The Dark on the Other Side

by Barbara Michaels

  “How?” Michael demanded.

  “Don’t look at me,” Galen snapped.

  “He’s afraid of dying,” Michael said. “Why?”

  “Give me five years of analysis and maybe I can tell you,” Galen said. “What the hell do you think I am, a mind reader?”

  Linda wrapped both arms around her body, but their limited animal warmth did not touch the chill that froze her mind.

  “You both know,” she said, shaping the words with difficulty because her lips were stiff with that inner cold. “You know what we have to do. Force the issue, keep him off balance. We’ll have to follow him.”

  “Where?” Michael’s voice sounded as stiff and difficult as hers.

  “Back home, of course. Back to the house. Galen’s absolutely right, he’ll be wild with anger, he won’t be able to wait; he’ll try something tonight. And all his-his materials are back there.”

  “Doesn’t he have a place here in town?” It was Galen who spoke; Michael was visibly struggling with conflicting emotions.

  “A small apartment. He couldn’t keep anything concealed there.”

  “Especially a large black dog,” Galen murmured.

  Michael, who had arranged a truce in his internal civil war, nodded thoughtfully. Having scaled one barrier, Linda faced the next.

  “Doctor. I don’t-I don’t want to say this, but I must, I can’t keep anything back now. Your theory appeals to me a great deal. If Gordon is a conscious villain, that makes me innocent, not only of intent to harm, but of serious mental instability. I’d like-oh, how I’d like!-to believe it. But I don’t.”

  Galen nodded. She knew that she had told him nothing he hadn’t suspected, but that he was relieved by her candor. He turned to the other man.

  “How about you, Michael?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Galen got to his feet, rather heavily; for the first time Linda was conscious of his real age. “We’ll go after Randolph. I have a few business matters to arrange before we leave, though. You two had better have some food. I ate on the plane.”

  Michael shook his head.

  “I have some matters to arrange too. Can I borrow your car?”

  “What for?”

  “Never mind, then. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “I’m incurably nosy,” Galen said mildly. “Here, take the keys.”

  Michael caught the bright jingle out of the air with one hand. He looked at Linda with an expression that she was to remember, often, in the next hours. Then he turned on his heel and was gone.

  Chapter 12

  I

  BY THE TIME MICHAEL RETURNED WITH THE CAR, the other two were ready and waiting. The night had turned clear and chilly; Linda was wrapped in a huge cloak, which the doctor had mysteriously produced from some vast storehouse of improbable needs. Galen wore no coat, and his silvery head was bare. He carried a small flat case, like a briefcase.

  As soon as the car stopped, Galen led Linda down the steps. He opened the back door of the car.

  “You drive,” he said to Michael, who was brooding over the wheel. “We’ll sit in back where-For God’s sake!”

  Linda flexed her muscles just in time. From under her skirts came a wail of protest, and she reached down and lifted a dangling, muttering bundle of fur.

  “Why the hell?” Galen demanded, slamming the car door.

  His haste was unnecessary; Napoleon had no intention of going anywhere. He subsided onto Linda’s lap and looked abused.

  “He likes to ride in cars. Besides,” Michael said, in a voice that ended Galen’s objections, “I have a feeling he might be useful.”

  Fondling the scarred ears, Linda did not look up.

  “The canary in the coal mine,” she said. “Michael, I wish you hadn’t.”

  “If he goes berserk, he can wreck the damned car,” Galen said. “Haven’t you got a carrying case for him?”

  “On the floor,” Michael said briefly, and put the car into gear.

  They made good time; the streets were emptying. Staring out through the closed windows, Linda remembered that other, recent night drive. Night and darkness, the recurring motifs; there had been sunshine, once, but she could hardly remember that such a phenomenon existed. She was tired, so tired; not only in body but in every cell of brain and nerve. Desire for the endless sleep of death was comprehensible to her now; perhaps, she thought, it was not grief or despair that prompted suicide, but only sheer exhaustion.

