Within the Shadows

by Brandon Massey

  She had to be doing something like that to him. Her ability to find him was uncanny.

  But this time, she’d gone too far.

  “What the hell are you doing in my car?” he asked.

  She giggled. “Oooh, I love this car, Andrew. The ride’s so smooth and powerful. A lot like you, baby.” She smiled lasciviously.

  He spotted the key in the ignition. He kept the spare at home, in his bedroom. How had she gotten it?

  He answered his own question: she had invaded his house while he was gone. Searched through his belongings. At this point, he put nothing past her.

  “Get out,” he said. He grabbed the driver’s side door handle.

  She laughed, inched the car forward. “Oh, shut up and get in. Ride with me and let’s talk about us.”

  “There is no us. Don’t you get it?

  “Hop in and let’s chat,” she said. “Or I’ll drive off and who knows where I may ditch this fine automobile?”

  The sun shone mercilessly. Salty sweat leaked into his eyes, compounding his frustration.

  “I’m calling the cops,” he said. “I’m sick of this shit.”

  She shrugged. “So call them.”

  He lifted his phone, to punch in the speed dial number for the police, which he had added since talking to Eric about Mika’s disturbing obsession with him.

  But the phone had shut off. The display indicated that the battery had run out of juice.

  Only two minutes ago, the phone had been fully charged, ready to go.

  “Doesn’t make any damn sense,” he said. He pressed several buttons, to no avail.

  “Technical difficulties?” she asked.

  Why did he have the gut feeling that she had somehow disabled his phone?

  But she can’t do that, she’s only a regular woman, for God’s sake.

  Waving, she began to roll away. “Ciao, darling.”

  “Wait!” He raced to catch up to her. He grabbed her hand on the steering wheel.

  She screamed. “Someone, help me!”

  Remembering that they were in a public area, he snatched his hand away from her.

  An older woman, shuffling to the library, watched him with narrowed eyes.

  “Do you want me to cause a scene?” Mika asked. “It would be a shame if someone believed that a big man like you were assaulting little ole me.”

  “You’re crazy as hell,” he said. But he knew she was right. Trying to take his car back by force would land him in handcuffs. In situations like this, the cops usually assumed the man was at fault.

  She reached across the seat and pulled the passenger door handle, nudged the door open. She pushed out her lips like a pouting child.

  “I only want to talk,” she said. “I won’t bite.”

  He dragged his hand down his sweaty face.

  Could he handle talking to her? Did he even have a choice anymore?

  “Fine, but make it quick,” he said.

  She was dressed to kill, as always. She wore a skimpy yellow top that exposed her cleavage, a white miniskirt, and open-toe sandals. Her hair ran to her shoulders in lustrous waves, her red lips as ripe as cherries.

  Although she was gorgeous, he no longer felt desire for her, didn’t want to even touch her. She was like a Bengal tiger in its deadly prime. Magnificently beautiful. But so dangerous you didn’t want to venture within twenty feet of it.

  He kept close to the passenger door.

  She didn’t appear to notice how she repelled him. Singing to herself, she steered the Mercedes out of the parking lot and onto a side street that intersected Cascade Road. At the stoplight, she flicked on the left-turn signal.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “For a little spin.”

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “Doing what to you, Andrew?”

  “You know damn well what I’m talking about—stealing my car, making me talk to you, the whole nutty nine yards. Why?”

  “Because I love you, of course.” The light switched to green. She turned onto Cascade Road.

  “Could’ve fooled me after that temper tantrum you threw at my house.”

  “I apologize. I was upset and lost my composure. Do you accept my apology?”

  He stared at her, unable to believe her nerve. A casual apology for flipping over a freakin’ table?

  “If only you understood how much I love you,” she said. “If only you knew, you would understand why I was so angry when you rejected me.”

  They neared the exit for Interstate 285. She turned onto the north-bound ramp.

  “I’ve been trying to understand you.” He unzipped the book bag on his lap, removed the copy of Soulmate Eyes. “Look what I found at the library, Lalamika Renee Woods.”

  He didn’t know what reaction he had expected from her, but he certainly didn’t anticipate the one she gave him.

  “Oh! That’s a wonderful book! My absolute favorite, ever. Have you read it, what did you think of it, weren’t you surprised when Lalamika—?”

  “Listen! I know you’re basing yourself on this woman or whatever, okay? Lalamika, Mika—that’s not your real name. You took it from the book.”

  “You’re a fine one to condemn me for using an alias, Mark Justice.” She smiled.

  “That’s not the same thing, and you know it.”

  “Oh, so what? Of course I took the lady’s name. She and I share a similar predicament. Her story resonates with me.”

  She spoke as if it were the most common thing in the world.

  They merged onto the highway. She fed the gas. The speedometer climbed to seventy miles per hour.

  They already had exceeded the speed limit of fifty-five, but as anyone in metro Atlanta knew, I-285 was the equivalent of the Daytona 500. You had to zoom at seventy-five merely to keep up with the flow of traffic.

  “What’s your real name?” he asked.

  “Truly, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I love you, and that we’re finally together again—soul mate eyes.”

