Darkness First (3 page)

Portland, Maine

A
t 7:47 on that same Friday evening in August, the air outside police headquarters at 109 Middle Street was heavy with a kind of heat and humidity more natural to the bayous of Louisiana than to the streets of Maine's largest city.

Inside the building it was even worse.

The antiquated air conditioning system, held together with spit and baling wire for at least a decade beyond its useful life span, had been grinding and wheezing most of the day in a valiant but vain attempt to bring conditions down to a more tolerable level. Two hours back it had stopped working altogether. Any of the cops still on duty who could find the slightest excuse to work outside the building did so. Others simply snuck out, some saying the hell with it and heading home early and more than a few slipping into one or another of the Old Port's bars and pubs to enjoy the cold blast of AC that worked and an even colder pint of Geary's or Shipyard.

On 109's fourth and top floor, where the detectives of the Crimes Against People unit were housed, temperatures had risen almost to triple digits. It was even hotter in the small windowless interview room where Detective Margaret Savage had been confronting a suspect for over an hour and a half. Yet, in spite of the oppressive heat, in spite of the stink of sweat and body odor rising in waves off a 300 pound bozo named Kyle Carnes and in spite of the rivulets of perspiration trickling down under her own arms, Maggie wasn't unhappy. She figured if she could keep Carnes from lawyering up, sooner or later the wretched conditions might just help drill a confession out of him. She was sure she could take the heat longer than he could.

As the senior detective in Crimes Against People, Maggie spent her days and often her nights chasing murderers, rapists and other assorted lowlifes. She didn't like any of them but the creeps she liked least were the ones who got their jollies beating the shit out of the women they supposedly loved.

The guy in front of her was a habitual abuser. The first two times he beat up his current girlfriend, a woman named Mary Farrier, there'd been no witnesses and Farrier had been unwilling to press charges. Same old story Maggie had lived through a hundred times before. A woman too frightened to testify. Too terrified of what Carnes might do when and if he got his hands on her again. Too convinced that in some weird way it was all her own fault.

But this time Kyle wasn't going to get away with using Farrier's face as a punching bag because this time Maggie had a witness. A neighbor willing to swear she heard Kyle screaming through the door at Mary that
he was gonna fuckin' kill her
. Then some grunts and thuds. Then Carnes opening the door and rushing from the apartment in a rage. The neighbor went in, found Farrier on the floor and called 911. The victim happened to hit her head against the sharp stainless steel corner of a coffee table on her way down and was now in a coma in the ICU at Cumberland Medical Center suffering acute cerebral edema. If she died, and the docs thought that was a definite possibility, the aggravated assault charge Carnes was facing would be elevated to murder.

‘You're in a deep pile of shit, Kyle,' Maggie told him, her easy smile and friendly tone belying the words as well as the intensity she felt inside. ‘Best thing you could do for yourself is stop stonewalling and tell us what went down in the apartment. If you do, well maybe we could talk to the DA.'

Kyle lifted his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes, and looked at her ‘You mean like a deal?'

Maggie raised both hands and offered a non-committal shrug, one that seemed to say
hey, you never know.
‘I mean like maybe you really didn't mean to hurt her. Not so badly, anyway. I mean maybe you didn't. Or did you?'

Kyle shook his head almost imperceptibly.

‘Say it in words, Kyle. Shaking your head doesn't count.'

‘I didn't mean to hurt her. Not so bad.'

‘You told us you loved her, isn't that right, Kyle?'

This time Kyle nodded, sweat beading on his shiny bald head and dripping down his fat face.

‘Words, Kyle, words.'

‘I loved her.'

‘And she loved you?'

‘She loved me.'

‘So you think it was you hitting her that did the real damage? Or was it just that stupid table she cracked her head on?'

‘It was the table.'

‘'Cause you didn't hit her that hard?'

‘No.'

‘No, what?'

‘I didn't hit her that hard.'

