The Darkest Place Page 6

  “I had to fight like hell to get you this job, Deke. I’d like to see you at least fight like hell to keep it.”

  “Maybe I should talk to Wilson, let him know I want to do better.”

  “I think you should just stay out of his sight for a while. It’s a matter of attendance now. You won’t do yourself any good walking into the chancellor’s office looking like that.”

  “I appreciate this, Doc.”

  Mercer crumpled up the paper towel and tossed it into the garbage can. “I’ve got some Old Spice in my office. Why don’t you stop by and splash some on.”

  “Okay.”

  Mercer looked at his watch. “Time to get to work now.”

  Kane nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Mercer left. Kane waited till the door closed, then tore off a piece of paper towel and dried his face with it. He moved carefully over the scratches, then dried his hands and tossed the damp towel into the trash. He glanced at himself in the mirror again. He looked like all kinds of hell, there was no way around that. But the outside was nothing compared to what was on the inside. He had that much going for him at least. What couldn’t be seen was the part of him that wanted—needed—to skip out early so he could slip into bed beside Meg as she napped, naked, dried paint on her hands, calm now that she’d got some work done. But he couldn’t ignore what Mercer had said. There wasn’t much that Kane could do to earn money; there weren’t a lot of people clamoring for his particular skills. A BA from a lesser-known college, two novels soon to fall out of print, this was about all he had going for him.

  Before he’d sold his first novel and had been able to write full time, Kane had made a living tending bar. But he couldn’t go back to that, couldn’t make his living by getting people drunk. That was bad karma. And he wasn’t like Mercer. After Kane’s year in exile, a year of relative inactivity, just the idea of physical labor was enough to kill him, never mind what actual physical labor would do. But aside from that, the East End of Long Island wasn’t the place to go looking for a job, any kind of job, not in December. What could he do that would make him enough money to remain living near Meg except teach?

  Kane thought of Bill Young again. He could see the man, see him clearly, remember the day he last saw Young, just before he disappeared in disgrace, before they fired him. Kane’s own office had once been Young’s, and Kane had come there so many times to visit the man, to talk about everything; about books and about women—finding them, lying with them in the dark, then losing them again. Kane had come to that office to tell Young about a woman Kane had met, a woman named Patricia. Months later Kane had come back there to tell Young that Patricia was pregnant and that they would be getting married. Kane had even named his son Will, in tribute to the man who had meant so much to him.

  Kane knew right then that he needed to keep this gig. He couldn’t bear yet another loss. The first step was, as Mercer had told him, to stay the whole day, to show the administration what it needed to see, to give Mercer something with which to fight for Kane. Still, Meg was there, was in his head, front and center, clouding his thoughts like a bad cold. Kane hadn’t lied to the detectives when he told them that was why he had missed classes one day last week, whatever day it had been. He hadn’t lied to them about anything. He had nothing to hide, nothing except who Meg was and where she lived. And who could blame him for that? He’d made a promise to her back when they started their affair, a promise meant to keep her from losing everything, the way he had lost everything. No matter what, he would keep that promise. No one—not her, not anyone—should have to lose everything.

  Three

  IN THE VILLAGE OF NORTH SEA, JUST AS THE SUN BEGAN TO FALL behind the bare trees that bordered the tiny yard behind his apartment, Reggie Clay awoke. Though it was only four-thirty, dark wasn’t that far off. On his stomach, his massive arms and legs hanging over the edges of his sagging mattress, Clay watched through tired eyes as shadows collected in the corners of his small bedroom. Night came suddenly this time of year, the twilight leading up to it brief. It took only fifteen minutes for the shadows in the corners of his room to grow in size and begin to spread out across the floor. They moved slowly but steadily at first, like ice melting into a shallow puddle of dark water. Clay, mostly awake but still facedown, watched the gradual transition carefully. He didn’t really need to, he’d seen it enough times already. But still he watched. He rarely got to see more than a few moments of sunlight this time of year. It was an occupational hazard, the nature of the business. So he’d take all he could get, even if it was only these few moments of dying light. The first day of winter was less than a week away. The shortest day of the year would be followed by the longest span of winter night. Clay was eager for it to come, to have that day behind him for one more year. He’d felt that way since autumn arrived three months before, since the days started getting shorter and shorter and the darkness of night was about all he ever got to see of the world.

