The Dark on the Other Side Read online

  “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.

  Michael ambled around muttering apologies, picking up socks and underwear and books and old letters, and heaping them unceremoniously on the single chair. His face brightened as he lifted a drab garment from the floor.

  “Here’s my bathrobe,” he said, shaking it out. “Gosh. I’m afraid it’s pretty wrinkled.”

  “Thank you; it looks fine to me.”

  “Wait a minute.” He darted into the bathroom, gathered up shaving equipment, towels, and more books. “There should be a clean towel someplace…”

  They found one, finally, on top of one of the bookcases. Linda closed the bathroom door and turned the shower on full force. She put her ear to the door and listened. The bedroom door closed with a bang, which probably represented one of Michael’s attempts at tact, or reassurance.

  Linda opened the bathroom door just wide enough to slip out, and eased it shut behind her. There was a telephone extension on the bookcase by the bed. She eased the instrument out of its cradle, her fingers on the button underneath. There was a slight click; but with luck he wouldn’t notice it.

  The click was lost in t
he ringing. She had moved so quickly that he had barely had time to dial the number. She waited, her hand over the mouthpiece, so that he could not hear the sound of her ragged breathing.

  Finally the receiver at the other end was picked up. She knew, from the first syllable, that the voice was not the one she feared; and the relief was so great she almost lost the words.

  “Let me speak to him,” Michael said; and then, after a pause, “Galen? It’s me, Michael.”

  He had been telling the truth. Her astonishment and joy were so great that she did not concentrate on Michael’s next statement: something about “said you’d drop in tonight.”

  “But, Michael, I’m just leaving for-” the other man said.

  Michael cut him off.

  “Yes, I know. Hold on a second, Galen.”

  That was all the warning she had, and it was barely enough. She eased the receiver back down into its slot with a care and speed she had not expected her unsteady hands to know, and then dropped down, flat on the floor beside the bed, as the bedroom door opened.

  The bathroom door was closed and the rush of water was unchanged. The thud of her heart sounded like thunder in her ears, but she knew Michael could not hear it. He stood motionless for a few seconds. Then the door closed.

  Linda got to her knees. She didn’t dare pick up the telephone again. She didn’t have to. There was something wrong, or he wouldn’t have bothered to check on her before proceeding with the conversation. And now she remembered what the person on the other end of the wire had said, at first, “This is Dr. Rosenberg’s residence.”

  The mammoth volumes of the city telephone directory were where she might have expected them to be-on the floor. She scooped up the classified directory and ran into the bathroom. On her knees on the floor, she began turning pages. “Department Stores…Hardware…Machinery…Physicians.” And there he was. Rosenberg, Galen. A conscientious member of the medical profession; four separate numbers were listed, including his home phone. Most doctors avoided giving that one out. But her eyes were riveted to the one word that mattered, the word that told which medical specialty Dr. Galen Rosenberg practiced.

  It might be a coincidence. Presumably even psychiatrists had friends, like other people. But if Rosenberg had intended to visit his friend Michael, why did Michael care whether she overheard the conversation? And why had he interrupted the other man at that particular moment? On his way to-where? Not, she thought, to Michael’s apartment. Not then. He was clever, Michael Collins, but not quite clever enough.

  Her mind worked with the mechanical precision it developed in moments of emergency. Coat, bag-she had those. Shoes-they were still in the living room. That was bad. Well, she would just have to leave them.

  Stripping off her dress, she opened the bathroom door and walked boldly across the bedroom. The door was still closed. She opened it a crack, and called, “Would it be all right if I washed my hair? It feels horrible.”

  “Sure.” Michael’s footsteps approached the door. It started to open, but she was ready; she pushed it back, making sure he saw her bare arm and shoulder.

  “Hey,” she said, putting a faint amusement into her voice.

  “Oh, sorry. There should be some shampoo, someplace…”

  “I found it. Just wanted to let you know I wasn’t drowned.”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  He sounded embarrassed. She pictured him standing outside the door, his long, thin face alert and compassionate. Linda’s mouth tightened.

  “Your friend,” she said, through the crack. “Did you reach him?”

  “Friend? Oh, I’m afraid I wasn’t able to put him off. He won’t stay long. Don’t worry, I’ll tell him something.”

  I’m sure you will, she thought.

  “Okay,” she said, and closed the door.

  So that was that. Naïve of her to expect anything else.

  Letting the water run, Linda closed the bathroom door and slipped into her dress. The skirt was still damp; it felt clammy and cold against her skin. Gathering up coat and bag, she went to the window of the bedroom.

  For several terrifying minutes, she was afraid she couldn’t open it. The latch was a flimsy, old-fashioned thing, but the frame refused to yield to her frantic shoves. Outside, dim through the filthy glass, the angular black shape of a fire escape mocked her efforts. When the window finally gave, it went up with such a rush that she almost fell out.

