When Shadows Fall

by J. T. Ellison

  He pointed to the center of the wall, where Sam was seen in profile, walking in Georgetown. Fear coursed through her as she recognized the landscape behind her. “That’s on our street.”

  Xander glanced at her. “It is.”

  “How can you be so calm about this?” Her breath began to hitch, and she started rubbing her hands together.

  Fletcher touched her arm. “Hey. Chill. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Dude’s dead and gone.”

  “Don’t tell me to chill, Darren.” She couldn’t help her tone, bitter and angry, and suddenly she was falling, losing control, and she didn’t care if they saw—this man had been stalking her, and now he was dead, and his lawyer was dead, which meant she was probably next. And she was damn tired of having to be on her guard all the time. She thought she’d left that part of her world back in Nashville. In the top story of a house in Belle Meade, with her blood spilling out onto the floor, the twist of the knife in her gut.

  She dimly realized Xander had his arms around her, was shushing her like she was a small child having a nightmare, which she was. The rational part of her mind said, It’s PTSD, you’re having a flashback, you’re okay, you’re safe, and the irrational part was screaming, No, no, no, no, no! Not again, not now, not when everything is finally starting to be all right.

  Xander was crooning to her in a singsong voice, “Come on, honey, breathe for me. You’re okay. You’re fine. We’re here. Nothing bad’s gonna happen to you.” To Fletcher he said, “Shit. If I’d known it would spark an attack, I’d never have brought her out here.”

  “It’s disturbing as hell, Whitfield. What did you expect, she’d go skipping out happy as a clam knowing some dead guy was stalking her? What were you thinking?”

  She heard them snapping at each other, realized she could hear again, and see. Air moved into her lungs. She slumped down to her knees on the floor, eyes closed, focused on their voices. Here, and now. You’re in Virginia, in Lynchburg, not in Nashville. You’re safe.

  She opened her eyes to see Xander’s face an inch from her own. She started and jerked back, then laughed shakily. “I’m okay. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and buried his head in her shoulder. “I didn’t think. Fletcher’s right, I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

  She glanced up at Fletcher, who should have had his told-you-so face on, but his was etched with concern.

  “You okay, sunshine?”

  She nodded. Crap. She hadn’t had a full-blown panic attack in months. Her heart was still raw from pumping so hard her chest actually hurt. Her vision was fully back now. She’d gone totally blind for a minute, and that scared her as much as the breathless feeling of overwhelming doom she’d just experienced.

  Stupid amygdala. If she could have it replaced, she would.

  She got to her feet. Xander held tight to her hand. She took a deep breath and said, “I’m fine. Really. So, what are we going to do about this?”

  Fletcher said, “We can worry about that another time.”

  “Seriously, I’m okay. What does all this mean?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Honestly? I think it’s time we got out of here. Let Davidson come in and take over, or hand it to the Feds. Though how he missed this, I don’t know. But I think it’s best you leave Lynchburg now. Just in case.”

  She looked around the tiny cabin. Who were you? Why me? What in the world drew you to me? “You’re right, Fletch. The man’s dead. It’s not like he can hurt me.”

  Xander had been poking around the pictures while they talked, moving them aside carefully with the pencil. He said, “Take a look at this.”

  Sam didn’t want to, but she did. Behind the pinned-up detritus of her life, there was a safe built into the wall. “What’s in there?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “The better question is, how do we get in?”

  Xander glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. They said the words at the same time.

  “The key.”

  “What key?”

  Sam said, “Benedict gave me a key before he left. He said Savage told him I’d know what to do with it. Xander, do you have it?” But he was already fitting the small silver key into the slot. With a small creak, the safe unlocked.

  Inside was a tan envelope, legal size, and a white letter-sized envelope with Dr. Samantha Owens printed in careful letters. She recognized Savage’s handwriting.

  Xander opened the bigger envelope. “Ah, good. A copy of Savage’s will. We’ll take this with us.” He looked at Sam. “Fletcher told me the law office where Benedict worked was claiming there was no file on Savage in their system. Looks like Savage was suspicious of them, as well, and wasn’t taking chances.”

