Into The Darkness

by Kathy

  "Where are they now?"

  "Well, I figure they aren't here, or one of 'em would have answered the phone," Annie said wearily. "I'll go look if you want."

  "No. Tell them. . . ." She repeated the story she had given Frances.

  "Then you'll be at your apartment in New York tonight? Mr. George, he'll want to know."

  "Yes, that's right. He has the number. I have to run, Annie, they're calling my train."

  No time for the realtor now. The new idea that had come to her might eliminate the need for that expedient, which had been a last-ditch hope at best, time-consuming and probably unproductive. She needed one more thing, though. She found it at the drugstore, in a rack next to the checkout counter—a local map.

  As she headed back toward the center of town she realized the dark glasses were no longer necessary, except as a disguise. (Some disguise. . . .) Clouds were piling up and the sun was gone. Meg's heart jerked painfully. Early darkness might bring the crisis sooner than she had expected. Unless her stratagem had gained her an extra day. . . . The delay might backfire on her, though. What could he do with an additional twenty-four hours? She put a clamp on her imagination, denying the unthinkable pictures it showed her.

  She turned into the alley behind the store. After her years in New York it looked unreal, cleaner than most Manhattan streets, even with trash cans and dumpsters lining it. Ignoring the "No Parking" signs, she pulled in close to the back door. It had been stupid of her to leave it bolted and chained, she should have known she might want to come and go unseen. At least this way the car was out of sight.

  She hurried through the narrow private parking lot, emerging onto Main Street, and taped the sign she had prepared to the front door. As she started back she thought she heard someone call her name, and she began to run. Jumping into the Escort she gunned the engine and took off. There was no one in sight when she risked a glance behind her.

  With the aid of the map she found the first of the addresses she had copied from the phone book. It was in one of the new subdivisions west of town—a modern split-level, or whatever they were calling the little crackerboxes these days, on a street tightly lined with identical houses. There were no sidewalks, no alleys, no fences—no privacy at all. The small structures stood so close together, a resident could call to a neighbor without even raising his voice. Meg stopped across the street from the Applegate house. Rod wasn't much of a gardener. The hedge was untrimmed, the lawn needed mowing. A short driveway led to an attached garage. Its door was raised and the interior was empty.

  It didn't look promising, but Meg got out of the car and walked boldly to the front door. She didn't ring the bell, but occupied the time that might reasonably have been employed in waiting for a response to a ring in peering through the picture window at the right. Either Candy hadn't come back to her ex, or she was a lousy housekeeper; the living room was a mess, dusty and littered. A pair of crumpled socks rested on the coffee table, together with several stained glasses.

  The first drops of rain spattered on the sidewalk as Meg turned away from the door, but it wasn't fear of getting wet that quickened her steps, nor was it fear of Rod Applegate. It was the dismal little house that was not, and probably never had been, a home—disheveled, neglected, gloomy. No Gothic ruin or abandoned manor house could have conveyed such an air of hopelessness.

  The next address on her list was an apartment house. Candy's tan Ford was in the parking lot. Meg didn't stop. There was only one other Applegate in the book. He, whoever he might be, lived in a trailer park. A sudden downpour, brief as it was heavy, encouraged her to pull to the side of the road and consider her next move. Not to the trailer; she wasn't even sure the owner was related to Rod, and it certainly wasn't a suitable hiding place.

  The rain slackened, but the clouds were thicker and blacker. Like her mood. She lowered her aching head onto her folded arms. I ought to eat something, she thought vaguely. Keep up my strength. I may need it. They all know by now that I'm supposed to be in New York. Will it work? There's an outside chance. But I can't go there yet, it's too early. If I wait too long, it could be too late. . . . Don't think that, don't think of failure. Act. Get something to eat? I'll throw up if I do.

  Barby lived over the beauty shop. It was conveniently close to the store, a handy bolt hole for a hunted man. Kate's apartment was over the restaurant. Ed had a house—and a cheerful friendly wife and dozens of relatives. Mike. . . .

