Darkness First

by James Hayman

  Harlan sighed, sat up and rooted around in his pack. He found another of his Nature Valley breakfast bars and tossed it to her. She’d already eaten four. After this he only had one left.

  ‘I’m sick of these things,’ she said. ‘They’re disgusting.’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Isn’t there anything else we can eat? Can’t we go someplace and get some pizza or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ she said.

  ‘You can’t,’ he told her.

  She unwrapped the bar and started munching.

  He handed her his canteen. She drank.

  Fresh water wouldn’t be a problem as long as they stayed here. A clear stream ran behind the house. You never knew these days but it looked unpolluted. Problem was he wasn’t sure how long they’d be safe here. The danger wasn’t from tainted drinking water but from searchers trying to locate either or both of them. Better, he figured, to get moving sooner rather than later.

  What was bothering him was that he’d have to take Tabitha with him. His initial plan had been to get Riordan to come after him alone. One on one. Mano a mano. But if Riordan knew the child had seen his face, she wouldn’t be safe anywhere. Not until Riordan was dead. It was a chance Harlan couldn’t take. Not for himself. Not for Tabitha. If only to honor the feelings he’d once had for her sister, he wasn’t going to let this child die.

  She watched him watching her. ‘Aren’t you going to eat anything?’

  ‘The breakfast bars are for you. I can handle the fruit with mouse turds. I’ll open one of the cans later.’

  ‘I’m bored,’ she said. There were no games in the house. The TV didn’t work because the electricity was turned off. There weren’t even any books she could look at. Just some yellowed year-old newspapers piled in one corner of the living room and no light to read them by.

  He studied her for a minute sitting on the floor munching the breakfast bar. He wondered if she trusted him enough to answer the question. He didn’t know. But he couldn’t think of any good reason why later would be a better time to ask it than now. ‘Tabitha. Where is the package Tiff gave you?’

  She finished the last bite and licked her fingers for the crumbs before answering. ‘I can’t tell you. I promised Tiff I wouldn’t tell anyone. No matter what.’

  ‘Tiff is dead.’

  ‘I know Tiff is dead. Still I promised I wouldn’t tell.’ The little girl picked up the stuffed bear with half its head shot off and hugged it to her body. ‘And a promise is a promise.’

  ‘Tabitha, I need you to listen to me carefully. I know a promise is a promise and Tiff would be proud of you for keeping your promise. But I promised Tiff something too. I promised her that, if anything happened to her, I’d do my best to keep you safe.’ Okay, Harlan told himself, maybe that was stretching the truth. But Tiff would have wanted him to make a promise like that. At least she would have if she’d thought of it. ‘You want us to get the December Man before he gets us, right?’

  Tabbie nodded, looking down at the bear in her lap rather than at Harlan’s face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The only way I can do that is make the December Man think that I’ve got Tiff’s package. That I’ve got what she put inside the package.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘That’s right, drugs. Drugs that can hurt people. Make them sick. Even kill them. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right, then. Where is the package?’

  Tabitha sighed deeply. ‘Here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Harold has it.’

  She passed the bear to Harlan. ‘The package is inside.’

  Harlan squeezed Harold. Felt an oddly shaped hard object inside. Turned the bear over. Saw the stitches Tabbie had sewn along the back seam. He got up and took Harold into the kitchen. Tabitha followed. He cleared off some space on the counter, lay the bear down and then rooted around till he found a paring knife in Toby Mahler’s grandfather’s kitchen drawer.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Okay if we cut him open?’

  She looked down at the bear with half its head shot off. ‘I guess so. He’s ruined anyway.’

  ‘He’s your bear,’ Harlan said. ‘Do you want to do the honors?’

  Tabitha nodded.

  He gave her the knife. She took a deep breath, slid the tip of the blade under the first stitch and cut. When all the stitches had been pulled out, Tabbie opened the bear and pulled out the package.

  She looked up at Harlan. He nodded. ‘Go ahead, open it.’

  Tabitha felt there ought to be more ceremony to the opening of the package. Maybe they should say a prayer or something. This was the last thing Tiff gave her before she was killed. But Tabbie couldn’t think of anything to say. She tore open the wrapping paper.

