The Inside Dark

by James Hankins

  “Right,” Cobb said. “That’s it.” Then he recited some of the lyrics, not singing them but bobbing his head along with the words as if simultaneously hearing the tune in his mind. “‘Take me out to the ball game . . .’ You know the one, right? Then there’s something about buying peanuts and Cracker Jack, which . . . well, you know . . . is what everyone called him. That seemed a bit twisted to me, you know?”

  He went on to describe how Crackerjack whistled the famous tune and, at the appropriate moments, struck him with the mallet. Three times. One . . . two . . . three strikes you’re out. Broke his arm in three places. Then he whistled the tune again, this time using a mini-sledgehammer and breaking three of his ribs.

  “How horrible for you,” Connors said, though the gleam in her eyes made it clear that it was great for her interview.

  She spent another couple of minutes on the torture, really getting her money’s worth from the whistling angle and the fact that the words Cracker Jack appeared in the lyrics of the song. This was her job and she was good at it, but it seemed a bit gratuitous to Jason. Cobb certainly made her earn it, though. He offered little without prompting and never seemed to say more than the bare minimum necessary.

  After she had milked every last drop from the torture, she walked Cobb through his escape from his restraints and his fight with Barton.

  “I was really starting to lose steam,” Cobb said. “My arm was broken and I was having trouble catching my breath—because of the broken ribs, I guess. It was blind luck we stumbled into Jason’s stall. If we hadn’t done that, we’d both be dead, I think. Jason and me. Because I was about done.”

  Connors nodded and shifted her gaze to Jason. “And what happened then, Jason?”

  Things were particularly fuzzy here. He took a moment to collect his thoughts. “They fell right on top of me. Literally. Ian was on top, Barton was between us, and I was on the bottom. One minute, I was sitting there on the floor; the next, I was lying on my back with two guys fighting it out on top of me. Ian yelled that he couldn’t hold on much longer, and I grabbed the hammer off the floor—”

  Cobb cut in. “Crackerjack pushed me off him and started to stand up.”

  He did?

  Jason looked over at Cobb, who had locked eyes with Connors.

  “I knew that if he made it to his feet,” Cobb said, “it was all over for us. Jason still had chains on his wrists running to the wall, and I was hurt and just about useless by then, and Crackerjack still had that hammer in his hand.”

  Jason felt a confused frown threatening to appear on his face, and he couldn’t have that, not if he wanted to appear to have a complete, unbroken, unvarnished memory of the event, so he beat the frown back. But still . . .

  “And the son of a bitch—sorry, can I say that?” Cobb asked.

  “Seems appropriate enough,” Connors said.

  “Okay, yeah. So the son of a bitch straightened up and raised his arm to hit me with the hammer again . . .”

  Brief images from those moments three days ago flashed through Jason’s brain in seemingly random order, and though he knew his recollection was hazy, none of what he saw in his mind matched what he was hearing. But he knew how faulty his memories were of that day, and Cobb’s seemed strong and clear, so maybe . . .

  “And I was sitting there just looking up at him,” Cobb was saying, “watching that hammer, waiting for it to put an end to me . . . when Jason here dove forward and grabbed him around the legs. The guy fell, right back on top of Jason.”

  Connors looked back at Jason. “What then, Jason?”

  He wished she had kept the focus on Cobb . . . because he had no idea what happened next, at least not in this version of events, which seemed similar to but different from the version in his mind. But he had to say something.

  “I picked up the hammer . . . which had fallen out of his hand, I guess . . . and I hit him with it and—”

  Cobb interrupted again. “The first blow must have hurt like hell, but it wasn’t enough to take him out, and Crackerjack reached around and got his hand on the hammer, and he and Jason were fighting for it . . .”

  We were?

  “And Jason looked like he was in trouble, I have to admit, but there wasn’t anything I could do to help. I was totally spent and in pain and it looked like Crackerjack was starting to win. And again, I thought we were goners. But somehow—and I have no idea how he found the strength for it, seeing as he hadn’t eaten in days—somehow Jason managed to tear that hammer away from that asshole—sorry, I know I can’t say asshole—and it fell to the floor.”

