Within the Shadows Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One - ENTRANCES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part Two - LOVE CRAZY

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  HELO ANDREW

  DONT BE SCARD

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  CAINT RUN ANDREW

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  WHO ARE YOU?

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Part Three - HIDE

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue

  New York, NY 10022

  Copyright © 2005 by Brandon Massey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

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  Dafina Books and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN 0-7582-1069-8

  First Kensington Trade Paperback Printing: June 2005

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  At half-past seven o’clock on the evening of May fifteenth, Andrew Wilson was riding back to Atlanta with his father, only a few minutes away from the accident that would change his life forever.

  Immersed in thought, Andrew gazed out the passenger side window of the Ford Expedition. A thunderstorm was brewing. Like an advancing army, a front of dark clouds chased away the sunlight. Gusts skirled around the truck and flung dead leaves across the windshield. Far in the distance, lightning slashed the horizon.

  Sighing, Andrew turned away from the window and glanced at his father behind the steering wheel.

  “Looks like a storm’s coming,” Andrew said, stating the obvious.

  “Sure is,” Dad said. “We’ll have to cut right though it.”

  Thunder grumbled, a sound that echoed in Andrew’s bones.

  Pondering something else to say—and hesitant to speak the thoughts that weighed on his mind—Andrew studied his father. Almost six feet tall, Raymond West was lean and muscular, with big hands that could palm a basketball as easily as a cantaloupe. He had a cinnamon complexion, laugh lines delicately drawn into his youthful face. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short. His goatee was so meticulously cut it might have been sketched with a fine pencil.

  Dapper as always, his father wore a tan polo shirt, khakis, and a Kangol golf hat. A sleek Movado watch glimmered on one sinewy wrist; a gold bracelet sparkled on the other.

  Whenever Andrew looked at his father, he had the impression of viewing himself, twenty years older.

  Sensing his scrutiny, Dad turned. His deep-brown eyes were curious. “Something on your mind, son?”

  “Just wanted to say that I had fun this weekend.” A knot formed in his throat. For a moment, he was unable to say another word—and he had left much unsaid.

  He wasn’t accustomed to sharing positive comments with his dad about their relationship.

  They drove on Interstate 16, heading back to Atlanta after spending a day and a half in Savannah. They’d arrived on the coast late Friday afternoon, had dinner at a seafood restaurant, and rose the next morning for a seven o’clock tee time. After playing eighteen holes, they hung out at the clubhouse, ate an early dinner, napped at the hotel, and hit the road to return home.

  It was the longest duration of time that Andrew had spent with his father in nineteen years. The experience left him with a lot that he wanted to say, but he lacked the words to adequately express himself.

  It frustrated him. He was a writer; he’d published three suspense novels to growing acclaim, had ditched his computer programmer job to write full-time and had never looked back. He earned his living with words—but right then, he felt no more articulate than a newborn baby.

  A pitchfork of lightning stabbed the earth, followed by a burst of thunder. Wind rattled the elms and maples that flanked the highway.

  “We had a good time.” Dad grinned. “I’m not such a bad guy to hang with, am I?”

  Andrew cleared his throat, breaking up the lump there. “You’re all right for an old man.”

  “Old man, huh? This old man spanked you out there.”

  “You got some lucky shots. Come on, man, you had two eagles. That was a once in a lifetime game.”

  “All in a day’s work for a scratch player like me, young buck.” Dad smiled.

  “Wanna bet it happens next time?”

  “Ah, man, you know . . .”

  “Thought so,” Andrew said.

  Dad laughed. So did Andrew. They’d done a lot of laughing together on this trip, and it felt good. It felt strange, he admitted, to be having so much fun with his father, but it was good, all the same.

  “I’ll just say this. Wait till you hit fifty,” Dad said. “If you’re in half as good a shape as I am, you better count your blessings. I know I do. Half of the cats I grew up with are dead.”

  “I hear ya.”

  On the CD player, Marvin Gaye sang “What’s Going On.” For their drive, Andrew had recorded a disc of classic R&B tracks.

  “You got the jams on there.” Dad tapped the steering wheel.

  “Old school is all I mostly listen to.”

  “That so?”

  “The music was better back then. It wasn’t about dropping your booty to the floor and rolling in a Bentley. Back in the day, they played their own instruments, sang about political issues and real love, you k
now?”