‘How hard did you hit her?'

‘Not hard.'

‘But you did hit her?'

‘Yeah, I hit her. But not hard.'

‘Hard enough so she fell down and cracked her head on the table?'

‘Yeah, but the table's what hurt her. Not me hittin' her.'

‘Even though you were heard shouting, “I'm gonna fucking kill you, you fucking bitch”?'

‘I never said that.'

‘Oh yeah? Anybody else in the room who might have said it?'

‘Just her.'

‘No other guys?'

‘No.'

‘Well that's kind of a problem for you, Kyle, because we've got a witness who says she heard a guy's voice saying those words and since you were the only guy in the room I guess it must've been you.'

‘Fuckin' bitch doesn't know what she's talking about.'

‘That's for a jury to decide.'

Maggie felt her cell phone vibrate, glanced down, saw the name
Savage, John
appear in caller ID. She hadn't spoken to her father in a while but there was no way she could talk to him now. He'd have to wait.

‘The witness also says she saw you pull open the door and rush out of the apartment. She went in and found Mary Farrier unconscious on the floor.'

‘I told you, she hit her head on the table.'

‘Yes, you did. You also told me you hit her.'

‘Yeah, I hit her but not hard enough to crack her head open.'

‘So it wasn't your punches that fractured her cheekbone, broke her jaw and knocked out three of her teeth? It was her hitting the table?'

‘Yeah, that's right. The table did it.'

‘Funny.'

‘What's funny?'

‘According to the docs over at the Med the table only struck the back of Mary's head. It couldn't possibly have done all that other stuff. You did.'

There was a knock on the door before he could respond.

‘Come!' Maggie shouted.

‘Sorry to interrupt,' Detective Brian Cleary said. ‘This just came in from Cumberland Med.' He handed Maggie a note. Maggie unfolded the sheet. Sighed. Shook her head. Muttered the word ‘Shit.'

‘What? What is it?' asked Carnes.

‘Kyle Carnes,' she said, ‘I'm arresting you for the murder of Mary Farrier.'

‘Murder?'

‘She died ten minutes ago. Brian, will you read Mr Carnes his rights and then get him out of my sight?'

‘I didn't hit her that hard,' Carnes said as Cleary was cuffing him.

Maggie, resisting a strong urge to smack the prisoner right then and there, just shook her head and left the room.

She went to her desk, grabbed her bag and weapon from her locked bottom drawer and headed down Middle Street toward Starbucks for an iced mocha and a little air. Too damned hot to call her father back from here. Passing Sebago Brewpub, she changed her mind and opted for a cold beer instead.

A couple of cops hanging at the bar invited her to join them. She waved them off and took a solo stool down at the end, where the blow from a big-ass AC unit hit her right in the face. The cold air felt heavenly.

The bartender, a mid-forties dishwater-blonde wearing a halter-top and too much makeup came over. ‘Hate to say it, hon, but you look a little bedraggled.'

‘Hate to say it, hon, but I feel a little bedraggled.'

‘What can I get you?'

Maggie checked the list of available drafts and ordered a Frye's Leap IPA.

Then she called her father.

‘Well, hello, my darling daughter. And how the hell are you?'

‘Hot. Very, very hot. What's going on?'

‘Well, if you aren't working this weekend, I'd like you to come up and visit. Aside from the fact that it's been way too long there are a few things we need to discuss.'

He was right about it being way too long. She hadn't been home since Christmas and before that only once since John and Anya's wedding, which had been over a year earlier. ‘What sorts of things?' she asked.

‘Important things.'

‘Like what?'

‘Nothing I care to discuss over the phone.'

‘Is anything wrong? Is anyone sick?'

‘Margaret,' he said, his voice taking on a lighter, teasing tone. ‘As an experienced police officer, you know perfectly well I have the right to remain silent and I'm damned well going to.'

She shook her head in frustration. ‘Listen, I've just spent the last two hours locked in a hotbox with a foul-smelling killer so, please, stop with the humor.'

