He clutched his hands to his head and sobbed. “What do I do now?” The officers and civilians passing through the lobby made a point of looking away from him. “What do I do?”
One thing at a time, the cold, rational part of his brain (wow, I still have that?) reminded him. Funeral arrangements. The house. The inheritance.
Sam recoiled at the mercenary nature of that voice, the emotionless tone it spoke with…but he knew it was right. These things needed to be handled so that he could move on to other, deeper…but no, it was a bad idea to start thinking about that again.
Sam pulled out his phone, stared at it, and called his lawyer’s number. He answered after two rings.
“Hey, Sam! What can I do for you?”
“My parents are dead, Leo.”
A pause.
“Oh…oh, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
“They were murdered.”
“You sure? Not that I want to cast doubt, but…”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Bullets kind of make it obvious.”
“Okay then.” There was a shuffle of paper on the other end of the line. “I can get everything started right away, if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah. If you could do that, I’d really appreciate it.”
“No problem, Sam.” A few moments hesitation. “Hey, do you need someone to stay with you for a few days? Take care of you?”
Sam laughed. “No, I don’t think anyone can take care of me right now, Leo. Thanks anyway.”
“Okay then, Sam. Be safe, all right?”
“Yeah. You too.”
Sam hung up the phone, feeling the insanity of the day threatening to collapse in on him once again. He struggled to his feet, asking the desk clerk to call him a cab, then headed out the doors to the street. His legs refused to hold him anymore as he sat on the sidewalk, head between his knees, tears rolling down his face. He had forgotten to say he was sorry. He would never get that chance again.
Beep beep!
Sam looked up to see a taxi pulling up; a shiny new one, by the look, with a well-dressed black gentleman in the front. Sam stood on shaky legs and hobbled to the door, opening it and climbing inside.
“Where to, sir?” The driver glanced up at Sam’s face in the mirror.
“Doesn’t really matter.”
“Didn’t catch that.”
“Home.” Sam raised his voice. “17458 Walnut.”
“No sweat.” The cabbie flicked the turn signal on. “Do you want the radio, or are you just in the mood for vegging out on the way?”
“Whatever works for you, man. I just need to get home.”
“You got it, boss.”
The cab pulled away from the curb into traffic. Once again, Sam lost track of time, mired in his thoughts, mind splintering like sand dunes in a tornado. His left hand touched the burn on his right. Still there.
Could she be right? She says that there’s magic and then I get this burn? Could there be a connection? Could there…
“Hey, Mister? We’re here. Tab’s eighteen-fifty.”
A moment of lag before Sam was able to respond, pulling out a twenty and a ten. “Keep it,”
“Hey, thanks, Mister! You need me, you just give me a call, all right? Here’s my card; name’s George. George, you ask for me, all right?”
“Yeah. No problem, George.” He waved off-hand to the cabbie, opened the door to his house, stepped in.
Everything made sense when I went to bed last night. He glanced at the clock. 5:16 p.m. Less than twelve hours after waking up and nothing makes sense anymore.
Sam collapsed in his easy chair, arms splayed, hands dangling over the sides. One of those hands brushed something leather. Without looking, he picked it up, brought it to him.
The King James Bible.
Sam blinked. Did I leave that here? He couldn’t remember, wasn’t sure. He thumbed through the pages, thinking of his mother. She always used to read him a verse or two before bed, then sit with him in the Lord’s Prayer.
Tears again, a never-ending supply. Infinite regret that the last words she had said to him were “Get out.” That they had parted in anger.
And then the dream. That girl…and Mikey, who showed up right when everything started. The fire. The burn.
Sam closed the book again. If there is a God, He needs to go fuck himself. Then he giggled at the absurd image of an almighty deity committing impossible acts.
These images were still in his mind as he fell asleep in the chair.
~~~
Gregory Caitlin’s campaign went well over the next week. He appeared on national news spots, toured important cities in California, held rallies all over the state. Despite what the political pundits were saying, the statewide polls were beginning to show Caitlin surging forward, commanding 22% of the popular vote. His likeability ratings were high, and trustworthiness rivaled that of the great politicians of old.
Gregory returned home from yet another successful rally; supporters had donated another fifty thousand at the event itself, and over one hundred thousand was pledged. His campaign manager, a normally soft-spoken woman named Stephanie Bartlett, had been hiring like crazy trying to keep up with the workload and expand the offices into new cities, new counties.
Susan greeted Gregory at the door with a “Happy Birthday!” Confetti flew as family friends congratulated him, tickled by the surprised look on his face as the shouts came down. Gregory smiled and hugged Susan to him; these were his friends, and these were the people he was going to be representing as Governor of California.
After a few party games – Blindman’s Bluff, Pictionary, Taboo – Gregory called everyone to attention. The yard quieted down as he stood atop a poolside table outside.
“First off, I’d like to thank everyone for coming, but I’m sure the wonderful food that my wife has prepared did that for me.” Laughs all around; Gregory waited a few moments for the crowd to settle again. “Seriously, though, thanks, everyone, for your friendship, your faith, and your encouragement. It’s because of you that I’m doing what I’m doing; God gave me the ability, but you gave me the motivation, the purpose.”
