The Other Side of Darkness

by Linda Rondeau

  Leon arched an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s one explanation.”

  Sam was not about to give him the other one. “Sadie, I’d like to settle up my accounts before I leave this morning. How much do I owe you?”

  “Can’t say off the top of my head. I’ll have to send you a bill since I haven’t figured it out, yet.”

  Sam took the steps heavily, her sadness deepening with each stair. She turned on the television, flipping from one news channel to another and booted her laptop, surfing through news feeds and reading anything she could about Styles. She opened her email and noticed she’d overlooked one from Justine sent last night before her errand request.

  As we were leaving Haven, a van followed us. Abe managed to double back and got the license plate number. It’s registered to Montel Atkins, a private detective on Darnell Washington’s payroll. Abe’s trying to figure out what business Montel has in Haven. In the meantime, please be careful.

  32

  Sam switched on the air conditioner as she pulled out of the discount store’s parking lot, the noon-day air thick with moisture, like the day Daddy died. She glanced at her watch, she’d be cutting it close, but she could still stop at the church and be on time for her date with Aaron, then on to the cabin and start settling in while she waited for Zack.

  She pushed aside her worries about Harlan Styles, entertaining the idea of her temporary life in Haven and looking forward to the tranquility she’d find at Dawn’s Hope. Would she finally find that peace that passes understanding—a peace other Christians claimed, but that eluded her? Maybe Sam Knowles didn’t deserve peace. In one of Justine’s mini-sermons, she’d said, “If you want to float down God’s peaceful river, you have to drop your oars and let God do the rowing.”

  Sam tightened her grip on the steering wheel. Easy enough for Justine to say; her life was the stuff of magazines—beauty, brains, boyfriends and bounce. Why wouldn’t she feel peace when everything in her life turned out to be as perfect as a Jonathan Gladstone landscape? At this moment, right or wrong, Sam’s hands were glued to the oars and she couldn’t drop them unless God performed an amputation.

  She pulled up in front of Christ Church and rushed up the steps, hopeful Pastor Gus would be in his study so she wouldn’t have the onerous task of counting every pew and every column. She picked up a brochure on her way in. There should be something in there about the layout and structure. However, the subdued natural light made the church too dark for her to read the black print against the blue background. She couldn’t find the light switches, or maybe they didn’t use artificial light in keeping with colonial times. If she could find him, Pastor Gus would probably know how many columns and pews there were. She knocked on the office door, but no answer. Should she wait or start counting? She moved to the front. One—two—

  Heavy steps—quick, decisive steps like Harlan Styles made when he entered the courtroom—came towards her from the curtained area behind the pulpit. Sam retreated to the entrance and ran downstairs, the footsteps following her picking up their pace. She kicked up the loose board in the basement, crawled into the box grave, and slipped the heavy covering in place, listening to the approaching clods, first over her head, then on either side of the cell. A thud, like heavy doors closing, then quiet. Elvis has left the building…now, how do I get out?

  Something crawled over her pant leg. She pushed, but the covering wouldn’t budge, leaving her sealed in a spider-infested casket. Great. “Is this what you’ve got in mind for me, Lord? Save me from a moose and a stalker only to bring me to eternity via suffocation?”

  A prism of light sneaked through the cracks, followed by a group of footsteps and a husky voice. “Because of its proximity to Lake Champlain, this church was part of the famous Underground Railroad. We saved this hiding cell during our renovations to remind us of man’s inhumanity to man, a stain on our American history—”

  Sorry I doubted you, Lord. Sam pounded against her coffin lid. “Pastor Gus. Help! Get me out.”

  The covering lifted, and a surly-faced clergyman hauled Sam up. A young couple and presumably a set of confused parents stood bug-eyed in disbelief. “I can explain,” Sam said.

  “Don’t tell me. You’re as much a history buff as your friend’s boss, trying it out for size.”

  “Not like that. I thought someone followed me, so I hid. I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted something with my foolish fears.”

  “These nice folks are here to look at the church for their wedding next year.” Pastor Gus introduced the group. “I hope we didn’t alarm you.”

