Into the Darkness

by Andrews, V. C.

  There would be plenty of time to be weepy if that was where the journey led me.

  I was soon to know.

  18

  Answers

  When I saw that there was heavy traffic heading toward Portland, I was afraid that I would arrive after Mr. Norton’s business hours and it would turn out to be a wasted trip. That was the only excuse I had for speeding and going through what must have been a radar trap. I was practically in tears when the highway patrolman signaled for me to pull over.

  “In a rush?” he asked when he walked over to my car window.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Yes. I’m afraid to miss an appointment.”

  “Imagine how many you’ll miss if you crash,” he said. “Let me have your license and registration, please.”

  I dug it out and handed it to him. He looked at it, started for his vehicle, and then suddenly stopped as if he had heard something or someone. I watched him stare at my picture for a long moment, turn slowly, and come back to my car. I was afraid there was something wrong with my license and I would be in even more trouble. Maybe he wouldn’t let me drive on. But he surprised me.

  “What guarantee do I have that you will slow down and stay within the speed limit?”

  I looked at the traffic and then at him. “I’ll try,” I said. My honesty brought a smile to his face.

  “Try harder, Amber Taylor,” he replied, and handed my license and registration back.

  “Thank you. I will.”

  “You’d better. We don’t want you eternally late for an appointment.”

  He stepped back. Very slowly and carefully, I pulled back onto the highway.

  “Someone’s watching over you, Amber Light,” I muttered, and shook my head, still amazed at my good luck. I couldn’t even begin to imagine giving my father the news of my getting a speeding ticket on top of rushing off to Portland without first telling him and my mother. I did watch my speed. Staying within the limit didn’t make all that much difference in my arrival time in Portland, either. I was well within the three hours I had arranged with Mr. Norton’s secretary. The city was busy. I was close to rush hour, but I found a place to park close to the address of Marcus Norton Investments.

  Earlier, I had feared that I would arrive in a rainstorm, but as if my urgency and enthusiasm had the power to control the wind, the clouds began to thin out and part, until blue sky was everywhere. For a moment, I stood looking at the busy traffic and the pedestrians streaming out of buildings and hurrying to their own vehicles. Now that I was there, I was very nervous. What if this Marcus Norton was a very mean, brusque man? Von Richards’s comments suggested that he was that sort. What if he didn’t feel it was proper to give out information about any of his tenants? I would be so embarrassed if he asked me to leave. I rehearsed how I was going to approach him and exactly what I would say to get him to be forthcoming and not think I was a total nutcase.

  The Marcus Norton Investments offices were on the first floor of a building with a glazed version of architectural terra-cotta, which was basically an enriched molded clay brick. It was obviously one of the older buildings and not very tall. None of the buildings in Portland were, to protect the views of nearby Mount Hood. I knew a little about the city because Dad had told me that its economic and industrial boom had sunk at the start of the First World War. It was a shipping town, and business had been heavily damaged. Real estate and the lumber industry had brought it back and stimulated the expansion of the dock facilities. My father loved getting into conversations with old-timers about all this.

  Despite my determination, when I entered the company’s small lobby, I could feel myself trembling. The receptionist, a thin, dark-haired woman with hazel eyes and thin lips, looked up from her computer keyboard. I imagined that she was in her late fifties if not early sixties. Growing up around jewelry and colors made me more critical than most my age when it came to hair dye jobs, makeup, and clothing, I think. I thought her short hair looked as if it had been dipped in a pool of cheap ink. With her very fair complexion, the contrast made the poor coloring job even harsher.

  “Yes,” she said, as if I had asked a question. Her lips tightened like those of someone who didn’t want to be disturbed. Whatever she was doing was challenging her, I imagined. Just my luck to be greeted by someone already in a bad mood, I thought.

