Journey Into Darkness Page 6

  I interrupted him. “The Shafer girl? What was her first name?”

  “Sondra or Sonya, something like that.”

  “I think I might know her. Does she work at a club in Hallows Cove now? A club called Lyon’s Den?”

  The man drained the last of his drink. “I don’t know. Anyway, I was crying after I talked to the cops. It really wasn’t my fault. The kid, Steve Morrow, just lurched right in front of me and I had no time to stop. I told his family what happened. They’re good people. They believed me, that it wasn’t my fault. It’s been a lot of years, though, and I still have nightmares. I still wonder if I could have done something different, could have avoided hitting him. It ruined his life and it ruined mine.”

  I guess when you sit down in a little tavern like The Twin Flames, you have to be prepared to endure a sob story or two. Bars are full of the lonely, the sad, the forgotten. A family of losers, with one common bond: the bottle. I could have excused myself at that point, spared myself more of his agonizing monologue. Or, I could have opened up with my own sob story about my sister Jenny, for a nice barroom round of “who’s more pathetic.” I dismissed both of those options, thinking instead that I might be able to help this guy a little.

  “The boy you hit, he’s still alive?” I asked.

  “If you can call it that. He’s paralyzed from the neck down. Can’t talk. Can’t do shit. We both became cripples that day. I was engaged to be married, but all that fell apart. I managed to do twenty in the Navy and I send the Morrows a little money every month. Most of the rest of it goes here.” He rattled the ice in his drink, motioned for a refill.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Brian Cooper. Everybody around here calls me Chief, from my Navy days.”

  “I’m Kim Journey. I’m a flight nurse, Chief. I know what happened was horrible, but it sounds like it wasn’t your fault. I’ve seen a lot of accidents and sometimes it just isn’t anyone’s fault. Bad things happen to good people. A cliché, but true. Have you seen Steve Morrow recently?”

  “I never went to see him. I don’t think I could bare the sight of it.”

  “Go see him. Tell him how sorry you are and that it wasn’t your fault. You might see forgiveness in his eyes, and then start forgiving yourself.”

  “Maybe I’ll do that.”

  “I think it would be a good start. Give me your phone number, and I’ll give it to Sonya Shafer. I’m staying down in Hallows Cove, not far from the club where she works. Maybe the two of you could have a mini support group. I’m sure she still thinks about the accident too.”

  Brian Cooper, the Chief, gave me his number and I gave him mine. I told him to call me if he ever needed someone to talk to. His level of depression scared me. I’ve flown to too many suicide scenes.

  ***

  I drove back down to Hallows Cove, went up to my room at The Parkside, thought about the things I’d learned in the past twenty-four hours. Darla Bose was missing, that was a certainty. But did the finger I saw in the can of GIANT-PUP belong to her? The shade of purple paint on her plaque at Lyon’s Den matched the polished finger, but that could have been a coincidence. I needed proof. I placed the zip-locked hair sample from Darla’s brush into my goody bag, in the same compartment with the purple flecks on the Post-It. A DNA lab could compare the two and prove, beyond doubt, Darla had been murdered at Kessler’s meats and had ended up as dog food.

  I turned on my laptop, started researching DNA labs in the area, and then remembered it was Sunday. All the labs would be closed. I exited the search engine, clicked on my email.

  A letter from Marcus Marshall, the microbiology lab manager at Kessler’s Meats, explained that the position I had inquired about had, unfortunately, already been filled. Marshall said he would keep my address on file and notify me of any future openings. “An FBI fingerprint screening is a prerequisite for employment at Kessler’s. This screening takes approximately ten weeks and must be paid for by the applicant. If you’re interested in future openings at the plant, it would behoove you to go ahead and take care of the fingerprint screening. To do so will expedite any future interview process.”

  Screw that. I didn’t really want a job at Kessler’s. I just wanted to get an interview, tour the plant, maybe pick a brain or two.

  My only other email was from Blake Wales. He’d sent me the names, addresses and phone numbers from the license plates I’d given him. The pick-up truck belonged to a man named Jake Gordon, and the Cadillac to William Driscoll. Both men lived in Hallows cove.

  I called Jake Gordon first, got an answering machine and hung up. I punched in William Driscoll’s number. Four rings later, a woman answered.

  “Mrs. Driscoll?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number. There’s no Mrs. Driscoll here.”

  “Is this William Driscoll’s residence?”

  “He’s not home. May I ask who’s calling?”

  I had my story concocted and ready. “My name is Kim Journey. I’m a flight nurse, and I’m working on my first novel. Part of my story is set at a meat processing plant, and I’m interviewing some of the employees at Kessler’s to get a feel for what it’s really like.”

  “If you’d like to try back later--”

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “Or--.” She hesitated. “Billy’s probably over at Kelly’s Pool Hall. If I were a gambling woman, that would be my bet.”

  I thanked her and hung up. I took a quick shower, headed out to Kelly’s.

