The Dark

by Valentina Giambanco

  The blue van turned the corner, and Ronald said to Vincent, “You know what to do, right?”

  Vincent nodded.

  “Good man. Stand up straight,” Ronald said as the van pulled up to them and stopped.

  Timothy Gilman was driving. He should have been pretty relaxed, considering the job ahead, and yet he looked as if something nasty was already curled up in his guts. Ronald knew Gilman well enough to know that he was a violent bully and that nothing would please him more than a chance to lean on somebody and get paid for it. The fact that it was a bunch of kids was neither here nor there: Ronald didn’t know anything about it except that their daddies had to get the scare of a lifetime. If they were so stupid that they’d left themselves open to people like Gilman, it wasn’t Ronald’s fault. He was there to do his job, and Gilman wanted Vincent because he was cheap. All in all, it should be a light day.

  Warren Lee hopped out from the passenger side, and Ronald sighed: he had met Warren a few times and disliked and despised him in equal measure. Warren was cut from the same cloth as Gilman, but where Timothy had an honest-to-goodness temper that could strip paper off a wall, Warren was merely a little weasel with a taste for occasional violence.

  “Hey, boys.” Warren grinned.

  The blue van weaved its way through traffic. Ronald sat in the front between Gilman and Lee, and Vincent rattled around in the back. Warren had wound down his window, and his bare arm was halfway out, catching the sun and the breeze. Ronald could feel his glee at the afternoon’s endeavor and was vaguely repulsed by it. He himself was in it for the money—no more, no less. Gilman had said maybe three words in all, which was unusual; there was a grim determination about him that invited a respectful silence.

  From a golden oldies station the Ronettes sang “Be My Baby” as if it was all they needed for the world to be perfect. The sky was blue, and the van was on its way to Jackson Pond.

  Two hours later, Gilman drove the van as fast as the law would allow, Warren sat in the passenger seat—the window rolled up all the way in spite of the heat—and the radio was turned off. Nobody spoke.

  In the back, Ronald Gray and Vincent Foley sat and crouched around three small boys. The kids were blindfolded and unconscious, their hands tied. In the gloom the smell of chloroform and sweat made Ronald’s throat sting.

  Vincent’s eyes were huge as he gazed at the sleeping children. Ronald kicked his foot lightly. “Don’t watch them. They’re not going anywhere,” he whispered.

  Vincent nodded and looked away.

  It had been so easy: Gilman knew where they’d be and when. Jackson Pond was a spit of a pool, hidden in a thicket of trees, and the road could take them almost right up to it. The traffic in both directions was light in that part of the park, and nobody noticed when the van pulled up fifty yards before the trail to the pond.

  Gilman dug out a scrap of paper from the back pocket of his jeans: it was the picture of a boy. He stared at it for a minute, then folded it and shoved it back into his pocket; he left them in the van and disappeared into the copse that lined the road.

  Warren prattled on about some job or other he’d done for him, and Ronald wished they would just get on with it: if he had to spend one more minute squeezed into that seat next to Warren, he might just have to punch him into silence. Behind them, Vincent had not uttered a single word since they’d been picked up.

  Gilman reappeared suddenly out of the woods. “They’re there,” he said.

  He drove the van down a narrow trail, and when he turned off the engine, all that was left was the sound of their breathing and the odd car going past in the distance.

  He gave them masks to wear; he gave them dirty rags to use as blindfolds and rope to tie the children’s hands. He told them exactly what to do, and they did it. The kids didn’t stand a chance.

  The cigarette smoke rose and curled in the afternoon heat beating down on the clearing; above them, a patch of sky, around them, the old-growth trees of the Hoh River forest. It had been a long drive, but the job was almost done. The men smoked, leaning against the van, and watched the boys, each blindfolded and tied to a different tree.

