Into the Dark

by Alison Gaylin

  “Does Errol know?”

  “Know what? Don’t drive so fast please, Trent.”

  “Does he know he was fired?”

  “Of course he knows he was fired.”

  He sped up more, swerved into the left lane.

  “Would you slow down?”

  “Tell me again how I met Diandra.”

  “I mean it, Trent.”

  “How did I meet her?”

  Brenna sighed heavily. “You met her on September 30 at Bedd. You said she was wearing a pink tube top and that she looked like Jessica Alba from the neck down. She was giving you her digits, but then she got mad because she heard you talking on the phone with me. You tried to explain I was your boss but she walked away and then you told me I was carpet-bombing your game. Now would you please slow down the freakin’ car?” The crosshatched grille was gone from her rearview. She swung around in her seat. The Magnum was nowhere to be seen. “Damn it.”

  “What?”

  “You lost the Magnum.”

  “The who?”

  “The car behind us,” she sighed. “The one trying to mount you.”

  “He was tailgating us.”

  “He was following us. Since Forest Hills. I wanted to see his plates.”

  “Crap. I totally suck. I suck so bad. I suck geriatric donkey.”

  Brenna sighed. “It’s best you lost him anyway.”

  “No. Listen, Brenna. You’re probably right about Bedd. You’re always right. And she does look like Alba from the neck down. But what I gotta tell you is, as far as I personally remember, I met Diandra a couple of days ago.”

  “So? She probably doesn’t remember Bedd, either.”

  “I met her two days ago.” His jaw tightened. “At Errol Ludlow’s.”

  “What?”

  “I was leaving Ludlow’s office after he pitched the Lula Belle case to me. She was going into the building. Gave me the smush-eye. Know what I’m talking about?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “The do-not-pass-go-do-not-collect-two-hundred-dollars-until-you-rip-my-pants-off-and-take-me-right-here-on-the-concrete kinda look.”

  “You’re still being too subtle.”

  “Yeah, yeah . . . Anyway, she said she knew who I was because of the Neff thing. Seemed to me like she was a groupie. Said she followed me on Twitter and made it sound . . . you know . . . dirty.”

  “You have a Twitter account? Why?”

  “That isn’t the point.”

  “I know, but come on. What kind of a person is a groupie for a private investigator?”

  “Another private investigator.”

  “What?”

  Trent turned to Brenna. “Diandra works for Ludlow.”

  Her eyes widened. “She’s one of Errol’s Angels?”

  He nodded. “At Bacon, she asked me all about the Lula Belle case, what kinda progress we were making. Said she was a fan of hers. I just thought she was freaky. Into the silhouette, like me. I should have known. A chick that hot always has an ulterior motive.”

  “Why did you talk to her about the case?”

  “Because I thought we were working for Errol, too!”

  Brenna cringed. “Oh. Right.”

  “I even told her not to say anything to Errol about us. I didn’t want him to think I’m unprofessional.”

  “I’m sorry, Trent.”

  “Whatevs.” He got off the FDR at Fourteenth Street, headed west toward Brenna’s place. “Mrs. Shelby lied to me because she wanted to hook up. Diandra hooked up with me because she was lying . . . After I drop you off, I think I’m just going to go home with this computer and not hook up with anyone for the rest of my . . . Wait. Did I just seriously just say that?”

  Brenna felt Trent turning to her, but she couldn’t speak. She’d slipped the picture of her and Clea out of the envelope and was staring at it, her eyes starting to blur.

  Trent pulled to a stop in front of her building, watched her till she spoke.

  “That program you used on Lula Belle,” Brenna said, her gaze still glued to the photo. “The one that told you her probable height, weight, and measurements . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Did it give you a probable age, too?”

  Trent shook his head. “She’s a shadow. I can’t even tell you for sure whether the tatas are real.”

  “Could she be . . .” Brenna cleared her throat. “Do you think it’s possible Lula Belle could be in her mid-forties?”

