Into the Dark

by Alison Gaylin

  “Hello, Brenna.” It was Hildy Tannenbaum, standing over her, Pokrovsky looming behind her.

  “Hildy.” Brenna stood up and hugged her, flashing back as she did to two days ago, just two days ago in Hildy’s apartment, hugging her good-bye, this tiny woman with the curled turtle shell back, this woman with a missing child—distant and cold as he was, behind his locked bedroom door with his typed, formal note good-bye, he was still her child. “I want to help you,” Brenna says, Hildy’s wig stiff beneath her chin. And she does, so very much. She wants to help them both . . .

  Brenna came back to the present, hugging Hildy again over her son, her dead son, dead two days ago and two months ago, without anyone knowing. Rotting under a tarp in that broken-down building, no better off than that coyote or those crows.

  “It’s good to see you,” Hildy said.

  Brenna was gripping her too hard, she knew. She glanced up at Pokrovsky and pulled away. “I’m so sorry, Hildy,” she said.

  She looked into Hildy’s eyes. They were dry, but as she saw now, stricken. Pokrovsky took Hildy’s tiny hand in his big, gnarled one and stood holding it, saying nothing. Brenna wondered if it was the first time this had ever happened, Hildy allowing Pokrovsky to hold her hand. She gazed up into his face, the glass shard eyes warm and sad. She decided it was. “You don’t need to stay,” Hildy said. “Yuri will come in with me and help me identify.”

  “Are you sure?” Morasco said.

  She nodded and closed her eyes, getting herself ready. “I suppose it was a mistake,” she said quietly.

  Brenna looked at her. “What was?”

  “Robbie going into professional filmmaking.”

  “He was a grown man, Hildy. You couldn’t tell him what to do with his life.”

  She smiled, or tried to—a grimace of a smile that didn’t involve the rest of her face. “When he was in high school, his father bought him a Super 8 camera. ‘Maybe that will get him out of the house,’ Walter said. But to Robbie, it was as though we’d given him a pair of eyes. He fell in love with that camera. He filmed everything. He was obsessed. He’d film birds outside. He’d film me, ironing.”

  Pokrovsky said, “You are beautiful, ironing.”

  She didn’t look at him. “It gave him a social life, that camera. Began making little films with the other kids in the neighborhood. He joined the audiovisual club at school. He had friends . . .”

  “I don’t remember this at all.”

  “It was when you were away,” Hildy said. “Life doesn’t stop when you go away.”

  “I know,” he said softly, and something passed between them. A moment Brenna didn’t understand. She looked at Morasco. He shrugged.

  “Nothing made Robbie happier than the movies, and then the movies killed him,” she said. “Was the camera with him? Or did someone take it?”

  “It was gone,” Morasco said.

  “You see, Yuri? That camera he bought. With your money . . .”

  Brenna said, “I don’t know that the camera was the main reason.”

  “The Southern woman. Was she the reason?”

  “I don’t think so,” She stayed quiet about Shane. Let the Mount Temple cops bring up that name with Hildy. Brenna didn’t want to see her face crumble, not now, not right before she had to go in and identify her son’s remains. A young uniformed officer walked into the lobby—a dark-skinned girl with cornrowed hair and a regal bearing. “Mr. and Mrs. Tannenbaum?”

  No one bothered correcting her.

  “If you could just come this way.”

  “One moment,” Hildy said. She opened her purse. “I found this in Robbie’s nightstand drawer.” She plucked out a small key and placed it in Brenna’s hand. “It’s for that PO box,” she said. “Since it’s what brought us together, I was thinking you should have it.”

  Brenna took the key, giving her hand a squeeze as she did. Hildy really did have the smallest hands, like a child. “Thank you.”

  “I wish we could pray together,” Hildy said.

  “We can if you like.”

  She shook her head. “It would be disrespectful,” she said. “Robbie was an atheist.”

  Brenna watched Pokrovsky and Hildy follow the officer out of the room. Before they walked through the morgue door, Hildy said, “Thank you, Brenna.”

