Dark of the Moon

by Parrish, PJ

  She started the car again and drove slowly toward Black Pool, her thoughts turning to Detective Kincaid. She had read in the newspaper that he had been arrested for murdering Max Lillihouse. She couldn’t believe that he did it. Maybe the journal would help him, too.

  She had been to the courthouse many times in the last few weeks to visit Leverette, but it was a different kind of visit she made now. She didn’t even intend to see him this time. It would be hard to face him knowing what she knew about his father.

  Parking in front, she picked up the journal with trembling hands. Glancing around the square, she started up the walk, the notebook clutched against her chest.

  Larry, the deputy who always escorted her to the back to see Leverette, looked up when she came in. He rolled his eyes, like it pained him to see her.

  “Evenin’, Miz Mulcahey,” he said, standing up. “Kinda late for a visit, isn’t it?”

  “I was passing by,” she said softly. “May I go in back?”

  Larry walked around the desk and headed toward the cell. Ethel followed him to the metal door and paused while he shoved it open. Larry noticed the notebook in her hand. “Miz Mulcahey, you can’t take Leverette that book, ma’am. It’s got that spiral wire in it.”

  Ethel looked at him and summoned her courage. “Deputy, this is of extreme sentimental value to my son. He’s not going to stab himself, or you, with a puny little wire.”

  “What are you going to do with the book?” Larry asked.

  “These are poems my husband wrote,” she said. “I plan to read them to him. Or you could, if you want to.”

  Larry wrinkled his lip. “I suppose it’d be all right. Don’t leave that book with him, though. Y’all take it home when you’re finished.”

  “Yes, Deputy.” Ethel walked past him. When he didn’t move, she turned. “Could you leave us alone, please?”

  “I’m not supposed to do that, either, ma’am.”

  “Please, Officer, allow my son and I this time.”

  Larry looked down the dim corridor. On the right was a solid gray wall. On the left were four cells. Leverette was in the fourth. Louis was in the first. Larry nodded. “All right, but I gotta leave the door open.”

  “That will be fine.”

  Ethel waited until Larry walked back to his desk before she moved into the hall. Louis was in his cell doing push-ups. He seemed to sense her presence and he stopped, arms extended, and lifted his head. For a moment, they gazed at each other.

  When she did not move away, he slowly stood up, keeping his eyes on her face. She blinked twice and sighed heavily, putting a finger to her lip.

  He went to her, glancing at the open door. She showed him the notebook, looking like she was about to give away her firstborn.

  Ethel opened the notebook to the back, ripped out the last six or seven pages and held the tattered papers through the bars.

  Louis took them, touching her fingers as he gathered the papers in his hand. A tear rolled down her powdered cheek and she turned away, hurrying through the open door. Louis heard Larry call something to her about this being a short visit. He stuffed the papers under the bunk then dropped to the floor and resumed his push-ups.

  Larry came through the door, glanced at Louis and walked down to Leverette’s cell. Louis heard Larry coming back up the hall.

  “He’s asleep,” Larry said, as if he felt the need to explain something. Louis ignored him, lowering his chest to the floor and raising himself back up.

  When Larry left, Louis sat on the floor, drawing up his knees. He listened for more footsteps, and when he thought it safe, pulled the papers from under the mattress.

  Sitting against the bed, he unfolded them and began to read. When he finished the first page, he paused, dropping his head back against the cold metal railing of the bunk. Looking up at the empty light socket, he let out a long breath.

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  A clank woke Louis from his sleep. He threw a hand over his eyes. The cell was flooded with light.

  Then, suddenly, the light went out. Louis heard the familiar sound of the broken lock rattling in the door to the outer office.

  The cell door banged closed again. He could hear someone breathing. Someone was in the cell with him. Louis slowly stood up and eased back into the corner near the toilet. His hands groped for a weapon of some sort, anything. But there was nothing. He slipped around the edge of the bunk, backing deeper into the corner. He held his breath, waiting.

