In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  Delaney is too respectable to be part of a charade. He’s being a bit tougher than I would have expected. I realize that some of this posturing is part of the job. From spending about five hours with me at the hospital, I’ve witnessed his soft side. Being that I’m on the other side of an assault, his sensitive nature is practically a no show!

  When he returns to the desk, he looks more befuddled than when he left. Wonderful! Here comes the paddy wagon to scoop me up and whisk me to a tiny room where some uptight doctor will appraise my level of disquietude.

  “Mandi, it’s time to get serious,” he says, determined. “I came here today out of concern.”

  “If you were here out of concern, why did you flash that criminal file full of those misdemeanors that I had allegedly committed?”

  “I felt that you needed a reminder. I wasn’t trying to make you feel small.”

  “Yeah, right,” I mumble. That was exactly the intention. “I always thought being the sheriff of Wilkinson Creek would pay you handsomely! You don’t seem to need a second job. Do you sleep at all?”

  “Mandi, I have never worked for the Wilkinson Creek Police Department, and I’ve never been a sheriff.”

  “Nice try, Delaney. I saw you driving down Elm Street yesterday.” Wait a second. He seems to be pissed over a foolish oversight on my part. Maybe if I clear that up, he will admit that Agnew isn’t actually my cousin. “I apologize for not sending you a thank you card on the anniversary.”

  “You clearly have me mistaken with another officer because I’ve never been married. As a result, you would have no reason to send me an anniversary card.”

  “Come on, Delaney, you know I’m talking about the anniversary of the night you saved my life. The date got away from me, but I’ll always be eternally grateful for that. I don’t always know the proper etiquette in uncomfortable situations. I don’t go around getting stabbed all the time, you know.”

  “Where are you going with this?” he asks as if I’m talking in riddles. “I have never saved you. You must have me mistaken with a different officer. Maybe I look like someone else.”

  Wow, he must really be unnerved over my ingratitude. “Last summer, you saved me out on Route 27. I’d be dead and gone if it wasn’t for you showing up when you did. You—”

  “Hang on there, Mandi,” he interrupts. “I’d certainly remember something as major as saving your life.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t have the slightest memory of this Agnew McAllister, but you are convinced that I should know all about him. How can you not remember saving me? The following morning, you took my statement at the hospital and even brought me balloons and some pretty flowers. The doctor told me I would have bled out if it hadn’t been for the way you applied pressure to my wound. And you are the sheriff in Wilkinson Creek, so quit the pretense.”

  I didn’t mean to get agitated, but I hate when someone acts all aloof when you space off an important day. He explains in detail that he worked in this office all day yesterday. He even offers to show me his timecard, but I’m not budging on what I know to be true. Considering they can fake those mug shots, a bogus time card would be a cinch to pull off! After he gets done with his spiel, I finally ask if he’d like to see the scar on my back. He rolls his eyes as if I’m playing some elaborate game. It’s time to call his bluff.

  “Fine, I’ll show you,” I say, standing up, “but you better not get your grizzies seeing my exposed back.” From some of my online requests, I happen to know certain guys get a chubby over that. I turn around, pull the dress sleeve off my shoulder, and brush my long hair out of the way. “It’s the vertical scar next to my right shoulder blade—not that you could ever miss it.”

  “Mandi, there is not a scar on your back—not even a pockmark from teenage back acne. Maybe you’re displaying the wrong shoulder blade.”

  “What do you mean there isn’t a scar there?” I abruptly race over to the mirror hanging above the copy machine. I glance over my shoulder at the reflection. My back looks nearly perfect . . . what happened to the faded scar line? Three days ago, I was grimacing at it after my shower, and it was still quite pronounced and pink. A scar cannot disappear that quickly. After some deliberation, I traipse back to the desk, mystified. “Delaney, I can’t figure out what is happening. I had fourteen stitches in that spot. It usually looks like Frankenstein’s forehead. I swear it!” He has to know I’m being upfront and honest about this.

