In Her Shadow

by August McLaughlin

  “You—you what? That can’t be right...”

  “But it is. Your grandparents deemed it best that she come stay with me during her pregnancy, seeing as she was so young. You know how Hastings folks are about having children out of wedlock—back then especially. I’m surprised no one told you.”

  “So am I.” She takes a sip of water, struggling to wrap her mind around Malcolm’s assertions about her birth. If what he said is true, what more does he know? She slips the photo into her purse as Grandma returns.

  Small talk ensues for the remainder of the meal. With her eyes fixed on her dinner and her thoughts on Malcolm’s disclosure, Claire says little.

  “How about some dessert?” the server asks.

  “What do you say, ladies?” Malcolm asks. “If my memory serves correct, the chocolate cake is to die for.”

  “No thank you,” Claire mutters.

  Malcolm pays the tab and they walk to his car. On the way back, Grandma dozes off.

  “She’s had a long day,” Malcolm says, glancing at Claire through the rearview mirror. “You both have.”

  Claire remains silent until they pull up to the house. “I’ll help her inside.”

  “I’ll join you,” Malcolm says then walks around to open CC’s door. As Claire steps out of the car he grasps her arm, so tight she jumps. He whispers in her ear: “Then what do you say we continue our chat?”

  “Yes.” Claire pulls away then guides Grandma to the house, Malcolm trailing close behind.

  Once the three reach the entryway, a growl echoes from upstairs. Claire turns to look at Malcolm. “I should probably take Zola out. Would you mind—?”

  “Not at all. I’ll wait in the car.” He steps outside. Claire exhales, relieved.

  Upstairs in Grandma’s room, Claire lays her pajamas on the bed. “You and Malcolm seem close. I’m surprised I never met him. As an adult, I mean.”

  Grandma stands at her vanity, removing jewelry. “We were close...back in the day. He’s a lovely man, isn’t he? Such a shame he and Gil grew apart.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, you know how competitive young men can be. And then time slips away so quickly. He’s always checked in on me, though. Malcolm’s a good man. Over-protective, but good.” She walks to the bed and retrieves her nightgown.

  “I’ll be right outside. Let me know when you’re ready.” Claire steps into the hallway, wondering if Grandma has secrets of her own. How did Malcolm check in on her—letters? Phone calls? How “close” were they? In either case, she seems to trust him. Seeing Grams light up around another man shouldn’t keep her from trusting him, too.

  Several minutes pass. Then several more. “How are you doing, Grams?” No response. She knocks. “Grandma, you all right?’

  She cracks open the door to find her grandmother is tucked in bed—one arm rested on Grandpa’s pillow, a single tear streaming down her cheek.

  Claire sits beside her and rubs her arm, kisses her forehead. “Want me to stay while you fall asleep?”

  Grandma’s eyes widen. She sits up, startled, her eyes darting around the room. They stop on Grandpa’s pillow. “Wh-where is he? Where’s Gil?”

  Is she sleep talking? “You know what happened, Grandma. He’s... Grandpa is gone.” Claire keeps her voice calm, caresses her back.

  Grandma looks at her, confused. She shakes her head. “No!” Her brow furrows in thought, then relaxes. “He’ll be back... I told him to stay home. He should have stayed home.” She lays back down, eyes closed. “I...love you, Dawn. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “It’s me...” Claire stops herself from explaining, seeing no need for further upset. Her grandmother looks peaceful now.

  She sits with her for a few more minutes, hoping she hadn’t observed the kind of dementia that derives from grief and shock. But Grandma was fine earlier, she recalls. Too fine? If she hasn’t improved by tomorrow, she’ll take her to see a specialist. For now, sleep seems like necessary medicine.

  She hustles down the hall, grateful to hear Cynthia’s soft snore sounding from the spare room. Even asleep, Claire wouldn’t want to leave Grandma alone. She’ll be fine tomorrow, she tells herself—hoping.

  Opening another door, Zola darts out then follows Claire downstairs, her nose to the ground in a sniffing fury. You don’t like Malcolm, do you? Chills rise all over her skin. Why? She could be picking up on Claire’s discomfort.

