When Darkness Falls (2 page)

J ack’s flight landed in Nassau just after nine a.m. He hated small aircraft, but a forty-five-minute hop over the Gulf Stream on Zack’s Seaplanes came at an irresistible price. It was absolutely free, thanks to Theo Knight.

Theo was Jack’s all-purpose assistant, for lack of a better term. Whatever Jack needed, Theo went and got it, though Jack knew better than to ask how he got it done. Theirs was not a textbook friendship, the Ivy League son of a governor meets the black high-school dropout from Liberty City. But they got on just fine for two guys who’d met on death row, Jack the lawyer and Theo the inmate. Jack’s persistence had delayed Theo’s date with the electric chair long enough for DNA evidence to come into vogue and prove him innocent. It wasn’t the original plan, but Jack ended up a part of Theo’s new life, sometimes going along for the ride, other times just watching with envy and amazement as Theo made up for precious time lost.

This time, it was Theo’s turn to go along for the ride-to Falcon’s bank.

“Greater Bahamian Bank and Trust Company,” said Theo, reading the sign on the building. “I hope they got casinos in here.”

Jack had called the bank beforehand and confirmed that it did in fact have a safe deposit box for Pablo Garcia. He then faxed over the executed power of attorney, which would authorize him to access the box. Sure enough, the signature of his client matched the specimen on file at the bank. Jack still didn’t believe there was money inside, but the flight was free, and even a break-even day at the casinos beat a good day in the office, especially if Theo was the one rolling the dice. He didn’t always win, but the guy never seemed to lose money at the crap table. Jack didn’t dare ask him how he did that, either.

Bay Street was essentially Main Street for high-powered finance in the Bahamas, and the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company represented one of hundreds of foreign institutions that thrived on the legal protections and secrecy that countries like the Bahamas afforded to offshore branches. While there were many recognizable names-Royal Bank of Canada, Barclay’s, Bank of Nova Scotia, and others-some of these so-called banks looked more like a doctor’s office, basically just an office in a strip mall that might as well bear the name JOE’S BANK OF THE CARRIBEAN. Greater Bahamian was somewhere between the two extremes, occupying the ground floor of a three-story building. The main entrance to the bank was tidy and simple, a mix of chrome, glass, and indoor-outdoor carpet. Two security guards patrolled the lobby, each packing a nine-millimeter pistol in a black leather holster. Another armed guard stood watch at the door. Theo greeted him with a folksy “How goes it, bro?” The same greeting from Jack would have come across like Garth Brooks doing rap. Theo, however, was an imposing man with the brawn of a linebacker and the height of an NBA star, sort of a cross between The Rock and a young Samuel L. Jackson on steroids. Just to look at him, you would guess (correctly) that he’d spent time in prison. That bad-boy image served him well. Very few people ever got in his way. The rest of the world-even armed security guards-just stepped aside and smiled, hoping that “How goes it, bro” was Theo’s way of saying “Relax, dude, I don’t have time to rearrange your face.” On occasion, Jack needed a friend with that kind of firepower. Mostly, he found Theo entertaining, like cable TV and satellite radio rolled into one big, amusing, friend-for-life subscription.

“Hey, I almost forgot to tell you,” said Theo as they crossed the lobby. “Katrina has a friend she wants to fix you up with.”

Katrina was Theo’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, a tough and sexy Latina with a Russian accent who had once laid Jack out on the sidewalk with an awesome left hook-no exaggeration. “I’m really not interested in any blind dates.”

“Katrina says she’s hot.”

“A woman will always say her friend is hot.”

“No. A woman will always say her friend is pretty, which probably means she’s not. But if she says her friend is hot, trust me, dude, she’s hot.”

“That was almost poetic,” said Jack.

“It did kind of rhyme, didn’t it?”

“Like Eminem, without the profanity.”

It was midmorning, and perhaps a half-dozen customers were in the bank, not counting Jack and Theo. In the personal banking center to the left, a dozen or more bank officers were at their desks, busy on the telephone. With customers all over the world, the Greater Bahamian Bank amp; Trust Company transcended time zones.

“Interesting place for a homeless guy to do business,” said Theo.

“Depends on the business,” said Jack.

The court hearing had played out exactly as Jack had predicted. Falcon entered a plea of not guilty, and the judge set bail at ten thousand dollars. Before leaving the jail, Jack retrieved a bit of Falcon’s personal property from lockup. It was a necklace made of metal beads, which Falcon had worn around his neck for years. Attached to the necklace was a small key. Jack had Falcon’s key in his pocket as he headed toward the sign marked SAFE DEPOSIT BOXES.

