A Dark Place

CHAPTER 1

It was uncharacteristic of him. The guilt pained him afterward, but you don't push someone whose back is against the wall unless you are looking for trouble. You just don't. The dimly lit street is quiet as he walks. The cold winter wind biting his face. Hands stinging as he shoves them hard into the pockets of his tattered coat. No one needs to know. He could be out of town long before morning, and halfway across the country in a few days if all went well. He hopes it would.

A car speeds by, throwing a large amount of slush. The coat was fine working against the dry wind, but the slush chills him to the bone. He decides he needs to get home first. He realizes that in the heat of that moment, he was in a rush to leave. The walk home is long, but he can't risk getting a cab. No, he can't risk anyone putting him there at that time of night. He approaches a busy street, but cuts down an alleyway to his right, keeping his head down.

"Hey, mister, you okay?" Says a drunken pile of blankets sitting against the wall about 10 feet in front of him. "You need a doctor, man--all that blood!"

He picks up his pace, turning his head away from the man, who appears to be homeless. He has no shoes and is sitting on a flattened out cardboard box, with a few very torn up blankets wrapped around him. As he passes, he drops a hundred dollar bill. "Go fuck yourself, and shut up."

"Thanks, asshole!" The man yells to him as he walks away.

He didn't realize there was blood on him, let alone enough to see in a place as dark as that alley. He wipes his face. His hand turns red. Is it his blood? He doesn't know. He tries to remember if he had been struck, but running through the events in his head was fruitless. He isn't in any pain, but the cold is numbing him. He doesn't feel woozy, so if it is his blood, he hasn't lost much, yet. He stops and grabs some snow off a doorstep and rubs it on his face. After a few handfuls his hands come off clean. "I need to get home," he says to himself.

His quickest way home is through downtown. However, he can't risk being seen by anyone, let alone an officer. He decided to leave because the police wouldn't believe him anyway. Not to mention he doesn't know who he can trust anymore. He gets the feeling someone knows more about him than even he does. He quickens his pace again as he crosses the well lit main street of his old midwest hometown. It saddens him that this just may be the last time he sees it, and he can't even enjoy the view.

The next few miles are dark and quiet, but it is unusual for anyone to walk around this time of night, especially in the winter, and most folks aren't in bed right now on a Saturday. He braves the sidewalk anyway, as some of the homes have dogs and high fences. Slowing his progress and risking those natural burglar alarms going off is one thing he really cannot afford to do. He would rather be identified as "a strange man walking alone in the street."

He can now see the cul-de-sac he lives in. The street light on the corner is out. Seeing that, he looks around. Every house is dark. Weird. A black sedan sits on the street opposite the cul-de-sac entrance. He can see his house. A light travels across his bedroom window. He freezes in his tracks. Someone is in his house. No. THEY are in his house. Shit. He looks at the sedan. No one is in it. Whoever it is isn't all that smart. He crawls underneath the car and finds the fuel line. He cuts it with his multi-tool. He doesn't smoke anymore, but he still has his Zippo. He lights it and throws it under the car. The gas ignites, almost exploding, as he runs as fast as he can to get away and dives toward the side of the house closest to him.

One man and one woman come running out of his house after the sound of the explosion. He dashes across the street behind them, hoping they haven't found what they are looking for. He enters his house. Tables are turned over. Cabinet doors ripped off. Drawers pulled off their rails. His stuff is scattered all over the floor. They have been at this for hours.

He carefully makes his way to the dark basement. He steps over a chair that had been flung onto the stairs during the attempt to make it look like a robbery. Not turning on the light for fear of alerting the creeps to his presence, he uses his cell phone screen to light his path and finds his safe. It's open. No matter. All he had in there were a few tax documents. In reality it was nothing more than a decoy to deter robbers from searching anywhere else. He tips the safe over to reveal a second one embedded in the floor. This one has a biometric lock with a keypad. Three tries to open it or it locks for life, unless, of course, it gets blasted. He enters his code and places his hand on the pad. It opens on the first try. The only item in the safe is one black bag. He grabs it, closes the safe, and covers it again. He sneaks back up the stairs and out the back door. He hops over his four foot fence, thankful the neighbors don't have any fences till the next street. Flashing lights and sirens appear fade in behind him. Fire department must be here. If the intruders were smart, they would be long gone by now. Hopefully they didn't travel in this direction. He reaches a small wooded park after crossing through more backyards.