  “Well, sure, but . . . Wait.” Trent put a hand on Brenna’s shoulder. He spoke very quietly. “You think Lula Belle is your sister, Clea?”

  She tore herself away from the photo. “Don’t you think she is? You said possible family issues.”

  “I meant your dad.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your dad took the picture. I was thinking maybe she’s someone who might know him. You know, today.”

  Brenna looked at him. “You think my dad kept that picture all these years?”

  “He hasn’t spoken to you in that long. Never tried to contact you guys . . . Seems like he must have wanted something to remember you by, you know?”

  Lula Belle could have gotten the picture from my father. Brenna hadn’t even considered that possibility. Instead she had conjured an image of Clea shoving a picture into a book—the same picture she’d seen on Robin Tannenbaum’s computer screen.

  But even if it had been a real memory, even if Brenna really had walked into her sister’s room at that early age and caught a glimpse of Clea hiding a picture, how could she have been able to see it so clearly from that distance?

  “I made it up,” she whispered.

  “What?” said Trent.

  For the first time in so long, Brenna was grateful for her disorder, because she saw what she’d be without it: Someone who tried to make facts out of wishes. Someone whose past wasn’t the past at all, but a fiction, a propaganda movie she created herself, all in the name of preserving false hope.

  How can that be considered “normal”?

  “You’re probably right,” Brenna started to say, but she wasn’t able to complete the thought before she saw the crosshatch in the rearview again and 61 on the license plate and then Trent’s back doors flew open, two men sliding into the seat behind them.

  “Goddamn it, Trent, why did you leave the doors unlocked?” Brenna blurted.

  But then a thick arm roped around her neck. Just beneath her chin, she felt the sharp tip of a blade and thought it best, for now, not to say anything more.

  Chapter 9

  “What’s wrong Daddy?”

  Where do I start, thought Gary, who was sitting at the kitchen table, head in his hands, unable to start anywhere—especially not with Hannah, his youngest, who had come in to ask him why the Tooth Fairy had given her only ten dollars last night instead of her usual twenty.

  Gary sat up. “Nothing’s wrong, honey.”

  “Is the Tooth Fairy mad at me?”

  He looked at Hannah’s face and found himself remembering how it felt to hold her when she was born—three weeks early and so much smaller than her two older sisters, an emergency C-section with the most perfect, round little head. I’ll keep you safe, he had whispered to baby Hannah in a voice only she could hear. Hannah, little fingers plucking at the air, newly opened blue eyes, so big with wonder. I’ll protect you always. . .

  Or had he said that to Tessa?

  God, Gary hated it when good memories slipped through his fingers. It was happening more and more lately—the things he wanted to remember moving beyond his grasp while the things he didn’t stuck around, screaming in his ears until he beat them into silence. “It was probably an oversight. The Tooth Fairy loves you, Hannah.”

  She frowned at him. “You look sad.”

  “I’m just tired, honey.” He was trying to “be here now,” as they said in Jill’s breathing class, but it was so hard to be here with Hannah, to hear her voice rather than that voice in his head—Errol Ludlow’s
smug, hyper-enunciating voice, spooling through Gary’s brain just as clear as it had been over the disposable phone two hours ago—a bad memory, in need of a beating. I know you asked me not to call. But I have just had the most fas-cin-a-ting con-ver-sa-tion with your wife. . .

  How had Jill found the phone? Why had she called Errol Ludlow instead of talking to Gary about it? Why did Gary’s life keep going from bad to worse to worse again still?

  Jill thought you were having an affair, but I was able to put her mind at ease. If you would like me to con-tin-ue to do so, however, my silence will cost you.

  And what had Gary said? Not How dare you? or I’m calling the police, or even Go fuck yourself. No. What Gary had said was, How much?

  We can start at $20K a month.

  Can I get back to you later?

  I’ll give you until 5 P.M. EST.

  “Hannah, can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “How would you feel if . . . if we had to cut back a little? On our expenses?”

  Hannah’s brow wrinkled up. “What does that mean?”

