Out of the Dark (10 page)

Raphael frowned as he leaned forward. “I could get a long stick, use it as a measure and check it out,” he offered.

“I don’t think so,” Luke said. “You don’t want to go wading with snakes.”

Raphael grunted, then shuddered. “Ugh. Snakes. I hate snakes.”

“Don’t we all?” Luke said.

“Then what should we do?” Jade asked.

Before Luke could answer, a pickup truck topped the hill from the other direction and then continued down the highway.

“There’s our answer,” Luke said. “We’ll be able to tell how deep it is from how high the water goes up on his wheels.”

To their relief, it was less than a foot, which meant they could cross easily. When the driver drew even with them, he stopped and rolled down his window.

“You can make it through easy enough,” he said. “But if you’re going farther than Little Bayou, I’d suggest you get a room at the motel and wait until the flood crests.”

“How far is Little Bayou?” Luke asked.

The man pointed behind him. “About four miles. There’s a decent enough motel and a couple of places to eat. Weatherman said the waters were due to crest here around midnight. Most of the roads are usually passable within six or eight hours after that.”

“Thanks a lot,” Luke said.

The driver smiled and nodded, then drove away.

“You guys okay with that?” Luke asked.

Jade glanced at Raphael and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Ever been to Little Bayou?” he asked.

“No,” Jade said.

“Ever heard of Little Bayou?” he added.

“No.”

He grinned. “Me either, so we’re all about to break new ground together, so to speak.”

After that, he put the car in gear and started down the hill.

Little Bayou Motel and Eats was exactly what one would have expected it to be. The rooms were small and plain, and the Eats portion of the establishment was simple, with a limited amount of choices on the menu. But due to the flooding, a few of the locals had taken rooms in the tiny motel, which left only one vacant room with two double beds. If they wanted a bed tonight, they were going to have to share the room.

Luke was apologetic about the situation as he paid for the room, but Raphael just shrugged it off with a grin.

“We’ve slept in lots of places that were worse, haven’t we, Jade? Besides, you can’t possibly snore any louder than Jade does.”

She punched Raphael on the arm, just as he expected her to do, and it eased the tension enough that they shared an easy chuckle.

Jade watched Luke when he wasn’t looking, trying to figure out what it was about him that made him different from other men. And he
was
different. That much she’d figured out. He seemed determined to get her back to this man who claimed to be her father, and at whatever cost. Except for Raphael, the men in her past had been sadly lacking in honor. She didn’t know what she thought about Luke Kelly, but she was no longer afraid of him.

“We’re in number ten,” Luke said. “You guys go unlock the door. I’ll get the bags.”

“I’ll help,” Raphael said.

Luke stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. I’ve got them,” he said, and gave him the room key. “Stay with Jade.”

Raphael hesitated, then nodded. Obviously Luke was trying to help him without giving away his illness to Jade.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and headed for the room, with Jade beside him.

The decor of the room was less than inspiring, but it was clean, and for Jade, that was a plus. Luke walked in behind them and set the bags on the floor.

“Take your pick of beds,” he said.

“The one next to the bathroom,” Jade said.

Raphael touched her face with the back of his hand and then looked at Luke and shrugged.

“She doesn’t like the dark. We usually sleep with a small light.”

“That’s fine,” Luke said, and sat down on the other bed. “Anyone hungry besides me?”

Food used to be Raphael’s favorite topic, but the past few weeks, it had become the last thing on his mind. However, admitting that would alert Jade that something was wrong with him, so he was the first to speak up.

“I could eat,” he said.

Jade grinned. “You can always eat.”

“Good,” Luke said. “Want to try out the Eats half of this fine establishment, or should we cruise the big town of Little Bayou to see what else is available?”

“I vote for eating here,” Raphael said. The closer they were to a bed, the better off he would be.

“Then here it is,” Luke said.

It was almost midnight. Luke had tried to sleep, but to no avail, although it wasn’t Raphael’s soft, uneven snore that was keeping him awake. It was the woman lying in Raphael’s arms.

He couldn’t see her face for the tangle of black hair spilling over Raphael’s forearm. She slept with her back to Raphael’s chest and his arms pulled over her like a child would clutch a blanket. Light from the parking lot outside illuminated enough of her body that Luke could tell she was dreaming. Her fingers kept opening and closing, as if she were making fists. Every now and then her leg would jerk and her feet would flatten out, like a person poised to run.

He could only imagine the hell they’d been through, living on the streets for so long. Part of him wanted to know the truth—to find a way to make it better. But another part of him feared it, knowing that the possibility existed that nothing could make it better—ever.

Suddenly there was a loud thump against their door and then the sound of a woman’s giggle and a man’s muffled curse. At the moment of impact, Jade started to scream. Before Luke could react, her hands were in the air, fighting off some unseen enemy as her body bucked on the bed.

“The light! The light!” Raphael shouted. “Turn on the light!”

Luke’s heart was pounding as he flipped the switch, instantly flooding the room with a soft yellow glow.

“Jade…honey…wake up! It’s a dream. It’s a dream. It’s only a dream.”

Her eyelids fluttered; then she went limp in his arms.

There were tears on Raphael’s cheeks as he pulled her closer to his chest.

“Oh, Rafie…the dreams…why won’t they stop?”

“Maybe because you haven’t drawn all the faces,” he said softly. “Do you want to draw his face?”

She was still for a moment, then nodded and rolled out of bed. Without looking at Luke, she dug through her bag and pulled out a large drawing pad and a stub of charcoal pencil.

“Do you want me to sit up with you?” Raphael asked.

She looked at him then, as if seeing him for the first time. He was pale and drawn and thinner than he should have been. Clutching the pad against her breast, she took a step forward.

