Listen to the Shadows

Listen To The Shadows

By

Joan Hall Hovey

Published By:

Books We Love Ltd.

(Electronic Book Publishers)

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta T1X 1C2

http://bookswelove.net

ISBN: 978-0-9867514-7-9

Copyright Joan Hall Hovey 2009

Cover Art Copyright Michelle Lee 2012

Dedication

For Mel

Prologue

Beneath his attic room, the house slept.

Stealthily, he made his way along the darkened hallway, stopping at a door with green, peeling paint, and heard the familiar scraping of wood on linoleum as the door opened inward. His callused, blunt fingers groped along the inside wall to his left, found the switch and flicked it on. Instantly, the cramped space was washed in harsh light from the single bulb hanging from the ceiling. A few pieces of scarred, make-do furniture included a single cot covered by a worn-thin, gray army blanket drawn so smooth and taut he could have bounced a quarter from its center. Though shabby, the room was painstakingly neat.

Wearing an air of contained excitement, he strode across the room to the calendar, which hung from the wall like a window-blind. It advertised A & R Realty in black lettering. Peeling back the months of September and October, he took the pen clipped to his shirt pocket, and drew a red circle around the “5” in the month of November. The fifth fell on a Sunday. Not that it mattered. The man regarded the carefully drawn circle for a few seconds then dropped the pages, letting them whisper back in to place. He moved to a table with rickety legs that managed to support his double hotplate and also served as his dining table. He opened the table’s single drawer, and from beneath a red, plastic flatware tray that held only a steak knife, fork, spoon, can-opener and butcher knife, he withdrew a familiar, soiled and yellowing envelope. His hand trembled as he shook the picture from the envelope.

As he had for many months now, with almost religious dedication, he studied her features, letting his gaze travel over her long, shapely body. She wore shorts and a halter-top. Long brown hair blew in the breeze. She smiled out at him in open invitation, almond shaped eyes crinkling a little at the corners. Her feet were bare.

The wait was over. Finally. Triumph raced through him, settled like molten lava in his loins. He welcomed the almost painful arousal. Katie Summers. His patience would be rewarded at last. The debt would be collected.

On November fifth. The day he would kill her.

His eyes lowered to the butcher knife in the drawer, and he reached in and picked it up. He gripped the black wooden handle, liking the feel—the heft of it. Slowly, thoughtfully, he ran the thumb and forefinger of his left hand over the flat of the blade. Up and down, up and down. Stroking, stroking, until gradually a dull film crept over his eyes. Abruptly the rhythmic movement of his hand stopped. His eyes cleared. He tossed the knife back into the drawer where it clattered to silence.

No. That was not the way he would do it. It felt wrong. And everything must be exactly right. He’d waited a long time. As his gaze returned to the girl in the photograph, inspiration flashed in his mind. Yes, there was a much better way. A perfect way. A slow smile spread across his features—one that entirely missed his pale, cold eyes.

Ah, yes, Katie Summers, he thought. You will most definitely be worth the wait.

Chapter 1

Katie Summers breathed in the tangy salt-sea air that wafted in through the screened windows of the Surfside Restaurant to blend with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

Outside the glass upper section of her window, she could see as white gulls dipped and soared, now gliding on a swift current of air, their free spirits causing Katie a moment of envy. On the horizon, setting October sun, a great orange disc, slid slowly into the sea, streaking the blue sky with spectacular mauves, pinks and gold, cutting a red-bronze path across the water. The scene took Katie’s breath. She almost wished she’d brought her paints and easel. She would come here by herself sometime before winter set in, find a perfect vantage point, and paint to her heart’s content.

Across from her, Drake Devlin said, “I take it you approve.”

It both surprised and touched her to see the anxious expression on Drake’s boyishly handsome face. “Approve?” she said, keeping her tone deliberately light. “A woman would have to be totally without romance in her soul not to appreciate all this.” Teasing, she added, “The view—the champagne…” She grinned and sipped her wine. The bubbles tickled her nose. Looking at Drake over the rim of her glass, she decided she rather liked the smattering of freckles across his tanned cheeks. Maybe partly because she knew they came not from lounging on a sandy beach somewhere, but from long, hot days of toiling on his father’s farm.

“For someone who’s got his heart set on becoming a lawyer, Drake Devlin, you are an incredibly romantic man.”

“Someone tell you lawyers aren’t romantic?”

Katie smiled.

Drake drew forward in his chair, his gaze holding Katie’s with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. “You inspire me, lady,” he said softly, and clinked his glass against hers. “Here’s to inspiration.”

An innocent enough toast, and Katie drank to it. Yet she felt as if the air in the room had thinned slightly; she had the uneasy sensation of going too fast, and in a direction she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to travel. Her hand moved to the frilly collar of her gold crepe blouse.

She found herself wishing for a cigarette; it would give her something to do with her hands. But she had given up that increasingly unpopular habit more than two years ago.

