Deep into the Dark Read online

  “We won’t leave anyone behind,” he finally said. “Not even Rondo.”

  Wilson called the hand and Sam threw down a full house. Black aces and eights. The dead man’s hand.

  “Lucky fucker!” Shaggy howled, throwing his cards in the air.

  Kev smiled. He didn’t have any teeth, and there were dark holes where his eyes should have been. “Not so lucky.” He slapped down four of a kind, made up of decapitated queens.

  A scowling Afghan air force officer appeared, wearing a powdered wig and a shredded, black judge’s robe over his uniform. “It doesn’t count if the queens don’t have heads. Off with their heads!”

  Everyone but Sam started laughing. Even the goats were laughing. He started to panic. “Where’s Rondo?” he asked again.

  “Rondo’s gone,” Wilson said solemnly. “We’re all gone. Go home, Sam.”

  “I don’t know where that is anymore.”

  “Sure you do. For fuck’s sake, don’t stay here.”

  Everything flashed white, then red. In the distance, a child screamed as a set of bloody dog tags flew through the air and landed on his lap. They seared his hands when he turned them over to read the name: Ronald Doerr. Rondo.

  Sam didn’t wake up on the floor this time, but his throat was raw, so he knew he’d been shouting, maybe screaming. Yuki wasn’t here to wake him up anymore, so the dreams went on for as long as his subconscious allowed it, which was always too long. His zero-three record was perilously close to being nullified. Still, it was true he hadn’t had a dream for three nights. That was something to hang onto.

  He lay on his back, steeping in sweat as he stared at the ceiling. Supposedly, remembering was the only way to forget. But dreams like this one weren’t memories, they were ghoulish, torturous mosaics of guilt and fear, sorrow and regret.

  When he was fairly certain his heart wasn’t going to explode, he went to the shower to find comfort in a familiar ritual: avoid the face, look at the backside, watch the magic white leprechaun foam swirl down the drain. He pulled on running shorts and an Army T-shirt and headed for the kitchen to make coffee.

  There was a woman on his sofa, snoring softly. Not his wife. Melody, a slender, tattooed arm hanging out from beneath a throw his mom had crocheted for him before his first tour in Afghanistan. A piece of home, she’d said proudly as she’d presented it to him. He would never tell her the truth, that he hadn’t taken it with him on either tour because he didn’t want it despoiled by war, and it had been the right decision.

  Apparently, the early morning thud of the Los Angeles Times hitting the front stoop had stirred Melody awake because it was lying on her chest, opened to a headline that read: “Third Woman Found Mutilated—Is There a Monster in Miracle Mile?”

  A really stupid article because of course there was a monster in Miracle Mile; he’d butchered two women since April, and today’s grisly discovery on June tenth made it three. One a month. There had been a low-level frisson in the city, people on edge, waiting to see if there would be another. When there would be another. And now, in their incalculable idiocy, the press had granted him a moniker, further motivation to keep up the great work.

  Sam squinted against the sunlight coming through the partially opened living room blinds, felt a wicked headache start to gnaw at the fringes of his scrambled brain. He noticed the black Jeep Rubicon parked across the street again, morning dew pearling on all the tinted windows except for the driver’s side that faced his house. He’d been seeing it intermittently for the past few months, and as stupid and irrational as it was, its presence agitated him. Then again, a lot of things agitated him lately; topping the list were his uncertainty about his mental stability and his ambivalence toward his future.

  Sam closed the shade and gathered twelve empty beer bottles from the coffee table. It had been a long night. More for Melody than for him. He’d had five beers, the rest were hers. No wonder his screaming hadn’t wakened her.

  Chapter Six

  VIVIAN EASTON SERVED COFFEE FROM HER great grandmother’s Tiffany sterling service, pouring into delicate Limoges cups. The pieces were such beautiful relics of a bygone era, a part of her inheritance she rarely used. It was so nice to finally have an occasion to open the glass-front hutch and revisit her family history, as ignominious as it was.