  “I called earlier today. My name is Amber Taylor.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, Mr. Norton has an attorney in his office at the moment. I have no idea how long he’ll be occupied. He didn’t tell me about this meeting,” she added, as if she had known me for years and I was someone who would give her great sympathy. “It’s not unusual. I don’t know why I keep a daybook anymore. I have no idea how long this meeting is supposed to go. You can wait or come back another day.”

  “Oh, no, I can’t. I drove all the way from Echo Lake, remember?”

  She shook her head. “No, I don’t remember where you came from.” She pushed some papers around and looked at what must be her notes. “Yes, I see it. Well, I can’t rush him out of a meeting. You’ll have to decide what to do.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said, and sat on the small settee that faced his office.

  She looked at me askance. “I can’t imagine what could possibly bring someone your age this far to see Mr. Norton.”

  “It’s very important to me,” I said. I knew she was expecting me to reveal it all, but I wasn’t going to chance her deciding that it wasn’t important enough to take up her boss’s time. She waited for me to say more. Instead, I reached for one of the magazines. They were all about real estate or finance, nothing I would otherwise pick up. When I opened one, she smirked and returned to her work.

  It was nearly twenty minutes before the door opened. There were two men stepping out, one very tall with styled light brown hair and a bronze tan. He wore a gray-black pin-striped suit and a black tie. I didn’t think he could be more than in his mid-thirties. The man beside him was a good six inches shorter, stout, with thin, balding ash-gray hair in puffs over his temples and down the back of his head. His nose was a little wide, but he still had striking iceberg-blue eyes. Although he had what Mom would describe as a barrel chest and wide hips, his face was narrow, his cheeks even a bit sunken. He looked my way while he was shaking the other man’s hand.

  “Okay, Alex, let’s close this thing by the end of the week. Good work,” he said.

  The younger man smiled. Then, when he turned and saw me sitting there, he paused and widened his smile.

  “Things are looking up for you, Marcus,” he told Mr. Norton, who shrugged and held his grin.

  “So, what do we have here, Mrs. Douglas?” Mr. Norton asked the receptionist.

  “Amber Taylor. She’s come here from Echo Lake to see you on a personal matter.”

  “Oh.” He widened his smile. “Well, come right in, Miss Taylor,” he said. He looked toward the young man who was standing at the entrance. “Call me,” he told him.

  “Will do.”

  He stepped back for me to enter his office. It looked twice as big as the lobby. There was a wall bookcase on the right, with a settee like the one in the lobby in front of it and a glass coffee table and two soft-cushioned chairs. There was another soft-cushioned chair off in the right corner. The office walls were covered in a dark pecan paneling. On the left was another, larger table with some blueprints spread over the top and a few chairs around it. The wall on the left had a number of plaques, framed letters, and pictures. There was a large bay-style window behind the oversized dark walnut desk. All of the papers on it were neatly stacked. In front of the desk were two more soft-cushioned chairs.

  Mr. Norton closed the door and moved quickly to his desk, as if he needed to have it between him and anyone visiting. He nodded at one of the chairs. “So what can I do for you, Miss . . .”

  “Amber Taylor,” I said, taking the seat.

  He sat. “Amber.” He smiled, folded his hands together, and sat a little forward. “So?”r />
  “I live next door to the property you rented recently in Echo Lake.”

  He didn’t say anything immediately. He just looked at me for a moment. “Who told you I rented a property in Echo Lake?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t rented.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why are you inquiring about that, anyway?” he asked, losing the softness of his smile quickly.

  “The family, the Matthewses, moved out abruptly yesterday. I want to know where they went,” I said.

  He continued to stare at me, his eyes filling with impatience, waiting for me to continue. It was easy to see that he was the kind of man who disliked small talk. My father would call him a bottom-line man, the sort who wants you to get right to the point and not try to influence him first with conversation designed to set it up more attractively.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Well, I know that Mrs. Matthews wasn’t well, and just before they all had to move, she . . . got worse. Their son, Brayden, was supposed to come to my house that day, and when he didn’t show up, I tried to reach him, but he never responded. On our way home from dinner at a local restaurant, we saw the small truck and Mr. Matthews leaving the house. Brayden never answered his phone. I called and called. I’m very worried about him, and I thought that if he was nearby, I could maybe speak to him and help him.”

