A Deeper Darkness

by J. T. Ellison

  Donovan had enlisted out of high school, done his tour in Desert Storm, then came home and went to college. Sam met him the first week of med school. He was part of her Gross Anatomy team of first-years. They took turns egging each other on to make that first cut into dead flesh, learning the depersonalization skills that were so vital to their intended career paths. But then the war started again, and he got noble, started entertaining the notion that he wanted to go back in, this time as a Ranger. He would be a tough guy, infantry. On the front lines. Leading the 11 Bang-Bang into battle. And if his medical training could help save lives in the bargain, so be it.

  She couldn’t shake him from his path, which seemed to her a death wish: infantry sustained the highest number of casualties in a war. She had to admit, part of her was so hurt when he chose the military over her that she let him walk away. The night on Key Bridge, when he’d kissed her, said he loved her, then told her he was leaving and broke her heart in two.

  She could have promised to wait for him, but she knew that would be a lie. She had another, one who loved her desperately, one who wanted her home, wanted to share her life. One who put her life plans first, who called daily telling her she was missed. One she’d already committed to. In truth, even though heartbroken, Donovan reenlisting gave her permission to move back into her life the way it was originally meant to be. Donovan was simply a diversion on the road.

  She told herself that, and eventually came to believe it. Mostly. She pushed the feelings down into a tiny deflated ball, flat and meaningless, a spot of black on an otherwise perfectly red and juicy heart.

  She turned off the computer, careful to check that the surge protector was on, then went back to her bedroom. Shadows danced across the walls as she moved, slowly, numbly, to the bed and lay down. Got up and washed her hands. Lay down again.

  A different woman might have been tempted to open up the closet door, drag out that brown box she kept—the before box—and look through for a picture she knew was in there.

  But she didn’t. Samantha Owens wasn’t the type of woman to look back.

  She kept telling herself that. If she repeated it enough, it might even come true.

  Relief came a few hours later, when the alarm began to buzz. Shower, coffee, cornflakes, a relatively quick drive across town. The airport wasn’t crowded, the lines for security mercifully short. She glided through—apparently women weren’t being X-rayed this morning, only the men—and had plenty of time to grab another coffee from the Starbucks.

  She lined up dutifully when her time came, got on the plane, sat and pulled the bottle of Purell from her plastic bag. She rubbed the antibacterial gel into her cracked palms, and remembered the last time she was supposed to fly. Their vacation had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, and she realized she’d never called the airline to let them know they weren’t coming. She may even have a credit. She’d have to check. It went into her mental database of things to do that she’d never really remember, the file that flitted through her life like little birds hopping up and down the branches of the river birch in her yard. She told herself that she remembered the things that mattered. That made her strong. It got her through.

  * * *

  The flight landed, bumping her back to reality. Another chunk of time gone. She gathered her things and left the plane. She managed to avoid eye contact with the people around her. It was better that way. She couldn’t seem to look at anyone these days without imagining them pale and chilled, arms spread akimbo, a hard plastic block under the third thoracic vertebra, spreading the chest wide for her scalpel. It always bothered her when television crime shows, which purported to be accurate, showed bodies at autopsy under sheets with the block under their necks. Then again, normal healthy people didn’t want to know the details of what happened when Sam took over their loved ones’ lives.

  At the end of the hallway, before she got to Baggage, there was a driver with a sign that read OWENS in chicken-scratch black marker. Kind Eleanor, no doubt. Even respecting the name, unlike so many others. Eleanor understood what it was like to lose. Sam had dropped her husband’s name. It was too much of a reminder.

  Not everyone agreed with her choice.

  She had no bags—just the overnight case she’d slung together with two changes of clothes in it; she didn’t plan to stay long enough to need more. Swoop in, do her due diligence for Donovan and get home.

  Home.

  As if she knew what that was anymore.

  She let the driver take her carry-on, followed him out of the terminal to the curb.

  It was overcast, cold and rainy, typical Washington spring weather. She got settled in the back and watched as the driver silently pulled into traffic and pointed them toward town. Within moments she could see the Washington Monument, the best orienting spot of any city in the world. The Monument meant center west, the Capitol exactly 1.2 miles east up the National Mall, and the city tidily moved from those points outward on a fine grid. Lettered streets went east to west, numbered streets went north to south, states went at an angle through the city. Four quadrants—northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest—delineated by time, race and society. Independence Avenue and Constitution Avenue were the main thoroughfares along the Mall, and the whole city was ringed by parkways and freeways, parks, trees, monuments, bridges. It was hard to get lost downtown. Just look over your shoulder, see where you are in relation to the monument, and change course as needed.

  It was a beautiful city, one made more so in spring, when the delicate pink-and-white cherry blossoms took over.

  Sam could see them across the Potomac and the Tidal Basin opposite the parkway, like puffy snowballs suspended in midair. They were at their peak, but the cold rains were causing them to wilt. A pity, though they matched her mood. They’d be jubilant tomorrow or the next day, when the sun returned to the sky.

