The Darkness of Shadows (8 page)

“I want a hazmat suit,” I said.

“Um …”

“You can have the cups, movie freak.”

She smiled and shook the debris from the rest of the cups.

“We have to look deeper,” I said. “This would have been too easy.”

She nodded and opened the toolbox. She took the pry bar and handed me a screwdriver.

“Hey! Take it easy.”

“This all needs to be replaced anyway,” she said, prying a cabinet from the wall.

“Yeah, well, I’m paying for it.”

“Don’t play the poor card with me. I know what you got for your business.”

Cabinets came down, countertops up and off, linoleum peeled back—and still nothing.

The storm before the calm continued in the dining/living area.

Val was bouncing around like Tigger, searching for loose floorboards. I hunkered down next to a heating vent. The screws had been painted over many times and were proving tenacious. I chipped away a few layers and cleared the slots. Putting my substantial weight behind the screwdriver gained a few turns on each corner. I slid the blade behind the cover and popped it off. Bits of paint and plaster crumbled to the floor. I grabbed the flashlight and shined it on countless years of dust and other heating duct things.

The bouncing stopped.

“Find anything?” Val said.

“Not sure.” I didn’t want to stick my hand into the unknown.

Sensing my hesitation, Val squatted down and plunged her arm into the darkness.

“Nothing … nothing …”

Her eyes dilated in surprise. She jerked forward, her arm yanked farther into the duct.

I dove at her, performing a half-tackle. It was enough to free her and send us both skidding across the floor. My stomach made sure I knew the movement wasn’t appreciated. She was turned away, shoulders heaving.

“You okay?”

I scooted closer, expecting to see a pool of blood forming around her.

Silent laughter prevented her from answering.

She gasped a few times. “I can’t believe you fell for that.” She rolled up and onto her feet, offering me a hand up.

I ignored it. Heat rose up in my neck, past my cheeks, and threatened to boil my brain.

“Jerk. Not funny in the least.” I glanced behind her: wainscoting was cleaved from the walls, floorboards uprooted from their families. “You’re like a tornado.”

“I didn’t find anything either.”

I angled upward with the aid of the cane and stood next to her. We were covered with sweat, dirt, and disappointment.

“Bathroom’s next,” Val said.

The dollar signs went into the stratosphere.

We eventually moved on to our last hope: the bedroom. Val tapped along the plaster walls with the pry bar. I went into the walk-in closet to escape the wrath of the demolition queen. I held the flashlight in one hand and felt along the wall for any irregularities.

Was that a bump?

I traced a rectangular shape on the wall at about chest height. My heartbeat quickened.

A small crash, followed by an “Oops, I’ll pay for it,” was white noise as I pressed my fingernails around the perimeter.

“Come here.”

She appeared behind me. “What’d you find?”

“Not sure. Shine the light here please.” I handed her the flashlight and pointed to the spot. I heard the click of a knife and jumped.

“Here, use this.” She handed me a small blade.

I cut around the edges and peeled the aged paper flowers away.

A metal door was revealed. I handed her the knife. There was a metal pull ring—high-tech security. I grasped it and pulled. Nothing. I persuaded it a little harder and it gave way.

Val let out a long breath, and a lungful of mine followed as she shined the beam inside.

An old fuse box.

“That was anticlimactic,” Val said.

“Yeah.” I grabbed the bar from her hand and slammed it into the opposite wall.

Val wheeled back. “A little warning would be nice.”

“Sorry. It’s just …” I pulled the bar out of the wall. It was drywall, not plaster. “Huh.”

“What?”

I dug my fingers around the jagged hole and yanked. It gave some. Val joined me and more came down.

When we finished, a pile of crap was underfoot and we were looking at a small wooden door.

She held the light up. “Your expedition, your honor.”

I nodded and opened the fine craftsmanship to reveal a leather portfolio. That was all. No treasure chest, no final words on a hand-held tape recorder.

“You okay?”

I nodded. “Can we go to your house? It’s getting dark and I don’t want to be here anymore.”

“Sure.” She started to gather the tools of obliteration.

The house
was
in good shape—or it had been until we did our own version of an extreme home makeover. Looks like I’d be overstaying my welcome at Mrs. Guerrero’s a little longer.

