The Darkening

by Paul Antony Jones

  "Jesus!" he whispered into the phone.

  "Hello, this is detective Phillip Collins. Please leave your name, number and the case you are calling about and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

  Tyreese waited for the beep. "Detective, this is Tyreese Douglass. Ummm... Annabelle Finch's uncle. You said to call you if there were any new developments. Well there's been some developments, Birdy's mom came home. Only it's not her. Shit! You need to get over here right now." He hung up.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In the few seconds it had taken Detective Phil Collins to run from the store entrance back to his idling car, the rain had soaked almost all the way through his overcoat. If it hadn't been for the suit jacket he wore beneath it, he knew he would be feeling mighty uncomfortable right about now.

  "Bit wet out there?" Mulroney asked from behind the wheel, smirking at his discomfort.

  "What the hell is going on in this town?" Collins asked as he closed the passenger side door behind him, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice.

  The entire strip mall, while lit up like any other night, might just as well have been abandoned for weeks. He'd stopped to pick up a sandwich and some coffee but when he tried the 7-Eleven's doors, he'd found them locked. A couple of cars were parked out front, so someone was probably inside. He'd hammered on the glass front of the store a couple of times but no one had answered. Quite literally, the lights were on but there was nobody home.

  And this was the third location they'd stopped at. The last two—one an all-night liquor store, the other a gas station—had been equally deserted.

  "Maybe they listened and got out of town before the storm hit?" Mulroney offered.

  Collins could tell by the lack of conviction in her voice that she did not believe for one second that that was what had happened.

  Mulroney continued, "You got a call while you were out fishing," nodding at Collins's phone sitting on the dash.

  Collins dialed his mailbox and listened to the message from some guy named Tyreese. It was only when he heard him explain about Birdy that he understood who the message was from. When he had showed up at Birdy's place earlier, the African American guy in the wheelchair had said his name was David, Birdy's uncle, which, as he had suspected, had turned out to be a fabrication.

  "Turn us around," said Collins, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.

  "Where we going?" Mulroney asked. She shifted the car into reverse, pulled a U-turn on the deserted street and headed east.

  Collins filled her in on what the message had said.

  "Christ, could he be any more fucking cryptic?" Mulroney said, when Collins was done.

  The detective's headache from the previous night's shift had never really left, and now he felt it starting to creep back. He needed caffeine. He'd had a cup when he got up this evening, but that was it. Without it his mood was as miserable and dark as the weather. If he had his way, he'd just go home, get under the covers and wait for this whole goddamn storm to blow over. But there was something in this Tyreese guy's voice, something that had tickled his detective's instincts.

  Mulroney drove out of the parking lot and headed back in the direction of Birdy's apartment. "Look on the bright side," she said, still smirking, "maybe they'll have coffee."

  •••

  Mulroney pulled the car to a stop directly out front of the entrance to Birdy's apartment block, turned the engine off then pocketed the keys.

  "Sometimes I wonder if I should have chosen another line of work, something simple like playboy jetsetter," Collins joked quietly, as he squinted through the constant back and forth of the windshield wipers at the front of the apartment building. Only two windows were illuminated out of what must be at least a hundred apartments. It was pretty much the same for every other building the two cops had passed on their way here. "I don't like this one bit," he said quietly, looking into the darkened foyer.

  "Jesus, boss, you're starting to worry me," said Mulroney, "Want me to call for backup?"

  Collins considered it, but the station was so understaffed right now they could be waiting here for hours before anyone got to them. Besides, the radio was on the fritz, Mulroney had called dispatch on the way over here and all they'd gotten back was silence. One of the hazards of this fucking weather, he supposed. When it rains, it pours, he thought, grimacing at the irony. "No need, we can handle this. Come on." Collins opened his door and stepped out, he jogged to the relative dryness of the apartment's portico, avoiding the sheets of water gushing from it like Niagara Falls.

