Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

At four in the morning he finished the book, and fell groggily into bed in a state of mingled exaltation and rage. The pathetic little mental image of Gordon’s wife had developed a set of fangs. Anyone who could write a book like that when he was still in his twenties…The man needed encouragement, admiration, an atmosphere of peace and quiet-not a crazy wife who probably resented his superior talent. Lying awake in the darkness, Michael could see the ghosts of Gordon’s unwritten books, laid out in a row like murdered babies. Murdered in utero by Gordon’s wife.

This partisan mood carried Michael through the next few days. He didn’t call Gordon, but Gordon called him and reported that Linda had not yet been found. He sounded less edgy. Of course, if she had been hurt or killed, she would have been heard of by this time, Michael thought. Personally, he no longer gave a damn.

He spent two infuriating days trying to track down some of Gordon’s political associates, knowing full well that he would never reach the hidden men who made the real decisions, and discovering that politicians were even more peripatetic than academicians and just as impressed with their own importance. Yet through the platitudes and glittering generalities, an impression gradually formed. He believed the rumors of Gordon’s return to politics. It was ridiculous, of course, to resent Gordon’s failure to take him into his confidence. Maybe he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

Michael found himself curious to read some of Gordon’s political speeches. They were not easy to locate; the big-city newspapers had not followed out-of-state local campaigns in detail. Finally he managed to find back issues of the leading newspaper of Gordon’s state.

Even in cold print the speeches were impressive. Michael could imagine their effectiveness when they were delivered with the full force of Gordon’s dynamic personality. He had wondered what kind of political speech might be composed by the man who wrote that fantastic book. Now he knew. Of course the media were completely different; a political speech was not a novel. But the similarity was there, not in phrasing or in content so much as in an underlying integrity, the product of a particular kind of mind.

Gordon’s candidacy had been supported by the newspaper. It got a lot of coverage, and the not so-subtle slant in the reporting, compared with the tone taken toward Gordon’s unfortunate opponent, made Michael’s mouth twist in wry amusement. Politics, he thought, with the comfortable contempt of a man who has never run for office. Well, you couldn’t blame Gordon for the traditional dirtiness of the game… He kicked himself mentally. Blame, hell, you don’t condemn or approve, he reminded himself. You just read. And write, if possible.

It was pure accident that he saw the item at all. It was on the front page, but it was hidden down in the lowest left-hand corner, and Gordon’s name was mentioned only once, in small print. There was a photograph, and he studied the inexpressive features of the young man with interest. Copied from a formal studio portrait, the face was not distinctive. High forehead, hair and eyes of some indeterminate dark color, horn-rimmed glasses so big that they reduced the features to unimportance. Gordon’s campaign manager, William S. Wilson.

The name was familiar. Michael groped through his mental card file on Randolph for several seconds before he realized that the familiarity had nothing to do with contemporary events. The name was that of Edgar Allan Poe’s character. A nice, cheerful story that one, about a man haunted by his own ghost.

The analogy was nonexistent. Accidental death, the police believed-the strain of an exciting campaign, and too many sleeping pills. There was no reason why the young, successful assistant of a rising politician should take his own life.

Michael was curious enough to pursue the story. The next installment had retreated from page one to page fourteen, reasonably enough, since there were no dramatic developments. The assumption of accidental death was confirmed by all the evidence the police had been able to turn up. So much for William Wilson.

Michael didn’t know, then, that the seed had been planted. It had not yet taken root; it just sat there in the darkness of his subconscious mind, rubbing a little, but beginning to be encased, like a grain of sand in an oyster, by layers of protective preconceptions. But the intrusion was a seed, not a sterile piece of grit. The telephone call he got the next day started it growing.

Typically, Galen didn’t waste any words.

“Have you resolved your latest problem?” he asked, as soon as he had identified himself to his surprised listener.

“No, she’s still missing. Where are you?”

“ Paris, of course. I told you I’d be here till the end of this week. Michael, I want you to go over to my office and-”

“You’re calling me from Paris? Why?”

“If you’ll be quiet for a minute, I’ll tell you. I’m due at a symposium in about four and a half minutes. Go over to my office and pick up an envelope my secretary has for you. I’ve already spoken to her.”

“You want me to mail it to you?” Michael asked, groping.

“If I wanted something mailed to me, I’d have my secretary mail it,” Gordon said impatiently. “The envelope is for you. Go and get it now. Don’t make any decisions until you’ve read the contents.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t believe I’ve used any words of over three syllables, have I? I must go now. I’ll be in touch with you as soon as I get back. And remember, don’t do anything drastic until you’ve seen that envelope.”

The receiver went down with a decisive click. Galen never bothered with hellos and good-byes.

Michael hung up. There was no use trying to call back. He didn’t know what hotel Galen was staying at, and it was more than likely that Galen would refuse to add anything to his enigmatic message even if he could be located. He was never obscure except by choice.

Michael got up and wandered over to the window. It was raining again. The sky, what little he could see of it, was a dirty gray, and the puddles in the alley reflected the sallow light with a sheen of oily iridescence. Even on the fourth floor, with the window closed, he could hear the snarl of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the street. Absently, Michael drew his initials in the smeary film on the inside of the pane. The hell with it. He wasn’t going all the way across town on a day like this just to pick up an envelope.

The foul evening darkened, the rain beat a peremptory tattoo against the window. Michael wandered the apartment like a caged lion, unable to settle down or even to understand the strange sense of uneasiness that grew, slowly but steadily. Unable to concentrate and unwilling to go out, he puttered with small jobs he had been putting off; he put a new light bulb in the kitchen and started to cook himself something to eat. It was then that he discovered he had given Napoleon the hamburger. There was nothing else fit to eat except various things in cans, and he realized he wasn’t hungry anyhow. He was too nervous to eat.

Nervous. Slowly Michael let himself down into a chair and considered the word. He reviewed the symptoms: taut muscles, mildly queasy stomach, restlessness, general malaise of mind. Yes, that was his trouble; he was as nervous as a cat… He gave the somnolent Napoleon a look of hate, and revised the figure of speech. He hadn’t had the symptoms for years, that was why he had been so slow to recognize them-not since college exams, or the early days of his working career, when a particular interview, or letter, or telephone call might make or break his new-hatched confidence in himself. So why now, when there was nothing hanging over him that really mattered?