  “Mandi, I shouldn’t play into this fantasy, but would you care to tell me the details related to the night you were stabbed?”

  Although he’s a bit patronizing, I decide to tell him everything. Maybe he has worked on so many cases that this particular event has slipped his mind. I can tell by his incredulous expression that he thinks I’m reality challenged—at first, anyway. I explain how Robbie stabbed me out in front of the barn and how I managed to kick him in the grapes before he could slice me again. The further I get into the story, the more his brow furrows as if he’s recalling bits and pieces of my story. There’s a certain narrowing of the eyes when you evoke a memory.

  “I had collapsed in the middle of the road,” I conclude. “It was lucky that you came along when you did. I was lucky that some teenage assholes weren’t out roadin’ that night. You arrested Robbie shortly after the ambulance arrived, or so you told me the next day. You must remember tackling him in the woods.”

  “Where did this take place?”

  “About 10 miles north of Wilkinson Creek on Route 27,” I say, giving him a look that he should know this. Fine, I’ll play along until it gets redundant. I explain that Robbie’s parents own a huge farm out there and that we were living in the guesthouse on the back of their property. Robbie liked living out in the sticks. The further away from neighbors, the less accountable he had to be for his questionable behavior.

  “Who is this Robbie?” he finally asks.

  “Are you serious? I’m talking about Robbie Woodbury. I’m sure his parole officer sent you a bulletin about his release this week. He’s sort of the roundabout reason I’m in this predicament.”

  “Robbie Woodbury—I remember that name. He’s sort of a legend on the ball diamond.”

  “That’s so far in the past. These days, Rob is a legend in his own mind,” I snicker. “He went from throwing around the pigskin to becoming a pig farmer! Poetic, huh?”

  “No, Robbie Woodbury still makes the sports page a lot,” he says, rubbing his chin. “I saw his name in the Bluff Ridge Post recently, so I know he still plays baseball.”

  “The last time he picked up a baseball was when he won me a stuffed tiger at the county fair,” I recall. “He was quite good at sports until he blew out his knee during high school football. After that, he was unable to pass a physical to play competitive sports. He never got over losing his shot at the big time. I became his punching bag—not just figuratively.”

  Delaney keys something into the search engine and brings up a baseball team website. After a few clicks, a uniformed photo of Robbie Woodbury fills the screen.

  “Mandi, is this the same Robbie Woodbury?”

  I’m in a state of complete shock. The picture on the computer is definitely Robbie, but he’s lacking the darkness that usually surrounds his eyes. “Yeah, but how can that be? Is that a prison team?”

  “The Mayford City Giants is a triple-A minor league baseball team,” he says. “Robbie is presently on the starting roster, so his knee must not have been as injured as you had previously thought.”

  “This is all wrong,” I mumble, hijacking the mouse. I begin clicking around the website. None of this makes sense. “Delaney, I swear he was in Wilkinson Creek last night at The Blue Dragon!” I study his expression of disbelief. “Don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The conflicted expression suggesting that I’m making up this shit.”

  “Mandi, you could not have been with him in Wilkinson Creek last night. He played in Clinton, Iowa.” He points to th
e right side of the screen. “According to the stats, he played all nine innings.”

  “This has to be a different Robbie Woodbury. He was incarcerated for over a year.”

  Delaney commandeers the mouse and clicks around. “His bio states that he broke several batting records for the Wilkinson Creek Warriors.” He tries to show me more evidence of Robbie’s baseball career, but I won’t take any part in the charade.

  This desk must be a portal to another dimension. Delaney pulled a file from a drawer full of horrible pictures while his computer introduced me to a mystery cousin that’s a serial killer. To make matters worse, Robbie being a professional baseball player will totally contradict my story. I may not be able to catch a break, but I’m going down swinging.

