Darker Than Night fq-1

by John Lutz

  Milford was stupefied. His eyes widened like Cara’s and he looked at her, then back at Luther. There was a click, then a low humming. The refrigerator coming on. Its soft, steady sound only served to intensify the silence.

  “I’ve been living in the attic for over a month,” Luther said. “Cara’s been taking care of me. She loves me, not you.”

  Milford laughed, but it was an ugly sound, more like a bark. “In the attic, huh?” He placed both palms on the table and leaned forward. “Listen, Luther, you are one stupid kid. I ask you for the truth and you hand me this fantastic bullshit nobody’d believe. You shoulda made up something better than that, something that could be taken seriously, because-”

  “Ask Cara.”

  “I don’t have to.”

  “You don’t want to.”

  That stopped Milford. He stood up straight and looked over at Cara.

  She bowed her head and stared at the floor. “It’s true.”

  Milford actually staggered back a step. “What?”

  “It’s true about the affair.”

  “You’ve been fucking this…this kid?”

  She nodded, afraid to look at him.

  “A pattern of lies,” he said softly. “A lie in every look you gave me, in every word you spoke…”

  “I guess that’s so.”

  “You are a cheating, deceiving whore!”

  “Maybe I am, Milford. Yes. Yes, I am.”

  Milford roared and slammed his fist down on the table. Luther’s body jerked. The carving knife clattered off the platter. “You two have been making a fool of me for a month?”

  “I didn’t say we were making a fool of you.”

  “Now we’ll see what kind of fool you are,” Milford said, glaring at Cara. “Look at me, goddamn you!”

  She managed to do that, her lower lip trembling.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Luther warned. “Don’t you hurt her.”

  Milford ignored him. He and his wife might as well have been in the kitchen alone. “You have a choice to make, Cara, and by God it’ll be final! You understand what I’m saying?”

  She nodded. Now that she’d managed to meet Milford’s eyes, she couldn’t turn away from their pain and accusation.

  Luther stared at Cara, but she wouldn’t look at him. He knew this was the balance point-the beginning or the end. Cara held everyone’s future in her hands.

  Tell him, Cara! Tell him! If only you’re not too afraid! Don’t be afraid, please!

  But she was too afraid.

  “It only happened twice, Milford, and I’m sorry. I do beg your forgiveness. If Luther’s been living in the attic, I swear to you I don’t know anything about it.”

  Luther felt the floor drop out from beneath him.

  Black air rushed past him, roaring in his ears. He was betrayed, crushed inside, and unbelieving at least for a few seconds.

  Then the reality of what Cara had said exploded in him.

  It was his only reality.

  He was floating, standing up but floating, the carving knife gripped tightly in his right hand, feeling a hot rage rising within him like a red rush of hatred, a red flood of vengeance, a red tide of blood that rose and crashed like an ocean…

  When he awoke, he was perspiring heavily and thought he’d been dreaming, that he was on his cot in the attic and he’d had a nightmare.

  Whew! Awake! Everything’s okay, okay…

  Only it hadn’t been a dream and it wasn’t okay.

  Luther wasn’t lying on his cot. He was on the kitchen floor, slumped awkwardly with his back against the wall. There was something in his mind, a dark dread he couldn’t name.

  He was terrified of looking to his left, but he looked.

  Milford was sprawled in a scarlet pool of blood near the table. Cara was on the floor just inside the door, lying on her stomach with her head turned so Luther could see one open eye. The other eye was beneath the level of the thick blood that had collected and crusted where the side of her face was pressed against the floor. Red, so red… Her nightgown was torn, slashed. She was slashed!

  Oh, God, God, God!

  Luther made himself look again at Milford. Plenty of blood, but not like with Cara. Milford had simply been stabbed. Her flesh was sliced, in tatters.

  Cara! Cara!

  Suddenly Luther thought about the turkey above him on the table, the turkey he’d carved and had been eating, the white bones, the white meat sliced, the white flesh, and the shreds of skin dangling.