  Inside she found an opaque plastic water bottle, a big one, and also three stacks of money, each held together with a purple rubber band. The bill on top of each stack bore the likeness of President Ulysses S. Grant. Tabitha had never seen a fifty-dollar bill before and she stared at Grant’s picture for a minute before putting the money aside. She held up the bottle to the moonlight coming through the kitchen window but couldn’t see anything. She shook it. Heard some rattling and then unscrewed the top. The bottle was filled with small greenish oval tablets. Thousands of them. She picked one out. Saw the number 80 stamped on one side. The letters CDN stamped on the other. She handed it to Harlan.

  ‘Oxycontin?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Canadian, I think.’

  Harlan dropped the pill back in the bottle and screwed on the lid.

  He picked up one of the stacks of bills. Slipped off the rubber band and started counting. The bills were all fifties. He counted 125 of them: 6,250 dollars. He counted the other two stacks. All the same. A total of 18,750 dollars. That settled one issue. If they were on the run for any length of time they wouldn’t have to worry about money.

  ‘Is it real?’ Tabitha asked. She’d never seen so much money in her life.

  ‘It’s real. And I guess, because you’re Tiff’s sister, whatever’s left after this is over is yours.’

  ‘Mine?’

  ‘Yeah. Except for one thing,’ Harlan muttered under his breath. ‘The December Man’s gonna want it back.’

  ‘He can have it,’ Tabbie muttered back. ‘The pills too. I don’t want any of it.’

  ‘He can’t have it back,’ said Harlan.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I say so.’

  They went back into the living room. Harlan put the money and the pills into his backpack and went down on to the ground cloth. ‘Now try to get some sleep while you can. We may have to leave here tomorrow.’

  51

  11:07 P.M., Monday, August 24, 2009

  Ellsworth, Maine

  Sean Carroll’s apartment in Ellsworth was on Hobart Avenue, a pleasant residential street in a pleasant residential neighborhood. McCabe circled the block three times without stopping. At eleven o’clock on Monday night the streets were largely empty. After the third circuit, he pulled Emily Kaplan’s dark-blue Honda Civic against the curb directly across the street in a spot that would give them the best view of both the front and the parking area at the side of the house. Both Maggie and McCabe agreed the Civic would be less obvious to Carroll than either her Blazer or McCabe’s T-Bird.

  Carroll’s building, number twenty-six, was a three-story colonial with a wide wraparound porch. It had once been a gracious single family home, but at least a couple of decades had passed since the place had been divided into rental apartments.

  ‘Okay, we’re here,’ said McCabe. ‘Up till now you haven’t been real talkative. What’s your plan?’

  ‘I’m going in,’ Maggie told him.

  ‘Even if he’s not there?’

  ‘’Specially if he’s not there.’

  ‘In other words, breaking and entering.’

  ‘
In other words.’

  ‘And possible petty larceny.’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Maybe I should arrest you now before he does.’

  ‘Listen, McCabe, we agreed. We need this guy’s DNA and I don’t think he’s gonna let either of us swab his cheek. And hey, if we really get lucky, maybe I’ll even find what’s left of the drugs. I’m going in.’

  ‘Without a search warrant none of it, DNA or drugs, will be admissible in court.’

  ‘No, it won’t. But no judge is ever going to give us a warrant based on a kid’s drawing and some novelist’s made-up tale of murder and mayhem. No jury’s ever going to convict on that. But even if it’s not admissible, if Sean’s DNA is a match for fetal, at least we’ll have some hard evidence that we’re barking up the right tree.’

  McCabe stared at her across the darkened car. ‘I’d feel better if you let me do this,’ he said.

  ‘Please, McCabe, don’t go all macho on me,’ she told him. ‘Carroll doesn’t know you. If he happens to be home and you come knocking on his door it will make him suspicious as hell.’

  ‘And you knocking won’t?’

