The Darkest Place

by Daniel Judson

  It took him a moment, but then Kane spoke, his voice low, barely audible over the sound of the waves.

  “Me,” he said.

  “You were right there, Deke. Right when I needed you to be. Distraught over losing your job, you confronted the man responsible for your getting fired, the man who went out of his way to get you fired. He represented yet another bad turn in your tragic life, it was more than you could bear, so you killed him, then killed yourself. No one will think twice about it, bother to look past what’s right there in front of them. The fact that you were once considered by the police to be a ‘person of interest’ in the murders of all those poor boys, one of whom was a student of yours, another your enemy’s son—well, that will only add more confusion to an already difficult-to-fathom case. They’ll be overwhelmed, and when people are overwhelmed, they tend to grab on to the easiest answer and leave it at that. Thus, of course, the concept of God. And if for some reason they don’t, if for some reason they look deeper, they’ll find in you a man whose only son had drowned four years ago, whose life had become little more than chaos. A man with demons that needed exorcising. A fascination, if you will, with drowning. Like I said, it wasn’t personal, Deke. You just turned out to be the best man for the job.”

  Kane stared at Young, at what he could see of him in the darkness. He said nothing. What could he say?

  “You would have known what it was like,” Young said. “Sooner or later. He got you fired because he hated you, hated what you did with your personal life. He was a holier-than-thou little prick. You would have sat there in that apartment of yours and started to fantasize about revenge, about setting things straight. Not right away, but eventually, after years of setbacks. It eats at you, you know, a bite at a time, till there’s nothing left for you to do but to bite back. I’m saving you from all that, Deke. I’m saving you from hell on earth.”

  “You’re just trying to get away with murder, Bill. That’s all. You’re just fucked up and blaming everyone but yourself for your problems.”

  “I’m sorry you think that way. But don’t believe for a moment that you wouldn’t have ended up here. You did everything that I did. Everything. You would’ve gotten here sooner or later, would have seen Dolan in town one day, remembered this simple wrong he’d done to you and the bad turn your life had taken because of it. Where are you going to go from here? Back to tending bar? Back to that crappy apartment of yours? You would have realized one day—one night—that this dullard who had hurt you wasn’t ever going to have to pay for what he did to you. No justice in this world but what we make. One night you would have woken up, realized you had to do something about him, that nothing was going to be right till you did. You couldn’t live in a world in which he existed, in which he was rewarded for the bad he did.”

  Kane kept silent. Waves came in, washing over Dolan’s body. It didn’t budge. Neither Kane nor Young moved or even spoke for a long time. What more was there to say?

  “I need you to face the water, Deke,” Young said finally.

  Kane couldn’t move. He knew what Young wanted, knew what was next. His frantic mind grabbed at a detail he had once read in the newspaper or seen on some television show.

  “They have ways of knowing if someone fired a gun or not, Bill. They’ll know I didn’t kill myself.”

  “The gloves you have on now are the gloves I was wearing when I put the gun to Dolan’s head and pulled the trigger. They’ll find the powders burns they need to call this a murder-suicide. It seems I have a mind for this, Deke. I’m moves ahead of everyone. Have been from the start.”

  Kane spoke softly, said the last thing he could think to say.

  “They’ll find you. You don’t realize that right now, but they will find you. This’ll all come out.”

  “Not as long as there’s someone to blame. That’s all they need. That’s all they’ll be looking for. Just someone to blame.”

  Young took two steps forward, closing what remained of the distance between himself and Kane. The gun came even closer to Kane’s face now, and out of reflex Kane turned his head away, couldn’t have stopped himself if he tried. He realized then that he had given Young exactly what Young wanted, a clear shot at Kane’s temple. It wasn’t long after he realized this that he felt cold steel press against the side of his head, not on his temple but just above the back of his ear.

  Kane’s mouth and throat went suddenly dry. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. Every inch of his body tingled, every muscle tensed. He heard the ocean and the wind, thought suddenly, strangely, of his ex-wife, Patricia, thought of her alone in their home, getting the news that Kane was dead. The image triggered a flood of sorrow in Kane, and regret. It paralyzed him.

  “I’m sorry it had to come to this,” Young said. “It’s the only way. I promise, in the book, I’ll make you as much of a hero as possible.”

  Kane opened his eyes and looked at Young in disbelief. What did he mean by that? Kane suddenly saw a light, not the flash of the gun being fired but something else, something steady. What looked like the beam of flashlight caught the side of Young’s face. Kane could see his profile clearly. The beam danced—maybe whoever was shining it was in motion now, but Kane didn’t care about that. Young turned his head quickly, looked back toward the pass that ran between the two dunes, where the light was coming from. The gun barrel slipped from Kane’s head, moved enough so it was aimed past him, out over the dark ocean.

  Kane saw his chance and took it.

