Beyond the Shadow of Night

by Ray Kingfisher

  “You’re right,” Asher said.

  Mykhail frowned as he swallowed. “About what?” he said.

  “It is boring.”

  Both men stared, stony-faced, at each other for a few seconds.

  Then they burst out laughing.

  “I think it’s a shame,” Asher said as their laughter subsided.

  “You surprising the hell out of me?”

  “No. It’s a shame when a marriage . . . I mean . . .” Asher shook his head.

  “No, go on. What is it?”

  “Well, if it’s not too personal a question . . . what the hell happened?”

  Mykhail shrugged. “I guess we just grew apart.”

  “I hear that a lot. What does it mean?”

  “It’s no big deal,” Mykhail said, then waited, as though that was a complete answer. But Asher just stared, so he continued. “We started out okay. We were happy for a few years. Then in time we wanted different things, so we started to live different lives. She had her circle of friends and I had mine, and after a while there was nothing between us, so I guess we . . . we stopped caring about each other.”

  Asher nodded slowly. “I see.”

  “Good, because it’s the best explanation you’re gonna get. Anyhow, in the end it was quite amicable. Like I say, it’s no big deal.”

  They drank their coffees, and the conversation turned to which sports they followed, what vacations they’d had, and what their dream cars over the years had been. Mykhail did most of the talking for all of those.

  Eventually, Asher checked his watch and drew a sharp breath. “Look, my bus is due to leave in forty minutes. Are you absolutely sure I can stay here?”

  “I said so, didn’t I? And we’ve still got lots of catching up to do.”

  “Well, thank you again,” Asher said with a hint of a gracious bow. “You’re really being so hospitable.”

  “Ah, it’s nothing. You’re an old buddy.”

  “You know, Mykhail, I’m so glad I came across you again.”

  “Me too.”

  “And isn’t it good we can talk like this, about our love lives, when we’ve just met up again?”

  “What else would you expect?” Mykhail said. “We’re brothers in all but blood.”

  Chapter 28

  Pittsburgh, August 2001

  Diane had just spent her second day listening to Asher. He’d told her about the horrible events both he and her father had experienced during the wartime years, and everything she didn’t know leading up to the time they’d met again in 1997.

  “I know that part,” Diane snapped when he started to detail the events of that year. “The newspaper photo. The charges.”

  “That’s right. Except by then he’d changed his name to Michael Peterson.”

  “Right.”

  “I guess he didn’t tell you about his days at Treblinka?”

  Diane had nothing to say to that question. The news—or at least, Asher’s allegation—that her father had helped run the gas chambers at Treblinka had left her numb. She was so numb that Asher’s retelling of how he’d tracked down her father in 1997 washed over her like an ambient breeze, and at no time did it occur to her to interrupt him or ask questions or even argue the case for her father’s innocence; he had, after all, not been charged after being investigated back then.

  Equally, when she and Asher were interrupted and told that the day’s session would have to end, she could only nod in silent acceptance.

  “Diane,” Asher said as he stood up to leave, “you have no idea how sorry I am that you had to hear all of that. I hope you understand the reasons for your father’s actions.”

  Still Diane said nothing.

  “Tomorrow I’ll tell you exactly what happened between myself and your father earlier this year—how we fell out.”

  Asher waited, looking down at Diane’s forlorn figure sitting at the table, until a guard led him away. Diane stayed there a while longer, still trying to come to terms with what she’d just heard, until another guard suggested she leave.

  “Of course,” she said, then silently walked out of the building.

  She called Brad to pick her up and waited in the cool air of the parking lot, her mind burning with thoughts.

  Now she had a good idea what they’d fallen out over, and perhaps why Asher had killed her father. It was the information she’d wanted, but a part of her wished she’d settled for a benign ignorance.

  As she waited, her thoughts started to brew. It occurred to her that Asher had made a serious allegation with no evidence whatsoever. Yes, he’d told her what had happened, but was it the truth? How could she be sure he wasn’t making it all up?

  She was still cursing him when Brad arrived to pick her up. He leaned over to open the door, and she jumped in. He drove off. He talked on the way, but Diane only heard discrete, disconnected words; no meaning registered with her. No, she was too preoccupied with turning Asher’s story over in her head, gently folding those thoughts over and over, perhaps accepting that he might be right about her father. But even if she accepted Asher’s version of the truth, there was something else troubling her: regardless of his confession, Asher still didn’t seem the murdering type.

  They were both back home—Brad’s home—before she realized she hadn’t uttered more than a few syllables to him since he’d picked her up. And, being Brad, he hadn’t asked for any more than that.

  But in the quiet of the living room she felt compelled to say something, to get those spiraling thoughts out of her head before they took control and twisted her mind in knots.

  “Brad?”

  “What?”

  “I . . . uh . . . could I get a drink please?”

  “Sure.”

  “Just a soda please.”

  “Of course.”

  They settled on the couch—he at one end, she at the other.

