In the Dark

by Loreth Anne White

I know something about wearing a Janus mask. Perhaps that’s why they’ve sent her to fetch me—they think I might slip and tell her something. They believe I am hiding something.

And down there I saw the Monster, and the Monster looked back into my eyes, and I saw that the Monster was me.

I have been saved. Reporters will come. Cameras, questions, judgment. It’s a gauntlet I must yet run. But right now, on this crisp, snow-blown morning on the shores of Lake Kluhane, it’s just Hubb and me. I have a pocketful of sugar and a toast crust, just in case. Once inside the police station, Hubb ushers me into a tiny windowless room with dirty-white padded tiles. In the center is a bolted-down table, plastic chairs, one on either side. I glance up at the ceiling and spy a small camera in the upper corner.

Nine Little Liars thought they’d be late. One missed the plane, and then there were eight . . .

We became a group with feral instincts, each of our weaknesses exaggerated and sharpened by guilt and fear and hunger and exhaustion. By the very need to survive. To live. That kind of struggle amplifies aspects of a personality in disturbing ways, ones you might never anticipate. It changed our reality. Perhaps I never understood Reality until now.

“I can’t wait to see where we land tomorrow.” Monica deepened her smile. He nodded, wondering if she might be coming on to him. He’d be better able to tolerate this group once he got more alcohol into him—the nip he’d taken from the minibar this morning had long worn off. Monica’s smile faded. She turned to face the front and resumed quietly talking to her mushroom-professor husband.

Dan thought this was nuts. What kind of business plan called for two days of travel after surgery before patients could recuperate in nature? But who was he to judge? Rich folk did all kinds of shit that made zero sense to him, and he didn’t really care either way, as long as they paid his bills and picked up his bar tab. The bus slowed. The indicator ticked. Bart turned the shuttle bus off the highway and onto a newly paved road. A large wooden sign carved with an eagle pointed the way: Thunderbird Ridge.

“And remember, most important in any emergency or survival situation is to try to remain calm. Panic is always the biggest killer.”

“Instagramming?” Steven said to Jackie. “Posting your hashtag-mystery-tour, hashtag-flying-into-the-wild-wild-woods photo?” She glanced up. Unsmiling, she said, “Facebook. And yeah, something like that. Before we lose cell service.” She pocketed her phone.

Pristine snow lay thick upon the taller peaks. Brutal, brown avalanche scars were scored down the steeper flanks. The forests were dark green and endless. She saw no sign of human life anywhere. It was beautiful. Distant. Hostile.

Stella was the kind of woman she’d want as a friend. But also the kind of woman Deborah felt was above her, and who might never deign to see Deborah as an equal should she even begin to make overtures. The cosmetic surgeon, Dr. Steven Bodine, sat in the copilot seat beside Stella. He’d made a beeline for that seat, not bothering to even feign a gesture of offering it to anyone else.

You do not need to be defined by the darkness of your past. You deserve a good life, just like everyone deserves a good life. You have atoned. You have a right to feel worthy.

The thought of Ewan—coupled with the fact that Katie’s apparent interrogation was over—eased her mind. “He’s in the military—air force. Stationed at CFB Comox,” she said. She was proud of Ewan. She liked to talk about him. “He’s away for extended tours, so this contract would work well for us. How about you?” Deborah asked, steering attention away from herself. “You got kids?”

A memory flared hot into Deborah’s mind. Her own father. Chasing her through green summer grass spiked with wildflowers. You bad little girl! Get over here, Katarina, you little shit. Now. She shook the image.

“I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m sure looking forward to that welcome drink described in the email brochure,” Bart Kundera said loudly into their headsets, breaking some of the tension. Others laughed. Uneasily.

The building was constructed of logs. Double story. All the logs had been worn so dark that the building looked silvery black in this light. Rows of windows watched them from upstairs, dark-green shutters like eyelids placed at their sides. Above the front door hung a rack of bleached antlers. The area around the lodge was overgrown with brambles and covered with mosses and lichens. Bart said, “This cannot be right.” “Looks like the Overlook,” Monica whispered. “The what?” Nathan asked. “That spooky hotel in that Stephen King novel.” “No, it does not,” said Bart. “This place looks nothing like the one in the movie. And it’s smaller.” “That’s how the hotel looked in my imagination,” Monica said quietly. “I never saw the movie.”