  He heard the shuffle of feet near the bunk and could see shadows patting his mattress. There was a muffled thud, followed by a quick guttural mutter. Louis’s fingers curled around the rail of the top bunk.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he saw them more clearly. Two men were moving across the cell toward him. An arm stretched out at him through the darkness. Fingers touched his face and he bolted forward, ducking under the groping hands. He flattened himself against the bars.

  They turned and came at him again, a solid wall of muscle. Gripping the bars he kicked at them and missed. A laugh echoed through the cell. Cold, strong fingers gripped his upper arms and he was shoved downward. Louis went rigid with fear. He arched back, fighting. They drove him to his knees and dragged him to the center of the cell.

  “Willis! Leverette!” Louis shouted.

  He felt the sharp sting of an open palm across his mouth.

  A heavy hand covered the back of his head and he was thrust forward. He could smell the sewer drain and he twisted his head to the side. His arms were yanked behind him. He jerked one free. They grabbed it and tightened their grip, squeezing his wrists together. A cloth was quickly wrapped around them. Louis gagged against the stench, straining to see through the darkness, terror racing through him.

  He heard the bedsprings squeak. He tried to stand but a large hand on his shoulder forced him back to his knees. A punch to the back of his head sent him forward again. He fought for breath, his arms fighting furiously with the rag that bound them.

  Something rough scraped his face. Dear God…it was a rope…a noose.

  He twisted violently. A fierce kick to his rib cage doubled him over. Coughing and gagging, he gasped for breath, choking as his head was forced back by the tug of the rope.

  Slowly he was pulled up to his knees.

  He tried to cry out but nothing came. The rope tore into his flesh as he was hoisted up. “Jesus…God…” he whispered.

  He balanced on his toes, swaying slightly. Everything was fuzzy. He could hear his heart. The air was being sucked from his lungs.

  He felt a breath, hot on his cheek. He weakly twisted his head and came eye-to-eye with Larry.

  “Bastard!” Louis rasped.

  His toes left the cold floor.

  Louis fought violently with the rag, wrenching his arms free. Gagging, he grabbed at the noose, digging his fingers between the rope and his neck. He started to kick, sucking in air.

  “Motherfucker,” Larry hissed, grappling frantically for Louis’s arms. Louis twisted away from him, beginning to swing. Larry pulled at his body, unable to get a grip, cursing through his teeth.

  Louis thrust his legs out at him, catching him squarely in the chest, knocking him back against the toilet.

  “Fuck, man,” the other man said.

  Louis felt the rope slacken just a little and pulled on it as his toes touched the floor. Larry staggered toward him and Louis pushed off again and kicked out. His heel caught Larry’s head, slamming him against the bottom bunk, rattling the bed frame.

  A loud crack split the darkness.

  Louis gasped as the icy water poured down over him. He dropped to the floor with a thud, the rope trailing after him. Water was flooding into the cell from the broken pipe above. Louis heard the cell door clang open and, still on his knees, spun around. The man on the bunk jumped to the floor and bolted out the cell door, knocking Louis back to the floor.

  Louis grabbed the bars, struggling to stand on the slippery floor, jerking furiou
sly at the rope. He yanked it off over his head and threw it aside. Panting, his heart hammering, he searched the darkness for Larry.

  He saw him. Crawling out the cell door.

  Louis jumped on him and Larry groaned as his chest slammed against the concrete floor. Locking a leg around Larry’s waist, and his hands wrenching Larry’s shirt, Louis roughly flipped him over. Larry looked up at Louis, shaking his head. Louis wrapped the collar of his shirt in his fist.

  “Stop, stop,” Larry moaned. “We wasn’t really going to do it, I swear.”

  “You sonofabitch!” Louis hit him across the face, his knuckles cracking as they hit bone.

  “We were just gonna scare ya!” Larry cried.

  Louis paused, his fist in mid-air. Water dripped from Louis’s head to Larry’s quivering face. Louis clenched his fist tighter. Larry raised his hands.

  “You fucking son of a bitch!”

  Louis smashed his fist into Larry’s face again and again until it became a bloody blur. Then suddenly, he stopped, the rage waning. He let go, drawing a deep, tremulous breath. Larry’s head fell to one side.

