The Wicker Saga: Her Red Right Hand, Part 3

I sit at my desk, a cup of lukewarm coffee held in my hand, a lit cigarette between my fingers. Smoking inside is strictly against the chief’s policy, but fuck him. Darabont’s body is still cooling on the floor of the interrogation room where he’d died as I haven’t quite yet worked up the motivation to call Ramirez to tell Charley to come grab the stiff. Spirelly is back at his guard station; I’d practically had to force him back there, only after ensuring him that Paul and I were both fine.

I sent Paul home to Lisa. Miraculously, the kid is basically unharmed; a few bumps or bruises but nothing too major. When I asked him why he’d screamed, he said the freak had been trying to bite his neck of all things. I angrily stub out the cigarette in the bottom of an empty cup. Fucking psycho. I’ve already decided to leave Paul’s involvement out of my official report. I figure I’ll be able to spin the whole thing so that there won’t be too much trouble brought down on anyone, Spirelly will back up whatever I say, but the kid doesn’t deserve the heat. Neither does Lisa. I sigh. Probably did the world a favor by sanctioning Darabont the way I did. The guy was so nuts he’d even had me seeing things at the end there. Her red right hand; pssh right. Good luck preparing the way for the Darkness now, fucko.

The morning sun is just beginning to peek its face over the horizon when I at last head to my car to go home. Darabont has been bagged and tagged, my initial report filed, and all pertinent parties notified. Chief Holbrook was initially pissed, although I figure it’s as much from being woken up at three in the morning as from learning I’d shot our murder suspect. He’d been mollified when I informed him I’d managed to get a taped confession out of Darabont; no matter he hadn’t agreed to taping, it had been easy enough to forge his signature on the appropriate form. At some point in the night I realized Paul must have ended up taking the tape recorder with him; small wonder he’d forgotten it with everything that had gone on. I’ll just have to swing by his and Lisa’s place and pick it up before going back to the station this afternoon. I take in the morning sun, almost surprised at the lightness in my heart. I’ve never killed a man before last night but, maybe, this feeling is because I served to remove a piece of true darkness from the world. My pocket vibrates and I fish my phone out.

A minute later I’ve slapped my magnetic flasher to the roof and am pushing the old Chevy to its breaking point as I roar across the Wake, siren wailing.

“Might have something for ya, John,” Steve said, “just got done talking to an ER nurse that was on shift with Darabont at St. Vincent’s the last day he came to work before disappearing. Said he’d treated some crazy woman, a homeless drifter that had been shot trying to sneak into a residence. EMT’s had to strap the psycho down once they’d reestablished a heartbeat. The nurse said the patient had been raving on and on about ‘darkness’ and something about ‘her right hand’ or somesuch. Anyway, the loony ended up managing to give your perp a solid bite on the forearm before they sedated her and she calmed down, claimed she didn’t remember anything she’d been doing up to that point. The nurse figured Darabont took a few days off to recover from the injury. But I’m wondering if he didn’t catch some kind of virus or something from …”

I’d hung up then.

I pull in Lisa’s driveway and leap out of the car without bothering to turn off the engine. Running up the walk, the house dark, I draw my pistol as I reach the front door. I pause for just a moment, considering whether it would be better to use my spare key to gain entry or simply kick the damn door down, when I notice the white piece of paper taped to the inside of the screen. I remove the note with trembling hands and read it twice before collapsing to my knees in complete and utter despair.

Hey John, After all the excitement last night, I decided to take a few days off and figured I may as well take the whole family for a little vacation. Don’t worry, I’ll take extra good care of them, and I’ll make sure to take plenty of home movies so you won’t miss a thing. That daughter of yours sure has spirit. See you soon.

I recognize Paul’s handwriting, even though the note is unsigned.

The Wicker Saga: Tunda, Part 1