  He slid all the way to the floor, propping himself on his elbows, and began to vomit.

  It was a long time before he stopped.

  40

  New York, 2004.

  The Night Prowler read the quote again, feeling his anger build, and perhaps his fear. It was right there for the world to see on the front page of the Times, and attributed to the bastard Quinn:

  He has some way of knowing whether his victims are married, even if the wife is using her maiden name. Which means he either has access to and knows how to use public records, or he and the victims had previous contact, possibly knew each other well.

  The Night Prowler wadded the front section of the paper and hurled it toward a wastebasket. It missed. It didn’t matter. He didn’t believe in omens; he believed in destiny.

  He stood up, walked to the window, and looked out into the night that belonged to him. The city was darkness and scattered points of light, each a false promise. There was little color in the night, but there was security.

  According to all the literature, he was at the point in his “career” where he should be feeling intense pressure to kill more and more often, while he secretly yearned to be caught. He laughed out loud and didn’t like the way it sounded, almost like a cawing, and clamped his lips together.

  The literature was only half-right. He didn’t at all wish to be caught. He’d anticipated the natural reactions within his mind and body, and the tricks of the mind the hunters tried to get you to play on yourself. Oh, he knew how to deal with them!

  He was always mindful of the hunters, of Quinn. But he had to be. That was logical. It was caution, not stress.

  He observed his reflection in the glass between himself and the night and a world that was mad. He smiled. After a pause his reflection smiled back. Everything was under control.

  He turned away from the window and his gaze fell on the wadded newspaper on the floor near the wastebasket.

  The media had their story line: Quinn, the hunter, versus the Night Prowler, the prey. And the prey should be feeling the pressure. Quinn had figured out something, so he must be closing in. Since he must be closing in, he must ultimately be successful. It worked out that way in movies, on TV, and in books.

  But that was a scripted, different sort of destiny.

  The Night Prowler smiled. Real life wasn’t that simple.

  Neither was real death.

  Death from a distance.

  He’d figured out where to get a gun.

  Lisa had put the yellow roses in a better vase and set them on the buffet in the dining room. She rearranged them carefully, until they were just right.

  When Leon came home from the shop, where he’d worked later than she had, he glanced at them and smiled. “Beautiful,” he said. He took a more careful look at the Post folded beneath his arm, then tossed the paper on the coffee table. “So how was lunch with your old college pals?”

  “Fine. Everyone still looks good. Janet is still beautiful, but Abby’s put on lots of weight.”

  “She’s fat?”

  “Some people might think so.”

  “You always liked Janet better than Abby, didn’t you? I mean, from what you told me about them.”

  “Janet was my roommate. She’s only in town visiting. She and her husband John live someplace called Morristown.”

  “Sure. In New Jersey.”

  “No. This one’s in Tennessee. She’s acquired this funny accent.”

  Leon smiled. “I bet you
sounded funny to her. She here on business?”

  “Partly. She’s leaving in a few days.”

  “Too bad.” Leon absently picked up the paper he’d tossed on the table. “Night Prowler. That’s all you read about or see on TV. Nothing but gossip that turns out next day or week not to be true. Where the hell is Walter Cronkite?”

  “Somewhere on his sailboat, I imagine. And good for him.”

  “The news is all sensationalism.” Back on the table went the paper.

  “All about money.”

  “Yeah, isn’t everything?” Leon didn’t sound unhappy about it. “You three girls talk about your love lives?”

  “Leon! Of course we did.”

  “So what’d you say about me?”

  “Everything.” Lisa managed to get it out without laughing.

  “Know what that means?”

  “We have dinner out at the restaurant of my choice?”

  “You got it,” Leon said. But he sat back on the sofa and worked his loafers off, using only his feet. Lisa wished he wouldn’t do that. It was hard on his shoes. One of them, anyway. “Before we leave, let’s have a drink.”

  “I don’t want one,” Lisa said, “but I’ll get you one. There are martinis mixed in the refrigerator.”