  “What’s in the other envelope?”

  They heard Thor begin to bark, a warning that someone was coming.

  “Shit,” Fletcher said. “Get that wall back up where it’s supposed to be.” He took the will and the letter and stashed them both down his pants, snug against his back, and dropped his shirt down over them. He pulled his Glock and stepped in front of Sam, to the door.

  Xander put the wall back into place and went to stand next to Fletcher. He didn’t have a weapon, but he didn’t need one. He could handle things with his bare hands, if he had to.

  The warning barks ceased. The nose of an LPD patrol car eased into the lane in front of the house and stopped. June Davidson got out, gun drawn, his head swiveling back and forth between Fletcher’s car and the cabin.

  “Detective Fletcher? Dr. Owens? You in there? Everything okay? We got a report about a prowler out here in the woods. Thought it might be the guy who showed up at Hoyle’s.”

  Fletcher relaxed a bit, gave Xander a warning look, but didn’t drop his gun hand. He went to the door, called out, “It’s just us.”

  Davidson didn’t put his gun away. “What in the world are you doing out here? I thought you were headed to the lab.”

  “We were, but Dr. Owens decided she wanted to see the scene, and I knew you were busy. We’ve had a chance to look it over, and she’s comfortable with her findings.”

  Davidson was moving closer slowly. Xander pulled Sam back away from the door.

  Fletcher stepped out and raised his hands, a friendly gesture except for the Glock in his right palm. “Slow down, there, fella. You put yours away, I’ll put mine away.”

  Davidson smiled. “I don’t think so. You go first.”

  “Come on, man. This is ridiculous. Put your fucking weapon down.”

  “I don’t believe I like your tone.”

  Xander started edging Sam toward the back of the house. He whispered, “We can go out the back, through the garden.”

  Sotto voce, she replied, “I’m not leaving Fletch.”

  “He knows what he’s doing. Come on, damn it, or I’ll pick you up and carry you out.”

  He started to pull on her arm, and he was too strong; she had no choice but to follow. They’d just reached the back door when she heard Fletcher scream, “Stop!” and the bullets started to fly.

  Chapter

  18

  A BULLET WHIZZES past my head like a supercharged bumblebee and strikes the elm tree to my right, scattering bark and wood chips. The birds shoot into the air and I duck instinctively, ripping the hat off my head, cursing myself for forgetting it. It was clearly the target. I toss it away. It hangs on a bush and spins lazily.

  I am not a fan of guns. I know how to use them, all kinds, from sniper rifles to shotguns, semiautomatic pistols to six-shooters. And I know how well they work, as a deterrent, or to bring down dinner. But when they’re pointed at human flesh, something rises in me and I feel the urge to scream. So much hatred, so many deaths that could be prevented. Wars and school shootings and suicides and gangs. It hurts me.

  Then again, every
thing hurts me.

  Before the bullets, the forest was quiet. In mourning, as if it knows my loss, feels it along with me. It normally shelters me, hides me from the bad people. I know it like the back of my hands and they don’t. Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, or the day before—they’re all running together now—they got caught up in the limbs and bogs and finally, finally, gave up.

  I retreat deeper into the woods, back toward the river, knowing they can’t follow long. So I can grieve properly, in private, without them breathing down my neck. Revisit my memories, my life, with all its twists and turns and hurts.

  More bullets fly, but they’re high and back to the right, away from me. Toward the chalky cliff, where they’ll assume I’ve retreated. No one in their right mind would go up, instead of down toward the road and escape.

  I don’t stop to wonder who is shooting at me. It doesn’t matter. It used to be us against the world, and now it is only me. Me, and no one else. I have no allies. No friends. No family. No one even knows I still exist.

  Five minutes of rough terrain, my legs burn and throb, but I’m on the high ground now, approaching the edge of a steep cliff where I’ve been sleeping, looking down toward the cabin. They’ve defiled it. I will never feel safe there again.

  The gunshots are over now. The forest is returning to normal. The birds resettle in the high meadow, chirping madly; the deer creep from their thickets. I push onward, higher and higher, to the one place I know I’ll be okay. Closer to heaven. Closer to him.

