Down the Darkest Street

by Alex Segura

  He sat down at the bar in his usual spot and looked around for a bartender. Lisa met his eyes from the other end of the bar. She could do little to hide her reaction to Pete. Her shoulders slumped and her mouth went from a grin to a flat, resigned expression. She wiped her hands on a rag and walked over, in no hurry, as if steeling herself for something terrible.

  “Hey there,” she said.

  “I’ll have a vodka soda. A double, if you can swing it.”

  She looked him over in the same way Pete thought she’d scan a homeless guy trying to scam a drink.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Pete said, trying to smile, but instead coming across with a creepy, distant expression. “Of course I am.”

  She shrugged and walked back to the other end of the bar. He watched her as she prepared the drink—a little light on the vodka—and dropped a few straws in it. She brought it over and plopped it down on a coaster. She lingered, watching Pete as he hungrily gulped down part of the drink, like a thirsty sailor on shore leave. He looked up at her.

  “Can I keep a tab open?”

  The look she gave Pete almost broke his heart. “I’d rather you pay by the drink,” she said. “If that’s cool with you.”

  “Never had to do that before.”

  “Pete…” she started, her mouth quivering a bit. He’d known Lisa for years; he’d been a regular at The Bar since before he’d moved to New Jersey with Emily. He’d talked to Lisa about going sober. She’d been supportive, even while ribbing him for his weird Mike-photo ritual. She seemed defeated. “You look like shit, man. Are you OK?”

  “What do you mean? I feel fine. I’m fine. Can I open a tab?”

  “Look, I’ll serve you as long as you can pay and as long as you don’t disrupt my place,” she said, her voice wavering a bit as she reached the end of her sentence. “But you’re not a stranger. This isn’t you anymore. Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

  Pete took another long swig from his drink, leaving it about half full before responding. He let the vodka slosh around, the liquor stinging the inside of his mouth, raw from vomiting, his throat burning from the speed with which he drank it down.

  “I’m fine,” he lied.

  ***

  The back of the woman’s car smelled of cigarettes and bleach. He felt her breath on his neck as she fiddled with his belt and undid his pants. Her mouth was warm on his. She bit his lips and pushed his body down further onto the back seat of her tiny Sentra. Her name was Michelle, Pete remembered. She’d sidled up next to him around seven o’clock, which was right around drink eight. She worked next door at Randazzo’s. She’d just finished her shift and was looking to relax for a few hours.

  He didn’t remember much about what they talked about. Pete complained about the jukebox. Lisa had since left. He remembered watching her talk to the incoming bartender—a burly dude named Carlos—and motion toward Pete. “Watch this guy,” her lips had said, close to his ear. Pete scoffed. He was fine. He’d done nothing but sit at his stool and down his drinks. A few vodka sodas. A shot of Southern Comfort. Had there been a Jager in there? Yes. Some FIU grad students had been celebrating something—an exam? Who the fuck knows. They’d bought him one, yes.

  He ran his hands over her body, his senses dull. He felt her warmth on top of him as they connected. Did he put on a condom? He almost laughed at the thought. Why bother?

  The sex was quick, uncomfortable, sweaty. Pete felt his soaked shirt sticking to his skin and recoiled at how he smelled. He felt dirty. She continued to shove him around the tiny car’s back seat, cursing under her breath, saying things Pete hoped to never remember. She’d seemed nice at the bar. Right? Or had he imagined that? He’d never see her again.

  “You wanna fuck me, right?” she said, her voice low as they moved in a weird, synchronized rhythm. “Then fuck me.”

  Pete didn’t respond.

  A street lamp turned on. The light flashed into the car and illuminated them for a second before flickering out. Pete saw her, saw himself. Half-naked, sweaty, drunk—in the back of a car, fucking a girl he’d just met. Ten dollars in his pocket and nowhere to go. He’d been drinking alone in a shithole motel for a week and had probably missed Emily’s funeral. The girl he thought he’d marry and be with forever was six feet under, and he was having sex with a stranger in a parking lot. He felt his eyes watering. A sob came out of his mouth. He tried to make it sound like a cough.