  ‘Not so much. I can tell him I’m here to apologize for my bad behavior. For telling him to go fuck himself. I can act all contrite. Maybe even flirt a little.’ Maggie’s voice took on a lighter, teasing tone. ‘Wiggle what Emmett Ganzer called my cute little ass. Based on the time I spent with him Saturday night, I’m pretty sure Sean kind of likes my cute little ass. Gorgeous hunk that you are, I guarantee you Carroll’d find me a whole lot sexier than he’d ever find you.’

  McCabe sighed. He clearly wasn’t happy about what he was hearing. But there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about it. ‘Okay. Go on in. Do your thing. But if he is there, please, don’t get sucked into anything intimate.’

  Maggie smiled. ‘I won’t. But thanks for caring.’ She leaned across and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘Remember, if we’re right about Carroll,’ said McCabe, ‘he’s a vicious killer. And trust me, I’d hate to have to break in a new partner.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll be listening to every word.’ Maggie punched McCabe’s number into her cell. Once the connection was made, he put his phone on speaker and set it down on the center console. She put hers in her inside breast pocket.

  ‘Your job is to keep your eyes peeled and let me know if Carroll shows up. If he’s already in the apartment, listen to our conversation, and if things get ugly, come running. I’ll leave downstairs unlocked.’

  McCabe nodded in reluctant agreement.

  Maggie smiled. ‘I’ll be fine. Really. I will.’

  She turned and grabbed a canvas LL Bean tote bag from the back seat and got out, looked in both directions and crossed the street. Before going up on to the porch, she walked around to the paved parking area at the right of the building. There were six dedicated parking spaces, each with a number painted in white in front of it. At eleven o’clock on a Monday night five of the six were occupied. Only space ‘4’ remained empty. Only Sean Carroll’s personal car, according to the Sheriff’s Department, a silver 2008 Audi Quattro, was missing. Maybe this would turn out to be easier than she thought.

  She went back to the front of the building, climbed the five steps up to the porch. In front of her was a pair of oak-paneled doors with beveled glass ovals, not unlike the one on her father’s house. Maggie pushed through into a small entryway. To her left six silver mailboxes were set into the wall. Two rows of three. A white paper strip with the name S. Carroll was inserted into the slot for apartment four. She peered through some vertical slits in Carroll’s mailbox. It appeared stuffed with circulars and white envelopes. At least a couple of days’ worth of mail. She pressed the brass handle on a pair of identical inner doors and to her surprise found them unlocked. She went in and climbed a broad flight of stairs that curved around to the second floor.

  There were two apartments. She checked the nameplates. Number three, to her left, was home to someone named Alice Spaulding. Sean Carroll lived in number four, to her right. Before knocking she decided to check out possible escape routes. Dumb not to. Just in case. There was a large double-hung window at the end of the corridor. She pulled up the lower sash. The window slid open. She peered out and looked left, right and then down. No fire escape. No ledge to stand on. No tree limbs within reach. No way at all to the ground except jumping and possibly breaking a leg. Or worse. She closed the window and climbed up the stairs that curved around to the third floor. On the sixth step Carroll’s door disappeared from view. At the top of the stairs were two more apartments and one window identical to the one below. The stairs going up offered a reasonable hiding place if Sean returned unexpectedly.

  She went back to Carroll’s door and knocked. No answer. She waited for a minute then knocked again. Still no answer. It was possible, she supposed, Carroll was inside and not answering because he was otherwise engaged. Taking a shower or a bath. On the phone with a friend. In bed with a woman. There was no way of knowing but that was a chance she’d have to take. She leaned down and checked the lock assembly. More complicated than the one downstairs but definitely pickable. She inspected the door carefully for any telltales Carroll might have left behind. A tiny piece of paper or tape or even a single hair precisely inserted in a particular place in the doorframe. She saw none. She took her brand-new Pro-Lok PKX-20 pick set, purchased just today in Augusta, from the tote, knelt down and gently pushed the tension wrench into the lock opening.

  She selected a pick and was about to insert it when she heard the sound of a deadbolt turning. Not from Carroll’s apartment but from behind her. Apartment three. She leaped to her feet and, using her body to block a neighbor’s view of the wrench, she raised her arm as if about to knock again. She took a deep breath. The door to apartment three swung open.

