Under Strange Skies

INTERNATIONAL AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR DON STANSBERRY is a native

DON STANSBERRY

West Virginian and retired elementary school teacher. He is the author of Isle of Shadows: The Inky Trilogy and his children’s books, which he also illustrated. Lawrence Likes to Dance, Koko & Stoney Mom’s Choice Award and Crusty, named a Finalist in the USA News Best Book Awards. Don is the author of Secret Blood, a multi-award-winning book that took top honors for best spiritual fiction at the London Book Festival. It was named a Winner at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards at a reception at The Plaza in New York City during Book Expo America.

His second novel, Vulture Bend, is a riveting good vs. evil award-winning story. Cryptic Blood, sequel to Secret Blood is his most recent novel. He was the head coach for the Parkersburg High Girls’ Basketball team for 16 years and retired from this position with four state championships.

Under Strange, Strange Skies

A book for those who love entertaining, thought-provoking stories with a twist, but do not have the time to commit to a whole novel. Each story is told with a different voice, running the gamut from Sci-Fi to Horror to twisted Fairy Tale. Cracks and Two Cats may have you looking under your bed at night. The Translator and One Last Time may have you asking yourself how far you will go for love. The rest, well, let’s say that each has a bizarre take on the world around us.

DON STANSBERRY

Under Strange, Strange Skies Don Stansberry

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

Under Strange, Strange Skies

by Don Stansberry copyright ©2026 Don Stansberry All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914861 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025947125

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

For Patty—for her love and endurance of putting up with me.

For Shay, Sydney, Pat and Walker— the family that makes everything worthwhile Special thanks to Cheryl Yoke for help with One Last Time.

Content Sarah Sinful and Buckethead O’Neal.............................................. 7 One Last Time................................................................................. 35 Beneath ............................................................................................ 52 Two Cats......................................................................................... 105 The Translator................................................................................ 147 A Class A Send Off........................................................................ 208 Cracks............................................................................................. 223 Big Head......................................................................................... 265 Other Books by Don Stansberry................................................. 304

Sara Sinful and Buckethead O’Neal The little man hobbled down the moonlit cart path toward the pub. He had been burdened with arthritis and gout for many a year. ’Twas a wonder that he could move on those spindly legs and knobby knees. His walking stick, a gnarled piece of driftwood, not only aided his balance but had found its way to the side of many a snickering head over the years. A cool breeze rattled the yellowing leaves of the trees. The crickets, those that were still alive, chirped long and slow. Soon, the air would turn cold. That be true.

The pub lay perfectly nestled at the edge of the forest. The area in front was hard-packed earth worn bare by countless farmers and worthless drunkards. On a cloudy night, one might have missed the many pathways that snaked away from the pub.

But on a moonlit night such as this, the paths were as visible as a squid’s tentacles, slithering into the forest.

The building itself was constructed of stone gathered from farmers clearing their fields long ago. The thatched roof had been replaced with wood after a fire had burned the place many seasons back. Only a couple of the oldsters remembered the fire, and their versions of the blaze did not match.

On this night, with the harvest in, the pub was full of people and merriment. Golden light shone from the few thick glass 7

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windows. The little man could hear coarse laughter from within. ’Twas the deep belly laughter of men who may have laughed differently when their wives were with them, or their glasses had not been drained.

Smoke rose serenely from the chimney as he approached the door. Off to the side, a single horse had been tethered to a tree.

It was an ugly thing. This horse had never pranced or galloped; it had been used to pull and plow. It was near the end of its usefulness. By next harvest, it would no doubt be salted and packed away in the root cellar.

The little man smoothed his jacket. The britches were stained and threadbare at the knees, and the buttons on the jacket pulled tight across his middle. It had once been a tailored and stylish thing, but now it seemed to be held together as much by the dirt and dust as the expensive material. What was once a fine Scottish plaid in subtle greens and blues could now be used as a birthing mat for a barn cat.

His walking hat was made of the same material, and his pack, which only had one strap left, was a beaten and scarred leather.

He was a sight, this little man. That be true also.

A few heads turned as the wooden door swung open. Some looked to see if it was Frisk or Barty joining the party late. Frisk and Barty never missed a celebration such as this, but as eyes fell on the stranger, they were quickly forgotten. As the wave of silence rolled around the room, many in the back could see nothing as the door swung shut. In a twitch, the only sound in the room was the cracking sound of the wood in the fireplace.

The little man kept moving through the silence, making his entrance. Shuffle, shuffle, thump.

Two steps, then the walking stick. Shuffle, shuffle, thump.

He looked up into the faces of the men he passed, for he was no taller than any man’s waist. They all peered down at him, interested, amazed, for this hamlet saw not many a stranger. And never a one so foreign or brazen as this.

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The room was long, with a bar on the left and tables on the right. On the wall at the far end was a massive stone fireplace. The aromas were intoxicating. The smell of roasting meat, smoke, and sweat filled the air. The customers were nearly all men, except for the barmaid and a table of unsultry women who had an odor of their own. The little man shuffle-thumped his way to the end of the room and a place at the end of the bar. The bar had a space on the corner, so he was alone, facing everyone. He leaned the stick against the wall and, with great difficulty, mounted the stool.

In the full candlelight, his face looked even more craggy and wizened than before. His lips were thin and dry, and his beard was scraggly. He removed his hat, and a cascade of greasy white hair fell past his shoulders. It was nearly as long as his beard.

The barkeep walked halfway down the bar, close but not too close, for it was his responsibility to keep order. A dead imp would dance heavily on his conscience. And pull a dim light on the pub’s profit.

“How can I do you, stranger?”

“You may do me very well, sir, but I beg of you, I’m no stranger.”

“Well, I know nothing of you.”

“Nor I,” came shouts from the others. The jovial crowd, steins in hand, slowly migrated to the end of the bar.

“Think of me not as a stranger, but as a passing traveler,” the little man said. “Although I think I know more about you than you know about each other.” The little man was known to incite others, just as a way to gather a crowd.

“How’s that?” said a man called Skillet. He was a large redfaced man who kept his ale in one hand and a snot rag in the other, to wipe his sweaty forehead.

The little man met his eyes square and said, “I’ve been around, to tell you true, I’ve been through many a parish as this. I know your desires, your secrets.”

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Let’s hear ’em then,” called a heavy-bearded man called Butter.

“Oh, I can tell you my brethren, and so I will. But I dare say I cannot speak well with this dry throat. Traveling your wonderous countryside is a dusty affair.”

The barkeep looked dubious.

“Give ’im a bitter. Your tills are bursting from the lot of us tonight, ya skinflint,” said Kolin, who was a long, thin drink of water with a cowlick.

Grudgingly, he poured the little man a mug, smaller than the others. He knew he could overcharge someone else to make it up. He’d done it several times tonight already. He slid the foamy drink down the bar. The little man stopped it with a hand of twisted fingers. He took a deep drink.

By now, the entire patronage of the pub had filtered down to the little man. Even the harlots had left their tables and squeezed in, allowing a few little pushes, pulls, and pinches along the way.

The little man was holding court; he relished the attention.

“First, allow me to pontificate on the darker nature of your realm.” Then a long swig that drained the glass. He pushed it back toward the barkeep and cleared his throat. “Still a bit dry,” he said.

The second drink was filled.

“There is a man here with us, right in this very room, who fantasizes about one of your wives. He does it daily as he plows his fields in the spring, cares for his crops in the summer, and harvests in the autumn. He pictures her bringing him a drink of cool water, talking politely, then whisking her off to the deep woods in the back of his wagon. She comes back the next day while her husband, one of you, toils in his fields. And the days after that.”

“Who is it? If it’s my wife he’s thinking of, I’ll tear his head off!” Someone yelled from the back.

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“Take it easy, Mooney, there’s no one here who would be thinking of your wife in that way,” someone else said. “Not if he’s had a good look at her.”

This comment was met with raucous laughter.

“There is also someone here who has been stealing away into the night with one of your daughters. They lay together in the nighttime meadow, then sneak back before the dew grows on the low grass.”

There were grumbles among the fathers of the group and a silence from the unmarried. Two of the harlots giggled with delight. Everyone had a good looksee around, trying to find a guilty face.

“So, you see,” said the little man, “Secrets are good, natural if left unbroken. But, as soon as one is out, it becomes as dangerous as a fire, spreading and burning even the innocents.”

“So, is this what you do? Come along and grow discourse among friends?” the barkeep said. “You say secrets, I say distrust that spreads and stings.”

“You are right, my friend. This is not something I do, but you are the ones who asked. I offer nothing unless asked.” He took another long drink.

The merriment had fled the pub. The crowd began to disperse, moving back to their tables and chairs. The loud voices now became mumbles.

“But,” the little man said loudly, “I may be able to protect you and yours with a cautionary tale.”

“And what would that be?” the barkeep asked. He had had his fill of this midget and would be as happy as not to see his backside out the door.

“I’m sure you have all heard the tale of Sara Sex?” the little man said.

No one said anything at first, then one of the women said, “I may ’ave heard something like it from my ma’s ma. ’Cept they called her Sara Sinful. Right scary story that is.”

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Then the one beside her, with the large, bouncy, exposed bosoms, said, “She’s a witch.”

The little man said, “There are many kinds of witches, some that parlay with nature like the Wicca, then there are others that are aligned with evil. Sara was something worse, something that would lend itself toward the term of ‘monster’.”

Everyone was back now, and the little man had every ear.

“I would be akin to spinning this tale to you fine people, but your delicious ale is sloshing around in my gut. I believe that some of the roasting meat that called me into this establishment would do well to settle my stomach.”

The barkeep was about to toss the little bugger when Quinn Duling shouted, “Give ’im a bowl of your stew, ya cheap bastard, let’s hear this yarn.”

This was echoed by the patronage, being widely known that the barkeep was a royal miser.

A bowl of hearty stew was quickly produced and delivered to the little man, whereas he immediately requested a hunk of rich bread to accompany it. *** “Some say Sara was a Pooka, some say she was the daughter of Circe herself, but I know she was more of a demon than that.

She was an Abyzou. A stealer of children. But the name does not matter to those she destroyed.”

The little man blew a fake sneeze. False as it was, it was true enough that he had fooled many a physician over the years. The patrons were still rapt with his presence and the beginnings of his yarn.

“Tell me, sir, what type of wood would you be burning in the fireplace tonight?”

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“Don’t know, didn’t cut it myself. Probably something downed in the woods. Lazy assistant dragged it here and chopped it a year ago. Why?” “Certain wood gives me a runny nose and a weepy eye.” He patted down the chest parts of his coat until he felt the lump for which he had searched. Reaching in, he produced a papery pouch, about the size of a walnut.

“Would you be so kind as to toss this in the fire?” he said to a slouching man nearest him. “It lessens the fragrance of pine and sumac. If that is what is burning.” He caught the barkeep’s eye.

“Although it may produce a thirst in the rest of you.” The little man winked. The barkeep produced a thin wisp of a smile. *** The little man began.

The village was called Cedar Grove. It was an old village where generation after generation lived off the same land, in the same dwellings. The soil was rich and good, and the farming was more fruitful than most. This is not to say that the people there didn’t work hard. They did, they toiled as hard as farmers who worked the hardpan land. I say it true. And they were rewarded for their hard work in the ways some farmers are not. ’Twas an isolated community far, far off the main line.

One could go years without seeing a visitor or a traveler pass through. Not many a place around like that now. The same group of families, a couple of score of them, lived, loved, and laughed together their whole lives. Generations. Now, they were not a close-knit group because the farms were spread wide. But they were friendly, and a hand was offered if needed.

Any type of disagreement, of which there were few, was settled in the town square by a council led by the pastor. There was no true sheriff; the same council handled that branch also.

There was not a jail; never had serious cause enough to justify 13

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one. Many disputes were settled with fists and kicks out in a pasture behind the church.

In the heart of the town, jiggering the word town a bit, was a small store, the church, and a pub, not as nice as the one you have here. Just a bit farther out was a blacksmith, downwind of the church. In the center of the town square was an ancient cedar tree. It had been fenced off with a white-washed picket fence to keep children from climbing and breaking off its branches. The tree was older than the town itself, and the town was older than dirt.

When word got out that one of the wives of the town was pregnant, the nights got lively for everyone else. Each child would need a mate. Many a child’s spouse was chosen for them while still in the womb, not by any caste system but by the opportunity of timing. The ways of a rustic community, I say true.

Even in a village as pleasant as this, there are still a few rotten seedlings. One of the rotten ones was a man called Markus Gum. You’ve heard it said that someone or other doesn’t have a mean bone in his body? Well, Markus Gum’s body was full of them.

He was as sullen and miserable as a mudpuppy at the bottom of a river. His family married him off at the age of fourteen to be shed of him. It was said that he had backhanded his father and bloodied his own mother’s lip. He was wed to a poor, homely girl nearly five years older than he. Probably the last chance for her to snag a hubby because the entire crop of boys her age had found a spouse. Even the ones the next rung down had been picked over, leaving only the prick Markus and another boy who couldn’t hear well over the mountain. She should have chosen blind and deaf over mean and cruel, but that no part of this tale.

Now married, the couple spent much of their time apart, which was just as well for Matilda, because the time spent together was abusive and traumatic. Markus did little in the way of chores, liked to drink the hard cider in the afternoons, and preferred his wife facing away rather than towards in the wedding bed.

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On this day, Markus had berated his wife’s breakfast, then lit out for the deep woods with a fishing pole, his folding knife, and a jug of cider. He fancied himself an outdoorsman and had set a line of traps that he checked weekly. Checking weekly left nearly every animal rotted and stinking, only useful to the maggots and beetles that dug through the bodies. He wasn’t interested in the meat or pelts. His hope was to find an animal still alive so he could bash it with a stick or rock. The fishing pole was there if he hadn’t caught an animal. The jug was there if the fish weren’t biting. His knife was for… just in case.

After finding the first four traps empty, the fifth held a huge surprise. There, by the trunk of a huge maple, was the most beautiful woman he had ever eyed.

Her clothing was folded and stacked neatly just out of her reach, even her underthings folded and whiter than any he had ever seen. She was barely covered from armpit to thigh with a satin cloth. A thin bead of blood ran from the place where the wire snare had caught her foot. For Markus, this was much more exhilarating than finding a wretched opossum. *** By now, everyone in the pub was bending toward the little man and his yarn. Even the barmaid, who had been sopping up the spilled drink, gazed over the crowd toward the little man. The continents of the pouch in the fireplace began to haze over the room. The gentle, sweet smell went unnoticed. *** But instead of being frightened or shying away, the woman stood and faced him, allowing the satin cloth to fall. Now, my friends, I’m here to tell you there was plenty to look at on that day, but Markus’s eyes never left the lady’s gaze. The green eyes 15

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and her dark, glossy hair done him in. Without saying a word, he knelt and cut the snare with his knife.

When he stood, she was there, making no move toward her clothing. On the ground, she had seemed small and petite, but as she came to him, they were nearly the same height. When she embraced him, he could feel the full of her chest through his thin, ragged shirt. And when she spoke into his ear, her words flooded his soul.

“Feel my lips,” she whispered and lightly brushed her mouth across his.

“Smell my scent.” She bent her neck, so his nose was close to it.

“And my eyes.” She pulled back and locked gazes. Then, using both hands, she traced his face with long nails, ending with his quivering lips. She put her fingertips to her mouth and her tongue flicked out snake-like and tasted his sweat.

“Think of these things until the next time we meet.” She used the same two fingers to close his eyes.

When Markus awoke, the sun was setting. The night birds had begun evening songs. His knees were locked, and he was as stiff as a hickory branch. He did not remember the long walk home.

The next morning, he was clear-headed and tore off for the woods even before breakfast. To his dismay, she wasn’t there. It would be many a distraught day before he would see Sara again.

The little man readjusted on his stool and looked around at the rapt eyes upon him. “Perhaps another drink and a piece of crust would be helpful in my pontification of this tale,” he said.

This time, the barkeep showed no hesitation.

In most places, the blacksmith is called by the name Smithy.

But in Cedar Grove, he went by the moniker Blackie. He went by that because his skin was eternally covered by the black, greasy soot that is part of the job. Unmarried, he saw little value in washing; after all, he worked in the same hot conditions every 16

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day. And unless there had been a recent rainstorm, he was the smelliest man to walk the face of the earth, I say true.

He was built as a smith, with arm and back muscles that rippled under the soot. Hands that might have been cleaved by a stone mason. A sturdy jaw and squint of the eye from staring into the fire kept complainers away from his shop. Since there was nary hide nor hair of a lady to come into the shop, he was always bare-chested and lacked the body modesty of most good Christians.

On the day after her meeting with Markus, Sara was waiting in the scrap house behind the blacksmith shop. Blackie, just finishing the axle of a plowing buggy, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The room was hellishly hot and dark. As usual, he stood giving time for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

She came into view, a woman the likes he had never seen.

Beautiful golden hair and blue eyes that sparkled unnaturally in the dim light. She wore a white tunic that plunged to the hole of her belly and exposed a milky white chest. He could not see the length of her legs; they were hidden by a pile of bent and broken metal. Even if those unseen legs were horribly disfigured, she would still have been the most alluring creature he had laid eyes upon.

She beckoned him only by opening her arms. When he came to her, she tried to melt into him, but her arms only reached halfway around his brawn. He pulled her close, and she snuggled into the grime of his hairy chest. She leaned back, looking up into his eyes. The dirt had transferred from chest to chest, and the white material of her tunic was now stained with dark sweat.

Sara unwrapped herself from the embrace and reached up for his massive shoulders. Then she brought a clawed hand down each side, from the shoulder, over the nipples, and down to be stopped by the belt of his breeches. The dirt and sweat rolled up under her nails, and in two places, her passion was hard enough 17

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to bring blood. Before a droplet could form, she flicked at it with the tip of her tongue. Like a snake tasting the air.

“I will be back, for you to protect me,” she said in a French accent.

“I will,” was all he muttered. Then he too fell into a stupor that erased the rest of the day.

“Curious thing,” the little man said. “Nigh Markus nor Blackie found it strange that a magical woman had shown up out of nowhere, showing them an interest that no one ever had.

Perhaps they were so pathetic they overlooked the obvious, or that was also part of Sara’s enchantment. We may never know.

But if one or the other of the horny dogs had an inkling, I would not be telling this tale on a harvest night such as this.”

Now, Pastor Ian was a righteous man. He believed in the virtues and moral codes of the Good Book as much as anyone in his position. Perhaps more than anyone in his position in this country. Perhaps more than anyone in the world. He believed his sole reason for existence was to root out evil, tear out its roots, and raze the fields if need be. Truth be, where most men of the cloth could find beauty and compassion, he could find sin and evil. In the awe of a morning forest, he would find the one dead tree and figure it was killed by Satan.

Sara knew all this to be true. She had watched the citizens of Cedar Grove for weeks without them being keen on it. Because you see, she was more than an enchantress, oh so much more as you’ll hear later in this tale.

Have you asked yourselves yet how Markus saw a ravenhaired beauty and Blackie saw a blonde? ’Tis because Sara was a shifter, a changer. She could change from fish to fowl to human when she desired. And when she was human, she could change into the type of human she wanted be it male or female or fair of swarthy.

So, she had spied on Cedar Grove as a crow. Who notices a crow sitting in a tree on top of a roof? And if it would be noticed, 18

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who would see it as a danger? Not a sane man. Not a man or woman who spends their lives in outdoor settings.

Sara knew that Markus had a mean streak in him and that Blackie was lonely and ignorant of the powers that love could create. She also knew that Pastor Ian would wrestle Lucifer himself to stop sin from setting seed in his parish.

It was Pastor Ian’s practice to clean the church on the day after the Sabbath each week.

Sara knew this by watching with a crow’s eye from the roof of the pub. He was her first target because of the number of people he spoke to each week. She came to him as he was sweeping between the pews. Hovering above the pulpit, she glimmered and cast out golden light, illuminating the entire sanctuary. Her angel wings undulated softly.

“There is an evil growing like a fungus in your congregation,” she said in a dream-like voice. “You are the one, Father, the last soldier to hold Heaven’s Gate. If this evil spews out, the End of Days will be near.”

Pastor Ian’s whole life had led to this, the moment he would be called on. He had never had a vision like this before, but he had always dreamed that he would.

“But what am I to do?”

“You will be given a sign. Most importantly, you must have strength and conviction. Only by being strong can you save them, Father. By burning the evil from their flesh now, you may save their souls from burning for eternity. When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

Then she disappeared. Pastor Ian looked wildly around the rafters. He dropped the broom and ran from corner to corner.

At one point, he felt something flick across the top of one ear, something light, like the tongue of a snake. But there in the dusty morning light, he was alone.

“I have questions,” he shouted. The fuse was lit.

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The little man was keeping an eager eye on his audience. He knew a wrong word here could come across as blasphemous.

Could change the direction of the wind, so to speak. But as of right now, he had them right in his pocket. The drink and the powder in the fire had them in a listening mood.

At this point in my story, I should be tellin’ about the fly in Sara’s ointment. Now I’ve said that no one in Cedar Grove noticed the crow, even though it sat and eyed them all. That was incorrect; there was one person who noticed everything. His name was Buckethead O’Neil. Now, Buckethead got his name from when he was a youngster. As soon as he started pedaling around on two legs, he put things on his head. It might be an old work shirt or robin’s nest. It didn’t matter if he could see or not.

Truth be known, he liked bumping into things. Nearing the end of his fourth summer, he found an old bucket somewhere in the village. Once it was on his head, he was never seen without it.

Now you would have thought his Ma and Pa would have been perturbed by their son’s antics. But not so much. They saw the boy as a gentle simpleton, one of many in that family tree.

The parents were long in the tooth, could have been the grands the way young folk popped them out in these parts, but they had been around the bend a few times, and after the first few months of wearing the bucket, they let him be to be true to his nature.

The townspeople did the same, live and let live, I say true.

Then there was the giggling. Buckethead could be found anywhere: in town, in someone’s field, or in the forest, just laughing to beat all. He ran the area like a stray dog. People got used to seeing him anywhere, standing motionless with laughter echoing out from under the bucket.

Standing motionless and giggling at nothing, most folk just ignored him. When someone would speak to him, he would twostep right up to them, tilt the bucket enough to get a glimpse of who he was talking to, and sing an answer to their question. His off hand would rise and fall in rhythm to what he was singing, 20

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then he would lower the bucket and dance back to where he had been, giggling all the while.

So, Buckethead, the least scary, most over-looked person in the village, knew something unusual was happening. But does he have enough sense to tell anyone?

Sara’s plan was in place. She only needed to provide the spark to start the fire. Markus was the spark.

Every morning after their first meeting, Markus trekked back to the tree where he had found her. He waited impatiently, then went home, hostile and dangerous. The peril for Matilda compounded daily. On the first day after their furious lovemaking, she had expected him to stay near the farm. A kind word here or there, perhaps. But no, he was gone by first light and did not return until dusk, ill-tempered and cursing the world and everyone in it. The next day was the same, and after that, Matilda made herself scarce when she caught a glimpse of her husband.

The little man looked to his audience. They were still spellbound. The barkeep who would normally be counting his money was listening fast with everyone else.

He continued.

On this day, the air was clear and clean with not a trace of the things to come. In the battle of the seasons, summer was still the victor, but the grip of autumn was near. Markus arrived at the oak tree out of breath and as irritable as a stick-poked snake. Enraged he was, when he found himself alone again. He recovered a downed branch and struck it with such force against the trunk a lesser tree would have fallen. ’Twas an oak though and the hammering branch busted into pieces and the crack echoed across the water. Birds flew and frogs dove into the pond’s safety.

Then Markus noticed her, walking up out of the water, covered in only a thin cotton nightshirt that clung to her like a second skin. Her eyes met his and locked; he could not look away. A horrible mixture of hate and love washed over him so strongly that he was clenching his fist as she approached. Then, 21

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as she paused before him, a new emotion erupted even more overwhelming than the others: fear. Something evil danced in the depths of her eyes, something that was not human. Something irresistible.

“If you are to be the king to my queen, there are things you must do,” she was saying, though he wasn’t seeing her lips move.

He agreed with her in a dream-like way. Somewhere in the back part of his mind, he knew he was parlaying with the devil, but it didn’t seem to matter. In for a bit, in for a bunch, he was locked, I say it true.

“Go home to your barn and find the axe with the birch handle, the one that is two-headed. Go from farm to farm and strike down the women with swift blows akin to the blow you struck the oak. All the women in a day, let their blood run while they are tending their chores. I shall be the only female, and you will be my king.” She pulled his forehead down to touch hers. He felt something slither through her mind into his.

He knew what he was agreeing to, even started planning it out. He would start with Matilda. Her last instruction brought a thin smile. “Leave the children for me.”

The trip home was dream-like. The colors of the forest were muted and swirled into vapors around him, leaving only the path of his quest. Time was nonexistent, and the only sound that he could hear was the blood pumping through his ears. The axe was in the barn, exactly where his mind’s eye saw it. Its weight felt good in his hand, powerful and pure.

He knew that Matilda was in the kitchen, his mind’s eye saw that also, she was drying crops for winter. As quiet and nimble as a wolf spider, he was behind her. Then a strange thing happened.

As she turned, his vision switched to her and hers to his. He could see what she was seeing, which was the end of an axe (forged by Blackie the Blacksmith) arching toward her head in a long, graceful swing. He could see her (himself) putting her arms up defensively to no avail. As soon as the blade touched her 22

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neck, her vision went back to his, and he watched a rooster tail of blood wash off the axe and spray across the walls.

Markus turned and walked away, having completed his chore. He started toward the next farm, already seeing the next woman in his mind’s eye.

Blackie was bent over an open fire, hammering and bending hot metal into a sharp S hook. Something they call, in some parts, a crowbar. The crow that was Sara flew into the shop unnoticed and landed gently. Instantly, the blond beauty was back, but this time her hair was untidy, and her clothing torn in vulgar places.

Her mouth pouty and her eyes red, she wobbled unsteadily in the direction of the pounding.

Blackie caught her in the corner of his sight. Rivers of sooty sweat flowed down the chiseled chin and taut breasts. He dropped the S hook into the cooling pan of water and rushed to her, catching her as she collapsed. He caught her under her arms and picked her up and held her like a baby.

“What has happened to you?”

“Men. They hurt me.”

“But how?”

She started to cry. “I cannot tell you. ’Twas too awful.”

“Who was it?”

“I know not the names, but I can let you see. Let me stand,” she said.

He put her down. She placed her hand up behind his neck and gently pulled his head towards hers. Their foreheads touched, and the faces of men in the village flashed into his brain. He felt something bore out of her mind into his. It did not occur to him that all the faces in his mind could not have attacked the girl, but he felt a burning hate for them all the same.

“You know what you need to do,” she said. “I cannot be with another man as long as there is breath in the men that had me.”

In his mind’s eye, he saw five of them, huddled around a table in the pub across the street. His anger grew like a volcano along 23

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with the image of the crowbar he had just created. He gathered it as he passed through the shop and into the street. Sara followed him to the street and saw that he had entered the pub.

At that time of the morning, the town center was empty.

Morning chores were still being performed by the women and chillers. Most of the farmers were tending. The few who were in the mind of drinking had already started.

Blackie burst into the darkened pub and started swinging before his eyes could adjust. The first blow was straight down onto Old Glenn’s shoulder, dislocating it and breaking a shoulder blade. The second came sideways into Jacob’s temple, turning his head into a large misshapen potato. Blackie spun and back-struck a man at the bar, hitting the neck and severing his spine between his head and shoulders. After that, the chaos grew. Shaken from their shock, the rest of the patrons tried to flee, only to be caught and bludgeoned to death among the shattered glass and broken chairs.

Standing around the corner was Buckethead, chuckling softly to himself. He had seen Blackie storm out of the shop and watched the blond lady follow him to the edge of the street, all from under his tilted bucket. Then he saw something that made him laugh even harder.

The blonde lady’s head split wide like a flower opening and out flew a black crow. It rose into the sky and winged off, feathers glinting in the morning sunlight. When he turned back to the lady, her body seemed to have lost its color, turning a pale, faded gray. Like all the life had drained and turned it into a husk. It quickly dried like an old snakeskin and began to flake away. In no time, it was gone.

Well, Buckethead whooped, hollered, and kicked his heels at that vision. That is, until Blackie charged back out of the Pub with a bloody crowbar in his hand. Without breaking stride, Blackie swung the bar and struck Buckethead right in the center of his bucket. Buckethead was airborne for a breath and was in 24

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the land of Nod before his hind side hit the ground. But God provides, I say it true. Though Buckethead’s brain was squidgy, his skull wasn’t.

Sara spied from the clouds, watching as the carnage unfolded.

The blood was running, that be true, but much too slow for her liking. She watched Markus sneak up on a woman hanging her laundry on a line. He came from behind and brought the axe down on her skull full force. He had to put a foot on her back to tug the axe from her skull.

Sara began to guide him to a paddock of horses that lay under a stand of elms farther from the house. He knew not why or how, but moments later, he was galloping toward the next homestead, axe still flinging the poor woman’s gray matter into the wind.

Sara wheeled around in the sky and turned her attention to Blackie, whose numbers killed were now surpassing Markus’s.

Though he started a bit later, he was killing groups of men while Markus was finding one woman at a time. Soon, Blackie would be venturing out to the fields where the men worked alone, and his rate of kill would drop.

Even though floating in the sky ’tis easy enough for a true bird, Sara found it draining of her energy. She had used a good deal of it, changing back and forth, and would have to do so a few more times before this business was finished. She fluttered down to the porch rail of the pub, then changed back into the scantily clad woman that Markus had met by the river. She sat. A man lay nearby with the side of his head crushed. A vulture sitting on his back looked around nervously. Sara produced a knife and began carving her long fingernails into sharp, thin claws.

Now, even with two killing machines roaming the countryside, there will be many souls left untouched. Many had sensed danger and hidden; for others, it was dumb luck. Sara had known this, being of great experience in these matters. It was time to revisit the pastor.

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Under Strange, Strange Skies

She followed the sound of a hammer, which echoed through the lifeless town. Pastor Ian was halfway up a ladder, covering the church windows with warped boards. His movements were steady and slow, his eyes milky and fixed on the task at hand.

“Your quest to save souls is nearly complete,” Sara said in the angelic voice that only he could hear. His hands slowed, and his face showed an anguish like a great water wheel whose gears no longer meshed. He breathed deeply but said nothing. It was the first window of six that he would shutter. His hands slowly went back to work.

It was inevitable that the two murderous apprentices crisscrossing the countryside would eventually find each other.

This happened between the York and McLoughlin farms on a shady patch of road beside a pond. Markus was galloping up the road, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind, while Blackie was stumble-running towards him. To Markus (who only had his sights set on women) Blackie was invisible. In Blackie’s mind, here was another one of the raping thugs who had attacked his soon-to-be betrothed. Blackie stopped, and Markus kept coming. Blackie, whose head was the same height as the horse’s, took a perfectly timed swing at Markus as he passed. The curved end of the crowbar hooked Markus in the shoulder, yanking him into the air while the horse ran out from under him. He landed in a heap with the crowbar stuck in his dislocated and bloody shoulder. Blackie, who was pulled off his feet, was also on the ground, still holding onto the bar. Before Markus started moaning, the only sound was that of the horse’s hooves on the hardpack as it galloped away.

Blackie had never been knocked down in his life and sluggishly tried to stand. Markus, who had never been hooked like a fish, was even more sluggish. The blow had also done something to his neck. One side of his body had no feeling, and the other side began to twitch.

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Blackie loomed over him and reached down to retrieve his bar, but to no avail. The hooked end was tangled in the mess of shoulder bones, tendons, and muscles. Blackie jerked it around, but that only caused the twitching to worsen. Unwilling to spend any more time or energy, Blackie pulled up on the bar and raised Markus off the ground with only his two heels and good shoulder touching the dirt. Then, he walked slowly to the edge of the pond and chucked Markus in, crowbar and all. He partially floated at first, his eyes still open, blinking away the water. Then he sank.

Blackie watched as the bubbles trickled to the surface. That lasted much longer than he thought it would. He stood staring until he heard the bells.

The founding farmers of the community had consigned a bell to be made for the church. It was to be used on Sundays, on Harvest Day, and for any emergency that presented itself to the community. As time went on and Cedar Grove grew, more bells were added so that the whole of the people alerted. They were to congregate in the town square if they rang more than twice. And now the bells were ringing like mad.

Soon, the living remnants of Cedar Grove began to arrive in the square. Sara the crow watched from a rooftop as the bedraggled, grieving villagers made their way through the bodies scattered throughout the street. Pastor Ian was there to shepherd them to the church. The large double doors were usually welcoming, but on this unholy afternoon, they served as a great monster consuming all that passed through.

By the time that Blackie stumbled into the square, Pastor Ian had figured the linchpin of his strategy. Blackie was spent and bloodied, but as he had no weapon and was generally known as a good, quiet soul, he was allowed passage into the church with everyone else.

Pastor Ian raised his hands to bring the crying and bellowing down to weeps and moans. “We have dire things to discuss, brethren,” he said in a calming voice. “Dire things that the 27

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children should never hear,” He waited for a reaction, but none came.

“So let us excuse anyone under the age of ten summers old, send them to the yard behind the church where they can find strength in each other.”

“To be slaughtered like my husband? I found him in the corn, his head was…” screamed the now Widow McKeen.

That stirred the crowd. The pastor raised his hands again.

“Exactly the things the children should not hear!”

“Then how would they be protected?” said another woman who clutched two small ones to either side.

“Is there anyone among you who would volunteer to guard the children while we tend to these matters?” The pastor looked across the huddled masses.

“I,” Blackie stood slowly, towering above the others. “I,” he said again. He was a titan of a babe sitter.

With reluctance, the parents allowed the wee ones to go; they had been through more than enough.

Pastor Ian led Blackie and the children out through the double doors and ’round to the rear of the church, where some crude play areas had been fashioned by parishioners. Once they seemed reasonably calm, he retraced his steps and entered the front church. None inside noticed when he closed the doors and laid the wide plank across the handles. Neither did they notice loose hay that had been strewn under the pews nor the smell of kerosene that had been doused along the baseboards.

Pastor Ian lit the fire from the inside, something Sara never expected. She saw nothing noble about dying with your congregation. It took little time for the old wood to catch flame, and it was over quite quickly. By the time the black smoke started rolling, the screams from the inside had stopped, leaving only the screams from the tikes on the outside. Blackie had halfheartedly tried to break down the front doors, but he had spent a lifetime 28

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around fire and its power, and he knew the outcome had been decided.

As afternoon turned to early evening and the remnants of the fire crackled and popped, Blackie stayed with the children. One by one, the walls of the church fell with a crash, leaving the bell tower as a grand climax. Slowly, Sara’s hold loosened, and regret began to set in. To the wood smoke he was acquainted, but this had an extra ingredient, one that encouraged a self-hate so great that for the first time in his life he wept.

The children had been pushed across the street by the heat and smoke. Some cried softly, others stared at nothing, while others clung to each other. A body lay just up the street, being picked at by three vultures. The wee ones didn’t notice.

Sara reappeared looking as she did when they first met: radiant and fresh, not beaten and molested. Blackie’s anger rose as she approached. His first thought was to rip her head from her shoulders. He knew now that she was at the center of all this. But, just as he knew this, he also knew she was something that could not be killed, at least not by him.

Another truth was growing inside his gut: He would not be able to live knowing he had a part in this. Sara smiled a smile that had not a wisp of glee. The thought swam into Blackie’s head like blood in a washbasin. Even with his great strength and bulk, he had been the easiest of the three to control.

He walked to the blacksmith’s shop and returned moments later carrying a thick rope in one hand and a huge barrel on the opposite shoulder. He carried them to the cedar tree and stepped over the whitewashed fence. The stoutest of all the branches was two score feet from the ground, for Blackie ’twas no effort to toss the rope and fashion a noose at one end. The barrel barely stayed together under his weight, the stays creaking and bulging but holding true. Without a word, he fitted the rope around his neck and stepped off. The branch, nearly fifty paces long, bounced several times, each with a loud snap from somewhere in Blackie’s 29

Under Strange, Strange Skies

spine. He kicked and twitched and started a pendulum swing of the rope. He was still swinging when Sara lost interest.

The little man gazed once again at his listeners. They leaned forward, looking comfortable and intoxicated at the same time.

The smoke from the fire was warm and comforting.

And now she started a subtle change. Her features softened, and she lost the sharp angles of youth. She became wider across the beam, and her hair began to grow gray. She gathered the children and spoke to them as a kindly old grandmother.

“Follow me, children, we must leave this horrid place. You may come and live with me, and every day will be like Harvest Day.” One of the girls, perhaps eight summers old, said, “But, my Pa and Ma… what about them?” She looked up at Sara with redrimmed eyes and a sooty face.

They were in the street, not far from the smoldering church on one side and the tree that held the still swinging Blackie on the other. Vultures were on the bodies, and more were circling in the sky.

“I will care for you now,” Sara said. “All of you.”

“Nope, nope (chuckle, chuckle) I don’t think so.”

Sara spun around. Standing between her and the forest trail was Buckethead. He tipped up the bucket to get a look at her reaction, then dropped it back down over his eyes.

Anger flashed across her face, and for a quick breath, the face of the grandmother hardened into something else. She was angry with herself. Furious. With the death of Blackie, she thought this parcel was tied up perfectly. A flawless netting of children without any loose threads. But here, standing in her way, was this simpleton wearing a bucket.

He was still chuckling and saying “Nope, nope, and nope.”

He was shaking his head under the bucket.

She quickly changed again. This time, to something even more beautiful and shapely than what she had been for the men.

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She came close to Buckethead and walked behind him, raking her nails seductively across the back of his shoulders. Her steps were smooth and measured as she circled, barely tracing his chin.

His chuckle turned into a giggle. “That sex stuff don’t work on me.” He giggled even louder and slapped his knee. “Nope, nope, nope.”

For the first time, Sara saw that, mayhap, he wasn’t as simpleminded as everyone thought.

She leaned in close. “Suppose I change into a wolf and rip out your throat right about here,” she brought a nail under his chin.

His laughter stopped, then he spoke in a whisper. “Doesn’t work that way, do it? If it did, you would have just killed all the growed ups. Just swooped in and chewed them all up.” He started giggling again. “You have to trick them, don’t you, like in one of them tales of fairies?”

Sara hissed. No one had ever seen behind the cloak as he had.

Most times, no one knew what happened. Outsiders would come and find the village massacred; the children gone. He was the first, and she was going to see that he was the last.

“You thought you were tricking everybody, but you didn’t trick me.” (Chuckle, chuckle) Sara kept circling, but now her anger was entwining with fear. Her tongue, her false human tongue, flicked out and tasted the air. She twisted her neck and something began to shudder under her skin.

He looked out from under the bucket again. “Nope. Didn’t trick me, Buckethead. That’s my name.” (Chuckle, chuckle) “So what you gonna do, Witchy Poo?” In the part of her mind that was clear, she thought that perhaps she could get the kids to walk by him and follow her into the forest. If that could happen, and that was a big perhaps, it would still leave the simpleton to tell the story even if the visitors were few and far between.

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In the part of the mind that was full of hate, she wanted to squash him. Make him lie down in front of a horse and get stomped to death. Hang him from his toes until his buckethead filled with blood.

But that was not to work with this one. She could not read his thoughts or send her thoughts to him. She began to wonder if it was the bucket damming the outside world, like a tree casting shade on a bright day. She would give a dozen children to get it off his head.

“A wager,” she said. Buckethead stopped giggling.

“A wager,” she repeated. “If you win, I walk into the forest without the children, and you never see me again. If I win, you take the bucket off your head.”

Buckethead said nothing. He brought his finger up to the side of the bucket where his temple would be and tapped like he was thinking.

(Chuckle, chuckle) “We may strike a deal like that, but I get to choose the contest.” He leaped in the air with excitement, then did an awkward little dance.

Sara relaxed a bit. The hatred turning back into hunger. Once the bucket was off, she would split his mind wide open, then feast on the children. She was looking forward to both.

“A riddle. Or a dare. Or maybe it’s a riddle that is a dare. I’ll wager there is something I can do with my mind that you can’t,” Buckethead said.

A smile twisted across her face. This moron must surely be touched if he thinks he can match wits with me. She waited, not wanting to seem too eager.

The sky to the west had changed suddenly to an iron gray.

The vultures had disappeared, and a light breeze brought a chill into the air.

“I’ll take your wager,” Sara said. “As long as I have your oath that you will abide by the outcome.”

“Yep, yep, yep,” Buckethead said. “You have to swear, too.”

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“I do, now what is this thing that you can do but I cannot?”

“It’s simple. I can let the children go,” Buckethead said. Then he lifted his bucket to look at her. “You cannot.”

The smile faded. If she let the kids go, they were gone. If she didn’t, she lost the wager.

Her fury grew. She could see no way out of this. Her face changed again. Her eyes and mouth were becoming more serpent-like than human. She hissed at him. He giggled.

The storm was rising behind her. There was a shift in nature now that the Abyzou had been outsmarted. Thunder in the distance. An unseen evil was now going to be brought to light by the surviving children. The Abyzou would have to change her ways if she were to survive.

As giant raindrops fell, she paced back and forth in front of him, desperate for an idea. Buckethead began his dance again.

Her head elongated, and she opened her mouth, showing long fangs and a forked tongue.

Her anger was uncontrollable. She left Buckethead and went for the children. They scattered at her approach. “Nope, nope, nope,” Buckethead said. “You made an oath.”

She turned back to him, walking in a way like a slinking snake.

“You…” she hissed.

“Yep, me. Ol’ Buckethead.” He lifted the bucket and gave her a wink. She let loose with a tree-rattling scream. A bolt of lightning split the sky.

She took a last look around. Her body faded in color, then turned brittle. A black form materialized inside. The crow clawed itself out, letting the husk of Sara fall into the dirt. It took wing and fluttered into the wind. The children watched as it vanished into the darkened sky.

And that was the last they saw of Sara Sinful.

The little man looked around at his audience. They had been quiet as midnight for the waning of the story. Not that they were 33

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dangling off his every word, no. Fact was they were listening, listening hard, for they could do nothing else. Each had slumped where they were. Some facing up, others with their heads down, still more on their sides. The eyes were the only parts moving, and they gazed on the little man with hatred and fear. “’Twas the smoke from the fireplace if you are a wondering.”

He took his time climbing off the stool. “The story was to keep the lot of you in one place, give it time to work. And your friends who didn’t show up for your celebration tonight…Frisk and Barty, well, let’s just say they were doing a little job for me tonight.”

He started to leave in the way that he had entered, but this time his step was much livelier. He passed by one of the harlots whose arm was swinging limply from the table. He reached and took the hand and brought it to his mouth, then ran his thin tongue across its knuckles, tasting the skin.

“To put your minds to rest, you are the lucky ones tonight.

Before the sun rises, you will fall asleep so deeply that you will never wake. Ah, yes, you are the lucky ones. Frisk and Barty can be very nasty when they put their heads together.”

He stepped through the door without looking back, then down onto the hard-packed ground. The moon was still bright with just a sliver of a cloud slicing through the bottom half. Then, with a breath, the body was shed, and a crow emerged. A course was plotted to where the children were gathered. It flew towards the moon until it was out of sight.

34

One Last Time The sky was crystal blue that morning. It felt good to be alive.

We were nearing mid-summer, and the temps for the year hadn’t yet made it to eighty-five. Bree and I had planted tomatoes and green beans in the backyard. It looked like we were going to have more than we could eat. I was hoping we might be able to swap it out for some Silver Queen corn or rhubarb, but I wasn’t going to tell Bree that. She always took pride in her tomatoes. Why? I don’t know. So, I watered and weeded with a distant hope of rhubarb pie in the fall.

“Harry!” Bree called from the house. I didn’t answer her right off. I had been sitting on the back deck sipping my coffee, under the shade of the giant oaks that populated our property. I usually had my morning coffee looking past the garden and out to the trees in the distance. I could see the hills for miles. A couple of turkey buzzards glided effortlessly over the trees to the southwest.

“Harry!” she said from the kitchen. I was facing away from the house. I took another sip. The screen door behind me slammed.

She walked around the chair and stood facing me, dishrag in her hands.

I looked up at her and said, “You do make a delicious cup of coffee, darlin’.”

“Did you hear me calling you?” she said.

“No, Ma’am,” I said.

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She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look. I loved that look. I took another sip.

“How could you not have heard me?”

“Well, I was thinking some profound, deep thoughts,” I said.

“Such as?”

I settled a little more in my chair and cradled my coffee cup, like William F. Buckley Jr. “When was the last time we had rhubarb pie?”

“That is a deep and profound thought?” she asked.

“For a simple man like me, yes, it is,” I said.

She threw the dishrag and hit me in the chest. It was damp enough to leave a moist spot at impact before sliding down to my lap.

“Don’t go spillin’ my coffee, dear,” I said.

“I’m going to the store; do you want to come with me?”

“Again?” I said.

“I’ve thought of a couple more things that Janie might need. I was going to go pick them up before she gets here.”

“You’ve already thought of a couple of more things a couple of times already this week. Store ain’t going to have any stock left if you keep thinking,” I said.

She plucked the dishrag off my lap and plopped down in the other patio chair. She had a worried, frightened look that she often wore when she talked about Janie.

“Don’t you want to see her get off to a good start?”

“I do,” I said. “But Janie is younger, smarter, and more selfreliant than both of us. Besides, she’s been there almost a month, don’t you think she pretty much knows what she needs and what she don’t?” I said.

“Doesn’t,” she corrected, fiddling with the dishrag in her hands. “Maybe she doesn’t have the money to get what she needs.”

“Darlin’, she is making more money than we ever did.”

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“Well,” she said, still not defeated, “I’m going to run to the store and get some things for dinner; do you want to come with me?”

I saw that this conversation was taking a circular pattern that was going to be tough to break. Logic and motherhood don’t always ride together in the same parade.

“Nope, I think I’ll stay right here. That is, unless you really need me for something.”

“No, I don’t really need you. I just thought you might want to get out of the house for a while,” she said, standing back up.

“I am out of the house,” I said. I took another sip.

“I meant a bit farther than the deck,” she said.

“I’m planning on taking a little walk,” I nodded toward the buzzards. “See what those things are so interested in. Could be that pack of coyotes has brought down a deer.”

“You’d rather look at a deer carcass than go to the store with me?”

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go to the store with you, and when we get back, you can walk through the woods with me,” I said.

“I’ll pass,” she said. *** I finished my coffee and thought about walking down into the woods. Since I’ve retired, I’ve planned my actions much more than before.

I had started taking a morning walk through the woods, most of the time bringing back some wildflowers for Bree to put in a vase. She liked that sort of thing around the house. I didn’t venture too far away, although I usually did put a pistol in a belt holster. I’d seen black bears and coyotes on the property. A handgun wouldn’t do much damage on one of those critters, but a shot might just scare them away. What to do, what to do?

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While I was chewing on it, I heard the door slam behind me again. She had changed into her shopping clothes, which were different than her church clothes and substitute teaching clothes.

She stood in front of me.

“Are you still sitting there?” she asked.

Thirty years of marriage, and she still took my breath away.

Lord, she was a beautiful woman. I don’t know how I got so lucky.

“You are certainly a sight,” I said. “How did a man like me get so lucky?”

She waved her hand as if to wave off the compliment, but I saw that tiny crack of a smile.

“Anything you want me to pick up for you?”

“As long as you’re asking, you know those cinnamon rolls they have at Vincent’s Store?”

“You mean the ones with the globs of brown sugar?” she said.

“Yep, those. How about a dozen of them?”

“No,” she said.

“No?” “That’s too much sugar for you,” she said, fumbling for her keys in her purse.

“Too much sugar,” I repeated, kind of mulling it over in my head. “You mean too much sugar for a man who is sitting on his porch, not going to the store with his wife?”

“Might be,” she said.

“So, anything might be too much for that kind of man, strictly speaking?”

“Strictly speaking, yep.” She said snapping her purse shut.

“Thought that kind of man may just get some broccoli brought home for him. In place of cinnamon rolls.”

“Yep,” I said to myself. “I can see that.”

A few minutes after, I heard the garage door roll down. I saw her car tooling down the road as it curved back around our property. We were on top of a hill, and the neighbors were few and far between. Snow in the winter drifted so badly that the 38

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state had to bring in ’dozers to clear the two-lane, and we were on our own for the driveways.

Even in the worst winters, it wasn’t the snow; it was the wind.

Not much to break it except for the oaks around the house. And those, of course, were like lightning rods during summer storms.

Been times when I would have sworn we were in the middle of a thunderstorm, not under it.

I finished my coffee and considered my options. The thought of a two-hour walk kind of faded away, and the notion of a second cup of coffee emerged as an alternative. Perhaps I might even find a cookie or two, hidden somewhere in the pantry. Bree had the unfortunate desire to limit my sweet tooth.

I hoisted myself up out of the chair, knees popping, and ventured into the kitchen. The breakfast dishes were washed and in the drainer. I was certain that the rest of the house was just as sparkling as the kitchen. Bree had been looking forward to seeing Janie for a month. I have to admit that I was busting to see her too.

I’d always had a great relationship with Janie. Didn’t say too much. I tried to be there when she needed a tiny push or a bit of help. There was a time at a dance recital when she was scared to be on stage. When the curtain went up, we were there in the front row, and I gave her a little wink. She straightened herself and winked right back. It became our secret signal.

The coffee pot was a little light, so I added water and began searching the cupboards. Bree was good at hiding things, but I had determination on my side. I started with the cabinets on the right and began a grid search.

Janie was an only child. I had made it a goal in life not to treat her as one. She would have been an easy kid to spoil, being so cute and friendly and smart, but I didn’t and wouldn’t let Bree.

So, I worked at not saying too much, not giving her the things she could get by working hard.

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She had gotten her first big job and was starting her life in a different state. That was tough. Not like when she was at college, knowing that was a temporary home and she really belonged here. This was the beginning of a new life for her. We knew it would happen; hell, we wanted it to happen for her. But it’s tough.

My knees popped again as I squatted to peek into a lower cabinet. From the front room, I heard that harsh beeping sound of an alert coming across the TV. It wasn’t unusual for Bree to have a thought and leave a room without thinking to turn off the TV. Or an oven. Or leave candles burning.

I walked in to take a peek, undaunted by my initial failure to find any cookies, and see what kind of emergency we could be having on a day like today. Ellen was talking without sound. A red scroll moved slowly across the bottom of the screen, announcing the possibility of storms.

In that harsh mechanical voice, the man said, “The National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm watch across several states in your area. Conditions are conducive to creating powerful storms with destructive winds and dangerous hail…”

I turned the TV off. Ellen was going to give some money to some deserving person, whether I watched it or not. Plus, no good could come from Bree hearing that. She’d worry herself sick until she saw Janie’s car pull into the driveway.

I walked back to the deck for a look around. Sky looked the same to me. Whatever they were talking about must have been way off, or else somebody at the National Weather Service had gotten their wires crossed. I looked at my watch. Janie was probably on the road by now. She was a good driver and a sensible kid. I had no worries about her driving through a couple of thunderstorms.

So, I returned to the kitchen to resume my cookie search and wait for the coffee pot to heat up, with the tiniest bit of trepidation seeping into my imagination.

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*** I gave up about twenty minutes later. The cupboards were bare of cookies. I did find a package of orange Dolly Madison cupcakes that were hard and had never been near a real orange.

