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

  "Not looking for a relationship period, or just not looking for one with me?"

  She looked like a deer caught in a car’s headlights, unsure which way to go or what to do. "Okay ... I'll be honest. It hasn't been that long since your marriage broke up, and the situation with Sophie is still unresolved." She studied her hands, averting his eyes. "Now, with your dad passing away it's a vulnerable time for you. I just don't want to be caught in the middle of all that."

  Their food arrived. Dee set their plates down. In a minute she was back and topped up their coffees. "Holler if you need anything else, folks," she said before waddling off and leaving them alone.

  "I get the feeling you're not telling me everything," Brad said. He reached across the table and lifted her chin with his finger. Her eyes were troubled. "What is it?"

  She hesitated. "Well… there’s the drinking. I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t bother me. It does. And there's been some talk of drugs …"

  "Ah, I should have guessed." He sat back, wondering how best to respond - whether he could ever really put her mind to rest on such a thorny issue. "Callie, I admit I haven't handled things well. After Sophie … after we lost her … nothing in my life went right. Every time I turned around it seemed I was faced with another disaster."

  She touched his sleeve lightly with her fingers. "I understand Brad. I can only try to imagine how tough the past eighteen months must have been on you."

  "I had such a wonderful life, Callie. For so many years. I really had it all: a wonderful daughter, a beautiful, intelligent wife, a great career and impressive home, lots of money. Then, one day everything started to fall apart. It was like I was trapped on some roller-coaster from hell. I felt so damned sorry for myself all the time and I couldn't talk about it with anyone. When I started drinking it got me through the nights but, of course, it only made things worse at work. I started taking drugs so I could function at work but then I'd get so wired I'd need other drugs so I could sleep at night. I knew what I was doing was stupid … and yet on some level it seemed to make some kind of weird sense."

  "You're not the first person to have made those mistakes," she said.

  "I know," he said. "But I haven't taken any drugs now for months. That's the truth."

  She chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip. "I'm glad to hear that, Brad."

  “And I really feel like I’m ready to quit the booze now, too.”

  She was quiet for a while, then, in a quiet voice, asked, "Are you still in love with Samantha?"

  The question jolted him. It wasn’t something he had given any conscious thought to. It would be easy to say no, of course, but he found himself wondering: if Samantha were to walk back into his life right now, what would he do, how would he feel? There had been a time he had loved her more than it was possible to describe.

  "I think you just answered my question," Callie said.

  Brad shook his head, embarrassed by his display of thoughtlessness. "The truth is, Callie, I don't know."

  She leaned back against the booth and gave him a sympathetic look. "Hey, at least you're honest," she said.

  CHAPTER 19

  Miles smacked his lips and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tennessee still makes the best damn whiskey in the world and that’s a fact,” he declared. “Sure you won't have a belt?"

  He and Brad were sitting on Miles' front porch, Miles armed with a glass of Jack Daniels while Brad nursed a light beer. Delicious odors - the result of Betty’s labors - wafted out to the verandah from the kitchen.

  "I’ll take a pass thanks, Miles,” Brad answered, “I’ve decided I’d be wise to start taking it a bit easier on the hard stuff."

  "Well, sometimes it does have a way of gettin' out a hand fer some folks. If that's the case, then I respect yer decision."

  Brad wondered just how much Miles really knew about his battles with the bottle. He found he was not altogether comfortable with the direction the conversation had taken and decided to steer it elsewhere. "You've got a real nice spot here. I can see why you'd never want to leave it."

  Miles nodded, the picture of contentment. "We’ve lived here for thirty-four years now. Bought the place the same year we was married. As I recall that wasn't long after you was born."

  "Married to the same woman for all those years, you must have a secret. How about sharing it?"

  "Aw, there ain't no secret, son. I've always maintained the best guarantee of a long marriage is a short memory and poor eyesight."

  Brad smiled dutifully. "Did you know my dad back then?"

  "Sure, we met after I moved here in the early fifties from Bangor. He was a fine man - I always liked him a lot. Don't know how much he ever told ya about the war but folks around here considered him somethin' of a hero when he came home from Europe, ya know."

  "He never talked about the war at all. I knew he had served overseas but he never seemed to want to tell me about it."

  "Yeah, well, understandable. He saw a lotta bad shit over there. Received a bunch a medals fer bravery, ya know."

  "Actually, I didn’t know. Not until I came across them in a box, stuffed in the back of a closet, the other day. But I’m not really surprised. That was Dad. He never talked about himself much."

  "True enough, son," Miles mused. "We was spendin' a fair bit a time together over the last year or so, ya know."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, we were kinda puttin' our heads together to come up with some ideas about yer little girl's disappearance. Did yer dad say anythin' about that?"

  So Miles was the ‘M’ referred to in his father’s journal. "He hinted once or twice on the phone about working on something but would never give me any details. He kept it very hush hush. And, to be quite frank, I was - and still am - confused about why?"

  Miles didn't answer right away, clearly reluctant to give away too much. "We was workin' on a notion that whoever did it had done the same sort a thing before," he finally volunteered.

