The Other Side of Darkness

by Linda Rondeau

  Sam choked in the dust of his heated retreat.

  ****

  Jonathan leaned against the counter, wallowing in self-loathing. Jonathan Gladstone lived by no rules but his own, yet, he’d broken some kind of code—unstated expectations between friends.

  Sam returned, her eyes red and her cheeks wet. “I think you’d better go, Jonathan.”

  “I won’t apologize for my attraction to you, Sam. I’m only sorry Zack came in when he did.”

  “I need to think. I shouldn’t have agreed to stay here. I can’t kiss you and then represent you. I’m moving back to Aaron’s tomorrow.” Jonathan caressed a stray strand of tear-soaked hair stuck to her cheek. She shoved his hand away. “Jonathan, I can’t.”

  He turned and left, letting the door slam on his way out. He pushed the ATV as fast it would go, gravel, twigs, and stray stones buffeting his legs, yet, not one jolt compensation enough for the wrong he had done, knowing he’d kiss Sam again if he had another opportunity, and that she’d let him, of that he was certain.

  Were there two different Sam’s, the one Zack thought he loved and the one Jonathan desired? Zack described a paper doll, vulnerable, in need of protection. Not this spitfire Jonathan had spent the afternoon with. She reveled in his stories about Emmanuel, placed herself inside the drama, and her joy had teased his ego.

  A prayer found its way to heaven. “How do I make this right?”

  37

  Harlan Styles lit a cigarette and drew one long intensified puff, then pulled Montel’s cap over his eyes. If he stayed parked here much longer, he’d draw attention to himself. He’d counted twenty people going in and out of the Lighthouse Lounge. No sign of Knowles, but maybe someone in there knew where he could find her.

  They might recognize him, though—even country bumpkins watched television. Drops of rain hit the windshield, a misty, hesitant rain that matched his uncertainty. A fat man came out of the Lighthouse and tapped on his window. “Excuse, me. You can’t park here.” He pointed toward the lined patch of tarmac underneath the truck. “Fire code.”

  “What’s it to you?”Harlan gripped the gear shift, but the man pounded harder on the window and took a peek at the license plate. Harlan let go of the gear shift and fondled Reg’s revolver. The longer he hesitated, the longer he argued with this idiot, the longer before he’d find that self-righteous Knowles. But, killing a man on Main Street wouldn’t serve his purpose. Keep your eyes on the prize, Harlan.

  He used to be a patient man; falsifying prescriptions was a tedious job. He played patient with the cops, with Brenda’s habit, with Dr. Jay and even Ingram. Survival depended on patience. Until he met Brenda, until her brat got into his drugs, until Knowles thought she had to do God’s work, until he’d killed a man, Harlan Styles had the patience of Job.

  He rolled down his window…trying to remember what patience felt like. “Sorry, mister, I’m still making up my mind if I should go in and grab a bite to eat. I hear the lady who runs the place is a good cook, though she seems to like to salt things up a bit.”

  “No food I’ve ever had was salty, best in the world as far as I’m concerned.”

  Harlan accepted the man’s handshake.

  “Name’s Rusty Whalen.”

  The man looked like he expected a name in return. “Montel Atkins. Where can I park?”

  Whalen pointed down the road. “There’s a small lot down yonder. They don’t start serving until five, but you can go on in and rest ’til then. Tell Sadie, Rusty sent you, and she’ll fix you up proper. Only, she’s not there. She and Aaron had some errands to do in Whitehall.” The man sauntered off in the other direction, oblivious to how close he’d come to dying.

  Harlan turned on the ignition and parked in the designated area. He needed a more thorough disguise. In the storage compartment between the seats, he found chewing gum, a pack of Marlboros and sunglasses. He put on the shades and stuffed the gum and cigarettes into his pocket then headed towards the Lighthouse.

  So close now. He’d not be deprived. He could see her on her knees begging. He’d tell her if she gave herself to him, he’d spare her life, then when he’d had his taste of her, he’d put a bullet between her eyes. He should turn the gun on himself and rob Ingram of the pleasure, choose his own time and place.

  The lounge smelled like Thanksgiving dinner. A group of old codgers surrounded the shuffleboard, and a lanky man with a portable oxygen tank danced in circles when he pushed off another old goat’s disc.