  “What was she thanking me for?” she asked Morasco, once they were gone.

  “An answer,” he said quietly—that look, once again, seeping into his eyes, the look Brenna didn’t like. “She lived with a question for two and a half months,” he said. “You gave her an answer.”

  Morasco started out of the building. Brenna followed. It was four-thirty and close to pitch black. Brenna hated that about the winter.

  Morasco turned to her. “I should head home,” he said, that look still all over his face—the Thing We Need to Talk About. “Nick?” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Not everyone needs answers, you know.”

  He nodded. “I know.” He touched her face, and then he kissed her, very gently, as though she were some fragile, breakable thing. She didn’t like it.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  “Okay . . .” Brenna headed for her car, the feel of it lingering. The saddest kiss ever. Yes, she understood the need for answers. Of course she did—she’d quit college and gone to work for Errol Ludlow and wrecked her marriage, all because of that need. But why did she have to get them from Nick? Why couldn’t they just shut up and screw every night, without ever discussing anything deeper than who gets what side of the bed, and can I get you anything from the kitchen?

  Of course, there was one answer Brenna did want, and the question had nothing to do with Nick Morasco. She thought of that question as she opened the door to her car and slipped inside:

  If RJ Tannenbaum was an atheist, why did he write “DEUT 31:6” on the bottom of a picture of his favorite director?

  Brenna’s cell phone chimed. She checked the screen, saw Trent’s name, and hit talk. “Yeah?”

  “I’ve got good news, good news, and weird news. What do you want to hear first?”

  “The good news.”

  “Okay. I’m out of the hospital.”

  “That’s great!”

  “Yep, I’m a first-rate physical specimen,” he said. “What do you want to hear next?”

  “What would you like me to hear next?”

  “The good news.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I found Shane Smith.”

  “You did?” Brenna’s eyes went huge. “He killed RJ, Trent. I’m almost positive.”

  “RJ’s dead?”

  “Yes. We need to get the police in on this. Bring Shane Smith in now. Where is he?”

  “Okay, that’s the weird news.”

  “Tell me.”

  Trent took a breath. “Shane is in Niagara Falls.”

  Brenna frowned at the phone. “He stayed?”

  “He didn’t have much choice.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Brenna,” Trent said. “Shane Smith has been dead for two months.”

  According to a news article Trent showed Brenna back at his apartment, Shane Smith’s body had been found on December 2 by rescuers looking for a Japanese tourist who had jumped the guardrail and tumbled into the falls. Shane had drowned weeks before, but because the body had spent all that time in freezing water, it was unusually well preserved. They were able to identify him not just by dental records, but by his many tattoos. As far as they could tell, Shane had drowned during the last week in October, which made it probable that he had died the day Brenna had seen him—October 30—on the Maid of the Mist.

  She wants to die . . .

  “Do you think Diandra pushed him?” Trent said.

  “Yes.”

  “No question in your mind, huh?”

  “Nope. She had this look on her face when I saw her on the boat . . . It’s hard to explain,” Brenna said. “I think she was . . . steeling herse
lf to do it.”

  “Why were they on that boat with you?”

  “That is one of the many things I’d like to ask Diandra when I see her next.” Brenna flashed on her, rushing out of Trent’s bathroom in her pink angora sweater, calling herself Jenny in that high, little girl’s voice . . .

  “Whoa,” said Trent, staring at her. “You totally want to kick her ass.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “It’s kinda hot.”

  “I mean, I want to kick her ass in a non-Grindhouse kind of way. I want to genuinely hurt her. Trust me, it’s very unsexy.”

  He stared at the newspaper article on his computer screen, at Shane Smith’s smiling young face. “She got him to kill RJ and then she killed him. Maybe so he wouldn’t tell,” he said, very quietly. “Maybe he was feeling guilty about it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And you know what, Brenna?”

  “What?”

  “If I saw her again and she hit on me? I don’t know that I’d turn her down.”

  “God, you’re an idiot.”

  “I know.” He didn’t smile. “I know I am.” He stared at his hands for a while. “Hey!” he said. “I just thought of something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “What if she’s committed a crime?”

