The Darkness of Shadows

  © Copyright 2013 Chris Little

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Rogue Gargoyle Books

  Digital Edition ISBN: 978-0-9895629-0-4

  This edition was prepared by

  The Editorial Department

  7650 E. Broadway, #308, Tucson, Arizona 85710

  www.editorialdepartment.com

  Cover design by Kelly Leslie

  Book design by Morgana Gallaway

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  To thoughts and dreams, and those who support them, both willingly and unwillingly.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  I got into a car accident the other morning on the way to work. Nothing major. I was changing radio stations, and the next thing I knew I rear-ended the car in front of me.

  We both pulled over to the shoulder. I got out of my car with my insurance and other information at the ready, waiting for the other guy to come over so we could get this crap over with.

  The other driver got out of his car.

  Yeah, well, I couldn’t believe it—he was a dwarf!

  He stormed over, looked up at me, and said, “I AM NOT HAPPY!”

  I looked down at him and said, “Well if you aren’t Happy, which one are you?”

  Then the fight broke out.

  That’s one of my favorite jokes. Just wanted to share that.

  It was August in New Jersey, the capital of humidity, and the air conditioner in my apartment unleashed a squall of stickiness in my direction. Neither sweet talk nor threats made a difference—it kept the cool air hostage and released it on its own time.

  I finished reviewing the paperwork and closed the folder. I stretched and adjusted the Heckler & Koch USP Compact .40 S&W pistol in the holster in the small of my back.

  The letters I’d started now had an immovable deadline. If I was going to disappear, I at least wanted to tell the Guerreros, the people who raised me, how I felt about them. Being part of their family was the only thing that pulled me out of the darkness—if I only got one thing right, I wanted this to be it. My serial killer handwriting (there’s probably one of those in my family too) would have to suffice.

  I finished up both letters and put them into their envelopes. They joined the pile of paperwork for my lawyer.

  Time to pack.

  I wandered around my palatial residence: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, and living room. The furniture was basic, nothing fussy or fancy—just like me. The kitchen was functional—I’m not a cook, I’m a baker. There’s a massive difference. Baking was more of a science—I think that’s why I liked it so much. Cooking had too many variables, too many unknowns.

  My final decision was clothes only, plus some of my favorite CDs. I’d pack later.

  Speaking of baking: I was going to Mrs. Guerrero’s for a celebration dinner and I was responsible for dessert. Her daughter, Valerie, had just won a prestigious award for the best web and graphic design company in the tri-state area.

  Valerie Guerrero was a serious chocoholic and my best friend ever since the sixth grade. I wanted to do something special, something worthy of her addiction: individually layered bittersweet, semisweet and milk chocolate mousses covered in dark chocolate ganache.

  With the finishing touches applied, the desserts took refuge in the fridge.

  I’d finalize the sale of my business this afternoon and start my road trip in the morning.

  Florida was my destination, and the plan went something like this: my father would follow me. I would lead him away from all the people I cared about, into some dark corner of the Everglades. Then I could kill him and let the gators take care of the mess.

  He’d gotten away with murder. Why couldn’t I?

  Tara Edwards, my lawyer, took a late lunch in Grover Cleveland Park every day (weather permitting), and she asked if we could meet there and enjoy the afternoon. Nothing more enjoyable than talking business in hundred-degree heat with humidity to match. And to make the event even more special, a migraine was brewing behind my right eye.

  I sat on a bench in one of the shaded areas by the pond, watching the people go about their conversations and lives. Two women were making their second loop around the park, dressed in skin-tight exercise finery with sweatbands on their heads and wrists. “Let’s Get Physical” played in my head.

  “Oh. My. Gawd!” The one with the bridge and tunnel hair said. “Did you see what Carmella was wearing last night?”

  “What a disasta!” her friend said. “Too tight! Too much makeup!”

  This coming from the woman wearing a layer of spackle.

  “Yeah, I know. And her hair! I need iced coffee real bad!”

  They headed up the trail and disappeared.

  Two guys with long blond hair, Nordic cheekbones, and expensive matching sunglasses sat on a bench across the pond. Each had a newspaper and bottled water.

  They glanced in my direction. I looked behind me to see if some hot chicks were there—nope.

  I fiddled with the ring Val gave me on our shared fifteenth birthdays. It was silver, with a thin band of inlaid copper. The bands spun independently, but you couldn’t pull them apart. Val’s family made a huge deal about her birthday. My parents didn’t acknowledge mine.

  This birthday was like all the others, my father was away on business—maybe it was his gift to me.

  I’d been hoping my mom would ignore me, as usual—and as usual, I got the exact opposite.

  “What do you have there?” Her eyes tried to fix on the box.

  “Nothing, ma’am.” All adults, including my parents, were to be addressed as ma’am or sir.

  “What’ve yerfather’n I toldyou ’boutaccepting gifts?” she said.

