Her Silent Shadow: A Gripping Psychological Suspense Collection

by Edwin Dasso

  "Get this motherfucker off me!” she shouts.

  I try to sound stern and authoritative. "Jax! Stop! Get off!"

  He ignores me. This time I smack him harder, twice, right over his ear. The third time I hit him he lets go of Sandra's arm to grab the pipe. He's off balance, so, when I pull the pipe away, he lurches to one side. He releases the pipe just in time to catch himself before he topples over, and when he does I give him one more smack. Sandra manages to slide out from under him and jerk her other arm free. She runs off, and Jax rolls over onto his back. He lies there holding his head and panting, his chest heaving, his dick flaccid. His eyes are still closed. I'm worried that I might have hit him too hard. I bend over him and say, "Jax?"

  That's all I get out. His eyes snap open, and he backhands me across the mouth. Even though he's still lying down, the force of the blow knocks me over. I scramble up, grab my pipe, and get out of there.

  16

  Violet

  I hate office parties. I’ve only been to a few, but they always seem like minefields. The office sycophants compete for the boss’s attention. The employees who resent management huddle together and make disparaging remarks while the managers try not to fraternize with the enemy. And if the owner or CEO attends, he or she flits from group to group tossing off greetings and insincere compliments. The danger is trying to figure out how to engage in conversation in a way that won’t come back to haunt you later.

  Our holiday office party was right after work on a Friday afternoon. I hadn’t planned to go, but Dana had been especially sharp-tongued lately, finding fault with the smallest transgressions. Can’t you, at least, put your goddamn glass in the sink? If you interrupt me again, I’m going to stop talking to you. Etc. Going to the holiday party seemed slightly less stressful.

  So I went. And I drank. The party was in the lounge of a hotel on Sunset. I found a spot at the end of the bar, perched on a stool, and had the bartender “keep ‘em coming.” Most of my coworkers were too busy chatting with other people to talk with me. Violet was holding court on the other side of the room. She was surrounded by men, including the big boss himself. Every once in awhile she’d glance over in my direction, but her eyes would sweep the bar, passing over me and returning to her cadre. She never acknowledged me.

  After my fourth Manhattan, I figured it was time to leave. It was a cash bar, so I paid my tab, pulled on my jacket, and headed for the door. I decided it would make more sense to say my thank you’s on Monday, when I would be sober and less likely to say something stupid. I was crossing the lobby when Violet came up behind me and grabbed my arm.

  “About time,” she said. “I thought you were going to sit at the bar drinking all night.”

  “I didn’t think you were talking to me, so I tried to stay out of your way.”

  “And left me at the mercy of those leches. It’s amazing how many ways men can find to sneak a look at your boobs while pretending to have a conversation with you.”

  “So, you’re not mad at me?”

  “Of course I’m mad at you. I’m furious. But I miss you, too. And Brett’s off on one of his bro-cations. Reno this time.”

  “So it’s just you and Eva.”

  “She’s spending the weekend with my in-laws. It’s just me.” She leaned closer to avoid being overheard. She smelled faintly of peppermint. “I have a room upstairs. Number three-oh-seven. Give me five minutes, then come up.”

  When I knocked she answered the door so quickly, she must have been standing right behind it. She pulled me into an embrace as the door clicked shut behind me.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

  “I don’t like the way we left things,” I said. “We should talk.”

  We both looked at the bed. It was an overwhelming presence in the room. I held her at arms length, my hands on her shoulders.

  “I care about you. A lot. I just don’t want to hurt anyone. We’re adults. We should behave like adults.”

  “So you want us to be friends.”

  “I really do.”

