The River Is Dark (7 page)

“If there’s an alarm on the door, we run, okay?”

She nodded, and he turned the lock and opened the door.

Only the muffled patter of rain on the roof met them as they entered. They stood in a foyer, with a large sitting room to their left. A bank of stairs rose to their right and turned, opening up on a landing that fronted what looked like several bedrooms. Liam searched the darkness behind the banister above him, not knowing why the sight chilled him. Dani closed the door behind them, and Liam felt the wetness and heat of her shoulder brush his.

“Let’s not turn on any lights, including the flashlight, unless we have to, okay?” he asked in a low voice, uncertain why he felt the need to speak quietly.

“Okay.”

They moved together past the stairs and turned a corner, where the kitchen extended under a lofted ceiling. A row of stools sat in a neat line behind an island, and multiple windows gave a panoramic view of the yard and river outside. A spacious living room branched off the kitchen, and Liam searched the shadows that consumed its far end.

“God, it’s spooky in here,” Dani said. “Way worse than Allen and Suzie’s.”

Liam nodded. There was something different about the place. Perhaps it was the sprawling size of the home and the utter vacancy within it, or maybe it was the storm. He wasn’t sure, but now wasn’t the time to comb through the emotions to find a source.

“This is where Jerry and Karen were killed,” Liam said, turning in a small circle. The floor in the kitchen looked clean even in the low light, and he saw no obvious stains or matter anywhere in the vicinity. “The cleaning company’s been here already.”

“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” Dani said.

Liam suppressed a smile. “I want to find Jerry’s office if possible, see if anything stands out.”

They moved through the kitchen, the sound of their wet shoes squeaking on the floor like shrieks in the silence. Liam and Dani wound their way through the overstuffed recliners and around a leather corner sofa until they stood at the far end of the house. A bathroom sat beside a closed door at the rear of the room. Liam tried the handle of the door, fearing it wouldn’t open. It turned easily. Elation bloomed in his chest as the meager light from outside illuminated an oak desk and a computer, and two file cabinets that sat flush with the wall.

“Got it,” he said, and stepped into the room. Liam made his way around the desk and rolled the office chair out so that he could sit. “Here, do you want to hold the light?” he asked Dani.

She took the flashlight and, after a moment of fiddling, turned it on. The light, switched to the lowest setting, shone just enough to allow them to see their immediate surroundings. Liam opened a deep drawer in the desk and pulled the lone folder within it out. As soon as he did, Dani aimed the light into the drawer and pointed.

“Look.”

A handgun lay at the bottom of the drawer, its steel flesh gleaming. Liam grunted and turned his attention back to the folder. A few pages within revealed several old stock-exchange records and client contacts. Most of the numbers looked like gibberish to him, and he placed the contents back into the folder and returned it to the drawer. The other drawers in the desk were almost as empty, with only two more binders containing quotes on various land projections and an envelope with two one-hundred-dollar bills inside.

Liam put everything back the way he found it and settled into the chair. Dani focused the light on the desktop, and Liam saw something that made him sit forward.

“That’s Allen,” Dani said, training the light on the framed photo.

Liam picked it up and studied it. The picture was of the front of Allen’s practice. A group of a dozen people stood side by side on a sunny day, a drooping red ribbon hanging before the entrance to the building in the background. His brother held an overly large pair of scissors poised to cut the ribbon. A man stood beside him with a hand on Allen’s shoulder, his grin broad and full of white teeth.

Liam grabbed another photograph from the desk’s surface and brought it close. It was of Jerry, Karen, and Eric sitting on the deck in front of the house, their hands clasped in one another’s, each smiling through the years that had passed since the picture was taken. Jerry was the man with a hand on Allen’s shoulder in the first picture.

Liam set both frames back on the desk and stood. “Jerry was involved with Allen’s business somehow, otherwise he wouldn’t be in that photo.”

“Well, they were friends, right? Could he have been there just to be there?” Dani asked.

“Maybe, but I don’t think so. My dad and I drove down to see the opening ceremony for his clinic. That picture wasn’t taken that day. I think that was a grand reopening or something.”

“We could ask around about that—there’s nothing to hide there, right?”

