Valley of the Shadow

by Pawlik, Tom

  Mrs. Bristol led him out to the parking lot and Conner hoped she wouldn’t notice the Illinois license plates on his car. Which she did. Illinois? Yes, Conner said he’d flown into Chicago from Minneapolis and then rented a car, just so he could stop in to see poor Howard on the way to Columbus. Fair enough.

  Mrs. Bristol clambered into her gray Chevy pickup and pulled the door closed, waving for Conner to follow her in his car. He would stop by the house for lunch and a short visit and then be on his way.

  Conner got into his Mercedes, started it up, and against every natural instinct inside him, followed her.

  43

  THE GLOWING PORTAL OF LIGHT grew still and the images came into focus. Mitch could see a child sitting at a dining room table. In a cavernous, ornate dining room that Mitch recognized right away.

  It was his father’s house. The boy was a younger version of Mitch. He was sitting at the table, hunched forward, head down, hands folded on his lap. Suddenly a voice boomed, causing ripples in the surface of the window.

  “This is what you do with your time?” Mitch’s father moved into view. Tall and broad shouldered, he loomed over the boy, nearly casting a shadow over the entire room. He slid a sheet of paper across the table toward his son.

  Young Mitch glanced at the paper, then up at his father and back down again. Mitch craned his neck for a better view. The vantage point of the image shifted to the table, where Mitch could make out something scrawled on the paper. A picture. A cartoon.

  Walter Kent’s voice sounded again. “Do you care to explain that?”

  The boy said nothing.

  “Mrs. Tompkins said she caught you drawing this during class.”

  Now Mitch recalled the incident. The cartoon was of his Sunday school teacher. Round and stern and always smelling too much like flowers, Mrs. Tompkins ruled the class with an iron fist. She’d always seemed to expect more from Mitch because his father was someone important, and so she would single him out to read verses, call on him first for answers, and critique him more harshly for being wrong. So Mitch found himself quietly building up resentment. Little by little. It started at first as harmless cartoons but then grew into silent impressions to the class while her back was turned. Her bulging eyes and tiny, puckered mouth. He had her down pat.

  Mitch smiled even now as he recalled her growing paranoia brought on by the children’s stifled giggles every time she turned her back on them. He’d taken great delight in driving her crazy.

  But all good things must come to an end.

  One day she caught a glimpse of his artwork. A hippopotamus onto which Mitch had added lipstick and a mop of hair in the same style Mrs. Tompkins wore. It brought out a chorus of snorts and giggles as he showed it around before class one Sunday. He was still proudly showing it off when Mrs. Tompkins entered the room behind him. She snatched the sheet from his hands, looked it over with nothing more than a slight pucker of her mouth. Then she folded it neatly and slipped it into her Bible.

  Mitch recalled vividly the feeling of being caught. Nabbed. Red-handed. His cheeks flushed hot with blood as he took his seat. The class was silent. And that lesson was the longest one he’d ever experienced in his life. Mrs. Tompkins improvised that day, teaching on Numbers 32:23: “Be sure your sin will find you out.”

  Through the window, Mitch could see his father glaring at his son. The boy didn’t look up again.

  “Well?”

  The boy shrugged but said nothing.

  “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

  The boy shrugged again and mumbled something.

  “What?”

  “I didn’t draw it during class,” young Mitch said. “I drew it before.”

  His father blinked, as if in disbelief. “It doesn’t matter when you drew it. The fact is you drew it!”

  Walter Kent grabbed his son by the hand and led him out of the room. Mitch didn’t need to see any more. He knew where they were going. He remembered vividly the beating he’d gotten.

  He turned to Nathan. “So . . . what? You’ve watched my entire life through these windows? Now you think you’re here to help me? You think you understand everything about me?”

  Nathan looked away for a moment. “I know what happened to your mother. The cancer.”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “And I . . .” Nathan hesitated. “I know what happened with you. What you did to her.”