  Mulroney splashed her way over to join him, cursing as icy water found its way between her jacket's collar and her spine. Something crunched under her boot. "What the?" It was the remains of a light bulb. Mulroney looked up at the broken portico light fixture. "They need to hire a better maintenance guy," she said flatly.

  They simultaneously pulled their flashlights out and directed the beams through the glass double-doors of the entrance. Inside, everything seemed normal, if you ignored the fact that there were no lights and no people. Collins unbuttoned his coat and adjusted the shoulder holster, unclipping the safety strap that kept his pistol in place. Mulroney raised her eyebrows, but did the same with the pistol on her hip.

  Collins opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open with a foot for Mulroney while he ran his flashlight over the room.

  "Someone wanted to make sure there was no light," said Mulroney, moving her flashlight from broken light fixture to broken light fixture along the walls and ceiling. The cops walked briskly over to the elevator and pressed the call button. The elevator indicator above the door glowed a dim orange showing the cab was on the ground floor, but it still did not open. Collins jabbed at the button a couple more times with his index finger and stepped back to stare at the floor indicator.

  "Screw this," he said, turning around and heading to the stairs. "Let's go."

  "Right behind you," said Mulroney, following him through the door.

  The stairwell was even darker than the lobby. They were one flight up when the beam of a third flashlight cut through the darkness from above them, partly blinding the two cops. Instinctively they ducked for what little cover there was.

  "You better get that goddamn light out of my eyes and identify yourself if you want to see the morning," Collins yelled. He didn't like the way his voice echoed up the shaft of the stairwell.

  "Detective, it's me, Tyreese. I was just making sure you weren't... something else."

  Mulroney gave Collins a quizzical look. What the hell did he mean 'something else'?

  "Turn off the flashlight and step out where we can see you," Collins ordered. "Put your hands in the air."

  The light went out and the sound of shoes shuffling over the bare concrete floor filtered down.

  "Cover me," Collins told Mulroney, then moved cautiously up the stairwell.

  On the second floor, hands raised above his head, squinting hard as the detective's flashlight illuminated him, stood the African American male he had met earlier, the man who had identified himself as Birdy's uncle. He'd been in a wheelchair then but was standing perfectly well now.

  "Interlock your fingers above your head."

  Tyreese complied. "I don't have—"

  "Shut up," said Collins. He moved in close, put the flashlight down on the steps and began frisking the man.

  "Got any weapons on you?"

  "No," Tyreese answered flatly.

  When the detective knelt down to pat Tyreese's pants he felt the two prosthetic legs below his knees. Well that explains that, he thought. Collins stood and looked the guy square in the eyes, relaxing a little.

  "Mulroney, come on up," Collins called out.

  Mulroney joined them, her pistol leveled at Tyreese. Collins shook his head and Mulroney lowered her weapon.

  "Where's the girl and her mother?" Collins asked, more a question than a demand this time.

  Tyreese hesitated. Never a good sign, Collins thought.

>   "I'll show you." Tyreese nodded in the direction of the next flight of stairs.

  "Lead the way."

  Tyreese began climbing the steps one at a time. Collins had seen plenty of amputees before, a couple of the guys in the precinct had lost a leg overseas. They all seemed almost as adept with their prosthetics as they had been with their real limbs. This guy, he looked awkward, uncomfortable, as though he was still getting used to them.

  "Lose them recently?" the detective asked.

  "No."

  "Born like it?" Mulroney blurted out. Collins shot her a look that said could you be any less subtle?

  Tyreese sighed. "No. I lost them in the war. Afghanistan."

  "What branch?" said Collins, but before Tyreese could answer, the detective saw the outline of a body lying on the landing just a couple of steps up. He could tell by its shape that it was the body of a woman, but her head was facing away from him so he couldn't see who it was. But there was no mistaking the wooden spike driven through her chest, he could see the pointed end of it protruding eight inches out of her back, a dead hand clasped around the shaft. What looked like unusually dark blood had congealed into a pool around the exit wound. Ribbons of it hung over the lip of the landing like disgusting stalactites.

