The Dark on the Other Side Page 19

  “Too real. I felt it, all hundred pounds of it. It felt like a dog; it even smelled like a dog.”

  “But the others-the supernatural animals-”

  “Werewolves,” Michael said roughly. “Say it. My God, are we going to cringe away from words?”

  “Werewolves are real; they take material form.”

  “I know, I’ve read all the horror stories. Everything works two ways, doesn’t it? Do you realize that nothing that has happened couldn’t be explained in rational terms?”

  “But Andrea…I see. Self-induced?”

  “She had a bad heart. And a firm belief. Linda, the phenomenon is known, documented-not only in the jungles of Haiti and Africa but in American hospitals.”

  Linda’s eyes were straight ahead, watching the dark ribbon of road unwind.

  “You know what your rationalist interpretation means, don’t you? You’re sitting next to an attempted murderess.”

  “Forget that!”

  “I can’t forget it. I’ll try not to think about it, but…Where are we going, Michael? We’ll be in the city soon. I’d suggest some place brightly lit, with lots of people around you…”

  “All right, then.” Michael turned, his arm over the back of the seat. “We may as well drag all the dirt out into the open. Those other times, when you ran away to other men-what happened? What did you do?”

  Linda didn’t answer at first. She had to fight to keep her voice steady.

  “I ran away once. I told you about that. There was no other man, then or ever.”

  “Then Gordon lied?”

  “He’s a very convincing liar. It’s his word against mine, of course, and I’d have a hard time proving I was telling the truth. What difference does it make? How many times do I have to try to kill someone before you’ll admit-”

  “Stop it! Under any circumstances, by any possible interpretation, that kind of thinking is dangerous. Don’t…open your mind to it.”

  “I’m afraid!”

  “I’m not. Not of you. Remember that. We do have to decide where we’re going, though. I know where I’d like to go.”

  “To your friend-Galen. I’ve forgotten his last name. The doctor.”

  “Reading my mind? How much of that conversation with Galen did you overhear?”

  “All of it. Except when you went downstairs with him.”

  “I hate women who are smarter than I am,” Michael said, amusement coloring his voice.

  “Do you know, I almost ran out and tried to catch him. He sounded…wise. Wise and stable.”

  “He’s the wisest man I know, and the sanest. That’s why I want to consult him. Not because-”

  “You don’t have to reassure me. Not any longer.”

  “Furthermore,” Michael muttered, “he knows something. Something about Gordon.”

  “I wondered, when I heard the way his voice changed when you mentioned Gordon’s name. Do you think Gordon was ever a patient of his?”

  “No, it was something else.” Michael told her about the letters. “I don’t know what they mean, though,” he ended. “There’s some hint there… But it slipped past me.”

  “I’d like to see them.”

  “Yes, I think you’d better. But they date to a period some years back, before you met him. When I get my hands on that cautious psychiatrist, I’ll interrogate him. The son of a gun must know more than what is in the letters. My dad may have talked to him.”

  “Then let’s go to his place.”

  “Can’t. He’s not back yet.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “The weekend, he said. Not before tomorrow.”

  “Then where do we go? There’s the bridge, up ahead.”

  “My place, I guess.”

  “He’ll know…”

  “What can he do there that he couldn’t do anywhere else?” Michael asked reasonably. “I thought of a hotel, but I don’t like the idea, I’d feel more insecure in an unfamiliar place. It isn’t physical attack we’re worried about, is it?”

  “No, but…”

  “Any other ideas?”

  His voice was calm and patient, but Linda sensed his utter exhaustion. They were both exhausted, not only by long hours of wakefulness, but by mental strain. She couldn’t think clearly. Certainly she couldn’t think of any rational objection to his idea.

  “I guess you’re right,” she said slowly. “Give me directions, then. I wasn’t paying attention the last time I came to your apartment.”

