Drawn Into Darkness by Nancy Springer Page B

with other people escaping their misery? It was an old, familiar urge and one that Ned had learned he must acknowledge but refuse. The silence of the apartment enveloped him. Always around this time of day he found it paradoxical that this comfortable place, with his big Tree of Life tapestry on the wall, his Bev Doolittle prints, his chunky sofa with a genuine Navajo blanket thrown over it, his books and glossy Sierra Club magazines piled on every surface, could feel so empty.
    Ned got up from the computer chair, turned on some lights, then stood studying the intricacies of the Tree of Life—a gift from his AA sponsor, handmade by her—until the difficult moment had passed. He knew that the apartment’s smell of Budweiser and black bananas was in his imagination, an olfactory hallucination.
    Sensing watchful eyes on him, he looked down at the dog, rendered almost shapeless by long white fur splotched with black patches.
    â€œOliver,” Ned gravely addressed the presence, “this is not a dive and I am not a drunk anymore. Let’s see what’s on TV.”
    He would far rather have phoned his son. But he knew if Chad had felt too pissed to deal with his fuckup father after his mother’s death, he sure as hell wasn’t going to feel any better now, with his son missing. And maybe he never would.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    Stoat arrived home from work in a mood as expansive as the aroma of the Popeyes fried chicken he carried in with him. At cheerful gunpoint he released me from my bondage, laughed as I ran to the bathroom, and invited me to join him and Justin at the supper table afterward.
    Justin wasn’t looking at me, and I let him alone. I did not talk either with him or with my jovial gun-toting host, but focused all my attention on getting spicy, Louisiana-style food I wouldn’t normally eat into my very hungry stomach. Or I should say, almost all of my attention. I kept mental feelers reaching toward Justin, and sensed plenty of turmoil beneath his blank exterior.
    â€œThey didn’t pack enough napkins,” complained Stoat, snapping his fingers at Justin. “Go get some paper towels.”
    â€œWho was your slave before you got me?” Justin retorted, at the same time getting up to bring the paper towels.
    Stoat flipped like a lightbulb from bright to dark, scowling. “That’s exactly what you are, boy. My little sex slave.”
    Face afire as he returned to the table, Justin protested, “It was a joke, Uncle Steve!”
    â€œYou call me sir.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œYou are a slave and you can be replaced and don’t you forget it.”
    Sitting down, Justin mumbled, “Yes, sir,” to his plate.
    â€œAs a matter of fact you’re too big and it’s high time I oughta ditch you and get what I wanted in the first place.” Stoat’s fingers gave a pop like gunfire, he snapped them so hard. “Look at me!”
    The boy obeyed with hatred well disguised but still just barely visible, at least to me.
    â€œAre you my personal favorite asshole?”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œLouder!”
    â€œYes,
sir
!”
    Stoat transferred his glare to me. “What’s this all about? You been making trouble?”
    The pervert was no fool, damn him, but years of marriage and part-time jobs had made me a good liar when necessary. Motioning that my mouth was full but maintaining earnest eye contact, I shook my head.
    His stare moderated from sharp to sour. “Damned if I know why I’m spending my hard-earned money feeding you.”
    Swallowing my mouthful of food, I said pleasantly if unwisely, “Because you are such a nice person.”
    I thought there was no trace of sarcasm in my voice, but Stoat stood up, glowering. “You got a mouth on you, bitch.”
    By which he meant a brain in my head, I suppose. “Just joking,” I said meekly, and, like Justin,