The Last Whisper in the Dark: A Novel (24 page)

I pulled into our driveway and noticed a couple of toppled trees at the edge of the woods. I’d have to clear them out early before my father got it in his mind to do the same. I didn’t want him anywhere near that brush.

I walked through the house checking on everyone. My father was in bed asleep next to my mother. I was glad for it. I wanted him home and safe. I wanted us all together. Dale had fallen asleep reading
Tiny Alice
. I liked the work of Albee but didn’t particularly understand that play either. She had a penchant for esoterica. I wondered how that would affect her career, if she ever managed to carve one out for herself.

I sat in front of my laptop and checked out the
ROGUES
site. There were no new videos of Dale running wild with the punks. I watched them piss on my brother’s grave again. I hit replay. The rage rose, passed through me, and hung in the night. I fell into bed and dreamed a black dream of my brother’s victims. I saw topless women running from the Blade. I woke covered in a chill sweat and the sun drying my brow.

It was after six. That was late for me.

I drove to Darla’s. As I moved up the stairs to her apartment, my
hand skimming the handrail, I spotted something down on the street that pushed a button. I didn’t know what it was, but I flattened myself against the stairwell wall.

I eased back down to the ground floor and scanned the area again. I felt the same pressure of memory but nothing more came into focus. I didn’t see anyone. I moved back up the stairs and knocked on her door.

TheIt took me aplas television was on low, but it seemed to be a horror movie, with screams. There was a scuffling of activity within. I heard Darla murmur. It sounded pained. I tried the door and it was locked. It would take me twenty seconds to pop the lock. I took a step back, set myself, and kicked the door in.

Darla was slipping into her robe, tying the belt loosely around her waist, one breast out.

Sheas she was in

The curve of the knife missed me by a full inch
as it whistled past. Blake tried to take another swipe, drawing the blade back in reverse, but I blocked his wrist with my forearm, ducked, and gave him a left-handed jab to the mouth, same as the other guy who had beat him up. He let out a startled sound but he was too high to really notice. Nox was still tweaking too, and got up to either join in or help me, but his foot was stuck in a bunch of yarn and he tripped over himself.

Darla shouted, “Erik, no! Stop! What are you doing?”

What he was doing was stabbing up at me with an underhand thrust. He was pretty good with the knife, either because he practiced and tried to live up to his “Blade” nickname, or just because the meth was giving him a surge of lunatic strength and speed. He still wasn’t talking, which was irritating as hell. Usually people who were trying to kill you liked to explain why they were doing it.

“What’s this about, Blade?” I asked.

“You should’ve stayed away. I warned you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

He kept lunging. I kept diverting his attack and punching him in the face. His nose and mouth were bleeding. A mouse had formed under the non-black eye. It was going to be a nice shiner, much better than the other.

“I told you!”

“No, you didn’t.”

The knife flashed again and I backed up and while I was pulling away he dropped his shoulders and bulled into me. I went over a stack of books and the two of us rolled out the door. We hit the far side of
the small vestibule at the top of the steps hard enough to rattle my teeth and make the back of my skull sing. Darla tried to follow us out but there wasn’t enough room. Our gazes met.

She">“Why not?”tp said, “Kill him if you have to, Terry.”

It was nice that she supported me anyway, but I really wished all these people would quit telling me to murder others on a whim. I didn’t need to ice this mook to stop him.

As I was thinking that he punched me square in the bad ribs and the pain ignited my head and made me cry out and I threw a wild punch that carried me over his shoulder and knocked the two of us down the flight of stairs together.

We tumbled and bounced into the walls and railing, flipping over each other. The best thing for me would’ve been to try to get on top of him and ride him down like a surfboard. But I really didn’t want to kill him. I made an effort to control our plunge, shifting so that we each took about half the brunt of the fall. I had him in a headlock and my shoulder cushioned his neck. I reached for the railing with my other hand but couldn’t get a grip as we zigged and zagged. Finally we came to a stop at the front entrance to the shop and my fist closed around the railing in time to keep us from both going headfirst out the glass security door.

