Slippin' Into Darkness

by Norman Partridge

  April gasped and dug her nails into his back, but he didn’t feel it the way another man would. He pictured her at seventeen, and the image brought him to climax and made him feel miserable.

  He left without a word.

  He returned late that night, because he needed her.

  But April was gone. She lay on the bed with the dead springs, cold and dead, her eyes open but colorless, pill bottles scattered on the floor. A note scrawled on pink paper lay on his pillow:

  I’ll see you in your dreams.

  “Don’t go.” Steve said it over and over, standing all alone in April’s bedroom, but he knew that it too late. Pleading, begging—none of it would make a difference. April was gone, and he had been left behind. This moment together was going to end. Maybe they would never share another. Not in dreams, not in nightmares.

  He hoped that he was wrong. He just didn’t know. April wasn’t there to tell him.

  There was only one way to find an answer. In the living room, he sorted through April’s books and tossed several into a paper bag. All he needed was enough time to think things through. That was all. The books would tell him what he needed to know.

  In the bedroom, he set the alarm on April’s clock radio. He opened the bedroom window and dangled the Sony outside by its cord, which easily bore the radio’s weight without coming unplugged. He eased the window closed and left as he always did—quickly, quietly, without drawing attention to himself. Just another John leaving a whore’s trailer.

  The radio blared alive at six-thirty the following morning, tuned to a station specializing in soft sounds from the seventies. Elton John sang “The Crocodile Rock.”

  At six-fifty, one of April’s neighbors turned on his hearing aid, heard some woman singing about muskrat love, and immediately called the lot manager, who contacted the authorities a few minutes later.

  Fortunately, the call was well beyond Steve’s beat, well beyond the city limits. The county sheriff’s department responded quickly, performing their duties with businesslike efficiency. No fuss, no bother. The entire procedure was as simple as shoveling a dead dog off the highway.

  To them, April Louise Destino was nothing more than a dead whore.

  * * *

  But April wasn’t dead. Not really. Steve knew that now. She was locked in his basement.

  He clutched the reel of 16mm film. He kicked the mashed beer cans into a stand of skunk cabbage. And then he picked up the projector with the broken lens and heaved the big hunk of metal as far as he could.

  It crashed, kicked up gravel, and tumbled against a twisted speaker-pole. Something was happening. It had started here last night. Steve could feel it. And it was something that he hadn’t caused, something that April hadn’t caused.

  He didn’t know the cause, but he recognized the effect. Even his imagination-impoverished brain could process the clues he’d been given. His dream was becoming real. Doves nested in the dead pines that surrounded the drive-in. April’s dog, Homer Price, had been hiding in a eucalyptus grove near the cemetery, a cartoon eye trained on his mistress’s grave. And April Destino had stepped alive and whole from Steve’s dream into his fortress of solitude.

  A sliver of film hung from the plastic reel, fluttering in the warm breeze. Some people said that movies were like dreams. Steve had never quite seen the analogy. Dreams, to him, were a rare commodity. Movies were a dime a dozen. But the 16mm loop was something different. It was the nightmare that April had suffered night after night in the dungeon of sleep.

  Steve coiled the film and slipped the reel into his pocket. He tapped it; he felt the slight weight suspended in his pocket; it was very real.

  And suddenly everything was very clear, and he realized how wrong he had been. Oh, he was in a dream all right. Slipping into a dream, one image at a time. His mechanical brain was correct in making that assumption.

  But where was April?

  April had stepped into Steve’s basement.

  Doug Douglas had followed her.

  But Doug wasn’t part of Steve’s dream.

  Doug was part of April’s nightmare.

  When April saw Doug, she started screaming.

  Even a mechanical brain could sort it out.

  April hadn’t stepped into Steve’s dream….

  She had stumbled into her own nightmare.

  10:57 A.M.

