The Inside Dark Page 12

At full strength, the task force had consisted of Briggs; Dusty Owens; Dennis Hutchins, another trooper from right here at 10 Federal Street in Salem, the main office of the state police in Essex County; a detective or trooper from each of the four counties where the killer’s sixteen victims had been discovered; and a special agent of the FBI whom Briggs had invited to the party, looking for a psych profile and a little extra manpower. But with the suspect dead—because of two lucky citizens rather than through the efforts of the authorities—FBI Special Agent Eggers had disappeared without a trace, and the state police personnel from other jurisdictions had been assigned to other cases.

  “There’s still work to be done, LT,” Briggs said. “Loose ends to tie up. We still haven’t identified two of the victims we dug up the other day.”

  “Nobody’s shutting you down yet, Lamar. Just saying that Owens left hours ago and I just saw Hutchins walk out. He has a pretty wife and two kids to get home to. And Owens has . . . what?”

  “A fifteen-year-old cat his wife left behind when she walked out on him.”

  “Well,” McCuller said, “somebody has to feed the thing, right?”

  Briggs, with his eyes down on his notes, grunted noncommittally.

  “So what is it you’re working on here?” the lieutenant asked as he walked into the room and leaned against the table.

  “I talked with Jason Swike the other day.”

  “And?”

  “You happen to catch the interview he and Cobb gave on The Real Scoop?”

  “I recorded it but my wife deleted it before I could watch it. Anything interesting?”

  Referring to his notes a few times, Briggs went over his discussion with Swike in detail. Then he looked up and said, “Seems strange that he would forget which hand he held the hammer in, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe. But he was drugged at the time, right? And he’d had no food and barely any water for days. It’s possible he doesn’t remember things very well.”

  “That’s what he tells me.”

  “Did you talk to the other guy? Cobb?”

  “The morning after I talked to Swike. He said he couldn’t remember.”

  “Nothing unusual there. There was a lot going on. And they were both drugged and fighting for their lives.”

  Briggs nodded but said nothing.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m not sure what I’m thinking yet.”

  “I assume you’re not worried about Cobb, because Barton busted him up quite a bit, right? Hard to believe—”

  “Swike’s the one that bothers me.”

  “What are you saying? That he could have been in on it with Barton? Because there’s no doubt the guy hadn’t eaten for days. And he’d barely had a drop to drink. He was dehydrated as hell. The docs confirmed all that, right?”

  Briggs nodded slowly.

  McCuller continued. “And Cobb hasn’t said there were two bad guys working on him. After what Barton did to him, if Swike was in on it, why would Cobb protect him?” Briggs said nothing. “In fact, he’s been saying the guy saved his life. Calling him a hero.”

  “Gave him a hundred thousand bucks, too.”

  “What?”

  He told McCuller about Cobb giving Swike his half of the money that Leonard Sanderson offered them.

  “That’s sure as hell not something I’d do if Swike had been involved,” the lieutenant said.

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “Or maybe you’re looking for something that isn’t there.”

  Briggs shrugged. He almost mentioned Swike’s book deal but chose to let the matter drop for now. He needed to keep thinking it through. “You’re probably right.”

  McCuller walked to the door. “Look, if you’re still hanging on to this in the morning, talk with Owens about it, see if he can talk you down. If he can’t, come see me and I’ll give it another try. Now go on home,” he said over his shoulder as he left the room.

  Briggs scanned his notes for another few moments, then allowed his eyes to wander over the photographs on the whiteboards before letting them come to rest on the picture of Jason Swike.

