Out of the Dark

by Sharon Sala

  After a quick word with her brother, the elderly woman turned to her guests.

  “Welcome to the Forsythia Inn,” she said, eyeing the bedraggled pair with an appraising look. “We need to get you settled in, then you come down to the dining room. Clarice has some hot gumbo that will fix you up just right.”

  “Sounds good, but we need to settle a little business first,” Raphael said, then patted his pocket to make sure their money was safe. “How much per week?”

  “You plannin’ to stay more than just a visit?” Clarice asked.

  Jade nodded.

  “Then how about two hundred dollars a week? That includes café au lait and beignets every morning, and my good cookin’ at night.”

  It was a lot of money for people with no jobs, but it was a bargain and they knew it.

  “We’ll take it,” Jade said.

  Clarice handed them a key. “I’ve got rooms on the ground floor, but if this rain don’t let up, I’d hate to have you wake up in water. So…up the stairs, third door on your left.”

  “Flood? The hotel might flood?” Jade asked.

  Clarice shrugged. “Honey, the city is in flood warning already. This old hotel won’t be exempt. However, don’t you worry none. It’s lasted through a civil war, more floods than you can count, and a fair amount of hurricanes. This little thunderstorm will pass, just like they all do, and we’ll all go on livin’ our lives just like always. In the meantime, you hurry back down and I’ll have that gumbo ready and waiting.”

  Raphael grabbed the bags, while Clarence dug an old luggage dolly out of a closet behind the front desk, loaded Jade’s box of artwork onto it, and followed them up the stairs.

  The room was just like the lower level that they’d seen—furnished with out-of-date furniture, but clean as the proverbial whistle. The bed—an old four-poster with mosquito netting and a care-worn mauve duvet—took centerstage in the room.

  “I see Clarice likes you,” Clarence said, as he unloaded the box.

  Raphael turned around, uncertain what he getting at. “What do you mean?”

  Clarence pointed at the bed. “She put you two in the honeymoon suite.”

  “Why is it the honeymoon suite?” Jade asked.

  “Got its own bath,” Clarence said, pointing toward a door on their right, then winked at her. “You’ll be just fine here.”

  Jade ignored the man’s assumption that she and Raphael had a sexual relationship. It was something people always assumed about them, although it was the farthest thing from the truth. In fact, the truth of their bond was nothing anyone else could ever have understood.

  Jade thrust her hand in her pocket and impulsively pulled out some money to pay him for hauling their box up the stairs.

  “Thank you,” she said, as she handed him some bills.

  Clarence held up his hand in gentle refusal. “Your man done paid me for the ride, missy. No need for more.”

  Jade put the money back in her pocket and then nodded without knowing what else to say.

  The old man was on his way out of the room when he stopped and turned around. An odd expression crossed his face, and it was as if his eyes suddenly lost their focus.

  “You be goin’ home soon now,” he said. “Trust the big man. It will be okay.”

  A shaft of panic sliced through Jade’s belly. She didn’t trust any men except Raphael.

  “I’m already home,” she said, and stepped beneath the shelter of Raphael’s arms. “He is my home.”

  Clarence shuddered just as Clarice entered with an armful of clean towels. She saw the look on her brother’s face and frowned.

  “Stop that, you old fool! You gonna go and scare off my guests. Get on with you. Go find someone to drive around and don’t get yourself drowned now…you hear?”

  Clarence blinked, then looked around in confusions.

  “What you sayin’ to me, sista?”

  “Go on now. It’s okay. You just slipped outa’ you-self…but you back now. I told you not to drown.”

  He acknowledged her words with a smile, then glanced toward Jade before he left.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, then left.

  Jade shivered, then followed Clarice into the bathroom, where she was putting out the clean linens.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Honey, you just call me Clarice.”

  “Yes, all right,” Jade said. “Uh…about your brother. What did you mean when you said he slipped out of himself?”

  Afraid she was about to lose the only customers she’d had in weeks, Clarice tried to laugh off what had happened.

