The Dark

by Andrew Neiderman

  “Well . . .”

  “Good,” he said, clamping down on her moment of least resistance. “Just follow me. I have that Lexus,” he said, pointing.

  She watched him walk back to his car and start his engine. When his lights went on, she started her car. What am I doing? she thought as she followed him down the street. Moments later, he turned into the driveway of a small restaurant called Grandma’s Kitchen. She had been down this street before, but she didn’t recall the place. She pulled alongside his vehicle.

  “I don’t know this place,” she said, stepping out of her car.

  “You will now, and I’m sure you’ll come back often.” He put his hand on her arm at the elbow and led her to the door. “It’s homey and authentic as the sign claims.”

  The restaurant was decorated with flowers that appeared natural and fresh, prints of Italian country scenes, and low lights. The red vinyl booths looked like something out of a fifties diner. It was just campy enough to be fun. All the tables had candlelight, and a tall, thin man sat on a small stage in the far right corner and played soft tunes on the accordion. An elderly woman got up from a table on the left and came to greet them. She had her gray hair tied in a bun and wore a red dress with a plain white apron.

  “Good evening, Mr. Becket,” she said.

  “Annette, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Blaine.”

  “Maggie,” Maggie said, holding out her hand.

  “Pleased to meet you. Your usual table, Mr. Becket?”

  “Thank you,” he said, and indicated that Maggie follow her to the rear of the restaurant to the most private booth. There were only two other couples in the restaurant. Seated across the room, they ate quietly, almost like people under hypnosis. But the aroma of wonderful sauces, garlic, herbs, and pasta filled the air. Maggie’s stomach churned in anticipation.

  “We’d like a bottle of your best champagne, Annette,” Becket said. “And, of course, the house wine with dinner. It’s homemade wine,” he told Maggie.

  “I didn’t realize how hungry I was until we stepped into this place and I smelled the food,” Maggie said.

  “Very few of us realize just how intense our hungers are,” he replied with a smile.

  “I’m talking only about food,” Maggie countered.

  “Actually, I am, too,” he said.

  A younger, plain-looking woman brought them the menus and a basket of garlic rolls.

  “These are delicious,” Maggie said.

  He nodded and put down his menu.

  “I usually go with whatever their special is for the evening,” he said.

  “Why don’t you order for both of us. You seem to be quite a regular here.”

  “Antipasto for two, Mary,” he told the waitress, “and tonight’s special is?”

  “Lobster fra diablo,” she said.

  “Perfect.” He handed her the menus. Annette brought the bottle of champagne, which she uncorked and poured into the champagne glasses. “The first toast of the night,” he said. “To you, Maggie, to your wonderful accomplishment. May it bring you more success and much satisfaction.”

  “Thank you.”

  They touched glasses and drank, both of them gazing at each other over the rims of their glasses.

  “I’m sorry. Do you feel funny having dinner with another man?”

  “Actually, no,” she said. “I have lunch and often dinner with other attorneys so often, I don’t give it much thought,” she snapped defensively.

  “This is different. We’re not here to negotiate, to make strategy, are we?” he pointed out softly.

  She gazed at the accordion player, who seemed now to be playing especially for them.

  “It does look like you’re trying to seduce me,” she said.

  “Would anyone blame me?”

  “My husband,” she replied.

  “He’s a psychiatrist. He’ll understand,” Becket said.

  Maggie laughed and had more champagne. She felt like being giddy and silly, and she felt like toying with seduction. The lawyer in her had blossomed. Now the woman demanded attention.

  They finished one bottle of champagne and then another. The antipasto was wonderful and the fra diablo magnificent. She couldn’t get over how wonderful the food was, and she especially was fond of the homemade wine. It was so smooth, she didn’t realize the proof until she sat back to consider the tray of desserts and her head spun.

  “Oh,” she said, “I think I’ve had enough to eat and drink.”

