The Darkness of Shadows (3 page)

B
y the time I got home, the migraine was close to being full-blown. My vision was going and the nausea was coming.

I walked in and tossed the keys on the counter. The apartment was dark, cool, and quiet. Thank you, air conditioner.

I couldn’t concentrate on packing. I’d do it in the morning.

I stared into the mirror over the bathroom sink. What little color my gray eyes had seemed to have drained and darkened the circles beneath them. I was beyond tired.

I traced the scar on my face. I’d never be pretty, but I’d come to terms with that a long time ago. The scar was just part of who I was—and it reminded me of what not to become.

I shut the light off and headed to the living room, where I collapsed into the big butt chair and closed my eyes. My pistol was on the side table within easy reach. Exhaustion overran my consciousness and took me to a place of dreams and shadows—a place I always dreaded.

My father was waiting for me.

He grabbed my arm, swung me around and slammed me into the wall. My shoulder popped. Dislocated, I knew from experience.

“You have to make everything so difficult,” he said. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m an idiot?”

He filled my vision, and behind him there was nothing, only darkness.

“Sir, please, what—”

He pressed his forearm into my collarbone. I heard a sound like a waterfall of ice cubes cascading into a glass.

“You are MY daughter.”

I heard the click of the retractable baton. He raised it in his left hand, holding me with his right. In a blur of motion the baton connected with my right knee. The pain in my knee overwhelmed the pain in my shoulder. He drew back again and delivered another blow, then another, and another. I was screaming, but there was no sound, not even from the baton when it cracked down on me.

He lifted my chin in his hand. My stomach roiled.

He touched his forehead to mine and, with his finger, traced a path from the corner of my left eye, around my cheekbone, down to the corner of my mouth. I felt something cold against my tear-stained cheek, then he drew the blade along the path he’d made with his finger. Blood wept down my face. He took my arm in his hands and examined it.

“‘Between the idea and the reality, between the conception and the creation, falls the shadow.’” His grip tightened. Behind him, the shadows started moving, taking on a life of their own. “Natalie, you are my shadow. You betrayed me today—I can’t afford that.”

He snapped my arm like a twig.

I
woke up screaming.

Good God it was loud! My shirt was damp with fear. Just a dream—which didn’t make me feel any better.

The phone started ringing. I struggled out of the chair and grabbed it on the fourth ring.

“Hello?” I rubbed my right temple and tried to wish the pain away.

“Hey,” Val said. “I wanted to thank you for my gift. I love it.”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“It’s almost eight o’clock, slacker. I’m on my way to a breakfast meeting with a new client.”

I checked the clock and sighed. “Okay. See you later.”

“You sound awful,” she said. “Headache? More nightmares?”

I hated that she knew me so well.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry about Tina.”

“I’ve got these huge ex-supermodel shoulders for a reason.”

She snorted. “Your shoulders have a lot on them already.”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Talk to me.”

“What your sister said …”

“She’s a bitch. And we both know the world revolves around her.”

“You better pay attention to the road.”

“Look, Tina needs to trade in her thong, put on her big girl panties, and get over it. Mom adores you.” I could hear the grin in her voice. “I just put up with you.”

“I’m just tired.” An understatement—I felt like I’d been taking body blows 24/7, and I was well past exhaustion.

“I’ll stop by later. We’ll catch a movie, get some dinner, and you can tell me what’s really bothering you.”

“Be careful. Bye.” I hung up.

I decided to shower. Maybe then I could shake this headache, get packed, and get my ass on the road before Val showed up.

I settled down to packing and the stupid phone rang.

“Dammit!” I said to the duffel bag. I grabbed the handset and checked the caller ID: R. Guerrero.

I put it down.

Mrs. Guerrero’s voice held a bit of tension. “Natalie, if you are there, please pick up the telephone.” Discord hummed over the line. “Mrs. Edwards called me this morning. It is imperative I speak with you.”

The phone continued to ring all morning: Mrs. Guerrero, Mrs. Edwards, Val. You get the sequence. The answering machine was getting a workout.

This leaving thing was a lot harder than I thought.

The phone rang yet again.

Val’s voice was a mixture of fury and desperation: “Pick up the goddamned phone!”