  “Thanks,” Leon said. “Straight up.”

  So that was it for the roses. He didn’t ask about them, so he probably did buy them for me and secretly had the super let himself in and place them on the table. Well, if he doesn’t want to discuss them, neither do I. We can play this game forever. There are worse kinds of husbands than the sort who leave gifts lying around. Janet and Abby can eat their hearts out. Though Janet’s husband in that photograph is a nice-looking guy, some kind of war hero and engineer. He looks like a winner. The guy Abby’s living with is a geek who looks like he lost most of his hair to the mange.

  Lisa decided to join Leon in a before-dinner cocktail, so she got two stemmed martini glasses down from the cabinet near the stove.

  As soon as she opened the refrigerator door to get out the half-full mixer, she saw the decorative box of Godiva light chocolates, her favorite candy. There was a small red bow on the box, but no card.

  She smiled and shook her head.

  Oh, Leon…

  Anna had been reading in bed, Bradlee’s unauthorized biography of Yehudi Menuhin, but she’d become restless and put down the book. Then she’d gotten up, paced awhile, and gone to the closet to get down her father’s gun that she’d sneaked from the house in Queens.

  Back in bed, she lay again propped on her pillow, but instead of a book, it was the gun that rested heavily in her lap.

  Anna had read the day’s papers, all of them. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. His photo, his words, his lies, were everywhere. They were starting to make him a hero again. And his victim, whom they barely mentioned if at all… Well, that was a long time ago.

  To everyone else, anyway. Not to Anna.

  She absently began stroking the gun, then realized what she was doing and stopped. According to the pop psychologists, a gun was supposed to be a penis substitute. Maybe it could be, but it was the deadly mechanical aspect of the pistol that intrigued Anna. She began squeezing the trigger over and over, letting the firing pin fall on empty chambers as the cylinder rotated. The mechanism sounded precisely the same each time-a muted, substantial metallic click.

  This is one of the few things in life that works as it should, each time, every time, until time itself wears it out.

  The gun was such an impersonal instrument-heavy for its size, precise in design and construction, oiled, smooth, efficient and deadly in its purpose. It didn’t know shooter from victim, right from wrong, justice from injustice. It simply fulfilled its purpose. Mechanical, irrevocable, it promised a trip to eternity, one-way, nonrefundable.

  Eternity was where Quinn belonged, if for no other reason than that it was somewhere else. Somewhere Anna was not.

  She climbed out of bed again, got the box of bullets down from the closet shelf, and carefully loaded the gun.

  It felt better loaded, even heavier and more potent.

  It felt serious.

  Holding its cool bulk in both hands was definitely reassuring. She decided to start carrying it in her purse, or tucked in her belt beneath her blouse or raincoat. She knew it was illegal to carry a gun without a permit, but it made her feel safer. And it wasn’t just a feeling. Anna was sure that with it she was safer.

  She reluctantly put the gun and the box of cartridges in the drawer of her nightstand. In doing so, she looked at the clock radio and saw that it was almost midnight. She wouldn’t get much sleep before subwaying into the city tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t be at her best for her lessons.

  But that didn’t have to matter. Anna decided to get up at the usual time, dress, and go into the city, but she’d skip Juilliard tomorrow. She’d take a walk and enjoy the park or the city streets. When she went out now, she usually wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t recognize her. Not that most of them would, anyway. But if they did, she knew what they must be thinking, how they must be seeing her.

  Her mind was made up; there would be no music tomorrow. She’d take a walk.

  She’d find something to do.

  She switched off her reading lamp, fluffed her pillow, and rolled onto her stomach.

  If only I could switch off my mind!

  She closed her eyes in the dark and found more darkness.

  After a while she dozed off, hearing the music she wasn’t going to play, terrified of sleep.

  41

  Hiram, Missouri, 1989.

  Oh, Christ! I killed them! I killed them both!

  Cara!

  Christ! Christ! Christ!

