Drawn Into Darkness

by Nancy Springer

  “My God,” Quinn burst out as if he had just that moment realized how seriously screwed things were. “My God, where the hell is Mom?”

  • • •

  Those good ol’ boys drinking whiskey and rye in the “American Pie” song, singing “This’ll be the day that I die!” had no idea what they were talking about. But I couldn’t get that plangent song out of my head as I brought Stoat tepid water, drank some myself, offered to put a wet cloth on his face, and got no answer except the mean stare of his one eye and the even meaner twofold regard of the business end of his shotgun.

  Fighting to remain conscious and in control of me, Stoat did not eat. Because I needed to stay physically strong, I made myself eat stuff out of cans, using my fingers as knife, fork, and spoon. Cold baked beans. Ick.

  Very icky, because Stoat waited for that moment to pick up his big buck knife again and point it at me to gesture: Come here. Every movement cost him a gasp of pain, and he panted so badly that pity helped me overcome my fear. But as soon as I reached the picnic table bench where he sat, I was sorry. He grabbed me hard by one arm while he stretched his other hand up to my shoulder.

  Golly gee whiz, had he put down his shotgun?

  Golly gee nothing. I stopped trying to joke with myself when I felt Stoat place the edge of his knife against my neck.

  “Help me up,” he ordered, his voice thick. I wondered whether his tongue had swollen along with the purple half of his pockmarked face. I also wondered where the heck he thought he was going, but with his buck knife nudging my neck, I wasn’t about to ask.

  Making very sure to keep my hands above his waist and below his neck, I helped him up. With both of his arms on my shoulders he leaned on me hard, shuffling toward the front door. To the van?

  “Where are we going?” I blurted.

  He gave a single snort of ugly laughter. “Stupid bitch, you ain’t the only one that’s got to pee.”

  Oh. Great. Was he going to need me to help him unzip?

  Of course he did, because he couldn’t hold the knife on me and take care of himself at the same time. I tried not to look, but of course I saw glimpses. I tried to tell myself that nurses dealt with this kind of thing every day. I tried to tell myself it was just another wanker, but its proximity made my stomach spasm, threatening vomitive convulsions—not good, especially not while a snakebitten pervert held a big knife to my throat. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

  “Shake it off,” Stoat ordered, “and put it back.”

  It’s fair to say that was the low point of the day, and things didn’t get any worse once I had zipped Stoat up and helped him back to his seat, even though he took to throwing his knife at the knotholes on the wall and having me bring it back to him, over and over again, at gunpoint. Every time I fetched the knife, I felt like using it on him, and I knew he knew how I felt, and he was just daring me. He would have blown me full of buckshot the instant I made a wrong move.

  Eventually, somehow, day turned into twilight, and Stoat ceased his knife play. Once it got pretty dark inside the shack, I asked Stoat whether he wanted me to light candles.

  “Hell, no.”

  “Well, could I light one—”

  “I said no!” His short temper was no act put on to keep me in line. It was real. Parts of his swollen face were starting to turn black, as if they would die and fall off. If that were happening to me, I would be cranky too.

  “Permission to speak, sir,” I said as lightly as I could. “I need the candle to find my way to the privy. You know I’m not going to run off barefoot at night, right? When I get back in—”

  “Goddamn shut your mouth and just go!”

  I hustled to do so, and never mind the candle; I managed to do what I had to in the dim light of dusk amid swarming mosquitoes, and I had never felt filthier, body and soul, in my life. Back inside and very likely making bloody tracks that I could not see on the splintery floor, I asked the shadowy form that was Stoat, “You all right?”

  A remarkably stupid question, in retrospect. He literally sputtered—I heard him—before he retorted, “What the hell you mean, all right?”

  “I mean, do you need anything else? Can I get some sleep?”

  “Don’t go thinking you’ll catch me sleeping,” he responded, his tone as dark as the nightfall. “I hurt too much to sleep. Don’t go thinking you’ll catch me lying down neither.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Call me ‘sir,’ you dumb cunt!”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Git in the top bunk and shove the ladder away. You don’t come down till I say so.”

