Something in the Dark

by Pamela Cowan

  Austin arrived late for work the next morning. She rarely set an alarm since, an early riser, she didn’t usually need one.

  “It must have been the middle of the night phone call,” she told Shellie. A friend called me in the early, and I mean very early, hours,” she explained. I think he was drinking pretty hard. You know how people get when they drink too much. He wanted to talk. Maybe he found a ranch and was celebrating.”

  “A ranch?”

  “Oh yeah, I forget. In your real life you’re a realtor. Maybe you’ve met my friend. His name is Blake. He’s been here for six weeks or so, looking for a ranch in the area.”

  “In the area of Blue Spruce?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Funny, you’d think I’d have heard about him. We specialize in ranch and farm properties, and nothing has sold for a while. In fact, I don’t think we’ve had a call in two months. It gets that way sometimes. Then all hell breaks loose and you close eight properties in a week.”

  “Well, he must be using a different agency,” suggested Austin.

  “There’s only one other, and we get together for lunch and whatnot. I haven’t heard a word about a potential buyer. Well, maybe someone is trying to keep him to themselves. It can be pretty cut-throat,” Shellie admitted.

  “Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you. A woman named Granny called. She said you’d know who she was and for you to call her.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 33

  Austin called Granny, worried that another tragedy loomed. She was more than relieved when Granny asked if she would mind terribly picking up a bottle of gin, since she had run out. “My arthritis is kicking up with all this cold weather. ‘Sides, I haven’t seen you in what seems like a long time. You just get on over here tonight, there’ll be a fine roast in the oven for dinner.”

  Austin had a quiet dinner with Granny. They talked about the old days, herbs for healing, the changes in the world. Only when it was time to go did Granny mention the string of tragedies and express her sadness at the deaths of Bunny and Janice. Granny hugged her tight, and Austin felt just a tiny bit better, but it was better than she’d felt for a while. It made her grateful and gave her hope that there would be better days.

  Austin pulled into her driveway and was surprised to see Blake’s rental car parked there. She hadn’t spoken to him, and the last she’d heard from him was when he’d last called. Maybe that was why he was here. Maybe he wanted to apologize for the drunken phone calls. That made sense.

  She parked beside his car. He wasn’t in it. Getting out of the truck she spotted him standing on the front porch, waiting.

  “You must be freezing,” she said, jangling her keys to show him they’d soon be inside.

  “What the hell would you care?” he demanded. “You just pretending to care anyway. You a good little actress, huh?” He brought a bottle of amber liquid to his lips and she saw his throat work as he drank.

  “I think you should leave. You’re drunk again. Or still. Whichever it is, I don’t care.”

  “No kiddin’. Well, maybe I like drinkin’. Ever thinka’ that?”

  “Oh, I think I’ve figured that out. Please go.”

  “Make me.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Grow up.” She tried to move past him, but he staggered into her path. “Move out of my way, or I’ll call the police.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean? Let go.” Blake had lurched forward and grabbed her wrist.

  “Don’t have a cell phone.” His breath was rank with the smell of whiskey.

  Austin struggled to pull away but he tightened his grip, grinding the bones of her wrist. She gasped at the sudden pain. He pushed her back against the front door. For the first time she wished her house wasn’t so isolated.

  “I been real good. I been a real gentleman.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed, trying to mollify him. “You have. Why stop now?”

  “Cause you damn women don’t want gentlemen. No ma’am, what you want is this.” He pushed against her and she twisted aside. He ground his groin against her hip.

  Disgusted, Austin tried to pry his fingers from her wrist. He laughed. She changed tactics, pushing instead of pulling, and he gave ground, staggering back one, then two steps, but his grip on her wrist didn’t loosen.