  Mr. Norton just continued to stare at me, making me feel very uncomfortable.

  “I mean . . . well, we were becoming very close. I was hoping that his family would stay in Echo Lake and he would finish his last year of high school in my school. It’s very important to me to speak to him again,” I added when he still didn’t speak. I waited. The silence was very unnerving. “I know that it might not be legal or ethical for you to give out personal information, but I assure you, Brayden won’t be upset.”

  “What did you say your name was?” he asked, picking up a pen.

  “Amber Taylor. My family owns the Taylor Jewelry Store in Echo Lake. It’s been there for years and years.”

  He wrote something, nodded, and looked up at me again.

  “Did you talk to Mrs. or Mr. Matthews while they were living there?”

  “Actually, no. I tried to talk to Mrs. Matthews once, but she . . . she was ill and getting worse. She never came out of the house, as far as I knew, and Mr. Matthews went away on an important meeting almost as soon as they had moved into the house.

  “Look, I’m not after them to get money or anything,” I added, thinking that he was suspicious of my intentions. “I knew that Mrs. Matthews was seeing a therapist and was suffering from a serious mental condition. Brayden explained all that to me.” I paused. Maybe I was telling him too much, I thought, but what choice did I have?

  “Brayden eventually revealed that she had tried to commit suicide and she was in a clinic somewhere near Portland. That’s why I thought they had to move out, so he and his father would be closer. I guess she has to stay in the clinic for a long time. I would just like to get in touch with him. It’s been hard for him to make friends his age. I don’t know what you know about them, but because of the work his father does, his family has had to travel a lot.”

  I paused. I was talking too much, I thought. Mr. Norton was staring at me strangely again.

  “Amber Taylor, Taylor Jewelry in Echo Lake?”

  “Yes, sir. My parents don’t know that I’ve come here,” I added quickly.

  “Is that so?”

  “I just had to try to find him, and when Mr. Richards told me who owned the property . . .”

  “Von Richards?”

  “Yes. When he told me that you owned the property and told me about your company, I called to make this appointment.”

  He rose so quickly out of his seat that I actually pulled back in mine.

  “Wait here,” he said, and walked out of his office, closing the door behind him.

  I imagined that he was going out to ask his secretary where the Matthews family had relocated. But why did he say that he hadn’t rented the house to them? The way he looked at me while I was explaining everything gave me the feeling that I might even be in the wrong office. Maybe Von Richards had it wrong. Maybe Marcus Norton didn’t own the house the Matthewses had been in. Maybe, however, he owned so many properties that he was going out to check with his secretary to see if the house in Echo Lake was one of them. I would certainly feel stupid if I were in the wrong office, and to top it off, I had driven all this way for nothing. The owner of the property might not even be in Portland.

  I began to feel very uncomfortable. I glanced at my watch. Mr. Norton was out there talking to his secretary for nearly ten minutes. What was going on? I heard my cell phone go off and dug it out of my purse quickly, hoping and praying that it was Brayden finally calling, but the screen told me that it was my mother. She must have discovered that I wasn’t home and was looking for me, but I didn’t want to talk to her just yet. I didn’t want her to know where I was until I found out where Brayden was. She might try to talk me into coming home. I let it go to voice mail and flipped it closed when Mr. Norton finally reentered his office.

  Without speaking and looking very upset, even a little nervous himself, he went around his desk and sat facing me again. I felt someone else in the room and turned sharply to see Mrs. Douglas standing behind me. She looked absolutely terrified. She wasn’t much taller than I was, and now that she was out from behind her desk, I saw that she couldn’t weigh more than one hundred pounds. She had her thin arms folded across her small bosom, but tightly, like someone who was clinging to herself.