  One of the shuffleboard players walked towards Harlan, the guy so frail a gust of wind would blow him into tomorrow. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I’m an ADA from Manhattan–looking for a friend of mine. I heard she was staying here.”

  “I stay here. I think there was a nice girl who had the room next to me. She’s gone now.”

  “Samantha Knowles?”

  “Mighta been her name. Lovely girl.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Look, mister—”

  The old man stood back.

  Patience. Harlan forced a smile.

  “The name’s Leon.” The codger proffered a hand.

  Harlan played polite, shaking it like a politician, though he’d like to choke the loony tunes right out the guy. “Nathaniel Shuster. I have a gift for Sam, a going-away present.”

  “Now that’s right nice of you. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  This conversation was about as useful as a snot-filled tissue. “Nathaniel Shuster. I worked with Sam in the narcotics unit before she transferred to Special Victims.”

  Leon scratched his head. “You look familiar. Sure you haven’t been here before?”

  “No I haven’t. I’m kinda in a hurry.”

  “Who did you say you were looking for?”

  Harlan growled. Not even Job would last with this group. “Samantha Knowles.”

  “No. Don’t know anyone by that name.”

  An ancient hag ambled up next to Leon and grabbed his hand. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Says his name is Shuster.”

  “That’s right. Nathaniel Shuster.”

  “Says he works with the DA in Manhattan.”

  “Narcotics unit.” Harlan flashed every one of his costly crowns. “I’m looking for Samantha Knowles, Miss—”

  The old man put an arm around the wrinkled broad. “Her name’s Mazie, but she doesn’t remember, so no use asking her.”

  Two more shuffleboard players sauntered up. The one with the oxygen tank wheezed something that sounded like Sam had moved out. This bunch was about as clear as Brenda after a snort. Brain dead, the lot of them. “Can anyone tell me where she’s moved to?”

  A khaki clad fisherman came out from the restroom and joined the group. “Leon, anything wrong?”

  The two huddled, but Harlan overheard Leon’s whispers, about as mute as a television in a nursing home. “This fellow says he’s looking for a gal used to live here. Do you know where she went to?”

  “It’s OK, Leon. He looks harmless enough.”

  So Leon wasn’t crazy, he was playing a game. Harlan hated being played as much as he hated being poor. When he finished off Knowles, maybe he’d come back and do a mercy killing on this bunch.

  Leon and the guy he called Doc came back. “Who did you say you were, again?”

  “Shuster.”

  Leon nodded his head. “Right. Nathaniel Shuster. Says he works with Sam. Or did, anyway.”

  The fisherman offered a handshake. “Name’s Doc Hensen. I’m a friend of Aaron Golden’s. I’m expecting him here shortly for a game of rook. Aaron and Sadie ran up to Whitehall for a quick errand. Turkey dinner with all the trimmings tonight, if you’ve a mind to stay. Sam moved into the cabin on the Gladstone estate. There’s no direct line, you’ll have to call the main house. Want the number?”

  At last. Something useful. “That’s all right. I’d like to surprise her. Would you mind writing down t
he directions?”

  “Don’t mind at all. Soon as I get a piece of paper—”

  “I’m in a hurry, why don’t you just tell me.”

  Doc pulled out a prescription pad from his shirt pocket. “Guess no harm in writing directions on this…you aren’t going to forge my name on any scripts, now are you?” He laughed.

  “No.”

  “Getting a bit blustery out there. Be careful on those gravel roads. There’s been some moose sightings lately.”

  Harlan faked a laugh, a pretty good imitation, too. “I heard Sam met one face to face.”

  Doc scribbled down a paragraph of directions, and acted out every twist and turn in the road.

  Patience. “I’ve got a GPS, I’ll be fine.”

  “Cabin doesn’t have an address. Only the house.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll find it.”

  “Hope you do. Poor Sam could use some good news for a change.”

  38

  Her stomach growled from hunger. How could she think of food? She’d pierced a kind heart and a vulnerable soul. Worse than that, she’d sabotaged a friendship—a strange one, to be sure—but, a friendship, nevertheless.

