A Shadow from the Past

By B. Weston Rook

WWW.BWESTONROOK.COM

Randy Curtis was a shy backward kid who grew up in the sleepy town of Edgewater. Naturally, the girl who he loved, Lori, didnt feel the same way about him. And of course, he was always the target of schoolyard bullies, particularly Brad Bedford. On the night of graduation, he finally and dramatically taught his tormentors a lesson and revealed his feelings for Lori, and then disappeared with no intentions of ever returning. But years later, when his mothers death is clouded in suspicion, he returns to Edgewater only to find that he not only has to face his past, but also deal with a complex set of new enemies and obstacles.

A Shadow From the Past is an earnest novel, deeply felt and worked out with a good deal of honesty and force. Randy Curtis, returning to Edgewater after a mysterious 10-year absence for his mothers funeral is able at last to set his life to rights, reconcile and find true love with Lori, the girl who had abandoned him (and who he in turn had abandoned), and bring to justice the four teenagers who terrorized his helpless mother. But in the process Randy is forced to become something dark, something secret, something that he fears will ultimately be his own demise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 6, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469121529

B. Weston Rook

B. Weston Rook lives in Sacramento, California with his wife, Dorene. He is the author of A Shadow From the Past and has written several plays and short stories. He is an active member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and served in the Colorado Denver Mission from 1987 to 1989. He graduated with honors from the Institute of Children’s Literature in West Redding, Connecticut. When not writing, he enjoys working with his wife in their garden and making preserves for friends and family.

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Copyright © 2001 by B. Weston Rook.

ISBN:          Softcover                                 1-4010-0999-9

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4691-2152-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage

and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the

copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or

dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

This book is dedicated to my cousin, Terry Lee, who encouraged me to become a writer and who gave me the idea for this story.

CHAPTER ONE

A Widow’s Home

In May of that year, my oldest son, Steven, was hit by a car and killed. That was the hardest time of my life. All of the pain and grief from my husband’s death, just six months earlier, returned to tear me apart again. And I didn’t even have time to properly mourn. I had to keep working at the refinery just to pay the bills and support Randy and myself. Poor Randy. I think it must have been worse for him than it was for me. He lost his father and brother, his two best friends, all within a few short months. I guess, in a way, he lost his mother, too. I had to go to work every day and leave him all alone to fend for himself. Nowadays, that is a common practice, but back then it was almost unheard of. And I always felt terrible about doing it.

Sister Curtis’s tired and raspy voice faded into a low, gentle snore. She had been speaking into the small, silver micro-cassette recorder for only a few minutes, but it always seemed to drain her.

Lori Jamison, her visiting teacher and a long-time friend of Randy, let her borrow the tape recorder so that she could record her family history. Lori even offered to transcribe the tapes for her as she got time, saying she would enjoy listening to the stories as she typed them out. Lori was a thoughtful person. Still, Sister Curtis had a feeling that Lori’s offer wasn’t without a touch of selfishness. She guessed that one of the reasons Lori was so willing to help her write her story was so that she could hear more about Randy. Sister Curtis hoped that was the case. She had always thought Lori and Randy made a cute couple.

Recalling the events of her past in this way wasn’t an easy task for Sister Curtis. She struggled to bring back details which her mind had chosen to forget in its attempt to remember only the good and create its own nostalgia.

The chore of remembering always made her tired and she usually drifted off to sleep in her big, soft rocking chair without accomplishing as much as she had hoped. This night, she fell asleep even faster than usual.

As she slept, the little tape recorder slipped from her arthritic fingers and slid down to the side of the overstuffed cushion in her chair.

The empty streets of a small town at night can feel as menacing and sinister as a graveyard. And Edgewater is no exception.

The calm was shattered by the crash of a beer bottle smashing into a streetlight. The light flashed brightly and then died as brown and white glass showered onto the sidewalk below. Loud laughter immediately began to echo through the streets.