  As she reaches around in the kitchen drawer for Zola’s leash, the dog growls then barks. “Okay, I’m ready. You sure are amped up tonight. Come on.”

  She opens the back door and leads Zola out, unaware of Malcolm’s presence several yards behind her.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Malcolm waits until Claire and the damn dog are in the backyard. Took long enough. Don’t they know he has work to do? He supposes not...

  With an inward grin he proceeds upstairs, moving swiftly but quietly until he reaches CC’s door. He places his hand on the knob then without a sound, walks in.

  Stopped at her bedside, he observes her silhouette. Asleep, she looks like an angel—where Dawn’s good must have come from. But she made a mistake long ago, a big one. One he can’t forgive, even if she was coerced or brainwashed by Gil and his selfish wants. That’s the only logical explanation. Why else would she have chosen Gil over him?

  That mistake led him to his Love, though. For that, she deserves something: less pain.

  He sits down on the edge of her bed—where Gil slept. A smile curves his lips. If only he could see...

  “Gil... Is that you?”

  With a gloved hand he covers her mouth then inserts the needle into her neck. “No, my darling CC... But you’ll be with him soon.”

  If they both end up in Hell, that is...

  Either way, he’s doing her a favor. She wouldn’t want to live through what’s about to happen. Nor can he let her.

  He savors the sensation of life slipping out of her without so much as a struggle. Her essence tingles through his arm and body then embeds itself in his soul. Like the finest of wines, only better. Fuel for the journey, he thinks. And a memory he’ll keep forever.

  Chapter Fifty

  After a short stroll around the backyard, Claire brings Zola back inside and refills her water dish. Should she check on Grandma again? Stop worrying, she prods; her grandmother is asleep and fine. She, on the other hand...

  Anxiety triggers uneasiness in her stomach as she steps out the front door. Little time has passed since they arrived, yet the air feels far more chilled, the sky darker.

  She walks toward Malcolm, who leans against the side of the Porsche.

  “Shall we go for a ride?” he asks, opening the passenger door.

  Her instincts scream No! Don’t do it! Guiding with logic, she talks herself out of it: He’s family. He knew Mom. He has information she needs. Grandma trusts him. You’re just being paranoid...

  Denying her fear, she climbs inside.

  Seated beside Malcolm, Claire feels like a child—helpless and confused by her mixed thoughts and feelings. She wants to be here, but doesn’t. Longs for the truth, but fears it. A crazed thought of “I want my mommy” overwhelms her. She dismisses it quickly, not wanting Malcolm to notice her vulnerability. She takes a deep breath. One step at a time.

  “There’s a Perkins not far from here,” she suggests, feeling increasingly claustrophobic in the cramped sports car. “We could have coffee—”

  “Perhaps later. I want to show you something first. Mind if I just drive while we chat?”

  “Okay, sure,” she replies, not feeling that way at all.

  After they drive a few blocks in silence, Claire can’t take it. She wants answers and feels she deserves them. “You never finished telling me how you came to...deliver me.”

  “That’s right... As I mentioned, I knew your grandfather well. We weren’t just cousins, but the best of friends. We were in Little League together, Boy Scouts... Then sweet Cecelia moved into to
wn. We were in the junior high then, and she was my first love.”

  “A little young for love, isn’t it?” Claire asks, presuming Malcolm meant ‘crush.’

  Malcolm ignores her question. “She won Gil’s heart, too. I couldn’t blame him, but... I didn’t like it. I waited for the perfect time to reveal my feelings to CC. By the time I had the courage, I learned that Gil had asked her to a local dance. And she’d accepted. I suppose the rest is history.”

  “That’s what kept you apart all these years? A dance?”

  He turns his head to look at Claire. “Love is a powerful thing.”

  Claire’s throat feels dry. “My...grandma said you stayed in touch.”

