Dark on the Other Side (22 page)

Her lover. She drove on, automatically, through the
night. Once, at her worst, she had prayed that she would never love
anyone again. Love had betrayed her too often. With her father, who had
died and left her, and her mother, who had never given a damn about her
because she was a girl, and had “all these funny ideas.” And, after she
had gone to him for the security her childhood had lacked, with Gordon.
He had not only failed, he had used love as a weapon against her, a
blindfold to hide his true nature, a spy that betrayed her own
weaknesses. Love? It was a chameleon word with a thousand meanings.
There were as many kinds of love as there were human beings—a hundred
times more, because every human being had that many different feelings
which he called by the same name.

Beside her, Michael moaned and shifted. His head dropped
onto her shoulder. She adjusted her weight and kept on driving, eyes
steady on the road.

When she first saw him, she regarded him not as a man but
as a ladder by means of which she might climb out of the pit where
Gordon held her prisoner. She had meant to ensnare his senses so that
his reasoning faculties would be blinded, and he would obey her demands
with the uncritical partisanship which that kind of “love” induced in
the victim. It was a blindness with which she was only too familiar.

Not that she had meant to tell him the truth. Some tale
of conventional “mental cruelty” would have done the trick—or so she
thought. She knew now that she would never have caught this man with
anything so crude. She might more safely have appealed to his sense of
compassion. But that was a double-edged weapon, too easily turned
against her—“poor girl, she needs help but doesn’t know it; we must
hurt her for her own good.” Gordon had already used that, and it had
almost worked. But that was Michael’s strength; no appeal that was
purely emotional could convince him completely. He had a critical
brain, critical even of himself, and it functioned. Even now, though he
“loved” her—whatever he might mean by that word—he was still asking
questions. He had come to her defense not because of “love” but because
the tireless critical brain had produced facts that cracked his first
predilection in favor of Gordon and Gordon’s explanations.

With that kind of intelligence she had no quarrel; in
fact, it might be the only solid thing in a shifting universe, and the
one quality above all others that had made her turn to him. But love,
whatever else it was, was not a sterile agreement of similar minds.
And, after the last agonizing months, she was no longer sure of her
capacity to give anything beyond that.

The inert mass beside her stirred again, and she started.

“Are you awake?”

“I’m not sure…. Where are we?”

“About halfway to the city. I haven’t been planning; I’ve
just been driving.”

“Pull over as soon as you can find a place.”

They were approaching a town, and she found the parking
lot of an all-night diner. She left the engine idling, pushed down the
parking brake, and turned to Michael.

He was upright and aware, but the dull look in his eyes
alarmed her.

“You’ve got to have a doctor. I’ll ask, at the diner.”

“Wait a minute. I’ve got to think…. What sort of story
are we going to tell a doctor?”

“But it’s nothing the police need to…Oh, I see. He’ll
know it was an animal, won’t he? He’ll start fussing about rabies.
He’ll want us to report it, describe where it happened, so the police
can check. If we said the dog belonged to a friend of ours—”

“He may wonder what kind of friends we have, that they
didn’t call in their family doctor. Lying is complicated, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes telling the truth is more complicated.
Michael, we’ll have to risk it. Maybe he’ll be sleepy and bored and
won’t care.”

“Yes, we’ll have to risk it.”

“Does it hurt terribly?”

“Yes, damn it, it hurts. But that’s not what’s bothering
me. I can’t risk being incapacitated. Don’t you understand? What
happened tonight was the first round. And we lost. You don’t think
he’ll give up now, do you?”

“No. But I wouldn’t say we lost. We got away.”

“Leaving one dead on the field of battle. She lost. She’s
dead because she lost. Whatever she was doing, or thought she was
doing, it failed.”

“That couldn’t have been part of his plan. He didn’t know
she’d be there.”

“I don’t know what his plan is, that’s why I feel so
helpless. But I’m beginning to suspect that my involvement isn’t
coincidental. Why he’s got it in for me I don’t know, but he asked for
me; he did everything he could to throw us together. He has something
in mind. And until we figure out what, we’re fighting blind. Let’s
locate that doctor. You go and ask while I try to think of some
disarming lie.”

