CAME A SHADOW (The Shadow Trilogy Book 1) Page 10

  The burning ache he felt from the loss of Sophie, however, was an entirely different matter. He believed if he’d only had some clear understanding of the circumstances surrounding her demise - no matter how wretched the details might be - a healing process could have begun. Without that knowledge, putting closure to the matter seemed impossible. It was pain he would have to live with forever.

  But, even though the issue of Sophie’s disappearance remained unresolved, the simple process of sorting out his feelings did give him some measure of peace. It allowed him, finally, to step back and take stock of himself. It was a Sunday morning, following a night of heavy drinking, and he studied his image in the bathroom mirror. It was the first time he had really seen himself as others did. Sunken cheeks, hollow eyes, unhealthy complexion. Then, dressed only in his shorts, he stood in front of the full length mirror attached to the bathroom door. He could hardly believe how thin he had become. He weighed himself on the bathroom scale and was shocked even more. How was it possible that he had allowed himself to deteriorate like this?

  Suddenly, it was like a light flicked on in his mind - the awareness that, if he continued on the way he was, he would surely die.

  He made the decision at that moment to change.

  As a first step he vowed an end to the drugs. Cold turkey. Sleep would be hard to come by and he knew he would crave the boost the uppers had given him during the day. From this point on everything he did would require a monumental effort. But anything, he resolved, was better than the false existence he'd been living until now.

  He wouldn’t try to stop drinking immediately, but he made a promise to himself that he would gradually wean himself off the booze. For the time being, he was content to kick one bad habit at a time.

  ****

  In June Terry Levinson called to tell him the final divorce papers were ready for his signature.

  . At Levinson’s office Brad signed the documents and pushed them across the desk, leaning back with a resigned look on his face.

  “Well,” Levinson said, “you’re a free man. Poor, but free.”

  “Yeah, free,” Brad mumbled. Like it was something he should actually be thankful for. “Guess I should celebrate, huh? Wanna join me for a drink?”

  Levinson shook his head. “Sorry, pal, I’ve got a shitload of work to do before I can even think about leaving here for the day.”

  Brad rose from his chair and turned to leave. “Yeah, well…”

  Levinson could see his friend was deeply depressed. “Listen, why don’t you just go on home. Put your feet up and relax. Things will look better tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” Brad said. “I’ll see ya, Terry.”

  Watching him leave, Levinson had the feeling he should be doing something more. But just what he didn’t know.

  Brad arrived home convinced he needed a drink more than anything else in the world. He poured a Chivas on the rocks and dropped into an easy chair. He closed his eyes and drank deeply, luxuriating in the feel of the liquor as it coursed down his throat.

  Twinges of guilt niggled away at him for giving in yet again to the allure of liquor. For a moment he was close to leaving it alone at one drink. Then, holding the empty glass up in front of his face, he muttered, “Fuck it,” and brought the bottle and a bucket of ice back to his chair.

  By midnight the bottle was empty. He was out cold in his chair.

  The relentless ringing of his telephone brought him awake at eight-fifteen the next morning. He reached out clumsily, knocking the phone from it's cradle. It dangled, out of reach, over the edge of a glass end table.

  He could hear a woman's voice: "Hello? … Brad?"

  He made a grab for the phone, cringing at the sudden vertigo. "Yeah," he rasped.

  "Brad, it's Callie Henderson.”

  “Callie?”

  “I'm terribly sorry to be calling you like this, but I'm afraid I have some bad news."

  He sat forward. "Sophie? You found her?"

  "No, Brad, we haven't. It's about your dad. A neighbor stopped by about half an hour ago to visit him and found him slumped over the kitchen table.” There was a pause. "He was dead. It looks like a heart attack."

  Brad had a sudden urge to laugh. You’re kidding, right? My daughter’s been abducted, probably murdered. My wife has left me. I’m struggling with alcoholism and addiction to drugs. And now my father is dead?