  “Yes, sir.” Amazingly, I felt almost grateful to him; sheer stress had made me that tired. Lying down in the sagging, lumpy top bunk felt so luxurious I didn’t even mind the smell. Of myself, mostly.

  I was already falling asleep when Stoat said sardonically, “Nighty-night.”

  SIXTEEN

  Still at his desk in the Sheriff’s Office after his shift was over, detained there by paperwork—they should hang by the nuts whoever had invented the spelling of the English language—keyboarding a report by the hunt-and-peck method, Bernie heard voices at the front desk, which was only ten feet away. The Sheriff’s Office building, previously a shack, now occupied a double-wide trailer.

  Bernie noticed a Yankee accent, unusual in this area. Starting to pay attention, he heard a young male saying, “. . . been going on too long already.” He sounded upset yet civilized. “We demand to see a detective right away.”

  “First things first. We are required to follow proper procedure, gentlemen.” The deputy at the desk sounded more than usually supercilious. “Your names?”

  “Quinn Leppo.”

  “Forrest Leppo.”

  Bernie’s stubby fingers stopped pecking and his head jerked up. From his cubicle he couldn’t see the people at the front desk, but he saw the guy who manned the security equipment facing the wrong direction, grinning as if he was enjoying his colleague’s interchange with the pushy strangers.

  “Spell, please.” The man at the desk managed to make “please” sound like an insult. “One at a time. You first.”

  But Bernie, on his feet, stepped out there and interrupted. “I got it.” He took a quick, appraising look at what he had volunteered for: two young men, dark-haired, suntanned, and unmistakably brothers, one taller and slimmer but both good-looking in a citified way. Nobody in Maypop ever wore a three-piece suit, which was why the security guy was watching. Even the other one, dressed in creased khakis and a long-sleeved shirt, looked way upscale for Maypop, where people wore flip-flops, not Red Wing work boots.

  Both skewered Bernie with their attention. “Are you a detective?” the taller one demanded.

  Both the deputy at the desk and the one at security stifled snickers. Bernie took no notice. Straight-faced, he motioned for the Leppo brothers to follow him and returned to his desk in the back. “I’m Bernie Morales,” he told them as he unfolded two metal chairs for them. “You are the sons of Liana Clymer, yes?”

  “Yes. And you’re the one who e-mailed,” said the other brother, more soft-spoken and, Bernie guessed, the younger of the two. “We appreciate your doing that. Above and beyond, wasn’t it?”

  Seating himself behind his desk, Bernie shrugged and refrained from saying it was true; he should have been finishing his reports and going home right now instead of talking with these young men.

  “There is not much more I can do for you,” he cautioned them. “The chief will be in tomorrow—”

  “My God, there has to be something we can do before tomorrow,” said the softer-spoken one, his taut voice hinting at emotion he was trying to hide.

  Buying time to think about this, Bernie asked, “You are which one, Forrest or Quinn?”

  “Forrest. The Suit here is Quinn.”

  Forrest looked for a reaction from his brother, and the Suit obliged by rolling his eyes. Bernie found himself smiling. “And you are from where?”r />
  “The Suit,” said the Suit himself, Quinn, “is from the south end of Manhattan, and the Grunge is from the north end of Joisey.”

  With raised eyebrows Forrest asked, “Is that the best you can do? The Grunge?”

  Brothers bickering: this was normal and good. Bernie put in, “Why your mother moved here?” Where Bernie came from, families stayed as close together as they could.

  Both young men looked at the floor.

  “To get away from Dad,” Forrest said.

  “Divorce,” said Quinn.

  Their pained reaction told him that they and their mother had perhaps quarreled about the divorce. Could it be that they had not spoken with their mother recently? Could the Clymer woman have gone missing to punish them, or to make them come to her new home? He felt sympathy for them, and glad this was not his case, so there was no need for him to question them further. Still making conversation, he asked, “You stay in your mother’s house?”