“Absolutely,” Liam said, stepping around Dani as he moved to the file cabinets. “I just want to take a look in here, then we can go.” The words had barely left his mouth when he saw movement to his right.

A shadow strode through the storm outside the living room windows.

Liam sunk to the floor, grabbing the flashlight from Dani’s hand as he did so. “Get down,” he whispered, snapping off the dull glow of the light. “There’s someone outside.”

“Is it the cops?” she asked, huddling close to him on the floor, both of them kneeling beside the desk. Liam’s heart thundered in his chest, matching the weather outside, and he scanned the yard for the figure.

“I don’t know. Do you have your phone with you?”

“Yes.”

“If you hear me shoot, call 911, okay?”

“Shoot?”

Liam stood and drew the Sig from the holster at his back. Leaning against the doorway, he peered into the living room and through the windows lining the far wall. He saw no flashing lights or other movement except for an arc of lightning in the distance. Liam crouched and moved out of the office, stopping behind an easy chair. The grip of the pistol felt slick in his hand, and he flexed his fingers as his breath shuddered in and out of him like something alive. With slow caution, he eased to the edge of the chair and peeked around the side.

A shape stood in the corner of the yard.

Liam folded himself back behind the chair. He couldn’t see if the person faced the house or the dense woods beyond, but with the lights off inside, he would have an advantage to move without being seen. He glanced at the office and saw Dani’s pale face looking back at him, her eyes wide. He held up one index finger, and then moved out from behind the chair, his back and knees bent, his body as low as he could get it to the floor. Lightning flashed again, turning the world outside into a blizzard of light. Liam spun and tried to get a glimpse of the figure, but the light dimmed and dusk resumed within a clap of thunder.

Liam moved through the kitchen, throwing a look at the garage door to make sure it was intact. He winced at the sounds of his feet on the floor, but was sure the pounding rain and thunder masked any noises he made. When he reached the foyer, he searched the rain-soaked drive for vehicles. Empty.

His heart picked up its already brisk pace. If there was no car, then that most likely ruled out law enforcement. If it wasn’t the law outside, then there was a good chance it was the opposite.

The killer had come back.

Liam glanced at the stairway and realized why he’d had a sense of apprehension earlier. It was the thought of young Eric Shevlin running up the stairs to hide in his parents’ room while they were slaughtered below him, in the kitchen. Liam did a quick pan of the area outside the windows and saw nothing. His angle was now wrong to survey the corner of the yard. He would have to leave the safety of the house to see where the form waited.

Without a sound, he turned the knob and opened the door to the storm. Rain fell in sheets beyond the overhang of the deck. Muddy trails of water flowed over the concrete drive and raced to join the Mississippi at the bottom of the property. Liam closed the door and crept to the corner of the house facing the river. His head swiveled back and forth, his eyes scanning the cascading layers of rain for movement. Leaning forward, he pushed his face around the corner of the house and looked toward the spot where he last saw the figure.

The yard was empty. Without hesitation, he moved down the steps, the gun held out before him, his legs bent, eyes twitching, finger tight on the trigger. Puddles splashed around his feet, but he didn’t slow until he reached the far corner of the building. Pausing, he swept the woods for any sign of a deeper shadow before pivoting around the corner. Only swaying trees and brush met him, and after a full minute of waiting, he lowered the gun.

He was sure he hadn’t made enough noise to alert the trespasser, and he hadn’t seen him depart. Liam turned his head toward the river and the spot where he last saw the figure. A small, rounded shadow sat on the ground just before the tree line. He hadn’t noticed it, since the figure had blocked it from his earlier vantage point. He moved toward it, all the while keeping his eyes trained on the dark forest. When he was a few feet away from the object, he glanced down, finally seeing it for what it was.

A tombstone grew out of the ground, the outlines of letters carved into its front. He knelt and moved close to the granite until he could read the words etched into the rock.
Peter Shevlin, June 8, 1993—In our hearts and in God’s hands.
A small angel with massive wings hovered over the inscription, its head bowed in mourning.

Liam stood, glancing in all directions as he retreated to the house, his mind trying to make sense of what just happened. An uneasy feeling like a ball of infection began to throb in his stomach. He didn’t know what bothered him more: the sight of the shadowed form appearing and disappearing within the storm, or that it seemed to have come to visit the grave of the Shevlins’ deceased infant.