  Her eyes fixed unseeingly on the flashing, multi-colored lights of the city, Linda knew that that was the solution none of them would admit. Sick or sane, right or wrong, she was not normal, and perhaps she never would be. While she lived, Michael would not abandon her-and neither would Gordon. Even if Gordon were defeated, Michael would be stuck with her and her inability to love; he was a stubborn man, he would keep on trying even though it was hopeless. But without her, Gordon would have no reason to attack Michael. He would be safe; and she could rest.

  Dreamily and without interest, she wondered whether this black mood was Gordon’s latest move. She didn’t think so. It was far too pleasant a feeling to have emanated from Gordon’s mind. And so reasonable…

  In the warm, smothering shadow of the idea of death, two small, dissenting sparks burned. One was Michael-not desire, not even hope, just the thought of him. The other, absurdly, came from the scrubby patch of fur in which her fingers were entwined.

  Napoleon stirred restlessly under her tightening hands, but she didn’t let go. A mangy lifeline, that was what he was. A fighter. Battered and scarred and bloody, he had never thought pensively of the sweet sleep of death. Swaggering like Cyrano, his tail a scrawny panache, he took on all comers for the sheer glory of the fray: “Give me giants!”

  The lights had disappeared now, except for isolated lighted windows. Linda recognized the terrain. Another hour…Even that thought could not rouse her from the drowsiness which numbed her limbs. Normal weariness-or the dangerous false sleep of Gordon’s inducing? She could not tell, nor could she fight it. The solid, silent bulk of the man beside her gave her failing courage a slight lift, but even that faded out as the darkness closed in around her.

  II

  Absorbed in his driving and in the hagridden thoughts that made every effort doubly difficult, Michael had no warning. He didn’t realize what was happening until he heard the sudden flurry of movement from the back seat, and the animal screams, and Galen’s voice, sharp in command:

  “Pull over! Quick!”

  Michael jerked the car to a stop, half on and half off the road. He turned.

  On the back seat, Galen’s briefcase gaped open. Galen, kneeling on a heaving dark cylinder that sprawled half on the seat and half on the floor, held a hypodermic high, checking it. He must have had it ready and waiting, in that convenient case…

  Before Michael could move, Galen plunged the needle home in a reckless disregard of antisepsis. Hampered by the muffling folds of the cloak, Linda went limp as the drug took hold. Then Michael heard the sound that was coming from the floor of the front seat. Napoleon, inflated to twice his normal size, had removed himself as far as possible from what was happening in the back. Once before, Michael had heard him make a noise like that.

  Galen looked up, his face a white oval in the shadows.

  “Get that cat,” he said briefly, and reached down to tug at something on the floor, pinned by Linda’s legs.

  Napoleon erupted into hysteria when Michael tried to hand him into the back; and Galen, cursing in four languages, heaved the cat’s carrying case into the front seat. Between them they got the frantic animal into the case and his cries stopped.

  Nursing a bleeding hand, Galen spoke again.

  “If a patrol car spots us, we’re in trouble. Find a parking lot or a side street.”

  Michael obeyed. His own hands were scratched and painful. It seemed like hours before he found a place to park-a driveway leading to a private hous
e, whose dark shape was hidden by trees. The muffled sounds from the back were driving him frantic. Almost as bad was the deadly silence from Napoleon’s box.

  He switched off lights and engine and made sure the doors were locked before he turned. Galen had propped Linda up in a corner of the seat. He was checking her pulse and respiration.

  “How is-”

  “She’s okay. Physically. I was careful with the dosage.”

  “You expected this.”

  “For God’s sake-didn’t you? It was as predictable as sunrise.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not thinking very clearly.”

  “You aren’t?” Galen’s voice was bitter. “For the last hours everything I’ve done has been in direct opposition to every medical ethic I’ve ever held. If I’m not caught in the act, and drummed out of the profession, I’ll probably shoot myself in sheer self-loathing… That reminds me. Hand it over.”

  “What?”