  Connors was riveted.

  So was Jason, frankly. Cobb, who earlier had seemed so reticent to offer much in the way of details, had grown downright chatty. Jason tried to catch his eye and succeeded only long enough for Cobb to give him a tiny nod that Jason had no idea how to interpret before the man immediately returned his focus to Connors.

  “Crackerjack spins around,” Cobb said, switching to present tense as he grew more animated, “and things are happening real fast now . . . he’s choking Jason with one hand, staring down at him, and I see his other hand groping around the floor, trying to find the hammer, I figure. Meanwhile, my arm is throbbing and I can’t seem to even move anymore, not a muscle. Maybe I was in shock; I don’t know. And Jason’s hand is flopping around, looking for the hammer, too, I guess, but he’s having a tough time because he’s chained, remember, and Crackerjack’s choking the life out of him, and just when I thought it was over for Jason . . . somehow he comes up with the hammer.”

  He paused and looked over at Jason. Naturally, Connors looked his way, too. Both clearly expected him to pick up the story.

  “I hit him with it again,” he said after a moment. “And . . . he was looking down at me . . .”

  “Through the mask,” Cobb added. “He still had that on at the time.”

  “Right. That came off later.”

  Connors gave him a gentle nudge. “So he was looking down at you . . .”

  “Right. He was looking down at me. And I hit him again. And that seemed to . . . do the trick.”

  He glanced at Cobb, secretly seeking confirmation.

  “It sure did,” Cobb said. “The bastard went limp. Fell right on top of Jason.”

  “He was dead?” Connors asked.

  “Well, he wasn’t moving. And his mask had slipped off as he fell, and his eyes . . . well, there wasn’t anyone home anymore. I have to say, Elaine,” Cobb said, his voice cracking a tiny bit, “if it weren’t for Jason, I’d be dead right now.” He reached his good left arm across his body and patted Jason’s forearm. “I can’t thank you enough for my life, Jason.”

  This was just too much. “You’re the one who got free,” Jason said. “You’re the one who started our escape.”

  “But you had to finish it. I wasn’t able to, but you did it. You saved us both.”

  There wasn’t much else Jason could say. Connors skillfully let that emotional moment drag on for what she, as a veteran of these kinds of interviews, no doubt knew was the perfect length of time. At last, she said, “And how did you feel this morning when you heard about the discovery of six more Crackerjack victims?”

  “What? I hadn’t heard,” Jason said.

  Cobb said he hadn’t, either.

  Connors filled them in briefly, then paused for a moment, looking very serious, before saying, “A truly incredible story of survival, gentlemen.” After another pause, she smiled. “Now, I have a surprise for you.”

  Inside, Jason cringed. He’d had enough surprises already.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Are you ready, boys?” Connors asked. “It’s a big surprise.”

  Jason nodded, though he was far from ready. Ian Cobb had already sprung a few too many surprises on him for his liking, and his reactions to them all would be seen that evening by millions of people. And now Connors was threatening him with another.

  She stood, and Jason and Cobb followed suit, the camera
s tracking their movements. A moment later, from around a corner walked a man Jason recognized instantly. He had been on the news a lot a few months ago, pleading for the safe return of his son, Michael Sanderson, the rock musician on the verge of breakout stardom. Leonard Sanderson had said more than once in the press that he would give up everything he owned—an extensive list of possessions that included a number of ridiculously successful restaurants, three mansions, and numerous other extraordinarily successful businesses—if it would bring his son home safe. But Michael’s broken body had been found a week later, Crackerjack’s fourth victim.

  Connors introduced Sanderson to Jason and Cobb and, in case they had recently emerged from a lengthy stay under a rock, explained who he was and his tragic connection to them. They all shook hands.

