Drawn Into Darkness

by Nancy Springer

  Chad was starting to look upset. “Amy?”

  With considerable effort she managed a single word. “Boggled,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re doing okay, son,” Ned interposed. Lounging deep in the sofa, he spoke to Chad with the soothing wisdom of age. “At least she hasn’t hit you yet. Most women would if you offered to take them camping for a second honeymoon.”

  True. To Amy, camping was pretty much housework redoubled, plus stinking fish to clean, but minus electricity and furniture.

  “Oh!” Chad now looked more anxious than upset. “Amy, you call it. Where would you like to go?”

  The hell of it was, she didn’t know. She couldn’t seem to imagine anything past staying at home, waiting for news of Justin. And her mouth still wasn’t working right.

  “No rush.” Ned stretched, got up, and to Amy’s surprise gathered the glassware and dishes they had used and headed for the kitchen sink. Over his shoulder he called, “It’s not like you have to go tonight, or tomorrow for that matter.” He left the room.

  Amy managed another word. “Money?”

  Chad burst out, “I’ve been stupid, complaining about money. Family is more important than money.”

  “Your job—”

  “Our marriage is way more important.”

  “Justin?”

  “Dad will man the Web site and the phones. Amy,” Chad said plaintively, “before Kyle and Kayla come charging in here from school, could you at least tell me whether you want to—”

  “Yes.” Suddenly she could speak in complete sentences. “Yes, honey, of course I do.”

  • • •

  Quinn spilled out the other contents of Mom’s purse, which included a checkbook, a red Sharpie marker, a small flashlight shaped like Eeyore, some novelty pens, car keys, another key on a Hello Kitty ring, some wadded tissue, and her cell phone, which was turned off. Quinn said, “Mom never turns her phone off.”

  Forrest said, “I know.”

  Neither of their voices, Quinn noticed, was quite steady. He turned the phone on and checked the history. Mom’s last phone calls were to him and his brother nearly a week before.

  Wordlessly he passed the phone to Forrest, who looked at the data bleakly. Quinn started piling Mom’s stuff back into the handbag. Forrest did likewise.

  The shadows of the blue shack felt weighty now, ominous. Quinn wanted to say, “Let’s look around,” but fear of what they might find kept him silent. Beckoning his brother to follow, he set off. They checked out the small kitchen, then the small, dark bathroom with the two-by-fours blocking the window, then a bedroom neatly stacked with masculine clothing but clotted with masculine odors, and then the other bedroom, which they found oddly vacant except for an old-fashioned bed with a post at each corner, probably meant to support a canopy that wasn’t there. And on the bed, nothing but a bare mattress and some shackles.

  Ropes and handcuffs.

  Fastened to the four posts of the bed.

  Quinn stood and stared, unthinkable speculations knocking at doors in his mind that he would far rather have kept closed.

  Almost as if in answer, Forrest burst out, “This is not for fun and games. There’s urine on the mattress. And blood.”

  Quinn said, “It’s definitely time to call the cops.”

  With business cards in hand for reference, Quinn phoned the Maypop County Sheriff’s Office, asked for the deputy with whom he and Forrest had filed a Missing Persons report a few hours earlier, and was told he was in the field, unavailable. He left a message asking the deputy to call back, urgent. Next he tried the Maypop Borough Police and was told the officer handling his case had gone off duty. Again he left a callback message, urgent. Only the state police remained. Three strikes and he would be out. His hand shook as he pressed the tiny numbers on his cell phone. After asking for the trooper who was supposed to be his contact, he endured country music while he was put on hold. He had started drumming paradiddles on the wall to counteract the music when at last it stopped and the cop came on the line.

  “Trooper Willet here.”

  “Yes. This is Quinn Leppo. We—”

  “Who?”

  “Quinn Leppo. My brother and I talked to you about our mother earlier today. We found her purse.”

  “She left her purse at home?”

  “No. We found it in the neighbor’s house, along with—”

  “The neighbor’s house?”

  “The only place near hers. There’s a bed in here—”

  “What neighbor? Name?”

  “We don’t know! We’re asking you to investigate whoever it is. The bed—”

  “Were you invited in?”

