Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "He didn't mean to be rude," George said. "He's just upset."

  "I know." Not just upset about the illness of someone he loved; distressed because he was afraid he had failed her. In some ways he's more devoted to her than I am, Meg thought remorsefully. Or is he simply less able to accept reality? Nothing any of us can do will make her immortal.

  "Where are you off to?" her uncle asked, as she rose from her chair.

  "The store, of course. I'll take a car, so I can run over and see Gran later."

  George opened his mouth and then closed it. Meg smiled at him. He was learning.

  Riley was behind the counter when she went in. He looked up in surprise. "What are you doing here so early?"

  "You heard?"

  "Several people have called already. I'm sorry about Mrs. Mignot," he added awkwardly.

  "She's going to be all right."

  "That's good. She's always been nice to me." Amusement brightened his dark eyes, and he added, "Even though she thinks I'm a lout."

  "That," said Meg gravely, "is the sign of a real lady."

  "Yeah. Look, you don't have to hang around here if you'd rather be at the hospital. I can handle things."

  "Thanks, but I'd rather be working. The doctor assured us there's no cause for alarm, and that what she needs most today is rest."

  "Suit yourself."

  "I always do, don't I?"

  "Do you?"

  At first Meg didn't understand the question, or the penetrating look that accompanied it. "I haven't changed my tiny mind, if that's what you mean. My offer yesterday was not a whim, or a sentimental tribute to Dan's memory."

  "Okay." After a moment he added, "We got some answers to our ad for a clerk."

  "Oh, good. Any likely possibilities?"

  "One sounds promising." Riley took a handful of letters from his pocket and passed them to her. "She worked for Murdock and Sons, the jewelry store in Augusta, for ten years."

  "I'll give her a call, shall I?"

  "Yeah, you better. I'd probably scare her off." The telephone rang before Meg could reply, and Riley went into the shop.

  The caller, like others who followed, was a friend inquiring about Mary. Later that morning, however, Meg got a call of another kind. After she had hung up she let out a whoop that brought Riley plunging out of the shop. "What the hell—"

  "Guess what?"

  "What?"

  "That was Mrs. Randolph Bacon Mercer's secretary!"

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "You know who she is?"

  "You just told me," Riley said.

  "She's selling her collection!"

  "The secretary?"

  "No, Mrs. Randolph. . . . Riley, you definitely need practice in the humor department. This is a serious matter. Don't you understand—she called us first! She's giving us a chance to make an offer before she notifies other buyers."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Riley!"

  "Oh—sorry. That is interesting. Could be she needs cash in a hurry and wants to keep it quiet. Yeah. If she wants us to reset the stones and market them without bringing her name into it, we could get the lot cheap."

  "Oh, Jesus."

  "What's the matter?"

  "I'm scared. Cheap, he says. We're talking millions, Riley. I don't think I can do it. I don't know enough."

  "You can learn."

  "In a week?"

  "Sure. Dan sold her most of her important pieces. We've got the receipts and the descriptions."

  "You'll have to go with me."

  Riley looked at her as if she had suggested he join her in a visit to a leper colony. "To her house? Not me."

  "A week," Meg mumbled, pacing. "I can't, Riley. What if I make a horrible mistake? If the bid is too low, we'll lose the collection. If it's too high, I could bankrupt us before we get off the ground."

  "She's a millionaire," Riley muttered. "She's probably got a butler."

  The raw horror in his voice penetrated Meg's nervousness. She stopped, facing him, and saw the reflection of her own consternation in eyes as candid as a schoolboy's.

  Meg had no intention of laughing. It was rude, it was inappropriate, it was tactless. She couldn't help herself. To see Riley the imperturbable thrown into a panic at the idea of meeting a reallive butler was too much for her. She tried to stop; then she realized that he was laughing too, laughing at her and with her and at himself. They came together in a movement as spontaneous as water flowing, and clung to one another, shaken by their shared laughter, the very rhythm of their bodies matching. Under her hands the hard muscles of his back rose and fell, and his uneven breath stirred the loosened strands of her hair. Uneven now, not with laughter, but with something else; the arms that held her tightened and he bent his head. . . .

