The Darkness of Shadows
Read The Darkness of Shadows Online
Authors: Chris Little
© Copyright 2013 Chris Little
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Rogue Gargoyle Books
Digital Edition ISBN: 978-0-9895629-0-4
This edition was prepared by
The Editorial Department
7650 E. Broadway, #308, Tucson, Arizona 85710
Cover design by Kelly Leslie
Book design by Morgana Gallaway
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
To thoughts and dreams, and those who support them, both willingly and unwillingly.
Table of Contents
I
got into a car accident the other morning on the way to work. Nothing major. I was changing radio stations, and the next thing I knew I rear-ended the car in front of me.
We both pulled over to the shoulder. I got out of my car with my insurance and other information at the ready, waiting for the other guy to come over so we could get this crap over with.
The other driver got out of his car.
Yeah, well, I couldn’t believe it—he was a dwarf!
He stormed over, looked up at me, and said, “I AM NOT HAPPY!”
I looked down at him and said, “Well if you aren’t Happy, which one are you?”
Then the fight broke out.
That’s one of my favorite jokes. Just wanted to share that.
It was August in New Jersey, the capital of humidity, and the air conditioner in my apartment unleashed a squall of stickiness in my direction. Neither sweet talk nor threats made a difference—it kept the cool air hostage and released it on its own time.
I finished reviewing the paperwork and closed the folder. I stretched and adjusted the Heckler & Koch USP Compact .40 S&W pistol in the holster in the small of my back.
The letters I’d started now had an immovable deadline. If I was going to disappear, I at least wanted to tell the Guerreros, the people who raised me, how I felt about them. Being part of their family was the only thing that pulled me out of the darkness—if I only got one thing right, I wanted this to be it. My serial killer handwriting (there’s probably one of those in my family too) would have to suffice.
I finished up both letters and put them into their envelopes. They joined the pile of paperwork for my lawyer.
Time to pack.
I wandered around my palatial residence: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and living room. The furniture was basic, nothing fussy or fancy—just like me. The kitchen was functional—I’m not a cook, I’m a baker. There’s a massive difference. Baking was more of a science—I think that’s why I liked it so much. Cooking had too many variables, too many unknowns.
My final decision was clothes only, plus some of my favorite CDs. I’d pack later.
Speaking of baking: I was going to Mrs. Guerrero’s for a celebration dinner and I was responsible for dessert. Her daughter, Valerie, had just won a prestigious award for the best web and graphic design company in the tri-state area.
Valerie Guerrero was a serious chocoholic and my best friend ever since the sixth grade. I wanted to do something special, something worthy of her addiction: individually layered bittersweet, semisweet and milk chocolate mousses covered in dark chocolate ganache.
With the finishing touches applied, the desserts took refuge in the fridge.
I’d finalize the sale of my business this afternoon and start my road trip in the morning.
Florida was my destination, and the plan went something like this: my father would follow me. I would lead him away from all the people I cared about, into some dark corner of the Everglades. Then I could kill him and let the gators take care of the mess.
He’d gotten away with murder. Why couldn’t I?
T
ara Edwards, my lawyer, took a late lunch in Grover Cleveland Park every day (weather permitting), and she asked if we could meet there and enjoy the afternoon. Nothing more enjoyable than talking business in hundred-degree heat with humidity to match. And to make the event even more special, a migraine was brewing behind my right eye.
I sat on a bench in one of the shaded areas by the pond, watching the people go about their conversations and lives. Two women were making their second loop around the park, dressed in skin-tight exercise finery with sweatbands on their heads and wrists
.
“Let’s Get Physical” played in my head.
“Oh. My.
Gawd
!” The one with the bridge and tunnel hair said. “Did you see what Carmella was wearing last night?”
“What a disasta!” her friend said. “Too tight! Too much makeup!”
This coming from the woman wearing a layer of spackle.
“Yeah, I know. And her hair! I need iced coffee real bad!”
They headed up the trail and disappeared.
Two guys with long blond hair, Nordic cheekbones, and expensive matching sunglasses sat on a bench across the pond. Each had a newspaper and bottled water.
They glanced in my direction. I looked behind me to see if some hot chicks were there—nope.
I fiddled with the ring Val gave me on our shared fifteenth birthdays. It was silver, with a thin band of inlaid copper. The bands spun independently, but you couldn’t pull them apart. Val’s family made a huge deal about her birthday. My parents didn’t acknowledge mine.
This birthday was like all the others, my father was away on business—maybe it was his gift to me.
I’d been hoping my mom would ignore me, as usual—and as usual, I got the exact opposite.
“What do you have there?” Her eyes tried to fix on the box.
“Nothing, ma’am.” All adults, including my parents, were to be addressed as
ma’am
or
sir
.
“What’ve yerfather’n I toldyou ’boutaccepting gifts?” she said.
Good thing I spoke fluent drunk. I kept my eyes on the floor. Another charming house rule: no eye contact was to be made unless I was told to do so.
“Why would anyone …?”
“It’s my birthday, ma’am,” I said to the floor.
“You know the rules. Return it.”
She grabbed the card Val had made. The cover was a pen and ink drawing of mountains. On the inside, a dragon was waiting, along with Rainer Maria Rilke’s words: “Our fears are like dragons guarding our most precious treasures.”
It was the coolest card ever.
“Valerie’s talented,” my mom said. “I used to draw … was better than this. Did you know that?”
Rhetorical question. If I kept my mouth shut, she’d drift back into an indifferent, alcoholic haze. My father was a different story.
“You can keep the card,” she said. “But your father can know nothing of this. Do you understand me?”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Happy birthday to me.
Tara Edwards moved with purposeful strides. Jackie O sunglasses eclipsed most of her slender face, and a braid of blond hair hung halfway down her back. She held a cooler in one hand, a briefcase in the other.
“Natalie, it’s good to see you!”
I stood up when she got closer. She deposited her things on the bench and moved in for a hug. I countered by extending my hand. She didn’t miss a beat.
“How are you?” Her perky voice shot through me like a bad burrito.