just stood there and stared at the floor. The Professor waited a moment, then left and walked slowly to his Jetta, climbed in. His hands were shaking as he gripped the wheel and drove off. He didn’t want to drive back to his apartment; he would only sit there and think of Colette. He couldn’t give in to anger or grief. They were the enemy. A familiar enemy. He needed to keep clear, keep his mind sharp. He needed to see this through in his head, see it through all the way to the end, see all the possible obstacles and twists between here and there that he could.
He decided to go into Riverhead, stop at a coffee shop, order a cup of black joe. When he was done with his second cup he looked at his watch. It was almost eight. A half hour had passed since he left Dean’s house. The boy was certainly dead by now. The Professor wished it had taken longer, wished that the boy’s fear had lasted for days, as they had originally planned. There was a direct correlation between how much certain others suffered and how much better he felt. Still, he was pleased now that the kid was gone, relieved even, as if a dark point in his life that seemed would never end was at last over. Right now Dean was probably rolling the kid up in plastic, or maybe he had already done so, had already put the body in the van. He would have to keep the body there all day, under bags of ice till nightfall, when he would drive to Lake Agawam, in the heart of Southampton Village, and set th
at body, like the others, adrift in the icy water.
The Professor finished his coffee, waved to the waitress. She came over, poured him another cup. They shared prolonged eye contact, and then a quick smile. She had dark hair, like Colette, and filled out the uniform nicely. After she walked away the white-haired man cupped his hands over the steam that rose from its black surface, felt the moist warmth move past his fingers.
He had created Colette. She was an addict and sometime prostitute when he found her, and he had taken her under his wing and made her everything she was to become, showed her a world she hadn’t known existed. She had belonged to him, a beloved pet, little more than that. Whether she had strayed on him or not, was looking to betray him, that didn’t really matter. Pets often turned wild, bit the hand that fed them, as it were. She’d always had that potential, was always a little wild. That was the thrill. But he knew her past, and he understood her nature. She had agreed too quickly to be part of his plan, and how could you trust someone who so easily agreed to murder? But, despite all that, he had loved her in his own way, had passed countless long nights with her, and he would need to find someone to replace her soon, when all this was done, to be with him through the dark nights that lay ahead. He needed the comfort of a woman, always had, always would. The possibility of being betrayed was the price you paid for such comfort. He had come to accept that. But maybe, just maybe, if he got the right woman, made her just what he wanted her to be, got into her head, really got into it, then things might turn out differently this time . . .
He watched the waitress as he drank his third cup, listened to her talk to her customers, studied her, wondering what there was to stop him from doing again what he had done before.
Kane awoke in a strange bed, in a room he didn’t recognize. A woman was leaning over him. She was black, had a small, narrow face. The window shades were drawn, but around the edges was the gray light of a winter day. The woman smiled at Kane. He knew it was meant to comfort him, but it didn’t.
“You’re okay,” she said softly. “I’m just changing your bandage. You’ve got some cuts on your head.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Sophia. I’m a nurse. I won’t hurt you.”
“Where am I?”
“Just rest. I had to give you a few stitches. Other than that, and a few bruises, you seem to be okay.”
Kane heard a noise then, coming from beyond the window. A steady, recurring hiss. It didn’t take long for him to realize that it was the ocean.
“What is this place?” he said. There were shelves along the walls with books on them, a lot of books, and some framed prints by French Impressionists and a bureau and two chairs. This wasn’t like the room at the Water’s Edge. It was a guest room, in someone’s home.
Kane remembered the drive then, how it was full light out when he awoke to hear Clay on the phone. How long had they been driving? He could be anywhere now, anywhere at all. Despite the plan he had made with Colette, their desire to escape here, he was uneasy at the prospect of having possibly been carried so far away from everything that he knew, for better or for worse. Leaving was one thing. Being flung to the edges of the world at the hands of men you barely knew and could not trust was something else altogether.
But the sheets on this bed smelled clean, and the blanket covering him was heavy, keeping him warm. He wasn’t bound, wasn’t handcuffed to the headboard. Sophia clearly wasn’t here to harm him. She removed a fresh bandage from its wrapper, placed it on Kane’s forehead carefully. He watched her face, listened to her breathing. There wasn’t much else he could do. He was on that narrow edge between wakefulness and unconsciousness, teetering at best, more than likely to fall back into that darkness, and soon.
After a moment, he said again, “Where is this place?”
“Just rest. They’ll be in to talk to you in a little while.”
Her answer didn’t make Kane feel any less uneasy. But it didn’t increase his unease. That was something. Sophia stood, gathered her things together. She was tall, with long limbs and a long, elegant neck. Kane thought of Colette then, thought of her dying, his inability to do a thing to stop it. He closed his eyes as Sophia left the room, then finally drifted back into unconsciousness.
