That Darkness

by Lisa Black

  “Oh,” Jack said, apparently finding his voice. “Hi.”

  Maggie explained how this building appeared on their list. It did not seem to surprise him. Meanwhile the other man had walked around the back of the vehicle to come closer. Jack did not introduce him.

  She had interrupted something, had no idea what and didn’t care, but she did want to know where the Johnson Court building—and Jack—figured into things.

  After some initial stammers, Jack’s voice grew more strident. “We’re here for an interview. Special Ops uses some off-site offices here and I’m on an extra detail with them. Sorry but I can’t tell you more than that.” He meant detail as in an assignment, not an item of minutia.

  “The police department rents space here?” Maggie asked. It explained the guy with him, at least. He looked like someone the police should talk to, and regularly. Something about his face, both weaselly and roiling-beneath-the-surface at the same time.

  “For interviews.”

  “And it didn’t occur to anyone to tell me that when the address showed up on my list?”

  He said, “Sorry,” but didn’t sound it. He sounded royally irritated. The friendliness he usually showed her had evaporated and annoyance replaced it. “I should have caught that. I never paid attention to the numerical address and I doubt anyone else did, either. And this is a confidential detail.”

  That seemed very odd. Detectives by definition were supposed to notice coincidences and overlapping facts. She continued to stare at him for another long moment.

  “It’s a pilot program,” he said.

  Her facts at hand shifted into a new pattern. “Actually, that could be our answer. All our”—she eyed the other man, who had inched closer to her—“victims could have picked up the trace evidence from this place without all being here at the same time. Assuming they were all qu—uh, interviewed at this site?”

  Except Viktor had not been questioned by police, so far as they knew. Viktor, with his Kevlar fiber—

  He sighed as if impatient to get going. “I’m not sure, but I can find out.”

  “It would have been helpful to know that before I went chasing all over the city looking for fibers,” she said, her own annoyance growing. Temporary police custody, a mainstay of their victims’ lives, might turn out to be the only thing those men had shared. So that all her clues meant nothing, and she had wasted three days on coincidence and chance. “I’d like to collect some samples, then. I could get this all cleared up here and now and you can go on to more fruitful avenues of investigation. And maybe I could stop chasing my tail.”

  “It’s a nice tail,” the other guy said, speaking for the first time. He gave Maggie a leer, obviously having flunked Appropriate Timing while in cool school. She ignored him.

  “Tomorrow,” Jack said, in a carefully conciliatory tone. “I’ll come in.”

  But she felt too peeved to quail in the face of his obvious annoyance. If he’d been paying even the slightest amount of attention to his own job he should have noticed the address, and the fact that at least Brian Johnson and Ronald Masiero and Day all had been in for questioning, someone should have picked up on that, too. They were the detectives, and now they had spent three days wasting her time.

  Or, of course, Jack was her killer. But was this other man some kind of partner, or about to become the next victim—unless her presence there could keep a fifth notch off Jack’s belt?

  “No,” she said. “Now. Just give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Let’s go inside,” the other guy said. He acted like he was cold or something . . . but the evening damp had begun to creep up from the pavement, and it gave her an opening.

  “Good idea.” She turned to the door.

  Jack grabbed her arm, hard. “No.”

  Maggie’s job had never been to confront, certainly not physically, but suddenly she had no intention of backing down. Whether it might be gut instinct or simple stubbornness, she would now enter that building with or without Jack Renner’s cooperation. “Yes.”

  “Another time.”

  “Now.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit, Maggie. I don’t.”

  She didn’t pull away. If anything she inched closer. “Neither do I.”

  He exhaled audibly, his face murderous. But then he dropped his hand and stood back. “Fine. This way.”

  He stalked up the steps and she followed. She would not give him a chance to change his mind, though her heart pounded and sweat pricked from her underarms.