  "Get your hands in the air," Collins screamed, pulling his weapon and pressing it into the back of Tyreese's head. "Get on your goddamn knees. Now."

  Tyreese fell forward, the weight of the pistol pushing him off balance, dropping to his knees next to the body of Elizabeth Finch.

  "Where's the girl?" Collins demanded. He held Tyreese's hands together above his head with his left hand while his right beckoned back to Mulroney for her cuffs. She slapped them into his hands. Collins jerked Tyreese's arms behind his back and fastened first one of his wrists then the other with the cuffs.

  "Just look at her," Tyreese said calmly.

  "I said, where's the fucking girl?"

  "She's in my apartment. She's..."

  Again with the pause, still not a good sign, Collins thought.

  Tyreese continued, "Birdy's okay, I think. I don't know."

  "What the fuck do you mean you 'think'?" Collins demanded.

  "She's alive. Just... she's not talking. Please, just take a look at the body."

  "What apartment is she in?" Collins demanded.

  "Thirty-three."

  "Go check on the girl," Collins said. Mulroney nodded and jogged up the stairs past the body.

  "Please," Tyreese's voice was almost a whisper now which somehow made his plea seem more insistent. "Look at her face. Just look at her face."

  "Get up." Collins didn't wait for him to comply, he grabbed the cuffs and heaved. Jesus the guy was heavy. He helped Tyreese steady himself. "Okay, walk."

  Tyreese stepped up onto the landing and skirted the body. He stopped at the bottom of the next flight of stairs up.

  "Come on, move."

  Tyreese refused to budge.

  "If I have to ask you again, it'll be with the butt of my pistol. Move."

  Tyreese held his ground, squared his shoulders.

  "For Christ's sake." Collins moved the flashlight from his right hand to his left so he could reach his holstered pistol, sweeping the light across the landing... and the corpse.

  "Mary mother of God!" he hissed when he saw the frozen features of the dead woman. Could he even call what he saw human? The dead woman's eyes were wide open and staring sightlessly. Even in death they reflected back the light from his flashlight with a yellowish tone. Her face was bloody and dirty and distorted. Collins registered the two puckered puncture wounds on the side of her slender white throat. But it was her jaw, distended, wide open, with two sets of vicious midnight-black fangs and serrated teeth that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. A large pool of black ooze had seeped from between the dead woman's lips. Collins moved up a step so he could face Tyreese.

  "Is that Elizabeth Finch?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Did you do this?"

  "No."

  "You know who did?"

  "Yes..."

  There's another one of those damn pauses.

  "Who?"

  Before Tyreese could answer, Mulroney's voice interrupted them from somewhere beyond the door leading to the third floor corridor.

  "Boss, you better get up here. We got a problem."

  "No shit," he said. He forced his eyes to leave the horror on the ground. "Move it," he told Tyreese, urging the handcuffed man upward.

  •••

  Mulroney sat next to Birdy on a loveseat that had seen better days. The girl's hands were clasped tightly together and wedged between her knees. Mulroney's hand was resting on the girl's back. She was speaking softly to the child but Birdy showed no sign of even knowing there was anyone else in the room with her; she just stared straight ahead.

  Collins maneuvered Tyreese over to the window. "Don't move," he ordered, placing the flat of his hand against the man's chest, then turned his attention back to Birdy. He walked to the sofa and knelt down directly in front of her, his knees creaking and complaining. "Hi Annabelle," he said gently. "Do you remember me?"

  Birdy blinked, but that was her only response.

  "Can you tell me what happened?" the detective coaxed, a little more insistently.

  Birdy gave a low moan and the detective saw her knees press even tighter together. Her hands were beginning to grow pale from lack of blood flow.

