Dark Web (2 page)

PART I

THE BODY

CHAPTER ONE / TWO MONTHS EARLIER

The plane carrying Mike Simpkins rose off the hot tarmac. He was on his way across the Sunshine State to his home on the east coast, in Stuart. Mike and his wife and three kids had lived in Stuart — Turtle Bay condominiums — for six years. Their two youngest had been born down there and were native Floridians.

Florida was a great place to live. Even under the unrelenting hammer of the sun, Mike had found himself working the Gulfstream Horse Racing with a smile on his face. The sweat had poured down from his hair and soaked his shirt, but he hadn’t cared. The tropical heat was good. Salty breezes, boiling sunshine, even alligators — these were the reasons he’d moved south in the first place.

But nothing lasted forever.

The pilot, an older man named Craig, brought the prop plane up into the unbroken blue sky, talking to Mike over the headsets they were both wearing. Mike was the only passenger in the tiny Cessna.

“You said you’re moving back north? New York?”

“Yeah, that’s right. The wife got a teaching job at a college there. Been a while since she’s worked; she’s been taking care of the kids.”

The pilot shot him a quick sideways glance. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but I’m flying you across the state here, away from one of the biggest horse races in the south . . .”

Mike laughed. “Yeah, I know. I’m a pretty big deal, huh? Nah. The company I work for was struggling; got bought out.” Mike watched the ground far below for a moment; the golf estate communities had given way to miles of swamp as they flew a path over the everglades. No man’s land, he thought.

The pilot continued. “The buyout didn’t include you, is that right?”

“Correct. It didn’t include me. This fancy little airplane ride is their way of hoping I don’t raise a stink.”

He’d tried to remain upbeat. He’d started as a Utility years ago, a guy who wrangled cable for cameramen, and it had been a struggle to work his way up. If the film business was tough, the broadcast TV business was tougher. He’d freelanced for a long time as a Utility, sometimes as a Grip, supplementing his income as a bartender, carpenter, and landscaper. He’d even sold vacuum cleaners for a short time. Always pining to be a cameraman, but it had gone the other way — he’d gotten more into the managerial side of things; he discovered an aptitude for wiring and technology. Rand-Burr, a production company based in Miami, had picked him up as a fiber tech manager after he’d worked his first gig at the
Gulfstream Park and Casino
seven years before. He’d been on salary since, and with benefits. The job had been contingent on his relocation to Florida, where the company was based. So he’d packed up his family — just the three of them then, with one bun in the oven — and they’d moved to the warmer climate, never looking back.

But the north hadn’t finished with them.

“So . . . what?” the pilot asked. “You got work in the city then?”

“No, not New York City. Upstate.”

“Oh. You mean like White Plains; in there?”

White Plains
, thought Mike. To the uninitiated, “upstate” meant a few miles north of Manhattan. There was a whole state up above the city, one that stretched up to Canada, that abutted the entire westerly border of Vermont.

“Further north: New Brighton,” Mike explained. “Up in the Adirondack Mountains.”

“Oh you mean the boondocks,” the pilot said, chuckling. He shot Mike another quick look, in case he’d taken offense.

“That’s right. Chopping wood, shoveling snow, hunting for the abominable snowman.”

The pilot was banking the plane and peering out the small windshield, no longer quite paying attention to the conversation.

Mike didn’t begrudge the pilot his remark about the boondocks. People often laughed at the remote places, just harmless teasing. But the more he thought about it, the more he felt the sting of failure, a gnawing in the back of his mind that told him the move was somehow a sign of weakness. That he had failed as a man and as a provider.

He wasn’t too confident he’d be able to pick up work back in the north — Lake Placid wasn’t far from New Brighton. Placid had twice hosted the Olympics and still held world-class events each year at the facilities — which were still standing — but jobs were scarce and it was a competitive business, a you-had-to-know-the-right-people type affair. They even said the structures were in bad shape, no longer up to competition standards. People were leaving the region in search of better jobs. The idea of sliding backwards in his career and having to wrangle cable again as a Utility was not a prospect he relished. The alternative, having to rely solely on Callie’s income, was even worse.

