Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

“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.”