Daddy Darkest

by Ellery Kane

  “Help me dig.” I laughed out loud. It wasn’t funny. Not at all. Seeing my mother root her hands into the earth, her face already red with the effort, disturbed a part of me I couldn’t name. So many things bubbled up inside me, pushing to the surface, they needed an escape. So, I laughed. The kind of hysterical laughter that leaves you aching and breathless. My mother barely noticed. Even when I doubled over, she didn’t look up. And I only laughed harder. And harder still, until the tight cord within me unwound. My stomach loose and exhausted, I took a step forward and spotted it through watery eyes, just beneath my feet. Lucky, because if I hadn’t, I would’ve fallen in. Sprained my ankle. Or worse.

  “I think you’re digging in the wrong spot,” I said, gaping down into the deep hole. At least four feet down. Further than we’d have ever gone with just our hands. Rich, black soil piled on either side. And in it, something indiscernible. “Someone’s already been here.” In my mind, that someone was a him, but I couldn’t say that out loud. Not here. Not in this place. This place that felt enchanted. Him. It sounded too much like an invitation, a hex.

  Wide-eyed, my mother spun on her heels, brandishing a broken tree branch in her hand like a weapon. She seemed alien in the way she stalked, making a slow circle around us, peering into the woods where it was all tangles and shadows. My heart thwacked against my rib cage, demanding to escape from here, to flee the way I wanted to.

  “He’s gone,” she said finally, confirming my worst fears. “Is it empty?”

  I shook my head not knowing if that was good or bad. My mother trudged toward me and joined me at the edge. At her sides, her hands were caked with soil. Her cheeks smudged with it. The freshly dug earth smelled of Bellwether after a heat shower. Those sudden moments of release that pour down in late August, when the air is too hot to breathe. Ginny and I would put on our bathing suits and run through her yard like little girls soaking in the last bit of freedom before school started.

  “Three-fifty—to the right of the tree with a mouth. How did I miss it?” she muttered, talking but not to me. A fat drop of sweat rolled down her nose, and she wiped it with the back of her hand, leaving a new dirt smear. Then, without warning, she lowered herself down, legs deep, into the hole and produced a box from its bottom.

  “Here,” she said, passing it up to me. I didn’t want to take it. It didn’t belong to me. Or my mother. It belonged to the past. To Clare Keely. I had no choice but to accept it. It wasn’t heavy, and I tried to feel reassured. “Don’t open it.” As if. It was secured with a combination lock, and my own dread was enough to keep me out. Instead, I studied its strange markings: 200 cartridges. 7.62 mm. M13. Overhead fire.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  My mother planted her palms in the dirt and hoisted herself up and out, grunting with the effort. “It’s an old military ammo can. Weatherproof. Good for burying things.” Things. I supposed things were better than people. I didn’t want her answers, so I didn’t ask any more questions. I wasn’t ready for all of Clare Keely yet. “I stored it here for safekeeping.”

  The wind picked up a little, slipping its invisible fingers through the trees. Their prehistoric trunks didn’t budge, of course. Fire, flood, nothing could move them. But their branches were fickle, stirring and rustling, their soft whirring the soundtrack of a nightmare. My mother heard it too. She took the box from me and started walking, head down, as fast as she could go. I followed her out the way we came. In silence. With a single question turning over and over in my mind like the stones beneath my feet. Safekeeping from whom?

  We drove for a while with the box a stanchion between us. It sat there, a tight-lipped guest, holding its secrets, while my mother piloted us through the forest and the last remnants of daylight. I heard her humming softly—she did that sometimes when she was nervous. After she stopped, she released a long, rattled breath. “I had to get out of there,” she said, taking the box onto her lap. “It felt haunted, didn’t it?” I nodded and laughed, a little giddy with relief.

  In the soft light of the car, her fingers shook as she spun the dial. Three times to the right. Stop. One time to the left. Stop. One time to the right. Stop. Just like my locker at school. The shackle popped open, and she turned to me, almost surprised. “It was so long ago.”

