An Empty Hell Read online

  Herrick’s phone buzzed, and he jumped in his seat. He pulled his phone and saw Alex Robinson’s number pop up. The woman across from him rolled her eyes again and turned in her seat, showing Herrick her back. He took the call.

  “Where the hell are you?” Robinson was shouting.

  “On the Light Rail, heading home.”

  “You can’t fucking cut off a call like that, Matt. You were worried if I was alive and then you hung up. It’s not like you were in some forest covered in snow and away from any good cell phone reception. You were legitimately worried I was dead.”

  “You’re fine.”

  Shut up, booze, Herrick thought.

  “You don’t understand this guy. He gets in your head. He messes with you. I think he’s messing with me. I’m on fucking pins and needles here. Locked my door, loaded my gun. He could be coming for me.”

  “I’m on the Light Rail going home. If you’re that worried, call the cops.”

  “Yup, those guys love me. I’m sure they’ll help. Get your ass over here.”

  “It’s been a long night, Alex. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Robinson said, “You can get here.”

  A chill went down Herrick’s neck, but he wasn’t sure why. Like a primal instinct.

  “Not driving tonight.”

  “Are you drunk? My life is on the line. Donne could be coming for me at any minute. Or sending those two psychopaths.”

  Herrick couldn’t process what Robinson was trying to get past him, and figured he’d hit the bottle as well.

  “Alex, you’re fine. Put the bottle down, stay sharp, and I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  “You got me freaked, Matt.”

  “Sorry. It was a ploy to get me away from school. To scare me. Not you. I shouldn’t have called you.”

  “You’re my client. Yes, you should have. You also should be coming over here.”

  “Get some sleep.”

  “Fuck you too, Matt.”

  The phone call ended and Herrick stared out at the Empire State Building. It was lit orange for Thanksgiving.

  The conductor announced the next stop. Herrick wished it was the end of the line.

  ALEX ROBINSON got up, grabbed a Starbucks, and went to the office. He spent twenty minutes going through mail. Bills, bills, and bills. The money was not rolling in, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore said bills.

  It was time to talk to Leo Carver again.

  The room smelled like tea, Earl Grey. It was the kind his mother made when he was a kid, steeping it for five or even ten minutes to make sure it was strong enough. She’d talk on the phone to the neighbor down the street about the latest Lyndhurst gossip—usually something to do with the schools. Robinson could picture her hand going up and down as fast as her lips did.

  Carver, however, just let the paper cup sit on his desk, tea bag string hanging limply at its side. The crossword was already completed—in pen—next to the cup. Robinson wondered how Carver would handle a crossword puzzle app if they’d let him use a phone. He probably wouldn’t speak.

  But now Carver sat on the bed, again cross-legged, waiting. He was so far away. Why wouldn’t he sit closer? They needed to talk.

  “Jackson is coming back,” he said.

  Carver bit his lower lip.

  “Did you hear me?” Robinson asked.

  Carver shifted on the bed, his eyes glazed over.

  Robinson stood up and walked across the room, and leaned in close. He could smell aftershave.

  “Back away,” Carver said.

  “You’re not listening to me.”

  “I don’t even want you here.”

  Robinson’s insides went hollow. A dull warmth radiated from his ears and his cheeks.

  “You promised me money.” The words flew from him like angry bees from a hive.

  Carver blinked.

  “You told me you had a trust fund.”

  “This is not supposed to come back to me.”

  Robinson tapped his foot twice. He stepped back from Carver. Outside, the gentle hum of the hospital workers reverberated.

  “It won’t.”

  “Then why are you here? If you keep coming here, they might follow you.”

  Robinson hadn’t thought that through. He slumped his shoulders.

  “You idiot,” Carver said. “You didn’t think of that.”

  “No one followed me.”

  “You don’t know that. I’ve already had a visitor. Your friend Matt Herrick came to see me. I don’t know what your plan is, but it shouldn’t involve me.”

