The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(64)

Warren Lee hopped out from the passenger side, and Ronald sighed: he had met Warren a few times and disliked and despised him in equal measure. Warren was cut from the same cloth as Gilman, but where Timothy had an honest-to-goodness temper that could strip paper off a wall, Warren was merely a little weasel with a taste for occasional violence.

“Hey, boys.” Warren grinned.


The blue van weaved its way through traffic. Ronald sat in the front between Gilman and Lee, and Vincent rattled around in the back. Warren had wound down his window, and his bare arm was halfway out, catching the sun and the breeze. Ronald could feel his glee at the afternoon’s endeavor and was vaguely repulsed by it. He himself was in it for the money—no more, no less. Gilman had said maybe three words in all, which was unusual; there was a grim determination about him that invited a respectful silence.

From a golden oldies station the Ronettes sang “Be My Baby” as if it was all they needed for the world to be perfect. The sky was blue, and the van was on its way to Jackson Pond.


Two hours later, Gilman drove the van as fast as the law would allow, Warren sat in the passenger seat—the window rolled up all the way in spite of the heat—and the radio was turned off. Nobody spoke.

In the back, Ronald Gray and Vincent Foley sat and crouched around three small boys. The kids were blindfolded and unconscious, their hands tied. In the gloom the smell of chloroform and sweat made Ronald’s throat sting.

Vincent’s eyes were huge as he gazed at the sleeping children. Ronald kicked his foot lightly. “Don’t watch them. They’re not going anywhere,” he whispered.

Vincent nodded and looked away.


It had been so easy: Gilman knew where they’d be and when. Jackson Pond was a spit of a pool, hidden in a thicket of trees, and the road could take them almost right up to it. The traffic in both directions was light in that part of the park, and nobody noticed when the van pulled up fifty yards before the trail to the pond.

Gilman dug out a scrap of paper from the back pocket of his jeans: it was the picture of a boy. He stared at it for a minute, then folded it and shoved it back into his pocket; he left them in the van and disappeared into the copse that lined the road.

Warren prattled on about some job or other he’d done for him, and Ronald wished they would just get on with it: if he had to spend one more minute squeezed into that seat next to Warren, he might just have to punch him into silence. Behind them, Vincent had not uttered a single word since they’d been picked up.

Gilman reappeared suddenly out of the woods. “They’re there,” he said.

He drove the van down a narrow trail, and when he turned off the engine, all that was left was the sound of their breathing and the odd car going past in the distance.

He gave them masks to wear; he gave them dirty rags to use as blindfolds and rope to tie the children’s hands. He told them exactly what to do, and they did it. The kids didn’t stand a chance.


The cigarette smoke rose and curled in the afternoon heat beating down on the clearing; above them, a patch of sky, around them, the old-growth trees of the Hoh River forest. It had been a long drive, but the job was almost done. The men smoked, leaning against the van, and watched the boys, each blindfolded and tied to a different tree.

They had reached the clearing through an overgrown trail that had once led to a weather station; it was secluded, and the men knew their work would not be disturbed. They smoked because they had all the time in the world and because in that world they had all the power they would ever need. Warren’s eyes glittered as the children slowly began to stir.

The first boy—dark hair and slightly shorter the others—whimpered as he came to and felt the ropes that bound him to the tree. The second—dark hair but taller—was suddenly awake and rigid with fear. The third—fair, curly hair, and taller than the others—was trying to find his bearings, breathing hard under the blindfold and turning his head in the direction of the others. Gilman watched him.

In the stillness of the clearing there was nothing but cigarette smoke between the children and the men who had taken them. One by one, the boys smelled the scent of cheap tobacco and became quiet. A bird flapped and cawed.

It was time for the message to be delivered; Ronald turned to Gilman—he should have been moving now, talking, pushing, bullying, and doing what he did best. Instead, Gilman lit another cigarette, his eyes hardly ever leaving the blond boy. The silence stretched, and Ronald waited. He knew without checking that Vincent was at his left—eyes blank, awaiting instructions.

When Gilman spoke, Ronald felt a sense of relief: soon they’d be out of there.