They had no buyer yet for their Turtle Bay condo. They’d already bought the house in New Brighton and made the first mortgage payment last month. They’d intended on selling the Turtle Bay condo furnished, and buying new furniture for the New Brighton house once they’d gotten there, figuring that shipping everything would be just as expensive and more of a headache in the long run.

“You said you got three kids?” The pilot was leveling out the plane. Mike could see the east coast of Florida on the horizon. It was amazing how fast flying was, even in a prop plane. He looked at the control panel, they were doing 150 knots. He guessed that was about 175 miles an hour on the ground.

“Yeah, three kids. Two girls, one stepson. Teenager.”

“That’s great, man. I never had kids.”

“No?”

“I read some study recently that said people without kids are happier. Does that ring true?”

“I saw that study. I think it was more that
couples
felt more fulfilled in their relationships — they had more time for one another if they didn’t have kids.”

“Yeah, right,” the pilot said, nodding. “I never got into that, either.” He broke into a wide grin.

Mike smiled back. He understood not wanting to get attached, even not wanting to have kids. He was an only child himself. But after meeting Callie, that had all changed.

She’d had her son Braxton with another man when she was twenty-four, a rock-and-roller with an anger management problem. They weren’t married, and Braxton had been a surprise. Mike had been a shock to his own parents; both middle class, a mother with health issues, a father who liked his freedom. Mike had always felt an unspoken connection to Braxton because of this. But life with a child when you weren’t the biological parent was often dicey, to say the least. Mike and Braxton had experienced some turbulence.

Just as he had that thought, the prop plane dropped in the sky for a moment, and Mike’s stomach floated.

“Sorry ’bout that,” said the pilot. “So, when do you make the move?”

“Tomorrow.”

The pilot arched his eyebrows. “That soon, huh?”

“That soon.”

Mike gazed out the window at the coast drifting slowly towards them. It was December, warm even for Florida this time of year, and sweat was drying on Mike’s shirt in the cool cockpit of the plane.

“Well, good luck, pal,” the pilot said.

“Thanks.”

The pilot started the descent. Mike felt something flutter in his chest.

Here we go
, he thought.

A whole new life about to begin.

* * *

For the trip north, the family took both vehicles, each towing the largest size U-Haul pod rentable. The girls rode with Callie, while Mike and Braxton drove together. Mike wanted to visit his father along the way. Jack Simpkins had retired to St. Augustine ten years earlier. St. Augustine sat on the east coast of Florida about thirty miles south of downtown Jacksonville. It was the oldest continuously occupied European-settled port in the continental United States. Ironic, Mike often thought, that his father had wound up there, an Irish boy from the Bronx. Retirement did strange things to people.

Mike and Braxton made the trip mostly in silence, Mike listening to the radio, Braxton on his Sony laptop, ear buds in, intent on an online game called
The Don
.

“Dad,” he said suddenly, “I need you to pull over.”

Mike glanced at him. They were trucking along at seventy miles an hour on a major interstate.

“Braxton, bud, we’re on the freeway. You gotta go to the bathroom, or what?”

“Yeah. Sort of. Pull over.” He sounded urgent.

“Brax, I can’t just pull over. On the shoulder you mean?”

“Wherever, Mike. Quick.”

Mike glanced in the rear view mirror. It was early, just before nine o’clock, but the traffic was already thick. He took another look at his son and saw that the boy’s face was drawn, his expression haunted. Braxton pulled his ear buds out and they fell onto his laptop keyboard. He hastily brushed them aside, closed the computer, and set it down at his feet. “Quick, or it’s gonna get messy in here.”

Mike flipped on his blinker. He was in the middle lane, where he liked to travel. There was an SUV hovering fairly close to his back right, so he stepped on the gas, made the lane-switch, and then started slowing down, his blinker still flashing. The SUV blared its horn as it overtook them on the left-hand side.

Mike edged over to the shoulder. There was nothing but trees alongside the road. He guessed that they were near the Turnbull Hammock Conservation Area. They’d passed a sign for Mosquito Lagoon about half a mile back. Before he’d even brought the truck to a complete stop, Braxton opened the door and jumped out.

