Free Darkness Falls by Keith R.A. DeCandido

of this, the tables were all tiny, keeping the occupants close enough to be heard over the crowd noise and whatever the jukebox might be playing.
    Before Larry could lead him to his favorite table, Kyle made a beeline for one table that was unoccupied, probably because it was right under one of the spotlights aimed at the nearby dance floor.
    But if that was where he wanted to sit, so be it.
    Larry still didn’t know how he felt about Kyle’s presence. Maybe it would help Michael, maybe it wouldn’t—frankly, Larry was pretty doubtful. And he also wasn’t sure that Kyle’s presence would have a good effect on Catey—who was, ultimately, the one Larry was really worried about. In the back of his head, Larry was pretty sure that Michael was just going through a phase and would get over it before too long.
    But the worry was driving Catey batshit. Larry was genuinely scared for her.
    And the presence of a ghost from their childhood wasn’t likely to make things any better. This town was crazy enough with ghosts as it was . . .
    Right now, Kyle was glancing around the table as if he were expecting the boogeyman to leap out at him.
    “Relax, buddy,” Larry said. “You’ll survive one drink. Beer okay?”
    Kyle shook his head. “I can’t.”
    He opened his coat and showed Larry several prescription bottles.
    Larry let out a whistle. “Jesus.” He sighed. “Look, one beer won’t kill you. Be right back.”
    Before Kyle could say anything, Larry headed over to the bar, squeezing his way past a bunch of working-class folks, huddled in groups of two or three or four, attempting to converse.
    At the bar itself, a bunch of guys were obviously pretty ripped. Larry guessed that they were of the unemployed-and-been-there-all-day variety. One thickly built guy was holding court on the subject of either the dot-com implosion or the performance of the Red Sox or perhaps both. Larry couldn’t bring himself to give much of a shit.
    He also knew the guy in question but couldn’t place him. That was the problem with being a criminal attorney in a small town. You saw so many people every day . . .
    “Hey, Dave,” he said when the bartender came over. “Two light drafts.”
    “Fleishman, who’s your date?”
    Larry turned to see it was the thickly built guy, who apparently knew him. Not that that was such a big deal.
    “My cousin Kyle.”
    “Kyle.” The guy’s eyes narrowed. “Kyle Walsh?”
    “In the flesh,” Larry said, as Dave brought over the beers. Larry slapped a ten down on the bar and walked off with the two beers before Dave could bring any change. It was a generous tip, more than Larry’s usual fifteen percent, but if Dave had been putting up with these louts all day, he’d earned it.
    He brought the beers back to the table. Larry noticed that Kyle had centered himself in the light, as if he were as afraid of the dark as Michael.
    And perhaps he was. That was part of why he wanted to sit down with Kyle: to find out precisely what was up with him these days.
    “Feeling better?” he asked as he put the beers down.
    No reply. Kyle just sat staring straight ahead.
    Wondering if this was such a hot idea, Larry said, “Figured you’d like this. It’s a light.”
    Again, no reply.
    Sighing, Larry sat down across from Kyle and leaned in so they could hear each other.
    “You shoulda told me you were coming.”
    Kyle shrugged. “Didn’t figure you’d still be here.”
    “There was a lot of shit you left behind.”
    Another shrug. “I guess.”
    Larry had had clients like this: sullen, moody, unwilling to give more than the minimum necessary responses. Sometimes the answer was to try small talk.
    “So, what’ve you been doing with yourself?”
    “I’m in the, ah, gaming industry. You?”
    Since Kyle was living in Vegas, Larry assumed that meant casinos rather than, say, video games or the like.
    To answer Kyle’s question, Larry took on an appropriately highfalutin tone. “Larry Fleishman,