  “Yes?”

  “I didn’t tell you this, but I can tap into NCIC now.”

  “The FBI database?”

  “Yeah. Remember Claudia?”

  “The paramedic.”

  “Duh. Of course you remember her.”

  Brenna looked at him. “Her brother does computer stuff for the FBI.”

  “Right. And . . . she kinda worked a deal with me,” he said. “She gave me an NCIC password, straight from her bro.”

  Trent called up NCIC on his computer. When he got to the page with the password prompt, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. Removed a business card. At the bottom he’d written out a long combination of numbers, letters, and punctuation marks, which he proceeded to type into the computer. Brenna stared at him, her gaze moving from the card, to Trent, and back again.

  “What was your end of the deal?” Brenna asked, wheels turning in her mind.

  Trent mumbled something.

  “Huh?”

  He repeated himself. “I . . . uh . . . I had to stop hitting on her.”

  Brenna smiled. “Makes sense,” she said, the wheels turning more furiously—printed words at the bottom of a card. Everyone printed out their passwords somewhere, and what better place for a filmmaker than at the bottom of a picture of a favorite director . . .

  “See, we don’t have a last name for her, but if we type ‘Diandra’ into this field here . . . Hmmm . . . No luck. I guess maybe she hasn’t been arrested or Diandra’s not her real name or . . . Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “The cloud,” Brenna said.

  “Tannenbaum’s?”

  She nodded. “Did you really mean it when you said that all you needed was the Lockbox account password?”

  “Yep,” he said. “Do you have it?”

  “I think I might.” Why would an atheist write a Bible passage on a picture of his favorite director? “Try Deut 31:6.”

  Trent went onto Lockbox, typed in the user name he had for RJ and then, in the password field, Deut 31:6.

  Incorrect password.

  Trent looked at Brenna.

  “How many letters can you have in one of these passwords?”

  “In Lockbox? A lot.”

  “Try Bestrongandcourageous.”

  Trent typed.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered. “We’re in.” The screen opened up to show several smaller screens with play buttons. “Video footage.”

  Brenna looked at him. “I thought you said cloud storage was as secure as they come.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “Never write out passwords, Trent.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. You don’t need to.”

  “Hit play,” Brenna said.

  Trent did, on the first screen. The first screen of footage on RJ Tannenbaum’s cloud. RJ’s project. The Dream. The Big One.

  The little screen went blue, and a title appeared:

  SEARCHING FOR LULA BELLE.

  The next image was the picture: Brenna and Clea on the bicycle. Brenna’s breath caught.

  “There’s sound,” Trent said.

  “Turn it up,” she whispered.

  Up came a voice, a man’s voice, nasal and sad. Lula Belle. I have loved her, ever since I laid eyes on her. Ever since I first heard her voice. Yesterday she e-mailed me this picture. She said it belonged to her. But our journey starts earlier.

  The image on screen slowly faded to live action—a little, dark-haired girl, riding a bicycle through the woods. It was a haunting image—a sadness you felt in the pit of your stomach, without really knowing why.

  “He’s a hell of a lot better than Shane Smith,” Trent said.

  Brenna nodded. She couldn’t speak.

  The voiceover began again. Our story begins three years ago, when on a dare from a film school friend, I broke into a man’s house.

  The image of the little girl faded into a shot of Gary Freeman, standing amid Wise Up balloons with his wife and daughters.

  This man. Gary Freeman.

  Trent said, “That’s the cornflakes guy.”

  Brenna looked at him. “Our real employer.”

  “He is?”

  “Was. He fired me.”

  I was dared to break into his house, take this diary, and put it under the floorboards of his bedroom closet.

  The image shifted to murky footage—a slightly younger, unbearded RJ Tannenbaum standing in front of a king-sized sleigh bed. Holding up a blue book.

  I filmed myself putting it back. The person who dared me to put it back didn’t know.

  On screen, RJ removed something from the blue book. He walked right up to the stationary camera. Held it up to the lens.