  “Okay, but let me tell you what it’s like being me.” She sat on the bed. “Most men disgust me. There’s a constant parade of leering jerks filing through the office. Looking me over. Giving me little approving nods. The brave ones like to touch my knee or give my hand a little pat. I’m sure they think it turns me on. Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy being pretty. I don’t try to hide behind baggy shirts or sweat pants. But sometimes the constant attention gets to me. Last week the bag boy at the grocery store told me I have a nice ass. The fucking bag boy! Meanwhile, I’m married to a man who pays less attention to me than he does his fantasy football league. My daughter hates me. All my college friends live in other states. I wasn’t happy before you and I started going to lunch, but I was coping. Then, for a while, you were the best part of my day. Now I’m acutely aware of how fucking lonely I am.”

  “I’m sorry.” I sat next to her on the bed and took her hand.

  “I know you’re sorry. And I know we should think about our families. I don’t know if Brett cheats on me when he goes out of town. I don’t think he does, but I’ve come to realize lately that I don’t know my husband very well. And he doesn’t really know me. The worst part is, I don’t think it bothers him that he doesn’t know me. We got married right out of high school. All this time and we’re just used to one another.” She turned to face me. “And the clock keeps ticking. Every morning I look in the mirror and there’s another little crease at the corner of my eyes. Life keeps whizzing past. Everything seemed clear when Eva was a little girl. I knew who I was then. I was someone’s mother. I don’t know who I am anymore. Look, I know you’re worried about your wife. I don’t want to cause you any unnecessary stress. I just—I mean—we don’t have to make love. I just really need a friend right now.”

  Five minutes later we were in the bed. It was the saddest sex. Violet grasping and sighing and, finally, her tears staining my chest as she collapsed onto me in a release more emotional than physical.

  I drove home in a state of depression and self-loathing. I had taken advantage of a sad lonely lady and risked my marriage in the process. When I got home I undressed as quietly as possible and prayed that Dana wouldn’t wake up as I slid into bed.

  17

  Hades

  Looking for Sandra is problematic. I doubt that she’d hide near Jax’s territory, but she’s not anywhere near the Mustang or the tunnel. Of course, she may be trying to outsmart him, figuring he wouldn’t expect her to hide near his circle of cars. I head over to the Jaguar. It’s a little closer to Jax’s domain than I’d like, so I move slowly, trying to be stealthy. There’s a row of cars in front of me. The last car in that row, way down close to a wall, is where the man with the eye chart tie and crushed head is lying. Just as I’m hoping she didn’t wander down that way I hear her shriek. She’s found the corpse. I head toward the noise. This time I’m prepared. I’m so drained of emotion that seeing a man with his head flattened shouldn’t have much effect. I look at him quickly, just long enough to get the impression of emptiness. His suit no longer holds the remains of a man. He looks more like a lawn bag, half-filled with leaves.

  Sandra’s not there. Probably run off, traumatized by having seen my optometrist friend right after her encounter with Jax. I take one more look at the dead man. Gregor’s moving around in my pocket, tickling my chest, telling me it’s time to move along. I turn to go and hear a grating noise above me. A fluorescent light fixture breaks loose from the ceiling and swings down, still attached by its wires. It arcs past, just missing my head. Streamers of dust pour down from the ceiling. I run and a concrete slab crashes down behind me. I trip over something, fall forward, and crawl. I crawl as fast as I can, clear down the row of cars, afraid to look up, certain I’m about to be crushed. More concrete rains down behind me. There’s a patch of skin tingling at the small of my back, waiting for a slab to hit. I crawl all the way back to the Jaguar and turn to sit on the floor, pressing my
back against the passenger door. I hug my knees to my chest. My muscles are rigid, and I can’t stop shivering. The sound of my heart is pounding in my ears. When my breathing starts to slow, I feel Gregor squirming in my pocket. I take a look. He’s okay, just shaken up. There are little chips of stone and glass stuck in my palms. I wipe my hands on my pants and push up to my feet, and there’s Jax. He’s standing in front of me, his face white with dust, his eyes hidden by shadows.

  “What did I tell you about invading my territory?” he says.