  “No! There’s nobody home. I’m trying to tell you—”

  “So you’re trespassing and interfering with evidence.”

  “Officer, whoever lives here—”

  “Is none of your business. I’m the investigator. The last thing I need is buttinsky civilians littering fingerprints all over the case. You and your brother exit that residence immediately, leaving everything the way you found it. That’s an order.”

  “But—”

  But Trooper Willet had terminated the call.

  “Son of a bitch,” Quinn said, snapping his phone shut with more than necessary force. “He said—”

  “I know what he said,” Forrest interjected. “I could hear him as if you had him on speaker.”

  He and his brother faced each other, exchanging a long look with an unspoken question in it: now what? And Quinn felt tectonic plates shift in his world because he saw Forrest as never before: not his younger-sibling rival, but an equal, a strong ally, his brother on whom he could depend.

  Quinn said, “That cop thinks this is a case, a puzzle for him to solve. He doesn’t care whether Mom is alive or dead.” Emotion sneaked up on him, causing his voice to break on the last fatal word.

  Forrest simply nodded. “We stay. Look around. Find out who lives here. There’s got to be an electric bill or something.”

  “And if Trooper Willet shows up?”

  “If Trooper Willet shows up, that means he got his ass out from behind his desk and he has to take a look at this creepy place.”

  NINETEEN

  I took care of him, Stoat had said. He meant he had killed Justin. The words staggered me like a blow, yet I could not comprehend or react. Instead of responding, I stood gawking at the place where Schweitzer’s mortal remains should have been. Stoat must not have liked this, because he jabbed his duct-taped shotgun into the back of my duct-taped neck so hard I gasped with pain and felt something wet: my own blood.

  “Now you listen, bitch.” Stoat’s rasping voice sounded as hard as the shotgun barrel. “You know I’m an orderly man. That means if I let you loose of this here duct tape, you follow orders. I aim to learn you the meaning of complete obedience, Miss Lee Anna. Say ‘Yes, sir.’”

  I could not think of a single wise thought ever generated by any philosopher, anytime, that seemed relevant to this situation. I said, “Yes, sir.”

  “Good.” He yanked the duct tape off my neck so suddenly that I staggered with shock and pain. For a moment I stood swaying with my eyes closed, and when I opened them, Stoat stood too close in front of me, his favorite large, wickedly sharp knife in one hand, the shotgun in the other, and nothing had ever been as ugly as his distorted face. Nothing had ever smelled quite as sickening as his breath, and he grinned like a skull would. With all his rotten teeth showing he said, “I want some toast and two eggs over easy. If you break either of the yolks, I’ll slit your throat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, get moving!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood guard until I got out the things I needed: eggs, margarine, frying pan, spatula, bread for toast. The bread showed hints of green mold, but Stoat didn’t have to know about that. He sat down at the table and propped his shotgun against it. “Don’t break them yolks, now,” he remarked, thumbing h
is knife’s razor-sharp point and edge.

  Talk about pressure. Two eggs over easy, what Pennsylvanians called dippy eggs. I’d cooked them a zillion times and the occasional broken yolk hadn’t been the least bit important. Now it had become a matter of life or death.

  Crack eggs against a flat surface, I’d heard somewhere, sometime, for a clean break and no jagged edges to tear the yolk.

  I cracked the eggs on the stove top and managed to plop both of them into the hot frying pan without mishap.

  Lounging with his booted feet on my kitchen table and his shotgun in his lap, Stoat added, “I might do it anyway. Slit your throat when you go to sleep.”

  This did not seem to require an answer. I kept my eyes on the frying pan and said nothing, but my mind jotted frantic memos. Offer coffee. Stay awake. Not tired anymore. Not.

  Stoat demanded, “What you think, Miss Lee Anna? You like the idea of the knife?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Neither did Justin, but that’s the way I done him.”

  Sick, not just heartsick but all of me scared sick, must not let it show. Must not show emotion. Must not cry. Not. Cry.

  With commendable steadiness I asked, “When?”

  “Just before I found you.”