  Luther pressed his back hard against the kitchen wall, scooting and digging in his heels, as if he might make himself a part of the wall, or be somewhere or something else.

  Still with his shoulders against the wall, he slowly worked his way to a standing position. He was unable to look at Cara or Milford. The bloody knife he’d been gripping lay at his feet and kept drawing his gaze, as if by some kind of unnatural force. The kitchen was so hot it was dizzying. And there was the blood with its coppery sweet scent, the vomit on the floor, on Milford’s white T-shirt. And already the stench of the dead, Luther was sure.

  The dead!

  Hearing himself whimper, Luther carefully found his way across the kitchen without stepping in any blood. Trembling, he worked his body around Cara and through the doorway to the hall. He went to the bathroom and stripped off his bloody Jockey shorts and T-shirt and let them lie in a heap in a corner. Then he stepped into the claw-footed iron tub and turned the shower on cold, then warmer. He began to scrub with the soap, cleansing the blood from his face and neck, his arms and chest and stomach, his hands, his hands, his hands. He scrubbed his hands with a stiff-bristled brush until they were chafed and sore, long after the blood of Cara and Milford had disappeared from his reddened flesh.

  Then he toweled dry, naked and shivering, and went up to the attic.

  If only I could lie down here, be safe here forever.

  But he knew better. He was thinking that clearly.

  Quickly he dressed in his jeans, sneakers, and a blue pullover shirt with a collar, a recent gift from Cara. His mind and body seemed oddly detached from each other. He only knew he had to get out of the house, to get far away.

  After leaving the attic, he went into the master bedroom on the second floor and found Milford’s wallet on the dresser. And there were Milford’s keys alongside some loose change. His car key! Luther slipped the bills-a little over $50-into his own wallet, then slid the change and keys into his jeans’ tight side pocket.

  It was almost four A.M., in the still moonlight, when he opened the garage door and backed Milford’s midnight blue Ford Fairlane, with its headlights off, down the long gravel driveway and out into the street.

  At first he had a little trouble getting used to the car, but it was an automatic s
hift and he was soon comfortable enough driving. A block away from the house, he turned on the car’s lights.

  Luther understood he was in trouble-major trouble-and that even beginning to cope with it was beyond him. He was making one mistake after another; he was aware of it but knew nothing else to do. He was running on fear and instinct, and not reason. Soon Milford and Cara’s bodies would be discovered, and everyone would be searching for Luther. Everyone!

  He knew only that he had to gain distance as fast as possible. Distance might somehow make him safe. At least give him time to think. Distance, in time and miles, had always been his ally. It might save him again.

  Careful not to drive too fast and draw the attention of any sheriff’s car or highway patrol cruiser that might be prowling the deserted streets, he rolled down Main toward the highway out of town. The highway he wanted to drive forever.

  Luther wasn’t much worried about the sheriff; he was probably at that all-night truck stop, if he wasn’t home in bed asleep. But Nester, that creepy deputy, might be driving around town, working the graveyard shift.

  When Luther was passing Wilde’s Painting Company, he saw that the lights were on in the office and storeroom.

  Wilde! Tom might know what to do! Tom Wilde might help him! The one person he trusted!

  Help close to home!

  Luther slowed the big Ford, turned the corner, and pulled into the rear drive, where the van was backed close to the overhead door. He parked tight alongside the van, then got out of the car. The small passage door near the overhead was unlocked. Luther looked up and down the dark street before he ducked inside.

  Tom Wilde was standing at his workbench, going through his familiar routine of assembling materials: paint cans, buckets, and scrapers. Getting ready for today’s job, which would start later this morning. Luther knew the job would be a long drive’s distance; Tom meant to get an early start and use the morning light.

  He stood watching Wilde from behind, feeling an unexpected flood of affection for him. The familiar, slightly round-shouldered figure in comfort-cut baggy jeans and a speckled white paint shirt, with a bush of unkempt hair and ears that stuck out a bit too far, somehow inspired confidence and trust.