  He smashes me in the nose, and I feel the cartilage give. The pain blinds me, bends me over. He grabs a handful of my shirt at the shoulder, but I yank it free and hurry to the other side of the car. He seems disoriented, moving slowly as he comes after me. I hurry back to the Mustang, leaving a trail of blood as I go.

  It's all-out war, now. After I got the bleeding stopped, I went to work on my tunnel, but an hour into it I heard the sound of glass breaking. When I got back to the Mustang all the windows were broken, and the seats were covered with glass shards. I had taken Gregor to dig with me, so he's okay, but I know I can't protect him. If I leave him in the Mustang, Jax will be sure to squash him.

  I take him over by my bathroom alcove and put him on the ground in a clean section near the wall. I imagine it smells awful back here, but my nose is so swollen that I have to breathe through my mouth. I take out my last candy bar, break it in half, and set Gregor's half down next to him. He pounces on it. I raise my half in a salute and say, "Happy trails, little friend." Then I cut the string, close to the roach's hind leg. I'd like to think he looked up at me as I walked away, but it's dark back here. Probably just wishful thinking.

  On the way back to the Mustang I remember the Glock. I hid it in the Mustang's engine compartment to keep Jax from getting his hands on it. I pop the Mustang's hood, stick my hand down behind the radiator, and root around until I feel its checkered grip. A gun adds a new variable to our predicament. I don't want to shoot Jax, but he's become a danger. He could attack Sandra again. He could decide to take me out first so I can't stop him from raping her. And he's a big guy. If I have the gun when he attacks me, I'll probably have to use it. I may be afraid of him, but I don’t want to kill him. I eject the clip and rack the slide to make sure there's nothing in the chamber. Then I flick all the bullets out of the clip and slap it back into the gun. I try putting the Glock in the waistband of my pants, but it's really uncomfortable. I'm sure it'll fall out when I sit down or if I have to run. I switch it to the waistband at my back, but that's even worse. It rubs when I walk. It'd probably give me a blister. I don't know how movie and TV detectives carry a gun without a holster. I feel like I've been lied to all these years.

  I turn my right front pants pocket inside out, cut a little hole in the end, and push the pocket back in. Now I can put the gun in my pocket with the barrel sticking through the hole. That way it's in far enough that it won't fall out. Kind of a built-in holster. I try drawing the gun, and the front sight catches on the fabric, pulling the pocket inside out again. Oh, well. Since I can't fire the thing, I won't need to do a cowboy quick draw. I put the gun back in my pocket and retrieve my tire iron from the back of the Mustang. Then I go looking for Sandra.

  I'm pretty sure I would have heard her scream if Jax had gotten his hands on her again. Except for the cars, there aren't many places to hide down here. I start checking cars, peering in the windows, trying to penetrate the darkness. As I'm looking in the window of a little Volvo, I hear a "psst" from across the aisle. I can just make out Sandra waving at me from the back seat of a hatchback. I cross over and climb into the front seat.

  "I heard him prowling around last night,” she says. “I was worried he'd find me, so I switched cars three times."

  It's dark, and her eyes seem to glow. I can see the whites all the way around the irises. She looks a little crazy, but with my swollen nose, I imagine I do too. She's sitting cross-legged on the back seat. Her skirt is gone, and she's wearing some kind of shorts. The wound on her thigh and her tattoo stand out against her skin. She notices me looking at her legs.

  "I grabbed my gym bag out of my car. These are my gym shorts. I should have changed out of my skirt before. It would have made it harder for that asshole to tear my underpants off."

  "It wouldn't have mattered. He's a strong guy."

  We both get quiet for a bit. I want to tell her it'll be okay, that Jax won't hurt her, but I can't promise that. It'll be tough to stop him if he decides to try again.

  She breaks the silence first: "Hercule?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I'm sorry about that stuff I said before. About you being passive-aggressive and all."

  "That's okay."

  "Thank you for getting Jax off me."

  "No problem."

  She asks, "How's the digging coming?"

  "I've made some progress. I wouldn't be surprised if one more day of work cleared the doorway enough for us to get through to the next room."

