Journey Into Darkness

by S. J. Harris

  Then I remembered the journal I’d stolen from Charlotte Shafer’s garage that day. I pulled it out of my goody bag and read the cover:

  My Journal

  William Allen Driscoll

  Mrs. Shafer Adv. Eng.

  Bill Driscoll and Sonya Shafer had been in the same ninth grade English class, Sonya’s mother’s class.

  I flipped through the notebook, stopping occasionally to read a passage. Bill doodled a lot. Every page had S.O.S. written multiple times in the margins, each S.O.S. encased in a three-dimensional box. Just like the doodles I’d found on the crumpled envelope in Bill’s car.

  I fought tears, knowing the troubled childhood Bill had had, knowing that I could no longer allow myself to be part of his life.

  But, when I turned to Bill’s journal entry for 16 January 1989, my tears froze in their tracks.

  Me and Roger killed a stray cat yesterday...

  I let the notebook slip from my hands, horrified that anyone could be so cruel. And, even on that nightmarish page, were ice cubes with S.O.S. suspended inside.

  Then it hit me.

  We both have middle names that suck.

  S.O.S.

  Olive Oyl.

  Olivia.

  Sonya Olivia Shafer.

  S.O.S.

  Those were Sonya’s initials Bill had written a thousand times in his journal, not a distress signal. Ninth grader Bill Driscoll had been obsessed with Sonya Shafer.

  But Sonya loved Steve Morrow.

  Bill pushed me.

  I felt nauseated. Everything started swimming in my head.

  Bill had been obsessed with Sonya back in ninth grade and, if the doodles I found on the crumpled envelope in his car were any indication, he was still obsessed with her. He wanted to freeze her in a cube, trap her in a cage where he could be in control.

  Bill had been living with Sonya when Ron Kuhlman fired him. Maybe, in Bill’s mind, Ron was the catalyst that caused the breakup. If Bill had tried to kill Steve Morrow, maybe he had killed Ron Kuhlman.

  But what about Darla Bose? Why Darla? I was still convinced that it was Darla’s finger in the can of GIANT-PUP. Bill must have gotten into my room and switched the hairs I’d taken from Darla’s brush with the hairs from Jenny’s lock in the J.C. Penney box. I didn’t know why Bill killed Darla, but I knew what I had to do.

  I packed in a hurry, loaded the Ford Escort rental, settled up at the front desk and headed for the Springfield neighborhood in Jacksonville. This time I would take the whole hairbrush. Darla’s hair would match the DNA from her purple flecks of fingernail polish, and Bill would be arrested for murder.

  24

  In less than an hour I made it to Darla Bose’s house, which was on fire.

  Two ladder trucks and a rescue unit were on the scene, as was a news van with a telescoping satellite dish raised high in the sky.

  I drove to the edge of the fire department’s barricade, put the car in PARK and slumped down in my seat.

  Now what? The evidence I’d been counting on, the proof that the finger I saw belonged to Darla, had been destroyed. What could I tell the police now? Hello detective so and so, I have a hunch that Bill Driscoll murdered Ron Kuhlman and Darla Bose. Please arrest him now. I’m in danger. He loosened the lug nuts on one of my wheels and I nearly died today. A guitar player named Peter Daniels is probably in danger, as is anyone else who gets between Bill and his obsession, Sonya Shafer.

  I watched as the only evidence went up in smoke.

  Ah, but I knew of another crime Bill committed many years ago--the attempted murder of Steve Morrow. Steve could testify to the fact. Even though he couldn’t talk much, he could respond to yes or no questions by blinking his eyes, and I knew from talking to Brian Cooper that Steve could at least say Bill pushed me.

  “On the date of the accident that left you paralyzed, were you pushed in front of an oncoming vehicle?”

  One blink. Yes.

  “Is the man who pushed you sitting in this court room?”

  One blink. Yes.

  “Is the defendant, William Allen Driscoll, the man who pushed you in front of Brian Cooper’s truck?”

  One blink. Yes.

  “I rest my case, Your Honor.”

  At least Bill could be arrested for that crime. Then, maybe the police could find evidence for the others, or maybe even get a confession.