  Neither of them heard the soft tinkle of the chimes. Riley was facing the door, but Meg had no warning, and the violence of his recoil was as intimate and shocking as a blow. His hands moved to push her away; then another pair of hands seized her and sent her reeling back against the counter.

  The impact brought tears of pain to her eyes, but the blurred image she saw was alarming enough to move her to action. She caught Cliff's raised arm. "Don't! It's not what you think. Stop it, Cliff!"

  Cliffs fists were clenched and his face was mottled and distorted by rage. "Let go, Meg. You don't know what this bastard has done or you wouldn't defend him. Or are you so hot for him you don't mind if he almost killed Mary?"

  "What?" Shock loosened her hold and Cliff shook himself free. Riley had retreated as far as he could go, which wasn't far; his back was against the closed shop door, with the counter on one side and Cliff closing in on him. His features had hardened into the familiar impassive mask.

  Cliff opened his right hand and tossed something onto the counter. Riley recognized it before Meg did; a flash of surprise— and guilt?—passed across his face. "It was on the floor beside Mary's bed," Cliff said. "Do you wonder she had a heart attack when she saw it?"

  Meg picked up the ring. It was not one of the ones she had seen before. The setting enclosed a small, heart-shaped ruby. The motto running around the hoop read, "I thee await."

  "It's a fede ring," she said. "A love token."

  "A love token from a dead man," Cliff said. "It's not just this one, it's the cumulative effect. You sent this to her, didn't you, Riley?"

  Riley shook his head. "No. I never saw it before."

  Cliffs sudden move caught him, and Meg, by surprise. The blow was clumsy and relatively ineffectual; it was Riley's attempt to avoid it that did the damage. Pivoting, he slipped and lost his balance; in the confined space he had nowhere to fall, and his face smashed into the reinforced metal of the doorframe. He hit the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs and crumpled clothing and lay still.

  "Oh, my God," Cliff whispered. He was staring, not at Riley's bloody face but at his ankle and lower calf, where the leg of his jeans had been pulled up by his fall. Strips of plastic and metal failed to hide the raised ribbons of scar tissue.

  "Get out of the way," Meg said, in a voice that echoed oddly inside her skull. She squeezed herself into the narrow space behind the counter.

  "Is he—"

  "Get some water."

  Riley's head was twisted at a painful angle between the wall and his bent arm. Meg used her skirt to wipe away the blood; it was flowing freely, which was a good sign, but she didn't draw a full breath until her careful fingers assured her there was no hollow of fractured bone under the gash on his temple. Drops of water falling on her hair made her look up to see Cliff leaning across the counter, offering a wet, wadded-up bundle of paper towels. Meg snatched them from him. "Call the rescue squad," she said curtly.

  "No. Don't call." The voice sounded as eerie and far away as a voice from the tomb. "Knocked myself out. . . ."

  "He's not dead," Cliff said.

  "Sorry about that," Riley muttered. He kept his eyes firmly closed, but when Meg repeated, "Cliff, call the rescue squad," Riley's free hand fumble
d for her wrist. "No, I said. Just leave me alone for a minute. And quit slopping water all over me."

  That sounded like the old Riley. Meg stood up. Cliff was still leaning across the counter; their eyes met.

  "Hero," Meg said softly. "Big, macho hero."

  "I didn't know about. . . . Hell, I didn't know! You don't suppose I'm stupid enough to swing at a cripple, do you? Now you're mad at me and sympathizing with him. He's still a murderous swine, but women always—"

  "Get out of here, Cliff."

  "Look, I'll drive him to the hospital. You don't need to worry, I'll never touch him again, he's perfectly safe from me."

  Riley reacted to this generous offer as he might have to a deadly insult. Despite Meg's efforts to restrain him he pulled himself to his feet.

  "Oh, yeah? Well, don't do me any favors, buddy, because you sure as hell aren't. . . . Damn it, Meg, will you please—"

  Meg pushed him against the wall and held him there. "You both make me sick!" she shouted. "You get out and you sit down and both of you shut up!"