Returning her attention to the view outside her window, Katie began to get second thoughts about the wisdom of finally agreeing to a dinner date with Drake. Had she made a mistake?

Drake had been looking at her in that I-mean-to-possess-you way for over a month now. He refused absolutely to take no as a serious response to his repeated requests for a date. Katie was the only one surprised when he finally wore her down.

Determination and persistence showed in the square, slightly jutting jaw, and Katie had to admit to a certain admiration for those qualities. You didn’t get too far in this world without them. She liked to think she also possessed her own fair share of determination and persistence, particularly when it came to her work. But she sensed in Drake a drive far more powerful than her own. It frightened her a little—made her feel threatened. Katie tended to shy away from serious, intense men. And Drake certainly was that.

Thinking about it now, she realized that it had been months since she’d accepted a date with anyone, serious or otherwise. Not that she didn’t get a respectable number of offers, but somehow they rarely seemed worth the effort. Katie suspected she was fast becoming the stereotypical “old maid”—set in her ways, jealously guarding her “space,” needing only her work to sustain her. Yet it was directly the result of that work which led to her high mood, and ultimately to her being here with Drake.

Despite Katie’s insistence that she wasn’t close to being ready yet, Mr. Jackson, her art teacher, had submitted several of her paintings to the local art gallery for showing. All were now garnering high marks from patrons and critics alike. Two of her paintings had
even sold. Belleville was a small town, but it showed a strong appreciation for and awareness of the arts. The praise had done much for Katie’s often flagging confidence, which her friend and mentor, Jason, put down to a lack of encouragement and support while growing up. Her parents had just been so busy ripping each other apart there wasn’t much room for anything else.

It was not so surprising that, at thirty-six years old, reading favorable comments about her work in the local paper had a deliciously heady effect.

“Where did you go, Katie?”

“I’m sorry, Drake,” she said, turning to him and flushing guiltily. “Did you say something?”

He raised an eyebrow then smiled, mildly accusing, at Katie. “We were drinking a toast to inspiration,” he said. “Or at least I was.” He smoothed his sandy, slightly receding hair across his broad forehead. “What were you so deep in thought about, Katie? Or is that an intrusion?”

“Not at all. Actually, it’s sort of in keeping with your toast. I was thinking about my exhibit at the gallery.” Said aloud, it sounded terribly immodest, self-absorbed, and insensitive. But she felt a kid’s excitement at the success of her showing and wanted to share it.

“Your painting means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

She admitted that it did. My painting is everything to me. It ’ s my life, my purpose. Unconsciously, she reached for a strand of long, beige-blonde hair, and thoughtfully began to wind it about her finger.

“I think it’s great you have a hobby you enjoy,” Drake said and Katie’s fingers froze in mid-curl. Her hand dropped from her hair; the curl sprang loose. But before she could launch a verbal attack, a smiling young woman in a pink crocheted mini-dress approached their table, a basket of matching roses draped about her neck.

“Half a dozen,” Drake said at once, already reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“No, please, Drake. I really don’t want…”

She would have had to make a royal scene to stop him. Feeling a confusing blend of pleasure and annoyance, Katie arranged the roses in her glass of water. She couldn’t resist sniffing their sweet, heady fragrance.

She decided not to let Drake’s overly sexist and condescending remark spoil the evening. She doubted it had been deliberate, and he was, after all, knocking himself out to please her.

“The flowers are lovely, Drake,” she said, moving the makeshift vase to the center of the snowy tablecloth. “Thank you.” Drake caught her hand in his warm, strong grip. “They’re not half as lovely as you, Katie.” He gazed so dolefully into Katie’s eyes that she had to look away. For a brief, panicky moment she almost laughed. As casually as she could manage, she slipped her hand free and placed both primly in her lap, as if for safe keeping.

A sheepish grin crossed Drake’s face. “You’re right. I do come on a little strong, don’t I? I guess it’s just that I’ve always had to work so damned hard for anything I wanted, I never learned there was any other way.”

She, of all people, should have understood that. Katie wished she could say something that would erase the look of hurt from his face, but could think of nothing that Drake wouldn’t take as further encouragement, so she remained silent.

“I don’t mean to rush you, Katie.”

After a pause, she said, “I know that. But—just friends for now— okay, Drake?”

“You got it.” He looked relieved at the hint of promise in her words. Then, abruptly, he raised his glass to her. “In any event,” he said heartily, “champagne is for celebrating, and I believe a celebration is in order.”

More than receptive to having things on a lighter note, Katie raised her own glass, saying brightly, “Oh? What’s the occasion? Your birthday?”

“Oh, much, much better than that. At least I think so, and I hope you’ll agree.”

He was keeping his tone deliberately mysterious, but it suddenly occurred to Katie what Drake’s news might be. A rush of excitement coursed through her, replacing her discomfort of a moment ago. But she wouldn’t guess aloud and ruin his surprise.

