Secrets Amoung The Shadows

by Sally Berneathy

  She eased the door open a crack and peered out. His broad, proud back, still clad in his blue suit, headed down the walk toward his car. If she could only see the license plates...but he was parked directly in front of the walk.

  "Eliot?" she whispered, then held her breath.

  He whirled around and in the glare from the porch light, she could see the confusion and fear on his face, and she knew. "What are you doing here alone?" he demanded.

  "Waiting for you," she said almost giddy in her relief. "It's okay. Thurman's on his way back. Come in."

  He hesitated, but she knew his need to talk to someone must be great since he had come in person rather than phone. "Thurman has a hefty set of andirons." She smiled. "I promise to keep one on my lap."

  "Where did Thurman go?"

  "To pick up a friend whose car broke down." She stepped back, holding the door open and extending a hand.

  That gesture seemed to break through his remaining control. He moved slowly toward the house. "The good news is, Mary Lunden's alive." He reached the threshold and hesitated, then came in.

  She closed the door behind him. There was, she thought, no need to lock it. The embodiment of her fears, the threat to her safety, was already inside. At her invitation.

  "I went to her house," he said, facing her squarely, daring her to deny his right to handle his own life.

  She motioned for him to sit on Thurman's brown plaid sofa, and he sank down stiffly.

  "She wasn't happy to see me." His hands clutched his thighs, his knuckles white as he stared out into the room, avoiding her eyes.

  Leanne didn't want to hear about it, but she had to. "What happened?"

  "She accused me of using her, humiliating her then dumping her. I didn't know what to say. I apologized. Then, without thinking, I said he had no right to treat her that way." He lifted a hand to his eyes as if he would shut out the painful image. "She cursed me. Said I should take some responsibility for my own actions, not blame them on him."

  Leanne laid a hand over his, and he looked at her then, his gaze tortured. "She's a human being, a nice person," he said softly. "She's right. I had no right to treat her like that."

  His words sent a chill down Leanne's spine, the way he linked Edward and himself. But then he continued in a quiet voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. "I was as inhumane to her in my own way as he was. While we were dating, I didn't think of her as a real person." He looked directly at her then. "Part of me is missing."

  Part of me is missing. The part of him he'd assigned to another personality?

  "No," he said, as if reading her thoughts. "Edward doesn't have the missing part. It's the part of me that ought to connect to other people. I don't get close to anyone. I used to think it was an asset, but now I'm not so sure." He shook his head and looked away. "Could I have a glass of water?"

  "How about a beer?"

  "I'd love a beer right now." He sounded relieved that she accepted his dropping the subject of Mary Lunden, Edward and his own failings. She didn't want to drop it; she wanted to hear more about his inability to connect to people. As a therapist, she wanted to explore that facet of him. As a woman, she wanted to overcome it. Perhaps it was just as well he didn't seem to want to pursue it.

  When she opened Thurman's refrigerator to get a beer, she noticed the leftover pizza. Eliot had probably not eaten dinner. A little food couldn't hurt. She zapped a piece in the microwave and took the snack in to him along with a can of Thurman's favorite beer.

  He smiled and accepted her offering gratefully. "I can't believe I could be hungry after everything that's happened this evening."

  She sat down across the room from him. "According to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, food is right there at the top of the list. Very basic. You can't live on anxiety forever. Eventually you've got to come down and take a break."

  As Eliot consumed the pizza and beer, Leanne could see that he was calming down. His first few bites had been vicious, but now he chewed more easily. His shoulders lost some of their tautness, the lines around his eyes smoothed.

  "My mother always said that a little food helped any situation," Leanne said. "She came to the conclusion without any help from Maslow."

  He leaned forward and set his empty plate and beer can on the coffee table, then sat back and looked at her intently for a few moments as if he were trying to see inside her head, inside her heart.

  "You know," he finally said, "it doesn't seem right that you know so much about me, and I don't know anything about you. Where did you grow up? Here in Dallas?"