  “So you think that I’m the reincarnation of this guy you used to love?”

  “I don’t think you are. I know you are. I have proof, Mark Justice.”

  “Listen, it’s Andrew. And what proof are you talking about?”

  “You’ll see, very soon, I promise.”

  A few years ago, he had watched a segment on Dateline or 60 Minutes; he couldn’t remember which show. Y2K was nearing, and the news journalist had interviewed the leader of a religious cult who had convinced his followers to leave their homes and jobs behind and seek refuge in an underground bunker in the Arizona desert, to await the Apocalypse that he believed would strike the world on New Year’s Eve. The shaggy-haired leader spoke of the imminent end of the world with unshakeable confidence (and evident glee), and no amount of probing questions from the journalist could rattle his poise.

  Mika was like that crazy cultist. Utterly convicted of her bizarre beliefs. Arguing with her was a waste of time.

  She continued to press the accelerator. The needle climbed to eighty.

  He checked that he had engaged his seat belt.

  “What about the cats?” he asked.

  “Their names are Circe, Iris, and Eos. Know where those come from?”

  “I don’t know, Greek mythology or something.”

  She squeezed his leg. “You’re so smart, baby. Yes, I always loved to read about the Greek myths when I was a child. Wonderful stories.”

  “But what about the cats?”

  “What about them? They watch over you. My little guardians.” She giggled.

  “They attacked Carmen.”

  “She had no business staying at your house last night. I sent them as a warning.”

  “How can you control them?”

  She frowned. “Because they’re mine, Andrew. Obviously.”

  “But they just disappeared!”

  “They have a tendency to do that.” She chuckled.

  It was too much
madness. His head felt as though it were going to burst.

  The speedometer moved to ninety. She veered into the far lefthand lane.

  “Mika, you need to slow down.”

  She mashed the accelerator. The engine moaned.

  The speed climbed to ninety-five . . . one hundred.

  They were in the danger zone. If a highway patrol officer clocked them now, both of them might be carted off to jail.

  “Slow down!” he said.

  “Admit that you love me, Andrew. Then I’ll slow down.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me you love me.”

  The needle hovered at one hundred and five miles per hour. The wind howled in his ears, buffeted his face.

  “But I don’t love you,” he said.

  “Be honest, darling. Tell me you love me. Confess it.”

  One hundred and ten.

  The Mercedes vibrated. Trees and cars flew past in colorful blurs.

  He swallowed dryly.

  As they bore down on vehicles ahead of them, she began to zigzag through traffic. She nearly clipped a Chevy’s bumper. Horns blared.

  She was going to cause an accident. At this speed, hitting another vehicle was a sure trip to the morgue.

  “Dammit, slow down!” he said.

  “Say you love me! I won’t slow down until you say it!”

  He gnawed his lip.

  One hundred and fifteen.

  The rocketing car felt as if it floated on a ribbon of air.

  She veered through traffic, recklessly. His stomach flipped.

  “Say it, baby!” she said.

  “I love you,” he said. “Okay, I said it, now slow down!”

  “Louder. Scream it for the whole word to hear!”

  “I love you!”

  “Again, baby!”

  “I love you!”

  She shrieked with pleasure.

  “Was that so hard?” She patted his leg. “I love you, too, Andrew. I love you so much.”

  He slumped in the seat. His intestines churned, as if he’d digested something rotten.

  Decreasing their speed, she steered the car into the far right-hand lane.

  “Want to drive now?” she asked.

  Silent, he nodded.

  She parked on the gravel shoulder of the highway.

  “All that invigorating, high-speed driving has awakened my appetite.” She patted her stomach. “Let’s go somewhere and get something good to eat.”

  “Okay.” His body felt limp, as if he had been subjected to heart-stuttering g-force on a wicked roller coaster.

  But the gears of his mind spun.

  What would Mark Justice do in this situation?

  Justice spoke to him, gave him a plan.

  She climbed out of the car. He got out, too. His knees trembled.

  Feet, don’t fail me now.

  She walked to the rear of the Mercedes, to come around to the passenger side. He met her at the vehicle’s flank.

  Only a few feet away from them, cars whizzed past on the interstate.

  He touched her arm. Tried to hide his disgust.

  “What is it, darling?” Her eyes sparkled.

  Seizing her arm, he swung her around and pitched her into the weeds lining the highway’s shoulder.

  She screamed.

  He sprinted to the driver’s side door and scrambled behind the wheel. He mashed the gas pedal and roared away in a frenzy of grit and dust.

  He glanced behind him. Mika had gotten to her feet. She shouted, arms waving wildly.

  “Crazy ass,” he said.

  He had gotten away from her. This time.

  Chapter 30

  Andrew’s appetite had returned. After he’d put several miles between himself and the place where he’d ditched Mika, he exited I-285 and drove to a Chick-Fil-A. He ordered a chicken sandwich, waffle fries, and lemonade. He requested extra napkins, to dry his sweaty face and hands.

  Sitting in the car with the convertible roof shielding him, running the air conditioner at full blast, he devoured the food. He couldn’t remember ever being so starved.

  Maybe fear had that kind of effect on him.