  “Not even a cannoli?”

  “No way,” she said.

  “Just a couple of cups of your coffee, Annette,” he told her.

  “I can be a good cook when I really try,” Maggie said suddenly, sadly.

  “You don’t try often?”

  “I don’t have the time.” She thought for a moment. “Why do I feel guilty for not cooking more often? Other women my age treat the kitchen like a vestigial organ, why can’t I?”

  “Does your husband complain?”

  “No, not really.”

  Becket shrugged.

  “Were you brought up in what some people refer to as a traditional home?”

  “Yes, definitely.”

  “Your mother was a homemaker and still is. She’s a bright, very independent woman, but a woman who takes pride in the way she keeps house,” he recited. “You saw your father admire her for that and you always sought your father’s approval. It’s not abnormal, nor is it neurotic. It’s just. . . image identification. Big deal.”

  Maggie stared at him a moment.

  “You sound more like a psychiatrist than an attorney. And if anyone should know, it’s me,” she said.

  He shrugged.

  “A good attorney has to be something of a psychiatrist, doesn’t he, Maggie?” He put his hand over hers and added, “Just being married to one isn’t enough.”

  “I think I had better go,” she said.

  He nodded at the waitress, who brought the check. He paid it in cash.

  “I thought this was supposed to be a write-off,” she said. “Don’t you want a receipt?”

  “I wouldn’t insult you,” he said.

  She liked that. He reached out to take her hand as she stood and they walked toward the front of the restaurant. Annette was waiting at the door. Maggie noticed how she stared at her, her eyes the same dark shade as Becket’s.

  “I hope everything was all right, Mr. Becket,” she said, her eyes still on Maggie.

  “As wonderful as ever, Annette. Give Danny my compliments.”

  “It was really very, very good,” Maggie said.

  “Thank you. I hope we’ll see you again,” Annette said.

  “You will.”

  As they headed toward the parking lot, Maggie caught her heel in between the squares on the walkway and stumbled. Becket caught her and held her firmly.

  “You all right?”

  “Yes, I just. . . I don’t know why men don’t have to wear high heels,” she said, and giggled.

  “Some do,” he said. “Anything to elevate their egos.”

  Maggie laughed. He still held her. They were in the shadows under the neon sign. The street was quiet, empty, not even an occasional passing automobile, which for any street in Los Angeles was unusual. Maggie felt as if she had lowered herself into a warm dream. The lights around them were subdued. The building spun and she dug her fingers into his strong arms to steady herself. Vaguely at first, she heard him whispering.

  “Maggie, you deserve more, better. You should be happier. Maggie . . .”

  Just as vaguely, she felt his lips on her ear and then on her cheek. She turned. Her heart was pounding. His lips grazed hers and then pressed harder, his arms sliding over hers and his hands moving down to her waist to lift her into him, fit her comfortably against his chest. She felt as if she were going to faint and fought to maintain consciousness, at the same time resisting the urge to kiss him back, to hold him just as tightly.

  “I can’t,” she pleaded. �
��Please . . . stop.”

  His hands moved up and over the sides of her breasts and settled under her arms. Then he lifted her easily and gently brought her back down to his waiting mouth again, again pressing firmly. Her body felt limp, distant, out of her control.

  “Don’t do this,” she pleaded, and he lowered her until her feet found the ground.

  “I just wanted you to know it’s yours whenever you want it, Maggie. Don’t be afraid to ask.”

  She leaned against her car. He let go of her hand and backed away. Moments later, he was in his car and driving out of the lot. He gazed at her, smiled, and then, after a small wave, turned to pull into the street.

  She took a few deep breaths and opened her car door. For a while she just sat there.

  What happened? What had she done? It really did seem like a dream. She started the engine, tightened her grip on herself, and backed out of the spot. As she pulled out of the lot and onto the street, she gazed into the rearview mirror and saw the restaurant lights go off.

