Dark Corner (4 page)

"I wish you Godspeed in your mission," Franklin said. "I
suspect you'll find life in Dark Corner to be an enjoyable
change of pace"

"Dark Corner?"

"The locals call the town Dark Corner. Do you think you
know why?"

"I've no clue."

"Because the town is over ninety percent AfricanAmerican, and has been for generations. Dark Corner was
originally a slanderous name, actually think of the derogatory term, `darkie'-but over time, it acquired a certain charm
and became part of the shared language of the residents. I
suspect Edward Mason would be aghast if he were alive
today to see what had become of his lovely corner of the
South. The Negroes have taken over the plantation!" Franklin
laughed.

David laughed, too. "Was Edward Mason the town founder?"

"Correct. Around eighteen forty-one, Mason established
an immense cotton plantation here. Have you seen his estate,
Jubilee?"

David thought about the mansion he had spotted from the
window upstairs. The place that had given him a chill.

"Is it one of those antebellum houses, with columns out
front?"

"That's the one, you can't miss it. It's perched on a hill at
the eastern edge of town, like a castle. Edward Mason liked
to stand on the veranda of Jubilee and survey his cotton
kingdom, and glory in his achievements."

"Does anyone live there today?"

"Certainly not. Jubilee is reputed to be haunted. Townsfolk
won't go near it."

David's hand was curled around the cold glass of tea; the
iciness in the glass traveled up the length of his arm, and
spread throughout his body.

"Haunted?" David said. "Are you serious?"

Franklin shrugged. "That is what the stories claim. I've never seen evidence of it myself, but then, like other townspeople, I avoid Jubilee, too. It has an aura about it that ...
well, it disturbs me, to be frank."

"I felt the same thing when I saw the house earlier. A
chill."

"Trust your instincts," Franklin said. "I'm a man of reason and logic, but the more I learn, the more I realize that
there is much in our world that resists easy classification."

"I don't plan to visit the place anytime soon," David said.

"Wise choice." Franklin nodded. "One of these evenings,
you must join Ruby and me for dinner. I'll share some of the
tales with you. There are many. Mason's Corner is a small
town, yet claims a colorful history."

"I'd like that," David said. A yawn escaped him.

Franklin hastily pushed away from the table.

"You need your rest, you've had a long day," Franklin
said. He retrieved the empty glasses. "We'll talk more soon.
And you're welcome to come over anytime."

"Thank you again for your help." David accompanied
Franklin to the door. Franklin crossed the street, a bounce in
his step.

David smiled. What a guy. He had made his first friend in
Mason's Corner.

But he'd had enough activity for one day. Tomorrow, he'd
finish getting settled in and would begin exploring the town.

He dragged himself upstairs. In the master bedroom,
King lay across the bed, snoring loudly.

"King, I think that's my spot"

The dog raised its head, groggy.

"On the floor, buddy," David said. "The rules haven't
changed"

Groaning, King hopped onto the floor, and slumped on
the rug.

David lay on the mattress and sank into a deep sleep.

"Now David seems like a nice young man," Ruby said to
Franklin. She was in the kitchen preparing dinner. "He's a
spitting image of his daddy, too"

"That's the first thing I noticed." Franklin put the empty
glasses in the sink. "For a moment, I thought I was seeing a
ghost."

"I hope you invited him to dinner."

"I extended a dinner invitation for the near future, but I'll
wait a few days before I mention it to him again," he said,
thinking of David's purpose for moving to Mason's Corner.
The boy was on a mission to learn about his father, and
Franklin didn't want to hound him, though he would like to
spend more time in the Hunter house, exploring.

"He's a friendly kid, quite open, not at all like his father,"
Franklin said. "We'll be spending more time together, chatting."

"Don't you go digging through his family's possessions,"
Ruby said.

"The Hunters have lived in Dark Corner for generations.
They must have books, photos, relics-"

"Like I said, Professor Bennett. Respect the young man's
privacy."

"Am I that intrusive, my dear?"

She smiled. "Sugar, when you've got something you want
to find out, only God Himself can hold you back"

Franklin leaned against the counter. He stroked his chin.

"Ruby, as much as I've learned about this town, I feel as
if I'm missing something. I know all about Edward Mason
and his vile plantation; I know sordid tales about many of
the families here; I could draw a timeline of every major incident that's occurred in this town over the past one hundred
and sixty years. But my intuition tells me that I am missing
an integral piece of the puzzle. The Hunters always have
been a private clan. I believe that there's a reason why."

Ruby clucked her tongue. She opened the oven and
checked the progress of the roast beef.

"I'm not befriending David only because I want to discover his family's secrets," he said. "You know me much better than that. I genuinely enjoyed speaking with him and hope
to develop a friendship. However, if I can discreetly uncover
a few historical gems in the process, that would please me
immensely."

"You know how I feel about digging into people's business," Ruby said. "But I know your ways. You won't be satisfied until you find the dirt."

"It's not dirt. It's only data"

She smiled. "What do the kids say these days? Whatever,
man"

He kissed her on the cheek. "I'm going to feed the
hound."

"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes," she said.

A large bag of Purina dog food stood near the back door.
Franklin took the big scoop that lay on top of the bag and
dug it inside, filling the cup with the brownish nuggets.

