The Dark

by Andrew Neiderman

  The affair was as plush as any Grant and Maggie had previously attended. Besides the elaborate cocktail party and full-course prime rib or chicken Cordon Bleu dinner, there was a twenty-six-piece dance orchestra, magnificent flowers on the tables, photographers and society columnists everywhere. Grant had had to check the invitations to recall for which charity this had all been arranged.

  “Just another excuse for the rich and famous to put on their diamonds,” Grant told Maggie on the way to the hotel. Maggie was driving. She thought he was still in quite a bitter and depressed mood and she knew he could be rather biting and sarcastic in conversation when he was like this.

  “They get their tax write-off and feel so magnanimous. It’s all bullshit, Maggie.”

  “Why so down on the privileged class tonight, Grant? Is it because you’re still down on yourself?”

  “Everyone’s a psychiatrist these days,” he muttered.

  She looked at him, tears clouding her eyes. It was uncharacteristic of him to turn that sharp edge on her.

  “I’m only asking because I’m worried about you, Grant.”

  “Stop worrying. I’m fine. I’m sorry I even mentioned anything,” he added after a moment.

  When they arrived at the hotel, he did seem to revert to his old self. He gave his mother the big greeting she expected and began to mingle, charm, and hold conversations with people. He smiled more, danced with Maggie before the dinner was to begin, and generally moved about freely, with ease. She began to think he simply had to get out among people, whether he thought they were all hypocrites or not.

  Just before they sat for dinner, a couple approached Grant at the bar. They quickly introduced themselves as Marvin and Phyllis Becker. Maggie was standing beside Grant and had heard it all. Marvin Becker was a dark-haired man in his late forties, about five-eight. He had a soft, almost feminine face with eyelashes Maggie thought some women would kill to have. When Grant introduced her to Marvin and they shook hands, Maggie found his grip slippery, smooth, his fingers pudgy. She thought here was an example of the sort Grant was railing about on the way over. Becker personified the idle rich, wallowing in money, hiring people to do everything but move his bowels for him. However, Becker’s wife did most of the talking.

  Maggie noticed a fragility in her, a note of hysteria in her voice when she spoke. She was only an inch or two shorter than her husband, but almost as overweight. Bedecked in jewels, manicured and primed by the best Beverly Hills beauticians and hairdressers, she looked like a farcical attempt to turn Miss Piggy into Christie Brinkley.

  But they had a problem, a serious problem with their teenage son, and Phyllis and Marvin Becker placed the blame solely on their son’s present psychiatrist.

  “I know this isn’t the proper time and place to bring this up,” Phyllis said, “but everything’s just come to a terrible crisis today and when you were pointed out here . . . we’ve heard so many good things about you.”

  Marvin nodded at the end of each of his wife’s sentences.

  “You can call my office tomorrow, Mrs. Becker,” Grant said politely, trying to effect a graceful escape.

  But the woman started to cry.

  “Stop it, Phyllis,” Marvin said, and nudged her, rather hard, Maggie thought.

  “Well, it’s horrible, absolutely horrible. This doctor has Gary believing there are things deep in his childhood memories he’s repressed, disgusting things involving both of us,” she revealed.

  Grant tried to look at ease. People were starting for their tables.

  “He calls it memory repression,” Marvin said bitterly. “He’s blaming everything Gary has done on us.”

  “It’s so horrible,” Phyllis reiterated. “Can you see Gary right away—tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Money’s no object,” Marvin quickly added.

  “Grant,” Maggie whispered. “Your mother’s waving at us.”

  “I’ll work him in. That’s a promise, Mrs. Becker. Call my office about ten in the morning, okay?”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, grasping his hand between hers.

  “Yes, thank you,” her husband said. “Sorry to bother you here.”

  “It’s all right. Just call,” Grant said, and followed Maggie’s lead away from the bar.

  “What was all that about, memory repression?” Maggie asked as they strolled arm in arm toward his mother’s table.