They were delicious.

From my vantage point on the deck, I saw our car winding back over the road toward our house. It disappeared around the front of the house, and a few seconds later, I heard the front door open and close. Bree placed a bag of something on the counter and came through the back door.

“Are you still sitting out here?” she asked.

My mind quickly formulated several replies to that question, but I decided against them all. There was the chance that she really had brought home cinnamon rolls. I just smiled.

“I tried to call Janie while I was in town, but she didn’t answer.”

“Well, maybe she was driving and couldn’t answer her phone,” I said.

“You know her cell comes through her radio.”

I did know, but I was hoping that Bree had forgotten.

“Did you leave anything on the shelves for the other shoppers?

You know, the people who actually need things?” I said.

She slapped me on the arm, then she noticed the plastic cupcake container. She slapped me again. “Where did you get the cupcakes?”

I shook my head. “Funny thing, that container. A couple of gusts of wind blew that around the house and right up on the deck.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave me that frown that I’m sure she used to give to her fourth graders when she caught them in a lie. “You have orange crumbs on your chest.”

“Funny thing about that,” I started, brushing the crumbs away.

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“Don’t,” she said. “You lie like a dog. It’s a shame, too, because now you can’t have one of the cinnamon rolls I brought home.”

She turned and went back into the kitchen.

I might win a battle occasionally, but she always wins the wars.

A few minutes later, I noticed that the buzzards from this morning were gone, and that icy finger of fear was brushing my spine again. That’s when the phone rang. I tried to spring up and race to the phone, but I had been sitting too long and I wasn’t about to do any sprinting. Bree got there first.

I hoped it was Janie telling us that she was waiting the storm out somewhere. Or she was waiting until tomorrow, or she had left early and was ahead of the storm. Anything.

I stood on the deck and tried to listen to Bree’s conversation without looking like I was listening. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I watched my wife’s face change as she listened.

This was the kind of scenario where I had no options. I had to be stoic and calm, no matter how much I wanted to run in and demand what was going on. I watched her through the screen door. She turned and looked at me. I could see the fear in her eyes.

She said something into the phone and hung up. I stood motionless.

“Who was that?” I managed calmly.

“That was Helena from down the road. She said there is a storm coming our way.”

I let out my breath slowly and calmly. Bree made a beeline for the remote and clicked on the TV before I could get there. I chased after her, hoping I could keep her from getting all riled up, knowing that the Pope himself would have some trouble with that. The scroll was still sliding across the bottom of the screen. It was the same one I had seen earlier.

“Now listen, Bree, don’t get yourself all worked up,” I started to say, but she was moving on to the Weather Channel.

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The co-anchors were beside themselves, talking loudly and fast, barely able to stay professional. “…the destruction in the wake of this storm is across two states, Jim,” the woman was saying. The man was nodding at her and touching the bud in his ear. Behind them was a map showing the storm’s path. It was heading right at us, following the exact route Janie would be taking.

“If you are anywhere near the path of the storm, ready your supplies and take shelter. This type of storm is an anomaly for our region.”

“Now, Bree, you have to listen to me…”

But she wasn’t listening. Her hand was up to her mouth, and she was staring at the screen. I put my arm around her shoulders and kind of squeezed. She didn’t know I was there.

“Gail, I think we have some footage of the destruction this storm has already caused,” the anchor was saying.

The picture then switched to areas where dozens of trees had been blown over, scattered, and strewn through residential neighborhoods. Electric lines were drooping and lying across roadways. Debris was everywhere.

The picture switched back to the studio. “Please understand this is not a tornado; you may not even see a thunderstorm.

These are straight-line winds that are created by thunderstorms but have a life of their own hundreds of miles away from where they started. The meteorological name for this type of storm is derecho.”

They brought up some file pictures of a derecho. One picture showed a massive cloud that looked like it had escaped from Hell, destroying everything in its path. It was black and bowl-shaped and ominous. The anchors were talking over the pictures, but by then, even I had stopped listening. Bree stepped away from my embrace, still staring at the screen.

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“Bree, honey, those pictures were probably taken in the Middle East or Australia. Have you in all your life ever seen something like that around here?”

She wasn’t listening. She dropped the remote on the couch and went into the bedroom. I knew what she was doing; I could read her like the back of my hand. She emerged seconds later with her grandmother’s rosary and sat down in her chair. I had been through this before. For the next few minutes, she would be incommunicado with anyone on this planet, so I decided to do what any sane and reasonable person would do. I decided to turn off the television and make myself a sandwich.

She finished with the more formal version of the prayer and began the personal.

“Please, Lord, let us see our little girl again. Please let her be safe.” She repeated it over and over. Beyond being the love of my life and near perfect at everything she does, she is the most devoted person I’ve ever met. She prays daily and drags me to church every Sunday. I was glad she was representing both of us.

I walked from the kitchen to the ottoman where she was kneeling and laid my hand on her shoulder. In the other hand, I held the sandwich from which a dollop of mayonnaise escaped the bread and plopped on the floor. She didn’t notice.

“Pray with me,” she said.

Now, I’m not much for that kind of thing. I realize that I have been blessed with many things in this life, and I am truly thankful.

I think the Lord knows that. But, asking for things kind of cuts across my grain. Bree subscribes to the theory that says, “Ask the Lord for whatever you want; He’ll decide what you need.”

I was just about to tell her that she was getting riled for nothing, but then she looked up at me with those big pleading eyes.

“Pray with me,” she said.

“Look outside, it’s a beautiful day.”

“Please,” she said.

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I put down the sandwich and got down on my knees. She took my hand in hers, bowed her head, and started again. “Please let us see her again… Let her be safe.”

By the time she figured she had done all she could, my knees felt like they had been filled with cement. I pulled myself into the chair and looked out at the sunshine. Bree popped up and made a beeline for the remote on the couch. Ignoring my protests, she turned the TV back on.

The reporters were nearly breathless now. Someone had located more information on derechos and all the destruction they caused. The truly frightening part was that they could get no new information from the areas hit, like the wind had wiped everything off the face of the Earth.

Bree was frozen in front of the screen, and that little finger of fear had grown into a thick snake that was squeezing the air out of my lungs. We watched for a while, trying to force the worst from our minds. When she picked up the landline, there was nothing but static. Then she tried from the cell, and it went straight to voicemail. We waited.

We heard the sound at the same time, someone walking across the kitchen floor. Bree hit the power button, and the TV blinked off. I staggered to my feet, my knees still throbbing, but energized with the thought Janie had snuck in the back door.

Bree made it to the kitchen first. I expected to hear Janie’s voice, but the only sound was a soft moan from Bree. I knew Janie hadn’t made it home yet. Bree slumped against the door frame as I nudged past her.

Standing there in a SpongeBob bathing suit and white cowboy boots was a three-year-old Janie. She smiled at both of us.

It took everything in me not to slump against the other side of the door frame. I looked at Bree, and she looked back at me.

She was turning pale.

I tried to gather myself. “What’s up, kiddo?” I asked.

“Are the Powder Puff Girls on, Daddy?”

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The sound of her voice took me back so hard my eyes began to well.

“We can see,” I mumbled.

She came towards me and raised her arms for me to pick her up. As I did, she nestled her face into my neck the way she always had. I had forgotten the smell of her hair and the softness of her skin. I had forgotten how helpless a child was at that age and how it felt to be clung to. I closed my eyes and held her without an ounce of curiosity about what was happening. I could have held her there forever.

“Can we go see now, Daddy?”

“Sure, Pumpkin,” I said. Pumpkin, I thought, I hadn’t used that name in years.

Bree had her hand over her mouth and stared at us in horror.

I sat on the couch with Janie in my lap. She leaned out, trusting me not to let her fall, and plucked the remote off the cushion. Her fingers were so small and perfect on the buttons.

The TV came on, showing nothing but static.

“It’s busted, Daddy.”

“I guess it is, honey,” I said. I had forgotten what it felt like to be a new father, to protect her from everything wrong with the world.

Bree was still in the doorway, staring at us. She was trying to hold back the tears but failing.

“What’s wrong, Mommy? Are you sad?” She looked at her with big brown eyes, so innocent.

That snapped Bree out of it.

“No, honey.” Bree left the doorway and was kneeling in front of us instantly, very close to where we had prayed moments before.

“I’m not sad. I’m just really glad to see you.” She placed Janie’s perfect little hand in hers.

“Well, I’m really glad to see you too,” Janie said. “But since the TV is busted, can I play with Barbies?”

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“Why sure you can,” Bree said. “Do you want me to get them for you?”

“No, I got it, Mommy.”

She got off my lap and let go of Bree’s hand, then stomped into the extra room where fifteen years ago we kept the Barbies and their stuff. I started to follow her, but Bree got hold of my hand. She had a pained look on her face. More than pained.

“Is she a ghost, oh God, is she dead and we’re seeing a ghost?”

Bree put her hands back over her eyes. She started to sob. “What else could be happening?”

I stood and cradled her in my arms. I wanted to cry too. My mind raced to conceive a logical answer. The only thing I could come up with was the prayer.

“Honey, I don’t know what to think. But I do know this: whatever this is, it’s a gift. We’ve been given this to enjoy. So, let’s do that.”

I pulled back and looked down into her eyes. She gazed back at me, still tearing up, and nodded.

Janie came back into the room without the Barbies. This time, she was three feet taller. Her hair was straight and long, and she carried a stack of textbooks. She dropped them on the coffee table and flopped down on the couch. The remote was there, and she flipped off the TV. She was skinny as a rail, her braces showing through a brave smile. This time, she was the one fighting to hold back the tears.

“What’s wrong, honey?” Bree said. She left me and joined Janie on the couch.

Janie leaned and put her head on Bree’s shoulder. “Nothing really, I’m just being dumb.”

“You may be a lot of things, but dumb isn’t one of them,” Bree said. “Now, out with it.”

“It’s just that Trevor is telling everyone at school that he is going to ask Monica to dance with him Friday night,” Janie said, her face tightening again.

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“And you kind of like Trevor…?” Bree added. Janie nodded.

I’d forgotten how tough middle school was. I’d forgotten how tough parenting through middle school was. But to be honest, Bree always handled the heavy lifting in that area.

“Let me tell you something about boys,” I said. Janie looked up, and Bree gave a warning glance.

“All boys are stupid,” I said.

“You’re not helping,” Bree said.

“But you were a boy, Dad,” Janie said.

“Yeah, but some of us grow out of stupid, some don’t.”

I wondered in that instant if I had voiced that thought before.

It was something I truly believed, but had I said it aloud? Oldtimers always said time flies when you have kids, but now I couldn’t believe how quickly it had gone by. It’s like looking at an old high school yearbook. You look at the pictures, then in a few years, you look at those same pictures again. After a while, you start remembering the photographs more than the events. The actual fabric—the touch, the feel, the smells, the emotions are gone. Past life becomes a flat, motionless snapshot in time.

And now we’d been given the chance to relive part of it.

Bree was stroking Janie’s hair when the volunteer fire department siren sounded.

“What’s that all about, guys?” she asked.

I walked over to the big picture window in the living room.

The sky looked the same to me. The siren blared away in the distance.

“Maybe there is a storm coming this way,” I said.

“What storm?”

Bree stood immediately, came to me, and whispered, “Don’t say anything about the wind coming.”

“Why?” I said.

“I don’t know… Maybe she can only stay until it comes, or maybe… maybe it brought her here. I don’t know. Just don’t mention it again.”

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That didn’t sound very logical to me, but I understood what she meant. Let things run their course, don’t upset this metaphysical applecart.

We turned, and she was gone. The couch was empty, only a dust mote floating through the light where she had been.

The thought of never seeing her again, hearing her voice, was overwhelming.

I was flooded with an immense sense of loss. There was so much life left for her. This just wasn’t fair.

“No,” I heard myself saying over and over.

“Let’s pray again,” Bree said. She grabbed my hand and started the same chant. “Please let us see her again. Please keep her safe.”

All this time, the siren was still ringing off in the distance.

Not loud, but loud enough to cover Janie’s footsteps until she was halfway down the stairs.

She was wearing her prom gown, a copper-colored, sequined thing that reflected dazzling pinwheels of light across the staircase wall. She glided down smoothly like a princess, tall and straight and composed. Her eyes sparkled, and she smiled as she rounded the bottom. She stopped a good distance from us. I didn’t understand why.

“I want you guys to know that I love you so much.”

A soft sob came from Bree, and my throat started to throb.

“And appreciate everything you’ve done for me, even though I haven’t always shown it.”

“We’re so proud of you, honey, sometimes so proud I thought I’d bust,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t always show it.”

“I knew,” she said. “I always knew.”

Behind me, the siren stopped. It was replaced by a low rumbling sound that was growing louder. I wanted to turn and look out the picture window, but I was afraid she would be gone when I turned back around. Then, something hit the house, and I turned instinctively. The trees in the distance had lost their form.

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Under Strange, Strange Skies

They were now a green smudge across the horizon. Bree was looking too. She took my hand.

“I’m going to be all right,” Janie said. Then she winked.

I felt my heartstrings loosen, and I understood.

I took Bree’s head in my hands and looked into her eyes.

Larger debris was slamming into the house now, and windows were breaking. In that moment, I couldn’t have loved her more.

“Janie’s safe,” I said over the roar. “Your prayer was answered.

We were given the chance to see her one last time.”

At that moment, she understood too. It wasn’t Janie’s last time; it was ours. We embraced.

The trunk of an oak snapped, sending half of the giant tree through the living room of our home. We left this world together, on our own terms, knowing our little girl was safe.

My last vision was my daughter’s wink. I couldn’t have done better than that.

Author’s Note: I think all of us at one time or another have been whisked back to memories that had long been forgotten. It could be a photo in an album found in the back of a cabinet, an outgrown toy packed away in the attic, or a piece of costume jewelry being readied for an estate sale. Whatever the memory is, it can fire the neurons so intensely that it feels like you are right there, back at that moment in time.

I’ve found myself teary-eyed at the sight of a Polly Pocket or a Barbie. And many times, the emotions hit when you are least expecting them. It’s painful to realize that moments that snap back so vividly can be remembered but not relived. Steven Tyler summed it up in four painful words, “The past is gone.”

In this story, I wondered, what if it wasn’t? I think that if time travel ever becomes possible, it won’t be due to some fantastic machine; it will be due to us harnessing the power of the synapses 50

Don Stansberry

in the brain. Not to go back to change anything, but just to go back and be there again.

Prayer allows that to happen in this tale, with a hopefully unexpected twist at the end.

I had written this several times with different endings. It’s funny how the last few lines of a story can change how a reader feels about the whole thing. There was a character in the novel “Vulture Bend” that I had planned to kill off the entire time I was writing it. One of my readers, Terri Barker, said, “If you had let her die, it would have ruined the whole book.”

I try to take her comments into consideration. Anyhow, I think Harry and Bree in this story were okay with the ending, at least I hope so.

Special thanks to Sheryl Yoke for helping me tell the story right.

51

Beneath I signed my name for the twentieth time. The attorney laid the paper upside down on the stack, then picked up the pile and tapped the bottoms on the table, straightening them into a tight bundle. Both Realtors breathed a sigh of relief. Della was the one person who looked unhappy. She took my stack of forms and put them in her briefcase.

“I know what I’m doing,” I said to her.

“I hope so, kid,” she said. “But if you decide otherwise, there are ways to get out from under this.”

One of the Realtors started to say something, but Della gave him one of her laser-like glances. He shrank back and started fiddling with his briefcase. She reached across the table and picked up all the ink pens and stuck them in her oversized bag.

She stood, and all the men jumped to their feet.

“Gentlemen,” she said with a tilt of her head. She didn’t wait for a response; we were out of the conference room and into the lobby.

Della was large. People cleared out of her way the way cars do for a fire engine. She strode through them, expecting them to clear a path. They did. I followed in her wake. Della was a bully, but she was my bully.

Before Della, I did two things well: I watched TV and I watched people. I liked looking for logical patterns. A lot of things on TV did not make sense. Big leaps in the plot, finding that one clue 52

Don Stansberry

that solves the case, timing. Real life was not predictable like that.

TV shows had an end; real life did not. Real life always made sense if you looked hard enough. Like a stream that disappears underground and then pops up again in a different spot. That was my gift, finding mysteries and unraveling them.

Two years earlier…

I was working in a secondhand bookstore when Della came in. The little bell jingled over the door. I noticed her immediately; she is hard to miss. She looked as though she were looking for a fight, which I later found, was her natural demeanor. I allowed her to look around for a bit before I offered help.

“Yeah, you can help me, kid. Why do I find all these old books interesting when the new books seem like crap?”

“I just work here,” I said.

She walked out the door. I guess she didn’t really expect an answer. I watched her through the plate-glass window, plowing people off the sidewalk as she went. She walked about a block.

Here in midtown, there are pleasant pocket parks hidden all over.

You just need to know where to look. This one was called Green Acre Park. There was a bench with a guy sitting there, minding his own business. She sat down next to him, maybe a little too close. Moments later, he got up and left. Now the bench was all hers. She placed her gigantic bag where he had been and pulled out a sandwich.

The bell tinkled again, and a lady came in looking for a book

by Fletcher Kimball. She had been in several times that week, looking for obscure authors. I got the feeling that it was not the authors she was interested in. By the time I had finished with her, the lady on the bench was gone.

But I could not get her off my mind. She was an enigma. I wondered about her that evening. Why did she care about the integrity of the new literature? How did she radiate enough foreboding to chase strangers away? Was she a playwright or an unsuccessful author?

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Perhaps the bigger question was why was I thinking about an overweight Trunchbull of a woman when I had not given the attractive twenty-year-old who seemed to be stalking me a second thought?

An elderly couple was in the store the next day, complaining about our lack of James Patterson books, when the lady walked by the window. I watched over the complainers’ heads as she made her way back to the same park bench.

I pulled my cell out of my jeans and looked at a blank screen.

“Uh-oh,” I said. The two stopped complaining.

“We have a contamination alert.”

“What’s that mean?” the old man asked.

“A book from Peru may have been contaminated with a dangerous substance from the jungle.”

“What substance?”

“I don’t know.” I went in the back and got three dusting rags.

I tied one around my face like a bandit and handed out the other two.

“Here, put these on.”

They looked frightened.

“Are we in danger?” the old lady asked.

“Not sure. I just know that the last time we had an alert from Peru, the Health Department showed up in HAZMAT suits, and I had to be quarantined for two weeks.”

They were out the door faster than I thought possible. I went out nearly as quickly, locking the door behind me. I had with me a copy of A Farewell to Arms that I had prepared at home.

She spotted me a half a block away. I wore a Rolling Stones T-shirt and a pair of straight-legged jeans that were at least a decade old. The holes in the knees were real, not a style choice.

I kept coming at her, then sat a little too close. I could tell my proximity unsettled her.

“Hi,” I said.

“What are you, some kind of perv?”

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“Perhaps,” I said.

“What do you want?” she said as she pulled out her sandwich.

There was no one else around. Just the sound of traffic and people in the distance.

“You asked me yesterday why today’s books seem weak compared to those of the past.”

“You got some flowery language, kid. I said they were crap.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that.”

“You have, have you? Okay, let me hear it, Einstein.”

“Today, they are trying to sell you a book; back then, they were selling a story. Maybe a character. Today, they are trying to sell you a cover. Not all the books are bad, you know. There are tons of good stuff out there.”

She took a bite of her sandwich. I think it might have been chicken salad. In the other hand, she held a napkin which she dabbed on her mouth as she chewed. I waited.

After she swallowed, she said, “Why are you talking to me?”

“Same reason you are talking to me, we find each other interesting.”

“Come again?” she said.

“You’re like a character in a novel. Your actions contrast your feelings. You come into a bookstore and complain about authors.

You live in a big city, but here you are in a park, eating alone. You seem to push people away, but deep down, you need people more than you want anyone to know. You are a divergence of logic.

That makes you interesting in my book. Probably going to end up a tragic character though.”

“So why do I think you’re interesting?” she said, taking another bite.

“Because I’m not intimidated by you. You’re not used to that.”

She chewed.

“Most importantly, I’m curious. I like to find logic in things that don’t seem to make sense.”

She swallowed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

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“I like to make predictions about people, things.”

“To be honest, you are kind of creeping me out. You are cute.

I’ll give you that, but I’m going to leave now.”

I smiled brightly.

“What?” she asked.

I held out my book to her.

“You read Hemingway, so what?”

A piece of folded notebook paper was stuck between the pages. “Go ahead, read it,” I said.

She pulled out the paper without taking her eyes off me.

“She will leave abruptly,” she read. “Big deal, who couldn’t predict that?”

I pulled another note from my shirt pocket.

I read this one, “She will say the first note is not valid.”

Shaking her head, she gathered her things and walked away.

“See you tomorrow,” I yelled. She kept walking. *** The next day was my day off, so I was already waiting on the bench when she got there. She sat down and handed me half of a tuna salad sub.

“I really don’t get you. Why are you here when you could be out birddogging some little hottie your own age? I’m old enough to be your aunt.”

“Mother,” I said. “Old enough to be my mother.”

“Aunt! Or older sister.”

“So, my riddle last night was: Why is she always so bristly?”

“Bristly? Me?” It was the first slight sign of a smile I had seen from her.

“At first, I figured it had to be either your job or your personal life. Then I thought that maybe one was related to the other. No wedding rings. So, probably your professional life is crushing your personal life. How am I doing so far?”

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She stared straight ahead, chewing her sub.

“Your hair is styled, expensive clothes, good make-up, so you’re in a position where appearance makes a difference. My first choice was an attorney, but you spend too much time out here. Not good for billable hours. Plus, you dress too well for a public defender. My next idea was a businessperson, maybe something to do with investments, stocks. But those business guys are always on their phones, and I haven’t seen you even look at yours.”

“So, what’s that leave you with?” she said.

“I’m still narrowing it down. The possibilities are some political behind-the-scenes person, a concert promoter, oh yeah, maybe a manager for a wild rock band who is always in trouble.”

“You’re getting close, kid.”

“Okay, but you didn’t drop by a music store the other day, you were complaining about literature in a bookstore. Publishing, you are either a publisher or an agent. That is why you are frustrated; you have loads of manuscripts to read. And they keep pouring in every day, and you cannot skip any because there is always a chance you could be passing on the next Harry Potter. Am I right?”

“You don’t get manuscripts. They send you queries, then they send outlines. Thousands of them. That is pretty good, kid. Took all of three days to figure me out.”

“Are you an agent or a publisher? Wait, don’t tell me.”

I was on a roll now. She was in a conversation about herself without saying anything, which is the way most insecure people like it. And she was insecure once you got beneath her layers of defense.

“I’m going to say you are an agent. You are an agent who has left her management company to start one of her own. Agents are doing that all the time, then the company fails, and they go back to working for someone else.”

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We sat in silence for a few moments. My exhilaration of unravelling the riddle subsided quickly when I realized she was not happy. I had unwittingly exposed her failure.

“How long have you been on your own, I mean, since you left your company?”

“Three months,” she said. “The money is draining faster than I had expected.”

“How many people do you have working for you?”

“As of now, one. Me.” “How many authors have you signed?”

“As of now, zero.”

“But you are getting submissions, right? I mean, authors know you’re in business?”

“Piles of submissions,” she said. “And of course I’m getting all of the fruitcakes, along with unpublished authors who know an upstart like me might be willing to take a chance on an unknown.

I’m going crazy trying to plow through them all.”

“You didn’t bring any of your previous authors with you?”

She gave me a look.

“Apparently not,” I said.

She wrapped up the remains of her sandwich and placed it back in her bag.

“Thanks, kid, you really got a way of making a person feel like a queen. I really used to like this place.

I watched her go. Sometimes I am so full of myself, I look for the logic but ignore feelings.

I crossed the street and followed her from the other side. I figured it couldn’t be far since she walked every day.

It wasn’t. She stopped near a souvenir store and unlocked a glass panel door just beyond it. Just inside was a set of stairs which led to the office space above the store. There was nothing to indicate that anyone was doing any kind of business there. The place felt full of despair.

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An idea mushroomed in my mind. I walked back to the bookstore and called the owner.

The next morning, I waited outside until I was sure she was in her office. She had tied a bell to the handle of the push bar on the inside of the door. I didn’t realize until it had jingled and I was inside. My footsteps were loud on the steps.

“Can I help you?” she called from somewhere unseen.

I made my voice high-pitched, “It’s J.K. Rowling, dear. I’ve fired my agent and would like to talk to you about it.”

No answer from upstairs. I kept climbing.

I made my voice deeper. “Just teasing, it’s Stephen King, and I’ve fired MY agent.”

I reached the top of the stairs. There was a landing and an open office door to the right. I turned the corner and there she was, standing in the doorway with a large nickel-plated gun pointed right at my chest.

“Jeez,” I said. I put my hands up.

She let out a breath and lowered the gun to her side. “What are you doing here? I could have shot you. I SHOULD shoot you.” She raised the gun back up.

She turned back to her desk, putting the gun in a drawer.

“What, you didn’t make me feel bad enough about myself yesterday? How’d you find me?”

“I followed you yesterday,” I said.

“Wow, you really are a perv.”

The room had her desk, a couch, and a folding table. All three were piled with envelopes. A dusty plastic plant stood in the corner.

“Are those submissions, all of them?” I asked.

“Yes. What are you doing here? You’re like some kind of gooey stuff. You get it on your hands, and you can’t get rid of it.

You try to flick it off one hand, and it gets stuck on the other.”

“I have an idea,” I said.

She just stared at me.

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“Wanna hear it?”

“No,” she said.

“Of all these submissions, how many are you going to be interested in?”

“Interested? Maybe five percent. That’s just interested, not sure I’d sign them.”

“What if I read them? I’d take out the bottom seventy-five percent, then I could grade the top twenty-five percent. A, B, C, D. You could read those.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Why not?” I said.

“How can I trust you? I don’t know you from Adam.”

“I work in a bookstore. I know what people like to read. I also have a degree in Literature, so at least I can tell if they can conjugate verbs.”

“I can’t pay you anything.”

“Don’t have to. I talked to the owner of the bookstore. Guys are always wanting to trade me shifts because they have parttime jobs at night. They want bookstore hours during the day. I’ll work there in the evening. I only work there thirty hours a week now. It’ll go down to twenty, but that’s not a big deal. I don’t do much in the evenings anyhow.”

“I don’t know, kid.”

“Give me a week, see if it works out.”

A pair of reading glasses lay on the desk between the stacks.

She put them on. “Take one of those stacks off the couch and put it on the floor. You can read through those. See if you can find a new Dean Koontz before lunch.”

I read and read. The hard part was knowing when to stop. How do you judge someone’s work when the submission guidelines were so stringent? It was like giving someone a skeleton and having them predict what kind of animal it was. It was difficult to judge the texture and the substance.

By lunch, I had a whole stack of “nope” and one “maybe.”

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She brought half a pizza in a giant baggie and we ate it on the bench. I now understood the importance of getting out of the office for a while.

“I still can’t figure you out, kid. Are you that guy who has crime scene photos plastered all over your living room wall? Has a creepy darkroom in the bedroom?

“Yep. That’s me,” I said. “I keep a souvenir from every kill.”

She gave me a sideways glance but kept chewing.

“So, are you looking for anything in particular? Any specific genre?”

“Nope. Anything that is well written and is sellable. Mostly sellable.”

I didn’t find anything I thought could be sellable that afternoon. After an entire day, I had one “maybe”. I was starting to see her dilemma. She took the “maybe” home that night to read. I went to my job at the bookstore.

The next day, I was waiting at her office again, but this time with a box of doughnuts. She didn’t say anything until we were upstairs.

“What kind did you get?”

“Glazed,” I said. “What kind do you like?”

“Glazed is all right,” she said.

“But what’s your favorite?”

“Cinnamon,” she said.

I opened the box and lifted the lid. Six glazed and six cinnamon.

“I don’t believe you,” she said, plucking a cinnamon out of the box.

I took a glazed.

“I read the one you gave me last night. You’re right, it wasn’t too bad, better than anything I had yesterday.” She took a bite.

“Still nothing I could sell.”

The bell on the door jingled. I froze, waiting for her to pull her gun again. She didn’t.

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“Mailman,” she said.

She was right. He carried a big plastic box full of new submissions. I offered him a doughnut. He took a glazed.

“My wife wants to write a book,” he said.

“Everybody wants to write a book,” Della said.

“I suppose so,” the mailman said.

So, we went back to work, story after story. *** The first week of my volunteer employment ended with no viable stories to take to a publisher. I surely wasn’t the good luck charm that I had hoped I’d be, but I was taking some of the pressure off Della. She continued to pay me by supplying lunch. I contributed by reading the submissions and procuring an extremely unhealthy breakfast every day.

She didn’t fire me or tell me to get lost. My week’s probation passed without either of us mentioning it. I had the feeling that if I had brought it up, she would have felt bad about not paying me and told me to scram.

At this point, I had an idea. Being an English Literature graduate, I had dipped my pen, as they say. I had a finished manuscript and had started two others. This was a long time ago.

Problem number one was finding them. I had a feeling they were with my college stuff in my storage area in the basement of my building.

Problem two was that if I could find them, they were on floppy disks. I wasn’t sure I could find a device that could read a floppy disk.

Problem three had to be treated with a degree of finesse. I didn’t want her to think that I had been scheming all along to get a book published. I knew our chance meeting and the fact that I was working for free would seem contrived, a plot. People did crazy things to get to an agent.

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Even if I could convince her otherwise, it could put a strain on our relationship. I didn’t want that. I was happy with the way things were going; the only reason I was even considering this was to help her, not me.

I love step-by-step processes. So, mine were: 1) find the floppy disks, 2) take them to Office Depot and print them out, 3) mail them in under a false name. I’d open the package at work, read it, and make notes in the margin, then give it to her as a “maybe”. I’d make sure I’d give it to her on a Friday because I knew she liked to work over the weekend. I had a plan.

Over the next week, I prepared everything. I even filled out a cover sheet with all my credentials except my name and address.

For that, I chose the name Dixie Hart. It was the first thing that popped into my head; I’m not sure why. I chose a town in Florida as my address.

I was nervous the day the package came. I was just about ready to toss it and forget about the whole thing when Della saw it and said, “What? Did someone send in a whole book? People are morons.”

“I’ll look at it,” I said and scooted it over to my pile.

“All right,” she said. “Just don’t spend too much time on it if it’s not worth it.”

I spent all morning on other things. It was raining, so I jogged down the street and brought back hot dogs and chips from a street vendor. Money was starting to get tighter. The lunch topic of the day was Lovecraft vs. Hemingway. What was genius? Many words vs. few words.

“The thing is,” Della said. “You can’t see the genius of Hemingway right off. With Lovecraft, you think, ‘Wow, this guy is really smart’.”

“I just know that after I try to read a page of Lovecraft, I feel like I need a nap.”

We finished the dogs and got back to work. I started looking at my book. I stayed with it the rest of the afternoon.

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By quitting time, I had nothing for the Maybe pile except my manuscript. I handed it to her before I left.

“This one is… interesting.”

“Aw, jeez, the whole manuscript? What’s it about?

“Kind of a mixed genre. Starts off as a love story, then there’s a serial killer, some ESP, and some ghosts,” I said.

“Yeah, well, either something for everybody or nothing for anyone.”

“Take a look. You’re going to not only be judging the book, but also my critiquing skills. I want to hear what you think.”

I started putting my things together to go to work at the bookstore. She started gathering her stuff, also.

“Hey kid, what do you eat on the weekends, when I’m not feeding you lunch?”

“Are you worried about me? You? Showing some compassion?”

I got THAT look.

“I do make money at the bookstore, you know.”

“Can’t be that much?”

“Compared to this, it’s a gold mine,” I said. “See you Monday.” *** I worked Friday night, all day Saturday, and a short day on Sunday. The first call came Saturday afternoon. It was Della. I recognized the number from her business cards at the office. I was with a customer, so I couldn’t answer it right away. When I did have a minute, I hesitated. I wasn’t even sure she had my number. Why was she calling me now? When I looked, she had texted several times.

She called again the next hour and the hour after that. The next day, she called a couple of more times, and I still didn’t have the courage to answer.

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out, there she was, looking in the window at me. I hesitated for an instant and figured I had no place to run to, so I backed out onto the sidewalk and locked the door behind me.

“Hey,” I said innocently. We were face-to-face in the middle of the sidewalk.

She had her oversized bag slung over her shoulder. She reached in it and grabbed my manuscript, then smacked me in the chest with it.

“This is you, isn’t it? You’re this Hart chick.”

My fallback position when caught in a lie is to tell an even bigger one. “No,” I said weakly.

“It is too. Don’t you think I can tell? You write like you talk.

You write like you think.”

“Was it any good?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was good. The first one I think I can sell.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I can email Dixie Hart and tell her you liked her story.”

She hit me with it again.

“Why didn’t you tell me, kid?”

This time I didn’t lie. “I didn’t want you to think I was just hanging around to get an agent. Honestly, I had forgotten about those until I started reading the submissions for you.”

“Those? You mean there are more?”

“A couple I’ve started,” I said.

“Well, Hell’s bells, kid! We need a plan.”

Her enthusiasm was radiating from her into me. This was the first time I had seen her as anything but glum. And for the first time, I could see that she was probably pretty good at her job. She would be a mad dog for a client, especially one that she believed in.

“Do you want me to come in early tomorrow?” I said.

“Tomorrow? We’re going to start now. We’re already two days behind because you wouldn’t answer your phone. What’s wrong with you?”

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She didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and started walking towards her office. I tagged along behind her, trying to keep up.

“What can we do tonight?” I was hungry and tired, having worked three days in a row.

“We have to build you a back story. With a good backstory, your face, and this manuscript, we can get you a nice deal. A really nice deal.”

I smiled. “I have a good face?”

“For an author. You ain’t no movie star, kid, so don’t get cocky. Yet.” “You know my backstory, it’s not that exciting.”

“You’re right, that’s why we are going to build one.”

“You mean lie?”

“You say lie, I say embellish.”

“Is that ethical?” I asked.

She stopped on the sidewalk and looked at me. “You write well, but you’re still really green, aren’t you?”

I shrugged. *** By midnight, I had an interesting past that no one could prove or disprove. Della said the publishing houses really wouldn’t care if it was real or not, but they would appreciate our effort.

“It’s marketing, kid,” Della said. “Do you think Stephen King’s pre-orders are so high because of the premise of the next book?

No, it’s because it’s Stephen King. It’s the aura that’s been built around him. That and the fact he’s a genius.”

I was getting tired. Della was getting more pumped as ideas compounded in her head. “We need to get some headshots. Good ones from someone famous. Lets publishers know we know what we’re doing. We want you to appear to be a hot commodity.” She was still talking as I nodded off.

“HEY,” she yelled. My eyes snapped open.

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“I said I’m going to make some calls tomorrow and get the ball rolling.”

“Okay,” I mumbled; my lids were already closing again. I was slumping in the folding chair across from her desk.

“Go get rid of the submissions on the couch and lie down there. I’m going to make some notes before I forget what I’m thinking. I’ll lock up. You sleep here tonight. Mr. Cannon leaves his keys in the fake plant beside his door. You can use his restroom if you have to.”

The next morning, I woke to the smell of McDonald’s pancakes. Della had unlocked and mounted the stairs without waking me.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, we have work to do.”

I sat up and stretched, then scratched my scalp.

“Today is all about old school marketing. I compiled a list of assistants and secretaries. We’re going to start the rumor mill.

These people snoop on each other like crazy. You’re going to call publishers’ secretaries, anonymously, and ask who signed this new phenom. They won’t know, so they will start calling each other. By noon, they all will be wanting your name. Or better yet, we can say we are interested in the foreign rights to the books.

That will get them talking.”

“Good morning to you, too,” I said and reached for the McDonald’s bag.

“It’s too early to start calling people, so after you eat, go home and clean yourself up some. You look goofy with your hair sticking up all over, not like a bestselling author. More like a bum.”

“How much difference is there,” I said with my mouth full of pancake, “between a bum and an author?”

“The difference is zeros. If we do this right, you’re going to have several of them at the end of your bank account.”

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and said goodbye. She waved me off without looking up from her legal pad.

The rest of the week went by in a flash. Della’s plans worked like a charm. Apparently, the market was hot for Horror/ Romance. She took meetings with old associates and competitors alike. The sour aura she emitted was gone; now she was focused and unwavering. She oozed confidence like a ship’s captain. After each meeting, she would rush back to the office, and we would discuss if an offer was forthcoming. She was not above asking for a lunch meeting, ordering big, then bringing home a doggie bag for me. I was not above eating it.

I continued to read submissions during the day and work at the bookstore in the evenings, although it felt as if that part of my life was going to change. In a way, I was not looking forward to a change. I was happy doing what I was doing, well aware it wasn’t much of a career, but still waking each day without the dread of responsibility. I guess I was going to have to grow up a bit.

I was starting to think that nothing was going to happen, that my book wasn’t what Della thought it was, and that my place in life was that of a used bookstore clerk. But then, on a Thursday afternoon, I was on the couch in my lucky Ian Hunter T-shirt, reading a contrived story about a crab, when I heard Della open the door downstairs and start yelling.

“WE GOT IT!” she shouted. The door was still open, and people walking on the sidewalk jumped at the sound of her voice.

“WE DID IT, KID. WE GOT A DEAL!” She lunged up the stairs and brushed past me before I had a chance to speak. “You’re going big time, kid,” she said, finally calming down as she sat behind her desk. She had thrown her bag on her desk and was pulling out groups of papers that were clamped together. On the papers were sticky arrows pointing to places where I was to sign.

“Should I start now? Give me a pen.” I stood in front of her desk.

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For the first time, she hesitated, “You know, you’re too trusting.

What if I were ripping you off? What if it were a contract you weren’t comfortable with? From now on, you don’t do anything without me looking at it first. Don’t trust anyone.”

“And how can I trust you?” I asked, smiling to myself.

She stopped and looked up at me, “Why do you trust me?”

“Don’t know, but I knew I could, from the first time you walked into the bookstore.”

She smiled and pushed the stack of contracts in front of me for my signature.

That’s when the real trouble began.

Part Two After about ten minutes of signing my name, Della restacked half of the papers and placed them in her bag. The other half was scooted to the side of her desk and left for filing.

“You’re going to be contacted soon by an editor, Megan. She’s a cute little thing, but kind of harsh. You’re going to need to listen to her because she’s one of the best, and she’s hot now. The books she edits sell, do what she says.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Then she opened her purse and pulled out two checks, sliding them across her desk so that I could read them.

“This one is yours and the other is mine. I wanted you to know how this breaks down. I’m getting 15% of your money. It’s a standard deal.”

I was amazed by the number of zeros in my number and the lack of zeros in hers.

“Don’t worry, kid, this is just the advance. Once your earnings exceed what the advance is, we get another check, then another, then another. And once the second and third books come out, sales of the first book always go up again. Sales snowball as the releases come out.

“What do you mean the second and third?”

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“This is a three-book deal. It’s the best deal I have ever made.

Did you not read that part of the contract?”

“But I only have this book,” I said with more than a touch of panic in my voice.

“You told me you have two others.”

“Started, I have two others that I’ve started.”

“Oh…well… I have faith in you, kid. You’re talented. You’ll have plenty of time, since you’re not working here anymore,” she said.

“I’m not?”

“Nope, you’re fired.”

“But I like doing what I’m doing.”

“Sorry,” she said. “You’re going to be too busy.”

As if on cue, the phone rang. Della answered and flipped back into her bully mode. She gave a burst of short answers, then handed her phone to me.

“It’s the editor,” she said, “She wants to meet and get started.”

“Has she even read it yet?”

“I don’t know, talk to her.” She tossed the phone to me.

Megan talked and I listened. She sounded nice, but businesslike. She wanted to meet in the next couple of days to get to know me and the feel of the book. She liked the tone of what she had read already and was going to look closely at the pace before we met. She explained that many times, the pace was the difference between a bestseller and a dud.

“I want this to work out for you,” she said. “You seem like someone who really needs a break.”

We decided to meet at her office after she had read through the entire manuscript. A meeting for which I was beginning to have some trepidation.

“She said she really wanted this to work out for me. What did you tell them?”

Della gave a sly smile without looking up from the papers on her desk. “I kind of painted you as an orphan, like a sad, 70

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homeless genius. I reckon that Miss Megan has a soft spot in her heart, maybe not as tough as her reputation.”

“Oh boy,” I said.

“So, wear your best T-shirt to the meeting,” she said. “I bet she is going to try to feed you. She thinks you’re hungry.”

I leaned back on the couch and put both hands on the top of my head. This was getting to be pressure. I started out wanting just to help Della. Now, it was something else altogether, a locomotive that was driving itself.

“Get out of here, kid, go home, clean your apartment, do some laundry,” Della said. “Draw up an outline for the next book.

Your free time is going to be limited for a while. Did you quit at the bookstore yet?”

I hadn’t. Partly because the owner was a great guy and had been so gracious over the years. The other reason, I think, was I still wanted to hang on to my simple life. Meeting new people, having deadlines and expectations were pressures I had never had to deal with.

“No, not yet. I wanted to make sure this all worked out first.”

I was kidding, sort of, but Della snapped her head up.

“It’s going to work out. You have a contract. My name is on it as well. This is my reputation, my career.”

“Okay,” I said, standing. “I’ll be going, call me if you need me.”

“Sure,” she said.

“I’ll let you know how the meeting goes.”

“Sure,” she said again.

I walked down the steps, my footfalls echoing in the tiled corridor. Outside, the day was sunny and bright, like in a scary movie right before the aliens arrive and laser the city to a crisp.

I started walking without a destination in mind. It felt good to be out from under the mounting pressure of a book and into my old world of ignorance. I walked past the bistros where friends were eating and laughing. Past the businesses where the guys in 71

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suits were leaving a bit early to do whatever they do for pleasure.

I walked into a Barnes and Noble and to the fiction section. I found the spot on the shelf where my book would be placed if things went as planned.

I looked at the books on either side and wondered if the authors there felt the same as I did, a mixture of excitement and dread. By the time I had mulled around enough to satisfy my self-absorption, I realized I was a long way from home, literally and figuratively.

I made it back to my building in the late afternoon. It was a formidable brick thing built in the 1920s. Five stories high and solid, it had been renovated several times over the years and had a forgotten vibe about it. I was by far the youngest person who lived there. My neighbors were friendly in a passing kind of way, but I didn’t know any of them well. Of course, I had logically categorized each by their behavior and their ages. I had contrived profiles of each as I had done with Della, but never attempted to verify my findings. Maybe Della was right, I was a kind of perv in my own way.

Mr. Davis was on a bench in front of the building, enjoying the weather. He was an older man who lived on the floor above me. His skin was shiny and black like worn leather, and his hair, under his pork-pie hat, was pure white. I had never seen him in anything but a suit and tie. They were never new suits but always pressed and clean.

“How ya doing today, Mr. Davis?”

“Fine,” he said with a smile of dazzling teeth. “Any better and I’d have to switch to Republican.”

I had to chuckle at that.

“You’re the boy that lives on three?”

“Yes, sir, that’s me.” I sat down on the bench.

“Work at that used bookstore?”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

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“The women in the building call you ‘The book boy’. They think you’re cute.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m popular with the older ladies,” I said.

“You watch out. Those older ladies still got some fire in them.”

He gave me a wink.

“Call me Skillet, most people that know me call me that, not Mr. Davis.”

He stuck out his hand and I shook it. His grip was strong, but his knuckles were big and gnarled.

“Used to work at the bookstore,” I said. “I had to give my notice.”

“Uh-oh, for a good reason or a bad reason?”

“Not sure yet.”

We sat quietly for a while. He seemed content just sitting there. I wished I were that relaxed.

“What did you do for a living, Mr. Davis, I mean, Skillet?” I asked, but I was already conceiving a narrative in my mind. His hands looked as if he had done physical work, but his demeanor was that of authority.

“Did a whole lot of things. A lifetime of things. Boxed for a while.” He held up his hands. Didn’t realize back then that punching might lead to arthritis. Then I got involved with a black underground newspaper. That was back when everything had a color slant. Black this, white that. Now everything is slanted, not as much toward color as it is to politics.”

“Was that in the ’60s?” I asked.

“Yep, back when having a boxing background was a helpful thing.”

“Family?” I asked.

“Nope. Sold out for that.”

“What do you mean, sold out?

“You ever hear of selling your soul to the Devil?”

“You mean the old Robert Johnson thing? Sure.”

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A siren droned in the distance, and a bird chirped from a tree a few feet down the block. It felt as if we were the only two people around.

“Selling your soul to the Devil doesn’t always mean you’re signing a contract with Mr. Horns and Pitchfork. It means you’re willing to give up your happiness for something you think you want. Sometimes it works out, sometimes it doesn’t.”

Another bird flew to a tree to join its noisy friend.

“So, will you be moving out?” Skillet, my new friend, asked.

“Nope,” I said. “That never even entered my mind.”

“Good. Then I’ll get to hear how this new endeavor of yours turns out.”

It seemed like he was saying, in a very polite way, that this conversation was over.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I figure it out,” I said. *** The meeting with Megan went well. The offices were intimidating, as were the receptionist and the assistants that I had to get through to see her. Each person that I met was more stylish and put together than the next.

Megan was no exception. She was beyond attractive. She wore an emerald satin blouse and a short black skirt. Her legs were long and toned. I didn’t have to look above her hemline to know she was way out of my league.

But to my surprise, she was gracious, even flirty at times.

I wondered if she was like this with all her authors. Della said Megan had become important quickly. I thought of what Skillet had said about selling one’s soul. Had I become so jaded after one meeting?

She gave me some things to work on. To my surprise, I agreed with everything she suggested. She wanted my emphasis to be on pacing and clarity. I had too many prepositional phrases. Too 74

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many tangents that wandered from the plot. I was starting to think that I might like the rewriting process.

I went home from the meeting and got to work. Rewriting was interesting but draining. Every time I changed something, it messed up another passage. Four hours had passed, and my eyes were beginning to cross. It was too early to go to bed and too late for a nap. I decided I needed to get up, move around, and do something constructive. Laundry seemed like an acceptable solution.

I separated my clothes and took a basket to the basement, where the washers and dryers were located. It had been a while since I had been there. The door of the hall opened onto a small landing, and then the wooden stairs descended from there. A banister had been built on the open side of the stairs to keep anyone from toppling over the side. The old appliances had been replaced with new ones, and the prices had gone up. Even at industrial strength, washers last only so long, and I’m sure the price increase was helping defer the cost of the new ones.

The new bank of appliances had to be refitted to the area, causing a small amount of construction along the foundation wall. Several openings were visible in the mortar between the blocks. It seemed a shoddy job, but then again, I was no skilled craftsman myself.

I tossed the clothes in the washers and started the process of feeding the machines one-dollar bills. No quarters for laundry anymore, just ones and fives. Socks and underwear in one washer, T-shirts in another. I had brought my laptop with me, stacking it on the top basket with the socks and underwear. I found an orange plastic chair, propped my feet up on one of the tables, and started the outline for a new book. I didn’t get far.

With the hum of the new washers and the energy drain from my marathon walk, I was soon nodding off. After several failed attempts, I gave up. I closed the laptop and cradled my head in my arms on the table.

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In my doze, I heard a voice, deep and clear. Not close, but as if coming from another room. It began to tell me a story, a tale I knew from the beginning would frighten the daylights out of me.

I’m not sure how I knew, maybe it was his vocabulary, maybe it was his diction. Maybe it was because I was certain that he was telling it in first person. Whatever it was, he had me hooked from his first words.

I was sure, as I was listening, that I could have woken up at any time I wanted. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to hear the horrifying tale he was spinning either, but I knew I had to. Like looking at a car wreck, I chose not to look away.

I jolted awake not by a snore or by a noise, but by the ending of a chapter. What felt like hours in a dream was actually hours in real time. I could barely move; I was so stiff. The washing was dry, but still in the washer. I’d still have to put it through a drying cycle to get the wrinkles out.

The dream was so vivid in my mind. I could see every little detail, smell each odor, feel the grip of terror the young girl felt. I knew her name was Lucy, and above all, she wanted a horse. And that was what the man lured her in with.

The laptop’s battery had died sometime during the night. I didn’t want to leave the basement for too long, fearing the story might begin to fade. I raced back up to my apartment, retrieved more dollar bills and my charging cord, and high-tailed it back to the basement. Once the dryers were loaded and spinning, I began to type.

Dawn was breaking as I finished typing. A gray light was peeking through the dusty basement half-windows at the top of the wall. I had written nearly twenty thousand words. I hit the save button and started folding my clothes, which were wrinkled again.

Back up in my apartment, I saved what I had written onto a thumb drive, then lay down on the couch and tried to close my eyes for an hour or two. I felt drained but exhilarated. Try as I 76

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might, I couldn’t go to sleep. The horror of the words kept me awake. Sometimes dreams seem logical while you’re dreaming them, but when you tell someone, they make no sense at all.

Could that be the case here? Did I spend the whole night typing gibberish.

I needed to show Della. I checked my watch and realized it wouldn’t be long until she would be in the office. I’d walk the thumb drive down to her sometime this morning and see what she thought. I knew she would be honest.

Holding onto the drive like a little kid grasping a new dime, I dropped back down on the couch. As soon as I closed my eyes, the images of last night’s tale flashed through my subconscious.

And again, sleep seemed not to be an option, even though I was bone tired.

I showered and brushed my teeth, towel-dried my hair, and started off to the office. I have to admit that it was more of a shuffle than a walk and it took me about twice as long as usual.

The door was unlocked. She had been keeping it that way since I started working there. I made it up the steps and to her office.

“Jeez, kid, what happened to you?”

“Nothing…Why?” “You look awful. Did you sleep on a park bench or something?

“I typed all night, at least most of it. I have something I want you to look at.” I wobbled in and fell into the couch. I placed the thumb drive on her desk.

“Now? Do I have to do it now? I got stuff to do.”

“Please,” I said.

“You’re kind of demanding for someone who hasn’t even sold a book yet.”

“Sorry, I need to know if I should continue with this.”

“Yeah, okay.” She opened the middle drawer of her desk and plucked out a couple of twenties. “Here, walk down and buy us some coffee and doughnuts.”

I took the money and started to split. “Read it,” I said.

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“Yeah, yeah,” she said as I started out the door. “Funny thing, you’re the big shot author now, and I’m still buying the breakfast.”

For the first time in hours, I felt like I could smile.

I balanced the doughnut box in one hand and the two coffees in the other, mounted the stairs, and made my way into her office.

She was staring at her screen. “Jeez, kid, I don’t know if I should hug you or get out my gun and shoot you.”

“What?” I said.

“This stuff is dark, really horrible. I mean, it’s well written, but it’s intense. It’s as if the words are glowing embers. Where did this come from? How do you know so much about the 1920s? It’s like you lived back then.”

“It was a dream I had last night.

“Wow, what did you eat before you went to bed?

“So it’s good, right? Good enough for you to take on?

“Yeah, but now I probably won’t sleep tonight,” she said.

“Good. I mean it’s good, not good that you won’t be able to sleep. Do you want an update daily? That is, if I keep writing it.”

“No, you can wait. Did you say you did all this in one night?”

“I did, not saying I can do it again.”

“How are the rewrites going?

“Already finished what she gave me, haven’t checked today’s email yet.”

“Eat a couple of doughnuts, have some coffee, then scram.