  Frustrated and growing angry, she slapped at him awkwardly with her left hand. He laughed at her and caught her hand, twisting her fingers until she let out a shriek of pain. He pushed against her again, ramming her back against the door. Her lower back slammed painfully into the doorknob. She whimpered, but tried to knee him in the groin. He turned aside, and she connected with his thigh instead. They were wrestling more than hitting, pulling against each other, pushing. The smell of his damp wool coat was in her nose, mixed with cologne and alcohol. If she could just jerk free, get loose for one minute. He was so drunk she felt sure she could outrun him easily. He seemed to guess her thoughts, and his hand tightened around her wrist.

  He was enjoying this, she realized, as she looked up and into his shining eyes, saw his wide grin. He was just playing with her, a nasty game of cat and mouse, and she was the mouse. Well, mice could fight. She bit his face. She felt her teeth sink into the flesh of his jaw, felt her teeth skid against the hardness of bone.

  He shrieked and let go. She ducked past him and he reached for her and almost missed, but then his hand caught the ends of her hair. Suddenly she was pulled backward. He got a better grip of her hair and slammed her hard into the front wall of the house. Still using her hair, he drug her to her feet with his left hand, then swung with his right fist and connected with her stomach

  She fell to her knees. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t catch her breath. He grabbed the collar of her coat and drug her along the porch and into the driveway. She made a ragged, choking sound as she fought to take a breath, just one breath to fill her burning lungs. Suddenly she had it. Greedily she sucked air deep into her lungs and felt strength flowing back into her body, clarity to her mind.

  She had to fight. This was not a game she could win unless she fought. Pretending surrender would gain her nothing. Reaching up, she tore at the hand holding her coat, dug her nails into his flesh and kicked at his legs at the same time. He growled a curse she couldn’t understand for the blood pounding in her ears and shoved her against the side of his car.

  She twisted aside so that she had her back to the car and he was in front of her. He still had the collar of her coat and it was twisted up around her neck, one arm almost free. She decided her best chance was to slide out of the coat entirely.

  But he was one thought ahead of her, and when she started to fall he used his hip to slam her into the car and pin her there. Then he took hold of her hair again and turned her and slammed her face first into the trunk of the car. She managed to get an arm up to absorb some of the impact and cushion the force. Even so, she heard a crunching sound, and a bright corona of light dazzled her eyes while pain, as jagged and broken as the bones in her nose, shocked her into stunned helplessness.

  She slid to the ground, and he stood on her ankle, keeping her pinned just in case, while he unlocked the trunk of his car. Once he had it open he reached down and almost gently lifted her to her feet. Her knee cracked hard against the bumper as he awkwardly pushed her forward into the trunk.

  The fresh pain helped clear her head and she could hear him. Hear his curses. “Billy sitch. All the same. Never fucking learn. Never.”

  She was inside the trunk now, only her lower legs outside the car. He grabbed her ankles and lifted them into the trunk. She reached up to touch her face, to cup her broken nose. Sticky wet blood ran down her face, the copper taste filled her mouth, made her want to be sick.

  Then she realized what he’d said. Eyes wide and pain nearly forgotten she said, “You. You’re the boy from Germany, my brother’s friend. How?”

  “Ah. The secret is out. Yes, that’s right. I am the boy. I kn
ew you’d remember me eventually. How very nice to see you again.” Blood, seeping from the jagged tear in his face where she had bitten him, sprinkled her as he talked.

  Desperately, Austin tried to roll out of the trunk. Blake easily pushed her back in.

  “Settle down. You just settle down and stop fighting me or you’re gonna get hurt.”

  “Why? Tell me why you’re doing this?” she asked, unbidden tears nearly blinding her.

  “I told you. You’re all alike. All of you. Stupid billy sitches. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of everything. Stupid worthless cunt.” His words, like blows, hammered her. He leaned forward into the trunk just inches from her face and bellowed, “This has all been your fault. Before you, I had a life. Before you, my stupid mother obeyed my father like she was supposed to. Do you understand now? Can you hear me?”

  Like some demented drill instructor, with saliva and blood spraying from his mouth, he kept screaming at her, words that meant nothing, nonsense syllables. Then, as suddenly as the tirade began, it stopped, and he grew quiet again.