The back of Blake’s head bled across the foyer floor and I was beside him with my shoulder wedged into the corner, my arm still around him like I was looking for a cuddle. My hand was smeared with his blood. His eyes slowly spun toward a stop. Darla appeared above us.

“Are you all right?” she asked me.

“I’ll let you know.”

“Erik? Erik?”

“Yes, Darla,” he said.

“What in the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I hurt my head.”

“I mean, why did you attack Terrier with a knife?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

I got to my feet and my knees were shaky. My ribs screamed and I let out a groan and Darla said, “Your ribs?”

“Yeah.”

“I have more Percocet.”

“Get them.”

“Come upstairs with me.”

“Not right now.”

“Will you be okay?”

“We’ll be fine.”

She turned and climbed the stairs two at a time. Blake looked at me and said, “I hurt my head.”

“You came at me with a hooked blade. You’re lucky I don’t beat your brains out against that bottom stair.”

I grabbed his knife and stuck it in my back pocket. He held his hand up like a child who wants Dad to give him a piggyback ride. I took his hand and helped him to his feet. The top of his scalp had been split open and blood ran into his hair and poured down his back and leaked out down his face. Nox had finally disentangled himself and came ploit off a line

“He might need an ambulance,” I said.

“It’s not his head, it’s the meth. He always acts like this after snorting a few lines. I mean, it takes him a while to come out of it. He gets a little crazy sometimes.”

“Wonderful. Carry him upstairs and put himhe back doortp some ice on his crown, patch him up a little, try to keep him awake. He might have a concussion.”

Nox checked the wound. He seemed to have a lot of experience with wounds of all kinds. “Nah, he’ll be fine.”

I could’ve knocked. I could’ve rung the bell. But
my mother was right: I was absolutely the kind of person who wanted to start up dramatics.

It took a long eight minutes to circumvent the security and get in through the back door. The overhang kept the rain off me. No one walked past. I didn’t have to worry about servants because there weren’t any anymore. Those days were gone.

I stepped inside. I felt as uncomfortable as the last time. I had exactly the same sense of exile as before.

I found him in the den again, this time seated at the huge maple desk, lost in thought. The weak glow of gray sunlight slipping in through the windows slid across the dark cherry paneling, draining color wherever it touched.

I entered his field of vision. He looked up.

He motioned to the portable bar and the top shelf liquor. “Drink?” he asked.

“It’s not even eight in the morning.”

“Can you pour me a bourbon?”

I poured the bourbon. “Ice or water?”

“Both,” he said.

I mixed in both, returned to where he sat, stood in front of his desk, and hurled the drink in his face.

He gasped and shot to his feet like he might take a poke at me. I came around the desk because I really wanted to see that. He thought better of it. He sat again. He pulled out a clean handkerchief and mopped his face. After he was done he looked at me and chuckled quietly.

He didn’t ask what I was doing there and he didn’t ask why I’d tossed the bourbon. His silence proved I was right.

Now I knew why my uncle Will hadn’t wanted me to listen to old Crowe and help him out with any absurd favors.

It was Will who ran the crank trade. He stole t have to think about it.lyed side by sidehe films and undercut All Hallows’ Eve. He ripped off his own father and went into competition against him and used the money to finance his own dealings while the old man lay slowly dying.

I remembered Blake saying,
How much do you know about your people? You have any idea what you’re getting into?

And my naive retort.
I think I’ll get the hang of it
.

Will and old Crowe were both scrambling to save their own careers, to gain back their fallen empires. Together they might’ve done it easily, but they’d had their hands in each other’s pockets.

We’ve only recently ascertained that Blake’s been liquidating assets for months
, old Crowe had said.
Perhaps as much as a quarter million
.

Crowe had thought Blake was stealing his and Will’s profits. But Blake and Nox were just the middlemen, the bottom middlemen on a much longer chain. Crowe was too close to see that at the other side of the chain stood his own son.