  “Oh, that brother of mine fancies himself a seer.”

  “A what?”

  “He says he has visions, but don’t you worry yourself none. We don’t pay him no mind in our family. We all think Momma dropped him on his head when he was a baby.” Then she laughed, tickled at her own wit. “Hurry on down now. My gumbo is just what you need to set yourself right.”

  She left quickly, leaving Jade and Raphael alone.

  “Rafie?”

  “What?”

  “What do you think that man meant?”

  “I don’t know, honey. But that gumbo sure sounds good. Let’s unpack later, okay?”

  Jade let herself be sidetracked, but she couldn’t forget the look on that old man’s face. Why would he tell her she was going to go home? In her world, there was no such thing.

  It was Luke’s second day in San Francisco. He’d located the organizer of the street fair, only to find out that the booth where Shelly Hudson had purchased Margaret’s picture had been reserved under the name Laurel Ann Hardy and paid for in cash. He’d laughed when the woman had read off the name. So Sam’s daughter had a sense of humor. The name she’d given the organizer was nothing more than a play on the name of the comedy team Laurel and Hardy. To make matters worse, the address that she’d given as her residence didn’t exist. He’d questioned the people who’d shared booths on either side of her but learned nothing that would help him in his search.

  With only an hour or so until sundown, he was no closer to finding Jade Cochrane than he’d been when he’d stepped off the plane.

  He made a call to Sam but got his answering machine instead. He left him a brief message, with the promise to call again in the morning, then hailed a cab and headed back to his hotel.

  Once in his room, he turned on the television, then kicked off his shoes and began stripping off his clothes as he headed for the shower. He had a dinner date with an old college buddy and didn’t want to be late.

  A short while later he emerged; refreshed and clean-shaven; he was looking forward to seeing his friend. From time to time he would glance at the television, keeping an absent eye on the evening news. It wasn’t until he sat down on the foot of the bed to put on his shoes that he really focused on the story being aired.

  A storm had moved in off the southern coast of Louisiana and was deluging the state with thunderstorms. New Orleans was in a severe state of flooding, and people in different parts of the old city were being evacuated.

  “Hell of a deal,” he muttered to himself, then reached for a shoe as the on-air journalist began a voice-over for a piece of film that had been shot earlier in the day.

  But it wasn’t what the journalist was saying that caught his attention. It was the woman being carried out of a building toward a waiting motorboat. Her hair and clothing were soaked and plastered to her body. Her face was expressionless, her arms wrapped tightly around the neck of the man in whose arms she was held. But he’d seen that face—in Shelly’s photos. It was her! Sam’s daughter! But what the hell was she doing in New Orleans?

  Luke dropped the shoe as he jumped to his feet and began searching for the remote to turn up the volume. All he got before the coverage was over was that the film had been shot earlier in the day, and that the Mississippi River, which was causing all the trouble, had yet to crest.

  “Oh man, oh man,” he muttered, and tossed down th
e remote as he reached for the phone. He dialed quickly, without taking his gaze from the television screen. And then his call was answered. “Hey, Carson, it’s me, Luke. Listen, I’m going to have to bail on you. My case has taken a weird turn, and I’ve got to catch the late flight to Louisiana…. Yeah, I’m sorry, too, but this is really important. I’ll catch up with you another time, okay?”

  Moments later, he disconnected, then dialed the front desk.

  “This is Luke Kelly, in 1202. My plans have changed, and I’m checking out tonight. I’ll need a cab within the next fifteen minutes.”

  After that, he made one more call, to LAX, and then began throwing his clothes into his suitcase. He had less than two hours to get to the airport, pass through security and board his flight to New Orleans. He kept thinking of the flooding and wondered if they would be able to land. However, he would worry about that later. He didn’t know how or why Jade Cochrane had gotten from California to Louisiana in such a short space of time, but he couldn’t afford any more delays.

  Five

  After a hair-raising landing and the discovery that his baggage was somewhere he was not, Luke Kelly had arrived in New Orleans. After filing a report with the airline about his lost suitcase, he hailed a cab.