  The unknown guy waited on her heels—a bit too close on her heels, but she had pushed her way past many an inmate before and refused to let him worry her. She felt much more worried about Jack and his bizarre secrecy. But then everything about him seemed bizarre and secret—his running from Lola the previous night to his odd reticence inside the department.

  Maybe he simply didn’t like a woman insisting on what he had to do.

  Maybe he just needed to question this guy and her presence screwed things up, distracted the target, interrupted the rapport that he might have had going. The guy wasn’t in cuffs and Jack didn’t speak to him aggressively, which meant that, for the moment at least, he could be considered a friendly witness. Or he was the suspect, the guy the cops were after but they didn’t want him to figure that out until it was too late. Now she had interfered with the game plan. Well, tough. Jack was a cop. He’d think on his feet.

  Maybe Jack’s secret had a lot more to do with some dead criminals than with his schedule or his reluctance to let her set it.

  Whatever she would find inside, it seemed clear that she would not like it. But she had to know, one way or the other.

  Still her heart pounded.

  The unknown guy stood close enough to breathe on her neck as Jack unlocked the door. Irksome, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She planted her feet and did not squirm.

  Jack unlocked the door, then touched her elbow to let the other guy go first. Proper procedure—prisoners first, guard second. Never let them get behind you. Jack got behind her, but she expected that. At least the shaggy guy couldn’t breathe on her anymore.

  They all moved along smoothly enough until Jack said, “This is it.”

  Maggie said nothing, simply waited as the cop selected another key and undid first a deadbolt and then the knob of a sturdy-looking door. She and the man entered. Jack snapped on the few overhead lights, but remained in the doorway, making it clear she was to hurry.

  Her brain cells and nerve cells were all pinging wildly; there were so many things wrong with this picture she had no idea which to focus on first. How could the other detectives not have noticed this address on the list? Why would Jack be interviewing a guy off-site? Why did nothing, not a sign or a plaque, indicate that this was police department property? Why did the room—an unremarkable space with a table and a desk—have none of the usual accoutrements of an interview room, no large mirror, no ceiling cameras, no bars on the windows? Where was Riley? Was this an IA thing, rooting out some sort of corruption in the CPD? Was Riley one of the cops being investigated? If they wanted to keep their witnesses out of sight, why choose a place two blocks from the police department? Why not meet at the FBI offices as they had during the last corruption raid?

  Unless Jack was her vigilante killer. The idea, of course, no longer seemed outrageous. It would explain the choice of victims—the time Jack spent in Vice, when he would have become aware of Day and Masiero—and his abrupt comings and goings. But would he risk killing this lowlife now standing next to her when his whole unit was slowly but inexorably becoming aware of his activities? Would he risk harming her?

  No. She didn’t fit his victims’ profile, so she would be safe.

  Then she looked at his face and didn’t feel safe at all.

  “She will just be a moment, Mr. Shaw,” he was saying to the other man, who hovered near the door as if rethinking his decision to cooperate. “Then we can get started.”

&
nbsp; What was that stacked neatly along the counter along the interior wall? Was that alcohol?

  The words what the hell is going on here? had just begun to form on her lips when the shaggy-haired man closed his left fist around the keys that still dangled from the knob and pulled them out while snapping a knife open with his right hand. Then he plunged it into Jack’s stomach.

  Jack staggered backward into the hallway. He only moved two feet and didn’t fall, but it was enough for the guy to slam the door and lock the deadbolt with the key. It had been keyed on both sides. No latch. He didn’t bother with the knob.

  Then he dropped the keys into the pocket of his dirty jeans and turned to her.

  “Hello,” he said. “I’m Dillon. What’s your name?”

  Chapter 27

  Friday, 7:17 p.m.

  Everything had happened a little too fast for Maggie.

  She no longer trusted Jack. But she sure as hell didn’t feel any more comfortable with this guy.

  This man had stabbed Jack.

  And this man stood between her and the door—though that hardly mattered. She couldn’t get it open without that key in his pocket.