  Meg sat upright, so abruptly that her head snapped back. Why hadn't she thought of it before?

  She drove too fast on rain-slicked roads. The hands of the clock on the dashboard seemed to spin in double-quick time. It was almost five and dark as night, with ever-increasing rain to aid concealment. Mike would be leaving the store in slightly more than half an hour, he'd be home before six. Hurry.

  In the rainy dusk the house no longer looked charming and welcoming; blacker than the darkness, it loomed among the dripping trees. He hadn't left lights burning; normally he would have been home before dark, he must not have expected the storm. As Meg ran for the front porch a cacophony of barking greeted her, and she heard the thud of heavy paws against the door.

  Nice, trusting Mike always left a key under the mat. Not so trusting, perhaps, Meg thought, as the door shook under the impact of a heavy body and the barking rose to a frenzy. It would take a brave burglar to risk such an encounter. She wasn't keen . on it herself. Would the dogs remember her, or did they only admit people who accompanied their owner?

  She flung the door open and stepped aside. If she hadn't taken that precaution she would have been knocked flat; one of the dogs paused to sniff her shoes, but the others swept past her into the yard, howling with delight. Meg didn't stop to close the door. Turning on lights as she went, she hurried through the house.

  Riley wasn't there. But he had been there. She found the evidence in the basement, in the furnace room—a small windowless cubicle hung with cobwebs and littered with mouse droppings. The dust on the floor had been disturbed, and in one corner, near an overturned packing case where a tired man might have sat to rest, was an empty cigarette packet. It was Riley's brand, and the crumpled cellophane was so fresh it crackled when she picked it up.

  On the way back to town she saw Mike hastening home. She recognized his truck, even though, contrary to his usual custom, the cap was on the bed of the truck. Though there were no other vehicles on the narrow back road, he paid no attention to hers, and Meg congratulated herself for having replaced the Ferrari. It was too early to know whether her other brilliant ideas would pay off—or whether she had overlooked some vital point that would bring everything crashing down in failure.

  The trees writhed in the grip of the wind. A sudden violent gust rocked the little car. Meg raised her foot from the gas. The storm was gathering force. Surely it couldn't be a hurricane; it was the wrong time of year and there had been no warnings. Just a bad storm. Bad enough to keep people at home, off the streets.

  Main Street was indeed deserted. Kate's Kafe was the only business establishment on the block that was still open. Its carved wooden sign swung back and forth, and the fringed awning flapped violently. At least there was no problem parking. Meg stopped across the street from the jewelry store.

  In the glow of the streetlight she could see the white square of her note fastened to the door. Someone had been there since she left it. The show window was illumined and the night-lights had been turned on. Yes, of course, Meg thought; he knew that any deviation from the normal routine might attract attention. Dan had paid for, and received, excellent service from the Seldon police force. They checked the store several times during the night. She doubted they would be as alert tonight, though. The bad weather would produce traffic accidents and other emergencies to keep them busy.

  From where she sat she could see the small parking lot next to the store. Riley's pickup was still there; it was the only vehicle in the lot. Cars passed along the street, their headlights blazing through the dark
, their tires hissing on the wet pavement. A pedestrian hurried by, looking like an animated mushroom under the black hemisphere of his umbrella. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her, but when she reached for the door handle she found she couldn't make herself get out of the car. The idea of crossing the patch of light from the street lamp, in full view of a hidden watcher, made her cringe. She'd have to turn her back on the street in order to unlock the door, which was enclosed on three sides—a nice dark private niche, made for muggers.