  She turned and saw an attractive blonde, Alice Spaulding she supposed, emerge holding a set of keys in her right hand and the loop of a leash in her left. A small white ball of fluff pulled at the other end of the leash.

  ‘Oh,’ said Alice, sounding surprised. ‘You’re someone else.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Maggie agreed.

  ‘I thought I heard knocking,’ Alice Spaulding said. ‘Looking for Sean?’ She double-locked her own door.

  Maggie didn’t answer immediately. Just looked down and smiled.

  ‘Hi there,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you a cutie?’

  The ball of fluff growled.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s not very friendly. Are you looking for Sean?’ the woman asked again.

  ‘Sorry. Yes. I was passing by and hoped I could catch him.’

  ‘He’s not here,’ the woman said, pocketing her keys. ‘He’s out of town.’

  ‘Oh, really? Did he say where he was going?’ Maggie asked, hoping to get a sense from the woman’s answer how well she knew Carroll, how likely she was to tell him about the tall, slim brunette she saw knocking on his door at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday evening.

  ‘Are you a friend of his?’ the blonde asked appraising Maggie coolly.

  ‘Actually I’m a colleague,’ Maggie said, deciding lying was pointless. If the blonde told Carroll about his visitor, if she described her appearance, Carroll would know instantly who had come calling. ‘Detective Margaret Savage,’ she said and held out her hand.

  The woman shook it but didn’t introduce herself. ‘I would have thought,’ she said, ‘if you worked with Sean you would have known that he was in Machias working a case. Said he’d be gone for several days.’ There was a pause. ‘It was in all the papers.’ The blonde didn’t seem eager to leave before Maggie did. ‘Anyway, I’ll tell him you stopped by. Savage, right? Margaret Savage?’

  The ball of fluff barked and tugged even harder at the leash.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother,’ Maggie said. ‘Nothing important. I’ll catch him another time.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Alice smiled. ‘Gotta go.’ The dog pulled its mistress toward the stairs. Keeping t
he tension wrench hidden behind her back, Maggie pulled it out of the lock, slid it into the tote and followed. She and the blonde and the ball of fluff walked out of the front door together. On the sidewalk the dog immediately lifted its leg against the nearest tree. Maggie waited till it had finished and then called out, ‘Well, good night then.’

  ‘Good night.’ Alice and the dog walked off down the street. Maggie took her cell from her breast pocket and pretended to be making a call.

  ‘Hi, how are you?’ she warbled, waiting for Spaulding and the dog to move beyond hearing distance. When they had she lowered her voice. ‘A neighbor,’ she told McCabe. ‘Almost caught me in the act.’

  Maggie waited with the phone to her ear until Spaulding turned the corner and walked out of sight. Then she told McCabe she was going back in. She heard him mutter something inaudible. ‘Don’t argue,’ she added.

  It only took a couple of minutes to gain entrance to Carroll’s apartment. ‘I’m inside,’ she said softly.

  She relocked the door. Took a mini Maglite from the tote bag and did a quick reconnoiter. The place was indeed empty. A good-size one-bedroom. The furniture and paintings on the wall were what Maggie would have described as late twentieth-century Marriot. Solid but devoid of personality. The place appeared clean and tidy. No books. No mail on the desk in the corner. No photos of either Carroll or his dead wife or, for that matter, anyone else. You could tell almost nothing about the inhabitant of this space except, she supposed, that he was tidy to a degree Maggie felt excessive. She supposed it was possible that, following the fire, Carroll had been left without furniture or anything else and solved the problem by renting a pre-furnished flat. Or maybe he was someone who craved anonymity in everything but his public persona. Maybe this wasn’t Sean Carroll’s apartment but Conor Riordan’s. How had Harlan put it? The man nobody knows.

  She slipped on a pair of latex gloves and lifted a cordless phone from the desk. She dialed the number for FairPoint Voice Messaging. One new message received at 8:35 this evening from 207-555-9755. The caller said nothing. Simply hung up. Maggie wrote the number on the back of one of her business cards and headed for the bathroom. She wanted to give Joe Pines as many options as possible and the bathroom was always a good place to start.