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

  "Thanks for your help, George," Brad said when the pickup rolled to a stop. "I really appreciate everything you've done.” Winston had leapt from the truck while it was still in motion and was jumping up at him, trying to lick his face. When it became obvious he wouldn’t be appeased until he got some attention, Brad bent down and rubbed his ears. Finally satisfied, Winston took off for the house, most likely in hopes of finding Bert.

  George waved off the thanks. "Weren't nothin'," he said. "You just call if there's anything at all you need." He peered over the rim of his glasses, noting Brad’s disheveled appearance and putting that together with the fact that Callie had apparently just delivered him home. “Everything all right, son?”

  “Sure, George. Everything’s fine.”

  The old man looked dubious but was too well-mannered to question Brad’s claim. “Okay,” he said, “if you say so.” He nodded at Callie, then ground the pickup into gear and drove off.

  Brad looked down at the stains on his pants and shirt and felt the stubble on his chin. "I guess I look a little rough, huh?"

  Callie raised her eyebrows. “Forty miles of bad road is a little rough, kiddo. You’re a train wreck."

  "Could you tolerate me long enough for a cup of coffee?"

  She looked at him as if he were a homeless wino she had just stepped over to reach a garbage bin. "I'll take a rain check, thanks. I really have to get to work."

  Brad followed her to her car. "I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me today, Callie. I acted stupidly. It won't happen again, I promise."

  She studied his face. "I know what you're going through, Brad. God knows it can’t have been easy. But I intend to hold you to that promise."

  ****

  The scent of wildflowers drifting across the veranda on a gentle breeze stirred memories of his childhood. He had a vision of riding his bike over the well-worn trails of the fields he now looked out on, splashing through puddles, racing a friend. The best of days, he mused drunkenly.

  The sun had begun its inevitable descent as Brad settled in his father's favorite rocking chair, feet propped on the top porch railing, watching the western sky turn a stunning shade of magenta. Red sky at night, sailor’s delight, his father used to say. He sipped his fourth scotch from an ice-filled tumbler. Winston, perched beside the rocker with his head awkwardly angled to rest on Brad's lap, let out a single weak whine, seemingly sensitive to the sadness emanating from his master. Brad scratched behind the dog’s ears, normally all that was required to cause his eyes to squint shut with contentment. But now it brought forth only more whining and a struggle to inch closer, to give comfort rather than receive it.

  Brad bent down, putting his face close to Winston’s. “You’re a good old dog, you know that?” Winston rewarded him with a slap on the nose with a wet tongue.

  The telephone rang. Brad stood up unsteadily and sauntered into the house. “Hold on, hold on,” he muttered.

  By the time he got to the kitchen and lifted the telephone receiver, he half expected to hear a dial tone, the caller having tired of the wait.

  "Hello?" he said, more of a question than a greeting.

  "Well, you are home,” a female voice answered. “How are you doing?"

  It took a full five seconds for Brad to realize it was Callie. "Good, good," he said, trying to hide his drunkenness.

  She sighed. "You're drinking again, aren't you?"

  “No, no, I ---”

  “Brad…”

  He hesitated. "A little,” he admitted.

  "I was hoping maybe you were going to ease off on that stuff.”

  “I am. I mean I will. It’s just… well, you know.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Uh huh. And what are you planning for dinner?”

  “I’ll probably just open a can of something.”

  “How about if I bring over some stuff and make you a decent dinner?"

  He didn’t even make an attempt to hide his enthusiasm. "That’d be great.”

  "I’ll see you in about thirty minutes."

  He spent the time sobering up in the shower.

  She showed up driving her own little Chevy Tracker. She was wearing tan safari shorts, a matching shirt, and hiking boots. Her hair was pinned up in a French role; the only makeup she wore was a little eye shadow and some lip rouge. Despite her obvious attempt at casual attire, she looked spectacular.

  "I come bearing gifts," she said as she climbed the stairs onto the veranda. She opened the grocery bag she was carrying, displaying a package of steaks, all the makings for a gigantic salad, an Italian bread roll, and a bottle of red wine. "I trust you have a barbeque?"

  "That I do," Brad said, grinning.

  "Are you hungry?"

  "Sure.”

  She looked at him skeptically. “Liar,” she said. "You get the barbeque fired up while I make the salad. We're going to get you fattened up whether you like it or not." She headed for the kitchen.

  Winston watched her disappear into the house. He looked at Brad and let out a single loud bark.

  "What? Are you jealous?"

  Winston cocked his head, like he was trying to decipher the meaning of his master’s words. Then, like the answer couldn’t possibly be interesting enough to wait for, he got up abruptly and took off after Callie.

  Forty-five minutes later they were seated in the dining room. Thick steaks cooked medium rare, baked potatoes, and a scrumptious-looking salad were spread out before them.

  “Dig in,” Callie said.

  Simple food, but delicious. No meal in Brad's recent memory even came close.

  Callie watched him and smiled as he finished off the last of his steak. "It's nice to see a man enjoy his food."

  Brad leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach with both hands. "God, that was good, Callie. Really good. Thank you."

  She poured more wine and they moved out to the veranda. The evening breeze had cooled some and wafted gently over them.