A couple of dogs barked in the distance and an old man peeked out of his bedroom window to see what all the commotion was about. When he saw who it was, he quietly pulled his shade down and turned off his reading lamp. Then he hurried downstairs to check the front door to be sure it was locked. He knew who the four boys were that were making all the noise in the street. He didn’t know their names … but he knew who they were. They were troublemakers, plain and simple.

Billy was still doubled-over with drunken laughter at the light he had just broken. Rooster McGreary looked at him as though Billy had just spit on his new shoes. His head traced an invisible triangle as he slowly looked in disbelief at the light, then the broken glass on the sidewalk, then at Billy, and back to the streetlight. You stupid jerk! Rooster said as he took a step towards Billy. That was my last beer and I wasn’t done with it!

Billy didn’t even look up. He composed himself long enough to say, Well, there it is. Go pick it up. Then he burst out laughing again.

Rooster jumped at Billy and grabbed him by the shirt. He raised his fist high over his head and prepared to plant a blow right on across Billy’s loud mouth, but he froze in mid-swing when Quick Linden shouted, Hey, I’m gonna kill both of you if you don’t shut up!

Quick was glaring at Rooster and Billy with a threat in his eyes that made Billy wonder if he was going to be killed that night and his mother would find the dirty magazines he had hidden in his dresser drawer when she went through his belongings.

Quick’s real name was Richard Linden, Jr. Everyone called him Rick or Junior until he was eleven, when he outran the owner of the grocery store who caught him shoplifting. Since then, he was known as Quick. Even his mother called him Quick, but she never knew why.

Standing next to Quick, in his usual spot, was Tad Linden. Tad was Quick’s older brother. Since he had the build of a bulldozer and the wits to match, Tad was the perfect sidekick-cum-bodyguard for his little brother, but the two were as different as night and day. Tad had a heart of gold and only got into trouble because he had one predominant character flaw: he trusted his little brother.

Quick looked up the dark street. The hint of a smile came across his face and he turned back to the two boys who were still holding on to each other but now looked like they were getting ready to waltz instead of fight. You idiots hungry?, he said as his smile grew bawdy. Let’s go visit Granny Curtis.

Do you think she’s got some of those little chocolate cookies, Quick? Tad asked excitedly.

The old man watched the four boys through his window as they started up Lincoln Avenue. He knew they were just going to bother someone else, but he didn’t care; as long as it was someone else … on some other street.

Now he could go to sleep.

Sister Curtis awakened with a start and looked around the room, trying to orient herself. She squinted at her watch and concluded that she had only nodded off for a few minutes. She lifted her notes and diary off her lap and set them on the ottoman in front of her, deciding that she had done enough dictating for the night and would continue in the morning when she wasn’t so sleepy.

She removed the eyeglasses from on top of her head, struggled out of her overstuffed rocking chair and headed for the bathroom. The vinyl soles of her slippers sounded like a depressed soft-shoe tap dancer as she shuffled along the hardwood floor and the dull thud of her cane kept in perfect rhythm with her shuffle.

The Curtis home was a small two-bedroom house in one of the oldest neighborhoods in town. It was a widow’s home—dim to the eye, but bright with memories and treasures of the heart.

Sister Curtis was seventy-four years old, but to look at her, one would think she was at least ten years older than that. Every worry and struggle of her hard life showed on her wrinkled face. She had always been a very strong and independent woman and what she hated most about getting old was that it robbed her of that. She often hurt herself while trying to do something that used to be so easy for her.

She hated being bound in this old body. She hated the fact that she needed Lori Jamison to drop by every afternoon just to check up on her and do a few things around the house that she could no longer do. Notwithstanding, she loved Lori. Lori always made it seem like she was just stopping by to visit Sister Curtis and bring her some flowers to brighten up the house. She acted like she was dropping in on a friend—not helping out an old lady.