  Was there something else she should have done—some other precaution she might have taken, might still take—before she nerved herself to act? The lights from the cafe, down the street, beckoned like an invitation to an oasis of warmth and safety. The telephone booth on the corner offered another excuse for delay. She could call Nick, tell him what she intended to do, warn him of the package that would arrive on his desk the following day. But she had already considered that option and rejected it, knowing what his reaction would be. Poor paranoid Meg, she's been under a strain, no wonder she's finally flipped. By the time he got the ring and her explanatory note it would be too late for him to remonstrate, soothe or interfere—and if the worst did happen, if all her plans failed, the news of her death or disappearance would substantiate her story.

  That she should have chosen Nick as the recipient was not a sign of renewed trust, but rather of an almost shameful indifference. None of her friends could be asked to bear such a burden; if it didn't place them in actual, physical danger, it would certainly cause them enormous distress and difficulty. Nick would be distressed if something happened to her, but the wound would not be mortal. He was powerful enough to protect himself and important enough to force the authorities to take action. Anyway, it was the best she could do, and with any luck—please, God; please, Dan—it would be unnecessary.

  She had done all she could to protect Gran and the others. The best she could do for them was stay far away from them, make it clear she had not communicated directly with them.

  She couldn't think of anything else. She was almost past thinking or hoping or praying—certainly past praying. The Lord helps those that help themselves, and Dan didn't seem to be in the mood to help anyone. Damn him, she thought. This is all his fault. He got me into this and then deserted me.

  When she reached again for the handle the same illogical reluctance stopped her—only this time she realized why she was hesitating. Cursing her stupidity, she returned her hand to the wheel and took her foot off the brake. She had been about to neglect the most obvious precaution of all. Even exhaustion was no excuse.

  The alley was well lit by fixtures on the walls of the stores and offices that backed onto it. Dan had mounted no less than three, so that if one bulb burned out there would be ample backups. Meg's foot barely tapped the gas; the car crawled along, sometimes stopping and turning, so that the headlights could illumine dark corners and spaces behind dumpsters. A small dark shape scuttled between the trash cans, its eyes reflecting the headlights in an unnerving flash of red. That was the only sign of life; the only vehicles in sight were small delivery vans, one behind the florist shop, the other belonging to the cleaners at the end of the alley.

  After traversing the entire length of the alley Meg returned to the back of the store and parked. This time she got out without hesitating, her keys in her hand. It was worth a try, at any rate. Surely he had come—and gone—by the back door, and there was no way he could fasten the bars and chains from outside.

  The old familiar symptoms of panic thickened her throat and made her damp fingers fumble with the keys, but this time she flung them away as she would have kicked off heavy shoes to keep herself afloat in deep water, obeying an instinctive, primitive need that overpowered every other sensation. By the time she inserted the second key her hands were dead steady, and she moved with the speed and assurance of a trained burglar. When she turned the knob the silence remained unbroken. He had not reset the alarm. Her mind noted this and assessed its meaning even as her body reacted with unconscious agility, slipping through the opening, reaching for the light switch and closing the door, in smooth successive motions.

  She had time to die twice over while the overhead fluorescents flickered into brightness. Not until she was certain there was no one waiting for her did she shoot the bolt on the back door, but sick disappointment warred with relief. She had been so sure he would take the bait, it had seemed eminently logical that he would. . . . And he had been here. The signs of his presence were clear, not only in the unbarred door, but in the overturned chair and spilled coffee. . . .

  Not coffee. The stains were too dark, too thick.

  Meg knocked over another chair in her mad rush for the washroom. That door could only be locked from the inside. The knob turned freely in her hand.

  His feet had been pressed against the door. When she opened it they slid out, causing her to stumble. The room was so small his body was squeezed in between the sink and the toilet, half-sitting, half-lying. His hands were behind him; she assumed that, like his ankles, his wrists were bound. The pad of cloth covering the lower half of his face was stained with red, and his eyes were closed.

  The blood was fresh; a thin trickle still flowed from his nose. Dead men don't bleed. A thriller title if there ever was one. . . . Meg tried to squeeze past his long legs, but there wasn't room; she had to lower the toilet seat and lie across it in order to reach him, and part of her mind roared with slightly hysterical laughter at the absurdity of the position.