  She backed away without realizing it, until her hip bumped up against the table in the center of the room. With her hands spread out she found the back of one of the chairs, thinking that a swinging chair would make a handy block.

  Except the chair didn’t move, even when she yanked on the top rail. It had been bolted to the floor.

  The man—who had so cavalierly introduced himself—noticed this movement and her look of dismay. He took a step closer, knife displayed in one firm hand.

  She moved around the chair. To her left sat the counter with the alcohol bottles. A fifth of whiskey would make a good club, or, if broken—she had no faith in her abilities when it came to hand-to-hand combat, but if he had a knife it might be a good idea—

  He darted to the side as if reading her mind, blocking the counter. She looked around the rest of the room. A computer and monitor on the desk and a filing cabinet. A wastebasket. That was it. The room smelled of dust and old linoleum.

  Dillon or whatever his name was stayed by the counter. Unbelievably, he glanced over the selection, plucked a glass tumbler from behind the bottles, and poured himself a drink. One-handed, never letting go of the knife, taking his gaze off her only for a nanosecond here or there.

  She used this lull to open the top drawers of the desk, hoping for a scissors or even a pen. Nothing. The drawers held nothing but dust. She could pull out the drawer itself and swing it like a mace, but doubted that would help her situation much.

  Dillon sipped his drink, eyes gleaming over the rim. He seemed to be enjoying this.

  A lot.

  What did he want with her?

  It seemed too bizarre that, when brought in for questioning, he would suddenly decide to stab one officer and assault some other person who simply happened to be present. But then, everything about this situation was bizarre, and violent criminals were not known for their well-thought-out actions. Did he intend to use her as a hostage, to negotiate his way out of an impending arrest?

  Or was this some weird game between him and Jack? Perhaps calling Jack a vigilante had been too generous. Maybe he and this guy killed people simply because they liked it.

  He didn’t seem to be in a hurry, enjoying her fear and confusion. At least he tried to give that impression, but she saw his hand tremble as it lifted the glass, and he shot a frowning glance at the door every three seconds, wondering if this little fortress were really as impregnable as it seemed. Jack might have another key, or he might simply shoot the lock off.

  Unless Jack remained on the hallway floor, bleeding to death. Could the blade have reached his heart? It might be long enough. Did he have his radio? Could he at least call for help?

  “Who are you?” she asked her captor.

  “Told you. I’m Dillon.”

  She took a second to glance at the window. Both panes had been covered with a thin contact paper that allowed a dull glow from the streetlights to penetrate but nothing else, and now that she stood close enough she could see that the entire opening had been covered with a sheet of Plexiglas mounted to the wall. There would be no getting through it without a half hour and a set of tools. She could hear nothing from the street, either, and doubted any passing motorist would be able to hear her screams. If a pedestrian strolled by she might have a chance. “Why did you stab Jack?”

  He grinned, took another sip, playing a coolly brutal villain direct from the silver screen. Except he didn’t look cool. He just looked brutal.

  “Well,” he drawled the words out, “three’s a crowd, ain’t it?”

  She tried to push the panic out of her brain; keeping her hands behind her, she slipped one into the back pocket of her jeans. Then she slowly flipped her cell phone open, careful not to drop it. “What does that mean?”

  “You’re not a cop, are you?”

  No point in denying the obvious. “No.”

  “Then what are you doing here?” He seemed genuinely curious.

  “What are you doing here?” She would have to dial 911 without looking at the screen. The number keys were the center columns but there were extra keys all around them, and they all felt the same under her trembling thumb.

  The curiosity passed. He set the glass down. “I just came to meet girls.” For some reason this amused him and he laughed, ending on a high giggle that accomplished the impossible and made her feel more afraid than she already did. Her free hand closed around the top rail of the desk chair.

  This chair had not been bolted down. A plain wooden object that had seen better days, but it could be moved.