  “What’s the real scoop on you?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jason sat at a table in the back of the Green Dragon Tavern, a historic pub in downtown Boston. It was one of his favorite places in the city. Lots of dark wood, little candle-shaped lamps on the walls, a display of authentic, antique weapons from the Revolutionary War hanging on the wall beside framed documents and artistic depictions of revolutionary activities and Colonial days. It had opened in 1657 and, during the time of the American Revolution, was a meeting place for the likes of such patriots as Samuel Adams and Paul Revere. Those were men who fought for something, who made a difference. And right in this place—which some scholars called the “headquarters of the revolution”—those great men had discussed their plans for resisting the tyrannical acts of the British Crown. Not that Jason was any American history scholar. He knew all of this because it was printed on the paper place mat in front of him. And though he couldn’t vouch for the authenticity of the tavern’s claims, who was he to doubt a place mat?

  A waitress approached his table. She looked to be in her midtwenties, a few years younger than Jason, and though she was pretty, she looked tired. Maybe it was toward the end of a long shift.

  “Something to drink?” she asked in a flat voice.

  He ordered two pints of Guinness, one for him and one for Ben, who had texted to say he’d be at the tavern in two minutes.

  Jason glanced around the room and imagined, as he did every single time he came here, Sam Adams and Paul Revere and a few other patriots huddled at a corner table, plotting their acts of courage and rebellion against the British Crown. His gaze fell on his waitress over at the bar. She was talking with the bartender, a bald guy with a thick neck and thick glasses. They were both looking back at him. A moment later she returned with the drinks and an expression on her face very different from the sleepy look she’d worn only moments ago.

  “Here you go,” she said with a little smile. Not flirtatious, just friendly.

  “Okay if I run a tab?”

  “Not tonight.”

  “Really?”

  He was reaching for his wallet when she asked, “Are you who I think you are?”

  He hesitated. “Probably.”

  “Thought so. Then tonight’s on Eddie and me,” she said, looking toward the bartender. Jason saw Eddie watching them. When their eyes met, the man nodded once before turning to a patron at the bar who was signaling for another round. “I can’t promise you’ll drink for free the next time you come in, but tonight, your money’s no good here.”

  “Well, thanks very much . . .”

  “Susan,” she said.

  “Thanks very much, Susan. I hope you’ll let me tip when I leave.”

  “You sure as hell better.”

  She laughed and walked away, and as she did, Jason saw Ben approaching the table.

  “Well, she sure seems to like you,” he said as he took the chair across from Jason. “Looks promising.”

  “She was only being friendly. The drinks are free tonight, by the way.”

  “Well, that certainly is friendly. Let’s order a keg to go.”

  Jason smiled.

  “Then again, you can afford the keg. What are you up to now? Eight hundred fifty thousand or so?”

  “You’re counting?”

  “Hell, yes. Two hundred thousand from that guy’s father, half a million to write the book, another one fifty for the movie option. And that’s not counting if the movie gets made or if they resurrect The Drifter’s Knife. You order your Ferrari yet?”

  “Not yet, but I priced a few customized vans for Sophie so she can start driving herself around and not rely on her mother. And a better wheelchair, too.”

  “Well, now I feel like a dick.”

  “And we’re going to get Max started on that medication I’ve been telling you
about. We’ll be able to afford it now. It could literally save his life, Ben.”

  “Okay, you’re just piling on now.”

  Jason smiled. “It’s all true, though.”

  “Happy to hear it. And you and Sophie . . .”

  “Are getting along okay. Nothing more. But I’m glad I’ll be able to do more for her anyway. And for Max.”

  “You know something, Jason? It turns out you’re a good man. Who knew?”

  Jason wasn’t so sure about that, but he was trying.

  “You never said what you thought of my interview,” he said. “How’d I do? Sophie said I was fine, but she might have just been saying that.”

  “I have no idea. I was watching a rerun of The Simpsons.”

  “You do love The Simpsons.”

  “Best show ever. But now that I think about it, I caught a little of the interview. You came off fine.”

  “I didn’t look too . . . awkward? Hesitant?”

  “I don’t know. You looked thoughtful, I guess. You took your time to respond now and then. Nothing wrong with that, though. Not given what you went through.”

  Jason nodded and took his first sip of Guinness, then wiped the foam from his lips. Ben did the same.