The boxes were located in a windowless wing of the private banking section. Jack left his name with the receptionist and took a seat on the couch. The well-dressed man seated beside him was reading the stock quotes. An elderly woman on her cell phone was speaking Portuguese. Lasers of light flashed from a three-carat diamond ring with each wave of her hand. Jack tried to imagine someone like Falcon walking in and stinking up the place. It didn’t compute.

“Mr. Swyteck?” a woman said, standing in the doorway. Jack answered, and she introduced herself as Ms. Friedman, vice president. It seemed like everyone in a bank was a vice president. Jack and Theo followed her to a small office behind the reception desk.

Jack presented her with the original power of attorney and his passport. Ms. Friedman inspected both. She then excused herself, explaining that she needed to verify the signature once again, and left the room. Jack sat in silence, waiting. Theo grabbed a magazine from the rack and started flipping through the pages. He never really read anything, save for a menu, and he seemed bitterly disappointed to discover that this month’s issue of Bahamian Banker was short on photographs. Jack needed to find something to talk about before his friend tore the place apart in search of Sports Illustrated.

“So, why does she want to meet me?” said Jack.

“Why does who wanna meet you?”

“Katrina’s friend-the blind date you were talking about.”

Theo smiled. “Ah, so you are interested.”

“No. I’m just curious. Why does Katrina think we’d be a good match?”

“I’m told that she likes a man with a sense of humor.”

“Right. All women just love a man with a sense of humor. But as it turns out, they’re usually referring to the humor of Jude Law, Will Smith, or George Clooney. Apparently, those guys are a stitch.”

The bank officer returned. “Gentlemen, come with me, please.”

They followed her to the end of the hall and stopped at the security checkpoint. Another armed guard was posted at the door.

“How goes it, bro’?” said Theo.

This time the guard said nothing, no pleasant smile. This was the bank’s inner sanctum, the place where things got serious, where security was equal to Theo Knight.

The guard unlocked the glass door to allow Jack and Theo to enter. Ms. Friedman was right behind them. The door closed, and the guard relocked it. The safe deposit boxes were arranged from floor to ceiling, as in a locker room. Everywhere Jack looked was another box with a brushed-metal face. The larger ones were on the bottom. Smaller ones were on top. Ms. Friedman led Jack to box 266, one of the larger ones. It had two locks on the face. She inserted her key into one lock and turned it.

“Your key is for the other lock,” she said. “I’ll leave you in privacy now. If you need me, check with the guard. There is a convenience room in back with a table and chairs. You can take the whole box with you and open it there, if you wish. No one else will be allowed in this area until you’ve finished.”

Jack thanked her, and she gave him a little smile as she left the room. He kept an eye on the keyhole as he reached inside his pocket for the key. “What’s your guess, Theo? You think there’s really ten thousand dollars inside that box?”

“Five minutes ago I would have said no way. But who knows? Everything has checked out so far.”

Jack inserted the key. The tumblers clicked as he turned it clockwise. With a steady pull, he removed the box from its sleeve. It was longer than he had expected-about two feet from front to back. It was heavy, too. He laid it on the bench behind him.

“And the answer is…” he said like a game show host as he flipped the latch and removed the lid.

Jack was suddenly speechless.

Andrew Jackson was staring back at them, many times over. Crisp twenty-dollar bills were stacked neatly side by side. Jack removed the top bundle. There were more beneath it. The box was stuffed with cash, top to bottom, front to back.

“There must be a couple hundred thousand dollars in here,” said Jack.

“At least,” said Theo. “Which certainly makes you wonder.”

“Why would a guy live in an abandoned car if he’s got all this money in the bank?”

“Maybe for the same reason he wants to jump off a bridge,” said Theo. “Or maybe he just wants to be homeless.”

Jack laid a hand atop the money, thinking. “Or both.”

W hen Vincent Paulo was a little boy, he was afraid of the dark. He and his older brother shared a bedroom. The lower bunk was for Danny, who never had trouble falling asleep. Vince had the top bunk, which was part of his mother’s strategy. She knew that no matter how frightened he became, little Vince wouldn’t dare crawl down from the top bunk in the middle of the night. He couldn’t risk waking his big brother, unless he wanted a certain bloody nose. Vince would lay awake for the longest time-for hours, it seemed, the covers pulled over his head, afraid to make a move. “Just close your eyes and go to sleep,” his mother would say. But Vince couldn’t do it. The room, at least, had a night-light. Closing his eyes would mean total darkness, and it was in that black, empty world that monsters prowled.