You can’t be hanging around here all day.”

I did. I ate the doughnuts, finished the coffee, and fell dead asleep. When I woke. I was under one of Della’s blankets. It was early afternoon. Della was looking at me across her desk.

“Guess I fell asleep,” I said.

“Yep. The mailman said you were like a stray cat that I had taken in. You gotta go. This is a place of business, you know. I can’t have authors sleeping here during office hours. Besides, your phone went off. You probably have some more editing to do.”

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“Maybe I could bring my laptop here and…”

“Out, get out,” she threw a pen at me.

I stood and grabbed the box of doughnuts. “See you tomorrow,” I said.

She threw another pen. *** I was finished with the “homework” in a few hours. I was beginning to see my mistakes through Megan’s eyes, which was the same as the reader’s eyes. It was a challenge but enjoyable.

Although in the back of my mind, last night’s details still rampaged through my thoughts. If it wasn’t just a story, I could say that it was beginning to haunt me.

I got a tall glass of lemonade from the fridge and sat down to type. It was a sunny day outside, and I could hear kids playing somewhere out on the sidewalk. Then I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen. I stared at the letters on my keyboard and wondered how I could combine them to build words, then sentences, that could adequately convey the terror of the story I was trying to write.

I sat for the better part of an hour with a blank screen before giving up. My mind was tired and so unfocused that I couldn’t concentrate on the storyline. I had no idea where the plot was going. I was in the midst of a perfect storm of frustration. As a rookie writer, I had no audible to call on, no plan B to refire my brain.

Like last night, I decided not to waste an evening and do something constructive. I still had a mountain of laundry to do, so the logical thing was to try to catch up with it. Sorting out another basket and throwing the laptop on the pile, just in case, I headed down to the basement.

Luckily, the place was empty again. I noticed that the hole in the mortar was bigger than the last time I was here. There was 79

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more of the dusty debris on the floor, also, as if something had been scratching at it. I looked around for rats, but I could find no other signs.

As I started loading the washer, I began getting flashes of images, horrible images, and the voice came back in a whisper.

I thought the lights flickered, just for a second, and the voice began to snarl. I opened the laptop and began typing.

It was an out-of-body experience. I watched myself from the other side of the room. I could see my tears falling and my fingers racing across the keyboard, reliving the story of this young girl heading towards an unholy fate. I couldn’t have stopped myself even if I had tried, and I didn’t try, because part of me was enjoying this. I had a need, a hunger, to see this poor girl destroyed.

I typed until the shadows of the low branches crossed the dirty panes of the basement windows. I was exhausted, but the voice wasn’t. It commanded me to go back upstairs and get the cord to plug into my computer. It seemed to know somehow that my battery was low.

I followed the commands because, God help me, I didn’t want to disappoint it. I wanted it to know I was worthy. So, I went, knowing that the story was a long one and I would be typing all night.

I woke the next day in the afternoon, on my couch, my clothing soaked in sweat. My phone had woken me, but I didn’t have the where-withal to answer. My only thought was to check to see if I had saved the story. To my relief, it was there. My total word count was over 80,000. I already had a short novel in two nights, and the ending wasn’t even in sight.

When I checked my phone, I saw it was Della who had phoned. I hit the redial button.

“You all right, kid? You didn’t show up this morning,” she said without saying hello.

“You fired me, remember?”

“Since when did you listen to me?

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“I think you are just missing the doughnuts,” I said, running my fingers through my hair.

“You don’t sound so good,” she said.

“I was up late, working on the new book.”

“Get another chapter finished?”

“Yeah, something like that. Stayed up too late, though. Maybe I’ll take a break tonight.”

“Have you been eating? You don’t sound so good.”

“I heard you the first time. Nope, I haven’t yet. Maybe I’ll go get some breakfast.”

“Jeez, kid, it’s way past lunch heading towards dinner, you haven’t eaten yet?”

“Nope, not yet. I’m a little off schedule.”

There was a long silence. Like I said before, Della could be loud and harsh, but I knew I was more than just her cash cow she had to take care of.

“Listen, I’ll come over if you need something. You’re starting to scare me.”

I didn’t realize I had sounded so bad. I knew I felt bad, that was for sure. “Nope, I’ll come by tomorrow. Then you can see for yourself that I’m fine. I’ll even bring some doughnuts for us.”

“I’ll hold you to that, kid. Maybe you should lay off this new book for a while. You have six months.”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, lying through my teeth. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” *** I showered and shaved and decided to walk out for a bite. The thought of a hamburger turned my stomach, so I decided on a Bob Evans. I still felt like breakfast. As I was walking out of my building, I saw someone sitting on the bench out in front.

“Mr. Davis,” I said. “Good morning-I mean afternoon.”

“Skillet,” he said.

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“Aw yeah, Skillet. How’s it going?”

“Fair,” he said, then looked up at me as I rounded the bench.

“Son, you look like hell.”

“Well, I’ve been working late, not getting much sleep.”

“Humm,” he said, not taking his eyes off of me. “Remember what I said, ’bout selling your soul? Good many ways to do it, without even knowing you’re doing it.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Businessman spends too many hours at work, not so much time at home, he’s selling his soul too. He just don’t know who he’s selling it to. God works in mysterious ways. Maybe the devil does, too. Least, mysterious to us.”

“I guess so,” I said. It wasn’t early, but it was early for me, and I wasn’t quite up to a philosophical discussion. I was walking away when a thought hit me.

“Skillet, how long have you lived here?”

“Ha. Long time. When my mama brought me home from the hospital, she brought me home to this building. Haven’t lived anyplace else.”

He looked at me in an odd way. “Why do you want to know?”

“No real reason,” I said. Because I really didn’t know, but I start to see patterns sometimes and they lead to reasons.

“The building has pretty much stayed the same. I think they changed out the furnace in the sixties, then again in the nineties.

Have done some landscaping over the years. The neighborhood got kind of rough in the seventies. Twenty years later, the preppies started moving in and improved the whole area.”

“I noticed the owners have done some renovations to the laundry room,” I said.

“Don’t know. I don’t go down there.”

“Where do you do your laundry?” I asked.

“I take it to the laundromat down the street. I could say I like the company of the people I talk to there. And I could say it’s cheaper. But the real reason is my mama.”

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I waited. He didn’t continue, so I stepped back toward him and kind of leaned in.

“She said, ‘This building is a fine building with fine people living in it. Everything above the ground is God’s realm, but don’t go beneath.’”

“What did that mean?”

“Don’t know. But one time, my buddy Freddie B. and I found ourselves down there, you know, as boys sometimes end up places they aren’t supposed to be. My mama found out, and did she ever blister my bottom. Never entered my mind to go back down there. Even as an adult.”

Suddenly, the walk to Bob Evans seemed too far.

“I think maybe I need a nap more than a meal,” I said.

“You look like you need both,” he said.

“Nap first,” I said and turned back into the building.

“Remember what I said about selling your soul…you look like you might have already rented it out.”

Sleeping was the last thing on my mind. I needed to find out who owned the building in the 1920s. I had no clue as to how to do that, so I Googled it. It sent me to a site for property records for the city. All I had to do was type in an address and I had all the information at my fingertips.—very much like looking up an author at the bookstore.

The guy who built the building was Martin McCormick. I Googled him, and the screen lit up with all kinds of information.

Mr. McCormick had built buildings all over the city. Most were apartment buildings like the one where I was living, a few were larger, and a couple were smaller. He seemed to be well-connected with bankers, politicians, and other wealthy men of his era.

Someone had taken the time to compile this man’s information and put it online, which was kind of a mystery in itself.

The most interesting fact I learned was that Mr. McCormick had a daughter who went missing. It was a huge story back then, and from what I had found, it was never resolved. After a few 83

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weeks, the story just died, no mention of the poor girl or her body ever being found.

I wanted to find out more about this case, but I didn’t know how, so I Googled it. That sent me to the Law Enforcement Records at the National Archives. This again was easy as could be, but I found myself going down a rabbit hole that may take days. I was on to something, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open long enough to read even a paragraph.

I staggered to my couch, clicked the TV for background noise, and fell asleep. All the while knowing that later I would be willingly marching back down the stairs and into the depths of depravity. I found that I was looking forward to it.

This time, I do not even remember waking up. I found myself in the laundry room typing furiously, sick to my stomach and eagerly recording this poor girl’s demise. The more innocent she seemed, the more punishment was required.

I felt the end coming as we were almost finished with this story. The voice in my head was not only telling me the story, but also now showing me. I could see through his eyes what was happening, feeling all his emotions, all his anger.

I could feel his superiority over the girl, the police, over life itself. The ecstasy of total control and the need to relive it again. He had no remorse, nor did I. Only seconds after it was over, I could feel his need rising. It was so strong, like being held underwater, wanting that breath of air and not being able to get it.

We had already picked out another victim. I ended the story with him watching her. Watching and waiting.

My spine seemed fused in place as I tried to stand. My neck throbbed, and my fingers felt swollen. As I tried to loosen my neck, I saw that the opening in the mortar had grown. The pile of dust on the floor was beginning to grow.

I tucked the laptop under my arm and let the power cord trail behind me as I climbed the stairs from beneath the building and 84

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headed into the daylight of the real world. I had typed all night again, finished a novel in three nights. I felt drained, violated, and elated. As soon as I opened my unlocked door, I went into the bathroom and threw up. Then I slept until early evening.

This time, I was awakened by a pounding, like a drum banging over my head. I shook out the cobwebs and realized the banging was coming from my door.

It was Della. “Hey, kid, are you in there?” More pounding.

I got up unsteadily and wobbled to the door.

Della started yelling as it swung open.

“I’ve been trying to…What in the world?”

I slumped against the door frame, and the world got a little fuzzy. She grabbed me under my arm and hauled me back inside.

I was in awe of her strength.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, dropping me back to the couch.

“No, don’t,” I said. “I just need some sleep.”

“You look like you need an I.V. How’d you get like this? I just saw you.”

At this point, I guessed that I looked even worse than I felt, which was pretty bad. And by the expression on Della’s face, I wasn’t going to be able just to send her away and tell her not to worry.

“I’ve been working really hard. The new book is done.

Finished it up this morning.”

Della didn’t acknowledge what I had said. “When was the last time you had anything to eat?”

I wasn’t sure, so I hunched my shoulders and raised my eyebrows. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.

“Hell’s bells, kid, you got nothing in here.”

She stomped back into the room, “We gotta get you something to eat.”

“Don’t you have to get back to work?”

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“Are you crazy? You know I don’t go into the office on the weekends.”

“The weekend? What day is it?”

She looked at me incredulously. “You don’t know what day it is?”

I hadn’t typed all night; I had typed for three straight days.

That may explain why I felt so bad.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said and pulled her phone from her giant purse.

I sat up and put my hand over her phone. “Call an Uber, and we’ll go to the Chinese buffet down on 51st.”

“You sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“I’ll get some food in me and I’ll spring back up like dry grass after a summer rain.”

“I sure as hell don’t know what that means, but it sounds like something you would say when you are normal.”

Thirty minutes later, we were eating, chopsticks in hand. I began feeling more human. I was stepping back from the brink.

The tricky part of this was going to be deciding how much to tell Della. I was going to have to tread lightly, because I didn’t want to stop. Maybe I couldn’t stop.

“I started calling you after Megan called me. She couldn’t get hold of you. I didn’t want you to seem like a flaky guy who just disappears, whom apparently you are, so I said I’d find you.” She took an egg roll and dipped it in some duck sauce. “I gave her your new stuff, and they were fascinated by it. A little frightened, too; she asked me if I had done any background checks on you.

Anyhow, you now have a team. They are going to try to have the first book out by Christmas, which is unheard of in this business.

Megan has friends at Netflix as well. There seems to be some interest in a series.”

She waited for a reaction, but I disappointed her. “Man, General Tso’s never tasted so good!”

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“So, what happened to you?” asked Della, the straight shooter.

“I don’t know,” I lied. “I started typing and went into a kind of trance.”

Della was smart enough to know there was more to it than that, but she was also smart enough not to push it. She looked into me as she chewed.

What was I supposed to tell her? The spirit of a serial killer from the 1920s was seeping through the foundation of my building, where the well-connected owner of the building had him buried? None of that I knew for sure, but I’ve read enough Joe Hill books to connect the dots. Once I laid that out, she would never see me the same.

I made several trips back to the buffet. Della said, “Where are you putting all that?” after my last trip.

We Ubered back to my apartment, and she walked me up to get the thumb drive.

“For the first time in my career, I’m going to turn this over to a publisher without reading it. I’m afraid that if I do read it, I’ll have nightmares forever.”

“I think she’ll like it.”

“We’ll see. Here is the deal. You check in every day. If you don’t check in, I’ll be right back here beating on your door. If you don’t open it, I’ll bust it down. Got it?”

“Yes, Ma’am. But—” “No buts. What would have happened to you if I had waited until Monday? Your phone is dead; you couldn’t have called for help. All kinds of things could have happened.”

I agreed, but mainly it was to get her out of my apartment.

The hunger was returning, and it wasn’t for food. I needed to get back down to the basement. I felt like a heroin addict sneaking to get his next score. *** 87

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I made my way back that evening. I carried my laptop and the cord, but this time I also brought my digital clock from my nightstand. If I ended up having another marathon session and I wasn’t in my apartment, Della would have the cops out looking for me. I knew I couldn’t keep up the increasing length of time it was taking to type, so I set the alarm for five hours.

This time, when I entered the laundry room, I saw that one of the foundation blocks was completely ajar in its opening. A chill went through me. Even with the muted light coming through the window, the room seemed darker than it should be. The shadows in the corners were alive with darkness, like the darkness was not just the absence of light, but a thing in and of itself. I’ve heard stories where people say they have felt that they are not alone in an empty room. That’s exactly the way I felt. I knew something was there with me, even though I couldn’t see it.

I kept my head on a swivel as I sat down. I felt uncomfortably vulnerable as I bent to plug in the cord. At this point, typing seemed out of the question. My hands were shaking.

I knew it must be watching me because it started speaking in a whisper. And even though it was in my head, the voice seemed closer. As if it were leering over my shoulder, watching my hands tremble.

And then I was free. We were stalking the new girl, no fear, only uncontrollable excitement. I was sucked completely into the rabbit hole of horror. We watched and waited for the perfect moment, then pounced.

The alarm buzzed. I snapped back into the real world so quickly that I became queasy. Five hours had passed in a blink.

It was angered. It was ready for a delicious conquest, and I had deprived it.

My fear was returning. I began to realize that when I was frightened, I thought of the voice as an it. When I wasn’t, it was a he. When I was in its world, it was a we, which was most frightening of all.

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I scooted up the steps without looking back and locked my apartment door behind me. There, the world was dark and quiet.

No horrible tales, no presence lurking behind me. Almost back to my simple life. Almost.

I turned to my headphones, Spotify, and the Beatles. I slept for the rest of the night. The need to return downstairs was severed by Paul, John, George, and Ringo.

The next morning, I felt like a new man. I picked up a box of doughnuts and took them to Della. She was genuinely happy to see me looking more like my old self. We talked for a while, and she said she had a promising new writer coming in to sign a contract. I missed our old arrangement and asked her if I could still come in and read submissions.

“Forget about that kind of thing, kid. You have a ton of people depending on you now.” She took a bite of doughnut. “I’m working on something that’s gonna knock your socks off. You keep coming up with stuff like the last thing, and we’re going to make you more than a writer. We’re gonna make you a brand.”

“What happens if I stop? What if I can’t think of anything else?”

She stopped chewing, “That can’t happen.” She said with finality.

The rabbit hole that I was going down with regularity was getting bigger, and now it seemed as though I was getting pushed down it by the people depending on me to produce. I was Keith Richards being fed drugs as long as he produced, and enjoying it to the max.

I left her office feeling like an anchor was around my waist pulling me down into the depths. I decided on the walk home that I was going to use the thing beneath the building and not let him use me. Safeguards would be put into place. I would regulate the time I would spend in its world so it wouldn’t become our world permanently.

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I spotted Skillet sitting on the bench as I walked toward my building.

“What’s new, Mr. Skillet?”

“Same old, same old,” he said.

I sat beside him on the bench.

“You don’t look so good,” he said.

“You should have seen me a couple of days ago,” I said.

“Not good, not good at all. Didn’t listen to me, did you?”

I didn’t say anything.

“How’s that new job of yours going?”

“Great,” I said.

“Uh-huh, by the looks of you, I bet it is.”

I stood, not wanting to hear any more of what I knew was the truth.

“Gotta run,” I said. “No rest for the wicked.”

“You better watch, son, sometimes success has a way of swinging around and hitting you in the backside.” *** That night, for the first time, it started to tell me about itself.

It was fascinated by Jack the Ripper. It loved the way Jack taunted the police. It was a professional man, with a wife who spent a great deal of time abroad. They had money and were prominent in their community. It did not reveal its name or residence.

And for the first time, it wanted to open a dialog. It wanted to know about me and my life. It wanted details. I did not want it shutting down on me and disappearing, but I was not willing to allow myself to become known to this thing. I sensed a trap coming.

“Tell me about the next one,” I said out loud. “Finish the abduction.”

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Whatever its plan had been, it abandoned it. It relished rehashing the story even more than setting a trap for me. That was its weakness, the need to relive the past.

I set my alarm, and it began the story in sickening detail.

Again, we began to merge as one, and again I felt the pleasure of ultimate control. I typed until the alarm sounded, and this time, we both were angered at the interruption. And this time I found myself adding my own embellishments. I realized that I was trying to take some ownership of the story. I wanted it to become mine as well as his.

Because of his openness, I wasn’t quite as frightened of him.

Wary, yes, but I felt that I had a touch of leverage. I wasn’t as eager to get out of the basement as I had been the last time.

He/It was shouting in my head. It was loud, booming around inside like thunder in a valley, cursing me for stopping, loud enough to cause me to lose focus. I steadied myself by placing my hands on the table. It threatened me, asking if I would like to have things done to me, the things I knew it was capable of.

I heard a sound behind me like the falling of pebbles on cement. When I turned, I saw the block in the foundation was teetering in its hole. The floor was littered with broken mortar. I jumped up so quickly that the chair tumbled over and tripped me as I rushed across the room. I stumbled to the wall and shoved the block back in place as I felt something invisible try to grab at my thigh.

On the other side of the wall, I could hear gasping and pounding. Then there was the sound of bits of plaster falling and breaking on the floor. I straightened the chair, pulled it to the loosened block, and jammed the chairback under it. I could still hear the screams of anguish as I made my way up the stairs. ***

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The next morning was dreary and the sun just a light smear in the sky. I had had a great night’s rest and was looking forward to an early lunch with Della. I had called and asked if I needed to get an ID number for my daily check-in.

“You got to get in here quickly, kid. We have papers to sign, then were going to lunch to celebrate. And not some hot dog stand, no tacos. Do you own anything besides T-shirts?”

“I’m going to Best Buy to get some thumb drives, you think they sell clothes there?”

“You’re killing me, you really are,” she said and hung up.

An hour and a half later, I climbed the steps to her office. She was there at her desk as usual, but sitting across from her was a young lady. She was pretty enough, but she sat very erect and had her hands folded on her lap. They both looked up at me in unison.

“You’re wearing that?” Della said.

“Yep. Just bought it. What do you think?” It was a black tee with the inscription “I was There.”

“What does that mean?”

I hunched my shoulders.

“What’s in the bag?”

I was holding a plastic bag with the store’s logo on it.

“It’s the shirt I wore into the store.”

“Jeez, kid. That’s the only thing you bought?”

“They had one with a drawing of President Lincoln with a bottle that said, ‘Lincoln Drinkin’, but I didn’t want to be disrespectful. I got some thumb drives as well.”

All the while, the young lady was waiting patiently. Her hair was cut short but stylish. I was thick and lustrous. She wore a camel-colored blouse and a short black skirt that looked as new as my shirt. She looked uncomfortable in both. Her makeup was well done. My logical guess: She was the new author Della had told me about. She felt she had to make a good impression on Della and me and did her best to present herself in the way she 92

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thought an author should look. I was blowing that idea out of the water.

“This is Danelle,” Della said. “But she’s writing under the name Sasha DeLong.”

“I’m going to be using the name Sasha,” she repeated awkwardly. She had a fluty voice, like a bird.

“Danelle thinks her book is too explicit for the public to know her real name,” Della said.

“It’s raunchy,” Sasha/Danelle said. A sliver of a smile crept across her face.

“Yeah, well, okay. Whatever.” Della said. “She is going with us.”

“Where are we going?”

“We’re meeting with a guy from Netflix and a woman from Paramount. Both are interested in your two books. Megan is also going to be there. We’re going to have lunch, family style. Then we’re going to start the bidding.”

“Do you usually do business like this?” I asked.

“No, never. This is unheard of. But I know people like this; they do not want their bosses to know they let a hit slip through their hands. We will have the upper hand.” Della was excited, like a shark with blood in the water.

“The car will be here in a few minutes—” she started.

“The car? We’re actually taking a car?” I said.

“A big black one with a driver. So let the driver open the door for you, don’t just jump in.”

I was still standing there with my plastic bag containing my old shirt.

“Sit down and relax. I need to go freshen up. You two get to know each other. If things work out, you could be doing a book tour together.” Della stood, got her giant bag, and walked out of the office.

“Where is she going?” Sasha/Danelle said to me.

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“The bathroom is down the hall,” I said, figuring it was better to leave it at that. I took my place on the couch, the only place left to sit. I leaned way back, and before long, I was lying down.

I felt at home again. I was so relaxed, my eyes closed and I was out. I woke with two fingers pushing my shoulder. Danelle was standing over me.

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” she said.

“Okay then, I’m not having sex with you either,” I said.

“I’m not sure how things go in these Hollywood-type deals, but I’m having no part of it.”

“Right on, sister,” I said. “I have a malevolent spirit living beneath my building feeding me stories.”

She turned and went back to her chair and folded her hands on her lap.

Della came back into the room. “The car is here.” *** The guy was waiting by the car to open the doors for us.

Thankfully, he wore a black suit and tie, not a uniform with a driver’s hat. Della got in first, then Sasha/Danelle. I tried to get in the front seat with the driver, but Della yelled at me to get in back.

The two back seats faced each other, so Della was seated on one side and we were on the other. Della talked, and we listened.

She outlined who was to be there and what their positions were.

Netflix was looking for the next big show that everyone would be talking about; they were always competing with HBO. She continued to talk, but I lost focus and started examining Sasha/Danelle’s legs, which were crossed at the ankles and just off to my lower left. I decided that these were excellent legs. Her heels made them look long and shapely. I wondered how it would look dismembered and hanging above a fireplace.

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“Hey!” Della snapped her fingers at me. “Are you listening?

This is important.”

I sat up straighter, refocused, and tried to look serious.

Moments later, the car pulled up in front of a trendy-looking façade. We stopped, blocking all traffic behind us. The driver got out, opened our door, and Della led us into the restaurant.

I noticed Megan first. She stood wearing a sapphire blue dress and gave me a longer-than-average hug. Over her shoulder, I gave Sasha/Danelle a smirk. Megan was the only person who didn’t seem to think I was underdressed.

Introductions were made, and there were handshakes all around. I immediately forgot everyone’s name. There was a slew of people there, more than Della had informed us about. I could tell she thought that was a good thing, that it meant they were serious. She instantly took charge. Once everyone was reseated, she stood in her black power suit and said, “Let’s get down to business. Who’s paying for lunch?” Everyone burst into laughter.

Sasha/Danelle was seated between Megan and me, so our conversation was directed through her, which placed her in another uncomfortable situation. Megan had become incrementally flirtier each time I was around her, something that I found odd considering her professional her hard-working reputation. With every inuendo I would lean back so only Sasha/ Danelle could see me and raise an eyebrow. She was beginning to really hate me.

I zoned out of all the business discussions and dug into the appetizers and bread when they arrived. I chewed while Megan was asking Sasha/Danelle about her writing process. All in all, I was having a good time. I couldn’t keep from glancing down intermittently at Sasha/Danelle’s legs and thinking about the nasty things that could be done with them.

I was lost in those thoughts when I saw they were both looking at me.

“I asked where you do most of your writing?” Megan said.

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“Down in the laundry room, there’s an evil ghost down there that feeds me plots,” I said.

They both laughed. They thought that was precious. The others at the table were leaning more toward our conversation than the business conversation.

“You should come over,” I said. “I’ll show you my basement.

Maybe that could inspire your next steamy novel.”

“Oh, you should,” Megan said to Sasha/Danelle. “Oh, we could sell that. What a great press release. You two together in a dark, seedy basement room, typing away. Where one sees horror, the other finds lust. His books will be released first, then you can piggyback off the success.”

“That’s great,” I said. “I’ve been wondering if anyone else would be able to hear the voices.”

That brought more laughter.

Sasha/Danelle was horrified. “Only if you come too,” she said to Megan.

“I’d love to,” she said. “We’ll have your driver drop us off after lunch; this will be fun.”

“Like a field trip,” I said. The meeting went on while I went back to my repulsive thoughts.

The main course was carried in. This place served family style, as Della had mentioned, which meant there were several entrees, each in their own serving tray, and everyone dipped out what they wanted. It was a great way for a business meeting to end on a happy note. Della sure seemed to be happy. She walked behind me, bent down, and whispered in my ear.

“You will not believe the deals we got,” she said as calmly as she could. “You will have a creative voice in everything we do.

You and I will also be executive producers on everything we do from now on.”

I nodded thoughtfully, my brow furrowed. I had no idea what she was talking about.

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She walked as demurely as I had ever seen her walk, back to her seat. She sat and stared at the food without lifting a fork.

Megan, who seemed to have the ability to have a conversation and listen to another simultaneously, was as happy as everyone else. Having “Soon to be a major motion picture,” or “Netflix” could skyrocket the sales of a book. Everyone at the table was a winner. The waiters brought champagne.

I was experiencing a euphoric event for an author. One in which only a handful of talented writers ever reach, and the only thing I could think about was getting this innocent girl into my basement. I ate until all the platters were empty. Food had never tasted so good. *** We got out of the car in front of my building. The bench was empty and the street was quiet. I told Della I would be at her office first thing in the morning. She told me she was going to look for a larger space now that business was popping.

Megan surprised us by saying she needed a better camera.

She was going to have the driver take her home, then come back in her own car. I felt like a cartoon character wringing his hands excitedly. A look of panic spread across Sasha/Danelle’s face.

She got out anyhow, clutching her newly purchased purse. The afternoon had come and gone, and the shadows were starting to creep across the front of the building. The dusk was ominous.

I tried to tell myself that this was just an experiment to see if anyone but me could hear the voice. But I knew it wasn’t. My ears throbbed with the sound of my own heartbeat. The car pulled away, leaving us alone under the streetlight.

“You seem nervous, don’t be,” I heard myself saying. “I’ll show you where I write, then we can come back out here and sit on the bench. We don’t have to go up to my apartment if you don’t want. I’m not a vampire, you know, I don’t want to suck 97

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your blood.” Now that thought gave me an unexpected jolt of adrenaline. Like I needed one.

She gave a half smile at the vampire joke and seemed to loosen up a bit.

“All right,” she said. “I’m probably overreacting. I do that sometimes in new situations.” We started toward the door. “I’m sorry I threatened you in the publisher’s office. I guess it was a kind of fight-or-flight thing.”

“It wasn’t much of a threat, it did surprise me though,” I said as I put the key in the door.

We headed down the corridor towards the basement door. I touched the knob, and it felt like more than a door. It was a portal into Dante’s Hell that I was stepping into, and once there, there was no way to leave.

I entered willingly, flipping on the light and descending the stairs with Sasha/Danelle trailing behind me. The voice filled my head. It was giddy with excitement. Any air of civility was gone, the words from the wall were slurred and slobbering, foul and primal.

I put my palms up to my temples and pushed, trying to block out some of the violence. It was pounding in my brain, rotting it away.

Sasha/Danelle was just at the bottom of the stairs, looking around. She hadn’t noticed the battle raging in my skull.

“It’s not dirty but not really clean either,” I said, not making much sense. My mind’s eye saw a knife slashing her throat and blood spurting onto the wall.

She meandered over to the table. “Is this where you type?”

The chair, which was still propped under the loose block in the wall, rocked precariously.

“Why is that chair moving like that?” she asked.

The block was trying to loosen itself again. Bits of mortar began dropping to the floor.

“The building is settling,” I said.

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She turned back, away from the wall and towards me. “Do you have any ideas for your next book?”

“Oh yeah,” I said, looking at her soft, dainty neck.

Behind her, the entire wall heaved out like the ribcage of a huge monster taking a breath. The screaming was so loud I couldn’t concentrate on what she was saying. I could see myself ripping at her clothing, snapping that fragile neck. The thought was so clear, and it was only one quick step away.

The mortar was falling from the wall like a waterfall. The voice was no longer coming from the wall; it was coming from inside my head, and it was mine.

I felt myself taking a step closer, and out of nowhere, there was a carving knife in my hand. Had I planted it there beforehand?

I didn’t know or care at that moment. She glanced down and saw the knife, then looked into my eyes. With a steeliness I had not seen in her before, she unbuttoned the top of her blouse and stepped toward me. Something in the room must have gotten to her, too.

I flipped the knife so the point was down. I saw myself from above as if I were floating over the scene. I was raising my arm.

“HEY, WHAT’S GOING ON DOWN HERE?” The turmoil inside me stopped instantly. Sasha/Danelle snapped out of her trance, and I dropped the knife. There was complete silence for a moment. Then the screaming started again, even more disgusting and bitter than before. But the voice was coming from the wall, not from me.

Della stood at the top of the stairs looking down at us in fascination.

“What are you doing?” she asked again, looking around the basement.

I looked at her, not really hearing what she had said because of the screaming.

“Kill them both,” it snarled.

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The knife was lying at my feet, the blade gleaming under the fluorescent light.

I mustered my strength and kicked it. It spun across the floor and disappeared under a shelf. Sasha/Danelle stood in front of me, a deer in the headlights. “Run,” I said to her.

She wasted no time. She was up the steps and past Della before Della could say anything to her.

The voice cursed me for letting her go. It threatened and belittled me, but for the first time, I felt a bit of control over it. I had loosened its grip. Maybe it was not just me but the presence of Della.

“Jeez, kid, what’s going on? Who is that screaming?”

“You hear it too?”

“A little, but it’s getting louder. Where’s it coming from?”

She had only made it halfway down the stairs. “Why is the wall falling apart?”

The sound of Della’s voice was clearing the darkness from my brain. Like a fresh drink of water to a guy in the desert, it was refreshing me, rebooting me back to myself.

“We have to get out of here,” I said as I made my way to the stairs.

But Della was having no part of it. She brushed past me, moving toward the crumbling wall. The voice must have become clearer for her because her face had the look of someone being insulted. It turned its attention away from me and onto her. She was taking it head-on.

“Bite me, you moron,” she said to the wall.

She turned to me and said, “Is this him, the guy that actually did the things in the book?”

I nodded. The room was vibrating with anger. Small tendrils of dust were rising from new cracks in other walls.

The shouts and insults were manic. The staircase behind me gave a loud crack as it tried to pull itself from the wall. All 100

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around, bits of mortar were rumbling. The washers and dryers began to vibrate.

“You spineless, gutless coward!” Della jeered. “Not enough of a man to kill anyone your size. Only attacking little girls. Oh, what a big man you are!”

“Della, you gotta stop! You don’t know what this thing is capable of!” I shouted over the din that only we could hear.

“What? You think this child killer is going to take on two adults? Can’t sneak up on us like a little girl, can you? Don’t worry, kid, this thing doesn’t have the cojones for anyone its own size.”

The wall shook itself apart. The blocks and mortar crumbled and fell to the floor in a rising cloud of dust. The noise was loud enough to wake everyone in the building. Out of the opening came a figure, a human form in pale grey. Probably invisible if not for the swirling dust cloud giving it shape.

It laughed. That was the most frightening instant for me, the instant change from anger to enjoyment. But not Della, if she was scared, she wasn’t showing it.

“Bite me,” she yelled at it. “What are you going to do, you cloud of dirt?”

I wanted to mention to Della that this cloud of dirt had just busted through a wall, The form moved closer to Della. It towered above her, laughing harder. Della planted her feet and crossed her arms over her chest.

“You’re pathetic. I’d feel sorry for you if you weren’t such a perv.”

As soon as she said it, a chill came over the room. The thing noticed it too. The form changed from a menacing stance to a more defensive one. The tint of light changed from dusty grey to red.

Slowly, like a dye seeping into a glass of water, two dark forms appeared on either side of the figure. Gradually, they became 101

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hooded figures without having lines or details. Their darkness undulated, growing larger and smaller as they breathed. Each moved of its own accord, but they were both doing the same thing. In unison, they flanked it, moving in a practiced pattern.

Then they attacked.

Dark, blurry grappling hooks dug into the thing and pulled taut. It howled in pain. It began to struggle to free itself, but it was hooked deeply. It shook and screamed in pain. But they held tight, even as it stumbled across the rubble from the fallen wall.

Della, who had nearly been in the middle of all this, said, “What the hell are you two?”

One of the dark figures became more humanlike, although its hooded head was still featureless, whispered in a snake-like voice, “Zabaniyah.”

I grabbed Della from behind. “We gotta get out of here,” I repeated.

This time she listened. We were up the steps and on the landing before I looked back. My last view was that of the two dark figures pulling the struggling thing back into the hole in the wall. It twisted and fought, but to no avail. It had been pulled down into hell.

As we entered the hallway, some of my neighbors had gathered outside of their apartments. Skillet was there, dressed neatly in a maroon bathrobe and slippers. People went to bed early in my building.

“That noise coming from the basement?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“I hope whatever is beneath the building stays beneath the building.”

“Yeah, I think way, way beneath the building,” I said.

Within minutes, the police arrived, called by some residents worried that their building was falling. The fire department soon after that.

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Della and I were interviewed because we each were blanketed in a fine layer of dust. The building inspector was called away from dinner to reassure everyone involved that the building was still structurally safe. Megan returned with her camera to find a street lined with emergency vehicles and dozens of people milling about in their pajamas. A camera crew showed up after Megan called in a story of an up-and-coming best-selling author saving his agent in a building collapse.

Through it all, Sasha/Danelle sat comatose on the bench.

“You’ve got some explaining to do,” Della said to me.

“Yep,” I said. *** Two years later…

We sat in Della’s ultra-modern office, she behind a glass desk and me slouched in an ergonomic chair that didn’t look like a chair. She dropped the briefcase with the Realtor’s paperwork on the floor beside her desk.

“So now you’re a landlord,” Della said. “How does it feel?”

“It makes me hungry,” I said.

Della pushed a button on her desk phone. “Jaylyn, do we have any doughnuts?”

A soft voice came back through the speaker. “No, but I can have some brought in.”

“Do that, half glazed and half cinnamon.”

“I feel I have a responsibility to make sure that thing doesn’t come back,” I said. “Plus, I like writing down there.”

“And you never found any concrete evidence that the builder of the place had this guy killed and put the body in the basement of one of his buildings?”

“Nope,” I said. “But one can surmise…”

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“Yeah, well, not exactly a great business decision. You could be leasing a really great apartment instead of owning and living in a hundred-year-old building.”

I looked around at the artwork on the walls. “Be honest, have the last two books been as good as the first two killer books?”

“Yeah, just as creepy as the ones when you were under the influence of the killer. That kind of scares me.”

“Do you think I’m kind of a Horcrux? A bit of him is still inside of me?”

“I don’t know, kid. I still can’t figure you out.”

We sat and waited for the doughnuts.

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Two Cats The spring shower had come suddenly, drenching the new leaves, which were already so vibrant they seemed to vibrate.

Even before the rain had finished, the sun came back full force, creating a clean, sparkling world. Huge, pregnant drops fell from the branches and eaves at an uneven tempo. The air was clean and pure.

Gertie watched all this from the dark side of her screen door.

She had been sitting in her chair by the window when the rain began, then as the pace increased, she placed her needlepoint on the end table and went to have a look. She stood there, remembering her family, how they had waited for the rain to be over. They would spill out of the farmhouse and search the sky for rainbows. That was many years ago. Of her family, she was the lone survivor. She had outlived everyone, including spouses and most of her nieces and nephews.

The house was configured so that a person looking in the front door could see straight through the house to the back door in the kitchen. The stairs to the second floor were behind Gertie and slightly to her left. The living room was to her right, and the TV was on a stand against the wall under the stairs.

She stood there through the entire shower, recalling each sibling by name and order of death. A large drop fell from the maple and “kerplopped” into a puddle that had formed on the uneven sidewalk. The memory dissolved, she sighed heavily, 105

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and shuffled back to her chair. Outside, the mixture of air and moisture was perfect for a rainbow. There would surely be one up there somewhere, for someone else to see.

Her chair by the window had a catbird’s seat to see up and down the street. Gertie took advantage of this to watch the goingson of the neighborhood. There, behind her lacy sheers, she kept track of everything that happened each day and documented them in spiral notebooks. Deliveries, license plates, strangers, and people of color all went down in her book. Once, she was sure that she saw a UPS driver dressed like a man but had hair and makeup like a woman. She had a hard time describing that one in her book.

Watching the rain had set her back a bit today. Most days, she would get a little peckish about the time “The Price is Right” would start. That was if the moron who took Bob Barker’s place didn’t set her off her appetite, and he usually did. Today, she decided to wait a while and see if that colored man who took Richard Dawson’s place on “Family Feud” would have a normal white family on. Since he had become the host, there had been an endless stream of Chinese, colored, Korean, and every other kind of combination you could think of. It was like opening a bag of M&M’s.

So, she sat, took a quick look up and down the block, and went back to stitching. She was just finishing the y in JOY. The piece said, DON’T POSTPONE JOY, in bright scarlet with an autumn background of leaves and pumpkins. A bit out of season, but that was okay; she liked the message.

Gertie’s needlework had a life cycle of its own. She would search for a saying, then figure out her own pattern. Once she had finished stitching, she would find a frame and hang it somewhere in the house. After a couple of years, she would knock the dust off and give it away as a gift. The fact that no one ever seemed too excited to receive one did not bother her. She considered herself a kind and giving person.

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*** The morning turned into the afternoon, and the temperature rose. Gertie dozed through the rest of the game shows but woke after releasing a short, sharp snort. Once the game shows were finished, the soaps started. Soaps were not her thing, too many affairs and too much adultery. This was the time of day she usually turned to the murder and kidnapping shows.

The clicker had its own little doily, so as not to mar the surface of the 1970s coffee table. Once she clicked over, she immediately knew it was one she had seen. She recognized the killer and thought the victim had been a little too trampy and partially got what she deserved. What did the kids call it now? Karma?

Anyhow, she had a few minutes to get something to eat before the next program started. She headed to the kitchen.

The processed ham still smelled good enough to eat, so she laid it out with some yellow cheese, limp lettuce, and mustard.

The bread she dropped in the toaster. Before it popped up, a spring fly appeared, buzzed the room three times, and landed squarely on the ham. It moved twice, in quick sharp movements, before Gertie’s hand came smashing down on it. The ham, being just a bit springier than the countertop, denied the fly a quick death and left it partially buried in the meat. Gertie bent low and examined it. One wing was bent awkwardly in the wrong direction, and three of the legs were twitching wildly. Reaching down, she gently plucked the fly out of the ham with her thumb and forefinger. She brought it up close and adjusted her glasses, then rolled it between the two fingers and watched it die. She wiped the remains on the hem of her dress as the toasted bread popped up. Not to waste anything, she made the sandwich with the ingredients she had laid out, then took it into the TV room to eat.

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*** Gertie was a dainty eater. Small bites and very few crumbs.

The sandwich lasted as long as most people would have taken for a full meal, but that was all right; she might not eat again until tomorrow. She wasn’t malnourished, at least not in the traditional way. She was full-bodied and thick, starting with her chin, running through her breasts to her ankles. Her sporadic eating did nothing to reduce her size; she kept her weight, especially around the middle, because of her lack of exertion. She took small, measured steps, taking as few as possible. She rarely went anywhere except the magic triangle: bedroom, kitchen, TV room.

As she ate, she kept one eye on the show and one on the street.

Sometimes the two blended into one reality, and she would have to snap herself back. Sometimes a whole day would pass, and before bed, she would remember all of the terrible tragedies that had occurred that day. But she would always laugh them off. At least they didn’t happen to her.

The colored man who lived across the street pulled into his driveway in his big gas-guzzling SUV. Two laughing kids sprang out of the back of the monster, and the man chased them up onto the porch and into the house. His white wife followed a few minutes later in her little black sports car. Both arrivals were documented in the spiral notebook.

An hour later, he came out through the garage with a weedwacker and started trimming. The two little girls played with something on the porch. Gertie couldn’t tell what it was they were playing with and decided she was going to have to get some binoculars. After he finished, he rolled out the lawnmower and cranked it up. The front yard took all of ten minutes, then he rolled around back, where the sound of the mower diminished.

All of this went down in the notebook.

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Later that evening, Gertie decided to call an old friend who had been stranded in a nursing home by her family. Try as she might, she could never remember the phone number, so she always kept it and other important numbers in a small flip spiral on the end table. As she picked up the receiver and punched in the numbers on the base of the phone, she contemplated the curly cord that connected the two. Great invention that cord, she thought. She wondered if the guy got to retire after thinking up that one, or if the company took all the credit.

It took forever for anyone to answer. Probably understaffed.

Katie had been her friend back when candy bars were five cents and the family could get into the drive-in for three bucks.

They had gone through “girlhood” together. From dolls to diaries to listening to 45s on a portable record player. (No Fats Domino or Chuck Berry in her father’s house.) As if Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis were better influences.

Katie had married a serviceman right out of high school, but WWII had cut that marriage short. After that, she found another man in uniform, only this one was a policeman who liked to drink. Bad combination. That union had produced several children, grandchildren, a husband with cirrhosis of the liver, and a lifetime of stress. Now, Katie’s family had decided that her shelf life was maxed out and she should spend her twilight years in a rest home.

Gertie listened to her old friend go on and on until she was tired of the heartbreak and woe. She ended the call quickly, as always, and looked back at the TV to see what was on. She could afford to be rude to her friend because Katie would welcome her next call, being cut off from the outside world. *** The next morning, Gertie was awakened by the staccato chirping of a bird right outside her window. Before long, the 109

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whole neighborhood seemed to open up and sound like a calliope of rain, forest whistles, and tweets. She didn’t like being woken up, but she felt revitalized by the birds and the warmer weather.

The fluorescent light around the bathroom mirror hummed as she turned it on and looked at herself. Not bad for a gal in her seventies. She brushed her teeth, slapped on rouge (for some color), and did her lipstick. She used a pick to fluff her hair and decided it was almost time to get it dyed again. The bluish/purple tint was still there, but the silver looked a bit dingy.

She decided on a yellow dress that felt like springtime. It hit just about the knee and had a square opening for the collar. She felt like a little Dutch girl waking to tend to the tulips. That was all right, she supposed, as long as no one else knew what she was thinking.

Before going downstairs, she pulled an apron out of a drawer and put it on over her dress. It was white, had big pockets on both sides, and a ruffle around each armhole. Stitched across the front was STAY OUT OF MY WAY. The idea was to bake a pie sometime today, and she didn’t want flour all over herself and her clean dress. She was sure that there were cans of cherry filling somewhere in the pantry. Canned things stay edible for years, don’t they? She mostly just looked to see if there was an unreasonable amount of dust on top of the can to decide if it was to be thrown out or opened. On her way down to the first floor, she marveled, as she did every morning, at the cleanliness of the stairs and banister. They sparkled, and she didn’t even remember the last time she had scrubbed them.

Once downstairs, she opened the front door to let in some light and the gentle morning air. She latched the little hook on the screen door to the screw eye on the door frame, then cruised into the kitchen. She wasn’t sure when she last had eaten. Was it lunch or dinner last night? Living alone, things started to run together. Never mind, she decides to have a bowl of cereal before starting the piecrust.

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The milk didn’t smell great, but it didn’t make her gag, so it went over the Honey Nuts. Once she poured, she found a spoon in the silverware drawer. Gertie was proud of her cleanliness, something her mother had pounded into her. The spoon shone like a new dime. She stood at the counter just about ready to take the first bite when a muffled sound came from her front porch.

Visitors were scarce in this community, and kids didn’t sell things door to door anymore. Footsteps near her door. Had she locked the screen? Had she put the hook in the screw eye? She wasn’t sure.

Without thinking she pulled open another drawer and slid out a gleaming butcher knife. Whoever it was had stopped at the door and was quiet. Probably trying to get a look inside. She stuck the knife in the large pocket in the center of the apron.

The handle stuck out like a high school boy at his first dance.

She jammed it down the best she could, grabbed a dishrag from the counter, and pretended to wipe her hands, concealing the handle.

She waited, listening intently, and when the knock came, she jumped. With a deep breath, she composed herself and started out of the kitchen and into view of the front door.

It was the colored man from across the street. He wasn’t squinting to get a look inside; he was looking up the street.

Probably had already scanned the inside and was pretending to be polite by not looking into her house. The room was dark, and she didn’t think he could see her too well, but she could see him well enough. Yes, sir, she could see the devil in his eyes. He was up to no good, and she had better let him know right now that she was no pushover. She was going to nip it, as Barney Fife said, nip it in the bud.

She came through the living room, the weight of the knife against her belly. She felt herself cleaning each finger with the dishrag and smiling a forced smile as she got closer to the door.

His eyes locked onto her as she approached the screen.

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He smiled widely, showing big, white, perfect teeth. Just like an alligator, she thought.

“Good morning, Ma’am,” he said. His voice was deep and resonant, which probably made it sound friendly to some people.

He looked much bigger standing on her front porch. More menacing.

As she moved forward, her mind raced. In a second, she looked from his face to the latch, to his hands, and back to his face. He had something in his hand. Maybe a gun? She glanced back at the latch and saw it was latched. But sometimes the hook would pop out if the door wasn’t closed well enough. Was it in or just lying across the top? No, it was latched, she could see it clearly now. Even so, a man this size could rip it open even if it was latched.

She pictured him doing just that: grabbing the handle on the outside and yanking the door off its hinges. Wood splintering and hearing that cracking sound of breaking wood. He’d reach for her, and that’s when she would pull out the knife in a long arching curve and bring it down right down across his wrist.

She pictured the hand falling to the floor with a thud, and the pink inside his dark skin just like red velvet cake. Then the blood would start spurting, and there would be a terrible mess to clean up. And she would have to pull him clear inside because she had always heard that you couldn’t be charged with murder if you were attacked INSIDE your house.

But he didn’t grab the door. He stood pleasantly waiting for her response to his “Good morning.” When she didn’t respond and kept looking from the latch to his face, he said, “I believe that we were delivered some of your mail by mistake, that is, if your name is Gertrude Greer.”

“Oh, yes. That’s me.”

They both stood motionless for an instant, Gertie not wanting to open the door and the neighbor not understanding how this had gotten so awkward so quickly.

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Finally, after some shuffling of feet, the neighbor said, “Well, here you go.” He opened the door and held out two fliers and a letter. He made no move to enter the house. The door had been unlocked the whole time.

She snatched the mail out of his hand and said nothing. A lock of silvery hair had fallen out of place by her quick movement and fallen across her forehead. She pushed it back into place with her dishrag hand, never taking her eyes off his.

He stepped back and let the door close slowly.

“You have a good day, now,” he said and backed across the porch.

He was halfway down the sidewalk when Gertie called out, “Thank you!”

He turned and flashed a smile and nodded. Then he waited for a car to go by and jogged to his sidewalk. That night at dinner, he told his children that he never, ever wanted to see them on the other side of the street.

Gertie watched him go. The morning birds had stopped their chirping, and the neighborhood was quiet. It must be Saturday, she thought. She stood at the door for a while longer, remembering a bike she had shared with her sisters. It was red with silver streamers coming from the handle-grips. One memory led to another until she snapped to when a robin landed on the porch. She smacked the door to make it fly away. She must have been standing there a while, because her legs were stiff when she walked back toward the kitchen. The dishrag stayed in her hand, but the mail was dropped onto the coffee table.

She saw it from the living room. There on the counter, eating her cereal, was a cat. It looked up at her, a piece of Honey Nut stuck to its furry bottom jaw. It wasn’t a kitten, but it wasn’t an adult yet either. It was brown, butterscotch, and tan. The eyes were a penetrating neon green. Cats like this had a name, but she couldn’t quite remember it. It seemed to find her less interesting 113

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than the cereal and began eating again. Gertie stood there with her dish-rag and knife, amazed.

She had never been allowed a pet as a child, even though cats and dogs may have been a benefit on the farm. The best she could manage was naming the cows, all the while knowing they would later be on someone’s dinner table. That part didn’t bother her, especially when they got to keep some of the meat for themselves.

The pigs would have been a smarter pet, but Gertie could not stand the odor of the sty or the noises they made. She didn’t mind their slaughter at all; in fact, she kind of enjoyed that time of year.

A soft purr from the cat jolted her back from that childhood memory.

How had this cat magically appeared out of nowhere? It seemed impossible, but here it was, eating her cereal and probably spreading fleas or some other kind of vermin all over her spotless kitchen. It certainly looked healthy enough. The fur was shiny, and its eyes looked bright and unmatted. Gertie didn’t want to admit it, but it seemed friendly. She couldn’t understand how a cat eating cereal could seem friendly, but that was the vibe she was getting as they say on TV. It kept eating. It must be hungry, the poor little thing, she thought. Tortoiseshell. That is what they are called. A tortoise shell cat. They are supposed to be crazy. She had known someone who had owned one, but she couldn’t remember who it had been.

It looked up from the bowl again and licked its mouth. It did that for several seconds, then hopped off the counter and came right for Gertie. The house was completely quiet and still; the cat’s footsteps made no sound.

Gertie was torn. Part of her wanted to reach down for the cat and nuzzle it against her cheek. The other half wanted to give it a swift kick towards the front door. In her moment of hesitation, the cat made its own decision.

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It circled her legs, rubbing against them, and began to purr again. It made Gertie giggle. It was the first type of affection Gertie had been shown in years. The cat, being a cat, decided when it had had enough and left the pale white skin of Gertie’s legs for the great outdoors. It silently padded to the screen door and nudged it with the crown of its head, and slid out to the porch. Gertie rushed to the door, but in the instant it took her to get there, the cat had disappeared.

She stood there again, lost in the dark doorway of her memory with a dishrag in her hands and a knife in her apron.

A distant car horn knocked her back into reality. She must have been gone a good while this time because the shadows were long across the lawns when she awoke. She dropped the dishrag and the knife on the coffee table where she had deposited the mail earlier and plopped into her chair. Absentmindedly, she clicked on the TV and began wondering about the cat, where it went, and how it got in. *** Later that evening, she called her friend Katie again and told her about the cat. For the first time in forever, Katie seemed to be interested in something other than herself and her horrible, uncaring family. She read a lot, and one of her favorite characters, Gideon Oliver, had this theory called The Rule of Interconnected Monkey Business. It said that if two unusual things happened, they were always connected in some way. The neighbor’s visit was unusual. So was the appearance of the cat. They had to be connected.

Gertie leaned back in her chair and thought about it. Katie was probably right. He had slipped the cat in while she was still in the kitchen. Or when he had opened the door to hand her the mail. Had to be.

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She hung up with Katie before she started into a tirade about her family and thought about the cat a little more. Then she turned on the TV and tuned in to some crime show for background noise. She got out her journal and documented the entire day.