  Their association with William Mulholland and the Los Angeles Aqueduct project at the turn of the twentieth century had made fortunes for all involved by desiccating and destroying entire towns through chicanery and propaganda. She wasn’t particularly proud of that legacy, and her mother had rebelled violently against it, joining the 60s counterculture and never leaving, even when it was long dead. Quite an overreaction in her opinion.

  In spite of some personal misgivings about her family wealth, it still frosted her that Mulholland had a famous road named after him when it was her great-grandfather who’d really made the aqueduct a reality. He’d done so much for the city, helped make Los Angeles what it was today. He’d also made golf courses in the former desert of Southern California possible, which in her mind was redemption of a sort for past sins.

  “Do you take cream or sugar these days, Lee?”

  “No, but thank you, Vivian.” General Leland Varney was a broad and effusive man, and his florid cheeks impressed on people the appearance of perpetual anger. But Vivian had always found him to be a magnanimous and jolly soul despite his rank and the political maneuvering it had undoubtedly taken to get there.

  He took a sip from his flowered china cup and gestured expansively, as if bestowing upon the world the graces of her lovely Pasadena yard. “This is such a beautiful place. The gardens are glorious. I always remembered you had quite a green thumb, but I don’t recall the pool.”

  “Jack and I put it in the year before he died. It was his favorite thing in the world. I couldn’t keep him out of the water.”

  “I don’t doubt that Jack loved it. Water was in his soul. I always wondered why he chose the Army instead of the Navy. Whenever I asked, he was vague about it.”

  Vivian raised a brow circumspectly. “That surprises me. I never considered Jack to be vague about anything. He never mentioned his father?”

  “Oh, he did, but always in passing. Colonel Dean Easton, very decorated, a Vietnam war hero.”

  “And an intransigent Army man. Dean’s influence was encompassing, and he wouldn’t hear of the Navy. It was West Point or nothing.”

  Lee shook his head ruefully and let his gaze drift to the pergola, riotous with lush pendulums of lavender wisteria. “God, I miss Jack. Horribly unfair, him being taken from us so young.”

  Vivian nodded solemnly. It was unfair, a fit and vibrant man taken down by a faulty heart. Humans were all just ticking genetic time bombs, waiting to explode. Jack had told her that in the hospital in the presence of his doctors, who’d given bland smiles and uneasy nods. They knew. Life was short, and if the capricious lottery of DNA didn’t favor you, it was much shorter. “I thought it would get easier with time, that’s what they tell you, but sometimes I think it gets harder. Is it the same for you with Katherine?”

  “It’s been ten years, and I still wake up every morning expecting her to be there. And in a way, I guess she still is. What do you do to fill your time now, Vivian?”

  She pushed a silver tray of pastel macarons toward her guest. “I’ve been trying my hand at baking. And of course, I golf quite a bit.”

  Lee chuckled. “Jack was never a fan.”

  “He thought it was dreadfully boring. But of course, anything would be boring after combat, he was a bit of an adrenaline junkie.”

  “Yes, he was.” Lee shook his head in disapproval. “I can’t believe we’re still in the goddamn sand after all these years. Sorry for the language.”

  “No need to apologize. I feel the same.”

  His eyes shifted from the wisteria to a grouping of agapanthus. “Jack and I started our careers over there in the first Gulf War. That’s almost thirty years ago.”


  “A long time. Too long.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and recaptured her gaze. “I’ve always believed that peace is a utopian delusion, an anomaly and antithetical to human nature. Somebody always has something worth killing over, and any serious student of history will tell you that.”

  “Put that way, peace does seem naïve.”

  “But I still pray for it even though it would put my kind out of a job. But I’m not here to discuss world affairs or philosophy. I want to know about Sam, I think of him every day. How is he faring?”

  Vivian allowed herself a distressed sigh. “He seems to be doing much better, at least he tells me so. But I’m his mother, so of course I worry about him constantly.”