  Riley winced and covered his eyes with his hand. Cliff backed away. "Okay, I'm going. I'm sorry I made a scene, but I'm not sorry I said what I did, it was the truth, and I'm going to prove it and then maybe you'll. . . . Oops."

  He turned and fled as Meg reached blindly for the first object she could find and fired it after him. It was a mirror, and it hit the floor with a satisfying smash. She swung on Riley, who had lowered himself cautiously onto a chair. "Don't sit down!"

  Riley took the bloody wad of paper towels from his face. "But you just told me to—"

  The phone rang. Meg snatched it up. "What?" she shouted. "Oh. . . . Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Casey. Yes, Mike told me about you, I was going to call you. . . . Today? Well, if that's the case, I suppose. . . . All right. Why don't you meet me here at four and I'll take you to the cottage. . . . No, you can't meet me there; it's difficult to find the place without a guide and I'll have to locate the keys, it's been boarded up for years. . . . Mr. Casey, I have to go now, we'll discuss it later, okay?"

  She hung up without waiting for an answer and turned back to Riley. "We're going to the hospital. I'll be damned if I'm going to have you wobbling around here all day with a possible concussion. Come on."

  Looking more than ever like an Aztec idol, Riley came.

  There were advantages to being the descendant of the town philanthropist. The emergency-room staff jumped to attention when Meg marched in with her silent hostage in tow. She explained about the accident, with due deference to Riley's sensitivities—"He slipped in some water I spilled on the floor—" and was about to abandon him to their tender mercies when one of the nurses said hesitantly, "Miss Venturi, if you're going to see your gramma, maybe you should wash up first."

  Meg looked from her bloodstained hands to the red-brown stains on her skirt. "Oh. I guess you're right. Thanks. I'll be back in about half an hour."

  She directed the last statement at Riley but got no response, not even a nod. She was reminded of a prisoner of war stoically awaiting interrogation. Name, rank and serial number. . . .

  Alone in the washroom, with the door locked, she found she was shaking so violently that the water splashed all over her when she put her hands into the flow. There was blood on her face, too. Riley's blood.

  She leaned against the wall, wet hands tightly clasped, until the tremors subsided. The necessity of showing her grandmother a smiling, untroubled face finally drove her back to the washbasin and the makeup in her purse. She applied it piece by piece—eyelids, lips, cheekbones—carefully avoiding an overall view, but the confrontation couldn't be avoided indefinitely, and when the eyes in the mirror caught and held hers, she cringed away from the knowledge they held.

  When she got back to the emergency room, Riley was gone. With a twist of the lips that expressed her opinion of her erstwhile patient more clearly than words, the nurse directed Meg to the waiting room. Riley was seated on a bench reading a month-old copy of Newsweek. He had tried to arrange his hair over the patch of bandage on his forehead; instead of appearing unwounded, he looked like a wounded drunk. Meg's fingers itched, but she managed to keep them away from him.

  They were well away from the hospital before he spoke. "How is Mrs. Mignot?"

  "They're moving her out of intensive care this afternoon." Meg could only hope the hospital staff had not been driven to this move by Frances, who had planted a chair outside the cubicle in which Gran lay like a pathetic little robot plugged full of tubes and wires. She had smiled at Meg, though, and whispered something about Henrietta Marie. Thankful for such a harmless topic of conversation, Meg had reassured her about the cat, and was rewarded by another, stronger smile. She had tripped over Frances's feet on her way out.

  Having made the proper gesture, Riley relapsed into brooding silence, which Meg chose not to break. She tried to concentrate on her driving, but every sense, every inch of her skin, was acutely aware of the man at her side. His breathing sounded as loud as a windstorm; the beating of the small blue vein in his wrist set her own blood pounding in matching rhythm. She had had a similar reaction during a single youthful experiment with peyote—a feeling that her nerve endings were raw and exposed, unendurably magnifying the slightest sensation.

  He had his keys ready when they reached the store; she stood back, careful not to brush against him, while he unlocked the door. The telephone was ringing. Meg went to answer it, thankful for a further respite. She had herself under tighter control now, but she still hadn't decided what to say to him.