  He grabbed the barrel of the gun with one hand and Young’s wrist with the other, pushed upward, pointing the gun straight up into the night sky. He didn’t move gracefully, was wild and reckless, frantic, but it was the best he could do. Young responded by grabbing hold of the collar of Kane’s jacket with his free hand, pulling Kane away from him as he tried to yank his gun hand from Kane’s grip. Young was just too big, too strong, his arms too long. And he moved way too fast. Kane lost hold of Young’s wrist and the gun only seconds after grabbing it. He had it, and then it was gone. Once he was free, Young turned on his heels, spinning around and pulling Kane with him. Kane stumbled into the surf, the sneakers Gregor had given him, heavy to begin with, made even heavier by the freezing water that suddenly filled them. Young completed his turn and flung Kane away from him. Kane fell on the soaked sand. A wave came in and washed over him. He was flat out on his stomach, rose to his hands and knees fast, gasped for air as white foam churned around him. The water was so cold it felt like something solid was smashing into him, smashing his hands, his chest and groin, his face. His ears and nose ached instantly. Kane looked up, saw through the wet hair hanging before his eyes that Young was moving toward him, the gun still in his hand. Kane knew Young wanted to get the barrel as close as he could to Kane’s skull so the angle of the wound and the powder burns on Kane’s skin would lead the cops to the conclusion Young was counting on them reaching. Young made three long strides, kicking up the rushing water as he went, and had the barrel just inches from Kane’s face, close enough for what he needed, when out of nowhere someone sailed through the air and tackled him from behind.

  Kane couldn’t see who it was, only saw the collision itself, heard the dull thud of bone knocking against bone. The stranger had hit Young with tremendous force, and both were airborne for a moment, then separated as they began to fall toward the sand. The stranger had made a controlled tackle and landed on his knees beside Young, who landed face first in the water. The stranger immediately tried to stand, to gain an advantage, but the instant he rose to his feet, he cried out loudly and reached down protectively to his knee. He tried to shift his balance onto his other leg, but a wave came in, knocking him down.

  Kane realized at that moment that the stranger was Miller. He saw Young scramble to his feet, saw that Young was empty-handed now. He must have dropped the gun in the water when he was tackled. Despite his hurt knee, Miller struggled to get up, but Young didn’t let him get too far. He grabbed Miller by the collar of his coat, pu
lling him off balance again. Miller fell forward into the water, and Young climbed onto his back, placed both hands on Miller’s head, and pushed down.

  Kane saw Miller’s head disappear under the water.

  Miller fought back, tried to get above the water by pushing himself up to his hands and knees. But Young pressed with all his weight, didn’t let Miller’s head rise above the water long enough for Miller to gasp more than a second’s worth of air. A wave came in, a large one, the water covering Miller entirely and rising to Young’s chest. It was a wave that didn’t seem to end. Then, finally, it moved out, and the water dropped low enough for Miller’s face to be exposed to the cold night air. But Miller was too busy trying to cough out the water he had inhaled to catch his breath.

  Kane heard the horrible sounds of someone drowning. Another wave came in, covering Miller, and after that Kane heard nothing but the sound of the wind and the waves. He sat there, listening, stunned once again into helplessness.

  Then, suddenly, an overwhelming rage began to grow in him and he heard nothing at all. He felt ill again and thought of what had been done to him in the chapel, thought of Colette, of his son, his still-mourning wife, felt the illness grow even more. He wanted to explode, to disappear, wanted small shreds of himself adrift in the vast ocean. He couldn’t bear another death. He didn’t even care about his own life, would have preferred it to be over anyway—what could there be for him after all this? The wave receded, and Kane heard Miller coughing again. Kane saw the beach and the water and the night sky again, felt the terrible, killing cold around him. He saw Young leaning forward, his arms locked and his hands on the back of Miller’s head, Miller thrashing beneath the white foam.

  And then, suddenly, Kane was on his feet and rushing forward. He felt a surge of adrenaline burst from his chest and into his limbs, felt his scalp tingle, knew nothing else. He came up behind Young and wrapped his arm around Young’s neck, grabbed his own wrist to lock his hold down, and pulled Young off Miller, pulled with everything he had. Young scrambled backward like a crab, and Kane dragged him that way for a few feet. But Young’s weight was too much for Kane, and he was slick with water. Young slipped from Kane’s hold, and Kane tripped and fell backward onto the sand. The instant he landed, Kane got to his feet again, but Young was just as fast, and they rose together, faced each other in water to their thighs.

  Young didn’t waste any time, came right for Kane, trying to grab at Kane’s jacket with huge hands. Kane did the only thing he could do, did it without really thinking, did what he had seen Colette do outside the Water’s Edge. He dropped low and swung his fist upward, smashing Young in the groin with a solid hit. Young cried out and folded, dropping to his knees. Kane shoved him, knocking him backward into the water. Young landed below the surface but got up on his elbows fast, raising his head above the water. He was taking a breath, his eyes closed tight against the cold water, when Kane stomped down, drove the hard sole of his Skecher into Young’s stomach.