  The quiet order of the camera shop calmed Shutterbug. Familiar tasks distanced him from the events of the last ten hours. Totaling the receipts from the previous day, getting the money ready for the register, alphabetizing the prints that had arrived from the developer—these small tasks convinced him that he was nothing more than the owner of a successful retail business, shadowed by no other concerns than those shared by a dozen other businessmen whose stores were located in the same thriving mini-mall.

  Then the phone rang. Not the number that was listed in the phone book—that line was connected to an answering machine which informed customers that the store would open promptly at eleven. The private line was ringing. Shutterbug lifted the handset. “Yes?”

  “Hanks? That you?”

  Shutterbug sidestepped the question. “Who’s calling, please?”

  “One of your buddies from San Francisco. I’m in the photography business, too. We’ve worked together, but it’s been a while.”

  Okay, this was strictly business. Shutterbug breathed a sigh of relief. “Don’t worry. This line is clean. You don’t need to—”

  “Don’t be so sure, Hanks.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You ask a lot of questions, Hanks. Just shut up for a minute. People are asking questions about you. People are going to be asking you questions.”

  “What? Who are you talking about?”

  “Two words for you. Hanks: shut up. Whatever they hit you with, don’t say a word. That’s what we’re doing, that’s what you should do.”

  The line went dead.

  A gentle rapping sounded on the glass door.

  Shutterbug whirled, nearly dropping the phone. The man stood on the wide sidewalk, peering into the store from the other side of the smoked glass wall that protected Shutterbug’s wares from the harsh afternoon sunlight. But it wasn’t afternoon—it was morning, and the large panes seemed darker than they should have, and the man on the other side of the glass wall was only a silhouette.

  Again, the man’s knuckles struck the glass, ever so gently. Shutterbug’s mouth opened but no words came out. The man pointed at his wrist and tapped again, but he was only pretending to tap now, and instead of the tapping sound Shutterbug heard the little clock ticking steadily on the wall above the cash register.

  An electronic chime sounded the hour.

  Eleven o’clock. Opening time.

  Shutterbug unlocked the smoked glass door. The silhouette didn’t move, didn’t step forward, even when the door was opened.

  The policeman grinned, his eyes lost behind mirrored sunglasses.

  * * *

  The sunglasses came off. Steve Austin stood rooted to the sidewalk by a pair of heavy black boots. His uniform was a study in dark creases and his eyes were narrow slits.

  “Steve!” Shutterbug said, as if pleasantly surprised. “I haven’t seen you in…well, since forever.”

  Steve said nothing.

  Shutterbug recognized what might have been a cop’s trick—don’t commit to anything, get the nervous suspect to talk his way into trouble. He wasn’t going to fall for it, even if his hesitation spoke of paranoia.

  Paranoia, hell. Shutterbug hadn’t recognized the cop at the drive-in. That cop might have been Steve Austin. And there was the phone call, too. The warning. If this had something to do with Shutterbug’s real business…that would be different.

  But the call had come from San Francisco, more than thirty miles away. The two incidents couldn’t be connected. It was impossible.

  Austin’s grin was patient, implacable.

  “Well, don’t just stand there,�
� Shutterbug said. “C’mon in. What can I do for you?” He stepped behind the counter, separating himself from the big policeman. A little distance made him feel safer. “When was the last time we had a chance to talk? A couple years back? Fifteenth reunion?”

  Austin’s grin was welded in place. “I never go to reunions.”

  The cop was as forthcoming as a brick wall. Shutterbug prattled on with a fresh line of questions that were answered with a series of nods and shrugs. The cop’s silence didn’t matter, because the voice from the phone was still fresh in Shutterbug’s memory. “You ask a lot of questions. Hanks. Just shut up for a minute. People are asking questions about you. People at going to be asking you questions.”

  “Y’know,” Steve said finally, “your dad was my training officer. I don’t like too many people, but I liked your dad. We got along. I always felt like I owed him something, and I never got a chance to square things up with him before that junkie knifed him.”

  Marvis wondered if Austin had a point. He certainly couldn’t believe that the cop had come here to reminisce.

