The Darkness to Come Read Online Free Page B

Millions of fat snowflakes tumbled from the sky, like feathers plucked from angel wings.
    The car was a Buick sedan, and cold as an ice-box; he shivered, his breath frosting in the air. A canvas, Army-style duffel bag, olive green, lay on the passenger seat beside him.
    Where am I? How did I get here?
    He’d spent the last four years of his life at Menard Correctional Center, a maximum security penitentiary in downstate Illinois. He was supposed to serve a ten-year sentence, but miraculously, parole had come through last month. He was scheduled to be released on Monday, December 18, a week before Christmas.
    But he had no memory of being freed, of shuttling through the mandatory meetings and medical exams that accompanied the release of a prisoner. The last thing he recalled was lying on his bunk last night, fingers laced behind his head. Excited at the prospect of finally getting out of prison and getting his hands on his wife again.
    She was, after all, the reason he’d been sentenced to that hellhole. The reason he’d been chopped down in the prime of his life. The reason he’d lost everything.
    Although he had more immediate matters to deal with, when he thought of her, he couldn’t repress a ripple of savage anticipation.
    But the car in which he’d awakened . . . He didn’t remember it. The authorities obviously didn’t send cons out of prison with complimentary cars. The only logical explanation was that he had stolen it, had been driving on the snow-crusted road, lost control and spun off into a ditch, after which he lost consciousness, wiping out a portion of his short-term memory.
    The story possibly explained his predicament. But it failed to satisfy him. It didn’t feel right.
    He opened the glove compartment. It was empty. Looking around, he also found nothing on the floors, the rear seats, or affixed to the sun visors. The interior appeared to have been recently vacuumed, too, the scent of lemon air freshener in the cold air, which was downright odd.
    If he’d stolen the Buick, wouldn’t there have been some items left inside that belonged to the owner? Even the metal ring on which the ignition key dangled was nondescript, and no other keys depended from it.
    The situation didn’t make any sense. It was as if he had been magically beamed from his prison cell bunk to the Buick, like a hapless character manipulated by alien forces in a sci-fi movie.
    He was a rational, highly educated man. He’d attended the University of Chicago for undergrad, graduated summa cum laude, and earned his law degree at Northwestern University, finishing fourth in his class. But an explanation of how this had happened eluded his well-trained intellect.
    He made a mental note, and moved on.
    He took inventory of his possessions. He was dressed in a gray woolen cap, black ski jacket, cotton gloves, gray henley shirt, jeans, and boots. He didn’t remember these clothes, but they might have been given to him by one of the charities that donated clothing to newly released cons. Many of the guys getting out didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, so the charitable donations could be a lifesaver.
    In an inside jacket pocket, he found a cheap, faux-leather wallet. It contained his expired Illinois drivers’ license, and a twenty-dollar bill. Courtesy of the charity?
    He unzipped the duffel bag. He didn’t recall the bag, either, but the charity might have provided that for him, too.
    Inside, he found a couple of pairs of jeans, henley shirts, underwear, t-shirts, socks, and toiletries. All of the clothing was the correct size. It was like getting gifts from some secret Santa.
    Buried deep in the bag, his fingers closed around a familiar, yet unexpected shape. He pulled it into the gray, snow-filtered light.
    It was a sheathed knife.
    He unbuttoned the leather sheath and withdrew the blade. It was a Buck woodsman hunting knife with a four-inch, clip point blade and a sturdy black handle. Light played dully