  “You buried it?” It came out like a question. I hoped it was a safe one, the kind that skirted the boundary of all I didn’t want to know.

  “In 1997.” She cracked the lid, and her face paled a sickly white. I wanted to run away. To never know what was inside. If a ghost roamed those woods, it had hitched a ride with us. It hunkered in there, biding its time, its bones cooling and turning to dust. And we were about to release it.

  The box open now, my mother reached inside and removed the items one by one. She placed them on the console.

  A massive wad of one-hundred-dollar bills, wrapped tight with a rubber band. Maybe this won’t be so bad.

  A large enveloped, unopened.

  A gun. The same kind we had at home. My mother removed the clip to check it was loaded, then released the slide to chamber a round. That unmistakable sound always twisted my stomach. It came with a warning—the first rule of gun safety. Never point your weapon at anything you’re not willing to destroy. What was Clare Keely willing to destroy?

  A note was last, scrawled on a scrap of paper. Transfixed, she held it longer than it took to read. I finally plucked it from her frozen hand like a petal.

  My dearest Clare,

  Three-hundred-fifty paces to the right of the tree that looks like a mouth. It was all there, just the way you said it would be a lifetime ago. But I’ve left it for you—all of it—because I know where you’re going. And it’s only fair you have a weapon. As you know, I prefer knives.

  Yours always,

  Clive

  16

  BUZZARDS

  “When we get there, you have to stay in the car.” My mother didn’t tell me, but I suspected there was Muir Beach. We’d been following the signs for the last few miles—still hurtling faster than the posted speed limits—in what was shaping up to be the blackest night I’d seen since home. She hadn’t mentioned the note folded in my palm. The note that addressed her like a lover. The note penned by a murderer. “Promise me you’ll stay in the car. No matter what.”

  “Get where?” I played dumb.

  “Samantha! Promise me!” Her voice so last-gasp, so imploring, I couldn’t deny it. It sounded like the wail of a trapped animal.

  “Okay, okay. I promise.” When she looked at me, her eyes were wild, but focused. I only stared ahead, scanning the narrow road. Not another car in sight. I wished for a crash. It wasn’t so far-fetched. After all, it had happened to my grandmother. All it took was one hairpin turn a little too fast. My mother would lose control and send us skidding broadside into the trees. They wouldn’t mind. They’d seen worse. That was the only way this would stop. My own rancid desperation rose up like acid in my throat. Hot and sour.

  “If I don’t come back in thirty minutes, drive to the city and find Agent McKinnon. Do not come and look for me.” She floored it now like her foot had its own life—a miserable life it wanted to end. I reconsidered my wish and dug my hands into the seat at my sides, holding on as tight as I could. “Slow down, Mom.” A bird struck the car with a sudden, sick thud. Its brown wings fluttered against the windshield and went still.

  “Oh God,” she said. “Oh God.” She slammed the brakes, and I jolted forward, bracing myself against the dash. The bird’s small body lay on the hood, broken. “Oh God,” she repeated again, rocking against the seat. “It’s dead, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to do it.” I watched my mother with wariness as she dissolved in tears. Clare Bronwyn didn’t cry. Not at movies. Not at funerals. Not at my graduation. Not even when we found buzzards circling her favorite cow, and she had to put her down with the rifle she kept in the shed to scare off coyotes. But this Clare was different. “I’m so sorry.” I couldn’t tell if the apology was meant for
me or the bird. Either way, she kept saying it, soft like a prayer, as she put the car in park and got out. Cupping the bird in her hands, she carried it to the edge of the forest and laid it on the grass. When she returned, her face calmed again.

  “We’re almost there,” she said, driving away as if nothing happened.

  My mother’s weakness made me bold. It was now or never. “Are you going to see . . . him?” Of all the questions I could have asked, it was the dumbest, the answer so obvious she didn’t need to give it. So obvious it could have been written on the sign in the car’s headlights, as clear as the bold white letters: MUIR BEACH, GOLDEN GATE RECREATIONAL AREA.

  She guided the car into the empty lot and took the gun from under her seat, where she’d placed it. “You remember what I told you, right? Don’t look for me.” She left the car running and opened the door. The air rushed in, cold and wet.