At least his taxes have been put to good use. There is a restroom ahead near a picnic area. He goes into one of the stalls and opens his bag. A new coat, hat, and gloves are stored in it, as well as a pair of glasses, fire starter, extra multi-tool, a new, different set of identification papers, $25,000 in cash, and a Colt 1911 .45 caliber handgun with three loaded magazines and a holster. He unloads the bag, puts on the new outerwear, and looks in the mirror for any remaining blood on his face. No blood. Injuries. None. He puts everything back in the bag. He carries his old clothes to one of the permanent grills in the park area and uses the fire starter to burn them.

He stands there watching his clothes burn. The fire casting a faint glow over his face and the table next to him. He was hoping never to have to use this bag, but he is glad to have it nonetheless. He can't even remember what it is they want.

CHAPTER 2

The fire is out now. No plates are on the toasted car. Someone didn't want to be found. They even thought hard enough to scratch off the VINs on the window and the frame. Detective Park let out an exasperated sigh. He looks around at the cul-de-sac behind him. Curious families huddled near windows trying to get a view of what's going on. It isn't every day there is a blazing car in their neighborhood. He notices all but one of the houses have their lights on.

Wondering why, he walks over to it. 1731 Creek Ct. The door is open. He frowns in thought. Who would have their door open and lights off? He walks up to the porch and sees the owner's belongings scattered throughout the house. He draws his .357 Magnum from its holster. Given to him by his old partner, who was killed in the line of duty in a situation almost exactly like this. Except it was a warm summer day. Being here on a cold winter night unnerves Park. He backs away from the door and calls over the radio for the unit canvassing the area for witnesses to the fire.

They were only 3 doors down from his location, so he waited patiently. Luckily he rents a very similar house to this, and can, with cautious optimism, map out the floor plan in his head. The unit arrives within a minute or two.

"I have reason to believe there may be someone in there," he says. So, guns drawn, they slowly, quietly enter the house. Park motions to one officer to head upstairs, and the other to go to the basement.

He hears, "All clear!" Sounded like it was from upstairs. He hears another one from the basement. He holsters his gun and walks back to the front of the house.

Suddenly, the door frame to his right blows apart and he hears a silenced shot. He whips the magnum from the holster and turns to fire, but there is no one there. He didn't hear the back door open or shut behind him, and no noise came from the basement stairs. They were quite loud when Officer Whittaker went to check it out.

He aims for the top of the stairs and creeps upward, trying to avoid the creaking these newer houses make. They just don't build like they used to. Now they are all build with that cheap, crappy particle board. No solid wood anymore.

He sharpens his focus and turns his flashlight to strobe, allowing him to see, but distracting his foe. Reaching the top of the stairs, and to the right, he sees feet sticking from the door at the end of the hall.

Oh shit.

CHAPTER 3

"Fuckin' libtards," Frank thinks to himself as he drives past an anti-gun protest. He flips them the bird as he takes off from the stop light. He himself doesn't own any firearms, but he knows people that do, and he likes to go shooting with them.

"Those stupid fuckin' snowflakes have no business tellin' me what I can and can't do with my property. And I have a right to defend myself," he says to himself.

He hits the gas on his red 1996 Chevy Camaro. He got it at what he thought was an incredible $1200 a few years ago. He was planning on fixing it up, but that project hasn't really gotten off the ground yet.

It's red, with a lot of rust on the underside and around the bottom of the body. Paint has chipped off the hood from over a decade of driving down gravel roads. The driver's side headlamp is cracked, but still works. The A/C is shot. He never turns it on because the compressor makes a horrible grinding noise when it runs. It doesn't matter anyway, because the passenger side window won't roll up, and he has to cover it with a plastic bag when it rains. He knows he is lucky that he doesn't live up north, where it gets super cold in the winter. It's his baby though, and he loves taking her for long drives to the city on the weekends.