  “Yo, are you falling asleep on me?” Michelle’s words snapped Pete back to attention. He didn’t think. He grabbed her and moved her off him. She protested.

  “The fuck are you doing?” she said. “Did you finish? Fuck, you didn’t even pull out?”

  Pete didn’t respond. He felt her closed fists connect to his shoulder and back as he zipped his pants and opened the car door. He walked out, ignoring the yells and curses being flung at him from the car. He stumbled as he walked toward Giralda, covered in sweat, his head pounding, an aching feeling in his hips and no idea what to do.

  He felt around in his pockets. His wallet was gone. He didn’t have house keys anymore. He almost missed the scrap of paper that had somehow survived in his back pocket for weeks.

  He read the note. Jack’s phone number.

  “Do you have a sponsor yet?” Jack had asked him. It felt like they’d talked years before.

  He didn’t have anything, not anymore, he thought. He pulled out his phone. It’d been shut off for days. It took a few moments to power up. The display screamed at him—dozens of texts, missed calls, and voice mails. He ignored them and dialed the number. He’d never bothered to put him in his contacts.

  “Hello?” It was Jack.

  “Hey.” Pete’s voice came out like a croak.

  “Pete? Is that you?”

  “Yeah, it’s me,” Pete said. He’d managed to put a few blocks between himself and his angry new friend. He was leaning on a lamppost. It was dark. He was in a pseudo-industrial area that consisted of empty parking lots and poorly lit bodegas.

  “Where are you? Shit, Pete. I’ve been looking all over for you,” Jack said. “She’s alive, Pete. Your friend—Emily—she’s alive.”

  “Alive,” Pete said. The word sounded foreign to him. Over the last few days—clouded by drink and darkness and dirt—he’d managed to create a buffer between himself and the reality: that Emily was dead. Now, finally reaching his bottom, he’d connected with someone who told him otherwise. Alive.

  “She’s alive,” Pete said. He pushed a button on his phone, ending the call.

  He stumbled over the sidewalk and onto the dark street before he started to sprint, his breathing heavy, his feet propelling him toward the lights of Miracle Mile.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It was around four in the morning when Kathy picked him up, standing outside the closed Barnes & Noble on Miracle Mile, the lights a bit dimmer than when he first made the call. The pristine sidewalks and high-end outlets made Pete feel even grimier. It was a five-minute drive for Kathy from her apartment, but the wait felt like hours.

  Kathy had just found out about Emily, too. They agreed it didn’t make sense for Pete to show up at the hospital smelling like a gin mill and looking half-dead. He showered at her place and changed into some spare clothes she had. He didn’t ask who they belonged to. He tried calling Rick but got his voice mail. He thought to leave a message but wasn’t sure what he’d say.

  Kathy didn’t ask him where he’d been. She didn’t seem to care. Her kindness was there, but distant and mechanical, as if she’d had too many experiences like this—where someone she cared for made a terrible mistake and spiraled back into bad, old, and dangerous habits. The silence was fine by Pete. He was still processing the shame and embarrassment that coated him in the absence of a buzz or hangover.

  According to Kathy, Emily was at Baptist Hospital, about twenty-five minutes from Kathy’s apartment and further west on Kendall Drive. Emily had been brought in late the night before and wa
s in intensive care, albeit in some kind of stable condition. She’d been found beaten and left for dead on the side of Coral Way, near the on-ramp from Le Jeune Road. They were going to the hospital. They’d just show up and see what happened. It was all they could do.

  After a few detours and some unhelpful front-desk employees, Pete found her room. Kathy followed him onto the elevator.

  “Thanks for your help,” Pete said. His eyes focused on the elevator doors.

  “I’m just glad you’re alive,” Kathy said. She wasn’t looking at him. “I thought you’d gone and done something stupid.”

  “I did,” Pete said. “A lot of stupid things. Too many.”

  “We have bigger things to think about,” she said, pushing the fifth floor button again, willing the elevator to go faster. “But at least you’re alive. Emily’s alive. Those are good things.”