She wrote until she fell asleep in the chair, still wearing the apron and without eating a thing. *** The next morning started with a stiffness in her legs and the journal on her lap. Most nights, she was up to the restroom three or four times, but since she hadn’t had anything to eat or drink, she had made it through the night in the chair. It was still early, but there was enough light outside to illuminate the inside with the soft gray ambience of morning.

Her legs still rested on the ottoman, but she had slid down into the chair a bit. She pushed herself up using the chair arms and, for the first time, opened her eyes.

The cat was sitting on the coffee table staring at her. It sat very straight and regal and had a disapproving arrogance as if Gertie were some lazy teenager sleeping the day away. Even though it was about six feet from her, she could feel the weight of its eyes.

The room was completely soundless. No birds chirping to each other, no cheerful morning sunlight. She distinctly remembered that the lights and the TV were on as she wrote in the journal.

Now, they were both off. *** For some reason, she felt she shouldn’t move until she had a plan. The wooden door was wide open, and the screen door was ajar. Just a fraction, as if it had swelled a tiny bit and didn’t quite fit the door frame. Could this cat have done that?

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It continued to stare, straight into her eyes, almost like a challenge. No wonder Egyptians thought they were magical.

And maybe a touch evil. It sat impossibly still, not a blink or a breath, relaxed but intense like a gun on the playground.

It was the eyes that kept her frozen in the chair. Those neon green eyes against the dark, multi-colored fur. They were watching for just the slightest movement. Gertie felt an icicle of fear spread up her spine. For the first time since she was a child, she felt like the prey. Breathing was becoming difficult.

She tried to rationalize the situation; after all, it was just a small animal. A house pet less than a tenth of her weight. She could knock it into next week by throwing the journal at it or kicking it. But somehow, she knew she couldn’t. It would be too quick, too smart. And it knew that too. Gertie was absolutely no threat.

It stared. The body language didn’t change, nor did the eyes, but something happened in that moment. Something that Gertie let slip, in her thoughts or in her eyes, and the cat picked up on it.

Maybe it was the chemistry between predator and prey or some ancient instinct of fight or flight, but Gertie felt it, and so did the cat.

Without taking its eyes off of her, the cat let go with a low guttural growl. It slinked off the table, still staring, and padded silently to the screen door. It put its head against the frame and shoved just like last time. Then it was gone.

Gertie jumped up, stiffness forgotten, and latched the screen door. Then she slammed the wooden door and leaned back against it. If Satan had a cat, it would growl like this one, she thought. She stayed there a minute or two, but didn’t fade away into a memory like yesterday. Her mind was racing. She turned and looked out the peephole that was in the door, but the porch floor wasn’t visible—just the space where an average person’s head and chest could be seen.

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The porch was about eight feet deep and ran the length of the house. Gertie went to her chair and looked out the window and down the porch as far as she could. Her biggest fear was to see the cat still there, staring back at her. But it wasn’t. The porch gleamed with a fine mist of dew on the railing and the floorboards, but no cat.

She sank into her chair to think. What to do, what to do.

Obviously, she would have to keep the doors closed and locked.

But she thought she had been doing that. She needed a plan to get the cat out, unlike the previous two times it was here, when it left whenever it wanted. She had always heard that cats allowed you to live with them, instead of the opposite. If it got in again, she would have to impose her will over it, both mentally and physically.

The journal came out again, and she began to document all the details of the morning. As she got to the part about the dew on the porch, she nearly slapped her forehead with the notebook.

Footprints. There should be footprints in the dew on the porch leading to where the cat went after it left.

She rushed to the door, unlocked it, and opened it. The prints were there, leading to the left, down the length of the porch.

Gertie stepped out in her bare feet and followed them down the porch. She didn’t even feel the dampness of the wood or the morning chill on her skin. The prints went between two of the balusters at the end of the porch. There was a three-foot dropoff down onto the grass where the cat had apparently landed.

That spot, unlike any other place in the yard, was where the sun was shining through the trees. The dew was gone, along with the prints and any chance of figuring out where the cat went.

Defeated, she stood and hugged herself against the spring chill. A memory began to form of her standing on the back porch of her farmhouse, cold but happy, looking over the farmland. She fought back, not allowing herself to be sucked in. Not now, not today.

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She spun around quickly when she realized that she had done exactly what she said she wasn’t going to do. She had left the doors open and unguarded. As she started back, she spied a new set of tracks, coming from the other end of the porch and leading to the partially open door. Had this cat circled all the way around the house to trick her? Just to play with her like playing with a mouse before it kills it?

Gertie opened the door quietly and stepped inside. The cat was nowhere to be seen. She tiptoed through the living room and into the kitchen. Nothing. Not a sound, a footprint, or anything out of place. There could be hundreds of places for a cat to hide in a house. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to find it. Even though it hadn’t done anything to indicate violence, she felt like it wouldn’t hesitate to attack her.

She began by opening the cabinets under the sink and counters. Then she went into the pantry, which was also undisturbed. She did find a broom there, leaning against a shelf of green beans. It was old, the kind with a long wooden handle and the straw stuff at the bottom. This, she thought, could be the perfect defense. Taking the broom, she searched the living room and the rest of the downstairs. She swiped the broom under the sofa and into any dark openings she could find.

Just off the kitchen was a tiny half-bath. She checked under the vanity. Nothing.

That left the second floor. Gertie carried the broom up the stairs like a soldier mounting a hill. There was a landing at the top which opened into three separate rooms. Her bedroom was on the left, straight ahead was a guest room, and to the right was another guest room, which she had turned into a sewing room.

That room would be the hardest to search because of the bolts of cloth and the scattered mess that goes with sewing. She decided to start there.

She listened at the doorway, but heard nothing. Starting to the right, she swept the room, sticking the bushy end of the broom 119

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in among the piles of material. She checked behind the curtains and under the sewing machine cabinet. As she circled the room, she noticed for the first time that the door to the closet was ajar.

Gertie softly pushed the door until she heard it latch. With her ear up to the door, she listened for any movement inside.

With the flat of her hand, she smacked the door hard and listened again. Nothing. Putting the broom in her left hand, she gripped the knob with her right and flung the door open.

Nothing there. At least nothing alive. Clothes on rods hung on both sides and the back wall. Shelves of boxes were above them. One naked light bulb graced the ceiling, and a tarnished golden pull dangled beneath it. Gertie closed the closet door and left the room, closing the bedroom door also. *** She went to the next room and repeated the same search; only this room had a bed. She had to get down on all fours, which was not easy and not at all graceful, and poke the broom under to see if anything would pop out. Nothing here, so she closed the door behind her and went into her bedroom.

She figured that if the cat were in the house, it had to be here. She was slower here and a bit more methodical. On her knees again and under the bed, behind the dresser, and under the vanity in the bathroom. She opened the shower curtain with the tip of her broom and expected the cat to leap onto her face and scratch at her eyes. But no. All that was there was a stiff, dry washcloth from whenever she had showered last.

She closed all the doors and started back down the stairs, broom in hand.

Had the footprints she had seen coming into the house been from when the cat entered the very first time? If so, how had she missed them? She couldn’t have. But then again, she had been missing some things these past few days.

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She was considering all these things as she reached the bottom of the stairs. The cat was waiting for her on the coffee table, sitting very straight and regal with its tail wrapped around its paws. Its expressionless eyes met hers. It meowed as if to say, “Where have you been, you moron?”

It was the meow that infuriated Gertie. It knew that she had been searching for it. It was trying to humiliate her. She flipped the broom around so that the bushy end was out and gripped the handle as tightly as she could. All the while, the cat watched her with mild interest. Gertie stepped up to the cat like a slugger who knows what kind of pitch is coming. The straw whistled through the air as she swung in a wild arc. The cat nimbly hopped off the table and let the broom pass.

The follow-through turned Gertie completely around. The broom hit the TV and turned it sideways on the stand. The cat jumped back up on the table and meowed again. This time, the meow sounded more like a laugh than an insult. Gertie wasn’t laughing; she was trying to calm herself.

Again, the cat sat upright and superior. The tail slowly wrapped the paws again, but this time the tip twitched. It quivered with excitement.

She was not going to be able to out-quick it, so she took a different tack. Putting the flat end of the straw on the coffee table, she slowly pushed the broom at the cat like a flat snow shovel. As soon as the straw touched its fur, the cat started backing away.

It was a slow process, but it was working. The cat continued to back up until they reached the door. Gertie shortened her grip on the handle, and pinning the cat against the wall, she was able to unlock the wooden door and pull it open. Then she guided the cat against the screen door and was about to open it.

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of Gertie’s hands. It fell to the wooden floor with a smack, and Gertie was left empty-handed, staring at a highly irritated cat.

The stand-off lasted until the cat calmed itself and began licking its paws. *** At first, Gertie thought the cat was going to leave again, as it had before, on its own terms. But when it put its head against the door and pushed, it didn’t saunter out. It opened the door wider.

Another cat cruised in, right beside the first one. They had the same colors, only the patterns were different. The new one was a touch bigger with the same evil, green eyes. It looked up and met Gertie’s stare, then disregarded her. The door closed behind both of them. Gertie hadn’t moved since she had lost the broom. The new cat swept across the room and leapt up into Gertie’s chair.

It circled, sniffed around, and then settled comfortably with its chin on its front paws.

The first cat walked past Gertie and jumped back up on the coffee table and regained its regal position. This time, it faced away from her, staring at the blank wall.

Gertie was flummoxed by the whole situation. She couldn’t imagine how, not that long ago, she had had the fleeting thought of picking up the cat and nuzzling it to her neck. Now, all she wanted was to find that knife and impale the cat to the wall.

Watch those silent little paws do a death dance before it slumped against the baseboard.

She pushed the lock of hair back up into place. Apparently, the homerun cut she had taken had dislodged it again. The broom had nearly worked on the coffee table cat before, so she decided to try it again.

She retrieved the broom and moved slowly and stealthily.

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completely around the cat, she had a straight pathway to scoot it toward the door.

This time, the cat went from 0-60 in an instant. It arched its back and hissed like a cobra. Not waiting to get shoved to the door this time, it attacked the broom violently with both claws and teeth. To Gertie, the teeth looked longer and sharper than normal cat teeth. Now that she noticed the claws looked longer as well, like some kind of crazy mutant cat.

Gertie kept a tighter grip even though this little stunt was beginning to look like a non-starter. The bottom part of the broom was being shredded and torn, leaving various lengths of straw all over the coffee table and floor. She fought like she had a shark on the other end of the broom. Her arms began to tire. The cat continued to growl and hiss. It had all four paws entrenched in the broom and was biting and tearing out hunks of straw.

Gertie was just about to abandon this plan and drop the broom when she felt a searing pain across the back of her right calf. She looked down and twisted her leg around. There was a scarlet line running horizontally across her calf. It was already beginning to drip blood. The broom stopped jerking in her hands, and the cat untangled itself from the bottom.

The larger cat had gotten off the chair, circled behind her, and sliced her leg. It was about a yard behind her, crouched, and ready to come again. The other cat was back to its regal position amongst the splintered straw. They waited for Gertie to make the next move.

Gertie looked from one cat to the other and concluded that she was as frightened as she had ever been. She was shaking, not just from the pain in her calf, which was now stinging as if there was also venom in the cut, but for the fact that she felt trapped by these two animals. Not house pets, animals. She could feel it, sense it by the way they looked at her. The way raptors did in that movie. They had ambushed her.

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She laid the broom down and slowly backed away, watching both cats but never meeting their eyes. They allowed her to retreat into the kitchen and then into the half-bath. She had left a blood trail on the wooden floor that became heavier as she backstepped. By the time she got to the bathroom, the bottom of her slipper was leaving scarlet prints, and the back of her calf was streaked with blood. The cut itself showed no sign of congealing, probably due to the large flow and her racing heart. She was lucky the cut hadn’t nipped a varicose vein.

Her first thought was to lock the door and shut the cats out, but the idea of being trapped in a small room stopped her. She didn’t know if she would have the courage to open it back up knowing they would be out there, waiting.

The hand towel was on the wall rack, so she leaned against the vanity and applied pressure on the cut. The searing pain had subsided, but it still burned. The cut was a precise incision, almost like it had been made by a scalpel. Blood had never had any effect on her, living on a farm. But this was her blood, and there was a whole lot of it, and the flow didn’t seem to be dissipating. She kept the pressure on, hoping her vision wouldn’t start to blur around the edges.

She was bent over in an awkward position when she saw the cats in the doorway. The big one had stretched halfway up the door frame, arching its back and digging its claws into the painted wood. It raked them down slowly, digging little splintery channels in the surface. The other one was a little farther behind and down on all fours, stretched out in a sphinx pose. It leaned to one side, and its pink tongue flipped out and daintily lapped up a drop of Gertie’s blood. Then it sat back up into a regal posture.

Both cats waited patiently for Gertie to bleed out.

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turned into an ooze. Good enough for some Neosporin and a heavy bandage. The towel was saturated, so she tossed it in the waste basket. The bandage had to be secured with two strips of white tape that circled her calf top and bottom. She had been concentrating on her first aid so completely that she had not noticed the cats were gone.

The adrenaline was starting to peter out. She limped out of the bathroom feeling like she was made of lead. She made it through the kitchen and started through the living room when the real fatigue hit her. The plan had been to get upstairs and take a nap. But when she stopped and looked at the staircase, she knew there was no way. Her chair was even a long shot. The couch loomed to her right, looking for all the world a perfect landing spot.

Two steps and she was down. Then out. The two Satanic cats were erased from reality as she sank into an inky blissfulness. *** Gertie had shared the same bed with several of her siblings during her childhood. Sometimes out of necessity and sometimes for fun. Oftentimes, it was brothers mixed with sisters because the times were so innocent and pure back then. Alliances changed often, and one bedroom would become the headquarters for planning pranks against the other bedrooms. Siblings could be recruited for specific operations, and many times the smaller kids were preferred to hide under beds and behind things.

Gertie remembered a time when her little brother had snuggled in so close to her that his nose was buried in her cheek.

She was thinking of this as she drifted back into consciousness.

Her sleep must have been deep; she felt as if she were pulling herself up out of a deep well. Then she felt her brother’s nose against her cheek again. She opened one eye slowly and realized what had conjured up that memory.

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The smaller cat sat beside her on the sofa, its paw gently resting on her cheek. Its claws were in, and there was no expression in its attitude. It looked like a cat that was impatient and tired of waiting for something to eat. As soon as Gertie opened both eyes, the cat began to purr. It retracted its paw and yawned. Then it looked away.

The other cat was sitting on the coffee table, staring at nothing. The room was comfortably still, except for the fact that there were two inexplicable cats in her home. The neighborhood was silent as well. Gertie got the feeling that an invisible wall had risen between inside and outside. Everything out there was normal, as it had always been. Inside, there had been a glitch in reality, something that had allowed these two animals to pass through.

She scooted her butt back a bit and readjusted her legs. The movement sent a jolt across her calf again, not as bad as the first time, but strong enough to make her eyes water. The cat, who had been looking away, looked back at her and softly meowed. Then it lithely jumped to the coffee table and sat beside its partner.

Gertie pushed herself up to a sitting position. At present, her grip on the whole situation was very loose. She could think of no offense or defense that would work. They were too quick and too aggressive. Nothing she could do, yet. What did they say in that movie? Keep the status quo until you see an opportunity.

She made herself stand. The cats looked around at her.

The pain in her calf burned, then receded. Both cats meowed approvingly. After a few shaky steps, she made it into the kitchen and started looking for something to eat. Not for her, for the cats.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten anything, but the thought of food now made her gag. She was weak. She wasn’t sure if it was the loss of blood, the venom, or the absence of food. But she was getting shaky, and this was no time to lose her wits.

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She leaned on the counter, thinking and trying to gather herself. When she turned back around, the cats were at her feet, looking at her anxiously. The kitchen seemed smaller with them in it.

Tuna, she thought, she was sure that she had several cans of tuna in the pantry.

She shuffled around the cats and into the pantry, where she found several cans of tuna stacked up like a vertical tube. She took the top two and made it back to the counter. The cats hadn’t moved. Only their heads pivoted to watch her progress.

There was a moment of panic when she couldn’t find the can opener for the tuna. She pushed all the kitchen equipment around in the drawer like a crazy person and then, still not locating it, she started to pile everything on the counter. Only after placing tongs, ladles, and serving spoons on the counter did she find the can opener. It took several tries to get the little guide over the lip of the tuna can at first, but the second can was easier. As soon as the aroma of tuna hit the air, the cats started purring. They disregarded Gertie and her movements and concentrated on the two cans on the counter. Each can still had the top attached by a small tab of metal. Gertie had to reach around to lift the cans off the counter and down to the floor.

Both cats savagely attacked the food, purring and growling at the same time. Gertie spotted the corkscrew on the counter with the other utensils and thought about slamming it down on one of the cat’s heads. She would screw it in until it punctured the brain and pinned the little demon’s ears down to the sides of its head.

But what about the other cat? Surely it would attack even before she started to screw. No good. She would be ripped to pieces.

But the status quo had changed; she was no longer the target, the tuna was. If she could get out of the house and across the street to the nice man who had brought her the mail… maybe he would call the police, or the dog catcher, or someone.

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She sidled away from the counter and out of direct sight of the cats. She was barefoot and stealthy as she entered the living room. The cats were still making that awful growling, chewing sound, and from what she could hear, were oblivious to her absence. With the door just feet away, she started to get dizzy.

Her heart was thudding in her chest. She should have waited.

Waited until the second time she fed them to see how long it would take for them to finish a can. She should have lulled them into complacency after two feedings. She should have waited and gotten some of her strength back. *** But she was near the door, too close not to have shown her hand if they were watching. The sounds had stopped in the kitchen, but Gertie was already reaching for the doorknob. Her heart was beating loud enough to alert the cats, but she was afraid to look back.

She grasped the doorknob with her right hand and unlocked the deadbolt with her left. The metal sounded like a bank vault opening. The door swung open enough to allow a gust of fresh air to rush in.

Something furry hit the door with a bang and wrenched the knob from her hand. The door slammed shut as the second cat sprinted into the room and leapt up, inside Gertie’s dress. It attached itself to the back of her thigh, just above the knee. All four paws dug in, and it hung there inside the dress.

Gertie screamed and tried to jump away from the clinging cat, but the claws were planted deeply, and the movement caused them to dig in even deeper. She pounded at the lump in the back of her dress, but it made little difference in the pain the cat was inflicting. It started to bite into the soft flesh on the back of the thigh, which produced another round of screams from Gertie.

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The free cat, the one who had shut the door, leaped at Gertie’s punching hand and landed on her forearm. It sank its claws, but the flesh was not as thick as the thighs. She spun her arm around in an arc and flung the cat off. It left eight long gashes down her arm. They immediately started dripping blood.

The cat underneath had now chewed open a cut so wide that the teeth were now sinking into the fatty layer of the thigh.

The horror that she was being eaten bloomed over the pain, and the adrenaline kicked in again. She pirouetted into the door, crushing the cat between her leg and the frame. It clung on, biting and tearing. She careened out of the entry and into the living room, casting off blood droplets that ran in jagged lines down the TV screen. Still screaming, she spun around and bent, backhanding with both hands the lump behind her leg. She lost her balance and corkscrewed down onto the coffee table. It splintered with a loud crack. Two of the legs broke off, and the top broke into several pieces, but it cushioned her fall onto the hard floor. As soon as Gertie had started to tip, the cat had let go and dropped. She waited for another attack, but none came.

Breathing was hard. Her breaths were short and shallow.

Everything hurt so badly that she didn’t want to move. Best to do a quick inventory before she tried.

Her throat was sore. She couldn’t figure that one out until she realized how hard she had been screaming.

Her arm was a mess. She was lying on her stomach with her arm stretched out to the side. Gertie was partially on the part of the coffee table that was still elevated. Her arm was slightly below her and hanging over the edge. Blood from all of the scratches ran down the arm onto the hand, where it dripped off the fingertips onto the floor. Five little puddles that would soon merge into one large puddle.

None of that came close to the pain in her leg. It was as if someone had shot her and then set her on fire. The pain was really bad, but the burning, venomous sensation was worse. As a 129

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kid, she had been stung by a barb on a catfish once. This was like that on crack.

She couldn’t see the wound, so she tried to feel it. The entire back of her dress was damp when she pulled it up. Her skin felt slick and greasy as she lightly touched the back of her leg. The gouges were warm and wet and still leaking blood. When she touched the hole, she gagged. She felt the bile creeping up her throat and forced it back down. She couldn’t lose any more fluids.

It was worse than she thought. She could put her entire fingertip into her thigh. It burned as she did it, but she couldn’t help herself from doing it several times. The cat had eaten a spoonful of her leg. It hadn’t just attacked her; it had consumed her. The edge of the wound was shredded. Around one side, a flap of skin was barely attached by a thread of flesh. Gertie could feel blood dripping from it.

Then she saw something even more frightening. From her vantage point on the floor, she could see the telephone cord to her landline. It came out of the wall and ran along the baseboard to the phone on the end table. It had been chewed through. She had a cheap emergency phone somewhere, but she had no idea where it was.

She rolled over onto her good side and pushed herself off the wreckage. She could not remember a time when she had felt so tired. The pain was the only thing keeping her moving. She halfscooted to the couch and dropped her bottom as gently as she could, trying to keep her bad thigh from resting entirely on the cushion. Her bloody dress was now soaking the couch. It would be ruined, but that thought did not cross her mind.

She knew the bleeding had to be stopped and the wound disinfected. That could be done in the half-bath. But she had to get out of the clothes she was wearing and clean her bloodsplattered body. That was a shower, and that was upstairs. She wasn’t sure she could make it that far, even if the cats would allow her.

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The cats had settled into the room with her. They watched Gertie climb onto the couch and lean back. It took only a moment for Gertie to locate them.

The smaller cat was sitting on the floor, lapping up the blood from one of the puddles that littered the floor. Its muzzle was tinged with scarlet. When it saw that Gertie had spotted it, the tiny tongue popped out and circled the mouth, not wasting any of the blood that had gathered there.

The other cat was at the foot of Gertie’s chair. When it saw that Gertie was watching her, it reached to the arm of the chair and raked its claws down the material. In some places, it pulled threads, but in others, it sliced the fabric open. Gertie decided that when the opportunity came, that one would die slowly.

More out of meanness and spite, Gertie made herself stand.

The back of her dress stuck to her legs and butt. She stepped around the bigger pieces of the coffee table and slowly made her way to the bottom of the stairs. The cats kept doing what they were doing, completely disregarding her as if they knew she was no threat.

She braced herself with her good arm against the railing and took the first step with her good leg. Then she slung the injured leg up to the same step. She repeated this all the way up, each step more difficult than the last. She only looked back once, to see if the cats were following. They weren’t, but she did see that she was still leaving a trail of blood. Each step sent a dizzying jolt of pain through her right side.

By the time she was near the top, her body felt like it was made of lead. She was exhausted, and the adrenaline had really bottomed out this time. Luckily, the hallway was easier. She leaned her right shoulder against the wall and lurched toward the bedroom, leaving an uneven smear of blood down the wall.

Once she made it into the room, she limped past the bed, which seemed to be calling to her. She thought of lying down, if only for a few minutes, but she knew she wouldn’t get back up.

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Her best chance was to get to the shower, clean up, and hope the cold water would rejuvenate her.

The last steps into the bathroom were the hardest yet. The blood was drying on her skin, and the cuts were starting to harden with coagulated blood. The shower was a problem as well. She would have to put all her weight on her bad leg to step over the rim of the tub and into the shower. She pulled back the shower curtain and balanced herself with her left hand on the tub. Then she lifted her left leg behind her over the rim and stepped into the tub. Using both hands to balance, she gingerly lifted her bad leg in. She managed to rotate herself toward the shower head and pull the curtain closed.

The water came on cold enough to make her gasp. It flattened her poofy blue/white hair, soaked through her dress, then her bra and underpants. She wished she had installed a handrail for her to hold onto, but she hadn’t. She leaned forward, allowing the spray to hit the back of her neck, and watched the clear water circling the drain turn pink, then red as the blood washed out of her clothes. Her arm burned from the water, but her leg hurt much worse.

Slowly she pulled her clothes off, tossing each item over the curtain and hearing it smack on the floor. Nothing came off easily, and each movement turned the water a brighter shade of red. The washcloth was dangling over one of the spigots from an earlier shower. It had dried hard and wrinkled from all of the absorbed soap but was now supple enough to allow Gertie to wipe off the blood that had not been washed off by the shower. *** She started with her arm. The rips there were nasty and deep.

They started above her elbow and ran down the length of her arm. A couple ran down to her wrist. They looked bad, but not 132

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as bad as when they had been bloody. And they had stopped bleeding, almost.

Washing the back of her thigh was difficult and more painful.

She couldn’t get a good look at the main wound. That was a wash job done mostly by feel. The soap she was using, some cheap shower gel, was burning like crazy. She thought maybe that was a good thing, like it was working to kill whatever germs were in the cuts.

She could twist the bottom of her leg around enough to see the scratches on the back of her knee. They were deeper than the ones on her arm, but there weren’t as many of them. She scrunched down and scrubbed her leg as well as she had her arm.

The back of the leg was more hit or miss.

When she had gotten cleaned as well as possible, she turned off the water and pulled the curtain back just a tiny bit. No cats in sight.

Stepping out of the shower was much easier than stepping in. She wasn’t sure why; maybe the warm water had loosened her some. The medical supplies she needed were under the sink in the vanity. A roll of gauze was easily spotted, but it took her a minute to locate the tape and spray antiseptic. She limped into the bedroom naked, closed the door, and sat on the bed.

Again, no cats.

The spray antiseptic brought tears to her eyes, both from her arm and leg, but following her logic from earlier, the more it stung, the better it worked. She wrapped the gauze around her thigh from the knee up as far as she could. Then, she used the white tape to secure it. With only a bit of gauze left, she taped up a covering for the scratches on her arm. Then she had a moment of panic. Had she closed herself up in the room with the cats?

She got up, opened the door, and looked down the hallway.

Seeing nothing, she closed it and scanned the inside of the room.

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and looked under the bed. Nothing there except a torn piece of fabric on the box spring. She felt, at least for the moment, that she was safe. Safe enough to lie down and rest before she thought about her next move. Fatigue hit her hard. She didn’t even bother getting dressed as the gray turned to black. *** The first thing Gertie became aware of was the purring. It felt as if it were coming from inside her head. She opened her eyes to darkness. She had to have slept through the day and into the night because it was dark. Middle of the night dark.

The door was still closed. The purring continued.

She pushed herself up on one elbow and looked around.

The door was shut and the window closed. Nothing could have gotten in. The purring was joined with another sound. Different pitch but the same noise. Another cat had joined the first, but where? It sounded as if it were coming from everywhere. Gertie sat all the way up and realized she was still undressed. She felt very vulnerable like this, remembering what the cats did to a clothed body.

She swung one leg, her uninjured one, over the side and stepped down onto the floor. As soon as it touched, the purring stopped. She held that pose and scanned the dark room. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath until her lungs started to burn. Her gasp was loud in the now quiet place.

From her position, she could roll over a bit and reach the lamp on the nightstand. She clicked it on, and light flooded the dark room.

The sound came back, but this time it wasn’t a purr, it was a hiss, low and soft, but angry. Again, the fear came surging back, locking her movements and slowing her intellect—a fight or flight response when there was nothing to fight and nowhere to run.

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The foot on the floor felt like a target, so she transferred her weight and lifted it up and onto the bed. The hissing stopped for an instant, then came a blood-curdling growl of a tomcat.

Long, low, and deep. This was by far the worst growl she had ever heard. Loud enough for the neighbors to hear, possibly. Again, the thought of Satan having a cat came to mind.

They were under the bed, she was sure of it now, after the growl. She couldn’t figure out how they had opened the door, let alone how they had managed to close it, but they were under there. Maybe they had come in when she was in the shower, but hadn’t she searched under there? She thought she had, but… *** She had to look. Had to. She knew she couldn’t move fast enough to get to the door before getting attacked from behind again. She had to look. Had to see exactly where they were.

The bed was not a high one. The distance from the mattress and box spring was only a couple of feet. There was no bed ruffle, so it wouldn’t be like pulling a curtain back to get a surprise claw in the face. Gertie figured she could put a hand on the floor, roll on her side, and get a quick look. Without a bed ruffle, there would be ample light.

It was the smoothest move she had made in the past few years. She put her hand down and rolled onto her side just as she’d planned. She scrunched up her eyes. A scratched eyelid was not as bad as a scratched retina. One eye at a time, she squinted.

Of course, she was upside down, but she had a perfect view under the bed. Nothing except dust and a couple of Kleenexes.

The yowling stopped. Gertie pushed off the floor and rolled back up on top of the bed. Her heart was thudding. It was the loudest sound in the room. She had no idea where they were. She needed a weapon.

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She scooted over to the edge of the bed and opened the top drawer of the nightstand. Tissues, a note pad, a pencil, a hairbrush, and a half-empty bottle of water. Nothing that would do her any good unless the water was holy water, and it wasn’t.

The bottom drawer was larger. In it were a couple of books and a flashlight. A Maglite flashlight. The kind that takes five D-cells. Heavy and about a foot and a half long. This could be a weapon. Not offensive, but defensive. Swinging this in a small, close arc could break bones.

Something was happening under the bed, not hissing or purring or yowling. This was more of a scuffling sound, a soft bumping. *** The weight of the Maglite in her hand gave her newfound courage. For the first time since the ill-fated broom, she had some protection for herself.

She flipped off the light switch and sent the room back into darkness. Then, without hesitation, she rolled over the side of the bed again. But this time she held the flashlight in her hand and rested her elbow and forearm on the floor for balance. She scooted her thumb over the switch, and the Maglite lit up the underside of the bed.

There was nothing at first, then a paw emerged from the tear in the box spring. The head followed with another paw, and the cat crawled out. Its eyes reflected green in the light. Once it was out, the other cat followed. Four green eyes in complete silence.

Gertie scrambled back to the top of the bed and clicked the flashlight off. She started to tremble. Fear was coming back in waves. The cuts on her leg and arm started to burn. Muffled sounds under the bed, then from around the room. She flicked the Maglite on and swung the beam around the room.

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On the other side of the bed, two green eyes peered up over the side. It was standing on the floor watching her. Then, there was movement at the foot of the bed. She brought the beam back around, and the larger cat was crawling up from the bottom. Its eyes also glowed in the beam, and it was only a few inches from her feet. She jerked her knees back.

The comforter pulled slightly to the right. She swung the beam back to the side and saw that the smaller cat had also popped up onto the bed. It froze in the light.

A soft fur touched her foot. Without realizing what she was doing, her left foot shot out. The heel caught the cat squarely on the shoulder and sent it flying off the end of the bed.

There was a soft thud, then a loud hiss. An enraged hiss. It leaped back up on the bed and kept just out of range. The smaller cat began to hiss evilly. It was also creeping nearer. Both started pacing back and forth like tigers in a cage, always keeping their eyes on Gertie.

The cat to her right was getting closer. She took a swing with the flashlight and just missed. The cat didn’t seem surprised. It was judging her range and speed.

It waited for Gertie to collect herself, then stepped close.

The flashlight came around again, faster and harder than before.

The cat was ready. It feinted back, missing the blow, then as the follow-through carried Gertie’s body sideways, the cat leaped.

It landed on her bare shoulder. One claw ripping an opening from her temple to her chin, the other tearing a gash from her ear down the side of her neck. They were deep and immediately started bleeding. If they had landed a bit farther down, the cuts could have opened one of the big veins in her neck.

The other cat lunged from the bottom of the bed. It bit into the thin skin on the top of her foot, then leaped away, wary of the last time it was too near her feet. She could feel the warm blood seeping out of her foot.

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Both cats were hunched low, like coiled springs, hissing with every breath. They were going to come, Gertie knew, again and again until they had forced her to the pantry downstairs. She slid to her left gingerly. The two new wounds hurting less than the two from yesterday. She stood, putting most of her weight on her good leg and testing out the injured one.

The room was still dark; the Maglite was the only source of light. She couldn’t keep both cats in sight if they spread out. She could turn on the lamp again, but in her mind’s eye, she could see the cats knocking it off the nightstand. The door and the switch for the overhead light were only three steps away. Three normal steps, it may take her five.

She walked backwards, keeping the cats in the beam as best as she could. They didn’t try to separate, but for every step she retreated, they advanced. They came in a kind of formation, the bigger cat in front and the smaller cat slightly behind and to the left. Walking in unison. They were not growling now that they were controlling her.

Gertie backed into the wall with a jar and almost dropped the flashlight. She used her elbow to flip the light switch, and the room burst into light. The first thing she noticed was the blood running from her neck, over her breast, and dripping to the floor.

The next thing she noticed was the maroon streaks sprouting from under her bandaged arm. Surely her leg must be just as infected. The cats stopped and waited for her to open the door.

The bedroom door opened outward. Gertie stepped through.

The light filtered down the hallway. She could see the blood smears on the wall and the droplets on the floor. The light switch for the hallway was there. She flipped it. That’s when the real Gertie emerged.

She turned and gripped the doorknob, then held the door open for the cats. She could have closed the door and sealed the cats inside, then gone for help. But that was not her true nature.

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The cats came, still in formation, and moved toward the door.

Gertie’s grip tightened.

As the first cat came to the doorframe, Gertie leaned in with all her weight and slammed the door shut, or almost. The door caught the leading cat between the head and the shoulders and pinned it there. Gertie pulled the knob with all her strength.

Something popped in the cat. Only the head was visible. Its eyes bulged as it convulsed.

The other cat was half screaming, half hissing. It banged off the inside of the door. Gertie could see it through the slim opening, its paws clawing at the door, trying to find a way to get at her.

The cat in the door was in bad shape. Its mouth gaped, and its tongue hung out. There was no movement of the eyes; they were fixed, staring at nothing.

For the first time, Gertie started to smile. She was wearing down, but she was enjoying every second. She released the tension, then pulled tight again, quickly slamming the door against the cat over and over again. She wanted the head to pop off, but she was sure that wasn’t possible. Even so, this was so enjoyable she couldn’t quit.

She stopped and listened. The other cat had become quiet— decision time. Leave the door open with the cat in it and make a run for the stairs or open the door enough to kick the dead cat into the room and close the door. Seal the cat inside and get away. But again, the real Gertie had a different idea.

She opened the door just a hair, enough to reach down and grab the dead cat and pull it through. It was heavier than she thought, and it was coated with a slick of blood around its neck, making it hard to hold. She opened the door a sliver, just enough to look through with one eye. *** 139

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The smaller cat was pacing back and forth across the floor. It saw her watching and froze. Gertie opened the door.

“Look at your friend here,” she held the body up for it to see.

“What do you think of that?” She shook the body.

The cat hissed wildly and, for the first time, arched its back.

“What are you going to do about it?” she shook the cat again.

The cat lunged forward, bounding towards the door. Gertie had the timing right. She was going to squash this one like the last when the unthinkable happened.

The dead cat in her hand squirmed. She looked down. The bloody cat was looking back up at her, claws drawn. An instant later, the second cat landed full force on her face. Gertie fell backwards from the impact and sprawled on the floor. The cat clawed and dug into her forehead and brow. The bloody cat went for her crotch.

Gertie instinctively rolled over, flattening both cats under her.

They released, and she pushed herself to her knees. The flashlight rolled away. A curtain of crimson rolled down her face. Like a boxer with a cut over the eye, she couldn’t see. She wobbled, but got a hand on the wall to steady herself.

Bad plan, she thought. How could that cat not be dead? She managed to stand and saw stars. She was dizzy and still couldn’t see well because of the blood. She limped forward, wiping the blood out of her eyes with her left hand and blindly sweeping her right out in front.

Gertie walked zombie-like, taking no stock of the cats or her surroundings. She was defeated, she knew. The escape she was going to try would be futile, but going through the motions was better than lying down. What was going to happen would happen, no matter what she tried.

The hallway seemed longer, hazier. The pain was receding, but she could hear the blood plopping on the floor as she walked.

She almost felt like she was floating, watching herself from above.

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The fear from the cats was distant now; in fact, the whole thing seemed like a dream. One step at a time down the hallway.

Her foot was greasy with blood, where the big cat had scratched the top.

From up above, she could see the cats following her down the hall. They walked two by two several paces behind her. She was mildly amused to see herself naked and covered in a mass of blood. She wondered how she was still upright.

At the top of the stairs, she paused and looked back at the cats.

They were quiet, almost docile-looking, if the larger one had not been tinged in red. They stopped when she stopped. She couldn’t figure out why they weren’t attacking. The door was right at the bottom of the stairs, and they were lying back.

The downstairs was dark. The only light was cast from the hallway. The railing was on her right, her bad arm side. She glanced back at the cats as she took her first step.

Her left foot, the bloody one, slid on the stair tread. Her grip on the rail was enough to keep her from tumbling all the way to the bottom, but her momentum swung her around and into the balusters. They busted with a sharp snap of dry wood. Gertie fell through the opening and onto the cabinet that held the TV. The cabinet fell and crashed with Gertie and the TV on top. She lay there at an odd angle. *** The cats were above her on the stairs. One cat on the tread above the other. Watching. The smaller one sat regally, licking a paw.

Gertie thought she might try to get up and get to the door, but still did not really believe there was a chance. She kicked at the TV to give her a place to stand, but nothing happened. She tried to move her hands. Again nothing. There was no pain in her legs or arms.

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She took stock of her surroundings. She could see the wound in the back of her thigh. She could see the back side of both of her legs, but she was lying mostly on her stomach. Had she heard something snap in her neck amid all the other crashes in the fall?

She could blink, but that was all. The terror was rising, and she tried to scream, but nothing came out. Then she thought of the cats, what they would do to her. She had seen the TV shows; she knew what they did in Africa. They would start with her rectum or her lips. A soft body part. Tear and chew. They could live off her for a good while.

Gertie closed her eyes and tried as hard as she could to move something, anything. She was screaming so loud inside her head she thought her skull might crack.

She opened her eyes, and there was the smallest cat, inches away, looking down at her. The bigger, bloody one slid into view beside it. They started with her eyes. *** Gertie’s (colored) neighbor was a man named Larson King.

He was the much-loved principal at the local elementary school.

He stood talking with the mailman, Andy Thorpe. They were nodding at and gesturing to Gertie’s house. The mail had been piling up, and the front door, which was often open, had been closed.

They decided to walk over together just to be sure everything was all right. Andy didn’t have much of a nose on him, but Larson did. Larson smelled it as soon as they hit the porch. He backed away and called 911.

Two uniformed men arrived ten minutes later and forced the door. One stayed inside, one ran back outside and threw up on the lawn. Within fifteen minutes, the fire department arrived with three other police cars and blocked off the street.

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Twenty minutes later, Detectives Applegate and Tyre arrived at the house. The crime scene was being processed, and the detectives slipped on booties and gloves. A lab tech handed them masks.

“Jeez, it stinks in here,” Applegate said. He put on the mask.

“Damn, look at that,” Tyre said as he backed away.

The body was completely covered with a mass of flies. It was like a moving black lace. The lab tech set up a large fan and turned it on. The flies swirled away, leaving a bloated purple body.

Besides being naked and the head turned around backwards, the body was unmarked. No scratches, no cuts, no dried blood.

“What are we doing here?” Applegate said. “An old lady fell down the steps.”

“Yeah, but…” Tyre looked around. “Looks like there was a struggle.”

The coffee table was destroyed, the TV and stand were broken, several drawers in the kitchen were open, and the contents were scattered.

The house had the feel that something had happened there.

The whole place was a mess, dirty and grimy. The areas between the broken bannisters were caked with grime, and the floor was covered with years of grit. A chair sat near the window that was so dilapidated it looked as if it might fall apart on its own. The couch was just as dirty and stained as the chair.

Tyre said, “Do we have a name? Date of birth?”

Applegate pulled out a small notepad, “Gertrude Greer, born 2/12/1948.”

“Anything else?” Tyre asked.

“Have to go back to the car and look her up on the laptop.”

“Well…” Tyre made a spinning motion with his hands.

Applegate made a face and then turned towards the door.

“Just an old lady falling down the steps,” he mumbled.

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Tyre walked around the bottom floor with his hands in his pockets. The place was a real sty. A dirty, worn path was traced across the flooring where she had walked. He used a pen from his pocket to open some of the cabinets. Dishes had been put away without being washed. He found spoiled food and moldy bread everywhere. The toilet looked as if it had never been cleaned.

He made his way back to the living room and went to the window. The seat had two large divots in the shape of a butt. She had spent a good deal of time here. He sat and looked out the window.

Nice view. He could see Applegate typing away at the laptop.

Then he noticed the small spiral flipbook on the end table.

She had written the name Katie, then a number. He pulled his cell out of his jacket and punched in the number. He got a receptionist for the Suncrest Village. He identified himself and explained the situation. He asked if he could speak to Katie.

The receptionist said that they did not have a Katie as a resident at the current time, but due to the nature of their business, the client list was very fluid. There was, however, a caretaker named Betty who had been employed at Suncrest Village since it was named something else. She was often a good resource for information on previous residents. Betty was called in.

Tyre waited to the sound of Tommy Dorsey and Chubby Checker until a small, reed-like voice came to the phone.

Yes, she did remember Katie. She remembered that she had been married to a policeman and had a woman who had called her on the phone and been very mean to her. She often cried after the calls because of the way the woman had talked to her. Katie had died back around 2010. Got the flu and died.

The detective thanked her and hung up.

The photos and samples had been taken. Most of the techs were gone. The coroner’s office would be retrieving the body next.

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Applegate hustled in, not bothering with the booties anymore.

“This is all jacked up,” he said.

Tyre waited.

“First of all, the TV and phone have been canceled, like a long time ago. But there they are.” He nodded to the old phone and the smashed TV on the floor.

“Maybe she has a Fire TV Stick, or something like that.”

“Old people don’t use that kind of stuff. Besides, do you see one in that mess?” He gestured to the floor.

“Maybe she had a Jitterbug, or a phone like that?” Tyre said.

“None registered anywhere. Mostly, they are hooked into some kind of security system. Uniforms didn’t find any kind of cheap Walmart phone either.”

“So why’s this old phone here?” Tyre asked.

“I don’t know, maybe she just pretended to talk to people.”

“What else?” Tyre asked.

“This is where it gets weird. She was born in Queens. Terrible family life. In and out of the foster system until she was of legal age. Between 1970 and 1985, she was institutionalized seven times. Bipolar, anxiety, schizophrenia. The list goes on. In the 2000s, she was even a person of interest in a couple of homicides.”

“Wow,” was all that Tyre said.

“The last thing listed here is that she was picked up and released at a McDonald’s. She claimed that animals were chasing her, so I guess she was hallucinating, also.”

“Poor lady,” Tyre said. He pulled open a drawer and spotted the dozens of spiral notebooks.

“A real wacko, if you ask me. So, you see anything suspicious?

Murderous or illegal?”

“I guess not, sad way to go, though,” Tyre said. He dropped the spiral notebook on the end table and stood. The ambulance guys were almost finished. They were lifting the body onto the gurney.

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“Yep, well, happy or sad, it ain’t our job if she fell on her own.”

Once Gertie had left her home for the last time, they rolled her down the sidewalk. Tyre closed the door behind himself, leaving the room dark. On the other side of the door, outside, the warm air was alive with the sound of spring.

146

The Translator I always took the seat two rows behind her, on the aisle. Not too close, but close enough. The lecture hall seated about three hundred and had that singular odor of old academia. The class was about half full, or half empty depending on how you looked at it. Steps ran down the aisle to the stage, where Dr. Clark was speaking.

The professor was plowing through a PowerPoint most certainly created by a teaching assistant. He had trouble powering up the AV equipment, and a student had to start it for him. But, to give him credit, he was from another era, he was doing his best, teaching a class on lost civilizations with newfound technology.

He looked the part. Always disheveled and grumpy, his clothes were outdated and ill-fitting. He had published many papers and was well respected, but his time was almost up. His years in the sun, digging in tropical places, had taken their toll.

My fellow classmates had scattered all around the lecture hall.

Some were in pairs, but most sat by themselves, each illuminated by the screens of their laptops. The only sound apart from Dr. Clark’s voice was the clicking away of notes on their keyboards.

For me, this class was an elective. I was an education major and had no real business in an upper-level archaeology class.

No one seemed to care; it wasn’t in violation of any prerequisite, and I wasn’t flunking, so I was just another number added to the roster.

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My real reason for being in this class was Ila, a Portuguese beauty whom I’d been infatuated with since registration day. I was a mere drop of water to her ocean, but that didn’t keep me from obsessing day and night. I couldn’t get her out of my mind.

I watched her from behind, running her fingers through her long, thick hair, absentmindedly flicking off loose strands onto the carpeted steps beside her. I wasn’t sure if that was a nervous habit or if she just liked feeling her hair running between her fingers. I was enthralled by it either way, as I was with everything she did. I tried to make sure she couldn’t see my reflection in her screen. One misstep and I would be labeled as a creep, which was a line that I was quickly approaching.

Here’s my first confession. It was my practice to continue typing notes until everyone had left the lecture hall. Then, with no one watching, I would gather her discarded hair and stuff it into my pocket. Now, nearing the end of the term, I had quit a stash of her hair. I was hoping it was enough to weave a slender bookmark. Someone famous once said, “We are never really aware of the depth of our own sicknesses.”

I understand that this is not healthy behavior, but I never intended any harm or embarrassment to Ila. I would have died before anything like that would have happened. I likened my situation to a lovesick adolescent who could only love from afar.

And this was fine with me. I was not going to stalk her between classes, drive by her apartment, or peep in her windows. I was happy with our relationship, even if she didn’t know a relationship existed.

Then Dr. Clark made an announcement that changed everything.

“I am going to present an opportunity that I would like everyone to consider,” he said at the end of class.

“I have been granted approval to take a small group of students to a dig in Peru. It is not in Chan Chan, but it is in the region. This will be during your summer break. There is no 148

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stipend, and there will be no credit hours given. It will be hot and it will be work, hard work in uncomfortable conditions. I understand my salesmanship may not be up to the same level as those who work for Disney or Royal Caribbean, but I want to be clear. This is a scientific expedition, not Spring Break.” There were some chuckles around the room.

“Now, who is interested?”

I was only half listening when I saw Ila’s hand raise. Without thinking, my hand shot up also.

“Well now, only two?” he said.

Ila turned to see who else had raised a hand. When she saw it was me, our eyes met, and she smiled. I melted right there.

“You two need to see me in my office after class,” he said *** His office was the stereotypical professor’s office; cramped, full of old books, and a couple of bedraggled plants. He asked if we had passports. She did, I didn’t. He gave us a list of shots we would need and a stapled packet of rules, laws, and responsibilities.

The best part was that I was closer to Ila than I had ever been, and I didn’t have to hide. I was just behind her and to her right.

She wore a white tank top and shorts. Her exposed skin was perfect.

While we were listening, she ran her fingers through her hair.

I resisted the urge to bend down and pick up any loose ones that had fallen.

We still had several weeks’ worth of classes before the semester ended. He told us that he would be checking the progress of the shots and my passport. She had to squeeze by me on the way out, nearly chest to chest, but I remained cool as a Roger Moore James Bond.

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I was about to follow her when Dr. Clark said, “Mr. Stratten, this is a bit surprising, given you are not in the archaeological program. Is there anything I should know?”

“I was thinking of changing my major,” I said. “I’ve always been interested in archaeology,” “I see,” he said. “Indiana Jones and all.”

“Yep,” I said and left. *** “You did what?” Ross said. He was one of my suitemates, the guy I shared a bathroom with, and my closest friend here at school. The other two guys in the suite were Robbie and Cal. They had known each other since grade school and had come to college together. They knew I had a crush on a girl, but only Ross knew the depth of it.

“It’s only for three weeks,” I said.

“It’s about that girl,” he said.

“Man, they got bugs down there that will take your head off,” Cal said.

“Is Peru South or Central America?” Robbie asked.

They had been watching an old Perry Mason when I came in, grinning.

“Even you have to admit this is crazy,” Ross said.

“Sounds romantic to me,” Robbie said. “Like a Hallmark movie with snakes, and spiders, and foot rot.”

“They got jaguars too, man, those jaguars can take your head off,” Cal said.

While Perry and Paul Drake finished up a trial, I went into my room to look at the information that Dr. Clark had given us.

I was lying on the bed reading when Ross leaned against my door frame.

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“I’ve only known you a few months, so I know you, but I really don’t know you. If I really didn’t know you, like I was a stranger, I would think, man, this is really some bizarre behavior.”

“Calm down,” I said. “It’s only three weeks.”

“I got to tell you, the hair thing, it’s really creepy. You seem like a good guy, but man, right now you’re only a couple of levels from being a stalker. You’ve got to find a hobby or something.”

That made me laugh.

“I don’t want the police to come knocking and find discarded straws and scraps of stuff she’s thrown away.”

That made me laugh harder. I was giddy. *** Over the course of the next few weeks, Ila and I had several meetings with Dr. Clark. A couple of the meetings were attended by a school administrator, who informed us of not only the risks of a journey like this, for insurance reasons, I’m sure, but also that any misbehavior would lead to expulsion from the school. If we got into any problems with the law, we would be on our own in some Peruvian prison, with no help from the university.

I looked forward to these meetings; in fact, I planned my week around them. I had to concentrate intensely to avoid losing myself in Ila’s beauty. I left each meeting intoxicated and anticipating three weeks in a sweaty jungle.

Dr. Clark explained that this would not be the movie version of an archaeological dig. He explained that areas surrounding Chan Chan had been scanned by Lidar. Lidar had something to do with lasers and bouncing light around. I didn’t understand it, but he said we didn’t have to understand any of the tech stuff. So, there were some anomalies in certain areas. The government had given permission to clear small portions of land, and we were going to be the first group using ground-penetrating radar to see 151

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if anything important might be buried there. I, of course, was thinking of the beauty walking above the ground, not below it.

It was grunt work, but to my romantic mind, we would be working together in the steamy jungle, clothes clinging to her tanned body, then having dinner around a campfire. At night, she would be only a tent away. I could see no way this could be a losing situation. Even if the only thing I got out of this were a selfie of the two of us, it would be a memory I would always cherish.

Ross was around every day, reminding me what a huge mistake I was making flying off to the tropics for a girl who probably couldn’t remember my name.

“What if she is some kind of courier and she wants you to carry a bag of drugs out of the country? Or she is a spy smuggling stuff out?”

I laughed at that.

He did too. “Okay, that sounds nuts. But if she is anything like you tell me, what’s she doing going out in the jungle? She sounds like she should be taking acting classes instead of pulling carts of ground-penetrating radar, getting bitten by disease-carrying bugs.”

“I’ll ask her,” I said.

“Yeah, right. You can’t even talk to her.” He was right, I hadn’t said more than mumble a few words.

“I’m giving it some time. Our relationship must percolate.”

“I’m not going to visit you in jail,” he said. *** Summer was near, classes were wrapping up, and everyone was putting in some extra study time for finals. The shots had hurt more than I thought reasonable, given that they were supposed to promote health, not cause pain. The coeds were wearing less 152

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clothing, a development which my suitemates enthusiastically endorsed.

We had our final meeting with Dr. Clark the week before our departure. He had checklists for us along with a checklist of his own. Despite his appearance, he was meticulous in his planning and organization. Not his first rodeo, I guess.

