Scared of the Dark: A Crime Novel

by Easton Vaughn

  But moving forward once more.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  With the squall came a drop in temperature of ten degrees and a hard driving rain that lasted thirty minutes. They hid out under the eaves of a weathered old shack. It was completely gutted, slats missing from the roof like rotted out teeth, overwhelmed by tangles of bushes, weeds, and small trees, and leaning over at angle almost parallel with the ground. Shepherd, his voice full of reverence, claimed it was the last of its kind remaining on the island. At first Aiden worried about snakes in the grass, rabid creatures with sharp teeth dripping saliva, but when nothing materialized he relaxed. Relaxed and took in the shack, finding it to be tragic and beautiful at the same time. Evidence, he was stunned to realize, that someone else had lived on the island in the distant past. Shepherd explained that at one time the island had been a shipping post, a fishing village.

  “What happened?”

  “A number of things,” the old man replied, shaking his head. “The harbor shoaled up. One too many hurricanes struck. Folks fled to the mainland when Union soldiers came to occupy the Outer Banks.”

  Aiden frowned. “Union soldiers? You’re talking Civil War times?”

  Shepherd didn’t respond and Aiden happily dropped it. They’d reached shore almost an hour earlier, coming up on the backside of the island to avoid the beach where Merritt stood sentry. Now that the rain was finally easing, Aiden wanted to move forward. The sooner the better. Before he had the chance to really question his own sanity.

  As if reading his thoughts, Shepherd said, “Starting to have some doubts?”

  “You said we’d be at your place in ‘two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’ Let’s go then.”

  “I’m a thinker,” Shepherd said. “I want to believe you are as well.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Shepherd turned to face him. Smiled. “We’re back on the island as you wished. Your plan is to walk up to Merritt and take him out and then return to your old life. A straightforward strategy with no trickery or convoluted side paths in its execution. Is that correct?”

  Aiden colored with embarrassment under the flare of the old man’s question. Suddenly feeling foolish, ill-prepared, out of his element. It dawned on him that there would be layers before he even got to Merritt. Those layers would be people. Men probably as heartless and vicious as Merritt—Will and others. And Aiden was supposed to take them all on? Stealing Saina’s necklace and locket was the closest he’d skirted near the edge separating citizenry from lawlessness. He couldn’t do this alone. He frowned. “Are you friend or foe, old man?”

  “Neither.”

  “You don’t get to be Switzerland on this.”

  “I tried to discourage you from returning here.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I believe I have.”

  Aiden reached forward and took hold of the old man’s frail arm. Squeezed. “When I make my move on Merritt will you be beside me?”

  “That’s a move you’ll have to make alone.” Shepherd looked into Aiden’s eyes, sighed and shook his head. “I won’t stand in the path of your bullet in order to protect Merritt. Nor will I put one in your back.”

  “I was hoping for a little more than that.”

  The old man smiled. “And I was hoping you would’ve turned around by now.”

  “Your place,” Aiden replied, raising his arm. “You lead and I’ll follow.”

  They moved the rest of the way in silence. But Aiden’s mind was clouded with thoughts. It was absurd for him to believe this would work out. He wasn’t a killer. He should follow the old man’s advice and turn back.

  “My humble abode,” Shepherd said, breaking Aiden’s thoughts, pointing at the one-room house where Aiden had had his first real interaction with Lemon.

  Aiden frowned, stunned to have come upon it so quickly. Too late to turn back?

  “It’s still not too late to turn back,” the old man said, smiling, a knowing flicker in his eyes.

  Aiden quietly moved past him, walking in a crouch along the side of the building. He paused as he reached the front, scanned around, and satisfied no one was in the near distance walked inside. Shepherd followed him.

  There was a rutted mound on the cot. Aiden pulled back the blankets. An old black woman, her skin turned the color of cigarette ash. Shepherd shuffled past Aiden and settled by the cot. He reached down and gently stroked the old woman’s forehead.

  “What’s her name?” Aiden asked.

  “Amelia Greene,” Shepherd whispered. “Miss Amelia. Mother of the island.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Not nearly old enough.”

  “You think this is a natural death?”

  Something rustled inside the belly of one of the clothes racks. Both men turned that way. Aiden placed a hand on his rifle. Shepherd moved to the rack and parted the clothes. “Thought that was you, little rat.”

  A small boy was hunched down inside.

  He looked up with wide eyes that Aiden found familiar in some way.

  Shepherd said, “What have I told you about hiding out in there, Noah?”

  More surprise for Aiden. “Noah…Deborah’s son?”

  “Where’s your mother, little rat?”

  Noah shook his head, bit his lip, his eyes tearing up. “She don’t come back.”

  “Come back from where?”

  “The beach with the man.”

  “Merritt?”

  Noah nodded. Shepherd’s shoulders slumped.

  Noah looked over at the cot and pointed. “The man did that.”

  A proclamation which made Shepherd’s shoulders slump even further. He stood there like that for a long stretch before straightening suddenly and turning to Aiden, something different in his timeworn eyes. Touching his rifle, he said, “I revise my answer from earlier. About where I stood or didn’t stand with you in this.”