The doctor was suspicious and hard to soothe. Groggy and
querulous at first, he woke up completely after a look at Michael’s
injuries, and only the latter’s quick imagination kept him from calling
the police. Michael managed to suggest a drunken party and considerable
provocation; the smell of brandy on his breath went a long way toward
convincing the doctor that the affair had been an ordinarily
middle-class brawl, with possibilities of scandal, in which he was
better not involved. They left as soon as they could get away.

“Well,” Linda said, when they were back in the car, “if
the police make any inquiries, we won’t be hard to trace this far.”

Michael shook his head. The pills the doctor had given
him were working. He looked much better.

“I don’t think we need to worry about the police. Not
that we can go to them for help; our story is too wild. And if we’d
been found there, with Andrea dead and the house blazing, we’d have had
some embarrassing questions to answer. But a common garden-variety
scandal can’t be Gordon’s aim. He won’t turn us in, and nobody else
knows we were at Andrea’s.”

“I’ll bet the police would love to have some witnesses as
to what happened there.”

“Not even that. Even if they find the—evidence intact,
the logical conclusion will be that Andrea was carried away by her
histrionics and had a heart attack. There wasn’t a mark on her. In
fact—that may have been just what did happen.”

“You don’t believe—”

“I don’t know what to believe.”

“The dog. It was real enough.”

“Too real. I felt it, all hundred pounds of it. It felt
like a dog; it even smelled like a dog.”

“But the others—the supernatural animals—”

“Werewolves,” Michael said roughly. “Say it. My God, are
we going to cringe away from words?”

“Werewolves are real; they take material form.”

“I know, I’ve read all the horror stories. Everything
works two ways, doesn’t it? Do you realize that nothing that has
happened couldn’t be explained in rational terms?”

“But Andrea…I see. Self-induced?”

“She had a bad heart. And a firm belief. Linda, the
phenomenon is known, documented—not only in the jungles of Haiti and
Africa but in American hospitals.”

Linda’s eyes were straight ahead, watching the dark
ribbon of road unwind.

“You know what your rationalist interpretation means,
don’t you? You’re sitting next to an attempted murderess.”

“Forget that!”

“I can’t forget it. I’ll try not to think about it,
but…Where are we going, Michael? We’ll be in the city soon. I’d suggest
some place brightly lit, with lots of people around you….”

“All right, then.” Michael turned, his arm over the back
of the seat. “We may as well drag all the dirt out into the open. Those
other times, when you ran away to other men—what happened? What did you
do?”

Linda didn’t answer at first. She had to fight to keep
her voice steady.

“I ran away once. I told you about that. There was no
other man, then or ever.”

“Then Gordon lied?”

“He’s a very convincing liar. It’s his word against mine,
of course, and I’d have a hard time proving I was telling the truth.
What difference does it make? How many times do I have to try to kill
someone before you’ll admit—”

“Stop it! Under any circumstances, by any possible
interpretation, that kind of thinking is dangerous. Don’t…open your
mind to it.”

“I’m afraid!”

“I’m not. Not of you. Remember that. We do have to decide
where we’re going, though. I know where I’d like to go.”

“To your friend—Galen. I’ve forgotten his last name. The
doctor.”

“Reading my mind? How much of that conversation with
Galen did you overhear?”

“All of it. Except when you went downstairs with him.”

“I hate women who are smarter than I am,” Michael said,
amusement coloring his voice.

“Do you know, I almost ran out and tried to catch him. He
sounded…wise. Wise and stable.”

“He’s the wisest man I know, and the sanest. That’s why I
want to consult him. Not because—”

“You don’t have to reassure me. Not any longer.”

“Furthermore,” Michael muttered, “he knows something.
Something about Gordon.”

“I wondered, when I heard the way his voice changed when
you mentioned Gordon’s name. Do you think Gordon was ever a patient of
his?”

“No, it was something else.” Michael told her about the
letters. “I don’t know what they mean, though,” he ended. “There’s some
hint there…. But it slipped past me.”

“I’d like to see them.”