  She recognized that he was making an attempt to break out of the shell he'd recently discovered. He was striving for intimacy, but his questions had the opposite effect on her. They reminded her of her father, of the pain his illness, his suicide, had caused her, of the fact that Eliot was ill, and she couldn't afford to relax her vigilance.

  Suddenly Eliot took on an added edge of danger. She had known all along without putting it into words that Eliot didn't allow people to become close to him. She could trust him to keep her safely at arm's length. Now he was trying to change that.

  "No," she said. "I'm not originally from Dallas. I grew up in a small town in Oklahoma. My father died when I was sixteen. My mother remarried and still lives in the same little town."

  "What's the matter, Leanne? Why did you suddenly freeze up on me?" He grinned wryly. "If I'd done that, you'd be wanting to hypnotize me and find out what's going on in my head."

  She forced herself to smile. "Are we switching roles? Are you trying to psychoanalyze me now?"

  He didn't return her smile or her light tone. "Maybe. Maybe I need to know as much about you as you know about me." His gaze held a scorching intensity even from across the room. "Maybe I don't like the idea of your having more of me than I have of you. Tell me about your childhood. Tell me how your parents died. Give me that part of you."

  This reversal made her distinctly uncomfortable. She didn't want to discuss her childhood with Eliot. She shouldn't discuss it with a patient. But he wasn't a patient anymore. And somehow his compelling gaze drew the words from her as unerringly as his physical touch could draw her body to him.

  "My father was a wonderful person," she said. The words did not come easily. "He was an English literature professor, a gentle man. When I was a little girl, he held me in his lap while he read Dickens and Shakespeare to me. But then he got sick." She tried to keep her voice an unemotional monotone, detach herself from the words, from the feelings of anger and sadness and fear. Eliot didn't need her problem added to his. "My father became clinically depressed. He committed suicide when I was sixteen. With a gun. I was there when he pulled the trigger."

  Eliot leaned back and uttered a soft oath. "God, Leanne, I'm sorry." He looked at her again. "I guess that explains why you didn't want to take my gun. I shouldn't have forced you to take it. I shouldn't have forced you to tell me about your parents tonight."

  "It's all right. It happened a long time ago." The doubt on his face told her he didn't believe her.

  "Yeah, like my parents' death happened a long time ago. But you and Thurman seem hell bent to prove that had a lasting effect on me."

  She gave a quick nod, admitting the validity of his comment. She could scarcely deny it. "My father's actions left me with a desire to help mentally disturbed people."

  "And to keep a safe distance from them."

  She faced him boldly. He deserved to know the entire truth of why she had to avoid him. "Yes."

  "So you have more than one reason to stay away from me. Edward and what happened to your father. It seems my first foray into intimacy was doomed before it got off the ground." He rose from the sofa. "Thanks for the beer and pizza."

  "No!" She stood with him, unwilling to let him leave like that. He might never attempt to open up again about his intimacy issues. She moved over to sit on the sofa, then took his hand and tugged. "Please sit down with me. Talk to me. Eliot, this could be a breakthrough!"


  Still holding her hand, he sat beside her and turned to face her, his eyes ablaze. "Damn it, you're not my shrink anymore. I don't want to talk about breakthroughs and all that jargon. You're the first woman I've ever wanted to be close to, and that's not going to happen, is it?" He lifted his free hand and cupped the side of her face. "So maybe I have had one of your damned breakthroughs. Even if I never see you again, I know I'll remember your face twenty years from now. I know I'll remember the way you make me feel. I want you, Leanne."

  He lifted his hand to his mouth and turned his head, moving his lips across her palm, his tongue tracing the sensitive flesh. His other hand slid along her neck and pulled her closer, his lips moving up to capture hers, to move against them in a soft, dizzying rhythm of passion.

