In Shadows

by Chandler McGrew

  She checked her makeup one more time and patted Oswald again, but when she reached the front hall a noise stopped her. The sound was faint, like a radio left on in some other room, but she hardly ever listened to the radio. The music for the past fifty years had been atrocious. The sound seemed to come from behind her, vague and indefinable yet mesmerizing, like the murmuring of a stream. It wafted through the semidarkened library—an old bedroom she had lined with unfinished pine bookcases overflowing with paperback romance novels.

  She followed the sound through the library—across a frayed Persian rug that covered most of the hardwood floor—and into the passageway leading to the storage shed. As she entered the near-total gloom, the murmuring took on the darker tone of an overzealous undertaker whispering beside a deathbed. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, but she couldn’t turn away now. The noise seemed to be slipping under and through the rotten barnwood door that opened into the shed.

  It occurred to her then that old Albert had lived alone just like her. Lord knew what the valley was coming to. She rested her shaking hand on the rusted doorknob and wondered if she shouldn’t just grab Oswald, climb in the car, and go get the sheriff.

  But she wasn’t going to be chased out of her own home. Certainly not by a bunch of whispering. It was probably just wind under the eaves.

  She twisted the knob and jerked the door aside. The shed smelled of dust and gasoline. One dirty window let in a minimum of light. Ancient beams were visible through the cracks between the rotten pine floorboards. A rusting rototiller sat dejectedly in the far corner gathering cobwebs, along with an assortment of rakes, hoes, and a lawn mower with one cockeyed wheel. The sound was louder here, audible over the rain pounding on the tin roof, but it certainly wasn’t coming from inside.

  Barbara didn’t trust the old pine floorboards at all. They creaked as she tiptoed toward the far wall, placing her feet where she could see rusty nailheads so that her weight would be directly over the beams below. But when she reached the door, she realized she’d made a mistake. The latch on the outside was bolted. Of course it was. The Murphy boy didn’t traipse through the house when he came to mow her lawn.

  The murmuring seemed to be coming from just the other side of the door. She placed her head directly against the wood, and the sound reverberated in her ears. She slipped over to the window, rubbing hard at the grit on the glass in the paint-encrusted, six-paneled frame, and peered out into the rain. Something dark and hulking seemed to waft along the edge of the looming forest. She leaned closer to the window, but the sound and the light shifted, and the shadow disappeared. Water pouring off the roof splattered on the sill. She’d have to go back to her bedroom window to see if she could spot the thing in the woods again.

  She spun on her heel, took two quick steps, and her leg snapped through a floorboard. Reaching to catch herself, she slammed her hand against the floor, twisting her wrist. Her other hand punched through another floorboard. Her head struck something solid, and she blacked out.

  When she came to, her nose ached, and she tasted blood as she breathed noisily through her mouth. She could raise her arms, but they were swollen and terribly painful below the elbow, and she could barely move her fingers. Her legs seemed to be trapped in the floor by jagged splinters of wood. She couldn’t feel anything beneath her feet, and she tried to remember what was underneath the shed. Was it a basement down there, or just an old crawl space?

  Neither possibility made her particularly happy. If she was suspended over a basement it might be a long way down to the floor, and if it was a dirt crawl space no telling what kinds of creatures were creeping around her legs right now.

  The thought that she had surely ruined her stockings bothered her, but she couldn’t dwell on it. She had to find a way out. But every time she moved, the floor gave a little more, making terrible noises, as though the beams supporting the boards were ready to crack, as well. She tried wiggling her trapped legs, but when she felt splinters stinging muscle she stopped.

  No one but Pam or Ernie ever visited, and if she didn’t show up for church tomorrow her absence probably wouldn’t be noticed because she was an on-again, off-again Christian anyway. She got no mail other than catalogs, and when they piled up the postmistress would more than likely just assume she’d gone out of town for a few days. By the time anyone got around to checking, she’d be a withered mummy.

  She tried kicking again. Pain shot up her thigh and seized her torso, and she gasped for breath. She felt a warm trickling down around her toes, and she wondered how long it took to bleed to death.