Sister Curtis shuffled back into the living room and dropped down into her chair as though she had just finished a full day of hard labor, not merely taken a short walk to the bathroom. She reached over onto the end table next to her and picked up the remote control for the television. Jay Leno was guest-hosting for Johnny Carson that night, and Sister Curtis didn’t care at all for his sarcasm. So she flipped through her six channels over and over again as if she were browsing through the only magazine in a doctor’s waiting room—never really looking at anything but not wanting to be without it.

Working in the refinery all those years had left a ringing in Sister Curtis’s ears. She had known the constant drum of the machinery would someday affect her hearing… but she had to work. Now she always kept the T.V. or the radio on just to keep her mind off the noise in her head. When the house was quiet, the ringing almost drove her crazy.

She finally decided to leave it on The Tonight Show, just for the noise, and she set the remote control back on the small table next to her chair.

Then she spotted her photo album on the little shelf under the table and, despite the fact that she had every one of the pictures memorized, she lifted the book onto her lap.

She stared at its blank cover for over a minute—not thinking, just feeling—like that moment on the edge of a high dive when all one can hear is one’s own breath.

Then she slowly opened the album and started the mixed-up flood of emotions that always comes with remembering the past. She saw her wedding photo and smiled though her tears as she remembered happiness, but felt only loss and a deep ache.

Sister Curtis turned her head and looked at the framed portrait of her husband, Sam, which was next to her on the table. It was her favorite picture of him. In some magical way, his entire personality seemed to shine through in that picture. She smiled back at him.

Sister Curtis turned the page and felt another tear well up in her eye. She was looking at a picture of her two sons, Steven and Randy, standing on the beach with their arms around each other’s bare shoulders. That was their last vacation as a family before Sam died of a heart attack. They had all gone to California for a week in October. The water was ice cold but the boys just couldn’t go back home without swimming in the Ocean.

Next to that picture, was one of Steven in the costume he wore in the District road show when he was eleven. He played a Lamanite dog. The night before, Steven decided that he wasn’t going to be in the stupid road show. She had given him a motherly lecture on being responsible and then told him that he was going to be in the play and he was going to enjoy it, too. In the picture, Steve looked like he would have thrown the camera against the wall it he could only get his hands on it, but the dog suit made it impossible to take his anger seriously.

Steven died just three days after that play. He and Randy were walking home from school and Steven was hit by a car. He lived for two and a half hours before he finally died of internal injuries. Randy was only nine when he saw his older brother die, and he took it hard.

Randy was the child Sister Curtis thought she would never have. She was forty-three when he was born. To her, that fact made Randy very special.

Sister Curtis looked at a picture that was taken of Randy on his fifteenth birthday as he blew out the candles on his cake. She studied the picture for a long time. Randy was small for his age and very quiet. Sister Curtis remembered that she and Randy celebrated that birthday alone because he didn’t want to invite any friends over for a party.

She brought the picture up closer to her face and tried to look at Randy’s eyes, but his bangs were hanging in the way. She always thought that Randy had very sad eyes.

On the next page was Randy’s military portrait. His bangs weren’t in his eyes now. He had no bangs. His sandy blonde hair was shaved so close to his head that all he had left was stubble.

Sister Curtis looked into his eyes and saw more than just sadness in this picture. She saw anxiety … and a lot of determination.

Sister Curtis started to turn the page, but she heard something outside. She listened carefully and could faintly hear talking and laughter under the sound of the 7-up commercial on T.V. She turned off the television set and listened carefully.

Then she heard the sound of a key in her front door. She quickly settled down in her chair, closed her eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

It was those horrible boys. They were back again.

Quick slipped his key ring back into his pocket and flashed a smirk over his right shoulder at Rooster who had been standing next to him on the front porch. Rooster’s eyes were open wide and one corner of his mouth was pulled into a half-smile. Quick could see that Rooster was impressed, and he liked that. No, he loved that. When he impressed people, he knew that he was better than they were. It gave him a sense of power. It gave him an edge. It gave him the respect he thought he deserved. This night, Quick planned to earn a lot of respect from his friends.