  Pete started to respond, but the doors opened up, interrupting him.

  There were a few seats set up outside of Emily’s room, 521. Pete recognized Rick; then as they got closer, he noticed Aguilera and Harras were there as well. They hadn’t seen him yet. He wiped his hands on his black, borrowed T-shirt and looked himself over: clean, but rough. That was how he felt, too. A new start, but not without the baggage of what came before. Maybe they’d put that on his tombstone. Kathy looked at him and moved her chin in the direction of Emily’s room. Go.

  Pete took a few steps and saw that Rick had noticed him, as had the two FBI agents. Pete recognized Emily’s mother walking out of her room, looking ashen and despondent. Rick got up with a start and made a beeline to intercept Pete. In a few moments, they were face to face.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We came to see Emily,” Pete said, his tone flat.

  “Why? Where’ve you been all this time? She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “I think I’ll let her determine that,” Pete said, trying to look past Rick, who stepped to his left to block Pete’s view.

  “We don’t want you here.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kathy said, stepping between Rick and Pete. “Now’s not the time for a dick-measuring contest, OK? Let us through. We want to see your wife. Is that so wrong?”

  “I want you both gone,” Rick said.

  Pete looked up and met Rick’s gaze for the first time.

  “I don’t give a shit about what you want,” Pete said, surprised by how controlled his anger was. “Now, either let us pass and see Emily, or do something.”

  Rick waited a few seconds before responding. He sized Pete up. Pete could feel the tension rising. Was he going to hit him? Would he end up having to fight Emily’s husband in the middle of a hospital? He hoped not.

  Rick stepped back and made room for Pete and Kathy to walk down the hallway. Pete nodded and continued toward Emily’s room. Kathy motioned for him to go in first. He could feel Harras’s and Aguilera’s eyes on him as his hand turned the door handle.

  He hadn’t given himself a second to prepare for what he saw. The room was dark, the lights dim. The only sound Pete could recognize was the beeping coming from the machines hooked up to Emily—or what he thought was Emily. He stepped closer. There she was. Lying on the bed, her face bruised and puffed up, scratches and cuts littering her cheeks and forehead. Her left arm in a cast, and her visible skin mottled with blue, black, and yellow bruises. For a moment he wasn’t sure if she was breathing, but then her chest moved—a tiny, half-breath that did not inspire any confidence that she would make it. He felt a tear stream down his face.

  Pete pulled up a chair next to her bed and slid his hand into hers, which was hanging over the bed. She didn’t grasp his hand back, but her hand felt warm. He felt a wave of relief each time he saw her breathe. He could stay here forever, he thought. Until she was OK again.

  “Jesus,” Kathy said, behind him.

  “Em,” Pete said, his voice a whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He let his mind wander. The killer had been on one path—tricking teen and college-age girls into renting apartments, and then murdering them—before Pete became involved. Once Pete and Kathy started sniffing around the case, it was as if the killer felt threatened. Could that be possible? Then the killer had reacted: threatening Pete at Mike’s memorial, destroying Pete’s house, taking Emily. But now, with Pete out of the picture, things had calmed down, at least according to Kathy. There’d been no new murders and Emily had been spared. Nothing else since Pete and Kathy stepped away. The killer considered him a threat, Pete thought. Or was that his ego? Pete put that aside for a second. If Jack and Kathy were right, the killer’s actions had been echoes of another killer, from another time. Rex Whitehurst had tormented South Florida and the surrounding areas for years before being caught and put to death. Was this killer paying homage? Trying to connect or commune with an idol? There was a factor Pete didn’t know enough about to formulate a conclusion. He had been too quick to act, hadn’t spent enough time trying to learn about his foe and his methods. His impetuousness had cost lives and almost ended up with Emily dead. Something outside was affecting the killer. But Pete was in no shape to figure it out. Yet he still managed to stumble further and further into this mess.

  Pete was certain there’d been two men in his house on the night it was destroyed. Despite Harras’s doubts, it just didn’t make sense. Someone was helping the killer.