  The streets were not crowded; it was well after midnight. Linda drove slowly, nursing her growing fatigue. The rain had stopped, but the streets were shiny with water, and clouds bumped the tops of the tallest buildings. They left the car in the garage, for which Michael paid, he informed her, a rent equal to that of his apartment, and walked the short distance in exhausted silence. There were no pedestrians on the street. The city might have been struck by some silent science-fictional weapon, and all life destroyed except their own.

  The presence of Napoleon, squatting like a leopard by the door, should have been reassuring, for he was obviously glad to see them. But as she bent to fondle the scarred head that was banging against her ankles, Linda was conscious of an increase in her dark forebodings.

  “He must have eaten up all the food,” Michael said, watching Napoleon’s activities cynically.

  “I’ll get him something. You sit down.”

  “There’s some of the canned cat tuna on one of the shelves,” Michael said as she went into the kitchen.

  The sight of the littered sink and empty refrigerator made Linda wrinkle her nose in disgust.

  “It’s a wonder you don’t both have rickets and scurvy,” she said, searching the drawers for a can opener. “There isn’t a drop of milk. I should think you could at least feed that poor cat milk.”

  “He hates milk,” Michael said. “Whiskey, gin, beer, Coke-he loves Coke, but he’ll drink anything. Anything but milk.”

  Linda found the can opener in the sink, and went to call Napoleon. The cat was sitting on Michael’s stomach, glowering.

  “He knows I’ve been in a fight,” Michael said. “And he has a pretty good idea as to who lost.”

  The cat sneezed and walked back down the length of Michael’s semirecumbent form, planting his feet heavily. He went into the kitchen, contempt radiating from every hair.

  “I’ve lost face,” Michael said.

  Linda was unable to be amused. Michael didn’t seem to feel anything wrong. What was the matter with her, that she couldn’t give way to the fatigue that dragged at every muscle? Unable to relax, she began to walk up and down the room. Her eyes felt hot and her skin had begun to prickle. Not for the first time, she speculated about drugs. Gordon had every opportunity to administer anything he chose. Coffee, wine, even the aspirin in her bathroom…What a nice, neat, satisfying solution that would be. It explained so much… But not, unfortunately, quite enough. She turned.

  “Where are those letters you mentioned?”

  “What?” Michael started; he had fallen into a doze, slumped in the big chair. Linda’s heart-or whatever internal organ it is that behaves so peculiarly in moments of emotion-twisted as she watched him blink and brush at his ruffled hair. “They’re in that envelope I brought up from the car,” he said, yawning. “Why don’t we wait till morning? We can think better after we get some sleep.”

  “I’m too keyed up to sleep yet,” she said. “What about a nice soothing cup of tea?”

  “Okay.”

  Linda went into the kitchen. She couldn’t tell him of her feelings; he was too tired to cope with anything else tonight. But her panic was real, and it was steadily growing. She had to see the letters now, without delay, as a hunted man, feeling the approach of the hunters, might desperately try to fashion the smallest scrap of wood or metal into a weapon.

  The letters were too small a scrap. They told her nothing she didn’t already know. But the warm drink and the forced concentration helped her nerves.
Lethargy replaced her earlier anxiety. Even the sudden movement of the cat did not startle her; but Michael started and swore as the long, lean body streaked for the kitchen.

  “That’s funny,” he said.

  “What?”

  “There goes a plate… Oh, nothing. But he usually doesn’t move that fast unless he hears someone coming.”

  He was sitting upright, frowning. Funny, Linda thought. Now he’s getting nervy, and I’m falling asleep. She put the last letter down.

  “Your father didn’t like Gordon,” she said.

  “No. I wonder why.”

  “Antipathy, he says.”

  “That’s just a word people use to explain reasoning they aren’t consciously aware of. What I don’t understand is that letter about the Hellfire Club.”

  “Oh, that was Gordon,” she said vaguely. She yawned.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been dabbling with demonology for years. Good God,” she said, roused by anger, “you still think I invented all this, don’t you? Where do you think I got my ideas? Why did you think Gordon and Andrea were at swords’ points? Why do you think she hated him?”

