Dark on the Other Side (14 page)

“She’s gone,” he said.

Michael nodded. He had realized that nothing less than
catastrophe would have brought Randolph here in this condition. He felt
profound pity for the tragic figure that stood dripping on his rug; but
a less noble emotion prompted his comment.

“Why here?” he demanded.

“I went to Andrea’s place first. Nobody was there. I
searched the house.”

“You searched—”

“Briggs is checking the hotels. Private detectives. But I
thought maybe—”

Michael took a deep breath.

“Give me your coat,” he said. “You’re soaking wet. I’ll
get you a drink.”

“Thanks. I don’t want a drink.”

“Well, I do.”

Ordinarily the relief of movement would have given him
time to collect his thoughts, but fumbling around in the dark kitchen
was only another irritant. When he came back into the living room,
carrying two glasses, Randolph was standing in the same position,
staring fixedly at the bedroom door. Michael thrust a glass into his
hand.

“Now,” he said, “you can tell me why you think your wife
might have come here. And make it good.”

For a second he thought Randolph was going to swing at
him. Then the taut arm relaxed, and Randolph’s pale face twitched into
a smile.

“All right,” he said. “I had that coming to me. Get this
straight, Mike. There is not in my mind the slightest shred of doubt
about you and your intentions toward Linda. This is a pattern.”

“You mean—this has happened before?”

Even from the little he knew, Michael should not have
been surprised. He was. He was also, though he could not have said why,
repelled.

“Twice before. Both friends of mine. It isn’t you, you
know.” Randolph glanced at Michael and added hastily, “Damn it, I seem
to be saying all the wrong things. You, and the others, are symbols of
something, God only knows what; if I knew, I’d be a lot closer
understanding what is wrong with her. I’m grateful that you’re the kind
of man you are. You wouldn’t take advantage of her sickness.”

“Not in the sense you mean, no. I have several
old-fashioned prejudices,” Michael said wryly. “Well, you can see for
yourself that she isn’t here. What precisely do you want me to do?”

The lamp chose that moment to give a longer, more ominous
flicker. It was symptomatic of the state of Randolph’s nerves that he
jumped like a nervous rabbit.

“The bulb’s about to go,” Michael said.

“Not the bulb, that reading lamp flickered too. I hope
we’re not in for another of those city-wide power failures.”

Randolph’s face was white. Michael thought he understood
the reason for the man’s terror. The thought of Linda, lost and
confused, wandering the blacked-out streets, disturbed him too.

“If she should show up, I’ll call you at once. Where?”

Randolph shook his head.

“I’ll be on the move. And she’s wary and suspicious. If
she overheard you speaking to me, she’d run. You couldn’t detain her
unless you—”

“Uh-huh.” He didn’t have to be specific; Michael could
see the picture—the struggle, the screams, the neighbors, the
cops…“Anice mess that would be,” he muttered. “Then what the hell do
you want me to do?”

“The ideal thing, of course, would be to get her to see a
doctor.”

The prompt reply dispelled any lingering doubts Michael
may have had. Though why he should have had any, he didn’t know.

“Ideal but difficult, if she’s as suspicious as you say.”

“She’s suspicious of me,” Gordon said. “That’s why she
rejects every doctor I suggest. From you she might accept it.”

“Well, I could try,” Michael said dubiously. “Be sure to
let me know, will you, when you find her.”

“Of course.”

He seemed to have nothing more to say; yet, despite his
concern, he was in no hurry to leave. He stood, holding the glass he
had not even sipped, his head cocked as if he were listening for
something. My God, Michael thought incredulously; he does expect her.
At any second. Does he walk through life that way, listening for her
footsteps?

“Well,” he said again, “I’ll do as you suggest—if she
does show up, which I don’t believe she will. And if I do get a chance
to telephone, you’ll be…?”

“I’ve an apartment in town,” Randolph said vaguely.
“Maybe you could leave a message.”

He put his glass down on the desk; and then, with the
suddenness of a thunderclap, without even the usual preliminary flicker
of warning, every light in the apartment went out.