  Darren's voice rasped along her nerves like a fingernail on a blackboard. "Of course I'm all right," she snapped. "Why shouldn't I be?"

  "You haven't been answering the phone. I was just about to run over there and make sure you were—"

  Meg blurted out a word that cut him short and made Riley give her a curious stare. After a brief silence Darren said, "Are you free for lunch? We need to talk."

  "Yes, we do," Meg said. "We definitely do. I'll meet you at Kate's at. ... Good lord, I had no idea it was so late. How time flies when one is enjoying oneself."

  Riley had turned and was heading toward the shop. His shoulders twitched as if he had been stung on the back of the neck, but he didn't look at Meg.

  "Not Kate's," Darren said. "I'll be out in front in five minutes."

  The door to the shop closed, gently but with an air of finality. Meg hung up. Darren was useful for one thing, at any rate; he was so annoying he took her mind off other things.

  Her skirt was still damp and wrinkled, but there was nothing she could do about that, and, to be honest, nothing she cared to do. When his car pulled up to the curb Meg was waiting; she got in before he could come around to open her door for her, and slammed it as hard as she could. "Cliff came to your office, didn't he? As soon as he left the store."

  "Fasten your seat belt," Darren said.

  "Answer me, dammit! What did Cliff tell you? He was the aggressor, nobody was hurt except Riley."

  Darren brought the car to a gliding stop at a red light. Leaning across Meg, he reached for the seat belt and plugged it in. "Why don't we wait to discuss it until we're comfortably settled down with a drink and a—"

  "Because I'd rather not make a scene in public. I'm going to make one, Darren. Who gave you and Cliff and God-knows-who else the right to run my life? Plotting and scheming, behind my back—goddammit, Darren, I authorized that investigation and I'm paying for it. How dare you presume to edit the information you're getting from your tame private eye? Why didn't you tell me about Riley's injury? It was Vietnam, wasn't it? That's how he got his Purple Heart. And you said they give those things for mosquito bites! Jesus Christ, Darren! Have you seen his scars?"

  She stopped talking only because she had run out of breath. Darren had gone white around the mouth and his hands were clenched on the wheel. "You've just answered your own questions," he said.

  "What are you talking about?"

  Darren put on his turn
signal and swung into a parking lot. "I did know about Riley's war record. It was in the second report I received."

  "Then why didn't you tell me?"

  Cruising slowly along the line of parked cars, Darren found an empty space and pulled into it. He switched off the engine before he turned to Meg. "Because I knew how you'd react. Women always. ..."

  Driven beyond endurance, Meg swung at him. The blow glanced off his chin and hurt her a good deal more than it hurt Darren. She regretted it even before it landed; but before she could apologize, Darren grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her till her head spun. "You see? You see? So he was wounded. So what the hell does that prove? It proves he was dumb enough or unlucky enough to step on a land mine. Period! It doesn't make him a saint or a martyr. Meg—Meg, darling. ..."

  "If you try to kiss me I'll hit you again," Meg said.

  Darren let her go so abruptly the back of her head banged against the window. Meg yelped, and the angry color drained from Darren's face. "Darling, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

  "Oh, shut up," Meg said.

  They sat in mutual, resentful silence for a few moments, facing forward like two dummies in a crash test. Meg's much-tried sense of humor finally struggled back to life. "Darren," she said.

  "What?"

  "Two things. Don't ever say, 'Women always . . .' And don't call me darling. Until further notice you are my lawyer. Lawyers don't call their clients 'darling.' "

  "I'm sorry."

  "You don't sound sorry. You sound sulky. I apologize for slapping you. Now are we going to start again, with you treating me as you would any other client, or do I find a new shyster?"

  Darren rubbed his jaw. "I'll stop calling you darling if you refrain from calling me a shyster."

  "I only did it to annoy you. Well?"

  "Deal." Darren held out his hand. "You may not like the new arrangement," he added, giving her a firm, businesslike shake and immediately releasing his grasp. "I'm going to give it to you straight."