  Damn, it was plausible. Even though—had he asked where Justin was when he first came into the fishing shack, or hadn’t he? I couldn’t remember. The spatula shook in my hand as I lifted it to flip the eggs.

  Focus, I coached myself. Concentrate. I quite thoroughly believed Stoat intended to kill me now that he was feeling better.

  “You scared, Miss Lee Anna?” he taunted.

  Without answering and without much finesse I flipped the eggs. Somehow, their yolks retained their integrity. Those eggs must have been laid by an honest hen, to whom I felt gratitude as I turned the burner off.

  “Answer me, bitch. You scared?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Must not think about Justin. Must not cry.

  I took a deep breath. With my back to Stoat, I reached for a cupboard door.

  “Hey!” I heard the thunk of boots on the floor, and a nasty snick from the shotgun. I froze.

  “I need a plate for your eggs,” I said.

  “Woman, you call me ‘sir’!”

  “Sir, I need to get a plate for your eggs, sir.”

  “Is that so, tricky bitch?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Move slow.”

  Yes, sir. Whatever you say, Stoat, you goddamn effing goat with a goatee, sir. Moving as if I were trying not to awaken a sleeping baby, I got out the plate, slid the eggs onto it from the pan, then added stale and marginally moldy bread rendered edible by the toaster and a lot of margarine.

  Placing the plate in front of Stoat, I wished my thoughts could poison the eggs.

  I imagine he knew this and I could see he didn’t care. He dug into his breakfast with evident satisfaction.

  I sat down across the table from him. He stopped eating to glare. “I didn’t say you could sit down.”

  I didn’t move, but said dully, “Sir, request permission to sit down, sir.”

  Quick as a striking snake he deployed his shotgun as a club, and I stiffened and winced—not quite heartsick enough to be indifferent—but Stoat lowered his weapon and began to laugh like a kindly uncle. “Lee Anna, Lee Anna,” he said, shaking his head and chuckling as he went on eating his eggs, “you’re a piece of work. You must be hungry; fix yourself something.”

  This, too, this occasional humanity, was the real Stoat, making me feel bad for hating him so much. Yes, bad. With the back of my neck bleeding from constant contact with his shotgun barrel, nevertheless I felt like a bad little girl.

  And making the victim feel bad, I realized in silent epiphany, was the whole point, the tipping point of torture. This was the unspoken understanding between the person with the club and the one on the floor: inflicting pain did not merely make the victim suffer physically; it made the victim feel what the shrinks call loss of self-esteem. Extreme loss, as exemplified by the way I felt at that moment: diminished by helplessness, unable to understand such punishment, but inclined, like a child, to accept blame. This was the strange dynamic between captor and captive, torturer and tortured, abductor and—Justin. Stockholm syndrome. Hanoi Hilton. Auschwitz. All cut from the same rotten old fruitcake.

  Son of a bitch.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said, which because of the sickening circumstances was true.

  • • •

  Forrest yanked out a kitchen drawer and emptied it on the floor, making quite a bit of noise as an emotional release. It annoyed him that Quinn cringed, yelping, “What are you doing?”

  “Ransacking.” Forrest poked through the junk on the floor with the toe of one of his work boots, saw nothing of interest, and reached for the next drawer.

  His older brother reached to stop him. “Don’t!”

  “Why not?” Overwrought feelings gifted Forrest with a rare, pellucid, very articulate moment. He stepped into the Suit’s space, almost nose to nose. “Why the fricking hell not? We’re trespassers, we’ve been ordered to leave, we’re scofflaws. Why not do it right? Go turn on the damn air conditioner and then help me out. Mom was here. Whoever lives here probably has her. The fastest way to find anything with his name on it is to tear this place apart. Where’s your balls, Quinn?”

  “Not anywhere I’d want you to find them,” Quinn retorted. “Would you try to be a little bit quiet? We can’t turn on the AC. We need to keep an ear out in case the guy comes back.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, have some brass.”

  “Screw you. What do you plan to do if some gun-toting redneck walks in, kick him in the head?”

  “That’s pretty much what I’d like to do, yeah.” Again, Forrest reached for a drawer, and again Quinn stopped him.