  “I don’t know how to explain this,” she said. “It’s too . . .” She took a nervous sip.

  “Just . . . say it as it comes.” He waited, but it didn’t come. “Or just leave it, tell me when you feel—”

  “No,” she said. “I have to talk. I won’t be able to rest until I do.”

  “Okay. So, did you find out why he killed your father?”

  “Not exactly, but I’ve got a good idea. I’m going in again tomorrow.”

  “Seriously?”

  “It’s definitely the last time.”

  “If he didn’t tell you why he killed your father, what did he say?”

  Diane’s eyes were stark and resolute. “He told me some things about my father I found hard to believe.”

  Brad waited for thirty seconds, not speaking or even daring to drink for fear of missing something. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “I get that certain things have to remain private or secret. He was your father, and you were the one who needed to know, not me.”

  “Part of me needs to tell you, but I guess it’s still sinking in and I’m figuring out a way to understand it all. You really wouldn’t mind if I didn’t tell you?”

  He put down his glass and took a few seconds to get himself comfortable, which told Diane it would be one of his longer, speech-like talks. She usually liked them; he was good with words. But just lately, nothing was good.

  “Diane, you know how I feel about you. You’ve stayed over at my place since this whole ugly thing blew up, and I’ve loved every minute, despite the circumstances. It’s the longest period we’ve been together, apart from vacations, although I’ve been dating you since 1995.”

  “Six years. I know.”

  “The six best years of my life. After three years I asked you to move in with me permanently. You said the time wasn’t right, so I waited and asked you again a couple times. And I remember the millennium celebrations, when I took you and your father and Asher to that big party at that swanky French restaurant, when I—”

  “Don’t, Brad. I can promise you I remember it better than you do. You asked me to marry you
and I turned you down. I remember it because it made me cry for all the wrong reasons.”

  “Point is, that was when I stopped asking you to move in with me. I could say it’s been a real hard twenty months since then, but it hasn’t; it’s been just great. I’ve known you for fifteen years in all and I like to think I know what makes you tick. But, you know, after all that time I still don’t understand the mystical hold your father had on you. Now, he’s gone, and I can see it must be terrible for you, but if that means I can start asking you that question again with some purpose, why should I care if you prefer not to tell me why Asher pulled that trigger?”

  “That’s kind of the problem.”

  Brad thought for a moment. “I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Well, just like you think you know me, I’ve known Asher for a few years. We had days out together—the three of us—and Asher stayed over with us a lot. On one or two occasions, when I was alone with him, he used to tell me about a few incidents from his past. He had some hard times after getting laid off. He didn’t go into detail, but I could make a good guess, and I got to know what makes him tick. I think I have a feel for how he reacts. And this week, when he opened up and told me his life story, I learned even more, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “Well, a part of me finds it hard to believe he did pull that trigger.”

  “Excuse me?” Brad’s face went rigid, his nostrils twitching with suppressed anger.

  “I know the guy. I know it sounds illogical, but I have serious doubts.”

  “But you told me they have a confession?”

  “They do. And the evidence. His blood on the glass door panel that was smashed to break in. His blood and Father’s blood all over the grip of the pistol found in the backyard. Paint on his shoe. And they have eyewitnesses.”

  “Well, isn’t that everything apart from a motive?”

  “It’s all so straightforward, but then again, it isn’t. There were one or two things Asher told me that don’t add up.”

  “Such as what?”

  “Well, in his younger days he shot a few Nazis.”

  “Jeez. Really?”

  Diane shrugged. “It was the war. I guess it was a way of life.”

  “Well . . . yeah, I guess so.”

  “But he said he hated it—that he never got used to the idea that ending any life was acceptable, even the enemy’s. And he really doted on Father, thought of him as his brother. I find it hard to accept he’d kill anyone, but kill Father?” She shook her head dolefully.

  “Unless he’s lying to you about that. Unless he really got a kick out of killing Nazis. Most people would.”

  “Why would he lie to me about how he found it difficult to kill? Why would he even do that?”

  “He might think saying he enjoyed killing would make him sound like a monster.”

  “But why would he try to make himself appear empathetic and some kind of pacifist, but at the same time take himself to a cop station and confess to murder? If he’d just got on the bus home to Detroit that night, he might easily have gotten away with it. You do realize that, don’t you?”

  Brad didn’t reply, just thought.

  “Surely you can see that something here doesn’t make sense?”

  “I can. And I can see this whole thing is tearing you up. You haven’t slept properly for days.”

  Diane felt her eyes grow weary at the observation, almost self-fulfilling.

  “Why not give it a break? You should try to get back to your normal routine just a little bit. Why not relax and let me cook?”

  She let out a long sigh. “Sure. Thanks. Perhaps I could do with a little normal right now.”

  Brad cooked pasta, while Diane showered off the smell of the jail. They ate listening to Easy Hits FM, then tried to watch a movie, but had to admit defeat when Diane couldn’t keep her eyes open.