  The battery on my phone was nearly dead, and my car charger was at the bottom of Julington Creek. I needed to make one call, fast. I hoped the battery would be strong enough. If not, I’d have to take time to find a pay phone.

  I punched in Sonya’s number and a male voice picked up.

  “Peter?” I said.

  “No.”

  “May I speak to Sonya, please. It’s urgent.”

  “I’m her father. Sonya just ran to the store for a minute. Can I take a message?”

  Precious battery power was draining.

  “My name is Kim Journey. I’m a friend of your daughter’s. Tell her that Steve Morrow said ‘Bill pushed me.’ Just tell her that, please. I don’t have time to explain everything, but I think she’ll understand. Tell her I’m on my way to the nearest police station.”

  “The nearest police station. What....”

  “I have to go. Please tell her. Thank you.”

  I hung up and put the car in reverse. My phone rang. I put the car back in PARK and looked at the display window, hoping to see Sonya’s number on the caller ID. It was a number I didn’t recognize.

  One battery bar left.

  Male voice.

  British accent. Muffled.

  “Are you familiar with a place called Big Kid’s Mountain?”

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “Meet me in thirty minutes. I have your sister Jennifer. I’ve grown tired of her. Come alone if you want to find her there alive. I haven’t any further use for her. I only want to go free, unidentified.”

  “Bullshit. Who is this?”

  “I’ve had her for many years now,” the caller said. “But she misses her kitty cat. Her kitty cat with one ear. Her kitty cat named Sha-Shu. Meet me there in thirty minutes or....”

  My battery died.

  Nobody, nobody knew Sha-Shu’s name. Nobody but Jenny and me. It was our secret. This was for real.

  I turned the car around and headed for Hallows Cove. Before I turned from Darla’s street, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw a shrouded body being carried from the house on a stretcher.

  25

  I needed my 300 horsepower V8, the one that had drowned in ten feet of murky creek water; the weakling Escort, burdened by the weight of my luggage, chugged along best it could.

  I was exhilarated and terrified at the same time. I was on my way to get Jenny. After all these years I was finally going to get her back. Nothing else mattered. But I was scared. Not for my own safety, but that I wouldn’t make it to Big Kid’s Mountain in time. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes had elapsed and rush hour traffic was a nightmare. If I didn’t get there in time I might be taking Jenny home in a bag.

  I took Interstate 295 south and broke into a sweat crossing the massive Buckman bridge, remembering what had happened earlier. If I’d been on the Buckman when my Mustang’s wheel had popped off, even the heartiest truck driver couldn’t have saved me.

  I crossed the bridge and took SR 13 south toward Hallows Cove. Traffic on 13 was bumper to bumper. Precious seconds ticked away as I viewed the trail of brake lights in front of me. I needed some sort of James Bond vehicle, one that would take me airborne for a mile or so. The Escort didn’t even have power windows.

  I veered into the emergency lane and crept past the line of weary, grumpy commuters, the nine-to-fivers who dealt with this crap on a daily basis. I glanced at a few of them, their mouths forming expletives as I turtled by.

  I heard a chirp, looked in the mirror and saw the flashing blue lights of a JSO police cruiser. I was toast. Jenny was toast.

  I stopped, rolled the w
indow down and waited for the officer to approach. She took my driver’s license, registration and rental contract for the Escort. I showed her my agency badge, told her I was running late for my first shift at Hallows Cove Memorial. She looked at the luggage piled in the back seat.

  “This is your lucky day,” she said. “I’m heading down there myself. I’m off duty tonight, moonlighting as ER security at Memorial. Just follow me.”

  My lie came back to haunt me, as most lies do. I didn’t have time to follow her all the way to the hospital.

  “I’ll have to make a quick stop for something to eat along the way,” I said. “You know how long those nights are. They’re murder without a few snacks to keep you going.”

  “They sure are,” she said. She was chubby and probably had her own cache of snacks somewhere in the police car.

  She kept the blue lights flashing as I followed her past the traffic jam, through Fruit Cove and Remington Park. I pulled into the Li’l Champ Foodmart at the corner of 13 and Cypress. The officer drove on. She chirped goodbye with her siren.

