Dark Web

by T. J. Brearton

  Why not just frame Simpkins in the first place? Why not just make it look like he did it for the money? The cops had already been looking that way, all they’d needed was a nudge. It happened all the time, all over the world, people killed for their life insurance policies, murderers out to get an early inheritance. So why not just make Mike Simpkins look guilty?

  Because it wouldn’t have stuck. He maybe had problems — who didn’t — but Simpkins was basically a good guy, Swift thought. And Darring knew it. Maybe that was why he hated Simpkins. Maybe that was sufficient, but Swift didn’t think so.

  The wheel spun in his hand as the tires slid over a stretch of ice, grabbed a patch of blacktop, then hit more slush. The conditions were at their worst. The day had gotten warm enough to melt some snow and then the temperature had dropped, freezing chunks of slush into ice where the roads went high, but staying mushy through the valleys. He caught the wheel and straightened the car, pulling it out of a skid. His heart was pumping, but his foot stayed on the gas, pushing the car up to sixty through the dark, howling weather.

  He passed a tractor-trailer with its hazards flashing. Someone up ahead hadn’t got completely past the big truck and was travelling alongside it. Swift’s light flashed; he slapped the horn and toed the brakes. “Come on!” He yelled. He swiped the air with his hand as if to push the vehicle aside. “Come on!” He was halfway there. Twenty minutes from his home. The place would be crawling with his troopers and the Sheriff’s Department. He had to get there. In his mind’s eye he saw Mike Simpkins going down. Torn to shreds by Swift’s fellow cops.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  A dog was barking in the main house. Mike stood in front of a smaller outbuilding, a ramshackle tenant house. A remnant from when the place was a working farm and the laborers lived on the property.

  “McAfferty!” called Mike Simpkins.

  The wind cut across the open land from the west. Mike felt it buffet against him, heard the sound of wind chimes banging together somewhere in the distance; the dog barking. He stood in a foot of snow. He felt numb.

  “McAfferty!” he called again. “I’m coming in.”

  In his peripheral vision Mike could see Bull Camoine sliding up along one side of the small building, and Linda along the other, each of them with their firearms out and ready. They moved like predators in the night. He stepped towards the small, rambling front porch, its steps buried in a drift of snow. There were fresh foot prints leading up to the door.

  He stopped, hesitating for one last moment, turning over the variables in his mind. Why was McAfferty here? What was Swift gaining by conspiring with a lowlife, meth-cooker like McAfferty? Was the meth industry really that powerful that someone like Swift could get taken in?

  Of course, Mike rationalized, as the wind swirled around him, gusting up the snow, you never knew anything about people. It was naïve to think anyone was all good, or all bad. People were just animals, reacting, adapting, surviving.

  Mike saw Braxton’s face, the mop of hair in his eyes, as he sat playing with his sisters on the carpet of their home in Florida.

  Braxton had been good. He’d been unspoiled by the world. Mike had ruined him, dragging him up here, back to the place he’d escaped from with his mother so many years before. Back into the belly of the beast. The beast on the other side of that door. Mike’s hand gripped the gun tucked into his waistband and he pulled it out.

  Then he launched himself up and took the door by the handle and yanked it open.

  * * *

  Tori McAfferty sat in a straight-backed chair, aiming a hunting rifle at Mike Simpkins.

  The place was a single room, with a water closet at the back right. Opposite that there was a small kitchenette, and a back door. The floors were bare wood, with a single braided, oval-shaped rug that was probably once colorful but now worn to shades of brown. Beside McAfferty was a simple, Amish-style table. The place was cold, but smelled like propane — McAfferty had activated the small heater that stood in the unused fireplace. There were a few other odds and ends of furniture — an antique end table, a chest, and there were four dark windows.

  Mike stopped just inside the room. The door slowly closed on his heels, then a gust of wind slammed it the rest of the way home. He held the gun out in front of him, pointing it at McAfferty, just as he’d pointed it at another man, all those years ago.

  “I don’t think we’ve ever met,” Mike said, his heart pounding. “I’m Mike Simpkins. I’m Braxton’s father.” He kept a close eye on the rifle aimed back at him.

