Darkshine

by R. D. Vallier

  The officer's expression of pride faltered. He straightened his back and lowered his tone—a boy trying to convince the world he was a man—and in that moment I realized it didn't matter what I said. It didn't matter I had lived my experiences, breathed them, struggled through and nearly died for them. It didn't matter I knew the facts. The police believed Orin was a threat. They believed I needed saving. And because they believed it, they accepted it as truth. They didn't realize they were abusing me instead of saving me, forcing me to watch helplessly as the innocent was tortured for my choices. I wanted to rebel, demand the facts be heard. But what did that matter? Orin will get a jail cell. Orin will suffer for my faults and I can't do anything to help him.

  "Is there anybody nearby we can call for you?" the officer asked.

  "No." I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. I had never felt like such a failure. "Orin is my only friend."

  "All right. Let's get you to the station and figure this all out," he said, then escorted me out of the room.

  The innkeeper waited outside the door, a room key dangling off her finger. She looked smug, as if she had single-handedly gotten a bad man off the streets, and seemed surprised when the damsel in distress cast her the glare of death. No wonder she gave me a room, I thought, bitterly. It was merely a trap. Orin stood beside the patrol cars, hands cuffed behind his back. Two officers searched every thread of his clothing for contraband. A third officer clutched Orin's wrists behind his back and pushed his body forward, as if preventing him from plunging off an invisible diving board. Except the swimming pool was empty. If the officer let go, Orin would face-plant onto the concrete.

  The contents in Orin's pockets were spread out on the hood of a patrol car—a folding knife, Rayban sunglasses, loose change, dog biscuits, a small spool of wire, a ring of keys—a sniffer's odds and ends, glinting in the spinning red and blues.

  The baby-faced officer seated me in the back of his patrol car as a passenger. I pressed my forehead against the glass and watched Orin be manhandled into another vehicle as a prisoner.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The bagel with cream cheese made my stomach growl, but I refused to eat it. It might be bait. And I was sick of falling for traps.

  I sat at a large folding table, a wool blanket around my shoulders, a lukewarm cup of coffee in my hands. I had hoped my use of night magic against the sniffer was enough to make me disappear into the darkshine upon daybreak, but no such luck. Across from me sat two middle-aged men with opposite complexions and identical fake smiles, both in suits without ties and perfectly creased collars. They had told me their names were detectives something-or-other, but I thought of them as Huey and Dewy, and wondered if Louie watched us from behind the gigantic mirror on the wall to my left. I wondered if this interrogation was going as he hoped.

  "I want to see Orin," I told Huey and Dewy (and Louie if he played spy as I thought).

  Huey shook his head. "Not possible."

  "Why?"

  "He's still at the emergency department for medical clearance."

  "When will I see him?" I said.

  "Why do you care to?"

  "Because he's my friend."

  I caught a whiff of Old Spice as Dewy's sausage-like fingers scribbled something on a yellow pad. "Strange term to call your abductor."

  "For the thousandth time, he didn't kidnap me," I said. "What do I have to do to convince you people?"

  "The ER doctor says it looks like he was whipped. Know anything about that?"

  "He was attacked."

  Huey lifted a bushy eyebrow. He reminded me of an anorexic walrus. "By you? Were you fighting him off?"

  "Don't be stupid. He's my friend."

  "Then how did he get them?"

  I thumbed the bite marks on the rim of my polystyrene cup. "I don't know. I wasn't there. He came to me afterwards, but didn't say anything."

  "So you didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, he didn't talk to you, and you didn't ask him about it." Dewy went back to scribbling. "Uh-huh. You two sound like the bestest of friends."

  I shrugged. "Can I go now? I've done nothing wrong."

  A wedge-shaped man with a hawklike face entered the room, carrying a laptop. My eyes narrowed. Louie, I presume. Louie set the laptop on the table, then slipped out of the room as silently as he had entered. Dewy pulled the laptop to him and started tapping buttons.

  "We are concerned about your safety, Miriam. And we'd hate for a bad man to go back on the streets to hurt others."