  The driver took the exit for Key Bridge and ferried her across to the edges of Georgetown. Eleanor lived on Q Street, just up from the old haunts Sam and Donovan used to frequent. They were stopped at the light in front of one of them right now: Dixie Liquors, a building that had been the source of every kegger she’d attended during school.

  Sam realized she was smiling. Funny that the thought of upside-down keg hits brought her right back to a freer, easier time. Maybe it was just being out of Nashville. Then again, she had always loved D.C.

  By the time the driver deposited her at the front door to Eleanor’s elegant Georgetown Federalist town house, she could almost feel the weight starting to lift from her shoulders. Like her wings might eventually unfold again, curling lush and firm from her back, where now they lay dormant, desiccated husks that felt like they would never bring her flight.

  Fine time for optimism, Sam. Standing on the doorstep of your dead lover’s mother’s house.

  The house hadn’t changed on the outside—three stories of rust-brick and black shutters, a welcoming red door and two dormer windows peeking out onto the street. Classic. Unending.

  She raised her hand to knock, but Eleanor must have been waiting. The door opened and the older woman launched herself into Sam’s arms.

  It felt good. To be touched. Even if mournfully.

  “Oh, Eleanor, I am so, so sorry.”

  Eleanor gave her another squeeze, as if she knew Sam needed that extra bolstering, then stepped back. Her hair had long since gone gray, but was colored in D.C. denizen style, an ear-length bob lowlighted with stormy streaks that gave depth to her silver. Her eyes were blue and moist; she’d lost weight since Sam saw her last. God, what had that been, eight years ago? No, just five—Sam had been back for her reunion, and had met Eleanor for coffee.

  Right when Donovan was headed into Kirkut.

  “You look like hell. Come on in. I’ve made some tea.”

  Dear Eleanor. Never able to lie, even decorously.<
br />
  “That sounds lovely.”

  * * *

  They took their tea to the pristine kitchen’s island, where blue-and-white-striped cushions softened the iron café stools that stood in readiness. Vivaldi’s Winter played softly on the house speakers.

  Eleanor settled herself on the cushion.

  “Was the flight okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “Did you eat?”

  “No. I wasn’t hungry.”

  They drifted into silence. Sam watched Eleanor expectantly. The dam would break soon enough. She was right.

  Eleanor shook her head.

  “They found him bleeding on the corner of Seventh and L Southeast, at that nasty little market. The car must have drifted off the road a bit, like his foot was on the gas. It ran into the signpost, they found paint in the scratches. The car was taken from that point, there were skid marks leading away. They dropped his body out the door like he was trash. He was dead quickly, they did tell me that.”

  Eleanor’s tone was surprisingly matter-of-fact. Sam was impressed.

  “No one saw anything?”

  “Hardly. Nothing reported. They interviewed people from the neighborhood, but nobody saw a thing. The detective talked to Eddie’s boss at work, Rod Deter. He claims he didn’t call him to come in, doesn’t know who would have, because he had taken the day off. The last incoming number on his cell phone was from a blocked number. The detectives think it was a disposable cell of some kind.”

  “So it could have been anyone calling. And the autopsy?”

  “Gibberish. They’ll issue the final report in a few weeks, once the toxicology is complete. I had to go by what the detective said. He was shot once in the temple. They said at close range. There was shattered glass all over his body.”

  “Left or right temple?”

  “Right.”

  “So the shooter was on the passenger’s side of the car?”

  “That’s what they said. Glass on his clothes, glass in the street.”

  “They haven’t turned up the car yet?”

  “No. I assume it’s in parts by now.”

  “And his wife?”

  Eleanor met Sam’s eyes then.

  “Devastated. She’s done a good job at pretending otherwise, simply to get the girls through. And the planning…well, you know.”

  Sam did.

  We can bury them all together, if that’s what you want. They’re small enough… .

  She swallowed more tea.

  “Susan is none too happy with me calling you, that’s for sure. She wants to get him in the ground and get the girls’ lives back on track.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Eleanor’s voice rose an octave. “It’s unconscionable. Doesn’t she want to know the truth?”

  Sam put her hand on the woman’s arm. “It’s entirely possible that she does know the truth. Eleanor, you’re going to have to give me more to go on than this. Why do you think this is more than a simple carjacking? You said he was working on something?”

  Amazing, how they were both talking around him. As if saying his name would cause him to reappear, insubstantial and transparent, to stare at them sadly. It might, at that. The name of the dead is a powerful beast indeed.

  Eleanor deflated. “Oh, Sam, maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Maybe I can’t accept the fact that fate decided his time was up. But something is nagging at me. It just feels wrong. It feels all wrong.”

  She drank some of her tea, then set the cup down on the counter.

  “How are you, Sam? You’ve gotten entirely too thin, but that’s to be expected. I did, too, when Jack died.”

  Sam’s hands were tightly clenched in her lap. She noticed how red they were, how worn.

  One Mississippi…

  No, no, no. Not now. Not here. The two worlds must not be allowed to collide.

