Out There in the Darkness (4 page)

“He was a frigging burglar,” I said.

“But he's dead,” Neil said.

“And we killed him,” Mike said.

“I appreciate you saying ‘we',” I said.

“I know a good place,” Bob said.

I looked at him carefully, afraid of what he was going to say next.

“Forget it,” I said.

“A good place for what?” Neil said.

“Dumping the body,” Bob said.

“No way,” I said.

This time when I got up, nobody tried to stop me.
 
I walked over to the yellow wall telephone.

I wondered if the cozy kitchen would ever feel the same to me now that a dead body had been laid upon its floor.

I had to step over him to reach the phone.
 
The smell was even more sour now.

“You know how many bodies get dumped in the river that never wash up?” Bob said.

“No,” I said, “and you don't, either.”

“Lots,” he said.

“There's a scientific appraisal for you.
 
‘Lots.'”

“Lots and lots, probably,” Neil said, taking up Bob's argument.

Mike grinned.
 
“Lots and lots and
lots
.”

“Thank you, Professor,” I said.

I lifted the receiver and dialed 0.

“Operator.”

“The police department, please.”

“Is this an emergency?” asked the young woman.
 
Usually I would have spent more time wondering if the sweetness of her voice was matched by the sweetness of her face and body.
 
I'm still a face man.
 
I suppose it's my romantic side.
 
“Is this an emergency?” she repeated.

“No; no, it isn't.”

“I'll connect you,” she said.

“You think your kids'll be able to handle it?” Neil said.

“No mind games,” I said.

“No mind games at all,” he said.
 
“I'm asking you a very realistic question.
 
The police have some doubts about our story and then the press gets ahold of it and bam.
 
We're the lead story on all three channels.
 
‘Did four middle-class men murder the burglar they captured?'
 
The press even goes after the kids these days.
 
‘Do
you
think your daddy murdered that burglar, son?'”

“Good evening.
 
Police Department.”

I started to speak but I couldn't somehow.
 
My voice wouldn't work.
 
That's the only way I can explain it.

“The six o'clock news five nights running,” Neil said softly behind me.
 
“And the DA can't endorse any kind of vigilante activity so he nails us on involuntary manslaughter.”

“Hello?
 
This is the Police Department,” said the black female voice on the phone.

Neil was there then, reaching me as if by magic.

He took the receiver gently from my hand and hung it back up on the phone again.

“Let's go have another drink and see what Bob's got in mind, all right?”

He led me, as if I were a hospital patient, slowly and carefully back to the table where Bob, over more whiskey, slowly and gently laid out his plan.

T
he next morning, three of us phoned in sick.
 
Bob went to work because he had an important meeting.

Around noon—a sunny day when a softball game and a cold six-pack of beer sounded good—Neil and Mike came over.
 
They looked as bad as I felt, and no doubt looked myself.

We sat out on the patio eating the Hardee's lunch they'd bought.
 
I'd need to play softball to work off some of the calories I was eating.

Birdsong and soft breezes and the smell of fresh cut grass should have made our patio time enjoyable.
 
But I had to wonder if we'd ever enjoy anything again.
 
I just kept seeing the body momentarily arced above the roaring waters of the dam; and dropping into white churning turbulence.

“You think we did the right thing?” Neil said.

“Now's a hell of a time to ask that,” I said.

“Of course we did the right thing,” Mike said.
 
“What choice did we have?
 
It was either that or get our asses arrested.”

“So you don't have any regrets?” Neil said.

Mike sighed.
 
“I didn't say that.
 
I mean, I wish it hadn't happened in the first place.”

“Maybe Aaron was right all along,” Neil said.

“About what?”

“About going to the cops.”

“Goddamn,” Mike said, sitting up from his slouch.
 
We all wore button-down shirts without ties and with the sleeves rolled up.
 
Somehow there was something profane about wearing shorts and T-shirts on a workday.
 
We even wore pretty good slacks.
 
We were that kind of people.
 
“Goddamn.”

“Here he goes,” Neil said.

“I can't believe you two,” Mike said.
 
“We should be happy that everything went so well last night—and what are we doing?
 
Sitting around here pissing and moaning.”

“That doesn't mean it's over,” I said.

“Why the hell not?” Mike said.

“Because there's still one left.”

“One what?”

“One burglar.”

“So?”

“So you don't think he's going to get curious about what the hell happened to his partner?”

“What's he gonna do?” Mike said.
 
“Go to the cops?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?
 
You're crazy.
 
He goes to the cops, he'd be setting himself up for a robbery conviction.”

“Not if he tells them we murdered his pal.”

Neil said, “Aaron's got a point.
 
What if this guy goes to the cops?”

“He's not going to the cops,” Mike said.
 
