Rise the Dark (2 page)

“Air,” the big man with the dead eyes said again, sounding immensely pleased, and the unfolding warmth within Sabrina reached her brain, and her vision swam and there was a buzzing crescendo in her ears like the inside of a hornet's nest. She looked up from the dart, trying to find the man, trying to ask why.

She slid down the wall and fell against the toilet, unconscious, with the question still on her lips.

T
he man who'd been accused of murdering Markus Novak's wife was in prison for the sexual assault of another woman when a talented young public defender won his freedom by pointing out a series of legal errors that had robbed Garland Webb of his right to a fair trial.

Mark wasn't present for the judge's ruling. He was on a fishing charter out of Key West with his mentor and former employer, Jeff London. The fishing trip was London's idea. Whatever happened in the appeal, he said, did not affect the case Mark was trying to build. Whether Garland Webb was in prison or out of prison, he still hadn't been convicted of Lauren's murder. That was the next step.

It all made good sense, but Mark knew the real reason that he'd been invited out on a boat in the Gulf of Mexico while Garland Webb learned his fate: He'd had a few too many conversations with Jeff on the topic and made a few too many promises. The promises involved bullets in Garland's head, and Jeff believed them.

Upon winning appeal and earning his release, Garland Webb met one last time with his attorney, a young gun named John Graham who considered the case his most significant victory to date. The prosecutor had made a series of egregious errors en route to conviction, so Graham had always felt good about his legal argument, but you never could be sure of a win when the original conviction involved a heinous crime. At that point you needed more than the law on your side, you needed to be able to
sell
it, and John Graham had put all of his considerable powers of persuasion into the case. He also felt good about the appellate victory for the simple reason that it was
right
. His client had not been granted a fair trial, and John Graham believed deeply in the purity of the process.

All the same…

He was troubled by Garland Webb.

In their final meeting, John offered his best attempt at a warm smile and extended his hand to his client. “Sometimes, the system works,” he said. “How does it feel to be a free man, Garland?”

Webb regarded him with eyes so expressionless they seemed opaque. He was six four and weighed 230 pounds, and when he accepted the handshake, John felt a sick chill at the power in his grip.

“I guess you're not the celebrating sort,” he said, because Garland still hadn't uttered a word. “Do you have everything you need? There's a release-assistance program that will—”

“I have everything I need.”

“All right. I'm sure it will be a relief to walk out of here.”

“Just back to business,” Garland Webb said.

“What's that?”

“It's time for me to get back to business. No more diversions.”

“Right,” John said, though he had no idea what Webb meant, and he was uncomfortable with what he
might
mean.

Webb fixed the flat-eyed stare on him and said, “I have a purpose, understand? This detour was unfortunate, but it did not remove my purpose.”

“Right,” John repeated. “I'm just supposed to let you know that if you need assistance finding a job or locating a—”

“I'm going back to the same job,” Webb said.

John fell silent. He'd spent several months on this case and he knew damn well that Garland Webb had been unemployed at the time of his arrest.

“Where will you be working?” he asked, and Garland Webb smiled. It was little more than a twitch of the lip, but it was more emotion than he'd displayed when the judge had announced the verdict in his favor.

“I've got opportunities,” he said. “Don't you worry about that.”

“Great,” John said, and suddenly he was eager to get out of the room and away from this man. “Stay out of trouble, Garland.”

“You too, John.”

John Graham left before Garland did, although he'd initially intended to stay with him through the process all the way up to the point of escorting him out of the prison. That no longer felt right. In fact, winning the freedom of Garland Webb suddenly didn't feel like much of a victory at all.

On the day Webb collected his belongings and walked to a bus station, before he left, he bribed a guard to send a message to another inmate at Coleman. The message got through, and the inmate requested a phone call. Seven miles off the southernmost shore of the United States, Markus Novak's cell rang.

They'd been having a good day of it, but in the afternoon the fishing had slowed; the Gulf of Mexico began churning with high swells, and Jeff London turned a shade of green that matched the water.

“Bad sandwich,” he said, and Mark smiled and nodded.

“Bad sandwich, eh?”