  “It’s the flavor of the month in psychiatric circles,” Grant said. “Remember that girl who claimed her father raped her and then years later claimed her psychiatrist put it in her mind? The rape. It never happened.”

  “Like what supposedly happened with the children in the MacMartin case?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe you psychiatrists should be registered like weapons these days,” Maggie said, half in jest.

  Grant nodded.

  “Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  8

  They were both tired at the end of the evening, but Grant seemed positively exhausted the moment they got into the car and started for home. Even his mother commented to Maggie that Grant looked drained, pale. Once they had sat at the table, whatever energy source Grant had relied upon when they had first entered the hotel ran dry. He barely spoke and he ate very poorly. Twice during the short speeches, he dozed off and she had to nudge him, especially when it was his mother who was talking.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him as they waited for the valet to bring up their car.

  “Fine,” he said, but as soon as they got in, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, not opening them until they had pulled into the garage and she literally told him they were home. He groaned and got out. Skipping his usual humorous review of one of his mother’s charity affairs, he then undressed and went to bed. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, he looked dead asleep. She stared at him a moment and then went to the kitchen and quietly called Jack Landry.

  “Sorry if it’s too late,” she said, “but I didn’t have any other opportunity.”

  “It’s not too late; it’s never too late to a professional insomniac. Okay, here’s what I have,” he said. “The background was easy and when I visited Lillian Mosley’s apartment building, I came up with some information you might find interesting.

  “First,” Landry continued, “Mosley’s son Allan is what you would call a plodder, simple, indistinguishable, almost anonymous. He works for a big accounting firm, has for nearly twelve years, but hasn’t been promoted to anything or had the courage to go out on his own. No one dislikes him, but no one really cares about him. You know the type, ripe pickings for a dominatrix.”

  Maggie laughed.

  “You know more about that than I do, Jack. What about his wife, then?”

  “His wife Janet is a beautician, early forties, been working in an upscale salon in Beverly Hills for nearly ten years. Exposed to the rich and richer, probably wondering all the time why the bitch in the chair has all the money in the world and she doesn’t, if you’ll permit me a little license to guess motive,” Jack added.

  “Maybe you should be writing detective stories, Jack,” Maggie said.

  “Maybe. Maybe my clients’ paranoia is catching. Anyway, the story is she often went to the old lady’s apartment to do her hair and just happened to go the evening the old lady OD’d on her nitro, if that’s what she indeed did.”

  “Is that your interesting information?”

  “That and one other thing . . . neighbor told me the old lady had run out of the medicine and the old lady told her that her daughter-in-law was bringing it to her. Puts her at the scene of the crime, if it was a crime. We have good motive—they inherit all; there is no other sibling.”

  “How did you get a neighbor to tell you this sort of thing, Jack?”

  She was really worried about someone tracking him back to her.

  “I did my usual routine, pretended to be an insurance investigator. They love talking to insurance investigators. Everyone think
s other people are scamming their insurance companies, probably because they would, too, if they had the chance.”

  “What did they inherit from the old lady?”

  “She had about eight CDs in four different banks, besides a few blue chips I bet she forgot she had. We’re talking about a quarter of a million. This neighbor also confirmed that Mrs. Mosley was losing it. A nursing home was surely in the wings, and with it, loss of the money. A fortune to Mr. and Mrs. Nobody. Bottom line is Janet Mosley could have done what your patient claims she did, and it would appear to be a medical accident. You want me to do more?”

  Maggie considered a moment. She was tempted to put Landry on Jules Bois.

  “Let me think about it, Jack. There’s a lot to digest. Thanks. In the meantime, send me the bill.”

  “Maybe I should just build up a line of credit with your husband. The way things are going, I might need analysis myself soon.”

  “I don’t want Grant to know about this,” she quickly reminded him. “You told me you would respect that confidence, Jack,” she fired.

  “I’m just kidding, Mrs. Blaine.”

