In the Dark

by Chris Patchell

  Up ahead he saw a Starbucks sign and pulled into the parking lot. Cupping Alicia’s phone in his sweaty palm, he sent a text.

  Battery’s low. Powering down. Call you later, Daddy. XO

  #

  Acres of manicured lawns and tall evergreen trees surrounded the sprawling gold-brick structure on top of the hill. The aging, dirty facade was a stark contrast to the perfectly manicured grounds. He supposed the green hills offered some solace to the troubled minds residing within the walls of Valley Mental Health Institution.

  Drew pushed through the doors, fingering the loose pills in his pocket. He knew the drill. He set a Starbucks coffee cup on the desk and signed in for the last time. The nurse manning the desk had thick chestnut hair and a smattering of freckles across her cheeks.

  “Mind if I take it through?” he asked with a friendly smile. “I know it’s against the rules, so if you need me to dump it, I’ll totally understand.”

  She tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear and returned his smile. “Need your coffee fix?”

  Drew propped his elbows on the countertop. He rolled his eyes theatrically and made a face. “Big project. I was up all night working. Seriously, if I could mainline this stuff . . .”

  She laughed. She had a pretty laugh. Folding her hand under her chin, she looked up at him with wide brown eyes.

  “Strictly speaking, it is against policy, but I guess I could bend the rules just this once. I’d feel responsible if you passed out, or worse.”

  Drew winked at her.

  “You’re an angel,” he said.

  “Don’t make me regret it. He’s in the solarium,” she called after him.

  Drew saluted her with the raised Starbucks cup and kept going.

  A vase of long-stemmed red roses caught his eye. The lush crimson petals reminded him of the fat drops of blood on Alicia’s alabaster skin. Drew veered away from the roses, hating what he’d done—hating what he’d had to do. But what other choice did he have? Together Alicia and Liam had ruined his life.

  Anger gnawed at the pit of his stomach like a hungry rat. He should have killed Liam when he’d had the chance. He’d ignored Gretchen’s warnings, and now Alicia was dead and his lethal three-act play was coming to a close, faster and more bloodily than he had planned. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Drew turned down a long hallway. Beneath the sharp hospital smells of ammonia and bleach lay a darker stench of dirt and grime, gore and sweat. Desperation. All the chemicals in the world couldn’t mask the rank odor of the rotting bodies and rotting minds housed within the institution’s crumbling walls.

  The solarium was painted a sunny yellow. Large banks of windows faced south, admitting vast quantities of gray light. Heavy couches and chairs were placed in intimate groupings around the room. His father sat propped in a wheelchair near the windows.

  This time of day, there were at least a dozen patients watching television or playing games. There were others drooling on their chins and dreaming the pink-cloud dreams of the violently medicated. Drew made his way through the room, fingering the pills in his pocket, anticipation building.

  “Hey, is that coffee? You’re not supposed to bring that in here.”

  Drew looked up, catching sight of a skeletal young man blocking his path. With green-marble eyes, a cap of greasy black hair, and rapid-fire talk, he reminded Drew of a junkie in need of a fix.

  “I cleared it with the desk,” Drew said, and stepped around the patient.

  “They don’t let me drink coffee because of the medication, you know.” He smacked his lips. “They say it makes me fidgety. But come on, man, that’s total bullshit.”

  Drew flashed a benign smile and tried to move past the patient, but the man grabbed his coat.

  “Do you know what makes me fidgety? You know what makes me really crazy? Caffeine withdrawal. You know what I’m saying?”

  Drew’s fingers curled into fists. A rising tide of anger filled his chest. He craved the release he’d always gotten from laying a violent beating on another human being. Laying a hand on the kid would be stupid. The last thing he needed was an orderly taking notice of the situation and tossing out Drew’s coffee. Or worse—escorting Drew from the building for violating protocol. So, as much as he wanted to snap the kid’s fingers like dry twigs, he forced a smile.

  “Look, I know what you mean. There are days I’d kill for coffee too. But I brought this for my old man. It’s decaf, brother. It would be like going to a hooker for a hug.”

