The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter XIV

Colleen Clark had informed me that her estranged husband was currently staying with his brother, Michael, in Dayton, about a half hour south of Portland. He was, she said, avoiding unnecessary travel for the present, and working remotely from a makeshift office in his brother’s home. Colleen and her husband had spoken only once since the revelation of the blanket in her car. In the course of the conversation, he had informed her that he never wished to see her again. According to a mutual acquaintance, he had consulted a divorce attorney and requested that papers be served on his wife as soon as she was released on bail.

I drove to Dayton the following morning in the first proper sunlight for a week, even if it hadn’t brought much warmth. Michael Clark lived on Ruel Lane, almost halfway between Dayton and Union Falls. There wasn’t much to Dayton, but that was true of a lot of small Maine towns. This region was once lumber and dairy country, but the lumber now came largely from up north and pasture had given way to industrial and housing developments, or warehouses with indefinable purposes, which counted as progress only if one was answerable to shareholders.

Michael Clark lived in a new family home surrounded by young pines, with three cars in the drive, two of which—a white Kia Stinger and a red Ford Fusion—were registered to the address. The third vehicle, a black Lexus coupe, I knew to be Stephen’s. I parked behind it, got out, and repositioned a child’s tricycle that was lying too close to one of the Stinger’s rear tires. It would have been just the right size for Henry Clark in a year or so, I thought. I wondered who owned it, given that, per Colleen, the family was childless. A neighbor’s kid, perhaps.

I rang the doorbell and waited. I’d spotted a drape move in one of the upper front windows as I parked, so I knew my arrival had been noted. If the Clarks had been watching the news, or reading the papers—and it was almost certain they had—they’d know who I was and why I was at their door. With luck, I could convince Stephen Clark to talk to me, but a hostile reception was more probable. I was working on behalf of his wife, whom he believed to have killed their son.

A woman in her early thirties answered the call of the bell. She was wearing a gold wedding band and a diamond engagement ring that, judging by the number of small stones, had been bought for quantity, not quality. She reminded me of Colleen: same hair color, same height, and a similar build, although this woman was toned where Colleen was thin, and tanned where she was pale. Regardless, if this was Michael’s wife, it appeared the Clark brothers shared a type.

“Mrs. Clark?” I said.

“That’s right.”

She wasn’t opening the door very far, and was blocking the gap with her body as though to protect whomever was inside.

I showed her my ID. “My name is Parker. I’m a private investigator. I was hoping to speak with your brother-in-law.”

“Why?”

But I could tell from her face that, as anticipated, she already knew why I was there.

“I’m involved in his wife’s case,” I told her. “I’ve been engaged by her lawyer to assist with the pre-trial investigation.”

She stared at me for a good ten seconds without speaking.

“I meant why are you working for her?” she said at last. “Why would you do that? You’re taking money from a woman who murdered her own baby.”

I didn’t answer because there was no answer to give, or none that would have satisfied this woman. She wasn’t the first to have asked me questions like that, and she wouldn’t be the last. I could have told her that my actions had nothing to do with any presumptions of innocence or guilt, which would have been only partly true, but she still wouldn’t have accepted the answer, and I wouldn’t have blamed her for it.

“Stephen Clark,” I said. “If he’s available.”

A man’s voice spoke from the shadows.

“It’s okay, Donna. I’ll talk to him.”

“Then you’ll do it outside,” she said, as she stepped back to let the man come forward, “because he’s not setting foot in this house.”

I’d seen enough images of Stephen Clark in the newspapers and on TV to recognize him, but his height still surprised me. He must have been six-six or six-seven, but he weighed no more than 170 pounds, which caused me to wonder if anyone in the extended Clark family had ever said yes to dessert. This was not the striking gauntness of his wife, though, or even the carefully tended appearance of his sister-in-law. Colleen had told me that her husband was an obsessive runner who competed annually in the Boston, New York, and Chicago marathons, in addition to shorter races fit in around work and family commitments. The stripping of the fat from his body made his head appear too large for his frame, and a pair of oversized spectacles magnified his weak eyes, lending him a peculiarly bug-like appearance. He wouldn’t have been out of place lying camouflaged on a stick.

“There’s a table and some chairs in the yard,” he said. “We can speak there, if the temperature doesn’t bother you.”

“It doesn’t bother me at all.”