  ANDI SLIPPED HER RAINCOAT out of the hall closet and carried Pierce’s to his room. She was surprised to find him waiting quietly, facing the door. She took his hand.

  Ready to go for ice cream?

  He nodded distractedly.

  Hearing something again?

  He shook his head.

  What’s up then?

  Pierce shrugged.

  Mandi frowned, studying his face. Pierce was never uncommunicative. Inside his silent, dark world he was always eager to make contact. He seemed all right, just preoccupied.

  Let’s go, she signed. But he wouldn’t release her hand.

  Jake is nice, he spelled.

  Yes.

  He’s scared.

  Did he tell you that?

  She couldn’t think of any reason Jake would frighten Pierce with a revelation like that.

  The boy shook his head. I just know.

  What would he be afraid of?

  I think he’s afraid of what’s here.

  Mandi had to withdraw her hand for a second. But she still couldn’t read his face. When she took his hand again hers was steady once more.

  Nothing’s here but us, she signed.

  Not in our house. There’s something in the valley.

  Like what?

  Pierce turned toward the window and frowned.

  He squeezed her hand as though he wanted her to think about every word. I get scared when you’re gone.

  Why didn’t you tell me? she signed, feeling the familiar weight of guilt tugging at her heart. When Pierce had turned twelve he’d announced that he was way too old for a babysitter, and Mandi had very reluctantly agreed. She’d had a hard time coming up with the money to begin with, and a good sitter had always been difficult to find. Even so, the transition had been tough for her, knowing Pierce was home alone and unprotected. Very tough. She thought about him all day for weeks, hurrying home during lunch, hugging him when she got there, checking and rechecking the locks. Now she knew her instincts had been right.

  I can feel it sometimes, at my window.

  Everyone has that feeling. It’s just your imagination.

  I think it wants something.

  She sighed. What does it want?

  I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.

  That Pierce was special went without saying. His talent for fixing things he couldn’t see bordered on the supernatural. That he might sense something she couldn’t stretched her credulity, but not to the point of breaking. She had heard enough old wives’ tales attributing Jake’s mother’s death not to Jake’s father but to the Crowley curse, and she was sure after Albert’s murder people’s tongues were wagging again. But she didn’t believe in any curse, and she didn’t want Pierce believing in some unseen presence in the valley, either.

  Nothing will ever hurt you as long as I’m around, she promised him again, praying she’d always be able to fulfill her pledge.

  RAMER DROVE UP THE MUDDY DRIVE to Pam and Ernie’s neighbors’ home, and Jake sighed as he stared at the walk leading to the front porch.

  Cramer gave him a questioning look.

  “Let’s start somewhere else,” said Jake.

  “Where else?”

  “Anywhere,” said Jake. “Bert’s an old friend. His wife, Karen, is a cousin.”

  “Like there’s anyone around here who isn’t. Seemed like everybody at the get-together Thursday nigh
t was either a cousin or someone you dumped.”

  Jake frowned. “It’s a small valley.”

  “Small ain’t the half of it. This place is petit petit. Look, I don’t like having to disturb the Murphys, either, but if we’re going to investigate, then let’s investigate. We have to talk to everyone in the valley sooner or later, and they’re the closest.”

  “Mister Business,” said Jake. “You tell them it was us chasing their kid.”

  “I’m hoping it won’t come up. There’s no reason the cops had to tell them anyone else was chasing the boy.”

  Jake knocked on the door as water trickled down the back of his neck. The rain was heavier now, penny-sized drops pattering down from a dark but still-silent sky. Karen Murphy answered the door in her bathrobe. Her face was puffy and red, and her dark-rimmed eyes looked like two burnt holes in a blanket. She had a cigarette in her hand, and the smell of stale tobacco assailed Jake. She stared at the two of them for a moment as though she couldn’t quite focus.

  “Jake!” she said finally, her voice worn and raspy. “Come on in. You guys are getting soaked.”