  “These were different steps.”

  “No one else is in here except for us…although, I did see a stranger, a dark complexioned man, walking north on Main street as we came into the church. We get a lot of people who pop in out of curiosity…maybe that’s what you heard, a passerby.”

  With heated cheeks, Sam dusted a spider web off her slacks. “Yes. Probably.”

  “Was there something I could help you with, Sam?”

  “My friend Justine wanted to know how many columns and how many pews there were in the church.”

  Pastor Gus pointed at the brochure. “It’s all in there.”

  Of course.

  Outside, Sam drank the air for reassurance, but her spaghetti-legs still wobbled. There was a fine line between bravery and stupidity. After she settled into the cabin, she’d call Abe and take him up on his offer for security.

  ****

  Sam tapped impatient feet while Aaron perused the trooper’s statement. “Speed imprudent? How fast do you think you were going?”

  Sam struck her practiced be-serious-in-front-of-Judge Normandy stance. “It was raining. I’m sure I slowed down. Besides, I was looking for a place to eat, not searching for game.”

  “I take it you’re representing yourself?”

  “I am an attorney.” At the moment, anyway.

  Aaron dropped his jaw and stroked his cheeks. “Trooper Mitchell does make a good case about the unwise speed given the sleet and subsequent dangerous conditions. The mangled remains and degree of damage done to the vehicle estimates your speed at fifty miles per hour.”

  “In a fifty-five-mile-per-hour speed zone.”

  Aaron smiled, and a chortle escaped. “Good point. But that speed may still have been too fast to maintain proper control of your vehicle given the road conditions.”

  “And what speed would have been prudent according to Trooper Mitchell?”

  Aaron offered another smile, his court demeanor unlike Judge Normandy’s. “Another point well taken, Counselor. Trooper Mitchell was simply doing her job, and I’m trying to do mine. Let’s say we reduce the charge to a non-moving violation?”

  She studied Aaron’s determination—reduced violation would be the best she could hope for. She could cry unfair until doomsday, the outcome wouldn’t change. “I might have been distracted.”

  “Well, now that would be one explanation. Do you think you skidded because of a balding tire? When did you replace them last?”

  Like, never. She used public transportation the majority of the time. “Very possible, Your Honor.”

  “Well then—two hundred and fifty-dollar fine, and we’re done here.”

  Sam took out her temporary debit card and paid the fine, grinding her teeth with the unfairness of it all. “Don’t expect me to say thank you.”

  Aaron signed the documents and handed her a receipt. “I hear you’re moving into the cabin this afternoon.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Do you think you should be out there, alone?”

  Why did everyone assume Sam incapable of protecting herself?

  “Pastor Gus called me about your scare at the church. You wear a brave face, but this isn’t a game. Could be Styles isn’t anywhere near here, but should you take the chance?”

  “I’ll be careful, but with Jonathan’s security array, I’m as safe there as here. ADAs get threats all the time. I can’t hide with every squeak
.” Now if she could only convince herself she’d be safe, maybe she could sleep. “Quiet and solitude is the best medicine for me, right now. You’re not worried about the fishing, are you?”

  Aaron laughed. “That’s the least of my worries, Sam.”

  “The fishermen are still welcome. But they’ll have to knock. I sometimes forget to put a robe on.”

  Sam started for the door and Aaron stood like an old world gentleman. “Still, living in Jonathan’s cabin might be construed by an estate judge as a conflict of interest.”

  “I don’t plan to make it a permanent residence.”

  “Consider yourself advised as a professional courtesy.”

  If she compiled all the professional courtesies she’d been afforded, she’d have a tome. Let the anthems ring. Sam Knowles beat her own drum.

  “Jonathan told me that you were Richard Gladstone’s attorney?”

  “I was and I continue to manage the trust fund for the estate.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Richard was…a complicated man.”

  As were all the other residents of Haven. “Can you tell me why Richard drew up the will the way he did? At least give me a hint.”

  “Can I speak off the record?” Aaron sighed.