  She kept her hand on it, stood up straighter, and tried to make her voice as firm as she could manage under the circumstances, long enough to find the 9 key. Lower right corner, one in. She pressed. At least the phone made no sound. She had disabled the annoying boop boop boop noises immediately after purchase. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do? You’re in police custody. Jack’s partner knows you’ve been picked up. Jack would have radioed in your twenty before he approached you.”

  “Nope,” the guy said, coming closer, slowly, judging her reaction with each step. Twelve feet away now. 1.

  “You just stabbed a cop. There’s going to be SWAT commandos coming through this window at any moment. If you start moving now, you might make it to Public Square before they take you down.”

  “Then there’s no point in running, is there?” he said. Another step. Ten feet. “Might as well enjoy myself first.”

  “What did he pick you up for?” she asked, hoping to point out that whatever he had been going to be arrested for, it wouldn’t be as bad as assaulting police personnel. This wouldn’t be accurate, of course—he had stabbed a cop. He was already in nearly as much trouble as he could possibly get. Hell, I am in as much tr—

  “You know, I’m not entirely sure. I had too many other things on my mind to ask. You see”—another step—“I’m having a bad week. I’ve had a bad two months. Nothing but rotten luck and trouble, and most of it”—he stopped, and his face dropped the elaborately unconcerned look he had been carrying, turned to unsmiling with a cold quality that froze the marrow of her bones to ice—“because of bitches just like you.”

  He raised the knife until it extended a foot in front of him, pointing directly at her breasts. The Send button. Upper left-hand corner. But the top one or the one below it? How could she look at the surface of her phone so many times a day and not have it memorized? She pressed.

  A booming sound startled them both. Jack had pounded on the door, shouting. But instead of demanding that the door be opened or stating that SWAT would be entering soon, he called Maggie’s name.

  But it sounded weak, his voice, and did not shout a second time.

  She used the distraction to pick up the wooden desk chair with both hands and swing it like a bat, driving it up into Dillon’s head and sho
ulders and knife hand. But she had to let go of the phone to do it.

  The impact rattled her frame and knocked him back but not down. He grunted and stumbled but still she couldn’t get the heavy chair back up again fast enough before he attacked.

  He rushed her, slamming her body into the wall next to the window, so hard that she bounced off. She let go of the chair and he grabbed her shirt with his left hand, snapping her away and down until he had her where he wanted her. Flat on her back with him on top, his knife at her throat.

  He straddled her hips, his knees bent back so that each shin pinned one of her thighs. With the knife across her larynx—she could feel the sharp line pressing into her skin—he seemed unconcerned about her hands. He hooked rough fingers into the neck of her top and pulled, as if trying to rip it open, but she wore a T-shirt and it didn’t separate like a blouse. It simply pulled her upward, against the knife, the blade creasing her throat. He gave up on the shirt, pushed her down and leaned close. His breath smelled like fermented onions and raw meat. She could see the pores on his nose and an unholy light in his eyes.

  “Now, let me tell you what I’m going to do to you. And if you give me any problem, any at all, I’m going to cut your head off. You got that?”

  She did.

  But she didn’t care. Her hands snaked up past his arms and she drove her fingers into his eyeballs.

  Not hard, and his lids instinctively shut and he turned his face away immediately, but enough that he growled in pain and reared back, out of her reach. This lost him the knife’s leverage against her throat, but not before she felt a stinging pain and a trickle of wetness across her skin.

  She knocked his knife hand away and shoved at his chest with both hands, sitting up and trying to buck with her hips at the same time. But it did not work. He raised the knife away from her, but only to get up some speed as he drove it downward with a loud grunt of explosive anger.

  She grabbed his wrist with both hands, but he had strength and momentum and she had nothing but thirty push-ups a day. She could not stop it. She could only redirect the plunge to the side. The blade spiked into the linoleum two inches from her left shoulder and from the howl of fury and pain, his hand had slipped down the hilt to get cut by the blade. When he raised it again she saw blood, and it wasn’t hers.