  “I don’t care what that shit says,” I spout. “The asshole assaulted me last night. He’s the damn reason everything rolled out the way it did. You probably think all of this is a figment of my imagination, especially my story about you saving my life. Without the scar, I cannot prove anything anyway. I just know that I would not be here today if you hadn’t kept me from bleeding to death on the highway. So, if I say ‘thank you,’ can we move on?”

  Agitation is causing my right knee to bounce up and down like I’m doing one-legged step climbing. What the fuck is happening here? Could the fact that he’s playing for a team in Mayford City be the result of last night’s wish? Holy shit. That has to be what’s happening.

  Apparently, the parts of my life that have changed are difficult to see with the naked eye. It’s not like in Back to the Future where they made us believe that jumping ahead 30 years into the future would equate to flying cars zipping around the atmosphere. Nope, between 1994 and 2019, the big difference is seeing people glued to their phones and being spied on from every direction.

  With Robbie permanently out of my life, I won’t have to look over my shoulder all the time. This Agnew thing, though, sounds like a severe side effect of the other wish. I thought the only thing that changed was getting another crack at the Leighton job. From the way Delaney has been reacting, I don’t believe Willie was sent to prison for those crimes. Regardless of whatever resulted from my wish, I have confirmation that I’m not going crazy. Everything that I remember happening last night had to have transpired.

  “Mandi, on the night you claim that I discovered you on the road, do you remember what color of shirt you were wearing?” Delaney asks, breaking my pondering.

  “Of course, I do. It was a powder-blue halter-top that I ordered online from Forever 21. I only wore it that one time. It was so damaged that the hospital tossed it out. That’s a weird question to ask.”

  “I’m just curious about all the specifics,” he says, but the narrowing of his eyes indicates that this question goes deeper than just inquisitiveness. “Mandi, I can tell that you believe everything you’re saying,” he adds. “I’m something of an expert on reading expressions, and you have not displayed one sign of deception. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why you’d sprinkle in such specific details if you didn’t truly regard it as the truth. Some of what you believe just doesn’t line up with what is actually happening. I’m most curious regarding your statement about having two interviews with Carolyn Hollingsworth.”

  “I did have two interviews.”

  “Would you care to elaborate?”

  “It’s not worth wasting my energy. You’d just write it off as an impossibility.”

  “Don’t presume that I can’t consider an abstract premise,” he states. “You come from a town with more than its share of hard-to-explain events compounded by the fact that Agnew is also from Wilkinson Creek. This tells me that something strange must be in the water supply.”

  “Oh, there is, but it’s not the water running through the pipes,” I explain, looking away. “It has to do with the water lurking at the bottom of the wishing well in Town Square.” Damn, I wish I hadn’t worded it like that.

  “Mandi, where are you going with this?” he asks, but I decide not to answer. “Can you at least tell me something? You’re not the first person to mention the wishing well regarding an unrealistic situation.”

  I shake my head slightly from left-to-right. After some deliberation, I finally let out a sigh. “Fine, I will tell you, but we need to discuss this over a sandwich; I’m getting loopy. I’ve only had a glass of orange juice and a multivitamin this morning. I’d be more comfortable on neutral ground with what I’m about to reveal.” What I’m not telling him is that it’s easier to hide behind a cheeseburger when you’re about to divulge a series of facts that will likely sound implausible.

  I haven’t dined at a ton of restaurants in Bluff Ridge, but I do remember that Grandy’s doesn’t have any of those annoying surveillance cameras watching their employees and customers. I hate all of those little black ‘eye-in-the-sky’ cameras recording every fucking move we make. I can’t even grab tampons in Target without fifty of those things tracking each step. Jackie told me, “If you’re not doing anything wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.” By that logic, if not naked or masturbating in my bedroom, a pervert peeking through the blinds would be considered a harmless act of curiosity. Being recorded without permission is a blatant human rights violation that we’ve all come to accept without a fight.

  This police station has about twelve of those invasive cameras mounted at various intervals. I’m not about to risk anything I say becoming evidence that may be used against me in a mental competence hearing. Unfortunately, Delaney will think I’m certifiable by even hinting about what transpired last night. If the discussion starts heading south and he begins to question my grasp on reality, I plan to proclaim that everything I’m saying is all a practical joke and fake a hearty laugh.

