Dark Light

35

The EMTs and medical examiner’s people didn’t leave with the Cuban’s body until after sunset, and it was nearly eight by the time the cops finished questioning Moe and Bern. They’d kept the men separated, interviewing them in unmarked detective cars that smelled of plastic and electronics.

The cops wouldn’t tell them, but a local fisherman said the Cuban had been shot in the meaty area just under the arm near the armpit. Not a bad place, if there’s help around, but the Cuban had headed for the water for some reason, trying to escape through the mangroves, and bled to death because the bullet nicked an artery.

Before the cops had arrived, Bern had said to Moe, “Tell the story exactly as it happened. Only difference is, when the black guy jumped out of the boat you thought he had a gun, so did I. You fired a warning shot, the guy maybe stumbled and fell. We’re not sure. It was dark. He ran off. We searched for a while before I called the cops.”

Moe was feeling better about things after reading the newspaper article four or five times. He said, “We thought Javier had a gun, and we were standing our ground.”

“Damn right we thought he had a gun. The asshole already threatened to shoot somebody if he didn’t get his boat.”

“The warning shot—did I fire it into the ground or up into the air?”

Jesus Christ, Bern knew running backs who were smarter than this guy. “You hit him and killed him. So why don’t you say you shot in his direction. At his feet, maybe, wanting to scare him. You shoot up in the air, and what? The bullet comes straight down, hits the guy on top of the head, and comes out his armpit? Back there in French Lick, I’m thinkin’ babies get dropped a lot. Your doctors must be missing fingers; some kind of genetic deal.”

It was eight-thirty now as Bern walked into his condo and noticed the FedEx package from the old man’s assistant, Jason Goddard, on the desk. He still hadn’t opened it, and thought: Why not? His luck was improving—one witness dead, one witness to go, and a new self-defense law that seemed custom made for Bern, considering how many times Moe had nearly killed him.

The Hoosier’s time was nearing.

He found scissors and sat.

Inside the FedEx package, there was a cover letter that stank of mothballs, just like the tight-assed attorney who’d sent it. Bern didn’t bother to read the thing. He went right to the contents, two more legal-sized envelopes, which he ripped open, staring out the window at the sky, which was graphite streaked with orange and pearl.

He stopped for a moment. He could see darkness beyond pools of security lights—empty docks, the canal, and a hollow-looking space that he knew was the bay. Something was missing from the deepwater seawall.

Where the hell’s my boat?

He’d been so busy dealing with cops, he’d forgotten about Augie and his butt-buddy taking the Viking out to go scuba diving. They should’ve been back a couple of hours ago. Unless Augie had decided to stop somewhere for a drink, brag about what a hotshit he was in the fancy boat that he didn’t own, and that—Bern was just deciding this—Augie would never ever use again in his life.

Bern needed that boat in case his luck hadn’t changed, although he was pretty sure it had.

A moment later, though, after he’d leafed through the contents of the first envelope, he whispered, “Shit,” and dropped the papers on the desk.

Maybe his luck was the same. Still bad, getting worse.

W ritten in his grandfather’s shaky hand: “Bernie, I kept a file on your recreational activities. I recommend you cooperate with Jason.”

Bernie. Jesus Christ, he hated that name.

Attached to the note were copies of dozens of newspaper clippings: the Milwaukee Journal, the Madison State Journal, the Baraboo News Republic, and several weekly papers.

The clippings dated back to Bern’s troubled adolescence, one headlined:

BARABOO TEEN EVALUATED

AFTER ASSAULT WITH HAMMER

It was not surprising the old man had kept the article. He held grudges for a lifetime, so why not keep them in a scrap-book like scalps?

The other clippings were more troubling:

ASSAULTS PLAGUE BARABOO PARK.

COPS HUNT RAPIST DUO

These were from his high school and college days; a time when he was first experimenting with a game a buddy of his called Caveman. They’d walk in from the backside of Devil’s Lake State Park—a popular place for campers; neckers, too—and hang out along the Ice Age Trail, a famous Wisconsin nature path where granola munchers loved to hike. Around sunset was the best time: pretty, with the lake in the distance, trees on rock ledges above. Wait for some doper girls to come jiggling along and introduce themselves.

If the doper girls were friendly, he and his buddy would have fun. If they weren’t, they still had fun. Grab them by the hair—like cavemen—and pull them down the hill to a place where they already had a blanket laid out and a couple of six-packs of beer.

How did the old man know it was him?

Spooky.

One clipping was headlined: LOCAL AUTHORITIES SEEK OUTSIDE ADVICE. It said an FBI expert on criminal profiling had been invited to Baraboo to help decipher a pattern in the timing of the assaults. Bern remembered reading this story, and thinking: Uh-oh. Time for the Cavemen to hit the showers.