  Sanderson cleared his throat. “Seven months ago I lost my son to that monster. My wife passed two years ago, and Michael was all I had left. And then . . . he was gone, just like that. I miss him every day, every hour of every day, and I’ve been unable to find a moment of peace since his disappearance. Until three days ago, when I learned that Crackerjack was dead. Thanks to you.”

  His voice had grown shaky at the end, so he cleared his throat again.

  “You may recall that I had offered a reward for my son’s safe return. But to my everlasting sorrow, he never came home again. When his body was found, I offered the money for information leading to Crackerjack’s arrest and conviction.”

  He cleared his throat a third time. His eyes, which had started to look soft and moist, grew hard.

  “Well, gentlemen, because of you, Crackerjack won’t have to be arrested. He won’t have to be tried in a court of law, where some slick lawyer or a confused jury could set him free. No, because of you, Wallace Barton, the monster who killed my son and numerous other men, is someplace where he can’t harm anyone ever again. And I hope he roasts there for eternity.”

  Jason nodded. He didn’t know what else to do.

  “You have put me at peace,” Sanderson said, “at least to the extent that I can be, without Michael in my life. And for that I thank you. And now”—he paused for effect—“I want you to share in the reward I had offered back then. You performed a great service. For me, for my wife, God rest her soul, and for the world.”

  At that, Sanderson held up two personal checks. Jason could see that each was written in the amount of $100,000. He felt his eyes start to widen but regained his composure quickly, remembering that millions of people would see his reaction in this moment. He needed to project the proper image, and greedily eyeing a huge check wasn’t the right one.

  “That’s a hundred thousand dollars for each of you,” Sanderson said. “I hope you can use it. I hope it makes your lives a little better. You deserve that.”

  Sanderson handed the first check to Jason, who took it and humbly thanked the man.

  “Mr. Cobb?” Sanderson said.

  Jason glanced at Cobb, who was staring down at the second check, shifting uneasily on his feet.

  “I don’t want it, Mr. Sanderson. I’m not trying to be noble or anything, but I wouldn’t feel right taking it.”

  Ah, hell, Jason thought, realizing he should have done the same thing. But it was too late now. He’d already accepted his check. Rejecting it now would be transparently insincere.

  “Mr. Cobb,” Sanderson said, “I truly appreciate the gesture, but I promise you that I have far more money than I know what to do with, and what you and Mr. Swike did—”

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Cobb said, cutting in. “I’m not saying no because I think it’s wrong to accept your gift. If you’ve got the money to spare—and from what I hear, you do—and you want to say ‘Thank you’ with it, that’s your right. But I’m saying ‘No thank you’ because I don’t feel like I really deserve it. Jason’s the one who does. He’s the real hero.”

  Jason couldn’t stop his eyes from widening that time, but he got them under control quickly.

  “He’s the one who killed Wallace Barton,” Cobb said, “not me. I was useless in the end. He saved both our lives. I’d rather he get all the money, if that’s okay with you.”

  “It sure sounds to me like you did plenty, too, Mr. Cobb,” Sanderson said, “but if that’s how you feel, I’m not going to argue with you. And it’s commendable. It truly is. Are you sure?”

  Cobb nodded. Sanderson smiled and held the check out to Jason, who simply stared down at it. He was at a total loss.

  “Well, Jason?” Connors said, apparently feeling as though the spotlight had been off her for long enough. “What do you say?”

  The money Sanderson was offering wasn’t for the writing of a book, like the deal Howard was negotiating, money that Jason would earn by spending months in front of a computer screen applying a skill he’d developed over many years and many drafts. And it wasn’t for the movie rights for books he’d written or would write soon. No, it was being offered in exchange for a service already rendered: killing a man. Sure, Wallace Barton was evil, but to be paid $200,000—in front of the entire world—for killing him? It now seemed wrong. Why the hell hadn’t Jason looked at it like this when Sanderson gave him the first check?

  “Jason?” Connors said. After a moment, she smiled. “I think he’s in shock, Leonard.”

  Maybe it would be wrong to accept the checks, but his family needed the money. He might have some coming in soon from a book publisher and Hollywood producers, but he didn’t have it yet, and they were already behind on the mortgage and several bills and were eager to get Max started on his horrendously expensive medicine.