  “Where to, suh?” the driver asked.

  Luke hesitated. He didn’t know whether to waste time registering at a hotel or implement his search. The tenuousness of locating people who had already been displaced by the flood made him nervous, but it was almost midnight. It was doubtful that anyone, even transients, would be on the move at this time of night, so, given the circumstances, he opted for getting a room.

  “Is it possible to get to the Marriott?” he asked.

  “Yes, suh, I believe so, but unless you have a reservation, your chances of staying there aren’t good. Heard on the radio some time ago that hotels are fillin’ up fast.”

  “Got any suggestions?” Luke asked.

  “Let me make a couple of calls and we’ll go from there,” the driver said. A minute or so later, he turned around. “We’re in luck, suh. There’s a fine bed-and-breakfast on the dry side of town that has a couple of spare rooms. They’re holdin’ one for you.”

  “I really appreciate this,” Luke said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” the cabdriver said. “Just sit back and relax. I’ll have you there in no time.”

  In less than thirty minutes, they had arrived. Luke glanced at his watch as he got out of the cab. It was fifteen minutes after one in the morning.

  “You’ll be comfortable here,” the cabdriver said. “The owner is a retired detective from the Naw’leans Police Department.”

  Luke nodded thoughtfully. This was good news. His host might be able to help in more ways than just furnishing a bed. After paying off the driver, he turned around, getting his first good look at the Sleepy Hollow Bed and Breakfast. The house was single-story and surrounded by large weeping willows with limbs that hung low to the ground. Something that might have been wisteria grew up the side of the house and onto the roof. Dodging the puddles and wet shrubbery, he headed toward the well-lit veranda, only to be met by the owner, who was in his pajamas and robe.

  Armand Louiston was a tall, spare man with thinning hair and a gimpy leg. He opened the door wide, smiling at Luke as he came up the front steps.

  “Welcome to Sleepy Hollow Bed and Breakfast,” he said. “My name is Armand Louiston.” Then he frowned. “Don’t you have any luggage?”

  “Last I heard, it’s probably somewhere over Iowa,” Luke said, as he entered the lobby behind his host. “Now that I have an address, I’ll need to call the airline to tell them where to deliver it.”

  “Did they give you a number to call?” Armand asked, as he scurried behind the desk.

  Luke nodded.

  “Give it to me. I’ll be happy to call them for you. At any rate, they’ll need special directions on how to get here. Most of the usual routes are under water.”

  “Thanks,” Luke said, and handed him the card the airline had given him.

  “It is my pleasure,” Armand said, and picked a room key from the rack behind the desk. “I’m giving you the Blue Room. I trust you will rest well tonight. If you have need of anything, there is an intercom in your room. Press zero and it will ring in my room.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Luke said.

  “Follow me, then, and I’ll show you to your room.”

  Luke followed Louiston down the hall, taking absent note of the way his bathrobe flapped about his ankles and the uneven rhythm of his stride.

  “Here we are,” Armand said, stopped at a room on their right, unlocked a door and then handed Luke the key. “I’m going to call the airline. Sleep well.”

  Luke stifled a yawn as he entered the room. His first impression was that he’d just entered an Egyptian tomb. Pale blue walls, with a blue and gold geometric border that encircled the walls about a foot below the ceiling. A bronze bust of a Pharaoh set on a faux marble stand opposite a large mirror. A navy-blue futon had been angled into the corner of the room opposite a large wooden bed. The artwork on the walls was an eclectic mix of unknown originals and familiar fakes, but all with a Middle Eastern flair. At that point, he was too tired to wonder if sleeping in a pseudo-tomb would leave any lasting problems.

  He tossed his raincoat on the back of a chair, then slumped onto the side of the bed. His head ached, and a scar on his shoulder from an old gunshot wound was throbbing unmercifully. He thought of his shaving kit inside the lost luggage and cursed beneath his breath. Considering the fact that he might have to spend tomorrow in these same clothes, he made himself undress, then crawled between the sheets.