  Quinn reacted strongly. “No! God, no, with Schweitzer lying dead on the floor—”

  “Schweitzer?”

  “Mom’s dog.” Quinn Leppo might have been a rich New Yorker, but his voice hitched like that of a boy near tears.

  In true Chilean fashion Bernie let his heart take charge. “You want to do something tonight, how about if we give burial to the dog?”

  Swallowing repeatedly, Quinn seemed unable to speak, but Forrest responded, startled. “We?”

  “Now?” Quinn added huskily. “In the dark?”

  “Why not? The cars, they have headlights. I will go with you to take the bullets for evidence. We can bury the dog in the yard.” Bernie stood up as if the matter was decided. “You have shovels?”

  “I doubt it,” Forrest said with something both warm and wry in his voice. “I can’t imagine Mom buying anything so practical.”

  “Mom let Dad have the house and everything in it when she moved down here,” Quinn added. “Supposedly the one who gets the house wins.”

  “Not in Dad’s case,” Forrest said.

  Bernie sensed a fraught topic and interrupted. “I can borrow shovels from the maintenance shed. You go ahead; I will follow in ten minutes.”

  It took him more like fifteen or twenty minutes to gather everything he thought he might need. Then he headed out in his official vehicle on unofficial and unreimbursed business, what he called “missionary work.” The Leppo boys, he sensed, could use some help.

  When Bernie pulled up on the front yard of the pink shack, he saw lights on inside. That, and Quinn and Forrest opening all the windows. And the front door hanging ajar. Hefting a number of helpful items in a shoe box, Bernie went to the door, grimaced at the sight and smell of what was left of Schweitzer, and produced three air-filtering masks for mouth and nose. He put on his own before he actually stepped inside the house, then handed the other two to Quinn and Forrest. The Suit, he noticed, had put aside his jacket and vest, loosened his tie, and rolled his shirtsleeves up.

  Bernie handed the brothers two powerful flashlights. “How about you go see where we bury this one?” He wanted them occupied elsewhere while he dug the bullets out of the dog.

  “Just not too close to the well,” he called after them as they headed out to explore the yard. Then he crouched over the decomposing canine corpse.

  Even with a handheld metal detector and a forceps it was no easy matter finding the bullets. Bernie was just dropping the third one into an evidence bag when the Leppo boys came back in.

  “The well’s in the backyard,” Forrest said, “so we guess we should put Schweitzer up front.”

  “Keeping it simple,” Quinn added, “we can put him where the car headlights are already pointed.”

  “Okay.” Bernie put the evidence bag into his shoe box and took out a utility knife, with which he began to slice into the carpet beside the dog’s corpse. Focusing on the task, he sensed more than saw how the two brothers stiffened, looked question marks at each other, then relaxed in understanding. Their mother’s carpet was ruined anyway; what did it matter if Bernie cut a hole in it? He freed up a neat rectangle of carpet around Schweitzer so that they could pick it up like a stretcher to carry the dog’s corpse without touching it and in one piece.

  “Okay,” he said when he finished, standing up and flexing his aching knees—damn, arthritis starting already. “Shovels are in the trunk of the toilet.”

  “Huh?” both Leppos said.

  “My vehicle.”

  Bernie’s aged cruiser made no fuss about shining its headlights and depleting its battery. The rental car needed to be turned on and left with the motor running to do the same. In a place under the mimosa trees where the two cars’ headlights intersected, Quinn and Forrest started to dig. Bernie had made sure to bring three shovels; he helped. He observed that Forrest knew how to tackle manual labor but Quinn not so much. Quinn stopped first.

  “Deeper,” Bernie instructed gently, “or the coyotes will get him. You have blisters? You want some work gloves?”

  Quinn shook his head and resumed shoveling.

  “This isn’t so bad,” Forrest remarked. “Sandy soil, no shale, no need for a pickax.”

  Quinn muttered, “Go to it, Grunge.”

  For a while there was silence except for the scrape and spatter of shoveling. Then Forrest asked, “Deep enough?”

