Even In Darkness--An American Murder Mystery Thriller (30 page)

The inhuman quality comes into his eyes. ‘Long dead.'

‘And I'm really your sister.'

‘That you are.'

And so we face each other, in the darkness, on top of that beautiful and terrible bridge. We stand, I dust off my jeans.

‘I still kind of taking this all in,' I say.

‘I guess I've given you a lot to think about. I appreciate you coming up here. I just want you to understand you're safe from me. So.' He shrugs. ‘Bye, sis.'

Harvey sounds so nonchalant and uncaring. But I feel his yearning crackle in the air.

‘Goodbye then.'

Can I do this? He starts to turn away, but I open my arms. I give my brother a hug.

We are careful with it. It does not last long. He is sweating or crying. In the dark, I cannot tell.

‘Start fresh,' I tell him.

‘I'll try.'

I listen to his footsteps as he walks away, as if I can determine his future by the cadence of his step.

T
he next morning, I oversleep.

It was no easy thing, coming down off that mountain. I felt numb, and cold, and strange. Flashlights can only do so much on a steep mountain trail in the dark. There were times I did not think I would make it back.

Still, I had the advantage of experience. I had inched my way down that trail in the dark fourteen years before.

And this time, of course, I had Leo, using his magnificent nose to find the way. And just as I had fourteen years before, I covered the steepest parts of the trail on my backside, sliding down the rocky path after my dog, who returned to nose me often, intrigued to have my face on a level with his.

I am sleeping, tangled in blankets, when my front door buzzer rings. I stumble out of the bedroom in a tee shirt and sweat pants. Hal is on my doorstep, well worn overnight bag in one hand. He kisses my cheek and I am flustered by how I look – hair wild, eyes groggy with sleep. Hal is freshly showered, in a vanilla bean sweater and olive cargo pants. Cindy Lou is nosing the rosebush and the 4Runner is parked in my drive.

‘Am I early?' he asks.

‘I could be late.'

I open the door and Cindy Lou rushes in. Leo yelps and leaps and the two of them begin the intrusive sniffing that I prefer not to watch.

I haven't had time to guest-proof the house, and Leo's toys are strewn from one end of the great room to the other, including four well chewed tennis balls, strands of a doggie rope toy and the gutted remains of a stuffed monkey. I settle Hal in the living room with a newspaper and a fresh cup of coffee, and Leo and Cindy Lou to keep him entertained.

I stand in the shower, eyes shut tight, feeling the blessed heat of the water that plasters my hair to my head. I can't quite believe my life.

I take my time. Put on my favorite khaki trousers that make me look slim and the black sweater I particularly like. I take trouble over my makeup. Blow dry and fluff my hair.

We leave the dogs wrestling in the kitchen and head out for a brunch.

Hal, in the way of men universal, is content to be silent in the car. I close my eyes. I know that when he and I walk into the restaurant people will see a fireman and a part-time teacher of religion, happy to be together, content to share a meal. They won't see an evangelist haunted by a killer, a woman who lost her son in a terrible moment of violence or a wife that a husband hired a hit man to kill.

We are all of us an accumulation of our histories – the ups and downs, the dramas and tragedies that are not our particular fault. We think we make choices, we think we're in charge. But the older I get, the more I wonder if we are not just dancing to music that was planned long ago, and have as much control over our lives as we do the stars. We are not so much the sum of all the things we have lived, as the person who made the journey and survived.

This I define as happiness. I am swept away with the thought. It will fade, as all things do, and eventually I will take it all for granted, the simple pleasures of a normal life.

I look forward to that.