CAME A SHADOW (The Shadow Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  CAME A SHADOW

  A Novel

  by

  Patrick Dakin

  And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden,

  dark and drear …

  --- Robert W. Service

  PROLOGUE

  Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia - 1919

  At eight years of age the boy had known few days in his life without pain and fewer still without fear. Smoldering hatred was as much a part of his makeup as his dark, brooding eyes and the mop of unruly hair that curled over his brow.

  He had long since given up trying to understand the reasons for the way things were. No amount of reckoning could possibly account for the pleasure his father took from the act of beating him. Or why his younger sister experienced such delight in seeing him suffer. It was the way things were. They had been this way for nearly as long as he could remember.

  Out of necessity he had learned ways to cope with the physical pain, to numb his mind to the brutality of his existence. But he would never dull his mind to the hatred he felt, for that was what sustained him.

  He cowered in a corner of the dirt-floored cabin where his long dead mother had given birth to him and readied himself for yet another beating.

  His father loomed over him, a thick belt wrapped around his sinewy wrist, the buckle end hanging free. "You goddamn little piece a shit," he snarled.

  The boy tried to fight back the flood of tears waiting to erupt. He knew the tears would only amplify his father’s rage. Pleading was equally useless, of course, but he couldn’t help himself. “Please, Daddy,” he cried, “I didn't do nothin'. She's lyin' … I didn't---"

  The horrifying whoop whoop whoop of the belt cut short the boy’s desperate pleas.

  His shoulder was splayed open as the belt-buckle bit into him.

  Despite promising himself he would not, the boy screamed - pain spreading like fire on the soft tissue of his upper arm. He fell back and, through blurred eyes, saw his father raising the belt again. Frantic now, the boy scurried into another corner, curling into a ball with his head tucked between his arms.

  The abuser grunted with contempt, taking his time, letting his anger build. He reached out with his massive fist, grabbed one of the boy’s stick-thin arms, and lifted him clear off the floor. He spun him around, then threw him to the floor again. The boy’s efforts to squirm away a second time were thwarted by a heavily-booted foot on the back of his neck, holding him firmly in place.

  The ragged, dirt-encrusted shirt he wore was torn from his back, exposing his frail body.

  Blow after blow rained down, each swipe of the belt adding to the bloody mass of torn flesh.

  The boy fought the pain for as long as he could. When he felt himself losing consciousness he glanced up to see the smiling face of his sister peering down at him from her safe perch in the loft where they slept.

  He had a sudden, vivid image in his mind of ripping that smile from her face.

  Then his world went black.

  For two days he lingered in a fevered state, never fully awake but never asleep in the conventional sense either. The raw, festering wounds on his back, left untreated, caused him near intolerable suffering. He endured in silence, however; the fear of inflaming his father's wrath again enough to stifle any whimpering he might have allowed himself.

  The stoicism with which he bore his pain was remarkable for a boy of his years, as was the intensity of his devotion to the only thing he maintained control over - the one thing that gave his miserable life any purpose at all: the blissful contemplation of vengeance.

  PART ONE

  SOPHIE

  CHAPTER 1

  New York - December 18th, 1983

  Carl Maitland, a smile still touching the corners of his tanned face, had been back to work for nearly a week. Even the harsh reality of a New York winter couldn’t tarnish the memory of a month on the Costa del Sol although, truth be told, it was trying awfully hard.

  He left his office, walked down the hall past his partner’s open office door, and was surprised to see him hard at work. "Hey, you’d better get moving,” he said. “Did you forget you’re catching a 2:30 flight?"

  Not uncommonly, Brad Crandall had indeed forgotten. Tearing his eyes from his computer screen and anxiously checking his watch, he mumbled, "Oh, shit." He hit the save button, shut down the computer, and stood, grabbing the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. "You sure you're going to be okay here?"

  Carl reacted with a tolerant smile. "I don't know why anybody in their right mind would even consider going to Maine in this weather but if that's what you refer to as a holiday, go already."

  Brad patted Carl on the cheek as he slid by him. "No need for sarcasm, old fellow.” Then, under his breath: “And do try to keep your hands off the hired help while I'm away, will you?"

  The rebuke, entirely unnecessary, was part of the on-going banter they had engaged in throughout their twenty year friendship, an alliance that went back to their junior year in high school. Despite his bachelor status and movie idol looks, Carl's rigid adherence to proper office protocol was as legendary as his penchant for hard work.

  The two had roomed together through college, and subsequently hired on with the same international accounting firm after graduation. Their original goal was to undertake the long and arduous journey up the company's corporate ladder but, almost immediately, they had realized just how daunting that journey was likely to be, given the intimidating pool of talent that already existed within the organization. Before a year had elapsed they were working on a plan to strike out on their own. Carl's father, a comfortably retired architect, loaned them enough money to open a little office on the fringe of the business district and, with the unwavering ebullience of youth, they had embarked on self-employment.