  It was as if it had been opened just for them.

  13

  Grant was still not home when Maggie arrived. She was actually relieved, afraid that he might take one look at her and know what she had done. But what had she done? She had somehow been charmed into going to dinner with a complete stranger, albeit a handsome, interesting man, yes; and he had kissed her, but she had drunk too much and she didn’t invite the kiss, did she? Nevertheless, she had a deep-seated respect for Grant’s perceptive powers. He could read guilt in a face, and guilt was what she felt when she entered the house.

  Maggie went right to the medicine cabinet to take a few aspirins, afraid she would wake with a terrific hangover if she didn’t. Then she put up some water for tea, changed quickly out of her suit and into a nightgown and robe. She was just calming down and feeling an easy fatigue when she heard the garage door open. A moment later Grant entered, looking somewhat disheveled, disturbed, his tie loosened, his hair messed, his face flushed. He looked like he had been running. He carried a package under his arm. When he saw her sitting there, he paused, and for a moment they just gazed at each other in silence.

  “Where have you been, Grant?” she asked quietly. “You look terrible.”

  “Just walking about, thinking, trying to put some sense into the events of the past few weeks. Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” he added quickly. “I just didn’t think I would be good company for a celebration at the time. I guess you got the partnership, huh?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Congratulations.”

  “That’s it?” She expected a hug, a kiss, the invitation to pop open a bottle of champagne.

  “For now. I’m tired.” He started away.

  “But where did you go? What did you do?” she followed quickly. “What’s that under your arm?”

  He paused, took a deep breath, and turned back to her.

  “I . . . went to church first,” he said.

  “Church? Seriously?”

  He smiled.

  “I don’t know why. I don’t know what I expected. It was quiet, meditative, but the only voice I heard was my own. You know, the church was open, but there was no one there, not even a priest. Just me and all those icons . . . crucified Christs, saints, biblical figures . . . and I suddenly realized that we have become the high priests of the twentieth century, we psychiatrists have replaced Father Understanding and Father Forgiveness, and you know what Maggie?” He drew closer and gazed madly into her eyes. “It’s not because God is dead, it’s because the devil is dead, evil is dead. There is no more evil,” he said in a coarse whisper that put a chill in her spine.

  “Grant. . .”

  “No, listen,” he said, a little more animated. “I’ve been thinking this through. That’s what took up my time.” He started to pace as he spoke. “You guys, us guys, the whole infrastructure of so-called morality, legality, ethics . . . we’ve killed Satan. No one is evil. We’re dysfunctional, socially deprived, mentally ill, victims of everything but our own faults. We are no longer responsible, and so how can you blame Satan?” He laughed, a thin, mad laugh.

  “Grant, are you all right?”

  “Me? Sure. I’m fine. I’m finally . . . fine,” he said, and shook his head. “I think I’m finally getting everything in perspective so I can better understand my patients and my function.” He stared at the floor a moment and then looked up as if he had come back from another time zone. “Sorry I missed your big day. I’ll make it up to you tenfold tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Right now, I’m exhausted,” he said. “And it’s not my fault,” he added with a smile. “I’m just going to put this in the office and go to bed.”

  “What is that?”

  “A manuscript I received in the mail today. Something very . . . interesting,” he said, and headed for the den.

  “Grant!”

  He didn’t turn back.

  Her heart was pounding. When she lifted the cup, her hand trembled so much she couldn’t bring the fragile china to her lips. She put it down and took a deep breath. Something terrible, something even more terrible than she had imagined, was happening.

  She thought about Landry and went to the telephone. As quietly as she could, she tapped out his number and waited. It rang and rang until his answering machine picked up. She decided not to leave a message.

  Grant was already in bed and asleep by the time she put away the dishes and turned off the lights. She stared at him, watched him breathing regularly, his face almost childlike in repose, and then she lowered her head to her own pillow and said a small prayer for the both of them.