He pulls into the Food Depot on Macon St. This part of town has certainly seen better days. Large cracks and deep potholes littered the streets. Uneven sidewalks and boarded up windows told the story of a once wealthy neighborhood stricken with depression. However, this was Frank's favorite part of town, and they did seem to be improving it. They had even recently re-paved Macon.

He parks next to an ‘03 Honda Civic with large flashy rims. The custom paint job seemed to say “look at me!” Blacked out windows obscured exactly how many people were in the car. The loud rumble of bass shakes Frank’s mirrors. The driver’s window rolls down, revealing a man who appears to be suffering from malnutrition and could probably have a severe vitamin D deficiency from the look of his skin. A sunken face and bloodshot eyes smile to reveal yellowed teeth, with one gold incisor. He sports a seemingly brand new red Atlanta Braves hat over medium length blond hair and a large, baggy white shirt with a picture of Eminem and the sleeves cut off.

He gives Frank a nod. Frank says, "How much you want?"

The man tosses a roll of Jacksons through the window. "How much will this get me?" he replies.

Frank thumbs through the bills. Years of business left him with the ability to count incredibly fast. That's why Frank hated schools. He didn't learn shit in school. Dropped out as soon as he could. He knew even then that real world experience teaches you all you need to know, and he hasn't once been wrong about that.

Frank opens his console and pulls out two small zip seal bags full of translucent, faintly yellow crystals. "Here you go, Mack," he says, tossing him the bags.

"Thanks, bro," Mack says and rolls up his window. The Civic’s engine revs and emits a sound one could almost akin to a long, wet fart. A loud squeal accompanied by white smoke fills the air as the Honda takes off out of the parking lot.

Frank drives off. Mack is his best customer. He would never tell Mack that, though. He wouldn't want Mack to know just how much Frank relies on him. That would give Mack power, and in this business, you can't give anyone else any power. Once you do that, they can siphon it off quick. Soon, you're either left with nothing, or dead, and sometimes, dead is better.

CHAPTER 4

He can’t remember the last time he rode a bus. He remembers not liking it though, and frowns in thought and displeasure as the razor scrapes the hair off his chin. A beard normally adorned his face for the unlikely occasion he would have to look different someday. Every photo he was in, if you looked hard enough to find one, he had a large, reddish-brown beard covering the majority of his face. He liked his beard. The thought of removing it pains him, especially here. Hell, it’s almost disrespectful to beard-kind. The restroom is horribly lit and smells of stale shit and urine. He hears a faint drip coming from one of the toilets on the end, a puddle of water (hopefully) extending from underneath the stall door. He shakes his head and lets out a sigh.

Some people would call him paranoid. At least now he knows he wasn’t. Water cleanses his newly clean-cut face, his bright green eyes examining the job he did. Removing the beard reveals a strong, square jawline. He spots a few nicks. He didn’t feel them as he shaved. It must be from the cold. The city doesn’t have much in the budget to keep these bathrooms heated.

His bus ticket and watch almost agree. It’s about that time. He dries his face with some paper towels and tosses them in the trash. Even with his new set of IDs he figures bus travel would be the safest. They don’t record your information when you buy a ticket. He leaves the restroom and walks out toward his bus. Either the smell of the restroom followed him, or this whole bus station is just somewhere homeless people come to take a shit wherever. Well, when you gotta go, you gotta go. That doesn't make it okay though.

He climbs the stairs into the bus and hands the driver his ticket and inhales. God damn it. More piss. How the hell can the bus smell like this too? Suddenly he wonders if he wet himself during the ordeal. He hasn’t yet been able to buy new clothes. He picks a seat at the back of the bus and rubs his hand on his crotch. Not wet or frozen. He sniffs his hand. No smell. So it is the bus. “What the fuck?” He shakes his head. Well, beggars can’t be choosers.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees a man walk past his window. The man is well dressed and clean-cut. In fact, he seems to be a little too well dressed to be riding a bus--especially one like this. No. Now even he is starting to think he’s paranoid. Even still, he puts on the glasses that were in his bag and slinks a bit into his seat. The man boards the bus. He says a few words to the driver. He doesn’t show a ticket, but the driver lets him on anyway.