  “Of course. As far as I’m concerned, we’re two friends sharing a bit of Haven history.”

  “Jonathan’s disregard for Dawn’s Hope pained Richard greatly. They drifted apart and that rift intensified after Jonathan’s mother died. Richard thought if he could tie Jonathan to the land long enough, maybe he’d grow to appreciate his heritage.”

  Sam smiled. “Maybe that day has come.”

  33

  Harlan flicked his cigarette butt to the ground, his ears tuned for any snap of a twig.

  A car pulled up and Harlan ducked into the trees. He waited until the driver got out then walked a little closer to the edge of the road, careful to remain cloistered until he was sure it was Montel. “About time you showed up. I’m chewed up alive from these bugs.”

  “I can’t stay here long, Harlan. Whitehall might be a small town, but the cops are everywhere. Might be looking for my van, too. I think Hilderman spotted me when he was in Haven yesterday. What did you do with Reg’s car?”

  “It’s in the canal.”

  Montel paced and looked over his shoulder every two seconds, so nervous he’d make a dead mule buck. “Washington hopes I can talk you out of this. I don’t know that I can.”

  Harlan sneered. “Not likely. I don’t trust Washington, and frankly I don’t trust you. Give me your keys.”

  “You’re insane, but here.” The keys whizzed past Harlan’s head, landing on the ground five feet behind him. Harlan gripped the revolver in his pocket, but he needed Montel, needed more information. Patience. Harlan scooped up the keys, keeping one eye peeled on Montel.

  He leaned against his truck, his head moving every which way, but towards Harlan. “Why did you go and kill those ambulance drivers? Of all the stupid things you’ve ever done, killing those drivers tops the list.”

  “I didn’t kill those men…exactly.”

  “Exactly?”

  “The plan was to sneak the gym bag into the ambulance. Reg was going to ride in the bus with me, get the ambulance drivers to stop, short out this ankle bracelet, and run. For some reason, Reg pulled out the revolver while they were loading me. The one guy got mouthy, so Reg hit him on the head with the gun…too hard. The other guy fought to get the gun away from Reg and it went off. We high-tailed it out of there.”

  “Not how I heard it. I heard you hung Reg out to dry, left him to take the whole rap.”

  Harlan shrugged. “He killed those men. I didn’t.”

  Montel lit a cigarette, shaking with every drag. “If you’re telling me the truth, Washington might still be able to get you a deal with Hilderman. But you’ve got to forget this notion of revenge. It’s suicide. You’re not a killer, why go after her?”

  “Didn’t your Mama ever take you to church? Like it says in the Bible, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. I’m as good as dead because of her, no matter what I do. Where is she, Montel, still at that place they call the Lighthouse?”

  “I followed her into Glens Falls. She loaded up her car with a bunch of stuff. Looks like she’s moving somewhere. When she stopped at this church, I followed her in, but I think she heard me and hid. I quit after that. I can’t see the sense in all this. They’ll figure out I helped you and every cop will be gunning for me.” Montel threw the cigarette butt to the ground and squished it. “You can’t pay me enough to warrant that kind of risk. Take my van, but that’s it. From here on out, you’re on your own. You want to end up in the cemetery, be my guest. But I’m not about to join you there.”

  Montel swaggered toward the road, still looking to the right and to the left, but not behind him. Harlan pulled out the revolver, sweat pouring from his face. Could he do it? He slowly cocked the trigger then fired, the bullet striking Montel in the head.

  Harlan leaned over Montel’s body. I killed a man…just like that…with a quick click of a revolver. Harlan did an instant replay. Bam. So easy.

  In his mind, he saw his gas-bag foster mother pointing a knotty finger at him, telling him how evil he was and that he’d let Satan possess him. Maybe she had it right all along…knew he was a killer at heart. She was right about one thing. Harlan Styles was going to hell.

  Now he knew without a doubt he could kill Knowles when he found her. He wouldn’t even think twice. He’d changed in that instant—no longer afraid. He felt…powerful. He kissed the revolver, the talisman that gave him authority over life and death. Exhilarating, like being reborn. Death would claim him soon enough; the how and when didn’t matter as long as Knowles died first. Then let the Almighty curse him for all eternity.