  Grant was up before she was the next morning. She had been so dead away, she hadn’t heard him rise, shower, and dress, which amazed her.

  “Wake up, sleepyhead,” he sang.

  Her eyelids fluttered. He had come to the doorway of the bedroom carrying a silver tray, on which was a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and a silver pot of fresh coffee. There was a long-stemmed red rose as well.

  “Morning,” he declared, looking bright and revived. “Thought I’d begin paying homage to the partner.”

  “Oh.” She ground the sleep from her eyes. “Thank you,” she said as he put the tray gingerly on her lap and stepped back. “I never heard you get up.”

  “I was very considerate, moved like a ghost, but you were dead to the world.”

  It was as if everything from the night before had been a bad dream. Gone was the wild glint in his eyes. He looked neat and as put together as ever. Mr. Perfect.

  “Where did you get the rose?”

  “I picked it up last night at a street corner and forgot I had left it in the car. So, how did you celebrate without me?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorjamb.

  “I . . .” She was tempted to tell him the truth, but she wasn’t sure how he would take it and she didn’t want to spoil the rejuvenation of happiness. “I went to O’Healies and let the jealous mob buy me drinks and dinner and bow respectfully, even though they dripped with envy and blamed it all on the women’s movement.”

  Grant laughed.

  “I’m sorry I missed that. What about Phil? Was he dripping green?”

  “I got the feeling he was already thinking about a new firm, one where he would be a bigger fish,” she said, downing the juice. “You squeezed the oranges yourself? I’m very impressed.”

  “Nothing’s too much for the partner,” he kidded.

  “I can see where I won’t be hearing the end of this for a while.”

  Grant laughed and then turned serious as she sipped her coffee.

  “Didn’t your firm employ a private detective named Landry from time to time?” he asked.

  “Landry? Yes. Jack Landry.” Her heart skipped a beat. Had Jack called the house after she had told him specifically not to? “Why do you ask?”

  “There’s a story on the morning news about a private detective named Landry.”

  “Wha
t?” she asked quickly.

  “He was killed last night, victim of a mugging in South-Central L.A.”

  “What?” Her fingers lost their grip on the handle and the cup hit the saucer, cracking and spilling the coffee over the tray. “Oh, no.”

  Grant rushed forward and lifted the tray carefully from her lap.

  “Sorry, I should have waited with bad news,” he said, balancing the tray to keep the liquid contained on it.

  “What happened to him?” she asked after catching her breath. She pressed her palm against her heart to keep the beating from drumming the blood right up through her head.

  “Just heard bits and pieces. He was found in his car, gunshot wound to the head, wallet, rings, watch . . . everything of any value missing.”

  “South-Central L.A.?”

  “That’s what I heard,” Grant said. “Sorry I brought bad news to you so early.” He smiled. “I made you your favorite omelette. Be waiting in the breakfast nook,” he said, and left her.

  She grappled for the remote and turned on the television set, flipping quickly to the local news station. Sports and weather was on. She would have to wait until the top of the hour again, another fifteen minutes. There was nothing to do but shower and dress.

  Jack was dead? Murdered? What was he doing in South-Central? Surely it could have had nothing to do with her case, she thought; rather, she hoped. By the time she came out of the shower, the news was starting again and Jack’s story was one of the headline events.

  It was just as Grant described . . . an apparent robbery, but no sign of a struggle. Wouldn’t Jack have put up some resistance? Heartsick, she dressed and went to join Grant for breakfast. He was more animated than ever, as if a good night’s rest had washed away all of his mental turmoil.

  “I skipped racquetball this morning just so I could whip up this special breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Actually, I didn’t want those guys kidding me to death about your promotion. I know they’re just jealous. Most of them are married to zeros, especially Carl Thornton. They all wish they had a wife as beautiful and as accomplished as mine,” he continued, and served her the omelette. She forced a smile and took a forkful. He stood back. “Well?”