Clark removed a green canvas jacket from the hall stand and stepped outside, pulling the door closed behind him. I followed him to where a white metal table and matching chairs stood on a patch of lawn. He brushed a few dead leaves from one of the chairs and folded himself into it, his knees ending up at an acute angle. He buried his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket.

“I’d offer you coffee,” he said, “but—”

He gestured in the direction of the house. Through the kitchen window, I could see his sister-in-law removing breakfast dishes from the table and placing them noisily in a dishwasher. Her rage was obvious.

“Donna and my brother don’t have any children of their own, so she doted on Henry.”

“Who owns the tricycle?”

“Donna’s sister’s kid. Donna takes care of her a couple days a week, while her mom is at work.”

Which answered that question, but I thought I might check the alibis for the brother and sister-in-law on the night of Henry’s disappearance, just to be sure.

“This is a difficult time,” I said, “and I’m sorry for what you’re going through.”

“Thank you. I know it’s your job, and Colleen is entitled to a defense, whatever she may have done.”

There was no hint of reservation in his voice. Either Stephen knew more about his wife than I did, or he didn’t know her at all.

“She’s also entitled to the presumption of innocence.”

“So they say, but you didn’t find a blanket stained with your missing son’s blood in the trunk of your wife’s car. You didn’t hear her talk about how sorry she was that she’d ever had a child, or how she sometimes wanted to smother him just to stop him from crying. I accept that my wife was depressed. She may even have been mentally disturbed. But that doesn’t excuse her from murdering our boy and hiding his remains.”

“You have no doubts about her guilt?”

“None.” He relented slightly. “Look, I know how that sounds, and I appreciate that, under the circumstances, a lot remains unknown, including Henry’s whereabouts. But I’ve been living with my wife’s strangeness since before Henry was born, because I don’t think she even wanted a child, not really. Her health has never been great, and she’s always had issues with body image. She didn’t enjoy pregnancy and struggled with motherhood. In the event of a divorce, I’m not sure she would’ve sought custody of Henry. I believe our marriage was already dying, but this, unsurprisingly, has killed it.”

He huddled deeper into his jacket, pupate in his misery.

“Was Colleen ever violent toward Henry?” I asked.

“I never saw her strike him, but then, I was at work a lot of the time. He did have bruises, though, which had begun to worry me. I mentioned them to the police.”

Ouch, I thought. I had an image of Stephen Clark on the stand. The prosecution wouldn’t even have to coach him for long. He was already a gift to them.

“I think Colleen may simply have snapped,” he continued. “Perhaps if I’d been more available to her and Henry, it wouldn’t have happened.”

His voice almost broke. He took a breath before resuming.

“That’s what I come back to,” he said, “over and over. I wasn’t there, and I should have been.”

“Does your job require you to travel a great deal?”

“I chose to travel more than was strictly necessary.”

“Why?”

“Because, like I said, my home life was unhappy—both before and after Henry was born.”

“Did you consider couples therapy?”

“Colleen suggested it, but I thought the trouble would pass, or I hoped it would.”

“That sounds like you’re contradicting yourself,” I said, as mildly as I could, “given what you said earlier about a divorce.”

“To be honest, I didn’t want to sit with a stranger and talk about my feelings.”

To be honest: the liar’s crutch.

“You’re doing okay at it now.”

He gave me a death’s-head grin.

“Circumstances have changed.”

“Yes,” I said, “they have. Could your aversion to couples therapy also be related to the fact that you felt your marriage couldn’t be saved, and you were unwilling to prolong the inevitable?”

He didn’t immediately reply. He was smart enough to be able to spot someone trying to outsmart him, but not smart enough to protect himself by not talking.

“That’s very perceptive,” he said. “I wouldn’t argue with the diagnosis. By the way, I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to ask me about the affair, if you want to dignify it with that name.”

“What would you call it?”

“A fling. A drunken mistake.”

“So you regretted it?”

“Of course. I take no pride in having cheated on my wife, whatever our difficulties. I erred once, but it was still a lousy way to behave.”

“My information is that it was more than a one-night stand.”

“You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

“With respect,” I said, “you brought it up.”

“I suppose I did. You think I’ll get asked about this if I’m called to give evidence?”

“It’s conceivable.”

“I’d better get over my shame, then,” said Clark.

“If it helps, I’m not here to judge you, and you won’t be the one on trial.”

“But her lawyer might try to make me look bad so Colleen will look better.”

“Your wife has been charged with killing her child,” I said. “Your brief affair may represent a moral failing in some eyes, but not a criminal one.”