  The skinny dude shot Drew a horrified look and Drew strode past him toward the windows.

  His father did not look up as he approached. He pulled up a chair and straddled it, taking stock of the old man’s ruined face.

  At least six months had passed since his last visit. Pink patches of scalp showed through Rick’s thinning brown hair. The stubble on his father’s cheeks was flecked with a prickly gray. His once hard build had gone soft around the middle, and he looked puffy and bloated, like Jabba the Hutt. Pathetic.

  Drew set the coffee cup down on the floor between his feet, hiding it from view. Rick never looked up. His vacant stare stretched past Drew out the bank of windows and toward the distant green hills. If Drew’s father had ever had a soul, it had clearly vacated the shell of his body years ago.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  Drew searched for some sign, some flicker of recognition from his father, but Rick’s expression never changed. While part of him was pleased that his father had all the mental acuity of a turnip, another part, a deeper part, wished Rick were still there. He wanted the bastard to suffer the way he’d suffered through all those beatings.

  “You’ll never guess who I saw the other day,” Drew said, speaking so quietly only Rick could hear. “Marissa.”

  A fat fly landed on Rick’s face and slowly crawled across his red, blotchy cheek. Drew didn’t move a muscle to shoo the thing away; he just watched as it marched toward his father’s ear. Finally Rick flinched and the fly took flight.

  Drew eased back in his chair and smiled.

  “Marissa looks great, Dad. You remember how hot she looked before you smashed her mouth in, don’t you? She wasn’t so pretty then. Spitting out teeth. Blood all over the place. No doubt about it, you were one suave motherfucker. Now look at you.”

  A chair squealed behind Drew. Irritated, he glanced over his shoulder. The junkie was back. Flopping into the chair beside Drew, he scratched his arm. Rick’s eyes flicked to the patient. Just a second. Just long enough to make Drew wonder if there were lights still on behind his father’s dead eyes.

  “Come on, man. Just a sip. Your old man won’t mind. Just look at him.”

  Drew leaned close to the dude, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  “If you don’t fuck off, I’ll call an orderly and they’ll shoot you so full of Thorazine, by the time you wake up we’ll have a new president. Got it?”

  The young man flung himself from the chair and Drew turned his gaze back to his father. Rick blinked.

  “Where were we?” Drew snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Marissa. I ran into her daughter a few weeks back. Sweet little piece of ass, that one. Great rack, tight little ass, blonde curls just like her mommy. I’ve got her locked up in the cabin. Did you know she’s diabetic? Anyway, she’s low on insulin. I’m afraid she won’t last much longer. I think it’s time I reunite the family.”

  Drew stared deep into his father’s eyes.

  “It’s too bad you won’t be able to join us.”

  Seconds later a fist slammed into Drew’s shoulder. He leaped to his feet. The chair clattered behind him.

  “Get out of here, bitch,” Drew growled.

  “Or what? What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do, man? Hit me? You want to hit me?”

  The patient slapped an open palm against his chest. Heads turned at the hollow sound. He jittered on his toes like a boxer. Drew shook his head and balled his fingers into a tight fist.

&nb
sp; He didn’t hear the orderly approach. The heavyset man shot Drew an apologetic smile.

  “Come on, Billy, let’s get you out of here.”

  The patient squealed and winced away from the thick hand gripping his skinny arm.

  “No. He’s got coffee . . .”

  “Now, Billy.”

  The orderly half dragged the patient from the solarium, and Drew resumed his seat. He picked the Starbucks cup up off the floor.

  “Never too early in the day for one of these, I trust,” he said, and placed the coffee cup on the table next to Rick. It was coffee with a shot of cheap whiskey, just the way dear old Dad liked it. Drew removed the lid and crushed the two tablets into dust, then sprinkled it in a fine layer across the black brew. It sank, dissolving quickly.

  For most people Tylenol was an easy way to wipe away pain.

  For Rick it was death—instant anaphylaxis.

  Drew waved the cup underneath the old man’s nose. Rick licked his lips like a salivating hound.

  “You are in there. Or at least part of you is.”

