Mike Omer - In the Darkness

“I’m glad you’re finally handling this.” Tatum fixed himself a cup of tea. He had been nagging Marvin to get his health insurance in order for weeks.

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like it’s going anywhere!”

Tatum nodded. His grandfather was old school. He wanted to do everything face to face and refused to fill out online forms. Any phone conversation that took more than five minutes made him cranky. Tatum could sympathize. Things changed too quickly for Marvin these days. He poured the hot water, refilled his grandfather’s cup as well, and sat in front of him.

“Want me to handle it for you?” he asked. “I know how these people think.”

Marvin hesitated. “Yeah?” he finally said, grudgingly. “You’d do that?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“I’m trying to get insurance for my skydiving course.”

Tatum coughed and spluttered as Marvin stared at him, folding his arms. Tea is most unpleasant when it runs up the nose, especially when it’s still hot.

“Skydiving course?” Tatum finally said, amid sneezing.

“I have a skydiving course in three days, already paid for and everything. But now it turns out they’re not happy with my age. Their insurance doesn’t cover it, so they said I had to get external insurance if I want to participate. Can you believe their nerve?”

“I can, actually.” Tatum wiped his mouth with a kitchen towel. “You can’t do a skydiving course.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because you’re eighty-seven years old.”

“So what? All I have to do is fall from a plane. Gravity works the same for old people, Tatum.”

“Who cares about gravity? You’ll have a heart attack five seconds after you jump from the plane.”

“My heart is as strong as an ox’s. Don’t be absurd.”

“You already had one heart attack!”

“More than ten years ago, Tatum. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I don’t have a lot of time left. Thirty or forty years max. I want to jump off a plane before I die. Is that too much to ask?”

“Can’t you just play bridge or go fishing like a normal grandfather?”

“Look, you said you’d help me. Are you going to make the call or not?”

“Absolutely not.”

Marvin got up angrily and stomped away. Tatum sighed and gazed upward. He wondered if his grandmother was up there in the sky watching them and laughing her ass off.

He stood up, taking his tea with him, and followed his grandfather to the living room. Freckle, the orange cat of death, sat there, his tail swishing as he glared at the fishbowl. The one fish inside the glass bowl swam back and forth calmly, circling the beer bottle that served as his sole fish tank decor. The fish’s name was Timothy, and the cat and he were engaged in a constant mind battle.

Tatum wasn’t sure how it had happened, but a few weeks ago, in the middle of the night, he had been woken up by a large crash. Bolting to the living room, gun in hand, he’d found Freckle dazed, completely drenched, and a potted plant upturned. Timothy had been swimming placidly in his fishbowl, which was half-empty. Since then Freckle often prowled around the fishbowl, eyeing it with hate, while the fish . . . did what fish usually do.

Marvin sat on the couch, frowning in anger. Tatum knew if he didn’t fix it now, his grandfather would find an even more dangerous way to pass the time than skydiving. He was about to fly to Texas, and he didn’t want to return to a funeral. He needed to find a way to keep the man busy.

“Listen.” He plopped on the couch next to his granddad. His tea swished dangerously in the cup but miraculously stayed mostly inside. “I’m flying to Texas tonight. I need a favor.”

“Oh, you need a favor now? Well, I’m not in a generous mood, Tatum.”

“You know Zoe Bentley? The woman I work with?”

Marvin glanced at him, his interest clearly piqued. “Yeah.”

“They still didn’t catch the guy who attacked her. You know, the serial killer—”

“Rod Glover. I know, Tatum. I’m not senile.”

“He’s threatening her sister. Maybe stalking her. And Zoe is worried about leaving her sister alone. Do you think you could . . . drop by, check up on her?”

“Hmm. Why don’t the police do anything?”

“Well, Glover has been gone for over a month, but Zoe thinks he might still be around. Just drop by occasionally. It would make her and her sister feel a lot safer.”

“Sure. I have a gun.”

Tatum blanched. “Uh . . . right. No need for that. You can leave your gun at home.”

“And do what, Tatum? Hit the serial killer on his head with my walking stick if he shows up?”

“You don’t have a walking stick.”

“Damn right I don’t! You know what I do have, Tatum? A gun. You can tell Zoe I’ll take care of her sister. Unlike you , I’m glad to help when I’m needed.”

Zoe lay on her bed, watching the burial video again on her laptop. She ignored the bottom half of the feed, where Nicole Medina thumped the lid, screaming for help. After Andrea had entered the room earlier, asking about the disturbing noise, Zoe had muted the sound.

She stared at the man with rapt attention, fascinated with the casual movements—unhurried, calm. Or so he appeared. Watching closely, she could see that as he filled the grave, his movements accelerated, acquiring a fast, excited pace. That clumsy walk of a man struggling with an uncomfortable erection. He was sexually stimulated.

Which further convinced her this wasn’t a prank. This man was enacting a fantasy. What excited him more? The fact that he filmed it for everyone to see? The screams and thumps from below? The act of covering the grave?

Too early to tell.

Andrea knocked on the door. “Zoe? Aren’t you hungry?”

She was starving. Pausing the video, she frowned at the screen for another moment. The man on top was paused while smoothing the sand above the grave. Below, Nicole’s face was captured in the midst of a terrified scream, her mouth wide.

She shut the laptop, got off the bed, and opened the door. The smell of deep-fried food made her stomach rumble ravenously. Andrea was just about to knock again. She was pale, her eyes lacking their usual spark, and a wave of sadness washed over Zoe. She hadn’t seen her sister like that for a long while. Andrea was a wildflower, a blaze of color, cheerful and full of life. But when faced with perpetual fear, she wilted, her energy drained.

“What are we eating?” Zoe asked, fake cheer in her voice.

“I made schnitzel and mashed potatoes.”

“Schnitzel? Sounds European.”

Her sister turned and shuffled to the kitchen. “I think it’s Austrian.”

Zoe followed Andrea to the kitchen, where two steaming plates sat on the red-and-white-plaid tablecloth. A large piece of what Zoe assumed was chicken lay on each plate, covered in brown, crispy bread crumbs. Next to it was a dollop of buttery mashed potatoes topped with a decorative green leaf. A slice of lemon sat on the edge of each plate. It looked and smelled delicious.

Andrea pulled two beers from the fridge as Zoe sat down, her mouth salivating.

“Put some lemon on it,” Andrea said.

She did, squeezing it above the schnitzel. She cut a piece and put it in her mouth. The bread crumb layer spoke of pepper, and flour, and comfort. The meat, definitely chicken, was thin and well done, and Zoe’s teeth sank in it easily. The lemon mingled well with it all, and Zoe breathed through her nose as she chewed slowly.

“Good, right?” Andrea smiled, and for a moment Zoe could glimpse the enthusiastic, happy sister she usually was.

“It’s amazing,” Zoe said and swallowed.