“Then I don’t have to answer any questions about it?”

“Are you asking about mine, or anticipating those that may arise during the trial?”

“Let’s say both.”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” I said, “but the fact that we’re here suggests you don’t mind, and you have nothing to hide beyond a certain level of discomfort with your failings.” I let that hook hang in the water. I didn’t even twitch the line. “If you’re called as a witness, it’s conceivable that the subject of your affair may be raised, most likely by the defense. The prosecution will object, but sustaining or overruling that objection will be a matter for the judge. So, in your position, I’d be preparing answers.”

“That’s very forthright of you,” said Clark, “seeing as how you’re working for my wife.”

“I have no interest in tricking or misleading you, Mr. Clark. My job is to ensure that the defense has any and all information that may be relevant to the case. I sometimes think I ought to have a clipboard for these occasions, with a series of forms to be filled in. It’s procedure, that’s all.”

Sometimes, I surprised even myself when it came to dissimulation.

A small brown mongrel dog ran from the front of the house and bounced over to us. Clark tickled it behind the ear, and it responded by trying to climb onto his lap. I wished it luck. Given its size, it would have required a rope and climbing gear to ascend Mount Clark. The effort left mud stains on his pants, so he sent it on its way. The dog peered at me, wagged its tail uncertainly, and retreated. Perhaps its mistress had told it about me. If so, I was lucky it hadn’t bitten my ankle.

“I met Mara Teller at a conference in Boston,” said Clark. “She was at the bar late on the second night, we got to talking, and one thing led to another. We had sex in my room, after which she returned to hers. We didn’t see each other again at the event.”

“Did you exchange numbers?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“It was a one-shot deal for both of us. I wasn’t looking for anything more and I don’t think she was either. Plus, I felt bad about it later. Despite appearances, I cared about my wife. I still do. It doesn’t mean I can forgive her, but I don’t want her to suffer.”

I didn’t bother to congratulate him on his magnanimity.

“But you did meet Mara Teller subsequently,” I said.

“Yes, about a month later. I had business in Boston, and our paths crossed at Faneuil Hall.”

“Unplanned?”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Maybe it was fated.”

“Maybe it was. Fate can be accommodating that way.”

“And, you know—”

“One thing led to another,” I said. “Again.”

“Something like that. Things had grown worse between Colleen and me. The second time with Mara, I didn’t feel so bad about it. In fact, I didn’t feel bad at all.”

“Did you arrange to continue the relationship?”

“We talked about it,” said Clark, “and this time we did exchange numbers. We spoke regularly on the phone, and hooked up once or twice more.”

“Which was it, out of curiosity?”

“What?”

“Once, or twice?”

“Twice. The novelty was already fading for both of us, and Henry had been born. Then Colleen discovered the calls, along with the text messages on my phone, and confronted me with them. I didn’t try to lie, and admitted everything. By then, I was convinced our marriage was heading for the rocks, child or no child, and I recognize that I was seeking to accelerate the collision. Colleen and I had a pretty miserable couple of weeks until things started to level out, or they did for me because I was moving toward a decision. I was looking for an exit, but Colleen wanted us to stay together.”

“Did you tell her you felt differently?”

“Not at first. I tried to go along with her way of seeing the marriage—as one that still had some hope of survival—but my heart wasn’t in it. I was doing it for Henry’s sake more than anything, but Colleen and I being unhappy wasn’t going to help my son in the long run. I don’t know how it dragged on, but somehow it did.”

“Do you still have Mara Teller’s number?”

“It’s not hers anymore. The number went out of service for a while, and now it’s someone else’s.”

“So you tried getting in touch with her?”

“I did, mainly to explain what was happening in my marriage.”

“Mainly?”

A half shrug this time, with a half grin to match. I mirrored it. We were guys together. I knew how it was.

“Call it one for the road,” he said. “She was an attractive woman, and it wasn’t as though Colleen wanted me in her bed. Her desire for reconciliation wasn’t immediately reflected by a desire for more than that.”

“And did you get your ‘one for the road’?”

“No, Mara was gone.”

“Have you had any communication with her since?”

“None.”

“Do you still have those text messages?”

“I deleted all of them. Call it shame.”

I decided not to call it anything at all, although “shame” still wouldn’t have been the first word that sprang to mind.

“What do you know about her?” I asked.

“Next to nothing: her name, and that of her consultancy service, which is, or was, a work in progress, and doesn’t exist any longer. It might have been that not even her name was real. Who knows?”