  "Oh, please. Orin is the sweetest guy I ever met."

  "Then why did he kidnap you?"

  I slumped into my chair. "He didn't kidnap me! As I've been telling you for hours. I ran away from my jerk of a husband because he cheated on me. I just met Orin along the way."

  "Then what's with those cuts on your wrists? It appears you were tied up, detained."

  "Kinky sex," I said.

  Dewy lifted an eyebrow. "I thought you were just friends."

  "We are. Can I go now?"

  Huey scratched his thick mustache, then folded his hands on the table. "We fear you are under the influence of Stockholm syndrome, Miriam. Have you heard of it?" I shook my head. "It is common in kidnapping and hostage situations. The victims become attached to their abductors. They trust them, sometimes even fall in love, and will do anything to protect them."

  "But Orin didn't abduct me." The fear of Orin being incarcerated for a psychosis I didn't have made my words come out in a whine.

  "We have evidence that leads us to believe otherwise." Dewy turned the laptop around. On screen was security camera footage from the truck-stop where I had called Sam. I was at the pay-phone, shoulders slumped, in my pajamas, and noticeably filthy even through the grainy imaging.

  "You took no money or belongings, left no note, used no vehicle. Just poof! Disappeared," Huey said. "And here you are in this footage, about four days later, in the same pajamas you were last seen in, obviously in distress."

  I rubbed my eye, my brain fuzzy with exhaustion. "I hopped a freight train, then later met Orin randomly and hitchhiked with him."

  "You hopped a train?" Dewy chuckled. "Sam says you are withdrawn and conservative and you prefer your life predictable. He says you are a girl who doesn't change things, not even your brand of laundry detergent. Yet you want me to believe you hopped a train? Just like that? That's a whopper if I ever heard one."

  "Well I never expected my husband to play the skin flute with some college kid," I snapped.

  Huey stared at me, confused. Then his eyes widened. An awkward silence settled in the room. Dewy sucked in his lips to keep from smiling. Onscreen, Orin entered the picture and I slammed down the receiver. He handed me my new knapsack, then embraced me and led me out of view. Huey cleared his throat and paused the footage. "You hung up fast and seem distressed when Orin enters the picture."

  "Of course I was distressed. I just had a fight with my husband."

  "Your husband says otherwise," Dewy said. "He says you sounded confused, that you didn't know where you were, and you hung up mid-sentence as if cut off. Is he lying?"

  "No," I said, slowly. "But—"

  Louie popped back into the room. He whispered into Dewy's ear. Dewy nodded grimly, then Louie left.

  "Has Orin been slipping you drugs, Miriam?" Dewy asked.

  "What? No!"

  "Your eyes are very red," Huey said.

  "I haven't slept much. Can I go now?"

  "I mean, why else would a sweet, quiet, small town girl like yourself wear a skimpy dress in winter and get tattoos with a guy she barely knows?"

  "That is none of your—"

  "Orin popped positive for meth and ecstasy," Dewy said.

  I blinked. "What?"

  "Did he encourage you to eat or drink from containers you didn't see him open? Generous with snacks or candy? Have things happening around you felt unreal? Maybe felt better than they should?"

  I opened my mouth but could not speak. I thou
ght about Orin's candy canes and all the food he had ordered without me present. I thought about the chickadee and how I had convinced myself I had eaten a hallucinogenic mold in the carrot cake. Had I been right? Had everything I experienced been a bad trip?

  A memory hit me: Sam and his buddies in the living room during half-time on Superbowl Sunday. Empty beer cans filled the trash; Cheetos were scattered across the floor. Sam bragged about a recent arrest where he had tricked some poor sucker into believing his brother had betrayed him. Sam told the sucker the district attorney had promised a reduced sentence if he ratted out his brother and friends. The sucker accepted Sam's deal and ratted out everyone. In truth, however, the sucker's brother had never squealed. Everyone was convicted, Sam never involved the district attorney, and the sucker received a full-term prison sentence. "For some reason everyone thinks it is illegal for cops to lie," Sam had said. "I swear. The public's ignorance is a better weapon than the gun."