The dog waited for him at the foot of the steps. It was a
mutt, a mix of a collie and another breed he couldn't place.
He'd discovered the hound rooting through his garbage one
day, and he had adopted it as his own. He never brought the
canine inside the house or threw a leash around its neck. He
let the dog roam throughout the town as it wished. It came to
him when it was hungry and wanted to be petted, normally at
the same time every day.

He'd named the mutt Malcolm, because on the day he
found the dog he'd been re-reading the autobiography of the
famous civil rights leader.

"Hey, how're you doing, Malcolm?" Franklin scratched
the dog behind the ears. It whined in pleasure. He poured the
food into the large bowl that rested at the base of the steps.
He refilled the water bowl, too.

As he watched Malcolm eat, he considered what he and
Ruby had discussed. He had been honest with his wifeafter being married for over forty years, he'd learned that it was simply easier to be honest. He was convinced that the
Hunter family possessed information that could deepen his
knowledge of the town's historical background. After living
across the street from the notoriously taciturn Richard
Hunter for seven years, Franklin had almost given up hope
of learning what secrets the Hunters might be guarding. But
David-now he was a nice young man. And Franklin suspected that David did not know his family's history himself.
The two of them could, if David allowed it, learn together.
Indeed, he might very well be a great help to David.

Life in Dark Corner, normally predictable and quiet, was
going to become a lot more interesting, very soon.

r 'yle Coiraut could not relax on the airplane.
L~

LAlthough he sat in the first-class section of the Boeing aircraft, in a comfortable leather seat, and though the seat beside him was vacant, ensuring abundant elbow room, since
he had boarded the plane at Charles de Gaulle, in Paris, he
had been fidgeting. He tried to read the book he'd brought
along, a Mississippi travelogue, but he could not focus on it
for any longer than a few minutes. Attempting to read the
airline magazine and the Wall Street Journal brought the
same disappointing result. When he slipped on headphones
and switched on the portable CD player to listen to one of
Rachmaninoff's peerless piano concertos-music which
usually turned his thoughts away from his troubles-the
notes drew his nerves as taut as piano wire.

He drummed his long fingers against the armrests. He
understood the source of his unease, of course: he could not
tolerate sacrificing control of his safety. The fact that he had
placed responsibility for his welfare in the hands of a
human, the pilot, tortured him. Humans were fallible and ac cident prone. Airline crashes were not common, but they
happened with enough frequency for this transcontinental
voyage to thoroughly unsettle him.

A window was beside him, and he'd pulled down the
plastic shutter, shutting out his view of the clouds. He did
not ordinarily fear heights, but looking through the portal
made it frightfully easy to imagine a fatal plummet to the
earth.

The flight attendant, a striking blond woman, strolled
along the aisle, checking on passengers. She smiled at him
and asked, for perhaps the third time, whether he required
anything else to enhance his flight experience. He smiled
briefly and responded that he was fine. He had not eaten anything and had drunk only water, and had asked her for nothing. She continually approached him, he suspected, because
she believed him to be a celebrity.

His clothing might partly explain her curiosity. His entire
wardrobe was black: boots, slacks, shirt, leather jacket, and
hat. He wore tight, black leather gloves and aviator sunglasses, too.

His skin was a rich chocolate-brown, and he was tall,
about six-feet-five, with the build of a track runner. Draped
in his elegant, ebony garments, he cut an impressive figure.

The flight attendant likely thought he was a professional
athlete; perhaps a famous basketball player seeking to avoid
attention. Or maybe a famed fashion model. He routinely
encountered similar assumptions whenever he swam
through the pool of humanity during daylight hours. In actuality, his heavy, dark clothing was a matter of necessity:
vampires did not endure sunlight well.

Sun rays did not affect vampires as dramatically as the
popular media portrayed. He wouldn't catch fire, or melt as
though he were made of wax. But exposure to ultraviolet
light caused his skin to itch terribly. According to Mother, a
vampire who habitually courted daylight would accelerate the aging process, too. Needless to say, vampires only ventured outdoors during the day when it was essential.

His journey to the United States was essential. He had
been waiting for this trip for his entire life one hundred
and sixty-eight years.

He shifted in his seat. They had been airborne for only
thirty minutes. He had at least eleven more hours in the sky
and a connecting flight ahead of him. An eternity.

This was not his first airline trip. Throughout the past few
decades, he had traveled the globe via air. But he had taken
his previous journeys in Mother's private jet, piloted by an
especially gifted human agent. He regretted that he had refused Mother's offer of taking the family aircraft to the
United States. Now, he paid for his arrogant refusal with extreme discomfort.

His black leather bag lay on the seat beside him. He unzipped the top compartment, and retrieved a cool aluminum
packet.

The silver vacuum-sealed packet contained sixteen ounces
of human blood-though no one watching could discern the
precious fluid contained therein. When enjoying a meal in
the company of humans, discretion was vital.

He and Mother procured all of the blood they required
from blood banks, as did many vampires these days. He had
not fed on a living creature in ages. Mother, ever concerned
about risk and attracting dangerous attention, had insisted
that they learn to sustain themselves through safe, nonviolent means. The emergence of blood banks was a boon for
vampires; the wealthy ones had forged confidential arrangements with a small, trusted network of blood banks throughout the world.