Black Creek Read online

  "Very well, Jack," Dorian answered, shaking the man's hand and palming him a twenty dollar bill. "It looks to be a beautiful day."

  "Thank you, sir." He held the door open and Dorian stepped outside, clapping the man on his back as he went. It was, strictly speaking, not a beautiful day. The skies over downtown Pittsburgh were a stark gray. A light rain was beginning to fall, and a chill wind was picking up off the nearby river.

  Fucking miserable day, he thought. His driver awaited him at the curb, opening the door for him as he noticed Dorian’s arrival.

  "Sir," the man said. Dorian nodded at him and slid into the back of the limousine.

  The driver, now back in his own seat, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "NBC News building," Dorian said. A light rain began to patter on the roof as the car pulled away.

  Dorian looked around his compartment. A bottle of water and a fresh chocolate chip muffin awaited him, as they did every time he rode. It was already nearly dinner time, but he wasn’t hungry. Several teleconferences with overseas clients and contractors had kept him up well past dawn, and he’d hardly been awake an hour at this point. "My newspaper?" he asked.

  "Ah, here, sir," the driver reached back, passing the paper over the divider.

  The front page was dominated by election headlines, as it had been for months now.

  SINGH PRESIDENCY INEVITABLE, SAYS LATEST POLL

  After a contentious debate season, Democratic candidate Martin Singh has pulled ahead to a double-digit lead in national polls. With election day less than a week away, there may be no time left for his opponent to gain ground. Singh, a Pittsburgh resident, has positioned himself as the everyman candidate—

  Dorian never did have any interest in politics. He flipped past.

  TWO HOSPITALIZED AFTER BEATING, SUSPECT AT LARGE

  Police responded to a call downtown late last night and found two men brutally beaten and unconscious. According to police, the two were both armed with knives, and there is evidence they had attempted to mug a passerby, who has not come forward to police as of yet. When asked if this was a case of self-defense, Detective Jessica Neil said: "That's very much a possibility. We have a number of working theories. We’ll interrogate the injured men as soon as we are cleared to do so by hospital staff."

  Both men are expected to live. It is unclear at this time whether they will be charged. Police continue to search for the assailant.

  WOMAN ASSAULTED ON SOUTH SIDE

  He closed the paper with a sigh and dropped it on the seat beside him. "So much violence," Dorian said.

  "The two men beaten? I saw that. Terrible stuff," the driver agreed. He shot Dorian another glance as he rolled to a stop at a red light. "If I may say, sir, you shouldn’t let it get to you. Everyone knows how much you do for this city."

  "Thank you,” Dorian said, finding his mouth suddenly dry and taking a sip of the water. “But there’s still so much left to do."

  They arrived at the news station, a plain looking building which sat on the bank of the river. The driver let him out and Dorian hurried inside through the rain, which was falling even heavier now.

  The lobby was equally nondescript, empty aside from a red-headed woman who sat behind a small desk, and a few chairs for waiting. "Dorian Black," he said. "I'm scheduled for an interview."

  ***

  "Joining me today is Dorian Black. Thank you for taking the time out to speak with me." The young blonde reporter was radiant beneath the bright studio lights, which were already raising beads of sweat at his own temple.

  "Happy to be here," he said with a smile.

  "Mr. Black, over the last few weeks you've announced gifts of over five million dollars to local charities and other organizations. Just yesterday, over a million dollars to the Pittsburgh police department. Your philanthropy is well known here in the city, but our national viewers may have never heard your name. For them, let's start with this. Who is Dorian Black?"

  "In short, I'm an entrepreneur. I sold a handful of tech companies in my twenties. I made my fortune and now I spend my time giving back in every way I can. That's about it, really,” he said. “I don't like to talk about myself too much."

  The reporter laughed a polite but manufactured laugh. "Well, I'm sure that's not all. Just a bit more, if you don't mind. Did you grow up here in Pittsburgh?"

  "I did," Dorian said. "I never knew my father. My mother was wonderful. She taught elementary school until the day she died, of breast cancer. After high school I joined the military, which straightened me out pretty well."

  "Oh, really? Were you a troublemaker in school?" the reporter asked with a coy smile.

  "A bit," Dorian said, feigning a chuckle. "When I got home, I got a job programming for a software company. I knew nothing about it, but I talked my way into the job and figured I'd learn quickly enough. I did, and before long I moved on to starting my own company. Next thing I know, here I am."

  "Sounds like the American Dream,” she said, hitting the plot point her producers must have insisted she reach. “But we can move on to your Foundation. Improvements to local after school programs, school lunches, resources for the homeless, and policing are just a few of the areas to which you have devoted significant time and money. What is the overall philosophy of the Dorian Black Foundation?"

  "My philosophy is to improve life for as many people as I can. Plenty of groups are out there focusing on one thing, and doing a great job at it. We hope to address as many different areas as we possibly can. Even if we can't make as great a change in a single area, I believe the net benefit is greater overall."