  Fire raged behind Robinson’s eyes. He couldn’t do anything right. Nothing was good enough for anyone.

  “I’m just trying to make things right.”

  Carver said, “It is what it is. Maybe there are some things you can’t make right. But stop trying to make things worse.”

  “My sister is dead. Bill Martin is dead. My parents hate me.”

  “Too bad. You’re an adult. Deal with it.”

  Robinson turned around and kicked over the chair he’d been sitting in.

  “I said be an adult.”

  “Haven’t I ever done anything right? Anything well?”

  Carver dug his teeth deeper into his lip. Robinson expected to see blood.

  Then he said, “It’s time to go. This does not come back to me, Alex. It doesn’t.”

  Robinson turned and stormed out of the room. He shuffled to his car, his eyes scanning the surroundings.

  Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Carver didn’t know what he was talking about.

  HERRICK COULDN’T shake the conversation with Alex Robinson from the night before. At first, Herrick had thought maybe Robinson had hit the bottle a little hard that night, but his tone of voice stuck out. It wasn’t slurred or drowsy, it was bright and sharp—like a trumpet during a Sousa march. Robinson was aware.

  Like he promised, Herrick was going to visit Robinson. Robinson just wasn’t going to know about it.

  After grabbing his car from the parking lot at the butt crack of dawn, he was outside Robinson’s office in Kearny just twenty minutes later. Early morning traffic in New Jersey is fine, as long as you’re not headed toward the city or a school. Herrick sat back and played with his phone while he waited. He wished he’d grabbed a coffee, but wasn’t sure his bladder would be able to handle it. He sipped water from a Poland Spring bottle instead.

  At nearly nine, Robinson pulled up, his bright blue Pontiac convertible standing out amongst the rest of the sedans and SUVs on the road. Robinson sipped from a Starbucks cup as he entered his office, making the caffeine craving in Herrick’s stomach beg for mercy. Herrick made a note of the time and went back to the Google app on his iPhone.

  Herrick had searched Jackson Donne for what felt like the umpteenth time, this time trying to find something more than news articles and old private investigator Craigslist ads. Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn. Something. The pickings were slim. Donne was a ghost.

  Except for one name that popped up in both Twitter and Facebook. It was two accounts that hadn’t been used in over a year. There were a couple of Donne mentions in both accounts, news articles she’d shared. Except she’d added hearts next to the name Jackson—almost like a middle-schooler with a crush. One of the Facebook comments on the link confirmed it, and said, “Girl, you’re head over heels.” She’d responded with a smiley face and “He’ll never see.” That comment had been liked a ton.

  The woman’s name was Kate Ellison—the woman Parsons had mentioned. Herrick scrolled some more and his stomach turned when the friend comments piled up. Most were filled with sad faces, RIPs, and “We’ll miss you”s. Herrick put his phone down and sipped more water.

  Twenty minutes later, Robinson left his office. As he approached the Pontiac, Herrick made another note of the time. He started his own car and gave Robinson a five count before following.

  It wasn’t long before they were on the parkway south. By th
e time they reached Route 78 west, Herrick knew where they had to be going. Herrick took a calculated risk, jammed down the gas pedal, sped by Robinson, and tried his best to get to Bethlehem Institution before Robinson. He did, finding a parking space in the corner, an eye on the entrance. Herrick waited, guessing he had a five-minute lead on Robinson. If he was right, that was.

  Robinson pulled in four minutes later. He hurried out of his car, brushing his slacks as his went, like he was wiping off his hands. He had a skip in his step. Herrick made another note of the time, and wondered if this was a regular thing.

  Dark clouds hung in the air, threatening to rain the last of the dead leaves off the trees. Herrick listened to talk radio, callers wondering whom the Yankees would sign next and if the Mets would sign anyone. He didn’t care about the callers or either team. It was background noise. The soft din of conversation helped him concentrate. Complete silence always made him edgy. The feeling started in Afghanistan, as he imagined the enemy approaching their tents as they slept, planning an ambush. Herrick even slept with the TV on now.