‘Maggie. This is important.'

Maggie had rarely known her father to be this evasive and that alone was enough to worry her. She did have plans for tonight. But there was no reason she couldn't go up in the morning. She was off-duty till Tuesday so she could spend at least a couple of nights in Machias.

‘What's the temperature up there?'

‘About ten degrees cooler than it is in Portland. They're predicting thunderstorms for later tonight so tomorrow should be even better.'

‘Good. Sounds wonderful. I'll leave first thing in the morning. Ought to be there by noon.'

She checked her watch: 8:20. The Sea Dogs game should be going into the seventh or eighth inning. Just enough time to run home, take a quick shower and change before meeting her date at nine.

8:44
P.M.
, Friday, August 21, 2009

Machiasport, Maine

‘H
ello, Tiff. Not feeling well?'

Tiffany Stoddard froze at the sound of the familiar voice coming from the darkness behind her car. On the other side of the small lot she could see a second car parked in the shadows.

‘You've been to see the doctor, I believe. Dr Emily Kaplan?'

How in hell had he found her? How had he known where she'd gone? She'd been so careful about not being followed. All the way down the back road from Machias, she'd constantly checked the mirror for cars traveling behind her. Only one appeared and she'd pulled over and waited for it to pass her by, its red taillights disappearing in the distance before she drove on. Then, instead of leaving her car in the driveway at the doctor's office, she'd hidden it here at the state park, where she was sure no one would see it.

Yet somehow he did. Somehow he knew. She remembered the car turning around in the driveway at Kaplan's office. It had to have been him.

The man walked out from the shadows and began closing the twenty or so feet between them. He was in no hurry. He never was.

‘Betrayal, Tiff,' he said shaking his head. ‘It's an ugly word. But that's what you've done. I trusted you and you betrayed me. And now … ?'

Seeing a smile appear at the corners of his lips, Tiff felt a knot form, then tighten, in the pit of her stomach. Her heart began to beat faster. Pounding against the walls of her chest. Pounding so hard she thought it must surely break through.

‘I swear I didn't do anything, Conor. I swear I didn't.'

He pulled a pair of white latex gloves from his pocket and slid them on. Flexed his fingers to assure a tight fit.

‘Exactly what didn't you do, Tiff ?'

Tiff turned and looked back at the dark road that led to the doctor's office. All her nerve endings were screaming for her to run. But she knew she'd never make it. Her body was already tired and even if she was fresh there was no way in hell she could outrun him. Not for more than a hundred yards or so. Not even if she was wearing her Nikes instead of these stupid sandals.

She turned back and watched with a kind of fascinated horror as he reached back and drew a folding knife from his rear pocket.

He snapped it open.

The blade glinted in the moonlight and for the first time in her life Tiff Stoddard was sure she was going to die. Her death would probably be slow. It would certainly be painful. And, as she watched the man come closer, she couldn't think of a single damned thing she could do to prevent it.

Still she had to try.

‘Now,' the man said, ‘I need you to tell me what you told the doctor.' An ugly smile crossed his face as he brushed the blade of the knife against hers. ‘About me. About us. About what we do, you and I.'

Tiff tried to answer his question, tried to say
I didn't tell her anything
but the only sound she could make was a small, strangled cry.

‘What did you tell her, Tiff ?'

The man rested the blade against the side of Tiff's face. She closed her one good eye to shut out the image of the thing, so she didn't see, but only felt, the tip of the blade slip inside her left nostril. The man pushed it up just far enough for blood to start dripping. She held her breath to keep from crying out.

‘You also need to tell me, Tiff, what you've done with my pills.'

‘What pills?'

‘This is no time to play games, Tiff,' he said. ‘Not with me. By exact count, you've helped yourself to 5,127 Ox 80s. That means you owe me, at today's prices, 615, 240 dollars. I'll be generous. We can skip the sales tax. And no, I don't take American Express.'