  She herded them over to a wide sofa that had seen better days, adjusting the floor vent so warm air would blow in their direction. Jake introduced Cramer.

  “Bert’s in the bedroom, lying down. I’ll get him,” said Karen.

  As they watched her amble away down the hall Jake noticed how much her shoulders sagged, and he suddenly wished that Bert would refuse to come out and meet them. But then Bert stumbled into the room, and it was obvious he didn’t recognize Jake. Bert had always been thin and short of stature, but the weight of Dary’s death seemed to have compressed him even more. He looked as though one more blow might make him disappear altogether.

  Jake took his hand and shook it gently. “It’s me, Bert. Jake Crowley.”

  To Jake’s amazement, Bert fell into his arms and jerked him close, slapping his back. “Jake! Jeez, I’m so glad to see you.”

  Jake tried to introduce Cramer, but Bert dragged Jake down onto the sofa, still hugging him like a long-lost brother.

  “I can’t believe you came back, Jake. I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, Bert.” Jake gave Karen a look, but she shrugged. No salvation there.

  “We didn’t know what to do,” said Bert. “I mean . . . you know . . . After the deputies came and told us about Dary. We have to go to the funeral home this afternoon and pick out a casket . . .”

  Without warning he buried his head in Jake’s shirt again and began to sob.

  “I know, Bert. I’m sorry.”

  “They say he stole a car. Dary would never do anything like that.”

  Jake bit his lip.

  “He was so afraid the last couple of days,” whispered Karen.

  “What was he afraid of?” asked Jake, a sense of doom worming its way between his shoulder blades.

  “He kept saying there was something bad here that was going to get us,” said Karen, sitting on the edge of a coffee table that was more cigarette burns than veneer. “Bert told him it was just the bogeyman.”

  “I didn’t mean to make fun of him,” said Bert, sniffling. “I just didn’t want him to be a sissy.”

  “He wasn’t a sissy. He was a fine boy,” Karen said between tight lips, as tears rolled down her cheeks. “The funeral is day after tomorrow.”

  Cramer shook his head. Karen and Bert didn’t know anything beyond their own grief.

  “I don’t know how to say how sorry I am,” said Jake, taking Karen’s hand.

  She nodded. “We know it was you that followed him,” she said.

  “Cramer and I tried to stop him,” muttered Jake, feeling trapped and guilty.

  “Was he going real fast?” said Bert.

  “We couldn’t get around him to head him off.”

  “Was he running from you?” asked Karen, her eyes boring into Jake like wet lasers.

  Jake had no answer. The silence burned.

  “He was running from the thing he was afraid of,” said Bert, shaking his head. “Mark told the deputy that when Dary jumped in his car he looked like a frightened rabbit.”

  “Mark?” said Cramer. “You know the owner of the car?”

  Bert glanced at Cramer. “Sure. Mark Robbins. Jake knows him. He was there when they brought up Dary and the car. I guess the police called him.”

  “I didn’t realize it was Mark’s car,” said Jake.

  “So you were at home when it happened?” said Cramer.

  Bert nodded.

  “Were either of you out and about the day Albert was killed?” asked Jake.

  “No,” said Bert, glancing at Karen. “I’ve been laid off from the mill, and we haven’t been anywhere in a couple of weeks. Why do you ask?”

  Jake shook his head. “I just wondered if you had any ideas about Uncle Albert’s killing.”

  Bert seemed to take a minute to wrap his mind around the concept of something other than his boy’s death. “No . . . One of Virgil’s deputies came by to ask questions. But like I say, we haven’t been out of the house. It’s terrible about Albert. I’m really sorry for your loss, too, Jake.”

  “We won’t bother you any longer, then,” said Jake, nodding and rising.

  Bert rose with him, taking Jake’s hand in a firm grip. “I know you were trying to do what was right, Jake.”

  All Jake could do was nod.

  But Cramer wasn’t done. “What do you think Dary was running from?”