  The night sky was nearly moonless, the only sound the monotonous drone of cicadas. Brad sat on the top step, Callie one step below him with her back against the railing. Their legs touched lightly.

  Talk revolved mostly around mundane things: the beauty and serenity of a summer evening in the country, the unusual number of stars visible in the sky, the fine taste of the Merlot she had chosen.

  "I was just thinking of your name," Brad said. "What is Callie short for?"

  The question brought a smile to her lips, as if a pleasant memory had come to mind. "My mother loved the name Cassandra," she replied, "but she knew if she named me Cassandra it would get shortened to Cassie, which she loathed. So, after much thought, she came up with Callandra. It was close to Cassandra and the thought of the shortened version was something she could live with. Until the day she died, though, she never once called me anything but Callandra herself."

  "Nice story," Brad murmured, "and an even prettier name."

  "My mother would be delighted."

  At midnight Callie stood and stretched. "It's been lovely, Brad, but it's time I was going."

  He rose slowly and took her hand. "I wish you'd stay," he said quietly.

  "Brad, I …"

  He pulled her gently against him. Their kiss was tentative and short-lived. As their bodies pressed together she could feel his growing desire hard against her belly.

  She stood back. "Please, Brad … I … we can't do this."

  "Why?"

  "There are several reasons but---"

  He placed his finger to her lips to stifle her objection and then took her shoulders and drew her to him again.

  She twisted free of his embrace. "I have to go," she said. She turned, ran to her Tracker, and without another word drove off.

  CHAPTER 18

  Betty Wilson woke at 1:45 a.m. with the feeling that something was wrong. She reached out in the darkness for Miles' comforting presence, realizing with some trepidation that he was not in his customary spot beside her. No light came from the bathroom. After listening for a moment she decided the house was completely silent. She hefted herself out of bed, slipped into gown and slippers, and, with a worried frown on her round face, padded out to the living room in search of her husband.

  She found Miles in his favorite chair, deep in thought and rocking quietly while gazing out their front room window. The night was illuminated only slightly by a partial moon, but there was just enough light to see the stirring of branches in the towering elm tree Miles had planted the year they had bought the property. The tree came alive with an exuberance that never failed to enthrall them at the merest hint of a breeze. “Are you all right, dear?" she said.

  "I'm fine, Betty," he said. "Just a little insomnia. Nothin’ to be concerned about."

  She sat down near him. "Still thinking about the Crandall girl?"

  Miles pursed his lips. "Just thinkin' maybe I should call on Brad tomorrow and see how he's makin' out. His daddy and me was gettin' to be pretty good friends. Guess I'm missin' him a bit is all."

  "Why don't you invite Brad over for dinner, dear? I'm sure he could use some good home cooking. The poor boy looks so thin he's like to blow over in a weak wind."

  Miles nodded. "Sure, maybe I'll do that."

  With that decided he seemed ready to return to the comfort of their bed.

  Within a few minutes Betty was sound asleep and snoring contentedly.

  Miles, though, was lost in the past, and his mind continued to churn.

  ****

  Brad spent most of the next day rummaging through the house, trying to decide what to do with the possessions his parents had accumulated over decades of married life. Except for a few heirlooms passed down from previous generations most of the furnit
ure was of little value. There were some personal things he would hang on to like the pocket watch, bone-handled knife, and gold money clip his father had always carried. A photo album, some books. All in all, though, there was not much that held any real significance for him.

  By late afternoon about all he'd accomplished was the gathering together of what clothes he felt were worthy of donating to the Salvation Army.

  About four o’clock the phone rang. It was Miles. "Howdy, Brad. Just callin' to see how yer doin'."

  "Fine, Miles. Thank you." The call triggered a remembrance from the funeral when Miles had asked that they get together. It had completely slipped his mind until this moment. "I'm sorry I haven't had a chance yet to call you."

  "Oh, I understand, son. You've got lots to do what with one thing and another. Betty and me was wonderin' if ya might like to join us for supper tomorrow night, if yer free."

  Brad could think of no good reason not to accept the invitation. "Sounds great,” he said.

  "Come on over early. We'll have us a good visit."

  "I'll be there. And thanks, Miles. It's very kind of you."

  "We'll look forward to seein' ya, son."

  Brad hung up, wondering what to do next. He had put off dealing with the contents of his father's desk, knowing that any personal papers were kept there and wanting to have the grunt work over and done with before settling down to the task of reading through a bunch of legal documents. Not that there was any urgency. He was an only child and there were no other close relatives. He knew there would be no surprises regarding estate matters. It could wait a while longer.

  He wandered into the kitchen. His first impulse was to pour a stiff scotch on the rocks but as he reached for the bottle he realized, for the first time in months, the monstrous craving for a drink was absent.

  He put the bottle back in the cupboard and returned to the hallway phone. With no thought to what he would say when she answered, he dialed Callie's number at the office. When the call was put through to her she sounded slightly out of breath. "Chief Henderson."

  "I miss you," he said. "I've tried to live without you but the steak is burned, the salad is limp, and the wine is all wrong. What's a guy to do?"