  “Oh my God,” Trent said.

  Brenna couldn’t speak.

  It was the picture of her and Clea on the bicycle. Same day, same swimsuits. The same picture Lula Belle had sent RJ.

  Brenna flashed back to RJ’s room, two days ago . . . The picture from the computer screen—Brenna and Clea on that bike, Clea’s bike—was that in Clea’s room? Has she seen her sister looking at it? Placing that very picture in a blue book and slamming it shut as Brenna walks in . . .

  “How does he have that?” Trent was saying. “This is freaking me out, Bren. I don’t understand—”

  Brenna held a hand up. “Sssh,” she said. The voiceover started again. I thought I was sneaking some random journal into a professor’s house. But as it turned out, I was replacing it. The person who dared me—Shane Smith—had stolen it and wanted it returned before the professor found out. I now believe that he made a copy.

  A picture of Shane posing next to a movie camera lens appeared on the screen. Shane Smith, director of the Lula Belle films.

  An image of Lula Belle straddling her chair.

  Art, he said. Performance art. Created from the lost diary of a missing teenage girl.

  The picture of Brenna and Clea that had been on RJ’s computer screen. This missing girl.

  The footage ended. “There’s more,” Trent said softly. He was touching the screen—an additional box marked “audio.” He clicked on it. The timer read :25. He hit play:

  “Mr. Freeman, this is RJ Tannenbaum.”

  Next came Gary’s voice over a speakerphone: “I told you before, I have nothing to say to you.”

  “You must have something to say, sir. I saw Clea’s diary. I know about Lula Belle.”

  “You don’t know anything.”

  “Mr. Freeman, I’m going to keep calling you until I get an answer.”

  “You don’t know a goddamn thing.”

  Click.

  Brenna and Trent stared at each other, Brenna imagining this enti
re case bursting into flame, everything about it a lie, from Freeman’s first phone call on: You did one interview, I guess? You mentioned a sister?

  “Gary Freeman had my sister’s diary,” Brenna said. “Gary Freeman knew my sister.”

  “And Diandra,” Trent said. “She’s helping him cover that up.”

  Chapter 23

  Diandra got off her shift early. It was a busy night, but her boss had no problem with that. He never had any problem with anything Diandra did. “I can work an extra shift later on this week,” she’d said, smiling at him, her eyes full of promise.

  “Sure,” he’d said. “Anything.” He hadn’t noticed that snippy new waitress, Claire, standing behind him and rolling her eyes at Luis the busboy. But Diandra had. Dollars to donuts Claire thought Diandra had a date of some sort, or maybe she couldn’t wait to go to a club and party. Oh, if you only knew, Claire, she thought. You wouldn’t be so snippy.

  Diandra didn’t bother getting changed. After all, the waitress uniform gave her a certain approachability. It made her look even younger than her twenty-two years, its lacy high collar providing a degree of innocence, along with the regulation ponytail. Sweet, young, bouncy. She doubted Brenna would buy it for long—she’d seen the way Brenna had stared at her at Trent’s place—as if she knew her, and with that memory, she might very well. Diandra threw on her heavy black coat. It was so dark outside now, and cold, too, the cold biting at her face, piercing her eyes. The weather, beating her up, just like the world . . .

  For a moment, she let herself remember lying on the floor, Mr. Freeman’s fist connecting with her stomach. Even as it happened, she’d vowed to forget it, that feeling of being hated so absolutely. But Diandra couldn’t help it, and as she did, she stopped in her tracks, tears forming in her eyes, hating Mr. Freeman, hating herself for what she was about to do . . .

  And then it was over, the memory gone, almost before it began, almost as if it had never happened. And in a way, it hadn’t—had it? There had only been the two of them there for it, and Mr. Freeman had been so drunk, he probably wouldn’t remember, either.

  She headed around the corner onto Greenwich Avenue. She could see him from here, lingering in front of Fiddlesticks as if he were debating whether to go in and grab a beer. Ebony skin, white camel hair coat. Diamond studs glittering in his ears. Saffron.