  “I never imagined…” Michael looked dazed. “He’s such a fastidious person…”

  “You’re thinking of Satanism in terms of Aleister Crowley, and the Great Beast, and sexual orgies. That’s only a perversion added by some psychotics. It was never like that with Gordon. If anything, he’s too puritanical, too cold. It’s power he wants, power and control. Isn’t that the ultimate control-over the minds and the will of others? He tried teaching and he tried politics, but they weren’t enough. Through them he could partially dominate certain types, but there were always a few who were immune, and they were the ones he wanted most to dominate.”

  Another wide yawn interrupted her. It was a pity, she thought sleepily, that she should be so tired. This was an important point, something Michael hadn’t realized, something he had to know.

  “The clue to Gordon Randolph,” Michael muttered. “Is this what I’ve been groping for? Hey-you’re going to fall apart, you’re yawning so. We’ll talk more in the morning. Bed for you.”

  Linda let him lead her toward the bedroom, knowing that she ought to be tending to him, but too sleepy to care, too sleepy to pay attention to his explanations and his arrangements. He said something about sleeping on the couch. Linda looked up at him, blinking; her eyelids were so heavy.

  “All right,” she said obediently.

  She might have been able to prevent it if she had seen it coming; but she was too sleepy, and he was too strong. His arms went around her; even the arm that was bandaged from wrist to elbow held her close. His mouth was warm and hard and insistent on hers. For a few sleep-dazed moments she was lax in his embrace, not responding, but not resisting. Then a frenzy of revulsion filled her, and she struggled.

  He let her go at once.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to do that. But you looked so…”

  He was pale; whether with pain or anger, she could not tell. Linda swayed, gasping for breath; and the words that came out of her mouth were not the words she had meant to say.

  “Michael. Lock me in!”

  His eyes widened, and then narrowed to slits as the meaning of her words struck him.

  “No,” he said violently.

  “Please.”

  “No.” His voice was gentler but inexorable. “I won’t, even if I could. Hell, I don’t know where the key is, if there is a key. There is no need for me to lock you in. Now go to sleep. Sleep well.”

  With a whimper she turned away, stumbling, and threw herself down on the bed. The movement took the last of her strength; a great weight seemed to be pressing down on her, on mind as well as body. But her mind fought off the pressure for several seconds after her body had succumbed; she knew what was coming. And knew also that those few seconds of awareness were part of Gordon’s plan-the realization of danger coupled with the inability to avoid it is the highest refinement of cruelty. Then, finally, the weight closed in, and her last spark of will flickered out.

  III

  Michael watched until her breathing slowed and she lay quiet. His hand went to the light switch, and then withdrew. If she woke, in the dark…

  Was it only an irrational symbol, this concept of darkness versus light? Darkness concealed; but why need the objects it hid be objects of fear? They might be friendly things, things of beauty. Perhaps they only feared the dark who had seen some frightful thing come at them out of the veils of darkness. From the dark, the dark on the other side…

  Turning away from the door, Michael wished fervently that he had never met Kwame nor heard that enigmatically threatening phrase. What did it really mean? It meant something to Kwame, something he felt so strongly that he could transfer the impression to other people. Michael remembered the horrifying vision he had had when Kwame first spoke the words. That had to have been some kind of ESP; he couldn’t have thought of it by himself.

  And it was a hell of a picture to have in the back of his mind, especially after a night like this one. Michael found himself reluctant to turn out the lights in the living room, though the glow from the open bedroom door was brighter than his sleeping room usually was.

  He threw himself down on the couch, too tired to look for blanket or pillow. His feet were propped on one arm of the couch. It was too short for comfort, but tonight he didn’t care; he could have slept on a stone. He was too tired to think-and that was just as well, because the thoughts foremost in his mind were ugly thoughts. Satanism, possession, werewolves, the dark on the other side…His arm was throbbing. The pain killer was wearing off. He thought about getting up and taking another pill. But the bottle was in his coat pocket and his coat was in the closet and the closet was ten feet away, and that was just too damned far for a man who had been up all night, battling werewolves and witches and…Heavily, Michael slept.