  Mitch suddenly felt his rage releasing. “I helped her.” He leaned into Nathan’s face. “I put her out of her misery!”

  Nathan didn’t back down, but his voice was soft. “I know you think you meant well. But, Mitch… sometimes you can do the wrong thing with the right motive.”

  Mitch’s jaw tightened. Who was this guy to judge him? What right did he have? It was typical, though, of zealots. Religious fanatics. Everyone else was wicked. But not them. They were saved. They were God’s special children in their little club on their way to heaven while the rest of the world was destined for hell.

  “I suppose God appointed you to be my judge now.”

  “I’m not your judge, Mitch. He just wants me to help you get out of this place. But I want you to know that I don’t think any less of you. We all have things hidden in our pasts. I do as well. The only difference is, my sins were… well, they were erased. Every last one of them.”

  “Well then, that’s the difference between you and me,” Mitch said. “I don’t think what I did was a sin.”

  Nathan sighed and looked down. “You’re right. That’s a huge difference.”

  Mitch went to the doorway and stared out across the desert, struggling to calm his temper. For a moment, he was tempted to get on his bike and drive, no thought for where he would go or what might happen along the way. Just leave this guy and drive away.

  But then he remembered the amazing sight he’d seen on the mountaintop. If it had been real—if there really was a heaven like he’d heard about all his life—then maybe all of this did matter. Maybe there was something to it after all.

  Maybe…

  He turned to see Nathan huddled on the floor, staring into the portal. It still glowed softly. But Nathan’s shoulders were moving. Mitch looked closer. The man was crying.

  “Hey . . . what’s wrong?”

  Mitch stood behind him. The scene inside the window had changed. It was a hospital scene again. Mitch thought for a moment that it was his own, but then he saw a young woman he didn’t recognize standing at the bedside. The figure in the bed was enmeshed in tubes and wires, a thick brace around his neck.

  Mitch pointed. “Is that you?”

  Nathan wiped his eyes. “Yeah.”

  Mitch could see three children in the room as well, standing around the bed. His shoulders slumped. “Dude, you never said you had kids.”

  Nathan nodded and pointed to each one. “That’s Nathan Jr. He’s ten. Joleen is eight and Michael’s six. And that’s my wife, Val.”

  Mitch looked closer. Val was clearly comforting her children. She had her arms around Joleen and Michael, hugging them close as they wept with abandon. But Nathan Jr. stood apart from them at the foot of the bed, just staring at his father. The boy showed no emotion. Other than a tear welling up in his eye. His lips were tight. He looked almost angry.

  Nathan shook his head. “I never had a chance to say good-bye. That’s the thing about accidents. They just happen so suddenly. They take you away right in the middle of everything. You leave so much unfinished business. Conversations you assume you’ll pick up again later.”

  Mitch rubbed his neck. “Hey, I watched my mom suffer for months. There’s never a good way to lose someone you love.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Mitch pointed to Nathan Jr. “I know that look. I had that same look at my mom’s funeral.”

  “He’s angry,” Nathan said. “He’s going to blame God for this. He’s too young to really understand but he’s old enough to be bitter.”

  “Yo
u worried he’s going to end up like me?”

  Nathan shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to him. I really tried to show him what I believed, though. You know? I really wanted for him to know that God was more than just about rules. That He’s a real person—a Father who loves him. I never wanted to just teach my kids about Christianity. I worked hard to live it out, too.” He sighed. “But, man, I failed. You have no idea how bad I failed sometimes.”

  “Dude, you gotta let your kids find their own way. I mean, maybe your religion’s just not for them.”

  Nathan glanced up at Mitch. “Man, I know you mean well. But that’s just not true. It’s not my religion.”