His grandfather had circled the headline in red, and scribbled: “Idiots never checked local football schedule!”

Bern thought about that for a moment. What did playing Caveman have to do with football? Well…maybe the old man had something. They’d started grabbing girls when summer two-a-day practices ended, and went to the park only on weekend nights they didn’t have a game.

By then, he and his buddy were being referred to as “the Devil’s Lake Stalkers.” Funny. All fired up on steroids, with no practice, no game, and tons of boyish energy to burn.

Once, a couple of local cops stepped out of the bushes as they entered the park; said they were staked out, waiting for the rapists, and wanted to ask a few questions. Bern’s buddy—a defensive end who later started all four years at Grinnell—told the cops, “This is quite a coincidence, officers, we looking for those bad boys ourselves. If they’re lucky, you’ll catch ’em before me and my man Bernard get our hands on ’em,” speaking in the funny way black guys did.

They spent the next hour with the cops, talking football, telling them Baraboo could beat any high school team in Milwaukee or Madison, bring them on.

That was their last visit to the park.

Bern took the time to read one of the articles and nearly smiled. “Descriptions of the stalkers are consistent in that both men are described as ‘huge,’ but otherwise vary greatly. Victims have described both as ‘white, Hispanic, Afro-American, and Asian.’”

Bern was thinking, Not even close, as he tossed the article aside.

There was another packet of Xeroxed clippings, these more recent.

MILWAUKEE POLICE SEEK SERIAL RAPIST

There were several like that. But there were also stories about assaults that took place in Appleton…Sauk City…Prairie du Chien…that Bern wasn’t involved with. No association whatsoever.

Just like the old bastard to blame him for crap he didn’t do.

Bern couldn’t say the same about stories in the Miami Herald and the Tampa Tribune.

HOPE FADES FOR MISSING GAINESVILLE COED.

MOTHER OF TWO DISAPPEARS FROM MALL

They gave him a chill. He’d never meant it to go that way. But sometimes shit happened.

The old man had circled a paragraph that read, “A witness who encountered the suspect prior to the student’s abduction described the man as ‘gigantic’ and said he had a distinctive regional accent. Police believe the suspect left so many clues, they will be able to identify him soon.”

On the clipping, his grandfather had written: “Stupid amateur!”

What did that mean?

Bern opened the second envelope, thinking: She’s been in that oil drum nearly a year and not a soul’s come snooping. What’s so stupid about that?

Inside the second envelope, sent by the old man’s personal assistant, were copies of handwritten bills of sale that were similar to the ones Bern had found in the foul-smelling briefcase. All dated between 1939 and October 1944, and attached to legal descriptions of land his grandfather had bought.

Stole, more like it, judging from some of the prices.

Wait…that wasn’t fair. The old man was a sadistic bully, sure, but his business skills were hall of fame. He was tough, foresighted, shrewd—qualities Bern had yet to demonstrate, but hoped they were lying dormant somewhere inside.

He read a few of the bills of sale.

For a parcel of land, 22 acres more or less, running from the bayside of Marco Island to the beach, legal description attached, sale is hereby consummated in consideration of payment of $1,750 cash…

How much would an acre of Marco Island beachfront sell for today?

Millions.

There was a bill of sale for three acres, “bay to beach,” on Captiva Island—$600. Seven acres on Siesta Key—$350. Ten acres Clearwater Beach—$1,300.

Today, these three properties alone would be worth sixty, seventy million dollars. There were more receipts for acreage he’d purchased, fifteen…no, twenty-three more bills of sale. All beach or bayfront, with the exception of twenty-six acres he bought in Orlando—June 1943—lakefront acreage, cost: $2,145.

The company still owned the parcel, had yet to develop it.

The old man had sold some of his holdings to capitalize his developments. But there was still a lot of raw land in the portfolio. Bern made a mental note to look next time he was at the home office in Appleton. He had every right to do it. In fact, the bozos at the home office might as well get used to him poking around. As long as the company remained solvent for two years—actually, twenty-three months and counting—fifty-one percent of the Florida land company would belong to Bern. Plus, he’d get back his personal assets, which he’d signed over, so he had a vested interest.

Which was no big deal. He hadn’t played long enough in the NFL to get part of that rich profit-sharing pension. His little piss-poor retirement savings from Gimpel’s, some Cadillac stock, combined, worth around fifteen thousand dollars. Shirley had a collection of Hummel figurines she claimed was worth fifty or sixty thousand—maybe true, if God dropped everything else and zapped Michael Jackson knickknack crazy—and they still had ten years left on their home mortgage.

Before moving to Florida, Bern wasn’t worth much. Stick it out another year, though, stay out of the Hoosier’s line of fire, and he’d be wealthier than a lot of quarterbacks who owned car dealerships and restaurants.