“I don't get seasick.”

“Of course not.”

When Jeff put his head in his hands, Mark laughed and set his rod down and moved to the bow, where he stood and stared at the horizon line, the endless expanse of water broken only by whitecapped waves. All of his memories of the sea were good, because all of them involved Lauren. Sometimes, though, when the light and the wind were right, the sea reminded him of other endless places. Expansive plains of the West; windblown wheat instead of water; storm-blasted buttes.

Not so many of those memories were good.

He'd been watching the water for a while when he heard the ring, a soft chime, and the charter captain, who was lounging with his feet up and a cigar in his mouth, said, “That's yours, bud.”

Mark found the phone in his jacket pocket, and he remained relaxed, warm and comfortable and with his mind on this boat and this day, until he saw the caller ID:
COLEMAN CORRECTIONAL.

For an instant he just stared, but then he realized he was about to lose the call to voice mail, so he hit Accept and put the phone to his ear.

He knew the voice on the other end. It was a man he'd spoken to many times, a snitch who'd contacted Mark for legal help, which Mark provided in exchange for a tip on who killed his wife. The police didn't believe the story; the snitch held to it.

“He sent me a note, Novak. For you. For both of us. Here's what it says: ‘Please tell Mr. Novak that his efforts were a disappointment, and every threat was only so much wasted breath. I'd hoped for more. Let him know that I'll think of him outside this prison just as I thought of him inside it, and, more important, that I'll think of her. The way she felt at the end. I'll treasure that moment. It's a shame he wasn't there for it. She was so beautiful at the end.'”

The man on the phone had once beaten someone to death with an aluminum baseball bat, but his voice wavered as he read the last words. When he was done, he waited, and Mark didn't speak. The silence built as the boat rose and fell on the waves, and finally the other man said, “I thought you'd want to know.”

“Yes,” Mark said. “I want to know. It is important that I know.” His voice was hollow, and Jeff London lifted his head with a concerned expression. “Is that all he had to say?”

“That's all. He's made some threats to me, you know that, but ain't shit happened, so maybe he's all talk. Maybe about…about this too, you know? Just one of them that likes to claim shit to make themselves feel hard. I've known them before.”

“You told me you didn't think he was that kind,” Mark said. “You said you knew better. You said he was telling the truth.”

A pause; then: “I remember what I said.”

“Anything changed your opinion?”

“No.”

“All right. Thanks for the call. I'll send money to your commissary account.”

“Don't need to, not for this. I just thought…well, you needed to hear it.”

“I'll send money,” Mark repeated, and then he hung up. Jeff was staring at him, and the charter captain was making a show of working with his tackle, his back to them.

“That was about Webb?” Jeff said.

Mark nodded. He found the horizon line again but couldn't focus on it.

“He's taunting me. He killed her, he knows that I know it, and he's a free man. He wanted to let me know that he'll be thinking of me, and her. From outside of a cell now.”

“It's a dumb play. He'll go back to prison.”

“Yeah?” Mark turned to him. “Where is he?”

“Don't let this take you back to the dark side, brother. You've got to build a case, and you've got to—”

“Someone has to settle the score for her.”

Jeff's face darkened. “There are lots of tombstones standing over men who made proclamations like that.”

“I don't want a tombstone. When I'm gone, you take the ashes wherever you'd like. Just make sure there's a strong wind blowing. I want to have a chance to travel.”

“That's a bad joke.”

“It's not a joke at all,” Mark said. “I hope you remember the request should the need ever arise.” He looked at the charter captain. “You mind bringing us in a couple hours early?”

The captain looked from Mark to Jeff and shook his head when no objection was raised. “It's your nickel, bud.”

“Thanks,” Mark said. “We had a good run this morning. Sorry to cut it short. That's just how it goes sometimes.”

Jeff's voice was soft and sad when he said, “He won't be in Cassadaga, Markus. You know that. He won't go back there.”

“He could.”

Jeff shook his head. “You're just feeding the darkness if you do that. Think about Lauren. What she believed, what she worked for! What she would want.”