  “Hmm. Maybe hire a cook?” she offered.

  "I was hoping something a little more---“

  "Brad, we should talk," she said in a serious tone. " … I didn't mean for anything to happen between us last night."

  "Nothing did happen, Callie. We're two adults who had dinner together and kissed goodnight. What's so terrible about that?"

  "There's nothing terrible about it but---"

  "Listen, you said we should talk. How about we do it over dinner?"

  "Only if I have your word that there will be no funny business."

  "You have it, my lady."

  "Okay, but it'll have to be later. I'll be tied up till around seven. How about I meet you at Mollie's about then?"

  "I'll be there."

  With time to kill, the study beckoned. He wandered into the room, stirring up dust mites, and sat at his father's old roll-top desk, rummaging idly through it's drawers. Almost immediately he found an envelope marked WILL, the deed to the farm, and an assortment of insurance documents. He put them aside, not yet ready to deal with them. Coming across a locked drawer he spent ten minutes searching in vain for a key to fit it, then ended up forcing it open with a hammer and screwdriver he brought from the kitchen.

  He expected to find something of importance spirited away here - valuable coins or jewelry maybe. He was surprised to discover nothing more than a leather-bound journal, eight inches by eleven, about half an inch thick, containing a hundred or so lined pages. Thumbing quickly through the document Brad could see the pages were filled with a series of seemingly random notes, all in Bert's familiar scrawl.

  It was clearly not a diary. There were no dates or headings of any kind.

  Intrigued, he began to read.

  The essence of the thing became clear soon enough: Bert had been working on a theory that Sophie had been abducted by someone he knew! Someone other than Henry Lee Jarvis. Someone he obviously suspected of other similar crimes.

  Someone referred to as 'R'.

  Finished reading, Brad realized his heart was pounding like he’d just run a marathon. Who the hell was this 'R' his father referred to? Frustratingly, the journal completely avoided the use of names. All references to people were by way of titles or initials. A few were obvious and easily recognizable - others were totally mystifying.

  Evidently, his father was almost certain he knew the identity of Sophie's abductor. But why the hell had he kept it a secret? Why hadn't he been in contact with Callie?

  He was startled by the ringing of the phone. He went to the hall and answered it with his mind in a daze. “Hello.”

  "Now let me clarify something for you,” Callie said in a playfully reproachful voice. “The whole concept of inviting someone to dinner means that you actually have to show up to join them."

  He looked at his watch - it was seven-twenty. "Oh, Jesus, I'm sorry, Callie. I didn't realize the time. I'll be there as quick as---"

  “Don’t speed,” she said. “I’d hate to think I was responsible for a ticket you’d actually have to pay.”

  Suitably chastised, he mumbled, “Right. I’m on my way.”

  He replaced the phone and stood considering whether or not he should take his father’s journal with him - share with Callie the tantalizing clues that had been laid out for them. All the coded identities might well have more meaning for her than they did for him. But something - he wasn’t really sure just what it was - told him to hold off. For whatever his reasons, valid or otherwise, Bert had not been ready to divulge his suspicions. Not yet. Brad put the journal back in the desk where he'd found it. For tonight at least, he would keep it’s existence to himself.

  ****

  Dee’s reputation for good home-cooking was evident from the ongoing loyalty she inspired among her many customers. Only a handful of old-timers in town could even remember a time when Dee hadn’t been the owner of Mollie’s Diner. It was not, however, the place you went if you were looking for a romantic atmosphere or chic decor. A quiet, romantic table for two meant a vinyl-covered booth in the corner furthest from the jukebox.

  Callie was waiting patiently in that very booth when Brad arrived.

  "Sorry I'm late," he said, giving her wardrobe a critical look.

  "No problem. Sorry I'm not dressed more to your liking," she added, noticing his glance at her uniform.

  "It's just a little intimidating when a guy shows up for a date to find his girl wearing a cannon strapped to her hip."

  Callie gave him the raised eyebrows once again. “This is not a date and I am not your girl.”

  “Sorry,” Brad mumbled. “But the comment about the cannon stands.”

  “Actually it's a .357 Smith and Wesson," she said, "but I fully understand the threat to your manhood.”

  He smiled. "Touché. So, are you pretty good with that thing?"

  "Not really." She leaned over the table toward him. "Actually, it's just for show," she whispered. "With women cops, the bigger the hardware the better."

  "Ever had to use it?"

  "I’ve pointed it at dates on one or two occasions."

  "You should obviously be dating a better caliber of men."

  "Sometimes I think one of these should be standard issue for all ladies of dating age," she quipped. "It's a great equalizer."

  "Undoubtedly."

  Dee approached, took their orders, and disappeared into the kitchen. "I'm glad to see your appetite is returning," Callie said. "This makes two nights in a row you've eaten well."

  "I can thank you for that," he replied.

  "How so?"

  He hesitated to admit what was really on his mind, then thought to hell with it. "Well," he began, "the truth is it’s been a very long time since I haven’t felt like I had to drink myself blind to get through another day."

  His candor brought a blush to her cheeks. "Brad, I think you're a great guy - I mean that - but it's only fair to tell you I'm not looking for a relationship right now."