  Mitch felt his jaw tightening again. “I’m just saying, sometimes you can tighten your grip on your kids so much that they feel like you’re shoving your religion down their throat. And they may end up resenting you for it. To the point that they’re just turned off. Maybe even for no other reason than to spite you. So that no matter what you do or say, or how hard you try, they just don’t want to have anything to do with…”

  Mitch found himself ranting. His voice trailed off. Why was he even bothering? He was never going to convince this guy. It didn’t matter anyway. They weren’t his kids.

  Nathan seemed to study Mitch for a moment. “I’m sorry your father wasn’t a better example for you. I’m sorry for whatever abuse you might have suffered as a kid. But, Mitch, that’s no reason for you to reject what God’s offering you. You won’t be able to use that as an excuse. Because there’s no other way. No other name…”

  “Yeah.” Mitch breathed a sigh. “I know all that. I’ve heard it all before.”

  “Knowing it isn’t good enough. Not if it’s just all up here.” Nathan tapped his temple. “For me, the only thing I ever wanted for my kids was for them each to believe it in here.” He tapped his chest. “Where it counts. And where it’s real. And I just feel like I could’ve done better.”

  Mitch had to admit, the guy sounded sincere. And he wondered: if at some point his own father had explained it to him in those words, maybe Mitch’s outlook—maybe his whole life—might have been different.

  Mitch pushed those thoughts away and shrugged. “Hey, you’re talking like you’re already dead.”

  Nathan turned back to the fading portal and shook his head. “Val knows I’m too far gone. There’s too much damage. She’s held out hope for weeks, but she knows the only thing keeping me alive is that machine. And she also knows that’s what’s keeping me from really being free. She knows now she’s just being selfish, keeping me here. So she brought them in to say good-bye.”

  “Dude . . . you don’t know that.”

  The portal had faded completely and now just showed a hole in the wall. Crumbling plaster and broken lattice.

  Nathan stood and wiped his eyes. He brushed off the dust and bits of plaster. Then he turned to Mitch. “We have to get moving. I don’t have much time.”

  44

  LATE SATURDAY MORNING, Jim and Annie pulled up in front of Juanita Marshall’s apartment. Jim had met with her briefly a couple of weeks earlier to secure permission to visit Devon at the juvenile center. It was a formality at the suggestion of Devon’s probation officer. But this morning, he figured it was as good a place as any to start searching for Devon. Maybe Juanita had heard from him. Maybe not. But she was the only other person that Jim could think of that he might be in a position to help. Annie had come along for moral support, and Jim was glad of it.

  “I didn’t get a chance to talk to her much the last time,” Jim explained as they made their way up to Juanita’s apartment. “She didn’t have much good to say about her son. I don’t even think she realized how close he’d been to dying.” He shrugged. He felt bad for Devon. “I don’t think she even cared.”

  Jim knocked on the apartment door. And waited. A minute later, they heard a voice inside.

  “Who is it?”

  “Juanita?” Jim wasn’t quite sure how to begin. “I’m Jim Malone. I’m sorry to just come over without calling first. We met once a couple weeks ago when I stopped by to get permission to visit your son in detention. Do you remember me?”

  There was no answer for a few seconds. Then the door opened as far as the security chains would allow. Jim could see Devon’s mother staring out at him from the shadows.

  “You a cop?”

  “No. Don’t you remember me? I was the guy who found Devon after he’d been shot. I called the ambulance. I did CPR until they came. You signed a form that gave me permission to visit him at the detention center.” Jim could see a vague recognition in her eyes, though shrouded with suspicion.

  “What do you want?”

  Jim tugged Annie closer to him. Maybe the sight of another woman would ease her apprehension a bit. “I don’t think you met my wife, Annie.”

  “What do you want?” Juanita repeated.

  Jim took a breath. “I… I don’t know if you heard, but… Devon escaped yesterday and—”

  “I ain’t seen him.”

  “So he hasn’t tried to get in touch with you?”

  “We ain’t exactly on speaking terms.”

  “Juanita…” Jim rubbed his jaw. How could he put this? “Devon’s in trouble. I mean, not just with the police. And I thought maybe you might be able to help us find him.”