“Braxton! Jesus!”

Mike slammed on the brakes. He checked his mirror for traffic and jumped out. He ran around the front of the pick-up just in time to see Braxton leaning over the grass, hands on his knees, hunched forward.

Mike blinked and stood still for a moment, watching as Braxton heaved up whatever he had in his system — Braxton had picked at his eggs and toast that morning in his usual fashion. Now, what little he’d allowed to enter his system was splattered on the ground.

A gossamer strand of drool hung from the boy’s lower lip and Mike put a hand on his shoulder. He expected Braxton to shrug it off, but he didn’t. The two of them remained motionless for a moment, traffic rushing by, buffeting the truck and U-Haul.

“Fuck,” Braxton said softly.

Mike opened his mouth to reprimand the boy, but then decided to keep quiet; just for once he could let an F-bomb pass.

This thought brought his wife to mind. They’d set off after Mike and Braxton, both because Callie and the girls were a little slower to get things together, but also to allow Mike and Braxton a little bit of time alone with Jack, Mike’s dad, before the girls descended with their usual whirlwind chaos. They were maybe fifteen, twenty minutes behind.

“You okay? Your stomach upset?” Stupid question.

Braxton didn’t respond. He just stayed bent-over, staring down at what had come out of his body.

“You feel hot? Like you’ve got the flu?”

“No,” Braxton said, and now he stood upright, and Mike’s hand slipped from his son’s shoulder.

“Easy. Just take it easy.”

“It’s hot out here,” Braxton said.

Mike looked around. There were hazy clouds slowly boiling on the horizon. It was muggy, seventy-five degrees and climbing. The air was fragrant with the oil and raveling asphalt of the road, which was cracked and broken in places. He could also smell the trees of the Conservation, sweet in the humidity, with traces of midnight jasmine, their nighttime scent burning off under the bright, bustling day. He was going to miss Florida. Then the wind shifted and he detected the acrid, bilious smell of Braxton’s vomit.

“Come on, let’s get back in the car where it’s cooler.”

Braxton turned and walked back to the truck. Mike took a couple of quick steps and got there ahead of him. The passenger door was still flung open. He touched Braxton gently on the small of his back as the boy climbed into the vehicle.

CHAPTER TWO / TWO MONTHS EARLIER

After the bright day outside, the condo was gloomy. There were deep shadows in the corners, monochromatic furniture, everything just the way it had been the last time Mike had visited his father. How long had it been? About six months. He always planned to visit more often, but it was still a four hour drive. It was always Mike that made the visits happen, lately at Callie’s prompting. She wanted the girls to get to know their grandfather, and for Mike and Jack to patch over the dark hole which had come to characterize their relationship.

Good luck
,
honey.
Mike thought. He loved her for trying. But women couldn’t understand about sons and their fathers. That all their lives, sons were condemned to seek their father’s approval. And when a father betrayed a son’s trust, it never fully returned.

Jack Simpkins had always worked for the NY Transit Authority. He and Mike’s mother had lived in the same rent-controlled walk-up in Manhattan for over thirty years, right up until she had succumbed to cancer. He’d put in long days his whole life, working hard and drinking harder. He went out to a bar a few blocks from his home nearly every night. But he’d left behind everything and everyone when he moved to Florida to retire.

Jack looked at Mike. “You all packed?”

Mike nodded. “Yup. What we couldn’t pack, we shipped. What we couldn’t ship, we sold. Callie’s pretty good on eBay.”

As if on cue, Mike’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew it was his wife. “Hold on, guys,” he said, and pulled the phone out.

Phone to his ear, he walked away, leaving his father and his son together. He moved deeper into the dark of the condo.

“Hello?”

“Hey. How you guys doing?” his wife said.

“We’re good. Just got to Jack’s. How are you and the girls?”

“Reno just told me a joke. Where do hamsters come from?”

“I don’t know, where do—”

He heard Reno shout from the backseat, “Hamsterdam!”

Mike smiled. He could picture his daughter in her pigtails, an open book on her lap. Her sister Hannah, beside her, strapped into a massive car seat.