  5:55.

  I had five minutes to get to Big Kid’s Mountain. I drove through town, obeying the speed limit to avoid further detainment.

  I took the dirt road to the top of the hill, parked and waited.

  Silence.

  I started thinking that maybe the call had been bogus. No, the caller knew about Sha-Shu. He was the real McCoy.

  He had a British accent, a thick and exaggerated cockney. I fell asleep watching TV one time, woke up and heard a character from an old black and white movie say, “’angin’s tew good for the loiks of ‘er.” That’s the kind of accent the caller had, not the pleasant and refined one of Patrick the motel clerk or Greg Mears the accountant.

  I thought about all the time Jenny had missed. Time that could never be recovered. I imagined her chained in some cold, damp basement, suffering daily abuse. No school. No playmates. No high school prom. No love.

  I grew angrier by the minute. The caller said he wanted to escape unidentified. Okay. But once I had Jenny home and safe I would hunt him down, no matter how long it took.

  I got out of the car and walked around. Maybe he had left Jenny tied to a tree or bound and gagged on the ground.

  This was the first time I’d been on Big Kid’s Mountain in the daylight. From the top of the hill I had a bird’s eye view of the town and the roads below. I was glad I hadn’t told the JSO officer what was going on. A cop could not have followed me up there unnoticed by the bad guy.

  Come alone if you want to find her alive.

  I wanted to find her alive more that anything else in the world.

  The sun hung low in the west. I walked the perimeter of the sandy hilltop, looking down in all directions, looking everywhere for my dear Jenny. I saw a reflection flash from behind a pile of branches, walked toward it for a closer look, felt a sharp pain against the back of my right thigh at the same instant I recognized Bill Driscoll’s Cadillac.

  26

  The strength in my legs drained like water through a sieve. I fell to my knees, looked up, saw Bill standing over me with his hands on his hips.

  Everything in my visual field curved and bulged outward, convex, as though I were looking into a security mirror. Bill’s voice sounded like one of my dad’s old records playing too slow.

  “Jolly good ta see ya,” Bill said.

  “You son of a bitch. How did you know about Sha-Shu?”

  Bill laughed. “Oh, that. Jennifer’s pussycat. Kim, Kim. The name was written on a piece of cardboard, a strip cut from a cereal box--Captain Crunch I think it was--turned inside out and taped to the cat’s wrist.”

  The hospital ID bracelet Jenny made when she had her tonsils removed. I’d forgotten about that.

  For some reason Bill continued to use the British accent, as though he had taken on a completely different personality.

  The owner’s son comes in here sometimes and right away starts blathering some fishing village cockney, Patrick had said the day I checked into The Parkside. I wished I’d remembered that earlier. Aunt Julie owned the motel. Bill was her adopted son.

  “I know about you and Sonya Shafer,” I said.

  “I fingerpainted our wedding scene the first day of kindergarten. I’ve been in love with her since we were five. She will marry me soon. I’m going to be rich soon. Very, very rich. She won’t be able to resist the successful entrepreneur that I’m going to be soon. Let me show you something.”

  Bill pulled out a cardboard box from the back seat of his car. White vapors rose from the seams in the box as he opened it. He extracted what looked like a coiled pink serpent, wrapped in clear plastic.

  “It’s been at the bottom of Aunt Julie’s chest freezer for awhile,” Bill said. “Today I put it in this box with some dry ice. I’ve been waiting for the right night to add it to a batch at the plant. Tonight’s the right night. You see, we’re processing chickens tonight, rotten ones from grocery store returns, and a load of dogs and cats, euthanasia victims from the animal shelter. And, of course, a couple of special guests. You, my dear Kim, will be added to tonight’s batch, along with Wanna B. Rockstar, who’s already tied and gagged there in my trunk. It’s unfortunate you decided to stay in Florida. I tried to scare you away, you know, with that letter. You knew those characters came from Lori’s magazines, didn’t you? What a clever little detective you are.”

  I wasn’t feeling too clever at the moment.

  “What’s that pink snake-looking thing you’re holding?” I asked. I was struggling to stay conscious. Whatever Bill had injected me with was making me feel like a groggy pile of mush.

