Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

The impulse which had got her onto the bus was equally senseless. She had a little money, not much, and no luggage. If she paid in advance, she could get a room in a hotel; but how long would it be before Gordon found her? If he didn’t want to call the police in, there were other, more discreet, ways of tracking her down. Anna would know what clothes she was wearing. There were hundreds of hotels; but Gordon could afford to hire hundreds of searchers. She wished the bus would go on and on forever, without stopping. Then she wouldn’t have to decide what to do next.

When the bus reached the terminal, she sat unmoving until all the other passengers had got off, until the driver turned and yelled. She squeezed her feet back into the sodden leather of her shoes. Another stupid move; the driver would remember her, now that she had lingered and made herself conspicuous. He wanted to clear the bus and go home; he stood by the door, tapping his fingers irritably on the back of the seat.

Linda walked through the terminal and out onto the street. It was still raining. She walked. She walked a long way. In her mind was the vague idea of confusing the trail by not taking a taxi directly from the bus station. Not that it mattered; he would find her sooner or later. But she had to keep trying.

Finally she came to a brightly lighted street where there were many people. Cars, too, on the pavement. Taxis…Yes, this might be a good place from which to take a cab. She stood by the curb and lifted her hand. Cars rushed by, splashing water. Some had little lights on top. None of them stopped. Linda blinked vacantly as the water ran down off her hair into her eyes. Rain. That meant taxis would be hard to find. She remembered that fact from some obliterated past.

A taxi skidded to a stop a few feet beyond her and she walked toward it, but before she could reach it a man darted out, opened the door, and jumped in. The taxi started up, splashing her feet and calves with water. She stood staring after it. Another car stopped, almost at her elbow. The driver leaned out and flung the door open.

“Okay, okay, lady; if you want it, grab it. Hop in.”

She got in, sat down.

“Where to?”

The address was written down on a slip of paper inside her purse, but she didn’t need to look at it. She had known, all along, that she meant to go there.

“Must be from out of town,” the driver said, pulling out into the street. “Figured you were, that’s why I stopped right by you so nobody could beat you to it. Chivalry’s been dead for a long time, lady. You gotta move fast if you wanta survive.”

“It was nice of you,” Linda said politely. “Thank you.”

She didn’t have to talk, he talked all the rest of the way. She remembered to tip him; it was an obvious thing, but tonight nothing was obvious, every movement and every idea was a long, arduous effort. What she did not remember until it was too late was that she had meant to leave the taxi at some indeterminate corner and walk the rest of the way. Too late now…

The street was dimly lighted, lined with buildings. In the rain and the dark, everything looked black-sky, buildings, windows. She dragged herself up the flight of steps, her shoes squelching.

There was no list of tenants’ names outside the door, and no lobby-only a small square of hallway, with the stairs rising up out of it, and two doors, one on either side. Cards were affixed to the doors. She squinted at them through the rain on her lashes. Neither bore the name she sought. She went up the stairs.

Not the second floor, not the third. Another floor, surely it must be the last. There was no elevator; it had not occurred to her to look for one. She went on climbing. The wood of the stair rail felt rough and splintery under her fingers. The whole structure, stairs and rail, felt alive; it yielded, protesting with faint sighs, to the pressure of hands and feet.

The light was dim, a single naked bulb on each landing. Luckily for her, she reached the topmost landing before they failed, every light in the building simultaneously, plunging the place into abysmal darkness.

Linda threw herself to one side, feeling for the wall, for any solid substance in the darkness; heard a door flung open and felt the rush of something past her. Something plunged down the stairs, sliding from stair to stair but never quite losing its footing, never quite falling. It sobbed as it went.

So much for premonitions, Michael thought.

It was Gordon Randolph who had knocked at his door. Not Gordon’s wife.

Randolph ’s dark hair was plastered flat to his head; the ends dripped water. The shoulders of his tan trench coat were black with wet. Wordlessly Michael stepped back, inviting Randolph in with a gesture of his hand. Closing the door, he wondered what he ought to offer first. Coffee, a drink, dry clothes…But one look at his guest told him that any offer would be ignored, probably unheard. Randolph stood stock-still in the middle of the rug. Only his eyes moved, darting from one side of the room to the other, questioning the darkened doorways.

“She’s gone,” he said.

Michael nodded. He had realized that nothing less than catastrophe would have brought Randolph here in this condition. He felt profound pity for the tragic figure that stood dripping on his rug; but a less noble emotion prompted his comment.

“Why here?” he demanded.

“I went to Andrea’s place first. Nobody was there. I searched the house.”

“You searched-”

“Briggs is checking the hotels. Private detectives. But I thought maybe-”

Michael took a deep breath.

“Give me your coat,” he said. “You’re soaking wet. I’ll get you a drink.”

“Thanks. I don’t want a drink.”

“Well, I do.”

Ordinarily the relief of movement would have given him time to collect his thoughts, but fumbling around in the dark kitchen was only another irritant. When he came back into the living room, carrying two glasses, Randolph was standing in the same position, staring fixedly at the bedroom door. Michael thrust a glass into his hand.

“Now,” he said, “you can tell me why you think your wife might have come here. And make it good.”

For a second he thought Randolph was going to swing at him. Then the taut arm relaxed, and Randolph ’s pale face twitched into a smile.

“All right,” he said. “I had that coming to me. Get this straight, Mike. There is not in my mind the slightest shred of doubt about you and your intentions toward Linda. This is a pattern.”

“You mean-this has happened before?”

Even from the little he knew, Michael should not have been surprised. He was. He was also, though he could not have said why, repelled.

“Twice before. Both friends of mine. It isn’t you, you know.” Randolph glanced at Michael and added hastily, “Damn it, I seem to be saying all the wrong things. You, and the others, are symbols of something, God only knows what; if I knew, I’d be a lot closer understanding what is wrong with her. I’m grateful that you’re the kind of man you are. You wouldn’t take advantage of her sickness.”

“Not in the sense you mean, no. I have several old-fashioned prejudices,” Michael said wryly. “Well, you can see for yourself that she isn’t here. What precisely do you want me to do?”

The lamp chose that moment to give a longer, more ominous flicker. It was symptomatic of the state of Randolph ’s nerves that he jumped like a nervous rabbit.

“The bulb’s about to go,” Michael said.

“Not the bulb, that reading lamp flickered too. I hope we’re not in for another of those city-wide power failures.”

Randolph ’s face was white. Michael thought he understood the reason for the man’s terror. The thought of Linda, lost and confused, wandering the blacked-out streets, disturbed him too.