‘If you kill me they'll find you, Conor.'

He looked at her curiously.

‘I've written it all down. The whole story. The police are gonna find it. Everything I know. Who you are. What we've done. All of it.'

‘You're lying, Tiff. I always know when you're lying. And even if you're not …' He smiled. Maybe the most frightening smile she'd ever seen in her life. ‘… it doesn't really matter. You don't know who I am. Or where I live. Or really anything about me. Conor Riordan doesn't exist. Like you once said yourself, I'm the man who never was.'

He pulled the blade, still inside Tiff's nose, through the soft skin of her nostril. Blood flowed down in a steady stream.

She gasped but refused to give him the satisfaction of crying out.

‘Now, where are they?'

She said nothing. He whipped the knife across her face. From ear to chin. A shallow cut. But deep enough to leave a scar. But only if she lived long enough for scar tissue to form.

If Tiff thought there was any chance he'd let her live, she'd gladly give him back the pills. But by now she knew he wouldn't. The only question was whether he'd kill her fast or kill her slowly. And while she'd rather go fast, for the sake of Tabitha, she knew she had to hold out as long as she could.

‘Where are they, Tiff ?'

Tiff stood, as if rooted to the spot, desperately trying to think of a way to escape what now seemed inevitable. She wondered, without much hope, if she could make it to her car. Lock him out. Drive away. Leave this place of death far behind. Her hand slid to her back pocket. Found her keys. Slipped them out. Keeping her hand behind her back she searched for the button on the key fob that would unlock the car door.

‘What did you tell the doctor?'

‘I … I … didn't tell her anything. Swear to God, Conor …'

Tiff was still talking when she broke in a rush for the car, the driver's side door only ten feet away, her right thumb clicking the unlock button over and over as she ran. Her left hand reaching for the latch that would let her in and lock him out.

Before she was halfway, she felt his hand grab her ponytail. He yanked her backwards on to her ass. She tried getting up. Crawling for the car. He pulled her down again.

He picked up the keys from where they'd fallen and pocketed them. Pulled the green pack from her back, unzipped it and looked inside. Pulled out the wad of bills and her cell phone and stuffed both in his pocket with the keys. He looked again to be sure there was nothing else then tossed the pack aside.

‘Okay,' he sighed, ‘where did you hide my fucking tablets?'

Without waiting for an answer, he kicked her hard in the gut right where she supposed the baby must be. Her baby. Maybe his. Maybe not his. She wasn't sure. Vomit rose in her throat. Dripped from her mouth. He kicked her again, this time higher up, knocking the wind out of her. She fought for breath. Curled herself into a fetal position, knees up, head down, arms covering her face, hoping he wouldn't kick her again. Hoping he wouldn't kick the baby again. The baby hadn't done anything. The baby was innocent. Eyes closed, Tiff Stoddard prayed to a god she didn't believe in that, when death came, it would come quickly.

She felt hands slip under both her arms. Felt them hoisting her to her feet. Two hands. One under each of her arms. She tried to think clearly. How could he be lifting with two hands and still be holding the knife? Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he'd put it down. Put it away. If she could get the knife, wherever it was, maybe she had a chance.

He pushed her back against the car. She forced herself to open her good eye to look for the knife. But his face, only inches from hers, blocked her view. The smell of food from his mouth made her want to vomit again.

Tiff tried desperately to see beyond his face. She had to find the knife. She couldn't see it on the ground. Had he put it in one of his pockets when she was on the ground?

‘Where the fuck are my pills?'

She felt the spray of his spit on her face.

‘I hid them,' she said, playing for time, knowing there was no way she could tell him the truth. No way she could betray Tabitha. Her only chance was to keep him talking long enough to let her go for the knife.

‘Where?' He squeezed her cheeks together distorting her face. The pain was excruciating. ‘Where are they? Huh?'

