Under Cover of Darkness

by James Grippando

  “My name is Alicia Santiago.”

  “And where are you from?”

  The second voice startled him. It was his father. It was a taped interview, psychotherapist and patient.

  “Bogotá, Colombia.”

  He watched for several minutes, never taking his eyes off the screen, almost forgetting that his father too was watching just a few feet away. The tape itself, with his father asking questions and the pretty woman answering, seemed more real. It intrigued him the way she would answer anything the therapist asked, even details about her marriage.

  “Tell me more about your husband.”

  She drew a deep breath. “He was a judge in the criminal courts. Many drug cases.”

  It would have been boring for a ten-year-old to watch but for her expressions, her obvious pain. With each answer she seemed more distressed. The tone of his father’s questions never changed. It was the same monotone, very methodical.

  “Tell me about that night,” his father said. “The night the men took you.”

  Her voice shook. “There were…three of them. I think. I don’t remember exactly. I was asleep. They grabbed me in my bed. Put something over my mouth. I tried to scream but couldn’t breathe. Then I blacked out.”

  “They drugged you?”

  She nodded.

  “What do you remember next?”

  “Waking up.”

  “Where were you?”

  “I don’t know. I was blindfolded. It felt more like a cell than a room. A bare cement floor. Cold. Very cold.”

  “Were you dressed warmly?”

  “No.” She lowered her head, embarrassed. “I was naked.”

  “What happened to your clothes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  There was silence for a second. She sipped a cup of water. The camera never moved, locked on her distress. “Alicia, I know this is difficult. But I want you to tell me what happened next. After you woke up.”

  “I was afraid to move. I just lay on the floor.”

  “How long?”

  “Hard to say. Maybe a few minutes. Longer possibly.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then I heard something outside the door.”

  “Someone entering?”

  She nodded, gnawing her lower lip nervously.

  “Who was it?”

  Her eyes welled. A hand appeared on screen, passing her a tissue. She took it and dabbed away a tear. “One of the men.”

  “You were still blindfolded?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I—nothing, really. Tried to cover myself, my breasts, with my arms. But nothing else.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Came to me. I could hear his footsteps on the cement floor.”

  “Just one man, you’re sure?”

  “I—I think so. He walked very slowly, very close to me. Then he stopped.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  She nodded, her face flushed with emotion. “He told me to kneel,” she said, her voice cracking, “and to open my mouth.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I did whatever he said.”

  “Then what?”

  “I just knelt there, waiting. I could see nothing, but I sensed him standing right there. I was afraid. I heard his belt unbuckling. His pants unzip. And then he shouted at me. Wider! And I would open my mouth wider. It wasn’t wide enough. He grabbed me.”

  “Where?”

  “My jaw—prying it apart.”

  “Were you in pain?”

  Tears flowed. “At this point I was numb. I just braced myself, expecting him to—you know, put it in my mouth.”

  “Did he?”

  Her voice shook. “I couldn’t see.”

  “What did you feel?”

  “Nothing at first. I sensed something was in my mouth. But it was sort of—hovering.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “He shouted at me again. Close! So I closed my mouth.”

  “And what did you feel?”

  “Cold.”

  “Cold?”

  She nodded. “It was long and flat.”

  “Flat?”

  “Resting on my tongue, pushing on the roof of my mouth. After a few seconds I could feel the blood oozing from the corners of my mouth.” Her eyes closed, then opened. She barely had control, her voice barely audible. “The edges were so sharp.”

  “A knife?”

  She trembled, then nodded.

  “He ordered me not to swallow. The blood gathered in my mouth. It had to go somewhere. My mouth was full. It was running down my chin.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “The flashing.”

  “Lights?”

  “I was still blindfolded. But it was like a strobe light seeping in around the edges.”

  “White light?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were imagining it?”

  “No, no. It was real. A bright flash of light, over and over.”

  “What was it for?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t know.”

  “Do you know now?”

  She didn’t answer.

  He asked again, “Do you know what it was?”

  She answered quietly. “Someone was taking pictures.”

  On screen, the sobbing continued. From the safety of the closet, his ten-year-old eyes never looked away, barely even blinked. Here was a woman on the verge of hysteria. Yet he was strangely unfazed by the tears. For a second he felt guilty, mesmerized by this woman’s suffering as his father reviewed it for study, so he could help her. But he couldn’t tear his young eyes away from the screen.

  The taped interview continued. “What happened next?” his father asked her.

  “He pulled out the knife. Very fast. Cut like a razor.”

  “What then?”

  “He asked me, ‘Do you like the knife?’”

  “Did you answer?”

  “No. So he shouted again: ‘Do you like the knife!’”

  “Did you answer this time?”

  “I just shook my head. Then he shouted again. ‘Say it loud! Say you don’t like the knife!’ So I did. I shouted back. Over and over he made me shout it—‘I don’t like the knife!’”

  “Then what?”

  She swallowed hard. “He whispered into my ear.”

  “What did he say?”