He spoke in a low voice. “Braxton been sick? Did he say he was sick?”

“He’s not feeling good?”

“He just threw up alongside the interstate. Seems fine now. He’s never gotten car sick, right?”

“He puked? I mean, really threw up? What did he throw up?”

“Hang on,” Mike said. “Let me sort through the sample I took with me.”

“I mean . . .”

“Just food. Just breakfast. Nothing alarming.”

“What was he doing?”

“What was he doing? Sitting and playing his game on the laptop
.
”

“Could be motion sickness. I used to get it from reading in the car.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“I’m sure he’s fine, babe. Thanks for letting me know.”

His wife insisted they share all information, especially about the kids, and it was usually Mike who did the worrying. His wife was tougher. Part African-American, part French, part English, copper-toned and honey-haired, Mike joked that this made Callie part superhero. At least, the mixed descent seemed to make her resistant to illness.

“Okay,” he said, glancing towards the kitchen, and his father and son. Then he added in a louder voice, knowing they would hear him over the car speakers, “Hi, girls!”

“Hi, Dad,” Reno called back.

“Ah-dadda,” Hannah said.

“Okay,” Callie told him. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

He hung up. Right away, he felt the worry start to worm its way in. Despite all Callie’s common sense, a sick kid was a sick kid and that always made you feel a little scared.

Mike went back into the kitchen where he found Braxton sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter, eating a sandwich. That was good, Mike thought. The kid had an appetite. Maybe whatever it was had passed.

Braxton had bangs that usually hung in front of his eyes. His hair was brown, but his mother had allowed him to highlight it with blond streaks. He dressed in skater clothes — Vans sneakers, RUCA t-shirts, Volcom Stone hooded sweatshirts, Bulldog pants. Tight pants tapering down at the ankles, a t-shirt hugging his thin frame, a baggy hoodie over top.

Jack was bent over, rummaging around for something in the cupboards. He stood up and looked at Mike. “You got all the numbers? Water, electric, fuel oil?”

“Yeah, Pop. I do.”

“You change the address so you can keep tabs on the 529 account? I don’t want them calling me.”

“Yes, I forwarded all correspondence. You won’t be hearing from them.”

For a moment Mike wondered if his father would ask Braxton how he felt about returning to the North Country after so many years; if he remembered being there as a small child. Or maybe ask Mike if he planned to stop and visit any of the old gang on the way up, like Bull Camoine on Staten Island. But he didn’t.

“Hope you find work up there. You’ll need the money. House like that, it takes a beating in the winters.”

“How are things around here?”

Jack sniffed. “It’s the same everywhere you go. People are all the same.”

Jack closed another cabinet, apparently not finding what he was looking for. He went over and opened the broom-closet door.

“So, Pop . . .” Mike said. “We’re hoping you come and visit us this summer.”

“Too cold up there for me. Been there, done that.”

“But, Pop, that’s why I’m saying
in the summer
. You can stay in Braxton’s room. The girls are bunking together, but there’s a full basement. I’m hoping to finish it off; I’m sure I’ll get to it by the summer, and Braxton is going to love crashing down there. So . . .”

Mike’s dad didn’t appear to be listening. He withdrew from the closet with something he’d gotten off a high shelf.

“Hey, kid,” he said to Braxton.

Braxton looked up from his food.

“C’mere.”

Braxton got off his stool and went over to his grandfather. The older man faced the younger. They were not blood, but Mike suddenly saw a striking resemblance between the two of them, some essential similarity, and he felt his chest swell with emotion.

Jack handed Braxton a small package that said PETZL on the side. Mike realized that it was a headlamp.

“I used to work down in the subway tunnels. Swear by these. It’s a lot darker up where you’re going. So this will help you see your way around.”

Braxton took the package from Jack and examined it. It was the kind of headlamp which had an elastic band and an LED light. Mike saw Braxton smile.

“Thanks.”

Mike felt a shiver of pleasure run down his spine, as Jack ran his hand through the kid’s hair, something Braxton usually shrugged away from. Jack’s calloused fingers brushed it out of his face. “It’ll help keep this gob out of your eyes, too.”

And Braxton laughed.