  “My feelings for Cecelia were no secret... If she hadn’t already committed to Gil, who knows what might have happened? We exchanged holiday cards, phone calls. I owe her a lot, you know. She encouraged me to pursue my dreams in medicine, to go by my first name. Until college, I went by my middle name, Dean. ‘Malcolm’ sounded so...nerd-like. But you know what your grandmother told me? It’s a beautiful name. That it sounded like the name of a brilliant doctor. I’ve gone by Malcolm ever since. To most people... Your grandpa never caught on.”

  “So Grandpa called you...Dean,” Claire thinks aloud. She recalls her grandfather’s last communication, the letter ‘D’ he scrawled on a piece of paper. Had he wanted her to contact Malcolm? “All of this was through letters and phone calls?”

  “Yes. And photos. When I learned of Dawn’s birth, saw her photo in the birth announcement, I knew I had to make amends. Here I was missing out on Gil and CC’s life, the joy of this beautiful creature they’d brought into the world. Took some effort, but we rekindled our friendship. So years later, when they asked me to take care of Dawn during her pregnancy, I was happy to oblige. Pregnancy is a special time, not to be tainted by small-town gossip and naysayers... Before she started showing, she came to stay with me.”

  “So I take it you knew her pretty well by then?” Claire asks, trying to analyze his words.

  He smiles. “Oh yes. We’d become...quite close. She volunteered at my clinic one summer. We hit it off immediately.”

  “What about my dad? Did he stay with you, too?”

  Malcolm says nothing.

  “Where are we going?” she asks. Focused on his story, she scarcely noticed that he’d merged onto the highway, nor that the light snowfall had grown heavy.

  He doesn’t respond.

  “I...really should get back to Grandma.” Her voice trembles.

  “I want…I need to show you something.” He presses harder on the accelerator.

  Her hands perspiring, she checks to make sure her seatbelt is tightly fastened. She fumbles in her purse for her cell phone. Damn, where was it?

  He drives faster, faster.

  “Please,” she says. “You’re scaring me. Whatever you need to tell me, we can address it calmly, like adults.”

  He ignores her and continues to race along the highway, his speed increasing. One patch of ice and they’re goners.

  She glances at the door handle. What good would jumping do? She would be injured, or worse. Should she grab the wheel?

  As she reaches for it, he grasps her hand. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She feels a rush of déjà vu. When and where had she heard him say those words before? She pretends to relax, until he releases her hand. When his attention returns to the road, she reaches for the wheel again. This time, she catches it.

  “Bitch!” The car swerves as he shoves her away then pulls to the side of the road.

  She jostles the door handle.Shit, a safety lock. “Why are you doing this?” she cries.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeats, squeezing her hand. “I have a surprise for you—something I tried to share with your mother years ago. Perhaps your therapist mentioned it.”

  “You killed Dr. Marsha!” she blurts, fear growing like a fast-spreading virus through her body.

  He says nothing.

  Claire searches again for her cell phone. This time, with success. Careful not to draw attention to her actions, she hits speed dial 2—Hank.

  In a sudden move he grabs her by the neck. “If you don’t cooperate, I will have to force you. Your mother didn’t and she got herself killed. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Malcolm,” struggling to speak through his stranglehold. He snatches her phone away with one hand, throws it into the back of the car then releases her.

  Got herself killed... What did he do to her mother?

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Come on, think! You’re a professional, Claire reminds herself. You can handle this. Recalling what she knows of psychopaths, she tries to appear calm as he drives on, chooses her words carefully.

  “CC really loved you, didn’t she?” He doesn’t respond, but she senses a subtle change in his demeanor. His facial muscles seem less tight, his energy less angry. “I’ve always believed there was someone else... I bet she wanted all along to be with you. Is that right?”

  “Yes.” Still clutching the wheel, his eyes remain fixed on the road. A slight smile curves the edges of his lips. Pride?

  She takes a breath. Keep trying. “I can see why... You’re a brilliant doctor. Handsome and strong... My mother looked up to you, too, didn’t she? I mean, she must have. You said you were quite close?”

  No response. She can only hope she’s getting to him, lowering his defenses. Get him to talk. She needs to hear his tone to judge his mindset. Make him feel in control, in the right, dominant...

