"God help us, PLEASE!" he shrieked, fear bellowing deep. "Let me go. Shadow man . . . PLEASE! You're hurting me."
She thrust the covers off her legs and ran to the living room, throwing the bedroom door open.
"I'm here, Christian. You're okay."
The lamp was still on. Tossing his boots and folded jeans to one side, she knelt on the floor near him, running her fingers over his fevered brow. But he solidly resisted the gesture, still snarled in his ordeal.
"Now I lay me . . . down to sleep," he muttered, eyes closed tight. He thrashed at his sheets as he lay on the couch. The bare skin of his chest glistened with sweat. "If I should die before—"
She touched his arm, not knowing how to awaken him without causing more damage.
"Make them go away. Don't touch me!" The panic in his voice ranged from childlike to threatening within seconds, as if he were possessed.
"Christian, you're safe. It's me, Raven."
With a swing of his arm, he knocked her over, his frenzy escalating. She had to take charge—now! She stood quickly, then waited for the right moment to gain control of his arms. She pressed hard, practically sitting on his chest to make him stop.
"Christian, wake up! Now!" she shouted. His eyes popped open at the sound of his name, but the fog hadn't cleared. She had to get his attention. "Talk to me. Can you hear me?"
He finally released the tension in his muscles and gasped. With a low moan, he shifted his gaze as if seeing her for the first time.
"Raven?" he whispered. His eyes darted around the room. He looked so lost. "What are you doing here?"
"You were having a nightmare." She lowered her body to the floor. Kneeling by the sofa, she stroked his brow. "Are you okay?"
"Damn! That was so—" Christian stared at the ceiling, looking exhausted by his effort to recall. "It was happening all over again."
"I'm gonna get you some water." She raced to the kitchen and filled a glass, keeping her attention on him as she dampened a washcloth. "All these old memories must have stirred it up. Can you remember any of it?"
Raven hurried back to his side. After raising up on one elbow, he gulped at the water, letting it dribble down his chin. She ran the wet cloth down his arms and over his forehead, cooling his skin.
"I've had this one before. When I was younger"—he coughed, then took another gulp of water—"it used to happen all the time."
"Who is shadow man?"
"What?" By his expression, he was shocked by her words. "How did you know about—?"
"You cried out the name, like he hurt you. Don't you remember?"
"Oh, God." He rubbed fingers hard across his forehead, then sat upright, pulling the sheet over his boxers. "Shadow man. That's what I called him . . . when I didn't understand."
Raven sat beside him on the couch, waiting for him to remember. With his breathing more stable, he stared ahead, rapt in his memory.
"The shadow man. He was my ... father." The word "father" stuck in his throat. In a daze, he continued, "It took years of therapy for me to understand that. In the dark, all I saw was ... his shadow. And with the confusion that night, I thought he was there to kill me."
"With such trauma, it's understandable. You were just a child." She dabbed the cool rag to his temple. But she had the feeling he wasn't aware of her touch. Not anymore.
"After they shot my sister . . . and mother"—a tear rolled down his cheek, his eyes suspended in a blank stare—"he came to my room. He'd been shot, but he fought them off to get to me. The smell of blood was everywhere."
His face blurred through the tears welling in her eyes. She saw the child he'd been as he struggled to relive his past.
"It wasn't until he hugged me that I recognized his voice. He calmed me down. Then helped me out the window." He began to rock, back and forth, on the sofa where he sat. His eyes were still clouded by his nightmare. "I fell to the ground, my ankle on fire. I crawled away, but the darkness seemed to squeeze my chest. It smothered me. I couldn't breathe. I felt so . . . helpless."
She suddenly understood his obsession to train and fight in the dark. He had to overcome his phobia, regain control of his life. A frightened young boy had found his own road to recovery.
"Then they shot him again . . . and again. I couldn't take my eyes away. His body convulsed until he fell against the window. I knew he was dead. Even in the dark, I pictured his face." He stopped his rocking, furrowing his brow as if he were confused. "Then the night sky filled with spiraling lights, red and blue, shrieking and high-pitched sounds."
She'd read about his past in the newspaper clippings from Father Antonio. His family tragedy was blamed on a bungled police raid. Yet something in his story bothered her; the timing was off.
"But Christian, if the night sky filled with lights of red and blue after your family was already dead, how could the police be responsible?"
For a moment, he fell silent, using the time to replay his own words back. She saw him fight to remember everv last detail.
"But Fiona told me—" His breathing became more rapid and shallow. Closing his eyes tightly, he grappled with his memory. It pained her to watch him go through it. She felt powerless to help.
"If the police weren't responsible, then who killed them?" He raised his voice, pleading for an answer. "Who killed my family?"
His expression changed, his eyes widening with a realization. As if he'd been struck in the face, he dropped to the floor on his knees. He yanked open the old trunk, throwing its contents on the rug. A child's schoolwork and crayon drawings were strewn at her feet. She joined him, picking up the pieces and taking a closer look. A small curl of dark hair was wrapped in plastic, tied in a pale blue ribbon. She had a similar one from when she was a baby. None of this made sense.
"These are your things, Christian—when you were a child? How did Fiona get a hold of these? I thought she took you in after your family was killed. Did she get these things from the Delacortes?"
He didn't answer. He found an old photograph and stared at it, totally consumed. After a moment, he muttered, "Look at this. Something bothered me about this old photo."
He thrust the faded picture into her hand. Christian, as a young boy, stood beside his father in front of a car. Their faces were beaming. He was dressed in a Little League uniform, his hand still in a baseball glove. His father stood behind him, hands on Christian's narrow shoulders. A nice picture, but she couldn't see the significance of it.
"What? I don't see—"
Christian never let her finish. He pointed to the image, his finger directing her to the car behind them.
"See? In the reflection on the windshield? Check out who's taking the picture."
It took her only a moment to recognize the face behind the camera.
"Fiona," she whispered. The pieces to his puzzle were falling into place, but things were still cloudy for her.
"When I first went through this, I kept coming back to this photo. I just now realized why." He reached again into the locker and retrieved a bundle of old letters. "And earlier I found these."
All the letters were addressed to Fiona—sent to a post office box. But the return address caught her attention.
"These letters are from the Delacortes. And they go back for years before they were killed. How can that be?" she questioned. "What connection did they have to Fiona?"
"All the letters are progress reports—on me." He handed her a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age. Christian stared at it as if it were vile. "And this is the reason why."
Raven carefully unfolded the stiff paper. The elaborate blue border registered in her brain. "Your birth certificate? Christian Evan Fitzgerald, born to Fiona Fitzgerald. No father listed."