  “‘Next time, be glad it’s not the knife.’”

  A deep groan emerged from the couch, clearly not from the videotape. The tape was switched off, controlled by the remote. Several seconds passed. His father didn’t move. Then slowly he rose and turned around. The view from the closet was unobstructed. The look on his face was one of total exhaustion. But it wasn’t his father’s face that caught his attention. It was the unzipped fly, the spent erection. He was only ten, but he knew what was going on.

  This was no professional study session…. A thud on the window roused him from his memories. He was out of the past but still in the closet—a strange woman’s closet. He peered through the slats in the louvered doors. Outside, the wind had kicked up again. A tree branch thrashed against the bedroom window. Nothing to be concerned about. Still, he chastised himself in silence. Too much at stake to let the mind drift away, especially into the past. He opened his eyes widely and stared toward the hallway, thinking only of the future. The immediate future.

  When it would be better than videotape.

  Twenty-four

  Gus returned home after dinnertime. Morgan was in her room with one of her friends. Carla had invited her over. A good move, anything to take Morgan’s focus off any child’s worst fear. He knocked on her door and popped his head into the room. “Hi.”

  She looked up from her computer. She and her friend were trying out a new dinosaur CD-ROM. “Hi, Daddy.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Hannah.” Her eyes were telling. That he had to ask only reinforced the uncomfor
table note he had left on this morning. “She’s my best friend.”

  “Hi,” she peeped.

  “Hi, Hannah.”

  They stared back in silence. Gus felt decidedly unwelcome. He backed out awkwardly. “Well, you two have fun.”

  He closed the door. Even the simple exchanges were going badly. He slipped off his jacket and headed for the kitchen.

  Carla was in the family room watching television on the big sixty-inch screen. One of those mindless magazine shows. Hard Edition or some such thing, where Armani-clad journalists ask megastars the really probing questions like, “Are you incredibly excited about your new movie?”

  He got a beer from the refrigerator and leaned on the granite counter facing the family room. Carla remained glued to the television.

  “I hired a private investigator today.”

  She switched off the TV with the remote control. “You did?”

  “Spent most of the day with him.”

  “Are you unhappy with the job the police are doing?”

  He opened the bottle, took a sip. “Honestly, they seem to have written her off for dead. I want to make sure they’re not jumping to conclusions.”

  “You mean you’re coming around to my first thought—that she left you?”

  “I’m not ruling it out, though it does seem remote. Even if she was as unhappy as you say, that doesn’t explain the way she left, leaving Morgan without a ride at the youth center, leaving without her purse or credit cards. It’s all pretty confusing.”

  “And you think a private investigator can sort it out?”

  “No one seems to have a clue where she might have gone. I’m beginning to think maybe someone is covering for her. If that’s the case, I’m hoping the private investigator can help.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  He nodded, then set his half-empty beer bottle on the counter. “Carla, did you know Beth had an eating disorder?”

  She recoiled, but only slightly. The question didn’t seem to floor her. “Didn’t you?”

  “No. How long did she have it?”

  “About as long as you’ve made her feel insecure, I guess.”

  “What did I ever do to make her feel so insecure?”

  “You’re the only one who can answer that.”

  “Did she ever say anything to you?”

  “Lots of things.”

  “Anything specific? Anything she seemed preoccupied with?”

  “Yeah. Two words. Martha Goldstein.”

  He went cold, recalling Martha’s words in his office—the way Beth had shunned her at the firm Christmas party. “I was never unfaithful to Beth. Not with Martha, not with anyone.”

  “That’s not the way Beth saw it.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t show me any photographs of you and Martha in compromising positions, if that’s what you’re wondering. And that’s not what bugged her anyway. To be honest with you, I think she could have found a way to forgive you if you’d gotten drunk, lost your head and pulled a one-night stand with some woman you didn’t care about. What she couldn’t stand was the long, painful death. And it has to be painful, watching your husband slowly fall in love with another woman.”

  “I’m not in love with Martha Goldstein,” he said with frustration.

  “Maybe not. But somewhere along the line you fell out of love with Beth.”

  “I’ve always loved Beth. I still love her. If she doubted that, she should have talked to me about it.”

  “If you didn’t hear her throwing up, I guess she figured you weren’t listening.”

  Gus was looking at Carla but didn’t really see her. He was really looking inside himself, seeing things he didn’t like.

  “I’m beat. I’m going to go lie down before dinner.”

  “All I made was soup and Jell-O. It’s in the fridge. Morgan’s tooth is still bothering her. She likes chicken soup and Jell-O when she’s sick. Cherry.”

  All the little things he didn’t know about Morgan. The thought of having to learn them from Carla had him feeling not so good himself. “Guess I’ll just order a pizza or something. You eat yet?”

  “No, but I need to get home. You think you can handle things on your own tonight?”

  “I think so.”

  She grabbed her coat and started down the hall. Gus followed and opened the front door for her, then switched on the porch light. A chilly wind stirred the evergreens in the big front yard. Carla walked down the steps in silence.

