Shrouded in Darkness

by H. D. Thomson

So many questions. And she didn’t have an answer to any of them.

  Grabbing the bottle and her glass, she sat down by the kitchen table and threw her feet up on an adjacent chair. After refilling her glass and recapping the bottle, she slouched further in her seat.

  What did she need to figure out? She rubbed her brow. Pain throbbed between her eyes and against her temples. She didn’t want to figure it out. Not now. Not when all this thinking was killing her head.

  The doorbell sounded. She staggered from her chair. Shaking her head to clear it, she almost ran into the dark green plastic bag filled with garbage she’d forgotten about in her hurry to get to the door. This time, she glanced through the side window and saw Joyce with her brother, Carl.

  “Shit.”

  Margot didn’t want company, especially Joyce’s brother. Carl didn’t miss an opportunity to hit on her. The only thing that had kept her from slapping him silly was her friendship with Joyce. But, oh, the temptation had been there to do some serious damage to that ego of his, especially since he’d always been a self-righteous chauvinist. Being one of only three deputy’s in the town and surrounding area seemed to magnify his holier-than-thou attitude.

  She swept her fingers through her hair to get the tangles out and took a couple of deep breaths, having the stupid hope that the added oxygen might clear her muddled head. It didn’t work. She thought about not answering, but with her Cherokee parked outside, Joyce wasn’t liable to leave without at least seeing Margot’s face.

  When she opened the door, Joyce took one look at her and rushed inside. Carl followed more sedately and closed the door.

  “What happened?” Joyce demanded, frowning in great concern. “You look like hell.”

  “Malcolm was here and—”

  “Shit.” Carl’s skin turned pallid. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  Carl hefted his pants up and gave her a tough man look. The image of a strong deputy, with pressed uniform and shiny gun, riding into town was ruined by what looked like a grease stain on his potbelly, which Margot considered the biggest muscle on his body. From as far back as she could remember, he’d been more bulk than brawn.

  “Of course he did,” Joyce answered for her. “Why of all—”

  “No, Joyce,” Margot forestalled her. “He didn’t get a chance to touch me. Something pulled him off me.”

  “What do you mean ‘something pulled him off’ you?” Joyce asked.

  “Just that.” God, the drink was loosening her tongue. She glanced at Carl, then took Joyce’s elbow and led them further down the hall and out of his earshot. Carl loved gossip and ranked up there with the town’s worst. Whoever said women loved to talk obviously hadn’t been around a bunch of men for any length of time.

  After letting go of her friend’s arm, Margot massaged the bridge of her nose—anything to try to clear her head. “Malcolm had me up against the wall when something—don’t ask me what—grabbed him and flung him into the air. He never saw the ground coming. I don’t know what happened. It was almost like a ghost.”

  “You’ve got to be joking. A ghost?” The disbelief on Joyce’s face was unmistakable.

  “Yes, a ghost,” Margot retorted in a hushed voice.

  Joyce sniffed, and a look of reproof flashed in her eyes. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you? Now that I think of it, I can smell it on your breath.”

  “I had a glass or two after it happened,” she admitted. “But that doesn’t have anything to do with what just happened. Malcolm was there. He’d be the first to admit—”

  “What’s wrong?” Carl walked over to them.

  Margot sent Joyce a fierce look and answered, “Nothing.”

  “I thought I heard you mention ghosts.”

  Margot bit back a snappy retort. She didn’t need to antagonize the local law enforcement.

  “Margot thinks a ghost attacked Malcolm,” Joyce said.

  She winced. It sounded far worse coming from someone else.

  Carl hooked his thumbs over his waistband and rocked back on his heels. “A ghost, you say?”

  “Yes,” Joyce answered for her. “But she’s been drinking. So...”

  Margot disliked the conspiratorial look that passed between them.

  “You need to lay off the bottle, Margot,” Carl said. “It’s not doing you any good. Next you’ll be talking vampires.” Exposing a set of big, white teeth, he deepened his voice. “I vaaant to suuuck your blooood.”

  He laughed at his lousy impression of Count Dracula, and Joyce joined in. Margot wanted to hit them both.

