Jason Pinter - The Darkness

I don’t know, that he was your boyfriend or something.”

“Are you stupid,” Abigail said, wiping at her nose, “or just ignorant?”

Pam stared daggers at her, then softened. “I never thought it would hurt you.”

“You didn’t think about her,” Paulina said. “Only you and that money. So don’t give us the ‘I never thought it would hurt you’ bull. You just pocketed the dough and crossed your fingers.”

“Pam?” Abigail said. Her face was a wreck, tears flowing down in rivulets, eyes red and devastated. Paulina closed her eyes for a moment, and hated herself for what she’d done.

“What, Abby?”

“Pam, did you…did you give him that picture?”

“Abby, please, I-”

Abigail screamed, “Did you give him that picture or not?”

Pam looked at her girlfriend, nodded once, and that was all she had to do.

“I want you to leave,” Abigail said, looking at Pam.

“Abby, I-”

“Right now. Or I call the cops.”

Pam began to sob, too, but surprisingly Abigail’s tears had stopped running.

“I love you,” Pam said.

“No, you don’t,” came Abigail’s reply. “Just leave.”

Pam stood up. Before leaving, she stared down Paulina, who returned the gaze.

“Don’t you even think about staring me down, you little bitch. You do this to my family and you want to hate me? Get the hell away from here and don’t ever speak to

Abigail again.”

Pam looked like she’d been slapped. Before she left, she took out her cell phone and turned back to Paulina.

“What’s your phone number?” she said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need your cell phone number.”

“I’m not giving you any…”

“I took a picture of him. With my phone camera. When he was walking away, I took a picture of him. I don’t know why I did it, maybe I wanted to remember what he looked like. I just wanted to send it to you. Maybe it’ll help you find him.”

Paulina’s anger multiplied, and every part of her wanted to curse this girl out and tell her to leave. But that photo could come in handy. So she gave Pamela the number.

The girl plugged it in to her cell phone, and a moment later Paulina’s phone chirped. She opened the message, and found a grainy photo on the screen.

It was him. No doubt about it. Paulina shivered, remembering the man’s face as he tore the picture of Abby to shreds, threatening to end her daughter’s life as easily as he defaced her image.

The picture was a profile of the man, from his left side.

She recognized the wavy blond hair, the eyes. She had to give Pam a little credit for being smart enough to take it, but it was far too little and way too late.

“Now go,” Abigail said. So Pam turned and left.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” Paulina said. “I know this must have been hard for you, but I’m going to get this guy.”

“I want you to leave, too.”

Paulina stood there for a moment, stunned.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me, Mom. I want you to leave, too. And I don’t want to speak to you again. Not for a long time.”

“Abby, baby, I came here to help you. You needed to know the truth.”

“And now I do. So you can leave.”

Abigail went to the small fridge/microwave combination and pulled a beer out. She twisted the cap, grimacing as the top dug into her palm.

“This was for your own good. I’m just trying to help.

Abby, please, let me stay.”

“You did what you came here to do. I bet when all this is over you’ll have a hell of a story, and I can tell all my friends what a great reporter my mom is. But I don’t

want to see you right now. So please, please leave. Don’t make me ask again. I don’t want to cry anymore.”

Paulina felt her face grow hot, her eyes beginning to water as she stared at her daughter, hating every word she’d said but deep down, in some way, understanding it, too. She knew the night would come to this, that these revelations would destroy her daughter’s relationship. It had to be done, Paulina knew, and she’d have to deal with being the messenger.

She would take the misplaced anger, and she would let her daughter cool down over time even though it would kill her every second she thought about what might have happened.

And that, Paulina thought, walking out the door, dabbing at her eyes with a tailored sleeve, was what she supposed being a mother was all about.

“Major Chester A. Malloy,” Jack said. He was holding in his hand a printout of all the information we could find regarding Malloy. And it didn’t make us feel any better.

Jack’s eyes were wide as he read, scanning the print.

I wondered if he was as nervous as I was.

“According to his file,” Jack said, “Chester A. Malloy was a member of the Special Operations Task Force assembled in 1989 to overthrow Manuel Noriega’s control of Panama. Along with ten other members of his unit, Operational Detachment Bravo, Major Malloy encountered a brigade of the Panama Defense Force, where several members of their squad were killed. The rest of the squad was returned to the U.S. after Noriega’s capture, and that’s where the trail ends.”

“So what the hell is a goddamn Special Forces major doing kidnapping New York journalists?” I said.

“Look at this,” Jack said. We huddled over his computer, where nearly a dozen Internet searches were pulled up. Jack pointed to one, a photograph of eleven young men and women, identified in a military photo as the

Bravo unit. I read the names.

Franklin K. Loughlin.

Andros I. Browning.

Roy Winnick.

Eve S. Ramos.

Chester A. Malloy.

Rex M. Malloy.

Wendy C. DiBonaventura.

Harrison L. Daughterty.

Shonda P. Williamson.

Emmett R. Douglas.

Bill E. Hollinsworth.

Chester A. Malloy, along with the rest of his team, was wearing his Special Forces uniform. Green sport jacket over white shirt. Black tie. Nameplate on the right of his chest.

All the uniforms were decorated with various medals and pins, and they all wore their Green Beret caps raised to the left, the signature of their division of the Special Forces.

Standing to the left of Chester Malloy was a man named

Rex Malloy. According to the documents, Rex Malloy was Chester’s younger brother by three years. They were both members of Special Forces, both Green Berets.

And both had looks on their faces as serious and deadly as a man who threatens to kill a teenage girl.

I pointed at Chester Malloy.

“Nice and blond,” I said. “That’s our man.”

“Hey, Mr. Cottontail,” Jack said, smiling.

Just then I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I pulled it out, saw I had a new message. Not a voice mail, but a text message. It was from Paulina, and it contained an attachment.

I opened the note. It said: Taken one month ago by

Pam Ruffalo. This is our guy.

“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Jack said.

“Wow. I haven’t heard anyone say that since the sixties.”

“Oldie but a goodie.”

“That one either. Hold on, I’ll enlarge it.”

I plugged the phone into my computer and waited for the image to download. When it finished, I opened it up and enlarged the shot.

It was a grainy image, taken with some sort of low-res camera or cell phone. The man could be seen from his left side. Only the left side of his body and face were visible. What was visible, though, was that shock of wavy blond hair.

“Holy crap,” Jack said. “Look at this.”

He pointed to the photo of Chester Malloy in the army photograph.

“That’s not the same guy as in this photo,” Jack said.

“Look at his ear.”