  Normal. Nominal.

  Sam couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t escape it. She picked up her teacup and sloshed a bit over the edge, over her fingers, onto her blouse.

  “Damn it. Look at that.”

  She rose from the stool, apologetic, and started the water running as quickly as she could. Felt the anxiety slink away, content to retreat into its dank hole.

  One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four.

  Eleanor watched her silently. She felt the woman’s eyes boring into her back. Sam gazed out the window to the small garden planted in the backyard. Saw a flash of white, heard giggling. She turned the water hotter.

  When she felt marginally cleaner, she made her way back to the stool and sat.

  “I’m fine, Eleanor. Let’s talk more about…Eddie. When did you see him last?”

  Eleanor squinted her eyes at Sam, but let it lie. Thank God. Sam was only one woman and, in her mind, not a very strong one, either. She couldn’t manage everything, all the emotions and sadness and fears and hopes, for herself and Eleanor, too. She just needed to keep treading water, and the whole world would keep spinning. At least for another round of sunsets.

  “He was over here last week, with the girls. Sunday dinner. Susan wasn’t feeling well, so she stayed home. We had a roast, watched some movies. A typical Sunday afternoon.”

  “And?” Sam prompted. “Come on, Eleanor. What aren’t you telling me?”

  Eleanor chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then stood and went to the far side of the kitchen. She opened a drawer. Sam could see it was the junk drawer. Everyone had them. She immediately thought about what was in hers: batteries, scissors, take-out menus, twisty ties, pliers. A small pink barrette.

  Nausea roiled in her stomach, she tamped it down. Stop it, Sam. Now isn’t the time.

  Eleanor crossed the kitchen and handed Sam a folded piece of paper.

  “You’re right. There is more. This is why I wanted you here, Sam. I just remembered it yesterday. Right before I called. I’d put it in the drawer and with everything that happened…”

  Sam took the proffered note. The paper was simple, thin, torn from a spiral-bound notebook, folded in thirds.

  Sam unfolded the note carefully. On it were four words, written in all caps:

  DO THE RIGHT THING

  Chapter Eight

  Georgetown

  Dr. Samantha Owens

  Evidence. This was evidence. They shouldn’t be touching this. This was an open threat.

  “Eleanor, do you have gloves?”

  “Winter gloves. Not the kind you’re looking for, I expect.”

  She’d diminished in the few moments Sam had spent staring at the note. Gone from a strong, self-assured mother to a frail old woman. As if she knew that she was right.

  Sam laid the note on the counter carefully.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It’s not mine. Eddie brought it with him to lunch. ‘For safekeeping,’ he said. He wouldn’t tell me where he got it, or when, or what it meant, just asked that I keep it hidden. So you see, it couldn’t have been random. I know he was murdered.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “No.”

  Sam whirled on her.

  “Why the hell not? They need this information. This creates more than reasonable doubt that this wasn’t a simple carjacking. You withholding the note…” She trailed off. She’d been about to say that withholding the note could have given Donovan’s killer time to get away, but laying that blame on Eleanor wouldn’t be fair. It was foolhardy, keeping the full truth from the police, but not life-ending.

  Eleanor sat heavily on the stool. Her face was haggard.

  “So he was murdered? It wasn’t random?”

  “Eleanor, I don’t kn
ow. I can’t say right now. But I’d like to get a chance to look at the autopsy notes right away, see if there’s something they may have missed. What’s the name of the detective working the case?”

  Eleanor had prepared a file folder that had all the information Sam would need stowed inside. The gesture made Sam sad. Eleanor had spent years on the Hill as the legislative director to several Virginia congressmen and had hated retiring.

  Old habits die hard.

  She handed the folder to Sam. A business card was paper-clipped to the front.

  “Darren Fletcher. And he seemed none too happy to be dealing with the case.”

  “Some cops aren’t the most friendly, that’s for sure. Tell me, what else did Eddie say about the note? Was he frightened? Annoyed? Secretive?”

  “He just said he didn’t want Susan seeing it.”

  “He didn’t want me seeing what?”

  Eleanor and Sam both jumped. A petite blonde woman stood at the entrance to the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, staring at them both.

  Sam had never met Eddie’s wife, nor seen pictures, but this had to be Susan Donovan.

  “Grammy! Grammy! Grammy!” Two little girls ran into the room. Eleanor immediately dropped to her knees and gathered them to her bosom. Sam forced herself to swallow, stay still. Every muscle in her body fired. She wanted to run as far away from the girls as possible. She gritted her teeth and looked out the kitchen window so they wouldn’t see the sudden tears in her eyes.

  The petite woman came all the way into the kitchen, removed her sunglasses. Sam gathered her self-control and met Susan’s eye. She could see why she wore the glasses, despite the fact there was no sun to be seen. The woman’s eyes were red and swollen, devoid of makeup, with dark circles underneath. On closer inspection, Sam saw her hair was dirty, unwashed for two, maybe three days.