  My eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

  "No," Dewy said. "Orin popped positive. They even—"

  "Drug test me."

  Huey and Dewy exchanged a glance.

  "Drug test me," I said. "I will prove I'm clean. Then you can let me and Orin go."

  "Excuse us for a moment."

  Huey and Dewy left the interrogation room. I glared at Louie hiding behind my reflection in the mirror, then set my coffee cup on the table and listened to the wall clock. Tick … tick … tick … tick … My stomach growled. The bagel would have won the battle of wills if I didn't fear the cream cheese had developed salmonella from sitting out for so long.

  Tick … tick … tick … tick … Nearly an hour passed. I remained alone. Were Huey and Dewy interrogating Orin? Maybe they were drug testing him, after all. Hopefully the Realm's herb doesn't pop up. Or the pot smoke from the RV. My brow furrowed. Maybe goading them was a bad idea. I gnawed on the stub I had left for a thumbnail, tasting the bitter dirt of the Sierra Nevada. God. Orin is probably scared out of his wits. But at least he was safe behind bars. The Realm guarded their secrets from humans, so I doubted they would attack us here. I relaxed some and wondered what Orin had told the detectives. How much did he divulge? Did he—?

  My spine straightened with a jolt. I glanced nervously at the mirror. What if Orin snapped? What if he had decided he had no friends, only enemies—faeries and darklings and humans alike. Maybe he had used magic on them all, went on a rampage of heat and wind. Maybe he summoned water from the pipes in the walls and boiled everyone alive. Maybe Huey and Dewy haven't returned because the entire police station is a unit of steaming corpses.

  I jumped from my chair and banged my fist on the mirror. "Hey!" I shouted. I made a visor with my hand and tried to peer through the glass. My rusted eyes peered back. "Is anybody in there? I'm not pressing charges and I've done nothing wrong. You can't detain me forever!"

  The door creaked. I spun around. Louie beckoned me outside with his finger.

  "It's about time." I followed Louie down the hallway, but we never made it to the exit sign. "I want to see Orin."

  "Can't right now. They're talking to him in one of the other rooms. It's an investigations thing. Anytime a possible state-crossed crime occurs with an officer's family member they gotta dot every I and cross every T. Sometimes the FBI pokes around too."

  "But I told you he is innocent."

  "Stop worrying yourself. If what you said matches up we will release Orin soon. Besides, I found you a distraction."

  Louie opened another door and directed me inside. This interrogation room was smaller than the last and lacked a one-way window. There were just four white walls, a table with three folding chairs, and my husband standing in the corner.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  "Miriam!"

  Sam threw his arms around me and squeezed—a lasso ensnaring its target at last. I bit my tongue to keep from crying out as he pinched my tattooed skin.

  "Thank God you're alive," he said, his voice muffled in my hair. "I've been so worried." He smelled of cigarettes and dirty laundry, as if he'd been chain-smoking for days without a break for a shower. Yet when he pulled back to kiss my lax lips, I noticed his face was clean shaven and no dark circles hung beneath his eyes.

  "I'll give you two a few minutes," Louie said, then closed the door behind him.

  Sam dropped his arms and stepped back. His eyes narrowed and a shadow passed over his face. "You wanna tell me what the fuck has gotten into you?" he snapped. "Explain why you've been gallivanting all around the country with that blond-haired faggot."

  I scoffed. "Like you should talk."

  Sam's eyes widened, then creased with rage. "Sit your ass down," he shouted, and thrust a finger at the table.

  A lifetime of repressed rage fought to explode out of me, but I swallowed it with my pride. Pick your battles, I told myself. You are in no position to be reckless.

  I clenched my jaw and sat.

  He pulled the blanket away from my back. "So it's true," he sneered. "Jesus. If you are going to tattoo half your body you could at least get something attractive."

  I stared at the wall and said nothing.

  "The silent treatment, is it?" Sam towered over me, his fists on the tabletop like a territorial gorilla. "I've been tailing your ass all across the country to bring you home safely."