All along, Ila continued to grow more beautiful. The hair bookmark had come along nicely also. I had read an article about a couple finding a book that was once believed to be owned by George Washington. In it, they found a strand of hair, which was often used as a bookmark back then. I guess wherever they stopped reading, they would just pluck a hair and place it on the page. This left the possibility of extracting the DNA and, somewhere down the line, cloning old George himself. So, there was a chance I could have an Ila if I ended up rich enough and cloning had become a thing—a thought I would not discuss with Ross. *** I had shown up at the airport an hour before I was supposed to, which was three hours before the flight. I had a growing list of witty conversation starters to dazzle Ila. I was leaving nothing to chance; this was my opportunity to put my best foot forward.

I rechecked all my credentials for the hundredth time.

Everything was there, again for the hundredth time, except the airplane tickets, which Dr Clark had refused to give us. “Too much of a chance of getting lost. I’ll keep them all together,” he had told us. He refused to keep them only on his phone. He wanted the hard copies.

I decided to sit and watch the travelers pass me by. I settled back to watch the business guys hustling through, cloaked in their self-importance or their quiet desperation, depending on their age.

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I had to call several clothing audibles. I wanted to match Ila without looking like I was trying to match her. I knew most of her clothing, so unless she had shopped for this occasion, I was aware of most of her styles and colors.

I also knew I was overthinking all of this, but I had to keep my mind on something other than finally getting to be with her for the next three weeks, 24/7. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had practiced all my lines and written them on index cards and flow charts.

I got a text from Dr. Clark asking me where I was. For a moment, I panicked, thinking I was at the wrong airport or had the wrong day. I responded that I was patiently waiting for everyone else. He texted back and said he would meet me in a few minutes. He asked if Ila was with me.

True to his word, he came down the corridor, dragging a battered, old suitcase and dressed like he was ready for the dig.

Cargo shorts and high gray socks with hiking boots from the waist down. On top, he wore a white T-shirt covered by a fishing vest with about a hundred pockets. To his credit, he never varied from what he was.

“Have you spoken with Ila?” he asked.

“Not since our last meeting,” I said.

“Really?” he said. “I thought that maybe you two were in some type of relationship.”

That sent a wave of pleasure through me, but I wasn’t sure why. And why would he think that? We didn’t even sit together.

“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he said, like he knew what I was thinking.

Before I could respond, he said, “She is a very beautiful girl.

Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. But I am becoming concerned.”

He dialed a number on his phone, then got up and stepped away. I watched him as he talked and paced.

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After a while, he put his phone in his pocket and walked back to me. I could tell it wasn’t good news.

“Well, this is very discouraging. Ila is not coming. Apparently, she has dropped out of school and left the country.”

I felt like I had fallen down a dark well. One moment, I was spending three weeks with her, and the next, she was gone.

I’d never see her again. His words kept echoing in my mind.

“Dropped out of school and left the country.”

“Wow,” was all I could say. *** The flight to George Bush International Airport in Houston was torturous, not because of the weather or the plane, but because of the guilt. Ila must have become aware of my crush on her and became frightened of me. Ross had been right; I was a creeper. By the time we had landed, I was sure the police were searching my apartment, looking for evidence to put me away.

But the more I thought about it, she would have notified campus security, and Dr. Clark would have known. They would have booted me out and not let me travel on this trip. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.

Either way, I was flying into the jungle without her. I should have known Hallmark jungle movies don’t happen in real life.

Dr. Clark tried to talk with me during our layover in Houston, but I could barely keep up my end of the conversation. I was devastated, but I was also feeling sorry for myself. Dr. Clark didn’t deserve that; he was a good guy, and none of this was his fault. So, I tried not to be such a baby, but every time I looked at her vacant seat, my heart throbbed.

From Houston, we flew in a smaller jet to Lima. The Francisco Carle Airport was little more than a pavilion with a paved landing strip. I was sure that there were larger airfields in Lima, but Dr. Clark explained that the next leg of the trip was with a guy who 155

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only flew out of this airport. I zeroed in on the part where he said “guy” instead of “airline.”

Once our plane bounced to a stop in front of the corrugated building that was the terminal, the copilot got our baggage out of a compartment under the plane and said, “Adios.” I had the feeling that this was a stop that they usually just flew over. They were back in the air as if something were chasing them.

We were left standing alone on the blacktop with our bags at our feet in the sweltering heat. The only other person around was a sweaty guy sitting in a 1997 Plymouth Voyager. He had the door open and was smoking an unfiltered cigarette. There were sweat rings around the armpits of his tan tank top. His cargo shorts looked damp and hung loosely below his hips. His hair was slicked back, and he wore several gold chains around his neck. He wasn’t muscular, but he had the menacing look. For the first time, I was glad Ila wasn’t with us.

He watched us with vague interest, but we acted like he wasn’t there.

“I certainly hope our plane comes before his,” Dr. Clark said.

“Why?” “I would say he is either delivering or receiving something illegal. Probably both. I would rather not be around to witness whatever it is he is doing.” Dr. Clark smiled unconvincingly. “I’m sure we are as much a surprise to him as he is to us.”

“Is that why no one else is here?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

We waited. The land around the field was heavily wooded, with some mountains off in the distance. The air was heavy and humid. Dr. Clark took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. A bird squawked somewhere off in the distance.

I heard a motor before I saw the plane. Which plane, I wasn’t sure.

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down as he lined up the runway and dove in for the landing. He was on the ground in less than a minute and taxiing toward us at a pretty good clip. It was a decent-sized plane. Bigger than the one that left us here, but this one had propellers instead of jet engines.

He went by us, still slowing down, whipped the plane around at the end of the cracked runway, and came back to where we were standing. The engines stopped, and all was quiet again. I could see movement in the cockpit, then a few seconds later, a door opened in the side of the fuselage.

A dark-skinned man with dreadlocks stood smiling in the hatch. He wore sandals, cargo shorts (must be all the rage here), and a button-down shirt that had the sleeves cut off.

“Dr. Clark!” he yelled, “What you doin’ here in Lima? Lookin’ for your buried treasure?”

“Taco, it’s good to see you, my friend.” Taco hopped down the small ladder that he had placed at the bottom of the door opening.

Dr. Clark extended his hand to Taco, but Taco went for the full-body hug. Still smiling, he said to me, “Dr. Clark only man on Earth to be happier with rocks and bones instead of treasure.

You come all this way, do you not have rocks and bones to dig up in America?”

He untangled from Dr. Clark and gave me a hug, then took both of my hands and looked at them.

“Aw, this boy, not a digger.

“He’s going to have to be, he’s the only one I’ve got,” Dr. Clark said.

“You are in trouble then, big trouble,” He laughed loudly. The laugh was infectious.

“Let me get your luggage, Dr. Clark. You there, rookie, get your own.” He laughed again. I laughed with him.

Then he said softly, “Javier over there waiting for someone.

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Javier?” Javier barely acknowledged him with the subtle nod of his head.

“Javier sees himself as a businessman, but whatever business he’s in, it is dirty.”

We climbed the stairs and entered the plane. A row of seats lined the left side of the fuselage, and the right side had cargo straps attached from one end to the other. Taco strapped the luggage to the wall. “Dr. Clark, you have come on the right day.

You may have your choice of seats.” We strapped in, and Taco went to the cockpit and did the same. There was no door between the fuselage and the cockpit, just a wire across the top where a curtain used to hang. We could watch his every move.

The engines started with a whine, first the left, then the right.

He pulled some levers, and the plane started to roll. We taxied to the end of the runway while he intermittently glanced at where we were going.

“He’s not watching the road,” I said to Dr. Clark. “Er, I mean runway.” I was sitting in the seat behind him and leaning up to whisper in his ear.

“He’ll be fine,” was all he said.

Once we got to the end of the runway, he whipped the plane around and pulled back on the throttle. I was thrown back in my seat.

“I always get a rush from this part,” he yelled back to us. The plane was bouncing and jerking like crazy. I don’t think we had all three landing gear on the pavement at once.

“Here we go,” he yelled over the drone of the engines. Taco pulled back on the yoke, and the plane shot into the air. The bucking stopped, and he pulled into a long banked curve and circled the airport twice. The G-force was tremendous.

“No extra charge for the fancy flying,” he yelled back again.

“How old is this plane?” I managed to choke out.

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“It’s a DC-3 cargo plane, so I think they started building them in the 1930s,” Dr. Clark said. “Don’t worry, Taco and I go way back.”

Dr. Clark must have lived a more adventurous life than I had imagined.

Taco yelled back, “It’s about three hundred kilometers to the Chan Chan airport, so sit back and relax. We thank you for flying Taco Airlines.” I could hear him laughing over the drone of the engines. *** Despite the bumpy ride and the roar of the engines, I fell asleep. I wished I had dreamed of Ila and had something positive to wake up to, but I didn’t. I woke up and realized all my plans had fallen apart. I stepped off into that dark despair all over again.

I checked my watch. It had been about two hours since we left Lima. I figured that this kind of plane flew at about one hundred and fifty miles an hour, so we should be just about there. I was right. A couple of minutes later, we started our descent.

This airstrip made the last one look like LAX. It was dirt with tall weeds growing between the paths made by the landing gear.

Taco took this landing with the same gusto he had shown during the takeoff.

“Only one shot at this, I gotta get it right the first time,” he yelled back.

“I’m sure he’s just joking,” Dr. Clark said.

I’m not sure if he was or he wasn’t, but it was a bumpy landing.

The plane bounced each time the wheels hit, sending it back into the air and listing to one side. Taco was held down by his seatbelt, but his feet left the floor like all the baggage around us. He was hanging onto the yoke and shouting “Woo” each time we hit.

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Mercifully, we stuck to the ground and taxied to a little metal hut near the end of the strip. Taco parked the plane in a grassy area on the side of the landing strip.

“Taco Airline welcomes you to Chan Chan!” He opened the door and placed the steps. I was looking forward to being outside in the fresh air after the flight, but as soon as I descended the steps, I wanted to go back inside. The heat and humidity were a hot, wet blanket. The air conditioning on the plane was spotty at best, but it was wonderful compared to the outside.

“Watch your step in the grass!” Taco said.

“Bad footing?” Dr. Clark asked.

“Snakes,” Taco said.

“Snakes?” I said. “What kind of snakes?

“I saw a Fer-de-lance here last week, but there are all kinds.

Eyelash vipers, bushmasters. There are some nasty ones. Boas and anacondas also, but they usually stay in the more remote places.”

I looked around. “More remote than this?”

“Aw yeah, you have no idea.”

Taco and I got the bags off the plane, and I scouted the grass around our feet while Taco disappeared around the back of the little building. An engine started, and Taco pulled around the building in an open jeep about as old as the airplane.

“Taco Taxicab at your service,” he said, smiling.

“You are the entrepreneur,” Dr. Clark said.

“Yes, and very diversified.”

The drive to the dig site took about forty minutes. It was less than ten miles, but the road was little more than a path with ruts.

The temperature was in the nineties, but in the sun it felt hotter.

In the shade, it was more humid. Every time we passed under trees, I pictured an eyelash viper dropping off a branch into my lap.

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“Chan Chan is not a bad city,” Taco was saying. “Of course, you are not going to be seeing much of the city, are you, Dr. Clark?”

“No, Taco, we will stay at the site day and night. The Culture Ministry is providing us with tents and equipment. If we find some evidence that this is a site that may have archaeological value, they may have funds to protect it. Looters have done significant damage to the history of Peru.”

“Yeah, yeah. Big black market in artifacts in South America.

I stay away from all of that. Not my bag.” *** I was surprised at the dig site. It was much more civilized than I had expected. An area about the size of a football field had been cleared. The stumps of the big trees had been sawed off at ground level, and the ground had been dragged so it looked like a grassless baseball infield. At one end were three white tents and some containers that were probably full of food and equipment.

A couple of guys in uniform sat in lawn chairs near the tents.

Taco drove along the border of the clearing and stopped in front of the men.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. This is Dr. Clark and his associate.” The two soldiers couldn’t have cared less who we were.

They had a clipboard with papers for Dr. Clark to sign. They weren’t very talkative. One of them had a backpack. He shoved the signed papers into it and handed copies to me. They picked up their rifles and started walking back across the clearing.

Taco, sensing a chance for a quick profit, yelled something to them in Spanish. They laughed and yelled back, “Mucho dinero.”

Taco smiled and said, “I’ll give it a shot.” He started off after the soldiers, then stopped and stood up in the jeep and yelled back to us, “I’ll be back later tonight to check on you.” He waved and was gone.

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We spent the rest of the afternoon checking off the equipment and supplies left in the containers. At dusk, Dr. Clark asked me to find some wood for a fire. “Don’t go too far into the woods and get lost. And please make sure you are picking up sticks, not snakes,” he said with a grin.

Once we had the equipment checked off, we started the fire.

Fall was nearly here, and the nights were getting chilly, even though the daytime temperatures were high. But I learned from Dr. Clark that the real reason for the fire was to keep the jaguars away. And bears.

Our tents had flaps covering the doorways that could be converted into small roofs. By attaching two poles to the ends of the straps, it was like having a covered front porch to the tent.

We sat under our roofs and talked about the plan he had for the second day.

He decided to store everything of value in the middle tent.

What would have been Ila’s tent. If anyone decided to sneak in during the night to pilfer some valuable equipment, one of us should hear them. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to be two tents away from Dr. Clark; in fact, I was sure I would rather be sleeping with him in his tent.

The dehydrated food was stored in two large Styrofoam coolers. It didn’t look very appetizing. There were also two large water coolers to hydrate the food and supply us with drinking water. I hoped they were going to replenish them daily.

The darkness brought a chorus of sound to the forest, or jungle, wherever we were. Hoots and chirps and screeches and growls. The hunters and the hunted. It was the ones that I couldn’t hear that scared me the most.

The fire was roaring, and I had brought enough wood to supply us for the rest of the night. We were deciding what the meal was going to be when we heard an approaching motor.

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pulled along the edge of the clearing. If it wasn’t Taco, we were in trouble. Dr. Clark remained calm as ever.

The vehicle pulled up and stopped. It looked like Taco’s jeep, but I still couldn’t get a good look at the driver in the flickering light. Then I heard Taco’s voice.

“Taco’s Door Dash Service! Your delivery is here!” He stepped out of the jeep carrying two large pizza boxes.

While we at,e Taco and Dr. Clark reminisced about trips they had been on together. Apparently, Taco made a lot of money from Dr. Clark’s influence. Archaeologists are competitive, but they do talk. A good recommendation goes a long way, so that’s why Taco was keeping Dr. Clark happy. They talked and laughed, and I stared at the surrounding jungle, waiting for the inevitable jaguar or anaconda.

It was dark away from the campfire. The light seemed to illuminate the immediate area, then lose its effect a few feet away.

I had never seen such darkness. Taco had decided to stay the night, and I was glad. There was just enough room for a sleeping bag in the middle tent. I thought about asking him to sleep in my tent, but I mustered up the courage to sleep alone.

I zipped into my sleeping bag wondering how in the world did I get myself into this? *** The next morning, I woke to the sounds of monkeys, birds, and Taco singing. He was pretty good. He had a varied repertoire, starting with “I’m a Believer” and straight into “Billie Jean”. He had brought some of his own spices to make the powdered eggs taste better.

Dr. Clark was already assembling the GPR. It looked like a plastic box on bicycle wheels. It was bigger than a lawnmower but looked lighter. Attached to the back was a handle like a lawnmower for someone to push it, someone like me. The cart, 163

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as Dr. Clark called it, was connected to a GPS and a secure link to websites back at school and the Culture Ministry. Everyone was covering themselves to make sure we were doing what we were supposed to do.

Today, our task would be to scan the whole area and decide if any anomalies existed, and if so, how far underground they were.

Then we would be permitted or denied permission to dig. Dr. Clark had explained in one of our meetings that the maximum depth we were allowed to go was half a meter. And that was only with the approval of the Culture Ministry.

I started pushing the cart the length of the clearing, using the wheel ruts from each of my previous passes to keep from overlapping too much. Dr. Clark sat in the shade in lawn chairs, looking at a laptop with my findings. I wondered what Ila’s job would have been if she hadn’t backed out.

After about an hour, I had covered the entire area. Dr. Clark asked me to do it again, only this time to go side to side instead of lengthwise. That took a little over an hour.

The sun rose higher, and the temperature along with it. Taco produced mosquito spray for the two of them, then shared it with me. In the shade, they were getting bitten much worse than I was in the sun. Good news, bad news, I guess.

I stopped just before lunchtime. Taco prepared lunch, I rested, and Dr. Clark looked at the data. He identified a half dozen potential targets and prioritized a half dozen more. Taco took off back to the city to do whatever he does. He would be back later with dinner.

Within minutes, the sky turned an angry hue of charcoal, and the air felt thick. I felt sure we were in for a tropical deluge, but it passed quickly with only a few fat drops of rain. Next time the clouds rolled in, we wouldn’t be so lucky.

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loaded it with stakes and rolls of orange construction tape and started sectioning off areas of interest.

I tried looking at the information from the GPR, but couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but Dr. Clark seemed satisfied with the results. By the time it was getting dark, we had six perfect, 10-by-10-foot squares marked off over the clearing. I was kind of proud of how professional they looked, then I realized that I was a professional now. For the first time since Ila had bailed, I felt happy. But I still wondered where she was and what she was doing.

Tomorrow we will start with the more conventional metal detector and search the areas we had marked today. Dr. Clark was charting the areas we would be starting with when we heard the jeep coming toward our camp. Taco had brought tacos for dinner.

I slept much better that night, probably due to the fact that I had worked all day in the sun and the comforting notion that I hadn’t been eaten the night before. I thought of Ila only sporadically instead of hourly, as I had been for the last few months. I still couldn’t imagine her here, working side by side. *** The morning of day three started off fairly normal. Taco was turning an exceedingly dull breakfast into something spectacular.

He had acquired exotic vegetables and cooked them in with the powdered supplies we had been given. It was after we ate that Dr. Clark dropped a bombshell.

The Peruvian government was sending us help. Students from a university that I hadn’t heard of were to join us. Dr. Clark seemed as surprised as I was, and, if I read him correctly, seemed a little put off by the development. About twenty students and instructors were to arrive in the afternoon.

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“We might as well get started, before we are overrun with amateurs,” he said.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m an amateur.”

“Yes, but a well-trained one.”

We started on the site with the most potential. The goal was to scrape off ten centimeters within the taped off section using the edge of a garden trowel and a dustpan. The soil we scraped would be placed into buckets and screened later. Anything solid we would dust around with a paintbrush or a wooden skewer. It was tedious, on-your-knees work.

“Why did they pick this place?” I said. “Out of all this land, why here?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, “Things are becoming more and more baffling.”

He demonstrated the use of the trowel again, even though I had seen the videos during our meetings. The soil was good for scraping, not too loose and not too compact. There were not a lot of pebbles or rocks; the roots were another matter. Nearly all were small and near the surface, except those around the bigger stumps. Luckily, none of our sites were close to those.

We scraped in silence, Dr. Clark on one side of the square and me on the other, staying out of each other’s way.

“It’s easy to get impatient, just take your time. There could be something important that is no bigger than a pea. A jewel or a shard of pottery that may change the way we view an ancient civilization.” His speech sounded a little rehearsed, like he was thinking about something else.

“Actually, when the new people come, don’t say too much,” he said.

“About what?”

“Anything. This isn’t the way a dig usually works,” he said.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

He kept scraping as he talked. “The Peruvian government contacted me for this dig. Usually, it’s the other way around.

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I’m not sure what we are looking for, which is never the case.

And like you asked, why here? And now they are sending more people, after they saw the GPR scans.” He chuckled nervously.

“I’m not sure what I’ve gotten you into.”

“And don’t forget Ila canceling at the last minute, that was weird,” I said. “Hmmm,” was his only reply to that.

We scraped for the next hour without much happening.

I was beginning to come across more and more rocks. I asked Dr. Clark to check them out each time, but they were just rocks, and he asked me to put them in the spoils buckets. No earthshattering discoveries for me.

Taco had left right after breakfast once he had heard others would be coming. I’m sure he was figuring out a way to expand his business. But now, I heard his jeep coming back through the trees. He stopped in front of our tents and motioned for Dr. Clark to come over. I kept scraping, but with one eye on their conversation.

I hit something hard with my trowel. At first glance, it was just another rock like the ones I had been hitting, but after dusting it off with my paint brush, the part that was visible was much smoother than the rocks I had been finding. It was a different shade of gray as well, and it had a rounded point protruding that was almost geometric, like the pointed end of an egg.

Dr. Clark was still in a deep conversation with Taco, so I kept digging.

I took a wooden skewer and poked around the edges as I had been taught. Then I took my trowel and dug away a circle around it, in a way I had not been taught. Taco and Dr. Clark were still in deep conversation, and somewhere deep in the forest, I heard the sound of vehicles.

I reached down and dusted the top of the object with my fingers. Immediately, it started to vibrate. Small waves of dust and particles of soil shook away from it. It popped itself out of the ground and rolled onto its side. The vibration stopped.

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I had guessed correctly; it was shaped like an egg—about the same size, too.

The first vehicle that pulled into the clearing was an open army truck full of armed soldiers. It was followed by several Land Rovers, each strapped down with containers and tarpcovered equipment. The caravan made our little setup look like a Boy Scout camp.

The soldiers came off the transport in an orderly fashion and marched to positions around the clearing. I couldn’t tell if they were keeping invaders out or keeping us in. Scientific types started emptying out of the Rovers and assembling around Dr. Clark.

In a moment of panic, I grabbed the rock and stuck it in a pocket of my cargo shorts. I took his instruction of not saying anything to also include not showing anything.

The atmosphere had changed quickly. I guess armed soldiers can do that. Taco was still moving around among the scientists, smiling and gesturing. Dr. Clark looked unhappy, but I couldn’t imagine him being anything other than professional.

I kept my head down and continued to work until I heard my name being called. Dr. Clark waved me over to the group. As I walked, I could feel the weight of the rock in my pants.

“This is Mr. Stratten,” Dr. Clark said. I nodded to everyone.

No one said anything or offered to shake my hand. “He has been quite helpful so far.”

“That is wonderful,” said a man with very white teeth and a large smile. He was definitely in charge. His hair was black with gray creeping in around the temples, and his skin was tan and weather-beaten in a good way. He had spent a lot of time outdoors.

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way, they didn’t look like they belonged out here. They all had that South American look of crooks.

“Dr. Clark, if you would like to continue working at the spot you had started, my colleagues and I will spread out into the other areas of interest.”

Dr. Clark knew he was being dismissed at his own dig site.

This man with the charming smile had the government and the soldiers on his side. Dr. Clark had only me. He turned and walked away without saying a word. I followed. The man started barking out orders to his workers.

“Who is this guy?” I whispered as we walked away.

“Quirino Olivera. He’s a very big deal in the archeological world. He’s the chair of a group of nonprofits that fund many sites in South America. He is the lead at Toro Muerto, one of the largest groupings of petroglyphs ever found.”

“What’s with all the soldiers?” I asked.

“He said that most of Peru’s drug trade has gone to Colombia.

Now the cartels are very interested in artifacts. It’s very profitable and illegal.”

“Do you believe him?”

“The part about the cartels is true; the rest of this, though, is unheard of.”

At that point, “The Maltese Falcon” ran through my mind.

Humphrey Bogart and Peter Lorre against each other and everybody else continually changing sides.

I wanted to tell him about the rock that vibrated, but my gut feeling was that these people were here for it, or something that it was a part of. I didn’t want them to have it, and I didn’t want Dr. Clark getting in trouble for me having it.

So, I kept my mouth shut and we scrapped and dug for the rest of the afternoon. We were being watched; there was no doubt about it. Olivera stopped by several times to ask if we needed anything, but his hospitality was shallow; he was snooping.

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After we had finished digging for the day, a large water truck pulled in with a portable shower. On top of the truck were hoses that came over the side with shower heads and curtains attached to circular racks. We were each given towels and small bottles of shower gel, similar to what you find in hotels. The time was limited, but that was okay because the water was only lukewarm.

I think they left the truck in the sun to warm the water.

Before it was my turn to shower, I went into my tent to get fresh clothes. My plan was to hide the rock at the bottom of my sleeping bag. As I reached in to grab it, it vibrated. The feeling was smooth and relaxing. I wanted to hold it with both hands and massage it into my palms, but I didn’t want to get caught, so I shoved it in and went to the shower.

Another truck brought a long table and chairs for dinner, which were subs from Subway and Little Debbie cakes for dessert—about as American as you can get.

I felt a bit out of place, even though I was seated beside Dr. Clark. Most of the conversations were in Spanish, and most were loud with plenty of laughter. I took it that this group had worked together before, or maybe even worked together now at Toro Muerto. Maybe this was like a field trip for them.

I noticed one of them staring at me through most of the dinner. She was a dark-haired beauty with eyes that flashed. She didn’t seem to quite fit in with the rest of the others. She wasn’t as loud as the others, and when laughter erupted, she would only smile. Every time I caught her looking, she turned away.

Their tents were much larger than ours. They could fit five or six people comfortably, and from what I could see, they came equipped with mosquito nets. These people were well-funded.

Even with all this intrigue, and the soldiers, and the girl with the dark flashing eyes, all I could think about was the rock.

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from dinner; this was a celebratory bunch. I didn’t think anyone would even be aware of my somewhat-early departure.

Once inside, I sat on the floor, retrieved the rock, soaked my towel with some water, and cleaned it off. I expected it to vibrate, but there was nothing. I cleaned and scrubbed a little more, and the true beauty started to show through. I poured water directly on it and rubbed harder. The surface was glasslike and translucent. Inside was a raspberry color that had depth, almost like you were looking into something deeper than you could hold in your hands. It wasn’t a rock; it was more like some kind of crystal.

“What are you?” I whispered.

Deep inside the crystal, a white light sparked. A thread of lightning emerged from the depths and crackled across the surface, spreading bolts like a cloud above a volcano.

I dropped the crystal and fell backward on my forearms.

The crystal turned back into the raspberry glass that it had been before I spoke to it. I stayed like that for a while, not knowing what to do. I could still hear laughter coming from outside, but here, inside, I felt very alone.

I picked the crystal back up and cradled it in my hands.

“What are you?” I repeated.

This time, there was no tiny spark. The lightning storm flashed across the surface, even brighter this time.

“Who are YOU?” The question ran from my hands, up my arms, and into my brain.

I didn’t say anything. I had no clue what to do.

“Who are you?” the voice in my head said again. This time, it had a softer tone.

“Stratten,” I thought, “My name is Stratten.”

“Strange name,” the voice in my head said. It was changing as it spoke. Warmer? Friendlier?

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“Why is that a strange name?” Each time we spoke, I mean thought, the crystal flashed lightning, like roots deep in its center were growing and becoming stronger.

“I’m sorry,” it said. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Why did you contact me?”

“I didn’t know that I did.”

There was a sound that sounded like giggling. It was nice.

“Are you laughing at me?” I asked, mentally.

“What is laughing?” It asked.

I ignored the question. “Where are you?” I asked.

“In my dwelling.”

“Dwelling? What does that mean?”

“It is where I exist. Where are you?”

“In a tent, talking to a rock,” I thought.

Again, the laughter. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Why did I think of it as a she? The voice in my head could have been either. Maybe I was turning it into a female.

“I’m in Peru,” I said, hoping to get somewhere in this conversation.

“You are underground?”

“No, ‘in’ doesn’t mean inside. It’s where I am.”

“Why, Stratten, did you contact me?”

“I didn’t contact you,” I said through my thoughts.

“Explain,” she said-thought.

“I’m digging up archeological artifacts, and I found this, thing, and it started vibrating.”

“What are artifacts?”

“They are important, valuable items.”

“Why do you bury your valuable items?”

“We don’t; they were left here.”

“Why do you leave valuable items for others to find?”

This was going nowhere.

“Do you have a glass egg too?” I asked.

Again, something that sounded like laughter.

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“I do not understand ‘egg’,” she said.

Each time one of us had spoken, the lightning in the egg had flashed rapidly. It was beautiful to see. It exploded from the inside to just below the surface. This thing contained a huge amount of energy.

She said, “I have an object my mentor had called a translator. It has not worked for many lifetimes, until today when you contacted me.”

“I didn’t con—” “Yes, you did,” she said, laughing.

“All right,” I said. “What is your name?”

A deep growl entered my head, low and threatening.

“What was that?” I asked.

“That is what I am called,” she said. “Your name sounded strange to me, also.” Perhaps names do not translate well.

“You say you have a mentor. What does the mentor do?”

“I ask my mentor to help me understand,” she said.

“Does he? Help you understand?”

“Sometimes, but many times I answer my own questions.”

I’d heard of tribes deep in jungles who communicated by clicks and knocking sounds that most of us couldn’t produce.

Maybe we were near a tribe like that. But this growl didn’t sound human at all.

The noise outside was dying down. There were still people talking and laughing, but it seemed that some had started off for their tents. Plus, it was still fairly early. The lack of light out here made it feel later than it was.

“Senor Stratten?” Someone was just outside my tent.

Mentally, I said, “I have to go. I’d like to talk to you again. Is that possible?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never—” I didn’t let her finish. I shoved the crystal down into the sleeping bag.

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As soon as I did, my door zipped open. “Senor Stratten, are you sleeping?”

It was the girl that had been looking at me during dinner.

“No, not sleeping,” I said.

“May I?” she asked.

Without an answer she stooped a little to get in the door, then zipped it up behind her. I looked at the door then her.

“To keep out the mosquitos,” she said in the way of an explanation.

I had been on my side, but now I rolled over onto my back.

Dr. Clark had provided a small battery-powered lamp. I switched it on.

She was wearing a dazzlingly white T-shirt and white shorts.

Her skin was bronze and perfect next to the white cotton. Her teeth were nearly as white.

Standing over me, she said, “Hola, my name is Lucia.” She extended her hand, and I reached up to shake it. It was warm and soft as mine. Not a digger, like Taco said about me.

She sat down cross-legged facing me. “I thought I would come and introduce myself.” Her English was very good, but the phrasing was weird, only a hint of an accent. She shook her hair back over her shoulders. It was very good hair.

“How do you like our country so far? I think you have had very little time to see much beside the trees and bushes?”

“It’s really beautiful here,” I said. “I’ve never been to a tropical country like this. It’s very erotic... I mean exotic.”

She smiled like we were sharing an inside joke. I know my cheeks were turning red.

“Was that what you call a Freudian slip, Mr. Stratten?”

I didn’t have a clue of what to say, so I ignored it.

“What’s the deal with the soldiers?” I asked.

She held up a finger and listened, then she lay down on her side. I rolled over onto mine facing her. We were only about six inches apart. I thanked God that I had brushed my teeth.

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“I do not know. I have never been to a dig. I teach three classes for Dr. Olivera. He is paid by the university, but he is never there. Last night there was a big rush of excitement, and this was organized super quickly. I was told to come, but I’m not sure why. Why are you here? You look like you do not belong here either.”

I thought about telling her that I was following the love of my life, a girl whose hair I was making into bookmarks, into the jungle, but thought better of it.

“I took an archaeology class as an elective, and Dr. Clark asked if anyone was interested. I had no plans for the summer, so... here I am.”

She didn’t say anything, like “I don’t believe anyone would be that dumb.” She kept looking at me. It seemed awkward for me, but it didn’t faze her.

“You got a lot of sun today; did you use no sunscreen?” With that, she reached over and ran her thumb and forefinger around the top of my ear. It was so gentle that I closed my eyes. Then she traced the rim of my chin and softly touched my lips with her thumb.

I can truthfully say that I could never be a spy. I would have spilled my guts to her at that moment. National secrets, informers’ names, anything she wanted. If she had asked me about a magic egg, I would have handed it to her.

“Mr. Stratten?” Dr. Clark was whispering right outside the door. “Mr. Stratten, are you awake?”

She took her hand from my lips and moved it to the back of my head. She pulled my face close to hers and kissed me full on.

I felt it in my toes.

“Tell him to go away,” she whispered.

“Almost asleep,” I mumbled. She kissed me again.

“We need to talk,” he said.

“Can’t it wait till morning?”

“I’d like to speak to you tonight,” he said.

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She started kissing my neck.

“I’ll be over in just a second,” I said.

“I’ll be waiting,” he said.

I heard him walk away. There was no noise outside now; everyone must have gone to their tents.

“My tent is very crowded, maybe I should stay here tonight?” she whispered in my ear.

In a moment of strength, well, probably more fear than strength, I said, “No, not tonight, maybe tomorrow.”

I think she was as amazed by my response as I was. “We have soldiers with guns and Dr. Clark wanting to talk. There’s just too much going on tonight. It’s too risky.”

“I can wait until you come back,” she said.

My resolve was impressive, “Tomorrow,” I said. “Quickly, you gotta go, before someone sees you and I change my mind.”

“Sometimes tomorrow never comes,” she said as she unzipped my door. She left it unzipped. I could see her white clothing fade into the darkness on the other side of the campfire.

I thought for a second, trying to remember if I had told her anything that I would regret. I thought she had given me more information than I had given her. Who knew if any of what she told me was real? She was certainly more seductive than any teaching assistant I had ever met, so she was probably lying about that also. Whatever she was after, I didn’t think she had gotten it.

So, she would try again. I was really hoping she would.

I started to leave the tent, trying to decide whether to tell Dr. Clark about my visitor, when I realized that she knew my tent would be unguarded. I wasn’t sure if they were serious enough to sneak back into my tent, but they had tried to seduce me and they had brought an army. So, I retrieved the crystal and stuck it back in the velcroed pocket.

I walked past the middle tent where our equipment was being stored and stopped at Dr. Clark’s tent door. The only sound I could hear was the muffled crackling of the fire. The animal sounds of 176

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the previous nights were gone. I decided that the soldiers, even though they couldn’t be seen, were scattered around the clearing.

“Dr. Clark?” I whispered.

He immediately unzipped his door.

He motioned me in. “Quickly,” he said.

I was surprised/not surprised to see Taco there with him.

“We are leaving,” he said.

“When?”

“Now. Right now.”

“Why? What about the stuff in my tent? My phone?”

“Leave it,” Taco said. “Phones, they can track.” For the first time since I had met him, he was not his jovial self.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“We’ll tell you later,” Dr. Clark said.

“What about the soldiers?” I asked.

“Taco knows a way,” Mr. Clark said.

“You follow Taco,” Taco said. “Be quiet and step on no snakes.”

He winked at me.

“Aw, man,” I said. *** Taco produced a large, lethal-looking knife and made a slit in the back of the tent. We slipped through and headed into the darkness. The moon shone brilliantly in the sky, but the canopy was so thick that it only showed through in spots, leaving shafts intermittently for us to follow. We walked for several minutes, the lush forest floor muffling the sound of our footfalls. Taco stopped several times and listened, as if he were expecting a soldier to come up behind us. We walked on.

We had to be at least a mile away from camp after an hour of walking, so I decided to try again.

“So, why are we leaving?”

“We have to keep moving, but we can tell the boy,” Taco said.

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me.

I was bringing up the rear, so Dr. Clark dropped back behind

“There are more soldiers in town. It is now under the control of the government,” Taco said. “I have friends there and they are frightened.”

“Apparently, Olivera found a map of sorts in the petrographs that he has been studying. Well, many maps. Too many for them to investigate themselves. So they hired out, that’s where we came in,” Dr. Clark added.

It was difficult for him to walk and talk at the same time, so he paused between parts.

“I think we must have found something, something that they were looking for when we used the Lidar,” Dr. Clark said.

Taco took over the explanation. “Then today, the army came to town. The people of the town said that the soldiers kept looking up at the sky. Not just the ones with guns, but the men in suits also. They heard the men in suits talking about some kind of transmission, whatever that means.”

Again, I felt the weight of the crystal in my pocket.

We came to a slight clearing where the lack of trees allowed the moonlight to paint everything a golden color.

A dirt road unwound into the darkness of distant trees. But best of all, an old beat-up truck was parked in the middle of the road about ten yards away.

“This is a smuggler’s truck, there is a false bottom in the bed, in which you two will ride, then we will get to the plane...”

Taco stopped talking when we heard a cartridge snapping into a chamber. We all turned around. A soldier was emerging from the darkness, leveling a rifle at us.

He let loose with a lot of Spanish, all of which sounded hostile.

“What’s he saying?” Dr. Clark asked.

“He’s deciding if he should shoot us now or ransom us.”

“Mucho dinero,” I said. “El mucho grande dinero, por va vor.”

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Then something moved in the shadows behind him. The first thing I saw was a pair of yellow eyes reflecting the moonlight.

Then the head and body. I couldn’t comprehend how such a large animal could move so quietly. The jaguar hung its head low and moved slowly toward the soldier, step by step, stalking him.

Taco said, “You better look behind you.”

The soldier smiled. “No es ese viejo truco,” he said.

The jaguar sprang and knocked the soldier down before he could get a shot off. It went directly for his throat and was shaking him violently when Taco said, “Time to go.”

The bed of the truck was loaded with wooden crates held in place with rubber straps. Taco jumped in back and unstrapped the crates and pushed them to the end of the bed. Near the cab was a wooden hatch that he lifted and said, “Gentlemen, your room is ready.”

I glanced back to see the jaguar trotting off, carrying the rag doll body of the soldier by the throat.

The compartment was as long and wide as the truck bed.

Someone had thrown in some blankets so we wouldn’t be against the hard metal of the undercarriage.

“If I stop, stay completely quiet. It will be loud on this road; once we get to the blacktop, it will be better.” He closed the hatch, and we could hear him sliding the crates back into place.

“Dr. Clark,” I said in the darkness. “I don’t think I want to be an archaeologist anymore.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

Taco started the truck and put it into gear. The noise was so loud that it was impossible to talk.

The sensory deprivation was nearly complete. No sight, the roar of the road muffled all other sound, and the only sense of movement was the slight sway of Taco’s driving. After a while, I couldn’t decide if we had been on the road for hours or minutes.

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I reached into my pocket and cradled the crystal. I felt a slight vibration, and she was back.

“You would like to communicate again?”

“I would,” I thought.

“I am glad. I enjoyed you,” “I enjoyed you too,” I thought. It was starting to feel like a second date.

“Let’s try to find out where you are. Are you near the ocean?”

I asked.

“Yes, a very large one.”

“Do you go there often?”

“No.” “Why not?”

“The ocean water does not suit us well. The fresh water is better.”

That’s strange, I thought. Most indigenous people make use of all the resources around them.

“What is the name of the place where you live?” I asked.

Again, the strange scratching, clicking sound invaded my brain.

“What was that? It’s awful,” I said.

“I do not hear anything different than my own thoughts.

Perhaps the translator can only translate the concepts we have in common.” She was silent for a moment. “What is the most important thing in your world?”

“What do you mean MY world?”

“Where you are,” she said.

“I guess it would be love. On a lot of different levels.”

“I could not understand that word. It came across as a soft, timid sound.”

“You don’t understand love?”

“It must be a concept that our culture does not have.”

“Are you a man or a woman?” I had to ask.

“Again, I hear that soft sound of your voice, but your words have no meaning.”

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“Okay,” I said. “Male or female?”

“That has no meaning.”

“How do you reproduce?”

There was a long silence, but she must have been thinking to me because the crystal was vibrating in my hand.

“Asexually.”

So there it was. I was talking to another species. The scratching sound was her real voice, and mine sounded soft and weak to her. It was our conversation, the transmission, that brought the soldiers.

“Are you still there?” she asked. But it wasn’t really a she; I had made it into one.

The truck was starting to slow, I wasn’t sure if we were there or if we were being stopped. Either way, my heart was pounding.

“I have to go,” I said.

“I’m sorry, did I disappoint you in some way?”

“No. Something is happening here, and I can’t talk.”

“I will miss you,” she said. Strangely, the thought of not talking to her saddened me as well.

The truck pulled to a complete stop and listed a bit to one side. Taco must have pulled over to the berm. I heard his door open and close, then voices in Spanish.

Dr. Clark lay beside me, I’m sure just as frightened as I was.

He reached over and squeezed my hand, a gesture that surprised me, but at the same time gave me comfort.

Someone put down the tailgate and stepped up into the bed of the truck. The shocks squeaked. I could hear them talking and shoving the crates around. It didn’t last very long. Whoever it was jumped off the tailgate, and the shocks squeaked again.

A minute later, we were pulling back onto the road and picking up speed. The blanket I was on was damp with sweat.

The exhaust fumes were starting to get to me. They seemed to be stronger than they had been earlier. Maybe we had opened a crack in one of the exhaust pipes.

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Before long, the truck slowed and took a sharp left turn, and the terrain became very rough. Even though Taco was driving slowly, we were bouncing in the compartment hard enough that my nose banged against the top. Not bleeding and not broken, but hard enough to make my eyes water. We finally pulled to a stop.

It was still dark when Taco pulled us out of the hidey-hole.

My whole body was stiff. I had a hard time getting off the tailgate.

Dr. Clark looked as if he had fared better than I had. He was moving well.

“Soldiers or police?” he asked Taco.

“Police. Just routine. The army won’t know you are missing until morning, unless they have times to check in. By that time, we will be over another country.”

The area was heavily wooded. No one was going to find the truck unless they walked right up to it.

We started on a winding path using a flashlight that Taco had had in the truck. “No stepping on snakes,” he said. I knew he was smiling even though I couldn’t see his face.

We entered a large open space where once again the moon covered everything in a soft glow. At the end of the clearing was a small one-engine airplane.

“Taco, you are resourceful,” Dr. Clark said.

“You thought it was funny when I said Taco Airlines.”

“I would have never guessed you had more than one plane,” I said.

“I have many assets. I am diversified,” he said again, laughing.

We were walking three abreast, with Taco in the middle.

Suddenly, he stopped and put his forearm against my chest. He shone his flashlight where I was about to step. The beam reflected the shiny scales of a long black snake as it slithered away in the grass.

“Do not step on any snakes,” he said.

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We reached the plane and got in. I was in the back, and Dr. Clark was in the copilot’s seat.

“My other plane was flown out last night by a friend of mine.

With luck, it will be on the ground before they start looking for it.” He started the plane, and the propeller started turning.

“How did you find someone with a pilot’s license?” Dr. Clark asked.

“Well, technically, none of us has an official pilot’s license,” he said. “Hold on.” The plane began rolling forward and picked up speed rapidly. We were bumping along when he pulled the nose up, sending us back in our seats. The landing gear cleared the treetops by only a few feet.

Flying this low to the ground, with no lights below and only stars above, was scary. I could not take any more Lara Croft adventures, so I closed my eyes and got as comfortable as possible in the cramped back seat. I reached into my pocket and found the crystal.

“You’re back,” she said. Her voice sounded remarkably like Ila’s. “I was beginning to worry.”

Funny, I thought, she didn’t understand love, but she could worry.

“I have been wondering about you,” she said. “What is your physical form?”

“Just a regular guy, about six feet,” I thought I might embellish a little. “One hundred eighty pounds of muscle.”

“I do not understand the term ‘guy’.”

“You know, man, male.”

“I still do not understand.”

“What is your physical appearance?” I asked.

“Mostly translucent. There are different hues, depending on where your colony is. About six inches in height, but nearly nine feet in circumference.”

Again, I had to allow myself a moment to digest this. The rock was translating everything into a form I could understand.

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“Like a giant pancake?”

“I do not understand ‘pancake’?”

“No arms or legs?” I asked.

“I do not understand arms or legs, although your voice saying those words sounds nice.”

“How do you get from one place to another?” I asked.

“We slither.”

I remembered a professor telling us that to have any kind of meaningful conversation, the two parties had to define terms.

The translator was defining everything as we went along. We had no basis for anything but what the translator wanted us to have. Yet, this other being and I seemed actually to be enjoying each other. I liked her laugh. I wondered if that was real or the translator’s doing.

The translator also seemed to be becoming more and more proficient in understanding each of the nuances of our languages and the ability to adapt them to the other’s understanding.

“Do you have emotions?” I asked.

“I do not understand emotions.”

“You said you were worried that I may not come back, that is an emotion.”

Then there was a pause. “I understand what you mean. I have never felt like that before. I am having many unknown sensations.”

“Have you ever been in love?” I asked.

“I do not understand love.”

“Love is when you have many feelings for someone else. It is when you want to be with that person all the time, and when you aren’t, you think about them. That is part of what love is.”

“Then yes, I have been in love. With you, Stratten.”

Then I realized that this could only turn out badly. I felt bad for her falling for someone she could never have.

“But we can never be together.”

“We are now more together than I have ever been with anyone.

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mentor. We are asexual; we do not need each other. I have never enjoyed the company of another living being, until you. Everything here is perfectly pleasant. There is no strife, only serenity.”

I had to keep telling myself that the being I was talking to was using a series of grunts and screeching noises and not this nice, comforting voice. It was a translucent pancake.

I felt the wheels touch down, and the motor pitch changed.

“I have to go,” I said in my mind. “But we will talk again.”

“I will miss you,” she said. “If missing means I wish to hear your voice again.” *** “Where are we?” I asked Dr. Clark as we were being led off the plane.

“I would suspect we are somewhere in Colombia,” he said.

“It’s best we allow Taco to oversee this type of business. I’m sure the less we know about where we are and who is helping us, the better.

Taco had left the plane as soon as the door had opened, and we were being ushered off by his associate, who did not introduce himself. As soon as we were a few feet away, the door slammed and the plane taxied down the runway. I heard, but never saw it take off. Apparently, navigation lights were an option in drug countries.

The early morning gray started seeping into the sky. At the first wisp that touched the jungle trees, a chorus of birds began to chirp and whistle. We could have been right back at the dig for all I knew.

Taco appeared smiling widely. “Next stop, La Casino de Taco.”

“What does that mean?” I asked Dr. Clark.

“I believe we are a bit too hot to be traveling in the daylight. I assume we will be ‘stashed’ somewhere out of the way.”

“More out of the way than here?”

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“Since some of the police are corrupt in places like this, and they are involved with the cartels, Taco will take us somewhere even the cartels know nothing about. I’m sure that, by now, everyone is looking for us. The lines between right and wrong are very flexible here.”

“You a sharp cookie, Dr. Clark,” Taco said. “Are you sure you weren’t looking for treasure? Never seen nothing like this over old bones and broken pots.”

“It is curious, Taco, I agree.”

We walked off the airfield, if you could call it that, and up a rutted road. The sound of the forest grew louder the deeper we went. Moisture from branches above us dripped and sounded as if it were raining. After several minutes of walking in silence, Taco said, “Ah, here we are.”

Hidden just off the path were three scooters. They were the kind that had metal flanges attached to the sides to protect the rider’s knees. The wheels were small, and the shocks were nonexistent. Behind the seats of each scooter were bundles wrapped in twine. I prayed that these were full of food and clothing and not pounds of cocaine. They looked as if they had been stolen from somewhere.

“How are your driving skills on two wheels, Dr. Clark?” Taco asked.

“You lead the way, Taco, young Mr. Stratten, and I will follow.”

We rode along the rutted road for quite a while. I almost laid the scooter down twice, catching the edge of the rut and leaning my weight the wrong way. But we were traveling slow enough that I could put my foot down and not fall over completely.

Then we rode through the jungle as Taco weaved in and out through the trees. There was no path, no hints of civilization at all, just the low hum of our motors and the squawks of the animals we disturbed.

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separating the brilliant blue of the ocean and the greens of the jungle.

Before we were completely exposed, Taco motioned for us to turn off our motors. He put his fingers to his lips and sat quietly.

He looked carefully up and down the beach, then scanned the horizon over the water.

“I think we are safe, but if you see anyone, just continue along like you are supposed to be here. Don’t speed up or slow down. If you see a boat or a plane, get into the jungle.”

He listened again, and we waited. “One more thing. Ride close to the water, the surf will erase our tire tracks.” We started our motors, and we were off.

For the first time in days, the heaviness of the humidity was gone and the salt spray of the ocean left me feeling refreshed. I could have ridden along the beach without a worry in the world, if not for the fact that we were being hunted by a government agency and possibly a cartel.

I was starting to wonder how much gas we had left in the scooters when Taco headed back into the tree line and stopped in front of a large hut. It looked sturdy but abandoned, something out of “Swiss Family Robinson.”

The windows were just holes in the walls and the doors swung on reed hinges. It was big enough for us to have our own room and a communal kitchen/dining area. The place was hidden by the trees but still close enough that we had a good view up and down the beach.

“Dinner tonight with be caught by your host, Taco,” said Taco. “Also cooked and served by your chef, Taco.” He left us then, scouting around and trying to find something with which to fish.

“The good thing,” Dr. Clark said, “is that we still have a week before we are expected back. I don’t think Olivera or any of his crew will notify anyone in the U.S. yet. They want to keep this as quiet as possible. They would have the State Department 187

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crawling all over them if we were reported missing. Once we get back home, I’ll talk to the authorities and find out what in the world is going on.”

What in the world was right. I found that I was wanting to talk to my new friend as much as I had wanted to stare at Ila from behind. *** Dr. Clark and I rummaged around the building for a while, nothing better to do. I came across a stack of comic books that hadn’t weathered too well in the salt breezes. They had been waterlogged and the one on top was faded almost to white, but it was a diversion.

“Dr. Clark, do you mind if I do some reading outside?”

“As long as you’re not visible to anyone who might be looking for us. Stay where I can see you.” He paused. “Oh dear, I sound like a child’s mother.”

I smiled and said I would. There was a palm tree right on the edge of the tree line that had the perfect sway to the trunk, just right to lean up against and pretend to be reading. I settled in, comic in one hand and the translator in the other.

“You’re back,” she said. Her voice seemed happy. I wondered if it really was how she felt, or the stone putting feelings in the translation.

“I am,” I said, the witty conversationalist. The stone vibrated in my closed hand. “What have you been doing?”

“Feeding.”

“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”

“I do not understand those things. I eat algae…” the translator paused.

“Breakfast, lunch, or dinner are the times you eat,” I said in my mind.

“Oh. We eat when we are hungry.”

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I tried a different course. “The last time we started to talk about feelings. Have you given that conversation any more thought?”

“Oh yes. I’m sure now that I love you,” she said confidently.

“Wow,” I said, very aware of how openly she was speaking. “I mean, there is a lot to the concept of love. It is a very complicated subject.”

Her voice came back, “Is it a longing to learn more about the other being?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Is it waiting to hear from the other being and having a warmth spread through a body when you hear the other’s voice?”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Can you imagine the sorrow of not ever hearing that voice again? Or the strength I have knowing that you may feel the same?

Is that love?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Then I am in love.”

Suddenly, I felt as if I was being bathed in silent golden sunlight. The reservations I had had about my growing feelings had lifted. Somehow, this was making sense, not logically, but emotionally. I needed to allow myself to enjoy this.

“Here, with my kind, we feel as if we all belong together, but we do not share feelings. I have never had feelings before you. Nothing here has feelings until now. Feelings are a new concept. I have asked the mentor about love, and he says it is a joyous thing.”

I was so deep into our mental conversation that I didn’t notice Taco until he walked right past me.

“College boy like you ought to be able to read a comic book faster than that. You haven’t turned a page since I spotted you.”

He walked by with a bamboo fishing pole in one hand and a stringer of fish in the other. “Taco be serving dinner before you finish that first book!”

“I have to go,” I said. “But I will be back as soon as I can, and we can talk more about this.”

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“I will think about what you said, Stratten.”