  The pillow smelled vaguely of lavender. He thought he remembered reading somewhere that the scent of lavender was supposed to promote sleep, but he didn’t need any help in going to sleep tonight. He closed his eyes on a sigh, rolled over on his side and pulled the covers up over his shoulders. The last thing he remembered hearing was a floorboard creak and some tree limbs rubbing against the outside of the house.

  At the same time, in another part of the city, the temporary shelter in the old YMCA was wall-to-wall with flood victims. Dozens upon dozens of cots had been set up in rows running the length of the old building. It was long after midnight and should have been quiet, but the cacophony of sounds in the dormitory-like room ranged from crying babies to loud, intermittent snores. Parents too upset to sleep held their children in their laps while trying not to dwell on the fact that what was left of their worldly possessions was heading toward the Gulf via the Mississippi.

  Clarence had dropped Jade and Raphael off at this building, then taken his sister, Clarice, home with him, leaving the cot she might have used for someone with nowhere else to go. Now Jade slept on a cot in the corner of the room with her back to the wall, while Raphael slept on another cot next to her, putting himself between her and the rest of the world as he always did.

  Somewhere in the back of Jade’s mind, the sounds in the large room were getting mixed up with a long-buried memory and turning it into a full-blown nightmare.

  The uncle had fallen asleep. Jade knew because she could hear him snore. She wanted up, but the weight of his arm kept her pinned to the bed. Tears welled, then rolled down her face, but she knew better than to make noise. It would only wake the man up. If he woke up, he would want to play the game all over again, and she didn’t want to play.

  She closed her eyes and thought of Raphael. Sometimes, if she thought of him hard enough, he would come and find her. She wanted him to find her now and take her away. The uncle’s arm was heavy, and his breath smelled bad—real bad.

  Raphael. Raphael. Raphael.

  She thought of his name, picturing his face, imagining him coming into the room.

  Suddenly the uncle’s snore turned into a snort, then a deep choking cough.

  Jade flinched and then closed her eyes even tighter, wanting him to think she had fallen asleep.

  Raphael. R
aphael. Raphael.

  Suddenly there was a hand on her chest; then it slid between her legs.

  “Hey there, my pretty baby…wake up for Uncle Sugar. Wake up. Wake up and we’ll play our little game.”

  Jade stiffened.

  Raphael. Raphael.

  “Come on, baby girl…Uncle Sugar can’t wait all night. I got to get out of this shit hole before daylight.”

  Raphael. Raphael.

  “Open your eyes now. Uncle Sugar likes for you to watch him play the game.”

  The fingers were probing now. Deeper. Harder.

  Raphael. Raphael.

  “Open your eyes, damn it! Uncle Sugar wants to play!”

  Suddenly the flat of his hand connected with the side of her jaw. Instinctively she opened her eyes with the intent of dodging the next blow.

  “There are those pretty eyes. That’s what I want to see,” he said, and then took her hand and pulled it toward his lap.

  Jade felt the force of her scream coming up her throat before it became sound. She was no longer thinking Rafie’s name, she was screaming it aloud.

  “Raphael! Raphael!”

  Jade was crying in her sleep. Raphael woke with a start and was reaching for her before his eyes were completely open. She had crawled to the edge of the cot and plastered herself against the wall; her eyes were open, but he could tell she didn’t see where she was—only where she’d been.

  He grabbed her arm, shaking her awake.

  “Jade. Jade! Honey, wake up. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Jade choked on a sob and then crawled off the cot and into his lap.

  “Oh God, oh God,” she whispered, then buried her face against his neck.

  Suddenly there was a hand on Raphael’s shoulder. He looked up. It was a Red Cross volunteer by the name of Charlie.

  “Is she ill?” Charlie asked.

  Raphael shook his head and pulled her closer. “No, she just had a bad dream,” he said softly. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to disturb anyone.”

  “Maybe she has a fever,” Charlie said, and started to extend a hand. Jade ducked, then rolled back onto her cot out of his reach.