The Shadow Walker

by William R Hunt

  He entered a dining area and kitchen combo. A coffee table rested on a brightly-colored rug with geometric shapes, the kind you could get dizzy from staring at (and Victor’s head needed no excuses to get dizzy), and there was a yellow sticky note stuck to the edge of the table.

  Vic,

  Should be back by noon. Relax. Help yourself to whatever grub is in the refrigerator. And please, please, PLEASE take a shower. You need it.

  DON’T GO OUTSIDE. You need to trust me. I’ll explain everything.

  Be back soon.

  D

  Victor read the note several times before sticking it back on the wood. The note only reinforced the dream-like quality of his situation, and he suddenly felt a cold, slippery fear that the injury to his head might have been worse than he realized. What if his body was actually in a hospital or a lab right now?

  Or a morgue?

  He recalled a computer game he’d played as a kid, a detective mystery called Déjà Vu. In the game, the character wakes up in a building with a dead man, and has no memory of who he is or where he is.

  All I need now, Victor thought, is to find a body in the bathtub.

  Speaking of bathrooms, there was a closed door to the left of the bedroom. A second door led, presumably, out of the studio apartment.

  DON’T GO OUTSIDE.

  Victor wondered whether Dante had written that note of his own free will or under duress. The handwriting appeared steady enough, and it was clearly Dante’s script. But why did Dante want him to stay here? What the hell was going on?

  Victor tried the apartment door. It was locked. He considered kicking it open, but he was not sure he wanted to put his body through any more pain. Besides, even though Dante had capitalized the phrase DON’T GO OUTSIDE, Victor thought the theme of the note was You need to trust me.

  He leaned his forehead against the door. Pieces of the past twenty-four hours drifted by his mind, out of focus: nearly boarding the bus in the subway, cracking his eyes open to see starlight, hearing the murmur of voices as a bright glow surrounded him. Yates had decided to pull both brothers from the subway prison, at separate times, for reasons Victor could not understand. But was he free now, or was this just a different kind of prison?

  I’ll explain everything.

  That’s a tall task, Victor thought.

  Judging by the outside light, Victor guessed it was no earlier than nine or ten in the morning. Dante said he should be back by noon, so that left Victor with a few hours to burn. He re-read the note. He meandered into the kitchen and stopped at the refrigerator, which gave off a soft hum he had not heard in a while. The Commune must be better organized than he had first assumed if they were able to generate power.

  Victor passed on a plate of old fish and withdrew a styrofoam take-out container. A sticky note reading “EAT ME” clung to it. The container was filled with Chinese food—rice with vegetables, beef teriyaki, egg rolls.

  It was half an hour or so before his appetite overcame the clenched knot of pain in his stomach. A ravenous hunger filled him, a hunger that didn’t care who might have picked at the food or how long the container had sat in the refrigerator, and he scooped the food rapidly with his hands.

  He didn’t pause until the container was empty except for a pair of fortune cookies. He opened the first cookie, ate the shell, and then read the message:

  Your smile is a treasure to all who know you.

  He shrugged, then crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and dropped it back into the tray. The second message read:

  The best way to destroy an enemy is to make him a friend.

  The second one at least had some practical value. Abraham Lincoln had said those words, if Victor was not mistaken. He slipped the paper into his pocket, took a glass from one of the cupboards, and turned on the tap. A thick stream of water splashed into the sink. It looked clean enough. Victor filled the glass and tasted the water. The taste was a bit unusual, but maybe that was because he had grown used to drinking from brooks and ponds.

  After drinking as much as he dared, he stepped into the bathroom. Everything inside was white and clean. A stack of clothes lay folded on a chrome shelf, along with a third sticky note.

  You’re doing great! Hop on in! There’s no hot water, but if anyone is capable of enjoying a cold shower, you’re the guy.

  I hope the clothes fit. They were the best we could do on short notice.

  D

  Victor read the message twice, his eyes stopping on the word “we.” He didn’t like the sound of that. Half a day ago (Or had it been a full day?), he and Dante had huddled in the darkness of the subway platform, awaiting a terrible but unknown fate. Victor suspected that, had Dante not been spared such a fate, Victor wouldn’t have been either.

  Still, he was not going to solve any mysteries by interrogating a sticky note. He undressed gingerly, peeling off the grimy clothing he’d been wearing for more than a week. He glimpsed himself in the mirror and thought, If that bum approached me on the street, I wouldn’t let him close enough to hand him a dollar.

  He placed the towel and fresh clothing on the floor beside the shower, then climbed inside. The water was cold as advertised but immensely refreshing. He shampooed his hair twice, lathered himself in soap, and scrubbed vigorously with a short-haired brush.