  “You’re leaving? Just like that? With no explanation?” I grabbed her arm to stop her, and she made a face like she’d been stung. “Why did you even bring me with you?”

  “I meant to tell you everything on the way here. That’s why. And I thought I could do it, but I can’t. Not yet.”

  “Everything? You mean there’s more?” More than Clare Keely, the psychologist? More than a box buried in the woods? More than a note from Clive Cullen? More than that? The swell of anger I’d been stamping down since this morning broke through, and I heard the indignation in my voice. My mother offered only a sheepish shrug in lieu of an admission. “What are you waiting for? Go ahead. Tell me.”

  “I have to find Ginny first. Cullen’s right. If she dies, it’s my fault. I’ve already done enough. There’s blood on my hands.” She glanced nervously at her fingers, wrapped tight on the gun’s grip, as if she expected them to be dripping red.

  It was hard to be mad, to stay mad, when she seemed so fragile, as delicate as the bird that met its end against the windshield. “It’s not your fault, Mom. How could you stop him? And he came after me, remember? How do you know he’s not watching us right now, just waiting for you to leave?”

  For a moment, my questions silenced us both. Beyond the lights of the parking lot, the night extended on forever. I imagined Clive Cullen beneath that dark veil, marking time, sharpening his knife. But I didn’t let myself picture Ginny. “This is about me, Samantha. What I did to him. I’m the only one who can fix this. I’m the one he wants.” I nodded because I couldn’t speak. “I love you,” she said. “Lock the door.” She closed it without looking back and headed in the direction of the beach.

  This is crazy. I sat up tall, flipped up the visor mirror and caught a glimpse of my harried frown. And this is what crazy looks like. It seemed like an hour, but only six minutes had passed since my mom abandoned me on her utterly unromantic stroll on the beach, armed and in pursuit of an escaped convict. I almost started the hysterical-laughing thing again, but then I kicked the ammo canister on the floorboard, spilling the contents around my feet.

  The unopened envelope presented a welcome distraction, so I retrieved it and examined it more closely. Its edges were tinged with age, but otherwise it was completely nondescript. Inside, I felt something hard and flat. I slid my finger beneath the seal, and the glue gave way, prompting an annoying pinch of guilt at my chest. Surely there were times when snooping was permissible, even appropriate. Surely this was one of them.

  I emptied the envelope onto my lap. Two passports tumbled out. Two faces I recognized. Two names I didn’t. The first face belonged to my mother. A younger version, anyway. Blonde and shiny. She flirted with the camera without smiling. I’d never seen her do that before. As pretty as she was—and believe me, all the boys at Bellwether High never let me forget it—she detested pictures. Apparently, Clare Keely did not. The other face belonged to Cutthroat Cullen.

  If I didn’t know the passports were counterfeit, I wouldn’t have been able to tell. Not like the obvious fake licenses Ginny scored for us last year, the ones we brought with us for the hot spots. I would’ve believed those two cunning half-smiles—those four clever eyes—belonged to Kevin and Anna Johnson of Beverly Hills. I held them side by side under the light. They looked good together, a handsome couple. And that disturbed me most of all. Not the secrets she’d unearthed, but the ones that stayed buried, the ones I could only guess at. The skeletal remains of the life before me.

  I leaned back in my seat and conjured the only sure-fire thing that helped me relax. I stood at the free-throw line, ball in hand. Never break routine. I bounced the ball three times, then spun it between my hands. I took in a quick breath and set my sights on the square above the hoop. The ball left my fingers in a rainbow arch and plummeted downward with enviable rotation. It headed for the net—on its way to swish—so I could start again from the beginning. Never break routine. But it didn’t get there. Mid-flight, a man’s face appeared in the window, and I screamed.

  17

  LONG AND WEIRD

  I registered the baseball cap first—Oakland A’s. That looked familiar. Then, the eyes. Bright, green, and unmistakable. Finally, the voice. Smooth and direct, even though it was muffled by the window. A voice that would have the right answers. A voice that would tell me what to do. “Stop screaming.” I didn’t think I had been, but I clamped my hand over my mouth just in case. “Open the door.”