  I rolled my eyes. "Oh please. You didn't do this for me. Our community will never elect a cock-sucking sheriff, or one unable to control his wife."

  "Is that what this is about? Revenge?"

  I threw my hands into the air. "It's not always about you, Sam! I don't want to be with you. I needed to leave."

  "After everything I have done, a divorce will be terrible to my candidacy."

  "Infidelity is a lot worse!" I snapped.

  He slammed his fists against the tabletop; a vein throbbed in his forehead. I clenched the blanket tight around my shoulders. The gray wool was rough against my raw skin, but Sam's gray-green eyes were rougher. How can this be the same man I had fallen in love with in high school? My heart had always fluttered when he winked across the classroom, but gazing into Sam's eyes now felt like smut or car accidents or gore—everything that made me recoil. My lips had tingled when his mouth brushed mine in the hallways, but his lips now left the stain of every kiss he had stolen behind my back, and the bitter aftertaste of every lie. At 6'5" my husband made an impressive figure, but standing there in the interrogation room he had never seemed so small.

  Sam flopped into the chair across from me with a groan. After a moment he said: "What the hell do you want from me?"

  "All I want is for you to leave me alone."

  "And what am I supposed to tell the media, huh?"

  "Tell them whatever you want. Say I got amnesia. Say you left me. Say I need an extended vacation to heal from all the trauma. I. Don't. Care. I promise to say whatever you want if you just leave me alone."

  Sam clasped his hands in front of his face, concealing his mouth in concentration. "The vacation idea might actually work." He trailed off, then leaned back. "Is there any way I can persuade you to come home with me?"

  I shook my head. "No."

  "Where will you go?"

  "I don't know." I smoothed my plum silk skirt. "Me and Orin will figure that out later."

  Sam's eyes narrowed. "You intend to stick with the faggot?"

  "Stop calling him that!"

  He rolled his eyes. "Why? That's what he is. For God's sake, Miriam, stop being so damn sensitive."

  "No!" I shouted, and slammed my fist on the table. Sam's eyebrows jumped with surprise. "Sensitivity gives me empathy and gratitude and the belief in something bigger than myself. I will lie to save your career and I will hide to protect your pride. But I refuse to sacrifice the goodness in me because it makes your bitterness uncomfortable!"

  Sam stared at me, dumbstruck. As if a mouse had leapt from the brush to rip out the lion's throat. I half expected him to vanish like vapor as he did in my purium vision. Instead, he
leaned back in his chair with scrutinizing eyes. I folded my arms over my chest and stared him down.

  After a minute of silence he sighed, then said: "Let's make a deal. If you don't speak to the media, I'll house you and Orin at a motel until you figure out where to go on vacation. I will even set aside finances for your vacation from my account, for as long as you stay quiet."

  The hair on my neck prickled. This is too good to be true. Was there a catch, or had the Realm made me paranoid? I had lived with Sam since I was eighteen, shared his home and shared his bed. Once he had been my universe, my knight in shining armor. I tapped my thumb on the tabletop. He had never hurt me. Not physically, anyway. And he could distance us quickly from the Realm. Sam would undoubtably give Orin hell, but gibes were pleasant compared to a sniffer's blade.

  I snickered.

  "What's so funny?" Sam asked.

  "This whole situation. I've been so desperate to stay ahead of you and now I'm considering going with you."

  Sam shrugged. "At least it got us out of visiting Grandma Ingrid."

  Our eyes met, and we burst into laughter.

  Sam reached across the table, cupped my hands. "Please. Let me do this for you, okay?" His smile faded. "You're right; I know it. It will never work between us. I did ya wrong. I know that, too." He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with a groan, and I glimpsed the exhaustion he carried. The weight of his career, the election, the fear of failure, a marriage built around lies and aversion, the inability to openly express a personal truth his family and community would never accept. I pitied him then, and realized he wasn't the powerful force I once thought he was. He was dark and dominating but otherwise harmless. A shadow shrinking in the light.

  "I don't want you unhappy, Miriam. You are a good person." Sam lowered his hands to the table, his chin trembling. "I loved you once, you know."