  As he showered, he rediscovered recent wounds he had been ignoring: the cut on his jaw, made by a splinter during the gunfight at Fairfield; the burn on the side of his head where a bullet had grazed his scalp during his flight from the cannibals; the gash on his left shoulder, delivered by a cooking fork held by Oswald’s mother, Ellen; the bruises on his stomach, already turning angry shades of purple, from his beating in the subway.

  Worst of all, however, was the swelling on the back of his head where one of the soldiers in the subway had struck him with a baton. The flesh was raised and sensitive to the touch.

  As he inspected these injuries, recalling everything he’d gone through in the past few weeks, he wondered how much worse his body could take. That bullet could have fractured his skull, the cooking fork could have pierced his throat. And who knew what harm the baton had done that he didn’t know about. He could have swelling on his brain or a fracture. The bottom line was that he couldn’t keep putting himself through all this.

  If he did, he was eventually going to get himself killed.

  When he was finished with his cold shower, he toweled off and considered himself in the mirror again. He looked far better, but still not his usual self. He searched the cabinets beneath the sink and discovered a disposable razor and an aerosol can of shaving cream—not his usual tools (he was partial to straight razors), but they would suffice.

  He shaved, rediscovering the contours of his face and looking about a decade younger. He could have used a haircut as well, but he would need more than a disposable razor for such a task.

  After shaving, he dressed in a pair of plaid boxers, a pair of gray slacks, a white dress shirt, and black loafers. The clothing, though new-looking, was not exactly up to survival dress-code. Still, it was vastly better than the pile of stinking rags he’d been wearing.

  Cleaned and refreshed, his stomach digesting a full meal, he opened the door and stepped into the living room.

  Only a few hours to kill, he thought, letting his eyes wander around the small apartment. He was already feeling tired again, so he decided to take a nap until Dante returned.

  When he woke again, it was dark outside and there was a persistent knocking on the door.

  Chapter 44

  He almost didn’t recognize her. Her dark hair was brushed, sweeping across her right shoulder in a layer of curls. Her face was clean, pale with a healthy pinkish glow, and her mouth showed the subtle luster of lip balm. She was even wearing eye-shadow, which lent her eyes a touch of smoky mystery, almost sadness.

  “Well, I see you’re looking better,” Scarlett said. “I must say I was partial to the beard, but you look cleaner without it.”

&n
bsp; She looked past him, studying the apartment, perhaps checking to see whether everything was in its place or if Victor had torn the place apart like a trapped animal. Was it a fleeting discomfort he saw, a touch of shame? Did she feel anything for how she had betrayed him? Victor’s anger flickered, but for now he was too tired and had too many questions to be truly angry.

  Thank God for small mercies, he thought.

  He stepped aside as she pushed into the room with a pair of grocery bags. The handcuffs no longer dangled from her wrist. Maybe her boyfriend had cut them off.

  “Where’s Dante?” he asked.

  “You’ll see him soon,” she answered, depositing the groceries on the kitchen counter. “Don’t worry—he’s fine. He won’t stop talking about you, though. He frets like a little bird. I’ve never seen a grown man with such attachment issues.”

  She opened the refrigerator, set a few items on the shelves, then closed the door and faced Victor. She was wearing a burgundy dress that fell all the way to her ankles, nearly covering her white sandals. She looked ready for a party.

  “Why am I here?” Victor asked, frowning at her.

  A lock of hair fell across Scarlett’s nose and she brushed it away. “Dante will explain everything when you see him.”

  Victor sensed a tentativeness in her behavior, as if she were making her way across a dark room.

  “Yesterday,” he said, “I was sitting in a cell in a subway station, waiting to be dragged into a bus and sent God-knows-where. Then today I wake in this strange apartment with nothing but a few sticky notes to tell me what the hell’s going on, and you want me to hold my breath a little longer?”

  She pressed her lips together apologetically. “Fair enough. Mr. Yates has had a change of mind.”

  “That’s pretty damn obvious. Why?”

  She sighed. “He can be a touch suspicious sometimes. But he realized his mistake, which is why he let the two of you go free.”

  “Free? Last I checked, the door was locked—from the outside.”

  “It was locked for your own protection.”

  Victor reached her in two long strides and grabbed her wrist. “And what about your protection? Did you think I’d forget how you betrayed us, how you nearly sent us to our deaths?”

  “You’re hurting me, Victor,” she whispered, but she did not struggle.

  He stared down into her eyes, wanting her to realize just how close she’d come to pushing him over the edge. Most of all, he wanted her to fear him. But instead all he saw was stony defiance.

  He released her wrist and stepped back, giving her space to breathe. She rubbed the red marks he’d left on her skin.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. The words seemed to just leap out on their own. After all, why should he be sorry after how she had betrayed them?

  “Don’t mention it,” she replied crisply. She took a deep breath, the kind that signals a change in the conversation, and looked around the apartment. “How is your head feeling? Did you take any Aspirin?”

  “No.”

