The Dark (A Detective Alice Madison Novel)(93)

They walked on because there was no alternative but to follow Timothy Gilman: he had brought them there, and he would have to lead them out of the nightmare.

It had been ridiculously easy to grab the kids—they were like puppies. And yet even then, even in that moment that should have been an easy day out for men used to that line of work, there had been a dark focus in Gilman’s eyes that—if Ronald was going to be honest—had scared him a little.

He had watched Gilman closely as they had swooped on the boys, afterward in the van and in the clearing, as he went from one boy to the other, delivering his own brand of threat and evil. And all the time Ronald was sure—even as Gilman was taunting and yelling at the little one—that the man had kept an eye on the blond, curly-haired kid; and when the awful thing happened, and the kid choked and stopped breathing, Gilman watched it happen without blinking. Almost, Ronald thought, almost as if that was exactly what he had wanted to happen.

It made no sense. Still, there they were: four men walking in a line in the deep green of the Hoh River forest. Gilman was first, then Warren Lee—the grinning idiot whose jokes had died on his lips an hour ago, then Ronald, and, last, Vincent—bewildered and mute with fear. And Vincent carried the dead boy in his arms. Warren had refused to do, it but Gilman had turned to Foley and said, “Do it,” and Vincent had picked up the child from the mossy ground, because Vincent always did what he was told.

Gilman knew where to bury the body; all they had to do was to get there, dig a hole in the ground, and then they’d go home.

Ronald’s middle ached as if his insides had been filled with acid. The shovels. All of them except for Vincent were carrying a shovel. Ronald walked and stared at the soil—all those rotting leaves and dead roots—because he didn’t dare lift his eyes as his brain tried to grasp the reality of the situation. Gilman had put three shovels in the van. He had packed shovels in a stolen van with a stolen plate to go snatch three boys for a simple intimidation job.

In that instant he knew Gilman’s look; he recognized it for what it was: a killer setting the trap, making sure his intended victim fell into the pit he’d dug.

Ronald felt the old, familiar fear coming back like a ghost as the sun set above them and the woods turned dark. It was the fear of being pushed, shunted, and shoved by someone harder, colder, and stronger into doing something he didn’t want to do—slap someone or be slapped, cut someone or be cut.

The sounds behind him, a sudden gasp followed by Vincent’s yelp, froze them all, and, as they turned and saw the boy’s eyes wide open and the kid breathing—breathing, for Chrissake—on the damp dirt, all Ronald could think of was, No, please God, no.

Years later, for as many years as were given to Ronald on this Earth, he wondered how different things would have been if he had said something or done something in that moment when Timothy Gilman, with neither doubt nor hesitation, stepped forward and thrust his shovel into Vincent’s hands.

“Kill him,” he said.


Later, their clothes caked in sweat, grime, and blood as they traveled in silence back toward Seattle, Gilman pulled the van off Highway 101 outside Port Angeles onto a dirt track.

“We’re switching cars,” he said.

They staggered out of the van; Gilman emptied a gas can inside it, making sure all the rags, ropes, and shovels were doused, and lit a match. The van went up like kindling. They were already driving away in a maroon station wagon when the van’s gas tank exploded.


Ronald wasn’t sure how they’d made it home. He had helped Vincent undress and had put him under the shower.

“Wash it all out, Vin. There’s a good boy.”

His hands shaking, he had peeled off his own clothes and crammed everything into the washing machine, hoping it would take care of the worst stains. Tomorrow he’d put the whole load in a garbage bag and drop it in a Dumpster downtown—one of those in the alleys behind the busiest restaurants.

Vincent had spent the journey back with his head leaning against the car window, staring at the pitch-black darkness and the blurry lights. He had not said a word for hours.

Once they were both clean, Ronald dug out a tub of strawberry ice cream from the back of the freezer, and they sat down at the square kitchen table under the strip of fluorescent lighting.

“Here.” He scooped out the ice cream into a bowl and passed it to Vincent. The younger man’s eyes could not rest on anything; his gaze flitted about the room, and his hands trembled in his lap. Under his nails a line of grime and dirt from digging the grave had managed to escape the washcloth.

“Here,” Ronald repeated, his voice gentler than he’d thought possible.