Ironic, he thought, that he now lived in that world-and that it was indeed a monster who had put him there.

Vince tried not to think about the day he’d lost his sight, or at least not to dwell on it. Hindsight could eat you up, even on the small stuff. If only I’d remembered that Elm Street was a speed trap. If only I’d sold that stock last month. But how many people could say, “If only I hadn’t opened that door, I would never have lost my eyesight”? Of those, how many could actually live with the result-truly live with it, as in live a happy life. Vince tried to be one of those people. He refused to be doted on or smothered by those of good intentions. He refused to change careers. He refused to stop living. There would be major changes and adjustments, to be sure. Teaching at the police academy wasn’t exactly active duty, but it was important work. It was certainly better than taking disability and fading into oblivion. Hopefully there would be more cases like Falcon on the bridge, where Vince could play a role in a real-life hostage situation. But even if that didn’t happen, he would go on with his life, and he would be happy. That was a good place to be, emotionally, and it had taken him many months to get there.

It had taken only the sound of Alicia’s voice to send him tumbling back to square one.

“I’m taking off now,” his uncle said. “Are you going to be all right?”

Each evening, Uncle Ricky picked Vince up from work, drove him home, and helped him cook dinner-usually grilled steaks and ice cream. Richard Boies was the uncle everyone wanted, sort of a second father and best friend rolled into one. The things he did for family were from the heart, not out of obligation, and his mischievous streak and quick sense of humor always lifted Vince’s spirits. Just the thought of this tall, slender man with bright red hair, blazing blue eyes, and glowing red skin from the Miami sun was enough to make Vince smile. They could no longer share Uncle Ricky’s love of photography, but they would listen to music, tell stories, and play cards or dominoes until it was time for bed. Uncle Ricky was a dominoes master. Vince got even at poker. He had a long way to go before he mastered Braille, but Vince knew a full house when he felt one.

“I’m good,” said Vince.

“You sure?” said Uncle Ricky. “Nothing I can get you? Glass of water? Remote control? Winning Lotto ticket?”

“Get outta here,” said Vince, smiling.

“I have to be going too,” his brother said. Danny had a wife and three kids, but he did manage to visit Vince on poker night. Uncle Ricky made sure he didn’t cheat.

“There’s a nasty cold front coming through tonight,” his uncle said. “You want me to drag an extra blanket down from the closet?”

“I can get it,” said Vince. “Thanks anyway.”

The goal was for Vince to do more and more for himself every day. A caregiver came at six every morning to help him work toward his goal of complete independence in various personal matters, everything from grooming and hygiene to little tricks in the closet that would prevent him from walking out of the house wearing black pants with brown loafers. Uncle Ricky would be back at seven a.m. to take him to work.

His uncle slapped him on the shoulder and started toward the door. Danny followed and said, “Texas Hold ’Em next week?”

“I’ll be ready,” said Vince.

The front door opened, then closed. Vince remained in the armchair as he listened to the fading sound of footfalls on the sidewalk. Uncle Ricky was the first to leave. His brother waited behind on the porch. It was the same drill every week. Danny would stand there alone, searching for the right thing to say to Vince, and wishing that he had Uncle Ricky’s easy way about himself even in the face of adversity. Vince knew in his heart that Danny wanted to open the door, step back inside, and have that conversation they’d been avoiding-to be the big brother. But it never happened. He would give up and go home, saying nothing.

The engine fired, and Vince could hear the car pulling away. His brother was gone, and it was like old times. Back then, they would lay awake at night in those bunk beds, talking. Oh, the things brothers could talk about while staring into the darkness. Then Danny would fall asleep, and Vince would be alone. And afraid.

Get over it, Vince told himself.

His childhood fears notwithstanding, Vince had grown up to be brave, good-looking, and full of confidence. He came to the police force straight out of the marines, after a tour of duty in the first Gulf War. Before enlisting, he’d earned a degree in psychology from the University of Florida, where he was also a standout on the swim team. At six-foot-two and 190 pounds of solid muscle, he was a walking Speedo advertisement. He hated those banana hammocks, however, and he wore them only to compete. What he loved was police work, and he loved being a cop. The psychology degree and his coolness under pressure made him a natural for crisis management. In his five years as a negotiator, he was known as a risk taker who didn’t always follow the conventional wisdom of other trained negotiators. His critics said that his unorthodox style would eventually catch up with him, and they were right. A few of them predicted that he’d end up dead some day.