  Galen snapped his fingers impatiently.

  “You know what. The ‘business matter’ you had to arrange before we left. Give it to me, Michael… Thanks. Do you have a permit for this?”

  “I do. If it matters.”

  “Probably not. What’s a permit more or less?”

  “Give it back to me, Galen. You’ve risked enough already.”

  “No, thank you. If any shooting needs to be done, I’ll do it.”

  There was a moment of silence. Then Michael said, “I brought it for the dog.”

  “And that’s not a bad idea,” Galen admitted. “If the animal has been trained as an attack dog, it may take a bullet to stop it. No, Michael, I will keep the gun. I commend your intentions, but I cannot trust your judgment. Not in this case.”

  “Why?” Michael asked suddenly. “Why are you doing this? Risking your reputation, perhaps your freedom-”

  “Arrogance. I think so highly of my own judgment, I even follow my hunches.”

  “You came,” Michael said, “because you knew I’d do this anyhow, with you or without you. And because I-hit below the belt with a reference to your personal tragedies. What makes my remark so inexcusable is that I didn’t give a damn about that aspect of Randolph; I just wanted to get you mad enough so you’d help us.”

  “Forget it,” Galen said brusquely. “I don’t know why I’m here myself; at the moment I couldn’t analyze an arithmetic problem. Get on, Michael. Randolph must be home by now; we’re over an hour behind him.”

  “What are we going to do when we get there?”

  “I’ll be looking up my horoscope for today while you drive.”

  “What about Linda?”

  “She should be waking up by the time we arrive.”

  “I meant as a source of information.”

  Galen stared at him; Michael saw the faint glimmer of his eyes in the starlight.

  “You have got a few brain cells working after all. It wasn’t scopalamine I gave her, you know. However, she is in an extremely suggestible state, if Randolph has been working on her… Oh, hell. Drive, will you? I’ll see what I can do.”

  After twenty interminable minutes, while Michael drove like an automaton, Galen leaned forward to report.

  “No dice. I’ll try again when she starts to come out of it.”

  The night had sunk into its deadest hours by the time they arrived. Passing the now familiar landmarks, Michael recognized the entrance to the unpaved lane that led to Andrea’s house. Darkness and silence, now, along its length…He wondered where, and how, the old woman had been buried, and who had come to mourn her. Poor old witch-another victim of Gordon’s insane urge for human souls, or the victim of her own-what had Galen called it?-thanatomania. The ability to induce death by suggestion alone. Mental aberration, or genuine curse, it didn’t matter. Linda had it too.

  The ornate gates that marked the entrance to the Randolph estate stood open. Michael brought the car to a stop just inside, switching off the lights. The house was invisible from this spot, and he doubted that anyone could have heard the car. Unless someone had been watching for it…

  Linda was awake. For several minutes now he had heard the mumble of voices from the back seat. With the engine no longer running, he was able to make out the words.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Shut up,” Galen said. “All right, Linda, you believe me, don’t you? Say you do.”

  “I believe you.”

  Her voice was slurred and drowsy.

  “Tell me again.”

  “I can’t hurt you,” Linda said obediently. “I can’t hurt Michael. I don’t want to hurt anyone. No one is going to hurt me…”

  “And you aren’t afraid.”

  “I’m not afraid,” said the soft doll’s voice. The hairs on Michael’s neck lifted.

  “You,” said Galen, turning on him with a cold savagery that made him flinch, “are going to keep quiet. You will not speak unless I tell you to, or move unless I tell you to. Understand?”

  “Yes, master… What did you do, hypnotize her?”

  “No,” Galen said, in a peculiar voice. “I didn’t. Just keep your mouth shut and come along. We must get into the house. Linda, you have a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Get it out.”

  The way she moved made Michael feel cold. Her gestures were competent, without fumbling or hesitation, but they lacked all her normal grace. He followed the stiff, mechanical figure up the driveway, and he let Galen take her arm; he had the feeling that it would have had the solidity and coldness of wood under his fingers.

