Eve hard. Some of us thought Chester and Eve might have
been seeing each other behind closed doors, but we never
knew for sure.”
I felt something then, a twinge, a faint bell going off.
I decided to go after it. I had a feeling we were close
to the truth.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket, searched
through my e-mail in-box and found the message. Clicking on it, I opened the attachment. When it finished loading, I handed it to Williams Hollinsworth.
“Do you recognize that person?” I said.
Hollinsworth squinted, adjusting his glasses to view
the grainy shot better.
“It’s hard to tell, with the angle and the picture quality
being, well, substandard. But if I had to guess…no…it
couldn’t be.” He looked at me. “Chester Malloy?”
“Close,” I said. “You knew both Malloy brothers. Look
at the ear.”
Hollinsworth took another glance, then nodded. “I
remember Rex’s ear. We used to call him Potato Head
The Darkness
285
because his ear looked like a mashed potato. But everything else is wrong. The hair. Rex’s hair wasn’t blond.”
“You’re right there,” I said. “Rex’s wasn’t. Chester’s
was. Rex Malloy is alive, and he’s taken on his brother’s
look, his dress, even coloring and styling his hair like
Chester used to.”
“Okay,” the professor said, “so you say. But so what?
I haven’t seen Rex Malloy in almost twenty years.”
“About a week ago,” Jack said, “Rex Malloy kidnapped a woman and threatened to kill her daughter.”
Hollinsworth’s head snapped up, his eyes wide open.
“He did what?”
“You heard me,” Jack said.
“Jesus, how do you know this?”
“Because the girl who took that photo was paid ten
thousand dollars by Malloy to help him.”
“I don’t understand,” Hollinsworth said. “Why would
he do such a terrible thing?”
“The woman he kidnapped was a reporter,” I said.
“Like us. He blackmailed her into writing an article for
her newspaper.”
“I don’t read the papers,” he said.
“So I gather. I just happened to bring a copy with me.”
I took out the copy of the Gazette with Paulina’s article
and slid it across the table to Hollinsworth. He picked it up.
And as soon as he read the headline, I knew the whole
story was about to unravel.
“That’s…that’s impossible,” he said.
Hollinsworth ripped open the paper to Paulina’s story
and read the entire piece. We sat there, watching his face,
studying it, transfixed by the multitude of emotions that
ran through it.
When he finished, the professor dropped the paper to
286
Jason Pinter
the floor. The man’s shoulders were slumped, his eyes
nearly closed. He stared at the floor.
Then finally he said, his voice barely above a whisper,
“I never thought they’d do it.”
“Do what?” I said.
“Darkness…Ramos…Rex and Eve were always talking about some new drug Noriega’s people were developing, something that if synthesized properly would be
twice as potent but half the cost. But the way they were
talking about it…it wasn’t kosher. I always got the feeling
that if we didn’t keep tabs on them they could—”
Then, before William Hollinsworth could say another
word, the door to his office banged open. Standing in the
doorway was a young man wearing a suit along with a
baseball cap. His hair was blond, but I noticed a tuft of
black hair beneath it. He was wearing a wig.
And I knew what he was going to do even before he
pulled the gun out.
Suddenly the world became a blur, and before I could
get out of my seat the young man was holding a small,
black gun and pointing it at William Hollinsworth.
The professor’s eyes went wide and I heard him
scream, “No!”
Then there were three deafening blasts, and three
gouts of blood erupted from the former Special Forces
agent’s chest.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, watching helplessly
as Hollinsworth toppled backward in his chair, a horrific
spray of blood covering the back wall of his office, decorating the space with grisly red where the professor
himself had declined to hang any decorations.
The shooter’s eyes met mine, and to my surprise there
was no anger or malice in them, but pure and simple fear.
The Darkness
287
His head shook as our eyes met, and suddenly he
turned and ran away.
“Jack, call 911!” I shouted, jumping from my seat and
racing into the hallway.
Peeking out from the doorway to make sure there
wasn’t a muzzle waiting for me, I saw the coattail of the
man rounding the corner and heading for the lobby.
I ran after him, screaming and shouting echoing in the
halls behind me. I couldn’t sense anything else; my world
narrowed to a tunnel.
Turning the corner at the end of the hall, I heard some
sort of commotion and a loud crash. Again I leaned out
from the corner, only to see that the shooter had tripped
over Carolyn’s desk and was gathering himself up.
Carolyn was screaming, holding her head in her hands
and she stared at the man with terror etched on her face.
Then I saw it. The gun. It had fallen from his grasp and
was sitting mere feet away.
