The Shadow People

by Joe Clifford

  I pulled onto the street, even with the sky pissing rain. The thunderstorm didn’t last. Soon, the clouds parted, a golden ray of sunlight streaming through, which only made me feel worse. I kept driving, not watching turns. When I started paying attention, I realized I was several towns away. I pulled into a vacant lot, overcome with exhaustion. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I started passing out for seconds. One or two, not long. Micro sleeps. I felt I’d been there fifteen minutes battling to stay awake. Then I closed my eyes for another split-second. But this time when I opened them, it was dark.

  Through the black night, I heard police sirens, and even though I was far from a fugitive, I woke with a start and fired up the engine, speeding off, a bandit on the run. Me, Brandon Cossey, straight arrow, afraid of the cops. But that was enough to get me back on the road, and you better believe now I was surging awake, flooded with life, a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. A few minutes into my drive, I understood what had happened. Without enough rest, my body had overridden my poor decision-making, forcing shut down. The lack of sleep explained a lot. Boys in blue and cars following me? No. I’d been exhausted, tripping, hallucinating. None of this was real.

  The Shadow People was a silly term invented by sick people. I’d glommed onto it and allowed myself to get sucked in. I needed to make a stand, go on record, refute.

  I drove to Ledgecrest to see Mr. Johnson. By now the night was black, black as well ink. No stars in the sky. No light pollution. As if a black hole were behind me sucking it all in, devouring dark matter and solar systems and galaxies, the earth beneath my wheels slipping away. Which was why I could not stop.

  Yes, I’d talk to Mr. Johnson. He could help me. With each passing telephone pole and signpost, I accepted how ludicrous this assignment was. Mr. Johnson was grappling with dementia; yet I was certain he held the answers.

  Being evening, Mrs. Talbot wouldn’t be there. I was confident I could talk any of the nurses into letting me see him. I’d been an employee of the hospital almost seven years. I knew Mary, Dorian, Sandy. We were friends.

  The small parking lot was empty, day shift and visiting hours over. I did not see Mary, Dorian, or Sandy’s car. Many of these patients didn’t get visitors, but during the day vendors and contractors, food service and maintenance workers filled the parking spots with their big vans and trucks, which created the illusion of companionship. The truth was Ledgecrest was already a sleepy, slow nursing home. At ten p.m., it felt like a ghost town.

  I still had my key, which Mrs. Talbot had neglected to take back, and which I’d forgotten to return. Turned out I didn’t need it. The front door was open.

  The lights were low, the soft hum of a radio playing in the other direction. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, I told myself. I’d been let go for bogus reasons. I wasn’t here to cause trouble, just talk. Still, I felt the need to creep, sneaking like a thief, down the black-and-white checkered hall that smelled of chlorine.

  Mr. Johnson’s door was closed. I knew I should knock but didn’t want to draw attention. Through the little glass window, interior lights off, I could make out his sleeping shape.

  Pushing open the door, I guided it with one hand, stopping it from falling with my foot, patient doors spring-loaded and heavy.

  “Mr. Johnson,” I whispered.

  Nothing.

  I moved closer.

  “Mr. Johnson, it’s me, Brandon.”

  A heavy hand landed on my back and I jumped, startled.

  “You shouldn’t be here, Brandon,” he said.

  I did not know this man. He was new. Young, like me. In a weird way, he even looked like me. But…different.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “You have to go,” he said.

  “I need to talk to Mr. Johnson.”

  “If Mrs. Talbot finds out you were here, it’ll be my ass.”

  “Are you my replacement?” No answer. “Please,” I implored. “It’ll only take a minute.” I started into the room, and when I did, I saw that the bed, which had appeared occupied, was empty, sheets smoothed, pillows propped.

  “Where is Mr. Johnson?”

  “Gone.” He shrugged, devoid of emotion yet colored by aggravation, like he’d told me the outcome of a ball game when I should’ve known he didn’t care much about sports.

  “Gone? Where did he go?” Mr. Johnson was ninety, no family. No one to take him on an overnight trip.

  “He’s gone,” the new orderly repeated.

  And this time I got it.

  How had I missed the obvious?

  “When?”