  But, of course, it wasn’t a joke.

  CHAPTER 16

  His hangover was so excruciating he felt sure it would kill him. Every time his heart beat it felt like he was being hit on the head with a rock.

  He stumbled to the bathroom and threw up painfully in the toilet. After that he swallowed a handful of aspirins, washed down by what remained in the bottle from last night, and crawled into bed.

  Not long after that the phone rang again. He was tempted to ignore it. What good could possibly come from talking with anyone?

  “Hello,“ he said, reluctantly bringing the phone to his ear.

  “Hello, son. It’s George. You’ve heard from Callie?”

  George Miller. The neighbor that had found his father. “Yeah.”

  “I can’t tell you how sorry Estelle and I are,” George said.

  “Thanks, George. I appreciate you taking the trouble to call. Is there any more news about what happened to him?”

  “Not yet. It looked pretty obvious to me his heart just gave out. He was in his chair at the kitchen table, drinking a coffee. Looked peaceful, like he had just put his head down on his arm to have a little nap. For what it’s worth, son, I don’t think he suffered any pain.”

  “Well, that’s a blessing at least.”

  “Is there anything we can do for you before you get here? I brought Winston home with me. We’ll look after him for as long as you want us to.”

  “That’s good of you, George. I’ll call you when I get there. It should be sometime tomorrow.”

  “Goodbye, son.”

  Brad re-cradled the phone and fell back on the bed, his arm across his face in a weak attempt to shield his eyes from the morning sun. For an hour he barely moved as his mind fought to come to grips with yet another tragedy. How much more can I take? he thought.

  Later he phoned the office and told Carl what had happened.

  "Oh, Christ, I'm so sorry," Carl said. "Is there anything I can do?"

  "No, ” Brad said wearily. “I don't think so."

  "Call me when the funeral arrangements have been made. I want to be there."

  "I will."

  ****

  Four days later, on a warm Saturday morning, a large crowd was assembled inside the Colville Presbyterian church. Reverend Pollard, ancient and revered, delivered the eulogy.

  Bert had left instructions that his body be cremated and that his ashes be spread over the fields at the farm. At least, Brad thought, I’ve been spared a graveside service. He was relieved when the final prayers came to an end and the mourners began leaving the church. He took a moment to say a solitary goodbye to his father, then left the church himself. Outside, a group of mourners were waiting to offer their condolences.

  He accepted the compassionate gestures and words of sympathy with as much patience as he could muster.

  Miles Wilson was the last to approach him. He hung his head and shook it sadly. “Gonna miss him,” he said. “Don’t know whether ya were aware of it or not but yer dad and me was workin' on some things together. When ya've got some time, gimme me a call. We’ll talk."

  Brad nodded. “I will. Thanks, Miles.”

  George Miller and his wife, Estelle, were waiting by their pickup and motioned to him when they caught his eye. They were, Brad realized with some dismay, the closest thing to a family he had left. Childless themselves, they had always been like a second set of parents to him.

  Estelle was weeping quietly. George stood beside her with his arm around her shoulders, ever supportive.

  “Sad business,” George said, taking Brad’s hand.


  Brad nodded. “Yeah.”

  "Will you be staying at the farm awhile, son?"

  "Just long enough to get Dad's affairs in order and decide what to do with the place."

  "Have you given any thought to Winston, dear," Estelle managed to choke out between ragged inhalations. "He's a wonderful dog … and we'd be real happy to keep him if you'd like."

  "I appreciate that, Estelle, but I think maybe I’ll keep him with me while I'm here."

  "Of course, dear." she responded, trying desperately to stem the flow of her tears with a lace hanky that appeared entirely incapable of handling the job. "George will drop by with him tomorrow."

  He gave Estelle a hug, then helped her up into the cab of their pickup and waved them off. After that he looked around for Carl and Terry Levinson who had flown up from New York together. He spotted them standing by a waiting limousine.