“Yes, I think you’d better. But they date to a period
some years back, before you met him. When I get my hands on that
cautious psychiatrist, I’ll interrogate him. The son of a gun must know
more than what is in the letters. My dad may have talked to him.”

“Then let’s go to his place.”

“Can’t. He’s not back yet.”

“When will he be back?”

“The weekend, he said. Not before tomorrow.”

“Then where do we go? There’s the bridge, up ahead.”

“My place, I guess.”

“He’ll know….”

“What can he do there that he couldn’t do anywhere else?”
Michael asked reasonably. “I thought of a hotel, but I don’t like the
idea, I’d feel more insecure in an unfamiliar place. It isn’t physical
attack we’re worried about, is it?”

“No, but…”

“Any other ideas?”

His voice was calm and patient, but Linda sensed his
utter exhaustion. They were both exhausted, not only by long hours of
wakefulness, but by mental strain. She couldn’t think clearly.
Certainly she couldn’t think of any rational objection to his idea.

“I guess you’re right,” she said slowly. “Give me
directions, then. I wasn’t paying attention the last time I came to
your apartment.”

The streets were not crowded; it was well after midnight.
Linda drove slowly, nursing her growing fatigue. The rain had stopped,
but the streets were shiny with water, and clouds bumped the tops of
the tallest buildings. They left the car in the garage, for which
Michael paid, he informed her, a rent equal to that of his apartment,
and walked the short distance in exhausted silence. There were no
pedestrians on the street. The city might have been struck by some
silent science-fictional weapon, and all life destroyed except their
own.

The presence of Napoleon, squatting like a leopard by the
door, should have been reassuring, for he was obviously glad to see
them. But as she bent to fondle the scarred head that was banging
against her ankles, Linda was conscious of an increase in her dark
forebodings.

“He must have eaten up all the food,” Michael said,
watching Napoleon’s activities cynically.

“I’ll get him something. You sit down.”

“There’s some of the canned cat tuna on one of the
shelves,” Michael said as she went into the kitchen.

The sight of the littered sink and empty refrigerator
made Linda wrinkle her nose in disgust.

“It’s a wonder you don’t both have rickets and scurvy,”
she said, searching the drawers for a can opener. “There isn’t a drop
of milk. I should think you could at least feed that poor cat milk.”

“He hates milk,” Michael said. “Whiskey, gin, beer,
Coke—he loves Coke, but he’ll drink anything. Anything but milk.”

Linda found the can opener in the sink, and went to call
Napoleon. The cat was sitting on Michael’s stomach, glowering.

“He knows I’ve been in a fight,” Michael said. “And he
has a pretty good idea as to who lost.”

The cat sneezed and walked back down the length of
Michael’s semirecumbent form, planting his feet heavily. He went into
the kitchen, contempt radiating from every hair.

“I’ve lost face,” Michael said.

Linda was unable to be amused. Michael didn’t seem to
feel anything wrong. What was the matter with her, that she couldn’t
give way to the fatigue that dragged at every muscle? Unable to relax,
she began to walk up and down the room. Her eyes felt hot and her skin
had begun to prickle. Not for the first time, she speculated about
drugs. Gordon had every opportunity to administer anything he chose.
Coffee, wine, even the aspirin in her bathroom…What a nice, neat,
satisfying solution that would be. It explained so much…. But not,
unfortunately, quite enough. She turned.

“Where are those letters you mentioned?”

“What?” Michael started; he had fallen into a doze,
slumped in the big chair. Linda’s heart—or whatever internal organ it
is that behaves so peculiarly in moments of emotion—twisted as she
watched him blink and brush at his ruffled hair. “They’re in that
envelope I brought up from the car,” he said, yawning. “Why don’t we
wait till morning? We can think better after we get some sleep.”

“I’m too keyed up to sleep yet,” she said. “What about a
nice soothing cup of tea?”

“Okay.”

Linda went into the kitchen. She couldn’t tell him of her
feelings; he was too tired to cope with anything else tonight. But her
panic was real, and it was steadily growing. She had to see the letters
now, without delay, as a hunted man, feeling the approach of the
hunters, might desperately try to fashion the smallest scrap of wood or
metal into a weapon.