  A little before five all trace of blue was gone from the sky outside his window, and the shadows in his corners had grown into the surrounding darkness. Clay finally got up then. He was beat, and there was stiffness in his back from having spent most of the night before sitting behind the wheel of his car. How long since his last day off, he wondered. Fourteen days? Fifteen? He couldn’t remember. After seven or eight days, though, did it even really matter? He wasn’t looking forward to what awaited him tonight, to the job that needed to get done. But there was nothing he could do about that. He was in motion now, heading yet again toward something he’d be better off not having seen.

  He weighed himself first thing, like always. Still two-sixty, still the same solid build, more or less, that he’d had in high school ten years before, when he was a champion wrestler. His size and power were important to him, always had been. First as a bouncer at a bar called the Hansom House, then as a security guard at the hospital. Together his size and power had stopped things before they could even get started. Certainly now they both made this job easier, for the most part, anyway, at least in certain situations. After weighing himself he brewed some coffee, did some push-ups, three sets of fifty, while he waited. Then he drank a cup while standing in his boxers and T-shirt in the kitchen. The linoleum was cold beneath his bare feet, and he knew by this that the weather hadn’t ended. Not that he had expected it to. The radio had said this record-breaking cold was going to be around for days. He thought about this as he finished his first cup of coffee, thought of the people, for one reason or another, who were lost in this cold, forced out into it, stuck in it. Then he showered, lingering under the hot stream for longer than usual, and picked out his clothes—dark slacks, a blue dress shirt, plain dark shoes. He only wore a tie when it was absolutely necessary, when he was required to appear in court for a client. But that was seldom enough. He knew, though, that the boy’s parents would need to look at him tonight and see a professional, without a doubt a capable man. They would need that even more so now that they were grieving. So it was the least he could do for them, looking the part, particularly since any information he gathered at this point would probably do little to ease their suffering. If anything, in fact, it would only deepen it. He was more certain of that than he was of anything. Five years on this job had taught him nothing else the way it had taught him that.

  Usually Sophia was up now, the two of them trying to get ready for work at the same time. But she was covering for a day-shift nurse who had gone on vacation this week, so Clay had the place to himself for the first time since they had moved in together three years before. He wasn’t at all accustomed to it, but then again they usually just got in each other’s way and ended up bickering, so as strange as it was to be alone now, he didn’t mind the freedom of movement and the quiet. Once he was dressed he poured another cup of coffee and sat with only the kitchen light turned on, the rest of the apartment in darkness. Sophia had the bad habit of switching on lights as she entered rooms, and then leaving them on as she exited. It was one o
f the things they bickered about, one of the many things. Now, though, without her present to turn lights on as she went about getting ready for work, Clay was confronted by even more darkness than he was used to. It closed in on him, or so he felt, crowding him. All he thought about as he sat there was that this coming week couldn’t pass fast enough for him.

  Eventually he finished his second cup, took it to the sink to rinse it out, and caught his reflection in the window before him. He stared at it for a while. His skin was dark, not as dark as the night sky beyond, but he could see that he came close to blending in with it. His hair was buzzed to the scalp, his head the size of a crash helmet. The nice clothes he had chosen were an attempt at negating this, negating the color of his skin and the fact that he generally filled every doorway through which he moved. As much as his size and the color of his skin were helpful in some situations, in others they were a handicap. He had noticed that people reacted to him differently when he dressed down, those few times in the beginning when he wore jeans and a sweatshirt and sneakers while on a case. This was probably the first thing he learned when he had gotten into this business. A well-dressed black man seemed to have less explaining to do, struck those inclined to be intimidated by such a thing as less of a threat. Clients, cops, the people from whom he needed to get particular pieces of information, they all seemed to let their guard down, at least a little, when he dressed like a bank teller.