  In a soft whisper, he said, “I have really enjoyed fucking with you. I loved it when I pushed you down the basement stairs. Too bad you didn’t break your silly neck. I loved it when I turned off the lights and you screamed for me. Will you scream for me again? I have so enjoyed fucking with you. Do you think I’ll enjoy fucking you? Do you? That’s what I’m going to do to you, lucky girl. As soon as you are quiet and good, I am going to have a really nice time with you. Then I am going to bury you in a tiny little box deep in the ground but if you’re a very nice little girl I might not. I might not put you in that box. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d do just about anything to avoid being underground, in the dark. Now am I right?” He licked his lips.

  “I don’t understand. I don’t know why you’re doing this.”

  “All part of the mystery, sweetheart. All part of the freaking mystery. Now, let’s go for a little ride, shall we? Not a long ride, but I can guarantee, a dark and rather unpleasant one,” and before Austin could react he had reached up and slammed down the trunk lid.

  It was dark, too dark. The fear would grow, and she would become helpless. Blake was going to hurt her, rape her, probably kill her if she didn’t do something. She had to stay conscious so she could fight him. Be calm, she told herself. Try to think. Light. Flashlight. Matches. Of course, matches. There was a pack of matches in her pocket. She had started carrying them after the night the lights went out and her flashlight had been broken. Hands shaking, she pulled them out of her pocket.

  The car started and lurched forward. She was thrown around and hit the side of her head on the underside of the trunk. Pain seared a path behind her eyes; her brain felt like it was on fire. She had no idea a broken nose could hurt so much. Fresh tears sprang into her eyes. She could smell oil, and less strong, gasoline. If she lit the matches she might catch the trunk on fire. Was that a possibility? She didn’t know. But if she didn’t drive the darkness away what would happen? Would the thing in the dark inhabit her body and protect her, kill Blake? Or was that simply a fantasy? Would she just hyperventilate and pass out? What was the truth? Was she the killer, or was Blake? If it was Blake then she wanted to live, but if it wasn’t, if the thing truly was inside her, then maybe Blake was doing her a favor. She had to have time to think, to figure it all out.

  She struck the first match. It sputtered but caught. It was so lovely. She watched its blue and yellow flame as it leapt and danced in response to the sway of the car. The smell of sulfur was strong in the small enclosed space.

  Why had he done it? Had he killed Bunny and Janice and attacked Muncie? What possible reason could he have to hate her so much? What did he have against the others?

  The match burned her fingers and, fearful of dropping it onto the oil-soaked carpeting, Austin blew it out and awkwardly struck another.

  That was a mistake, she realized. You have to wait until you begin to fear the dark, the something in the dark, before you use them. You can’t afford to run out. But for the moment she let herself enjoy the feeble light.

  The trip took 16 matches. Only four were left when the car pulled onto gravel, slowed and stopped. She was ready.

  She heard him open the door. The car rose as he climbed out. She heard the driver’s door close and his footsteps on the gravel. She heard the key slide into the lock without fumbling or hesitation and wondered if he had been drunk at all.

  He swung the lid up. The smoke from the matches, which had been hovering near the top of the trunk, drifted out. It took Blake’s attention for just one moment, but that moment was long enough. Austin drew the razor sharp blade of the box knife across the back of his hand.

  She'd been carrying the knife ever since the night in the nursery, when Will had walked in on her. She'd forgotten about it until, when fumbling for the matches, she'd found it in her pocket.

  Blake shrieked in pain, cupping his hand and stepping back as the knife sliced through his skin. Austin swung her legs out of the trunk and sprang to her feet in one smooth movement.

  Night had fallen since they’d left the house, but the full moon was up and the snow reflected the light, revealing Blake’s face. His anger was frightening, his eyes rolling and mad.