“Rafie?”

“What, baby?”

Her heart was thumping against her rib cage like a trapped bird. She was afraid of the answer, but she had to ask.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Stunned by the tableau unfolding before him, Luke could do nothing but hold his breath, like Jade, waiting to hear what Raphael would say.

But Raphael only shook his head and pointed to the pad of paper.

“Draw the face, baby. Draw the face, and then he’ll be gone.”

She started to argue, then feared to press him for more. It occurred to her that she might not want to hear the truth. Her focus shifted, her mind sliding back to the face that had haunted her dream. Stumbling toward a chair, she sat down, then crossed her legs beneath her. Using her lap for a table, she opened the pad. Her fingers trembled as the first stroke of charcoal marked the page. After that, everything faded from her mind but recreating the image of the man who had caused her such pain.

Luke sat on the side of the bed, watching the intensity of her face, judging the anger in her by the hard, angry strokes of the pen.

An hour passed, and then another. Just when Luke thought she would pass out from exhaustion, her hand suddenly stopped. She lifted it from the page as if something ugly lay beneath and then laid down the pad.

“Raphael?”

He rose up from the pillow, almost as if he’d been waiting for the call. Without speaking, he lifted up the cover.

Jade stumbled past Luke, then fell into Raphael’s arms. He rolled her up within his embrace, resting his chin on the crown of her head as she sighed and closed her eyes.

Luke was shaking as he finally lay back. The window unit of the old air conditioner was blowing across his feet as he pulled the covers up to his waist and closed his eyes. As he lay waiting for sleep, he remembered the drawing pad and quickly sat up. He wanted to look at what she’d drawn but was afraid that if they caught him, they would think he was snooping.

Still, the need to see the face that had caused her such pain was uppermost in his mind. He slid his legs to the side of the bed and then stood. He wouldn’t look at them—couldn’t look at them without feeling like the outsider that he was. The bond between them was like nothing he’d ever seen. To be that close and share nothing but platonic love seemed impossible, but then, he had not lived in their shoes.

Quietly he moved toward the chair where Jade had been sitting and picked up the drawing pad, then carried it to the bathroom. But the tiny night-light wasn’t enough for him to see what she’d drawn, so he eased the door shut and then turned on the light.

It was then that he realized what a skilled artist Jade Cochrane was. The face on the paper did everything but breathe. The hair on the man’s head was drawn so skillfully against the shape of his face that it appeared mobile. The eyes were so lifelike that Luke had to look twice to convince himself that they had not blinked. It was the face of an ordinary man, without artifice or guile, and yet Luke knew that behind that bland smile was a man with an evil soul.

“What did you do to her to make her cry? What hole in hell did you crawl out of to make her come apart like that?”

But there were no answers this night for Luke, only more questions to add to the ones he already had that had gone unanswered.

Reluctantly he turned out the overhead light, laid the pad back in the chair and returned to his bed. Certain that he would never be able to sleep, he closed his eyes. When he opened them, it was morning.

“No, no, baby…not like that. Move a little closer. Right. Now lean forward…okay, perfect! Now, Mario, take her breast in your mouth and cup her hips with your hands.” Otis Jacks turned around and pointed to the makeup man. “Ving! Spray them down. I want their skin to have a dewy glow, like they’ve been fucking for hours.”

A small oriental man hurried forward with a spray bottle of oil and water and began misting the actors’ nude bodies.

Otis narrowed his eyes, then stepped back for a better view before looking through the camera lens. Obviously he liked what he saw, because when he looked up, he was smiling.

“Yeah, like that. Now get it on, people! We got a film to finish.”

The nude couple began writhing and humping in fake ecstasy, taking turns with the moans and groans while the cameras rolled.

Otis poured himself a fresh drink, added some ice, then sat back in his director’s chair and sipped at the liquor until the scene was finished. Just then the woman arched her back to simulate an orgasm. He took a stiff drink and then pointed toward at the man.

“Okay, stud boy, she’s hot. She’s wet. She’s all over you. Drive it home. I don’t have all day.”

The stallion-hung male lifted the woman off the bed and slammed her against the wall, where he proceeded to finish the act.

“Cut! Print!” Otis yelled, then downed the rest of his drink and stood. “That’s a wrap! I’ve got an appointment in thirty minutes.”

The actor set the woman down on her feet and then slapped her bare rear with the flat of his hand before strutting naked toward his dressing room. The actress picked up a robe and put it on, then took a cell phone out of her pocket. Like Otis Jacks, she was through for the day and planning her night.

Otis paused at the door and yelled at his stage manager. “Hey, Tiny, make sure everything is locked up.” Then he strode out the door.

At sixty-three, Otis was on what he called his third life. He’d been born Nigel Bates, in Concord, New Hampshire, and lived with that name until he was thirty. It was during a sermon on Easter Sunday that it occurred to him that there was more to life than selling radios and televisions in Detroit. The following morning he kissed his wife and two children goodbye and left for work as always. Only one thing was different about that Monday from all of the other Mondays in Nigel Bates’s life. He didn’t bother to come home.

He emptied his bank account with no thought for what would happen to his family, gassed up his Volkswagen van and headed west to San Francisco. Six months later his hair was hanging past his shoulders and he was wearing Nehru jackets and love beads and calling himself Solomon. That gig lasted long enough to destroy countless lives and families before he began to get nervous. Someone spilled the beans to the Iowa welfare department that there were children living with the People of Joy who’d never seen the inside of a school. Around ten o’clock on a rainy Monday night, he’d packed his bags and left without telling his dwindling followers goodbye. Friends were not something he collected, and it meant nothing to him that he was abandoning them to face the devastation that he’d wrought.