  “On TV, don’t they generally start by looking through the suspect’s trash?”

  “Only because that doesn’t require a warrant.” Admitting only tacitly that it was a good idea, Forrest strode to the kitchen trash and overturned it with a satisfying clatter of empty jars and cans. “Phew! Why no trash bag? And where’s the junk mail?” The mess on the floor consisted almost exclusively of food containers along with a few soppy paper towels and napkins.

  “Good question. Try to be a little bit quiet, would you? I’ll check out the guy’s computer.” Quinn strode off.

  A little bit quiet, my ass, Forrest thought. So vigorously that he worked up a sweat, he dumped all the kitchen drawers, then pillaged the countertop and cupboards, all without finding anything useful. Where the hell did this guy keep his papers and bills? Forrest hadn’t seen anything that could serve as a desk in the living room or bedrooms.

  Close enough behind him to make him jump, Quinn bleated, “I can’t find any computer. What kind of person does not have a computer?”

  Enjoying the novelty of being in a foul and masterful mood, Forrest shot back, “What do you think I am, an FBI profiler? Probably a gun-toting redneck. Come on.” He headed for the living room, where he hurled hard rectangular cushions off the Spartan furniture, then overturned it. He found nothing of interest in or underneath any of it. Kneeling, he yanked open the TV stand and pulled out video after video, most of them Walt Disney productions, from The Lion King all the way back to Pinocchio.

  “Jiminy Cricket,” remarked Quinn, eyebrows raised, “no DVDs? This guy is stuck in the dark ages.”

  Forrest stood up with clenched fists. “Bedroom,” he ordered between his teeth, and Quinn actually followed him in there. He started dumping dresser drawers onto the bed.

  Peering at a shadowy corner of the hot and airless room, Quinn asked, “What’s that?”

  Forrest looked up from a pile of no-longer-white tube socks balled into pairs. By now his eyes had pretty much adjusted to the indoor gloom. Along with Quinn he studied a remarkably ugly gray metal furnishing bigger than a filing cabinet but not large enough to hang clothing in. “Beat
s me. Open it.”

  Quinn went over and tried to do so. “Locked.”

  “Look around for a key.” Forrest kept emptying drawers, but with diminishing enthusiasm as he came across ripped jeans, T-shirts crusty under the armpits, graying underwear with stains that hadn’t washed out.

  “Where would you be if you were a key?” Quinn asked—rhetorically, Forrest hoped. Jeez, could it really be? The Suit, down on hands and knees checking the lower surfaces of furniture, ruining his expensive trousers?

  Forrest pulled open the dresser’s bottom drawer and yelped, jumping back as if the things in there were live snakes. “Quinn, come here!”

  Just behind his shoulder Quinn drawled, “Whatsa matter, little brother, you scared of sex toys?”

  “Startled me. Ick! What’s this guy been doing?”

  Somewhat to Forrest’s mortification, Quinn stepped past him, took hold of the drawer, and dumped it. Riding crops and other whips, cane switches and leather straps, handcuffs, red thong underwear, and the like looked no less icky when displayed upon stained whitey tighties.

  “Gross.” Forrest stepped back. “Sick.”

  “Interesting,” Quinn said. “I read someplace that the best way to hide anything small is to put it in a dildo, because nobody will want to touch it.” He picked up one.

  “Ew!” Forrest protested.

  “You’re wasting time. Check the vibrators.”

  “You check them. I—”

  “Wait a minute.” Quinn squeezed a rubbery phallic representation. “There’s something in here.” A moment later he found a slit in the item’s hollow structure and extracted a small key.

  “I cannot believe you did that.” This was true. Forrest felt dazed, almost dizzy, as he followed his brother to the gray metal enigma in the corner.

  “The key fits,” Quinn reported as he opened it, spreading the double doors to reveal the contents. Boxes of ammunition filled a shelf at the top. Empty rifle racks occupied the middle.

  “It’s a gun safe,” Forrest said, “but where are the guns?”

  “And what are all these papers?” Quinn picked up a thick stack of documents from the bottom of the gun safe and leafed through them. “Jesus Christ. They’re just the bastard’s bills, stuff like that.”