  He went back to the phone, thankful for his car charger. Now he was on to Kate Ellison’s pictures. There were two of her graduating from college—cap and gown, diploma in hand. Another of her at some bar in the city toasting someone he didn’t recognize. And then he found it, a selfie: her and Donne mugging for the camera, tongues out and eyes crossed. It didn’t fit the image the media had built of Donne, that’s for sure. This made him seem like a real person to Herrick, not some crazed Bringer of Death.

  Herrick watched the time. Robinson had been inside for nearly half an hour. The clouds opened, a steady stream of rain machine-gunning off the hood of his car. A few leaves stuck to his windshield, but didn’t obstruct his view. Herrick scrolled around some more, but didn’t find anything.

  He put his phone down and leaned back in the driver’s seat.

  Robinson came out nearly an hour later, stalking to his car as if he was actually trying to dodge raindrops. Herrick watched him drive out of the parking lot, but didn’t follow. Instead, he stretched, the wound in his side protesting as he did so. Once he was finished and the pain subsided, he turned off his car engine and got out. He let a few of the drops slam into his shoulders. After being in the sandbox for so long, the rain was always enjoyable.

  He went inside, and the receptionist saw him. She nodded his direction and said, “No visitors right now.”

  “I have police permission. You have it on file.”

  “He’s not to be disturbed right now.”

  Herrick opened and closed his fists.

  Before he could say anything else, the receptionist said, “Don’t make me call security.”

  He didn’t have time for an argument. He’d have to ask Alex Robinson what he and Carver talked about instead.

  THE SUN peeked through the window. Donne watched the sliver of light widen minute after minute. His hands were tied behind his back with a plastic strip cops use during riots and kids’ toy packagers use to annoy the piss out of parents. His eyelids felt like beanbags were tied to them, and the muscles at the corners of his shoulders had tightened somewhere around 3 a.m.

  He hadn’t slept, instead watching the darkness shift with the wind and waiting for Steve to come back and end things. He listened for creaks of wood or footsteps or the racking of a shotgun. Some clue the end was near. But it never came.

  Now the sun came up, but Donne didn’t feel any better. He’d been in these spots before, and he’d gotten out of them. He would again. But the question remained, why hadn’t Steve just attempted to kill him last night? Donne had never believed a “Bond”-type villain existed in the real world—one who’d come up with that elaborate plan. People were just shot, stabbed, or poisoned.

  This felt different, somehow.

  The creak of wood came, and Donne stiffened. He waited for the gun click or something showing impending death. He looked around the bare room for the umpteenth time, finding nothing to use as a weapon. He got to his knees and then to his feet, grunting as his muscles worked overtime. His breath came in and out in short bursts. He worked to try and control it.

  The doorknob turned.

  Donne braced himself, trying to decide on a strategy.

  Steve Mosley stepped through the door holding a shovel. He stopped and grinned at Donne, looking him over from feet to eye level.

  “You look exhausted.” Steve shook his head and tapped the shovel on the ground.

  He went to Donne and grabbed him by the elbow. After uttering a command to follow, he tugged. Donne stood his ground.

  Steve sighed and said, “We have a busy day ahead. Let’s not waste daylight.”

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  Nodding, Steve said, “Not right now. Come with me.”

  He gave Donne’s elbow another tug. Donne went. They walked through the cabin, empty room followed by empty room. His heart was pounding so hard, he could feel it in his temples.

  They went out into the sunlight, into the cold air. Steve kept pulling and Donne kept following, past the car through the brush into a grass clearing. Mario was on the ground, soft and gray. Steve threw the shovel on the ground and went to Donne’s back. At the click of the switchblade, Donne jolted upright, but suddenly his hands were free.

  Steve said, “You’ve got to dig.”

  “I’m not digging my own grave.”

  Steve shook his head. “You’re digging for Mario. We’re getting rid of him, and then we’re moving on.”