  “He was acting real funny the last few days,” said Karen, her voice quavering. “Up till then Dary’d never been afraid of anything. He used to ride his bike up and down the valley. He hiked as far as the old swimming hole by himself. But Bert made him promise never to go in without one of us.”

  Jake frowned. “Up by my parents’ old house?”

  Karen nodded. “That’s what I mean. Most small boys would have been afraid of that old empty place. You know how it is. The kids around here think it’s haunted. But not Dary. Or at least not until the last couple of days.”

  “What changed?” asked Cramer.

  Bert shrugged. “He started having bad dreams. Only he couldn’t seem to recall what they were about, just something bad was all he’d say. He seemed preoccupied during the day, staring off into the distance a lot. Said he could hear whispering. I thought maybe he was coming down with something, but Karen said he was just daydreaming.”

  “That’s what I thought,” said Karen defensively. “Then yesterday while he and Bert were working in the garden, Dary wandered off into the woods.”

  “I didn’t worry at first,” said Bert, beginning to sob again. “I thought maybe it was a good thing. If he was out in the woods, then maybe the fear was going away.”

  “Is Mark home, do you know?” asked Jake.

  Bert shook his head. “I wanted to talk to him . . . But I guess he was just getting ready to head back to the coast when Dary . . . the deputy told us Mark caught a ride. He works on a fishing boat out of Gloucester now.”

  “Thank you for your help,” said Jake, nudging Cramer toward the door.

  They shook hands all around. Then Jake and Cramer hurried back to the car.

  “The hitchhiker and the boy were both up by your old family home,” mused Cramer.

  “So?” said Jake irritably.

  Cramer shrugged. The rain pounded even harder against the windshield, and he shook his head.

  “Storms follow you around these days,” he said. “And there seems to be a hell of a lot of whispering going on in this valley. Did you by any chance hear people whispering out on the beach?”

  “No.”

  “Did you hear them the night your mother was murdered?”

  Jake turned up the road, gripping the wheel between white knuckles.

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  Cramer nodded, leaning back and giving Jake another of his evil grins. “The plot thickens.”

  IMMY TORRIO WATCHED the New Engla
nd landscape slide by through the downpour. He was equally at home in a million-dollar boardroom or a Guatemalan jungle. But the rolling hills and big dairy farms of rural Massachusetts felt alien to him. Even the cows huddled together beneath the storm seemed wrong. Instead of the sleek red Herefords or creamy-gray Brahmas with their humped backs that he might see wandering through the oil wells on the outskirts of Houston, there were fat, low-slung, bony-hipped dairy cattle and some kind of black, alien breed with perfect white belts around their midsections that looked as though they’d been painted on by a bunch of college kids pledging a fraternity.

  He tried to clear his mind by focusing on his prey. He’d had it in for both Jake and Cramer before Jake murdered his only brother. It had been no secret that the two of them had been investigating him and José for months. And getting rid of one of the nosy cops and the double-dealing hit man at the same time had seemed to Jimmy to be nothing short of an act of genius. Only it hadn’t turned out that way. Reever was dead, all right. But somehow Jake Crowley had taken out six of their best men and José. And that made things not only business but personal.

  The driver of the old Crown Victoria, a man named Smitty, smiled at Jimmy, and Jimmy smiled back, glancing at Paco lolling in the backseat half asleep. Paco snapped to a sitting attention. He knew he was still on Jimmy’s shit list. Ever since he’d been sent to Crowley to dig up dirt on Jake, things had gone downhill as far as Jimmy was concerned. Bringing the dunce along had seemed like a good idea back in Houston. At least Paco knew the lay of the land. But he had the ability to irritate Jimmy just by opening his mouth.

  The original plan had been for Paco to threaten Jake’s uncle, and then Jimmy would let Jake know that he knew where Jake’s family lived. But the old man had ended up dead, and the fuckhead swore he hadn’t had anything to do with the killing. So Jimmy had been forced to move on to plan B. Only plan B had cost José his life. Now Jimmy was formulating plan C as he went along. But he knew that regardless of what he had told the old woman, it was going to entail both Cramer and Jake dying.