  34

  Sam whooshed relief when she saw the landmark, the barn with the blue rooftop, where tarmac ended and the gravel road began. Sam slowed, keeping her eyes peeled in case the moose’s relatives were lurking about. The entrance to the cabin should be about a quarter mile from here.

  Jonathan said the driveway might be hard to spot from the road. No markers or even a mailbox. Rats. She should have set up a post office box today. So many things to think of.

  “Aha. There it is.” Hearing her own voice made her less nervous. She hit her signal light, realizing the stupidity…that no one would even see it on this private road. Lucille II ran smoothly over the crushed stone surface, surprisingly quiet. Sam calculated the distance from the road to the cabin—a quarter mile, a good ways in. Jonathan sat on an ATV loaded to the hilt with art supplies.

  When she parked, he dismounted—his stare unreadable. “You’re late. I’ve been waiting over an hour. Even artists have things to do, you know.”

  A joke? Hopefully. “I ran into construction on the way to Glens Falls and court took a little longer than expected.”

  “Need help unloading?”

  “I thought you had things to do?”

  Now he grinned. His bronze cheeks wrinkled with the effort. “There’s nothing on my agenda at the moment.”

  Sam glanced toward the mound of canvases. “You said you wouldn’t paint in the cabin.”

  “And I won’t.” He pointed at another gravel drive. “That leads to the barn near Triune Point. I thought I’d paint in the loft.”

  Sam hauled out the suitcase she’d borrowed from Sadie and her laptop. “Suit yourself. But I should warn you, I know how to use a gun. I noticed the rifle when I was here before. So don’t pull any funny stuff.”

  “Doesn’t work.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The rifle. It’s only a decoration. The trigger’s busted.”

  “Well, I can still use a frying pan.”

  Jonathan smiled again. Twice within five minutes…maybe he could be pleasant company, after all. Sam handed him the suitcase, then pulled out the two bags of purchases. “There’s a h
uge box of food in the trunk that Sadie packed. That’s it.”

  She followed Jonathan to the door. He set down the suitcase and held out a keychain. “As I promised.” He showcased each key. “This one’s for the front padlock…this one’s for the back.”

  “What about the ATV?”

  “ATVs…plural. The Max II is good for both land and water, but you’re going to want a smaller one for the trails. The keys are kept in the ignition.”

  He opened the front padlock, tossed her the keys and went inside ahead of her. “I restocked the cupboards and fridge to get you started. Milk, eggs, bread, sandwich meat, peanut butter, and jelly.”

  “Thanks Jonathan. You didn’t have to go to all that trouble. Sadie packed enough food for a month.”

  “Need help arranging anything?”

  Why the gushing helpfulness? The Jonathan she met the other day could barely muster a civil word. “Zack’s coming after school to help me set things up. I hope you don’t mind if I girlify the place a little.”

  Jonathan’s face returned to its taut familiarity. “Knock yourself out. When do you want to get to work on my petition?”

  “Tomorrow soon enough?”

  “I hoped we’d start on it today, but I guess I can wait.”

  “I’ll meet you at the main house tomorrow at nine.”

  “Do you know how to get there from here with the ATV?”

  By road, yes…trails via ATV? Sam shook her head.

  “Let me drop off these supplies to the shed, then I’ll show you. I can come back for you, or you can follow me, get a little better idea of the lay of the land. It’s up to you.”

  “Well…I—”

  “I’ll meet you out back.” He went out the door, mounted his ATV and spun around the cabin.

  She supposed he meant she’d have to go outside, relock the front padlock then walk to the rear of the cabin since she couldn’t open it from inside if it were padlocked. She couldn’t imagine herself driving a four-wheeled motorcycle. What other challenges would rural life bring her? She longed for the familiar and secure. Harlan might as well take her life; because of him, she’d lost everything else that mattered. “God, I’ve lost everything.”