I had one chance.
Without thinking, I sprinted forward and threw my
weight into the man’s back.
I heard a humph as his breath was driven from him, as
we both fell forward onto the ugly brown carpeting.
The man swung his elbow around at my head, but I
was able to duck it. As he did so, the ball cap and wig fell
off, revealing the man’s hair and face.
His hair was short, black, and he was breathing heavy,
sweating. One thing was for sure, this man was far from
any sort of professional.
The suit. Something snapped together in my mind,
and I knew why this man was here.
Then I heard him pleading with me.
“Let me go! Please!”
288
Jason Pinter
What kind of killer said please?
I held on tighter, tried to get a better grip to immobilize
the man. I needed to hold him down long enough for
someone to help me incapacitate him until the cops arrived.
“Get off him!” I heard somebody scream. I turned
around slightly to see Carolyn hovering over us holding
her desk lamp. It was a big thing, brass colored, metal and
a foot and a half long. We both looked, and then she
swung the pole at us.
Then I felt a massive crunch on the back of my neck,
and for a moment the world went black. I could feel the
man getting out from under me, so I blindly grabbed at
him. I managed to catch my fingers inside some sort of
pocket, which tore away as he escaped.
When
the darkness cleared, I looked up to see Carolyn
standing over me. Her hand was covering her mouth as
she stammered.
“Oh my God! I’m so sorry, I was trying to hit him!
Are you okay?”
I nodded, but felt exactly like I’d been hit with a metal
pole on the back of my neck. Carolyn dropped the lamp
and went over to help me up.
When I got to my feet I looked around. My stomach
lurched when I realized that he was gone. Not only that,
but the gun was gone, too.
I ran/stumbled out into the street, hoping to see a flash
of suit jacket, something. But the street was empty.
Business as usual. If anybody had seen where the shooter
had gone, they weren’t letting on.
I turned around and jogged back inside where Carolyn
was still blubbering. That’s when I saw Jack enter the lobby.
His shirt was covered in blood, and his face was a terrible
crimson mask. He looked at me, his lower lip trembling.
The Darkness
289
“Hollinsworth,” I said.
“He’s gone,” Jack replied.
“Goddamn it!” I yelled. “Who the hell knew we were
coming here?”
Jack came over to me and held out his hand. I thought
he was going to hug me, so I said, “Not now, Jack.”
Instead he walked right past me, leaned down and
picked something up off the floor.
“What is that?”
Jack stood back up and showed me. It was a piece of
black cloth from the pocket I’d ripped during the struggle.
Beneath it was a folded piece of paper. Jack opened it.
“What the hell…” I said.
In Jack’s hand was a money order. It was made out for
fifty thousand dollars to a Morgan Isaacs.
“I bet this guy knows,” Jack said.
The payee on the order was a man named Leonard
Reeves.
40
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,”
Morgan said.
That his heart hadn’t exploded yet was shocking, but
every pore in his body seemed to be leaking sweat, every
nerve ending on fire.
Once he was able to get away from the guy who’d
tackled him, Morgan found the car waiting for him just
like Chester had said it would. The door was open, and
somehow Morgan managed to dive into the car a split
second before it went speeding off.
Once inside, he found Chester waiting for him, a huge
smile on his face.
“The gun,” Chester said.
Morgan handed it to him, his hand shaking like a leaf
in a hurricane. Chester took the revolver and put it into a
valise on the floor below him.
“You okay?” he said.
“I don’t know,” Morgan replied. “He’s dead. Oh man,
he’s really, really dead.”
“How many times did you shoot him?”
“Three.”
“Did all the bullets hit?”
The Darkness
291
“I think so. I was pretty close, but everything…man,
everything just went crazy after that.”
“It’s a good thing you got away,” Chester said. “You’re
a resourceful man, Morgan.”
“Thanks,” he said. Morgan’s heart rate was finally beginning to slow down.
The car sped down Broadway, and Morgan was pleasantly surprised to see that nobody was following them.
“No cops,” Morgan said. “Nobody, they…”
“Don’t worry about that,” Chester said. “I’m just glad
you’re all right. You did a great job, Morgan. I knew we
could trust you.”
Morgan beamed inside. “You always can, sir.”
“Yes,” Chester said, “I know that now.”
Chester leaned over and put his arm around Morgan.
It was an odd gesture, but for some reason Morgan felt
strangely comforted.
“Hey, uh, can I get the second part of the payment
now? Just don’t want to forget.”
“The money, of course. I knew you wouldn’t forget.”