  “Why do you care?”

  Jim shrugged. He didn’t have a good answer. Devon was still little more than a stranger to him.

  Finally Annie spoke up. “My husband saved his life. I’d think you’d show a little more concern for your own son—”

  “Don’t you go judging me,” Juanita hissed. “You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know nothing about me!”

  Jim tried to keep his voice calm. “Please. We want to help you find him. We think there may be something more serious going on. We don’t want him to get in any more trouble.”

  Juanita stared at them for several seconds without a word and then shut the door. Jim glanced at Annie, who only shrugged. They heard several chains sliding and the door opened again. Juanita beckoned them inside.

  She led them to her cramped kitchen, and they sat around her table. Jim eyed a small, framed painting on the wall. A dark-skinned Jesus in a red robe with his arms out at his sides. As if beckoning or welcoming the viewer home. Jim remembered seeing it when he had first come to visit with the probation officer and wondering if Juanita was a Christian. She did appear to have a strong belief in spiritual things, though to him it seemed more a superstition than a real faith. Her slight Caribbean accent was hard to place, and Jim tried to recall which island she was originally from—Haiti, he thought she’d said. She said she had come to America when she was ten years old.

  But Jim thought it best not to tell her now that her son might be under some sort of evil spiritual influence. He still barely believed it himself.

  He shifted in his seat. “Juanita, I went to see Devon yesterday…”

  He began to tell her about his brief encounter with Devon the day before. Juanita showed no emotion as Jim described how Devon had managed to escape. She stared at the floor, holding a string of beads around her wrist. Jim assumed they held some spiritual significance for her.

  After Jim had finished, Annie spoke up. “He was here, wasn’t he?”

  A spark of anger flashed in Juanita’s eyes. Then it faded and she offered a slow nod. “Yesterday.”

  Annie pointed down the hall. “I noticed the security chains on your door. It looked like someone tried to break in recently. Was that Devon?”

  “He… he forced his way inside.”

  Jim stared at Annie a moment, incredulous, then glanced down the hall. He could indeed see a section of the doorjamb looked as if it had been recently torn away. Splintered, as if the bracket there had been ripped from the wood. He’d completely missed it coming in. But Annie, apparently, had not.

  He turned back to Juanita. “What happened?”

  Sh
e shook her head. “He said he wanted my car. He tried to choke me.”

  “Did you call the police?” Annie said.

  “No. He said he’d kill me if I did.”

  “Did he say anything about where he was going?” Jim said.

  “No. He just said he needed the car.”

  “Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

  Juanita shook her head and her eyes grew moist. “I can’t tell you anything. I don’t even know him anymore.”

  “We’re trying to help you.” Annie’s eyes grew fierce. “Don’t you care what happens to him?”

  “I can’t do nothing about it! I can’t stop him!” Juanita glared back at her. “You can go back to your nice little house and your family! But you bring your kids to live in this neighborhood for a couple years and see how you feel! See what they’re like!”

  Jim inserted himself between them. “Listen, we really do want to help you. We want to help Devon.”

  “You can’t help him. He’s already dead.”

  Jim blinked. “What?”

  Juanita’s voice softened. “When he got shot. They told me he was dead but they brought him back. Only… only he didn’t come back alone. Something else came with him.”

  Jim and Annie exchanged glances. “Why would you say that?” Jim said.

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Juanita seemed to shudder. “When I was a little girl in Haiti, I remember a man once who got real sick. They said he had stopped breathing and they revived him. He eventually got better, but he was never really the same after that. Everyone in our town could see he was different.”

  “Different?” Jim leaned forward. “Different how?”

  “He could see things no one else did. He started talking to himself—or to the things no one else could see. One night, he was outside our house, barking and growling like a dog. Like an animal. And when my father went out to make him leave, the man just swore at him. But it wasn’t… it wasn’t a human voice talking.”