  He didn’t know what to do next. Report Mika to the cops? And say what? He didn’t even know her real name.

  As he deliberated his next step, his cell phone chirped. He checked the display. The battery had returned to full strength.

  Weird. He hadn’t recharged the phone.

  The call, thankfully, was from his agent.

  “I’ve got some wonderful news,” Sandy said. “The publisher’s made an offer.”

  Sandy loved to be dramatic. Under ordinary circumstances, he would be clutching the phone, excitement crackling in his voice. But his voice was flat as he asked, “How much, Sandy?”

  She paused, for emphasis.

  “They’re offering five hundred thousand dollars, Andrew. Congratulations.”

  He concluded his phone call with Sandy. He barely remembered what they discussed after she told him the sum of money that the publisher had offered. He did recall that he told her to accept the deal.

  A half-million dollars, for one book. A jackpot.

  What an unbelievable day.

  In a daze, he started driving.

  He figured he should celebrate. Pick up a few bottles of champagne and invite his family and friends over for an impromptu party.

  Or maybe not. Inviting people to his house probably was a bad idea right now. Instead, maybe they should go out to eat somewhere classy, like Chops or Maggianno’s.

  But as he thought about Mika’s knack for finding him anywhere he went, he nixed that idea, too.

  Here he was, with so much to celebrate, and he couldn’t do it the way he wanted. Paranoia ruled him.

  He drove to his mother’s house in East Point. She was always the first person with whom he shared good news. But she wasn’t home, and he didn’t call her on her cell phone. This publishing offer was the kind of stupendous announcement he wanted to make face-to-face.

  While parked in his mom’s driveway, he thoroughly searched the interior and exterior of his car, seeking the device that he suspected Mika was using to track his whereabouts. He found nothing.

  How was she managing to find him? It baffled him.

  Maybe she was psychic, could concentrate on him and locate him anywhere he went.

  It was a crazy idea, like something out of a horror movie, but he was beginning to believe that anything might be possible.

  After hanging out at his mom’s place for a half hour or so, he gave up waiting and left. He stopped by a package store on his way home. He could use a drink, just for himself. He bought a six-pack of Heineken.

  He pulled into the driveway of his house. With relief, he noted that the cats were not around.

  But the front door was open.

  Warily, he stepped inside the house. He hefted a golf club in his hands.

  He wished he had the gun, but it was upstairs in his bedroom. He wanted to kick himself for not carrying it with him.

  “Hello!” he said. “Who’s in here?”

  No answer.

  As he surveyed the first floor, he groaned.

  It looked as if a mini-hurricane had torn through the place.

  Artwork had been ripped off the walls, tossed to the floor, and smashed. Tables and chairs were overturned, their cushions slashed. Glasses and vases had been shattered.

  The aquarium had been knocked over, underwater plants bristling from the tank like spilled guts. The fish were missing.

  It was Mika. No one else would have done this. She was pissed off because he’d deserted her on the highway.

  The crazy bitch.

  He rushed through the house, to see the extent of the damage.

  In the kitchen, her three cats sat on the counter. Circe, Iris, and Eos, or whatever the hell their names were. They were eating the fish from his tank.

  They stopped and looked at him as if he were an uninvited guest at a dinner part
y.

  “Get the fuck out of here!” He swung the club and knocked one of the felines across the room. It screeched.

  The other cats scattered.

  He chased them, swinging the club.

  “Come back here, you motherfuckers!”

  The cats made a beeline into the bathroom. He hustled after them.

  But the bathroom was empty.

  The animals had vanished.

  They have a tendency to do that.

  Cursing, he threw the golf club to the floor and went through the rest of the house. She hadn’t neglected a single room. Every area had been trashed.

  In his office, the laptop screen had been busted. A hammer lay nearby.

  His link to Sammy. Destroyed.

  The pager she had given him, which he still wore on his hip, vibrated.

  IT’S CALLED TOUGH LOVE, BABY.

  He flung the pager to the floor, grabbed the hammer, and pounded the pager to bits.

  Later, he called Eric.

  “I need your help, man. I want to get a restraining order.”

  Although he doubted it would do any good against Mika.

  Chapter 31

  Eric dropped off Andrew at home. They’d visited the Fulton County courthouse, where Andrew had submitted a request for a temporary restraining order.

  Without being able to provide Mika’s permanent address or legal name, he wasn’t optimistic that the police would be able to offer much assistance. The only concrete detail he had was the room number of her suite at the Ritz-Carlton. The police promised to follow up on it. They offered no guarantees, and echoed the advice Eric had given him earlier: record everything that happened, and watch his back.

  On the drive back to his house, he’d told Eric everything, including the parts about Sammy. He was too tired and scared to keep any more secrets.

  Eric didn’t express any skepticism, which surprised and relieved him. “You’ve been my boy my whole life, I know you aren’t making this shit up,” Eric had said. “I had a bad feeling about that female from the start, bro.”

  Eric wanted him to spend the next few days at his house on Lake Sinclair, about a hundred miles southeast of metro Atlanta. To lie low and let Mika cool off. Andrew declined the offer. He wasn’t going to let Mika run him out of his own place. It would be like accepting defeat.