  They had reached the clearing through an overgrown trail that had once led to a weather station; it was secluded, and the men knew their work would not be disturbed. They smoked because they had all the time in the world and because in that world they had all the power they would ever need. Warren’s eyes glittered as the children slowly began to stir.

  The first boy—dark hair and slightly shorter the others—whimpered as he came to and felt the ropes that bound him to the tree. The second—dark hair but taller—was suddenly awake and rigid with fear. The third—fair, curly hair, and taller than the others—was trying to find his bearings, breathing hard under the blindfold and turning his head in the direction of the others. Gilman watched him.

  In the stillness of the clearing there was nothing but cigarette smoke between the children and the men who had taken them. One by one, the boys smelled the scent of cheap tobacco and became quiet. A bird flapped and cawed.

  It was time for the message to be delivered; Ronald turned to Gilman—he should have been moving now, talking, pushing, bullying, and doing what he did best. Instead, Gilman lit another cigarette, his eyes hardly ever leaving the blond boy. The silence stretched, and Ronald waited. He knew without checking that Vincent was at his left—eyes blank, awaiting instructions.

  When Gilman spoke, Ronald felt a sense of relief: soon they’d be out of there.

  “Boys, I want you to listen to me, and listen good. Say yes.”

  Nobody spoke.

  “Say yes.”

  Three faint voices did as they were told.

  “This is a message for your daddies. I want you to remember it. The message is: it’s not personal; it’s business. You got it? Repeat it.”

  The boys could barely get their voices out. Gilman paced back and forth between them, and yet Ronald noticed that he kept an eye on the blond kid.

  “Repeat it.”

  “It’s not personal. It’s business.”

  “Again.”

  “It’s not personal. It’s business.”

  “Hey, little guy. You heard me, right? You want to go home?” Gilman strode up to the boy tied to the first tree—the shortest and youngest, it seemed—and screamed right into his face. The kid’s voice was caught in his chest, and he could hardly breathe, let alone speak.

  Ronald Gray thought of the money they would be paid and the down-payment on the car he wanted. By tomorrow at the latest the kids would be found. No harm, no foul, message delivered. He pretended to ignore the fact that Vincent had frozen as if Gilman had been screaming at him.

  Gilman yelled, the boy shrank against the tree, and Ronald missed nothing—like the fact that while he was putting the fear of God into the little one, it was the other kid Gilman eyeballed every few seconds.

  Finally, the little kid yelled out the words, and Warren sniggered. “Ooh, this one got a set of lungs on him.”

  “Good job. Now, we are going to let you go home in a while, but I want to be clear about something: you ever, ever tell the cops about this, and I’m going to come back and get you. You ever tell anybody at all about this, and I’m going to come back and get you, and I will hurt your mom and dad, too. You understand? You saw nothing, and you heard nothing. You just pass on the message to your daddies, and everybody stays alive. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “See if you can get louder than that, you little girl.” Suddenly there was a blade in Gilman’s hand, and he slashed at the boy’s arm.

  “The hell are you doing, man?” The words left Ronald’s lips before he could call them back.

  “Shut up. Don’t make me do this, boy. Let’s hear it.”

  The boy yelped as the blade cut his arm again.

  “Hey,” Warren said to no one in particular. He was a coward and a fool, but even he could sense that this was moving into a whole new direction a
nd that it meant bad news for yours truly.

  “Get into the van, and shut the fuck up,” Gilman said calmly.

  “C’mon man, let’s get out of here,” Ronald said.

  “What are you doing?” It was the blond kid’s voice, and Ronald could have sworn—man, he would have bet all he had in the bank that there was a dark delight in Gilman’s eyes as he turned to the boy.

  “Leave the kid alone. Let’s go,” Ronald repeated.

  “Don’t make me do this, you little shit. Let’s hear it.” He cut the boy again.

  “Stop it!” The tall kid was straining at the ropes.

  “What did you say?” Gilman moved toward him.

  “He’s just a little kid. We’ll do what you want—just stop hurting him.” The boy sounded out of breath.

