Page 1 of The Darkest Half

1

Niklas

Francesca Moretti. I knew that killing her on that mission in Italy would come back to bite me in the ass one day. I just never expected it so soon. Or like this. And I really didn’t expect that Jackie would get mixed up in it. But then nothing ever happens like we expect, either.

Hell, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. First, I have a thing for Izzy. Almost killed her once, then I catch feelings for her that I never wanted. Then I start fucking Nora Kessler, and even though I feel like I want to scrub my eyes out every time I look at her, I end up fucking her again. Nora’s like getting so shitfaced drunk you puke your guts up all night and swear to the porcelain god you’ll never drink again, only to sober up and buy a fifth of whiskey the very next weekend. Though I haven’t been that drunk since my early twenties, nothing brings back memories of violent vomiting and toilet-kissing like Nora Kessler.

Now, I’m panicking about Jackie.

Women. That’s my problem. I love them, though they are great at getting under my skin. I can’t live with or without them, that whole cliché. But it’s true. Maybe I have mommy issues. I should see a psychiatrist. Only problem there is that I’d never talk to a man about my shit, and if I got a woman, I’d probably fuck her, too.

Jackie.

I need to focus. She’s innocent, and she’s in trouble because of me. And it’s because of her that I’m…conflicted about her being in trouble.

Shake it off, Nik. Shake it the fuck off.

I race past cars on the freeway for twenty minutes before seeing my exit out ahead shining green under my car's headlights. Another fifteen minutes down a dark, winding road, I arrive at the address Mr. Moretti instructed me to meet him.

Hmm. A psychiatric hospital. Coincidence? Or a big fucking slap in the face?

I park on the side of the road instead of out in the open because I have plenty of time left before the forty-eight hours Mr. Moretti gave me are up. I want to see what I can see first.

I took a plane from Boston to Scranton, Pennsylvania, and the rest has been driving a rental. I realized on the way that the forty-eight hours seemed generous because it wasn’t for my benefit. It was enough time for Mr. Moretti to drive to this place—more than enough, actually—as taking a plane with a kidnapped woman would be too risky. But why Pennsylvania? Why not pick somewhere closer to where he took her? And why forty-eight hours? It’s less than a five-hour drive from Boston. I guess I’ll find out soon. Maybe I got here before they did; that would certainly be to my advantage. It’s even to my advantage getting here much earlier than expected; the element of surprise and all.

There are lights on, glowing in the plexiglass windows, so either the electric company has forgotten the old three-story building, or it’s not abandoned. The unkempt grounds and the vines growing along the rock wall make it look abandoned, but people committed to mental wards aren’t considered human by most of the population, so it’s easy to overlook the upkeep. Like the ghettos, white trash trailer parks, and where the homeless sleep. Nobody cares about them, so why the hell would they put money into where the Forgotten are forced to live? Personally, I feel more comfortable around the Forgotten. Granted, I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, but that’s just it—I don’t know what the fuck to do with it. I give the shit away, and twice as much magically appears in my bank account the next day.

I imagine ninety-five percent of the population would love to have my “problem”. Maybe I’ll give it to them. No, maybe I’ll give it to Jackie when I get her out of this. If I get her out of this. She can take my millions and save as many girls as she wants, and I can find a nice little island somewhere and get away from all this. Maybe I’ll go live among an aboriginal tribe somewhere, adopt their primitive culture, lose my boots and my leather jacket and my cigarettes; let my hair grow out, and my junk hang out; maybe I’ll get a wife or two or three. Nah. I’d kill myself before I subjected myself to the nagging and drama of more than one woman.

And besides, I like my boots, leather jacket, and cigarettes. And, I admit, I’m a one-woman kind of guy when it’s of the wife or serious girlfriend variety, which is why I’ve never had a wife or serious girlfriend.

After checking my gun’s clip, I slip into the shadows and make my way around to the back of the building. There’s a small parking lot with weeds sprouted through potholes and chunks of asphalt scattered about. Only two cars are parked close to the building; a white transport van is parked underneath a portable metal garage; a blue dumpster sits next to it, overflowing with black garbage bags. Shadows move past one window on the lowest floor and two windows on the highest floor. And I smell food cooking. The heavy kind bubbling in giant pots, enough to feed thirty or more people. OK, so it’s not abandoned. It’s a fully functional, open-for-business psychiatric hospital, and what the fuck am I doing here? Why would they bring Jackie to a place like this?

Confused, I move forward, keeping to the shadows along the base of the building, gun in hand, finger near the trigger. As I approach the windowless back door, it opens.

I stand frozen; gun pointed at a man in a white T-shirt tucked into a pair of khakis; a garbage bag dangles from his hand. He looks like an orderly.

“You must be Niklas Fleischer,” the man says.

Despite the gun pointed at him, he casually walks to the dumpster and tosses the bag atop the pile. What the hell is going on here? I could shoot him, but I need answers first. And he must know that, or else he wouldn’t be so calm about the whole thing.

Wait…Mr. Augustin was the name I used when I went to Italy to find a kidnapped girl named Olivia Bram, when I was supposed to apprehend Francesca Moretti and bring her back to the United States for Olivia Bram’s father to deal with in his own way. It was the name I used when I didn’t bring back Olivia Bram—because she didn’t want to come back—and when I didn’t apprehend Francesca Moretti but killed her instead to get back at Victor.

Even though it’s probably just that Mr. Moretti has discovered my real name, I got this odd feeling in my gut all of a sudden about why this guy used it.

“We’ve been expecting you,” the man adds.

“Where is Mr. Moretti?” The pad of my finger brushes against the trigger.

The man puts up his hands in a semi-surrendering fashion. “Mind if I grab a smoke from my pocket?”

I glance at his pocket. No gun. Just the small rectangular shape of a pack of cigarettes.

“Sure. Go ahead.” With my free hand, and without taking my eyes off the man, I reach into my jacket pocket and get a cigarette for myself.

“Mr. Moretti will be here soon,” he says, and takes a long drag, holds it deep in his lungs. “You should come inside and get comfortable. Wait for him.”

“Where’s Jackie?”

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