Darkhouse

TWENTY-TWO

Denison, North Central Texas, 1988

The engine was running, a low hum in the darkened street. Donnie and Duke sat in the front seat of the pickup.

‘Hello, Barbara,’ said Donnie, putting out his hand.

‘Why you shakin’ her hand?’ asked Duke. ‘Do you shake her hand every time you meet her?’

‘No,’ said Donnie.

‘Well, why the hell do it tonight?’ said Duke. ‘It won’t look right.’ He nodded for Donnie to try again.

‘Hi, Barbara,’ said Donnie. ‘We’re having a party for Rick and I was wondering if you’d like to help me work on a guest list.’

‘That’s more like it,’ said Duke.

A car pulled into the driveway ahead and a man in a grey suit stepped out. He walked towards the front door.

‘What the fuck is this?’ hissed Duke. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’

Donnie closed his eyes.

‘The husband,’ he said.

‘What time is it, Donnie?’ said Duke.

Donnie looked at his watch, but he knew.

‘Eleven-oh-five.’

‘And what night is it?’ said Duke, thumping the dashboard.

‘Tuesday,’ said Donnie.

‘You stupid fuckin’ son of a bitch,’ said Duke. ‘You dumb fuck. I talked you through this, Donnie. Visualise it, I said. Visualise everythin’. Imagine a big fuckin’ clock with a big fuckin’ Tuesday on it and a big fuckin’ time printed in big black letters across the centre. Eleven. Oh. Five.’

Donnie leaned back against the seat and exhaled slowly.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking over at Duke.

‘I love you too, sweetheart,’ whined Duke. ‘I hate it when we fight.’

Silence hung in the air.

‘You fuckin’ loser,’ boomed Duke, starting the engine. ‘I’ve had it. Time to move on. I can’t—’

‘No!’ cried Donnie. ‘Listen, I know I messed up, but I won’t do it again. I swear to God.’

‘Messed up?’ roared Duke. ‘Messed up? Messed up is gettin’ the time of a movie wrong or puttin’ salt on your fuckin’ Cheerios. Your brand of messin’ up could have had us face down and handcuffed, bent over takin’ it up the ass in some fuckin’ prison shower. This,’ he roared, stabbing the air with his finger, ‘this was the biggest mistake of your life. And it’s the last one you’ll ever make.’

Donnie’s heart pounded. A sharp pain seared through his chest. Duke reached across him and opened the door.

‘Get out,’ he said. ‘Get the fuck out of my vehicle.’

Donnie stumbled from the pickup, closing the door behind him with a soft thud. Through a screech of brakes, he heard Duke push the door open again and slam it closed.

Rachel Wade wiped along the counter of Beeler’s with a dirty towel that stank of stale beer and ash. She turned to polish the mounted bottles behind the bar, her thin, blonde hair swinging. She moved into the back bar to clear the last of the tables, gripping dirty glasses in her slender fingers. She flicked off the lights with her free hand on her way back into the bar. Suddenly, a man appeared behind her in the darkened lounge.

‘Excuse me?’ he said.

Rachel jumped. ‘Holy shit!’ she said, turning around, her hand to her chest. ‘You scared the hell outta me. I thought I locked the door.’ She squinted into the black, but all she could see was his eyes, magnetic and blue.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just wonderin’ if I was too late to order myself a beer.’

‘Closin’ at four,’ she said. ‘But you’re the first to come by since midnight.’

‘Bottle of Busch, then,’ he said.

She put down his beer, then came out from behind the bar, picking up glasses, wiping down surfaces, sticking darts back into the board. Duke watched her slim hips as she moved between the tables, watched the pink lace bra pushing against her white shirt.

‘Why don’t you come join me for a drink?’ he asked.

‘OK.’ She grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and took the stool beside him. After an hour, she locked the doors and after two, they were at the end of the bottle. Rachel stood up to go to the bathroom and rocked back on her heels.

‘Whoa. You think you’re doin’ OK, ’til you’re on your feet,’ she laughed.

Duke laughed with her and watched the denim sway as she walked to the bathroom.

Rachel used the hand dryer, then looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and she could barely focus. She pulled a tube of gloss from her pocket and slicked it across her lips. As she reached out to pull open the door, it swung back in her face. Duke pushed his way in, quickly moving his right arm behind her back and pushing her up against the cold tile wall. He kissed her roughly, pushing his tongue around her mouth, his teeth clashing with hers. Rachel held him back, taking in a sharp breath.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Calm down. Let’s go back into the bar.’