  As he started toward them he saw Callie Henderson walking his way. She was wearing a plain black dress and her auburn hair was a little messed by the breeze, thick strands falling across her face. Despite the circumstances, Brad was struck by how beautiful she looked. When she embraced him briefly the scent of her perfume sent an exhilarating chill through him.

  "I just want you to know how sorry I am, Brad," she said softly. "Your dad was a wonderful man and he'll be greatly missed by everyone who knew him."

  "Thank you, Callie."

  She reached up, touched his face gently with the palm of her hand, and turned away.

  He watched as she walked to her car. Carl's voice, calling to him from the limo, brought him out of his reverie.

  ****

  Carl and Terry had tickets on a 7 o’clock flight out of Augusta back to New York. Brad had insisted on driving them to the airport in his rental car and the three of them were to have an early dinner together before the flight.

  On the way to the airport they stopped at a restaurant that Terry knew from a previous visit and ordered prime rib on his recommendation. The food was excellent but Brad ate little, sipping on single-malt double scotches through most of the meal.

  When they left the restaurant Carl and Terry exchanged concerned looks. Under other circumstances neither would have been inclined to allow Brad to drive. It just didn’t seem like the right time to be lecturing him on the evils of drunk driving.

  Terry sat in the front, Carl in the back. Both kept a wary eye on the speedometer as they sped along the highway to the airport.

  "What are your plans now?" Terry asked.

  "Dunno,” Brad answered. “It’ll take a few days to sort through Dad's stuff … decide what to do about the farm."

  "Listen, buddy, why not take some real time off," Carl said. "God knows you could use a break."

  The airport terminal came into view. Was it possible that only eighteen months had elapsed since his father had met Samantha, Sophie, and himself here? How could the tide of his life have turned so dramatically in such a short time? He had always believed he was immune to disaster. Bad things happened to other people, never to people like him. Well, shit does indeed happen, he thought miserably. I'm the living proof. "You know, Carl - I think I will take a few weeks off," he said.

  "Don't worry about a thing, buddy. Take as long as you need," Carl said. He sounded immensely relieved and Brad could not blame him in the least; he'd been nothing but a giant pain in the ass to Carl for months. He knew he hadn’t been carrying his weight at the office but it had been so long since he had, his work load had somehow been absorbed by others. The truth was, things around there would probably run much better without him now.

  As they prepared to board their plane, Terry fished out a business card from his wallet, wrote a name and telephone number on the back of it, and handed it to Brad. "If you need any legal help in settling your dad's estate - or with anything else - call this guy in Augusta. He's a good man. I've known him for years."

  "Thanks, Terry, I will."

  The drive back to Colville was long and tedious. With every mile he covered there seemed less reason to hurry back to the farm. At 10:30 he was passing through Lewiston when he spotted a tavern. The neon sign in the window was like a magnet.

  What the hell, he thought. A few drinks won't hurt.

  By 1 a.m., when the tavern closed, he could barely walk.

  "If I was you I'd consider takin' a cab, pal," the bartender called as Brad stumbled out.

  ****

  Wherever his mind had been since leaving the bar, it hadn’t been on his driving. The blue and red lights of a state trooper's patrol car suddenly loomed ominously in his rearview mirror. Brad peered at his speedometer, trying to focus on the blurry image. "Shit," he muttered. He was doing close to ninety.

  He pulled over to the shoulder and skidded to a stop on the loose gravel.

  The trooper, early twenties and built like a linebacker, approached the car. He shined his flashlight in Brad's face, then scanned the interior of the car. "Turn off your motor please, sir. Can I see your driver's license and registration please."

  Brad turned the key in the ignition as directed and then fumbled through the glove box, found the rental car documents, and gave them to the trooper. Then he remembered his license and removed it from his wallet, holding it out. The trooper held his flashlight to the documents, reading through them quickly.

  "Remain in your vehicle, Mr. Crandall." The trooper walked back to his car. Brad could hear him talking with the dispatcher on his radio. He was back several minutes later.