  Maggie took a deep breath.

  “I’m sorry. This has all put me on edge. I’ll call you in the morning, Jack.”

  “Fine. Try to have a good night,” he said.

  After she cradled the receiver, she stood there a moment thinking. Who was this new patient of Grant’s? If all that he did was scan newspapers for possible delusions, how could he know that people had motives for possible crimes? Did he visit with them after he found their names in the obituary column? Or preyed upon them in psychiatric offices, like he preyed upon Dunbar? How ghoulish and insane, and yet, that might be all it was. And if that was so, he certainly belonged with Grant and it would be Grant’s professional problem, not hers.

  She didn’t realize how long she had been standing there in deep thought, but suddenly she had a cold feeling moving up the back of her neck. She turned sharply to see Grant standing in the kitchen doorway. The chill flowed down her shoulders, over her chest, and into her heart.

  “Who were you talking to?” he asked.

  How much had he heard? She wondered before she responded.

  “I forgot something I had to tell Phil about tomorrow’s sentencing hearing,” she said. He continued to stare at her. He was wearing only the bottom of his pajamas and he was barefoot.

  “I heard voices. I thought someone had come to the house,” he explained.

  She smiled.

  “Sorry. I didn’t think I was speaking that loud.”

  “Couldn’t you have called him in the morning?” he asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion just when it looked like he was going to accept her explanation.

  “Phil’s going right to the courthouse in the morning. I didn’t want to miss him,” she said. “I’m sorry, Grant. I thought you were dead to the world and wouldn’t hear anything, especially if I came out here.”

  He nodded and went to the sink to get himself a glass of water.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “No. I thought I was tired, but minutes after I closed my eyes, they popped open and I suddenly feel wide awake.”

  “Interrupted sleep. You told me that’s a sign of anxiety, Grant.”

  “Serves me right for giving you a little knowledge, which, as you will recall, is a dangerous thing,” he replied, and gulped a pill.

  “What’s that?”

  “Something to help me sleep,” he said, and started out of the kitchen. She stood there a moment, wondering. Had he heard her conversation? Was he just pretending?

  She turned off the lights and started after him, but stopped when she saw him standing in the living room, gaping at the window, his eyes wide, his lips stretched in a grimace.

  “What is it?”

  “I thought I saw someone looking in our window,” he said in a deep whisper.

  “What?”

  He moved into a crouch and turned off the lamp.

  “Grant. Is it him, that man?”

  “Quiet,” he said moving to the window. She stood there, watching him, her heart pounding. He peered out at the edge of the window. “Did you arm the alarm after we came home?” he asked.

  She thought a moment.

  “No, I forgot.”

  “Go do it,” he said.

  She hurried up to the pad by the front door and punched in the numbers. Then she held her breath, waiting to see if one of the doors or windows would trigger the siren. None did. She let out the hot air in her chest and returned to the living room. Grant was still at the window, crouched.

  “Who did you think you saw?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Grant?”

  “A man, looking in at us,” he said quickly.

  “A man? Did you recognize him? Was it your patient Bois? Grant?”

  “No,” he said, but he sounded like he was lying.

  “You’re scaring me, Grant.”

  “It’s all right,” he said, straightening. He flipped on the lamp again and he smiled at her. “It was just a shadow, I’m sure. No point in not being cautious, though, right? And you did forget to arm the alarm, so it was good.”

  She stared at him. His whole demeanor seemed to have changed in seconds. There was a brightness in his face; the groggy look in his eyes was gone.

  “Relax,” he said, starting toward her.

  “Relax?” she started to laugh. “After this?”

  “I’m sorry. Are you tired?” he asked with a strange glint in his eyes.

  “I was. Now, I might need whatever you took to help you sleep,” she replied.

