Dark Places

by Linda Ladd

  Harve was beaming. “I cannot wait. When we get back, you and Nick can come over for duck a l’orange.”

  “Duck a l’orange?”

  “Nick said he’d get me the recipe from the Five Cedars’ chef. When’s he due back?”

  “Yesterday, but he didn’t make it. Haven’t heard from him today. I suspect he got caught up with a patient and delayed his flight. It happens. I’m used to it.” But I wasn’t used to it. I felt disappointed, and I didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

  “Then stay here awhile. No need going down there and sitting around by yourself. At least have something to eat before you go.”

  “Actually, I stopped and picked up a Kroger’s Deluxe, you know, turkey and dressing and all that stuff, just in case Black drags in before midnight.”

  “Save it for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Harve, really, but I have some gifts to wrap.” That was a bald-faced lie. I never wrapped anything, not with those little bags they sold now. Just dump the present inside, and bingo, you were good to go.

  “Go ahead. Open yours.”

  I tore off the wrapper but I already knew I’d like it. The wrapping paper hailed from the Bass Pro Shop in nearby Springfield, Missouri, my favorite store in the whole wide world. They had everything a sportsman/hunter/athlete could ever want, plus a bunch of waterfalls and stuffed bears and foxes to look at.

  “Oh my gosh, Harve. What a beauty.” I slid the snub-nosed .38 pistol out of the well-oiled, soft brown leather holster.

  “After what happened last summer, I thought you might like to carry number two. Got myself one, too. Just in case.”

  I sat down on the sofa and pulled up my pant leg. I strapped the weapon on just above my ankle. “Man, Harve, it feels good.” I strode back and forth a few times, getting used to the weight. “You can’t see a bulge, either.” I beamed. Now this was a gift worth getting. Harve knew me better than anybody.

  “Let’s sight it in a couple of days and see how it shoots.”

  I hugged the guy. He had made my day. “I really appreciate this, Harve.”

  “Waddaya expect? You’re my best friend.”

  Something in the way he said it got to me, the way his voice cracked slightly. I hugged him. “Okay, I’m gonna get out of here and let you enjoy your family.”

  “Wish you’d stay.”

  “I’ll be back in a few days to eat the leftovers.”

  “Sure. Hey Claire, wait, I’ve got that info you wanted printed out. About that Academy for the Gifted. I also got some hits on fatalities due to spider and snakebites. There’s a heck of a lot more than I figured on.”

  “Yeah, I’ll look through that stuff tonight. It’ll give me something to do until Black gets here.”

  I waited while he went into his office and brought out a thick manila file. Dr. Phil was now berating some poor man who liked the Dallas Cowboys more than he liked his wife. I thought for a minute he was going to throttle him. That’d be a headline. DR. PHIL COUNSELS HIMSELF FOR RAGE MANAGEMENT AFTER KILLING GUEST WITH BARE HANDS.

  Jamie stepped out of the kitchen holding a pie wrapped in green cellophane and tied with a silver ribbon. “Happy Christmas, Claire. Hope you like homemade pecan pie. We owe a lot to you, you know.”

  “That’s just about my favorite thing in the world.”

  I left amid a flurry of good-byes and Merry Christmases and after the door shut behind me, I stopped on the back porch and breathed in the bracing, cold air. All around the beautiful, snow-covered cedars and pines brought back other Christmases, when I wasn’t so alone. When I had a little boy to buy race cars and fire trucks for and build snowmen with. I remembered how excited Zach had been about Santa Claus coming, and then I saw him lying limply in my arms, big blue eyes staring at me until the light in them died away forever. My mind shut down. Don’t. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about the past. I cannot dwell on him, not now, not ever, it’s too painful.

  I drove three quarters of a mile to my house, lonely there beside the lake. Even with Black’s new addition. I should’ve put up some Christmas lights that I could click on from my car so it’d look more inviting when I dragged in. There was no sight of Nick, Saint or Black.