“She didn’t share anything of her background, or where she lived?”

“I didn’t ask her to draw a family tree or a map. That stuff just gets in the way.”

“But you didn’t find the absence of personal details odd?” I persisted.

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mr. Parker. I know men who would regard a first name as surplus to requirements for a hookup.”

I didn’t doubt it. On occasion, the modern world made me feel old and staid.

“Do you disapprove?” he asked.

“It strikes me as risky behavior for a married man.”

“Isn’t that part of the appeal?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Is it?”

“I think it was for me. No strings attached, just sex.”

“So what did you and Mara talk about?”

He laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh, but the sort one directs at an innocent, or a fool.

“We didn’t talk,” he said, “or not much. Again, that was a lot of the fun of it.”

I waited until the laughter stopped. There are better ways to spend one’s time than waiting for someone to stop laughing. The sound quickly begins to grate.

“But you had telephone conversations,” I said. “What did you discuss during those?”

“I don’t recall. What we’d done, I suppose, and when we might do it again.”

“Did you speak about your home life?”

“I might have.”

“And the pregnancy? Or your son, after he was born?”

“I could have mentioned him. I don’t remember.”

“So you were in touch with Mara Teller both before and after Henry’s birth?”

“Largely before, but yes.” He removed his hands from his pockets and placed them flat on the table. “Are you trying to suggest that Mara might have been responsible for what happened to Henry?”

“I’m just curious about her. Did you mention her to the police after Henry was taken?”

“No, Colleen did.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It didn’t strike me as important at the time. As it happens, it still doesn’t seem relevant. It was an affair. They happen. It seems spurious to attempt to connect it to my son’s disappearance.”

“Did you ever cheat on your wife with anyone else?”

He recoiled as though struck.

“What kind of question is that?” he said.

“A natural one.”

“Well, I don’t care for that word.”

“?‘Cheat’?”

“Yes.”

“Would you care to pick another?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“Well, then. And you still haven’t answered the question.”

“No, I haven’t been with anyone else during my marriage.”

Strangely, I believed him, but I went on squeezing.

“Only Mara Teller?”

“That’s right, and when the police eventually asked me about her, I told them what I’ve told you.”

“Did they follow up on the information?”

“I don’t know. Is that what you and her lawyer are going to do, try to convince a jury that Mara might have abducted Henry so Colleen will get off?”

He was growing angry. It wasn’t surprising. Being forced to admit to an affair is always humiliating, and Stephen Clark’s unfaithfulness was certain to be made public in the event of a trial, which would add to the indignity. Then there was the fate of his son…

“What if Mara Teller did harm Henry?” I said. “Wouldn’t you want to know?”

“Are you implying that I don’t care about my child?”

I was tired of him now. I’d gotten more out of him than anticipated, but it hadn’t made me feel any better about humanity.

“I think you want someone to be punished for whatever befell him,” I said. “You’ve decided that person should be your wife.”

“I didn’t pull her name out of thin air.” He was close to shouting now. “There’s evidence: a blanket soaked with his blood, found in the trunk of her car, her depression, her whole damn attitude. She was never a fit mother for him.”

I heard a door open and close, and moments later his sister-in-law was standing nearby with her arms folded, the little brown dog circling her legs anxiously.

“That’s circumstantial evidence,” I said. “It would take more than a blanket to convince me of your wife’s guilt.”

And, by implication, to convince me of my own wife’s guilt in a similar situation.

“They’ll find more.”

He spoke with absolute conviction.

“We’ll see,” I said. It was time to leave. “Thank you for your candor. If I have any further questions, I’ll be in touch.”

“Save them,” said Clark. “You won’t be welcome here again.”

“I understand. I hope your son is found safe and well, for everyone’s sake.”

I was walking away when he spoke again. Donna Clark was by his side, one arm curled protectively around him as he got to his feet.

“Do you really understand?” he said. “I thought you might, which was why I decided to speak with you, but now I’m not so sure. I know all about you, Parker. You buried your child and hunted down her killer, yet you want to deny justice to me and my son. It’s one law for you and another for everyone else. You’re nothing but a hypocrite, trading on pain and misery, carrying your history like a cross for all to see. You’re the one who ought to be ashamed. Go crawl back under your rock, you fuck.”

He stormed away, but Donna continued to stare after me, and her hostility was almost triumphant. The dog advanced, barking to send me about my business.

And somewhere, a lie was hiding.