  “He passed this afternoon, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “I didn’t start my shift till nine.”

  “No one thought to tell me?”

  “From what I understand, you were fired this morning.”

  “I wasn’t fired. I am leaving for grad school soon. Mrs. Talbot and I both agreed to part ways sooner.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” the new guy mumbled.

  “Well, you heard wrong.” I pointed into the empty room. “I knew Mr. Johnson. Seven years I worked here. Which is a lot longer than you. We were friends. I cared about him.”

  The new orderly upturned his palms, opening his mouth, but no words came out. What could he say? This wasn’t on him.

  That was it. Mr. Johnson was gone. Another person who’d been a formative presence in my life wiped away, just like that.

  “He was your friend?” the orderly said. This time his voice betrayed genuine feeling.

  All I could do was nod.

  “Sorry, Brandon. It’s hard when we lose the people we care about.” He looked down the hall, lit red from exit signs, the low thrum of machines humming, respirators and heart rate monitors, these tubes and wires that prolonged but could never cure. “But you need to go.” He waited. “I won’t tell Talbot you were here.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  I stalked out of the hospital, descending into the crisp air.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. Blocked number. I took it anyway.

  “This is the police,” a man said. “Am I speaking with Brandon Cossey?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I remained silent.

  “Is this Brandon Cossey?” the man asked again, brusque, authoritative.

  “Who is this? What’s this about?”

  “I’m afraid I can only share that information with Brandon Cossey.”

  “Yeah, sure, this is Brandon. What’s going on?”

  “Would it be possible for you to come in?”

  “Why?”

  “Well,” he drawled out, “your car was spotted at a scene of interest earlier.”

  “Scene of interest?”

  “You drive a 2016 Toyota Camry, yes?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Samantha Holahan. She’s a friend of yours? She’s…missing. Or rather not answering her phone or door. Could be nothing.” He chuckled, though it didn’t put me at ease. “One of her parents hasn’t been able to reach her all day. Probably overreacting. Still, a good idea to talk. A neighbor reported seeing your car. No need to come down to the station. We can meet over a drink, if that makes you feel more comfortable. Keep this informal.”

  “Actually, no,” I lied. “This isn’t Brandon. This is his roommate…Jeff.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “This isn’t Brandon. My name is Jeff. Jeff Tietz. I’m Brandon’s roommate.”

  “Why did you say you were Brandon?”

  “Because I wanted to know what this was about. Brandon is my good friend, and the police were calling, and since he’s not here, I wanted to tell him what this call was about. It’s only fair. You can’t call, say you’re the police, and then not say what it’s about.”

  The cop laughed. “You make it a habit of lying to the police, Jeff?”

  “No. Then again, I don’t have much inte
raction with the police.” I paused, gave it a hard count. “Neither does Brandon.”

  He exhaled, exasperated. “Where is he?”

  “Working.” Once I said it, I realized the mistake I’d made.

  “Where’s he work?”

  “Why? So you can bother him down there?”

  “Maybe I’ll send a squad car to your apartment, have him wait with you till Brandon gets home.”

  “Fine. Ledgecrest Convalescent Home. On Kensington Road. That good enough for you?”

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Tietz.”

  Then the cop hung up. If that even was a cop. Sam? Missing? Me, the last person to see her, speak with her?

  I pulled up Sam’s number. But didn’t call right away. I didn’t know which looked worse, calling or not. If Sam were indeed missing—and if I didn’t have anything to do with her disappearance, which, of course, I didn’t—why shouldn’t I call? Then again, if I had been guilty of a crime, which the cops were hinting at, I’d call under that scenario as well. Any halfway bright criminal would, to throw authorities off the scent.

  I didn’t need to throw anyone off any scent. I hadn’t done anything wrong except think too much. I called. Straight to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message, before the same circular reasoning brought me back to the beginning. Called again. Left a message. Short, quick, not weird. Just a “Hey, call me when you get a minute.”

  What was I thinking? I was standing in the Ledgecrest parking lot. Where I’d just invited the police. Why did I give them this address? Maybe they already knew. Maybe that new guy called them. But if that orderly called the cops on me, they wouldn’t have asked where I worked. Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, they know now.

