The Darkest Place

by Daniel Judson

  Then it all assembled in his mind, assembled fast into something that both did and didn’t make sense.

  Someone was in that overfilled tub, being held down by the soft rubber netting, straining against it with everything he had, stretching it just far enough to keep his mouth above the water and get air.

  So this was how they did it, how they drowned boys without leaving a single mark on their bodies, without having to hold them down by hand or restrain them.

  Clay hurried toward the tub, shined the light into it, saw the face of a boy. His eyes were wide with terror. “Help me,” he muttered. Water flooded into his mouth. He spit it out, breathed, struggled. “Please.”

  Clay tucked the flashlight under his arm, grabbed at the netting with two hands, thought he could pull it free. But it held fast. He gave up, removed a Benchmade knife from his trouser pocket, flipped it open, began to cut at the straps that connected the netting to the eyebolts in the floor. The rubber was taut but moved enough so the blade couldn’t get a good bite. Clay dug with the knife, worked through the rubber till it gave way. Then he cut at another strap, and when it snapped free, he flung the rubber from across the top of the tub and grabbed at the boy as he lurched upward for air.

  Gasping, hacking, the boy clung to Clay with the strength of the terrified. He was shivering, the water cold. Clay helped the kid from the tub—really, the kid just clung to Clay as Clay stepped back. The kid was wearing sneakers but the tread must have been worn out because when he put his feet down, he slipped on the wet floor. His grip tightened still more, and Clay held on to him, careful of the knife still in his gloved hand, till the boy was able to get his feet under him and stand.

  He was sixteen, maybe eighteen, but no older, wore cargo pants and a T-shirt, over it a canvas army jacket, the kind, Clay noted, that tank crews wore in the Second World War. Every muscle in the kid’s wiry body was rigid, his shuddering violent, like he was receiving electric shocks. His teeth chattered—from the cold, from fear, from exhaustion brought on by the strain of pushing against the netting. He could not have kept that up forever, Clay thought, would have given up at some point soon, when the cold robbed his muscles of strength, then slipped below the water and drowned.

  Clay closed the knife, returned it to his pocket, held the Maglite between his knees, and took off his overcoat, hung it around the kid’s narrow shoulders. The kid grabbed the lapels, held the oversize coat closed.

  “Is anyone in the house?” Clay said.

  The kid looked at him, was too busy trembling to answer.

  “Is there anyone in the house?”

  The kid shook his head. “I heard him drive off . . . white van . . .”

  “How long ago did he leave?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you walk?”

  Shuddering.

  Clay reached down, rubbed the kid’s legs roughly with his hands to get the blood flowing. Then he grabbed the kid with one hand, his Maglite in the other, and led the kid—dragged him, really—to the stairs. The kid did the best he could, which wasn’t much, but Clay handled him with ease, used old bouncer techniques, didn’t care how rough he was with the kid, only cared about getting them both out of there.

  He pulled the kid up the stairs, moved through the door into the kitchen. The boy fell, Clay pulled him up, dragged him on his feet toward the back door, which was open still, just as he had left it, for this very reason, for a quick escape. They crossed the short distance to the door, Clay about to move them through it and start the long run to his car when he detected motion, something rushing fast toward him from just outside the door, a dark mass charging at full speed from only feet away.

  It flew into them with the force of a tidal wave. Clay, burdened with the boy, was unable to resist the force of the collision and was sent flying backward, and together all three—Clay, the boy, and the man who had rushed them like a football player—fell to the kitchen floor.

  It was Dean, had to be, Clay thought quickly. The force that had knocked him down could only come from a man as large and powerful as the one he had glimpsed outside the bar at the canal this morning. He couldn’t see Dean’s face now, not that it mattered; he hadn’t seen Dean’s face this morning, had only seen enough to size the guy up, get the sense that they were, physically, at least, an equal match. This was unusual for Clay; he towered over most men, outweighed them often by a hundred pounds, seldom was confronted by anyone who was close to an equal match to him, in size, anyway. Gregor could hold his own with Clay on the mat, but Gregor had a lifetime of tricks at his fingertips. This was different, this was size and force, giant against giant. Titans, then, the two of them, entangled in sudden violence on a kitchen floor.