  Still chuckling, Joyce flapped a hand. “Don’t even start talking about vampires. She’s got this guy who’s renting a room from her, and he only shows up at night. Talk about weird. He could be some blood sucking vampire for all we know.”

  “Thanks guys.”

  Immediately, Joyce turned serious. "Oh, jeez, Margot. I’m sorry. That wasn’t very nice. But really. It’s hard to swallow. Ghosts. You yourself told me that they were only stories. Maybe staying here by yourself isn’t such a good idea after all.”

  “You don’t understand. You weren’t there.”

  “Why don’t you just sleep it off,” Carl urged. He kneaded her shoulder with a big, meaty hand, which she immediately shrugged off. “Maybe after you’re sober—”

  A loud crash reverberated through the hall. All three jumped and looked over to the wall where a picture had slipped from its mooring and fallen to the floor.

  “See.” Margot pointed. “That’s exactly what I mean. Ever since Johnny—”

  “Margot,” Carl interrupted. “A picture fell. You’re reading into something that ain’t there.”

  She wanted to scream in frustration and get it through their heads that pictures didn’t fall off walls by themselves. Instead, she changed the subject. “Why are the two of you here, anyway?”

  Joyce smiled. “We were going to have lunch and thought you might want to get out for a bit. The forecast has another storm coming in, so you could be holed up here for a while. And actually, it was Carl’s idea.”

  Margot could just bet. Sometimes Joyce could be as thick skinned as her brother. Couldn’t either one of them see she wasn’t interested in Carl? She knew Joyce wanted her in the family, but Margot wasn’t about to get involved with some self-important deputy with macaroni for brains. Not even for her best friend.

  “Maybe another time,” she said. “Right now, I’m way behind on inputting titles into my database.”

  “If you’re sure...” Joyce tugged at her brother’s elbow. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Now, Margot. Ease up on the bottle.” Carl gave her an important look before he allowed Joyce to lead him to the front door.

  Margot only nodded and watched them leave. When the door closed soundly behind them, she slumped against the wood frame, looked up at the ceiling and groaned. “Tell me, is he annoying,” she asked the empty hall, “or is it just me?”

  The picture opposite from the one that had fallen, slipped from its hook and crashed to the floor. She didn’t even jump this time.

  “Johnny? At least, I think it’s you.” Stepping forward and slowly circling, she looked over the corners and shadows of the empty foyer and hall. “Thanks for the backup. But I think it’s going to take a little more than falling pictures to get them to believe in ghosts.”

  Silence. Then again, had she really expected more?

  Chapter 5

  Later that night, hunched over the computer in John’s darkened lab, Jake stared at the monitor. Nothing rushed out at him. No stunning answer, no brilliant hypothesis. The equations blurred and melded into each other. He tried to swallow the panic, but it was still there. Ready. Waiting. He couldn’t lose control. Not now. He rubbed at his brow with the heel of his hand.

  Reaching over the keyboard for a breath mint, he tossed one into his mouth. Damn, but he was exhausted. He hadn’t managed any decent sleep since fleeing Miltronics. When he finally rolled into bed, he’d lay
awake, mind, and body unable to shut down. Sleep, as elusive as the formula he pursued, was imperative in rejuvenating his system. It troubled him, but not as much as the blood. He’d started spitting it up these last couple of days. Now that—that scared the hell out of him.

  He wasn’t ready to die. Not yet.

  There were too many things he wanted to do. Nothing like climb Mount Everest, but he wanted a wife and children. His sister, Kim, had proven you could have a loving, normal relationship, something other than what he’d witnessed with his parents, a couple who lacked any real, deep affection for their children. To this day, he didn’t know why they’d had kids.

  At least Kim loved her husband and was ecstatic at the news of being pregnant with her first child. The announcement had come days before Jake had run from Boston.

  Damn it! He wanted to be around to hold the baby. He wanted to be an uncle, be able to watch the child grow and mature. He wanted— He stumbled from his chair. He wanted too many things, too many simple, unreachable things.