  Louis crawled off him and slumped against the wall, still trembling. Water spewed from the broken pipe, running like a river out the open cell door and down the hall. The metal door to the office was ajar.

  Louis grabbed the bars and pulled himself upright, leaning his head against the cool steel. He drew a hand across his mouth, and slowly stepped over Larry, into the corridor.

  He touched the rope bum on his neck and thought about Eugene. Standing in the forest that day last December, he had wondered what Eugene’s last moments were like. Now he knew.

  He staggered out into the outer office. It was deserted. Whoever the second man was, he was long gone. The radio was silent. Louis looked at Dodie’s closed door and wiped a hand across his mouth. His eyes fell for a second on the phone, then to the open door.

  A moan came from deep within the cell area. A short burst of static crackled up from the radio. Louis went back to the cell. Larry was still sprawled out in a pool of water. Louis stepped over him, grabbed his shoes and the journal papers from under his bunk and hurried back to the outer office. He spotted a used Ziploc sandwich bag in the trash and snatched it up. He put the papers in the bag and stuffed it in the waistband of his underwear under the jumpsuit. He looked back at the cell and headed for the open door.

  Outside, atop the steps, he paused, the cold night air hitting him in the chest like a fist. He glanced around at the empty street, pulled the collar of the sodden orange jumpsuit up around his raw neck and began to run.

  Chapter 27

  Louis huddled in the shadows of a large shrub. He was only a block from the jail. The square was empty, its storefronts dark. A lone traffic light at the intersection blinked yellow. He could see the old clock on the courthouse, glowing in the darkness like a full yellow moon. It was 1:45 a.m.

  Louis felt for the Ziploc bag under the jumpsuit. It was still there. He started to shiver. Jesus, it was cold. His sneakers were heavy with water and the jumpsuit clung to his skin, the cuffs and sleeves crisp from the cold. He cupped his hands together and blew into them, his breath clouding the still air. He rubbed his face and neck, wincing as he touched the spot where the rope had left its mark.

  He was scared. Afraid to run, more afraid to go back. He stood up slowly, the muscles in his legs stiff. Lurching across the street, he slipped into an alley behind Benson’s Furniture.

  As he climbed over cardboard boxes and around trash cans, his mind reeled. This was insane. He should go back, call Dodie, tell him what had happened. Dodie couldn’t turn his back on this. At the very least, he would transfer him to another jail. But then the feel of the rope around his neck came back to him, and he almost gagged. He kept going, cutting through another alley.

  Halfway through, he stopped, falling back against a brick wall. His feet stung, a prickling pain eating away at his toes. A car came rattling down the street, its broken muffler piercing the quiet. Louis sank down into the shadows until it passed.

  The streets were quiet again. Where the hell were they? Sleeping? He knew Mike was on patrol and wouldn’t bother to find out why Larry didn’t answer his calls; he’d just keep on driving and try again later. He was shaking violently now from the cold, and knew he had to find someone to help him.

  Winston Gibbons…he was the only one who could help him now. He had to get to a phone. Bessie’s was only about a mile away. Maybe there was time to get home. He had to try.

  “Larry! Larry!” Mike shouted, pulling at Larry’s shirt. When Larry didn’t move, Mike dragged him down the flooded, dark corridor and out into the bright lights of the office.

  “Goddamn,” he muttered, seeing Larry’s bruised and bloody face. Mike looked frantically around the office, unsure what to do.

  Call the sheriff. He was gonna really be pissed at all this. He ran to the phone and dialed Dodie’s home. The call roused Dodie from his sleep.

  “Sheriff, this is Deputy Mike Peterson.”

  “What’s goin’ on? What time is it?”

  “It’s after one, sir. We got a bad situation here. Sheriff.”

  “What happened?”

  “Larry’s bad hurt, sir. He’s bleeding. I think he needs an ambulance.”

  “What the hell happened to him?” Dodie shouted.

  “I don’t know. I just came in and found him like this. All beat-up.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mike. Is there anything missing?”

  “Just Louis, sir.”