  Drew set the cup down on the table beside Rick and watched. The old man’s hand trembled and inched toward the cup. Rick’s hands, which had once lashed out with blinding speed and meted out pain with the curl of a fist, moved at a snail’s pace now. Drew fixed his stare on the old man’s greedy eyes.

  After all this time, his father still wanted, still needed, to drink.

  Prick. Pathetic, old, hateful prick, Drew thought, eyeing his father with all the compassion of a boy frying ants with a magnifying glass.

  “You know, I never did understand whether it was the booze that made you crazy or you were just born that way.”

  Rick’s hand inched toward the cup.

  “I used to wonder what it was that made you destroy everyone you touched.”

  Rick’s fingers shook and stretched, reaching. Drew smirked and moved the cup beyond his father’s grasp. The old man’s lips trembled.

  “Then I realized it didn’t matter. You ruined everything, you malignant old fuck.”

  Rick’s tongue flicked out between bloodless lips like a rain-fat worm. Contempt flared Drew’s nostrils wide, and he bent forward, leaning close enough to catch of whiff of his father’s stinking breath.

  “I was looking forward to watching you slowly rot away in this damnable place, but sadly, I’m out of time.”

  Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Drew lifted the coffee cup to his father’s greedy lips. Rick sucked the coffee down. Drew smacked a hand over the old man’s mouth and watched Rick’s Adam’s apple bob once. Twice. Satisfied, Drew downed the rest of the coffee. He crushed the empty cup and tossed it in a trash can.

  Thirty seconds later, choking, gurgling sounds erupted from his father’s swelling lips. Rick’s fat fingers scratched desperately at his throat, trembling, shaking, clawing as he struggled to draw in a breath. Drew stared into his panicked, desperate eyes. The old man was pleading, begging for help.

  Drew stood transfixed. A slow grin spread across his face. His whole childhood, Rick had been the source of pain and punishment—the monster in his nightmares. Now here he was, helpless. Desperate. Dying.

  How many times had he lain in bed, bleeding, fantasizing about this moment—about how he would kill his father? He’d thought about stabbing him, shooting him, strangling the life out of the old man with his bare hands. But he’d never imagined this. Never dreamed the sight of his father’s slow decay would be so wholly and deeply satisfying.

  Finally Drew turned his back on his father’s writhing form.

  “Help,” he called, stepping away from the wheelchair. “Help.”

  Orderlies converged in a rush. Rick’s face was swelling, turning blue. He thrashed violently in the wheelchair. One of the orderlies turned back toward Drew.

  “What happened?”

  Drew shook his head, eyes wide. “I don’t know. He just started choking.”

  The orderly’s badge dangled inches from Drew’s hand. He snatched it. In all the chaos, no one noticed him slip from the room.

  An alarm sounded, and more staff scurried down the hall, ran for the solarium, where Rick was in full anaphylactic shock.

  Drew turned away from the desk and hurried toward the medication closet. Every second fat fuck in this sorry place had to be a diabetic. How hard would it be to find some insulin?

  Drew swiped the card across the smooth surface of the access reader. The reader beeped, but the light remained yellow. Drew frowned. He rattled the door. It refused to open. He tried again. Same result. He yanked harder.

  Cursing under his breath, Drew swiped the card again. Denied. It wasn’t working.

  “Can I help you?” a woman called.

  He swiveled. The nurse from the desk was looking his way. Confusion wiped the half smile from her face.

  “You can’t go in there.”

  Drew wondered if her card would grant him access to the medication closet. All he wanted was some insulin. If he could get her card, maybe he could get inside.

  “Did you hear me?” she called again, louder this time.

  A security guard rounded the corner. Eyeing him, the guard tilted his head toward the walkie-talkie perched on his shoulder.

  Drew made a split-second decision. He sprinted down the hall at full speed. His feet pounded the hard tile floor. The shouting voices behind him closed in.

  The exit was a few feet away. He raised the access badge and swiped it across the reader. His heart stuttered. The green light flashed and he bolted out of the building, through the trees, to where he’d parked the Jeep only half an hour before.