  10

  Sure enough, the black Cadillac I’d seen at Kessler’s Meats was parked outside Kelly’s Pool Hall.

  Kelly, the typical cardboard cutout Irish bar owner any stranger walking into a place named Kelly’s would expect to see, was not on duty. I’ve worked with many doctors and nurses from India, so I recognized the bartender’s accent.

  “My name is Anil,” he said. “May I get you something to drink?”

  They didn’t have Dos Equis, so I settled for a Bud. Anil’s soothing voice, the TV behind the bar tuned to a baseball game, the clicking of billiard balls in the adjacent room, the low hum of tavern patrons talking sports and politics and the dramas of their own lives, combined to provide a welcoming and relaxed atmosphere. I had no idea what William Driscoll looked like, so I listened and hoped someone would eventually say “William” or “Bill” or “Billy” or Will” or “Willy” or “Driscoll,” so I could spot and approach him.

  A young man, probably Anil’s son, flipped hamburger patties on a grill behind the bar. A steamy broadcast of sizzling meat and onions saturated the air, tempting me to abandon my vegetarian diet.

  “Phillip,” Anil said. “Cheese two of those burgers.”

  Phillip obeyed, somehow understanding cheese as a verb.

  I took my beer and walked to the far corner of the room to check out the jukebox. I dialed through some pages of song selections and found maybe two that I wouldn’t have minded hearing. I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned and couldn’t believe my eyes. The gray-suited man I’d danced with at Lyon’s Den last night stood there beside me. He had on the same suit.

  “Hey beautiful. Can I buy you that drink now?”

  He’d bathed in more of that lovely cheap cologne of his. Before I could say no, he motioned to Anil for another Budweiser. Gray-suit was drinking Scotch rocks. He probably thought fate had brought us back together. He was drunk.

  “What’s your name, pretty lady?”

  “Martha.” I didn’t want to talk to this bozo.

  “Sam Milton,” he said. He pulled my hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Haven’t seen you around here before. You new in town?”

  I had an aching desire to scrub my hand. With bleach. “I’m thinking about moving to the area. I’m scouting places for employment. Know anything about Kessler’s Meats?”

  “Kessler’s is one of my regular stops,” he said. “The plant down here and the one in Jacksonville.”

  “Regular stops? What do
you do?”

  “One word. Plastics.” He laughed and slapped me on the back. “You know, from the movie The Graduate.”

  I volleyed him a counterfeit chuckle.

  “I’m a salesman,” he said. “I sell stretch wrap.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s like heavy-duty Saran wrap. It’s used to stabilize loads on pallets. Loads of boxes or jugs or whatever.”

  “You make a living selling that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe the living I make selling that.”

  He followed me to the bar, took the seat next to mine.

  “What do you think about Kessler’s?” I asked.

  “Depends on what kind of job you’re looking for.”

  “Microbiology,” I said. “They have an opening in the testing lab.”

  “Hate to tell you this, darlin’, but they’ve already hired someone for that job. I filled an order for Marcus Marshall last Friday, and he introduced me to the new guy.”

  Tell me something I don’t already know, bozo, I felt like saying but didn’t. “Oh, well. Maybe something else will open up,” I said instead.

  “The lab would be a good job for you. I don’t think you’d want to work out in the plant, though. Pretty gruesome. So, you married?”

  “No, but you are.” I pointed to the tan line on his ring finger.

  “Recently divorced,” he said. He rattled the ice in his drink. “I have a place we could go.”

  “I’m flattered, but no thank you. I’m going to call it a night soon. In fact--“

  He put his hand on my thigh. Instinctively, I turned and slapped his face. The Scotch rocks tumbled to his lap. He stood and grabbed me by the throat.

  “Bitch, I am going to fuck you up.”

  I decided to give him about one second to let go of me. Should I crack a kneecap with my heel, displace his eyeballs with my thumbs, or give his testicles a one-way ticket to his throat? Before I did any of those things, a tall man came from behind and jabbed Sam Milton in the back with the butt of a cue stick. Sam fell to the floor. The tall man put a black cowboy boot on Sam Milton’s chest and inserted the cue stick’s tip into one of his nostrils. A thin line of dark red blood trickled away from Sam’s nose.

  “You’re not going to fuck anybody up, motherfucker,” the tall man said. “I think you better get your sorry ass out of here before I rearrange the bones in your goddamn face.”

  Sam Milton rose and brushed himself off. He received a boot in the ass as he walked toward the door, a gesture applauded by the other customers. Anil waved a caution flag with his finger, letting Superman know it was time to settle down.

  My hero stood at least six-three. He was lean and muscular, clean-shaved, with short sandy-blonde hair about the same shade as mine. When he walked back to me and smiled, I saw a small chip in one of his front teeth.

  “I guess I owe you one,” I said. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Sure. I’ll take a Bud.”

  “I just happen to have a spare.” I handed him the one Sam Milton had bought, still cold.

  “Appreciate it. Bill Driscoll.”

  Holy smokes. It was him. I debated over whether or not to tell him my real name.