  “Your partner, though, Cobb? He looked a little uncomfortable at times.”

  “He’s not my partner,” Jason replied, remembering Cobb calling them a team for their escape. “We just happened to be two guys who . . .” He trailed off.

  “Whoa, sorry I said it that way. I only meant—”

  Jason cut him off. “Forget it. Sorry about that.” He took another sip and looked away. And froze. A man was standing outside the tavern’s window, looking in. Light from inside was insufficient to illuminate his features, leaving him in silhouette. But something about him . . .

  “Cobb?”

  Then the man was gone.

  “Cobb?” Ben said. “What about him?”

  “Hang on.”

  Jason hurried across the small pub. On the sidewalk outside, he looked up and down Marshall Street, but the man, whoever he was, was gone. Jason trotted to the corner but didn’t see anyone resembling the man at the window.

  Back at the table, Ben said, “What the hell was that?”

  “I thought I saw Ian Cobb out there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It probably wasn’t him.”

  “Looked like him.”

  “Well, if it was him, so what?”

  “He was looking in here.”

  “Again, so what?”

  “But he didn’t come inside.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t thirsty.” Ben squinted at him. “What’s going on, Jason?”

  “I don’t know. Probably nothing.”

  “Let’s have it,” Ben said as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

  For the next few minutes, Jason talked about his strange meeting with Cobb a little while ago, and about the whistling, and how Cobb kept insisting that he and Jason had so much in common.

  When he finished, Ben asked, “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The guy whistled. So what? Everyone whistles.”

  “I never whistle. But that’s not my point.”

  “I know, I know. His whistling sounded like Crackerjack’s.”

  “Exactly like Crackerjack’s.”

  “And he points out things you have in common. Is he right? Do you have things in common?”

  Jason thought about it. Sure, both of their lives had been dramatically affected by tragic automobile accidents. And they both had loved ones with Down syndrome. And, of course, they both had been abducted by the same serial killer.

  “I guess we do,” he said. “A few things.”

  “Maybe he comes off a little creepy, Jason, but he just sounds like a lonely guy to me. He saw a few things you two have in common and latched on to them. Hearing this, I kind of feel sorry for him.”

  “What if that was him at the window just now?”

  “Seems unlikely.”

  “But what if it was?”

  “I’d probably feel even more sorry for him.”

  “It wouldn’t seem strange to you? I just left him in a bar in Salem, and the next thing I know, he’s standing outside a bar in Boston watching me? And when I see him, he runs?”

  Instead of responding immediately, Ben took a sip of Guinness.

  “Well?”

  “If those things were true, it might seem a bit strange. If they were true. But Jason, are you positive it was him outside?”

  “Positive? No.”

  “Are you even close to positive?”

  Jason said nothing.

  “Scale of one to ten. Be honest.”

  Jason thought for a moment, then admitted, “Three, I guess.”

  He took the last sip of his Guinness.

  “Listen,” Ben said. “I’ve known you a long time. I know the kind of imagination you have. You’re cranking it up, thinking—what? That Ian Cobb might somehow really be Crackerjack? And why? Because he’s a bit odd, is weirdly focused on things he believes you two have in common, and he whistles a certain way.”

  It did sound crazy, put like that.

  “Think it through,” Ben said. “The stable was on that guy’s property, right? What was his name . . . Wallace Barton.”

  Jason nodded.

  “And when the two of them crashed into your stall, Barton was the one wearing the mask.”

  Jason remained silent.

  “And Cobb was the one with a pretty design painted on his face—butterflies, right?—just like Crackerjack’s other victims.”

  Jason noticed that Ben had been keeping track of his points on his fingers. He added a fourth finger and said, “And when they landed on top of you, Cobb was begging you to help him, and Barton was fighting you for the hammer, right?”

  It was right about there during the TV interview that Jason had started to fudge the facts and his memory became Swiss cheese, but he nodded anyway.