  These men were as different as fresh popcorn and cinnamon buns, yet both irresistible. Emotions she thought she could do without now clawed at her—disparate emotions that had no business occupying the same psyche.

  Jonathan’s raw masculinity and ruggedness was certainly attractive, yet something else drew her to him…open wounds…as deep as hers. Foolishness. How could she wrap her broken spirit around his? She’d plunged into the water to save a drowning man when she couldn’t even swim.

  Zack was her grownup Johnny Miller: handsome, intelligent, athletic and willing to carry her books home after school, a sure prom date. Zack was simplicity, serenity, safety—Sir Galahad in an orange vest—while Jonathan, Fay Ray’s King Kong.

  She couldn’t trust either attraction.

  A streak of jagged light ripped the sky, an exclamation point to her summation.

  A gust of wind blew the door open. Great. A flimsy door and a storm. She propped a chair against the knob then stood in front of the picture window. In the growing gray, budding trees danced in the wind, their long branches flailing—the twigs like accusing fingers, the clouds blocking the descending sun.

  The wind banged against the cabin walls, rattling the windows. She rummaged the cupboards in search of a radio. Finding none, she clicked on her laptop, and a low-battery warning flashed on the screen. Probably enough juice to at least check her email, then she’d plug it in while she repacked everything.

  The first email was from Justine: Tried to call you but Sadie said you’d already left for the cabin. The police found Montel Atkins’s body in the woods near Whitehall, and they suspect Harlan Styles. He’s over the edge crazy. Be careful.

  Sam hit reply: I’ll explain later, but leaving the cabin tomorrow. Hope they find Styles soon so we can put an end to this nightmare.

  A second message from HSenterprises.

  You’ve ruined my life. You’ll pay. H.S.

  The screen went black. As she reached to plug in her laptop, the lights flickered and died. She could use a protector or a mountain man, now, and a feeling of vulnerability seized her as never before. Neither Zack nor Jonathan would return any time soon, if ever—Jonathan would probably fire her, and Zack would never speak to her again. She paced the kitchen. The only available light filtered through the picture window.

  “Think, Sam. You’ve got no one else to rely on but yourself.”

  You are not alone, My child. Trust Me.

  She should. She wanted to. “I don’t know how.”

  She’d get through the night and hope in dawn’s clarity. Certainly, Aaron could help Jonathan find another lawyer. She’d learned a few things about impetuosity, and that it had its advantages as well as its pitfalls. Why not throw whatever she could in the car, drive through the storm, and see where she and Lucille II ended up, out west, maybe, the farther away from Haven and Manhattan the better.

  To a city, though.

  Rain, white with tiny hail, pounded against the window, like the night Daddy died. Flashes of that horrible evening came with every lightning burst.

  Mama had been to court earlier that morning. When she came home, she told Sam the judge issued an Order of Protection—that meant Daddy had to move out. In the afternoon, she changed the locks. “We’ll be safe from now on, Samantha,” she’d said, and almost smiled.

  A few hours later, the awful storm hit, toppling power and phone lines. Twelve-year old Sam shivered in the darkness. “I’m scared, Mama. What if Daddy comes home?”

  Mama lit candles and gave one for Sam to take to her bedroom. “Daddy won’t hurt us anymore. Now go to your room.”

  Sam obeyed but couldn’t sleep.

  Loud bangs.

  “Open this door, woman. Now.”

  “Go away. Come back when you’re sober,” Mama yelled.

  A loud crash…Mama screamed…Daddy cursed…claps of thunder and bangs from the kitchen. Sam covered her ears.

  Lightning flashed…Mama screamed again…Sam jumped out of bed. Mama needed her.

  Through flickering candlelight, Sam saw Mama on the kitchen floor moaning, blood on the floor, Daddy standing over her. He turned and came towards Sam. “What’s your problem, girl?”

  She ran to her parents’ bedroom and snatched the revolver from the nightstand. Heavy steps came nearer…grunts and foul-mouthed threats thundered through the storm. “You’re dead, Samantha. I’m going to kill you, and then finish off your mother.”

  She trembled…trapped…alone in the dark. The bolt of lightning outlined Daddy’s form in the doorway. “There you are. Did you say your prayers?”