“You're asking me to consider what she would have wanted in her life. She's dead, Jeff. Who's to say what she wants now? In those last seconds of her life, maybe she formed some different opinions.”

T
he sun had barely been up when Jay left on the first call-out, but it had set and risen again by the time he made it home and found a stranger at his kitchen table.

Jay was so exhausted, so bone-tired, and the man was so relaxed, sitting with one leg crossed over the other and a polite smile, that Jay felt no threat. Just surprise, and only a modicum of that. He was confused by the stranger's presence but unbothered by it because of the way he sat so calmly, with a cup of coffee, still steaming, close at hand. It was one of Jay's mugs, and his perception was that his wife must have brewed the coffee. Everything that Jay didn't understand about his visitor, Sabrina must know.

“How's it going?” Jay said to the stranger as he shed his jacket and set to work unlacing his boots.

“Long day?” the stranger asked, genial and compassionate. He was a lean man with a narrow, pale face and long hair tied back in a tight topknot against his skull.

“A day so long it started yesterday,” Jay said, liking the stranger well enough. He walked past him, out of the kitchen and into the living room, and called for his wife.

“Sabrina isn't home,” the stranger said. He took a drink of the coffee. He didn't bother turning to face Jay.

“Pardon?” Jay's next thought was that the man must be a neighbor unknown to him, because Sabrina hadn't gone far—her car was in the garage. Sabrina was the more outgoing of the two of them, and she tended to the neighbors with an interest Jay had never been able to muster. His initial concern in Red Lodge had been getting to know the power grid, not the neighbors.

“She's not in the house, is what I mean,” the stranger said.

Jay was standing in the living room, looking back at the man in the kitchen. The stranger set the coffee down, lifted a cell phone that was resting on the table, and beckoned to Jay.

“Come here. I'll show you.”

Jay walked up beside him obediently. He wasn't sure if the man had a message on the phone or if he intended to call Sabrina, wasn't sure of anything but that the situation, however odd, was absent of menace.

Then he saw the phone's display.

At first he thought the image on the screen was a still photo. For a few frozen, shocked seconds, he was convinced of it. Then his wife moved, and shackles rattled across her body, and he understood that it was a video.

“She's unhurt, as you see,” the stranger said in an unfazed voice. “A bit groggy now, but physically unharmed. She'll remain in that condition as long as you desire. Everything in Sabrina's future belongs to your choices, Mr. Baldwin.”

On the screen, Sabrina shifted again. She was wearing a pale blue nightgown that Jay had given her two Christmases ago and there was a handcuff on her wrist that was fastened to long links of a chain that trailed offscreen. Jay was numbly aware of the floor beneath her—unvarnished boards, clean and showing no blood. He was looking for blood already. As Jay stood in his kitchen and watched, Sabrina glanced down at her wrist and cocked her head from side to side, as if she didn't understand the meaning of the handcuff and was trying to make sense of it.

Jay started to shout something then. A question, a threat. Maybe just a scream. He didn't know, exactly, because when he turned from the phone's display and gave the stranger in his house his full attention for the first time, he saw that the man now had a short-barreled revolver in his right hand that was pointing at Jay's belly. The genial expression was gone, and his eyes were empty.

“Her future belongs to your choices,” he repeated.

Jay tried to focus on the man in front of him, on the tangible threat, but his mind was still on that image of Sabrina. He stood and trembled in silence, like a frightened dog.

“Let's not waste time,” the stranger said. “You have many questions, I know. You'll have answers soon. But I can't give them here. We'll need to relocate. You'll drive. It's not so far. We can talk on the way.”

“Why?” Jay said. Just one word, but one that carried the weight of all his terror.

“You've been selected, Mr. Baldwin. Consider it an honor. You're about to be part of something historic.”

The stranger held the gun close to Jay's skull as Jay put his boots back on. While his head was bowed, Jay let his eyes drift to the stranger's feet, and he saw something there that bothered him.

He was wearing what looked like everyday construction boots, built for hard work, but they had unusually thick rubber soles, and none of the eyes or grommets were metal. Everything was leather or rubber. It was the kind of boot you wore when you worked around high-voltage equipment and knew that any trace of metal could kill you.