No way, Rooster said under his breath. Where did you get the key to her door?

Well, last time we were here, the old lady just kinda’ gave it to me … Quick turned and looked at the other guys to make sure they were listening too. After I took it out of her purse.

They all laughed like a bunch of drunken soldiers howling at a dirty joke. Tad didn’t understand what was so funny, so he laughed a little bit harder than the others to compensate.

Quick opened the door and the four of them plowed into the dimly-lit living room. Then Quick spotted the old woman sleeping in her chair. He stopped laughing and raised his hand telling the others to shut up. They all just stood there for a moment and watched Sister Curtis.

She didn’t move.

Quick took a step toward her and stopped again. He squinted and studied her more carefully.

Nothing.

Hey, old lady, he said in his most intimidating voice. You got some company here.

Nothing.

Maybe she’s dead or something, Tad whispered

Oh, you think she is dead, huh, Quick said in a loud voice that mocked Tad’s reverence. His eyes left the old woman for the first time, searched around the room, and came to rest on the vase that was on the end table. Well, if she’s dead, then I guess we better pay our respects to the old broad.

Quick pulled the flowers out of the vase and placed them on her chest.

She didn’t move.

He straightened up and looked at his buddies for approval. They were still watching the old woman for any signs of life.

Quick grabbed the vase and threw the water in Sister Curtis’s face, bringing her back to life with coughs and gasps. Well, look at me, quick laughed. I can raise the dead!

Rooster and Billy laughed and headed into the kitchen, their customary hangout, to get something to eat. Tad was a little concerned about what his brother was doing, but he knew Quick wouldn’t hurt an old lady, so he turned on the television and sat on the couch.

Why don’t you just leave me alone? Sister Curtis managed to say between chokes.

Leave you alone? Quick said pretending to be shocked. We come over here so you won’t get lonely. Quick looked at the vase in his hand and set it back on the little table. That was a really stupid trick, he said. You had us all worried to death.

Be quiet, she said in a raspy voice as she turned her head to the wall.

You better just watch your mouth, old Lady. Quick said as he leaned in towards her with his finger pointing in her face. You talk pretty big for such a scrawny, old crow!

I’m going to call the police if you don’t get out of here right now, Sister Curtis said as she pushed herself into a standing position.

Quick ripped the cane out of her crippled fingers and threw it down on the floor next to her chair. He instantly grabbed her throat with his left hand and pushed her down against the back of the chair. Then he reached around to the back of his belt with his free hand and came back with a knife. That’s what you think! he shouted as he waved the knife in front of her frightened eyes.

Sister Curtis was shaking. She tried pulling on Quick’s wrist, but his grip on her neck was too strong and her old, arthritic hands were useless.

Don’t feel much like calling the cops now, do you Granny? he said as he pressed the blade against her cheek.

Tad wasn’t watching T.V. anymore. He was sitting on the edge of the couch watching his brother. He didn’t like what he was seeing. It scared him.

Rooster and Billy came out of the kitchen when they heard Quick yelling. They were standing just inside the living room door. Rooster had a box of crackers and Billy was holding a carton of milk.

If you ever try anything like that again I’ll cut your lousy tongue out and feed it to my dog, Quick said with his face next to hers. Do you understand me?

Nothing.

Do you understand me? He shouted again as he loosened his grip on her throat to let her respond.

She didn’t move.

Then Quick grabbed her shoulders and shook her like an abusive parent punishing a child. I said, do you understand? That is when he saw her eyes roll back in head. He jumped to his feet and pointed his knife at her. Don’t start playing that game again, Lady! he screamed.

Nothing.

He swooped down and slapped her across the face. Her head fell to one side and then hung motionless.

Quick looked around at his friends who were in an expressionless daze. Well, I guess that old biddy won’t be giving us any more grief, huh, he said.

Tad looked at Billy and Rooster. Both of their mouths hung open as they stared at the old lady’s body.