I stood, put the stone back in my pocket, and brushed the sand off the seat of my shorts. It was a great feeling, knowing that someone had feelings for me, even if they were light-years away or in another dimension. I couldn’t wait to speak to her again. I felt a warmth knowing she would be waiting.

The dinner was wonderful. The fish lacked the spiciness of Taco’s previous meals, but it was delicious all the same. We waited until after dark to start the campfire, so the smoke wouldn’t be visible in the distance. By then, it was late.

Taco found some wooden homemade pails with which to douse the fire, and we sat, watching the embers die out. I could see the sky through the treetops and the tens of thousands of stars above. I wondered if she was out there, waiting.

“Time to rest,” Taco said. “We don’t have nothing to do for the next few days, but you never know.” He let his voice trail off.

Taco was a much smarter cookie than he let on. He had saved our lives more than once in the last few days and probably had done many things that we didn’t know about.

We went to our separate rooms and tried to make ourselves as comfortable as possible. My plan was to pull out the translator and ask about their days and years, did they have day and night like us? Unlike most couples, we could never run out of things to talk about.

That was my plan, but in reality, I conked out as soon as my head hit the makeshift pillow. I fell into such a deep, wonderful sleep that I knew nothing until I felt Taco shaking me violently.

“Quiet,” he said as I looked at him wild-eyed. “They are coming,” he whispered.

Dr. Clark was waiting for us on the beach with another man I hadn’t seen before. A long boat like a canoe was pulled up on the sand. As soon as they saw us coming, Dr. Clark got into the boat, and the man stood at the end, waiting to push off as soon 190

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as we got there. Taco and the stranger, a dark-skinned man with a shaved head, pushed until we started floating. Taco jumped into the front of the boat, and the other man went to the back.

He pulled a rope on the motor, and it started quietly. Within seconds, we were headed up the shoreline away from whoever was coming for us. After we were several hundred yards away from our camp, the man turned the boat away from land and out to the open sea.

“Mica,” Taco turned around and said, “sees soldiers coming this way. He comes to warn us in his boat. He says the soldiers take the long way around. They know we’re out here somewhere, but not exactly where. They don’t have any boats with them, so we will be safe… for a while.”

“My question is, how did they know we were here?” asked Dr. Clark.

Back in the distance, we could see headlights and flashlights crisscrossing through the trees. We were far enough away that they would not be able to hear our motor, but if the moon and the waves caught us at the right angle, one of them might be able to spot us on the water. If that happened, they would surely call in their navy, and this little fifty-horsepower was no match for that kind of force.

We headed out deeper into the open ocean. I guess Mica thought that no one would be looking for us in the water. From out here, the sky was filled with stars, and my thoughts went back to her. Maybe she lived in a darkness like this, where the only thing you could see was beauty.

I had no idea what time it was, but I could see that a section of sky was beginning to lighten. Taco was speaking to Mica in some language that I didn’t understand. It was starting to sound heated. I’m not sure if Mica had a plan or if we were just running.

Taco always had a plan; he didn’t seem to like the way things were going.

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Daylight was coming on quickly, and it felt as if when the darkness had lifted, we would be sitting ducks. Unarmed, unprotected sitting ducks.

Taco and Mica were still discussing in a language I couldn’t understand when I heard something that I understood. Mica said, “Uh-oh.”

Behind him, on the horizon, was a small gray dot that had to be a very large ship.

By now, Dr. Clark had spotted it also. “How long?”

“How long until it catches us or how long we gonna be in prison?” Taco said.

“Both.”

“I’d say about thirty minutes and about thirty years.”

“What if we head back to land?” I said.

Taco pointed. The beach was barely visible, but we could all see blinking red and blue lights keeping pace with us.

Taco yelled something to Mica, and the boat veered violently out to sea.

“What are we doing?” Dr. Clark asked.

“Heading into international waters,” Taco said. “Don’t know what else to do.” *** For the next desperate minutes, we sailed straight out into the ocean with the gray dot bearing down on us. Each time I looked back, it became larger and more defined.

“This is futile,” Dr. Clark finally said to Taco. Taco said something to Mica, and the boat slowed. He turned the boat around toward the approaching ship, and we waited. It was still a mile or so away and slowing. It was still far enough away that we could not hear its engines. The sea was quiet with only tiny waves gently slapping the sides of the boat.

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Then something broke the surface of the water between us and the oncoming ship. It rose straight up out of the water and kept going. The antenna was attached to a conning tower that rose far above our little boat. Seconds later, the entire submarine sat lengthwise between us and the ship. Water sloshed down the curved sides of the sub and splashed into the ocean. Someone in a tan uniform popped out of the top of the tower.

“Dr. Clark?” he said through a megaphone.

“Yes,” Dr. Clark answered.

“Do you have a Mr. Stratten with you, sir?”

I stood and waved. I sure hoped these guys were American.

He had a little bit of a Texas drawl.

“And their associate, Mr. Taco,” said Taco. He stood and saluted. Mica said nothing.

“Please stand down.” It was polite, but not a request. It was an order. “We have another ship coming to pick you up,” the man said.

“What does stand down mean?” I asked Dr. Clark.

“I think we should just relax. They seem to have the situation under control,” he said.

But the bad guys kept coming, though they had slowed down quite a bit. Their ship came to a stop about two hundred yards on the other side of the sub. The submarine sat high in the water, but even at that distance, the ship loomed above it.

“What in the world is going on?” Dr. Clark said.

“I was wrong. Your pots and rocks seem to be more valuable than treasure,” Taco said.

We heard an amplified voice coming from the ship. “You are in Peruvian waters, interfering with the capture of thieves. Move your vessel now.”

“We are in international waters aiding American citizens.”

The Texas accent came back. “Sir, I would suggest you turn your ship around and skedaddle; you are about to have the brunt of the United States Navy heading your way.”

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The officer in the other ship repeated his message. It seemed as though neither was going to give ground when we heard a tremendous roar behind us. Two jets screamed past us low enough that the concussion behind them left a rooster tail of water in their wake. It was then that I noticed an even larger ship steaming toward us from behind.

“Looks like we in the middle of an international incident,” Taco said.

“I suggest you talk to your bosses about your next move. I’ve already talked to mine,” the Texas voice said.

Even from a distance, I could tell the American warship was much larger than the Peruvian ship. The jets circled back but stayed much higher this time, looping around in an omnipresent kind of way. The Peruvian ship remained silent. Apparently, whoever was running things over there did not expect such a completely American reply. They had been outgunned and outmaneuvered.

As the minutes went by, I realized the ship coming toward us was an aircraft carrier. No wonder it looked so large. It halted a mile from us and released a craft which quickly headed our way.

A short while later, it pulled alongside our boat.

“Good morning, sir,” said a highly efficient young seaman.

He was reaching to pull us aboard even before his boat had time to slow down. “We are under strict orders to get you back to the ship as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. You are being rescued by the largest and deadliest Navy the world has ever seen.”

“You got my vote,” Taco said as he was pulled up and onto the boat.

Soon, all of us were speeding toward the looming aircraft carrier.

“Can you tell us what this is all about?” Dr. Clark said to one of the sailors.

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“Don’t know,” said the sailor. “Just know that you two are hot and that always means trouble.”

The organized chaos of our escape was over. We were heading into bureaucratic chaos. After boarding the aircraft carrier, we were given some sandwiches and water, then hustled onto a plane that launched itself from the flight deck. I could hear Taco whooping it up in the seat behind me.

I slept. For how long, I wasn’t sure, but I was stiff when I heard and felt the plane start its descent. Looking out the window, I could see long straight lines of military planes spaced perfectly in fenced areas. This had to be a base of some kind, but I couldn’t tell where. I could see mountains that looked blue in the distance.

I couldn’t even be sure we were in the U.S. I reached down to make sure the stone was still in my pocket.

I was relieved to feel its density there against my thigh. Knowing she was on the other end made all this worthwhile. But soon I was going to have to come clean.

As soon as the plane taxied to a stop, we were hustled out and separated into four different Chevy Suburbans. Each of us were accompanied by a driver, an armed soldier and a guy in a suit.

The suit guy had to have been CIA or FBI. Or maybe one of the letter groups we know nothing about. He said nothing to me, and I said nothing to anyone.

We were escorted separately into a large cinderblock building and each sent into an interview room. The blocks were painted that dull industrial green. The chairs were black plastic with chrome tubing for legs. I sat there anxiously waiting for someone to come and take the stone. I needed to warn her not to speak to anyone but me. I looked around for cameras and quickly spotted two. Before I could figure out what to do, the armed soldier came into the room. He still had his sidearm holstered, but his demeanor had lightened.

“They are allowing you to get a little more comfortable before your debriefing. If you’ll follow me, please,” he said and waited 195

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for me to stand. We walked down a clean corridor and into a tiled shower room. A long wooden bench flanked one of the walls.

One of the other walls supported three stalls and three urinals.

Opposite that was a walled-in space that housed a group shower.

Like the kind you used to see in high school locker rooms all over the country.

Neatly folded on the bench was a jumpsuit like they wear in some prisons. However, this was forest green, not orange. There were also white boxers in a Ziplock bag beside the jumpsuit. “Put those on when you have finished showering.”

I couldn’t spot any cameras, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. I palmed the stone and undressed. She was talking before I walked through the opening.

“Stratten, you are back,” she said happily.

The shower area itself was huge. I found the closest showerhead, which looked like it was from the WW2 era, and turned it on full force. I was hit with a blast of cold water that took my breath away.

“Stratten, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I thought to her. I found a bar of soap and started rubbing it over my chest to create some warming friction.

“You sound like you are hurt.”

“No, just cold.”

“What is cold?”

“It’s when your body doesn’t have enough heat.”

“We have the heat of whatever is around us.”

“Listen, someone is going to try to take the translator from me.

Tell them you will only talk to me.”

“Why would they take it from you? Will we not be able to talk anymore? How can I tell them I will only talk to you if I can’t talk to them?”

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large humans burst in and came straight for me in the shower, guns drawn; they ordered me out of the shower.

“Whatever you have in your hand, place it in the bag.” He held out a transparent plastic bag.

Reluctantly, I put the stone into the bag. The soldier with the bag took it and turned away. Two of the others holstered their guns and grabbed me by the arms.

“Hey,” I yelled as they pulled me naked and wet out of the room and down the hall.

I waited back in the interview room, still naked and still wet.

Eventually, a soldier brought me a towel, the boxers, and the jumpsuit. What seemed like hours later, I was delivered a tray like the cafeteria trays in grade school. Turkey and what looked like mashed potatoes and gravy. They weren’t bad.

Two of the soldiers who had pulled me out of the shower entered the room and asked me to follow them. They were still partially wet. We walked to a much bigger room that felt like a conference room with a long oval table, large enough to seat a dozen people. I was seated in the middle of one side.

I thought of Ila, the other-dimensional Ila, wondering where I was and what was happening to me. I didn’t want her to go through that. If she had never felt love before, she surely hadn’t felt anguish. I needed to talk to her, to reassure her.

A gigantic television, which at the moment was showing only a bright blue screen, hung on one of the walls. The rest of the room was bare, except for a podium, which was shoved into one of the corners. Same industrial green walls. I waited in silence.

Before long, footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened, and a group of men shuffled in with folders and laptops.

Some wore suits, and a couple wore uniforms with boatloads of medals on their chests. Dr. Clark was with them and wearing the same type of jumpsuit as mine. Behind him was an attractive woman in a business suit carrying a briefcase. The guards saluted 197

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the military guys, then moved to the entrance and flanked the doors.

Everyone sat. Dr. Clark was seated across the table from me.

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as laptops powered up and briefcases opened. The woman set her briefcase on the floor under the table and watched me. She was at the end of the table, so she could observe both Dr. Clark and me.

I tried to get Dr. Clark’s attention, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. I wondered if I had lost him his pension and his reputation.

He sat there, with his hands on the table, fingers laced, staring at them.

“I’m sorry,” I said to him. I felt almost as bad about him as I did Ila. “I found it as the soldiers were coming in. I didn’t want them to get it, and I didn’t want to get you into trouble.”

“And yet, here we are,” the woman said softly. Dr. Clark looked up at me, then at her, and back to me again. He gave me a tiny wink.

That was the best thing he could have done. My fear subsided; I felt absolved. Somehow, I now knew that his silence was just an act. I felt like now I had a partner, a silent one, but still a partner.

“So,” I said so confidently I couldn’t believe myself, “Where is my rock?”

A trace of a smile crossed Dr. Clark’s lips.

“Young man, this is not a funny situation,” said the man on the left of the woman. His gray hair was close-cropped, his eyebrows bristled. He looked like he had been born for his olive uniform.

He leaned forward slightly, “Do you understand you have caused an incident between a foreign country and the United States?”

“Of America,” I said.

He slammed his hand on the table. “Just a few minutes ago, I had a briefing with the president about this.”

“Just a few minutes ago,” I said just as confidently, “I had a conversation with a being from another planet. Top that.”

The room went extraordinarily quiet.

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The woman watched me. No one said anything. She reached under the table and brought up her briefcase. The clasps made a loud clicking sound that reverberated around the room. She opened the case and pulled my stone from the inside. Then she got up from the end of the table, brought it down to the seat beside me, and sat. She laid the stone on the table, still in the plastic bag.

I started to reach for it, but she held out her hand as a barrier between me and the stone.

Her eyes were soft and beautiful. They had a playfulness to them.

“Let’s hear your story first,” she said softly. There was a trace of an accent. Italian?

I knew they were playing good cop, bad cop. I’d seen too many TV shows.

“What is this? Big gruff general, beautiful scientist?”

She actually blushed a bit.

“Mr. Stratten, I would like to hear the story as well,” Dr. Clark said. He nodded to me, as if to say, “It’s all right.”

So, I started, right from the beginning, where I found the stone. They listened without stopping me for questions. I told them that we, Ila and I, had taken an instant liking to each other, and she seemed to be more and more impatient to talk between our conversations. I didn’t tell them I felt the same way.

One of the men in a suit had been typing on a laptop as I spoke. When I finished, he asked, “What was the time of day when you first communicated with… whatever?”

“I don’t know.” I look over to Dr. Clark. “What time did the soldiers get there?”

“Mid-afternoon, I think,” he said.

“And the second time?” the man asked.

“That same night.”

“And the last time?”

“Just like, a couple of hours ago.”

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The man slid the laptop around so the woman could see the screen. On it was a graph with a long line across the bottom with several sharp peaks that ran across the screen.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It is a readout of a powerful signal being sent from the Earth out into space. Dates and times,” she said.

“Out to where?” I asked.

“We don’t know,” she said.

“That’s how Olivera tracked us,” Dr. Clark said. “All the soldiers in town were watching where the signal came from.”

“We all were,” the woman said. “The signal was reported by one of our satellites instantly. It wasn’t difficult to find where it was coming from and who was there. You were lucky we had a submarine in the region.

“Maybe you were lucky as well. The stone could have been in Peruvian hands just as easily,” I said.

It was her turn to give me a tiny smile.

“You think she is smitten with you?” the woman said.

“Smitten? You’re too young to talk like a grandmother,” I said.

“Honey trap,” the general said. “Classic.”

The woman threw an irritated glance at him. Then she turned back to me. “Why do you think you were chosen for this? Out of everyone on Earth, you were chosen to make contact. Why you?”

“I don’t think I was. It was just luck. It could have been Dr. Clark who took that spot.” Some of the men looked at one another.

“I’m sure you’ve got my background. Do I have any qualities that make me a candidate as a cosmic ambassador?”

“What were these conversations about?” she asked.

Then it hit me.

“You know, there were conversations, but you couldn’t hear them. You don’t know what we were talking about?” I wanted to laugh. I was like a parent trying to listen in on a daughter’s conversations with her boyfriend.

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The general was starting to lose his cool again. “This is a matter of national security! We need to know the intentions of both the rock and the being it’s connected to.”

“National security? What secrets do I know? I don’t know how many bombs we have or where our military bases are. I don’t even know who the Vice President is.”

“Copy that,” said one of the men, looking at his screen. “He’s not a good source for anything.”

Dr. Clark spoke, “What did you two talk about?”

“Feelings. She said she was having emotions that she had never felt before.” I could feel my face starting to flush. I didn’t want to betray our conversations.

“What about a government?” the general asked. “How do they protect themselves from each other?”

“I don’t think they do. Everything there is perfect; everyone has all they want or need.”

“Nothing is perfect. Do they have a president or some kind of leader?” the general asked.

“Nope, don’t think so. She said she does have a mentor.

Someone she asked questions of, but most of the time answers the questions herself.”

“Do they look like us?” asked a man who had not spoken yet.

“No. They are flat, like a big pancake with tentacles,” I said.

“You’re kidding,” said the general.

“Must be on a large planet with strong gravity,” said the man.

“Who is running this whole operation? The creature you are talking to or the rock?” the general asked.

“I don’t think anyone is running anything. It’s just…random.

The hieroglyphs told us where to dig. We dug. If someone planted this to find out information, they’ve sure had to wait a long time,” I said.

The room went quiet again. Dr. Clark had his eyes closed, deep in thought. Most of the men were either staring at or silently typing on their laptops. The woman was watching me.

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“Why don’t you call her?” she said.

“Here? In front of all of you? Why don’t you call her?”

“We’ve tried. I must be a, what did they use to call them, a person-to-person call,” she said.

“Maybe a person-to-thing call,” the general said. The woman gave him another scowl.

“Okay,” I said. Not because I wanted to do what they said, but because I wanted her to know I was safe. I couldn’t bear for her to worry about me.

She gently pushed the bag toward me. I took the stone out and cradled it in my hand.

I could hear the dignified gasps as the stone began to erupt with internal fireworks.

“Stratten, you are back!

“Yep, along with some others of my kind. It is allright. I am safe with them.”

“What is safe?” she asked.

“They mean to do me no harm.”

“Why would your own kind do you harm?”

“Is she there? Are you communicating?” the general asked.

I nodded. Apparently, it was a two-way communication.

They were not going to be happy with this arrangement. I closed my eyes to concentrate.

The man who had shown us the screen before said. “We have it. The stone is broadcasting.”

“Is it okay if they ask you questions?”

“What is okay?”

“It means appropriate, reasonable, all right.”

“Then yes, it is okay.”

I opened my eyes. “You got questions? Fire away.”

“Are there other organisms on your planet?” someone asked.

I repeated their question in my mind.

“Yes, there are millions of other organisms here. We all live in harmony.

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I repeated her answer orally.

“Do you have a country, an economy?”

“I do not understand those things.”

“She doesn’t understand,” I said.

“I thought the stone made her understand,” the general said.

“No, it only translates. It takes her vocabulary and makes it so we can understand each other. If she has no concept of the word, it doesn’t exist in her world.”

“How can that many organisms live together peacefully? It’s impossible,” the general said.

“No,” said Dr. Clark. “It’s paradise.” He came out of his deep thought. “No one bit the apple.”

“What do you mean?” the woman said, although it seemed as if she were thinking along the same lines.

“They all live peacefully, there is no strife, no war, no hunger.

It’s Eden. No one bit the apple,” Dr. Clark said to himself as if we weren’t there.

“If that’s true,” said the woman, “Where’s God in all of this?”

“He’s the mentor,” Dr. Clark said. “She said she asks many questions of him, and many times he allows her to find the answer herself.”

“Stratten? Are you still with me?”

“Always,” I said.

“Let’s ask her about their creator?” the woman said.

“I’m not buying any of this,” the general said. “Ask her if they have armies, if there have ever been wars?”

The question was in my head before I had even thought about asking it. The result was immediate.

A deep bass drone radiated from the translator and drowned out all the sound in the room. Its color turned the darkest color imaginable. It was so dark black that it looked like a hole that went on forever. The others were covering their ears. Then a thud.

“Stratten? What is happening?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. But I thought I knew.

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Then another deep thud, followed by another.

“I think we have been given a countdown,” I said.

“I do not understand?”

“We are going to be cut off, not talk again,” I said.

“No, Stratten!” The thuds were coming faster.

“Someone here once said, ‘The ones you love never truly leave us, we keep them in our memory, always.’” The thuds were now almost as constant as the drone.

She paused, then said, ‘I am happy to have known you. I wish we had more time to—” Then she was gone.

The noise stopped. I opened my eyes, and there was the general. The stone dropped out of my hands and onto the table.

I felt such anger that before I knew what I was doing, I had shot over the table and grabbed him in a headlock. We tumbled backward over the chair and ended up in a heap with my forearm crushing his windpipe. Between the overturned chair and the wall, the guards had a hard time pulling me off. When they did, I was still spitting, cursing mad.

Only Dr. Clark could calm me down.

“Mr. Stratten, you can’t blame this man, at least not completely.”

The guards dragged me back to my chair and forced me to sit.

They stayed right behind me. Everyone was either straightening up or picking up the things I had scattered during my attack.

As the woman was putting the stone back into her briefcase, I noticed a seal on the inside top of the case. I was an elaborate tiara with two crossed keys beneath it. She saw me looking and closed the lid.

“The translator would have stopped the communication at some point,” Dr. Clark said. “As soon as an unacceptable word was uttered, the transmission would have been severed. In this case, I believe that word was war.”

“But why?” I asked.

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“They have the perfect world. Everything was fine as long as you didn’t introduce any of our evils into it. The translator was not going to allow us to infect their world. They did not know they were unclothed. We were about to tell them. In this case, we are the virus.”

“When did you figure this all out?”

“Still working on it,” he said.

“So, what’s the point?” one of the men said. “Why did this thing connect to points in different universes?”

“Perhaps whoever created the translator wanted us to know that there are others out there,” the woman said. “Perhaps they wanted us to know that there can be a world where everyone can live a peaceful existence.”

“But who would want a world without art, without creativity, without individual expression or beliefs?” Dr. Clark said.

“As human beings, we wouldn’t, but maybe as living beings we would,” the woman said.

The rest of the room, including the general, who gave me a terrifying stare, gathered their things and exited. Their footfalls echoed in the hallway. Only Dr. Clark, the woman, and I were left.

“I’m sorry,” she said. I nodded.

“What happens now?” Dr. Clark asked.

“I do not know for sure,” she said. “I am not running this operation. But if I were to guess, I would say you will be released and be free to continue living your life as planned.”

“But…but, I want to tell the world what happened. People need to know there are other beings out there.”

The woman smiled, a beautiful smile, but a bit condescending.

“You may tell your story, but no one will believe you. Dr. Clark, you would be discredited, and your reputation would be in jeopardy. Mr. Stratten, this story will follow you the rest of your life. The government will say they rescued two American citizens 205

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who thought they were in danger of being kidnapped by South American cartels.”

“The Peruvians will save face, knowing that they had already lost the artifact, and remain silent. At least, that’s how I think it will go.”

“As they have gone in the past?” Dr. Clark asked.

“Perhaps,” she said. She stood, picked up the briefcase, and walked out without saying another word.

“I’m sorry too,” Dr. Clark said. “You seem to have been stood up by two females in a row. One on purpose and one by accident.”

“Not much of a track record,” I said.

“Oh, to be young and feel the sharp fangs of disappointment.”

Dr. Clark said.

The flight attendant handed each of us a Diet Coke and a napkin.

“By the way, I’ve spoken to Taco, and he is doing well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has made some sort of deal with our government to keep him supplied with old aircraft and the government supplied with pertinent information. Taco is a wheeler-dealer. Although I’m not sure he will be welcome in that part of South America for some time.”

I lay my head back on the headrest and closed my eyes.

The thought of going back to class in the fall was brutal. My roommates would be gone by now, and I would feel dejected for the rest of the summer. Maybe longer.

“I have a question.”

“All right, Mr. Stratten, shoot.”

“Did you see the inside of the woman’s briefcase? There was a symbol on the bottom of the lid,” I said.

“I did. I wondered if you had noticed it as well.”

“Do you know what it was?” I asked.

“The Cross of St. Andrew, Mr. Stratten. The symbol of the Holy See.” 206

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“The Vatican? That woman works for the Vatican?” I was shocked.

“I believe the interest in your stone went beyond the military and the government,” he said.

That was something I would have to toss around in my head for a while.

“Mr. Stratten, how are your writing skills?”

“Not great,” I said.

“Perfect,” he said. “I have a proposal for you. Not to boast, but my writing skills are beyond proficient. And as you know, I have written several nonfiction books in my tenure at the university. I have ties to the literary world. My plan is this: you and I write a fiction book together as co-authors.”

I paused for a few seconds with my eyes still closed. I could feel him looking at me. I opened them and reached across to shake his hand.

“Deal,” I said. “What are we going to write about?”

He smiled, then started to laugh, a really pleasant laugh that I hadn’t heard before. He laughed harder and got me started. We laughed until the flight attendant came to settle us down.

“I guess we’ll figure something out,” he said, and we started laughing again.

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A Class A Send Off Class C We were seasoned travelers. We had been to every continent, all the great cities, seen, not climbed, the five highest peaks on Earth. We had seen the Mona Lisa, driven through a lion pride in Africa, and swam with the sharks off the coast of New Zealand.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to plan trips that were interesting.

Life was good, no, better than good, it was great. After dropping out of college (a huge disappointment to my parents), I had the idea for a pin that held Christmas lights to pine trees.

I basically bent a metal clip that would stay around a broom handle. I talked an owner of a local hardware store into selling them. They flew off the shelves. The next Christmas I had built a huge inventory and got into a chain of landscaping stores that were trying new products to boost their winter business. They had me do a commercial for them, and that’s when another business started, high-quality TV advertising for local stores.

Everything fell into place. I lucked into the right production and management people. Within seven years of dropping out of school, I had accounts in nearly a thousand small markets. The money started rolling in and has never stopped.

The only bad part was that my dad died just after I dropped out of school. I was still bending metal around brooms when he 208

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had a massive heart attack. Mom died three years later. They said it was breast cancer, but I think it was loneliness. I was too busy hustling the business to see much of her. Neither got to see that I turned out okay.

I first met my wife when we were still new in the commercial business. I recruited actors from community colleges, partnering with them to offer credit for the experience of making commercials. It was a way for the schools to attract more students once they knew a class was offered that would provide them with some actual screen time. The serious students could add the commercials to their portfolios. We paid them nothing, but they were grateful for the experience. Many of whom we would later hire as directors and production people. Everyone won.

Fiona was one of the early actresses. She was special, even back then. Once you looked past her beauty, which was very difficult to do, it was evident she had real talent. This was back at the time I was present for some of the actual filming. We hit it off from the start.

I knew I wasn’t in her league, but I wasn’t bad-looking. So, I was always hopeful, but certainly didn’t expect anything real to become of us. She graduated and moved off to start her acting career and I thought that was the end of things. But she called every day. She got small fringe parts, and at the same time, my business started growing. We cheered each other on and celebrated our successes.

The same month I hit a hundred markets, she got a part in a Hallmark Christmas movie. Not the lead, but an important side character. She was great in the role, and you could tell this was the last time she was going to play the sidekick. She’s had at least one Christmas movie every year since.

After this year’s movies, ‘A Misfit Christmas’ and ‘Honey Bees and Christmas Trees’, she came home and we were deciding on the vacation.

“Do you want adventurous or relaxing?” Fiona asked.

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“Let’s eat on it,” I said.

We went to a new trendy place in the center of the city. The waiter was uppity and grumpy and the lighting was weird and made everyone look unhealthy. We giggled and made fun of everything there, except the food, which was out of this world.

Throughout the dinner we had whittled down the list to two vacations. The first was a riverboat cruise through Europe, and the second was a tour through the Amazon Basin. The first seemed a little bland for us, but the second was maybe too torturous. Snakes and spiders vs being stuck with obnoxious rich people on a riverboat.

“Let’s flip,” she said. Fiona was big into letting fate decide outcomes.

Neither one of us had any change, the waiter didn’t either, but he did have a ten dollar bill in his pocket. So, it was Alexander Hamilton was heads and the U.S. Treasury was tails.

I flipped and the bill fluttered to the carpet. Hamilton was looking back up at us. We booked the trip at the table. *** My wife and I had a routine, and we stuck to it on every vacation we ever took. She unpacked and I scouted out the surroundings. Me, I’d rather leave everything in the suitcase, but not her. She couldn’t start enjoying herself until the clothes were hung and the toothpaste was in the drawer.

We were just shoving off, a term that seems funny for a boat as small as this one, with little fanfare. Some of our earlier cruises had great fanfare at the launch. Not this one.

The Sun Deck was largely vacant; I guess everyone was getting settled in for the fifteen-day voyage. Compared to a cruise on the ocean, the deck was very low on the water. The space was open, nothing obstructed the view. Three hundred sixty degrees of emptiness. There was a small herb garden there, along with deck 210

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chairs for those who didn’t mind sitting in the sun and a covered area for those who did.

There was a couple at the far end of the deck who were standing against the rail, looking out at the river. There was something familiar about the way they stood. He was swinging his arm out over the water, explaining something to her. She was listening with rapt attention. Then she leaned into him and put her arm around his waist. The body language spoke volumes. I hoped Fiona and I were as happy at their age.

Then the oddest thing happened. They turned and started walking towards me, still arm in arm. When they began waving to me, I realized why they seemed so familiar. It was my parents.

My long-dead mom and dad. I didn’t know what to do.

They were both smiling broadly when they reached me.

Mom instantly let go of Dad and embraced me tightly. While she was still hugging me, my dad took my hand and shook it briskly.

“It’s so good to see you, son,” he said.

I started to sob. Here they were, in the flesh, just like I remembered them. Mom started crying too and Dad, Dad the tough guy, had tears filling his eyes. He was still shaking my hand.

“I know, dear, this is all a shock,” Mom said, still crying.

“It will get better; we just need to give it some time. And believe me, we have all the time in the world,” Dad said.

“How?” was all I could muster.

“Who cares?” he said. “I want to hear about all you’ve done.”

“And I want to meet your wife. I’m a big fan, you know,” she said.

“We’ll meet you for dinner tonight in the dining room,” Dad said.

“She’s going to love to meet you guys, she’s not going to believe it,” I said slowly, not believing it myself.

“We’ll see you at seven,” Dad said.

“No, wait I don’t want you to go.” My tears hadn’t stopped and I hadn’t let go of Mom. “What if you don’t come back?”

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“We will, I promise,” my dad said. “A Stevens’ man never breaks his promise.”

“I know! I’ve never broken one, I swear. You taught me that.”

Mom let go and went back to Dad. He took her hand and they started walking away. Then he turned back and said, “We are so proud of you.” ***

in.

Fiona was putting the last things in her drawer when I burst

“Well, that took longer than expected. It’s not really that big of a...” She turned and looked at my face. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I tried to smile and tell her, but I kept breaking down. She had to hold me several times before I got the story out. By then, my eyes were red, and the snot was flowing. I was so afraid she wouldn’t believe me.

“What you’re saying can’t be true. But I’ve never seen you cry before, and now you’re a blubbering mess. You have to have seen something.” She was a hell of a wife.

I started thinking back to a lot of the dumb stuff I did as a kid and a teenager. Broken windows and smoke bombs. Dented fenders and staying out too late. Not caring about school.

The things that you feel bad about after it’s too late to tell anyone that you’re sorry. The bits of wisdom your dad offers, but you let go as if it’s nothing. I wonder how many times I made him feel old or useless. Or unimportant.

I had a chance to change all of that.

That afternoon was excruciatingly long. Fiona tried some things to take my mind off dinner, but even as beautiful as she was, I couldn’t get my mind off my parents being there. It was the sound of their voices, not like an old phone message that you 212

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remember. It was their pitch, their resonance. Memories only have so much detail. This was so real.

Fiona suggested I make a list of what I wanted to tell them. I separated it into two sides. On the first side, I listed the things I was sorry for, and the second was the ways in which my life had become successful through the things they taught me.

We were dressed by six forty-five. I was in my best suit and Fiona in a forest green off-the-shoulder gown. Her diamond earrings made her eyes sparkle. The people we passed on the way to the Dining Room took notice of her. Maybe a only couple recognized her, but everyone knew she was somebody.

We walked in and there they were. Already at the table, my dad stood when he saw us, that big smile spreading across his face. I introduced Fiona and we sat. She was at a loss for words.

She had seen their pictures, listened to my memories, and here they were in the flesh.

My mom was bubbling away even before the waiter came. I remembered the dress she had on. She had bought it for my high school graduation. The desert was there before I had a chance to get my list out.

Near the end, my dad said to Fiona, “Sure there were some rough patches, but we were always so proud of him. We knew he’d make something of himself someday.”

That was the happiest point in my life. Then, the color left the room. For an instant everything slowed down and stopped, like an old movie reel that is ready to break. Darkness crept in, so dark there was nothing. The weight of the blackness made it too hard for me to even think.

Class B “So what do you think?” I asked.

“The guy just dies?” he asked. “It’s a story without an ending.”

“What do you want? A bunch of moaning from the doll? She 213

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ain’t no push-over, she’ll be off with the next suit she finds.” I leaned back in the chair and put my black stilettos on his desk, crossed my ankles and let the slit in my skirt slide open enough to see the top of one black stocking.

Rains was great as a publisher. He knew me well, when to sweet-talk me and when to take off the kid gloves. This was our seventh book together, each one out-selling the previous one.

With every new book, new readers buy the older ones. It’s a big loop, if you do it right and Rains knew how to do it. Did I trust him? Sure, about as far as I could throw him. But he was predictable, all the publishers were, you just had to figure their angle.

He gazed at my heels on his desk, then followed my legs up the slit.

“Where do you even get stockings like that?”

“I have my ways,” I said. I pulled a thin black cigar out of my double-breasted suit jacket, put it to my lips but didn’t light it.

“You can’t smoke that thing in here,” he said.

“Sure,” I said.

“And you are not moving on the title?”

“Lace and Whiskey. It’s a winner.”

“Marketing seems to think otherwise...”

“More suits,” I said, twirling the cigar in my fingers. I liked playing fast with the rules. My nails were long and red.

He was a businessman, smart, attractive, competing in tough world. The bottom dollar was his objective. But I thought in some strange way, we had a beautiful relationship.

He had a pen in his hand. He put it down and looked at me.

“Do you think you’re taking this ‘noir’ lifestyle too far? You know you’re not Micky Spillane or one of his curvy love interests.”

“Take it easy kid, don’t get yourself all worked up? Curvy? I didn’t think you noticed.”

“You don’t have to do this for the books; most of your readers don’t even know how they talked in those books. It’s the wrong 214

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demographic. They’re going to think you’re nuts. I’m not so sure myself.”

I picked up my hat, which was on the chair beside me. It was a wide-brimmed man’s hat. I put it on so it strategically dipped over one eye and rolled the cigar in my fingers. Then I put on my beige overcoat and tied the cloth belt around my waist.

“I’m going to have some papers for you to sign this afternoon,” he said.

“How about we meet for drinks. You bring your briefcase full of papers and I’ll bring a pen.”

He sighed. “Where?”

“A bar called Rick’s. The barkeep’s name is Sascha.”

“I work till five, how about then?” he asked.

“Make it three,” I said. “We’ll count it as work.”

“Where is this place?” he asked.

“It’s on the corner of Wallis and Curtiz. Number twenty two. Twenty two is my lucky number, you got a lucky number, Claude?”

“Don’t think so. But I do like the ones with a lot of zeros behind them.”

“I walked out the door through the office and down the hall to the elevator. I waited for the soft chime to tell me the car was there. Rains was probably thinking, “Of all the publishing houses in the world, she walks into mine.”

I lit the cigar in the elevator and waited for the door to open.

Rick’s was not a place you just stumbled upon. You had to need something to find the joint. The door opened to a large dining room. There were a half a dozen big fans on the ceiling. It was a high ceiling and gave the place a kind of tropical look. You could get a lunch or, after eight, a dinner. Time in Rick’s didn’t run the same as time in the rest of the world.

To the right was a wide archway that led to the bar. It wasn’t a well-stocked bar. If you wanted a fancy drink, this wasn’t the place. In the back was another archway that led to a locked door.

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This was for members only. This is where all the gambling went on and the cops got handed big fat envelopes of money If you wanted a good look at somebody, this wasn’t the place either. The lighting was funny, tons of shadows and nooks. If you didn’t want to be seen, there was always a cove or niche of darkness to hide in. Lots of exotic plants around, too. I don’t know how they grew in all the darkness, but they did.

Plenty of undesirables here, but no one who looked undesirable. A classy kind of crook, somebody making a deal that you might read about in the paper next week in the police log.

I made my way to the bar and sat. I made sure the slit in my dress was visible to anyone who walked my way. There was a man playing a piano in the dining room, the music drifted above the conversations and filled the bar. The songs were old and sorrowful, you could hum along, if the words were too sad to remember.

Sascha came over with his toothy grin. “You want your usual, beautiful?”

“You think I would want anything else?” I asked.

“What right do I have to think?” he said, throwing a towel over his shoulder.

I scanned the room looking for Rains. He was a no-show so far.

I may have forgotten to mention that Rains and I had a bit of a history. He had sold the publishing house on the idea of a European book tour, not a long one, less than a month. Since I didn’t have an agent, and they didn’t want me traveling alone in foreign lands, he was assigned to be my escort.

We started out very professional, but by the second week, things between us started to heat up. By the time we got to Paris, things started to sizzle. But, when we got back to the States, I cut it off cold turkey. I think he took it hard, but we never talked 216

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about it. This was the first time we had met outside of the office since then.

He walked in. I watched from the bar as he looked for me.

When he saw me, our eyes locked from across the room. I could feel the heat again. I met him halfway across. There was a table with a sign that said reserved. I took the sign off and put it on another table. We sat.

Our table had a little lamp. The lampshade was like a skirt with tassels at the bottom.

“Life’s treating you pretty good,” he said.

“Just a lucky gal,” I said.

The waiter came and I ordered two drinks.

“Awful early in the day to be having drinks,” he said.

“Maybe for you, not for me,” I said.

“I’m still crazy about you,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“I was hoping it didn’t show,” he said.

“It does,” I said. “We got problems.”

“Our little problems don’t add up to a hill of beans,” he said.

He reached for his briefcase to get out the papers. He was hurt, and I really didn’t blame him.

I put my hand on the papers. “If we get together, you’ll regret it, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon.”

The piano player was still playing a melancholy tune.

“I guess we’ll always have Paris, “he said.

I reached for my glass, “Here’s looking at you, kid.”

The music faded, then was gone. Rains was watching me, but he was moving in slow motion. Then blackness covered me so heavily, there was nothing else.

Class A “And those were the last moments of their lives,” I announced.

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The audience stood and applauded. They didn’t merely clap, they cheered and whistled. These were businessmen and women, reserved, conservative, and not easily sold. But it looked like I had done just that. A research project that would turn these millionaires into billionaires and me one of the richest men in the country. And one of the most renowned doctors in the world.

My assistants and I were changing from our lab coats, which we had worn during the presentation, into formal wear for the reception.

“How do you think it went?” I asked.

Dr Jacob Conjeski, the youngest and most brilliant, said, “Are you crazy? They ate it up! I wouldn’t be surprised if we got enough investors tonight! In just one night!” His IQ was the highest on the team. He was a preteen member of Mensa and specialized in writing code and algorithms. He was also the most excitable.

“We can never have enough investors,” I said, “As long as we are in control of fifty-one percent of the shares.”

Lauren stepped into the room after changing from a lab coat to a midnight blue gown that dripped from her shoulders.

She was a dark-haired European beauty who was becoming an internationally renowned neurologist. If there was anyone in the world who had it all, it was this woman.

“I’m starving,” she said. “Does anyone know what is being served tonight?” She moved across the room like a tigress.

“Wow, you look great,” Jacob said.

“I agree,” I said.

She gave me a glance that lasted a bit longer than it should have. As she moved past, she touched the sleeve of my Tux. “And you also look wonderful. Men like you become more distinguished with age and success.” I was about twenty years her senior.

There was a soft knock at the door. Jacob was the closest.

A voice from the hallway said, “Altex Industries would like us to escort Dr. Carter to the reception tonight.

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All Jacob could say was, “Whew...” He opened the door wider, and they stepped into the room. A blonde and a redhead, both in tiny sequined gowns and both with legs that went on forever.

They spotted me and smiled brilliantly.

Lauren came back to me and laced her arm through mine.

“Thank Altex Industries for us, but Mr. Carter already has an escort tonight.”

“But I don’t,” Jacob said.

The two girls looked at each other and one said, “Why not?”

They took Jacob, hand in hand, down the hallway.

Lauren turned to me. “Since when did you become my escort?” I asked.

“Since you have become so successful they are sending young girls to persuade you,” she said.

“Are you saying a bird in hand is worth two in the bush?”

“I am,” she said. “Because you already have me in your hand.”

Her warm lips touched mine, then a black fog rolled in. It tenderly pinned me down, then there was nothing.

Accounting 2121 Tony sat motionless, staring at his monitor. Something didn’t seem right. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he was sure of it. One of his responsibilities, apart from billing, was to spot anomalies in the systems. He was starting to wonder if that could get him killed.

He texted his friend Amy. Things were really going well with them. He figured before long he could call her his girlfriend.

Something like this could bring them closer or ruin it.

“What are u doing for lunch?”

“Don’t have anything planned. I brought some yogurt and a banana. Do u want to meet me somewhere?”

“Park across the street, noon?”

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“K.” He printed some things out and watched the videos. *** Amy was small, dark and very energetic. He black hair bounced as she crossed the street to meet Tony. He liked the way her eyes flashed when they met his. He was certain she felt the same way about him, they just hadn’t verbalized it yet.

The bench was facing the park, Tony had turned and was watching her come towards the bench. When she got to the bench, she bent down and kissed him on the lips, something she hadn’t done before. “I’m glad you texted,” she said.

“I’m glad you’re glad,” Tony said. “We could do this every day.”

Uh ho, I thought. Too far.

But, to his surprise she said, “Okay.”

They chatted for a minute then he brought up is problem.

“Listen,” she said. “I’m just a nurse. I don’t know any of the business part of this place. I don’t even know how this place works. You have to explain everything to me. I just plug them in.”

“Okay,” he said. “I started out this morning doing three S.O.’s.

“What is a S.O.?”

“It stands for Send Off. The customer or their family can choose a class A, B, or C Send Off. Once they are terminal, Altex can create their last perfect memory.”

She paused, then asked, “How does the company know what that memory is?”

“Well, sometimes it’s not a memory that actually happened, it’s something they wish had happened. Class A is something that has happened and they would like to relive, like their happiest moment. Class B is something they wished would have happened, and C is the most complex. It is something that hasn’t 220

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happened and they haven’t thought about, but they would love it.”

“How can Altex do all that?” she asked.

“Huge computers and algorithms. AI. The Carter guy, the guy who founded the company, figured that if they could tap into the right part of the brain, massive amounts of data could be molded into a last perfect send-off for the dying. If they could pay for it.”

“Why don’t I know about all this? I thought that I was making the patients comfortable in their last hours. I thought the plugs coming out of their skulls were neutralizing the pain.”

“Altex doesn’t advertise; this isn’t for the mass market.”

“Okay, creepy as this is, what did you see today that makes it a problem?” she asked.

“I watched three Send Offs this morning. One was a man who had wanted to make amends with his parents before he died. He wanted them to be proud of him.”

“You can actually watch what they see as they die?”

“Yep, I have to. The families have to know we fulfilled the contract. They can watch the videos too, if the client signs a waiver. Believe me, some families don’t want to know what their loved one’s perfect memory is.”

“So what do you do, sign an affidavit or something?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, something like that. I have to have evidence that the service was performed and when the insurance stops and our program starts. The second one was a Class C Send Off. The old lady had always wanted to be a writer and she loved the movie Casablanca. Altex made that happen. She was a combination of Bogart and Bergman. ” “All right, that was not the problem, so was it the third one?”

“The third one was Mr. Carter himself, the founder of the company. His was a Class A send Off. He wanted to relive his happiest moment, which was when the company first started taking off.”

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“And you found a problem there? I had heard that he was sick.”

“I think so. You see, I could find no insurance that we could sever ties with. I had to go back almost a year to find any insurance. When I did, he hadn’t been billed for anything.”

“So what’s that mean?”

“It means that he wasn’t really sick, at least I can’t find any proof that he had been tested anywhere for anything.”

“Then what killed him?” Amy asked.

“Maybe we did. Or the mainframe did.”

“What do you mean, maybe the mainframe did?”

It not only collects data from our brain, but from everything we do. Part of the algorithm is from our online surfing and our texts. It retrieves all our commands to Siri and the other services.

It knows everything. It could have contacted Dr. Carter and set up an appointment and fed him bad information. Who knows?”

“You’re starting to scare me,” she said.

“That’s why I wanted to talk out here, am I getting paranoid?”

He stood, then started pacing. “It’s hard to know what’s real anymore.”

Amy stood and caught his hand, “I want you to know that you’ll always have me.”

She kissed him again, longer and deeper this time. The sound of the traffic drifted away and heavy black blanket wrapped itself around Tony. It was dark and peaceful. There was no pain or worry, only the gentle kiss of endless night.

222

Cracks She was a wild one. Not really a clinical term, but her file was thick. Way too thick for me to actually read through. I perused the cover sheet. Suicide attempt, trouble in school, trouble with authority. A long history of hallucinations. That was for starters.

The rest were the notes that Dr. Efaw had dictated after their sessions. For some reason, the police had the notes transcribed to hard copies after his death. Much easier for me to thumb through, but I’m not sure why they went to the time and effort.

This was my first full week at Hanson House. I had been working for the local board of education as a contract counselor for nearly a year when this job opened. Great for me, not so good for Dr. Efaw, who had fallen off the side of a mountain and cracked his skull.

Dr. Perkins, the president of the board of Hanson House, was an alumnus of my university. I had met him at several university functions, and he had written me a congratulatory letter on a paper that I had published on suicide. He called me on the day the job opened and asked me to apply. I have always enjoyed writing and research and thought of it somewhat as a hobby. This time, it landed me a job.

Back to Dr. Efaw and his untimely demise. It seemed very strange to me that whenever anything about Dr. Efaw was mentioned, the staff and doctors either spoke in hushed tones 223

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or ignored the conversation altogether. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement to keep me out of the loop. I believe that no one would be upset if his name were never mentioned again.

When I was shown the office on my first day, I was surprised to see that it was stripped bare. A desk and a chair were all that remained, no pictures on the walls or lamps or tables. The office manager, Barbara, told me that it was Dr. Efaw who requested that the office be this way. He had removed everything months before his unfortunate accident. I had put in requests for some lighting and furniture. I would decide on the artwork later.

The conference room, where I met with clients, was nicely decorated. Hanson House did not scrimp on the amenities.

Apparently, Dr. Efaw had also requested that this room be cleared, but the board refused. The room was often used by people other than Dr. Efaw, who did not like sitting in a barren space.

I left the file on my desk and made my way to the conference room where my new client was waiting for me. She was not what I expected.

The file said she was twenty-six years old; she looked about fourteen. Her hair was long and black with bangs that nearly covered her eyes. She wore black leggings and a black oversized top that hid most of her upper body. Her makeup was nicely done but bizarre. A lot of black eyeliner and deep maroon lipstick.

I had worked with several kids who were still holding on to the Goth look, but in most of their cases, the clothing was cheaply overdone, like they were dressing the part. Her boots looked expensive. A dull but oiled black leather with chunky heels and laces that rose several inches up her calf. It didn’t look as if she were dressing up to impress anyone. It seemed as though she lived this way.

She watched me enter the room with curious eyes. They twinkled as she sized me up.

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I introduced myself formally and shook her hand. It was warm and soft but firm.

“You’re not too bad to look at,” she said with just a wisp of a smile. I guess she was already testing the boundaries. “A lot better than the last guy. You’re not quite as stuffy as he looked, but close.”

If she was trying to throw me off, I wasn’t going to let her. I smiled slightly but didn’t acknowledge.

I sat in an overstuffed chair that faced hers. She had been slouching in the chair, but now she wadded her legs up under her bottom and tucked her blouse in around her thighs. She sat up very straight and proper. Her dazzling green eyes met mine, and I looked away. She wins round one.

“I have your file here, but I have to admit I haven’t looked through it.”

“Honesty? Is that allowed here at Hanson House?”

“Sure,” I said.

“And we’re going to be honest with each other,” she said, “Sharing our dirty little secrets?”

“Miss Barkley, this is not a two-way street.”

“Miss Barkley? If we’re going to get anywhere, you can’t call me Miss Barkley.” She sized me up and down again, dramatically.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“You know I’m not permitted to divulge personal information.”

I could feel the green eyes on me.

“I bet we’re about the same age, “she said. “Take me out of these clothes and put me in something more corporate and put you in something more... I don’t know, un-old, and we’d look married.”

She was right. We were the same age. I could see it in her file.

“Let’s get back to why you’re here,” I said.

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“I’m here because my parents want me here. And if I don’t come, I get cut off.”

“And why do you think they want you here, in therapy?”

“They’re loaded, like bigtime, their friends are too. I’m already an embarrassment; they’re scared I’ll be a bigger embarrassment before too long.” She appeared to be enjoying the task ahead.

I knew that wasn’t completely true. She had been in therapy since she was five years old.

“And how might you embarrass them?”

“A shooting rampage might be at the top of their list,” she said as she pulled a long lock of black hair from the rest and placed it between her lips.

I had been acting like I was writing in her file. I stopped and looked up when she said this. Her green eyes were there, penetrating.

“Are you sure you’re the right guy for this job?” she said.

“I’m sure you know,” I said, brushing off the question, “That people who attempt suicide rarely attempt violence against others.”

She stared at me intently. I wasn’t sure if she was trying to intimidate me or just looking. Either way, she was unabashedly stripping off the layers of formality between us. I remained silent for several seconds.

“So, what are our goals going to be then?” I asked. “What should we be working toward?”

“My acceptance of authority, my return to the virtues of society, and my pledge to not blow my parents’ millions on slutty underwear.”

“Do you always use sarcasm to make a point?”

“Whenever the situation presents itself.”

We both smiled at that.

The rest of the session was about the same. We each probed and questioned, but nothing too adversarial.

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When time was up, I stood and followed her to the door.

Before I opened it, I asked her if she was comfortable continuing with me as her therapist. She had asked me again if I thought I was the right guy.

“Let’s try it again and see what happens,” she said. But then, she hugged me. Tight, like she was falling. I didn’t hug back. I don’t think she expected me to. She turned and walked out without saying a word. *** That night, I took her file home with me, something that is frowned upon in most circumstances. It’s mostly a matter of legality, rather than ethics, in the event of a break-in or a doctor losing a patient’s notes and information. Hanson House would be responsible. But I did it anyway.

I slid the file into my briefcase at the end of the day and walked out the door and to my car. I felt as if I were in a spy movie. I was fascinated and a bit frightened to find that I was exhilarated by this—something I would have to think about.

Once home, I settled in on the couch with the file. I turned on the TV for some background noise and found some preseason baseball. I started at the very beginning, pre-pubescent Veronica Barkley. By the time I finished reading, two different teams were playing, and the sun was casting long shadows across my window.

Veronica started having night terrors at five years old. Night terrors are severe nightmares with no recollection of the event the next day. Consequently, Veronica had no idea why she started seeing a counselor or why she started to fear the dark. Eventually, the terrors turned into a more standard type of nightmare. The counseling continued through elementary school. As her parents’ wealth increased, so did the number of sessions per week and the prestige of the doctors treating her. I recognized the names of several as the authors of my university textbooks.

