Realm of Shadows

by Eldon Farrell

  His chest rises and falls slowly as the last remnants of the dream fade—their cold tendrils of fear releasing their grip on his wounded heart.

  Reaching for another bottle he knocks some empties from the coffee table onto the carpet. Placing it to his lips he takes a deep gulp, grimacing as it slides down his throat.

  The buzzing of the intercom makes him aware of just how late in the morning it is.

  “Damn it,” he cusses as he staggers over to answer it. Depressing the talk button with his thumb he asks gruffly, “What?”

  “Don’t we sound lively this morning,” the voice of his partner Li Ling Tran resonates through the speaker. “You ready to go?”

  “Give me a few minutes.”

  Releasing the button Caleb saunters a few feet away before the buzzing starts again. Heading back over to the panel he asks, “What now?”

  “How about letting me in?”

  “Right,” Caleb answers pressing the button for the front door, “Sorry.”

  Glancing at the mess of his apartment he exhales heavily knowing the lecture that he’s in for but doesn’t care enough to try and tidy up some and so just walks to the bedroom to get dressed for the day.

  Stopping at the bathroom he splashes some cold water on his face and quickly downs two Advil to combat the throbbing in his temples. He’s just pulling on a pair of black dress pants when he hears his door open and Ling Tran enter.

  Shoving his arms into a white shirt he clumsily buttons it up and tucks it in before grabbing a black tie from off his bedroom doorknob and strolling down the hall to face the music.

  Entering the living area he sees her scanning the debris with obvious concern etched on her face. She has straight black hair that hangs around her tapered neck, dark eyes that stare worriedly at him, thin lips, and a slight nose.

  She’s standing with her left leg crooked and both hands placed squarely on her slender hips. It is a judgmental pose that reminds him of a mother facing an unruly child.

  He watches her biting the tip of her tongue as if she’s at a loss for words but he knows her better than that—he’s never known her to be speechless.

  “Don’t start OK Ling?” he says as he sits down to put his shoes on.

  “Look at this place Caleb,” she says ignoring his request, “How can I not? Are you all right?”

  Putting his left foot down, he glances over at her. His face is devoid of any response save the embers of contempt that smolder behind his eyes. Lifting his right leg he proceeds to tie his shoe without saying a word.

  “Are you still having the dreams?”

  “Ling,” he sighs, “I’m fine OK? Now can you drop it?”

  “You don’t look fine Caleb,” she asks pointedly, “How many bottles are you drinking a night?”

  Glaring at her he answers, “What I do in my time off is my business.”

  “Time off?” she scoffs as she points at the stacks of papers, “You call this time off? You haven’t looked at anything but this case since Lynne went missing. You spend your days with the task force and your nights drowning in a sea of alcohol and self-recriminations.”

  “Well thank you doctor,” he derides, “But again it’s really none of your business.”

  “The hell it isn’t,” she snaps at him as her anger grows. “You’re my partner and I need to know that I can count on you. Right now…you’re not instilling me with a great deal of confidence.”

  Standing up he faces her—his lips curled into a sneer. “It’s under control all right? I can handle it.”

  “Really?” she doubts.

  “Yeah really,” he continues, “What I could do without though is your constant concern. You want to work then let’s work. You want to be a mother then stay at home with Tai-an and be her mother for a change.”

  A gulf of silence spreads between them as Ling Tran just stares at him. Try as she might she can’t keep the hurt from showing in her face. Who are you anymore?

  Raising her hand to him she brushes past him without saying a word on her way toward the door.

  “Damn it,” Caleb groans, “I’m sorry Ling I shouldn’t have—”

  “For months now,” she cuts him off “I’ve watched you change to the point that I don’t even recognize you anymore Caleb. Every day you lose more of yourself to this case and refuse to admit it. And since Lynne…”

  Forlorn she shakes her head saying, “You need help. You need to accept that Lynne is—”

  “Don’t say it,” he interrupts her.