  He glanced up at Emily for a second. She looked terrible. He had no idea what was going on inside her body. He looked at his hands, clutching her limp one. How had she survived, though? The killer had murdered each of his victims viciously, yet he had left Emily on the side of the road, as if the job were done. She was beaten, but not stabbed—like the others. It didn’t add up. Serial killers don’t suddenly develop qualms about murder.

  Had Emily been taken by the killer, or by someone helping the killer push Pete aside? It seems their plan to scare them off —blowing up Pete’s house—had backfired, as it made Pete work harder on the case. Even Kathy pressed on. But someone let her bosses know that her investigation—which The Times was aware of, to some degree—wasn’t on the up-and-up. Allegations were made and it became the last straw. The fact that Kathy had struck a side deal with the FBI to feed her information for a book-to-be-written-later did not sit well with her bosses, so she got fired and, in effect, lost any credentials when it came to helping Pete. But who tipped off the paper?

  Pete didn’t have any answers, but he had a lot more questions, and that was a start. His father used to say something along those lines when Pete was a boy. After a grueling night of work—often arriving home in the morning, exhausted, just as Pete was getting up, he would sit in the living room, with Pete sitting by him, listening.

  “Sometimes the best break is just the right question,” Pedro had said, sipping a cup of coffee even though he should have probably been trying to get a few hours of sleep before he was due back at work. “If you find the right question, it’s like hitting a good note—it’ll take you to the next one. And then you’re moving along.”

  Who wanted us out of the way? That was the question. He needed to find the answer.

  He was startled by the sound of the door opening. He and Kathy turned to see Aguilera stepping into the room, trying to be quiet. He nodded at them and walked toward Pete, stood next to his chair, and looked Emily over.

  “Where’ve you been?”

  “I had some problems,” Pete said, unable to meet Aguilera’s eyes. “But I’m better now.”

  “Your friend is lucky to be alive,” Aguilera said. “Had that couple not found her and called us when they did, she’d be dead.”

  “Is this the part where we all hug and thank you? Or realize we’re all on the same team?” Kathy said, standing up. “If so, I may have to politely decline.”

  She wove around Aguilera and walked out of the room.

  “Can’t win ’em all, I guess,” Aguilera said.

  Pete didn’t respond.

  “We’ve
hit a wall with this,” Aguilera said, waving his hand toward Emily. “We’ve got zero leads and we just got word on another body.”

  Pete looked up, surprised.

  “Yeah,” Aguilera said, reacting to Pete’s expression. “We think it’s the Henriquez girl—but we haven’t gotten a proper ID yet. We have to go with dental records. That’s not official. We haven’t alerted the press yet.”

  Pete didn’t have to ask any more. Resorting to dental records for a murder victim meant that the body was so severely burned or destroyed there was very little that the naked eye could see in regard to identification. The little bit of hope he’d held out for Nina was gone. She was dead.

  “It’s gotta be her,” Pete said.

  “Yeah,” Aguilera said. “What are you going to do with yourself now?”

  Pete was surprised by Aguilera’s sudden concern over his well-being. “I’m going to keep tabs on Emily and try to get on with my life,” Pete said. “What’s left of it, I guess.”

  “That sounds like a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just mean it’s good to work on yourself,” Aguilera said, looking at Emily’s body on the bed. “To become what you were supposed to, in a way. Leave the crazy shit to the crazy cops and agents like us.”

  Before Pete could respond, he heard a strange noise from Emily—a tiny, almost childlike whine, like a toddler fighting off a nightmare. She turned on her bed, moving away from Pete and Aguilera. She seemed frightened.

  “What’s wrong with her?” Aguilera said. The whining got louder, forming a frightened howl. She began to thrash her arms, lifting them to protect herself.

  Pete stood up. “Go get a nurse,” he said, his hand holding onto Emily so she wouldn’t hurt herself. “She’s having some kind of bad reaction.”

  Aguilera nodded and walked out of the room. Almost instantly, Emily calmed down, the whimpering slowly dropping in volume. What the hell had set her off? Pete ran a hand over her head and hair. She was warm—sweating. He hadn’t noticed that before.