  “Did anyone ever tell you that you make a lousy entrance?” I asked Levi, lifting up on the driver’s side handle. I tried to stifle my relief. I didn’t want him to know I was glad to see him. Not until I knew he was glad to see me.

  He shrugged, lowered the duffel bag from his shoulder, and climbed inside. “I tapped first, but you didn’t hear me. Did anyone ever tell you,” he mimicked, “that you have the scream of that chick from Psycho?”

  “You mean Janet Leigh? The blonde bombshell? I’ll take that as a compliment.” I let my grin mirror his, wide and sly. He was glad to see me. “Speaking of psycho, it looks like you’re following me again. What are you doing here?” It wasn’t my real question. I wanted to ask how he knew about this place—no—how my mother knew. Someone had to unmask Clare Keely, but I was still too scared to see underneath.

  “Same as you.”

  “What am I doing here?” Levi snuck a glance at the passports on my lap, and I covered them with my palm. Administrative leave aside, he was still a police officer, and I was fairly certain my mom had done something—possibly a lot of things—that were not exactly legal. “Maybe you can shed some light.”

  “Hunting a serial killer, I presume,” he said, gesturing to my closed fist. “Where did you get those?”

  “Long story,” I said. “Long and weird.”

  “Well, you can tell me on the way then.” He turned off the ignition, removed the keys and handed them to me.

  “On the way?”

  “You weren’t just going to let your mom wander off in the woods alone, were you?”

  “She told me to stay here. And how did you know—”

  He interrupted me with a murmur of disapproval. “If I remember correctly, she also told you not to come on this trip in the first place.”

  “I should’ve listened.” If only I could take it back. Rewind. I desperately needed a do over.

  “Then I’d be all alone out here.”

  “I get the feeling you’d do alright. You probably work better without a partner. Especially a naïve eighteen-year-old from the sticks, right?”

  “Usually. But don’t sell yourself short. After all, you are a Texas girl. I hear they’re pretty scrappy despite their overwhelming lack of experience.”

  Ignoring my eye roll, Levi slipped a small flashlight from his pocket and exited the car. He motioned for me to follow, then started walking toward the road. The wrong direction. “She didn’t go that way,” I called to him through my open door, still planted in my seat.

  He stopped, but didn’t look back. “That’s probably what she wanted you to think. I know where she’s going. Trust me, it’s this way.
”

  “How do you know?”

  He groaned and turned to me. I expected exasperated Levi—jaw clenched, brows furrowed—but his face didn’t give him away. Or maybe he had more patience than I credited him with. Probably a side effect of dealing with wackos like Skinny. “It’s a long story. Long and weird,” he parroted. I watched the corner of his mouth turn up, and I made a decision. Maybe I was more Keely than Bronwyn.

  “I guess you can tell me on the way then.” I put one foot on the ground and waited.

  “Partners?” he asked.

  “On one condition.” Two feet on the ground now, I stood firm. “I need an answer. An honest one.”

  “What’s the question?”

  Sometimes, asking is like heaving up a half-court shot to beat the buzzer. Other times, it’s drawing back on a bow and setting free a piercing arrow. I knew it would hit its mark, and it would sting. But I did it anyway. Before I took a single step in his direction, I needed to know the score. “What does your dad’s death have to do with Cullen? I know he committed suicide.”

  His reply came with no trace of mystery. For once, no slipperiness. Just a straight arrow shot right back to me with unequivocal pain. “That’s the thing, Sam. He didn’t.”

  November 27, 1996

  Clare skipped her morning run. She couldn’t be late. That would look bad. Not that it could look any worse. Her client was dead. And she hadn’t reported for work at all yesterday. No call, no show. She spent the day after—after her mother, after Cullen, after Dumas—making love to Neal. His words. It didn’t erase the before, but it dulled her senses enough. Neal thought he’d comforted her, soothed her pain. Really, she was just holding her breath underwater.