  Tori McAfferty sniffed, like he had a bad cold. He looked terrible. There were large circles beneath his eyes, and his skin was blotched with acne. He was in his forties, Mike knew, but looked fifty, or older. Patches of grey were scattered through his messy shock of hair. Mike couldn’t help seeing how Braxton had inherited that thickness, the wild cowlicks. McAfferty was dressed in a pair of Carhartt work pants and a Carhartt jacket, discolored all over by paint and stain and roofing tar, and wood glue and caulk.

  “I read about what happened,” McAfferty said from behind the rifle.

  Mike blinked, kept the Glock level. “Oh, you read about it?”

  “Saw it on the news, too.”

  The room smelled foul, closed up for too long. And now it also stank like McAfferty, of a man who hadn’t washed in several days, a man on the run.

  “So, I’m here. What’s the deal, Tori?”

  “The what?”

  Mike narrowed his eyes. Bull and Linda were waiting on the other side of that back door. The plan was to let Mike talk to McAfferty first — he’d insisted, much to Bull’s disapproval. Bull wanted to rush in and dispatch the guy straight away. Any delay only invited complications. Mike figured he was right, in principle, but he needed something from McAfferty first. He wasn’t quite sure what he needed, only that he did. Maybe it was atonement.

  “What did my father say to you? How long have the two of you been talking?”

  McAfferty scowled. “How am I gonna talk to your father if I don’t even know you?”

  “You know me,” Mike said. “I’m the guy who said I’d kill you if you ever did anything to hurt Braxton. And here I am.”

  McAfferty’s scowl turned into a bitter smile. “Oh you’re a tough guy. You and Callie probably fit just right together. How’s she doing, that psycho bitch?”

  “You’ve got one minute — one minute — to tell me what you want from me.”

  McAfferty’s grin widened, and he threw his head back and laughed. The laughter was short, and turned into a coughing fit. He leaned forward again, doubling over, with a fist at his mouth, coughing and gagging. He dropped the rifle onto his lap, and spat out a gob onto the bare floorboards. His face was hectic, and red from the coughing, but his eyes still glinted with amusement. He spread his legs out wider, boots planted firmly on the floor, lifted the rifle and edged forward in the seat. Mike wondered for a moment where McAfferty’s laptop was. Surely he had an internet phone. He saw neither. “Somebody’s been fucking with you, huh?”

  “Tell me, Tori.”

  McAfferty’s expression changed. He looked both hurt and angry at the same time. His lips curled back in a sneer, revealing dark places where molars were missing. “You giving me orders now?” He renewed his grip on the rifle and aimed it straight at Mike’s chest. Mike felt something flutter in his stomach; the muscles in his legs and arms emulsified. They were both just a squeeze away from putting a round into one another.

  “Look,” McAfferty said, “I don’t know what you think you know. I blew my fucking house up.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Cops. So I took my shit and ran.”

  “Why the hell would you come here? This property belongs to a state police detective.”

  McAfferty looked around for a moment. “No wonder it’s a dump.” He pressed his face to the rifle again, glaring down the barrel at Mike.

  “Somebody told you to come here. Who?”

  “Who
? My guy, that’s who. He’s supposed to be here, standing right where you are.” McAfferty looked worried. “What the fuck is going on? I’m supposed to be on my way to the city tonight. And you’re standing here.”

  Mike’s arm was shaking, but he kept his aim tight. He asked through gritted teeth, “Why did you do it?” The nerves in his face were stretched tight. “Why did you kill Braxton?” Suddenly he exploded. “You worthless fuck!”

  The back door crashed open. Bull charged in, followed by Linda. McAfferty tried to spin around, but it was too late — in a couple of giant strides, Bull had closed the gap between them and slammed McAfferty in the head with the butt of his gun. McAfferty sprawled forward and hit the ground, his rifle clattering across the floor, where he landed in a heap and was still.

  Bull towered over him, chest heaving. He righted the handgun in his grip. Linda was pointing her own firearm down at McAfferty. Bull glanced at Mike, a worried expression on his face. “Cops, Mike. Fucking cops are on the way.”