  “Well . . . Ballet class, for instance. Would you mind taking a break from it for a while?”

  Her lip trembled. “I love ballet class,” she said, and he was reminded again at how small she was. Her troubles should be smaller still. They should be invisible.

  “Don’t be upset, pickle. I’m glad you love ballet. You don’t have to take a break.”

  “Then how come you asked?”

  “No reason.” He snapped on a smile. “Daddy likes saying things that make no sense sometimes.”

  Hannah giggled. “That’s silly.”

  “I know. I’m a silly old guy.”

  She giggled some more.

  “Listen, pickle, can you go play in the other room? Daddy’s got some work he has to do.”

  “Why are you working in the kitchen?”

  He sighed. “You can take my phone with you. Play that Fruit Toss game.”

  “Yay!”

  Thank God for the attention spans of children.

  “Phone, please.” Hannah held out her hand, and without thinking, Gary went for his shirt pocket—for the disposable phone, the secret phone. His fingertips touched the plastic and his breath caught. He thought of worlds colliding, exploding—which made him remember The Shadow. And for a moment, his dread faded into longing. He missed her backlit body, missed her voice, saying those words that tore him apart. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. He shouldn’t ever be thinking this way, especially not in the presence of family, but now it was her voice in his head, her words. He couldn’t keep her away.

  “We could drive away together, my love.” That’s what he told me, that special boy, the boy on the road.

  Gary grabbed his smart phone out of his pants pocket and gave it to Hannah. His hands were shaking. “I . . . I don’t know why you girls love this game so much.”

  “Fruit Toss is awesome! It makes squishy sounds!”

  “We could drive all night,” the boy said, just him and me. “We could beat the murder mile and watch the sunrise in the rearview and love each other. Forever.”

  Tears sprang into Gary’s eyes.

  “Daddy?”

  He took Hannah in his arms and hugged her, very tightly, as though he were trying to stop her from floating away. When he let go, his vision was still blurred.

  “Now you look sad again,” Hannah said.

  “I’m not sad,” he heard himself say. “I’m angry.”

  “At who?”

  Gary took a breath, like he’d learned in Jill’s class. Deep, cleansing breath. “The Tooth Fairy.”

  Hannah nodded, solemn. “I’m sure it was just a oversight.”

  After Hannah left the room, Gary closed his eyes for a few moments. I can fix this. I know how to fix this . . . Before long, it felt like a prayer. Please, I can fix this, please, please, I know how, just let me figure it out . . .

  He pulled the disposable phone out of his shirt pocket and looked at the outgoing calls—the three of them. Jill had called Ludlow. She’d probably stopped there—or at least at Brenna Spector. Otherwise she’d have phoned Gary by now, asking for a divorce. I was able to put her mind at ease, Ludlow had said.

  Gary hoped he was right—for now, at least. Gary couldn’t afford to send him $20K a month, even for one month. Ballet class or not, that was a simple fact.

  From the other room, he could hear Hannah and Lucy fighting—something about Hannah hogging Dad’s phone. Again, Gary thought about worlds colliding. He didn’t want to hurt his girls. God, he didn’t want them sad. He didn’t want to lose them, he couldn’t lose them. He wouldn’t be able to live. How did I get to this awful place? Gary thought. But of course he knew the answer. He’d driven here, all by himself.

  We could stay on that road, him and me. That special boy. We could love each other. . .

  “Shut up,” Gary whispered. “Shut up, shut up . . .” He tapped the third number into his phone.

  “Hello?” The voice was barely more mature than Hannah’s, so breathy and small, but Gary wouldn’t think about that. He couldn’t.

  “DeeDee.”

  “Mr. Freeman?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s me.”

  “I couldn’t tell from caller ID. You’re on that private number again. Don’t you have our phone anymore? Did you lose it?”

  What the hell does it matter what phone I call you from?

  “Hello?”

  “I still have our phone,” he said, as softly as he could. “It’s in a safe place.”