W
e cleaned up from our construction outing and sat opposite each other in Val’s kitchen, our find on the table between us.

I touched the cover and pulled away. It was like an old woman’s skin—thin, soft, and prone to fall apart at any moment.

“Would you like me to look?” Val said.

“Yes.”

She opened the portfolio, removed three journal pages and placed them on the table. They were covered in strange designs—it looked like some insane yet gifted tattoo artist had gone to town.

“This must be what my father’s after.”

“Natalie …” Trepidation was in her eyes. “These drawings look like the scars on your back.”

“Excuse me.”

I just made it to the bathroom. Not being able to bend my right knee too much makes it hard to pray to the porcelain god, but I managed. I was sitting on the tile floor, trying to process what Val said, when I heaved again.
Dammit!

A cool cloth appeared on the back of my neck.

“Thanks.” I grabbed ahold of the sink basin and leveraged myself up. “Sorry, I can’t believe I threw up.” I turned on the faucet and rinsed my mouth.

“Let’s go back into the kitchen.”

She handed me a Coke as we sat. I popped the tab and took a swig. The cola slid down my throat, washing the puke taste away.

“Can I see?”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she said.

I nodded and she slid the pages across the table. Meticulously hand-lettered instructions followed by exquisite drawings of creatures and unfamiliar symbols were laid upon the pages before me.

I looked up to see her staring at me. The worry on her face was intense.

“This is what’s on my back?”

She nodded. “Some, not all.”

I pushed the papers away.

“You can say no, and that would be fine.” I stopped, feeling very uncomfortable for what I was about to ask.

Val saw the scars on my back before they became scars. She used to put aloe and whatever else we could find at the drugstore on the wounds. I knew it upset her and hated to ask but she was the only one I trusted.

“Would you take a picture of my back? You don’t have to …”

She took a deep breath—the exhalation was slow and smooth.

“You’re an idiot. Of course I will.” She thumped me on the shoulder. “Do you want to do it now?”

I worried my lower lip and nodded.

Her office was huge. There were many machines about. Gadgets that kept Val connected to the rest of the world at all hours were in their cradles charging. You’ll have to forgive me—I’m far from tech savvy and don’t know the difference between the beasts.

She had wanted me to learn to text and IM. I gave her a firm no way. If she needed to talk to me, she knew where I was. None of that crap for me—I hate computers and a cell phone was a huge pain in the butt as far as I was concerned.

The shutters were closed all the way around the room. She went into the closet and pulled out an expensive-looking digital SLR. She pushed buttons, checked settings, and nodded to herself.

“Ready?”

“‘All right, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my closeup.’”

She rolled her eyes. “Too much of the classic movie channel for you.”

“Where do you want me?”

“You’re fine where you are. When you’re ready, we’ll take some shots.”

I turned away from her and my impending photo shoot. I stripped, but kept my shirt clutched in front of me. Modest, that’s me.

A few clicks and we were done.

“Sorry to ask you to do this,” I said as I got dressed.

“It’s okay.” She took the card thingy out of the camera and put it into a slot in the computer. “Let’s see what we have.”

She indicated for me to sit in the chair next to hers. She was clicking and doing things beyond my comprehension when my back appeared on the ginormous screen.

I’d never seen the scars before—I was always too afraid. I turned away.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said. “We’ll put it into a different context. It’ll be easier to look at, for both of us.”

“This is your gig. But you can skip the geek speak because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “Make yourself useful and get me some dessert.”

I wasn’t gone but a few minutes. When I came back, Val was looking over some printouts. She put them into the shredder.

“Here you go.” I put the lemon cake next to the computer.

Her eyes never left the screen, muttering about levels, making adjustments until she was satisfied. I tried not to watch.

“Better.” She took a forkful. “Oh, that’s good!”

I shook my head and couldn’t help but smile.

“Look.” She pointed to the screen. “They’re not as scary this way.”

“Holy crap!”

She’d transformed my back into black and white line drawings. She was right—putting it into a different framework helped big time.

My parents were artists in their own perverted right. If my back had been a true canvas, the work would have been extraordinary. The detail was unbelievable. The images brought memories that flowed through me like liquid fear.

I went into the living room and sat on the couch. I felt my gaze going distant—I was shutting down, just like I did back then.