  Mike stood there, confused and unable to move. He could hear it, in the distance, the sound of sirens. His gaze fell on McAfferty’s gun, which had slid across the floor towards him.

  “Pick it up, Mikey. Quick. Pick it up and let’s finish this thing and get the fuck out of here. Might as well use the rifle. Keep the Glock clean.”

  Mike remained motionless for a moment, and then forced his body to respond. He slid the handgun into his pants. Then he bent forward and picked up the rifle.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Mike Simpkins wasn’t going to take any more shit. He took a couple of steps over to Tori McAfferty and placed his boot on the man’s shoulder and attempted to roll him over onto his back.

  Tori groaned and his eyelids fluttered.

  Mike had McAfferty’s gun in his hand. He pointed it down at the man’s head.

  “Is my family in danger?”

  McAfferty’s eyes opened and rolled around, attempting to focus.

  Mike kicked McAfferty in the arm. He brought the tip of the rifle within inches of McAfferty’s forehead. “Tori. Is my family in danger? Did my father put you up to this?”

  McAfferty moaned, still dazed from the pistol-whipping.

  “Mikey,” Bull Camoine said. “Let’s be quick.”

  The sirens grew louder, closer.

  Mike cut Bull a look. Bull had seen the look before, just once, long ago. “Get out, Bull. You and Linda. Get out.”

  “Mike, somethin’ stinks here. Somethin’s not right.”

  “And you feel like now is the time to say so?”

  Bull frowned. “Yeah, Mike, I feel like now is the time.”

  McAfferty grimaced and touched the back of his head. “Ah, damnit,” he said.

  “Answer me, Tori. Did my father put you up to this?”

  McAfferty looked up, pure malevolence in his eyes. “Fuck you.”

  Mike aimed the gun between those hate-filled eyes. “Did you kill Braxton?”

  “Of course I didn’t.”

  “Mike,” Bull said, “he’s going to say anything.”

  Mike yelled at him. “Get out, Bull! Now!” He looked down at the man crumpled at his feet. “Tori, why did you blow up your house?”

  Some of the enmity drained away and for a moment, McAfferty looked pathetic. Mike felt a tiny stirring of sympathy for him. The drug had cooked him, his body, his brain, and everything else in his life. Probably he could have made much more from the business if he wasn’t his own best customer.

  “I told you,” Tori said.

  “When the cops were coming to call on you, you struck a match to the place.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay,” Bull said. He took Linda by the arm and they slipped out the back door, looking back urgently over their shoulders. Mike didn’t watch them go.

  “That’s lucky,” Mike growled at Tori. “How come you’re not bits and pieces all over your own yard? Huh? How did you get out of there in time?”

  “Look,” McAfferty said, flat on his back now, his hands up in front of him, warding off the gun, Mike, everything. “Okay? It takes about a minute for the charge to go off. I used a special incendiary device. I lost everything, man, My Les Paul, my Jimi picture, my good leather jacket . . .”

  “That’s tragic, Tori.”

  Tori licked his cracked lips. He looked up at Mike, standing over him. “Trish was the one who set this up, me coming here.”

  “Who?”

  “My fucking girlfriend, man. Tricia Eggleston. Her brother is a lawyer.”

  Mike glanced away for a second and stared at the black windows. As the cops drew nearer Mike thought he could hear the roar of engines beneath the wail of the sirens. He thought he was close to putting it all together at last.

  “Look,” Tori continued. “Eggleston is a lawyer for Frank Duso. Duso is a guy who did a little dealing for me, and then he got popped for a deewee, and the cops Maced him or something, and he sued. Made the cops mad as hell. Made Eggleston mad too, ‘cause he lost the case.”

  “So they had you hide here to what? Make the detective look guilty of something? That’s pretty far to go for a pissed off lawyer and a young kid who wants payback against the cops. What does this have to do with my son, Braxton? Or your guy, the one you said was supposed to be here?”