Nothing too hard about that. Right?

B ern picked up Mr. Mothball’s letter, the one enclosed with the bills of sale, not the cover letter. He knew right away it was trouble from the way it started.

Jesus, now what…

Bernard, This is confidential. If you can’t honor that, please review the enclosed envelope containing newspaper clippings which are representative of a file your grandfather kept…

Here we go.

I have disturbing news regarding the corporation’s Florida land company, your contractual employer. A woman claims to have promissory notes signed by your grandfather dating back to 1939. If authentic, they may cloud titles of real estate holdings worth many millions. Copies of bills of sale are enclosed…

Shit!

Bern threw the letter down, went to the fridge and got a Grolsch beer, green bottle, porcelain stopper. He opened the beer, poured it into a quart glass, and drank half of it, getting that cold hops taste from the bubbles.

He scowled at the letter as he finished the beer—Sonuvabitch!—then went to the fridge for another before returning to the desk.

…the woman’s name is Mildred C. Engle. She is the heir of Marlissa Dorn, who was an actress, and said to be one of the great beauties of her time. I received your phone message inquiring about a photo in your possession. It was taken of Ms. Dorn in 1938, prior to her arrival in the United States…

Perfect. He finds out the old bag’s name now, when he’s too upset to think about sex even with a young woman. Bern reached, retrieved the photo from a stack of papers, and looked at the woman’s face again, her smoldering eyes.

Marlissa Dorn, huh? She couldn’t have been much of an actress. He’d never heard of her. Which was probably why she was screwing the old man. Money.

He dropped the photo and continued reading.

No. Just the opposite was true…

From 1939 to 1944, while living in Florida, your grandfather and Ms. Dorn were friends, and hoped to marry. During this period, Ms. Dorn loaned your grandfather small sums of money to purchase real estate that only he, at the time, recognized as valuable. In the autumn of 1944, however, your grandfather discovered Ms. Dorn had been unfaithful, and he left Florida soon thereafter. He did not attempt to contact her until he returned to the United States in 1955, by then happily married to your grandmother…

So, the old man was screwing the movie queen—until he caught her screwing someone else. That, at least, was interesting. But did Jason have to lay out his grandfather’s life story before telling Bern how, exactly, he was getting it up the butt again, compliments of the old man?

Bern chugged the beer, slammed the glass down, and skipped ahead to the second page, skimming key passages.

…unaware of Ms. Dorn’s death, and we could find no record…most promissory notes contain a payoff date, but these were “interest only” notes, a kindness to your grandfather, it seemed at the time…

…statutes of limitations do not apply to undated notes…even without considerations of interest due, attorney fees in a case that will go on for years…Our company losses could be in the millions…

Sadly, we wouldn’t be in this position if your grandfather had not attempted to make amends for the unpaid debt prior to his death, and do what was just and ethical…

Okay, finally, Jason was getting to the important part. The little twerp always started with some outrageous lie before kicking you in the teeth—probably hoping to get a smile. The old man had never done anything just or ethical in his life.

…when your grandfather realized our acquisitions department had, coincidentally, purchased the estate where Ms. Dorn had once resided, he contacted her family anonymously, through this office. He offered her heirs free use of the beach home until the company sold or developed the property. It was a magnanimous gesture, made by a dying man who wanted to do the right thing…

Bought the property “coincidentally”?

That was a laugh. The acquisitions department consisted of only one person who had any say: Frederick Roth. If he bought the movie queen’s house, it was the gesture of a dying man who wanted to fuck her over because she’d fucked him over. Screwing her heirs was close enough—the old man’s way of tidying up accounts prior to moving along to his own corner of Hell, where he’d probably already been promoted to an executive position.

But how was he screwing them over, letting the movie queen’s family use the place for free? Bern continued reading.

A few weeks ago, Ms. Dorn’s heir, Mildred Engle, upon learning your grandfather’s identity, contacted me about the promissory notes. Instead of being grateful for his generosity, she threatened legal action. Ms. Engle wants compensation equal to the current value of properties purchased with Ms. Dorn’s money.

If Ms. Engle can produce the original promissory notes, many of the company’s titled assets will be clouded. I feel we should consider dissolving the company in advance, and thereby making our assets less vulnerable…

Dissolve the company.

Fuck!

Bern’s was hyperventilating, his heart pounding. Dissolve the company and he would lose his job, his inheritance, his savings, his car, his home in Wisconsin. Everything.

That ruthless, miserable bastard.

Forgiveness is for people who don’t have the balls for revenge—one of his grandfather’s favorite sayings. But Bern, hounded by his slob of a wife, had gone ahead and signed the contract anyway.

How could I be so goddamn dumb?