  “I’m s-so sorry about earlier,” she says, fighting to keep tremors out of her voice. “I shouldn’t have gotten upset. I must still be in shock over Grandpa. Losing him put me a bit out of sorts. And really, I should thank you.”

  “What for?” His even tone, though not pleasant, no longer sounds furious.

  “You cheered my grandmother up when she really needed it. And you were there for my mother. I’m...excited about what you have to share with me. I love learning about my mom.”

  “You loved your mother,” he says—the same steady tone, same frozen position, hands gripping the wheel.

  “Of course. I still do.”

  “Love requires sacrifice. Wouldn’t you agree?” He squints, clenches his jaw, presses harder on the gas. The speedometer leaps from seventy-five to eighty...ninety. Please slow down!

  “Where are we going?” she blurts.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  Unable to decode his words, Claire wracks her brain for solutions, any means of escape. He’ll have to stop at some point. She notes his muscular arms, recalls his tallness. He’s far from young, but seems strong. Can she outrun him? Fight him? She may not need to, if she can outsmart him. Glancing in the side mirror, she prays for a cop to appear, pull him over for speeding. At least he isn’t driving any faster; if he wanted them both killed, he could have done so by now.

  “Did you know that your dear old gramps pushed me from your mother after you were born?” he asks. “That after all I did for Dawn, his family, he cast me away like trash?”

  She trembles as rage rises up in him like a fast flood. “No. I-I’m so sorry, for all of that. I didn’t know.”

  He glances at her, touches her face—too gently. “You can make up for it later.”

  She stifles tears as they ride on in silence. She contemplates their route as they continue south on the 55 highway, past numerous small towns. Then, signs for the city of Rochester and the Mayo Clinic appear.

  Doctor Malcolm Campbell—it makes sense. At least Rochester is a larger city. She recalls advice she’s heard from numerous criminal experts during college and on self-defense-themed TV programs since: never let your captor take you to a second location. He’s alreadytaken her, but maybe she can prevent the full-on arrival. When the car stops, she’ll have to run.

  He exits the highway and follows winding side streets to a dirt road in the thick of a snow-covered forest. She looks around for
notable landmarks—buildings, street signs, anything to tell authorities of her whereabouts. But she sees nothing except endless pine trees. Darkness swallows them as they drive further from the main roads, streetlights and all other signs of civilization.

  Now the reduced speed brings terror. They must be getting close.

  Finally he pulls up before a large house, like an oversized version of the cabins on northern Minnesota lakes. The exterior consists of layer upon layer of red cedar logs. A brick chimney extends from the shingled roof. Her heart thuds in her chest as she prepares to bolt.

  She watches in horror as the garage door opens then shuts behind them. Look for a back door, she tells herself. But all she can see in the dimly lit space are his glimmering eyes—not human, but rather those of a monster.

  He tilts her chin upward with his thumb and finger, forcing her to look at him. “Are you going to cooperate?”

  “Yes,” she utters, aware that no other response will do.

  He pulls a syringe from his chest pocket. “If you don’t, I’ll have to sedate you. Do you understand?”

  She nods.

  “Good. I’d prefer you stay awake. This is going to be…special.”

  He steps out of the car then circles around and opens the passenger door. As he pulls her out, her face nears his neck. She catches a whiff of his smell: something musky, or rotten. She’s smelled the stench before.

  Oh God. The man in her dreams.

  Then behind Malcolm, she spots it—a black Expedition, the back windows tinted. She stares at it, feeling unable to move.

  “Ah,” he says. “Lovely car, isn’t it? I’ve gotten phenomenal use out of it.”

  Holding Claire’s hands behind her back, Malcolm guides her into the house. The kitchen strikes Claire as too normal for a psychopath. Linoleum flooring, a chrome refrigerator, a coffeemaker much like her own. Oak cupboards line the walls above a spotless, almost shining, countertop.

  Did Jeffrey Dahmer and Ted Bundy eat raisin bran? Wash their dishes with Palmolive? She shivers.

  He leads her down a poorly lit staircase, the narrow space making her think of an oversized coffin, pointed down at an angle, descending deep into the ground. Reaching the bottom step, her hopes for escape turn into prayers for survival.