  “And I saved the best for last. Let’s not forget that Ian Cobb has a broken arm and several broken ribs. You think he did that to himself? Grabbed a hammer and smashed a bone in his own arm? Then broke his own ribs? Do you have any idea how hard that would be? What kind of person you’d have to be to do something like that? And according to you he was whistling while he did it? Sounds nuts, Jason.”

  “No one ever said Crackerjack was sane.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the one who sounds crazy now.”

  He could imagine how all of that sounded to Ben. What he couldn’t imagine was what it would take to shatter one’s own bones with a hammer. And not just once but several times.

  One . . . two . . . three strikes, you’re out!

  “It just doesn’t make sense, Jason. If Cobb was really Crackerjack, and if Barton discovered him killing people in his stable, he wouldn’t break his own bones, paint his own face, and have you kill Barton. He’d just kill the both of you. It’s what he liked to do anyway.”

  Jason didn’t have an answer for that. He hadn’t gotten that far in his thinking.

  “Listen, I don’t just watch The Simpsons, Jason. I also watch a lot of crime shows, and they all seem to say the same thing: that most serial killers typically don’t just stop killing. Some do, but most don’t. They need it like a drug. They may try to give it up, but they usually end up doing it again. So if Cobb was really Crackerjack, why end it all when he didn’t have to? It’s not like the cops were closing in on him or anything.”

  Jason didn’t respond. Susan showed up with a smile and two more beers, though neither of them had asked for another drink. He thanked her, and she was still smiling as she left.

  “I think she definitely likes you,” Ben said. “And you know what else I think? I think you went through a horrible experience not long ago, then spent the past several days reliving that experience to work on your book, then had an admittedly uncomfortable d
rink with Cobb tonight, and maybe . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Maybe you’re just creeping yourself out. Thinking too much about all of this. You need a break from it.”

  “I’ve got a deadline. Or I will as soon as we sign the contracts. I want to get a jump on things.”

  “Okay. I get that. But how about tonight you forget about all of that? Forget about Ian Cobb, and let’s enjoy the free drinks your flirty new friend is giving us. You can shift your overactive imagination back into hyperdrive tomorrow. Deal?”

  Jason nodded. So they sat and chatted about Ben’s job, the waitress, money, sports, and a few other mundane topics, all while Jason kept one eye on the window.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  It was nearly two in the morning. Jason had memorized every tiny crack and imperfection in the ceiling above his bed. Every time he closed his eyes to try to fall asleep, he saw that damn Ian Cobb–shaped silhouette looking in the window of the Green Dragon . . . only now, in Jason’s head, in his bedroom in the middle of the night, Cobb’s face was clearly visible behind the glass. He was staring at Jason. And he was whistling.

  Perhaps Ben was right. Maybe Jason was spending too much time forcing himself to relive his days in Wallace Barton’s stable. Sure, Cobb’s behavior at the Shark’s Tooth was a bit off-putting, but maybe he couldn’t help it. Maybe his inability to express himself at the bar was the result of a social awkwardness that was the very reason he had no one else to talk to when he needed someone. He certainly seemed lonely. And why else would he cling so desperately to perceived commonalities he shared with Jason? He actually started to feel sorry for Cobb.

  He was too wide awake to sleep, so he padded on bare feet into the living room, where he sank into the sofa in front of the TV. Late-night television often put him to sleep, and it wasn’t long before his eyelids grew heavy. Almost on autopilot, he kept changing channels. ESPN became an infomercial, which became Gilligan’s Island, which became a twenty-four-hour news station. He barely noticed the remote control slip from his fingers.

  Then something on the TV snagged his attention. The word Tewksbury in a news story. The video footage on the screen showed an afternoon scene. A group of people, some in police uniform, were gathered near the brightly colored structures of a playground. A voice over the image said, “Though the police haven’t released details, witnesses described a grisly scene. The body of a man, apparently murdered, hanging from the monkey bars in a local playground.”