Deborah was petrified of going into the brackish shallows again—utterly terrified—and great big palsied shudders took hold of her body. Steven just stood there glowering at them all, as if refusing to accept his lot, as if blaming them all for bringing him here. Katie quietly filmed the whole thing. Thunder rumbled.

“I’m Ben. Not Benny.” His lip quivered. “I’m sorry, Ben.” Why can’t I call my baby boy Benny any longer? He’s only eight. Can I not just put his growth on pause until Peter comes home? How can I allow Peter to miss out on all the little milestones of Benny’s life—all the days, weeks, months? Would it be years until Peter came through the door of their house again? How much longer until Callie might see the light and love in her husband’s eyes again, hear his laughter, feel his touch, make love just one more time? Ben turned his back on her and folded his arms tighter. His shoulders began to heave. He was crying.

Ben exited the van dwarfed in a borrowed and oversize KSAR jacket. His wig had been exchanged for a helmet, and his arms looked overly long with adult gloves dangling on the ends. Comical was the word that slammed into Mason. And touching. Ben scurried after his mother, who was making for two quads parked in mud behind the SAR van. Mason followed, trying to recall when he’d last driven a four-wheeler. Mostly relief pulsed hot in his veins. They’d found the wreck. And fast. Thank God. It absolved him of his stupidity. Somewhat.

The knife stuck out of the pilot’s neck on the right side. Stabbed in to the hilt. From how the blade was positioned, Mason guessed it would have severed her carotid instantly. Next to the blade was another entry wound, bloodless, diamond-shaped, gaping open. It appeared that whoever had done this might have taken two plunges with the blade. The first perhaps tentative, or missing its mark, the second likely fatal. This pilot would have bled out within minutes. His brain reeled. Could she have been stabbed up in the air? Was this what had brought the Beaver down? What of the assailant, then?

This thought sent an odd punch of resentment through Monica. She wanted Nathan to fix this. To be more capable. To save her like a knight in shining armor. On some level she knew, deep down, that she wished Nathan would impress Steven. She wanted Steven to be jealous of Nathan, not condescending toward him. The sad fact of Monica’s life was that while her husband adored her, he sometimes embarrassed her just by being himself. She felt this reflected badly on her own image, that she should’ve been capable of attracting a more alpha male as her partner in life, that people took her less seriously because she’d married Professor Mushroom, who was losing his hair and going soft around his belly.

They also both knew Katie Colbourne’s face from the nightly news back when they used to live in Vancouver. Images of Katie Colbourne holding the mike were indelibly scored into Monica’s brain, coupled tightly with a nightmare she wished she could forget, because Katie had covered the incident. That was how Monica thought of it. The incident.

But the incident had been newsworthy, so it was to be expected that Katie had covered it. And Katie Colbourne knows nothing about my connection to the incident. Nothing at all. We managed to keep it quiet. We got away with it. So there’s nothing to worry about. But now there was Steven. He was inextricably tied to the incident. And he was here. A dark, cold dread began to unfurl in Monica’s chest. Something deep and unbidden began to knock at the walls of consciousness that she’d erected around the old and buried memories.

With his words came unexpected emotion. She blinked it back. He loved her. He always had. He’d move heaven and earth for her, and he had. Maybe she didn’t love him back enough, and it hurt him. She knew that. Maybe she’d pushed him too far, gotten too complacent. But being here, with Steven, and with Katie Colbourne bringing back memories of that awful time, she realized she needed him. She needed him, and he needed her, because they shared a secret that could destroy them both. Along with Steven. And the weight of bearing that secret alone all these years would have been impossible.

Monica turned back to Deborah. That’s when she registered the words of the cross-stitched verse above Deborah’s head. Cursed are those who Sin And Lie to cover their deeds For a Monster will rise within And they must Repent. She stilled and caught sight of her own face in the rust-pocked mirror above the antique basin. “What is it?” Deborah asked, noticing the sudden change in Monica. “I . . . uh, nothing. Nothing at all. Do you want some help getting into the bath?” she asked as she leaned over to turn off the taps. But a disquiet had entered her heart.

“There is no real lodge.” Jackie appeared in the doorway that led from the great room into the kitchen. They all turned to look at the solid woman with intense eyes. “This is no mistake,” she said curtly. “This is a con, some sick game.” “What do you mean?” Bart asked. “Did you guys not see the plaque outside, next to the front door? This place is called Forest Shadow Lodge. As in Forest Shadow Wilderness Resort & Spa. Here, look at this.” She pulled a brochure from her pocket and smoothed it out on the kitchen island.