  Sprawled across the sill, she lay still for a moment, with the rain beating down on her head and the cold air in her face. Then she pulled herself back. Folding her coat, she went across the room to the wardrobe and opened its wide double doors.

  The bedroom door opened, and Michael’s voice called, with hideous cheerfulness, “Linda? Hey, are you decent? Friend of mine wants to meet you.”

  Huddled in the back of the wardrobe, behind a heap of old newspapers and dirty laundry, Linda held her breath. Not that she needed to; when the truth dawned on him, Michael made enough noise to drown out a squad of heavy snorers-bellowing for his friend, splashing around in the bathroom as if he expected to find her submerged in the tub, and then rushing to the open window.

  “She’s gone,” he kept repeating. “Damn it, Galen, she’s gone.”

  Linda heard the other man’s deep voice for the first time. They had talked in the other room for some minutes, but they had kept their voices so low, they were only murmurs.

  “Out through the window? That’s a hell of a route, Michael. I wouldn’t have thought that old rattletrap of a fire escape would hold any weight.”

  “It obviously did. The dust on the windowsill is smeared where she crawled out. And-yes, her coat’s gone. Her purse too. But-wait a minute-” Linda heard him run out and return. “Her shoes are still here! She went out in the rain, bare-foot… She’s out there now, somewhere. Oh, God. I muffed it, Galen. If she gets hurt, it’s my fault.”

  “Calm yourself. You sound like a bad performer trying out for Hamlet.”

  “Sorry,” Michael muttered. “Damn it, Galen, I don’t see how she knew. I was so careful-”

  “There’s a telephone extension in here. If she’s as intelligent as you say, she could have managed.”

  “You mean it isn’t that hard to outsmart me. And you’re right.”

  “Cunning and intelligence are two different things. But before you go flying off in all directions again, let’s stop and figure this out. Are you sure that fire escape is still functional? She may be out there still, halfway down. Or lying below, with something broken.”

  Michael rejected the last suggestion with a wordless sound; but Linda scarcely heard it. Her eyes were fixed, in horror, on the doors of the wardrobe. They were old and warped and did not close completely; a narrow line of yellow had announced the switching on of the light when Michael entered the bedroom. Now the crack altered its shape, widening and narrowing in turn. Someone was trying to open the door.

  Her attention flickering wildly from the attempt on the door to the conversation, she realized what the older man, the one named Galen, was saying. My God, she thought; he knows I’m here. He’s smarter than Michael, smarter and tougher; he knows I’d be afraid to step out on that fire escape. He must be leaning against the doors, making them move, just to frighten me.

  Then the door opened and she saw the source of her terror. Not the doctor. Something worse. The cat, the damned cat. She was afraid of the cat. It looked like a diabolical animal, and it hated people; Michael had said so. It would take one look at her and yowl or spit, and back out, and then they would know where-

  Linda saw its eyes shine with that eerie fire, which is, scientifically, due to a perfectly normal phenomenon of light refraction. Then the eyes disappeared. Deliberately the animal sat down, its back to her, and began washing its tail.

  “There’s nothing in the alley,” Michael said, with a loud sigh of relief.

  “And no signs of her having gone that way, either.”

  “A flashlight doesn’t show that m
uch detail from up here. What did you expect, a glove draped daintily over a garbage can? Damn it, Galen, she had to go that way. There’s no place to hide in here. I was in the kitchen the whole time, she couldn’t have gotten past me.”

  A small contorted shape in the corner of the wardrobe, Linda could almost feel the other man’s gaze, moving thoughtfully around the room. Oh, yes, he was much smarter than Michael. It never occurred to that innocent idiot that she hadn’t left. But he knew, the doctor-he had had considerable experience with people like her.

  Whether he actually bent over to look under the bed, she did not know; a snort of amused disgust from Michael might have been his response to such a gesture. But she knew when the doctor’s searching eyes lit on the wardrobe-the only other place in the room where a person might be concealed.

  “There’s Napoleon. Still as unsociable as ever?”

  “He hates everybody,” Michael said absently. “Likes it in there, though… Galen, what am I going to do?”

  Napoleon finished washing his tail, turned around, and prepared to go to sleep. After the first knowing look, he had not glanced in Linda’s direction.

  “Well,” the doctor said finally, “let’s sit down and talk about it. Your original account was somewhat abbreviated.”

  “Have you got time?”

  “Sixteen minutes. Then I’ll have to drive like hell. I must catch that plane.”

  They went out, talking about the medical conference the doctor was going to attend. Linda let her head fall back against one of Michael’s coats. Against the light from the half-open door of the wardrobe she saw the solid, unmoving black lump that was Napoleon. An odd smile curved her mouth. How very appropriate, she thought.

  For the moment, at least, she was safe; reprieved by the hallowed familiar of legend, by the animal sacred to the powers of evil. What would happen next she neither knew nor cared; she still had to get out of the apartment, but she would worry about that later. Now she could relax, for a little time, enjoying the omen, and listening intently to the conversation, which was clearly audible through the open door.