Then Morgan felt something sharp pierce his neck, and
then a terrible burning sensation began to creep its way
into his bloodstream.
He jerked backward, and Chester moved away. “What
the hell was that?” he cried.
Then he saw the syringe in Chester’s hand, and Morgan knew exactly what the man had done.
“Sleep,” Chester said.
Morgan tried to reach for the man, but suddenly his
entire body felt weak. His arms hung limply at his sides,
as Morgan felt his body begin to slump down in the seat.
“Why…” he said. “I…I would have done anything
for you…”
292
Jason Pinter
“I know that,” Chester said. Morgan caught the slightest hint of remorse in the man’s face. “And you gave as
much as you possibly could have.”
“My mom…” Morgan groaned, barely able to make
out the words.
“She’ll never see you again.”
“I…”
“We’re here,” another voice said from the front seat.
It was the driver. Morgan hadn’t had time to see him
when he jumped into the car.
The driver turned around briefly to talk to Chester.
That’s when Morgan saw who was driving the car.
“Sorry, man,” Theo said. “No hard feelings.”
“Tell them to chop the car and burn the body,” Chester
said. Then he looked back at Morgan. Morgan’s eyelids
were falling. He could feel his heart slowing down,
draining him. It was all he could do to retain a small
sliver of light to see the man who’d killed him.
“Good night, Morgan. I hope wherever you’re going
you find all the money you can possibly dream of.”
And then Morgan Isaacs died.
41
I told the cops everything I knew, which wasn’t much,
even though it was apparently too much. I didn’t recognize the shooter, didn’t know where he’d come from, who
hired him, or why he wanted William Hollinsworth dead.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true.
There was no doubt in my mind that Hollinsworth
was killed because somebody was frightened of what he
was going to tell me. And for good reason. Hollinsworth
had confirmed several things before his death, and every
one of them scared me to death.
I sat in a coffee shop with Jack, the two of us frazzled
beyond belief. I’d called Amanda and told her what happened. Her voice told me that she was deathly afraid for
me, but I couldn’t come home just yet. We were so close;
after all this time so many of the pieces were coming
together.
What still itched at me was the police response to
Hollinsworth’s murder. I’d been around death before, had
seen it up close. I’d seen death as personal as it got. And
regardless of who was killed, whether it be the most respected cop or the lowliest drug dealer, there was always
a police response.
294
Jason Pinter
But when Hollinsworth was killed, the response was a
simple blue-and-white patrol car and a small forensi
cs team.
It was more like a motel cleaning crew than a homicide
investigation.
I’d asked the officer in charge, a round, pleasant man
in his early forties named Hanrahan, if they were expecting more on the scene. He laughed, but not in a condescending way, a way that told me I shouldn’t expect more.
“The department is stretched thin as a dollar bill,” said
Hanrahan. “If we’re the only ones here it’s because there’s
nobody else who responded.”
It felt like a cloud had descended over this city, something far more menacing than Jack or I knew. I thought
about my brother, the now prophetic words he’d spoken
just hours before he was gunned down in a dingy apartment building, alone and unloved.
This city’s gonna burn.
If this city was going to burn, I could already smell the
smoke.
Jack sipped a cup of coffee. Black, he grimaced as he
drank it. I had a soda in front of me. Caffeine would have
been a mistake. I didn’t need it. The way I felt right now I
wasn’t sure my blood pressure would ever return to normal.
“Somebody knew we were going to speak to Hollinsworth,” I said. “And they knew early enough to be able
to send someone to kill him.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Jack said. “We didn’t decide to go up there until about an hour before we got
there. Who knew?”
“The only person I told,” I said, an icy chill making its
way down my spine when I said it, “was Curt Sheffield.”
Jack stared at me, the mug resting against his lip. He
put it down, cupped it with his hands.
The Darkness
295
“Is there a chance…”
“Not in a million years,” I said. “I know Curt. And
more than that, I know people. I know how they act. I’ve
talked to Curt about this a dozen times since my brother
was killed. I would have known if he was involved. I
would have seen it in his eyes, I would have heard it in
his voice. He couldn’t have known.”
“He couldn’t be involved,” Jack said, “or you don’t
want him to be involved?”
“Both,” I said without hesitation.
“Until we know for sure,” Jack said, “you don’t say a
word to Curt Sheffield or anyone else.”
“You either,” I said. Not that I needed to tell Jack. I
trusted him, but I wanted to level the field, let him know
that my contacts were trustworthy ones.
“Even Amanda,” Jack said. “You don’t know who has
access to her, and information you give her.”