Pockets of Darkness

by Jean Rabe

  “I will buy something … tomorrow, I hope,” he replied. “Tomorrow somehow. Definitely.” Then soon this hellish ordeal will be over. “Thank you, Adiella.”

  “My name, Elijah Stone, means ornament of the Lord.”

  He gave her a last look, all her jewelry and makeup and long, polished fingernails, flawless face with the creases gone from around her eyes. Maybe her name wasn’t so inappropriate after all.

  Out on the street, he heard a police siren, this one muted by the canyon of buildings.

  ***

  Three

  “Try it,” Bridget said. “I had this meal prepared special.”

  Otter cut off a small piece and held it close to his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Salmon and goat cheese crostini.”

  Otter wrinkled his nose. “Mom, fifteen, not fifty. I thought we were going out for pizza with Lacy.”

  Bridget raised an eyebrow.

  “My girlfriend, Mom. Lacy.”

  “I thought her name was Samantha.”

  “So last year.”

  “Pizza. We could do that anytime.” But Bridget knew that wasn’t exactly true. The past two years the visits hadn’t held to the schedule—high school field trips and sporting events, supposed cold and flu bugs, and her ex- having other plans. Bridget was lucky if she got to see Otter every other month. She hadn’t fought for more time, like perhaps she should have. In fact, she hadn’t fought for any time.

  “The salmon was shipped from Alaska, caught on the Deshka River,” Bridget said. “Delicate, tender flesh, I wanted to—”

  “Impress me? Mom, this is what you like. This is an old fart’s meal. Old fart’s music, too. Don’t you have any indie rock?”

  A cello piece played in the background.

  “Old.” The word hit Bridget like brick. “I’m thirty-three, Otter.” And she knew she could easily pass for ten years younger. Bridget kept in excellent shape. Not a single gray hair had dared to intrude in her curly red mane. “Thirty-three is not even close to approaching old.”

  Otter shrugged and took a tentative bite of fish and swallowed it. Then he took another. “All right. It’s not horrible. Pretty good, actually.”

  Bridget grinned. Her ex-, when he didn’t dine in his own restaurant, was all Hamburger Helper, canned green beans, and Hungry Man frozen meals. She wanted the boy to experience something home cooked and yet refined on these few weekends together.

  “I’m glad you like it, Otter. I—” She paused. Bridget always wondered what to talk about with her son: music, movies, thoughts on college and potential future careers … all of them difficult subjects because she’d rarely paid attention to Otter’s interests beyond swimming. Bridget knew she hadn’t been the best mother even in the earliest years. Married too young. Pregnant too quick. She wasn’t mother material, but she loved Otter and wanted him to think well of her.

  “I was wondering about your swimming competitions. Do you have one coming up?” At least she knew her son was into that. The boy was named Otemar after his grandfather on his father’s side. But because of the boy’s proclivity to embrace anything to do with water, they’d hit upon Otter right away. Otter Madera was the name announced at the awards ceremonies and listed next to each swimming record broken at Léman Manhattan Prep. Though a sophomore, he was more than good enough to compete on the varsity team.

  Otter talked for several minutes about an upcoming meet in New Jersey. “Lacy said she’d come,” he finished. “Hey, do you think you might—”

  “Because tonight’s your birthday, I thought it would be acceptable for a little alcohol.” Bridget rang a small bell to the side of her plate, putting off the question of her attending the swim event. “Just don’t tell your father.”

  Otter pushed aside the first course, having eaten more than half of it. He gave a smirk. “Fifteen, Mom. I’ve had alcohol plenty—”

  Bridget didn’t want the particulars and waved away the rest of Otter’s words. She suspected the unfinished phrase was: plenty of times. She didn’t want to know if her son frequently came by six packs of beer with a fake I.D. or if someone bought something harder for him. Neither did she want to lecture him about the ills of underage drinking, at least not tonight.

  “So, by alcohol, you mean wine, right, Mom?” Otter looked from one glass to the next. There were three fluted ones in front of his setting, only one full, and that with Perrier water. “Wine. Probably dry as the Sahara and with a cork, no Mad Dog, no Riuniti on ice, no screw-cap strawberry zinfandel fruity stuff for—”

  The chef saved Otter from more speculation. He brought out the second course. “Ceviche martini,” he announced, looking straight at Bridget. “It is low calorie, one of my specialties. The acid in the lime juice pickles the shrimp to perfection.”