  "Please step out of the vehicle, sir," the trooper said, opening Brad's door. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

  "Had a few drinks … with dinner," Brad slurred as he swayed against the car.

  "Sir, I clocked you doing ninety-five miles an hour in a fifty-five zone. I also observed your vehicle repeatedly crossing the center line. I'm going to ask you to have a seat in my patrol car - I'll be taking you back to the County Sheriff’s office in Lewiston where you'll spend the night pending a charge of driving while intoxicated."

  Everything the cop said seemed perfectly reasonable. Brad’s only concern was that he might not be able to find his car again if he left it where it was. “My car…”

  “Don’t worry,” the officer assured him. “We’ll have it towed back to Lewiston.”

  Brad bowed theatrically. “Thank you, officer.”

  The cop couldn’t resist a smile. “You’re very welcome, sir.”

  He lost consciousness shortly after stumbling into the back seat of the patrol car.

  ****

  Given an unlimited number of options about where he might choose to awaken, the Lewiston drunk tank was probably near the bottom of Brad’s list. The potent smell of vomit and urine, combined with the stench of sweat from the five other occupants of the cell, was appalling.

  A persistent fly, landing first on his forehead, then on his upper lip, woke him the next morning. He’d been dreaming that his car had accelerated out of control, that the brake pedal had been mysteriously absent. The car had finally come to rest but had been stolen by boy scouts who laughed and taunted him as they drove away. He was trying to find his way home through a dark, wet forest overgrown with threatening vines and low-hanging branches that constantly stung his face, and he was flailing at the these when his eyes fluttered open to the sight of steel bars and snoring cellmates. He had no memory of arriving here the night before.

  Christ, he thought, how much worse can my life get?

  His mouth tasted like something marinated in garlic had crawled into it and died. He had a vague memory of eating something at the tavern that resembled ribs. He stumbled to the sink with the thought of getting a drink. When he saw the sink, fixtures, and the wall behind it were splattered with vomit, bile rose in his throat and he turned quickly away. As he spun his foot caught the metal frame of a bunk bed and he tumbled to the floor, striking his head on the concrete floor.

  When he opened his eyes a deputy sheriff stood over him, nudging him with the toe of his s
hoe.

  "Wake up, mister. Time to see the judge."

  Brad struggled to his feet, gingerly touching the large welt on his forehead and making a half-hearted effort to wipe some of the grime from his face and clothes. "Listen, officer, could I make a call?"

  "Little late for that."

  "Please... Chief Henderson, the Colville Police Chief, knows me."

  "You're a friend of Callie's?" the deputy asked, his voice skeptical.

  "Yes, I am. If I could just call her and let her know I'm here."

  The deputy hesitated a moment, looking Brad over. He remembered seeing among Brad's possessions a business card from a law firm in New York, with the name of a prominent Augusta lawyer on the back of it. He thought it over for a moment before saying, "You better not be shittin' me, mister."

  Forty-five minutes later Callie appeared at the cell door accompanied by the same deputy. She nodded her head and the deputy inserted the cell key and slid the heavy door open. "Let's go, Brad," she said.

  He followed her down a short hallway, past a number of empty cells, and out a rear door leading onto a narrow lane. She handed him his keys and wallet and pointed at his rental car. "Are you okay to drive?" she asked.

  "Yeah. Callie, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  "I had to call in every marker I had out down here to get this done,” she said in a stern tone. “You can thank me by never doing a repeat. Follow me, we'll drop off the rental car and I'll drive you out to the farm." The look she gave him conveyed a potent mixture of pity and anger. She held the look long enough for him to know how displeased she was, then smiled thinly. "God, you're quite a sight," she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Their arrival at the farm took place moments before George Miller showed up to drop off Winston. They watched as George rattled down the driveway in a pickup nearly as old as himself, while Winston paced anxiously back and forth in the box compartment.