  Unable to come up with a better course of action, he took the second check—another $100,000—and said, “Thank you, Mr. Sanderson. This will mean a lot to my family. I appreciate it. I’m just sorry that . . . that Crackerjack wasn’t stopped in time to save your son.”

  He turned to Ian. “And thank you, Ian. I don’t know what to say. If you change your mind, let me know.”

  Cobb nodded again, and Sanderson shook everyone’s hands again before disappearing around the corner.

  “Incredible story,” Connors said as she returned to her seat. Jason and Cobb did the same. “So what’s next for you, Ian?”

  “Back to plumbing, I guess.”

  “That was a lot of money you turned down.”

  “I do okay, though. And Jason has a family . . . They’re . . . well, he needs it more than I do.”

  Jason looked at him. He wasn’t sure how much Cobb knew about his family, but many of the details of his private life, including Sophie’s and Max’s various medical conditions, had become public.

  “And hell,” Cobb added, “the guy saved my life.”

  Jason was on the verge of protesting again, of trying to shine some of the light back onto Cobb, but he was growing weary of this dance. He just wanted it to end now.

  “And how about you, Jason?” Connors asked. “Did I hear a rumor about a book deal in the works? You’re a writer, after all. That would seem only natural.”

  “Well, if everything works out . . .”

  He avoided making eye contact with Cobb . . . again, in case—

  “A book deal, Jason?” Cobb said. “Good for you. Let me know if I can help.”

  He met Cobb’s eyes and saw nothing but sincerity in them.

  “Well, put me down for a copy,” Connors said. “And I’ll expect an autograph, of course.”

  She smiled and Jason smiled back. And finally, it was over.

  Five minutes later, Connors shook their hands, told them they’d done a wonderful job, then was off, presumably on her way back to New York for tonight’s show. The crew was already packing up the gear. Andy offered to remove the makeup he’d applied to their faces earlier, but Cobb said he’d wash it off in the bathroom, so Jason said he’d do the same.

  As the two men passed through the short hall toward the bedroom that had served as their makeup area, heading for the marble-tiled bathroom there, Jason said, “Listen . . . what you
did . . . with the check. It was really generous of you.”

  Cobb shrugged.

  “But are you sure? There are no cameras around. No one would know if you changed your mind. I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  They stopped outside the bathroom.

  “I meant what I said,” Cobb said. “I owe you my life.”

  “Yeah, but . . . the way you described . . . was that really . . .” He trailed off, and Cobb waited for him to continue. Finally, he said, “Well, thanks again. That was a hell of a nice thing you did for me and for my family.”

  Cobb shrugged again. “How about you buy me a cup of coffee and we’ll call it even?”

  “You drive a hard bargain but I’ll take that deal.”

  “Got time right now? For coffee?”

  “I guess. Do you?”

  “I just might.” He checked his watch. “Gotta get out to Tewksbury later today. We’re on a big job there—remodeling three bathrooms and installing a sauna and hot tub—but I have a little time.”

  “Can you even do plumbing work right now? With your arm and all?” He wondered if he should give Cobb one more chance to take the money back.

  “I’ve got guys working for me. These days, I let them deal with the pipes while I mostly do administrative stuff. So don’t worry about me. Now let’s get this crap off our faces and go grab a cup.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Cobb closed the bathroom door behind him, and Jason took a seat in the same chair in which he’d waited for his turn in the makeup chair. Through the doorway to the hall, he watched members of the crew carrying equipment out of the suite.

  Jason heard water running behind the bathroom door, then another sound, one that surprised him. Cobb was whistling. Jason thought that if he’d been the one on Crackerjack’s table, with the killer standing over him, whistling that stupid song, hammer in hand and torture on his mind . . . well, he’d never want to whistle again. But Cobb was washing up in there and whistling a tune Jason couldn’t place.

  Tougher guy than I am, he thought.

  CHAPTER TWENTY