  My garage door whirred efficiently, and I pulled the Explorer inside and lowered the door behind me. I gathered the boxes of food I purchased for our first Christmas Eve dinner together. If he made it in time. And if he didn’t, hell, I had a new .38 now that I could shoot him with. The house was cold and gloomy, so I snapped on the fireplace. That warmed things up considerably. I stared at my little tree standing on the coffee table, looking all naked and forlorn. I’d bought some blinking lights and stuff but thought at the time it’d be fun to wait for Black and decorate it together. You know, start a little mini-Christmas tradition. But maybe it was too early to start up with the sappy traditions. Maybe it was scary, too.

  I shoved all the food in the fridge and left the pecan pie on the counter. I sat on a bar stool, looking at it, hungry and bored, and decided a little slice before Black got there wouldn’t hurt a thing. It was still warm and tasted great, so I helped myself to a second little sliver. If Black didn’t show up soon, I’d eat the whole damn thing just for spite.

  The evening progressed, and I tried to get interested in something on the giant television. I found that I didn’t like watching television, not even It’s a Wonderful Life. It wasn’t such a wonderful life at the moment, and I couldn’t quite relate to Jimmy Stewart’s character. More often than not, I’d gotten people killed instead of saving their lives. I found A Christmas Story a little more to my liking and ate a third piece of pie.

  Black had not called. I finally gave in to the temptation and tried his cell but didn’t get an answer. He could be somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. He could be asleep. He could be having the time of his life at a French and/or English Christmas party. But he better not be. I was just itching to use that new .38.

  At one point I was so bored that I actually picked up the freebie copy of Johnstone’s book bestowed on us by June Green. I stared at his picture on the front cover and the word jerk kept repeating itself in my mind. Go figure. I thumbed through the pages, examining the old black-and-white pictures. Apparently the academy had been in existence around twenty years, originally built on land donated by some old man named Walter Proctor, who no doubt needed a quick tax break. The academy’s stupid name had come from some caves in the surrounding hills, which didn’t exactly explain the dome part. Say what you may, it’s still an asinine name. Hell, Johnstone probably had to use legal-size paper to accommodate his letterhead alone.

  There were lots of grainy pictures of the white clapboard church that now stood in the middle of the academy’s quadrangle. Old Proctor had apparently designated that the church not be torn down but kept on campus as a symbol of God’s good graces toward the sainted men and women who would give troubled youngsters a new lease on life. Yeah, make me laugh some more. It was a good thing Proctor never met Jesus Johnstone and Company, or he’d be spinning in his grave.

  I turned another page and looked at a group congregation picture that resembled the cast of The Village having a picnic. I frowned when I saw a photo of a teenager in a white T-shirt and jeans painting church pews. He was waving at the camera with his brush and looked a whole lot like Joe McKay, before he got muscled up and decided he had ESP. There was a smaller boy with him who was looking away from the camera. I was almost positive it was McKay but the caption didn’t give names. Another picture looked a lot like Director Jesus as a youth with long hair and cheesy smile, standing beside a minister and holding a Bible, but I couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t wearing white sandals so it probably wasn’t him.

  I tossed the book aside and watched Scrooge getting his for a while, then finally clicked off the tube and lay down on the couch and wondered how I’d made it so long without getting killed. So many others had. I thought of Simon Classon. And Christie Foxworthy. I thought of my mother and my aunt and u
ncle, and all the others who’d died because of me. By that time I was getting very, very depressed. If Black were here, he’d say my survival guilt was kicking in, but, hey, it was all true. He’d say to get up and run a mile or think about work or make love with him, but he wasn’t here, so there you go.

  I dozed off about eight o’clock and heard in my dreams the roar of Black’s boat. I sat up and kicked off the blue quilt. Then I heard the motor whine down and die. It was him. I smiled all over, like a silly goof. But man, was I glad he was back. I went to the door, and there he was climbing out of his boat, carrying a bunch of shopping bags. He looked up at me and waved. He was smiling, looking very happy to be back, and I was so glad to see him that it was downright humiliating. I walked down the steps to meet him and when he was in earshot, I said, “Well, it’s about time, Black. I don’t like to be kept waiting like this. I could’ve been at the firing range, practicing my marksmanship.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  Then he dropped the sacks and had me in his arms and I felt myself actually clinging to him like some kind of big, needy baby. Our mouths met, hot and breathless, and had a grand old time getting reacquainted. He was holding me off the ground and I clamped my legs around his waist. He broke off the kiss, long enough to mutter, “I’m going to Europe more often if I get a welcome like this.”