  They had hit the floor hard, the three of them, and the house trembled as if it had been struck by lightning. The boy was knocked backward, torn from Clay’s grip by the force of Dean’s tackle. He tumbled across the tile, came to an abrupt stop against the stove, hit it so hard that a cast-iron frying pan that had been sitting on one of the burners fell to the floor, just missing the kid’s head. The Maglite, still on, skidded away, too, and came to a stop against the floorboard below a cabinet, casting a long, widening cone of light along the floor.

  In that light, struggling for dominance, taking chunks out of each other, were Clay and Dean.

  Dean had landed on top of Clay but didn’t get to stay there for long. Clay had wrestled in high school, was used to fighting on the ground, and he immediately slipped his hips out to one side, got out from under Dean, pulling Dean till he rolled and they ended up on their sides on the floor. Clay was getting ready to continue the roll and mount Dean, throw his leg over Dean’s hip and climb over him and sit on his chest like a schoolyard bully. But there was something about Dean that Clay had not encountered before, on the mat in high school, or in a fight, ever. There was a ferocity in Dean, the ferocity of a trapped animal, swift and relentless. Instinct at work, not thought, pure animal instinct. But there was something else, too, something that caught Clay off guard, overwhelmed him for an instant—a rage, wild and unstoppable, as unstoppable as some piece of heavy machinery gone suddenly out of control.

  Dean didn’t waste any time, clawed at Clay’s face, or tried to, just went straight for it, screaming, loud, angry screams, but not just angry, something else again, the tantrum of a boy, or maybe the panic of a boy lost—whatever the case, something primal, something sent flying up from depths, too powerful to be contained.

  It was then that Clay saw Dean’s face, saw it as he grabbed Dean’s wrists and held his hands back, his fingers fractions of an inch from his eyes. Dean’s face was scarred, horribly, a cluster of small burn marks on his cheeks and forehead and neck and even his lips, random like stars in the night sky, as though someone had long ago systematically burned him with, Clay could only assume, cigarettes.

  The sight of Dean’s face, the thought process it set into motion, slowed Clay enough for Dean to pull free and scramble to his feet. He moved so fast. Clay rose too, got up on one knee, reached back for the Ruger, cleared it of the holster, was about to bring it around and take aim when Dean stomp-kicked him square in the chest, sending Clay back and into the refrigerator, hard. The refrigerator rocked backward from the force of Clay’s weight, then teetered forward enough for the top freezer door to open. Baggies of frozen meat, as hard as rocks, rained down on Clay.

  He still had the Ruger in his hand, was able to aim it in Dean’s direction, where Dean had last been, covering his head with his left arm as the last of the freezer contents came down around him. He didn’t dare fire blind, the kid was somewhere back there, couldn’t risk hitting him with a stray shot. This hesitation was just enough time for Dean to rush Clay, grab his gun hand, try to pry the gun free. Dean knelt on Clay, pressed his knees into Clay’s ribs, put his full weight into it. Again, the freakish strength, hands like machine parts, a sudden, savage power. As they struggled for control of the gun, Clay adjusted himself, got out from und
er Dean’s knees, put his foot into Dean’s stomach, and pushed. Dean flew off him but held on to the gun, tore it from Clay’s hand. He landed on the floor, hard, on his back, and Clay rose to his knees, then got to his feet, and rushed after him.

