Doug Welch - Shadow Games

Shadows In the night, surrounded by shadows, the worldvibrates with superstitious fear.

Remember, never huddle in despair. Shadows are created bythe light.

I was jolted awaketo the sound of a scream, halfway between a cry of anguish and ahowl of rage.

Paaaris!

Aware but disoriented, I had the irrational urge to hit the dirtto cower from mortar fire.

No, not Iraq. I am at home, safe.

I finally shook it off and leaped out of bed. The sound had comefrom below. I had slept in my underwear, so I jerked on my jeans,exited the bedroom, and thundered down the stairs.

Paris! The shout came from the study. It was still dark, so Iswitched on the hall light.

I hurried into the study to find my sister at the entrance. Herface was red and she was shaking. She held a baseball bat over abody of a man slumped near dad's desk. I hurried into the room andclicked on the study light.

What the hell, I thought, still disoriented. Then I saw thedispatch case, open on the desk. Alongside the case was a manilaenvelope; near the envelope, lay a few sheets of paper.

Alex looked up as I approached her. This bastard was trying tosteal the case!

I had just been roused from a sound sleep. It didn't do anythingfor my concentration. In addition, I hadn't had much rest. I kneltand felt the unconscious man's pulse. Call 911. Did you hit thisguy?

As though paralyzed, she didn't move,. I couldn't sleep, and Iwent down to the kitchen for a glass of water. I heard noisescoming from the study. So I found my old baseball bat and took itwith me to check things out. I saw this guy rummaging through thecase. When he saw me, he lunged at me, so I hit him hard. Did Ikill him? Her eyes were wide.

No, I don't think so, but he's not going to be happy when heregains consciousness. I think I'd better stand guard while youcall the police.

Alex handed me the bat, and gingerly stepped over theunconscious man to make the call. I could hear her as she dialed911 and reported the incident to the dispatcher.

She turned to gaze at the burglar. The police are on their way. What was this guy after?

Could be he was just looking for stuff, and ran across thecase.

No. He was reading one of the papers.

I gestured to the items on the table. Is this all that was init?

I dont know. If I had opened it, I would have cataloged eachitem. Now theres no way to prove anything.

Let's leave it until the police get here.

Alex went to the front door of the house when the police arrivedand let them in. Two uniformed officers called an ambulance, andthe still unconscious burglar was carried away in handcuffs. Theycautioned us to leave things as they were, and the investigatorwould arrive shortly.

It was dawn before anyone came to the farm. I only visitedJamestown occasionally since I had returned from Iraq, so I did notrecognize either of the two officers who responded. One was ayoung, attractive dish-water blond female in uniform, and the otherwas an older man in plain clothes. He introduced himself asDetective Simmons, and the female as Officer Kelly. Simmons darkbrown hair grayed at the temples, and his matching gray eyes drewlaugh lines as he talked to Alex. He seemed amused when sheadmitted she had hit the intruder.

Technically, The kitchen door wasnt locked, so this is a caseof unlawful entry to commit theft, not a breaking and entering. ButI think we can get him for assault, since he made a move at you,Alex, he laughed, even though it wasn't a wise move.

I didnt find the situation humorous. I don't think this isfunny, Detective. Alex could have been hurt.

We know, Mister Fox, you guys should lock your doors, OfficerKelly said.

I felt both outraged and disillusioned. Who in hell locks theirdoors in Jamestown?

Simmons stared at me. You've been away from town for a while,haven't you?

I sensed where he led. I live in Covington.

Then you should know better.

I didnt reply. I knew he was right, but home should be safe,not like a big city.

Alex tried to defend me. Paris was in Iraq. He's only been backfor a year.

Welcome home. Simmonss face flashed a cynical grin.

After the officers completed their investigation and departed,we returned to the case that lay on the table.

Alex prodded the flap of the case. I wonder what the thiefwanted?

It may be something in that large envelope. It was in thedispatch case. I stared with aversion at the antique dispatch caseand the letter that lay beside it. The memories of the previousnight were still fresh in my mind. Memories that I wanted toforget, painful revelations that were destined to change my lifeforever.

I t was a day bothbeautiful and melancholy.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the early spring leaves,weaving a rippling pattern of light across the living room floor. Ireclined on the couch, silently gazing at my twin sister, while shestared at the front yard through the picture window. The slantingsunlight was streaming through her long, thick, chestnut-brownhair. Her amber eyes were red-rimmed from crying.

Let it go, I said.

She turned and replied, this isnt easy.

No, it isn't.

You don't understand. I cant do that again, Paris. I smelledthem on everything I touched. I felt like an intruder as if Iwas violating them Those things were their things. It was theirbedroom.

I know I felt the same way.

Theyve only been gone for seven days, but I feel like it wasthe longest seven days of my life. She turned back to thewindow.

I swallowed a hard painful tightness in my throat. Sorrow beganto consume me. I remembered when I learned of their passing; deep,shattering sobs rocked like an earthquake inside my body. I thinkall men secretly fear grief. We experience it so deeply it makes usfeel helpless. No, I would bury it deep, so deep, it could neverfind me.

After a while I said. We have to do this, Alex.

No! not their bedroom not again.

I decided to try to break the mood. Alex, I'm having secondthoughts about selling this place.

She turned again to look at me. She wore a somber expression.There are a lot of good memories here, Paris. Maybe we shouldntsell it.

I lived in Covington, Kentucky. It was about two hundred milesnorth of the farm, but I worked in Cincinnati, which lay on theother side of the Ohio River. Alex worked in the antique business.She was an expert in the appraisal of valuable antiques, andusually traveled all over the country. We had made plans. Alexwanted to move to my apartment while she studied for her MBA at theUniversity of Cincinnati. It was a bachelors pad, but it hadplenty of room. No, it would be impossible. As hard as it might be,we would have to sell it. I love this house. I love the farm, buthow can we manage it?