  “Before today, I never really thought about how awful it must have been to lose your dad like that.” Austin pursed his lips as if he had made a stunning revelation which moved him deeply. “So I feel like I missed my opportunity with your old man. But maybe I can square things up with you, Marvis. If you’ll let me.”

  “Sure.” Marvis nodded and found that in his eagerness he couldn’t stop nodding. “Sure.” His head bobbed some more. “And call me Shutterbug. Everyone does…still.” He laughed. “Do they still call you Ozzy? I remember that’s what everyone called you in grammar school. Then in high school they started calling you The Six Million Dollar—”

  “You just stick to Steve. I’ll stick to Marvis. I think I’ll like it a little better that way. We’ll know just who we are.”

  Austin reached into the left-hand pocket of his uniform shirt, produced a reel of 16mm film, and placed it on the counter. “I would have brought the projector, too, but it was all busted up. Good thing you had your name stenciled on it, though. I guess that was your daddy’s training. Lord how that man hated handling B&E’s. Hated fences, too. Anyway, the stenciling made my job real easy. God knows I’ve never made detective, and I’ve been working this job for quite a while.”

  Jesus. Austin was playing with him. An uneasy grin tugged at the corners of Shutterbug’s lips. He wanted to grab the reel of film, burn it in the metal garbage can under the counter. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. His legs were fence posts, because Steve Austin was standing there with a smile on his face and his thick fingers were tapping, rapping on a cool leather holster that contained a .38 police special.

  Shutterbug recognized the weapon. It was the same model his father had carried, the same model that rested on the shelf under the cash register, just inches away.

  No. Reaching for the gun would be a big mistake.

  “I never knew there was film of this.” Austin’s grin evaporated as he spoke the words. “April never told me. I guess what happened to her was bad enough. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I realize that…but this film might have made a big difference, a long time ago.”

  “It was crazy.” The words tumbled from Shutterbug’s mouth. “They made me do it. The A-Squad. They beat me up. And then, last night, they came to my house. The only reason they left me alone all these years was because I kept the film as security. I’m sure of that. They would have killed me if I’d given it up, because I was the only one who really knew what happened. But then April died, and they got drunk, and they came to my house last night—”

  “And you gave it to them.”

  “It wasn’t like that. They came to the house and they made me go with them to the drive-in—”

  Steve Austin’s hand came up fast, waving off Shutterbug’s words. “Calm down. You’re getting too excited. I told you that I owed your dad, and I meant it. Nothing bad is going to happen here.”

  Shutterbug reached for the film, but Austin’s hand slammed over it.

  Shutterbug recoiled as if his fingers had been burnt. He smelled his own sweat. Humiliation punched a hole in his heart. He wasn’t handling things the way a man should. First the A-Squad and their crazy hi-jinks, then the phone call, now this. Everything was caving in. There was too much trouble to shore up.

  “Look, Steve…this whole thing was a mistake.” Shutterbug sounded truly remorseful now, because cops were big on remorse. “I should have stood up years ago. I wish I could now. Believe me, I would if I thought it would do April any good.”

  The cop’s eyes flared at the mention of April, “Leave her out of this.”

  “Okay…okay.” Looking for another opening. “Look, I appreciate you bringing this to me. I hope you won’t be upset if I say I want to make it worth your while. I’m sure my dad would have wanted me to show my appreciation.”

  The cop sighed. “You just don’t get it. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m not a shakedown kind of cop.”

  “Okay…but— “

  “No. Not okay. No buts. You’re in the clear, as long as you keep quiet.”

  The words on the phone were ice in Shutterbug’s memory: Two words for you, Hanks: shut up. Whatever they hit you with, don’t say a word. That’s what we’re doing, that’s what you should do. 9

  Shutterbug stepped back, bumping the camera that stood behind him. He didn’t say a word because the .38 was in Steve Austin’s hand, and the barrel was aimed at his skull.