  Tori scowled up at Mike. “You think I know what this has to do with Braxton? I don’t have a clue. My guy said he was your brother, so you’re the one who should be telling me what the fuck is going on. You’ve got one fucked up family, man.”

  “He what?” asked Mike. Things were starting to get confused again. Faces flashed through his mind; his father’s, Callie’s, the girls, and Braxton’s. What the hell was Tori saying?

  There were noises outside. Doors opening and closing, the sound of boots on the ground, weapons loading. The dog was barking harder than ever. His brother? McAfferty must be crazy. His brain must be more mushed up than Mike first thought. He must be talking about his father. Mike didn’t have a brother. His grip on the rifle slackened.

  Tori sat up and looked around, listening to the commotion outside, a bewildered expression contorting his features. “I didn’t kill the kid, okay? I didn’t kill my own kid.”

  A voice boomed out of the night. “McAfferty. Simpkins. Come out with your hands up.”

  Mike took a breath and looked at Tori. “Did you email him? Braxton?”

  “I don’t even have an email account, man.” McAfferty looked petrified.

  “So you never corresponded with him. You never got an email from me, telling you to back off or else?”

  “No, man.” Tori was now looking at the blank windows, trying to see through, to get a look at the nightmare awaiting him. Red pulses of light silently flashed through the windows. Mike recalled that first night, the red in Braxton’s room. He renewed his grip on the rifle. His finger moved at the trigger.

  “No, I never got an email. Tricia, she uses the computer on her phone, or whatever. We don’t even have a laptop in the house. I never sent any emails. The only way I knew Braxton moved back was when I saw it in the paper. Oh fuck man, oh shit . . .”

  McAfferty looked utterly broken now, sitting there on the floor, legs sticking out in front of him, dirty clothes, mussed hair, rotting teeth. His eyes had grown droopy and glassy. “I loved that kid,” he said.

  “Tori McAfferty. Mike Simpkins,” boomed the voice in the night. “You have thirty seconds to put down your weapons and come out or we’re coming in.”

  Then Mike heard shouts, followed by gunfire. It didn’t seem to be directed at the house. It was out there. Where Bull and Linda were. McAfferty stared up at him. “Please,” he was saying. “Please, man.”

  All he had to do was squeeze just a little bit harder.

  Braxton, dragged through the night to his death. Lying there alone, terrified, hurt, trying to protect his sisters. Trying to protect his family.

  Mike looked down the barrel at Tori McAfferty, and for a moment, he close
d his eyes.

  He saw Braxton’s face, saw him standing in the road, as if looking back at Mike, waiting for him to catch up. The boy held out his hand.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  When Mike stepped out of the small cabin and down into the knee-deep snow, the whole world lit up. Headlights snapped on, bathing him in a harsh light. He heard shouts on the other side of the blinding glare. “Down! Get down on your knees!”

  His heart in his throat, Mike could feel the ground vibrate as men pounded towards him. Their shapes loomed. He did as he was told.

  “Put your hands on your head and drop all the way to the ground!”

  The shapes became men — State Troopers — their weapons trained on him. Mike laced his fingers over his head, and lowered himself forward onto his belly in the snow.

  Seconds later they were at him, guns inches from his face. One trooper grabbed him by the wrists and pulled his arms behind him, another slapped on the cuffs. They weren’t gentle. Mike stared up into the white lights.

  Amid the thundering of his heart and the pounding in his ears, the shouts of the men and the dazzling lights he found that his thoughts had gone to Callie and the girls. If anything had happened to them, if any harm had come to them, it would be over. It would all be over. There would be no point left to any of it.

  The cops hooked their hands under his armpits and hoisted him to his feet.

  As he was being hauled away, he saw a familiar face. Detective Swift fell in beside the troopers holding Mike. Swift’s face was harried, he was out of breath, and he wore a look of sympathy. “It’s going to be okay,” the detective said, as Mike was shoved into the back of a trooper cruiser.

  “My father,” Mike said before the door closed. “This is all him.”

  Then he was driven away. Swift’s face receded into the night. Mike stared out the windows as cop after cop, probably every last man in the county and then some — blurred past, watching him as he was taken away. Their faces looked blank and distant.