  The scent of hyacinths filled the room and gave her courage. She stood and aimed the revolver. “Don’t, Daddy.”

  He laughed. “You don’t have the guts.”

  She fired and missed. He took two steps…she aimed again. “Go away, Daddy. I won’t miss this time.”

  He stopped. “You really do mean to kill me. Don’t you?”

  She squeezed the trigger. “Get out.”

  Daddy laughed and ran into the storm. A truck’s horn blasted in harmony with the thunder clap.

  Screeching breaks…a man’s curdling yell…Sam ran into the night…Daddy’s mangled body on the road. Neighbors spilled from their houses—awakened, they said, not by screams, or a gunshot, but by a loud horn.

  Although the judge seemed understanding of Sam’s plight, a gun had been discharged and an investigation required. Months of drilling, months of psychoanalysis, recounting Daddy’s abuse, recounting the number of times Daddy had hit her and Mama. “You acted in self defense, Sam,” the psychologists kept saying. Even after the court seemed satisfied, the nagging doubt continued, Sam pushed another truth deeper into her soul, a truth to be reconciled, not with an earthly court, but with God.

  Perhaps she’d acted in self defense as the judge ruled. But long before that night, she’d wanted Daddy dead. She wanted him dead when he squeezed her arms and dared her to stop him. Every time Daddy hit her or Mama, she saw him in his coffin and smiled. She imagined how she might kill Daddy some day. She read about poison. Sometimes she dreamt she’d cut Daddy’s heart out while he slept. The truck killed Daddy before she could. She was angry that the truck robbed her of revenge.

  Vengeance is mine, child.

  A sudden cold filled the cabin as Sam shut out the memories, yet a verse she’d learned in Sunday School rushed through her mind—For out of the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, sexual immorality, theft, false testimony, slander. Justine said if you entertained an evil thought, sooner or later, you would act on it.

  She’d never given that part of her guilt, her anger that a truck killed Daddy before she could, over to God. “Life and death are God’s domain,” Justine had said. The question burst open on her heart. Had she sought revenge against Styles to get
even with a dead father?

  What if Daddy hadn’t died? What if she’d come into adolescence with even more hate bottled up, like Harlan Styles had done? Would she have become just like him? If the truck hadn’t killed Daddy…if God had not intervened…Sam shuddered with the realization. There, but for God’s mercy…she might have traveled the same road as Styles.

  ****

  Zack drove for an hour, thoughts swirling in his head like the dust blowing around him, his anger as wild as the wind. Maybe all women played with their catch, reeled them in, then tossed their broken hearts back into the water like undersized bass.

  So Sam preferred Jonathan’s caviar to Zack’s peanut butter. No way could he compete.

  Sleet beat against his windshield as he turned onto Main Street. If Aunt Sadie wasn’t too busy tonight, maybe she could help him figure out what to do. If she didn’t have any advice, at the least, she’d talk a blue streak and get his mind off Sam for a few minutes. Besides, he was getting hungry.

  Hang Sam. Hang all women. He’d have an extra large portion of Aunt Sadie’s turkey dinner, fill his belly, then, buy a sympathy card for Frank’s wife. Tomorrow he’d start a collection for flowers from the faculty. Time to put plan A in place. He’d finish the school year, and after commencement, move to New York City. He’d join the police force as soon as his residency was completed…become a juvenile officer…help the Jimmy Hodgekins of the world.

  The lights flickered as he entered the lounge. Zack shook off the excess water from his coat and flung it over the chair. Eerily quiet. Where was everyone? “Hello? Anyone here?”

  “That you Zack?” Leon popped his head into the lounge “I was on my way upstairs.”

  “Kind of quiet.”

  “Doc’s gone home early. Cynthia gets riled when it storms this bad. Aaron and Sadie had gone to Whitehall, but then Tracey called…a tree fell through her roof. So they went to go get her. Temperatures are dropping fast and a cold front’s moving in behind the storm. Took Mazie with them. Sadie closed the lounge for supper tonight, but must be you didn’t see the sign outside. Storm’s playing havoc with the power and phone lines. Thought I might dig out some candles and hunker down with a book. Where’s Sam? I thought you went to help her settle in.”