The effect was frightening, disorienting. There was a
faint glow from the window—so the blackout was not city-wide—but in the
first moment of shock Michael didn’t see that, and neither, obviously,
did Randolph. Michael heard his voice, but he recognized it only
because it was not his own. The sound was something between a scream
and a sob, and it raised the hairs on the back of Michael’s neck.
Before he could move or speak, Randolph had blundered toward the door.
Michael heard the sound of the door being flung open, and the rush of a
body out onto the landing and down the stairs. He moved then, trying to
shout a warning; the old, worn steps were treacherous enough in the
light, he could visualize Gordon sprawled at the bottom with a broken
neck. The anticipated slither and crash never came. The sounds of
frantic movement diminished, and ended in the slam of the front door.

Then, in the ringing silence that followed, Michael saw
the glow of the street lights through the window. He let out his breath
with an explosive sigh. Once Randolph got outside, he would realize
that his worst fear was unfounded. The man’s nerves were in a shocking
state. Not surprising; it was bad enough to worry about what might be
happening to your wife, adrift in every sense in a blacked-out city;
worse to worry about what she might be doing to others.

The lights chose that moment to restore themselves, and
Michael blinked and cursed them absentmindedly. He had just had another
thought, no more reassuring than the others he had been thinking. Linda
had tried once to commit murder. Gordon spoke of a pattern. She had run
away before; and what, Michael wondered, had she done on those other
occasions? Michael had no illusions about one thing. Gordon might be
the most altruistic of men, but on one subject he was beyond ethics. He
would protect his wife at any cost—even if the cost were another life.

It was not a cheerful thought, especially if he accepted
Gordon’s assumption that he himself was Linda’s next quarry. Michael
shivered. There was a chill draft from the door, which Gordon had left
open. He turned; and saw Linda staring at him from the doorway.

Her face was alarmingly like the one he had pictured in
his latest fantasy—white and drawn, with eyes dilated to blackness. The
only thing missing was the knife he had placed in the imaginary woman’s
hand.

For a moment they stood frozen, staring at one another.
Then Michael got a grip on himself.

“You sure are wet,” he said conversationally. “You’d
better come in and dry off before you catch pneumonia.”

One small, soaked shoe slid slyly back a few inches, as
if bracing itself for a sudden movement. Michael didn’t stir.

“He was here,” she said. “Looking for me.”

“Yes.”

How long had she been standing out there in the hall? She
must have come up after Gordon arrived, but before he left; that blind
rush of his would have knocked her flat if she had been on the stairs,
and there hadn’t been time for her to climb them afterward. So she had
been outside the door when Gordon fled, concealed by his agitation and
the coincidental darkness.

“You didn’t tell him I was here?” she persisted.

“How could I? You weren’t here.”

She nodded.

“Are you going to call him now?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then I won’t.”

The conversation was unreal. Michael couldn’t remember
what it reminded him of—Lewis Carroll, something existentialist? No. It
was of a conversation he had had with the four-year-old son of a
friend, some weeks earlier. The directness, the repetition of the
obvious…Carefully he took a step, not toward the pitiable, shivering
figure in the doorway, but back, away from her.

“You might as well come in and dry off,” he said. “I’ll
make some coffee. Something hot.”

“If I ran you could chase me,” she said.

“Through all this rain?” He smiled. “I’m too lazy.”

Her foot moved uncertainly. It took a step; then another
and another. Michael let his breath out slowly. She was in. Safe. Now
why did that word come into his mind?

IV

Linda knew she wasn’t safe, not even there, where she had
wanted to come. But there was nowhere else to go.

She stood and sat and moved like an obedient child, while
Michael helped her off with her coat and took off her wet shoes and
dried her feet on something that looked suspiciously like a shirt. He
made coffee; his movements in the dark kitchen were interspersed with
bumps and crashes and repressed exclamations. She could hear every move
he made. In a place this small, he wouldn’t have a telephone extension
in the kitchen, surely. The phone in the living room was on the table
that served as his desk. She could see it from where she was sitting,
and she watched it as if it were alive, a black, coiled shape that
might spring into sudden, serpentine threat.

When he came back, carrying two cups, he was limping
slightly.

“I keep stubbing my toe,” he said with an apologetic
grin, as she looked at his stockinged feet.

“Why don’t you turn on the light? Or wear shoes?”

Michael looked surprised. It was an endearing expression;
Linda wished she could simply enjoy it, instead of wondering what lay
behind it. Probably he was surprised that she could frame a sensible
question.