  Clay looked at his reflection for a moment longer, then eventually refocused his eyes and looked at the nothingness beyond. The night was silky black, drained of all light. There was a thermometer outside the window. He looked it and didn’t want to believe what he read. Six below. Shit. What he wouldn’t give for the phone to ring, he thought, for tonight’s job to be called off. He could stay home, stay warm, watch TV. But the local cops would have to do their job for that to happen, and Clay knew all too well that that wasn’t likely. No, the family wasn’t going to cancel. The need to comprehend what was incomprehensible was a need that overrode the desire to keep out of the cold. It overrode even grief. As much as he wished they would, for their sake and for his, the family wasn’t going to cancel. At six Clay put on his winter coat and gloves and hat, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.

  The deli below their apartment was closing up already. Winter hours. Normally Clay picked up something to eat from there for later on but didn’t bother tonight. He’d be close to town all night, and anyway, he hoped to be home sooner than later. He climbed in behind the wheel of his silver Dodge Intrepid and followed North Sea Road south to Sunrise Highway, then crossed Sunrise and followed North Main into Southampton. The village was dead most of the shops already closed for the night. Restaurants were the only sign of life. About every fifty feet along the wide redbrick sidewalks that lined both sides of Main Street stood lighted, six-foot-tall Christmas trees. The town had put them up the week after Thanksgiving. But the trees had remained there for too long now, or at least so Clay felt. A case of too much too soon, and for too long. The season felt tired, played out. Clay rode along Main Street, looking as he went at the shops to his right—the Golden Pear, on the corner of Nugent and Main Street, and next to it a gallery, and next to that the bookstore, cleverly named Bookhampton South. A few doors down from the bookstore was the frozen yogurt place, and next to that, the magazine shop owned by the Miller kid.

  Clay slowed so he could get a good look inside. Miller’s shop, like the others in town, was closed. But Clay knew that two nights a week Miller stayed late, packing up boxes in the back, preparing the out-of-date magazines to be returned to their distributors. Whenever Miller did that, the light that burned in the back room was visible from outside. But Clay didn’t see any kind of light at all tonight coming from inside. He knew by this that Miller was already gone. Miller had a history with Clay’s boss, and Clay knew all about it. It was because of this history that Miller felt he had something to prove. He’d been the worst sort of punk when he was younger, but, it seemed, had put all that behind him. He wanted to “be on their team,” to help out in any way he could. It had the feel to Clay of the zeal of a crusader at times, of a play for redemption. This was dangerous, Clay thought. They had hired Miller a few times to get information they needed and that the kid could obtain without raising too much suspicion. He did good work, was thoughtful and capable. And, being the son of the former chief, he probably had it in his blood. But that was as far as they had let it go. Both Clay and his boss were in agreement on this. Maybe Clay had wanted to protect the kid, keep him from seeing the ugliness Clay himself had seen in the years since he got into private investigations. Maybe the kid’s eagerness clashed with the dread and hesitancy that plagued Clay of late. Or maybe Clay, deep down, just questioned anyone willing to rush into other people’s dirty business. Clay hadn’t expected things to be the way they were, to have seen the things he’d seen. If he could get out, he would. That would make Sophia happy. But he couldn’t, not now, not yet.

  Clay hoped to avoid Miller tonight. But with the kid not busy at his shop, there was no knowing where he was now, no being certain that he wouldn’t show up. The last thing Clay wanted was to have to make a scene in front of the family. He wanted tonight to go as smoothly, and as quickly, as possible, to make things as easy for them as he could. He wanted to be on his way before Miller had time to find them.