  “Yeah, I know, but you don’t know.” Dad chuckled. “That was before your time, man.”

  “You might be surprised.” He had loved old-school music for as long as he could remember, a romance that started with his mother spinning vinyl records in their house—Stevie Wonder, The Ohio Players, Chaka Kahn, George Clinton and Parliament, the S.O.S. Band—all of the greats. But, of course, his father wouldn’t know anything about his musical tastes. Shortly after Andrew was born, his parents, who’d never married, broke up, and his father had rarely visited—certainly, never often enough to learn anything meaningful about him.

  But that had begun to change two months ago, when his dad had called him and asked if he wanted to play golf.

  Their newfound relationship awakened a bewildering blend of emotions in Andrew: excitement, anxiety, confusion. He was excited to be finally forging what appeared to be a true bond with his father. He was anxious that the connection wouldn’t endure, was false, and that they’d regress to the superficial friendliness they’d used to have. And he was confused: Why had his father decided to reach out to him, after ignoring him for the first thirty years of his life?

  He wanted to discuss all of these things with his father. But as skilled as he was at expressing himself with the written word, verbalizing his feelings often proved a challenge.

  Lightning opened a fissure in the bruised sky. Thunder bellowed.

  Rain began to fall from the ruptured heavens, snapping against the windshield, painting the world in hues of gray and black.

  Switching on the wipers, his father leaned forward.

  The time for serious discussion with his dad had passed. He needed to let his father concentrate on driving.

  Once again, he’d failed to open up with his dad.

  The CD moved to the next track: “Footsteps in the Dark,” by The Isley Brothers. A mellow song. Andrew lay back and closed his eyes, letting the drumming rain lull him into a state of relaxation.

  When he felt the truck drifting sideways, he opened his eyes.

  Dad had veered onto an exit ramp.

  “Where are we going?” Andrew asked. The fuel gauge hovered near the Full mark. “Do you need to use the rest room?”

  “Nah, nah,” Dad said. “Need to . . . see something.”

  His father’s voice, normally energetic, had taken on a dreamy quality.

  They reached the end of the rain-slick ramp. His father turned right.

  It was a twisty, two-lane road, lined with tall elms and maples. Between the tightly packed trees, Andrew glimpsed rundown mobile homes and dilapidated barns.

  He got that uneasy feeling that he always experienced when traveling through rural areas in the Deep South. In remote places like this, you were fortunate to get service on your cell phone. He was a city dweller, preferred to be connected and in the midst of urban civilization.

  “Where are we?” Andrew asked.

  “Bulloch County,” Dad said in a hushed voice. “My old stomping grounds.”

  “Oh, yeah, you went to Georgia Southern. That’s in Statesboro, right?”

  “Yeah,” Dad said. “A ways ahead.”

  “You gonna drive by the school?”

  His father’s response was so soft that Andrew had to lower the music’s volume to hear him.

  “No,” Dad said. “Be quiet, Andrew.”

  A frown creased Andrew’s face.

  His dad was acting strange.

  The wipers could not keep up with the hammering rain. No street lamps illuminated their path, and the headlights barely reached beyond ten feet.

  Nevertheless, his father plowed down the road at sixty miles an hour.

  Andrew checked that his seat belt was fastened.

  The road curved to the left. They swung through the turn, wings of water sprouting from underneath the truck.

  “Maybe you should slow down,” Andrew said.

  “Maybe you should keep your mouth shut.” Dad spoke in a whisper, but his tone was firm.

  Andrew blinked. What was going on here?

  His dad hunched forward, gaze searching the darkness. His fingers gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were pale white.

  He had never seen this side of his father. This man driving was like a disturbing twin to the easygoing guy who had been boasting about his golf game only five minutes ago.

  He realized how little he knew about his dad. Certainly, he knew a lot of the basics: His father was fifty-one years old, lived in Lithonia, owned a successful real estate brokerage, had been married for over a decade, attended a Baptist church every Sunday and served as a deacon, and loved golf, the Atlanta Falcons, and Heineken beer.

  But he knew only surface details about his father. He didn’t know what really made him tick.

  Now, he felt as if he were literally on a wild ride into the unknown depths of his dad’s psyche.