  “Thanks for watching Morgan,” he said, standing in the doorway.

  She stopped and looked back. “What’s an aunt for?” She started down the steps again but stopped short, as if she had something to say. “Gus?”

  “Yeah?”

  She paused, measuring her words. “Let me just say this to you. You may never have stopped loving Beth. In your own loyal and convenient way, you may even still love her.” Her eyes began to well, her voice even quavered. “But in the last six months you really stopped knowing her.”

  He watched in silence as she turned and walked to her car. The door closed slowly, leaving him alone with his thoughts in the dark and empty hallway.

  Twenty-five

  The profile arrived by fax. Six typed pages, double spaced. Andie read it several times. It was her job to disseminate it, not critique it. But she couldn’t help herself. She at least had to compare it to what she had come up with.

  On several key points she was on Victoria’s same wave length. A man in his late twenties or early thirties. Caucasian, same as his victims. Higher than average intelligence. Doesn’t know his victims. Likely to have experienced a recent stressful event in his life, such as job loss, divorce, or breakup with his girlfriend.

  But the heart of it was somewhat different from what Andie had envisioned. Leads a normal and even respectable lifestyle by day. A roamer by night, possible insomniac. No felony convictions, but arrest record includes peeping tom or trespassing offenses. Fancies himself smarter than police. No formal police training, but probably self-educated through books and magazines on police procedures and perhaps even profiling techniques. Subscribes to detective magazines, frequents bars or restaurants where law enforcement personnel gather, may even befriend or strike up conversations with cops to fit in. A law enforcement reject, possibly a security guard who didn’t make the police cut.

  Andie’s overall impression was disappointment. She wasn’t expecting a name and address. Profiles were by their nature generalizations. But this one struck Andie as a little too general. It didn’t exhibit the genius Victoria Santos was.

  But what do I know?

  She scrambled to get the profile delivered to each of the local law enforcement agencies before six-thirty. Then it was off to her usual Friday routine: yoga classes. Andie rarely missed, especially when the stress level at work was high. Nothing like the downward-facing dog pose to get your mind off work, even if it wasn’t nearly as kinky as it sounded.

  Andie parked in the paved lot on the corner, across the street and a half block down from the studio. Beneath her coat she wore a clingy aerobic leotard. Her workout bag was over her shoulder. Inside were the usual yoga props: a thin rubber sticky-mat, a strap, and two wooden blocks. The yoga instructor banned cell phones and beepers from class. Fortunately, he had never said anything about the firearm an FBI agent was required to carry. That too was in her bag.

  The yoga studio shared space with a ballet company in a low-rent area. The office building across the street was eighty years old and looked even older. The red brick warehouse next door was abandoned and slated for demolition. The handful of restaurants nearby were strictly for the lunch crowd, all closed by late afternoon. It wasn’t an unsafe neighborhood, but it wasn’t for the fainthearted, either. Most students came in groups. Andie, late as usual, came alone.

  She locked her car and headed briskly down the sidewalk. Her sneakers squeaked on the damp cement. A lone car passed, spraying the curb with foul-
smelling runoff. Andie danced out of the way and continued up the block. It was a straight shot to the studio, with the entrance to the dark alley beside the warehouse her only real safety concern. She made it a practice never to cross the street till she was past it. In less than a minute, she was there. Seeing no degenerates in the shadows, she jumped off the curb and cut across the street. A truck passed. The sound of tires on wet pavement faded behind her. It was replaced by footsteps.

  Andie quickened her pace. The footsteps quickened. Leather heels, she could tell, probably a man. She slowed her pace, just to test. The footsteps were closing.

  Paranoid already. All this serial killer stuff.

  Just to be safe, she stepped off the curb, pretending to cross the street. The sound changed from the sharp click of heels on a cement sidewalk to the more muffled heels on asphalt. She hopped back on the sidewalk. Again, the footsteps followed.

  This was not paranoia.

  She unzipped her bag and grabbed her pistol, leaving it inside. She stopped and wheeled around. He stopped. She stopped. The gun was still inside her bag, but it was pointing at the chest of her ex-fiancé.

  “Rick,” she gasped, “what the hell are you doing?”

  He wobbled slightly, as though he’d been drinking. “Just, uh. Nothin’.”

  His eyes were glazed. He’d definitely been drinking. “You’re following me.”

  “I have something to say to you.”

  “Rick, leave me alone.”

  “I didn’t sleep with your sister.”

  “I know you didn’t. You fucked her.”

  He smiled, struggling not to laugh. But he couldn’t hold it in. It was funny to a drunk. He finally got control of himself. “Oh, that was rich.”

  Inside the bag, her finger twitched on the trigger. Her darker side wondered if this could pass for justifiable homicide. “You think it’s funny that you had sex with my sister the night before our wedding?”

  The laughter faded. But the smirk was still there. “Come on, Andie. You hate your sister anyway. The only reason she was maid of honor is because your mother made you pick her.”