  Otter wrinkled his nose again. “A martini. Not the alcohol I was hoping for.”

  “Low calorie? Are you saying I’m fat, Dustin?” Bridget asked him.

  “Not at all, ma chère. Far from it, in fact.” Dustin winked at her. “I just want to make sure you don’t get that way.” He brushed Bridget’s arm when he placed the martini in front of her, his fingers lingering against her wrist before returning to the kitchen.

  Otter stared at his glass and selected a spoon out of order and played with the shrimp. “He’s new, Dustin. Good looking. And young. Where did you find him?”

  Dustin wasn’t exactly “new,” he’d been in Bridget’s employ for about six months. But Otter hadn’t been here before when the chef was around. “He’s studying at the International Culinary Center—”

  “Ah, a college student. He is young.” Otter tried the shrimp and apparently found it palatable. He made short work of the martini.

  “Dustin’s not that young, Otter. He—”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  A piece of shrimp caught in Bridget’s throat. “I—” She wanted to tell her son it was a rude question, and none of his business. “Sometimes.”

  “But not as often as you’d like, huh?” Otter stared at the kitchen door. “What’s next?”

  Dustin came back, presenting a Caesar salad. “Simple,” he said. “But it is elegant and good for you.” He cracked pepper over the top and disappeared again.

  “He smells good,” Otter admitted. “I’d guess he’s closer to my age than yours. Dad would go for him.”

  Again Bridget wanted to say “it’s none of your business,” but she worked on the salad. Music continued softly—Mstislav Rostropovich playing Bach’s Cello-Suiten. It was the second suite, considered Sorrow and Intensity, a direct contrast to the first because of its pace and minor key. It was Bridget’s favorite, musically vulnerable and sincere. She wished her son could appreciate the cellist’s capacity to evoke the perfect sadness of the composition, but she knew Otter wasn’t truly paying attention to it. “He’s twenty-two, Otter.” If you’re that damn curious, she thought. Eleven years younger than me. But you can do the math yourself.

  Otter nodded, and then said softly: “About the same age as one of Dad’s last flings.”

  Dustin brought out the fourth course.

  “Coffee and spice-rubbed lamb,” he told Otter, as he arranged the dish. “I prepared it with pinot noir. The side is garlic mashed potatoes.”

  “Lamb,” Otter said dully. “And the good china no less. Happy birthday to me.” He ran his thumb around the edge of the plate; it was bone white trimmed with platinum. Then he traced the pattern in the Irish linen tablecloth. “Happy birthday, happy birthday—”

  “Otter, I—”

  “Sorry, Mom. I appreciate this, I really do. I just wanted you to meet Lacy, that’s all.” He cut into the lamb and started chewing. “Wow. This is really good. I—”

  All hell broke loose.

  The dining room window shattered, showering the table with glass. Three masked men in dark clothes somersaulted in, the one in the lead drawing a gun.

  “No one move!” the gunman barked. “Hands up. Push back f
rom the table.”

  Dustin screamed and dropped the cheese tray meant to be the fifth course. He swayed and fainted in a heap.

  “Mom?” Otter glanced between Bridget and the men, her hands were up just like the gunman had ordered.

  “No one needs to get hurt,” Bridget said. She edged back from the table, her napkin falling to the floor. “What do you want?”

  “Everything of value,” the gunman said, clearly the leader of the trio. “Let’s start with the cash and jewelry on you. If you’re quick and cooperative, you live.”

  ***

  Four

  They were uncommon burglars. Bridget’s formal dining room was on the third floor of her five-story brownstone, and so they had scaled the wall or jumped across from a neighboring building, either proposition requiring some athletic skill. Despite building codes, there was no external fire escape for them to climb; Bridget had that removed when she bought the place.

  “If you don’t cooperate,” the tallest said. “Well—” He let the sentence hang.