  “Right. You can do it yourself.” Donne plopped down on the ground, the grass cold on his rear end.

  Steve pulled the switchblade out of his pocket again and released the blade. He threw it at Donne. Donne rolled out of the way and said, “Jesus Christ.” It embedded into the dirt an inch to his left. The only reason the knife missed was because he guessed right, like a soccer goalie on a penalty kick.

  He wasn’t quick enough anymore. Chopping wood, fixing sinks, carrying toilets, they’d rebuilt his muscles, but not his reflexes.

  “Here’s the thing, Jackson. I have specific orders. My client wants you to hurt, and he wants to see it happen. I’m not supposed to kill you yet.”

  Donne raised his hands and waved toward himself. Come on.

  “Don’t you want to know why this is happening?”

  A spider crawled around Donne’s intestines. “What do you mean?”

  “There is crazy stuff going on. You’re a wanted man. There are two people after you. Think I’m crazy? The other guy’s a real lunatic. A former Afghanistan soldier. He killed a kid he thought was a suicide bomber. Doesn’t use a gun anymore, but my guess is he can still rip your head off.”

  “Uh-huh.” Donne was full of spectacular comebacks.

  “I can kill you now. I will still get paid, though probably not as much. My job will be done and I can go on to the next one. But if you dig, and then I take you home, you’ll find out who’s behind this and you’ll find out why before you expire. You know that’s what you want. So come on, let’s dig, bury Mario, and head back to Jersey. This clean air is hurting my lungs.”

  Steve had waded closer to Donne, just like Donne had hoped. He counted to three and made a lunge for the knife. But his speed was gone; the reflexes a hair slow—like an aging baseball player unable to catch up to a fastball. Steve caught him in the ribs with a swift kick.

  Donne landed on his back and gasped for air. His ribs felt like ground meat.

  “Last chance,” Steve said. He knelt down next to Donne. “The answers are six hours’ travel time from here. You’ll get them.”

  The spider inside him, crawling around every time Steve mentioned answers, was a million times worse than the kick. Donne couldn’t help it. He thought he’d found peace here in Vermont. But now, he only felt like he was missing something.

  He sat up and took the shovel. He got to his feet, gave Steve a look, and then drove the head of the shovel into the dirt. The waft of Mario’s body was
getting stronger in the cold air.

  “See?” Steve said. “I told you I could make people do whatever I wanted.”

  THE DIGGING came easy at first.

  The ground had begun to harden because of the cold temperatures the past week, but once Donne got through the top layer of soil, he was able to find a rhythm, much like the rhythm he needed to split wood.

  Steve sat next to the body, taking occasional glances toward it, as Donne dug. He’d put away the switchblade, but held the gun he’d used to shoot Mario loosely in his hand. It wasn’t aimed at anyone, but Donne knew Steve could easily snap it back into position, at the ready.

  Donne stayed focused on the work. He jammed the blade into ground with a crunch, scoop, and toss. Though the air was cold, sweat formed on the back of his neck and dripped under the collar of his shirt and down his back. His triceps tightened with each movement. He tried to keep his breath steady, but the cold didn’t help his lungs and inhalation became ragged. He kept digging.

  Steve didn’t talk much, which surprised Donne. Donne figured he’d know the whole plan by now, and answers would be coming left, right, and center. But Steve sat silent, watching. Except for the occasional tsk tsk when Donne would take more than a seven-second break, the only sounds were the wind and the crackling of tree leaves against it.

  Donne asked how much more he should dig, but Steve didn’t speak again. He just rolled his hand at his wrist. Keep going.

  More digging. The sun crested the top of the trees and brought some warmth down on them. Donne’s sweat intensified, soaking through his shirt. Rough, burning blisters started to form between his thumbs and index fingers. Blade in, lift, toss. He was shin deep now. At this rate, it was going to take all day.

  Steve reached over and tapped Mario’s body, rolling it on to its back with a dull thud. The body was stiff, rigor mortis setting in. Donne’s stomach turned, and he choked bile down.