CHAPTER 7

Donald Haines stirred the vodka and lime-water together with an angry flick of his wrist.

He shot his cell phone a poisonous look before downing half the drink, the ice cubes in the glass clinking together. The conversation with Ian hadn’t gone well. Not well at all. When Donald mentioned that the project might be postponed because of the recent murders, there’d been only silence on the other end of the line. He could imagine Ian’s high-rise office in Chicago, his floor the only one in the building illuminated at this time of night. He could see the man seated behind the hideous art-deco desk in the middle of the room; his dark eyes unmoving from the night around the building, the curling, ever-present sneer on his otherwise stoic face.

“Fuck you,” Donald growled, and slammed the rest of his drink.

He tossed the glass onto the countertop and went to the freezer to grab the vodka, wanting—no,
needing
—another drink after the encounter with Ian. The vice president’s conditions were clear: get the project under way within the next week, or Colton would find someone else to do it. Donald huffed at the sound of Ian’s voice in his ear, so cold and calm, assuring him that they would have no trouble finding a replacement at all.

“Asshole,” Donald said to the empty house. Couldn’t Ian see that he was doing as much as he could? The cops were out searching for the lunatic right now, and there wasn’t any confirmation that the city council
would
postpone because of the recent crimes. He’d also given the mayor an extra thousand dollars. Although the bumpkin took the money, he said there weren’t any guarantees, but he’d do his best to push it forward.

Donald sloshed vodka into the glass and didn’t even bother with the lime-water before snapping the drink back. God, he couldn’t wait to get out of this little shithole. There was nothing here he wanted. No friends, no nightlife, no women to fuck. He walked across the kitchen and gazed out the windows at the storm. The wind hadn’t abated since early evening, and the rain fell as if there was a hole in the sky. Turning away from the window, he stalked to the counter where his phone lay, his steps heavier with the influence of the vodka. He checked the time on his phone; it was getting late. He needed to get to bed if he was going to make his tee time in the morning.

Shooting the vodka another longing look, he walked his glass to the sink and set it down. He turned off the single light in the kitchen and was about to grab his phone when a noise made him stop in his tracks.

Thump, thump, thump.

Turning his head and listening, Donald tried to discern where it had come from. After a few seconds, it repeated, this time louder, from the far end of the house, near the guest bedroom.

Donald looked out the windows to his left at the swirling trees and spitting rain.
Must be a tree branch rubbing against the house.
He shrugged and moved through the dining room to the door that led into the spacious guest bedroom. As he reached to flip on the light, he had the sudden fear that a hand would stretch out from the darkness to grasp his wrist. The image was so strong he nearly shrank back and shut the door, but instead, he fumbled against the wall until his fingers met the switch.

Light flooded the room and instantly turned the windows into opaque rectangles. Donald moved to the glass and cupped his hands around his face, wary of the storm tossing something hard at the window at that moment. He looked into the night, trying to spy a reaching branch or some other debris that might have caused the thumping, but saw nothing save waving leaves and a pulsing line of lightning that illuminated the dark river at the far end of the yard.

Donald stood back, chewing on his lip, and shook his head. Nerves, frazzled from the call with Ian, was all it was. He needed sleep and a nice round of golf in the morning. Along with a few drinks. Feeling better, he moved out of the room, snapping off the light as he went. He had taken two steps toward the kitchen when the screen door flew open and banged against the side of the house. Donald’s heart leapt in his chest and did a drum solo against his ribs. Immediately the fear became anger, as he resumed his course through the house.

“Fucking storm,” he said under his breath as he walked to the entry and flipped on the outside light, which illuminated a half circle of the yard and driveway in front of the house. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, immediately catching a face full of wind and rain. Donald squinted against the stinging drops hurled at him by the wind and stepped onto the porch to grab the screen door from where it banged insistently against the siding. With a grunt, he pulled the door shut and stepped inside. When he tried to latch the outer door, it wouldn’t stay shut.