  "Really? What led you to believe that?" Brad asked. He had a sudden urge to scream out: who is 'R'?, but knew instinctively he would have better luck with Miles if he remained nonchalant.

  Miles scratched his chin thoughtfully. "As odd as it sounds, the circumstances of yer daughter's disappearance had a lot a similarities to some other cases that took place around here many years ago. One in particular I worked on back in the fifties---"

  "Fifties?" Brad said. "Christ, Miles, are you seriously suggesting there’s a homicidal maniac who's been on the loose for three decades?"

  "Hear me out, son," Miles replied, his voice losing none of its customary patience. "I'm gonna tell you what yer dad an' me came up with but ya gotta promise that what I say remains strictly between you and me for the time bein'." He stared at Brad, awaiting acknowledgement of the condition.

  "All right, if that's what you want."

  "Ya'll understand why when I'm through." Miles sat back in his rocking chair and took another sip of whiskey. "Guess I might as well start right at the beginnin'. There was two cases actually: one yer dad recalled back in 1947, and the one I investigated in ’55 …

  Brad listened, entranced, while Miles told him everything he knew about the two old cases. When he was done Brad sat quietly, digesting what he’d learned. There was little doubt that a chillingly common thread ran through the fabric of Miles' story. It might be conclusive and it might not be, but there was no denying that it was damned sure strange. “It’s hard to believe there could possibly be a connection,” he said finally. “But ... well, you’ve sure as hell got my attention.”

  “Dinner’s ready,“ Betty’s voice called from the kitchen.

  "We'll talk more later," Miles promised.

  They rose from their rockers and followed the enticing aromas of Betty’s fine cooking into the house.

  .

  PART TWO

  REUBEN

  CHAPTER 20

  Blue Ridge Mountains, Virginia - Spring, 1919

  It took most of a long and torturous week for Reuben to recover from his latest beating. They were getting worse. Much worse. This one had nearly killed him, leaving him semi-conscious for days before he could muster the strength to sit up. The raw welts on his back and shoulders made him want to scream every time he moved.

  He spoke little, however, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He would remain quiet, wait patiently for the opportunity he dreamed of to present itself.

  The one positive aspect of his father’s most recent assault was that it had given Reuben an abundance of time to think things out. To plan.

  He’d kill his father first. Then his sister.

  Killing his father would be liberating, of course, but there would be no real pleasure in the act. It was simply necessary to put an end to the beatings before they advanced to the point where he’d be unable to recover from them. But killing his sister ... that he would relish. With her he would take his time, drag out her suffering as much as he could. He wanted to hear her scream in agony. To beg for mercy.

  His father was just a brute. Too stupid to know any better. Doing what he thought he had to do to beat the badness out of his son. Angie was the real monster. She told the lies that put their father into the rages - egged him on to commit the brutal acts against his son. And all for no other reason than that she loved to see her brother suffer. To lord her power over him.

  Well, her turn’s comin’. Soon enough.

  Reuben crouched quietly in a corner of the cabin, watching his father load rifles and gather together supplies in preparation for another of his hunting expeditions. Reuben had observed the loading and cleaning of various weapons often, although he’d never been allowed to actually touch any of them. The guns and ammunition were always kept locked in a sturdy trunk, and the key never left his father's possession.

  A bolt-action Remington and another smaller rifle were now propped against the wall by the door. Reuben ran through the procedure for firing the Remington in his mind, almost certain he knew how to operate it. He reflected on how much time it would take to get to it, lift and pull back the bolt, aim, and then squeeze the trigger.

  Could he do it? Was this the opportunity he’d been waiting for?

  He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if he tried, but failed, in his bid to kill his father. He would most likely never recover from the wrath he would generate over that transgression.

  He forced these thoughts from his mind. He had to maintain his focus by concentrating on the knowledge that, if he could pull it off, he'd never be beaten again. And, of equal importance, he’d be able, finally, to wipe that smug, contemptuous look off his sister’s face once and for all.

  He steeled himself, building up the courage to act.

  He glanced over at Angie, sitting cross-legged on the floor, playing with a rag doll. Just the sight of her was enough to make his blood pound in his veins. He could feel his jaw clenching.

  Soon, bitch. Real soon.

  While he looked at her she turned suddenly to face him. It always amazed him how she seemed to sense his moods, almost like she could read his mind.

  She stuck out her tongue, her eyes going wide in a hideous, mocking gesture.

  He turned away from her, ignoring her taunt, knowing that she would use any excuse to run to their father with yet another unfounded accusation.

  No matter what lies she told, no matter how outrageous the falsehoods, Frank Sykes never questioned the veracity of his daughter’s claims. Her assertions were merely evidence of his long held beliefs that his son was born of the devil. Bad, through and through. And the only way to fight the devil, of course, was with an iron fist.

  Once Angie’s work of provoking their father's ire was done, she would sit back and watch, deliriously happy, as her brother succumbed to another thrashing.

  She was only six, two years his junior, but there was no disputing the power she held over him. He was constantly at her mercy. Forced to bow and scrape whenever the mood struck her to be perverse. Any time she wished she could threaten him with exposure of some imagined wrong.