  Louis kept to the alleys, making his way across town. By the time he reached the tracks, he was exhausted. His feet throbbed and he could no longer feel his fingers. The frosted jumpsuit chafed his skin. He stepped over the rails and slipped, falling onto the gravel embankment. The jagged edge of a broken bottle ripped into his left arm.

  He cursed softly and pulled a piece of glass from his arm, grimacing. He put his hand over the cut and felt a warm liquid ooze through his fingers.

  He staggered to his feet, stumbling on. He skidded down the loose gravel, his momentum carrying him down the grassy slope that led to the back of Tinker’s store. Leaning against the shingled building, he inhaled deeply, fighting for breath. He could feel the blood oozing through his fingers.

  Louis slumped down the wall to the sidewalk, tears of hopelessness in his eyes. He brushed them away with his forearm, and looked down at his throbbing arm. He wiped the blood on the leg of the suit and returned pressure to the wound.

  He heard a squeal of tires and he craned his neck to see a squad car come to a stop in front of Bessie’s house. He struggled to stand only to fall back weakly against the building. He was too late. They were looking for him.

  He slowly got up and made his way toward the shadows at the end of the building. Another car pulled up in front of Bessie’s house and he watched as a deputy sprang from it, joined by two state troopers from a third. The policemen hurried up the walk to Bessie’s house and, finding the door locked, kicked it in. Louis looked away, praying Bessie would be all right. He ran an arm across his frozen nose, and tried to think.

  Even if he got away, where would he go? Jackson? To Gibbons? Jesus, this was getting so screwed-up even Gibbons wouldn’t be able to straighten it out. Louis hobbled to the back of the building toward the tracks. A cold, heavy fear began to ferment in his belly. He stared at the squad cars, trying to pick out Dodie. There was nothing to do but surrender; he had no choice.

  He faced the lights, taking a crooked step in their direction.

  “Mister Kincaid.”

  A spasm of fright paralyzed him until he recognized the deep voice. Louis turned around. Alfred Tinker stood in the dimness of the street lamp, dressed in a robe and slippers. He looked over Louis’s shoulder at the police cars then back at Louis’s bloody sleeve.

  “Come,” Tinker said. He walked toward the rear entrance of I the store. Louis limped along after him.

  Dodie pushed open the double doors to
the office and stopped, the doors banging closed behind him. His eyes hardened as they all moved around the office. The dispatcher’s desk was empty. The radio spewed out a cacophony of codes, static, and cries for acknowledgment.

  Larry was sprawled in a swivel chair in the center of the room, his uniform unbuttoned, his white undershirt splattered with blood. Mike hovered over him. A widening pool of water was puddled near the cell block door.

  “Sheriff! Sheriff! Anyone there?” the radio blurted.

  Dodie looked at the radio then back at Mike. “Peterson, man the desk.”

  Mike nodded and hurried to the radio. Dodie went to Larry, stopping by his outstretched leg. He put his hands on his hips and stared down at Larry’s shredded face.

  “You need an ambulance?” Dodie asked.

  “Fuck no,” Larry muttered. He picked up a cotton ball from the first-aid kit and dabbed at his split lip. Dodie glanced at the pool of water, then back at Larry.

  “How did this happen?”

  “The fucker jumped me.”

  “What the fuck were you doing in the cell?”

  Larry’s fingers began to shake as he dabbed at his cuts. “The water pipe broke. I went in to look at it.”

  Dodie stared at him for a minute then turned and walked into the cell block.

  Larry began to rummage through the first-aid kit for a Band-Aid. He rose unsteadily from the chair and moved to the mirror on the wall. He grimaced.

  “Fuck…Look at me… Fuck…”

  Larry leaned closer to the mirror, pressing the Band-Aid against his forehead. He saw the sheriff’s reflection behind him.

  “Cutter…”

  Larry turned.

  The sheriff held up the dripping noose. “What the fuck were you gonna do with this?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Tie the pipe back together?”

  Larry opened his mouth and without saying a word, closed it again. A small puddle was forming under the rope. Larry swallowed dryly.