  And woke, with one of the wrenching starts that sometimes rouse a sleeper from a dream of falling. He had only been asleep for a few minutes; his muscles still ached with fatigue. Something had wakened him.

  Mind and body drugged by the short, annihilating nap, Michael lay quiescent and listened. There were sounds, out in the kitchen. That was what had roused him. Someone was in the kitchen, moving around.

  The most logical source of noise was Napoleon. But his sleeping mind was accustomed to the cat’s comings and goings, it would have noted the sounds, classified them, and let him sleep. These were not the noises the cat made when it thudded down into the sink or lapped water or chewed the hard, crunchy bits of cat food. These were small, metallic sounds, like coins chinking in someone’s pocket…a loose metal strip blown by the wind against another piece of metal…knives and forks in a drawer, being shifted…

  When he recognized the sounds and identified the key word, his brain refused to accept the conclusion. Maybe Linda had been unable to sleep. Looking for the wherewithal to make coffee or food, she would naturally move quietly, so as not to disturb him.

  Then he saw her. The kitchen, out of the direct beam of light from the bedroom door, was very dark. As she moved out into the diffused dimness of the living room, her slim body seemed to be forming out of shadows like a dark ectoplasmic ghost. She stood still for several seconds, as if listening; and Michael remained quiet, not from design, but because his paralyzed body was incapable of movement. There was just enough light to reflect, with a pale glitter, from the long shiny object in her right hand.

  Chapter 10

  I

  SHE MOVED VERY SLOWLY. WHEN SHE REACHED THE couch, she stood motionless for several long moments. He could see the knife distinctly now, it was only inches from his face. It hung from fingers so lax that they seemed about to lose their grip altogether. He could hear her breathing. It was quick and deep, long gasps of effort.

  Her fingers tightened and her arm began to move. Up-slowly, in abrupt jerks and starts, as if struggling against a force that
tried to hold it. Michael watched in an unholy fascination; the whole bizarre episode might have been happening to someone else, with himself an unwilling and helpless spectator. Now her arm was high above her head. A strained, impractical position for a downward blow…The arm started down.

  Michael moved. To his outraged nerves it seemed as if the whole thing were taking place in slow motion: that he had an infinite amount of time in which to act before the knife struck. In an almost leisurely movement his right arm lifted and his fingers clamped around the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

  His touch affected her like a jolt of electric current; every muscle in her body stiffened, her wrist twisted frantically in his grasp. She screamed, a thin, high sound that was more like the voice of an animal in agony than anything human. It was the scream as much as anything else that made Michael take more than defensive action. A few more moments of that, and someone would call a cop.

  He tried not to hurt her. Rolling sideways off the couch, he pulled her down with him, pinning her kicking legs with his body, his right hand still tight around her wrist, his left fumbling for her mouth. They struggled in darkness; the back of the couch cut off the feeble light from the bedroom. He could feel her struggling, feel the writhing of her lips against his palm. He had half expected the maniacal strength he had read about, but he encountered very little difficulty; she was a small woman, and it took only seconds to immobilize and quiet her. Flaccid and cold under his hands, she lay still. He couldn’t even feel her breathing.

  It never occurred to him that her collapse might have been a ruse. He scrambled up. His need for light was more than a need to see, it was a craving for the power that opposed the dark.

  She looked like a sick child in a sleep troubled by pain-tumbled hair, pale face, mouth drawn down in a pathetic grimace. She was wearing his old bathrobe, which had helped to hamper her movements; the struggle had torn it open, but she was still wearing her slip and underclothing. Michael revised his comparison. Not a child, no. But she looked pitifully young. The wrist he had twisted seemed too fragile to resist the lightest touch. By her right hand lay his big carving knife.