“The reason Stella Daguerre rubs you the wrong way is because she doesn’t prostrate herself in front of your golden surgical godliness—am I right? You feel she disrespects you and undermines you. She irritates you because she’s actually more in control than you are, and she’s a woman to boot. One who’d never think to open her legs for you.” “Fuck you, Nathan,” Steven whispered. Heat crackled between the men. “You know fuck.” The surgeon glanced at the door and dropped his voice to an even quieter whisper. “There’s a reason your wife cheated on you.” “I could destroy you, Steven. I could destroy your clinic.” “And if you do, you go down, too, brother. Both of you.” A pause. A slow smirk. “And you don’t have the balls. You know what your problem is, Professor Fungus? The trouble with you is you actually love her.”

Where have I seen you and that swallow tattoo before, Deborah Strong? What associates you in my mind with the name Katarina? I know you from somewhere. You know that I know you. You are not who you say you are. What are you hiding? What made you so nervous when I mentioned your tat? It struck her. A fucking lightning bolt out of a black past—a past that boomeranged right back into Dan Whitlock’s orbit. She remembered exactly who Deborah Strong was. Katarina. Katarina “Kitty Kat” Vasiliev. A young hooker. Far too young at the time. It was the swallow tattoo and the process of thinking about Dan Whitlock that had unearthed it from deep in Jackie’s memory. Her heart hammered. Heat prickled over her skin. Her gaze darted among the others in the group, trying to slot the rest of them into this emerging puzzle. But as with colored squares in a Rubik’s Cube, the minute she moved one set of ideas around in her brain, another aspect of the pattern broke apart.

Jackie shut Murder on the Orient Express and replaced the book on the musty shelves. That’s when she noticed that the book lying on the coffee table was also an Agatha Christie novel. She frowned, reached for it, and dusted off the cover. Ten Little Indians. This hardback was old—from the 1930s. Had this Agatha Christie book ever been published in North America under this title? The original title Christie had given her mystery had used the N-word and had been rightfully deemed even less PC than Ten Little Indians. The book had finally been retitled And Then There Were None.

“It was in the Agatha Christie book,” Jackie said. “The paper with the rhyme was stuck inside a book with a story about a group of individuals—all strangers to each other—who are invited by an anonymous host to a secluded island. Then they all proceed to die, one by one.” “Because they’re being punished,” said Deborah. “I saw the television series.” “Yes. Because a character in the story—the judge—felt they’d escaped retribution,” Jackie said. “So the judge killed them. One by one. Until there were none.” She pointed to the carvings. “Those little figurines—there are eight of them on the board.” She scooped up another that had been toppled off the side of the board. Its head had been cut off. “And this one? A ninth. Nine Little Liars. This one has to be Dan Whitlock.” Jackie wagged the headless carving at them. “Why?” said Bart. “Because his head is off, doofus,” said Jackie.

Katie began to cry. Steven lurched up from his seat. “Oh, come on, don’t be so pathetic. This”—he waved his hand at the wooden figurines on the stone checkerboard—“is not some kind of reality murder mystery, for Pete’s sake. No one is going to die. Get real. If anything, it . . . it’s some kind of hoax.” “Did you speak to someone from the RAKAM Group, Steven?” Monica asked. He glowered at her. “Well, did you?” “I spoke to Amanda Gunn. She was my contact.” Monica turned to the others. “How about the rest of you? Did anyone here have any contact with a person from the RAKAM Group other than Amanda Gunn?” No one replied.

Callie felt a rush of love at the pride in Benny’s face, as if he really did have something to do with this. She made a note to herself to concentrate on giving him a sense of greater responsibility in her work. Making Ben feel that he and his mom were more of a team.

Mason looked into Dr. Skinner’s eyes. Dark and hooded. The man had a thin face. Thick, black hair. Olive-toned skin. He was about six two, the same height as Mason. Skinner, he thought, was an unfortunate name for a morgue doc.