  “Understand this,” Austin said. “I’m not going to kill you. You can thank your father for that. But you have to promise me one thing if you want to keep living.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You have to leave April alone. You have to promise me that.”

  Shutterbug didn’t know what to say. He nodded furiously.

  “No. I want to hear you say it.”

  “Look…whatever happened at the cemetery, it wasn’t us. The grave was open when we got there. I was pretty wasted—so were the others. But you have my word that we didn’t touch that grave.”

  Austin’s eyes showed nothing. “So,” he said, “you’re going to leave her alone. I still need to hear you say it.”

  “Yes…of course. I’ll leave April alone. Whatever you say.”

  “As long as we have that straight, I’ll keep you out of this. But go back on your word and you’ll find that all bets are off. I’m not used to people disappointing me, and I don’t know how I’ll handle that. Don’t make me find out.” And then it was as if something uncontrollable rose in Austin and he had to look away to smash it into submission. “I don’t want you to think about her.”

  The gun slipped back into the holster. Austin returned the film to his pocket.

  Shutterbug couldn’t help himself. “Look, why don’t we get rid of that film once and for all? Why don’t we burn it?”

  Steve shook his head. “You used it for a long time. Now I’m going to use it. It’s the only thing I’ve got that can protect April from the guys who did this to her.” He tapped his pocket. “The guys in her nightmare.”

  Nightmare. There was the word. Images from the previous night filled Shutterbug’s head. Bat and Todd and Derwin and Griz busting up his house. “You won’t tell them, will you?” Shutterbug’s humiliation was now a hot flame, but the words kept coming. “I mean, you won’t say anything to Bat or the others about our talk?”

  Steve reached across the counter and patted Shutterbug’s shoulder. “C’mon. Stop worrying. Like I told you: you’re in the clear as long as you keep your word. As long as you don’t disappoint me.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Good. I’m glad this worked out.”

  The big cop turned and was through the door in an instant. Shutterbug swallowed hard. His clerk would be here any minute now. He would feign sickness, go home—

  A harsh tapping rattled over the glass door.

  Shutterbug saw the cop’s tonfa drumming the s
moked glass, saw Austin’s silhouette behind it.

  Austin’s silhouette.

  The yearbook photograph of April and the cheerleading squad froze in Shutterbug’s memory. The picture he was forced to mangle. The silhouetted figure standing in the biology lab, watching April through a wall of glass.

  Steve Austin.

  The black shadow didn’t move. Words penetrated heavy glass. “If you know what’s good for you, steer clear of the nightmare.”

  And then the man, and the shadow, were gone.

  11:15 A.M.—6:05 P.M.

  First, Shutterbug ripped toilet-paper streamers from the trees in front of his house, cursing the A-Squad as he worked. Then he went inside and unplugged the telephones. One in the kitchen. One in his bedroom. One in the basement. Then he sat down and thought things over. He thought about what Ozzy—what Steve Austin—had said to him. Austin, still stuck on April Destino after all these years. The quiet bastard had always been a loner in high school, and now Shutterbug knew why. The guy was a nut, worshipping the memory of a dead whore like that.

  Obviously, Austin hadn’t known the real April, the pitiful woman with lines on her face and a body that was going to seed after years of dope and booze and various less pleasant forms of abuse. That particular piece of meat wasn’t exactly a candidate for pedestal treatment.

  She lived in a trailer park, for christsakes. Shutterbug wasn’t the only one who knew that April. She got around. A couple of his business associates over in the City had their own April Destino stories. She had done her share of hardcore before her body started to go. Shutterbug had actually seen the stuff without putting two and two together—

  April wore wigs in the movies, and he hadn’t recognized her until they got reacquainted.

  The big reunion occurred at a wild wrap party over in Marin. A Friday the 13th rip-off with a guy in a hockey mask who wielded a hard twelve-incher instead of a machete. Big house and bigger egos. Too much coke and too many bores, and he had stepped onto the deck for some air, big redwood deck with plenty of ferns and Tarzan shrubbery.