Come on. Let’s go. Quick said as he collected the flowers from Sister Curtis’s chest and gathered the ones that had fallen to the floor in the struggle. He arranged the flowers inside the vase and searched around to see if he had missed any. He hadn’t.

Quick walked between Rooster and Billy and opened the front door. When he realized nobody was following him, he turned around to see what was wrong. His companions were still gawking at the lifeless lump that sat across the room. Come on! Quick screamed.

They jumped out of their daze and scrambled through the door. As he left, Billy put the milk carton down on a lamp stand near the door. Quick grabbed him by the hair and pulled him back into the house. What are you doing? Quick asked as he twisted Billy’s head down, forcing him to look at the milk carton. "Do you want the cops to know we were here tonight?"

Quick let go of Billy’s hair and grabbed the front of his t-shirt with both hands. Is that what you want? he screamed.

Billy started to cry. But, you killed her, man. he sobbed. You killed her.

Yes, I did. And if you don’t want to be next, you better keep your mouth shut.

Come on, Quick, Rooster said impatiently from outside, let’s go home.

Quick picked up the empty milk carton and then threw Billy down the front steps by his hair. He glanced around the room one more time to make sure everything looked in place. He had planned to do something to show his friends how tough he really was, but this was more than he had imagined. They were all scared out of their minds! Quick smiled to himself as he locked the door.

We don’t even have a dog, Tad said credulously.

What are you talking about, retard? Quick spat in return.

You told Granny that you were going to feed her tongue to your dog, but we don’t have one.

Shut up!

Quick walked home with his hands in his pockets so his friends couldn’t see that his hands were shaking.

CHAPTER TWO

The Homecoming

Lori Jamison stopped by after work the next day, as she always did, to bring Sister Curtis some flowers. The front door was locked so she went around to the back door that was always unlocked. She called out to announce her arrival, but there was no answer. Then she saw Sister Curtis slumped over in the chair. She rush to her side and dropped to her knees. Lori could see by her grey skin tone that Sister Curtis had been dead for hours. Lori called Dr. Scott and he assured her he would be right over to take care of the body.

After looking around the house, Lori decided to call the police too.

The next four days were a blur for Lori. It seemed like an endless stream of forms to sign, arrangements to make, and arguments with the police. She felt as though there wasn’t anyone else to make sure they didn’t just throw Sister Curtis in a pine box and bury her in the backyard without another thought.

We can all take comfort in the knowledge that this is not the last time we will see Sister Curtis. The plan of our Heavenly Father makes it possible for us to be together even after this life. Bishop Hyland was giving his standard eulogy. He wished that he had known Sister Curtis better, but she hadn’t been well enough to attend church on a regular basis and he had relied mostly on the reports from Lori, her visiting teacher.

Lori sat in the congregation of 23 people feeling sad not just for the loss of a dear friend, but also because someone like Sister Curtis deserved more than a memorized sermon delivered to a handful of apathetic acquaintances.

The big oak door in the back of the chapel squeaked and about half of the congregation, including Lori, turned around to see who it was. A burly, young man padded into the room and quickly slipped into a seat on the back row to dodge the stares. Lori instantly recognized him as Randy. When two people have been as close as they once were, faces remain eternally recognizable. Still, Lori couldn’t believe how much he had changed from the impish, disheveled, little boy that she had known in her youth. He still had that average, guy-next-door look, but there was something different about him—something Lori couldn’t put her finger on—that nearly took her breath away. His brown leather jacket and grey, creaseless slacks were unseemly in the chapel full of dark suits and dresses, but it was a good look for him, complimenting his chiseled features and wide shoulders. His hair was dark and thick, and when he pushed his windblown bangs out of his eyes with his fingers, it fell into place as though professionally styled.

Lori had been secretly hoping that Randy would come ever since Dr. Scott told her that he had written a letter to Sister Curtis’s only surviving relative informing him of her death. Lori had given Dr. Scott the address