  Moonlight pierced through the one window across from the desk, illuminating the tables, equipment and enough of the laboratory floor for him to cross the room without banging a foot or shin. At the window, he rested a hand against its edge as he peered outside. The night greeted him, the only time he felt comfortable since the explosion. He welcomed the shadows, which clung to the pines and rolling snow, camouflaging the mice, owls, and other small creatures he knew were out there.

  A storm was due in tonight, but he didn’t see any signs. Stars winked from above, and a stillness, a hushed sense of expectation washed over the night, or it could be his own imagination, his own hopes that he might find the key to unlocking the formula.

  He glanced up at Margot’s house. It sat on the hill, darker, thicker than the other shadows. Even though the sun had long since dipped behind the barren trees, the windows were absent of light. She was up there, though. Somewhere.

  But what was she doing? Working? Drinking? Or staring off into some nameless space. He’d caught her doing that a number of times, thinking of God knew what as the house darkened around her. Was she remembering what had happened between them last night? She must have felt the same passion, the same hunger that still burned through his body. God, she’d been so soft and supple in his arms. The scent of her had driven him insane.

  He’d been on her like a rutting dog and so damned close to going up those stairs after her. And he still wanted to, wanted to walk out of here and up the snow covered hill to her house. He wanted her hot, whimpering for him.

  He placed his brow against the glass. The chilled pane soothed his burning skin. From past experience, he knew he had a temperature. Even though mild, dangerous nonetheless.

  Disgusted with his lack of self-control, he pushed away from the window. He had no time for sex. If he wanted to live long enough to have a good time in bed, he needed to get back to the computer and work. The answer had to be somewhere. He knew John had safeguarded a copy of the formula for him, but the question was where. It wasn’t anywhere on John’s computer or in the lab. Jake had made a thorough sweep, while he’d also searched every room in Margot’s house. As for the idea of it being destroyed in the car crash with John—Jake didn’t even want to think about it.

  Sinking down in his chair, he focused on the numbers and equations in front of him. Concentration and determination were critical to unraveling Miracell. He’d get his answer or die trying. He laughed bitterly. That last thought came too damn close to the truth.

  As he reached for another breath mint, a frigid breeze brushed against his skin. He stilled, his hand suspended in mid-air. The heater was on. He’d made sure, keeping the room regulated for the experiments he had to conduct. Shivering, he pushed away from the desk with a foot. The chair rolled and swiveled over the hard, linoleum floor as he turned.

  A man in a bulky, down jacket stood in front of the laboratory’s closed door. Malcolm. He’d slipped inside without Jake realizing.

  “Hello, Jake.”

  The air locked in Jake’s lungs for one, two...three seconds. Then he expelled it into one harsh sigh. He sat unmoving, as frozen and brittle as the trees outside.

  Malcolm stepped further into the lab, and a beam of moonlight glittered off a gun. “Shocked? You shouldn’t be. You knew I’d catch up to you.”

  He noted Malcolm wasn’t holding a revolver but a semi-automatic. It was a gun that could rip through the lab in seconds, tearing through flesh and bone and anything within its path. Jake had no weapon, no form of defense other than himself. Granted, it might be enough, but there was also the chance of getting hit with one stray bullet. That one bullet would kill him.

  “Have you come to kill me?” Jake asked from his chair, curling rigid fingers over the plastic arm rests.

  “Believe me, I’d like to. Would actually enjoy it after what you put me through. But, no.” Malcolm nodded to the semi-automatic in his hand. “I thought it smart to bring it along. Call it self-preservation. Or a healthy dose of common sense. After all, I’m not dealing with a normal man.”

  “A gun? You think that’s going to stop me? I’m not so easy to kill now, thanks to you.” Bitterness hardened his voice. “If I wanted to, I could kill you right now.”

  “But not before I get a couple of bullets in you,” Malcolm coolly replied. “Anyway, you won’t. You had an opportunity back in Boston and didn’t take it. You don’t have the stomach for it, Jake. You never have. That’s the difference between us. I’m not a coward.”