“No way he's going to the cops at all.”

I
was dozing on the couch, a Cubs game on the TV set, when the phone rang around nine that evening.
 
I hadn't heard from Jan yet so I expected it would be her.
 
Whenever we're apart, we call each other at least once a day.

The phone machine picks up on the fourth ring so I had to scramble to beat it.

“Hello?”

Nothing.
 
But somebody was on the line.
 
Listening.

“Hello?”

I never play games with silent callers.
 
I just hang up.
 
I did so now.

Two innings later, having talked to Jan, having made myself a tuna fish sandwich on rye, found a package of potato chips I thought we'd finished off at the poker game, and gotten myself a new can of beer, I sat down to watch the last inning.
 
The Cubs had a chance of winning.
 
I said a silent prayer to the God of Baseball.

The phone rang.

I mouthed several curses around my mouthful of tuna sandwich and went to the phone.

“Hello?” I said, trying to swallow the last of the bite.

My silent friend again.

I slammed the phone.

The Cubs got two more singles, I started on the chips and I had polished off the beer and was thinking of getting another one when the phone rang again.

I had a suspicion of who was calling and then saying nothing—but I didn't really want to think about it.

Then I decided there was an easy way to handle this situation.
 
I'd just let the phone machine take it.
 
If my anonymous friend wanted to talk to a phone machine, good for him.

Four rings.
 
The phone machine took over, Jan's pleasant voice saying that we weren't home but would be happy to call you back if you'd just leave your number.

I waited to hear dead air then a click.

Instead a familiar female voice said: “Aaron, it's Louise.
 
Bob—” Louise was Bob's wife.
 
She was crying.
 
I ran from the couch to the phone machine in the hall.

“Hello, Louise.
 
It's Aaron.”

“Oh, Aaron.
 
It's terrible.”

“What happened, Louise?”

“Bob—”
 
More tears.
 
“He electrocuted himself tonight out in the garage.”
 
She said that a plug had accidentally fallen into a bowl of water, according to the fire captain on the scene, and Bob hadn't noticed this and put the plug into the outlet and—

Bob had a woodcraft workshop in his garage, a large and sophisticated one.
 
He knew what he was doing.

“He's dead, Aaron.
 
He's dead.”

“Oh, God, Louise.
 
I'm sorry.”

“He was so careful with electricity, too.
 
It's just so hard to believe—”

Yes, I thought.
 
Yes, it was hard to believe.
 
I thought of last night.
 
Of the burglars—one who'd died.
 
One who'd gotten away.

“Why don't I come over?”

“Oh, thank you, Aaron, but I need to be alone with the children.
 
But if you could call Neil and Mike—”

“Of course.”

“Thanks for being such good friends, you and Jan.”

“Don't be silly, Louise.
 
The pleasure's ours.”

“I'll talk to you tomorrow.
 
When I'm—you know.”

“Good night, Louise.”

M
ike and Neil were at my place within twenty minutes.
 
We sat in the kitchen again, where we were last night.

I said, “Either of you get any weird phone calls tonight?”

“You mean just silence?” Neil said.

“Right.”

“I did,” Mike said.
 
“Carrie was afraid it was that pervert who called all last winter.”

“I did, too,” Neil said.
 
“Three of them.”

“Then a little while ago, Bob dies out in his garage,” I said.
 
“Some coincidence.”

“Hey, Aaron,” Mike said.
 
“Is that why you got us over here?
 
Because you don't think it was an accident?”

“I'm sure it wasn't an accident,” I said.
 
“Bob knew what he was doing with his tools.
 
He didn't notice a plug that had fallen into a bowl of water?”

“He's coming after us,” Neil said.

“Oh, God,” Mike said.
 
“Not you, too.”

“He calls us, gets us on edge,” I said.
 
“And then he kills Bob.
 
Making it look like an accident.”

“These are pretty bright people,” Mike said sarcastically.

“You notice the burglar's eyes?” Neil said.

“I did,” I said.
 
“He looked very bright.”

“And spooky,” Neil said.
 
“Never saw eyes like that before.”

“I can shoot your theory right in the butt,” Mike said.

“How?” I said.

He leaned forward, sipped his beer.
 
I'd thought about putting out some munchies but somehow that seemed wrong given poor Bob's death and the phone calls.
 
The beers we had to have.
 
The munchies were too festive.

“Here's how.
 
There are two burglars, right?
 
One gets caught, the other runs.
 
And given the nature of burglars, keeps on running.
 
He wouldn't even know who was in the house last night, except for Aaron, and that's only because he's the owner and his name would be in the phone book.
 
But he wouldn't know anything about Bob or Neil or me.
 
No way he'd have been able to track down Bob.”