  His hatred of this power she wielded, and his frustration at having to succumb to her control, frustrated him beyond the power of words to describe.

  Now, buoyed with a determination borne of dire need, he edged toward the door. Angie was once again absorbed with her doll, his father with sharpening the knife he used to gut game.

  Reuben took a few tentative steps.

  Then a few more.

  He was within reach of the guns.

  "Where you goin', boy?" his father's voice boomed behind him.

  Reuben froze. " … Nowhere, Daddy."

  Frank Sykes mumbled something under his breath and went back to swiping his knife across the whetstone. Screeetch. Screeetch.

  Reuben allowed himself a moment to still his pounding heart, to quell the terror rising up inside him.

  But waiting only made it worse. He knew if he didn’t act quickly he would lose his resolve for sure.

  He took a deep breath and made his move.

  A fraction of a second later the Remington was in his hands. Immediately, he broke into a nervous sweat, shaking so much he nearly dropped the rifle, abruptly aware of it’s surprising weight.

  As he spun around and brought the rifle up to his shoulder he lifted the bolt up and awkwardly pulled it back. The sound of a bullet entering the breach was the loudest noise he had ever heard.

  His father’s head spun toward him, taking in the scene. At first he appeared almost impressed with his little brat’s surprising show of courage. Then his eyes narrowed as his mind took in the reality of the power that now challenged him.

  Reuben sighted down the barrel of the rifle. The barrel swayed like he was in a stiff wind. It was almost impossible to imagine he could actually hit his father if he fired.

  Sykes glared at him, knowing the best way to get back in control of the situation was to browbeat the boy. Intimidate him. Fill him so full of fear he wouldn’t know up from down. "Put that thing down now, boy," he said. His voice was quiet, all the more terrifying because of the uncharacteristically calm tone.

  Panic tore at Reuben. He couldn’t help the flow of tears that suddenly began spilling out of him. The shaking was now nearly out of control. And the rifle felt like it weighed more than the weight of his own body.

  Sykes could see there was little to worry about. The boy was nearly ready to piss himself from fear. One good holler and he’d drop the rifle and turn tail. Probably hide out in the woods for days before he got the courage to come back for his punishment. "GODDAMN YOU, I SAID PUT IT DOWN!" Sykes bellowed.

  Reuben stood rooted in place, too terrified to move.

  Sykes’ patience was wearing thin. There was only so much crap you could take from a whiny little bastard who dared to show such disrespect. In a blindingly fast move, Sykes hurled his whetstone, missing Reuben’s temple by a breath. Then he rushed him.

  The pressure Reuben exerted on the rifle’s trigger was more an involuntary spasm than a deliberate action. Before he had any real understanding of what was happening he was flung backward from the rifle’s recoil, the gun jarred from his grip.

  Overtaken with panic, he gave up all attempts at trying to kill his father. His only hope now was to scramble away, to run from the horror he knew was descending on him.

  Like a crab, he scooted toward the door of the cabin, fully expecting at any moment to feel the heel of his father’s boot hard against his back. As he reached up for the door latch he chanced a look back over his shoulder. To his amazement, his father was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. Blood seeped from a small hole just below his breastbone. His eyes were open wide, staring at the ceiling. The look on his face was one of astonishment.

  Reuben watched, mesmerized, as a slick bubble of blood erupted from the gaping hole of his father's mouth. The bubble quivered for a few seconds, finally fracturing against his whisker-stubbled chin. Soon after, his eyes fluttered shut and his ragged breathing came to an end.

  Reuben was brought out of the trance that had him in its grip by Angie’s screams. The high-pitched shrieking was like the keening of crows - dozens of them, inches from his head. He rested his forehead on his bent knees and covered his ears with the palms of his hands. The screams grew louder and more insistent. He looked over at his sister’s vile little face, contorted and ugly from the effort being exerted to sustain such unearthly wailing.

  For several minutes, he was still, watching her. Letting his hatred swell.

  Finally, it was time.

  He reached for the Remington, taking it by the barrel in a two-fisted grip. He rose and moved slowly toward her. When he stood over her, she tore her eyes from their father’s lifeless body and looked up at Reuben.

  Her screams came to a sudden, convulsive stop as she realized what was about to happen.

  Reuben lifted the rifle high over his head, hesitated briefly, and then allowed the rage he had kept pent up inside him for so long to unleash itself.

  ****

  Sitting amid the carnage he had wrought, Reuben felt, for the first time in his young life, a profound sense of contentment.

  He harbored only one regret. That he couldn’t resurrect his sister and kill her all over again.

  The feeling of peace that he experienced following the slaughter of his family, however, was short-lived. Contemplating his new existence he quickly came to understand the enormity of the problems he now faced. Chief among these problems was that of avoiding a slow and painful death from starvation. As appalling as his father’s treatment of him had been, there had been only rare occasions, and always brief in duration at that, when food had been in short supply. Hunger was not a condition he had experienced to any significant degree.

  But he would worry about that later.

  As his first act of independence he would drag the bodies from the cabin. Remove them from his sight finally and for all time. The thought that he would never have to face either of them again filled him with a joy as pure as God-driven snow.