Our Man in the Dark (35 page)

It was impressive when the police and the press showed up. Mathis and Strobe were astonishingly professional. They prevented the press from photographing me, making sure to cover my head so that they couldn't get a good picture. They put Candy's body by a tree near the Billingsley and Cullworth place, being sure to locate the particular item that would tie them to her murder. Mathis and Strobe. They dazzled the small-time police officers with the kind of confidence and air of authority that only an FBI agent can get away with. They declined having their pictures taken. Only Candy's was necessary. And seemingly, in a flash, it was over. But as they drive me home, I've yet to feel any relief.

Mathis stops in front of my apartment, but Strobe gets out before I do. “I'll walk the rest of the way,” he tells Mathis. “I'm feeling sick.” Mathis and I watch him walk down the street until he disappears into the darkness.

I move to get out, but Mathis motions for me to wait. “I am sorry about your loss,” he says. “But don't feel bad. Something new is right around the corner. Soon you'll forget it ever happened. In fact, I suggest that you do that as quickly as possible.”

I think about Candice, and how she fit so easily into the trunk.

“She left,” he says. “My wife left me and I didn't even ask why. I was just glad to see her go. The funny thing is I'm not sure if I'm sad about it. I do feel liberated in a sense. Like I'm not burdened with the weight of guilt. Now I can see her in a way that I never could. I love her—so much so that I can't even be sad about my wife leaving. It's as if she gave Lucinda to me as a final gift, allowing me to have the new one in order to forget the old one. I feel this is the time when I could just run away. Please, John, tell me, is this a punishment or a gift?”

It's both. The gift of punishment, I think to myself. He's talked about his wife and for the first time referred to Lucinda by name, but he hasn't said anything about the photographs. He says he's fine with his wife leaving, but I don't see relief in his eyes. No man is okay with his wife leaving, even if the mistress stays. The point is to have them both. I'm outmatched. I know that. Mathis could wipe me out like a bloodstain on a floor. I'm not much more to him than that. “Thank you for your help, Mathis,” I say as I get out of the car.

I stand in front of my door and wait for Mathis to drive off. He takes his time but finally does. I want to rest, but I don't want to go in. I look around frantically, like a child who's suddenly found himself alone. That doesn't last too long, as the door seemingly opens on its own.

“Couldn't find Lester,” Count says, “but I'm sure he'll turn up . . .”

I just stand there.

“Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Come in, dammit.”

I walk in and sit on the edge of my bed. Count pulls up a chair and sits across from me. He reaches into his pocket and offers me a cigarette. I accept and he lights up for us both.

“Let me tell you a story,” he says, sending smoke from his nostrils. “One night, after my place got raided, two white men come in to see me. FBI. They say they know everything about me, and they ain't lyin'—they do. They list my rap sheet and tell me they got enough to shut me down, but it don't have to happen that way. All I got to do is cooperate. They want information about that nigger preacher. They want the good stuff. And since I already know someone working for him, it should be easy. They started explaining how this was in my best interest. I didn't say it at the time, but they were right. I thought, ‘Damn, this could be a fruitful relationship.' I know it seems like that's why I kept you around, but that's not it. You grew on me, little man. We're more alike than you realize. I guess I didn't realize just how much until tonight. I decided to wait a minute before going after Lester, just to clear my head, but then I see that you and me have mutual friends. The same two white men—FBI—come to see you. I always suspected it. They got to me way too easily, and your ass gets rescued way too often. You and me are square. I mean that, so I'll let you live. But you're into some heavy shit. You brought me nothing but trouble since I met you.” He takes a long draw from his cigarette and holds it for
a beat before sending it out above us. “This is the last time we'll share a smoke. It pains me to say it, but you've got a black cloud over your head. And now, I'm asking you kindly to stay the fuck out of my life.” He drops his cigarette on my floor, stands, and then grinds it out with his foot.

I look at the remnants of the cigarette: a smudge of black ash, an ember flickers before dying out.

“Okay, Count. I think that's for the best.”

“Yeah, I think so too.” He goes to leave but stops himself. “By the way,” says Count. “The preacher is in trouble. They've already tried to embarrass him. They've tried to scare him. Now they're trying to ruin him—and you know what's coming next.”