  Being the new boys on the block - in direct competition with the biggest and best accounting firms in New York and, by extension, the world - was no small undertaking. It meant struggling for years to get a foothold in a vastly competitive marketplace. They were years of extreme sacrifice and very often immense frustration. Some months they had barely made enough to cover the rent on their modest accommodations. But they never lost sight of two very important facts: they had talent, and they were willing to work harder than anyone they knew. Five years after their humble beginnings Crandall, Maitland & Associates had made remarkable progress; within ten years the company had earned a reputation on Wall Street as a highly respected firm of corporate tax specialists. It was entirely possible they might never be a serious threat to the really big players in corporate finance circles but with sixty junior partners, almost as many associates, and a good-sized support staff, the company could, nonetheless, boast an impressive roster of moneyed clients.

  Now occupying new offices near the heart of the city's business center, the founding partners were finally enjoying the fruits of their labors. Carl owned a lavishly furnished penthouse apartment with an extraordinary view of the Manhattan skyline, drove a top-of-the-line Mercedes, and holidayed regularly at the best resorts in the world. He enjoyed a lifestyle that was without doubt the envy of many.

  Despite their continuing close friendship, Brad bore little in common with his long-time partner outside of the office. In point of fact, short of having a gun held to his head, there is nothing that could have convinced him to trade places with Carl. It was almost embarrassing to admit but, the fact was, Brad was more in love with his wife, Samantha, now than when they had married eight years earlier. He had a wonderful daughter he cherished and a beautiful home that suited them perfectly. In his mind he was the luckiest man on the planet.

  Conservative by nature, Brad had
avoided most of the more flamboyant trappings of success. Not for him the luxury cars that sold for the equivalent of his annual salary, or the Vegas and Atlantic City gambling junkets so popular among some of his peers. His emphasis had always been on developing and adhering to a solid personal financial strategy. His aim: to retire at forty-five and live off their investments. And whatever Sam could pull out of her shop if she wanted to keep working, which she probably would. They had brought her lifelong dream of owning her own specialty lady’s boutique to fruition three years earlier. She designed, produced, and sold her own creations. At this point she needed to get a better handle on overhead before she'd be making any real money with the business but, of primary importance to them both, she was doing something that gave her immense pleasure.

  Brad’s drive home from the office was made treacherous by snow-slogged streets, the result of a three day storm that had hit the east coast unexpectedly mid-week. But the up-side was that the early afternoon traffic was - by New York standards, at least - reasonably light.

  Navigating the perilous roadways Brad contemplated his existence, his well-ordered mind weighing the pros and cons, like assets and liabilities on a balance sheet. The result of his deliberations left no uncertainty at all: on a scale from one to ten his life ranked right up there in the double digits.

  ****

  At thirty-two, Samantha was a woman in the prime of her life. Among her many admirable attributes were long, lightly muscled legs, a stylishly thin frame, and delicate facial features. Added to these were a thick mane of natural ash-blond hair, a faultless, creamy complexion, and eyes the deep blue of a summer sky. Stunningly beautiful was a phrase commonly used to describe her. Her solitary fault was her vanity, although few who knew her could hold this against her.

  She maintained her weight at a hundred and fifteen pounds - what she considered her ideal - by working out three nights a week at a health club and by sticking to a diet only a rabbit would covet.

  She stooped effortlessly, picking up Brad's discarded clothes which formed a ragged trail from their bedroom doorway all the way to the ensuite bathroom of their Brooklyn Heights rancher, and sighed in exasperation. It seemed nothing - certainly not her constant nagging him over the issue - was going to break him of his sloppy habits. She was convinced that, left to his own devices, every piece of clothing he owned would be crumpled into a ball and left on the floor. Equally irritating was the lack of attention he gave to getting anywhere on time. Already running late when he'd arrived home from the office he had then insisted on a shower before their departure for the airport. Jesus.

  "Brad,” she called out for the third time, “if you don’t hurry it up we're not going to make that plane."

  She leaned against the doorframe, watching him as he emerged from the shower stall, wrapping himself in a terrycloth robe and then toweling his thick dark hair which, despite her urgings to the contrary, he insisted on wearing too short to be fashionable. But at just over six feet, a hundred and seventy-five pounds, with deep brown eyes and a dark complexion, she couldn't deny he was a fine looking man.

  Unlike most of her friends’ husbands, Brad hadn't gained a pound in the eight years they'd been married. Samantha couldn’t deny that she was proud of the way he looked but it irked her that he didn't have to work at it. A game of racquetball twice a week and the occasional round of golf in the summer were hardly equivalent to what she endured to keep her figure. Brad ate like a sumo wrestler and never gave a thought to dieting; she'd gain two pounds reading a recipe that called for sugar. There was no damn justice.

  Brad caught sight of her in the mirror as he ran a brush through his hair. "Nearly done, babe."

  "I'll put the bags in the car," Samantha moaned. "Please hurry."

