ShadowsintheMist
Authors: Maureen McMahon
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
Shadows in the Mist
ISBN 9781419915895
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Shadows in the Mist Copyright © 2008 Maureen McMahon
Edited by Helen Woodall.
Cover art by Croco.
Electronic book Publication May 2008
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With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons,
living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The
characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Shadows in the Mist
Maureen McMahon
Dedication
To my husband, Peter, and my children,
James and KatyAnne, for their endless love and support, and in memory of my
father, Foster Brandon, whose faith and encouragement kept my dreams alive.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark
owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Business Week
: McGraw-Hill, Inc.
Cinderella: Disney Enterprises, Inc.
Jell-O: Kraft Foods Holdings, Inc.
Mazda: Mazda Motor of America, Inc.
Maserati: Ferrari S.P.A. Joint Stock Company
Mercedes: DaimlerChrysler AG Corporation
New York Times
: New York Times Company
Prologue
Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the shadow.
Thomas Stearns Eliot,
The Hollow Men
Looking back, I realize the first time the apparition
appeared to me was the night of my father’s death. At the time, I thought it
was my imagination or some strange hallucination but now I know otherwise.
I rented the cabin as a retreat. The seclusion was meant to
force me into completing a second novel I was commissioned to write. Instead,
it simply served to accentuate the prickling sense of disquiet that had
afflicted me for months. After my arrival, I did a lot of pacing, a lot of smoking
and a lot of thinking but my laptop still lay untouched in its leather case.
It happened on the second night. The cabin, hidden deep in
Michigan’s Manistee Forest, was rustic to a fault. There was no phone, the
electricity worked when it felt like it and the water tended to change color
daily. There was a chill in the air that night. A mist had worked its way down
through the trees and settled in opaque gauze close to the ground. I lit a fire
in the ample fireplace and it crackled warmly but still I shivered.
I was drawn to the window. Had I heard something? Was it the
wind creaking in the boughs? Or the snap of a twig? I turned out the lamp so I
could see more clearly into the darkness beyond. The firelight danced, making
shadows flick across the walls and ceiling. I cupped my hands and peered out
through the glass.
The mist slithered between the close-packed pines and
cloaked the thick underbrush. Fingers of it stretched up trunks and crept
across the meager plot in front of the cabin. The pine boughs hung heavy and
still. There wasn’t a breath of wind to stir them. The night blackness was
dense and impermeable, the tangled forest canopy allowing not a trace of moonlight
or starlight. The fire glow from my window cut a shimmering rectangle across
the needle-strewn yard and lit the encroaching mist into spectral patterns.
My eyes found him immediately, dark against the swirling fog
but somewhat indistinct amid the shadows of night and forest. It was the figure
of a man—faceless, featureless. He didn’t move but I felt his intensity. It
reached out to me and beckoned me, pleaded with me—beseeched me with silent
urgency.
Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid. Something in me responded. I
wanted to go to him, to comfort him but my body was frozen and my limbs were
numb. So instead, I opened my mind and, in the deepest recesses of my
consciousness, I felt him touch me. The touch chilled me, turned my insides to
pulp and left me reeling and dizzy. And if I were to translate the touch, it
would spell two words. Two words screamed like a banshee wind in a hurricane of
agony and desperation. The words “Help me!”
Chapter One
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget
Text by Christina Rosetti. Set by John Ireland.
When I Am
Dead, My Dearest
I hit the stop button and pulled the tape out of the machine
abruptly. David handed me the plastic case.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Sure,” I lied, fumbling with the cover, feeling
unreasonable irritation over his penchant for such ancient and sentimental
recordings. “Are we nearly there?” It was a stupid question. I knew the roads
as well as he did.
He took no notice. “Nearly there,” he said.
Good old reliable David—always calm, always predictable. I
was glad it was him who had told me. He’d always been able to soothe. On this
occasion, though, there wasn’t much he could do to lighten the blow.
“Your father had a terrible accident, Suzanna,” he’d said. “I’m
afraid he’s…dead.”
His voice had been emotionless. The words slipping from his
lips, like acid over steel. My first impulse was to laugh. The thought of
Leopold Dirkston being mortal like the rest of us was preposterous. Yet I knew
David would certainly not joke about something as macabre as my father’s death.
Disbelief was immediately replaced by horror.