  “Been a hard few days for you,” Brad said as he turned the bedroom light out a few minutes later.

  Diane didn’t reply, just lay back on the bed and closed her eyes to the mess of the world outside. She felt her shoulder being stroked, and moved across, letting his arm encase her shoulders, her head resting on his chest, her hand absentmindedly caressing his belly.

  Then she burst into tears, not really knowing why because she hadn’t cried once over this whole damn affair. But today she’d learned more about her father’s life than ever before.

  Brad understood—Brad always understood—and so the bedside lamp stayed off, his mouth stayed shut, and a box of Kleenex appeared in front of her. Most importantly, his arm was still around her shoulders.

  A good few minutes of wiping and sniffing later, it was Diane who spoke.

  “Have you heard that quote from the Bible?” she said. “The one about the sins of the father being passed down the generations.”

  “It’s bullshit,” he said, the profanity rare for him. “And whatever your father did, whatever it was that provoked Asher to kill him—”

  “If he did kill him,” Diane said as Brad paused for breath.

  “As you wish, if he did. But whatever sins or crimes your father committed, I don’t care. They were his. Not yours.”

  “Not that simple.”

  “How so?”

  “After talking to Asher today, I understand a lot more now about Father. And Mother. How it affected me.”

  “You mean, like, the breakup?”

  Diane didn’t reply, prompting Brad to ask if she was upset again.

  “I’m good,” she said. “But thanks for asking.”

  “I guess you’re right. It can never be that simple. If you’re not ready to tell me about what happened to your father in the war, can you tell me about your parents’ split? Don’t think you have to, but . . .”

  “You know, I think I should.”

  Diane put the bedside lamp on and eased herself up to sit cross-legged on her side of the bed. Brad turned to face her. He went to speak, but she shushed him. “Just listen,” she said.

  She waited, gathering her thoughts before speaking again.

  “I didn’t realize what was going on at the time. I guess a lot of kids don’t. And although I was sixteen, a kid is exactly what I was; I just didn’t realize it. Just like our neighbors I’d heard the arguments, but when it came to a head it was such a shock, I’m surprised my hair didn’t turn white. I went to stay with Mother, and she told me all about it. She said it happened gradually over about ten years, so gradually that it was hard for her to see, let alone control. Every argument they had she ended up giving in just a little more. He wanted to know exactly where she was going and when and who else would be there. He wanted to know the names and details of every man she worked with. But she had good friends, and in time she fought back. In the end she got stronger, and neither of them would give in. I remember Father packing me off to summer camp, and when I returned Mother was gone.”

  “But . . . wasn’t that a good thing? Protecting you from the fallout?”

  Diane shook her head. “I only found out later what had happened. She wanted to go out to the movies with a coworker, and he wouldn’t let her. She told him to go to hell, that she was going out whether he liked it or not. And when she came back he locked her in the house for three days.”

  Brad stared open-mouthed at her.

  “Yeah,” Diane said. “I would have been a bit inconvenient in the middle of that.”

  Brad shaped his mouth to speak, but it took some time for any words to come. “I’m confused. I knew your father for a long time—at least, I thought I did. He never seemed like that.”

  “That all happened a long time ago. And he’s good at pretending.”

  “But . . . I mean, no disrespect to your mother, but these things have a habit of being exaggerated. I mean, locking her in the house? Really?”

  “I was there a few weeks later when the cops came and cautioned him about it.”

  Brad nodded. “I’m sorry. Jeez. So why the hell did
you stay with him? Why didn’t you stay with your mother?”

  “I tried. God, I tried. After the split I went to stay with Mother but promised Father I’d come stay with him, and when I did he . . .”

  “What, Diane? What is it?”

  “He said he couldn’t live alone, that everyone else had left him, and if I did, he’d . . .”

  “What?”

  “He’d . . . shoot himself.”

  “God. That makes it worse, not better. Another reason to move out.”

  “I was sixteen when he said that, Brad. Sixteen. And, hell, I loved my father. Whatever else happened he was a good father to me and I didn’t want to lose him. I told myself he’d get over it in time, promised myself I’d move out before I was twenty. But a few more years passed by. He made it easy to stay and I enjoyed life. Then, somehow, I was almost hitting thirty and the time to act had passed me by, although I tried a couple times and suffered for it. And when all’s said and done, I had a good time there. We enjoyed each other’s company, watched the same TV shows, and he never stopped me having friends and going out. It just seemed an unwritten agreement that I’d never leave him.”

  “I’m shocked,” Brad replied. “I don’t mind admitting it, but I guess I come from a . . .”

  “Normal family?”

  “Hey. Don’t say that.”

  “It’s okay,” Diane said. “Don’t be so polite.” She leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. “And thank you,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “Asking me to move in permanently. But I need a little more time.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just a little. Now let’s get some sleep.” She turned the light out and they settled side by side.

  “I’ll try,” Brad said. “But sleeping after what I’ve just heard isn’t going to be easy.”