  Leaving the apartment she whispers, “Exactly my point.”

  “She’s alive Ling!” he hollers after her, “I know it! I would know if she wasn’t!”

  Closing his eyes he mutters, “I would know it…I would.”

  Chapter 2

  Standing over the sink in their kitchen Miriam Whittaker absently washes a mug out with warm water. The morning rays of sunlight streaming in through the window fall softly on her mahogany skin.

  Her fading brown hair is tied back away from her face in a hastily applied ponytail as she works at the dishes. Tiny beads of sweat dot her creased forehead above her straight nose, pointed chin, and high cheekbones.

  Setting a plate down to dry with her right hand, her eyes linger on her missing appendage. Not quite a month removed from the horrible day that it was cut off and the pain has mostly faded though the loss remains as sharp as ever.

  Behind her she hears Roger entering the room to sit down at the table. Still staring out the window she greets him with a cheerful “Good morning,” but receives only a half-hearted sough in reply.

  Catching his reflection in the pane of glass she stares at the image of the man she loves. His grey hair cut close to his scalp lends to him a regal air when worn in concert with his navy blue suit coat and pants and muted white shirt. Beneath his suit coat she can still see his broad shoulders that lately have a pronounced slouch to them that is worrying to her.

  As he unfolds the newspaper he deftly flicks his reading glasses open and perches them on his nose. They perfectly encircle his brown eyes while the hue of the frames accentuates his own charcoal coloring.

  Turning around to gaze directly upon him her mind is flooded with thoughts and fears.

  It’s been two weeks. Fourteen days since I told him about the abortion. Over three hundred hours since we received confirmation that I have HIV. After spending so much time being afraid that I’d lost him when Randle was holding me captive, now it’s like I’ve lost him all over again.

  He spends his days out of the house—avoiding me no doubt—and we spend our nights in near silence. And not the companionable silence we used to share, no…now it is tainted and uncomfortable.

  I know it’s my fault—that I’ve done this to us. But still I wish I could see him smile at me again. I wish he would just look at me the way he used to.

  It’s not the HIV; I know that’s not what has come between us. It’s the lie; the lie that was always there and has become the truth that’s pushing us apart.

  I’ll never forget the look on his face when I told him, a mixture of hurt and disbelief. He must’ve been upset that I’d kept it from him all these years. And yet, having just received the diagnosis of HIV how could he be angry at me?

  It’s like on top of everything else I robbed him of his right to be mad at me. It’s no wonder he can’t look at me. And so for two weeks we’ve just existed, not living one life together but two lives apart.

  And that is so much worse than if he would just scream and yell at me. I’ve tried to break through to him. I’ve tried to get him to admit that he’s angry at me but he won’t.

  He says he’s all right—that he understands why I did it and he’s not angry with me. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

  But how can he understand? How can he not be furious with me? I can’t help wondering if I didn’t have HIV if he would still feel the same way?

  He has to be angry with me otherwise why can’t he look at me? Why won’t
he hold me in his arms anymore?

  I’m watching him at the breakfast table eating his cereal and toast and reading his paper and I feel utterly powerless. I know that something is wrong with us. There was a time when we would talk constantly at the breakfast table—when he couldn’t take his eyes off me.

  And now…this?

  I know it’s my fault. I know I deserve everything that’s coming to me but…I may be dying and I need the Roger I’ve loved my whole life to forgive me before that happens.

  Maybe I don’t deserve it. Maybe it’s selfish of me to want it, but I know Roger. If we don’t put all this behind us before I’m gone he’ll never forgive himself.

  And I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him carry the burden of my failings. I can’t stop trying—I have to get through to him.

  Out of the corner of his eye Roger watches Miriam sit down across from him. He can feel her eyes roving over him but keeps his gaze leveled on the newspaper in his hands.

  He knows what’s coming.