I leaned back on the corner of the desk. I stared at the brother of my mother and said, “You ordered Blake to kill me.”

“I did no such thing,” Will said. “I told him to scare you off.”

“He tried to stab me with a hooked knife.”

“He’s a damn fool.”

“He’s your damn fool. Maybe you should’ve waited until he wasn’t high on meth before you gave him orders to try to get rid of me.”

My uncle Will looked appropriately remorseful. It didn’t do anything to make me want to kick the hell out of him any less.

“I’m sorry things got out of hand. But it’s only because you interfered. First, you listened to my father, although I practically begged
you not to. Then you inserted yourself into our business. And then you tried to take over.”

“It was a lark.”

“You should’ve known better.”

“Maybe I should have,” I admitted.

The seven Emmys shined. The celebrity faces in the photos shaking Will’s hand attested to the kind of strata he’d reached, the kind of sphere he’d once moved in. Lost pride and the past made men do incredibly stupid things. It made them gamble with their lives. It twisted and hardened and turned them into shadows of their former selves.

“Blake wasn’t skimming at all,” I said. “You just made it seem that way. You were robbing AHE, stealing profits from your own old man, and using them to finance your own little drug trade.”

“Not enormous, but hardly little. It’s just business. Like an me.”

I rattled cages. I showed up at bookmaker joints,
mob-owned pizza parlors, and bowling alleys where illegal gun deals were being made between games. It was a last-ditch effort and a risky move, but it was the only one I had left. I had to show myself. I had to be found out. I had to be seen by all the wrong people. Asking about Chub was just going to get all the snitches interested in me. When the feebs asked if they’d heard anything they could all say,
This guy came around asking—

I kept pushing, work this many times beforet or ing the circuit, moving from one crook to another. Nobody had anything to tell me, but they all made note of me. Some acted like it was a reunion, others glared and told me to fuck off. I got a few free slices of pizza, a couple of sure bets to put down on fixed games, and one outright death threat from a twitchy little Bolivian bastard who was trying to push through a major new coke distribution channel. He looked me up and down and said, “I keel you and drop you in the ocean I see you again.”

Finally I made my way to Shelby. He was a third-rate fence I used to work with back when I was a full-time second-story man. He barely dipped his toe into stolen goods but he had a sharp eye for jewelry and easily moveable items. A quick turnover kept me that much more removed from the hot merchandise.

But more than that, he was a guy who kept his ear to the ground. He plucked information out of the air and made money off it where he could. He wasn’t involved with heisters and never went in on major scores, not even to back them, but I was running out of options.

I walked into Shelby’s pawnshop on 25A in Smithtown at around closing time. He had cameras in every corner and small guns stashed
all over the store. He had a carry permit and wore a popgun .22 on his belt, but his arms were so gangly I couldn’t imagine him actually drawing the thing if he ever got into trouble.

Shelby stood tall, six feet five, painfully thin, with a quick smile and speedy walk. He liked to rush around the aisles, different angles reminding him of different jobs around the shop. He’d zip and zag, a bottle of glass cleaner in one hand and a rag in the other. He had the neatest pawnshop I’d ever seen. Despite having no employees and a million different items on display—everything from musical instruments to high-end computers, stereo equipment, vintage wear, figurines, a wall of vinyl records—the place sparkled. You couldn’t find a trace of dust anywhere. Shelby was what you might delicately call a type A personality.

He crouched in front of the cases putting out collectibles. He was humming Sinatra. He had old-school tastes, a lot like me. He caught my reflection in the clean glass, turned, saw me coming, and then looked away. I could see the sudden tension rise in his shoulders as he straighened, closed, and locked the case.

He sort of propped himself against the counter, stretched his arms along the length of the edge, his huge hands and long fingers spread like hawk’s wings. He didn’t smile at all. He looked scared. He watched me warily. The .22 on his belt was extremely clean and shined in its holster.