  At the end of Main Street, Clay turned right onto Job’s Lane, heading west now. After a block Job’s Lane became Hill Street. Clay continued westward. To his left were mansions, to his right smaller, more modest homes, or at least modest by comparison. A mile to the south was the Atlantic Ocean. Clay imagined it, imagined the icy water crashing onto the shore with a roar, receding with a hiss. It was difficult for him to picture anyone willingly walking into that, no matter what their frame of mind. After two miles Hill Street became Montauk Highway and ran along the edge of the Indian reservation. Clay followed that for another half mile, then pulled into a dirt parking lot on the left-hand side of the desolate road. On the edge of that lot was a narrow, two-story building—a bar called The Still. A dozen cars were gathered around it. On the far side of the lot was a red pickup truck. It was Vicki’s truck. Clay could see her waiting behind the wheel. The black Infiniti was there as well, not far from the truck. Clay pulled in between the two vehicles and parked.

  The driver’s door of the Infiniti opened first. A tall man in jeans and a leather jacket over a hooded sweatshirt got out. The jacket looked expensive but his face was unshaved, his short hair mussed. He hadn’t looked any better when Clay met him and his wife two days before, when they had come to hire Clay to find their missing son.

  The driver’s door to the pickup truck opened next. Vicki climbed down, then led her dog, Ginger, out. A purebred bloodhound, Ginger was old, but she moved briskly enough, her tail wagging wildly. Free from the confines of the cab of the truck, she immediately shook her head. Strands of drool went flying. Then she shook her entire body. Vicki held on to the long leash with a strong hand. It had clearly been, for the bloodhound, a long ride out from Huntington.

  Clay joined them, shaking hands, patting the dog on its head. The man in the expensive leather jacket was named Foster. His eyes were bloodshot, a little glassy. He moved stiffly, as if he had only moments before broken from some deep daze. Clay wondered how long the man had been here waiting, sitting behind the wheel of his car, nothing to do but think.

  He introduced Foster to Vicki. She was an energetic woman, in her late fifties, Clay guessed. Deep wrinkles lined her face, the result of a lifetime spent outdoors. She had worked for Clay several times before, always showed results. But more than that, she was good with the families, smiled warmly at them, as if to tell them that everything was going to be okay. Clay appreciated having someone like her with whom he could share that particular burden. Tonight Vicki was wearing a long barn coat, jeans, and Timberland boots. A wool cap hid most of her short, graying hair. She shook hands with Foster, then patted the bloodho
und on her head to keep her still.

  “My wife wanted to be here,” Foster said. “But she just wasn’t up to it. A doctor gave her something to calm her down.”

  “She’s back at the motel?” Clay said.

  Foster nodded. “Her sister came out today to help us out.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Vicki offered.

  Foster thanked her, but it really wasn’t much more than an automatic response. He seemed almost spooked, like maybe he wasn’t even sure where he was or what was being said to him. Clay wondered if Foster could even feel the bitter cold wind that at times buffeted him.

  “Did you bring a piece of your son’s clothing?” Clay said.

  Foster reached back into his car and retrieved a clear plastic Baggie. He handed it to Clay. Inside was what looked like a T-shirt.

  “His roommate said that’s what Larry slept in the night before he disappeared,” Foster said.

  “That’s fine,” Clay said.

  Vicki nodded. “It’s perfect.”

  Clay handed the plastic Baggie to her. She zipped it open and bent down, holding the Baggie so the bloodhound could smell it. The dog went for it almost hungrily, digging her snout inside and sniffing. Vicki waited patiently till the dog abandoned the Baggie on her own and tore off on the scent. She towed Vicki with her, heading toward the bar, stopping outside its front entrance. Clay and Foster followed, staying a few yards behind. At the doorway the bloodhound paused, sniffing frantically. Then suddenly she tore off again, heading across the dirt parking lot and toward the dark two-lane road.

  “She’s got it,” Vicki announced.

  Clay and Foster followed. The bloodhound was tugging hard, straining against her harness. At the edge of the parking lot she paused for only a second, maybe two, before turning to the left sharply. She moved along the shoulder of the road, heading west, toward the college. The campus was only a half mile away.