Path into Darkness

by Lisa Alber

  Nathan didn’t oblige him by filling in the silence about all the many ways he should feel lucky. Instead, he sipped his beer.

  “You’re an expert at silence. A trick learned inside the psychiatric hospital?” Danny took out the single sheet of paper stored inside the folder he’d brought inside with him. He tapped it. “It says here that you were in the Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital in England for two years starting in 2004.”

  “That would be correct.”

  His voice had no affect, as if they discussed the common cold.

  “You were committed about a year after your wife Susannah’s death.”

  Nathan picked at the label on his beer.

  “She came from money, your wife. She was educated, had a posh accent, I imagine, and an expensive home in Sussex.” Danny sat back, crossed his legs, and entered into the spirit of the story. “The Internet is wonderful, isn’t it? I zoomed in on the property to get a feel for your life back then. Quite the life it was. Landscaped gardens and a country house ready-made for a movie set. Susannah dealt in fine art, but here she was married to a scruffy Irish potter. You can see how the police were interested in you after she died.”

  “She was a lovely person, my wife,” Nathan said. “We had a wonderful life together.”

  “I’m sure you did. You, your wife, and your equally lovely daughter.”

  Nathan nodded.

  “The police didn’t find evidence of wrongdoing. Susannah’s death was a tragedy. A fall down the stairs. Broken neck. Your recovery from the grief didn’t go well, and a year later the white coats escorted you to Broadmoor. Zoe was fourteen at the time. She went off to live with your in-laws.”

  Nathan set his beer on the table so the bottle aligned with the wet ring. He gazed out the window without expression.

  “Two years later, you were released, but instead of a joyous reunion with your lovely daughter, you returned to Ireland and got lost. You did everything legally possible not to be found again. Moving often, not using the Internet, keeping your pottery business local. Meanwhile, poor Zoe was abandoned by the one living parent she had.”

  “Crap father, yeah, but not for the story you think you understand.”

  “I’m interested in your story,” Danny said.

  Nathan swung his head toward Danny. The movement seemed to require an effort of will. Danny expected his vertebrae to creak under the strain. Nathan gripped the edge of the table and levered himself into a standing position. Danny forced himself to remain still and silent as Nathan undid the top button of his jeans. He let them sag low on his hips and pulled up his t-shirt. A monstrous red scar snaked its way out from under his jeans. The tissue appeared thick and inflamed, even though the scar was old.

  Danny’s gaze drifted back to the empty knife block. “Knife attack?”

  “You could say that.” Nathan sank back onto his chair without buttoning his jeans again. He returned to staring out the window.

  Danny leaned forward. “Nathan, listen up. You look like warmed—

  over shite.” He pointed at the stitches on Nathan’s head and the

  bandage on his hand. “Are you on the way toward another stay at a hospital?”

  Nathan snorted, a half smile rising and falling again. “Good question.”

  “For Christ’s sake, man, talk.”

  “I showed Annie my scar today, too. The day of my unveiling.” He grabbed Danny’s untouched beer, opened it, and drank half of it down in three long swallows. “Why are you here? It can’t be about my Father of the Year award.”

  “Did EJ ever talk to you about your stay at Broadmoor?”

  Nathan’s confusion appeared sincere. “Why would he?”

  “Wondering if he knew about your past.”

  “You think I’d kill him for knowing that fact? He may have poked through my things, but if he discovered anything, he never let on.” He stood. “Finished now?”

  Back on the front stoop, Danny said, “Need a lift anywhere? Zoe might be hours buying an Easter dress. Fond memories of her mother and all.”

  Nathan shook his head. “Zoe forgot to mention that every year Susannah had matching dresses handmade for her and Zoe. Zoe hated those dresses.”

  “Memories have a way of softening over time, especially after a tragedy.” Danny thought of Ellen as he said this, a fleeting acknowledgment that these days he didn’t linger on their marital estrangement so much as their good times together.

  “Yes,” Nathan said, but he didn’t sound certain. “Or memories slip away altogether.”

  “Do you remember your time at Broadmoor?”

  “Not well. A haze of drugs. Why?”