  “A tragedy and a hell of a thing to recover from, but Sam’s got it in him. When I visited him at Walter Reed, I saw a fine, brave young man with a fighting spirit, just like his father. His docs there agreed with me.”

  “He was grateful for your visits. Being hospitalized for that long was extremely difficult for him.”

  “No gratitude necessary. You’re both family to me. Is Sam still having trouble with his memory? I know it was frustrating for him, but things like that have a tendency to resolve as the brain heals.”

  “I think that aspect is improving, but unfortunately he keeps his struggles from me. I don’t know if he really believes he’s fooling me or if he’s trying to protect me.”

  “A bit of both, I imagine. I’ve been looking into some excellent engineering opportunities with the government. When he’s ready to start talking jobs, I’ll set him up.”

  “That’s another thing that troubles me. He’s only interned as an engineer and went straight into the Army after college. He loved soldiering more than anything, and it’s really all he’s known.”

  “A good soldier adapts, and Sam was a great one. Believe me, he’s going to excel in whatever he chooses. I’ll make sure he lands in the right place for him.”

  “Thank you, Lee.”

  “Is Yukiko still being supportive?”

  Vivian felt her face turn into a stiff, emotionless mask, like it was entombed by wax or frozen by an overly aggressive Botox session, two beauty treatments she indulged herself on occasion. But this was free of charge—her facial muscles simply froze whenever unpleasant things came up. “They recently separated.”

  “I’m very disappointed to hear that.”

  “I was as well, but Sam tells me it’s temporary, and I’m certainly hoping for that. He needs stability in his life right now.”

  Lee nodded commiseratively. “It takes a certain temperament to be a military spouse. There is tremendous sacrifice required in the very best of circumstances, not to mention the worst, and some people just aren’t up for the job.”

  Vivian thought about her own rebellion against her mother, marrying a military man, which had galled her to no end. There had been plenty of sacrifices along the way; but Lee was right, some people just weren’t up for the job. But when you truly loved someone, you stood by them no matter what. “I just want Sam to be happy. I try not to judge Yukiko, but it’s difficult in my position.”

  “Understandable. What can I do to help?”

  “I’m sure he’d love to see you while you’re in town.” Vivian’s facial muscles re-engaged as a plan suddenly formed in her mind. “I was going to invite him to dinner this Sunday. Won’t you join us if you’re still in town?”

  “I will be in town, and I’d be honored.”

  “Wonderful!” She plucked a pink macaron from the tray. “It’s so good to see you, Lee, but I have to ask what brings you to Los Angeles. We’re a long way from D.C.”

  He smiled and his tanned face crinkled into an intricate web of wrinkles. “I’ll tell you a little secret if you promise to keep it to yourself for now.”

  Vivian clasped her hands together. There was nothing she loved more than secrets. They allayed the tedium of life after children were grown and husbands were dead. “You have my word. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Of course you know Captain Andrew Greer, Sam’s commanding officer.”

  “Certainly. Sam has always thought the world of him.”

  “I assure you, the feeling is mutual.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, I thought it might be. He was very attentive after the accident whenever he was stateside. I understand he received a Bronze Star.”

  “He did, and it was well deserved. He’s an excellent man and a natural leader.”

  “Sam said as much, so I was quite surprised to learn he’d left the Army with such a promising future in service.”

  “I was initially, too, until I heard his vision for service of another kind. Andy is quietly forming an exploratory committee and aims to run for Congress next election if the tea leaves read right. I think he’s the man for the job, so I’m lending a hand where I can, introducing him to some top people I know here on the West Coast. He flies in tonight.”

  “That’s such exciting news!”

  “I think so. Andy has also mentioned Sam on several occasions. We both think he would be an outstanding asset to the team in any capacity, whatever he might be ready for. If you have an extra place setting, I’m certain he’d cancel anything to join us on Sunday. I know he wants to tell Sam personally while he’s in town.”