  "Is that the same reason you've focused on your home city of Pittsburgh rather than national programs?"

  "It is. Start small, then hopefully build out onto a larger scale."

  "Now I have to ask you, then, about the rumors from this morning. It was reported that you are making a sizable contribution to Martin Singh's presidential campaign. Any comment on that? Is Mr. Singh someone who shares your vision for the future?"

  Dorian paused. This was entirely news to him.

  "Not at this time," he said.

  ***

  Dorian seethed. The limousine door closed behind him and he rolled up the barrier between him and the driver's compartment. He snatched up the discarded newspaper. There it was, at the bottom of the front page:

  SOURCE: BLACK FOUNDATION BACKING SINGH CAMPAIGN

  According to an inside source, the Singh campaign may have just received a seven-figure donation from retired tech mogul Dorian Black. The source, speaking on condition of anonymity, said the deal had just been reached. The Black Foundation, as a 501(c)(4) designated charity, is legally allowed to make large campaign contributions with minimal public accountability. However, Dorian Black and his foundation have no prior history of any political involvement whatsoever. A request for comment was not immediately returned by either the Singh Campaign or the Dorian Black Foundation.

  Dorian dropped the paper. What in the fuck is he doing?

  The car pulled up in front of his building and he let himself out without a word. The doorman let him in. "Mr. Black," he said. "Mr. James has just arrived."

  Of course. James wouldn’t have seen the interview yet, but Dorian still suspected the man somehow knew.

  Dorian stormed across the lobby, which was laid out in ornate marble with a wall-height waterfall in one corner. The far left elevator was blocked off with red velvet rope, which he slipped past, slapping his keycard against a scanner next to the door.

  The elevator carried him quickly up to his penthouse, where the doors slid open with a soft ding. The lights in the entryway turned on, sensing his presence. He could hear faint classical music playing across the apartment as he kicked off his shoes.

  "James," he shouted. No answer. He found him in the sitting room, stoking the fireplace. Rain splashed against the floor to ceiling windows, obscuring the view of the city below.

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Dorian said
.

  James didn't look up. "Making a fire," he answered after a slight pause.

  "Don't give me that shit. How much money did you give this Martin Singh asshole? Why?"

  James continued to stoke the fire for a moment before looking up at him. His eyes seemed to pierce Dorian uncomfortably, in the way they often did. "Two million," he finally said.

  "Why?"

  "Same reason we do everything else. I have a plan. And that was how much it took to get a face to face meeting with him."

  Dorian's anger began to fade, and he sat heavily down on the nearby couch. "You know I don't care about the money. Just tell me this shit."

  James put the fire poker down and sat across from him. "I didn't expect the story to leak. But, yeah, I should have told you."

  Dorian put a hand to his own forehead, pulling slightly at his hair with a sigh. "It's alright, man. You gonna tell me what the plan is?"

  "We're gonna kill him."

  "Hell,” Dorian said with a laugh. “Why didn't you just say so?"

  The two men sat for a while; the sounds of the fire, the rain, and a classical symphony Dorian didn't recognize all washed over him until he was nearly lulled to sleep. He hadn’t been sleeping well recently.

  He wasn’t sure whether he dozed off or not, or how much time had passed. James was staring out the window, idly twisting a plain metal wedding band on his finger. He looked tired. Wrinkles around his eyes were the only sign of age on his otherwise youthful face. Dorian had known the man for many years, and he was the only person he would actually call a friend.

  "Thinking about her?" Dorian asked.

  "Always," he answered.

  "How long has it been since you went to see her?"

  "A very long time."

  "What's stopping you?" Dorian asked.

  "A great number of things, unfortunately."

  “Sounds like an excuse, man.”

  James chuckled quietly. “I could understand why you’d think that.”

  The rain slowed, and then finally stopped. He absentmindedly watched whatever show was playing on the large screen TV across from him.

  "You going out tonight?" James asked after a while.

  "Yeah, I think so. It’s been a while; think I need some action.”

  "I think I'll join you." Dorian looked at him, surprised, but James was still staring out the window. Dorian stood up and offered a hand to his friend, who took it and pulled himself up.

  In the middle of the room stood a white carved pillar. James walked over to it and began to push. It took some heaving, but the pillar spun a half turn, then clicked into place. Dorian stepped back as a whirring sound picked up, gears clanking underfoot. The floor split and pulled apart, revealing a staircase down.

  "Alright. Let's get ready."

  ***

  The south side of the city was quiet at this hour. The last of the bars had just closed, only a few stragglers left roaming the streets. Dorian pulled his leather jacket in close, huddled against the cold and his breath rising in a cloud before him. After a bit of training and dinner at the penthouse, he had been on the hunt for an hour already. No success.

