John Lutz - Darker Than Night

Fascinated, Anna looked at the revolver, then lifted it from the box and hefted it in her right hand. It felt good, as if it belonged there. It was blue steel with a checked walnut grip, and she could see the dull brass of the cartridge cases in the cylinder and knew it was loaded.

Her father’s gun.

Her gun now. Posterity.

My gun.

Possessing it gave her a sense of secret power she didn’t want to lose.

Barely hesitating, she slipped the revolver beneath her blouse and tucked its cool steel bulk into her waistband. Later she could go into the bathroom downstairs and transfer it to her purse.

“Anna?”

Her mother’s voice.

Anna turned, still holding the open cigar box.

“Whatcha got, honey?”

“Money,” Anna said, and held out the box.

The cheap cuff links, rings, and tie clasps on the bed were forgotten as Anna’s mother took the box from her hand.

“Not much,” Dale said, obviously disappointed. “Twelve dollars.”

“Silver ones, though,” said Anna’s mother. “They might be worth something to a collector.”

“Kinda thing the people who’ll auction off the household items will keep for themselves. I don’t wanna sound greedy, but the fair thing’d be to divide them coins three ways and forget them.”

Anna’s mother looked at Lilitta.

“He means family,” Lilitta said. “Dale, you, and Anna.” She held up the Timex. “I’ll keep Raoul’s watch, if nobody minds.”

“No objections,” Dale said, and carried the box over to the bed.

“You take my share,” Anna said to her mother.

She watched as Dale and her mother carefully meted out the twelve silver dollars, four for Dale, eight for Anna’s mother, taking them from the top of the stack in order, one by one, and making it a point not to look at the dates. Lilitta observed the process closely, her face impassive.

Everyone was involved with the money and uninterested in whatever else might have been in the cigar box.

Like the gun tucked firmly against Anna’s hip.

Lars Svenson emerged from the Hades Portal Club in the East Village and drew a deep breath of cool night air. He was dressed in black leather from the toes up-black Doc Marten boots, tight black pants, and a studded black vest over a sleeveless black T-shirt.

He hadn’t been completely satisfied inside the club, where he was a regular patron. The woman he’d attempted to pick up belonged to somebody bigger and probably meaner. That was actually okay with Lars, as he’d gotten close enough to see that the bruises on her face were dark makeup. So he hadn’t scored sexually tonight, and he hadn’t scored for dope. Lars still needed relief from his barely contained guilt and rage, which meant he was still looking for meth or cocaine, and for somebody to hurt.

From the time he was a teenager, Lars’s relationships with women always led to violence. At first he tried to deny that was what he wanted, what he truly needed, but always the yearning was there, the compulsion only sometimes held in check. Gradually his willpower and his denial eroded, and during the past few years he accepted his need and learned how to lure his victims with feigned concern and kindness.

He soon found that it was like baiting a trap, a contest of wits his opponents had little chance of winning. He learned to enjoy it. It was like the hunting he used to do in the Minnesota woods-find the game, flush it, and make it yours. The only real difference he could see was that now he was in New York and it was women he hunted. And between hunts he enjoyed going directly to willing victims who endured pain for pay. It was like hunting birds in cages.

Just last week, even after moving furniture all day, he still felt the energy and the need, so he’d gone to a club and used his blond good looks and his pickup skills to get a young woman named Tina to invite him to her apartment.

Lars smiled, remembering Tina’s trusting, round face and zaftig body, even fleshier than he’d imagined when she’d stripped off her bra and panty hose. Tina liked to play rough. Or at least she thought she did. Lars had shown her what rough was, once she was tied and gagged and his for the rest of the night.

His smile had become such a wide grin that a passing couple of guys, faggots, stared at him as he strode along the sidewalk. He was recalling Tina’s futile struggles and muted cries for help, the terror and pain in her eyes, and then the resignation. After all, she’d gotten herself into this, said her eyes, after Lars had patiently explained it to her over and over. It wasn’t difficult to get her to believe it; she came with guilt built in, part of the package.

She’d welcomed his advances in the club and even told him she enjoyed bondage and discipline, rough sex with a little pain. Verbal commands and the whip were okay, if used sparingly. B amp;D and S amp;M. She hadn’t mentioned which she enjoyed more. Her oversight.

In the morning he untied Tina and asked if she wanted to go out for breakfast, but she awkwardly crept from the bed with sore and stiffened limbs and cowered in a corner, staring at him in mute disbelief.

Lars laughed, and as he got dressed, he told her what a stupid bitch she was. He didn’t glance back at her when he left the apartment. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her again; she might even come looking for him. They were like that, some of them, once you took them to a higher level. They needed to go higher and higher, and Lars was willing to fly them all the way to heaven so they could escape their hell. They’d beg him to, after a while. They’d plead and pledge their souls. What they wanted, they loathed, but their problem was they loved it even more. It was like a drug addiction.

Speaking of which…Lars was going to go out of his gourd if he didn’t score some dope pretty soon.

He tried to think of something else as he roamed the gray morning streets, watching for possibilities.

The something else was Claire Briggs.

She was the type Lars liked, slender and helpless, fems all the way, natural submissives once they were shown the path, once they were kicked in the ass and shoved along the path. And she lived alone, some kind of actress, probably with a rich family that might come across once he taught her how to mooch.

Claire Briggs. Definitely worthwhile.

Lars spotted a guy he recognized standing outside the entrance to a diner, a gigantic black dude with dreadlocks, looked like a former NFL linebacker who’d taken up reggae. While bigger than Lars, he wasn’t as solid. The soft life was making him vulnerable. He was talking to a woman with straight blond hair that hung almost to her ass. The guy’s name was Handy and he dealt.

The woman said something about pancakes, then sashayed her ass inside the diner, making the long hair swish. Handy stayed outside, leaning back against the brick wall and smoking a cigarette like it was an art.

“Handy,” Lars said when he was about twenty feet away; he didn’t want the dealer to miss seeing him and go inside after the woman. “Remember me, my man?”

Handy flicked away his cigarette and gave Lars a wide, gleaming smile. “I remember your money.”

“I wanna reintroduce you,” Lars said, forgetting all about Claire Briggs.

For the moment.

Hiram, Missouri, 1989.

“He’s sixteen,” Milford Sand said, “of an age when he can damn well work and pull his own weight around here. Hell, I was-”

“I know,” his wife Cara said, “you were working in the mine when you were fourteen. This boy, Luther, is the only survivor of a house fire that killed his foster family in Missouri; then he somehow survived almost a year of life on the streets in Kansas City.”

“So he’s no innocent,” Milford said.