  "It's okay," Collins continued, "take your time." He placed a hand gently against her knee.

  Birdy's head tilted up enough that her eyes met his. She whispered something so low he couldn't make the words out.

  "What did you say, sweetheart?" He leaned in closer. Tears glistened at the edges of the kid's eyes, and Collins felt his heart, hardened by almost twenty-two years on the job, buckle just a little.

  "I didn't kill my mom," she said. "I didn't."

  "We know you didn't, sweetheart."

  "I didn't kill her. I killed a monster."

  Collins felt the words like they'd been carved into a two-by-four and he'd been hit in the face with it. He glanced across at Mulroney. He could see the shock in her eyes.

  "What? What did you just say?" he asked.

  When Birdy met his gaze this time, there were tears on her cheeks, but her eyes were filled with steely certainty. "She wasn't my mom. She was a monster. She wanted to kill us. I had to... had to kill her."

  "Jee-zus!" Mulroney hissed, pulling her arm away from the kid.

  Understandable, thought Collins, after all, she hadn't seen the face of the body on the stairs. He looked over to where Tyreese still stood patiently waiting where he'd been ordered to wait. The man met his gaze unfalteringly. Collins stood and walked over to join him.

  "Tell me what happened," he said.

  Tyreese paused for a moment as though he were considering whether he should, but Collins realized he was probably just taking a moment to get his thoughts together before he spoke.

  By the time Tyreese finished telling his story, Collins found himself sitting on the edge of a nearby table, his legs weak, his mind unsure of how to process what he had just been told.

  "Jesus," he whispered. On any other day of any other week, he would have nodded politely and called for the boys in the white coats to come and take this guy to psych, because what he said was so obviously crazy. But... Between the disappearing bodies, the silent apartments, and the empty streets, Collins knew this was no ordinary day. And then there was Elizabeth Finch, or what had once been Elizabeth Finch. His mind was still trying to process what he had seen, but he was as sure as he could be that whatever had caused her to change so horribly, it had not been her daughter, Birdy, or the man standing before him in handcuffs who had caused it to happen.

  "Toss me your cuff keys," Collins said to Mulroney.

  Mulroney just about jumped to her feet. "Oh come on. You don't actually believe this BS, do you?" she said. "I mean, come o
n."

  "Toss me your goddamn keys," the detective ordered.

  Mulroney grudgingly complied.

  "If he so much as blinks at me the wrong way I'm going to light his ass up," Mulroney said, her fingers touching the butt of her service pistol.

  "Sure," said Collins, "but in the meantime, we've still got a suspicious death to process, so why don't you get us some backup?"

  Mulroney grumbled something beneath her breath, walked to the kitchen and began talking into her radio. She reappeared thirty seconds later, a look of frustration on her face. "No dice, radio's still down. This weather's screwing with everything," she said. "I'll try the radio in the car."

  Mulroney was halfway to the front door when Collins called out, "Hey, Mulroney, hold up."

  "Boss?"

  Collins prided himself on being a good detective, one of the best if he was truly honest with himself. He closed more cases than were left open, and he did that by being methodical, particular. But he also knew when to listen to his instincts, and right now his gut was telling him they needed to stick together.

  "I got a better idea, let's all go."

  Mulroney looked at him like he'd just suggested they all take a long hot shower together.

  "Humor me," he said then turned his attention to Birdy. He knelt back down in front of her. "Hey sweetheart, you want to take a ride with us?"

  She looked up. "Is Tyreese coming?" she whispered.

  "Wouldn't have it any other way," the detective replied, glancing in Tyreese's direction.

  "Okay," the kid said. She stood up.

  "You go with Officer Mulroney then." He turned his attention back to Tyreese, "And you, you're with me."

  •••

  "Annabelle, why don't you stay on this side of me, okay?" Detective Collins stood between the girl and the body of the creature that had once been her mother, positioning the beam of his flashlight to ensure the body remained hidden within the shadows.