  I don’t see the branch coming. When it hits me, with the force of a baseball bat, I go down in a heap. Blood pools in my mouth, two molars on the backside are loose, I’ve bitten my tongue. My nose is broken; I can feel blood spurting from the wound.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Every ounce of my being panics. That voice. The voice I’ve been running from for so long, thrashing and screaming in the night to get away from, is here. It’s over. It is all over.

  I roll to my hands and knees, still stunned, scrambling backward. My heart pounds so hard it drowns out my thrashing. I can’t speak, my tongue is swollen and in the way. Bloody saliva spills down my chin and mingles with the forest floor. I am afraid to look up, knowing what I will see.

  “Where have you been, little one? I’ve been looking for you for such a long time.”

  The voice laughs, and my blood freezes. I can’t be taken. Not again. Never again.

  I inch toward the edge of the cliff. It is my only hope. I hear the water rushing; the waterfall is less than twenty feet away.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  I have one chance here, one chance to get away. I look up, and there is sudden recognition in the blue eyes facing me, but it’s too late. I leap off the edge, tumble backward into the air. The free fall is sickeningly long. These may be my last moments, so I shut my eyes and allow the air to buffet me as I drop steadily, toward the water.

  Death or freedom. There are no other choices for me now.

  Chapter

  19

  1987

  McLean, Virginia

  IT WAS HOT for June. Working construction was supposed to be a stress reliever, a good way to get a tan, make some money and learn a trade. His father always said learning a trade will be your greatest asset later in life. Work with your hands. Figure out how to build things. You won’t regret it.

  His best friend, his only friend, really, was lifeguarding at the local country club. Adrian tried to apply with him so they could spend this last summer of high school together before they became seniors and their world changed forever. But the club was adamant; they only hired the children of members. So Adrian’s choice was a summer of mowing lawns or building houses. He didn’t have the temperament to be a waiter. He chose houses.

  He liked seeing something created, liked knowing it was going to stand for years to come. After a day’s work, there was discernible progress. Foundations were poured. Wall frames went up. Trusses were laid, roof beams installed, and shingles and drywall; then suddenly they were finished and on to the next house.

  His foreman was a dick, but who liked their boss? Frank was a heavily muscled jarhead who chewed gum like a cow, mouth open, the elastic wad of tasteless Juicy Fruit snapping back and forth like cement in a mixer, and barked orders while sitting on his ass, watching everyone else work. He’d slide in when the heavy stuff was going on, take all the credit. Adrian knew to keep his mouth shut, and take his lumps along with the next guy. The pay was decent, he got to be outside all day and if Frank needed a favor, he usually came to Adrian first, the youngest, least experienced member of the crew.

  Adrian was no dummy. He knew how to work being in someone’s debt.

  The first day, when Frank sent him to the 7-Eleven for cigarettes and a twelve-pack of Budweiser, he wasn’t carded. The bored man working the counter never gave him a glance, never questioned him about his age, just rang up the beer and smokes and tossed them in a bag. Adrian saw an opportunity. He was already big, six-four and two-twenty at the tender age of sixteen, a year younger than the rest of the kids in his class. His build worked to his favor when he decided to pick up his own party accoutrements. He and Doug would take the nasty cheap beer he bought to the top floor of the parking deck of the Bennigan’s restaurant in Tyson’s Corner, where the servers hung out after their shift. They’d share the beer and get hammered with them. The servers were mostly freshman and sophomores at George Mason University and Northern Virginia Community College, older and more sophisticated and certainly felt it wasn’t cool to befriend high schoolers. But they tolerated the younger boys because they could score the beer.

  He’d party hearty, then drive home, weaving along the back roads, pass out for a few hours before he had to get up at dawn to drive his beat-up pickup over to the build site. A couple of hours in the sun sweated out his hangover, and by noon, when they were all a sweaty, nasty mess and Frank sent him for lunch, Adrian would go willingly, grateful to let the breeze from the open truck windows cool him off as he drove toward town.