My life was decorated with bad decisions, but leaving wasn’t one of them. Val and her mom meant the world to me. I dragged the duffel bag out to my 1974 Toyota FJ40. It would get me to my destination, I was certain, even if my mechanic wasn’t.

There was a man standing by my truck.

He was taller than me by a few inches, putting him at six foot four. Even in middle age, he maintained a quarterback’s physique. His brown hair was cut short, as it had been in the past. His eyes were a mosaic of grays and blues. My father.

I went numb, then terror ran through me with the turbulence of a piranha attack—ripping flesh from bone and leaving only cold memories.

He smiled. “Natalie. It’s good to see you.”

“Why are you here?” Of all the things I planned on saying to him, that was the best I could do just then. “What do you want?”

He had the balls to look surprised. “I came back for you. You also have some things that belong to me,” he said. “I’d like them back.”

“I don’t have anything of yours,” I said. My brain screamed at me to shoot him, but my elbows were locked and I couldn’t make my hands unclench.

“Your grandparents tell a different story.”

My fingers twitched. I had no idea what he was talking about.

He sighed. “I made a mistake the last time I saw you—”

“You made two.”

“I always assumed it was you who … no.” He snorted. “Of course you didn’t have the nerve. Your mother might have, but she would never betray me—”

“What are you talking about?” I needed to stall. Think, Pooh, think!

“The
pages
, Natalie.” For the first time, he looked impatient. “I hope you’ve taken good care of my work.”

“I don’t have any pages.”

“Those pages are the product of
decades
of work!” He took a step closer. “Where are they?”

My brain tried to coax the rest of my body into motion.

“You were always a visual learner.” My father dropped to his knees, reached under the truck, and snatched Rufus, the neighbor’s cat. He’d been watching the show, too slow and stupid to stay away.

My father snapped his neck. The cat went slack in his grip.

Good God! Rufus did obnoxious cat things, but he sure as hell didn’t deserve to be caught up in this crapstorm.

“Watch carefully,” my father said. “Not an ideal setup, but you’ll get the idea.”

He grabbed my cane, looked around the yard, and settled on the dirt patch where my landlord was supposed to plant some grass.

“This will do.”

He drew a circle and placed the dead cat in the center. He paced the circumference, then stopped to scrawl in the dirt. Once satisfied, he produced a knife and pricked his finger. The blood welled up and he smeared it on the limp body, chanting in low tones.

I should be running, shooting, anything. Instead, I stood motionless. I’d always known my father was crazy, a monster. Now he’d turned into something I had no words for.

A tentacle of light sprang into existence and wound around the circle.

He was like a master sugar artist, pulling and shaping, bending and twirling the beam with his hands. After a while he snapped his hands up, then down—the light shot straight into the late Rufus.

Rufus shivered and stumbled to his feet, dazed. My father swept his foot across the line, breaking it, and the cat took his leave.

What the fuck just happened?

“Do you see what this is all about now?” My father brushed away the drawings.

“You need serious help.” And I needed a reality check. He murdered Rufus, then brought him back to life—that, or this father-daughter reunion had splintered what little sanity I had left.

“Rita’s powers have faded—she can’t protect you anymore.” The vein in his temple was pulsing, his anger was rising. “Give me the pages. With you and your mother by my side—”

Fucking maniac! My mother had been dead for years. But hey—when in doubt, stick with what you know.

“I don’t have your stupid pages.”

His eyes drilled into mine. He took a step forward, then stopped.

“You really don’t have them,” he said. He reddened with anger. “What a waste of time—”

“I feel the same way about you.”

My pistol was halfway out of the holster before he grabbed it and tossed it away, his hot breath on my face. He moved a lot faster than I remembered.

“Do you recognize this knife?” He held the blade up. “It’s one of my favorites. Remarkably graceful grind, dramatic full.”

How could I forget? That big-ass blade still scared the crap out of me.

“So for $19.95, did it come with steak knives or just the oven glove?”

He thrust the blade into my lower abdomen and jerked it up to my sternum. Warm, wet blood soaked through my clothes. Great, I was an episode of
CSI
.

My father withdrew the knife and disappeared into a state of nonexistence.