  He can tell what’s on her mind simply by the rhythm of her breathing and the sound of her nails tapping on her china mug. She wants to talk about it again.

  Turning the page with a flourish he has no interest in rehashing the same old argument. Why can’t she just accept the fact that I’m not mad? She keeps dredging it all up as if she wants me to be angry with her.

  But I’m not…I’m just not.

  Sure, when she told me about the abortion I was upset. I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that she had never told me about it in all these years. But I could also see why she didn’t. It’s just unfortunate that it colors our relationship in a different hue now. That we could have this secret between us makes me realize that we don’t know each other as well as we thought.

  And that hurts more than anything else. To have her not understand that and continually try to talk about it is…frustrating. Especially since she isn’t the only one feeling guilty here.

  She thinks I won’t look at her because I’m angry at her for lying to me but really that isn’t it. I can’t look at her because of what I’ve done to her. She has HIV because of me.

  If I had listened to Randle’s demands and done what they wanted she would be all right. If I had cooperated with them she would still have ten fingers. I was at the podium and I could’ve done it. I could’ve saved her…but I didn’t.

  And now I’m going to lose her…No, can’t think like that.

  His chest heaves as he turns another page, loudly crinkling the paper. Blinking rapidly he manages to keep the moisture from cresting his eyelids.

  Can’t let her see me crying…can’t let her know how scared I am of losing her. It would only upset her. If anyone has a right to be scared or angry it’s not me it’s her. After what I’ve done I don’t deserve to be scared. I’ve condemned my one true love. I’m not worthy of her. I’m not even worthy to look at her anymore.

  “Anything new and exciting in the world this morning?”

  Not taking his eyes off the paper he mumbles a curt, “No, not really.”

  After staring at him for a moment she asks bluntly, “How long are we going to do this Roger?”

  “Do what?”

  “This,” she waves her hands between them, “How long are we going to pretend that everything is OK with us?”

  Finally folding up the paper Roger sets it down on the table. Still refusing to look at her though, he keeps his eyes fixed on the brown coffee in his mug.

  “We’re fine,” he says less than convincingly.

  “You’re angry with me Roger,” she pleads with him, “Just admit it. Do you really think that I can’t tell?”

  “I’m not angry,” he says turning to look at her for a moment. Their eyes lock before Roger drops his gaze back to the table. Do you not see it Miriam? Do you not know me at all? “Can we not do this again?”

  “Roger,”

  Standing up he cuts her off saying, “I have to go.”

  “Don’t go today Roger,” she beseeches him, “Stay with me.”

  “I have to do this,” pouring the remains of his coffee down the drain he stares at the grinds in the bottom of the cup for a moment before softly adding, “You know that.”

  She’s staring at his back as he places his mug in the sink. “I have HIV Roger,” she declares.

  Turning around his face is a mask of pain. His shoulders slumping shamefully he replies, “I know that.”

  Ardently she questions, “Do you? Because spending all your time going after Tait isn’t going to change that. What are you hoping to gain?”

  Vengeance!

  The design comes unbidden to him, taking root in the darkest recesses of his mind. He deserves to pay for what he’s done. He has to pay for the damage he has wrought. It’s only fair—it’s only just that he suffer like we have. I have to ensure that justice is served. It’s all I can do.

  Raising his downcast eyes to her to he wants to tell her this in just that way but he knows before even saying it that she would never believe him. I’ve never been able to lie to her…the way she so obviously can to me.

  It’s neither vengeance nor justice that drives him—it’s redemption. The futile hope that by punishing Tait he will somehow find a way to right all the wrongs that have befallen them.

  “Stay,” she implores him once more.

  The futile hope…

  His lips part but no words form. What more is there to say?

  New York City, New York

  Cole Hewitt sits at his desk in the bustling bullpen of The New York Times. More than any other place in the world this is where he loves being—surrounded by the action, right in the thick of things. Leaning back on his swiveling chair he takes it all in.