  His strong arms pressed her against his hard body, and she wanted to dissolve into him, to let his strength carry her along, blot out everything but their desire and the wild, singing way he made her feel. Her arms wrapped about him, caressing his back.

  His lips left hers to roam over her face, planting butterfly kisses on her eyelids, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her throat, then back to her mouth. His breath on her skin was hot and fast sending surges of unbearably tantalizing ecstasy along every nerve in her body. Eagerly she returned the kiss, her tongue moving to join with his, to claim more of these intoxicating feelings, more of him.

  Her breasts against his chest ached for him to touch them, to claim them, to take them along on this wild, out-of-control journey from the real world into a world of sensation.

  He pulled away from her, scanning her face, the gold in his eyes liquid with heat. He lifted her onto his lap, then leaned her backward onto the rough fabric of the sofa.

  She could feel his fingers twisting the top button on her blouse, and she reached to help him, to rid herself of the clothing that kept her flesh from his, kept her from reaching the ultimate sensibility.

  But suddenly he withdrew, pulling away from her.

  She sat upright, blinking, buttoning her blouse, trying to orient herself, to think around the intoxicating hormones that Eliot's kiss had sent raging through her.

  Eliot laid his head in his hands and groaned. "What the hell am I doing?"

  She moved closer to him, her senses returning…the insanity of the situation returning. "It's okay," she said, though they both knew it was far from okay.

  Eliot shot to his feet, his eyes again blazing, but this time with anger. "No, it's not," he ground out, echoing her thought. "How could I put you I in danger like that?"

  "Stop blaming yourself. We both acted foolishly." Foolish as it was, though, she couldn't find any regret.

  He paced a couple of steps away. "I'm sorry, Leanne. Dear God, I'm sorry. You're here alone with a man who could threaten your life at any minute, and I let myself lose control. I've got to get out of here."

  He started for the door.

  In spite of knowing Eliot should leave, she didn't want him to go. They'd been so close—emotionally and physically. Now he'd pulled away from her, leaving her feeling cold and alone. She wanted to call him back to her, but knew she couldn't do that. "Eliot, calm down. You didn't hurt me. Nothing happened."

  He whirled around, one hand on the open door. "But it could have. I can't do this to you."

  "Then I'll leave," she offered, forcing herself to be logical. "Thurman's expecting to talk to you. You need to talk to him. You stay here, and I'll go home."

  "He's only expecting me to call." In an instant he was gone, closing the door behind him.

  She ran outside in time to see him get in his car and drive away.

  Chapter 18

  Eliot stared down at the stack of papers on his desk. He'd always enjoyed a total absorption in his work, but this morning he couldn't seem to concentrate. Images of the pictures he'd found in Edward's bedroom, the files on the computer, the papers in the desk, all darted through his head in an unending procession of horror.

  It was impossible that another person lived in his mind. He didn't believe it. Yet he knew it had to be true.

  Suddenly Edward had become devastatingly real, more than a small voice in his head. Edward had a home and in that home was furniture, an unmade bed, a brimming ashtray, evidence that somebody lived there. It was all real, solid...a life he was living that he knew nothing about and refused to accept...a life that might include murder.

  The phone on his desk shrieked along his already-frayed nerves. He snatched up the receiver. "Yes?"

  "Eliot Kane?"

  The voice was vaguely familiar, but he talked to a lot of people every day. "Yes, this is Eliot Kane."

  "Detective Stockton. Like to talk to you if you've got a minute."

  "Of course. What can I do for you, Detective?" A year ago he'd have been mildly annoyed at the interruption, assuming the man was going to hit him up for a donation to the policeman's fund. Today his gut clenched in anxiety. Was the man going to arrest him for murder?

  "Need to discuss your phone call with Officer Carter this morning."

  "My phone call with Officer Carter? What phone call?" The anxiety moved into high gear, running up his spine, tensing his neck muscles.

  There was a long silence before Stockton spoke again. "You didn't call Officer Carter?"