  "How much digging would it take for just you and me to squeeze through? For us to get through and leave Jax here?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe a few hours."

  "Well, let's get going."

  With the two of us working again, it takes less time than I had estimated. The thought that Jax might show up while we're working motivates us. I crawl into the tunnel to estimate how much is left to dig. As I wiggle back out, the gun handle protruding from my pocket catches on a chunk of concrete, so I take it out of my pocket and set it on a slab at the hole's entrance. Sandra sees it and asks, "Where'd you get the gun?"

  "I found it in one of the cars."

  "And you had it all this time?" She shakes her head.

  "If Jax comes by while I'm in the tunnel, pick it up and point it at him. Maybe you can scare him away."

  I've dug far enough into the mound that I can crawl in and start passing concrete back out to Sandra, who pulls it clear of the entrance. It's dark, and hot, and dirty, and I'm scared I'll be buried alive. I finally get to a big immovable chunk. It's too heavy to push and too big to pull. I back out, turn around, and go in feet first. Now, I can get some muscle behind it. I plant my feet on the concrete, brace myself, and push. It takes three tries, but it moves, and I'm through to the other room. I wiggle back out and stand up. I take the gun from Sandra, slip it into my pocket, slide my tire iron in my belt, and crawl back into the tunnel. I squirm through on my stomach, pulling myself along with my elbows. I imagine the building over me collapsing, crushing, burying me. Sandra scrambles through behind me.

  "Your hand,” she says. “Hurry.”

  I reach back into the tunnel, find her outstretched hand, and pull her the rest of the way through.

  “That scared the shit out of me," she says.

  It’s dark. I stand up slowly. The only light is a faint glow from the hole we just crawled through. I feel Sandra's hand on my leg and reach to help her up. We need to figure this room out. I keep my grip on her hand and start inching forward, away from the hole.

  "Slowly,” I say. “Stay with me."

  "Where the hell else am I gonna go?"

  I can't judge distance in the dark. Shuffling along the floor it feels like we're walking through dust that's a couple of inches deep. I stumble over small chunks of concrete a few times, but finally my leg bumps up against something large. I run my hand over the smooth surface. A car.

  I let go of Sandra's hand, place it on the side of the car, and feel my way over to a door. It's locked. I reach for the gun in my pocket to use as a hammer, but the gun is gone, and the hole in my pocket is bigger than it had been.

  Hercule, you idiot.

  I take the tire iron from my belt and smash the window with the first blow. When I open the door, the interior light comes on. I slide into the driver's seat and unlock all the doors. Sandra slides in next to me. I find the switch for the headlights and turn them on. Out in front of us are several dozen cars. I feel like a kid at Christmas. I must be smiling because Sandra
says, "What are you so happy about?"

  I gesture at all the cars.

  "So what?” she says. “We're trapped in a shitty little room, just like the last one."

  "A room full of unexplored cars. We have hope again. We have light, and probably food and water."

  We explore the cars as a team. Each time we ransack a car we turn its headlights on and turn off the lights in the previous car to save battery power. After the first five cars we've already gathered two water bottles, a Pepsi, a cup of black coffee, two flashlights, and another tire iron. Sandra takes a flashlight and the tire iron and starts smashing windows on her own. We each take a row of cars and work our way across the room. This room is smaller than the other. There are four rows of cars visible, with about a dozen cars per row. In addition to the drinks, I've found several packs of gum and a small pocket flashlight. No food, but I'm only halfway through my first row of cars. I walk over to Sandra's side to see how she's doing, but before I get there I hear a scream. No, not a scream. A howl.

  18

  Violet

  It’s a cruel jest that the things we know we shouldn’t want are often the things we want the most. I go home every night to see the woman I love struggling with depression and anger. What I should want is to figure out how to help her. What I should want is to be the best husband I can be. But what I want right now is to be back in Violet’s car. That’s what I desire.