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Once the terrors turned into something she could remember, she reported that she had been seeing slimy creatures in her room. She was convinced they were coming through her walls.

She was able to give detailed descriptions of not only their physical attributes, but also the way they moved and the odors associated with them.

Brain scans and MRIs were done, and all came back as unremarkable. An investigation was ordered to see if Veronica was accidentally or purposely ingesting any type of hallucinogen.

These were also negative.

The family moved often, always to bigger cities, as their business grew. During some of these moves, Veronica seemed to improve; in other situations, she seemed to worsen. One of these problematic situations occurred during her freshman year of high school.

A teacher heard screams coming from the ladies’ restroom.

She found Veronica on the floor in a stall, arms wrapped around her legs, hysterical. She had had a hallucinogenic episode. The first one away from home. After that, tutors were brought in and she was homeschooled.

She did quite well with homeschooling. Testing for college acceptance was done. She was found to be in the top 2 percent in the nation, qualifying her for Mensa, for which she had no interest.

At this point, I realized my doorbell was ringing. It startled me at first, not only because of the time of night, but because I was so involved in reading that I had ignored it. Not like me at all.

The doorbell ringer was a Domino’s guy. Seventeen-ish, shirt too big, trying to grow a little stubble on his chin, grinning wildly—expecting a big tip.

“Wrong address, bud,” I said.

His silly grin broadened. “She said you’d say that.”

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“Who said?”

He balanced the pizza box in one hand and pulled an index card out of his pocket.

He read from the card, “I wasn’t sure what kind you liked, so I hedged my bet. Signed V.” He handed me the box. “She was hot, she your girlfriend?”

At this point, the elevator bell dinged, and another pizza guy got off and looked our way. Within the hour, a total of six pizzas showed up. It was a smorgasbord of pizza: thick crust, thin crust, some with peppers. One monstrously thick one was stuffed with spaghetti.

Nothing in my psychology classes had prepared me for this.

Hanson House was paying me well, but I still had a mountain of student loans to pay off. I had learned to be frugal. It was totally against my nature to toss out pizza.

So, I kept it, at least as much as I could. I filled my Tupperware containers, put a couple of boxes in my freezer (I didn’t know if I could freeze them or not), and gave the rest away to the neighbors on my floor. Hopefully, the neighbors would want to repay me with some kind of meal down the road.

That solved, I turned to the bigger problem: Veronica. I thought back to the way her eyes flashed. And the way she embraced me.

That felt real, and to be honest and very unprofessional, I felt a spark inside. If that continued, I would have to step away as her psychologist. Not a good look for my resume.

Or was she playing me? If so, for what reason?

All this, and I hadn’t even begun to help her with her psychosis. I wasn’t even sure what her psychosis was.

The following two days were much the same: reviewing files and meeting new clients. I decided to ignore the pizza/Veronica problem for now and think about it over the weekend. I never got the chance.

Friday morning. I did not have a client until 11, so I decided to take a run before work. The plan was to run from 9-10, come 229

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home, take a shower, and get to work by 10:45. It was working well until I got a call on my cell, which was strapped to my arm, halfway through my run. It was Dr. Perkins.

I answered out of breath. He asked me where I was.

“I’m out running,” I said.

“Need you to come in. Quickly as possible,” he said. “How soon can you get here?”

I was still breathing hard. “Uh,” I looked at my watch. “I’m about 25 minutes from home, then a quick shower—” “No time for all of that. Where are you exactly?”

I told him.

“Just run here. It will be much faster.”

“I’ll be sweaty. I don’t have clothes to change into.” It occurred to me that I didn’t know if there was a shower available at Hanson House.

“Sprint,” he said, and hung up.

I was in trouble for the pizza; I knew I should have addressed the situation somehow.

I was there in 10 minutes. Barbara was waiting for me at the door. She walked me to a conference room that I didn’t know existed. It was impressive. There was a long table made from some exotic wood. The chairs, there were twelve of them, were leather and comfortable-looking. Dr. Perkins sat at the end on the opposite side of the room. The first two chairs to his left were occupied by a large man and Veronica.

As I walked in, both men stood. Perkins was a little shorter than I was. The other guy towered above both of us.

He shook my hand. His hand strength was tremendous.

White teeth, silver hair, and a tan from being outdoors, he looked like a modern-day George Washington. His suit was navy, and he wore a white shirt open at the collar. He reeked of money.

Veronica was beside him. She didn’t stand or offer her hand for me to shake. She half-grinned, those green eyes blazing.

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Even with my boss there, and this imposing figure of the other man, Veronica was the center of the room. Her hair was pulled back, shiny as ever. The makeup was tastefully done, and she was dressed all in black, although much more conservatively than before.

I felt a slight tinge of guilt, but goodness, she was beautiful. I completely forgot why I was there.

Dr. Perkins said, “This is Mr. Blair, Veronica’s father...”

That brought me back into focus. “... and he is making us a very generous offer.”

Everyone who was standing sat.

“Let me spell it out, Doc,” the big man said. “Veronica likes you. She thinks that you can really help her, something about being able to relate to you because of your age. She’s smart—I don’t get half the things she tells me—but this is the first time she actually seems enthusiastic about professional help.”

Veronica sat motionless, staring at me. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to. Daddy was talking.

“I want you to be Veronica’s therapist. We want you to be Veronica’s therapist,” he smiled at his daughter.

“I already am,” I said meekly.

He smiled a disarming smile. “I want you to be her therapist full time. She would be your only patient. No strict office hours, you would be like my attorney, on retainer. Whenever she needed you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I looked at Dr. Perkins.

“Mr. Blair has offered to triple your salary,” Perkins said. “Plus, some additional perks that I think you’ll find rather exciting.”

The additional perks were exciting Dr. Perkins.

“And what are the additional perks?” I asked.

I looked at Mr. Blair, but Dr. Perkins spoke up.

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researcher with a promising future. When you are not working with Veronica, you will be able to do the research that you started in college. In collaboration with Hanson House, of course.”

I would do the work, and they would get their name on the research as well. That happens a lot in academia. It was a win-win situation for them. For me, I wasn’t so sure. Felt like I was being reeled in.

“So, young man, what do you think?” Mr. Blair asked.

“To be honest, this is a bit of a surprise. I’d like some time to think it over.”

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Smart people look at the big picture, and that takes a little time.”

I was pretty sure that was a message.

He stood and offered his hand again. I took it and prepared for the bone-crushing shake. Veronica stood but said nothing.

“Take some time, but don’t take too long.

Then he turned to Dr. Perkins, “Take it easy, Perk, let me know what the boy says, then we can start making some arrangements.”

When they were gone, Dr. Perkins said, “Can you believe it?

This could put you up there with some of the big names in the field. Speaking engagements and book deals.”

“I do have student loans,” I said.

“Student loans? This could set you up for the rest of your professional life. As for Hanson House, it would put us on the map. I mean, he’s talking about a research facility... long-term patient care, millions of dollars.”

His face was aglow. Funny how big money affects some people. Then he got a strange look. “You are going to agree, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to think about it... Perk,” I said.

I walked all the way home and had a couple of pieces of pizza.

He was right, of course. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. My student loans would be paid off in no time, I was going to be 232

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doing what I was good at, and I got to see Veronica. She was an interesting case study, at least that was what I was telling myself.

I got showered, shaved, and dressed—slate pants, white shirt, and a thin black tie. Black leather loafers, which were nice Italian shoes at one time, but now had seen better days. Perhaps my wardrobe would also improve in the near future.

I wasn’t in the office more than ten minutes when Dr. Perkins stepped in to see if I had made a decision. I told him that I was going to accept Mr. Blair’s offer. He seemed more relieved than overjoyed. I guess he was just happy not to have to badger me into it. Anyway, he had already cleared my calendar and begun the process of relocating me to a larger office, away from everyone else. It would be months before the research facility was constructed. *** We talked for a few minutes about some of the changes in the schedule that would have to be made. Mr. Blair had assumed that I would take the offer and had made arrangements for an architect to swing by and get a feel for the land and the existing building before starting on plans.

The other bit of news was that, since the new construction would not be ready, and that this was a special situation (big money), I may sometimes need to conduct my sessions with Veronica outside of a normal office setting. In other words, whenever and wherever she wanted.

I told Dr. Perkins that this was not an acceptable or professional arrangement.

“You need not worry, my boy,” he said. “The attorneys have seen to it that under this arrangement, you and Hanson House are fully protected. Mr. Blair had all this arranged before speaking to me. He’s not some dumb chunk of wood, you know.”

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“But—” I started to say.

“Look at it this way. He wants her to get better, and she assures him that you are the right therapist for her. He doesn’t want any more suicide attempts, and he does not want any bad publicity for the family. That’s why he wants you available 24/7. And why he wants you available to take her to events like grand openings and dinners. You are equivalent to an emotional bodyguard. And you get to do the research you love.”

I thought about it for a moment. I could understand Dr. Perkins’s point of view, Mr. Blair’s also. But I could not see what Veronica was getting out of all this.

“Is there a time limit on this?”

“That’s the beauty of this deal. Both parties must agree to end it. If they are dissatisfied in any way, they can’t break the contract if you don’t want it broken. If you want to end it and they don’t, you still get paid.”

“And you still get the research?”

He smiled, “Yes, yes, we do.”

“This is ethically wrong. We would be pushing the bounds of what we do,” my mind reeled with all the complications.

“Let’s think of it this way. If you had a suicidal patient, you would drop everything and rush to them, correct? No matter if the situation was appropriate or not. This is the same thing, only preemptive. And we are covered legally, I’ve seen to that.

My cell buzzed. The name came up as V. “I think I need a session,” she said.

“How did you get this number?”

There was a pause, like it was the dumbest question I had ever asked. It probably was.

“I haven’t even been to my new office yet,” I said.

“That’s fine, we don’t need four walls. Meet me at the park, I’ll be by the fountain,” she clicked off.

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*** She was sitting on a bench near the fountain. Not sitting in the usual way, she was sitting on the back of the bench with her feet where her bottom should be. No one was sitting near her.

She wore a thin black tank top, nothing underneath, and short, distressed jean shorts. The shoes were white tennis shoes, maybe Keds. In this get-up, she looked really young again, maybe not as young as fourteen, but definitely south of twenty.

I had abandoned my tie at the office, but still felt overdressed next to her. Then I wondered why I was worried about how we looked together. Not good.

She smiled brightly when she saw me, sending a very unprofessional chill up my spine.

“Are you mad? I can understand if you are. Daddy can be sort of a bully when it comes to me.”

I just looked at her.

“Honestly, I told him how I felt after our first session and how smoothly things went, and he was ready to throw some money around. He’s not one to hold back. I am sorry that we kind of ambushed you.”

“You know there are a dozen ethical rules I’m about to break.”

“Maybe we could go for a baker’s dozen?” She spun around and popped off the back of the bench. “Let’s walk.”

She started down one of the paths leading away from the fountain. The courtyard around the fountain was crowded.

Children were splashing in the water, couples eating and drinking at many of the café tables; it was a busy place.

The path to which she was leading me was quieter and more shaded, the tall trees allowing only a dappled light through. I fell into step beside her.

“So, is this how our sessions are going to go?” I asked.

“Psychology through the woods?”

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“I guess we’ll see,” she said. She slid her hand into mine and interlaced our fingers.

I shook her hand off. “Stop that!” I said, then looked around to see if anyone had seen us.

She giggled, a perfect, little, mischievous laugh.

“This is so wrong,” I said.

She looked at me very seriously, “If this is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”

It was so dumb I had to laugh.

We continued walking. It was much cooler beneath the trees, quieter, too.

“Confession time,” she said.

“Okay,” I said. Maybe now we will get somewhere.

She said, “You go first.”

I stopped walking. “Me?” She giggled again.

“All right, let’s get serious.” We started walking again. This time, she hooked my elbow with hers, like I was escorting her.

“Quit,” I said and looked around again.

“Did you read my file? All of it?”

“No,” I was embarrassed to say.

“Man, I know you like to make your own decisions, but really...”

I tried to change the course of the conversation. “So, what did I miss? I got to your college applications.”

“You mean just the highlights, the Cliff ’s Notes of my life.”

We walked in silence for a few steps. It was nice walking with her. I wondered if she chose this path for our first outdoor meeting.

“So, through college, I was very promiscuous, did not try drugs or alcohol, and got my Ph.D. in physics. I attempted suicide several times, but it’s only in my file once. I have not gained any useful employment since. And I did not sleep with all my professors to get good grades; I got those by myself.”

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“You slept with your professors?”

“Just the good-looking ones,” she smiled. “And none of them were as good-looking as you.” She gave me that devilish grin.

“You have a Ph.D.?” I asked.

“That was your takeaway from what I just said? Yeah, I do. I thought it might help me with some of my problems.”

“Physics?”

“We will get to that later,” she said.

I was beyond puzzled. We walked in silence, which was kind of enjoyable. It was a warm, happy silence, not awkward at all.

“So, I’m going to be honest with you, at least for the next few minutes.”

I always have a problem with people who tell me they are going to start being honest.

“I’ve been watching you for about a year now. Actually, I’ve been watching several therapists. I narrowed it down to you.”

“Why me?”

“You seem to have the right research skills, you are unmarried without a girlfriend, and you have a ton of student debt. And, you were the best looking, have I mentioned that before?”

“None of that should make me a creditable candidate to help you with your problems,” I said.

We must have been walking in a loop because we were coming back into the courtyard with the fountain. Now there were more people, and they were louder, and everyone seemed happy.

“The problem is that no one knows what my problem is, except for me. Let’s go to dinner tonight. Someplace fancy.”

“Again, not appropriate,” I said.

“Once I lay all this out, I think you will change your mind about what is and isn’t appropriate.

“Wear your blue suit. I bought you a tie last week that will go with it. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Before I could react, she had put a hand on my shoulder, raised on her toes, and planted a soft, quick kiss on my lips.

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“After tonight, you are going to realize this is going to be more of a partnership than a doctor-patient relationship.” With that, she turned and started walking away.

“Seven,” she shouted without turning around. I enjoyed watching her walk, but I did feel a tinge of loneliness as she did— that and the heat of her lips on mine. *** At six fifty-nine, there was a knock on my door. She was on the other side in a stunning black dress. The neckline plunged to mid-abdomen, and her dark hair cascaded over her bare shoulders like a black waterfall. She stepped into the apartment holding a black silk tie.

“You look nice,” I mumbled. I was so out of my league.

“Do you want help putting it on?” she asked.

I had no problem tying a tie, but I had to do it in front of a mirror, and for some reason, I didn’t want to leave her to go do it.

Without waiting for an answer, she slipped behind me, pulled off my suit jacket, and tossed it on the sofa. She moved back in front and popped my collar. I tried staring over her head at the wall behind her, but I kept finding myself looking down into her eyes. Her fingers were very nimble.

“You can look at me, you know. Nothing unethical about that.”

I tried to misdirect again, “You’re very good at that,” I said.

“What? Tying silk ties? I do it occasionally, although it’s not usually around the neck.” She pulled my collar down and slid her hands across my shoulders.

I felt my face heat up. I’m not sure if it was because of what she said, or her dress, or her touch. Or because I had never been this close to a woman this beautiful.

“Let’s go. Jeffery is waiting.”

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“Jeffery?”

Jeffery ended up being the guy leaning against a black town car parked in front of my building. He opened the rear door for us and closed it after we were in. There was a glass partition between the front and back seats. I didn’t know if he could hear us or not. Apparently, Veronica didn’t care.

“I told you we were going fancy tonight. And don’t worry, all this is on your expense account. Daddy has seen that we don’t have to worry about anything while we are progressing through our sessions.”

“And this is a session?” I asked.

“Don’t you think each time we are together, we are assessing each other?”

“I’m not sure whom to assess, the strange little emo girl I first met, or the businesswoman from the meeting, or you in this dress tonight. Oh yeah, I forgot about the cutoff jeans girl in the park.”

“You remember my cutoffs? I was hoping you were watching me walk away.”

She settled a little more comfortably into the leather seat. “It’s good to know that all the clothing decisions paid off.”

“I think you are hiding something, or from something. You don’t want to stay the same because you may be caught or found out. You are trying to be a chameleon.”

“Whoa,” she said. “Now we are getting somewhere. I told Daddy we’d get our money’s worth out of you.”

“We’ll talk more at dinner,” she said and took my hand across the seat. She held it with the same intensity as the hug the first day. God help me, I didn’t push her away. *** I had not been to this restaurant before. The place reeked of upper crust. Murals on the walls, chandeliers bigger than 239

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the tables, and polite waiters in bow ties. There was even a guy walking around playing a violin.

We were seated at a table for two near the center of the room.

A team of waiters, each with a specific job, descended on us with the efficiency of ballet dancers. Within moments, the table was set and adorned with goblets of ice water, dipping bread, buttering bread, and bread that just looked pretty. A guy with a towel over his bent arm asked if we would like to see a wine list.

The place was halfway full, but it felt as if the pace would pick up soon. Most of the diners were speaking in hushed voices.

A larger table to our right was louder. It was a group of seven or eight men, most of whom had their ties loosened and their jackets off. It looked as if they had been there a while, and most had finished their meals.

“Do you live like this? It’s not the impression I got from your file.”

“I’ve learned how to play the game. So, yes, no, sometimes. I like fancy sometimes. Especially for a celebration.”

“What celebration?”

“This is the beginning of several things. The first steps to my emotional freedom, our partnership. Our love story.”

“Listen—” I started. A loud laugh broke out of the group of men at the other table. Veronica’s head snapped in their direction.

I tried to get her attention back. “How did you know this was my best suit?”

“Private detective searched your apartment,” she said.

I was stunned.

“Don’t look so shocked, this is my life we’re dealing with. I had to know if you had some hidden twisted habits. We went through your whole life, not just your closet.”

Again, laughter broke out at the table of men.

Veronica glanced at one of the waiters, who looked as though he was expecting to be called. He was over in no time flat.

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“Who are these morons?” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.

“That is Senator Braxton’s brother, and the others are either aides of the senator or lobbyists.” He spoke quietly.

As if on cue, the table exploded with laughter as if someone had just delivered a punch line.

“Hey,” Veronica yelled in a sharp, shrill voice. “Keep it down, my boyfriend and I are trying to have a nice dinner.”

The entire place went silent for a moment, then one of the men mumbled something that brought on another wave of laughter.

Veronica grabbed a hard roll off the table and fired it at the closest man. It hit him square in the forehead, then bounced off and rolled under an elderly couple’s table.

Veronica wasn’t finished. She slowly stood and then made her way toward the man who had seemed the loudest: about sixty-five, silver hair and deeply tanned. Nice suit.

She put her palms on the table. The view must have been spectacular.

“Time for you to go,” she said.

The man started to say something, then Veronica casually slid his plate, which looked as though it had once held a very rare hunk of meat, over the edge of the table onto his lap.

“That’s going to leave a stain,” she said. She smoothly strolled back to our table and sat.

“Crazy bi—” one of the men started to say, but Veronica turned quickly and flashed those eyes. This time, she held a knife.

The man with the stained pants said something quietly to the others. They stood quickly and were gone.

She smiled charmingly.

“What was that?” I said.

“That was me being assertive,” she said. “Let’s talk about me.”

“What were you going to do with the knife?”

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“Once you enter a weapon into a situation, you must be willing to use it.”

“You were going to stab someone because they were loud?”

“Loud AND obnoxious. Of course, I wasn’t going to stab him; I was going to throw it at him. But let’s get back to me.”

“If I do something you don’t like, will you throw a knife at me?”

“No, you’re my hero, and possibly my true love,” she moved to hold my hand. I couldn’t tell if this was an act or not.

The waiter brought us a salad and poured water into our already-full goblets.

“How... we haven’t ordered yet?”

“I pre-ordered for us, gives us more time to talk. You are having elk as an entrée.”

“What if I don’t like elk?”

“You will, darling.”

“Stop that,” I said. We were going further down the rabbit hole.

We talked about me, my past love life, and my goals. She listened intently as I ate my elk, which was delicious. The conversation came easily. She laughed in the right spots and asked the right questions. She did not seem like the same person who had, only moments before, bullied a group of powerful men out of a restaurant.

The waiter cleared our plates and asked about dessert.

Veronica asked him to come back in a few minutes.

She was quiet for the first time, reflective.

“Everyone thinks I’m crazy, and I see invisible things. But the truth is, I see things, and that makes me crazy. The things I see, no one else can see. Until recently.”

“And what are these things you see?” I asked.

“Can’t go there yet, you wouldn’t believe me.”

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“And are you going to tell me?”

“I’m not. I’ve been telling people my whole life, and no one has believed me.”

“Why is that important, that no one believes you?”

She smiled, a sweet, sad smile. “They have taken my childhood.

How many kids do you think are going to come to the birthday party of a girl who sees things that no one else sees? How many parties do you think I was invited to? How many proms?”

“And the suicide attempt?” I asked.

“Attempts. There were several that were expunged.” She showed me her wrists, where there were faint scars. “I decided I was tired of fighting as an army of one.”

“And now?”

“It’s an army of two,” she said.

We stared at each other for a while. I hoped I wasn’t looking at her the way she was looking at me, but I probably was. I’m sure we were the typical poster for star-crossed lovers. In that light, she was perfect. Her eyes, her hair, her lips. And that was from the shoulders up.

She smiled, “You haven’t walked out on me yet.” “‘Yet’ might be the key word.”

The waiter came back and inquired about the dessert. We told him no, and he thanked us. Veronica got up to leave.

“What about the bill?”

“Taken care of,” she said.

“That’s it? You are giving me information piecemeal.”

“I have a timeline for us, well, not for us as in you and me, but a timeline for the dispersal of information.” She took my arm and snuggled close as we walked out. I didn’t resist.

The car was waiting outside. Jeffery leaped out and opened the door.

We got in, and the car pulled away from the curb. Jeffery asked through the speaker, “Where to?”

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“Give us a minute,” Veronica said.

“I want you to stay with me tonight,” she said. “I know you’d like to. I’d like it also.”

I deflected, “How do you know I’d like to?”

“You look the same way now as you did when you first saw me tonight.” She pulled my face around to meet her gaze. “Your pupils are dilated, your skin is warm to the touch, and your heart rate just increased.”

I didn’t say anything.

She pushed a button on the armrest. “Jeffery, take us to my apartment.”

“No—” I started to say.

“It’s not for the reason you think, although if that IS something that you think would be beneficial at this time, I would be a willing patient.” Then there was that mischievous grin.

I felt like I was in a tornado, no grip, no leverage, no control.

“I’m a little scared. I’m afraid for my safety, I’m afraid for your safety, and I’m really afraid you will walk out on me,” she said softly.

I heard myself say, “I’m not walking out.”

She squeezed my hand. “Tomorrow morning we’ll start. I have two couches in my living room. “I’ll take one, you take the other.”

“Am I supposed to sleep in my suit?”

“Taken care of,” she said lightly. “I know your size, I got you some clothes.”

I looked at her incredulously.

“Oh, stop, I knew your sizes, and I bought a few things. But maybe we could go shopping together, when we need something normal to do.” ***

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Jeffery held the door as we exited the car. The doorman stood very straight in his double-breasted jacket and shiny hat. He reached for the handle as we approached.

“Good evening, Ms. Blair.”

“Hey there, Robert,” Veronica said. She handed him a bill as smoothly as an Olympic runner’s handoff. I nodded to Robert, knowing nothing better to do.

As we passed through, he said, “Will we be staying in for the rest of the evening?”

“Yes, Robert, we will.”

“Excellent,” he said.

I could feel his eyes burning into me, but of course, he was looking straight ahead. He was far too sophisticated to show any judgment.

Once we were on the elevator, I asked, “Why did he ask if you were staying in?”

“That’s what doormen do. They want to know if a car will be coming to pick you up or if any friends will be stopping by later.

But I’m sure he is getting a hefty bonus from my father to keep an eye out for me.”

“You mean he’s going to report back to your father that I’m staying here tonight?”

“He’s here to keep me safe, not to spy. Besides, I give him a hefty bonus also.”

Her apartment was on the very top floor of the building. “I have two neighbors on this floor.”

“You mean there are only three apartments on the whole floor?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“They must be incredibly expensive.”

“Yeah.”

She typed in a code on a pad just above the doorknob. As we entered, several lamps came on automatically. It was one of the strangest rooms I had ever seen.

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The first thing I noticed was the view. The lights of the city sparkled through the huge triple window. Each window had to be ten feet long. They ran the entire span of the wall. Two bomber leather couches faced each other in the center of the room with a beautiful area rug under them. A glass and stone coffee table was placed between them. The rest of the room was decorated with stylish furnishings. What made the room so strange was that there were no corners. The room was a giant oval. No corners.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” I said.

“You mean the shape?”

“Yeah, I mean, everything else is fantastic. But, no, I’ve not seen a room built like this before.

“All the rooms are like that. I had them built that way. Each one has a glass wall, also. Want to see?”

We did the tour. The kitchen was large and rounded also. The appliances were at the back of the room and separated from the dining space by an island. A beautiful dining table sat near the window.

The master bath was shaped the same, with a huge open shower in the back and a modern tub near the window. A person would have a fabulous view while showering or bathing.

“No curtains?” I asked.

“I’ve had no complaints,” she said with that devilish smile.

The master bedroom was on the other side of the master bath.

She explained that the bed and the furniture were custom-made to fit the room’s curving back walls. The bed faced the panoramic view of the city.

On the other side of the living room were two more bedrooms with another bath in between. All elegant and built without corners.

“What is it with the round rooms?” I asked as we walked back into the living room.

She stopped and faced me. We were close, too close. I took a step back.

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She smiled. “I’m not going to leap on you.”

I relaxed a little.

Then she said, “Yet.” I tensed again.

“This is going to be a step-by-step process. I really need you to trust me, even if what I’m asking seems silly.”

“I’m already in this far,” I said, standing there, alone, in a client’s apartment.

“Let’s get out of these clothes,” she said. Then she saw my panic. “So, we can start some work. I can’t hardly move without my chest showing.”

“Oh,” I said. “I hardly noticed.”

“What a waste of money, then.”

She hesitated. At first, I thought she might be adding something to the witty banter, then I realized she was figuring out the next step. She had things planned out, that was for sure, but I think she had called some audibles also. She was working on one now.

“I’m going to change. You wait here.”

I sat on the couch that faced her bedroom. She had only partially closed the door. I watched the dress fly across the space and land on the bed in a crumpled ball. I started to sweat.

“You don’t have a TV in here,” I said.

“No, I felt it could compete with the view. I have one in here if you want to watch something, but we’re not going to have time.

Tonight is all work.”

She stepped around the door in black silky pajamas. The bottoms were very short, and the top had a lacy collar and three white buttons up the front. Her initials were stitched on the breast pocket.

“Here,” she threw a bag at me. “Come in here and try these on.”

“I caught the bag and went into the bedroom, leaving the door only partially closed.

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I took my suit off and put on the PJs she had bought me. They were black satin, like hers, except my pants went to the floor, and the collar wasn’t lace. I couldn’t have looked more foolish if they were Spiderman pajamas.

“Come on out, let’s see what they look like.”

Veronica was sitting on the couch where I had been, facing the door. She took one look, put her hand to her mouth, and started to giggle. The giggle turned into a laugh. It was the first real belly laugh I had heard from here. She laughed so hard she fell sideways on the couch. I stood there and took it.

“There’s another bag on the dresser,” she said between laughs.

“Try those.”

This bag had a pair of nice athletic shorts and an Adidas T-shirt. They fit well and I felt more myself than Hugh Hefner.

When I reentered the room, she had moved to the other side and was bending over a credenza near the back wall. She pulled out a stack of poster-sized paper, brought the stack over, and dropped it on the coffee table between the couches.

“Sit,” she said.

I did.

“This is getting real,” she said. “I want you to know that I like you, that I really am attracted to you. But that doesn’t matter now. I need to know that you’re not going to run away and that you can handle what we’re going to do.”

“I’m down, sister,” I said.

“Not helping,” she said. “Listen, this is what got Dr. Efaw killed. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

She seemed so earnest, so sincere. I had met patients so deep into their psychosis that they could convince others of unbelievable things. I was going to avoid that at all costs.

“What are these?” I said, motioning to the posters. The print across the paper was a large and repeating pattern of nonsense.

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“This is practice. These kinds of posters were big in the ’90s.

It doesn’t look like anything now, but if you look at it in the right way, there are a dozen images in there.”

She picked it up and sat beside me. “Sometimes it takes a while to see, but some people can get it right away. Once you understand how to look, you can see them easily on all these.”

I stared for a couple of minutes. “Nothing,” I said.

“Cross your eyes, just a little.” She jiggled the poster in front of me softly.

“Nope.”

She swapped out the poster for another one. “Try this one.

This has a shark here,” she drew an imaginary circle on the paper.

“Up here is a hammerhead and down here in the corner is a treasure chest.”

This went on for an hour. She didn’t get frustrated, but she didn’t give up either.

“Okay, try this. Hold the poster right up to your nose and start moving it away slowly.”

I tried that method several times. No dice.

She walked around the coffee table and lay down on the other couch.

“Maybe we should pick this up again in the morning,” she said, pulling one of the many pillows under her head.

“I’m really happy you’re here. I don’t usually relax this easily by myself,” her eyes were closing, and she was talking very softly.

It was like somebody pulled her cord, and the light was going out.

Ignoring all that was professional, I was glad I was there, too.

There on the couch, she looked so vulnerable. I had fallen under her spell. Whatever she wanted me to do, imaginary or not, I was going to help her. She was no longer an army of one. *** 249

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I opened one eye the next morning as the darkness turned into a misty gray. I guess bare windows do double duty as an alarm clock. Veronica was still asleep, curled up in a tight ball around a long pillow.

I sat up and rubbed my eyes... and looked down at the posters on the coffee table. Then I saw it, something blurry in the middle of all that pattern. I picked up the poster and lost it as quickly as it had appeared.

This poster was mostly greens and blues. I tried concentrating on the pattern as the background and letting my eyes relax on the blurry part. And BAM, there it was: a castle in a forest. The more I unfocused my eyes, the more detail I could see.

“GEEZ,” I yelled. Veronica sat up with wide eyes, holding the pillow in front of her like a shield.

“A castle, I can see a castle!”

She was still out of it, and for a moment, I wasn’t even sure she recognized me.

“Oh,” she said, coming back slowly. She looked around the room.

“OH,” she said, finally grasping my accomplishment. Her wheels were starting to turn. Excitement came back into her eyes.

She stepped over the coffee table and literally leaped onto my lap, facing me. The flexibility of her knees made mine hurt.

“Look at me,” she said.

I found it difficult not to.

“We are going to do some mind-blowing things today. If you start to freak, just know that I’m going to be here with you, and I’ve been through this my whole life.”

I didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. “Hey, I’m the therapist, I should be the one who is here for you.”

“Not today. I don’t want you hurt. I think I got Dr. Efaw killed, and I’m not going to let that happen to you. You’re sure you are with me on this? Last chance to cut and run?”

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“You and me,” I said.

She sat up straighter and pulled my head into her neck, then lay her head onto mine. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, thank you.”

I was beginning to acutely feel her body against mine. And I think she was beginning to acutely feel my reaction to that. She hopped up and said, “I’m going to take a shower, then we can go get some breakfast.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And guess what? I already have an outfit for you to wear to breakfast!” *** By mid-morning, we walked out into a beautiful sunny day.

A different doorman stood sentinel outside the building. Same uniform, same smirk as I passed by. He must have been on Mr. Blair’s payroll as well. I wondered how many men he had watched Veronica leave with over the years. Well, this was my job now, emotional gigolo. I almost looked like one. She had bought me black loafers, black jeans, and a dark burgundy polo shirt. She wore a black T-shirt, black stretch jeans, and black heels.

We walked several blocks to a little diner she knew served a late breakfast. I watched our reflection in the plate-glass windows as we passed. We were a good-looking couple, although I hadn’t seen it or thought of it as a possibility until now, and I could understand how people would see us this way and not as easily as a doctor/patient. My thoughts on the subject were changing. I wondered what if she saw us this way all along.

“Do you think of us as a couple?” I asked.

“A couple of what? Nuts?” She had been over-the-top happy, almost bouncy, since I had been able to see the images in the posters. The opposite of the sad little girl I saw in our first session.

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The diner was packed. There was an intoxicating mixture of coffee, toasted bread, and syrup. The air was full of the sound of thick plates and excited voices.

We had to wait to be seated. I was fully prepared for Veronica to have a violent episode, tossing a patron out of a booth or flipping a pancake onto someone’s lap, but no, she was quite calm.

“The answer to your question is, yes, I have thought about us as a couple. Quite a lot, actually. I have an extensive imagination, as you would have known if you had read my file.” She found my hand and squeezed it. I shook it off.

A server named Sheri seated us beside the window a few minutes later. We ordered, and I watched the people walk by on the sidewalk.

“We can’t think about romance now,” she said and smiled.

I started to say that I wasn’t asking to start a romance, but she talked over me.

“Today, you are going to learn a lot about what I have been dealing with. After that, we’ll see.”

“What do you mean, we’ll see? Do you think I’m going to quit after today?”

“Nope, I don’t. My money is on you, kid,” she said through a mouthful of pancake.

“Here’s the plan,” she said. “I’ll call and get you a car, you go home and relax for a few hours. There is a one o’clock showing of ‘Eraserhead’ at the Tygart on 46th Street. Go early enough to the previews. Sit about halfway down and on the left side of the theater. There is a crack in the wallpaper on that side where it’s pulling away from the wall. Sit about five rows back from that crack.”

“You’re not going with me?”

“Not this time.”

“This all seems kind of silly,” I said.

“It’s not.”

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We finished eating, and she paid the bill. Outside waiting for the car, she said, “Thank you for doing this. I know we’re paying you, but I could never pay you enough.” Her heels made us about the same height. Before I knew what was happening, she had wrapped one hand behind my head and guided my face toward hers. Our lips melted together, and the world around me disappeared. She pulled away first, then spun and walked down the sidewalk without another word. Just like in a movie.

I stood there electrified, ashamed, and for the first time, scared. *** The theater was bad, a real dump—the polar opposite of the restaurant where we had dined last night. The same guy sold you tickets and popcorn and probably lived in the theater. By the looks of things, this place had had its heyday in the seventies and gone downhill ever since.

The marquee outside advertised cult films during the day and adult films all night. The titles left little to the imagination.

I paid the guy and walked in and past the men’s restroom. I could imagine a couple of junkies sitting on the dirty, tiled floor, shooting up.

The theater was large, no renovations here. At capacity, it would seat maybe two hundred and fifty. Today, there were maybe ten people here, spread out across the room. I went to the left side of the room, as instructed, and found the crack in the wallpaper. It looked more like a rip to me, starting at the floor and going up five feet.

Sitting near it was a middle-aged woman. She was the only person who turned when I came in. She gave me a funny look as if she wanted me to join her. I guess I panicked at her gaze because I quickly slid into a row about five back from hers and 253

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ten seats from the end. My shoes felt like they were sticking to the floor, making a tacky sound that was loud in the nearly empty theater. The stickiness must have come from spilled soda, urine, or other liquids I didn’t want to think about.

The lights went down, and ‘Eraserhead’ started with its strange industrial soundtrack. A couple of latecomers came in and sat separately.

I watched the movie for twenty minutes without anything unusual happening. I was beginning to think this was just another test when something started happening around the crack in the wall. If I looked right at it, everything seemed normal. I started switching back and forth between the screen and the crack.

Something was happening there, but I couldn’t see it clearly.

The posters, that’s why she had me practice with the posters.

I tried to unfocus my eyes. It took me only an instant to see the crack become very clear, almost 3D. It began to move as if something were tearing at it from the inside. It was a violent ripping, but there was no sound, only the movie in the background.

A grey, slimy foot poked through the crack near the floor.

It was elongated and nearly human, but not quite. The toenails were long and dark yellow. A wet shine reflected from the movie screen, gleaming from the leg as it followed the foot out of the crack. There was no detail. It was as if the flesh had decayed and melted, like a body found in a lake.

The foot stepped on the carpet runner that stretched down the aisle that ran along the wall. I could see the muscle and sinew tighten, then return to the jelly-like flesh.

I realized that I had pushed myself back into my seat. My hands were gripping the armrests, and my feet were planted on the sticky floor, pushing me away from it. The room closed around me.

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had crawled through a mucky swamp, and the monochromatic substance covered everything.

A bloated stomach and scrawny chest appeared next, slimy and rotten as the leg. One of the nipples was ripped, leaving a dark, gaping opening. The skin was saggy, but a core of muscle lay underneath.

All my senses jangled; I could hear a guttural breath that wasn’t there. I could smell the rotten flesh in my mind, but not in the air.

It ducked, then its head and shoulders popped through, like a sideways, adult birth. The head whipped around savagely, surveying and assessing. The face was the same as the rest of the body, slimy, oozing, and cankerous. The head was like a large hairless bat’s head, sharp and demonic. Only the eyes were different. Where everything else was dead, the eyes were very alive. They were vicious and predatory, and searching the dark theater.

Its head started to swing around towards where I was sitting.

Out of pure force, I focused on the movie and made myself stare at the screen until I realized that I hadn’t been breathing. I took a long, slow breath through my nose. I tried to make myself relax.

I counted to ten and glanced toward the crack again. The thing was moving toward the woman. It was fixated on her, as if she were the only person there. As if she were the reason it came.

It moved more like a cat than a human. Low and calculating.

I realized that even though the skin was putrid, the muscle underneath was powerful and lean.

The woman was in the first seat of the row. The creature knelt in the aisle beside her, its face inches from hers. It raised a slimy finger and brushed back the hair from her shoulder. The fingernail was long and as yellow as its toenails.

That’s when I began to hear its breathing. It was shallow and ragged. The more it touched her, the more uneven it became.

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A black tongue came out and slid across her ear. The breathing became panting.

I took a quick look around at the other people in the theater.

Everyone else seemed to be watching the movie with no notice of the horror that was taking place in front of me. I was the only one who could hear the breathing. By the time I looked back, it had moved.

It had stepped into the row, facing her. The woman sat there, looking through it at the screen. It brought one leg over and straddled her, then sat right on her lap. She adjusted in her seat a bit, but didn’t take notice that there was a monster sitting on her.

It brought its feet up on either side of her shoulders and clasped its rotting fingers around the back of her neck. Its breathing was raspy and high. From my position, I could see a smile crease its decaying lips. Not a smile of happiness, but one of pleasure.

It was amazingly flexible. Even with the legs up, it managed to bring its face into her neck. The creature pulled back her hair and attacked the neck, biting and sucking savagely. The sound was like a wolf chewing through a carcass. I watched, horrified, unable to move. No one else noticed.

When the creature straightened back up, I expected to see a bloody, ripped neck. But there was nothing. The woman’s neck was unmarked. I exhaled softly, relieved she wasn’t hurt, then I realized the onslaught was only beginning.

The creature was concentrating hard on what it was doing.

From where I was seated, I couldn’t see. It was possibly fumbling with buttons on the woman’s blouse. Then, for no reason, it looked up, straight into my eyes.

The breathing turned into a hiss. Its already-horrible face turned into a mask of anger. It snarled. I had never felt such hatred. It climbed off the woman, keeping its piercing gaze on me all the while. It had planned a party and I had crashed it.

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I sank into my seat. If I could have run, I would have, but my legs were like cement. I couldn’t even lift my arms to fend it off.

It was out in the aisle now, moving steadily toward me, its stare unwavering. It bared its teeth, sharp and long, and hissed. I watched it coming, struck dumb with fear.

The creature was so focused on me and I on it that we didn’t see the figure moving up from the back of the theater. Once between us, the figure reached into its long coat with a flourish and retrieved a glass canister and swung it in front of the creature, releasing a wave of white granules that arched across it.

It howled as the granules hit it, leaving red welts and instant blisters. The figure unleashed another swing from the canister, producing another howl. This time, it took a step backwards and glanced at the crack.

The woman, who had been quiet until she had been hit with the second wave of granules, yelled, “Hey, what are you doing?”

Other people in the theater started looking our way. Of course, they only saw three humans.

The creature, still howling and invisible to everyone else, moved toward the crack. One hand reached up and touched a deepening red spot on its chest. It winced in pain. It stuck one foot through and looked back at us, uttering something foreign in a raspy voice. Then it disappeared into the crack.

“What was that stuff?” the woman yelled. “You spilled it all over me!”

The figure pulled me up out of my seat and said, “Let’s go.” *** As soon as she said, “Let’s go,” I knew it was Veronica. She pulled me by my arm up the aisle and out into the brightly lit lobby. From there, it was out onto the street.

“Keep walking,” she said as she pulled me. “It’s good to keep moving, helps your body get back to normal after shock.”

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“What about my brain?”

“That takes longer.”

I was leaning on her heavily as we made our way across an intersection. My legs were still rubbery, and I was having trouble breathing normally. I was aware enough to notice people on the sidewalks around us. People having an ordinary day, not having seen what I had.

I heard a big, smooth engine rumbling on the street beside us. The gleaming limo stopped and blocked traffic. Jeffery didn’t bother getting out to open the door for us. Veronica caught the door handle and flung the door open. She shoved me inside and got in after me.

She took off her coat and pulled me close to her. My face was against her neck, and she cradled me like a child. I put my arms around her waist and held her as tightly as I could. I thought I would do better in a situation like this, but I hadn’t; I was a mess.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I should have prepared you better.” Her voice was trembling.

My counselor training kicked in, and I realized that by watching me have my first experience with this thing, she was reliving hers. She had to have known it was going to happen, and she still had the courage to be there for me. I couldn’t imagine the willpower that took.

“So that’s the thing that you’ve been talking about since you were a kid?”

“Things,” she said, still holding me.

“There’s more than one?”

“We can go into all that later. Right now, I want you to try to relax. Nothing will happen to you while I’m here.” ***

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I tried to control my breathing, and it worked for a minute, but my mind was too full of questions. Each time I would ask something, she would say, “Just wait until we get back to the apartment.” I closed my eyes and stopped asking. *** “Here you go,” she said, and set a bottle of water on the coffee table. She folded herself onto the couch across from me.

“Now is the time for your questions. If you have any.” She smiled in that sarcastic way that she had.

“What was it? Was it human?”

“I don’t know what it was, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t human.

Unless it came like from the future, maybe like after a nuclear war.”

“What did you throw on it?”

“Salt.”

“Salt? How did you know salt would hurt it?”

“Saw it on ‘Supernatural,’ you know, the TV show.”

“That in itself is alarming,” I said.

“Whatever works,” she said.

“Maybe it would be quicker if you told me what you know, then I could ask questions.”

“Here’s the quick version. They started visiting when I was little. I don’t think it was me they were looking for, at least back then. There was a place in the back wall of my closet where the drywall had split. They used that as an entry point. Some I could recognize as repeat customers, and some I couldn’t.”

“Customers?” I said. “Why do you call them customers?”

“Because that’s what it felt like. It felt like they were being allowed a solo trip to Disneyland with me as the only ride. I think they look like they do because of the process they had to go through to get here.”

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“Get here from where?”

“Not sure. Have you ever heard of the concept of Shadow People?”

“Nope.”

“Well, there are cases from all over the world, but nothing documented. It’s like when you think you see someone out of the corner of your eye, but when you look, there is nothing there. I think these guys may have something to do with that. There is a lot of information out there, but no one has ever really compiled it. I think it might be linked to these things.”

“And you think they are coming from somewhere else?

Where?”

“How are you feeling? Want some more water?

“No, just answers.”

“I want to take this slow. This is where I lost Dr. Efaw.”

“Your old psychologist?”

“He was the only person other than you who could see them.

I taught him just as I did you, but he couldn’t handle it. I’m sure he didn’t fall off that cliff by accident.”

“You think he jumped?”

“He said it was like having head lice, you couldn’t always see them, but you knew they were there, crawling and scrounging just under the surface. Once he saw them, he couldn’t unsee them. It messed with his view of reality.”

I found myself looking around the room for cracks. Then I noticed again.

“So that’s why this apartment has rounded walls. No corners for cracks,” I said.

She tapped her finger on her temple. “And why I have a Ph.D. in physics.”

“Why physics?”

“Physics is basically how the universe works; I want to figure out where they come from.”

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“So, where do they come from?”

“Best guess at present, a different dimension.”

The room was quiet for a moment. This was a lot. I could understand how Dr. Efaw’s view of reality had changed. No one wants to believe in real monsters.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, no, I don’t know. I mean, I’m not going to jump off a cliff, but it’s a lot to wrap my head around. This morning, my biggest worry was a relationship with you; now I’m seeing creatures coming out of the walls.”

“You were thinking about a relationship with me?” There was that devilish half-grin again. It made me want to melt despite everything I had seen. “I knew I was getting under your skin.”

She started to stand to come over and sit beside me on my couch, but I said, “Wait.”

She looked a bit put off but slid back onto the other couch.

“Why do you think you could see them as a child?”

“Now that is the question, isn’t it? I’ve spent a good deal of time trying to figure that out. I’ve got a couple of theories.

“One is that maybe one of them wanted me to see them.

There was a creature that was particularly mean. I called him Hatman because of a particularly mean principal I had at one of my schools. I think he enjoyed scaring me as much as anything else. It heightened his pleasure to see how frightened he could get me. After I could see one, I could see them all. Something must have happened to him on the other side because he stopped appearing.

“Another theory is that people just don’t believe in them.

Maybe I was at that perfect age where I could believe in what I saw. How many kids see monsters under their bed but their parents talk them out of it?

“Are they all males?”

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“It’s hard to tell. They come through wearing rags, so they are mostly covered up. But sometimes I think I can sense something feminine about certain individuals. Then again, their masculine and feminine might not be the same as ours. Just because one does the birthing, that doesn’t mean it has all the connotations that go with what we consider being a girl.’’

“Wow,” I said slowly. “This is like finding out there are aliens and UFOs.” “We’re not alone,” Veronica said in a creepy voice.

We both chuckled at that. It wasn’t that funny, but it broke the tension a little more.

“So, what now?” I asked.

“Olive Garden,” she said.

“What?”

“We need to do something very ordinary. Believe me, I know.

Once you’ve had one of these experiences, it’s best to get back into a normal rhythm to think clearly. Olive Garden is the place.”

“But I’m not hungry. I mean like, really not hungry.”

“You’re talking like Shaggy on ‘Scooby-Doo.’ You’ll be hungry, wait until the adrenaline wears off. Unlimited breadsticks.” *** We slurped the last of the pasta and went through the second basket of breadsticks. I was starting to feel a bit more balanced and back to myself. I was wondering where all this was going.

“Any more surprises you’re going to throw at me?” I asked.

“Nope, that’s it. I thought that would be enough.”

“It is. But why me?”

“You mean besides the fact that you’re smokin’ hot?” That twinkle was back. She reached across the table and took my hand and lightly grazed her thumb across the top. My first response was to jerk back and look around, but I didn’t.

“No resistance? I must be doing something right.”

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I said nothing but gave her hand a tiny squeeze. “Why me?”

“We could approach this in many ways, but after long and careful thought, I think the first thing we need to do is research.

We need to document and interview. We need to find patterns and locations.”

Still holding my hand, she said, “And whom do we know who loves research? Whom do we know who loves to dig into a search relentlessly? I’ve read all your papers. I think I understand how you think. And I know that you’re an out-of-the-box thinker.”

I stayed motionless, thinking, but still very conscious of the warmth of her hand.

“Two more things, no three. One: I’ve already negotiated a very good deal for you with my father, so money should not be an issue.

“Two: You are not going to be able to quit thinking about this. You can’t turn it off like a movie. Today will be with you for the rest of your life. So, you are going to have to either embrace it or allow it to eat you up mentally.

“Three: All the flirting at first was a con, I’ll admit that.

But now it’s not. I don’t like it when you’re not around. I never thought I’d be able to say that honestly, but yeah, I can’t breathe when you’re gone. I miss another human. Look at the progress I’ve made.”

She said it all so matter-of-factly, but that’s how a personality like hers would do it. The hard part would be for her to admit it to herself; once that happened, admitting it to me would be easy.

“So, the doctor/patient relationship would be gone, and a new partnership would start?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, a partnership on so many levels.”

“Let’s start with the investigation level. What would we do?”

“Probably, no surprise to you, I’ve researched a perfect place. It has internet and cell service, blue water, and white sand beaches. Remember, money is not a problem. It has everything we need, including huts.”

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“Huts?”

“Yeah, round huts, no corners or cracks,” she said.

On that day, I began my monster quest. It has taken me nearly all over the world. There have been days when I wished I had never taken her on as a client, and days when I thought I had the best life in the world. I’ve gotten to know many of these creatures and found not an ounce of good in any of them. There have been some close calls and some all-out wins.

I’ll keep you posted... if I can.

264

Big Head Chad W. Sweeney, age ten, was having the best day of his life.

Most kids reserved that honor for their birthday, but not Chad.

This was the day after his birthday party, the day he was to ride his new bike for the first time.

He was up early, even before his parents, and went down to the kitchen to make himself a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast. A decent wedge of the birthday cake was still under the glass cake platter, so he decided to have that after the sandwich.

Birthday cakes in 1968 were mostly baked at home and with a ton of butter. But ten-year-olds in 1968 didn’t mind mixing peanut butter and birthday cake, then pedaling their bikes for an entire Saturday morning.

It was still two hours before the good cartoons started. He might, just might, take a break from “Space Ghost” and “Jonny Quest.” But then maybe not. A September birthday meant fall was near, and bike-riding weather was coming to an end. So maybe it was better to catch the cartoons on the reruns.

He washed down the last bite of cake with a glass of fullstrength milk, no skim or two percent in ’68, and headed for the garage.

He opened the door, flipped on the garage light, and fell in love again.

It leaned jaunty on its kickstand, the streamers sparkling down from the handle grips like a silvery waterfall. The back 265

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fender, chrome with a slight flip at the end, was inches from the slick back tire. His father had added the sissy bar and the white banana seat along with the butterfly handlebars. The best thing, the rarest thing, about this bike was the stick shift. The three-speed knob was mounted to the top tube, right there for everyone to see. It was the most beautiful thing Chad had ever laid eyes on. He couldn’t believe it was his.

He walked it out from the garage onto the driveway and watched the spokes sparkle in the morning light. The metal flake paint shone red in the sun. It was the perfect time of day. The sky was a brilliant blue with only a few puffy clouds floating on the horizon. The temperature was already in the ’70s, and the air was so clear you could almost taste it.

The ride started a little wobbly at first. Chad wasn’t used to the height of the butterfly handlebars. But after a few trips through the neighborhood, he got the feel. He took a grid pattern through the streets, crisscrossing through the intersections and feeling the wind blow through his hair. Once he made it to the church parking lot, he slid into long lazy figure eights, gliding through the loops and feeling the slight g-force as he came out of the turns.

He would realize later that these were the happiest moments of his life. The sheer joy of speed without any responsibility. The freedom of no past, no fear of the future. The lack of any kind of worry. Nothing to lose and nothing to gain, there was nothing but the sun and the motion and the streamers sparkling in the wind.

The newfound freedom was intoxicating. Without giving it too much thought, he swung out of the parking lot and headed up Suncrest Boulevard. That led to a road which led to a smaller road that eventually led to a one-lane paved lane. This was an access that wound its way up to the water tower, the highest peak in town. Here was a spot called Jacob’s Ladder. It was a wooden 266

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staircase that zig-zagged down hundreds of feet to the railroad tracks below.