  Young grunted, and Kane stomped again, this time knocking the air out of Young’s lungs. He dropped on top of Young, driving his knees with all of his weight behind them into Young’s chest. Young brought his arms up to protect his chest, but his head slipped beneath the water, and Kane, all rage and hatred, mounted Young like a schoolyard bully and grabbed his long hair with both hands, holding his head under. Kane could just see Young’s face below the surface, felt Young struggling, his eyes closed tight at first, then opening wide in wild panic. Kane leaned forward and locked his arms at the elbows. He was panting, breathing in through his nose. He saw Young’s mouth open, but Kane didn’t ease up. He felt Young convulse as his lungs drew in the first rush of water. Young’s legs kicked, his feet breaking the surface. Kane felt no pity, felt nothing at all, only his rage—not stagnant now but flowing, something powerful, something white hot that rushed through him and spilled into the turbulent ocean.

  Kane hung on. And then, suddenly, beneath him, Young went lifeless, his face frozen in a look of panicked shock, his eyes bulging, his swollen tongue filling his gaping mouth.

  Still, Kane held on, held Young’s head under. It wasn’t until he knew Young was dead that Kane let go and rolled away.

  He sat in the surf, waves hitting him from behind, water churning around him. He sat with his arms hanging at his sides, his head hung low, his chin touching his chest. He couldn’t lift his head, didn’t want to. Eventually, Kane began to feel the brutal cold, his hands aching as if they’d been smashed between two pieces of blunt metal. He knew he couldn’t last long in this cold, in soaked clothes. He knew that but didn’t really care.

  And then he heard coughing and remembered Miller.

  He lifted his head, found what it took to do that, saw that Miller had crawled onto the beach, was on his hands and knees, struggling to clear the icy water from his lungs. Kane got to his feet, his clothes unbelievably heavy, his body weak, and staggered out of the water and onto the soft sand. The thin cloth gloves that Young had given him started to freeze upon being exposed to the air, so Kane took them off, dropped them as he walked. He reached Miller, knelt beside him, placed his hand on Miller’s back, stayed there with him as he coughed. Kane was trembling, violently. So was Miller. They only had a minute or two at the most before the cold would kill them. There was no doubting that.

  Kane waited till Miller finished coughing, then told him that they had to go. Miller nodded, and Kane wound Miller’s arm around his neck, then stood. They struggled together across the soft sand, following Young’s footprints. They stumbled and fell several times, and each time they did, Miller cried out, cupped his hand over his knee. Kane got them back on their feet, guided them toward the pass between the two dunes. He noticed that the wind was already erasing the footprints the three of them had made on their way out to the water. It wouldn’t take long before the tracks disappeared entirely.

  As they made their way between the two dunes, Kane spotted Miller’s beat-up truck ahead, parked across the narrow road from Dolan’s Crown Victoria and Young’s black Jetta. Kane kept his eyes on Miller’s truck as they moved toward it. Only need to go that far, that was all. They reached the road, and the solid pavement felt strange beneath Kane’s feet, like the surface of a different world. He got them to the truck, opened the passenger door, helped Miller in as quickly as he could, to keep the warmth that remained inside from escaping. Then he hurried around to the driver’s door and climbed in behind the wheel.

  There was no key in the ignition. Miller had to dig it out of his pocket with shaking hands. Once the key was free, he handed it to Kane. Kane started the engine, turned the heater fans on full blast. The motor was still hot enough that warm air poured from the vents. Kane sat there for a while, shivering, his teeth chattering. Miller, too. Neither of them said anything. Then Kane remembered the recorder running in the pocket of his coat. The zipper was frozen; he had to pull hard to get it started. It hurt the tips of his fingers to hold the small metal tab. But he got the zipper open, reached in, felt that the wool that lined the pocket was only damp. A rush of hope moved through him as he grabbed the recorder and took it out and looked at it.

  It was still running, the red record light still glowing. He closed his eyes, switched the recorder off, then dropped it onto his lap. His jeans were frozen, the material so cold that it burned, so hard with ice that the seams cut into his skin. He opened his eyes after a moment and looked over at Miller.

  Miller was staring ahead, through the windshield, at the two cars parked side by side in the lot. He took several breaths, then said, “Which one did you come in?” His voice was hoarse, and he wheezed when he spoke. Kane looked at the cars for a moment, then finally understood what Miller was telling him.

  “There are some rags under the seat,” Miller said.

  Kane reached down, found a clean oil rag and grabbed it, then opened the door and hurried through the cold to the Crown Victoria. He used the rag as a glove to open the door, could barely move in his clothe
s but leaned in anyway and wiped down the seat, the dashboard, couldn’t remember if he had touched either of them but didn’t care, wiped them both, wiped everything that would have been in his reach as Young drove him here. Then he ran the rag over the inside door handle, swung the door closed and wiped down the outside handle, too. He hurried back to the truck, climbed in, shut out the cold, and looked again at Miller.