  I hurried to my car, hopped in the bucket, and raced home. When I got to my apartment, I bypassed the complex parking garage and rolled to a stop on a side street, several blocks away, in case anyone had eyes on the place. Head down, hands in pocket, I was just a man out for an evening stroll. Most of the houselights were off. When I encountered any that were on, I made sure to cross the street and stay out of their harkening glow. Best to keep to the shadows.

  After I crept into my apartment building, I avoided the main foyer and went up the back steps. I hadn’t noticed any patrol cars out front. The cops would be smart enough to send an unmarked vehicle. I couldn’t see anyone sitting inside any cars. Hard to be sure. I couldn’t spend too much time searching.

  With trepidation I opened my apartment door, didn’t turn on lights, packing a gym bag with what I could find by the light of my cell.

  Outside my window, I heard a car pull to a stop. I tucked away my phone, back against the wall, afraid to breathe. Inching along, I spied out a crack in the blinds. Dark sedan. Like a million cop cars in countless movies and television shows. Like the car that had been following me earlier. Or just a regular car anyone would drive, parked beneath a streetlamp. There were people inside. No doors opened. No heads popped out a window to crane up to my place and get a better look. They were below my window, half a block away. The street, Poplar, had plenty of cars parked along it. This was a residential neighborhood. Gave me a bad feeling, though.

  I stole a peek. The interior of the car remained dark. From my distance, I couldn’t see much. Maybe they’d already gotten in or out and I’d missed them, whoever they were. Was I really going to stand in a lightless apartment, peeping out the blinds, staring down two stories at a random car?

  As I was letting closed the blinds, I saw the flicker of orange flame, like from a lighter, inside the car. Someone smoking a cigarette. And in that brief glow, I caught the silhouette of a man, maybe two of them, perhaps three. It happened fast. Then the interior fell dark again. I didn’t imagine it.

  Raiding closets, I jammed as many tees and pairs of underwear and socks as I could for an extended trip. At the bathroom sink, I swept up my toothbrush, comb, and deodorant, and then beelined for the door. That car was there for me. I didn’t go for new-age bunk but I could feel it in my meat and bones. And if Francis was telling the truth about not breaking into my apartment, someone else had. Those guys in the car. Who were they? The police? Why call first and ask to meet if they already knew where I lived? What did this have to do with Jacob? Illuminations? Francis? Anything? Nothing? No clue. I wasn’t sticking around to find out. In less than twenty-four hours, my whole world had been turned upside down, what I’d been sure of challenged.

  My complex had an unmarked side entrance, designed for movers and bigger packages. Heart still in throat, pulse racing like two hours on the treadmill, I took that secret stairwell. Back against the wall, I positioned the car keys in my hand so the blades split my knuckles and kicked open the cellar door. No one waited.

  The car I’d seen from my apartment was on the other side of the building, or it had been—I wasn’t going looking for it. Slinking with my gym bag, my crawl in the shadows soon turned into a brisk walk, then a full-on sprint.

  Jumping behind the wheel, I jammed the key in the ignition, rejoicing there wasn’t a gun to the base of my skull—and you better believe I checked the backseat first. A block away, relief surrendered to self-consciousness, then embarrassment. I tried to laugh it off. As ridiculous as these spy games were, the threat felt too real to ignore.

  I wanted to be on Cedar, a busier thoroughfare, which ran perpendicular to Poplar Avenue, making it easier to blend in, inconspicuous. Soon as I took the corner, I spied the offending vehicle again. Several blocks up, double-parked, waiting for me. I flooded the engine, jerking a hard left, cutting off oncoming traffic. Avoiding Cedar, I took Rumor Lane, killed the headlights, coasting down the hill, eyes peeled on various mirrors. I was now in a quieter part of town. I let the car roll until I was a several blocks away, in the ravine near the old bus station. A whispering wind brushed branches and swayed tall grassland. I hit the gas and restored the lights, flying out of the basin, blazing beneath tortuous concrete overpasses, taking unexpected turns and circuitous routes, zigzagging quadrants, no rhyme, no reason, leaving no trace. No way anyone could’ve followed that map.