  “In addition to you and Peter and one other special guest, tonight’s batch at Kessler’s will contain another secret ingredient. This is a complete spinal cord from an unfortunate Canadian heifer, an animal known to have been diseased. The disease is the beef industry’s worst nightmare. Bovine Spongiform Encephalopathy. BSE. Mad cow disease. The spinal cord was procured in Ontario from a faction, let’s say, unsympathetic to the welfare of United States citizens. Hal and Dean, the guys you met at Kelly’s last night, our friendly neighborhood smugglers, had it flown in, the day of slaughter, nice and fresh and teeming with the perfect pathogen. Let me tell you what will happen tonight. From the receiving bin, tonight’s batch will be screw-conveyed to a crusher and reduced to bite-sized pieces to improve cooking efficiency. The batch will stay in the cooker at two-hundred seventy-five degrees Fahrenheit for two hours, then move to the perculator drain pan where the liquid fats and protein solids will be separated. Further separation will occur in the screw press. The fat will be stored in the crude animal fat storage tank and sold to candle and cosmetics factories. The solids, supposedly free of bovine remains, will not be tested for related bacteria or infectious protein prions. The solids will go to the protein meal storage hopper and sold as an additive to livestock feed, specifically cattle feed. In a few weeks, most of the cattle in the United States will be quarantined, worthless. Unfortunately, some of the beef will get out for human consumption before the Mad Cow Disease is discovered. Anyway, with no beef as competition, guess what’s going to be very desirable? Guess what’s going to skyrocket in price? That’s right. Ostrich meat! I’m going to be filthy rich, Kim. I’m going to marry Sonya Shafer. Aren’t you happy for me?”

  I didn’t know much about Mad Cow Disease, but I knew that it was just as deadly to humans as it was to cows. It affects the nervous system and eventually causes brain damage, seizures, death. How many children would eat poisoned hamburgers before the cows were quarantined?

  I was drugged and limp. I still wanted one question answered before Bill killed me.

  “Why did you kill Darla Bose?” I asked.

  Bill clicked a thumbnail against his chipped front tooth. He continued with the cockney accent. He sounded arrogant, almost as if he was bragging. “Darla was, how should I say, collateral damage. She was just bait, really. I used her to lure Ron Kuhlman out
of Kelly’s and into my car. Ron and I were playing pool. Every other Saturday we played best of three games for twenty bucks. On that particular Saturday, April second I believe it was, I told Ron I was broke but that I had a pretty young girl in my car who’d give him a blow job if I lost. Of course, I lost on purpose. Ron went out to my car where Darla was waiting. I’d given Darla a few rocks of crack cocaine for her end of the bargain, something she couldn’t resist. I left them alone in the car and a few minutes later delivered them each a bottle of beer laced with a Rohypnal tablet. Ever hear of Rohypnal? Roofies? The date-rape drug? Works great. They were still passed out when I loaded them into the grinder at work. I made a big mistake that night, though. We were running 4-D that night. 4-D is ground and then frozen and sold for dog food. I never imagined anything as big as a finger would make it through. Anyway, I didn’t want Darla coming back as a witness against me, you know? She was a worthless bag bride. A drug whore. A nobody. She wasn’t even reported missing for over two months. Nobody cared about that bitch.”

  “She had family who cared,” I said. “She had a mother who loved her. She just needed help for her addiction. Like you need help, Bill.”

  “I don’t need anybody’s fucking help. I’m doing just fine. Pretty soon I’ll be better than fine. I’ll be rich and I’ll have Sonya. What could be better than that? You probably think I’m a serial killer or something, huh? I’m not. I have a book at home about serial killers and I’m definitely not one. I want no publicity, I get no ‘thrill’ from the kill, have no inner desire to be caught, keep no souvenirs. Well, I do still have Ron’s Zippo and Darla’s gold key chain. They were such nice items, it seemed a shame for them to go to waste. But guess what? Those items, along with your nice purse with your initials on it and one of Peter Daniels’s guitar picks, are going to be found in Lori Barbera’s office. You gave me the idea to frame Lori. It’s going to work out perfectly, for me anyway.”