None of Chad’s friends knew who built it or why it was called Jacob’s Ladder. The assumption was that there was a need to get from the tracks, of which there were six running side by side, up to the water tower. Regardless of the name or the reason, it was a great place for Chad and his buddies to visit. The view was spectacular, and the place was unknown to most everyone but Chad and his friends. They had never seen a sign of another soul on any of their trips there. In 1968, there were no taggers to spray the tower, or the stairs, and it wasn’t out of the realm of good parenting to let your son and his friends leave for the day and not come home until the streetlights came on.

And that’s what it had always taken, a day to hike all the way there and back. With a bike, it was different; the two hours to walk would be only about fifteen minutes on his bike. The pedaling to get up there would be tough, but the ride back down, neat-o.

Looking back, he could not remember if he had made the decision to go to Jacob’s Ladder or if he started riding and destiny guided him there. He often wondered what his life would have been like if he had opted for “Space Ghost” and “Jonny Quest.” *** Chad put it in third gear and pumped his legs furiously as he neared the top of the hill. The only sound was his labored breathing and the slight buzzing of the new tires on the pavement.

This part of the road was densely wooded, and the sun broke through in patches. He pedaled with his head down and didn’t realize he was at the top until he saw the road had leveled.

He coasted to a stop and got his breath, letting his hands lie limply over the handle grips.

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It was so silent up here, the trees behind him and the water tower about fifty yards to his left. Directly in front of him was the landing and the top of the handrail to Jacob’s Ladder.

He put the bike on its kickstand and walked to the wooden landing. Down below, only one freight train sat stationary on the tracks. The rest of the tracks circled off into the distant tree line. On the other side of the tracks flowed the Monongahela River. Too far away to see any of the waves, it lay like a smooth green ribbon moving off into the distance. The solitude gave him a sense of maturity.

Off to the right, about fifteen yards away, was a cement mound. It was thin, almost like a fat tepee, and about eight feet tall. It was made of a rough pebbly material and probably built about the same time as the water tower. The thing seemed completely out of place, as did the staircase. But in 1968, kids didn’t think much about the why and where of things. But, they were curious.

On one of the trips, Jinx, whose real name nobody knew, wanted to climb on the thing, but because of the shape and the rough surface, it was impossible. Finally, after an hour of trials, one of the other boys let Jinx stand on his shoulders and lean over to the top.

The top they could see, but not look down on, was a manhole cover. Jinx reported that it was a metal disk with letters and numbers curved around its edges. Also along the outer edge was a circle of round holes drilled through the iron. Stories circulated for weeks that these were breathing holes for some kind of river monster the government was hiding there. It was also believed by many that it was a hideout for the Mothman.

Chad sat on the wooden landing and marveled at the stillness of the day. The sun shone on his back, and his world felt alive and open.

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And then a sudden fluttering made him jump. It was rapid and violent and continued for several seconds. Then complete silence again.

Chad froze. The freedom turned quickly to fear.

It fluttered again, just as rapidly but not as long.

He stood. The sound was coming from the dome.

This time, he saw it. A gleaming white wing beat the air atop the dome.

The choice was to run to his bike and get out of Dodge or to see what was going on. Reluctantly, he took the latter.

Stepping slowly toward the dome, then around the side, he could see up over the edge. It looked like a small seagull, but the ocean was hundreds of miles away. Although he couldn’t actually see, he knew what had happened. For some reason, it had stuck its head into one of the holes in the manhole cover and not been able to pull it out. A bloody ring circled its neck and stained the cement skin of the dome. Chad could see the body rising and falling as it struggled for breath, blood dripping down the sides.

It fluttered again, making Chad jump and cry out.

He stood, breathing hard and trying to figure out how to save it.

“Leave it alone,” came a voice from behind.

Chad jumped again.

He turned to see a kid standing there. But there was something wrong with him. The body was small, maybe two grades younger than Chad. The head was misshapen and large. It was way bigger than it was supposed to be. And it was wrinkled, even under the dark hair. It was like a brown paper lunch bag that had been wadded up and then reopened.

Big Head took a step forward. It moved as if all the body parts were moving independently. Chad wasn’t as scared as he was awed. This kid was like something out of a Frankenstein movie.

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“Leave. It. Alone.” He said and took another step forward.

The closer it got, the less it looked like a kid.

“It’s suffering,” Chad said.

“Good. Let it.”

“Maybe I can get it out,” Chad said.

“It’s stupid, shouldn’t have stuck its head in there in the first place.”

“Maybe you’re stupid,” Chad said. He was suddenly feeling very large compared to this kid, if that’s what he was.

“Get out of here, I want to watch it die.”

“And I want to save it. Maybe after I do, I’ll stick your head in a hole. But maybe not, ’cause your head’s too big to fit.

That enraged the kid. It looked around for something to throw. Chad watched as it scavenged under the trees. It found a stick and threw it at him. It landed about halfway there.

Chad laughed. “Nice throw, moron.”

He turned his attention back to the bird, which had begun fluttering again. He was on his tiptoes trying to see over the top when a stone slammed into his back. It hurt like crazy. He turned to see Big Head right behind him, only this time he was sure it wasn’t a kid. The size was misleading. The face was a mass of wrinkles within wrinkles. The hair looked like a bad dye job, and the eyes looked ancient.

As Chad turned and grabbed at his back, the creature realized it was too close. It started to run, but it wasn’t made for speed.

Chad had spent the summer playing shortstop for his Kiwanis Little League team. He spotted the rock that had hit him resting in the dirt at his feet. In one motion, he picked it up and laced it at the creature, who was still trying to plow back into the forest.

Chad saw the whole thing in slow motion, a sight he would take with him to the grave.

It hit the creature in the back of the head and ricocheted off to the right, taking with it a chunk of skull. It turned and looked back with insane eyes. Out of the opening came a gush of thick 270

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yellow ooze. The creature didn’t seem to care that its head had been busted open, and whatever was inside was running out and dropping to the ground.

“Now you’ve done it,” it snarled. “You have no idea.”

Chad froze. He couldn’t take his eyes off the yellow stuff.

“Which one is it going to be, Mommy or Daddy?” the creature said.

Chad didn’t know why, but his mind instantly went to his mom.

“Oh, Mommy, is it?” Big Head said in a sweet voice. “Well, you’d better get home and give her a big kiss. While you still can.”

Then it started laughing.

The laughter unsettled Chad. The creature cackled louder and louder. He got on his bike and started back down the hill, pedaling harder than he should have. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t outrun that laughing voice. *** As he rode back onto his street, he jumped the curb and laid his bike down on the front lawn. Just inside the door, he heard his parents talking at the kitchen table. He raced through the living room and into the kitchen. His dad stopped in mid-sentence when Chad embraced his mom and didn’t let her go.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Chad said, realizing he was being uncharacteristically emotional. “I wanted to let you know how much I like my bike.”

He unclenched his mom and gave his dad an awkward hug.

“You too, Dad.” The bike was returned to its spot in the garage, and Chad spent the rest of the morning and afternoon watching college football on TV. Being home with his parents and in the cozy 271

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confines of his house, the reality of the morning seemed to fade like an old newspaper.

Chad wasn’t dumb, and he knew that wrinkly kid creatures and exploding heads were not real. By the time Saturday night rolled around, he had convinced himself that the whole thing had been some kind of hallucination.

Maybe somebody had slipped LSD into some of the food he had eaten. That was something the teachers at school had been telling everyone to look out for.

During the day, he was fine, but the night was a different story.

Hallucinations or not, the little creature continually haunted his dreams. He would wake sweating, seeing the creature laughing and hearing it say, “Kiss her, while you still have the chance!”

This went on for nearly two weeks until Chad realized he had to do something. On Friday after school, he got home and yelled in the front door, “Gonna go ride my bike. I’ll be home later.”

There was a muffled, “Okay,” from somewhere inside. Not bad parenting, just 1968.

He figured if there was a way to prove what happened was real, this was it.

It took the whole fifteen minutes to get to the crest of the hill, to the top of the Ladder. He rode in slowly, amazed at how different things looked after two weeks. A great many of the leaves had fallen. Those that were still hanging on were brittle and brown. The wind whispered through the nearly naked branches, emitting a slight chattering sound. The sun, which had felt so good on his back, had lost its power and was now only a lamplight in the sky.

He waited for the voice to come from the trees and tell him to get lost, but it was only the wind that was hissing through the trees. He wandered over to the spot where the yellow stuff should have pooled, but could find no trace. He searched for the rock and the stick near the tree line and came up with nothing there either.

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He breathed a sigh of relief. It was better for him to believe he was a little off that day than believe in strange little men. Now, at least, he thought he could sleep. He would have to tell his parents that he had been imagining things, and that might lead to a doctor’s visit, but that was all right. He could handle that.

He turned to walk back to his bike, still sparkly in the dim light, when he caught sight of the cement dome. There, with its head still stuck in the hole, was what was left of the bird. The skeleton was showing through the remaining feathers. Maggots were furiously digging into the existing internal organs. A feather pulled free and was spirited away by the breeze.

Chad stood still and allowed the reality to wash over him.

Could part of his memory be real and the rest not? Maybe.

He coasted down the hill much more slowly than the last time he was there. But, even though it didn’t seem possible, he was now twice as scared. *** The darkness was setting in as he parked his bike in the garage. He expected he might be in a little trouble for being gone too long, but to his defense, the streetlights hadn’t come on yet.

The house was unusually quiet. On a normal night at this time, Mom would be fixing dinner, and Dad would have his feet propped up in the recliner watching TV. His parents looked up quickly as he entered the kitchen.

They were sitting at the kitchen table holding hands across the top. They both had been crying.

His mom stood quickly, came to Chad, and embraced him.

Then, without saying a word, she walked down the hall, into her bedroom, and closed the door.

“Sit down, Chad.”

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He came to the table and waited. His dad’s eyes were red and swollen. He had never seen his dad like this, even close. It made Chad’s throat tighten.

“Your mom is sick, Chad. We found out today.”

“She doesn’t look sick,” Chad said.

His dad took a deep breath, “She’s sick deep inside, in an organ called the pancreas.” A tear welled in the corner of his eye.

“Is she going to be all right?”

He hesitated. “We don’t know,” he said. For the first time in his life, he could tell his dad was lying. *** She died on February 13th, on the eve of Valentine’s Day. She left a heart-shaped box of candy, some special wax for his bike, and a sealed letter. The last thing in the world Chad wanted to do was to open that letter. His dad told him he could wait and open it when he felt like it. That, it seemed, would not be for a long time.

He woke that same night to a thumping sound in the hallway.

Chad raised himself up on one elbow and looked over the footboard toward his door. Big Head came humping in with that same unnatural gait. It stopped and looked at him.

“Just checking in, seeing how you’re feeling,” it said.

Chad said nothing. He scooted back toward the headboard.

“How does it feel, knowing that you killed your own mother?”

“I didn’t,” Chad said softly.

“Did too, did too,” the creature sang. “I told you to leave that bird alone.”

“But I wanted to help it.”

“But you didn’t, did you? It’s dead, and your mother’s just as dead. All because of you.”

“You’re not real,” Chad said. “This is just a dream.”

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“Of course it’s a dream, you idiot. That’s where I live. Not just in dreams, but in bad dreams, nightmares. And sometimes, if someone makes me mad enough, I live in the real world, too. I live for the sorrow, the pain someone is having. I’m having a ball with you.”

The sunlight hit his eyes. He jolted awake. His dad was there; he had opened the curtains.

“Got a couple of inches of snow last night,” he said. “Kind of like your mom giving us one last gift.”

Dad said he could take the rest of the week off after the funeral. It would be a few more days until Chad would have to face the class as the only motherless student.

Through the morning and into the afternoon, the snow kept falling. Chad’s dad had shoveled the driveway and sidewalk once and was now working on it a second time. Chad felt his dad would rather do anything than sit around and miss his wife.

There was a small tapping on the front door. Chad looked out the window to see his dad talking to a woman. He thought it was the neighbor across the street, but she was so bundled up, he couldn’t tell for sure. The rapping on the door came again. Chad opened it, and a little girl marched in along with a gust of cold air. She was carrying a picnic basket almost as big as she was. Her name was Kathern, but her parents called her Cat. She was two years behind Chad in school and was small for her age. He never paid much attention to her, but when he had, she had seemed a little bossy.

“Where’s your kitchen?” she asked.

“In here. Let me take that for you.” Chad tried to take the basket, but Cat pulled it away.

“I’m supposed to do this to help you, so leave me alone,” she said.

Chad led her into the kitchen. Gathering her strength, she hoisted the basket onto the table. She pulled out a kitchen chair 275

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and stood on the seat. There were several plates covered with silver foil.

She pointed. “That one goes in the refrigerator. That one too.”

Chad followed her orders. “Those two can go on the stove.

This one is a dessert, so it can go wherever you put desserts.”

Once the food was placed, she took off her prim little coat and handed it over.

“I’m here to spend time with you. To keep you from dwelling on your mother’s death too much.” Chad just looked at her.

“What were you doing before I came in? Watching TV?” Chad didn’t say anything. He walked back into the living room, and she followed.

“Andy Griffith reruns?” she said. “I love Barney, I think he’s the funniest person on TV.” They watched a couple of shows. After a while, Chad’s dad came back in from shoveling and watched with them. All in all, it was one of the best afternoons Chad had had in a while.

Over the next few years, the creature was gone. There would be instances when Chad’s mind would play tricks on him. Like when he thought he caught sight of the thing when the local news covered a car crash, and it was standing with a crowd of onlookers. No rewinding back then. So, he couldn’t tell for sure. Or when the newspaper had a picture of a house fire with a fatality. Just off to the side was a smudgy image of the thing looking through burnt bushes. Maybe it was just his mind connecting dots that weren’t there. He learned to push thoughts like that from his head. Or he tried to. *** 1975. Chad’s first year as a captain. He had tried out in seventh grade as a lark. Two of his friends were pretty good basketball players, and they had talked him into coming to the first practice to, as they had put it, feel it out. To his surprise, on the third night 276

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when the roster had been posted, his name was there. It was way at the bottom, but still one of the twelve. He rode the bench every game, but boy did he tear it up in practice. His shooting left a lot to be desired, but on defense, he was relentless. Chad could stay with the fastest guards on the team. His footwork was natural, and he had an uncanny sense of where the ball was going to go.

He would unnerve the best ballhandlers, not letting them breathe when he guarded them.

The coach took him aside at the end of the season and told him that if he could bring up his ball-handling and shooting skills as well as he played defense, he might have a future in the game.

After that, he spent every extra minute on a court somewhere.

When he couldn’t find enough people, he would organize threeon-three, two-on-two, or even long, exhausting, one-on-one fullcourt games. In the winter, he would shovel his driveway and practice ball-handling drills until his fingers became chapped and bled.

And so it began, his senior season. The team came out focused and pumped up as they went through the layup drills. The gym was packed as the pep band blasted out “Crocodile Rock” and “Love Will Keep Us Together.” Even though it was snowy outside, the gym was hot and sticky.

As they walked out for jump ball, Chad looked up in the stands for his dad. He was always there in the same spot, alone.

He raised his hand and gave a thumbs-up. Chad returned a nod and a small smile.

The ball went up, and the center tipped it back to Chad.

He took three dribbles and passed it crosscourt to a streaking teammate for a layup. They were up two to nothing before the other team even knew what had happened. By halftime, Chad had the other team’s point guard so shaken he was falling apart.

He waved for his coach to take him out. The next guy didn’t last long either.

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The bleachers across from the teams were the roll-out kind that extended out to the side of the court. In some gyms, the cheerleaders stood along the edge of the court so they could cheer to the crowd. Here, the bleachers were too close to the sideline, so they had to cheer from just off the court, under the basket.

Late in the third quarter, Chad had just taken an outlet pass from the center and was dribbling the ball from the sideline toward the center of the floor. For some reason, a player from the other team came flying at Chad from the other side of the court.

Chad crossed over easily and headed toward the center circle, but the other player couldn’t get stopped. His foot slid under the bleacher and stopped, while he didn’t. Everyone in the building heard the bone crack.

For a split second, the only sound in the gym was Chad dribbling down the court. Then the horrible scream from the player. Chad stopped and turned around. The shoe and half of his leg were still stuck under the bleacher, sticking straight up. His shin was at a right angle, the splintered bone protruding through the skin. He was lying flat on his back, smacking his hands on the floor. Chad let the ball go. It bounced down the floor and across the baseline unnoticed.

The people in the crowd stood to get a better look. Then came an avalanche of screams as everyone saw what had happened.

His coach ran to the screaming player. Everyone else moved away. The refs didn’t even blow a whistle to stop the game. No one knew what to do. His screaming continued. In 1975, there were no medical staff standing by. An assistant coach ran to the pay phone in the cafeteria to call for an ambulance.

The screaming continued but became weaker. A pool of blood was widening on the gym floor, causing two girls and a boy to pass out. More chaos ensued.

Chad, standing near his bench, noticed something in the crowd: a misshapen big head leering right above the hurt player.

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smile spread across its face, and its eyes half closed, as if it were inhaling the pain. It looked up and met Chad’s eyes. It smiled wider.

Over the years since the death of his mother, Chad had convinced himself that the creature wasn’t real. The memory had dimmed.

Now it came flooding back. And with it came an anger, an adult anger. At the very least, it had taken part of his innocence, at the most, it had taken his mother.

Chad marched unnoticed across the floor. It watched him come, unafraid and almost taunting him with its eyes. He walked around the player, who was slowly going into shock, and grabbed the back of its grimy shirt. No one paid any attention to Chad or the little creature he was dragging out of the building.

The thing was light, as if it were hollow. He dragged it through one set of doors and then through another. Once outside, he tossed it into a snowbank made from a shoveled sidewalk. He was still in his uniform and game shoes. He should have been freezing, but he wasn’t.

“Oh, you’re going to pay this time,” Big Head said.

The sound of its voice took Chad back to his childhood.

“You’re vile and evil. I should kill you now,” Chad said.

“You should, but you won’t. You’re still a little boy inside. A little boy who killed his mother.”

“Chad?” It was a voice from the hallway.

“Oh ho, who do we have here?”

“Nobody,” Chad said.

“Chad? Are you okay?” Same voice, only closer.

“She sounds pretty. Is she pretty enough?” it said.

“You leave her alone, or I’ll—” “You’ll do what? Track me down? Where you going to find me? You going to come into your dreams and get me?”

“Chad, who are you talking to?” She was right at the door.

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“I live in your dreams. Like a whale that only surfaces into reality when it needs to breathe. Like a cicada crawling underground for seventeen years. I only pop up for a little taste of my kind of air.”

“You need to get back down there, then,” Chad said.

“And you need to get back to your sweetie. Give her a kiss, a nice, long, wet one. While you still can.” It walked away into the shadows of the parking lot, moving with the same disjointed gait that it had at Jacob’s Ladder.

“What are you doing out here?” Judy asked.

“I needed some air.”

Just then, a siren wailed in the distance.

“You should come back in. It’s freezing out here.”

An ambulance pulled into the emergency lane and stopped, its red lights reflecting off the snowbanks. *** Judy and Chad’s dad were the only people who noticed he was missing. Neither said anything about seeing him dragging a creature outside. Chad found his coach and asked if the game was over. The injured player was lifted onto a gurney while his head coach held his hand.

“Apparently,” Coach said. “Their assistant coach took the other team to the locker room to get dressed. The refs are nowhere to be found.” He rounded up the rest of the players and said, “Go on home. Practice tomorrow at the regular time.”

The ambulance guys rolled the injured player across the gym floor and out the double doors. The custodian was waiting with a bucket and a mop. Within a few minutes, most everyone was gone. A few teachers, players, and cheerleaders were still milling around.

Chad’s dad met them at midcourt.

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“I’m going on home,” his dad said. “What are you doing?”

“I’ll be home in a little bit,” Chad said.

Judy looked at him, “I thought we were going to Burger Chef?”

“You two work it out,” his dad said. “But be home by tenthirty.” He walked away.

“This whole thing has freaked me out. I just want to go home.

Okay?”

“I suppose so,” she said. “But promise we will do something this weekend. Like a movie.”

“I promise,” Chad said. “Still haven’t seen ‘Cuckoo’s Nest’ yet.

How about we go see that?”

She didn’t say anything, but she grabbed him around the waist and tilted her head back for a kiss, which he did, probably holding it a little too long, for a kiss at midcourt with the custodian mopping up blood.

“Walk me to my car?

“I gotta get dressed first.”

“Go then. I’ll wait.”

He jogged down into the locker room and was back in three minutes, carrying his gym bag. Judy was sitting primly on a seat at the end of the bench, talking to the three cheerleaders who were left.

As Judy and Chad left, one of the cheerleaders yelled, “When you’re through with her, come back and walk me out!” Everyone laughed, but Judy laughed the least.

There was another quick kiss at her Volkswagen, a black Beetle perfect for a high school girl. He waited, letterman’s jacket pulled up tight around his neck, and made sure her car started.

He waved as she drove away. His old Skylark was waiting for him across the parking lot. Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the kitchen table with his dad. They had peanut butter sandwiches and milk.

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His dad seemed to want to talk, but Chad didn’t. He wanted to go to sleep and not think about anything, especially what happened after the injury.

When he did fall asleep, the little creature was there laughing at him. At one point, a phone was ringing. The creature was there holding out the phone singing,” It’s for you, it’s for you.” Judy’s voice was on the line, screaming, “IT’S YOUR FAULT, ALL YOUR FAULT!” Then it woke him; the phone was actually ringing. The luminous dial on his clock read 12:30.

Chad’s dad burst into the bedroom, “Judy’s not home. Do you know where she might be?

Chad was still a little dazed from waking up so quickly. The phone line was stretched in from the living room.

“No, no. I don’t know where she is.” He gathered himself. “I walked her to her car, made sure it started, then she drove off.”

Chad’s dad repeated that into the phone. Then said, “Yeah, about 8:30. No, he was here with me.”

“Did you see her talking to anybody else?”

“No, I mean she was talking to a couple of cheerleaders in the gym. There wasn’t anyone in the parking lot.”

Chad’s dad repeated that into the phone. Then said, “I think you should…that’s what I would do. Okay, keep us informed.” He hung up. “They are calling the police.”

“She didn’t come home?”

“No. Her parents are beside themselves. I could hear her mother crying in the background.”

“Man…” Chad said.

“And you don’t have any idea of where she could be?

“No, I swear.” Dad sat down on the edge of Chad’s bed.

Chad got up and started getting dressed.

“What are you doing?

“I’m going to go look for her.”

His dad stood, “Yeah. I’ll go too.”

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*** They started at the school parking lot and followed the route to Judy’s house. Nothing. No cars on the road, no movement anywhere. No lights on in any of the houses along the way. They decided to drive the streets parallel to hers. Before long, a police cruiser lit them up and pulled them over.

“License and registration, please,” the officer said. Chad’s dad gave it to him and explained the situation. The officer shone his flashlight on the license plate, then on the two in the car.

“You’re the ballplayer?”

“Yes, sir,” Chad said.

“You two go on home, we got this covered.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Chad’s dad said.

“Just incriminate yourselves if you hang around. Go on home.”

“Will you let us know when you find her?”

“No, we will only be in contact with the parents. They can update you if they want.”

He walked back to his car, and Chad and his dad drove home. *** Chad fell asleep on the couch, his dad in his easy chair. The alarm clock in Chad’s room woke them.

“What are we going to do?” Chad asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what we can do.”

Dad stood and stretched, “I’m going to make us some toast.”

“Not hungry,” Chad said.

“Me neither, but we have to eat something.”

They ate the toast in silence. Chad had orange juice, and his dad had coffee. Chad could feel himself going down a dark hole of unanswered questions.

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Chad’s dad stood to clear the table. “I have to go to work.”

“Now? At a time like this?” Chad said.

“If there was something to do to help, I would. There isn’t.

Besides, staying around here worrying will drive us crazy.”

“Us?” “You need to go to school; sitting here worrying will make things worse.”

Chad couldn’t argue with that. Maybe being around other people would be better. The thought of being alone here was terrible.

He took a shower and got dressed. He got his books and started to leave when his dad stopped him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know that, right?”

“I know, I just don’t know what to do or how to act.”

“I know, son, I know.” *** The hallway in the school had the usual amount of foolishness and noise as Chad walked in. Judy, who was always there, waiting for him at their locker, wasn’t.

“Where’s your girl, Sweeney?” asked a long-haired kid two lockers down. Chad ignored him and hung his coat inside and removed his biology book. He walked toward his first class, only to sidestep a kid who had tripped over his own platform shoes and landed in the middle of the hall. Laughter broke out, and Chad strode through it, jaw clenched.

Mr. Jefferson was writing vocab words on the chalkboard when Chad sat down and put his book on the desk.

The teacher turned quickly, then smiled when he saw who it was. He liked Chad, liked having a basketball star in his class.

“Horrible last night, wasn’t it?”

Chad looked up from his book.

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“I’ve never seen a leg break like that. I was sitting on the same side. Horrible, just horrible.”

“Yeah, it was bad.”

The bell rang, and students started filing in. The tardy bell would ring two minutes later. That’s when the main rush of kids would flood to their seats.

The noise in the hallway suddenly hushed. Mr. Jefferson and the students in the room turned toward the door. Mr. Jenkins, the principal, was there with another man in a suit. A policeman stood behind them.

“Chad Sweeney?” the guy in the suit said.

Chad turned around but didn’t say anything.

“Would you please follow us?” It wasn’t a question.

“What’s going on? We are about—” Mr. Jefferson started.

Mr. Jenkins held up his hand and cut him off.

Chad followed them into the hallway.

The rest of the class watched. There were still several students in the hall when they walked out. The guy in the suit, Chad, and the policeman were three abreast. Mr. Jenkins followed. His classmates froze as they passed, no longer caring about receiving a tardy slip.

They walked past the three school secretaries, two of whom had their mouths drop wide open. They entered a conference room connected to the principal’s office.

“These two officers would like to ask you some questions, Chad. You don’t have to answer anything without your father here. That’s completely up to you,” the principal said.

“It’s okay,” Chad said.

“We’d like to ask you some questions about last night. I’m Detective Cook, and this is Officer Allen.”

Chad nodded.

“So, Judy James is your girlfriend?”

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“And you saw her last night?” Detective Cook was asking the questions and Officer Allen was staring holes through Chad.

“Yes.” “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

Chad took a deep breath and told them what he had told his dad. When he finished, no one said anything.

“Is that it?” Officer Allen asked.

“I think,” Chad said.

Detective Cook took out a small spiral and flipped through some pages.

“We have a couple of reports of you and Judy coming back in from the front of the school.”

“Oh yeah,” Chad said. “I forgot about that.” Their faces were blank; he thought they could tell he was lying. “I went outside to get some air. Judy came out to see if I was all right. She talked me into coming back inside.”

“You went out in the cold in your uniform?” Cook asked.

“Yeah, it was just the kid’s bone was sticking out, and everyone was screaming. I just felt like I couldn’t breathe.”

After that, they asked about some of the details of the parking lot. They asked him where he thought she might be. He was dismissed to go back to class while the policemen stayed and talked with the principal. The secretaries watched as he passed by.

He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he returned to the classroom. Mr. Jefferson continued with the lesson like nothing had happened.

After that, he stopped at the locker to exchange books for the next class. A couple of his buddies stopped to ask what was going on. All he could say was that Judy was missing.

Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. James had called Judy’s friends during the night as they had Chad. Word leaked during first period that Judy was missing, and by lunchtime, everyone at the 286

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school knew. Chad being walked up the hall by policemen just added to the rumor mill.

The table where Chad usually ate with his friends was empty.

They must have found somewhere else to eat. He sat alone while the tables around him filled.

When he was nearly finished, someone came over and slapped their tray down across from him. It was Cat, the little girl from next door, who didn’t look so little anymore. She was a freshman, but way more mature than most of the freshmen that he knew.

“You look like you need a friend,” she said. She was still a little pushy, but very pretty. He hadn’t noticed before.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because no one wants to sit with you and the whole school is whispering,” she said and took a bite of hot roll.

She stayed there beside him for the rest of lunch. Funny, he hadn’t noticed how good-looking she had become. *** Basketball practice wasn’t any better. Almost everyone was up on the floor by the time he went down to get dressed. He was awful during the drills, he threw bad passes and mishandled the ball so badly that at one point he accidentally kicked the ball across the court.

The evening news had a story on Judy. The newscaster read a statement from the chief of police asking the public for any information regarding the case. No one seemed to know anything; she was just gone. It had to be excruciating for the parents.

They had been seeing each other since the middle of summer.

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they it was just the two of them going places. The days of going Dutch were over and Chad had started paying for everything they did. Chad liked her—it was nice having a girlfriend—but Judy was a little more into the dating thing than he was.

The next day, two major events happened that would have a huge impact on Chad’s life.

The first was the newspaper story. The headline was, ‘Where Is Judy?’ It was the most in-depth reporting anyone had done so far. The timeline, which had to have been supplied by the police, identified Chad as the last person to have seen Judy before she disappeared. He was not listed as a suspect, and police did not think he was involved in any way.

But still, his name was the only name in the article. He would always be associated with her being missing.

The second major event involved basketball. This was the evening of the first game in the crosstown rivalry with the town’s other high school. Chad’s team had constantly lost to them during his entire high school career. This would be the first time Chad had a very good chance of beating them.

The trouble started even before tip-off. As the visiting team, Chad’s team, was warming up, home-made posters started popping up in the stands. They had taken Judy’s picture from the newspaper article and blown it up. On the tops had been written, WHERE IS SHE? Each time Chad would come near that side of the floor, ten to twelve posters would be raised. Chad’s coach complained to the other team’s coach, but he said the administration would have to handle the crowd. No administrator could be found.

During the game, each time Chad touched the ball, the posters would go up. When he went to the foul line, the posters were jiggled in his view.

At halftime, he received some encouragement from his teammates, but it did little to help his play. The second half was even worse. It was his worst game of his life.

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It was also the last game of his life. He told his coach he couldn’t play again until Judy came back. The coach was an understanding person; he would tell everyone that Chad had done something to his back and would be out until further notice. The season that he had prepared for his whole life had slipped away. *** Judy’s body was found a week later. Nude except for her bra, it was found face down on the floor of an abandoned factory about two hundred miles away. Her head was placed in a drain with the metal covering over it, and her arms were positioned under her body. Very similar to the position of the bird with its head stuck. There was no sexual assault. Her clothing and her car were never found.

Chad was at home with his dad when someone called with the news. He cried. He didn’t expect to, but he did. His dad tried to talk to him. There wasn’t really much to say. Neither wanted any dinner. They each fell into a stupor of their own, not knowing how to process the death of someone so young.

There was a knock at the door. It was Cat. She sat with Chad and his dad for the rest of the evening. She made popcorn, and they watched “Happy Days” on TV. Chad could feel himself starting to tear up two or three times that evening. When he would, he leaned forward with his head in his hands. Cat would gently rub his back.

The only good thing to come out of that evening was that it, for once and for all, excluded Chad from being a suspect, even though the police had said that all along. There was no way that Chad could have driven from the gym, when they talked to the cheerleaders, to where the body was found and back, by the time the cop had stopped him and his dad that night.

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Cat asked for a ride to school the next day. Chad agreed without thinking it through.

That morning, as Chad scraped the frost off his windshield, Cat came bopping across the street. She got in and waited for it to warm up while Chad finished the back window. She talked nonstop all the way. He realized that she was trying to put him at ease, trying to be a friend, but he wasn’t ready for someone that peppy after the news.

He pulled into the parking slot and turned off the car. She started to open the door but noticed he wasn’t moving.

“I can’t go in,” he said softly.

“I’ll go with you. I’ll eat lunch with you.”

“Thanks, but it’s not that.”

“You don’t want everyone seeing you with me so soon after… you know, losing Judy.”

“No, no,” Chad said. “You’re way off base. This is my fault.”

“Chad, you can’t take any blame. You walked her to her car.

You even waited until she drove off. No one blames you.”

“You don’t understand. Nobody does, Nobody ever will.”

Somewhere in the school, a bell rang.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” Cat said.

“Go ahead, I’ll be in in a minute.”

He was resolute, and she knew it. She covered his hand, which was still on the stick shift.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She gave it a squeeze and opened the door. He watched her zigzag through the parked cars and climb the steps to the main doors. At the top, she stopped and gave a long look back at the car, then disappeared inside.

He put the car in gear and drove home. ***

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Chad and his dad went to the funeral home to pay their respects. They wore black suits, white shirts, and black ties. They had to go to the Men’s department at Sears to buy the clothes for Chad. His dad wore the same suit for his wife’s funeral.

The mourning was in full swing by the time they arrived.

This was the first look at death for many of the young people.

Most had not even lost their grandparents yet, so the tears were flowing in earnest as Chad and his dad walked in. The room grew quiet as they approached Judy’s parents.

The dad looked as if he was fighting back misplaced anger, the mother fighting contempt. Their nerves were raw and all over the place. She was an only child.

Chad stepped up to the closed casket, barely able to breathe. A framed senior picture was displayed on a nearby table. A picture issued by a school from which she would never graduate. A tear rolled down his cheek, then another. When Judy’s mom saw his anguish, her heart opened. She came and embraced Chad, a mother’s embrace he couldn’t remember. He told her how sorry he was, how he wished he had followed her all the way home. She cried on his shoulder.

Mr. Sweeney stayed there to give his condolences, and Chad wandered to the back of the room. A group of girls came to Chad and began hugging him. A few minutes later, a group of guys came to say how sorry they were. Now he was a victim as well.

No one was blaming him any longer. He was the only person assigning any guilt, and he was placing it all on himself.

Mr. Jenkins and Chad’s dad had several meetings over the next few days.

He would finish his last two grading periods at home and be allowed to start a new program called AP classes. This would allow him to get a head start on his college classes while he finished his required high school work. Cat would bring his assignments to him each night.

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The feelings of guilt did not improve, but his ability to deal with them did. His grades improved as well. He had never been an outstanding student, but with Cat working with him, he became one. He started to obsess over his grades the way he did with basketball.

As his outlook improved, so did his relationship with Cat. She would often bring a meal with the homework, and they would eat together. Chad’s dad had taken on more responsibility at work, so there were many nights when he got home late. Cat always saved an extra plate of dinner for him.

Once the weather got warmer, they would take long walks or go to a park near the river.

Summer came, and they openly admitted that they were a couple. Cat was to be a sophomore and Chad a freshman in college. He decided to attend a local community college even though he was accepted into two universities. He told everyone it was because he wanted to stay near his dad, but the real reason was to stay near Cat. He took as many classes as the college would allow. In three years, he graduated with a business degree. Two weeks later, he had a job at a local bank.

By then, Cat had finished high school and, because of the AP classes, she was starting college as a sophomore. Chad decided to propose.

They had a wedding that was more expensive than was needed and more enjoyable than anyone had imagined. Chad worked, and Cat took classes. Baby number one arrived shortly after she graduated. Then babies two, three, and four came bang, bang, bang. *** 2019. Chad Sweeney was living the dream. He had moved up the ladder at the bank with hard work and an abundance of good 292

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luck. A string of retirements had given Chad the stepping stones one right after another, and now he was at the top. As president, he was looking at a lucrative retirement if he decided to take it.

And presently, retirement was something he could put off for quite a while; he enjoyed his job.

He played golf at the club with clients. He joined a tennis league and made a great many friends through the years playing in tournaments. He played mixed doubles with Cat, who had a much stronger killer instinct than he did. They had a collection of trophies in the den to prove it.

The four daughters had wonderful marriages and had produced six grandchildren, with two more on the way. Chad was co-coaching Little League with a son-in-law. The team had three of his grandchildren on it, comprising the entire outfield.

The town had hit a growth spurt, something that had aided in the growth of the bank. In 2018 and 2019, the economy was peaking. Chad and his work at the bank took full advantage of the opportunity to help drive that growth. Cat was the lone woman on the city council. Together, the Sweeneys were a force in bringing in new business and helping to solidify the momand-pop shops of the town.

It was a gorgeous afternoon in May. The rhododendrons were blooming around the beds at their home when they pulled the Volvo out of the garage. They were heading for the ballfields, which were on the other side of town. Today, they were playing FOP, which was the police-sponsored Little League team. Chad thought it should be a good game, unless someone had a sleepover or a birthday party the night before. On a Saturday morning, it was easier to drive through town than to go around it.

There was a town square with a fountain in the middle. The landscaping had been done with azaleas and peonies, all of which were in bloom. Even though the town was booming, there was still a feel of Mayberry here. People were friendly, and the place 293

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was clean. It felt like a sunny day even when it was overcast. The square was a favorite meeting place for all ages.

Cat was fiddling with the radio as Chad coasted to a stoplight.

A family of five crossed in front of them, the parents carrying coffee cups, and their kids looked to be sticky with doughnuts.

They scurried to a park bench near the fountain. A couple of old-timers were playing checkers at one of the tables nearby. A group of teenagers sat at a grouping of benches, idly passing a tennis ball between them. People were popping in and out of the shops and cafes.

The light turned green, and Chad began to accelerate, but then he caught a glimpse. Casually sitting on one of the park benches was Big Head. It was grinning and looking directly at Chad.

He hit the brakes. The SUV stopped so suddenly that Cat slammed against her seatbelt.

“What?” she yelled. “Chad?”

Chad was staring at the creature. It continued to smile.

“Chad, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said with the feeling of impending doom. He scanned the street for a place to pull over. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the tendons were straining in his forearms.

“Chad?”

He saw a spot just off a side street. He hit the gas again, knocking Cat back against the seat.

“What in the world?” she said.

He pulled into the spot and got out, but left the car running.

He leaned in.

“Go on to the game, I’ll catch up.”

“You’re scaring me!”

“Just GO,” he yelled.

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He took a breath. It slowed him down but didn’t calm him down.

“Please, honey, please, please, please. Go to the game. Get out of here!”

“No. Not happening.”

He went around the car to her door. He bent and took her hands. “If you’ve ever trusted me, believe me now.”

She pulled her hands from him and crossed her arms.

“Do you remember Judy, the girl in high school?”

Cat’s eyes got wide. “You didn’t…”

“No, I didn’t, but the same thing is happening again. You’ve got to believe me. If you love me, you have to go.”

She hesitated.

“I promise, I’ll tell you. Tonight, I’ll tell you tonight.

Everything.” He took her hand again and helped her out of the car.

“You promise?” she said.

“I promise.”

She hugged him tightly. After a moment, he pulled away and started walking toward the corner. He heard the door slam behind him. His attention was focused directly on the bench with the big-headed creature beneath it. *** “Mr. Bigshot,” it said in its whiny voice. “I’ve come to play again today. How about you?”

Chad was so enraged that no words would come out. He balled his fists as he marched across the square.

“Cat got your tongue?” it teased.

He thought about grabbing it. If he could get his hands around its neck, he knew he could squeeze the life out of it.

It seemed to know what he was thinking, perhaps because he was tightening and opening his hands.

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“Don’t even think about it you half-wit,” Big Head said. Then its smile grew even bigger. “Today, we’re going to do things a bit differently. People are still going to die, oh yeah.” He sang like Louie Armstrong.

All Chad could think of was killing it.

“A lot of people may die. But you want to know the fun part?

Your’re going to choose who it’s going to be. Mr. Clean, Mr. Moral is going to choose.”

Chad started shaking his head. A wave of laughter came from the family eating doughnuts.

“See that corner down there? The corner of Morgantown Avenue and East Park? In about a minute and a half, the police are going to chase a crazy driver right around that corner. And do you know what? That crazy driver is going to lose control right about there.” It pointed to a spot. “Then it’s going to hit the curb, barrel roll right over this bench, continue on, and absolutely flatten that family. Arms and legs everywhere!” It said gleefully.

Chad followed the wrinkled finger.

“This is where you come in, the star of the show,” Big Head made a polite clapping gesture with hands so brittle it seemed his fingers might crumble off.

“So, is to be door number one, where the car comes in, flips out of control, and smashes that sickening family to bits, or what’s behind the curtain?”

Chad’s anger was now turning into fear. He looked from the street back to the creature.

“Oh, it looks like little Chad is about to cry. And poor little crybaby Chad doesn’t even know what’s behind the curtain. I’ll give you a hint. It’s one of your grandbabies.” It gave a tiny little laugh and put its fingertips up to its chapped lips.

“Isn’t that fun? It might just be one of the unborn ones. You won’t know how or when.” It snapped its head to one side, “Could be a car wreck,” then it snapped its head in the other direction.

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“Could be a fire in the night,” then back the other way. “Could be one of those horrible childhood diseases.”

In the distance, a faint siren wailed.

“So, one of yours or a bunch of the others, what’s it going to be? Oh! This IS fun, isn’t it?”

“The others,” Chad heard himself saying.

“Oh, that was quick. Not a real standup guy for your community, are you?

A drop of sweat slid from Chad’s temple.

“This is too fun to stop now, so I’m going to sweeten the pot.”

It was still sitting on the bench, but now it was swinging its legs excitedly. They didn’t come close to touching the ground.

“Not for you, for me. I’m going to throw in the two old geezers. It’s the family and the oldies for one grandchild. Seven for one. What do you say? Want to change your mind?”

The siren was louder, but Chad was the only one noticing it.

“Them,” Chad said.

“I knew it,” Big Head said. “Knew it, knew it, knew it. I expected you to be selfish to the end.”

Chad’s hand began opening and closing again.

“I’m going to throw in an explosion, just to cap off the deal.

That’s going to get you that group of teenagers. I know it’s not much, what are pimply-faced teenagers going for now?”

Chad glanced at the group.

“But here’s the kicker. Cali over there, see the pretty blond in the pink top? She might be preggers. So that’s a plus one to the party. What do you think about that deal? Hard to pass up?”

The siren was loud now; everyone was looking in that direction.

“You don’t have to say it, I know what the answer is. You’re going to trade the lives of what fourteen or fifteen people for one of yours. Very sad. You’re going to live with that decision. It’s going to make you hate your grandchildren the way you hated your bike after Mommy Dearest died.

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Along with the sirens, they could hear tires screeching as they rounded the turns.

“Just think, all you had to do was let me watch that bird die.

One little thing all those years ago led to this. Isn’t it great?”

The chase was close. Seconds until they rounded the corner.

Everyone was turned that way.

“Time to go,” said Big Head.

The idea came so fast, Chad wasn’t sure it was his. He unfastened his belt and flipped it around Big Head, pinning its arms against its body and its body to the bench.

“You did those things, not me. I hope you roast.”

Chad cinched the belt tighter and poked the prong through the mesh.

Big Head started thrashing against the bench. But its arms were pinned, and its feet had no purchase. It couldn’t walk away and disappear.

“BOMB! THERE’S A BOMB! GET OUT OF HERE!” Chad ran into the square waving his arms and yelling like a madman.

At first, there was no reaction; people turned away from the siren and then to him. But when they saw his intensity, they listened. The parents picked up the kids and took off. The old men shuffled away, and the teens sprinted.

Big Head was screaming like a baby. Its body jerked back and forth, and its legs scissored in the air.

The car came flying around the corner with the police car right behind. It lost control and hit the curb just as predicted.

It barrel-rolled into the base of the fountain. Parts were flying like shrapnel. The momentum forced the car onto the front end, where it spun like a top, then crashed down on the bench with a dying thump. Big Head disappeared under the wreckage. A pool of yellow gore oozed out from under the top.

The police car stopped at the edge of the square. The officers got out with guns drawn and ran to the site of the wreck. Two of the teenagers emerged from a café, pointing at the fountain.

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Miraculously, the driver had been thrown from the car and landed in the water. He was floating with his head up like a turtle getting a gulp of air.

The square was littered with debris. People started emerging from their hiding places. Sirens were coming from all directions.

Smoke and steam began rising from the overturned car.

Chad stood looking out over the destruction. He felt a tightening around his waist. It was Cat. She buried her face in his chest.

“You’re still here?”

“Did you think I was going to leave?

More police cars came. Somewhere in the distance, a different siren. A firetruck?

“Chad, you saved all those people. How did you know?”

“You saw me? What did you see?”

“I watched you stand by the bench, then you started screaming like a nut. I heard you say something about a bomb.

You were waving your arms. Then the car got there.”

“Did you see anyone on the bench?”

“No.” The place was filling with first responders. Chad noticed that a group of people was talking to the police. They were gesturing towards him.

“We have to go,” Chad said.

“But—” Cat started.

He took her by the arm and gently guided her away from the square. He resisted the urge to look under the car to see if the creature had become a pancake.

They were almost to the street when, from behind, they heard “Whoa there, hold up for a minute.”

A cop jogged to them; his partner walked several steps behind.

“We’re getting witness statements. We are going to need you to fill us in on what you saw,” he said.

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The other cop caught up. “Hey, I know you. Aren’t you supposed to be coaching a game right about now?”

“I am,” Chad said.

“I coach the FOP team, that is, when the shifts work out right,” the cop said.

The first cop said, “Some of the witnesses say you were screaming something about a bomb. Probably saved their lives.”

Chad said nothing. Cat squeezed his arm.

The second cop said, “Nothing illegal about yelling in public.”

The first cop said, “I think there is when you stick the word ‘bomb’ in there. ’Course I think that might be overlooked when you save a bunch of people’s lives.”

“We’ve got enough statements for now. You go on to the game, and we’ll catch up with you later.”

Chad nodded. He and Cat walked to the car arm in arm. *** He got to the dugout during the last inning. The team was way ahead. FOP must have had the sleepover. Afterward, they treated the team to ice cream at the Dairy Dream. It was late afternoon by the time Cat and Chad returned home.

“Okay, Buster, you’ve got some explaining to do,” Cat said.

Chad was going to put her off or at least try to put her off, but she wasn’t the kind of person to let things go.

“Let’s have coffee on the patio. I’ll tell you the whole story.”

She started the coffee. Chad went to the patio. It was a giant multi-leveled cobblestone patio just off the French doors. The backdrop was the twelfth hole of the country club. Majestic pines grew along the fairway on either side. It was the least likely place in the world to tell a scary story. Chad sat in one of the iron chairs that flanked the outdoor coffee table.

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Cat brought two mugs out, placed them on the table, then folded herself into the chair across from him. They reached for their mugs at the same time.

“Okay, spit it out,” she said.

He did. He started with the white bird and continued through the wreck at the square. She listened and sipped her coffee. When he was finished, he waited for her reaction.

“Chad, there was no one on that bench today. I watched the whole thing.”

“You asked me to tell you the truth, and there it is.” He felt better getting it out, even if she didn’t believe him. It was a story he didn’t want to tell after the sun went down.

“Hold on,” she said and went into the house. She came back with an iPad. “Look here on the news.” She logged on to a local news site.

There was a video of a tow truck pulling the car back over onto its wheels. There was no body under the car. “It says there was only one minor injury, and that was the driver of the car.”

“If I’m making this up, how did I know to warn them?”

“I don’t think you’re making it up; maybe your imagination created it because of guilt.”

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I wouldn’t believe me.”

“Maybe when you couldn’t save the bird, your mind had to have a reason. So, it made up this creature as a reason. You have to admit, your description seems like something a child would create.”

“What about my mom?”

“People died of cancer all the time, especially back then.

Then, maybe you thought it was your fault when the kid broke his leg. The creature came back because you secretly felt it was your fault when you dribbled around him so easily.”

“What about Judy?” Chad asked.

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“There are thousands of unsolved murders. It seems that every time you feel guilty about something, the creature shows up,” she said.

“What about today?” Chad asked. She was starting to make sense.

“Nothing bad happened. You weren’t feeling guilty about anything. Maybe you just had a premonition. People have those, too.”

“That makes more sense than a wrinkled, odd-shaped man.”

She stood and grabbed the mugs. “The kids are coming over tonight to roast marshmallows. I might need you to run to the store.”

She carried the mugs through the French doors and into the kitchen. He ran through the things she said. She had just about convinced him. Had he worried his whole life about something that didn’t happen?

Just then, a white bird landed on the back of the chair Cat had just occupied. It watched him for an instant, then took off, leaving a long white feather in its wake.

Author’s Note: The first part of this story is true. A few miles away from my neighborhood was a series of trails that ran through the woods.

I don’t know exactly how we found these trails, but we did, probably through a kid grapevine. I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be there, because they snaked through property owned by Sharon Steel and Domestic Coke, two of the worst polluters North America has ever seen.

Here was a Jacob’s Ladder and a weird kind of pebbled dome there at the top. One particular day, I had ridden my mini-bike, a little Honda 50, there. Once I had gotten off the noisy little thing, the silence was stunning. That’s when I, like in the story, heard the bird flapping. Unlike the story, I was not brave enough to try to rescue it. The horror of it being trapped in such a serene place 302

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freaked me out. I hopped back on the Honda, and like the story, got out of Dodge. The incident left me scarred. I can still hear it flapping in the quietness.

The rest of the story is about choices. The right choice is sometimes unclear, and often even the right choice may come back to bite with very sharp teeth.

The Big Head character comes from a memory I have from when I was an early teen. Our neighborhood had a park with a basketball court. It wasn’t a nice place. But it was a place where you learned how to play street ball, learned how to fight, and learned who not to fight. You learned how to act when the police cruised by, which they often did.

One day, a kid was standing at the end of the court with a pack of cigarettes in one hand and matches in the other. He looked about six years old. He expertly put the pack to his mouth and pulled out a cigarette with his lips, put the pack in the back pocket of his dirty jeans, then lit the cigarette. After a long draw, he blew out a deeply satisfying puff of smoke.

That made us laugh. Hard. Someone said, “Kid, you’re too young to be smoking.”

He fired off a line of extremely vulgar words in a voice as gravelly as a twenty-year smoker. That made us laugh really hard. When asked, he said he was twelve. We were rolling, seeing how the smoking had stunted his growth. He found none of this funny, and we never saw him again.

Big Head was such a disgusting character; he was enjoyable to write.

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Other Books by Don Stansberry Secret Blood Cryptic Blood Vulture Bend Isle of Shadows: The Inky Trilogy Crusty Koko & Stoney Lawrence Likes to Dance Collaboration Books The Wild of Wild, Wonderful West Virginia Skipping Through the ABCs of History

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INTERNATIONAL AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR DON STANSBERRY is a native

DON STANSBERRY

West Virginian and retired elementary school teacher. He is the author of Isle of Shadows: The Inky Trilogy and his children’s books, which he also illustrated. Lawrence Likes to Dance, Koko & Stoney Mom’s Choice Award and Crusty, named a Finalist in the USA News Best Book Awards. Don is the author of Secret Blood, a multi-award-winning book that took top honors for best spiritual fiction at the London Book Festival. It was named a Winner at the Next Generation Indie Book Awards at a reception at The Plaza in New York City during Book Expo America.

His second novel, Vulture Bend, is a riveting good vs. evil award-winning story. Cryptic Blood, sequel to Secret Blood is his most recent novel. He was the head coach for the Parkersburg High Girls’ Basketball team for 16 years and retired from this position with four state championships.

Under Strange, Strange Skies

A book for those who love entertaining, thought-provoking stories with a twist, but do not have the time to commit to a whole novel. Each story is told with a different voice, running the gamut from Sci-Fi to Horror to twisted Fairy Tale. Cracks and Two Cats may have you looking under your bed at night. The Translator and One Last Time may have you asking yourself how far you will go for love. The rest, well, let’s say that each has a bizarre take on the world around us.

DON STANSBERRY