  “Kim Journey,” I said.

  Early in my nursing career, I had the opportunity to meet a very famous movie actor, brought to the trauma unit with a fib-tib fracture. I’m not easily fazed by celebrity, but something about this movie star made my knees weak. I eventually worked up the nerve to ask for his autograph, which he penned on the back of a physician’s order sheet. Bill Driscoll projected the same unsettling aura.

  He wore blue jeans not yet faded by wash, a red woven belt with a military-type clasp, and a spotless white t-shirt. He borrowed a towel from Anil, wiped up the spilled Scotch and sat down next to me at the bar.

  “New in town?” he asked.

  He seemed like a nice guy, had come to my rescue, but I still didn’t want to open up too quickly with him. I gave him the story about doing research for a novel.

  “I work third shift at Kessler’s,” Bill said. “In 4-D and BASE.”

  “What’s your job there?”

  “I drive a little bulldozer thing called a Bobcat. I push raw material into a grinding pit, and from there it’s either processed into a gritty powder or frozen, depending on the material. It’s used as filler for pet food and livestock feed. The plant here in Hallows Cove is strictly rendering. We take what you’d consider garbage and turn it into useful product.”

  “Hard work?” I asked.

  “Not that hard. Hey, you want to shoot a game of pool with me? Play you for a beer.”

  “Hope you brought your A game, hotshot.”

  We played eight ball. I’m no slouch at pocket billiards. My father owns a table, and we used to play for hours. Bill was great, though, worked the table like a pro. He had the game won, but scratched on the eight. I wondered if he did it on purpose.

  “Guess I owe you a beer,” he said. “You want to go sit back up at the bar? Or, I’ll play you again. Double or nothing.”

  “Let’s see what’s on the jukebox,” I said.

  Most of the selections were country. Bill asked me to close my eyes while he fed in some coins and pushed buttons. “Desperado,” by The Eagles, came on, one of the two songs I’d thought I wouldn’t mind hearing.

  “May I have this dance?” Bill asked.

  “Hmm. Are your intentions honorable, mister?”

  “Most honorable. I assure you.”

  “All right, then,” I said.

  We danced slowly in circles. Bill held me close and I melted into him, unable to help myself. I felt safe in his powerful arms, and he smelled great. When the song ended, I stepped away from him and looked at the floor. My face was hot. We walked to the bar and he ordered a beer for me.

  The local news blared from the TV over the liquor bottles. After the sports, an update concerning a missing man from Green Cove Springs named Ron Kuhlman had Bill’s eyes glued to the set.

  “Did you know that guy?” I asked.

  “I did,” he said. “In fact, I was one of the last people to see him before he disappeared.”

  “What happened?”

  “I have to work every other Saturday, and Ron and I had started meeting here at Kelly’s for a few games of pool before I had to go in. We’d been meeting here every other Saturday for a couple of months. That night, Ron left about ten o’clock. I stayed here till ten-thirty, then went straight to work. The next day, Ron’s wife reported him missing. The cops are looking hard at Diane Kuhlman. I guess they think maybe she murdered him.”

  “Do you think she did it?”

  “Well, Ron was known to be something of a lady’s man. Diane caught him in an affair a few years ago. She filed for divorce, but Ron begged his way out of it. Maybe she caught him again and instead of divorce.... Well. They have a ton of money. They own a big fence company that does work all over Florida and Georgia. With Ron out of the picture, Diane gets all their assets. Plus, I guess, a hefty insurance settlement.”

  I took a long pull on my beer. “You say you were one of the last people to see him. Did the police question you?”

  “Yeah. But like I said, I went straight to work from here. My time card shows I clocked in on time. If they really want to investigate me, the guy I work with on nights will vouch that I was there on time and that I never left the plant. You want another beer?”

  “Better not,” I said. “I’m tired, and I have to drive.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Parkside.”

  “That’s not far. Hell, you could walk there from here. Want me to walk you back?”

  “Thanks anyway, Bill. I’ll take a rain check on that beer, though. I’d like to talk to you more about your work at Kessler’s.”

  “Right. For your novel. What are you doing tomorrow?”

  “No plans, I guess.”

  “How about a picnic lunch in Remington Park?”
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  “You mean, like a date? Sorry, but I’m seeing someone.” Two dates with Jim Higgins and I was “seeing someone.” It felt good to say, though. I’d been alone too long.

  “Not like a date then,” Bill said. “We can just hang out, as friends. No expectations. I’ll give you what you need for your novel.”

  “Sounds innocent enough,” I said.

  “I’ll pick you up, say, noonish? What room are you in?”

  “Two-thirty-two. I’ll be ready.”

  ***

  I made a slight detour on my way back to the motel and drove by Kessler’s Meats for another look. Apparently, the plant was shut down on Sundays. No sounds, no steam coming from the stacks. One office light was on, and one car was parked out front. A beige Lexus. The sign in front of the parking place read RESERVED LORI BARBERA QA MANAGER.