“Well, tell me, for heaven’s sake. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

Drake’s face lit in a wide, pleased grin. “Okay, I won’t. Aside from the incredible fact of your sitting here across from me, no mean feat in itself, I might add, I think it’s safe to say you might just be dining out with Belleville’s own Perry Mason.”

“Oh, Drake, you’ve done it. You’ve passed your bar exams,” Katie said, impulsively leaning across the table to kiss his cheek. “Congratulations!” His boast had been made lightly, but she didn’t have to be clairvoyant to see the pride of achievement written all over him. “And you’re damned right it’s something to drink to. So let’s.” Katie allowed her voice to take on a more warm and intimate quality. “I couldn’t possibly be more pleased for you, Drake. And I am truly honored that you chose to share your special moment with me.”

Drake surprised Katie by dropping his eyes, seeming almost shy. It was a side of him she had never seen before. “Your saying that means a lot to me, Katie. You can’t know how much.”

The waiter came and took their orders for dinner: the house specialty—seafood platters with baked potato and sour cream, steamed broccoli in cheese sauce. Katie felt relaxed for the first time since they’d arrived. She asked Drake why he’d waited so long to go to university. He must have been near her own age, and maybe closer to forty. “Why not—well, when you finished high school?” She had her own reasons for not having pursued her art career in the usual way, but she wanted to hear his.

“The Vietnam war came along,” he said, a bitter note creeping into his voice. “That stopped me.”

She nodded in understanding. “Yes. The war stopped a lot of people.” Some permanently, she thought. “But I have no real regrets,” Drake said, reaching for the carafe to refill both their glasses. “I believe if a man wants to live in a free country, he should be willing to fight for that freedom. I get a little sick of all the bleeding hearts.”

Katie was taken aback by the venom in his voice. “A patriotic man?” she said. “Commendable.”

“That didn’t sound as if you meant it.”

“I’m sorry, Drake,” she said, forcing a thin smile. “Of course I mean it. It’s just that, like a lot of people—bleeding hearts, as you call them—I can’t help thinking there must be a better way of settling our differences than killing one another. We’re all supposed to be so civilized…”

Drake folded his arms across his broad chest, leaned back in his chair. “And what do you think the answer is, Katie?” The question had a ring of challenge. Katie felt the evening beginning to sour. “I don’t pretend to have the answers, Drake. I’m not smart enough. But I do care enough to question.”

He looked at her in what seemed to Katie begrudging admiration. “Well said. And, of course, you’re absolutely right. Let’s not talk about it anymore.” As though on cue the waiter came with their dinner.

The waiter removed the globe from the candleholder and lit the candle with a match from the card of matches in the ashtray. The tiny flame sent shadows to play on the white tablecloth, shadows that vanished as the globe was returned.

“Enjoy your meal,” he said, flashing a young, toothy smile.

Outside the sun had gone down, leaving only a fading smear of color on the horizon. Only a few gulls still circled. Katie concentrated on her food. “This looks delicious,” she said, picking up her fork.

The conversation moved on pleasantly enough, and Katie was relieved to have the strained moment behind them. Shortly into the meal, Drake asked her to accompany him to a dinner party being held in his honor on Saturday night. “Professor Walters’ generous nature,” he said. “Ordinarily, of course, I would have graduated with my class, but since spring means planting to a farmer and Dad’s not as young as he used to be, that wasn’t possible. But I’m not complaining. I was grateful for summer extension classes.” Drake heaped sour cream on his baked potato.

“It must have been terribly disappointing, Drake, after all your hard work, not to be able to graduate with your classmates.”

He shrugged and grinned. “Oh, I probably would have felt like the senior citizen of the crowd, anyway. Too, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to ask you to be my guest at dinner.”

Katie had to marvel at Drake’s special knack of always being able to find the silver lining in every cloud.

***

At Belleville General Hospital, Dr. Jonathan Shea, head of psychiatry, sat behind his desk staring blankly at the wall in front of him, his phone off the hook. It had been off the hook since he’d received the call informing him that one of his patients, Jodie

Williams, had OD’d on heroin, and was now lying on a slab in the morgue, her toe tagged for I.D. Sixteen, for Christ’s sake. Sixteen and dead. Why hadn’t he been able to reach her? He’d thought it was all going well. He’d thought there was progress. He glanced in disdain at the degrees and diplomas hanging on the wall like so many framed obscene jokes. What the hell good were they? What did they mean?

Sighing heavily, he replaced the receiver and remembered to put out a fresh box of tissues.

He had a patient waiting. A middle-aged man who would spend most of the session in tears. He was being eased out of his position as sales manager in a company he’d given faithful service to for over thirty years, as well as a piece of his soul. His whole identity was tied up in his job. He reminded Jonathan of Willie Loman in Arthur Miller’s “Death of a Salesman.” He even looked a little like Dustin Hoffman.