Chris Jordan - Measure of Darkness

Little Gull Cottage
Prides Crossing, Massachusetts

B eing a genius isnt terribly useful when youre five years old. Joey understands chord progressions, he sees the shape of music way better than most adults, but has very little understanding of evil in the shape of man. And yet he senses that something is wrong. The bad man has never touched or threatened the boyall communication comes through the womanbut the mans very presence makes Joey regress to his old habit of sucking his thumb. A habit he long agoa year at leastabandoned to please his mother.

Mi Ma . Mommy. Joey last saw his mother two weeks ago, and he worries incessantly that he may never see her again, despite more or less constant reassurance from the woman who is taking care of him.

Wheres my real mommy? he asks. Its his most frequent question, and the only one that matters.

I told you, sweetie, she had to go away to the hospital.

Joey nods, his eyes big. Real Mommys okay?

Shes fine. Shell be back in a few days, as soon as shes all the way better. Okay?

Okay, he says.

You want to play some more? How about your Mozart, you love Mozart.

On the verge of tears he shakes his head.

How about a story. The Phantom Tollbooth? You like that one, dont you?

Weeping silently, the boy sucks his thumb and nods.

The scary man has many names. Just lately hes been calling himself Kidder. He thinks of himself as having a sense of humor, although others might disagree. If the ability to kill without remorse is funnyand it does sometimes make him laugh out loudthen he has a great sense of humor. His present assignment involves keeping an eye on a very special little boy and his caregiver. Great location. A private, oceanfront estate with absentee owners. Less than an hour from the city and yet its country quiet, with total privacy and a lovely view of the sea. Easy duty for him, not so much for the woman, who gets all in a tizzy when the boy whines for his real mother.

Kidder doesnt get it, why the kid wont stop whining. The little brat has a new mommy, one focused solely on his welfarea definite improvement on the old one, no question there. He has his special kid-size piano keyboard and his headphones, where he can practice for hours at a timeand only when he wants to, its not like anybody makes him. If hes bored with music he has all the toys in the world, pizza whenever he wants and a big-screen TV loaded with DVDs of his favorite shows. Not exactly a torture situation. More like a trip to his own personal Disney World.

At the moment New Mommy is reading him a story, and when she gets to the end she starts all over again, keeps it up until the brat finally falls asleep.

Kidder thinks its funny that when New Mommy puts the kid to bed she calls it putting him down. Like hes a dog at the pound being put to sleep forever. Not that New Mommy would ever do such a thing. Shes all soft and weepy and worried, totally clueless about the real nature of the operation, and comes to Kidder with her eyes wet, like she caught tears from the kid.

How much longer? she asks.

A day. A week. Forever.

Thats not funny!

It is if I say it is, Kidder says.

How long? she insists.

Not my call. When Shane says so, thats when. You know how he is.

I need to speak to him, she says, her voice choking. I need to talk to Shane. Please?

He shakes his head, grinning. You knew it was a one-way deal when you signed up. No calls to him. Not from me, not from you, not from anybody. Thats the only way to keep the boy safe. I explained all that.

I know, I know, but its making me crazy.

Yeah? Ill make you crazy. Me and Wee Willie Winkie. Come on over here and sit on my lap.

Youre disgusting!

That makes Kidder laugh. He makes the same sound when killing, a jagged, high-pitched giggle as sharp and sudden as a bag of razor blades. Not that hes going to kill the woman or the brat.

Not yet anyway. Not today.

When it does happen, hell try to make it fun for everyone.

T he killer came to us in the trunk of a Lincoln Town Car, and stayed just long enough to wreck the house. By that I mean the pile of brick that Naomi Nantz uses as her personal residence as well as for the business of solving unsolvable cases, assisting the helpless and generally amusing herself by being difficult, if not impossible.

My name is Alice Crane, and I serve as Ms. Nantzs recording secretary and chief factotum. In case you dont knowI had to look it up when she hired mea factotum is an employee or assistant employed in a wide range of capacities. I mean, come on, this is the twenty-first century, who uses fusty old words like that anymore?

My boss, Naomi Nantz, thats who.

The Nantz residence takes up most of a block in the Back Bay area of Boston. Dont bother trying to find us, were camouflaged as twoor is it three?typical Victorian brick town houses located somewhere between Storrow Drive to the north, Boylston Street to the south, Arlington Street to the east and Charlesgate to the west. Check your map and youll see that pretty much covers the neighborhood. On the outside were staid and rather ordinary, the kind of staid and ordinary that only money can buy. On the inside, which was gutted and rebuilt a few years before I entered the picture, its clean and sleek and modern, except for the Zen sand garden that takes up part of the ground floor. Boss lady often meditates in the garden, drawing what look to me like meaningless lines in the sand, saying it helps her to think.

Like several of the staff, I live in. At the time of hire, it wasnt a choice for me because my adorable husband had suddenly vanished along with all of my money, and it was either the Nantz residence or my sisters place in Malden. The choice was Back Bay, with twelve-foot ceilings, an exquisitely furnished suite, or Malden, a paneled basement with a cat-scented futon. Not a tough decision. There are days when boss lady drives me nuts, but my sister has the same ability, and she doesnt pay. Whereas Naomi Nantz pays very well indeed, with benefits that include room and board, full medical and dental, as well as the occasional opportunity to right wrongs, dodge bullets, tilt at windmills and rescue kidnapped children.

Id like to say theres never a dull moment, but that wouldnt be true. There are many dull moments, for which Im thankful. Twenty-nine years on this planet have taught me that dull moments are to be savored. Dull moments fortify the soul, because without them life would just be one thing after another, blurred together like the windows on a passing subway car.