  Good thing I spoke fluent drunk. I kept my eyes on the floor. Another charming house rule: no eye contact was to be made unless I was told to do so.

  “Why would anyone …?”

  “It’s my birthday, ma’am,” I said to the floor.

  “You know the rules. Return it.”

  She grabbed the card Val had made. The cover was a pen and ink drawing of mountains. On the inside, a dragon was waiting, along with Rainer Maria Rilke’s words: “Our fears are like dragons guarding our most precious treasures.”

  It was the coolest card ever.

  “Valerie’s talented,” my mom said. “I used to draw … was better than this. Did you know that?”

  Rhetorical question. If I kept my mouth shut, she’d drift back into an indifferent, alcoholic haze. My father was a different story.

  “You can keep the card,” she said.
“But your father can know nothing of this. Do you understand me?”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Happy birthday to me.

  Tara Edwards moved with purposeful strides. Jackie O sunglasses eclipsed most of her slender face, and a braid of blond hair hung halfway down her back. She held a cooler in one hand, a briefcase in the other.

  “Natalie, it’s good to see you!”

  I stood up when she got closer. She deposited her things on the bench and moved in for a hug. I countered by extending my hand. She didn’t miss a beat.

  “How are you?” Her perky voice shot through me like a bad burrito.

  My clothes were sticking to me like day-old wet newspaper, but other than that I was great.

  “Fine, thank you, ma’am. How are you? How’s Mr. Edwards?”

  “Oh, Bob is good. Thank you for asking! We have a golf lesson at five. I really wish you’d call me Tara.” She indicated for me to sit. “Ma’am makes me feel so old!”

  “Sorry, ma’am, old habits and all.”

  “We haven’t seen you at the driving range at all this summer.”

  “Maybe in the fall, when it cools down some.” I liked going to the range to hit a bucket of balls. No one bothered me and I didn’t have to chase after a bad shot.

  She opened the cooler. It was full of little plastic containers packed with healthy-looking contents, lined up and ready for assembly.

  “Would you care to join me?” She unfastened the lid of one.

  What the hell was that? It reeked! “No, thank you.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” She frowned as she continued to gather the stinky stuff that was her lunch. “So why are you selling your business? You love it. You’ve got a great client base and it’s very profitable. I don’t understand.”

  “Just time to move on.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then pulled a file from her briefcase.

  “I also drew up the will you requested.”

  I may be crazy, but I’m also a realist. I needed everything in order, just in case my scheme went further south than the Sunshine State.

  Meetings aren’t one of my favorite things, but in business they’re a necessary evil. This one went smooth enough. A few signatures later and I was in the money and out of the dessert business. The good-looking blond guys were still sitting on the bench across from us. Maybe it was my imagination, but they seemed to be staring right at us. Of course, it was hard to tell, what with the sunglasses.

  “Ma’am, I mean, Mrs. Edwards, do you know those guys over there?” I nodded in their direction.

  “No, I don’t.” An impish grin appeared. “Maybe they’re interested in talking to you.”

  “Maybe they’re scouts from Next Top Supermodel: Chicks with Canes.”

  “Oh, Natalie!” She let out a dramatic sigh. “You’re a very attractive young woman—”

  “Uh huh. Are we all set?”

  “I think that’s everything.”

  “I have something for you. Would you mind walking with me to get it?”

  She smiled. “You made my favorite brownies, didn’t you?”

  I retrieved the tray of dark chocolate macadamia nut brownies with toasted coconut from the truck.

  “Thank you for your time, ma’am,” I said. “I really appreciate all your help through the years.”

  She gave me another long, thoughtful look.

  “Is there something that you need to talk about? You know it goes no further than me—”

  “No, ma’am. I just appreciate that you and Mr. Edwards always treated me good, no matter what other people said.” I glanced at my watch. “Hey, you’ve got your golf lesson.”

  Tara reached for my arm. I stepped back toward the truck. She frowned.

  “We’ve known each other for quite some time now. I know you’re an extremely private person, but—”

  “I’m fine. I need to get a move on, going to Mrs. Guerrero’s.”

  “Well, I’m here if you need to talk.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”

  I got home, showered, and changed in record time, then raked my fingers through my short, brown hair and decided I was ready. Damn, I’m good.

  In my backpack was my gift for Val. It was the bracelet my grandparents gave me when I was a kid, along with a note from them that said they loved me and were sorry they couldn’t see me. I never wore it though. My parents didn’t let me accept gifts from anyone, so I hid it. It was in the same simple box that it came in a lifetime ago. It wasn’t fancy or anything, just silver strands braided and knotted in four places, but it was something Val had always admired. I didn’t know what else to get her—she was hard to buy presents for. She always said she didn’t need or want anything, just like her mom did.