  Chapter 53

  “Tell me everything you’ve got on Andrew Matthews,” Seth said as he burst through the office door.

  Henry Cahill’s fingers flew over the keyboard. He swung the monitor toward Seth. The Seattle Times news site showed a photograph of a Drew Matthews and Alicia Wright smiling into the camera. They looked like any young couple in love. Seth’s gut twisted as he recalled the dark blood smeared across Matthews’s floor.

  Was it Alicia’s blood? Was he already too late?

  “Henry, I need you to pull out all the stops to try and find Alicia Wright. Credit cards, cell phone—whatever kind of hacker black magic you have, use it. We need to locate her. Now.”

  Cahill’s brow wrinkled. Confused, he stared back at Seth.

  “Her? Why her? Why not Matthews?”

  “We need to find him too. Right now, though, I’m more worried about what he might have done to Alicia.”

  “You mean Alistair Wright’s daughter?” Marissa asked, entering the room with a coffee cup in her hand.

  She looked tired. They all did.

  “You know her?” Seth asked.

  “I met her at the benefit. She was there with her father.”

  “Was she with anyone else?”

  “Well, I think her fiancé was there too, but I didn’t actually see him. He was outside when I . . .”

  Marissa stopped in midsentence. Seth looked up. The coffee cup slipped from her fingers and smashed on the floor, raining shards of glass and hot coffee everywhere. Cahill jumped back, avoiding the spray. The color drained from her cheeks.

  Seth shifted his gaze from Marissa back to Cahill’s monitor, trying to figure out what he was missing.

  “That’s . . .”

  “Andrew Matthews, we know . . .”

  Marissa shook her head.

  “No, that’s Andrew Bowman.”

  Andrew Bowman? Why did that name sound so familiar?

  “Your stepson?”

  “Rick’s son. Yes.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “He looks older, of course, but that’s him.”

  Seth reached for her. Trembling, Marissa tipped her forehead against his shoulder, and he tightened his hold.

  “What does this mean?” she whispered.

  Nothing good, he didn’t say.

  Marissa pulled back, her wide eyes bri
mming with fear. “Why would he do this? Why Brooke?”

  “I don’t know, Marissa. I need you to write down everything you can remember about him. Can you do that?”

  She nodded.

  “Just find him,” she said.

  “Henry . . .”

  “I’m on it.”

  Seth pulled a cell phone from his pocket and dialed Garcia’s number.

  “Jesus, Crawford. What now?”

  “Andrew Matthews may not actually be Andrew Matthews.”

  Garcia sighed. “If this is some kind of riddle, I don’t have time. Out with it.”

  “Andrew Matthews may not be his real name. He might actually be Andrew Bowman.”

  Garcia fell silent. Seth pictured her standing with the cell phone pressed against her ear, pinching the bridge of her nose. Finally she spoke.

  “How do you know this?”

  “Marissa Rooney. Andrew Bowman was her ex-husband’s son. Brooke is his stepsister.”

  “Oh, man.”

  “I thought you should know.”

  The irritation disappeared from her voice. “Call me if you get anything else.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  Seth hung up the phone.

  Marissa sat beside Cahill, furiously scribbling in her notebook. Cahill stared intensely at his computer screen.

  “Wait . . .” Cahill muttered.

  “What is it?”

  “The last ping from Alicia’s cell phone was earlier this morning near Tacoma.”

  “Tacoma?” Seth circled the desk, trying to piece together the story in his head. “What would she be doing there? Where does she work?”

  Cahill frowned. “At a financial firm downtown.”

  “So midmorning on a work day she takes off to Tacoma?”

  “Do you suppose she has a client there?”

  Seth clicked on the investment firm’s web page.

  “Does this look like the kind of place that has clients in Tacoma?”

  “Now you’re profiling,” Cahill said with a wry grin.

  “Keep looking.”

  Seth paced the floor. According to his neighbor, Andy had had a fight with his girlfriend. Not long afterward he’d left town on a business trip. Was he heading out of state? Was Alicia with him? He assumed it was Alicia’s blood on the floor. But what if he was wrong?