Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [142]
“Toss your gun into the room,” the Dark said, calling out into the hallway. “Then step into the doorway where I can see you.”
Jack bit his lip, not quite believing that his bluff was going this badly. It was almost comical—until Shada screamed in pain.
“Do as I said, or the next scream is her last.”
Where the hell are the cops?
“He’s serious,” said Shada. “He already stabbed Vince!”
The fear in her voice was palpable, and the thought of Vince down and perhaps dying raised the stakes yet again—if that was possible. But he stayed put.
“One,” said the Dark, counting down.
“Jack, please!”
“Two.”
It was a split-second decision, but all Jack could do was buy time. “I’m stepping toward the doorway,” he shouted from the hallway, “and I don’t have a weapon.”
The Dark stopped counting, and for the next few seconds, there was only the sound of falling rain on the roof.
“Hands up where I can see them!” the Dark shouted.
Jack took a deep breath. This was definitely not the plan. Jack moved into the doorway with hands up over his head. The sole source of light in the room was a battery-powered lantern on the table, but it was sufficient, and the sight took Jack’s breath away—especially the blood on the floor beside Vince. Shada was on her knees at his side. The Dark stood behind her with his gun pressed against the back of her head.
“I swear I don’t have a gun,” Jack said.
“It wouldn’t help you anyway,” the Dark said. “Come out, McKenna.”
Jack did a double take at the name “McKenna,” but when the girl from the fish market stepped out from the shadows in the corner of the room, he knew it was just more of the Dark’s sickness.
“Everyone is going to do exactly as I say,” the Dark said. “Show them, McKenna.”
The girl opened her coat to reveal what she was wearing underneath. Even in the dim lighting of a boarded-up hotel room, it didn’t take an expert to see that she was wired for explosives. Her earlier exchange with Jack—when she told Jack that the Dark didn’t have to find her in order to kill her—hadn’t been paranoia. Now it made sense.
The Dark showed Jack the cell phone in his free hand. “Remote detonator,” he said. “Something I learned from Jamal’s father. Life’s funny, isn’t it?”
“Nobody else has to die,” said Jack. “Just take the money and go.”
“I’ll go,” he said, shoving Shada’s head forward with his pistol, “but I’m taking this slut with me.”
“You don’t need Shada,” said Jack.
“Don’t tell me what I need,” he said, his anger rising. “We’re talking real Internet porn-star potential—right, Shada? Let’s give your friends a little sneak preview. Tell them who made you into such a slut.”
She didn’t answer. The Dark only berated her further. His voice turned into that same abusive rant that Jack had heard on those unwatchable P2P videos.
“Who did it, huh?” he said, getting into role. The pistol forced Shada’s head forward, and again he shouted: “Who did it to you?”
She answered in a weak voice. “Not Chuck,” she said. “He was number six.”
“Then who? Tell me!”
“Not the men in college. Not number five. Or four. Or three.”
She looked up just enough to catch Jack’s eye—and Jack had a double epiphany. The Dark’s interrogation of Shada was like a replay of his final moments with McKenna before stabbing her to death. He was forcing her to go back to that first lover, the one who had taken her virginity and—in his twisted mind—turned her into a slut. For McKenna there had been only Jamal, and it suddenly came clear to Jack. When Vince found her on the bedroom floor, dying and delirious, and asked her that same question—Who did this to you?—McKenna had been conditioned to give him the answer that she’d given the Dark: Jamal.
“Not that boy on the beach,” Shada said. “Number two.”
She paused, again catching Jack’s eye, and the second half of the two-part epiphany was confirmed. Shada wasn’t just counting down her lovers.
“Definitely not two,” she said, making sure that Jack was with her as she counted down like mission control toward