  “Let’s get this completely straight,” Mr. Norton began. “You tell me that you’ve come here to find out where the Matthews family now is because you’re concerned about Brayden Matthews, whom you met while the Matthewses were in the house next to yours. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you spoke and spent time with Brayden Matthews in Echo Lake recently?”

  “I saw him yesterday, in fact,” I said.

  He looked at Mrs. Douglas when she gasped. I turned to look at her, too. She had brought her right hand up to press against her lips.

  “Why do you ask me that?”

  “Mrs. Matthews is my daughter,” he replied.

  “Oh.”

  “She is indeed in a clinic, and she is seriously emotionally ill. It’s also true that she has gotten worse. I was hoping that a new location, a new environment, a beautiful small community, would help her, that maybe she would return to her artwork. She and Sanford have a beautiful home here in Portland, but it’s become impossible for her to remain there. I have it up for sale.”

  I nodded. All of that made sense, even though I still didn’t know the details.

  “Do you know why she’s so sick?” he asked me.

  “No. Brayden never told me.”

  “Brayden never told you,” he repeated. Then he leaned forward. “I hope you’re a disturbed person, too, and this isn’t some sick joke,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “She’s sick because she was in a terrible automobile accident. She was hit by a lumber truck just north of Portland. It drove her car off the highway and down a steep embankment. She suffered a broken leg and cracked ribs. The window on her door shattered and ripped out some of her face on the left side.”

  “Oh!” I said, practically gasping it. So that was why she had kept her face covered the first day I had seen her and why she had been wearing that scarf around her face when I saw her in the doorway receiving her groceries. But why wouldn’t Brayden have told me that?

  “Yes. But she wasn’t alone in the car,” he continued. “My grandson Brayden was in the car.”

  “Brayden?” I held my breath. Had he suffered some brain damage? Was that why he behaved the way he had in Echo Lake? Was his situation worse now?

  “Brayden Matthews died from severe trauma to his right temple occurring during the rollover,” Mr. Norton recited
as if he were reading from a news article. “My grandson has been dead a year yesterday, matter of fact, matter of cold fact, so I don’t know what the hell you’re saying or why in hell you came here,” he added in a raised voice. His eyes turned steely cold and he clenched his teeth. “My daughter was driving and blamed herself for the accident and my grandson’s death. That’s why she is suffering so terribly emotionally and psychologically.”

  I couldn’t speak, but what he was saying certainly explained the grotesque painting she had done of Brayden in the attic.

  “I called your family’s jewelry store and spoke to your mother. Apparently, your parents are very upset with you and have no explanation for your actions and behavior. I hope you know how much you’ve upset them.”

  I shook my head. “This isn’t true,” I said. “It can’t be true. I was with Brayden.”

  “Really.” He sat back and gazed at me a long moment, his anger calming. Then he took a deep breath. “Like I said, I don’t know why you’ve come here and why you’re doing this. Your mother claims you have not been mentally ill, but she did admit that neither she nor your father ever set eyes on anyone claiming to be Brayden Matthews, that all they knew about him came from you, so now they are concerned about your mental health.”

  I started to cry. “I did know him. I did,” I insisted. “He was there. We spent a lot of time together.”

  He looked at Mrs. Douglas.

  “My grandson lies next to my wife in the River View Cemetery, section one forty-three. Maybe you should go see for yourself. Mrs. Douglas, provide this young lady with directions, please.”

  “This can’t . . .”

  “I think I’ve given you enough of my time, Miss Taylor. As I said, I don’t know your purpose or reasons for coming here. If you’re not mentally ill yourself, then whoever put you up to it, some jealous competitor or some displeased customer, whoever he or she might be, they’re a sick son of a bitch. Good day,” he said firmly.

  I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Instead, I rose and hurried out of his office. Mrs. Douglas stood at her desk. She looked as if she wanted to scratch my eyes out. Without speaking, she reached into a file and handed me a printout of the directions to the cemetery and the cemetery map.