  “All the same, you’d better take it with you. The doctor said you might be sensitive to bright lights.”

  Victor’s frown deepened. “Where are we going?”

  “To see your brother.” She slipped into the bedroom and returned with the bottle of pills.

  “He was supposed to be here at noon. What happened?”

  She sighed theatrically. “He was delayed, Victor. The sooner you follow my lead, the sooner you’ll understand what’s happening.” Instead of waiting for him to respond, she brushed past him again and stepped out into the hall.

  She paused, studying him with her dark eyes. “Coming?”

  ___

  Two armed guards escorted them as they walked along the street. The night was young, full of starlight and tiny islands of cloud that hung immovable, untroubled by the wind, while the air itself was warm and expansive like an early summer night. Lights glowed here and there from the windows of city buildings, but most of them were dark and lifeless. Victor wanted to ask how the Commune was generating their own electricity, but somehow that question did not seem important just now.

  Scarlett moved at an easy pace. Victor suspected she was prolonging their walk so more could be said, though he had no idea what might be on her mind just then.

  “I was a country girl,” she said softly. “Used to spend my summers with family in France. My aunts owned a stone farmhouse and a small plot of countryside with goats, pigs, chickens, cows, a brook that flooded the fields every autumn. It was a difficult job, working for my aunts, but those were the best summers I’ve ever had.”

  She studied the pavement at their feet as she continued. “I never wanted to come back, but I could only stay so long without a visa. Besides, my parents had plans for me here. My father thought I should become a lawyer.”

  “You certainly have a sharp enough tongue,” Victor answered, not unkindly. “So you’ve lived in Rayburn all your life?”

  She nodded. “No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to escape this place.”

  They both fell silent. Up ahead, torches illuminated a small park, which Victor took to be their destination. He sensed there was something he ought to say before they reached the park, but he could not think what it was.

  He settled for a question that had been troubling him. “Just tell me one thing. Why did you betray us after I helped you?”

  She stopped, turning toward him. They were close enough that she had to tilt her head back slightly to meet his eyes. “I didn’t betray you, Victor.” She let the statement stand on its own, undefended, unclarified, and it was this lack of explanation that caused Victor to suspect she was telling the truth, or at least that she thought she was. In Victor’s experience, most liars tripped over themselves elaborating on the lie. Scarlett practically invited him to call her bluff.

  “So you had no idea what Yates was going to do?” he asked.

  “Nobody does. He’s unpredictable.”

  “Why not warn us? Tell us this place was run by a mad Communist?”

  “It’s not as bad as you think. Yates can be…enigmatic—”

  “That’s putting it kindly,” Victor interrupted.

  “—but most of these people are just trying to survive like anyone else. They don’t call the shots.”

  “Neither did the Waffen-SS,” Victor answered, but his mind was drifting toward something else she’s said, or rather hadn’t said. She shook her head angrily, advancing down the road, and Victor regretted giving his tongue such free rein.

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he caught up with her. “I shouldn’t have said that. It’s just…I’m not very good with people.”

  She didn’t look at him. “That’s the truest thing you’ve said so far.”

  “But if you’ll just give me a chance…” He paused, and into that silence came all his doubts, all his old skepticism about human nature. He knew the usual lies, and he felt eerily like the dissolute husband on a soap-opera promising his wife how he would quit the drink or tame his wandering gaze or finally make an effort to play nice with the in-laws. But everybody knew those lies, didn’t they? They were so familiar because people spent half their lives repeating the same mantra to themselves: I’ll change, I’ll change, I’ll change.

  She was watching him. Something needed to be said, so he fell back on the question that had sparked in his mind earlier.

  “You said “these people,”” he said. “Why didn’t you say “we”?”

  “Because they’re not my people any more,” she answered. “Maybe they never were.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why you pretended you didn’t know us when you were being led away.”

  She looked away, clearly ashamed of her own actions. “I shouldn’t have done that. I was afraid…”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “That I would be associated with you. That I would be thrown down there, too.”

  “Is that what it was? Or were you afraid
of making your boyfriend jealous?”

  She glanced sharply at him, more hurt than insulted, and walked away. This time Victor did not hurry to catch up. His words may have come across harsher than he had intended, but he would not apologize for their substance.

  ___

  They said nothing after that, drifting toward the common and its blaze of tiki torches, its circle of tables and well-dressed attendees, the band at the center playing smooth, breezy jazz. Scarlett hesitated as they neared the tables. She moved her head side to side, searching until she noticed a man in a pinstripe suit approaching them.

  The man had sandy hair and freckles across the bridge of his nose. He walked with fluid grace, conscious of the eyes on him, his smile losing its charm as his eyes met Victor’s. Victor recognized him: This was the guy who’d had his arm around Scarlett’s waist while the brothers were led into the subway prison. This was her boyfriend.