  “I have something better,” he said. “Come on.” He turned off the lamp and put his arm around her shoulders as he led her back to the bedroom. “All of us have built-up tensions in our bodies from the day. We’re like charged batteries; a crisis here, a conflict there, some problem to consider . . . everything,” he lectured, “puts some static into our system. Meditation helps, of course, but at this time of night, especially if you’re married to a beautiful woman, and she’s married to a handsome man . . . ,” he added when they reached their bed. He turned her so they faced each other. “Sex can be a terrific panacea.”

  “What?” She started to smile, but he remained deadly serious, intense.

  “I’m talking about two people focusing all their energies on their sexual involvement. It’s a way of channeling the static, putting it to good use and at the same time relieving yourselves of the tension,” he explained.

  She tried again to smile, but looking into his face, she felt she was gazing at a stranger. His lips, his eyes, even the way he moved his nostrils made him look different. She wondered if this wasn’t the face Grant put on when he treated his patients. She had never seen him in action, of course, but there was something very aloof, very analytic about the way he gazed at her.

  “Are you using psychology on me, Grant?”

  Now he was the one who smiled.

  “We all do that, every day, to everyone we meet,” he said, and then he brought his lips to hers and held her tightly as he moved his tongue into her mouth and moaned. His hands slipped down her thighs and groped to raise her nightgown and get under it. Once he did, he clutched her buttocks firmly and pulled her toward his erect penis.

  She was overwhelmed with the urgency and firmness in him. She did feel as if he were using sex as therapy. He surprised her by not moving them to the bed, however. Instead, he lifted her and drew her back with him to the settee by the window.

  “Grant . . . ,” she started to protest.

  He kissed her neck and her shoulders and brought his mouth to her ear.

  “Just listen to the doctor,” he whispered. He drew her nightgown over her head and sat, guiding her onto his phallus. “Maggie, Maggie,” he said softly. She was very confused. One moment he was rough and urgent, and the next he was gentle, loving, crying for her, needing her, wanting her. As they moved faster and faster, she reali
zed the curtain on the window was wide open and the light behind them in the room surely silhouetted them in the pane.

  Normally, there wasn’t much of a risk of being seen. It was late. Streets in Beverly Hills were quiet. Rarely would there be a pedestrian, and the windows in the house adjacent to theirs were all dark. The neighbors were asleep.

  Grant’s hands were kneading her breasts, his mouth was on her stomach. He pulled her down and lifted his face so that his mouth found her nipples. He was like a breast-fed infant in a feeding frenzy. It excited her and frightened her at the same time because he was so unlike his well-controlled self again. When she opened her eyes to get more comfortable, she gazed out the window.

  She gasped and pushed down on Grant’s shoulders.

  There was someone there, by the wall, a man, clearly silhouetted.

  “Grant,” she cried. He moaned and pressed his face into her. “Grant, there is someone out there. He’s watching us. Grant.”

  Grant was too far gone to hear or care. His thrusts were deeper, harder, faster. She held on like a rider on a bucking horse and waited for him to spend himself. As soon as he had, he clutched her and wheezed through his teeth.

  “Great,” he muttered. “Great.”

  “Grant.” She lowered herself until their eyes met. “There’s someone standing out there, watching us.”

  “What? What’s this, a joke, revenge for what I did?”

  “No, Grant. There really is someone. Look for yourself. See if it’s Bois,” she said. She moved off him and he turned and gazed out the window.

  “Where?”

  “By the wall,” she said, leaning on him and gazing out. There was no one there. “He was there. I saw him.”

  Grant laughed.

  “I did, Grant.”

  “Okay. So one of our neighbors is a mad voyeur. Who could it be—the movie producer . . . the dancer, the singer, the owner of the pizza chain? Maybe, it’s the orthodontist. I don’t trust anyone who makes a living in people’s mouths,” he quipped.

  “Very funny. You saw someone looking in the window but made believe you didn’t because you didn’t want to frighten me. You know I saw someone, too, Grant, and you told me about Bois following you. Why couldn’t it be him?”