Fear the Dark

I’ve been having her spend her days inside the chamber with Darby; federal agents and marshals have been stopping by the house at all hours, asking questions about the massacre inside Sally Kelly’s house. Having suffered a skull fracture and a major concussion, I’m able to use the ‘I don’t remember’ defence. I squirreled her away, anticipating the news about Nicky Hubbard’s fingerprint to break at any second.

I grew up in Red Hill and have lived here all my life. My mother had a sister who lived in Wichita. We’d visit her sometimes. During one of those trips I went to the mall and found her a daughter, just like she asked. We brought Nicky home and we called her Sarah. Sarah lived in the basement and was home-schooled. We loved her and fed her and cared for her. I loved her and fed her and cared for her, yet the FBI could take all that away at a moment’s notice.

Nobody knows about Sarah – no one has ever seen her. My new Sarah now lives a comfortable and peaceful life right here inside our home. She has never left the house without my permission (she knows better), and as I watch her trundle through the snow, I wonder again about Lancaster – if the man had told someone about the video of me scrubbing down the corner inside the Downes bedroom. It’s still a possibility; Teddy did, after all, have people helping him – Whitehead and Nelson, to name two.

No, I remind myself again. Had Teddy told anyone, something would have happened by now. Seven days have passed and nothing has changed. But if Cooper or any other fed starts digging into my background, there’s a chance they might be able to co

‘What is it, baby?’ she asks, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

‘Where do you want to go?’

Anywhere but prison, Sarah. I’ll die before I let that happen.

‘I don’t care,’ she says, ‘as long as I’m with you.’

She hugs me fiercely. I’m staring at her neck, thinking about how easy it would be to snap it. One swift tug and pull and it’s over. If you’re dead, Sarah, no one can find you. If you’re dead, I’m safe. Free. I can dump her body in my room underneath the shed. No one will find her – or Darby. Kill them both and run.

‘I’m hungry,’ I say.

‘I’ll make us a nice di

That’s not what I meant, but I don’t tell her. I want her happy and occupied. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ I tell her, smiling. ‘Go ahead and do that. I’ve got to take care of something first.’

Sarah knows I’m thinking of Darby McCormick – knows I’ve been wanting to spend time with her alone for days now.

She looks wounded. ‘You don’t need her,’ she says. ‘You can play with me.’

I sigh, pinching my temples. I close my eyes, wishing that I could open them and find myself in another state or city or country, anywhere but here.

‘Sarah, I –’

‘I know what you like, baby. I know how to make you feel good, you’ve taught me how to make you feel good in all sorts of different ways.’

‘I’m not going to play with her.’

Sarah stares at me for a beat, confused, a dog which has failed to understand a command.

‘Then why are you going to –’

‘To kill her,’ I say. ‘I’m going to kill her.’

Sarah stands as motionless as a statue.

‘I don’t want her,’ I say. ‘I want you.’

‘Don’t take too long. I have something real special pla

Sarah bites her bottom lip, her eyes twinkling with a mischievous, almost diabolical light. Then she stands on her tiptoes and kisses me deeply, like she’s trying to draw a secret from my heart. Like she knows I’m going to kill her.

80

Solve the problem, Darby.

Her father’s voice, his words. When she was a kid, ‘Big Red’ McCormick would listen patiently to whatever gripe or troublesome situation she laid before him, and then, when he was sure she was done, he’d calmly deliver the same three words he always said to her during their very short life together: Solve the problem, Darby. You’re the only one who can. Sometime during her senior year in high school, and years after he’d died, she’d had a small epiphany, her brain finally accepting the wisdom he’d been drilling into her when he was alive: bitching and complaining and venting about it got you absolutely nowhere in life. Either solve the problem or shut up. Like the gladiators who were forced to fight in the ancient coliseums, you could lay down your sword and shield and surrender to your fate – or you could fight.

For days now, every time she was alone, she had tried to tear the lead from Williams’s hanging contraption, and each time she had gotten nowhere. There was no way to break it off, but that didn’t mean she had to give up. She kept at it, thinking – hoping – that all the pulling that left her muscles depleted might weaken, if not damage, Williams’s personal torture porn device.

But she wouldn’t know until he used it on her again, and that scared her.

Darby heard the trapdoor open. No light cascaded down the rungs. It must be night, she thought, standing upright in the pitch-black darkness, the soles of her bare feet cold and damp against the rough concrete. She tried to empty her mind of fear, but that was about as useful and productive as using a paper cup to bail out a sinking ship. She knew what was coming.

Lancaster was power hungry; he had staged the crime scenes to look like the textbook handiwork of a sexual sadist. Williams, however, was the real deal, a creature who fed off human pain and suffering. Deny the monster its food, and it became enraged. And even more irrational.

At least that had been her experience. Darby had no idea how Williams would act.

I’m going to find out, she thought as the interior lights came on. What had Nicky Hubbard told her about Williams? Fight back. Ray really loves it when you fight back. It makes us both so happy.

Us, Darby thought, her eyes finally adjusting to the brightness.

Ray Williams stood on the other side of the bars. The swelling had disappeared from her face, and she had the use of both eyes now. He was dressed like a man who was about to spend a summer afternoon out on his boat: white tee, khakis and pe

He reached through the bars and dropped a pair of black lace panties and a bra on the floor.

‘Put them on,’ he said.

Darby didn’t move.

She broke out in a slick and greasy sweat when she saw Williams remove the remote for the shock collar from his trousers pocket. His eyes were as dead and lifeless as marbles.

‘I’ve adjusted the setting to ten,’ he said. ‘Put on the clothes or I’ll shock you.’

‘No,’ she replied, and her stomach turned to ice.

Williams’s eyes were busy with thought, and a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. Darby swallowed, bracing herself for what was about to come.

But he didn’t shock her. Instead, he placed the remote on the edge of one of the bars. Then he reached into his pocket again and came back with a new item: another remote, this one smaller, like a car-key fob.

The remote for his hanging contraption, she thought, her muscles tensing as her hands flew up to grab the lead.

Williams pressed the button. Again, Darby was yanked off her feet, but the motor sounded different, like it was struggling to complete the task. Williams didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. Keys in hand, he unlocked the door and moved inside her cell.

Darby had managed to wrap the lead around her fists. The plastic-encased metal dug into her skin and callused palms as she hoisted herself up to relieve the pressure on her neck. Williams stepped closer and, tilting his head to the side, looked up at her, curious, like an art collector admiring a prized painting.

Sweat popped all over her skin, and she gulped air to stave off the burning in her muscles. She was only buying herself seconds, though, and Williams knew it. At any moment she’d use up the limited glycogen stored in her muscles. The strength would leave her arms, shoulders and back, and then gravity would take over and she’d fall and hang from the ceiling, body twisting and swaying and suffocating, her fingers desperately clawing at the collar.