There was a time—well over a decade ago—when Bart had done jobs for shady people. His brother’s people—mostly motorcycle-gang affiliates. Bart had worked as a mechanic, and he’d accepted payment in cash under the table. And he never asked questions, no matter who brought him the job. Sometimes the vehicles were hot. Sometimes he did rush paint jobs. Or handled chop shop stuff. Sometimes the work came in bulk. Sometimes piecemeal. But he’d been able to demand a high price in return for secrecy, so it had paid incredibly well. The money had been tax-free and welcome. He and his older brother had lost their parents young, and they’d been poor kids who’d had to fight to find ways to survive. That’s what the under-the-table work had been to Bart. Survival. And when he’d squirreled away enough tax-free income, he’d bought his first two shuttle buses. Then a third, followed by a town car. And he’d hired drivers. It had been the start of Executive Transit. He’d made good. And he’d put his questionable past behind him. Was that what this was? Had karma somehow caught up with him? Bart’s gaze shifted to Nathan again. The man’s words over dinner curled through his mind.

An alternate reality. A nightmare dimension. A horror movie. That’s what we’re in. “It’s like it’s emanating from us,” she whispered. “From inside us. Like that verse said.” “What is?” “Darkness. Blackness. ‘For a Monster will rise within.’” She looked up into Nathan’s eyes. His heart tightened at what he read in her expression. “I love you, Monica,” he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. As he moved, he heard Steven’s voice in his head. “You know what your problem is, Professor Fungus? The trouble with you is you actually love her.”

He drew to mind the image he’d seen on the TV news. The mother. He thought of pictures he’d seen of homeless street people—befores and afters—what they’d looked like before life broke them, and before they became addicted to drugs and suffered from bad nutrition and poor hygiene. Unrecognizable, unless you knew to look for similarities. Unrecognizable, especially out of context. But now they had context. Maybe it was her. It was her and the survival part of his brain was refusing to see it.

She studied him. Callie was the first person he’d told—at least told this much in such simple terms. Somehow it lifted something from him. Defogged his brain a little. And he felt bad because she was the one who needed his help. And he’d gotten benefit out of it himself.

She turned to leave, and Mason watched her walk away. He liked the way she moved and hated himself instantly for the thought. At the elevator banks, she paused, glanced over her shoulder. He gave a nod. She went into the elevator. Mason sat for a moment, feeling as though something seismic had just happened . . . and that nothing had just happened.

“Like Jackie said, a killer could be among us—one of us had to have done this.” Stella angrily swiped snow from her face, her hands trembling a little. “Then they don’t have any goddamn endgame, do they? Because if they go and kill us off, how are they going to get out themselves? With no radio to fix, and no plane to escape with?” “Maybe that is the endgame, Stella. Like the judge in Agatha Christie’s story. He killed himself.” Emotion burned sudden and hot into her eyes. Get a grip, Stella, get a goddamn grip. You’re the one who’s been telling everyone not to panic.

“So nine people were supposed to fly?” Callie asked. “Because the downed de Havilland—the way I saw it configured—could only accommodate eight, including the pilot.” “Correct.” “So he wasn’t supposed to make it?” Hubb asked. Mason said nothing. Hubb and Podgorsky exchanged a glance. “Shit,” Hubb said as she clicked the back of a pen repeatedly. “And this pilot, Stella Daguerre, she flew charter planes with false registrations?”

The woman’s bags were still in her room, everything left as if she intended to return. A sleep shirt and leggings were laid out on her bed. Toothpaste and toothbrush and face lotion had been neatly placed on the counter in her en suite bathroom. But her bed had not been slept in. And her jacket and boots were gone. Most terrifying of all: a second figurine had been toppled off the checkerboard, and it lay on the coffee table in front of them with its head freshly lopped off. Deborah stared at it.

Deborah’s mind went to Jackie’s words on the plane. You remind me of someone. Kat . . . Kata . . . Katarina, I think her name was. Deborah was glad Jackie was gone. Really glad. Her secret was safe now.

She cleared her throat, unable to shake the memory of some of the females she’d had to endure in prison. “Women are capable of worse things than men,” she said quietly.

“Stop right there, Stella. Just because Jackie Blunt is gone, just because Dan Whitlock never got on the plane, it doesn’t mean they’ve been ‘picked off.’ It doesn’t mean they are dead. We could all be leaping to extreme conclusions here, imaginations running wild because of some . . . some psychological taunting with that book and that rhyme and those figurines. This might not actually be as malevolent as it seems.”

She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Deborah was not there. The woman had opted to stay behind, but her limp sure had improved, in Monica’s opinion. She was either faking it or milking the injury, and it irritated Monica.