  Bernie nodded in agreement. “Let me stay here while you get the dog.” He sensed that these two had little experience of death and they needed him to guide them, but also they needed some small time alone. He waited until they had returned, each of them holding two corners of the piece of carpet with the dead dog on top. He stood aside while they lowered the deceased into the grave.

  “Is there anything else that should go in?” he asked after they had stood up again. “A blanket, a toy?”

  Forrest and Quinn looked at each other for a few moments before Quinn replied, “We don’t really know. I guess not.”

  “Anything to say, then?” Bernie asked. “A prayer? What would your mother want?”

  “We don’t really know that either,” said Quinn bleakly.

  Forrest blurted, “We don’t know what Mom would do. We never talked with our own mother enough to have a clue!” His voice shredded more with each word. “And now she’s gone.”

  “You’ll get her back,” said Bernie with unreasoning certainty. He had been raised to have faith. “She will come back. I know it.” He took a shovelful of sandy dirt, let it fall, and saw both young men wince as they heard the thud of soil in the grave, that saddest of all sounds. But they said no more as they joined him in the task of shoveling until the earth formed a mound over the buried body.

  After they had finished, he put his borrowed tools back into the trunk of his cruiser, then joined Quinn and Forrest in the house. “You stay here now?”

  “No way.” Quinn seemed shocked. “The smell, and the dirty dishes, and the place is so small—”

  “What he really means,” said Forrest with an effort at a grin, “is there’s no way he’s either sleeping on the sofa or sharing a bed with his brother.”

  “Damn right,” Quinn retorted, then told Bernie more gently, “We’ll find a motel out by the interstate.”

  “The Econo Lodge has the best rates. Come to the office in the morning any time after eight, ask for the chief, and he can put you in touch with detectives who work for the state.”

  He helped them turn off lights and lock the front door.

  “Thanks, man,” Forrest told him, shaking hands as they stood beside their cars ready to leave.

  “Yes, thank you,” Quinn concurred. “Above and beyond.”

  Bernie shrugged. “I wish you sleep good tonight.”

  “I sure hope we get some sleep. Where’s the best place to stay?”

  Bernie gave Quinn a puzzled look.

  “I know you said the Econo Lodge, but we want a place with nice rooms, a good restaurant, a swimming pool—”

  Bernie realized he had made a mistake, a
ssuming they would want the Econo Lodge. The rich were different. “I don’t know,” he said with sober honesty.

  “It’s just that it’s going to be hard to sleep, even in a cushy room,” Quinn added.

  Bernie told them to try the Maypop Inn and wished them good night. Maybe the rich were not after all so different.

  • • •

  I awoke with a lurch as if a fire alarm had gone off, then lay looking up at splintery gray rafters and a tin roof, unable to think for a moment where I was or why my heart was pounding or why I felt immobile beneath a weight of dread, as if a leaden vulture were perched on my chest.

  Something smelled quite skanky, and it was me.

  Lack of proper hygiene or sanitation, I remembered. Fishing shack. Top bunk. Justin—Justin! Where was he? Stoat would kill him—

  Stoat. Nightmare. Here.

  When I turned my head, I expected I would see him sitting with his shotgun, leering at me.

  I took a breath, and arranged my face in a mildly pleasant mask. Clenching my teeth behind slightly smiling lips, I turned as silently as I could to take a look, and instantly forgot all about facial expression. I gawked.

  Stoat was sitting where I had expected, all right, but he was slumped forward with his arms and head lying beside his shotgun on the picnic table. That explained why he had let me alone for so long that it was daylight again. He had fallen asleep.

  Or could he be dead?

  At the thought, my dread gave way to deplorable, barbaric joy. I studied Stoat sprawling there, head turned so that the less injured side lay pressed against the table planks, and all I could see was the swollen side like a bumpy black mushroom hiding his mouth; I could not tell whether he was breathing. I watched his shoulders for several moments and still could not tell. But Stoat, dead—I should be so lucky. A more honest sense of my own karma told me that Stoat was just sleeping.