“I’m sort of a slob,” Michael admitted, handing her one
of the cups. “See, no saucers. No shoes. They’re around here
somewhere…. The place is a mess. I should be ashamed, entertaining
guests in a hole like this.”

“You weren’t expecting company,” she said drily. The heat
of the cup, between her hands, began to seep through her whole body.
Even her mind felt clearer.

“No,” he said; and then, as if anxious to change the
subject, “How long has it been since you’ve eaten? What about a
sandwich? Or some soup? That’s about the extent of my talents as a
cook.”

“It sounds good.”

“I’ll see what I’ve got on hand.”

Another period of bumping and crashing in the kitchen
followed. Linda sat back, closing her eyes, and then straightened up
again. The warmth and the illusion of refuge were dangerous. She
mustn’t give in to them. From now on she had to be on the alert every
second. There was still a chance, slim but worth trying, because it was
the only chance. But if he failed her, she must be ready to act,
instantly. In self-defense.

There was a louder crash from the kitchen. Michael’s
comment had a different tone, as if he were addressing another person
instead of swearing to himself. Linda started, the empty cup wavering
in her hands. Then Michael reappeared, carrying a plate. At his heels
was another figure. Linda stared at it in comprehension and relief.

“Hope we didn’t startle you,” Michael said guilelessly.
“He always comes in through the window, and through anything else that
may be in his way. He just broke my last decent glass.”

The cat, a monstrous, ugly animal, sat down, so abruptly
that Michael tripped over it and nearly dropped the plate.

“Here,” he said. “Take it quick, before he gets it. I was
out of bread. I’m afraid the eggs got a little burned….”

There were two fried eggs on the plate. The yolks wobbed
weakly, but there was a half-inch rim of brown around the whites. For
the first time in weeks Linda felt like laughing.

“They look lovely,” she said, and glanced nervously at
the cat, who was eyeing the plate with avid interest.

“His name is Napoleon,” Michael said. “He hates people.
But I’ve never known him to actually attack anyone.”

“You don’t sound as if you like him very much.”

“We loathe each other.”

“Then why do you keep him as a pet?”

“Pet? Keep?
Me
keep
him?
”

“I see what you mean.”

She finished the eggs. They tasted terrible, but she
needed the energy, in case…Lunch. Had she eaten any? Napoleon began to
make a noise like a rusty buzz saw, and she looked at him
apprehensively.

“I don’t know what it means,” Michael said gloomily. “He
isn’t purring, that’s for sure. But he does it to me, so don’t take it
personally.”

“I won’t. Michael—”

“Wait,” he said quickly. “We’ll talk. We’ll talk all you
like. But not just yet, not until you’re comfortable and dry. I won’t
call Gordon, not unless you tell me to. That’s a promise.”

“I believe you.”

“Thank you.” His eyes shifted. “Oh, hell, I forgot. I’m
expecting someone to drop in this evening—an old friend of mine. Shall
I call and try to put him off?”

“Maybe that would be better,” Linda said slowly.

“All right. It may be too late, but I’ll see what I can
do. In the meantime, your clothes are wet and you look like a drowned
rabbit. The bathroom is through there. See if you can find my bathrobe
someplace. It’s in the bedroom—on the floor, probably.”

He was smiling at her, his eyes as candid as a child’s.
Linda wished desperately that she could trust him. But she didn’t dare
trust anyone. The risks were too great.

“Thank you,” she said. She stood up. She reached for her
purse. “I won’t be long,” she said.

Michael followed her into the bedroom, switching on the
light. Like the living room, it was big and high-ceilinged.
Automatically Linda’s eyes assessed the exits. One big window. No
window in the bathroom, which looked as if it might have started life
as a closet when the building had stood in its newly constructed
elegance. An enormous carved wardrobe now served the functions of a
closet. There were two doors, one into the living room and one into the
bathroom. All the furniture, including the wardrobe, was battered and
nondescript. Interior decoration was clearly not one of Michael’s
interests. Every inch of wall space, except that which was occupied by
the wardrobe and the doors and windows, was covered with bookcases;
even the bed had been moved out into the middle of the floor to allow
more space for books. The bed was not made.