‘Let’s not,’ said Duke, his hand shooting down, grabbing her roughly between the legs, his tongue out, ready to plunge into her mouth again.

‘Ow,’ she said. ‘Relax.’ She leaned her head back and looked, confused, into his eyes. They were black now, his pupils huge. She waved her hand in front of his face.

‘Hello?’ she said. ‘This is no way to treat a lady.’ She smiled at him, but the panic was rising in her chest. She started to think about the bar, the doors, the phone, the neighbours, the screams. She told herself she was being stupid. Then her eyes locked with his and she knew this was it. At the same time, her body went limp and she knew her arms, her fists, everything would be useless to her. Her legs had dissolved into shakes. She managed to shove her knee up, but it missed his groin, harmlessly connecting with his rigid thigh. He grabbed her throat now, pushing her head against the wall, kissing her again, clawing at her everywhere. With one final push, she freed herself, pulling at the door, running and staggering into the black of the lounge. The place she knew so well was suddenly foreign to her as she tripped over tables and stools, desperately trying to reach the bolted door. Duke was on her in seconds, pushing her effortlessly to the floor, her jaw smashing into the sticky blue carpet. The smell of smoke and beer filled her nostrils once more. She tried to wriggle free, but something inside her told her to lay still. She thought he might feel sorry for her, she was so small, he couldn’t want to hurt her. She was crying out in pain now, but too weak from alcohol and fear to do anything about his weight bearing down on top of her.

She felt the fabric of her shirt being ripped up her back, the breeze freezing the cold sweat. Then she felt something sharp. He wasn’t ripping her shirt, he was slicing through it with a knife.

‘Please,’ she sobbed.

‘Shut your fuckin’ mouth,’ he said. His voice was utterly chilling, stripped of the earlier warmth.

‘Please don’t,’ she tried again, her words mumbled through broken jaw and carpet.

‘I. Said. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.’

She saw the knife. It was so small, curved and vicious in his hand. It was a carpet cutter. Oh God. She remembered how quickly she had seen one cut through the same carpet she was lying on now. She started to wail. He covered her mouth, using his free hand to reach for her jeans. Her whole body started to convulse. He got up and stood over her. Fear rooted her to the floor. Then a desperate surge of energy and panic made her scramble on her side and she crawled uselessly away from him in one last attempt to survive. He let her go, let her get to the door, her hand clawing up the wood to the bolt, but in three strides he was there, dragging her back face down again on the carpet. He undid his jeans, pulling at himself, then, enraged, he grabbed at a beer bottle nearby and knelt down in front of her. Her screams were piercing. He smashed the bottle into the fireplace and then everything was quiet. Pain coursed through her, but she still hoped this would be enough for him. She didn’t care, he could leave her here, he could get away. Then she saw the knife again and she let out a scream that sent vibrations through his fingers. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, stuffing it into her mouth, holding it shut. He flipped her over, then slid the knife under her and used his weight on top to force it through the flesh beneath her ribs. He released it, then plunged it in again, making a second, then a third gaping wound. Then, as he was about to work on her left side, he heard a crunch. Outside.

‘Rach? Rach, honey? You there?’

Duke looked down at her. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Her eyes were pleading. He reached for a stool.

Donnie flicked on the TV set and caught the closing minutes of the report.

‘…not believed to be connected to the other killings, all of which appear to have been committed during daylight hours.’ As he watched a body being taken from a bar on a stretcher covered in black, he heard someone pounding on the side door.

‘Donnie, open up, open up – I’m sorry man, goddammit, Donnie.’ His fists hammered on the wood until he heard the latch slide back and Donnie was in front of him.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Donnie. Duke was covered in blood, his T-shirt soaked through, his jeans splattered, his fly half undone. He stumbled into the kitchen, his chest heaving. Donnie grabbed a cloth from the sink and started to clean the smears from the door.

‘Why didn’t you go to the creek like normal?’ said Donnie.

‘I lost it, man, I lost it,’ said Duke. ‘Someone showed up. I was nearly leavin’ her alive in there.’

‘The girl on the TV.’

‘It was on TV already? Son of a bitch.’

‘What if Geoff was here?’

‘His car’s outside the Amazon,’ said Duke.

Donnie watched him stride towards the bathroom. ‘So I’m good for somethin’ then,’ he called after him.

‘You are, Donnie. I fucked up, before. I was mad. I ain’t goin’ it alone. That was crazy talk.’