  “We don’t have access to the gory details about your arrest and therapy yet, but the initial police record states that you were raving, delusional, and violent. What set you off ?”

  In answer, Nathan clicked the door shut. Danny lifted his collar against a prickle of unease. Nathan could be dangerous to himself or he could be dangerous to Zoe. He could be dangerous, full stop.

  thirty-two

  Tuesday, 23-Mar

  Fact: Nathan has a scar, and not a tidy surgical or childhood one either.

  Fact: A fat snake of a scar with hard, lumpy scar tissue. The type of scar I’ve encountered once in my career, and that was a war wound that had gotten infected. In other words, major trauma, major neglect, major violence.

  You keep warning me to not identify with Nathan. You used the dreaded “transference” word. God, I detest that part of our lexicon. So what if I transfer my trauma onto him? If I’m willing to be with him and accept him, I think you’d agree that I’m beginning to lean into that attitude toward myself, too.

  Right?

  There’s guilt and then there’s shame. I’m filled with guilt, as well I should be. Nathan, meanwhile, is filled with shame. It oozes out of him, especially when his daughter is in the vicinity. He’s preoccupied with how she perceives him. It would be comical if it weren’t so distressing to witness.

  Oh, I don’t know. All this self-work is tiresome. The fact that matters is this:

  Fact: Nothing happened yesterday. All that anniversary fear for nothing.

  Fact: Here I am this morning, drinking my coffee with a celebratory shot of Irish cream, overjoyed that I’m home with the doors locked, security system on, barricaded—and blissfully alone.

  Do you think I can consider myself safe now?

  thirty-three

  Merrit slogged her way toward Fox Cottage. She’d never owned galoshes—rather, wellies—until she moved to Ireland, and now she lived in them for half the year. Puddles squelched underfoot and a giant grey mass of rain hung overhead. She stomped a puddle hard enough to splash muddy brown goo on her leggings.

  Life was complicated.

  She still didn’t know what to make of Detective O’Neil—no, Simon—asking her out. On a date. And then there was the Easter festival. She jumped with both feet into another puddle. The wind caught the resulting mud spray and blew it back at her. She spit and sputtered, and swiped her hands down the front of her raincoat.

  Merrit’s annoyance aside, the project had buoyed up Liam. He was resting in bed but in good spirits as he brainstormed ideas with Mrs. O’Brien. “You want something done in the village,” Liam had said, “you put her on the committee.”

  And here Merrit thought she’d gotten rid of the woman for a while.

  The wind blew off Merrit’s silly plastic rain hat and she trotted after it. She caught the hat midair and jammed it back on her head. A moment later she entered the cottage. The golden hue on the living room walls made a huge difference on such a dreary day. The kitchen, ditto, with its cheerful mint green. A quick check of the main bedroom showed a rumpled bed cover and no new paint yet. Good for Nathan and Annie, having it off, as the Irish say, on the sly. Gave the place a lived-in feeling that it sorely needed.

  She walked around the cottage, noting missing baseboards. The back door stuck, too. She pulled hard to open it
. It needed to be re-hung, but in the meantime she would buy the Irish equivalent of WD-40 to lubricate the hinges. The two wooden steps down to the ground were as springy as fresh mown grass. Add replacing them to the task list.

  A makeshift shelter leaned against the back wall. According to Liam, Kevin had rigged it up a year ago for the neighbor’s sheep that jumped the drystone wall. She’d grown fond of the sheep since moving into Liam’s house. In particular, the two wall-jumpers amused her with their decidedly un-sheeplike behavior. She peered into the shelter. There they were, chewing cud and looking pretty content.

  The smell of soggy wool and lanolin comforted Merrit as she scratched their foreheads. She pulled out some sliced apple that she’d brought with her in case they were about. They lifted the slices off her palms with their precision lips. A plastic tarp that Merrit didn’t recognize caught her attention. Slipping between the sheep, she stooped and peered under the tarp. Oh, but Nathan didn’t need to store his supplies out here. That was ridiculous. She scooted aside a paint roller and paused.

