Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

“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 the 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.