Oh shit.

The man starts walking toward the back of the bus. When he looks right, some type of earpiece is visible in his left ear.
Oh shit.

No, they can’t have found him. Not yet. He was prepared.

Only 3 people left in the bus to check. He appears to be the epitome of calm, but inside his heart is racing. It’s getting harder to contain.

The man reaches the back of the bus and stops. He looks at something in his hand, then looks up. Their eyes meet for what seems like it could be an eternity. The man frowns, turns away, and walks back toward the front of the bus. He says something to the driver and exits.

Finally a sigh of relief. The bus doors close. Only 5 people have boarded, including him. He wonders if more will be joining them for the 2 day journey ahead, and who might be gone before they arrive.

He looks again at the ticket and sighs. Atlanta… Fuck Atlanta. Nothing good has ever come out of Atlanta, and nothing ever will.

CHAPTER 5

“How many times I gotta tell you, bitch?” Mack screams to his girlfriend in the back seat. “Don’t do that shit in the car!” Weed in this state is one thing, but lighting up a crack pipe in public could get you some serious time. The car fills with the wails of a small child.

She puts the lighter and pipe away in her bag. “Well,” she said, “it’s the only shit we got right now!”

Mack snaps, “It’s not my fault you wasted our goddamn pot money on that crying sack of shit!”

“It ain’t his fault he cries so fucking much!” Shyla yells back. “Besides, I’m sick of him whining about nothing to do while we’re working!” She turns to the four-year-old sitting next to her. “Shut up! I’ll give you something to cry about if you really want!” She gives the kid a light smack across the back of the head. The screaming lowers to more of a whimpering sob. "See? All you gotta do is smack him a little and he shuts up! He ain't all bad!"

"I don't fucking care! He's gonna get us into trouble if he keeps crying like that! People are gonna think we're bad parents or some shit!" He didn't notice the official looking vehicle in his mirror until the lights came on.

"Fuck! Shit! Fuck! I can't go to jail! He must have seen you hit the kid! People are so fucking sensitive now! Hide the shit!" He turns on his signal and starts to pull over, the brakes screeching as he slows the car. He's lucky today. The cop's engine roars, and the sirens wail as the squad car pulls around him and speeds off down the road. The sirens fade a few moments after the cop turns the corner out of sight a block ahead.

Mack breathes a gigantic sigh of relief. The adrenaline making his legs ache and his heart pound begins to fade. He takes his hand off the handgun he had hidden between his seat and the center console. He's not going to jail. He will die before that happens. He will make sure of that. He's going to die anyway, but the one that he is sure awaits him in jail will not be pleasant.

For a few moments, the only sound in the car is the soft, waning sob coming from the child. Snot has collected on his upper lip, and his pudgy cheeks are wet from tears. Locks of wavy blonde hair cover his reddened hazel eyes. Shyla brushes the hair away from his face and caresses his cheeks. "It's okay, baby, you're fine. No need to cry." She says softly. Her demeanor seems to have pulled a complete one-eighty. She wipes the snot from his lip with an apparently clean napkin she pulled off the floor of the car.

Mack wipes sweat from his forehead. His scalp glistening through his thinning black hair. His furrowed brow accentuates the wrinkles forming across his forehead. He just wants to get home now. Nothing else matters. Not the brat and the bitch in the back seat. Not the cop that scared him half to death. Not the failing vehicle he was too proud to admit was falling apart. He needs to get home.