  “Stay away from me,” she warned, brandishing the knife. He stepped back, and keeping his eyes on her he pulled the scarf from his neck and began to wind it around his injured hand. Blood had fallen in dark splatters against the pristine snow. Taking one step back, then another, then turning, she ran. The snow crunched beneath her feet. It was cold. Her breath streamed behind her in a ragged scarf. The moonlight was strong, but cloud shadows made the ground tricky to navigate. She could hear him behind her, so close, so very close, and then she couldn’t hear his running footsteps any more. But she didn’t dare look back. She had to concentrate, had to run. She could outrun him. She had to believe that.

  Then she heard the car. He had gone back for the car. She was at the road now, running alongside the ditch knowing she would have to cross it and get to the other side. Why did the chicken cross the road? To keep from getting run over by the bastard in the rented car and the ten-gallon hat, she thought insanely. The car kept coming, fast and loud. He wouldn’t dare the ditch would he? She gathered herself and leapt. She hit the opposite side of the bank hard and slid downward, one foot smashing through a crust of ice, water filling her shoe. She clawed at the frozen ground and pulled herself up to the top of the ditch.

  She could hear the tires crunching across the snow and the tick of a bad lifter in the engine. Getting to her feet, she half ran, half stumbled away, using the ditch as a guide and staying just below the darkest shadows cast by the line of trees on the hillside.

  Her breath was ragged and a stitch burned in her side, rivaling the throbbing ache of her broken nose. The lights of the car swept across her, and she imagined she could feel its heat, like some modern dragon breathing down her neck, growing closer and closer. Knowing she had to make up her mind to either run into the darkness of the forest or give up all chance of getting away, Austin turned to climb. Then a new sound took her attention. She turned in time to see the car sliding sideways alongside the ditch. She could hear tires skidding over the slick sheet ice and then the car abruptly went into the ditch. It struck the side hard, flinging frozen clods of mud as it flipped onto its back and continued sliding. She watched, awestruck, as it seemed to pick up speed and then suddenly stopped. It sat rocking, tires spinning, headlights shining uselessly at the base of pine and fir.

  Austin didn’t know how long she stood there. Finally she became aware of how quiet the night had become. There was an utter stillness, broken only by the pinging of the cooling engine, a metallic cricket, chirping without rhythm.

  “Austin.”

  She heard her name, and her hand tightened on the box knife she had clutched the whole time.

  “Help me. Please, Austin. I’m hurt bad.”

  He doesn’t sound drunk at
all. He’s a trickster, a liar. Why believe him now?

  “Austin, please.”

  She didn’t know how many times he called her name before she made up her mind and resignedly made her way to the car. Kneeling in the snow, she could look inside the window of the upside down car. In her current state of mind she had lost touch with much of the world, sliding through a grayness that was part shock, but she had not yet lost touch with the basic humanity that says you do not leave the injured to die alone.

  What she saw did not touch her, though it would make a rookie paramedic throw up his dinner later that night.

  It took her a few moments to puzzle out what she was seeing, to understand the strange weapon that the universe had provided for her. The thick branch of a spruce tree had broken under the weight of last year’s storms and fallen into the crotch of another tree where it sat like a bolt in a crossbow; loaded, aimed, and waiting.

  But it was the car that had provided the momentum to slam the sharpened end of the branch through the fractured driver’s side window as it slid sideways toward the target. It was the car’s momentum that had forced the spike of a branch to pierce Blake’s body below his left armpit, through his body and out between the shattered ribs on his right side. He was pinned like an insect to the seat of the car. Austin stood beside him and heard him take his last breath.

  After a few moments Austin stood, then she walked eight miles to the nearest house with a light on. Given her broken nose, twisted ankle and badly torn knee that she could walk at all was something of a miracle. Frostbite took a bite from her ankle and darkened her toes but they recovered fully with time.

  Townspeople compared her walk to the amazing stories of people who lift cars from trapped children. They did not understand the strength she drew upon came, not from adrenaline, but from the relief of knowing it was Blake and not she who had committed the murders.