  “If you want to go home in one piece, boy, you’re going to have to shut up right now.”

  It happened right then: one second the blond kid was okay, the next he couldn’t catch his breath. Under the grimy rag they had used as a blindfold, he was straining to get air into his lungs.

  “What’s wrong?” Warren said.

  “He’s not breathing. Cut him loose.” Ronald stepped forward.

  “Don’t touch him—he’s going to be fine.” Gilman put out his arm, the blade of the knife pointed squarely at Ronald’s chest. “Touch him, and I’ll cut your hand off.”

  “There’s something wrong with him,” Vincent whispered.

  “We can see that, you moron. Cut him loose,” Warren said.

  “No.”

  The breathing was fast and shallow and becoming fainter by the second.

  “Dave?”

  “Dave?”

  That was all that Ronald could register, the boy’s name as his friends called out to him and Timothy Gilman as he stood with his knife out, staring each man in the eye and meaning their blood should they come closer.

  Then, the longest silence. The kid had slumped against the ropes, his head hanging forward.

  “We’re done here,” Gilman said.

  “What happened?” the little one cried out.

  Warren started to work through the ropes, loosening them. “This shit we didn’t sign up for.”

  “Just grab the kid,” Gilman said.

  “What we’re going to do with him?” Ronald asked.

  “He’s coming with us.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Shut up and start the van.”

  “This is not—”

  “Shut the fuck up, and start the van.”

  Gilman went back to the little one. “You remember what we talked about?”

  “How’s David? What happened?”

  “You and your friend don’t say anything to anyone. Not to the cops, not to no one.”

  “What did you do to David?”

  “Not to the cops, not to no one.”

  “What did you do to him?” The thin voice cracked.

  “Maybe I should make sure you do remember.”

  The last thing Ronald saw as he was climbing back into the van was the light catching Gilman’s blade.

  Chapter 30

  Madison walked out the glass doors of the hospital and let out a big breath. So far every conversation she’d ever had with Nathan Quinn had been less than straightforward, and today’s had been no different. Somehow, in their brief acquaintance, they had relentlessly managed to be both truthful and oblique, their words slanted by circumstance, respect, and slights given and borne with the same unease. And sheltering in those words was a burden of secrets; Madison had first glimpsed it as Quinn had given up his position as the Sinclairs’ “in-case-of-emergency” contact and/or executor to be Cameron’s attorney, his faith in his friend wrestling against evidence and common sense.

  After the dry heat of the hospital, Madison shivered in the chill: Quinn had created another trail and trusted her to follow it to the end, wherever it might lead. Beyond the layers of cloud cover, the sun would soon set, and Vincent Foley—who would be watching and waiting—was, for all concerned, the end of the trail.

  “We need to protect him,” Madison said into her cell phone to Lieutenant Fynn. Her engine was running, and the windows had already fogged up.

  “I’ll take that into consideration,” he replied.

  “Sir, how long do we have before someone puts two and two together and works out what cases we were working on when we went to the Walters Institute?”

  “I’m not disagreeing with you. I’m saying we don’t have enough warm bodies to scatter around the grounds. You’ve seen the place. It’s massive.”

  “I know.”

  “What they already have is a half-decent security system, and hopefully that will be enough.”

  “Sure. Then again, their main concern is to keep their patients in, not to keep professional killers out.”

  “We’re going to have to take this one day at a time, Madison. Any news from Quinn?”

  “Nothing concrete about Gilman. No surprise there.”

  “Have you told the doc his Rain Man patient could be a murderer?”

  “Not yet. And Foley is not autistic. He’s borderline low IQ with PTSD and God knows what else thrown in.”

  “You’re going to talk to him? I mean, will you try to get something out of him, anyway?”

  Madison rested her head back and closed her eyes. “I’ll try.”

  A rustle of papers over the line. “Something else,” Fynn said. “Do you remember that Warren Lee had a sister?”