CHAPTER 6

White. So much white. TOO much white. He can't stand it. It's penetrating his mind, his body, his soul. He has to get out, but he can't move. He tries and tries, but his hands won't lift from the sink, eyes glued to themselves in the mirror. White floor, white walls, white ceiling, white sink. So.
Much.
White.
The whites of his eyes. His white shirt. The white pinstripes of his jacket. The white hairs over his temples. Why? Why so much white? And why can't he get away from it?

"Don't give in," he thinks to himself. "Don't let it win. It can't win. And you know why."

He's in such a trance he doesn't notice the figure behind him till he feels a hand on his shoulder. "Are you ok? You've been in here quite a while."

Startled, but finally able to pull his gaze from the mirror, he turns casually and sees Sergeant Boothe. "Yeah, no, I'm good," he says. "Just had to clear my head." He lied. He couldn't clear his head, and he knew it. That face. Twisted in agony. The silent scream of terror from a dead boy, ringing out through eternity. He tried to clear it from his mind, but the White.

The White just made it worse.

He wipes his face in exhaustion. The sleep deprivation was starting to get to him, but he was afraid to sleep. He could already see that face so clearly while awake. But right now it's just a face. He dreads to find out what it will become when he closes his eyes for even a second too long.

His hand is burning from the hot coffee in the small paper cup. He let's it burn. Needs to feel it. The heat is doing a better job keeping him awake than the coffee itself.

Detective Park takes a deep breath. He can't stop thinking of that young officer. It should have been him. It would have paid for at least a few of his sins. This, however, just added to the pile.

Death itself doesn't bother him much. It's the before and after. Detective Park's First Law of Death: Suffering is neither created nor destroyed. It is merely transformed. Before death, the pain belongs mainly to the dying. At the moment of death, however, the suffering is transferred to loved ones, as the dead do not suffer. It may be amplified. It may be diminished. However, it may never be completely destroyed, because without suffering, there can be no happiness. Without death, there can be no life.

In the case of this officer, the suffering of the perpetrator became the suffering of the victim. The suffering of the victim became the suffering of the detective, and then the suffering of the family.

The detective has known a lot of suffering in his relatively short life. It has given him the appearance of a man ten years his elder. Graying, thinning hair. A sinking face with wrinkles deepening like trenches being dug by soldiers.

It had been determined that the officer had been killed before he had heard the "All Clear" from the second floor. That bothered him more than anything.

He can't remember how he got to his desk. The past 20 hours have been a blur. There is one thing he is sure of. These guys were either cocky and stupid, or cocky and smart. Do some simple algebra and you can see that they are cocky no matter what. His sudden realization at this fills him with such a rage that he surges to his feet and all but clears his desk with his arms in one fluid motion. The loud crash of his computer and various office supplies sends the entire department into an eerie hush. It's the kind of silence revealed by noise falling away when you didn't even notice it before.

"Park, go home!" His lieutenant barks at him. It's the only sound to break the silence.

Park picks a broken picture frame up off the floor and stares at it for a moment. The gap-toothed smile of his younger brother stares back at him. A smile so full of life and spirit. The last light he had in the world. Snuffed out so long ago.

Without a word, he places it back on the desk and walks out. His mind is finally blank after his outburst, but the walk to his car feels like miles.

He pauses with his key in the deadbolt. How did he get home? He doesn't remember driving. Hell, he doesn't even remember actually leaving the station.

White door.

He shakes his head as if to throw that thought from his mind. He opens the door to a large black dog.

"Hey Moose. Rough day." He scratches Moose's head. Gentle Giants, they're called. Big loveable babies. Moose isn't his first Dane, but he is the laziest one so far. And that's saying a lot. Moose rubs his side against Park's hips and lumbers sleepily over to the couch. Park could tell Moose had woken up just to greet him at the door, and was now going back to sleep, satisfied his friend had come home safely.

He walks through the small but open apartment to the kitchen in the back. He unloads his wallet, keys, badge, and gun to the countertop.

The white countertop.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He turns around to see a dark figure standing in the corner of his living room near the door. He moves for his gun, but when he looks back, the dark figure is gone. He sees it's just the coat stand holding his jacket. Shakily, he puts the gun back on the counter.

The white counter.

Fuck.