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ISBN 0-7582-1069-8

First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: June 2005

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Printed in the United States of America

A
t half-past seven o’clock on the evening of May fifteenth, Andrew Wilson was riding back to Atlanta with his father, only a few minutes away from the accident that would change his life forever.

Immersed in thought, Andrew gazed out the passenger side window of the Ford Expedition. A thunderstorm was brewing. Like an advancing army, a front of dark clouds chased away the sunlight. Gusts skirled around the truck and flung dead leaves across the windshield. Far in the distance, lightning slashed the horizon.

Sighing, Andrew turned away from the window and glanced at his father behind the steering wheel.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Andrew said, stating the obvious.

“Sure is,” Dad said. “We’ll have to cut right though it.”

Thunder grumbled, a sound that echoed in Andrew’s bones.

Pondering something else to say—and hesitant to speak the thoughts that weighed on his mind—Andrew studied his father. Almost six feet tall, Raymond West was lean and muscular, with big hands that could palm a basketball as easily as a cantaloupe. He had a cinnamon complexion, laugh lines delicately drawn into his youthful face. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short. His goatee was so meticulously cut it might have been sketched with a fine pencil.

Dapper as always, his father wore a tan polo shirt, khakis, and a Kangol golf hat. A sleek Movado watch glimmered on one sinewy wrist; a gold bracelet sparkled on the other.

Whenever Andrew looked at his father, he had the impression of viewing himself, twenty years older.

Sensing his scrutiny, Dad turned. His deep-brown eyes were curious. “Something on your mind, son?”

“Just wanted to say that I had fun this weekend.” A knot formed in his throat. For a moment, he was unable to say another word—and he had left much unsaid.

He wasn’t accustomed to sharing positive comments with his dad about their relationship.

They drove on Interstate 16, heading back to Atlanta after spending a day and a half in Savannah. They’d arrived on the coast late Friday afternoon, had dinner at a seafood restaurant, and rose the next morning for a seven o’clock tee time. After playing eighteen holes, they hung out at the clubhouse, ate an early dinner, napped at the hotel, and hit the road to return home.

It was the longest duration of time that Andrew had spent with his father in nineteen years. The experience left him with a lot that he wanted to say, but he lacked the words to adequately express himself.

It frustrated him. He was a writer; he’d published three suspense novels to growing acclaim, had ditched his computer programmer job to write full-time and had never looked back. He earned his living with words—but right then, he felt no more articulate than a newborn baby.

A pitchfork of lightning stabbed the earth, followed by a burst of thunder. Wind rattled the elms and maples that flanked the highway.

“We had a good time.” Dad grinned. “I’m not such a bad guy to hang with, am I?”

Andrew cleared his throat, breaking up the lump there. “You’re all right for an old man.”

“Old man, huh? This old man spanked you out there.”

“You got some lucky shots. Come on, man, you had
two
eagles. That was a once in a lifetime game.”

“All in a day’s work for a scratch player like me, young buck.” Dad smiled.

“Wanna bet it happens next time?”

“Ah, man, you know . . .”

“Thought so,” Andrew said.

Dad laughed. So did Andrew. They’d done a lot of laughing together on this trip, and it felt good. It felt strange, he admitted, to be having so much fun with his father, but it was good, all the same.

“I’ll just say this. Wait till you hit fifty,” Dad said. “If you’re in half as good a shape as I am, you better count your blessings. I know I do. Half of the cats I grew up with are dead.”

“I hear ya.”

On the CD player, Marvin Gaye sang “What’s Going On.” For their drive, Andrew had recorded a disc of classic R&B tracks.

“You got the jams on there.” Dad tapped the steering wheel.

“Old school is all I mostly listen to.”

“That so?”

“The music was better back then. It wasn’t about dropping your booty to the floor and rolling in a Bentley. Back in the day, they played their own instruments, sang about political issues and real love, you know?”

“Yeah, I know, but
you
don’t know.” Dad chuckled. “That was before your time, man.”

“You might be surprised.” He had loved old-school music for as long as he could remember, a romance that started with his mother spinning vinyl records in their house—Stevie Wonder, The Ohio Players, Chaka Kahn, George Clinton and Parliament, the S.O.S. Band—all of the greats. But, of course, his father wouldn’t know anything about his musical tastes. Shortly after Andrew was born, his parents, who’d never married, broke up, and his father had rarely visited—certainly, never often enough to learn anything meaningful about him.

But that had begun to change two months ago, when his dad had called him and asked if he wanted to play golf.

Their newfound relationship awakened a bewildering blend of emotions in Andrew: excitement, anxiety, confusion. He was excited to be finally forging what appeared to be a true bond with his father. He was anxious that the connection wouldn’t endure, was false, and that they’d regress to the superficial friendliness they’d used to have. And he was confused: Why had his father decided to reach out to him, after ignoring him for the first thirty years of his life?

He wanted to discuss all of these things with his father. But as skilled as he was at expressing himself with the written word, verbalizing his feelings often proved a challenge.

Lightning opened a fissure in the bruised sky. Thunder bellowed.

Rain began to fall from the ruptured heavens, snapping against the windshield, painting the world in hues of gray and black.

Switching on the wipers, his father leaned forward.

The time for serious discussion with his dad had passed. He needed to let his father concentrate on driving.

BOOK: Within the Shadows

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