  “At least I’m not a murderer.” Jake dug his fingers deeper into the plastic armrests. “Twelve people. All dead. And I was almost one of them.”

  The moonlight couldn’t peal the shadows from Malcolm’s expression, but Jake sensed a stillness, almost a weariness settle over the other man.

  “Yes, well. That was an accident.”

  Jake’s lips thinned. “Come off it, Malcolm. You left us for dead. The only reason I made it out alive was because I was in another wing of the building and you and your friends miscalculated how much it would take to level the place.”

  Malcolm sighed and shook his head. “You weren’t supposed to die. You weren’t supposed to even be there. You were far too important to the whole project.”

  “That’s why you stabbed me with Miracell?”

  “So I lost it. What do you expect? All I could think of was getting back at you when I walked in on you and found out you’d destroyed a critical portion of the formula. I saw the syringe and reacted.”

  “I get it now.” Jake’s voice thickened with sarcasm. “I was far more important than the others. So important that I deserved a slow and painful death.”

  “Oh, yes. I thought you had it coming. Then I realized injecting you with the formula was better than any plan I’d imagined. It was the best shot to insure the formula’s survival. Miracell’s always been your brainchild, your baby. With any other scientist, it could take months, even years to get to where we were before the day of the blast. But with Miracell in your system, you have no choice but to reconstruct what’s left of the formula and identify an antidote. That is, if you ever hope to become a normal, functioning human being again.”

  Hatred twisted Jake’s gut, hatred for everything he had once believed in, and hatred for Malcolm and everything he stood for. “And John? Was he supposed to die? That crash of his sure as hell was no accident. He started talking, didn’t he? And you didn’t like it. So you decided to shut him up for good—”

  “Enough.” Malcolm waved the gun in an arc. “I didn’t come here to talk about John.” Malcolm reached over and flipped the light switch with his free hand. He nodded to the computer at Jake’s side. “It looks like you’ve started. Good. I want to know how far you’ve gotten.”

  Jake blinked at the sudden light that flared within the barn. “Turn it off. Margot’ll see it and wonder what’s going on.”

  “Ah, yes. My ex-wife.” Malcolm’s lip curled, but he turned the light off. “I ho
pe you haven’t been stupid enough to tell her about—”

  “Of course not.” Body tensed for any possibility, Jake watched Malcolm edge across the room. “How much does she know?”

  “I don’t know. I have a hard time reading her nowadays. Maybe nothing, maybe everything.”

  “But she was married to you, wasn’t she? She must know something. She can’t be completely in the dark.”

  “She knows only what I want her to know,” Malcolm replied in a hard and ruthless voice. “However she’s also John’s sister. He could have told her everything that last week. And if he did, let’s hope she’s smart enough to keep her mouth shut. If she so much as breathes a word to the locals or someone in Boston, her life isn’t worth one of her dime store books.”

  Rage launched Jake across the room. He slammed a shoulder into Malcolm. The semi-automatic tumbled from Malcolm’s grasp and skidded across the floor without firing. He shoved Malcolm up against a table while digging his fingers into the flesh and muscle around his windpipe. Grunting, Malcolm bent backward over the table, struggling to pull Jake off him.

  “Don’t even think it,” he hissed into Malcolm’s ear. “I won’t have it. I’ll not have another death on my conscience. I swear if another person dies, I’ll come after you. Do you understand? Do you?”

  Realizing Malcolm couldn’t answer because of his grip around his throat, Jake eased the pressure. “Do you understand?”

  “Yeees—”

  “Good. Because you can’t hide. You know it. In the dead of night, before you know what’s happened, before you even realize someone’s crept up on you, I’ll have both my hands around your throat, and I won’t let go until I kill you.”

  In utter disgust, Jake flung him away. Malcolm tripped over his expensive wing-tipped shoes, awkwardly twisted at the waist and latched onto the edge of the table with one flailing hand to break his fall.

  Brushing off his hands, weary and sickened, Jake watched Malcolm straighten. “Get out. Just get out.”

  Malcolm lurched sideways and snapped up the gun. With both hands affixed around the handle, he backed up to the door.