“What the shit?” he said, leaning closer to the catch. After a few seconds of inspection, he saw that the tongue of the lock was missing, sheared off and gone. Rage vented like steam from his pores, and he yanked on the screen door as hard as he could, trying to wedge it shut with pure force. The rest of the handle broke off in his hand, and the door sailed open with a bang.

“Fuck you!” Donald yelled, and slammed the inner door shut. He trembled from the anger coursing through his veins and wished he had some outlet to release it. If Ian were here now . . . oh, it would not be good. The thought of pummeling the smug vice president’s face into a mass of jelly made him feel better, and he flexed the muscles in his arms, relishing the image of his fist smashing over and over into Ian’s teeth.

BANG.

Donald flinched in spite of his fury and peered through the darkness of the house toward the guest bedroom.

BANG.

The sound was louder this time. Was a fucking tree falling on the house? He moved through the kitchen and dining room until he stood just outside the door to the guest bedroom. He listened, his ear almost pressed against the wood, trying to hear anything inside that would indicate the window was broken. He didn’t want to step onto glass with just socks on his feet. Slowly he opened the door, and found the switch before his mind could come up with anything else to scare him.

The window was intact, and nothing else was out of place. He turned in a small circle, looking for anything that could have fallen. The room was spartan to begin with, and there were really no adornments that could have toppled to cause the noise he heard.

“Pussy,” he said. “And now you’re talking to yourself.”

He shook his head and exited the room for a second time, promising himself he wouldn’t entertain his imagination again if he heard another sound. Half smiling at his foolishness, he walked toward the kitchen to grab his phone and saw movement in front of him, near the entry. Donald stopped in mid-stride, every muscle in his body going rigid, his skin tightening into a million points of gooseflesh.

The inside door swung open and bumped against the wall.

It rebounded off the coatrack that hung just inside the doorway and slowed, before moving back again with the wind’s insistence. One thought flashed over and over in his mind as he watched the door travel its slow arc:
I didn’t lock the door, I didn’t lock the door, I didn’t lock the door.
Now the sounds from before became something different, not random effects of the storm but purposeful and calculated movements.
They were herding me,
he thought, and another shiver of fear swam through his spine.

His eyes searched the dim outlines of the kitchen counter until he located his phone. The shadows of the house, benign before, were now roiling, malevolent shapes that seemed to move on their own. Donald took a shaking step forward and stopped when he heard something else just below the sound of the storm outside. Whispering. The hiss of words from a mouth that didn’t want him to hear. Donald’s bowels turned to soup, and he forced back the urge to fall screaming to the floor. He needed to get his phone and barricade himself in the bedroom upstairs. He’d call for help, and would crawl out a window if he had to.

He shot a look through the archway to his left, into the living room. The back door was through there, but an even darker layer of shadows hung in the room, and he couldn’t get himself to move in that direction. Just a few more steps and he could grab his phone, grab his phone and run. If it was just the storm making sounds and opening doors, he would feel foolish but safe.

His stomach clenched as he heard another susurration somewhere in the dark. He moved forward despite the animalistic feeling in his chest that screamed at him to run. Donald focused on his phone and readied himself to lunge for it. In a second, he’d have it and he could give in to the primal pleadings to flee.

With a little cry that surprised him as it slipped free of his mouth, he sprung forward and thrust his hand at the phone. He felt the rough edges of its case against his fingertips and the relief of knowing he could call for help.

A heavy piece of steel fell out of the darkness and cut through his wrist.

Donald watched it as if from somewhere outside his own body, saw the rusty serrated edges of the blade slice through flesh and bone and shatter the tile countertop beneath. His hand shot forward, free of his arm, and landed on the counter, looking like a fish on a cleaning table. The stump gouted a dark shadow that spread out in an even pool on the counter. Only after a split second of pain did he realize the shadow was his blood as it spattered the kitchen floor.

Donald stumbled back, clutching his ruined arm against his chest like a newborn, the hot wetness beginning to soak through his T-shirt. A hulking shadow moved through the kitchen toward him, ungainly and hunched as it lifted the massive steel blade over its head. He reached out with his good hand and tried to spit out pleas of mercy, but his feet tangled and he fell to the ground, his sight going hazy as the thing from the storm loomed over him.