  Dean had the gun by the barrel, not by the handle, and fumbled as he tried to adjust his grip. Clay didn’t waste any time. He rushed Dean, threw himself onto him, mounted him, one foot on the floor and one knee on the floor, and grabbed at the gun with both hands, tried to wrestle it free, keep the barrel pointed away. Dean fought back, quickly kicked at Clay’s head with his powerful leg, connecting with his shin, knocking Clay off his balance and against the stove. The kid was on his feet then, and bolted, still in Clay’s overcoat, toward the door. He was running, Clay could hear his footsteps on the dirt driveway, but that didn’t matter, he didn’t care about that, couldn’t care about that, what the kid knew, what the kid could tell them, fuck that, just fuck it all now. Clay turned the barrel of the gun to one side, and just as he did, just as its aim cleared him, the gun fired, the bullet shattering the window over the sink. The smell of powder was in the air now, a little smoke, too, and as Dean and Clay struggled, they scrambled to their feet, the two giants rising together till they were finally standing, their hands locked on the gun between them. The instant they were up, Dean shoved Clay, threw all his weight into him. Clay shoved back, and like that they went around the kitchen, clumsily, violently, crashing into the counter, against cupboards, back again into the refrigerator, sending it back and into the wall, cracking the plaster. Wood was smashed, holes kicked into walls, the small kitchen being taken apart piece by piece. Finally Dean got control of the situation—so strong, so fucking strong—and pinned Clay against the stove, bending him backward. Dean had a firm grip on the gun, a better grip than Clay had, and was turning it, trying to aim it once again at Clay. Clay kneed him once, in the groin, a clean shot, solid enough, but Dean barely flinched. No balls? Dean suddenly let go of the gun with one hand, threw an elbow at Clay, hitting Clay in the face once, then again, then a third time. It was like getting hit by lightning again and again. Clay’s legs weakened but he remained standing, wasn’t going down, not for this guy, not like this. Just as quickly as he had let go and thrown his elbows, Dean had both hands on the gun again, had found an even better grip, was turning the barrel, lining it up on Clay.

  It was only a matter of time now, Clay knew this. Dean was strong, stronger, as hard as it was to believe, than Clay was. He knew that sooner or later Dean would get control of the gun, pull it free again or turn it, while still in Clay’s hand, against him, or else start flinging Clay around the kitchen again till Clay hit his head on something hard and softened or exhaustion took over. Whatever the case, there was nothing else that Clay could do, no way out but this.

  Clay hung onto the gun tight with both hands, gave it one last jerk toward him. Dean responded by jerking back, and that was when Clay shot forward, riding the momentum of Clay’s tug, bending at the waist, throwing his head forward, turning it so the top of his heavy skull struck Dean flush in the nose. Clay heard a snap, like a pin shearing and Dean flinched, softened a little, but that was about all. Still, it was the distraction that Clay was after. He let one hand slip from the gun and reached down to his trouser pocket, grabbed his Benchmade knife, pulled it free, and flipped the blade open with his thumb. It locked with a deep click. Clay could cut Dean’s hands or wrists, quickly, one sweeping motion, cut the tendons, “defang the snake,” as Gregor would call it, make it impossible for Dean to hold on to anything. Dean was all they had, the only connection to the Professor. He couldn’t kill Dean, didn’t want to, but he couldn’t let Dean kill him. So this was the thing to do, cut clean, cut fast, and even if he could only drag the blade across Dean’s knuckles it would be enough to end the standoff.

  But Dean, with two hands on the gun to Clay’s one, was able to overpower Clay more quickly than Clay had expected. He moved as if he sensed the absence of Clay’s other hand, moved like a wrestler just waiting for an opening. He pounced at his chance, turned the gun the rest of the way around, till Clay could see into the barrel, see that it was aimed at his shoulder. His heart pounding felt like hooves against the inside of his sternum. Clay realized his mistake at once, realized the advantage Dean had grabbed, said fast, didn’t know what else to do, “Don’t, man. Don’t.” It just came out, but Dean ignored Clay’s plea. It was all beyond reason now. Clay saw that Dean’s finger was on the trigger, saw it contract, just once, the smallest possible gesture imaginable, but it was enough.