  Chapter Seven

  SAM POPPED TWO SLICES OF BREAD in the toaster and started a pot of coffee. While he considered poaching some eggs, he heard soft, apologetic footsteps as Melody made her way into the kitchen, his mother’s crocheted throw draped over her shoulders. A drinker’s sleep had mussed her hair into tangled strands of blond, and her pretty face was marred by an ugly black eye.

  She sagged wearily into a chair at the cheap dinette table he’d picked up at a garage sale two weeks ago. Yuki had taken the Stickley that used to sit on the braided rug to furnish the rental bungalow she now called home. For some reason, she hadn’t taken the rug.

  “Thanks for letting me stay last night, Sam.”

  “Anytime,” he said, setting a plate of buttered toast down in front of her. “You can stay whenever you want, just as long as you get rid of that Ryan asshole who likes to hit girls.”

  She touched her black eye gingerly, then winced. “I don’t want you messed up in this—”

  “Too late for that. It was too late when you rang my doorbell at midnight.” He passed her a bottle of water while the coffee maker grunted and burbled and did its work.

  “He seemed like a good guy,” she said without bitterness, just defeat.

  “He’s obviously not. You weren’t talking much last night, so tell me the whole story. Who is he?”

  “He’s a promoter.”

  “Typical LA line of bullshit. So what does he supposedly promote besides violence against women?”

  She tried for a sour look, but there wasn’t enough energy behind it to give the expression any real impact. “Rock bands. Concerts.”

  “Not that it matters, but does he make any money or is he a poser?”

  “He has a new BMW and a nice place off Sunset. And a condo in Vegas.”

  “You know that doesn’t mean anything, especially in this town. Who does he work for?”

  “Jesus, you’re nosy. You sound like a cop.”

  He waited patiently.

  “He owns Salamander Productions.”

  Sam had heard of it. They were a midrange outfit that repped regionally, mostly bread-and-butter acts that could fill Los Angeles and off-strip Vegas clubs but not premiere venues or stadiums. “Appropriate that he named his company after a reptile.”

  Melody sighed anxiously. “We’ve been seeing each other on and off for a year. He never hit me before.”

  Sam felt a stark anger unfurl inside—anger at the bastard who’d given her a black eye, anger at the people in her life who’d abused her to the point of reticence, anger that things like this happened every day all over the world. “But he’ll hit you again. Press charges and get out. You know h
ow this shit ends once it starts, and it’s never good. Ditch his ass.”

  Melody nodded, but it wasn’t a committed nod. “I will.”

  “I’m not convinced.”

  Her mouth twitched in irritation. “It’s complicated, Sam.”

  “There’s nothing complicated about violence. That’s the one thing I know.”

  She looked down and started picking at the label on her water bottle. Self-consciously? Or was she simply considering her options? Her situation might be straight-forward, but Melody herself was Byzantine. On one hand, there were a lot of hard edges to her. He didn’t know a lot of details about her past, but he knew some. Substantial drug problems—first Oxy, then heroin. She’d lived on the streets for a while. But she was intelligent and strong and optimistic, and she found a way to climb the steep mountain out.

  “Don’t let Ryan diminish you.”

  “I won’t. He didn’t.”

  It was the right answer, but Sam knew all too well that it was impossible to entirely escape a dark past or prevent it from affecting your decisions. It was insecurity and fear, he supposed, lying just beneath the surface like cancer, waiting for the right moment to come out of remission. That’s probably why he and Melody had gravitated toward each other, had learned to trust one another during his past six months working the glamorous job of bar back at Pearl Club. They could talk to each other about things they couldn’t share with anybody else, especially when they were drunk.

  Melody wanted a happy ending. Right now, it was some promoter and his BMW, nice place off Sunset, and condo in Vegas—and she didn’t want to let it go.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she finally said.

  “I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

  She scowled and took a sip of water. “After what I’ve been through, how could I be so stupid?”

  “Melody, you’re not stupid. But things won’t get any better. You were afraid to go back to your own apartment last night, for Christ’s sake, what does that tell you? It tells me you think Ryan might end up killing you if you don’t walk away now. I’m being serious.”