He slipped in and out like that all afternoon. At one point he heard two people talking in the hallway outside the door to this room. Sophia and Clay, he thought. Their voices were hushed, but it was clear that Sophia wasn’t happy about something. Clay was never home, she said. He worked too much. When was he going to talk to Gregor, she said, tell Gregor that he wanted out? “It was Ned’s idea to start this thing, this business. Then he gets married and leaves it all up to you to run. He left you holding the bag and doing all the work. Enough is enough.” Kane half-listened to this. The conversation went on for a while, their voices never more than hushed whispers, but the intensity never waned, either. Kane passed out at some point, and when he woke again, the room was darker. It was still daylight, but the gray light around the edges of the shade was softer. He thought that he was alone till he realized someone was sitting in one of the chairs against the wall at the foot of the bed, not far from the window. It was a woman, he saw, a different woman, though, not Sophia but the woman who had been sitting behind the wheel of Gregor’s Grand Prix. He could see her face clearly in the pale light. She asked Kane if he was okay, if he needed something. Her accent was French, but not soft, hard. She looked dark, Middle Eastern. She was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater. Slim, holding perfectly still, confident, Kane thought. On the table beside the chair lay a copy of the Jerusalem Post. Kane told her that he’d like some water. She got up, stepped to him. A glass was already on the table beside the bed. She put it to Kane’s lips, carefully, and tilted it. Water passed across his tongue and spread down his throat. It was cool, and when he’d had enough, he nodded. She put the glass back on the nightstand and returned to her chair. He fell back asleep watching her watching him.
The next time he awoke it was dark outside. The lights in the room were off, but the door was ajar, light from the hallway spilling in. Kane could see that he was alone. Both of the chairs were empty. From downstairs he heard voices, more than two, though he didn’t know for certain how many. They were male voices, and they were evidently discussing something very important. One voice cut over another, and then another cut over that one. Sometimes the voices were raised, not angrily but emphatic, impassioned. It took a while but Kane recognized one of the voices as Mercer’s. He felt his gut tighten again, swung out from under the blanket, and got up from the bed.
He was barefoot, the wood floor cold on his soles. He walked to the window, pulled the shade aside a little. He saw a small stretch of beach, and beyond it, the endless expanse of the Atlantic. The sky was overcast, there was no sign of the moon, but Kane could see the white tips of the heavy chop as they made their way toward land, then rose and folded at the shoreline. The hissing of the collapsing waves was loud now, like a lion’s roar, each one just a little different in pitch and duration from the one before, and yet somehow all the same. Lazy and powerful. A roar and a yawn. Peaceful and violent.
Kane couldn’t stay here. He knew that. It was all he knew, and it was enough. He couldn’t shake everything that Colette—poor Colette—had told him, everything it had suggested. He couldn’t answer how Clay and the kid with the limp—Miller, isn’t that what Colette had said his name was?—had found them. He couldn’t explain how Dean had found them. All he knew was that everyone had found them, and one right after another. Now Kane was out at the edge of the world, in some strange house, with Mercer and God knows who else downstairs, in heated debate. He couldn’t imagine an answer to any of his questions that would be good news. He had to leave, didn’t bother to try to think past that fact. He looked around for his shoes—the shoes Gregor had given him. They were nowhere in sight. On the chair at the foot of his bed, though, was a shoe box. He stepped to it, flipped the lid open. Inside were a pair
of sneakers. He took them out, one at a time. Black Skechers. Heavy for sneakers. Thick tread, like a boot. Slip-proof, the box said. And steel-toed. What the hell? He checked to see if they were his size. They were. He sat down, pulled the sneakers on, pulled the laces tight, tied them. All he needed now was a coat. It was still freakishly cold outside. He needed a coat, and a way out. He went back to the window. No roof to jump onto, no ledge. No way he was going to jump. This was only the second floor, but his head ached and his ribs and chest hurt. It was painful enough just moving around quietly, just breathing. He could only imagine the pain he would feel upon impact with the ground, even if he did land on his feet. He was about to look for a coat, and if he couldn’t find one, take the blanket off the bed, wrap it around his shoulders. That would reduce his obstacles down to finding a way out. His mind was working on that very problem when he heard the sound of a door open and then close downstairs.
He stood there and listened. No voices, just someone walking across gravel. It was from outside, from the other side of the house, the front of the house. Kane heard the sound of cars starting up and driving off, gravel shifting beneath tires. When the cars were gone, all Kane could hear were the falling waves beyond the shaded window and a single set of footsteps roaming around downstairs.
Sophia maybe? The other woman, the beautiful woman with curled hair who had given him water, who had sat with him while he slept? He couldn’t imagine either of them being enough to stop him, even in his condition. Or, for that matter, even trying to stop him. He could just walk out the door. What could they do? Yeah, but then what? Call the cops? Let them sort it out? Trust them to help him? Not likely. So then, the question: once outside, once free from this house, where to from there?
Kane heard footsteps on the stairs then. He thought about getting back into bed, pretending to be unconscious. But he’d had enough of lying helpless, of being on his back. He stayed by the window, looking toward the half-open door, listening to the footsteps. They reached the top of the stairs, started down the hall. The steps were uneven, and heavy. He began to doubt that these steps belonged to either of the women he had seen. He became fairly certain he knew to whom they belonged.
The Darkest Place Page 24