“How?” I asked. We were sitting in the cabin. He’d appeared
on my doorstep without warning and I knew before he even opened his mouth that
something was amiss.
“I’m afraid it was just one of those horrible things,
darling. I found him in the swimming pool. He must have fallen and hit his head
and…”
I tried, without success, to visualize this fantastic
concept.
“You found him?”
“Yes. Colin and I stopped by to go over some business and,
well, he was just floating there in the pool. We pulled him out and started CPR
right away. For a while we even thought…” He made a helpless gesture. “Dad came
over right away and rode with him in the ambulance but I’m afraid he died on
the way.”
I didn’t hear the rest. An anthill of thoughts burst open
and I felt my head reel with the effort to focus.
“I’m sorry, Suzanna.”
He reached over and his long fingers engulfed mine with a
warm, dry strength I found unbearable. My eyes lifted to his face and I saw
that, for the first time in my life, David couldn’t comfort me. This thought
sent a bolt of panic through me and I snatched my hand away and fled to the
bathroom to be sick.
That was only a few hours ago. I’d had no choice but to pack
my few things and head for home. Now it was just after one a.m. and the
towering steel gates of Beacon, Leo’s estate, had just come into view. I wasn’t
eager to be back. I’d grown to resent Beacon nearly as much as I resented its
creator. At times I wondered if it was, in fact, some sort of extraneous limb
of my father’s. A few locations remained untainted by his dynamic personality.
There was High Dune, my bedroom, the lighthouse—these places were mine and mine
alone. Just knowing they were there waiting made my homecoming more palatable.
David pressed a button on the intercom affixed to the
gatepost. “It’s me, John,” he said.
I could see the security guard peer out the window of the
small gatehouse and, recognizing David’s car, waved acknowledgment. Seconds
later, the gates slid open, allowing us to pass.
I hadn’t met John. I did know we employed two guards at
Beacon, one to screen visitors at the front gate and one to patrol the grounds.
Grant Fenton looked after that side of things. Even if I didn’t see them, I
always knew the guards were there, so it was impossible to feel completely
private.
“You said he asked for me?” I was still searching for
answers.
David glanced in my direction. “Yes. He seemed to come to
for a moment, just before the ambulance arrived. He said your name. That was
all.”
“But why? Why would he?” I felt sick again.
David’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Dad says he’s
sure it was an accident, Suzanna. Leo had had a few drinks, stumbled on
something by the pool, fell and hit his head on the concrete edge.”
I frowned. Leo didn’t have accidents. He’d built an empire
by using good judgment and sound logic. He rose from the slums of Chicago to a
position as owner and president of one of the largest shipping firms on the
Great Lakes. No, I couldn’t believe he simply made a fatal “mistake”. But if
not an accident, then what? Once again I shivered, afraid to follow the path my
instincts chose. Instead, I took a different approach.
“Did he have a lot to drink?”
David shrugged. “I don’t know. Dad seemed to think so. You
know how it once was…after your mother died? We believe if he was sober, he
might not have stumbled.”
I hesitated. “Was he…was he drinking often? I mean since I
left?”
He didn’t answer right away and I noticed his lips tighten.
Finally, he looked at me. “Suzanna, don’t do this to yourself. It wasn’t your
fault. It was an accident, that’s all—a tragic accident. Blaming yourself will
do no one any good.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
He let out his breath in exasperation. “Okay, okay… Yes, I
suppose you could say he was drinking more than usual! But it wasn’t as much or
as often as before.”
My palms began to perspire and I gripped the door handle,
remembering the last time I saw my father.
* * * * *
“A writer? You want to be a writer?”
He sat behind his heavy mahogany desk and stared at me as if
I’d just announced I wanted to have my leg amputated for cosmetic purposes. The
huge wall of glass behind him looked out over the bay and South Chicago’s
Calumet district. With the sun framing him, he looked like Thor, ready to hurl
his golden hammer and smite the traitor before him.
I didn’t flinch, forcing myself to be calm. After all, I
expected this, didn’t I?
His hair was thick and clung together in gray bouffant
perfection, dramatically streaked with black. With wry amusement, I noticed he’d
let his sideburns grow and was now sporting a moustache. Despite all his Old World
ideals, he still wanted to keep up with the younger set.
“Yes, Dad.” My voice was steady and I lifted my chin, a
gesture intrinsically his. “I’ve had a novel accepted by Charlotte Press in New
York. It’s to be released in a few months.”