  After observing Delaney’s level of empathy during my hospital stay last summer, he seems trustworthy. I gave a few “off-the-record” details about Robbie’s abusive streak and short temper. As promised, Delaney kept it out of his testimony. From that moment, I knew he was principled. I’ve always shuddered at that portion of the Miranda Rights that states, “What you say can and will be used against you.” On Cops, the officers constantly expect the criminals to confess after the handcuffs are attached. If what you admit will be used against you, why do the police insist that you say anything? It sounds as if any cooperation in your testimony will land you in deeper shit. In that show, nothing is hearsay because it’s all being recorded on camera.

  After being arrested at Leighton, I clamped my mouth very tightly around that McDaniels guy. On the drive to the police station, I would only talk about movies, music, and books. To the best of my knowledge, they cannot use that type of junk against a person! Upon learning that Leighton dropped all the charges, I began talking freely. Still, it’s worrisome explaining the facts of what happened to any man holding the authority to deposit your ass into a jail cell. Everything feels like you’re being set up for a big fall.

  Delaney is reputed to be a stand-up guy. Even so, before I’m willing to admit anything, I’ll demand that he shuts off his phone and places it on top of the table. I’m only revealing the order of last night’s events in an earnest attempt to dodge a psychiatric evaluation. Seriously, if any audio or video exists where I’m confessing about a winsome woman whisking me back in time, no opportunities will be on the horizon other than hooking or housekeeping.

  Chapter 10

  Mandi

  Grandy’s Diner is a decent place to blend in with the lunch crowd. The restaurant is famous for its mouth-watering double cheeseburgers and super-thick strawberry milkshakes. The dining room is noisy enough to chat without being easily overheard, even though the layout is too open for my taste. Worse, though, is the orange and white vertical stripes on the window shades, the menus, and on the server’s skirts; it looks as if a Fruit Stripe gum detonation went off in here.

  Our bubbly waitress, Seedra (as if that name was written on her birth certificate), is too besotted by Delaney to break away from our booth.
While men objectify beautiful women, we tend to turn monomaniacal when we stumble upon a man possessing GQ looks and rock star charisma. Seedra was practically creaming in her panties while taking Delaney’s order. She’ll undoubtedly return several times to make sure his meal is satisfactory. If Delaney looked like Paul Giamatti, he’d be lucky to get a soft drink refill when he was down to slurping ice.

  After Seedra finally steps away to put in our lunch order, I decide to take advantage of the semi-seclusion of our back booth. Delaney is not as judgmental as most authority figures I’ve encountered. Not to mention that sparkling eyes are more natural to trust. Since he saved me, I need to come clean about everything that happened last night; I owe him that much for keeping these lungs expelling breath.

  “Delaney, what’s your reason for the bare ring finger?” I ask, starting with a little small talk to lighten the mood. “You mentioned earlier that you’ve never been hitched.”

  He hesitates. “The women I dated in the past changed from breezy to barely recognizable in less than a year. Are you sure you want to spend time talking about my love life?”

  “The focus has been on me for the past hour and will be again shortly,” I point out. “The least you can do is share a few personal details before we get into some heavy stuff.”

  “Fair enough. There are many reasons I haven’t found my way to the altar. I’ve often felt like I’ve been slow dancing to a different song than my partner. Instead of what I contributed emotionally, they began viewing me as not much more than a source of income. Most men don’t size up a girl that way. We’re happy if she has a job and can pitch in a bit towards the household expenses.”

  “That’s why you see all these sexy women accompanied by shabby-dressed goons at the mall. Women of that breed will latch onto a construction worker or a plumber because his profession equates to a nice new house and a wardrobe allowance. Not that goons don’t need love too, but the same woman wouldn’t have noticed that guy back in high school if he had been on fire in the stairwell.”