  I smiled and renewed the kissing. He knew how to kiss, he sure did, and I was learning fast under his expert tutelage.

  “I missed the hell out of you,” he said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  When he finally put me down, I picked up one of his bags and it yelped. I dropped it and went for my weapon.

  “I brought you a puppy. Don’t shoot it.”

  “A what?”

  “A puppy. See.”

  He reached in and brought out a tiny wiggling bundle of white fur. “This, my dear, is a genuine toy French poodle, registered in Paris.”

  I looked at the little creature. I frowned. “The guys will laugh me out of the department if they see me with a sissy little dog like this.”

  “He’s not a sissy, are you, pup?”

  When he shoved the wriggling bundle of fur into my arms, I took it and held it up to the porch light. I couldn’t believe it. My heart melted. “It’s cute, I have to admit.”

  “Okay, let’s go inside. And don’t worry, he’s already housebroken.”

  “What the hell am I going to do with him while I’m at work?”

  “He’ll be okay inside alone. Or you can keep him in the garage if you want. It’s heated, and I got you everything you’ll need to take care of him.”

  I put the wriggling puppy down and it ran around sniffing everything in sight. It yapped nonstop, high pitched and annoying. “Did you have a good flight?”

  He nodded. “I slept most of it. So I’m rested up and ready for you.”

  “Good. You’re going to need your strength.”

  “That sounds excellent.”

  We ignored the dog, dropped to the couch, and went into our wrestling maneuvers again, about as breathless and turned on as you can get fully clothed. “Now that’s what I missed the most about you,” he said at length. “But I can’t help but notice there’s a new gun strapped to your ankle.”

  I disentangled, sat up, and pulled up my pant leg. I unbuckled the holster. “Harve’s Christmas present. He’s always so thoughtful.”

  He looked it over, handling it expertly, I noticed, then set it aside. He pulled me into his arms. “God, it’s good to be back home.”

  Home, I thought, snuggling into his arms. Me, who rarely had snuggled anywhere for any reason my whole life long. Black was eyeing my tree.

  “I see you have a tree. I guess that’s a tree, right?”

  “I thought you’d help me decorate it.”

  “Claire, that is undoubtedly the most pathetic excuse for a Christmas tree I’ve ever seen. It’s almost embarrassing to look at it.”

  “It’ll look better when I get the lights on.”

  “I sincerely hope so.”

  “Quit being so critical. You hungry?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t want to stop long enough to pick up anything.”

  “I have the whole works right over there in my refrigerator.”

  “Let’s eat.”

  I set out the spread and he pretended like it hadn’t come from Kroger’s. We ate together, then decorated the tree, and it did look better once we’d finished. I went up to the bedroom and brought down his gift.

  He said, “For me? You shouldn’t have. This is for you.”

  It was a tiny blue velvet box. Oh God, I hope he wasn’t going to ruin everything with a engagement ring. “You already gave me my gift, remember? All this.” I swept my arm around the room.

  “It’s not much. Open it.”

  It wasn’t wrapped so I flipped up the lid. Inside lay a silver medallion on a long, slender chain. I was distinctly relieved. I liked him but engagements were against my religion.

  “It’s a Saint Michael’s medal. He’s the patron saint of police officers. I figured you could use some protection. I bought it at Notre Dame Cathedral. Actually I got myself one, too. Figured I’d need some help if I kept hanging around with you.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  He smiled and lifted the chain out of the box and fastened it around my neck. I picked it up and looked at it. It was fairly heavy, bigger than most religious medals, solid silver. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Promise me you won’t take it off.”