  At thirty-five years old he’s been working for The Times for eleven years now and still gets jazzed by seeing his name printed above the fold. He’s best described as a mixture of conformity and rebellion.

  He has a narrow face with glowing emerald green eyes, an aquiline nose, soft inviting lips, and a warm smile. His moussed up brown hair stands at odd angles on his head and to say the least is an unconventional choice for an investigative reporter on staff.

  His slender frame is evident beneath his buttoned down dress shirt and black jeans as is the Superman T-shirt that he routinely wears under his clothes. Despite his flat abdominal muscles and noticeable biceps though, he’ll tell any who’ll listen that he always related more to Clark Kent than the Man of Steel.

  “Hey Cole.”

  He flashes that warm smile at Ariana Zelinkova as she sits down on the corner of his desk. She has midnight black hair that cascades around her bare shoulders in wavy curls, dark saucers for eyes, a round nose, and soft pouty lips that he remembers clearly from last night.

  Crossing her lithe legs suggestively, her tiny black skirt rides an extra inch up her olive colored thigh. As she leans toward him his eyes drift from the outline of her pert breasts pressing against the sheer fabric of her top to the evocative cleft between her thighs.

  “Hey,” he asks, “What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you wanted to get some lunch.”

  “Oh,” he looks at the mess of his desk answering, “Things are a little busy right now. How about dinner tonight?”

  Showing him a beguiling smile she leans in even closer to him teasing, “How about dessert?”

  Resting his hand on her warm thigh he gives it a slight squeeze as he recites, “License my roving hands, and let them go, before, behind, between, above, below.”

  Placing the tip of her tongue between her teeth she flexes her hips forward sending his hand further up her leg.

  “Cole!” His editor calls from across the room breaking the moment’s reverie between them. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  “Sure thing Chief,” he answers still staring into Ariana’s eyes.

  “Don’t call me chief!” he hollers back as Cole whispers a goodbye in her ear that causes her to blush and giggle.
>
  Crossing the bullpen to his editor’s office he prepares to get back down to business.

  Anson White is a short and stocky bespectacled man in his early sixties. He has a round face creased with age and experience, and blue eyes that seem pinched but are ever alert. An old warrior in the newspaper business, he’s wearing his customary starched white shirt, black suspenders, and a bowtie.

  “Close the door,” he says as he waves Cole inside.

  Cole smiles privately as he does so. Every time he sees Anson he’s amazed by how a man in the digital age can somehow still manage to keep ink stains on his fingers. ‘A badge of honor’ as Anson describes them.

  “What’s going on?” Cole asks taking a seat.

  “Here,” Anson slides a folder across the mahogany desk explaining, “I’d like your opinion on those applications for the intern position.”

  Momentarily confused he asks, “We hiring another intern?”

  “Another?” Anson scoffs, “You know for an investigative reporter you’re none too observant Cole. Nicholas ain’t been into work for two days now and we ain’t heard a peep from him. I need an intern that can be relied upon. Let me know what you think of those.”

  “I think we should give Nick another chance.”

  “He’s had two days of chances.”

  Slapping the folder against his thigh Cole says, “I think I might know what happened to him. He-he told me about a lead he wanted to chase. I tried to talk him out of it but…”

  “He’s not a reporter Cole,” Anson states, “He doesn’t chase leads.”

  “Yeah, but he wants to be.” Cole asks, “Just let me track him down before you replace him OK?”

  Anson leans back in his chair leveling a thoughtful gaze upon his ace reporter.

  “Come on Chief,” Cole grimaces as he catches the glare from his boss, “I mean Anson. I feel somewhat responsible for the kid. Let me find him.”

  “You’ve got till the end of the day—then we move on without him.”

  “Thanks,” Cole rises to leave the office grateful for the chance to help a friend but also depressed by the knowledge that his pleasurable night with Ariana may have to be put on ice.