  “Oh good.” She sighed. “I know it sounds silly, but it means so much to me. That phone. Our phone. It’s something we share. I see the number on my screen and my heart, my whole heart just . . .”

  Gary winced. “DeeDee.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “Oh no.”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be calling you now. Not after all you’ve done for me already. I shouldn’t be burdening you with this stuff.” He closed his eyes, a hot weight behind them. DeeDee, his confessor. Baby-voiced DeeDee. “My life is falling apart and I can’t stop it.”

  “Anything,” she said.

  “You’re so young. You’ve got your whole life to live and I—”

  “I’ll do anything for you.”

  “Stop.”

  “You know I will.”

  Gary took a breath, absorbed the word: Anything . . . “I do know that,” Gary said, feeling all the worse for knowing and not stopping her, poor kid. Poor deluded DeeDee, needy DeeDee, pinning so much hope on a man like him. All she’s done for me already . . . Gary kept trying to forget what she’d done. He kept slamming that door in his mind and turning away, but still it was there, solid and real and shouting at him . . .

  He should have cut her loose long ago. He should have hurt her feelings, broken her heart. A better man would have done that.

  “How can I help you?” DeeDee said. “Tell me.”

  Gary breathed deep. He closed his eyes. And with his eyes still closed, he told her. Of course he told her, for there was something new now, something big and broken that needed to be fixed. And being a better man was a luxury neither he nor his family could afford. In a kind, soft voice, he told her about his troubles with Errol Ludlow while hearing Hannah in the other room—Hannah, his baby who should know no pain. Hannah, shouting at her sister, “It isn’t fair!”

  “Phones please!” said the guy who was holding the gun to Trent’s head.

  Trent unplugged his phone from the charger and handed it to him, his eyes never leaving the street.

  Brenna’s phone was in the front pocket of her jeans. She started to go for it when it vibrated. So instead, she opened the envelope in her lap, slipped out Robin Tannenbaum’s phone, and passed it over her shoulder.

  “Thanks, pretty lady,” said the gunman, who called himself Bo. Brenna knew this because he’d already introduced himself. “My name�
�s Bo,” he had said, once Trent had gotten to the West Side Highway and headed north, as he’d been told. “And this here’s my friend Diddley.”

  “Bo and Diddley,” Brenna had said.

  “We can make you sing the blues.”

  “Good one.”

  “You think so? Ha! I do, too!” Bo laughed a lot when he talked—like the car he’d just jacked was a cocktail party and he was the life of it, the .38 Smith and Wesson he was pressing against Trent’s medulla oblongota no more dangerous than a virgin peach daiquiri. Brenna assumed he was supposed to be the friendly, avuncular one, while Diddley was the quiet one—the one you had to be careful of, crazy beneath the skin. She wondered how long it had taken these two to come up with this act. It was irritating, as all “acts” were—an insult to the intelligence. But really, she only wondered about it because it was easier than wondering about anything else.

  Bo said, “And what do you two kids call yourselves?”

  You two kids? Brenna thought. Really? The phone vibrated again. She cleared her throat to drown it out. “My name’s Betty,” she told Bo. “And this here’s my friend Veronica.”

  Trent whispered, “Thanks a lot.” But Bo laughed, very loudly—which was what Brenna had been counting on. Much as Trent kept begging her to buy a smart phone (why should she when she had more memory than ten of them?), Brenna was glad she hadn’t listened. The average smart phone was husky and very loud. Even on vibrate. Her flip phone, on the other hand, was tiny, and far more discreet—easily drowned out by your average gun-wielding human laugh track.

  Bo’s laughter, by now, had officially crossed the line between wacky and psychotic. Brenna worried he might burst a blood vessel.

  Diddley moved a bit, probably to stare at his partner in disbelief, and the knife budged from Brenna’s throat. She slid her hand into her pants pocket and flicked open the phone, tapping the talk button as she shoved it behind her back. All this took about five seconds, but it felt like so much longer, each step hanging in her mind, begging to be noticed . . .