  “You’re getting superstitious.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  That satisfied him. He said, “Here’s a souvenir from Paris.”

  I opened the shopping bag and pulled out a black cashmere shawl. It was lined with fine embroidered silk with long silky fringe hanging off the bottom.

  “It’s Hermès,” he said.

  I didn’t know what the hell Hermès was, but it was pretty and probably expensive. I wondered if I’d ever wear it. Maybe I could use it as a couch cover-up on the rare occasions I got to watch Oprah.

  “I brought you some Parisian perfume, too, and a wicker picnic basket full of French cheese and chocolates and baguettes. Figured Bud and the guys could help you eat them.”

  “Yeah, good idea. Maybe I’ll throw in some BBQ Doritos and keep it in the backseat for Bud to eat from during our next stakeout.”

  Black laughed.

  Sheepish and feeling like a pauper exchanging gifts with a prince, I handed him his pathetic little present. “It’s not much. I mean it. I mean, well, you’re hard to buy for, Black. What do you give somebody who has everything?”

  “I don’t have everything, just most things I really, really want.” He eyed me in a complimentary fashion.

  I laughed as he lifted my pitiful little snowman sack by the handles. He pulled out the book and looked at it. “My God, how in the world did you manage this?”

  “I called and hired the best photographer in New Orleans, or at least he said he was. I told him to go out to the bayous and take pictures, then have them bound into a book.” I shrugged. “You know, I remembered how you said you thought the bayous were beautiful when we were down there.” He was still staring down at the book, slowly turning the pages. “It’s not much, though, not like all this stuff you got for me.”

  Black looked at me, his eyes shining with pleasure. When he smiled, the dimples bracketing his mouth deepened in just the way that turned me on. “I love it. It’s one of the best, most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever been given.”

  That made me more happy than it even should have.

  “There’s a picture of your friend, Aldus Hebert, in there, too.” I smiled, as he turned the pages one by one.

  He said, “I think Lafourche Parish is one of the most beautiful places on earth. It brings back lots of memories of when I was a young boy. Thank you.”

  He leaned over and kissed me, but I pulled away be
fore we reached the point of no return. “I got you a stocking. Here.”

  “That’s funny, I bought you one, too.”

  He dug the one he’d bought for me out of a shiny gold shopping bag. It was red velvet with hand-sewn ornaments on it that looked like real diamonds and rubies and came out of a blue Tiffany box. The one I got for him was red and white felt and came out of a blue plastic Wal-Mart bag. Crap. I just could not compete with this guy’s buying power. I might as well quit trying.

  I discovered that mine held Chanel No. 5 from Coco Chanel’s own original boutique and a crystal Christmas ornament in the shape of the Eiffel Tower made by Tiffany.

  “Jeez, Black, my gifts look downright silly next to yours.”

  “I should’ve gotten you an Uzi.”

  “Nah, Charlie won’t let us use submachine guns. I do like all of this a lot, I really do.”

  He reached inside his stocking and pulled out the small gold frame that I’d gotten on sale for 60 percent off at Dillard’s. But it was pretty expensive originally. It held a picture of the two of us. We were having dinner with some tall candles in front of us. We were smiling at each other. He looked happy. I had my arm in a sling.

  He smiled at me. “Bermuda. Last fall.”

  “Harve took it one night. Remember, the three of us were having dinner outside on the patio. I don’t know, there’s just something about it that I like. I had one made for me, too.” I shrugged, feeling stupid again.

  “By God, Morgan, you’re sentimental.”

  I frowned. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. Who would’ve thought that?”

  “I’m not sentimental, damn it, and quit saying I am.”

  He laughed, then sobered. “I love it, and I love you.”

  His face was serious now, a lot more serious than I wanted it to be. I didn’t want to tell him I loved him. I didn’t know if I loved him, maybe, probably, but it was Christmas and I was one happy gal that he was home. He was used to me not wanting to say the words, he was a psychiatrist, he could probably tell me exactly why I wasn’t saying it. But he wasn’t pushy about me telling him how I felt, thank goodness.