  With a quick wrist flick, she shifted the tarp aside. The plastic crackle startled the sheep into trotting outside, leaving Merrit alone with a strange implement caked with red stains. She didn’t know what it was, but it looked suspiciously like a murder weapon.

  thirty-four

  Danny stooped for a closer look at a wooden stave, battered but smooth from years of use. At one end of the stave, a sharp metal blade resembling a garden spade formed a ninety-degree angle with a wing that jutted out like a spear, the purpose of which was to cut square corners. A camera flash lit up blood and rust almost indistinguishable from each other.

  Danny silenced his ringing mobile and backed out of the lean-to to make room for the scenes of crime team, bumping into O’Neil as he did so. O’Neil peered over the photographer’s shoulder. “What the bloody hell is that?”

  “A sleán. Antique turf cutter,” Danny said.

  “I’ll check on Merrit.”

  “You stay here,” Danny said.

  Danny passed two huddled sheep and ran against the sideways rain into the cottage. Merrit sat on a bed in one of the bedrooms, contemplating a section of painted wall. The musky chemical scent of fresh paint brought a welcome change from soggy sheep. “Did you know you can cut a large onion in half and leave it in a fresh-painted room overnight, and voilà, no paint smell when you throw the onion away the next day?” she said.

  Danny sat down next to Merrit. “That’s a nice color you’ve chosen.”

  She cocked her head at the dusky rose color. “It’s called Raspberry Parfait, and it’s too pink. It’s utter crap, in fact. I hate it.” She dunked the paintbrush she held into a bucket of clean water. “I’d just been thinking about how complicated life is, you know?”

  He did, indeed.

  “Then I find that thing out there.” She waved her hand. “I’m sure Alan will be thrilled when he finds out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t recognize it? I may be wrong, but I think it’s supposed to be hanging on his wall of old farm tools, along with the photos.”

  She was right. He should have recognized it himself. “Good eye,” he said.

  “What about the Easter festival?” Merrit said. “Liam’s looking forward to it. Can we still do it?”

  “Yes, but fair warning that you’ll attract a larger crowd once the news about the murder weapon—if it is the murder weapon—spreads.”

  “Yippee, but we both know it’s the murder weapon. Someone decided the lean-to would be a good place to hide it. Why here? It doesn’t make sense.”

  But things always made sense to the perpetrator. The problem was figuring out the perpetrator’s perspective.

  “You’ve had more people coming and going lately,” Danny said. “Visiting Liam.”

  “Exactly,” Merrit said. “Why not throw the weapon in a bog?”

  “Unless you want it to be found.”

  “Lucky I’m the one who found it, then.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Those are Nathan’s painting supplies. He’s the one painting the cottage.”

  “Fancy that,” Danny muttered.

  “He wouldn’t incriminate himself.”

  Given Nathan’s shaky history, maybe that was precisely what he’d do. Or maybe he thought no one would find the turf cutter in the shed. He didn’t strike Danny as a criminal mastermind.

  “Someone trying to throw the blame on Nathan?” Merrit said. “Or maybe on Annie?”

  “Why Annie?”

  “They’ve been meeting up here in the cottage.”

  There was a new wrinkle. Danny returned to the kitchen without saying goodbye to Merrit. A muted buzzing caught his attention. He answered his mobile, still lost in thought.

  “Jaysus and Mary wept,” Marcus said, “where have you been? I’ve been trying to ring you.”

  Danny snapped back to the present. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Ellen. You need to come to the hospital. Now. Her heart stopped.”

  thirty-five

  A shadow shifted along Nathan’s bedroom wall. It slithered just within taunting range at the edge of Nathan’s peripheral vision. His lungs heaved on a silent gasp, and the space around him resolved into grey light seeping in around the edges of closed curtains. Something hung from the curtain rod. A coat. He didn’t own a proper wool coat. Then he remembered. Zoe had bought it for him. On sale, she’d said.

  He sank back onto his mattress. His hand throbbed. Blood dotted his bandage. He tried making a fist, but his fingers refused to close all the way.

  A shush of breath froze him. A shift, a glint in the half light.