  “You’ve realized that all Switzerland is good for are buxom blondes and hot chocolate?”

  Shepherd smiled sadly. “Not exactly how I would have put it. But…”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  The pain was so vividly rendered Merritt began to imagine himself in the second person. Outside of his body, hovering above the scene and looking down over it, his Director’s chair cast aside and someone else ordering his steps…

  You swallow and stand up again, grimacing with the effort, taking a moment to scrutinize your side. Lifting your makeshift tourniquet, you see that the blood is starting to coagulate—a currant pudding. A good sign. You’ll likely live. You’ve walked approximately two klicks thus far, some of it switchbacks and aimless circles, your head thick and throbbing. Nonetheless, you’ve stopped just the two times, this one included, to gather your strength. A lesser man would have given up already. You have to keep reminding yourself that. You have a warrior’s spirit.

  Your plan is to make it back to the beach, redress your wound and stoke your blood with caffeine, if there’s any left in your supplies. Then you’ll take your Heckler & Koch and hide out in the arms of one of the island’s towering trees where you can spot the others coming for you long before they register your presence above them. You’ll take them out, one by one. Pap, pap, pap, pap.

  A simple but effective plan.

  You start moving again, your side feeling as if it wants to crack apart into a million jagged pieces with each step you take. You ignore the pain and continue trudging forward. You’re determined to stay the right course this time. You desperately need the comfort of the beach. A chance to regroup.

  You’re getting closer when you hear sounds coming from a cloister of oaks up ahead. The noises stop you cold. Grunting, flesh clapping, sputtered breaths broken every so often by words you cannot make out. Two male voices.

  You inch nearer to the action and peer from behind a bush that stretches to your shoulders.

  You’re shocked dumb by the sight before you.

  Haywood and Mosley.

  Sparrin
g.

  “You keep dropping your left like that I’m gonna put you to sleep.”

  “My arms are tired.”

  “You want to lose the weight?”

  “It’s not about that,” Mosley says. “This has everything to do with defending myself in a scrape.”

  “Okay, that’s fine. You want to learn how to defend yourself, then?”

  “You think I’d be out here right after that heavy rain if I didn’t?”

  You see Haywood look up at the sky. He says, “Speaking of which, I wouldn’t be surprised if more came. The clouds look like they want to open up again.”

  Mosley taps his fists together, a frown creasing his forehead. “Then stop blabbering and put your dukes up.”

  “No one says that,” Haywood says.

  “Stop blabbering?”

  “Put your dukes up.”

  “Technically, you’re wrong. I just said it.”

  Haywood shakes his head and steps forward for another clash.

  He has surprisingly competent technique. Mosley is a lost cause. You wait them out.

  After a few minutes, Mosley calls, “Time,” raising his hand, breathing heavy. He steps off to the side and takes a sip from a bottle of warm water he’s sat in the wet grass. Probably the last of its kind on the island. Water you could use yourself. Your throat is as raw as your side.

  You charge soundlessly from your cover and football-tackle Mosley, somehow managing to wrap your arms around his considerable waist while burying your head in the small of his back.

  Mosley yelps and tumbles head-first to the ground. You place a knee on his back to keep him there.

  Haywood makes a move toward you but stops once you produce your sharp blade, lifting Mosley’s head and pressing it against his throat. “Never figured you for Cus D’Amato, Wood,” you call out.

  Haywood raises his hands where you can see them. “Easy now, James.”

  “This is the deal,” you say. “I have to kill you both. Considering proximity, I’d say I should start with Mosley. Either of you have any objection to that?”

  You look into Haywood’s eyes, then at the back of Mosley’s head. Neither man says a word. You smile. “All those present appear to be in favor of the motion to kill so—”

  “Nay,” a voice calls from behind you.

  You whirl around.

  And Shepherd steps out into the open. “Just came from my house,” he says. “I found Miss Amelia. Requiescat in pace. It appears as though we have some serious catching up to do, James.”

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Now that it was happening, Aiden’s earlier conversation with Shepherd floated back into his consciousness. The old man had stopped suddenly during their walk through the woods to hide his rifle in a clump of low bushes. There’d been a serious expression on his weathered face when he turned back to face Aiden. “The SIG 516, level below what you’ve got there,” he’d said, nodding at Aiden’s rifle, “has the gas valve threaded into the gas block. After extended use the threads get dirty and the valve is difficult to unscrew.”

  Gobbledygook to Aiden, his response short and simple, but more bitter than sweet: “Sounds problematic.”

  Shepherd ignored his tone and nodded. “Your 716 uses studs that mate with grooves in the gas block. To remove the valve you simply turn it 180 degrees.”

  “Sounds…un-problematic.”

  “It has four gas settings. You can fix the range from normal to suppressed.”

  Aiden frowned. “You do this all the time?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Slip in and out of different personas so easily.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  And apparently the old man hadn’t cared to learn. He started moving again, surprisingly spry and nimble as he trudged across rain softened ground, stepped over thick tree roots without stumbling, easily fanned aside the hungry mosquitoes and stinging branches that jabbed at him like angry fists.