  He turned a corner and nearly collided with a couple of stumbling drunk college girls. Dorian stepped aside, but one fell into him anyway.

  "Oops," she said, giggling. Dorian only scowled as her friend pulled her off and they continued on their way. Dorian watched them go, with just a bit of disdain competing with their revealing skirts for his attention. Once they had disappeared around a corner, he turned back to his path.

  Not a block later, he heard a yell. It came from somewhere close, just off to his left. As he rounded the next corner he heard another scream, from an alley across the street. He picked up his pace, jogging across the road before sliding into place against the wall, peeking into the alley.

  There was another young woman. She was obviously drunk, and crying as a man was grabbing her, ripping at her clothes. She fought him, screaming and slapping him, but he grabbed her arms and forced her to the ground. Her screams grew louder, and the man hit her. When she whimpered, he hit her again. The man had his own pants down as he tore the girl's skirt away.

  Dorian pulled a ski mask from his pocket, slipping it over his face as he stepped into the alley. The man didn't hear him. Advancing quickly, Dorian grabbed him by the back of the collar and ripped him off the girl, throwing him against the wall. The girl shrieked.

  "What the fuck?" the man said as he tumbled to the ground. Dorian stomped on the man's hand, and he felt the bones snap beneath him as the man wailed. The girl scrambled out of the way, clutching her shredded clothing. Dorian reared back and planted his boot in the man's ribs. Once, twice, three times, each with another audible crack. The man turned onto his side and sputtered blood onto the ground. Dorian stepped back, pulling his shoes away from the mess.

  "Oh my God, thank you," the girl said, still crying. Dorian ignored her. The man was crawling away. He reached inside his coat, where the cold grip of his .45 handgun awaited his grasp. He walked after the man, who looked back at him in terror, but seemed unable to crawl any faster.

  "Pathetic," Dorian said. He planted his foot on the man's ankle and again he felt the joint break beneath his weight. The man howled, and Dorian shot him in his other leg.

  "Dorian, don't." James had come down the other end of the alley and stood just feet away, looking at him expectantly.

  Dorian looked him square in the eye as he aimed at the rapist's head, then fired.

  The woman screamed.

  Joseph

  "They came through here."

  The stablehand led Joseph and Gray, tailed by a novice officer, down the dirt path. At its end, an old wooden fence had been broken down and trampled. Gray lifted one of the cracked beams and briefly inspected it before letting it drop to the ground.

  "Any other damage?" he asked.

  "The stable doors, sir," the boy answered. "Six horses missing, all of the doors smashed in. They weren't even locked." He was in his teens, and looked generally uncomfortable in his own skin. With every question he fidgeted in a way that might have been suspicious, if Joseph hadn't already known exactly who was responsible here.

  "How many horses do you keep here?" Joseph asked.

  "Eight, sir."

  Gray started to walk back up the path, the stablehand quick to follow him. "Any reason they wouldn't take the other two?" he asked.

  "Not that I can think of."

  Joseph followed them at a distance, kicking up tiny puffs of dirt as he walked. The old race track was one of the last remnants of a more prosperous time in this town. Horse racing still drew a fair number of visitors several times a year, and the small infusion of tourist money was all that kept a few of the local businesses afloat. He doubted the owners could recover from the theft of six thoroughbreds, and if the track failed, the town might just follow.

  Just one more reason to find Jonah.

  He met up with Gray back at the track, where he stood alongside the sheriff. A comfortable distance away, Gray's young officer was talking with one of the sheriff's deputies. Sheriff Jack Wilson had arrived just a week ago. He was a boisterous man, tall and stocky with thick white hair, a handlebar mustache to match, and a very large hat. Joseph had met him only a handful of times before, and until now there had been no need for his help in the town. Gray had always been fiercely protective of his own role as local chief of police.

  The two men broke off their conversation as Joseph approached. Jack smiled broadly and offered his hand. "Joe," he said.

  "Sheriff." Joseph shook it, though with less of a smile. "Where do we stand?"

  "I just finished interviewing the owner and a few employees. I don't get the feeling they're in any position to gain from this."

  "Not at all," Gray agreed.

  "Seems likely enough this is our man," Jack said. "But we should still run down all possibilities. Gray, you should rule out any other locals while I keep after Mr. Shaw."
>
  "Any leads on that front?" Joseph asked.

  The sheriff shot him a quick, knowing glance. "Working on it. I know this is personal, Joe. Let me do my job. Trust me, I'll take the guy down."

  Joseph nodded but said nothing. He turned and leaned on the fence, surveying the track. A worker whom he couldn't recognize from this distance was spreading dirt at the other end. A slight cold wind bit at his cheeks, and the sky was a dreary gray that threatened snow. For the first time, he noticed that a small group of residents had gathered by the front of the barn. Marlon Pressey, the owner of the track, stood among them. Joseph caught the man's eye.