Even they didn’t see blindness coming.

The telephone rang. He rose and, with the aid of his walking stick, went to the kitchen and answered it. The voice on the other end of the line halted, though it was a familiar one. “Vince, hi. It’s me. Alicia.”

The call didn’t shock him. “Professional” was perhaps the best way to describe his behavior toward his ex-girlfriend during that crisis on the bridge. He felt no animosity toward her, and he had conveyed none. He simply felt better equipped to move forward without Alicia in his life, without a constant reminder of the bright future he’d lost. Vince didn’t want anyone sticking by his side just because she felt sorry for him. No matter what she said, a woman as active, adventurous, and gorgeous as Alicia was bound to leave her blind boyfriend behind eventually. Her dumping him would only make it worse. He had explained all of that to her many times before. Perhaps he should have told her again. “What’s up?” he said.

“Nothing. I just wanted to tell you that I thought you did an amazing job yesterday with that jumper.”

“Thanks. But it really wasn’t anything to be proud of.”

“You’re being too tough on yourself. I think you should consider branching out beyond just teaching at the academy. I really do.”

“It’s nice of you to say that. But honestly, the way things went down on that bridge, we’re lucky no one was hurt.”

“Luck is always part of the job.”

“Sometimes it’s with you, sometimes it’s not.”

“This time it was,” she said.

Last time, it hadn’t been. No one needed to say it.

An awkward silence gripped the phone line, and Vince could sense that she had something more to say. He kept them focused on business. “We should never have promised to let him speak to you,” he said. “It’s always dangerous to feed a stalker’s obsession, and getting caught in a lie can spell disaster.”

“I was actually willing to talk to him, if you thought it was a good strategy. Lying to him wasn’t my idea.”

“I know,” said Vince. “But that was how the chief wanted to play it, so who am I to argue with results? As long as you’re comfortable.”

“I’m fine with it.”

“You should be. I don’t think Falcon will be getting out of jail any time soon. Like his lawyer said, if the judge wants to set bail at ten thousand dollars, he might as well set it at ten million.”

“Well, apparently Swyteck changed his tune. The station called right after dinner. Falcon made bail.”

“You’re kidding? How?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But that’s enough about Falcon. I’m just glad I was able to help. That’s the reason I went to the bridge.”

The implicit message was that she hadn’t gone there just to see him. “I understand what you’re saying,” he said.

“No, maybe that didn’t come out right. What I’m trying to say is that if I wanted to talk to you, I wouldn’t show up on a bridge in the middle of some homeless guy’s suicide. I would just call you up on the phone and say, hey Vince, I want to talk to you.”

“I know you would.”

She paused, and Vince could feel the change in tone coming. “Hey Vince, I want to talk to you.”

Again, there was silence. He could feel the tightness in his throat, the emotional vice grip. He drew a deep breath and let it out. “It’s not that simple, Alicia.”

“It’s a heck of a lot easier than trying to act like total strangers.”

“Let’s not go over this again, okay?”

“You’re right. Let’s not do that. There’s a jazz festival on South Beach this weekend. Some of the clubs are kicking things off Friday night. You like jazz even more than I do. Want to go?”

“I don’t think-”

“Don’t think. Just do it.”

He paused just long enough to give her an opening.

“Great,” she said. “I’ll pick you up around nine.”

Part of him wanted to say no, but that would have been his fears talking-the fear of destroying what they’d once had, the fear of discovering that they had no future, the even greater fear of confirming that he could never build a life with a sighted woman. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

She said a quick good-bye and hung up. Clearly, she wanted to disconnect before he could change his mind. There was no chance of that, however. Vince was a man of his word. If he said he would go, he’d go. It wasn’t in his nature to second-guess his decisions.

Except for that door. That pockmarked door at the end of the dark hallway-the door he should never have opened.

Vince found the clock on the kitchen counter and pressed the speaker button. “Ten fifty-two,” the mechanical voice announced. Time for bed.

He took three steps to the right and opened a drawer that was directly beneath the microwave oven. His medication was in a foil package, third bin from the left. The doctor had prescribed Mirtazapine, thirty milligrams, in a dissolvable-tablet form, to be taken each night at bedtime. It was an antidepressant. It didn’t seem to make him any happier, but it did knock him right out.

He opened the package and placed the tablet on his tongue. The bitter lemon taste brought a sense of calm, even security. Eight hours of sleep, guaranteed. Eight glorious hours of sight.

In his dreams-even in his worst nightmares-Vincent Paulo was never blind.