  “Five minutes ago,” Aiden explained, breathing heavily beside Shepherd but managing to keep pace, “you sounded like a character in a Faulkner novel—two shakes of a lamb’s tail—and now suddenly you’re Rambo.”

  “You’d do best to adapt, too,” Shepherd said.

  “All this gun talk has me thinking.” Aiden shook his head. “Is there anything you don’t know about, old man?”

  “Been meaning to brush up on my film noir,” Shepherd replied, unsmiling. “Fritz Lang, Boris Ingster, Billy Wilder.”

  “It’s inspiring to see you acting this calm. I’m worried enough to piss myself.”

  “Piss? Now you’re sounding like the proletariat instead of a young man headed back to Harvard once this thorny business is settled.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Handling this business? Or going back to Harvard?”

  “Either,” Aiden said. “And I have a feeling you knew that would be my answer.”

  “Hmm.”

  They fell silent for a stretch. After some time, Aiden cleared his throat, said, “Alright, dumb this rifle down for me. What should I do once you approach Merritt? You already said I should try to get within a hundred feet of him but not much closer.”

  Shepherd paused from their walking, and turned and fixed his eyes on Aiden, the one eye gray and dead, the other brown, something dire in both. “Just try not to shoot yourself…or me.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Keep your breathing steady. That’s a key for accurate shooting.”

  Aiden’s breaths were indeed slow and steady now as he reflected on the exchange. Less than a half hour ago and yet it felt a million miles away. He shook off the thoughts and raised his rifle and went about the dynamic process of aligning his focus eye with the rear and front sights while simultaneously honing in on his target. Fifty yards up ahead, through a break in the trees, he could see Merritt’s black face, taut with tension. Merritt had a wild look in his eyes, his nostrils flaring, saliva running from his open mouth—a Rottweiler with its ears pinned back.

  An overweight, light-skinned black man was down on his knees, Merritt standing up close behind him, one arm locked around the man’s throat, a stupidly long blade in his free hand. A tall reed of a man wearing a clinging wife-beater undershirt and paisley shorts stood several feet from them, frozen, as still as a department store mannequin.

  Aiden’s trigger finger twitched. His calm dissipated. He could hear himself panting excitedly, could feel sweat dampening the shirt across his back and muddying his armpits. He sighed and tried to picture the fantasy scenario where he squeezed the trigger and only felled Merritt. Didn’t take out the chubby man on all fours or the thin mannequin man or the song birds perched in the high branches or, fuck it, be real, half the damn trees as well.

  Didn’t take out Shepherd, either, because, dammit, the old man was out in the open now, his arms raised to show he wasn’t armed and to calm Merritt.

  Aiden had no idea whether the gesture was working or not.

  Because James Merritt was completely blocked from his view now.

  He wondered what the old man was doing.

  Then let his finger fall away from the rifle’s trigger, let the rifle drop to his side.

  In the next instant, rain began to fall yet again. Just a mist, a coating of dew for the leaves.

  Shit.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  Merritt was soaked—sweat and the soft rinse of slanting rain. He no longer felt outside of his body, though. Instead, he now had a heightened sense of self and everything in his surroundings. The sticky, salty ocean air wringing his lungs like a sopping mop head. The blanket of green—oaks and wax myrtle bushes dotted with candle-making berries—draped around him. And then there were the two blurry Shepherds standing twenty feet off, their arms raised and their feet inching closer. Merritt figured the throbbing pain in his side was the root of his fuzzy vision.

  The two Shepherds fifteen feet off now.

  “Stop!” Merritt growled.
r />   The two Shepherds stopped.

  Merritt motioned Haywood over. “Down on your knees. Next to Mose here.”

  “That isn’t necessary, James,” one of the Shepherds called from the short distance. Not surprisingly, Haywood listened to the old man. Stood his ground blinking as if dust had blown into his eyes.

  Merritt pressed his knife point into Mosley’s cheek, raising a jot of blood.

  “Okay, okay,” Haywood said, and shuffled over, dropping down hard beside Mosley.

  The Shepherds moved forward another few steps, speaking peacefully as to discourage Merritt from noticing how close they were getting. “You’re agitated, James. I’d like to see you calm before we proceed.”

  Merritt grinned. “Before we proceed? You talk as if your word still holds sway here.”

  “I’m doing my level best to ensure that this situation doesn’t escalate any further.”

  “And he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children,” Merritt said, “and the heart of the children to their fathers, lest I come and smite the earth with a curse.”

  Both Shepherds flashed smiles. “Nothing quite that dramatic.”

  “How did you get back here?”

  “A circuitous route too long to detail.”

  Merritt’s heart leaped at once and his muscles tensed as he scanned the hidden areas all around him. “You turned Dmitri, didn’t you? Is he here with you?”

  “No, no.”

  The Shepherds moved closer by another foot. “I said, stop moving,” Merritt said, spittle flying.

  “I’m just trying—”

  “I’ll cut him from ear to ear.” Merritt’s blade pressed to Mosley’s throat now. “You move another inch.”

  “I’m still. I’m still.”

  Merritt lifted his head, yelled, “Come out, Dmitri. Turncoat. Judas. Defector.”