  Madison dipped into her mental archive. “Tennessee. They haven’t spoken in years?”

  “Right. Thirteen years to be precise. Spencer called her back, because, as luck would have it, they were still talking twenty-five years ago.”

  “In 1985?”

  “Exactly.”

  Madison sat up. “What did she say?”

  “As far as Spencer could tell, there was no love lost between them even then. She thought he was trouble and didn’t want him anywhere near her husband and kids. However, she remembers that Lee had a girlfriend in the 1980s. Spencer is tracking her down.”

  “That’s good news.”

  “I sure hope so.”

  While Spencer and Dunne were left working on Lee’s and Gray’s work records to find points of contact, Madison scribbled the girlfriend’s current address and phone number in her notepad. Paula Wilson lived in Bellevue, across Lake Washington, and her social security number had told them that she was a nurse in a medical practice.

  When Madison called, she didn’t sound particularly happy to dredge up the past, and yet she hadn’t been surprised by the call: she had seen the news, had recognized the murder victim’s name.

  “My husband will be back from work soon. Can you try to make it here before he does?”

  Madison didn’t question that; she drove fast on I-90 and took the north exit to Bellevue Way SE.

  The two-story brick house was pretty and stood a little way off the road in a residential street. Madison was walking up the short driveway when Paula Wilson—her married name was Kruger—opened her front door and gazed past her, as if something unwelcome was trailing behind the detective.

  “I think I might have given you the wrong impression,” the woman said as Madison took a sip of coffee from a hand-painted ceramic mug. “My husband knows all about Warren. It’s just that it was a difficult period in our lives, and he would be upset for me . . .”

  Paula Wilson Kruger was a handsome brunette who looked her age and took care of herself. Madison knew that she was forty-seven years old, two years younger than Warren Lee. The home and everything in it told her about a stable family life in a quiet neighborhood. They sat in the living room—a patterned, three-seat sofa and matching chairs—and Madison could smell the pot roast in the oven.

  “What can you tell me about Warren Lee?” she asked, treading carefully and not knowing where this might lead.

  The woman smiled briefly, and then the fond look went away. “
He was cute when I knew him. He was cute but mean as a snake.”

  Madison had the good sense not to interrupt.

  “I was twenty years old—that’s all I can say in my defense. I met Warren in a mall, he chatted me up, we started dating, and we moved in together after a few weeks. My parents were unhappy about it, but I thought I knew everything.”

  The woman sipped her coffee. “It was the worst two years of my life,” she said finally. “I’m a nurse—have been for a while. Did you know that?”

  Madison nodded.

  “I can always spot the girls who are in trouble, the women. It’s not about age, really. Sometimes they let me help them; sometimes they don’t. But I can always see it—the ones who are afraid, ashamed, so deep inside the hole, they cannot see out. That was me with Warren. We had two perfect months, and then things changed. He was wonderful one day and angry the next. After a while, he didn’t bother with wonderful anymore. There was occasional violence, but mostly it was fear, constant fear.”

  “Did you work? Did he?”

  Madison already knew the answers but wanted to hear her side of things.

  “I dropped out of community college, and I was waitressing in a restaurant over in Kirkland. Warren worked part-time in a club, but he always had more money than he should have had. I didn’t ask him where it came from, and he didn’t tell me.”

  The woman hesitated. “I haven’t seen Warren in over twenty years. Why would you be interested in something that happened such a long time ago?”

  Madison turned the words around in her mind before speaking. “We are trying to understand the kind of person he was, to understand what happened to him and why. Did you meet any of the people he worked with?”

  “Some. People from the club mostly.”

  “Do you remember any names? People he knew or saw regularly, even people he just talked about from time to time?”

  The woman sighed.

  “There was Henry Dee and his girlfriend, Lisa—they were nice to me,” she said. “Bill Morris, the other bartender.”