Fear the Dark

Barbara charged forward, her heavy footsteps pounding against the floor. ‘He said he was going to use a special knot on me.’ She held the cordless away from her as though she were carrying a snake. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

Darby dropped the file on the counter and took the phone. He must’ve followed me here, she thought as she moved across an aisle stocked with diapers and baby formula and jars of food. But how? She hadn’t seen anyone following her.

The front door came into view and Darby saw a young, pony-tailed guy minding a cash register, reading a weight-lifting magazine. He lowered it and watched her with curiosity and a growing alarm.

She brought the phone up to her ear. ‘McCormick.’

The disguised voice on the other end of the line spoke through a burst of static. ‘My girl,’ he said, and then let out a long moan, like someone riding the swell of an orgasm.

Darby couldn’t see the main road or much of the parking lot behind the curtains of snow, but she could make out her car, the driver’s side door hanging open.

‘I can’t wait until we get together. I’m go

Click.

Darby placed the cordless on a shelf stocked with discount boxes of Christmas cards. She took out her nine and from the corner of her eye saw the cashier drop his magazine, his face pale with shock.

She doubted the Red Hill Ripper was somewhere outside waiting for her to come out. He wanted to take her, and he would do it when she didn’t expect it, when she wouldn’t be able to see him coming. He wouldn’t call to alert her of his presence, and he wouldn’t make a move on her here, in a public place, with two potential witnesses. He had called because he wanted to remind her of his superiority. He wanted her to feel dread. She pushed open the doors and went outside.

Footsteps led away from her car. They were covered by snow; there wouldn’t be any way to get a mould of the impressions. Gun in hand, Darby slowly advanced to her car, snow flying into her face and the wind blowing her hair. The interior light was on; she moved around the open door, looked inside at her seat and saw two pieces of blue nylon rope speckled with white and red wrapped together to form a surgeon’s knot.

When I turn left on to Sidewinder Road, I’m relieved to find it freshly ploughed. I had my doubts: the town’s four snowploughs, which have been out working since eight or so, might’ve skipped this street, since no one lives here any more.

There is the long trailer, still attached to the semi; both are parked near the kerb outside the Downes home, looking as small as toys from my driver’s seat. I kill my headlights and then creep forward slowly. Light glows from the trailer’s tiny side windows.

I pull against a ridge of freshly ploughed snow, put the car in park and leave the engine ru

I step out of the car with the backpack gripped in my hand. I’m wearing a fleece hat underneath the hood of my coat, but even under all those layers I can still hear the deep, rumbling throb of the semi’s big diesel engine, which is providing power for the lights and whatever other equipment is being used in there.

I cross the street and start ru

I know the trailer belongs to the FBI: the FBI insignia, lettering and words MOBILE FORENSICS UNIT were prominently displayed in big, bold lettering on its side. It was parked here late yesterday afternoon. Yesterday a ramp descended from the back to allow the agents to come and go as they pleased.

Tonight the ramp is gone, rolled back underneath the trailer. But the side door has a short set of metal steps, all of which are covered in snow. After I lay the backpack on the ground, near one of the rear tyres, I unzip my coat, remove the .44 Magnum tucked in the front waistband of my jeans and make my way across the length of the trailer to the side door, ducking underneath the small windows. My hands, protected by only a thin layer of latex, are already cold, and my knuckles and joints ache.

I want to take them by surprise, if possible, so I mount the steps slowly and carefully. The handle feels ice-cold as I slowly turn it. I don’t encounter any resistance, and when I hear the lock click back I throw open the door; as it swings to my right I raise my Magnum and dart inside the trailer.

For the next few seconds time seems to slow, as if what I’m seeing has been captured inside a tableau: a big man with a shaved head sitting with his back to me and hunched over a counter; a second man who is much smaller and wearing ear-bud headphones attached to the iPod clipped to his belt. I immediately aim at the short man. He sees me and is reaching for the side-arm clipped to his belt when I pull the trigger.

The Magnum kicks; the roar of the gunshot explodes inside my head as the round hits the man square in the chest, spraying the doors behind him with a bright red mist. The bald guy is stumbling to his feet when I turn the gun on him and fire.

The wind slams the door shut behind me and my eardrums are ringing as I move to the bald guy. He’s writhing on the floor, blood pouring out of his mouth and nose. He looks up at me questioningly, about to speak, when I shoot him in the head. I’m ducking around the counter and forensics equipment, when I notice a can of liquid nitrogen, which may prove very useful. I walk over to the small guy and examine the exit wound in his back: it’s the size of a basketball but he’s still moving, trembling, his arm reaching out for the Glock lying on the floor. I fire another round into his back and then I use the remaining rounds to shoot out the windows.

The refrigerator in the corner isn’t locked. I open it and find all the blood samples collected from the hardwood floor sitting on the shelves. I remove everything, throwing it against the floor and then smashing the glass vials with my boots. I head to the back doors, open them and jump out.

Backpack in my hand, I jog next to the side of the trailer and mount the stairs again. My hands are shaking when I place the backpack on the counter and work the zipper – not out of fear but from the cold. I’m no longer afraid. The tables have turned. I have a way out of this.

Gasoline fumes rise from the backpack as I remove the BIC lighter from my jacket pocket. I remove the first Molotov cocktail, ignite the gasoline-soaked wick and toss it against the crushed glass and blood smeared across the floor. The glass bottle explodes in flames, and I can feel heat as strong as a fist punching me. I remove the second Molotov, ignite it and throw it against the counter where the bald man had been sitting, doing DNA testing. I throw the third towards the back and the fourth and last one against the floor in the middle of the trailer. The heat is stifling as I grab the backpack and exit through the side door.

The trailer is burning nicely. I could wait for the flames to ignite the liquid nitrogen and all the other chemicals stored in there, which would blow everything to kingdom come; or I could use the last item stored inside my backpack, a long piece of gasoline-soaked cloth and make quick work of it.

It takes me a moment to find the cap for the gas tank. I remove it and then stuff the wet cloth into the hole. I can feel the heat from the flames rocketing out of the windows when I light the last wick and run across the street, heading for my car and thinking about my next and, God willing, last stop.

45

Darby entered the Wagon Wheel Saloon at quarter past ten. Last night’s Bible Belt crowd had been replaced with the kind of people she’d grown up with in Boston, blue-collar types and roughnecks who passed around bottles and pitchers of beer, everyone drinking, eating and laughing in an atmosphere that reminded her of a Roman banquet. The dining-room was at full capacity and the pool-room was packed with young guys in their twenties, the juke playing The Who’s ‘Pinball Wizard’.