  He didn’t have a care in the world until the day Frank approached him for a favor. Adrian was up on the roof, straddling a beam, nailing together the edges of the truss they’d just laid. The pa-pap of the air gun slamming nails into the wood was rhythmic and smooth. He had a bad hangover, but he’d found if he timed the pressurized blast to coincide with his heartbeats, it was more like a drum tattoo and much less offensive to his aching head—bump, hiss, da-bump, hiss, da-bump, hiss, da-bump.

  He was annoyed when a shadow loomed over him, interrupting his rhythm. He shielded his eyes and looked up. Frank, actually up on the roof, sunglasses on, bald head covered in a red bandanna, sweat streaming down his cheeks, looking like he had at least three sticks of gum wedged into his cheek.

  “Kid. I need you after work. Meet me here at 10:00 p.m. Leave your truck at 7-Eleven.”

  “I have plans.”

  “Yeah, you do, dick weed. With me. Don’t be late, or I’ll fuck you up.”

  “What are we doing?”

  “Do I pay you to ask questions?” He leaned over, the gum wad going full speed, little flecks of spit launching from his mouth onto Adrian.

  Adrian wiped his face and shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Good. 10:00 p.m. Don’t be late.”

  After work, Adrian showered, drank a beer with Doug, made an excuse about not feeling good, dropped his truck at 7-Eleven as instructed. He smoked a cigarette on the corner of Spring Hill and Old Dominion, then walked to the building site. He tried not to be curious about what Frank wanted with him after dark. Tried to be cool.

  The half-built houses looked different at night. There was a sliver of moon, a thin half crescent giving off a feeble light. Frank was sitting on a pylon, waiting for him. He was edgy, jumpy, his thick hands clenching in an
d out of fists.

  “Finally. Thought you might pussy out on me.”

  “You told me to come, so here I am. What are we doing?”

  “In a few minutes, a car’s gonna drive up with a dude in it who owes me some money. I need to get a point across. You ever been in a fight?”

  Adrian snickered. He’d been in plenty of fights, especially when he was younger. The collective pack, finding their appropriate places. Even as he got bigger, boys liked to test him, to see what he was capable of. He liked fighting, but he kept that under wraps, because his dad went ballistic every time he came home with a busted lip or a black eye.

  “Good. If I ask you to hit him, do it. No hesitation, just pop him one. If I decide I want to pump him up myself, you hold him. Got it?”

  “Why do you need me for this?”

  Frank looked at him like he was an absolute idiot. “You see anyone else on the crew your size? Size matters, kid. Don’t let the girls tell you different.” He guffawed and spit out his wad of gum, tossed it in the bushes. Adrian wanted to tell him not to, that birds would eat it and get sick, like when they ate wedding rice and their bellies blew up, but he held his tongue. Something was weird about Frank tonight. He didn’t want the negative attention focused on him. And he kind of liked being singled out to back up his boss in a fight.

  Frank flexed his shoulders and cracked his knuckles. “Besides, I’m betting you can keep a secret. Am I right?”

  Adrian didn’t see the harm in telling the truth. “Yeah.”

  “Good. This is just between you and me. There’s a twenty in it for you if it goes well.”

  And that’s how, ten minutes later, he found himself with his arms wrapped around a strange man’s neck, holding him in an unbreakable half nelson, as Frank tuned him up. The punches weren’t easy; Frank’s fists were like anvils, diving into the man’s soft flesh like a baker punching down dough.

  Adrian held on for dear life, and was embarrassed to realize he had a raging hard-on. He was holding this struggling man from behind, and every bump and groan and cry and flinch made him harder and harder until he didn’t think he could bear it. The punches were landing with regular thuds, and the man was trying to cry out, trying to fight, to do something, but he was struggling less and less, and Adrian didn’t want to let him go, didn’t want to stop squeezing. It felt so good. He didn’t know why he was so angry, so full of righteous fury. The man in his arms was so much smaller he couldn’t even fight back anymore. Adrian squeezed, realizing dimly he’d pulled the man off the ground. His feet were in the air, kicking wildly and Adrian forced his forearm tighter against the man’s throat.