  Bridget realized their dark clothes had let them blend with the shadows, escaping notice by the block’s elderly lookiloos who were usually perched by their windows and who would have called the police. The clothes were tight, at the same time not restricting their movements and revealing them to be muscular. What little skin that showed had been blackened.

  Professionals.

  “Money and jewelry first,” the lead repeated, waggling the Glock for effect. He was the shortest of the three. “Be quick about it, eh? Then we’ll get to the good stuff you have stashed. The stuff too good to keep in your shop. We’re in a hurry. Places to go and all of that, you know. Chop. Chop.”

  He had a gentle southern accent; Bridget placed him from Georgia. The other two clearly looked to him for direction. He stayed to the right of the window, out of sight to anyone who might chance to look in, and gestured with his head to the others. They split up, the one in gray going to Bridget, the tallest to Otter. Each produced a black bag and opened it.

  “Shit,” Otter said, as he took off his watch. “Shit. Shit. Shit. Lacy gave me this.” The tall thief took it, held it up, and promptly tossed it on the floor and stomped on it.

  “Timex,” the thief said. “Not interested. How about the ring?”

  “Shit,” Otter repeated. “I just got this.” He worked the bulky class ring off and dropped it in the bag.

  “Wallet,” the tall thief said. “And that earring, too.”

  Otter wore a one and a half-carat diamond stud in his right ear; he grudgingly took it out and passed it over.

  Bridget hadn’t surrendered anything yet. “Leave the boy alone.” She looked around the gray-garbed thief and got the attention of the leader. “The boy’s just visiting. Understand?” She carefully removed her watch, a stainless steel Cartier Pasha she’d paid three thousand for but was worth double that. “The boy is just—”

  The lead thief brought the gun up and around and aimed it at Bridget’s face. “Shut up, you damn Mick. And where’s the safe? A woman like you … a place like this … there’s a safe. We want the good stuff.”

  Otter said glumly: “If only we’d gone out for pizza—”

  The tall one in front of the boy cuffed him. “Close your mouth.”

  “Ow!” Otter hollered. “That hurt you son of—” Another cuff, this one harder.

  “I said close it!”

  The other thieves turned to look at the boy, and Bridget took advantage of the distraction. She brought her leg up in a roundhouse kick that caught the gray-garbed man in the hip. He was solidly built and Bridget only managed to unbalance him, but it was enough. While the man tried to recover, Bridget followed through with a lightning-fast uppercut that connected and sent a busted front tooth flying.

  The man grabbed his jaw and doubled over, moaning.

  “Marsh! You all right?” This came from the leader. “Marsh? Marsh!”

  Marsh wasn’t all right. Bridget struck him again with the heel of her hand and stunned him. One more blow and he crumpled in a heap.

  “That’s it! You move again and I will shoot. Ain’t nobody gonna hear a gun go off, all their windows closed this winter.” Once more the gun was pointed squarely at Bridget.

  “All right.” Bridget held still, hands to her sides. “All right. Easy. Just don’t hurt the boy, hear me?”

  “Tell me where the safe is,” he retorted. “Tell me now!”

  Bridget indicated an oil landscape hanging above a mahogany server. “It’s behind that.”

  “I don’t think so,” the leader said. “Rob, no more nice and friendly. Grab the boy—”

  “No! I said leave the boy alone. Please. The safe is in my office,” Bridget said. “The safe with the ‘good stuff’ you’re looking for.”

  “And where would that be? Your office?” This came from the tall man still menacing Otter. He had worked the boy around to the other side of the room, a good dozen feet away from Bridget. “Where is this office?”

  “Upstairs and—”

  “Don’t tell them, Mom!” Otter moved. He barreled into the tall thief, sending him into the dining table and bending him backward over it.

  “That’s it!” the leader shouted. “You’re both dead. You’re both—”

  Bridget crouched and sprang at the leader, fists forward and catching him in the stomach. The air “whooshed” out as he fell back with considerable force, upsetting a low table that was against the wall. The silver tea service on it went dancing across the hardwood floor and sugar cubes spun in all directions.