  The Ford burrowed through the rain. His father pushed the truck hard, braking only lightly for curves.

  A sign flashed past: Millville City Limits.

  Millville? Andrew had never heard of the town.

  A road on the left floated into view. “Dead End,” a nearby sign stated.

  His father swerved into the turn.

  “Take it easy, Dad.” Andrew braced his arm against the dashboard.

  Hunkered over the wheel, his father ignored him.

  Trees cloaked the road in a dark womb.

  If they’d turned onto a dead end street, whatever his dad was searching for must be back there.

  But what could it be?

  The road twisted to the right.

  Barely slowing, his father wrestled the wheel into the curve.

  A hulking, white-tail deer stood in the middle of the road. The animal stared at them vacantly, nailed in place by the Ford’s headlights.

  Terror seized Andrew’s heart.

  “Stop, you’re gonna hit it!” he said.

  Crying out, as if frightened awake from a slumber, his father spun the wheel and pumped the brakes.

  Skidding, getting no grip on the slippery pavement, the Ford tilted precariously—and tipped too far to regain its balance. The vehicle turned over with a bone-jarring crash and a squeal of tortured metal. Andrew bit his tongue, tasted coppery blood, screamed, and prayed that they wouldn’t die.

  Andrew awoke with a gasp.

  Dull pain pulsated throughout his body, as if he’d been tumbling inside a giant washing machine. He blinked, tried to determine his surroundings.

  His situation became apparent: he was in the truck. Upside down. Sandwiched between the seat and the roof.

  But he was alive.

  It took several seconds for him to get oriented to this upside-down world. The airbags had deployed, the puffy material pressed against his upper body. He pushed the bag away, turned his head. Pain leaped through his neck.

  When he saw his dad, he forgot all about his own discomfort.

  Tangled like a rag doll, thrown upside down, his father was mashed against the driver’s side door. His back faced Andrew, but his shoulders rose and fell slowly.

  He was alive.

  Thank God for two miracles today.

  “Dad?” His tongue felt like a loose piece of meat in his mouth. “You okay?”

  Dad didn’t respond.

  The Ford’s engine idled. Rain sifted inside through the cracked windshield. A rumble of thunder shook the ground.

  He had to get out of there and get help.

  Although it hurt to move, he contorted his body, stretched his arm and grasped the door handle. He pulled.

  The door eeked open. Cold rain and wind poured inside.

  He began to squirm through the door, feet first. Remembering that the engine was on, he reached behind and turned the key in the ignition, shutting the truck off.

  He kicked the door open, crawled through mud and struggled to his feet.

  He was relieved to discover that he could stand and walk. He had no serious injuries. He was mostly
woozy, and his neck ached, too, more than any other part of his body. Probably had a minor case of whiplash.

  He wiped muck out of his eyes and viewed the wreck.

  The Ford had flipped over and spun into a ditch. The nose of the vehicle was buried in the trench; the rear pointed skyward. The roof was smashed as if stomped by a gigantic foot, and the front end was mangled.

  It was incredible that he’d survived. He felt a distinct sense of unreality, as if he were watching an accident that someone else had wound up in.

  The deer that his father had tried to avoid stood on the edge of the road, unharmed. It watched him, as perfectly posed as a gazelle on a merry-go-round.

  Andrew met the animal’s liquid-black gaze.

  “See what you did to us?” he said. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw. “This is your fault!”

  The deer only stared at him.

  Did malice gleam in the animal’s eyes, as if it were aware of what it had done?

  No, that was impossible. Only his overactive imagination at work.

  The deer sniffed, trotted into the woods.

  He felt stupid for talking to the animal in the first place. He had to settle down.

  The street was deserted. It terminated about a hundred feet ahead, in a wall of trees.

  Perhaps thirty feet away, he saw what appeared to be an entrance to a driveway. An ornate, wrought iron mailbox stood nearby.

  If there was a house back there, trees and shrubbery concealed it from view.

  Was this the place that his father had wanted to visit?

  Dizziness washed over him. He bent over, drew a few deep breaths, to steady himself.

  What would Mark Justice do in this situation?

  The familiar question came to his mind, automatically.

  Mark Justice was the pen name under which he published his thriller novels. In media interviews, he referred to Mark Justice as “my heroic alter ego.”