  Outside, I could smell all sorts of dead things searing on backyard grills. The smoke danced and swirled and disappeared into the sultry air. I preferred the smells of autumn: tomato sauces, stews, and the heartier fare that brought the promise of cooler weather.

  I made it with five minutes to spare before I was officially late. Did I mention that damn, I’m good? I parked behind Val’s new Mercedes sedan, as sleek and cool as she was. Tina, Val’s younger sister, blocked the rest of the driveway with her BMW. I groaned at the thought of having to spend time with Tina, but I could suck it up for a few hours.

  I gathered my gear and ventured up the driveway. My cane made a clicking sound on the pavement. A dribble of sweat started to make its way down my neck. Almost there.

  The kitchen door opened and Val stepped out.

  Val and I had a few things in common. We were both women, were thirty-two years old, owned our own businesses, and shared the same birthday (March 5). That’s where the similarities ended.

  She moved with the grace of an athlete. I moved with the grace of the oldest resident of an assisted-living facility. I was a little bit over six feet tall and weighed in at more than I should—I wish I could say it was all sinewy muscle, but that would be a big fat lie. I’d inherited my parents’ long, angular features, but I was pretty average looking sans the scar and the limp.

  Val was a knockout. She was five feet eight inches tall, a practitioner of Krav Maga, which suited her athleticism and kept her in great shape. Her caramel skin was flawless, and she had her dad’s eyes: dark chocolate flecked with gold. A petite nose complemented great bone structure from both her parents. I didn’t pay much attention to fashion, but I knew her clothes were expensive. She was between boyfriends at the moment, and that meant she was working way too hard—Val never had a shortage of guys trailing after her, but she’d gotten more cautious as we got older.

  “Need some help?” she said.

  “Hey, little sister.” I handed her the desserts.

  “Get inside—it’s hotter than hell out here.”

  Mrs. Guerrero had impeccable taste. The house, a two-story colonial with an influence of country traditional, managed to hit that near-impossible line between classy and comfortable. It wasn’t like you were afraid to touch anything or sit on the furniture—it was her home and you could feel the love within it.

  “Natalie!” She greeted me with a hug.

  I towered over her like a sequoia over a delicate bonsai. Mrs. Rita Guerrero stood an amazing five feet two and one-half inches tall. Her brown eyes teemed with life and, I always imagined, a little mischief. Nearly black hair looked like some impressionist’s brush had swirled in a just a bit of gray. An elegant, classy lady was she.

  “Ma’am, thank you for inviting me to dinner.” I handed her the bouquet of wildflowers.

  “Oh, they are beautiful!” Mrs. Guerrero never met a contraction she liked. “Thank you!”

  Val’s little sister, Tina, was leaning across the counter by the sink. She was a beauty in her own right, and she favored her mother more than her dad. She glared at me as I limped past her. The only thing average about her was her height, about five feet six inches, and she was too thin in my opinion.

 
; Sitting on the kitchen table was Tina’s gift to Val, a distinctive blue box from you-know-where. I decided against giving Val my gift for the time being.

  We ate in the formal dining room. Dinner, as always, was excellent. Mrs. Guerrero said, “Age quod agis—Do well what you do.” And she did everything well, but cooking—she had a gift. Too bad my migraine had robbed me of my appetite. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. While Val and Tina were in the kitchen getting dessert, Mrs. G and I chitchatted.

  Mrs. Guerrero said, “Do you have something that you would like to share with me?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “The other evening, at Valerie’s awards ceremony, you did not come over to say hello.” Her eyes sambaed with delight—just teasing. “I felt slighted.”

  “Um … I’m sorry … I ah, just went to see Val get her award and left. I had to iron out a dessert gig.”

  “It meant a great deal to Valerie for you to be there.”

  “Val saw me too?” Good thing I never wanted to be a spy. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

  Val and Tina returned and placed the desserts in front of us.

  “This looks great!” Val said. “Thanks, Nat.”

  “That reminds me,” Tina said. “We’re doing a feature on weight-loss programs for the physically challenged.” She glanced at me. “I’ll send you a copy.”

  Let the steel cage match begin.

  Val looked like she was going to leap across the table, but I knew Tina was just warming up. Mrs. Guerrero, as always, feigned oblivion. Maybe she figured if she ignored Tina’s bad attitude, it’d go away.

  “Tina …” Val said.

  “Just making conversation.” Tina smiled and dug into her dessert. “We’re also doing a piece on plastic surgeons.”

  I took a deep breath and refocused my rage. I reached for my cane on the floor next to my chair and stood. Val looked worried—maybe she thought she and her mom would be collateral damage when I lost my temper. I couldn’t blame her.

  “Ma’am, thank you for dinner. Val, congratulations on your award,” I said.

  “Please don’t leave,” Val said.

  “Natalie, come with me,” Mrs. Guerrero said.

  “Ma’am—”