  Another punch from Bridget and the gun flew out of the thief’s hand and landed in a corner. A quick kick followed, and the man fell on his knees hard. Bridget swung again, but the thief dropped and rolled, then jumped to his feet. He whirled when Bridget came at him once more, bringing up his heel to deliver a solid blow.

  It was Bridget’s turn to fall back.

  “Nobody had to get hurt,” the leader hissed. “Not you, not the boy. Now you’re—”

  Bridget rushed at him, shoulder forward and driving into the thief’s chest. Behind them, she heard Otter kicking the tall one.

  “You’re the ones in danger,” Bridget said. She flailed to the right, fingers closing on the back of a chair. She brought it around and struck the thief with it.

  “You think?” the leader retorted. He was panting, and he wiped at a line of blood on his mouth. When Bridget raised the chair again, the thief caught it with both hands and wrenched it away, slamming it against the wall. Then he flew at Bridget, ramming her back into the dining table, tipping glasses and toppling a crystal handle holder. The flames played against the linen tablecloth as Bridget got to her feet, winded.

  At the same time Otter pressed his own attack, trying to draw the tall thief near the window. Otter was a head shorter than his opponent, but anger clearly fueled him. He grabbed a chair and pressed the legs at the thief.

  “Don’t call me ‘boy,’ you son of a bitch!” Otter managed to drive two of the legs into the man’s stomach, forcing him against the wall. Their feet crunched over spilled sugar cubes and something crystal that had shattered. The thief’s heel caught against the silver teapot and set him off-balance. Otter jabbed him again, but the thief was strong and knocked the chair aside and stayed upright.

  “I’ll call you whatever the hell I please, boy,” the tall thief shot back. “I’ll call you fancy boy. Pitiful little fancy dancy boy.”

  Otter dropped the chair and came at him, fists pumping. He swept his leg out and around, turning and smacking the tall man’s kneecap.

  “Fancy boy, huh?” Otter kicked at him again in the same spot, clamping his hands together to form one fist and swinging hard at the man’s chest. “Fancy boy who took two years of taekwondo and six months of boxing.”

  The thief reeled from Otter’s onslaught, but stayed on his feet and managed to dart deeper into the room, while narrowly avoiding Bridget, who was wrestling on the floor with the lea
der.

  Grabbing the tablecloth, the tall thief yanked hard, sending plates and silverware clattering to the floor and keeping Otter at bay for a moment. The linen had caught fire, just enough smoke rising from it now to set off a ceiling sprinkler.

  Water showered the combatants and made the floor slick.

  “Fancy wet boy,” the tall thief sneered. “Soon to be a dead one.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a sap. “I’ll beat you to death.”

  “And enjoy it.” This came from the leader, who’d gotten the upper hand on Bridget. The thief had Bridget on her stomach and straddled her back. He pulled Bridget’s head and shoulders up with a firm chinlock. “I know I’m certainly going to enjoy finishing this Mick.”

  “No!” Otter shouted. He ignored his own opponent, whirled, and dove at the lead thief, landing a kick, but not one strong enough to dislodge the man. Otter came at him again, his heel catching the side of the man’s face this time; blood sprayed in an arc. “Get off my Mom. Get—”

  “That’s enough!” This came from Dustin. “Stop it, all of you, before someone really gets hurt.” The chef stood just beyond the doublewide doorway to the dining room, pistol in his hand, but pointed at the floor. There were three men with him, all in dark pants and sport coats, one wore a plaid vest. “Everyone up. Game over. I declare Bridget and Otter the clear winners.”

  The leader got off Bridget. “Hope I didn’t hurt you too much, boss.” He continued to wipe at the blood on his face. “Your kid’s pretty tough, looks like. Gave Rob a run. Holds his own.”

  Boss? Otter mouthed. A pause. “Cool. Coolest birthday ever! This beats the hell out of my fourteenth.” He beamed. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Bridget was slow to get up, nearly slipping in the water. She ground her teeth together; a couple of ribs were bruised or cracked. Straightening, she brushed at her blouse. Then she looked to the man in the vest. “See to having this cleaned up. And reset the sprinkler system.” To the thieves and Otter: “We will convene downstairs in the study after I change.” She grinned as she walked past her son and gave him a pat on the back. “Happy Birthday, Otter.”