He’d not believed it possible when it happened. But he’d been over the limit. Distracted—Monica’s head in his lap, sucking his cock. Her giggling. Then the bam. Sweat prickled over his body despite the chill. He’d reversed. He’d checked to be certain, seen the blood, the child’s face . . . He’d panicked, hit the gas, squealed around the corner, sped off down a dark side street. But someone had witnessed what he’d done. A woman. She’d been standing on the corner in the rain, farther down the sidewalk from the stores, where it was quieter, darker. High-heeled boots, short skirt. Shiny black trench coat. Rain dripping from her umbrella. The trauma of the event had scored her image into his mind. A sex worker, he’d figured, who’d looked right into the car window—right at his face—her mouth a round O of horrified shock. The witness. As he’d sped around the corner, she’d run toward the fallen boy. But the witness had never come forward. No one knew what had happened to her, or whether she’d even existed. She’d had her own things to hide. She had looked at the boy, must have seen he was beyond repair, then had taken his backpack and the fallen, battered BMW front plate and fled the scene, too.

Stop Bart from making connections out here, in this forced proximity? Can I stop Bart . . . dead? The thought—the word—hit Steven square between the eyes as he looked into Bart’s swarthy face. Dead. To save myself. Could I bring myself to do it? Who would know? If it happened out there in the woods while they were all searching for Jackie Blunt?

She was scared. Of him. Wham—it struck him. Nathan liked that she was frightened of him—he actually did, really did. Dr. McNeill, professor of mushrooms, could make women tremble and stumble. It filled his blood with a sense of potency, virility. That was what his wife saw in Dr. Steven Bodine. Power. Alpha behavior. Control. Honed physique. Thick head of hair. Virility. Basic biological programming. It drove the attraction of the opposite sex. Drove them to juice up, engorge, send out pheromones, primed them to come together for intercourse. Sex in order to procreate. To fertilize eggs. Preserve the species. Steven Bodine was a bull among cows. Full of testosterone and biologically programmed to fuck every cow that would allow him. Basic science. The selfish gene. An expression of evolution. He knew all this. His wife sent out her feminine signals without being able to control it—big boobs, nice round ass that gave a guy a hard-on before he could even think about whether she was married and off-limits. It was just there. Hard dick. Desire. Do the programmed thing. We deluded ourselves, we humans, thinking about romantic notions of love and fidelity . . .

Could Nathan have done this? Brought me and Steven together to face Stella? With Bart? To mess with our heads? Could it be some bizarre way of absolving his own guilt? No. Not possible. Not at all. It’s an insane idea. But everything about this situation is insane . . . and he has been behaving more oddly than usual lately . . . Bile surged up into Monica’s throat. She was going to be sick. She thought of Nathan’s passive aggression. His brilliant brain. He loved reading complicated mysteries, true crime about mad minds. He was a loner who disappeared on long walks into hostile forests and who felt he could talk to trees. And that they were communicating with him. He detested Steven Bodine. Sometimes, even though he acted as though he loved her, she got strange little feelings that part of him buried deep down might detest her, too, for bringing Steven into their marital bed, for allowing him to be cuckolded like that. Inside his own home. For forcing him to hide her crime so he could protect himself and his family.

Stop! Just stop it—leave my car! You left a child in there! What kind of a mother are you? Do you realize how hot it is? Look at her cheeks. They’re red. She’s crying. This is criminal. I’m calling the cops. The woman had set down her fire extinguisher and begun rummaging in her sling purse for her phone. Katie had gotten into her car fast. She’d fired the ignition and reversed at speed, her wheels jumping right over the goddamn extinguisher, her heart thumping out of her chest. If the media got hold of this—Katie Colbourne locked her kid in the car . . . Katie Colbourne swore at a half-senile senior who could have used her help instead of her hatred. “Mummy! Mummy!” “It’s all right, honey. It’s fine. Mummy’s just in a rush . . .” Thank God Gabby had been okay. If this had gotten into the papers, or had gone viral on social media . . . She’d thought then of Estelle Marshall, and how she’d been party to the woman’s destruction. And that was why Katie had really quit her job. She’d been shown firsthand how one stupid and selfish mistake—one charge, one accusation, one revelation—could destroy a life. Or lives. She’d wanted out of the limelight. She’d wanted to be a good mother. Now she knew. Stella was Estelle. We’re all being punished . . . a reckoning. She dragged both her hands over her hair, pulling it back from her face. She stared at the little girl. Exactly the same as Gabby. Gabby, now the age little Ezekiel Marshall had been.