He pressed his body against hers, jamming one forearm under her chin, forcing her head back against the car. She realized with a kind of shock he had an erection. She could feel it pushing, probing against her leg. Killing her, it seemed, was turning him on.

She slid her left hand to his pants. Found the zipper tab. Pulled it down. His hard cock poked out. She began stroking it softly. In and out. Tickling his balls with the tips of her fingers. His breath came faster.

She pushed her tongue deep into his mouth. He didn't stop her though the flow of her blood was staining his face. She pulled her tongue back, a silent invitation for his to enter her mouth. She edged her right hand around to his ass. Felt the shape of the knife in the back pocket. She rubbed his cock faster with her left hand. ‘You know I love you, Conor,' she said, trying as best she could to make it sound seductive, ‘I've always loved you.'

She slipped her right hand into the pocket. Found the handle of the knife. Grasped it firmly and bit down hard on his tongue. At the same time she grabbed his balls and squeezed them with all the force she could muster.

‘Fucking bitch!' he hissed, leaping back, bending double with the pain of it. Her hand was free of his pocket. She had the knife. She wasted a second searching for the button that would release the blade. Found it. Snapped it open. Drew back her arm. Drove it forward in a kind of uppercut, wanting desperately to shove the blade in as far as it would go. Draw it upwards. Open him up. Gut the fucker like her father had taught her, years earlier, to gut a fish.

But it wasn't to be. The man grabbed Tiff's wrist before the blade could reach him. Twisted it hard, back against itself. She felt an explosion of pain as the bone snapped. The knife fell to the ground.

Pushing back against the pain, she went for the knife again, this time with her left hand. But again he was too quick. In one swift motion he swept it up and pushed her back again against the car.

‘You're already dead, you cunt, you just don't know it yet.'

He was wrong about that. She definitely knew it.

‘Where are the pills?' he snarled.

‘Fuck you,' she hissed back.

‘Cunt.' He slipped the tip of the blade under her lip, its point pressing against the top of her gum. ‘Where are they?'

She closed her eyes, her broken wrist pulsing with pain. ‘Fuck you,' she said again, hoping to goad him into finishing it fast.

He pulled the blade smoothly through the soft flesh of her lip.

Tiff's mouth filled with blood. She spat it into his face.

He smacked her in punishment. Then he cut open her shirt and sliced through the front of her bra, so that it fell away and hung from her shoulders by its straps. He pulled down her jeans and her thong till they bunched up at her ankles. He took the knife and cut her breasts.

This time she screamed.

‘Where are they?'

Her screams diminished to a whimper. She wept. ‘I'm carrying your baby,' she gasped, hoping desperately he would care. ‘I'm pregnant.'

‘Bullshit. Where are they?'

‘The doctor's got them. I left them with the doctor.'

‘Why?' he snarled.

‘She called the cops.' One last desperate attempt she hoped might save her life. ‘They're on their way here now.'

For an instant she saw uncertainty in his eyes.

Then it was gone and he pushed the knife in. This time lower. This time deeper. Much much deeper. Again and again.

Dying, Tiff was only dimly aware of a piercing sound that came from the road.

Another woman's scream. The single word, ‘Stop!' shouted over and over again.

The man turned and saw a tall figure in white sprinting toward them screaming like a bloody banshee for the killer to stop what he was doing.

The man pulled the knife from between Tiff's legs. Pushed back her head and exposed her neck. He yanked off the gold chain and pendant she wore and slashed a single deep stroke across the whiteness of her throat.

He raced for his car. Started the engine. Pulled out of the lot.

The doctor's got them. I left them with the doctor.
Had Tiff been telling the truth?

In the distance, the man could hear the urgent cry of a police siren growing louder by the second. He didn't have much time. He had to get out of here.

Less than twenty yards away, the doctor stood in the middle of the road, waving her arms back and forth, in a desperate effort to get him to stop.

The man stomped on the accelerator and headed straight for her.