  They planned on spending the two weeks until New Year's with Brad's father in rural Maine - an unabashed attempt to introduce a little sanity back into their hectic lives. Although she was admittedly uneasy about leaving her shop in the hands of employees during the busiest season of the year, she and Brad had not taken any real time off together since Sophie’s birth. That they were in desperate need of a break from the daily grind was a gross understatement.

  And of equal importance, Brad was looking forward to spending some quality time with his father. They had always been close and didn't see each other nearly often enough to suit either of them. Brad suffered no end of guilt over the fact that their visits were so few and far between, and particularly so since his mother's death from cancer a year earlier. Pangs of conscience tugged relentlessly whenever he thought of his father, alone on the farm that had been his home for nearly forty years. Samantha routinely admonished Brad not to torture himself about it. Make the best of whatever time you spend together. That's all you can do.

  Easily said.

  Samantha’s thoughts were interrupted by their four-year-old daughter, Sophie, charging by her on her way into their bedroom with her usual boundless energy. She latched on to her father's pant leg, tugging at it ferociously as he buttoned his shirt. "Come on Daddy, or we'll miss the plane," she warned in an ominous tone.

  Sophie was the image of Samantha at the same age. With her mother's blond hair and dazzling azure eyes she was destined to break more than a few hearts in the years to come. It didn’t take much effort to imagine that, too soon, there would be a perpetual stream of boys pounding on the door and clogging the phone lines for hours at a time.

  "Okay, Monkey,“ Brad said, “I'm ready." He grabbed his jacket, swung Sophie up into his arms, and headed out to join Samantha.

  CHAPTER 2

  Despite limited visibility in the midst of a raging snowstorm, the 747 carrying the Crandalls touched down in Augusta, Maine, by late afternoon. Brad’s father had made the eighty mile drive from Colville and was waiting for them inside the airport terminal.

  The moment she spotted her grandfather, Sophie began the process of squirming out of her father’s arms. The squirming was followed by an ear-piercing squeal. Brad put her down with a groan of relief. Carrying Sophie was like trying to maintain a hold on a buttered seal. When she hit the floor she took off running, shouting, "Grampa! Grampa!" Bert Crandall, hunched over and waiting with open arms, was rewarded with a vigorous hug and a deluge of wet, poorly-aimed kisses.

  Bert picked up Sophie, holding her in one arm, while hugging Samantha with the other. Brad hung back, taking pleasure in the sight of his family’s obvious joy. But, in spite of the happiness of the moment, Brad was conscious of the undeniable melancholy in his father’s eyes that was, more or less, a constant state of affairs since Sarah’s passing.

  “Hi there, hotshot,” Bert said, looking over Samantha’s shoulder.

  “Hi, Dad.” They shook hands and made an awkward effort to simultaneously hug. “How have you been?"

  Bert gave a dismissive toss of his head. "There isn't a day goes by that I don't miss your mom, but I'm getting along okay."

  "You look like you’ve lost a little weight."

  "Oh, maybe a pound or two. Not much." About the same height as Brad, Bert was in good shape for his age even if the last ten years had seen an expansion of his waistline and the addition of fleshy jowls under the once firm chin. His silver-gray hair remained nearly as thick as it had been thirty years earlier.

  "Where's Winston, Grampa?" Sophie asked. The dog had been the main focus of her thoughts for the past eight days.

  "Well, honey, he's waiting at home for you," Bert answered. "He was just too darned excited about your visit to make the trip to town."

  Brad couldn’t help but smile at the image of Winston, his father's golden retriever, acquired as a pup soon after Sarah's death and such a source of comfort to Bert during the tough months that followed. A more gentle, even tempered pet it would be hard to envision.

  “And speaking of home,” Bert said, “let’s get to it, shall we?”

  ****

  The farmhouse was protected by a congenial fusion of elm and maple trees and sat well back from
the road. It came into view from half a mile away and, as always on seeing his boyhood home after an absence of any duration, Brad thought of his mother. The picture in his mind was invariably that of a gentle soul with a smile on her face and the soft glow of love in her eyes. After more than a year her death still sat heavy on his heart. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever get over the pain of missing her.

  Bert managed to keep the house in reasonable order in bachelorhood but, understandably enough, it now lacked the womanly touches that had always made it such a cheerful place. The presence of dog hair everywhere was another sure clue that Bert was now a widower. Had Winston been around when Sarah was alive there was little doubt in anyone's mind that he’d have been confined to the mudroom when indoors. Obviously Bert harbored few concerns about such things as a little canine fur laying about.

  The original house had been built around the turn of the century but had undergone several major expansions and renovations - some without the benefit of professional influence - by ensuing owners over the years. The result was an odd mix of grand and ordinary. A covered veranda that bordered the house on three sides was it's greatest exterior feature, while an impressively large circular staircase dominated the interior.

  The farm had been faltering badly from neglect by elderly owners when Bert bought it after returning home from the war in 1946. A generous veteran's loan and several years of hard labor had gone into upgrading the house and barn and gradually increasing the size of the dairy herd. Just about the time his efforts were beginning to pay off, Bert had met, and shortly after married, Sarah. Brad had been born less than a year later.