  “Dad?” Zoe said.

  “Jesus, what are you about?” he said with his voice higher, more tremulous, than he’d have liked. He pulled the blankets around himself.

  “I wasn’t sure whether to wake you or not. They say you’re not supposed to.” Zoe sat on a chair in the corner of the room. “You’ve slept the afternoon away. It’s gone five already.”

  Earlier he’d decided to lie down for a while. She must have pulled the curtains shut. He couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been monitoring him while he slept. Or a dream figment had been watching him. He glanced at the coat that hung on the curtain rod.

  It was all in his mind. He hoped it was. He wasn’t sure anymore.

  “I was asleep?”

  “What else? If you can call that sleep.” She rolled her eyes and made as if to pat his head. Something glinted again. A knife. Nathan jumped out of bed and stumbled as a wave of pain shot up his leg.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  Zoe retreated from the bed. She held up a paring knife. “I didn’t mean to spook you. Dinner is almost ready, that’s all.”

  Nathan limped to the opposite side of the room from his daughter. He couldn’t think straight when she was nearby. She hugged him, hung on his arm, patted him. Always touching him. Her touch made him want to shed his skin.

  His voice shook as he said, “Remove that thing.”

  Her expression wilted, but he’d worry about her hurt feelings later. She knew the rules. No sharp objects in his bedroom, not even cuticle clippers. He’d have thought this was obvious.

  Zoe tossed the knife into the hallway. It skidded on the floorboards and bumped up against the wall.

  “You can’t come in when I’m sleeping,” he said. “You know that, too.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. I’m not some silly girl testing boundaries anymore.”

  This was exactly what she did. All the time, with a new coat, with everything. Nathan unslung the coat from the curtain rod and slipped it over his arm. This was the last place he wanted it hanging, lurking over him like a headless fiend.

  “Chicken Florentine for dinner,” Zoe said as she closed the door. “Ten minutes.”

  Nathan limped back to his bed and fell onto it. He dragged the coat over himself. Zoe had good taste; the coat warmed him
up. His big toe throbbed and after a few minutes he sat up to examine the swelling. Pain shot up his foot when he tried to bend the toe using his fingers.

  He surveyed the room in search of a sign that he’d kicked the wall while fighting shadows in his sleep. He didn’t see anything amiss and sank back onto the bed. The trouble with reality was that it felt too dreamlike, while his dreams seemed too real. And the past hovered somewhere in between.

  thirty-six

  Wednesday, 24-Mar

  Last night—or rather, early this morning—Nathan scared the living bejesus out of me. The keychain remote dinged at me as it does when movement triggers the outside lights. And there he was, a figure silhouetted in the rain. I didn’t recognize him at first. My heart about stopped until he hobbled closer. He wanted me to take a look at his toe. I joked,“What did you do, kick a wall?”

  He considered it for a second, then said, “Fighting a coat.”

  Twitchy, disturbed. More so than usual, I should say. I gave him a leftover pain pill and ordered him to see a doctor. Then he was gone with a hope that he could sleep now. I invited him to stay, but he said he didn’t want to ruin my chance for a good night’s rest.

  Fact: Nathan worries me and—

  Up-to-the-second fact: A letter arrived in the post.

  My fingers are shaking. I haven’t opened the envelope, but I recognize the writing. And here I thought I was safe. Just like PatientZ to dash my hopes.

  Fact: PatientZ is nearby, and he hasn’t forgotten about me.

  thirty-seven

  Danny held Ellen’s limp hand, watching her chest rise and fall in time with the rhythmic whoosh of the ventilator. She was back on the intensive care ward surrounded by a small cavalry of equipment. One of many poor souls in the large, depressing room. Beeping heart monitors and murmurs from the attending nurses and family members surrounded him but sounded muffled.

  Danny found himself breathing in time with the ventilator’s whoosh. The machine paused, and Danny held his breath. A moment of fear caused by the absence of noise, and then the ventilator returned to its normal rhythm. He beckoned a passing nurse, who grimaced in response.

  “Is there something wrong with the machine?” he said. “It stopped for a few seconds.”