  After some probing-she only answered direct questions, and those absolutely literally-Galen had got her to produce a back-door key, and lead them to that entrance.

  The servants’ rooms were on the upper floors, so there was no danger from them; but the kitchen entrance was the length of the house from their ultimate destination. That couldn’t be helped; Linda had no key to the other doors, and to climb the twisting stairs around the tower would give those within warning of their approach.

  Michael could see the light in the tower window; it shone like a sleepless eye on the topmost floor, the window of Briggs’s study. His sleeping quarters were on the floor below; the secretary was the only inhabitant of this part of the house, which was out of bounds to the servants. Briggs did his own cleaning. Linda herself had not been in the tower since the man moved in.

  Galen elicited this information while they stood shivering in the shadows outside the house. He had already made it plain that he wanted no conversation after they entered. A slim sliver of moon had risen, and its rays were enough to show Michael the tension of Galen’s body and the wax-like calm of Linda’s face. Her face, and her soft, docile voice, gripped him with a pain as sharp as an actual wound. How much more could she stand? He had read some of the literature of witchcraft, and he had seen Gordon’s livid face; he had an excellent idea of what they might discover in the tower room. The sacrifice, the shrouded altar, drugs and incense…A sight like that might break her mind completely.

  “It’s not too late to turn back,” he said, turning to Galen.

  “It is too late.”

  “We’re guilty of breaking and entering…”

  “Don’t be melodramatic. Mrs. Randolph is the mistress of the house. She has every legal right to go where she chooses, and to invite her friends to accompany her.”

  The shrubbery rustled as they crossed the wide lawn, silver-washed by moonlight. On such a pale expanse an object would be clearly visible; but the absence of any seen threat did not calm Michael’s nerves. He was half hoping that the dog would come. It was better to know where it was than to imagine it, lurking unseen.

  Somewhere, back on a tree near the gate, a petrified cat squatted on a branch. It had been Galen’s suggestion that they free Napoleon; he had not needed to give his reasons. Gordon’s malice might extend to any creature Michael was fond of, and the cat had a
better chance, free, against danger. As Michael extracted the limp, unprotesting body from the carrying case, he recognized the symptoms. Only one thing roused Napoleon to his former fury, and that was when Michael inadvertently brought him near Linda-one of the few people for whom he had displayed a tolerance verging on affection. Michael had to lift him up into the lower branches of the tree, and as he turned away he saw Napoleon squatting there, motionless, looking like the Cheshire cat, even to the twisted snarl of his teeth. There was a certain element of the gruesome in Alice, come to think of it…

  They made their way through the darkened kitchen, with its vagrant gleams of chrome, and down the hallways. Wide double doors admitted them to a part of the house Michael had never seen. At the end of a long corridor, flanked by closed doors on either side, the tower steps led up. One window gave a scant light-a narrow, mullioned window half obscured by tendrils of ivy through which the moonlight slid in surreptitious trickles, casting more shadows than it relieved.

  Linda stopped. It was so dark Michael could not see her face. Not until he put a steadying hand on her shoulder did he realize that she was shaking from head to foot.

  His hand was struck down.

  “Don’t touch her,” Galen hissed in his ear. “Linda. Go on. Up the stairs.”

  Michael didn’t need to touch her to feel her resistance. It was a painful thing to witness, for the struggle was mute and confined. Galen’s command broke her will instead of calming it. She shivered violently, and went on.

  They were almost at the top of the stairs before Michael heard the sound. Its faintness made it worse, for it seemed to come from the inner chambers of his brain instead of an outside source.

  Michael half recognized it, and wondered why his mind should reject the attempt at identification so violently. A picture formed in his mind, to match the sound: a high-vaulted place, great expanses of marbled flooring, adorned with columns…the walls a blend of colors and shapes…and the high, pure, sexless voices filling the echoing heights of the…

  “God!” he said, involuntarily, and heard Galen’s hand thrust heavily against the panels of the door.