Michael Dibdin - Dark Specter

She reached for the remote, unblocked the volume and started to surf through the channels, lingering a few moments on each. You kid yourself that you’re tough, she thought, but really you’re just a fool. You scoop this cutesie of a guy, put the moves on him and then act surprised when he gets bored of it and ditches you. She mashed the remote some more until she found a local station with a news roundup, and stuck with it to find out what the weather would be like that day. She’d need to get out there and start looking for work before they caught up with the stolen credit card she’d been using till now It was time to get real.

“… were killed this evening in a shooting incident on a cross-street of McDaniel in the Pittsburgh area of the city. Another man was taken to Grady Memorial Hospital with serious gunshot and knife wounds. He is said to be in stable but critical condition. Police are searching for two other individuals who were involved in the attack, which is not believed to have been racially motivated. And now with today’s weather, here’s Howie!”

“Thanks, Gus. Well, this warm snap we’ve been experiencing over the last couple of days looks like it’s going to be with us for at least-”

The girl pushed the mute button. She was no longer interested in the weather. McDaniel was the street where Dale had been going. She remembered him calling the transit company to check which number bus to catch.

She turned off the TV, walked over to where her clothes lay strewn across the floor and dug out the pack of cigarettes she’d bought last night while waiting for Dale to get back from meeting with that friend he hadn’t wanted to introduce her to. Maybe he’d been bullshitting her about that too, she thought as she lit up. She really didn’t know anything about him except his name.

She eyed the phone on the table next to her. But who could she call? The TV station? “Hi, there! I’m a long-time viewer but a first-time caller.” That hospital? The police? All that’d do was stir up a lot of trouble for her, and maybe for Dale too. You’re just tired, she thought. Tired and lonesome and dreaming awake. That would make a good title for a country song. She finished the cigarette with a smile on her lips. Everything would seem better in the morning. If Dale still hadn’t shown up, she’d decide what to do then.

I lay awake for hours, trying and failing to make sense of what I had heard. It was past two o’clock when I finally realized that I was not going to be able to get to sleep. I turned on the light to read some more. As I searched for my book, which had fallen to the floor, I caught sight of the videocassette I had taken with me on my hasty exit from Sam’s room that afternoon. I picked it up and read the label: Russell (Rick): Seattle . Russell was the guy that Mark had been giving Sam such a hard time about the evening before. Maybe the video might provide some clue to what was going on.

The hall was in darkness. The only sound was a soft persistent hushing of rain on the roof, punctuated by more percussive drips falling from the eaves. The fire had collapsed on itself, a dull mass of white ash, barely glowing. I switched on the television, turning the volume right down. The harsh glare of the screen seemed shockingly bright. I expected people to rush out of their rooms demanding to know what was going on, but all was quiet. I fed the video into the open maw of the VCR.

At first I thought I was watching some kind of amateur dramatic production-very amateur. The camera wobbled, the lighting was lousy, the sequencing crude and the acting a disaster. In fact the whole thing was so weak that I assumed it must be one of those “experimental” efforts where bad production values are part of the “artistic concept.” The action seemed to confirm this. It consisted entirely of a guy in his thirties breaking into a house and terrorizing people with a pistol. There was no attempt to contextualize what happened, still less establish character or motive.

The first person he encountered was a housewife in a nightgown and bathrobe. Holding the pistol to her head, he made her kneel down, then handcuffed her and stuck a patch of tape over her mouth. He then went into the bedroom next door, the handheld camera bouncing along behind him like a dog. It approached a crib and panned in to show a baby asleep, then went back to the gunman. He seemed to be saying something to the camera, protesting maybe. I didn’t dare turn up the volume in case someone heard.

Eventually he nodded, as though in agreement. He left the bedroom and went down to the basement, the camera following. In one of the rooms downstairs, two boys, one of them Chinese, were playing a video game. The gunman made them lie down, one on the bed, the other on the floor. Then he handcuffed and gagged them as he had the woman.

It was at this point that I heard a noise. It seemed to have come from Sam’s quarters. A crack of light showed under his door. I turned off the TV, extracted the video and stuffed it quickly inside my robe as the door opened, flooding the room with light.

“Phil?”

Sam stood in the open doorway, a dark silhouette.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I explained. “Thought I’d go raid the fridge.”

“The kitchen’s that way,” he said, pointing to the other side of the room.

“Right,” I said. “See you in the morning.”

He didn’t reply. I walked across the hall toward the kitchen, the videocassette jammed up against my ribs. Behind me, the door to Sam’s room closed. I altered course and headed back to my room.

I got back into bed and lay there, thinking over what I’d seen on the video. The idea that it was a crude attempt at drama no longer seemed credible. The only thing as lame as that was reality. Although I had no proof either way, I became increasingly convinced that I had been watching an actual break-in at an actual house. Judging by the label, it had taken place somewhere in the Seattle area. Russell had presumably been the gunman, while Rick had done the filming.

Then it occurred to me that this might be the way the group financed themselves. They didn’t go and work on the mainland, they broke into houses and stole whatever they could lay their hands on, then disappeared back to the island. But why bother making a video recording of the event? Unless this was Sam’s way of keeping his followers in line. If anyone challenged his authority, he could threaten to send the video to the police.

Awash with these disturbing speculations, I eventually fell asleep. Because of my broken night, I slept late the next morning. Breakfast was over by the time I emerged, and the home-schooling session was in progress at the dining table. There was a different teacher today, a hard-looking blond who seemed distinctly ill at ease in the role. The children looked sullen and bored, with none of the lively involvement they had displayed the day before. But when I went out to the kitchen, there was Andrea, washing dishes with one of the other women.

“Looks like I overslept,” I said lightly. “I guess the coffee’s all gone.”

Andrea immediately left the sink and went to the stove.

“I’ll make you some,” she said without looking at me. “Go to your room and I’ll bring it to you.”

For some reason, I felt embarrassed by her eager solicitude.

“That’s real nice of you, but don’t …”

She gave me a glance which made me falter. I had no idea what it meant, but I felt its intensity like a blow.

“Well, if you’re sure it’s no problem …”

I hovered there for a moment, but she paid no further attention to me, busying herself with the percolator and a can of coffee.

“I’ll be in my room, then,” I concluded awkwardly, and sidled out.