  The gun fired, kicked against their mutual grip, and Clay saw a flash of white light and blue sparks, felt heat as the bullet tore into him, through his shoulder muscle, hit bone and stopped. The sound of the gunshot was like two hands clapping over his ears. He heard nothing after that, nothing at all, though he knew he screamed out, felt it rise up in his throat, felt it escape his mouth. He felt, too, his legs weaken, felt himself dropping as if the floor had been ice that cracked beneath him. He was going down now, fast, crumbling, and did the only thing he could then, the only thing he had left to do: He thrust upward with his right hand, just once, a wild motion, no real aim to it, and sank the four-inch blade into Dean’s gut, sank it in just below the sternum, penetrating at an upward angle, till the blade was gone and the hilt of the handle hit bone and stopped. Dean grunted, spit blood almost instantly, grabbed on to Clay out of reflex, grabbed on to his shirt, preventing Clay now from falling, delaying it for a brief moment. However long the moment was, it was enough for Clay to witness the changes that came over Dean’s face—a look of shock, then a dull grimace as the pain, what had to be an incomprehensible pain, rushed through him. Clay had no choice but to see this; they were in an embrace, their faces were only inches apart. In one second, Dean’s mask of menace and rage was gone, replaced by a vacant look of surprise and, oddly, Clay noticed, a sudden, almost childlike sadness.

  They stood for a moment, frozen, almost holding each other up. Clay’s shoulder burned, as if it had been split open by a red-hot knife. He felt blood spread over his hand, its slick warmth letting loose in him a violent chill. Dean’s knees gave out slowly and he slumped to the dirty kitchen floor. Clay followed him down, barely able to stand himself, holding the knife with one hand and the gun by the barrel with the other. Dean gave it up now without a fight, was bleeding from the mouth by now, coughing up blood. They reached the floor together, Clay landing sitting up, his back to the stove against which Dean had him pinned, Dean falling onto his left side, curled up against the pain in his gut, his hands shaking, his skin quickly turning white.

  Clay did nothing but sit there and breathe, or try to, his skin tingling with sweat. He was bleeding too, but it was nothing compared to Dean. Blood flowed from him, spread across the floor. Clay watched Dean bleed out; there was nothing else he could do. His cell phone was in the overcoat the kid was wearing, and maybe he could have stood to reach the phone mounted on the wall, maybe he could have made it, but there wasn’t really any point. Clay had cut one of Dean’s arteries, that much was frightfully clear, and it was only a matter of seconds now, maybe a half minute at the most. Dean’s eyes began to flutter, like a man fighting sleep. The look of surprise and deep sorrow never left his face. Clay thought for a moment of asking why four boys were dead, what was the point of all this, the reason. He thought of asking where Krause was at that very moment. But there was no point in that, either. Dean couldn’t have answered even if he wanted to. Fifteen seconds went by, no more than that, and Dean, like the boys he had murdered, like Colette, and God knows who else, was silenced forever.

  Ten

  IN SOUTHAMPTON, KANE AWOKE FROM A DREAM OF HIS SON. HE lifted his head off the pillow, didn’t know where he was at first, then realized he was in his apartment, had been there for over a day now. He wasn’t sure what had awakened him, but he lay still, with his head raised, as if he had been alarmed by some noise. He waited that way for a moment but heard nothin
g. He was awake now, so he sat up and moved to the edge of his mattress and stared at the window that overlooked the back parking lot, and the overcast sky hanging dead above it.

  It was still daylight out, and though he had no idea what time it was, Kane figured, by the weakness and the angle of the light, that it was probably late afternoon. The day before, Mercer had called Kane at the motel in Montauk, just after sunup, only hours after Kane had been dropped off there, and told him that it was all over, that it was safe for Kane to come back. That was all Mercer was willing to tell him over the phone. Kane had caught the train from Montauk to Southampton, then walked the mile to his apartment in town and had yet to leave. Most of his time was spent listening to the radio, trying to get an idea of what exactly Mercer had meant when he said it was over. Had they found the Professor? Had they found Dean? Was Kane in the clear, free to go back to what was left of his life?

  At first there was nothing at all on the radio, no mention of anything that Kane needed to hear. Then, toward the end of his first day back, Kane heard a newscaster—a female, with a deep, steady voice—report that a man had been found stabbed to death in the kitchen of a Riverhead home. The dead man’s identity had yet to be released, but the police did issue a statement indicating that this man was in fact a suspect in the recent murders of two young men, and that he had been killed, they believed, by his last would-be victim prior to that victim’s daring escape.

  There wasn’t much more than that for the rest of that first day, and not wanting to leave to get the paper, afraid that one step out his door would land him somehow into even more trouble, Kane had no choice but to wait as patiently as he could for more news to break.