  "No, I didn't." But he had no idea if Edward had.

  "You didn't call and confess to the murder of Kay Palmer?"

  It was Eliot's turn to be silent while he tried to collect his thoughts, to decide how on earth he should handle this latest development.

  "No," he finally said. "I didn't call. I've never spoken with Officer Carter. Should I..." He cleared his throat and tried to sound as if his world wasn't closing in around him, to hide the panic he felt. "Do I need to contact my lawyer?"

  "That's up to you, Mr. Kane. We're not charging you with anything right now, but we would like to ask you a few questions. You—the caller this morning knew quite a few details."

  "But I wasn't that caller." At least not in his present conscious state.

  "Think you could make it down to the station or do you want us to come to your office?"

  The request was couched very politely, but Eliot suspected if he refused, Detective Stockton might take a more insistent stance. Eliot had no doubt the policeman would be at his office in a matter of minutes.

  "When would you like me to come down?"

  "How about right after lunch? One, one-thirty?"

  "I'll be there at one-thirty."

  He hung up and dialed Roger Fogel's number.

  "Murder?" the lawyer exclaimed after Eliot explained the situation. "You're kidding, right?"

  Eliot hesitated, unsure how much he should tell the man who'd handled his legal affairs for years, affairs that consisted primarily of filing boring documents with an occasional traffic ticket thrown in for excitement.

  "Someone claiming to be me called the station and confessed."

  "Eliot, this sounds serious. I'm not a criminal lawyer. Let me find you someone who knows about these things."

  Roger was probably right. Before this was over, he might very well need expert legal representation. Either he really had killed the woman, or Edward was trying to make it appear that way in the mistaken delusion that Eliot would go to prison and Edward would be in charge. In either event, it didn't look good.

  "We'll talk about that later. Today I need somebody on short notice. They want to see me at one-thirty. Will you go with me not just as a lawyer but as my friend?" As somebody who wouldn't demand Eliot divulge all the insane details before offering his help.

  "Okay, but about all I'll be able to do for you is advise you not to say anything incriminating."

  "That's fine because I don't have anything to say."

  "Eliot, were you mixed up with this woman? Anything you tell me is privileged information."

  "I think I went to school with her. I'm not positive. Anyway, I haven't seen her in years. She was apparently having an affair with someone who...someone
who was impersonating me." That was all Roger needed to know. And it was all Eliot could deal with. He couldn't admit out loud that his mind might be harboring a murderer.

  Roger whistled. "It does sound like you're going to need a good criminal lawyer."

  Eliot shivered, finding it hard to breathe at the thought of being in prison. The bittersweet side of that thought was that if Edward managed to get him sent to prison, Edward would be there, too. How would Edward feel when he took possession of their mutual body and found himself in a small, confining cell?

  At least Leanne would be safe. Completely out of his life forever, but safe.

  ***

  The room where Detectives Stockton and Easton led Eliot and Roger was small and windowless. As Eliot sat in one of the wooden chairs at the scarred wooden table, he could already feel the sweat beading on his forehead. He ordered himself to relax, to take deep breaths, to trace the brown carpet from the wall to his chair and back again and realize that the room was not growing smaller.

  "Do you mind if we record this?" Stockton asked, taking a seat across from him and setting a recorder on the table between them. Easton remained standing though a fourth chair was available.

  "Would it matter if I did mind?"

  Stockton smiled then began dictating the date, time, circumstances and everyone's names into the machine.

  The first few questions were innocuous, going over the same ground they'd already covered, then the serious questions began.

  "Did you call the station this morning and talk to Officer Jim Carter?" Stockton's tone changed from relaxed and friendly to tough and determined.

  "No, I did not."

  "Do you know anyone who might have done that?"

  How should he answer that? If he admitted that he suspected Edward, everything would come out. Whether or not he'd murdered Kay, he'd be on his way to prison or a mental institution.