Count leaves and I immediately want to go running after him. I don't want to be alone in here. I made a mistake coming back. I look at the place where I found her, but there are no haunting visions of her body or her blood, just her voice drifting from that reel-to-reel. Even before she died, the whir of the tape reel had already become a permanent presence in my ears, in my sleep, even while driving. I am still listening . . . but I don't want to hear it.
You're a preacher. You shouldn't be doing this.
Almost a whisper. When I first heard it, I thought she was being coy, but she said it without a hint of irony. That sadness in her voice is too familiar to me. I know that voice. I know that woman. Or at least I thought I did.

Morning. I've seen many nights bleed away into daylight, but I never saw the new day as a gift. I do now. I spent the night in my car. I did not sleep. But now, I am truly awake. A new day, a new beginning. In all my life, I have never been so grateful for a sunrise.

I'll be a better man, and I'll start by being a better accountant. I get in the front seat and drive to work. I don't bother going inside to change and freshen up. I probably should have stayed home, but today is Gant's last day at the SCLC. It would look suspicious if I do not show. I must continue as if nothing has happened.

My euphoria has already faded by the time I reach the office. I look at the front door with a feeling of dread. I can't go back to my apartment yet; the image of her body on my floor is making a vivid return. So I go in anyway. The office rats are mercilessly scrutinizing, even more than usual. They are silent, except for the occasional gasp, and are nervously avoidant. I enter my office, and all I can think of is the sight of her body and that tree.

The paper on my desk would suggest that I am crazy, or suffering from some sort of brain trauma, had I not witnessed the mastery of Mathis and Strobe. According to this bundle of newsprint, nothing happened as I experienced it last night. It was some sort of macabre hallucination:

Some of the ink has rubbed off on my fingertips. I put the paper down, and notice a brown-red spot on my wrist. I scratch at it—dried blood and dirt—a sad reminder of the night before. There is also a bit on my sleeve. This annoys me. I give myself a look-over and realize that it's not limited to my sleeve. My tie, my shirt, my suit—all of it covered in the scarlet stain of desiccated blood.

My equilibrium is assaulted. My vision seems as if it were placed on a seesaw.

Gant walks in. “John?” he says reaching out to me. I push past him and stumble out of my office into the hall, narrowed by the enclosure of stares. I don't try to run, that will only make the situation more memorable when they try to recall it days, weeks,
years
from now. No, I'll stay calm, gather myself, and stroll out. Gant walks beside me. “What happened, John?”

“Nothing.”

“You can tell me, John. Let me help you.”

“It's nothing, Aaron. I just had an accident, that's all. I'll be fine but, obviously, I think I should take some time off.”

“John . . .”

Strange, until now I had considered my limp manageable while at the office—hidden with a graceful bob and bounce—but as I make my escape, the leg feels deadened. I might as well be dragging a slaughtered hog behind me. It doesn't help matters that as I pass his office, the disappointment and horror on Martin's face are the last thing I see.

It's been three days since I last saw Candice. Though my apartment isn't big enough to hide from her ghost, I am fearful of what awaits me outside. Three days of wrestling with the image of her on my floor—and the mess, cleaned up so well by Mathis and Strobe. I anticipated havoc and chaos, but it has been painfully silent. No one is looking for me. No one wants to find me.

Then the phone rings.

“There are going to be some changes,” Strobe says on the other end. “We're wrapping this up. I don't think the operation will be continuing much longer. I'm obligated to let you know.”

I know he anticipates my curiosity, even protest, but he must not be counting on my sheer relief. He hasn't specified what he means by “changes,” but it does sound nice—an alluring oasis, palm trees and everything.

“Say something, dammit.”

I grab a cigarette and light up, squinting as smoke curls toward my eyes. “I'm sorry, Strobe. I'm just used to dealing with Mathis.”

“I understand . . . but Mathis is gone. Early retirement. If this thing starts up again there will be a new agent in charge. I'll keep you on file, but I can't promise that they'll use you.”

“That's fine, Strobe. I'm looking forward to not being used. Is Hoover pulling the plug?”

“After the other night, does it have to be Hoover to pull the plug? I've seen some crazy stuff,” he says. “I expected it—but this is not what I signed up for.”

“Retirement, you say? At whose suggestion, his or Hoover's?”

“Look, I know you and Mathis had some kind of . . . friendship, but he had to be reined in. This couldn't continue. I won't allow it to.”

“Rein in Mathis, huh? Good luck with that.”

“No, John, keep that luck for yourself. You may need it someday.”

Strobe hangs up, but I just let the receiver lie on my chest as I lean back into the sofa. I thought I had changed, but I haven't. It's over. Here's my chance to run. I can leave now, but I don't move. Eventually, the dial starts its staccato wail and I hang up.