  Nick’s Pizza and Subs sat on the edge of town, part of a larger shopping center with architecture rooted in the ’70s, rounded font headers redolent of earth tones. The stores were off-brand knockoffs, lesser-known franchises, Mom and Pop markets and eateries, coffee shops. I fished Francis’s number out of my center console. Right now, that crazy old man might be my only hope.

  I called the number. No idea where the 602 area code was from. What was I going to say? What was he going to do?

  The number I dialed reached a dry cleaner, instant voicemail. I tried again, thinking maybe I hit a wrong button. But, no, a dry cleaner. Just like 12 Monkeys. I was crazy Bruce Willis. Jesus.

  I left a nonsensical coded message. “This is Jacob’s friend, Brandon. I brought in…a coat…and I lost my ticket, but if a guy named Francis stops by to pick it up, that’s okay because I won’t be able to make it myself as I had unexpected guests from out of town drop in,” adding that I’d be “at Nick’s…getting pizza.” I left the name of the plaza. Bonkers. Come morning, some poor lady at Maria’s Wash ’n’ Dry was going to be mystified. What else could I do? Using a dry cleaning operation as a front for call laundering wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities where Francis was concerned.

  Where was I supposed to go? The Balfours was the only place I could think of, but if the police were looking for me, the Balfours would be next up after my apartment. Some of my old snail mail and bills still went there, the residence listed as an emergency contact, and I wasn’t putting Mrs. Balfour and Chloe in jeopardy. I needed a plan, a safe house to hole up in. Until then, reliable Wi-Fi would have to do. Let me poke around and get a handle on what was going down, an accurate picture. Nick’s had Wi-Fi.

  I ordered a meatball grinder and a Coke, and hunkered by a rear window, with one eye on the road.

  I pulled up a search engine on my phone. There was nothi
ng new on Sam. Nothing on Sam, period. No periodical mentioned a missing girl. That should’ve put my mind at ease. Until I realized it would be days, if not weeks, before such news reached the press. I’d feel better when she called back.

  After failing to make a dent in the grinder, I wrapped up the remainder and left a few bills and change on the table. I headed out to my car. I needed sleep, a few hours of rest. Hotels peppered the outskirts in clusters near highway ramps. I also knew most hotels these days required a driver’s license, even the scummy ones. There was no warrant out for my arrest, not that I knew of. I was a person of interest, but I wasn’t taking the chance. I curled into my backseat. The plaza was too secluded and low rent for a security guard. Last thing I needed was a rent-a-cop in his golf cart, shining a light, asking me for ID.

  In between checking for texts or calls that never came, I must’ve drifted off to sleep, even if it didn’t come easily or offer any REM.

  The rising sun over the plaza served as an alarm clock. I saw a coffee shop open. Hoisting my gym bag over my shoulder, I headed there, washing up and changing in the bathroom. I ordered my latte and was taking a step back outside when a voice told me to look up, toward the lot. And there they were, sitting in their car, parked beside mine.

  I made like I’d forgotten cream, returning to the coffee station, where I fiddled with sugar packets and sticks. Stealing glances out the window, I couldn’t get a good look. There were two of them. One I was pretty sure I recognized: the man from the bar that night with Sam, the man I’d mistaken for her friend Anthony, the guy with the mustache. There was another man sitting beside him. It wasn’t the boy in the blue coat. This man was older. He could’ve been that other guy from the night at the bar. Which, if true, meant they’d been after me for a while, together, a tag team. They both got out and walked right up to my car. No uniforms, dressed in regular clothes, so not cops or else undercover. They peeked in the windows before scrutinizing the parking lot. The one with the mustache directed a hand across the complex, as if to start canvassing. I didn’t know how many other coffee shops or restaurants there were. There was a donut shop and dinette I’d seen open. They started walking in that direction. I ducked out the door, rounding the first corner I saw, which deposited me between two buildings with a narrow passage, big enough to wedge through but not much bigger. Squeezing past putrid trash bags, dodging screeching cats, I emerged in a big back lot, where trucks made deliveries. I was hoping for the cover of tractor-trailers and freight. The dock was dead, lot covered in big puddles. Must’ve rained last night.