Joe Gribble - Darkest Edge

“Yeah, I’m okay,” Mark said over the phone. “It’s a town East of Dayton about twenty miles. The orphanage where I grew up is out here… Was out here.”

Ellen continued to listen as she dropped her towel on the floor. She dug through her suitcase and pulled out a matching set of satin bra and panties.

Mark drove down Home Avenue until he reached a church where the old children’s home used to be. He slowed, looked the place over, but didn’t stop. He continued on the phone: “I’m going to stop at the newspaper in Dayton and see if I can dig through their archives. Will you be okay on your own tonight?”

“I’ve been okay on my own so far,” she said.

Mark could hear the sarcasm in Ellen’s voice. A moment passed, then he heard her say: “Yeah. I’ve got something to do. Isn’t it a little late to go to the newspaper? Won’t they be closed?”

Mark checked his watch. “It’s only six. I guarantee there will be someone there. I’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant in the morning.”

The Dayton Herald was downtown, in an old building with concrete pillars out front. Mark climbed two dozen steps to get to the large, oak doors. Once through, he was met with the buzz of a newspaper newsroom. He glanced around. No receptionist, but a dozen or so reporters and editors hammered away at their keyboards in an open work space. Mark spotted a few offices near the back of the room, frosted glass windows for walls. There was a light on in one of the offices. Mark crossed the bullpen and headed for the office. It was always best to go straight to the top.

He reached the office and read the stencil on the glass:

Mark looked in the open door. All he could see was curly, red hair behind a row of monitors. He could hear her pounding away at a keyboard. He rapped on the door frame.

The hammering against the keyboard paused and, beyond the monitors, the redhead looked up briefly. Mark spotted a pair of liquid green eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. As quickly as they appeared, they were gone again and the typing continued in earnest.

“Yeah? Who are you and what do you want?” Alicia asked against the din of her near-frantic typing.

Mark stepped in without waiting for an invitation. “Mark Wilcox. Channel Seven. Chicago.”

“TV news?” Alicia asked.

Mark stepped closer until he could see her by looking over the monitors. She was glancing back and forth between her screens, adeptly spinning and clicking her trackball between stints at the keyboard.

“Yeah. Investigative,” Mark said.

“What do you want, Mr. Wilcox?” she asked, not letting his presence interrupt her.

“I’d like to dig through your archives,” Mark said.

Alicia looked up, briefly, then back at her screen as she continued to work. “Working on a local story?” she asked.

“Yeah. The Dayton State Hospital is closing. I’m working up a history of the place.”

Alicia glanced up again, but only momentarily. “Could be a good story. There have always been rumors…”

“I know. I grew up here,” Mark said.

“Hang on,” Alicia said.

Mark watched her as she glanced back and forth between her monitors, ran her finger along one of the screens. She seemed to be reading something. Her hands dropped back down to the keyboard again and made a flourish with a key stroke.

Alicia leaned back, staring at the monitor for a second, then exhaled slowly and stood, extending her hand. “Sorry. Had to finalize the news section for tomorrow’s paper.”

Mark shook her hand. “Deadlines.”

Alicia nodded. She released her hand and folded her arms in front of her. “TV story on the old asylum. I heard they were closing. What makes Chicago interested?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Mark said. “One of the senior producers wanted the story.”

“So here you are?”

“Here I am.”

Alicia paused, no longer the urgent editor with a deadline. She seemed to make up her mind and dropped her crossed arms and stepped past Mark to her open door. She yelled out: “Rodney, come here for a sec.” She turned back to Mark: “You’ll credit the paper?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Mark said.

A young man with a ponytail hurried into her office: “Yes, ma’am?”

“Rodney, this is Mark Wilcox from Chicago. He needs access to the archives. Take him down to the morgue and help him get started.”

Rodney looked at Mark. “Sure. Follow me.”

Mark started to follow Rodney out the door. He looked over at Alicia: “Thank you.”

Alicia nodded. “Take your time, I’m usually here ‘til about ten. I’ll send someone to check on you later.”

Outside the hotel, Scott pulled up in his rusty, old car as the sun was just beginning to set.

Ellen stepped out of the hotel. She wore a slinky black dress and heels. She opened the door to Scott’s car and slid into the passenger’s seat.

Scott looked her up and down as she got in. “Whoa! You look terrific.”

“Well, I thought I was going to be riding in a Lamborghini,” Ellen said.

Scott slipped the old Mitsubishi into gear. “Yeah, about that.” Scott pulled out of the drive as Ellen pulled her seat belt over her. “It’s still at the detailer’s.”

Scott looked over at Ellen, who greeted his lame joke with a smile.

Scott and Ellen sat at a table, finishing their meals. Their wine glasses were nearly empty.

“…maybe medical school,” Scott said. “The hospital was going to fund it.”

Ellen reached across the table and touched Scott’s hand. She turned his hand over and looked at his palm. “Great hands. I think you’d make a good doctor. What are you going to do?”

Scott shrugged. “Not sure. Maybe go dancing?”

“I mean with your life?” Ellen said.

Scott grinned at Ellen as he held her hand. “I’ll figure out something. How about dancing?”

“Sure,” Ellen said.

Scott dropped three twenties into the tray holding the bill and stood.

Ellen stood with him, taking her napkin from her lap and placing it on the table. She took Mark’s hand as they left the restaurant.

The Oregon District was where all the college students hung out. This was a weeknight, though, and only one of the bars had live music. Scott led Ellen onto the dance floor. He pulled her to him as the club band beat out the easy melody of a slow dance.

Ellen leaned in close, putting her hands on his shoulders. She squeezed. “Feels like someone’s been working out.”

“It’s part of the job,” Scott said. “Gotta’ stay in shape to treat our patients.”

“I thought physical therapy was all done with machines now,” Ellen said.

“We don’t have access to a lot of equipment at the hospital. Most of my work is done old school. Real hands on.”

Ellen looked into his eyes. “I like the sound of that.”

Scott spun her slowly around.

Ellen put her head on his shoulder. “I keep thinking about that old building, the one with the bars on the windows. Any idea what’s in there?”

Scott pushed her a little bit away from him. He looked at her coldly. “Why bring that up? It’s probably just a bunch of old medical stuff.”

“Don’t take offense. I’m just curious — the reporter in me. It’s just that none of the other buildings had bars on them.”

Scott didn’t answer. In fact, he quit moving completely, even though the music was still playing.

Ellen moved in closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Know what else I’m curious about?” she asked.