  "Riley!" His head rolled to one side when her fingers tore at the gag. The bruises on his face were hours old; dried blood from the gash on his temple had traced bizarre dark brown patterns across the swollen flesh. The bandage was gone, torn off, accidentally or deliberately, during the day. "Riley—talk to me! Say something, damn it!"

  One eye appeared to be swollen shut. The other one opened, focused and brightened. He contemplated her for a moment with vague satisfaction. "Meg. Mignot. . . . Little Mignon."

  Dan's pet word for her. Riley's voice was harsh with dryness, his bruised mouth had trouble shaping the word, but it sounded sweeter than any music she had ever heard. She grabbed his shirt in both fists. "Stand up. Hurry!"

  "Mignon. . . . What a way to go." His eye closed. The distortion of his mouth was an attempt at a smile. "They say you see a bright white light. This is ... better. Kiss me?"

  She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream with relief and terror. "I can't. . . ."

  She could, though. Despite the fact that she was sick with fear and knew that every second counted, her lips found his torn mouth, and he met them with a hard thrust that denied pain and weakness, with the urgency of a man dying of thirst who has found water at last. For a timeless moment she forgot everything but the fulfillment of her own need, too long denied and unrecognized; and it was Riley who finally broke away, his one functional eye widening in horrified awareness.

  "Jesus," he gasped. "My God—it really is you. I thought I was. . . . Get the hell out of here! You don't—"

  Meg took his face in her hands. "I've been going crazy all day looking for you, Riley. We go together or neither of us goes."

  "You don't understand," Riley croaked. "This is what he wants—he set this up. The two of us together—"

  "I know. Stop talking and move, for God's sake." He was trying to move, but so feebly that she exclaimed in renewed alarm, "What's wrong? How badly are you hurt?"

  Riley subsided with a grunt, his head against the toilet tank. Sweat streaked his face, blurring blood and bruises into an unholy mask. "I'm not hurt. Not much. I'm drunk."

  "What?" Meg stared at him.

  "Drunk," Riley repeated firmly. "He's been pouring bourbon into me off and on all day. Can't you smell it? Quite a bit got spilled."

  "Now that you mention it. . . ." Meg wrinkled her nose. "I must have been too preoccupied to notice before. That was smart of him. Drugs leave traces in the bloodstream, but you were seen drinking
last night. . . . Riley, I don't give a damn whether you're drunk or sick or dead, you've got to stand up! We've got to get away from here. Wait a minute—I'll cut the ropes on your ankles, that will make it easier."

  "No, it won't. He took my leg brace, too. I don't think I can. . . . Meg, please. Go for help."

  Meg slid off the toilet seat and went to the workbench. "Can't risk it. He has another option, and I'm sure it's occurred to him." She selected a knife and went back to him. "He thought of everything, didn't he? Padded the ropes so they wouldn't leave marks. There—that does it. Come on, Riley. I swear to God if you don't help me I'll grab you by the ankles and pull you out."

  His first effort to get his feet under him made him slip sideways and brought his head into painful contact with the washbasin. "I'm sorry," he gasped. "If I could use my hands—"

  "Oh, shut up, Riley. I admire a man who can say he's sorry, but you're carrying it too far." She forced his knees up and braced herself against them, twisting her hands in his shirtfront. "Try it again."

  "I was in love with you before I even met you." Riley squeezed the words out between grunts of pain and effort. "Dan talked about you all the time. I knew I didn't have a chance, you were young and beautiful and loaded—with money, I mean— ouch!"

  "You are drunk," Meg said critically.

  "And hung over. I don't think I've ever felt worse in my life. And then when I saw you, at the church, and you looked just the way I felt—angry, not resigned—ready to fight the whole damned world—oh, Jesus, Meg, that hurts. Give me a minute—"

  "We don't have a minute. Push against the wall."