He raised his hands as well as his voice. “You need to understand that I take what I’m doing seriously. I have a bunch of stump speeches that I’ve worked on; I’m not going to give you one of them. Instead, I want you to know that I’m willing to do anything, risk anything, to give this state, this country, this planet, the chance at happiness that it deserves. Together we can do it. Deus vult. God wills it.”
Applause and cheers erupted from the partygoers. As Gregory stepped down from his perch, he received thumps on the back, handshakes, hugs. Susan beamed at him as he came back up to her side.
“Nice work, honey.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s no wonder you’re tearing this race up.”
Gregory smiled. “It’s easy when you know what to say.”
~~~
CHAPTER FIVE
Sam found himself in the same room as before – dark, computer monitors everywhere – and the girl on the wall was still there as well. If anything, she looked worse, more emaciated, her head rolling back and forth on her limp neck. Sam went to her chains, searching for a keyhole amidst the strange carvings on the metal, but he found none.
“How do I save you?” His fingers clawed at the bindings, seeking an answer in the steel. “What do I do?”
The girl’s mouth continued moving. Sam leaned in as close as he could, trying to catch something, anything she was saying. He heard nothing.
“She can’t talk to you, Sam.” Mikey was, as always, standing next to the door to the room. “She knows you’re here, of course, but she can’t talk to you, can’t say anything except what she’s been told to say.” He shook his head. “No one should be trapped like this.”
“How do I help? How do I save her?”
Mikey frowned. “If you can’t take the first step, then I can’t show you the second.”
Sam shook his
head, fell to his knees. “Help me! I don’t know what to do!”
Mikey leaned in. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
~~~
TWO WEEKS LATER
The same dream. The same dream for two weeks. Although it wasn’t a dream, not really, was it, Sam? The actors may have been different, sure; dream figments over real…things…but it was real, wasn’t it? Somehow, someway, it was real.
The funeral arrangements had been a blessing for him; they had enabled Sam to function in a manner accepted by society at large: grief-stricken, upset, but understood. Sam could move among people who didn’t know that there were dreams where you could burn yourself and see it when you woke up, where people spoke to you and told you things you needed to do and where you knew that they were right, that they were real.
Every night, Sam came home, and he knew what was coming. He would put off sleep for as long as possible, watching comedy films, reading books, exercising. Eventually, Morpheus would claim him, carrying him off to this Hell to spend his night. He had tried everything; reading books on lucid dreaming, controlling one’s dreams. He had created blowtorches, metal saws, grenades; the chains were unscratched, the walls unbroken. He had created police, fire, search and rescue to find her. Even when right in front of her face, they failed to see her. He had tried to enhance himself, make himself stronger, give himself powers. They worked on everything except when he tried to free the girl. And each time, Mikey was there, that kid, telling him in his sweet young voice that he needed to “take the first step.”
Sam sat up from the couch. He was, as always, soaked in cold sweat; he had taken to sleeping in only underwear to keep his nightclothes from turning into laundry material every morning. He plodded to the kitchen, poured himself a bowl of Cheerios; he had no appetite, but he knew, intellectually, that if he didn’t eat he would fall asleep more quickly.
His home phone rang. He ignored it. He finished his cereal and added the bowl to the growing mound of filth in his sink. He didn’t see it.
Sam’s mind continually replayed the dream, only stopping when something in the real world demanded his attention, as had the interment of his mother and father in the earth. He had already been having the dream by then, of course, and he would still lapse into periods in which there was no “real,” only the dream playing itself out for him again and again.
This had happened when the priest was saying the prayers over the coffins before they had gone into the ground. Sam had lost track of the platitudes, the words meant to comfort with thoughts of the eternal life which awaited Mary and Herman Buckland, words that would have fallen on empty ears two weeks ago, and words that were simply unheard that day.
At the end of his sermon, the priest had asked Sam if he wanted to say anything. Sam did not hear him; it wasn’t until someone else had nudged him in the stomach with an elbow that Sam realized that the real world still existed and came back to his senses. Still, just for a moment, he had seen Mikey, crouched on his mother’s coffin, staring at him with eyes that should not have belonged to a child, deep and wise.
Then he was gone, and Sam could see no evidence that he had been there. If he had, someone would have said something, after all; even in a world as crazy as this one was, children didn’t just appear and vanish, only seen by one person.
Did they?
Sam crashed back into his easy chair for what felt like the thousandth time in the last two weeks. He picked up the Bible which rested on the table nearby and leafed through it again. After his mother’s death, Sam had thrown himself into the book, hoping that, perhaps, there was something in it, something that would show him what his mother had meant, what Mikey had meant. Some sort of hidden message imbedded just for him, perhaps, or a piece of wisdom that would speak to him. He had found no such thing.
The previously brand-new book was now well-used, its pages dog-eared, highlighted, nonsense scribbles in the margins made during periods of sleeplessness as his beleaguered mind sought some connection to what had happened. Sam wanted, needed for this book to make sense, for his mind to accept it, to find something to put his faith into so that he could just believe everything would be all right, but as he looked and looked deeper there was just madness, myths, legends, stories that could never be proven, attempts by mankind to justify atrocities like stoning and war with divine authority.
And yet…Sam sighed, pressing the cover of the King James to his head, closing his eyes. It had to be here, something kept calling him here…
Yeah, right, he thought for the umpteenth time since this had all started. You mean it’s because an eight-year-old kid told you to look in here. Because we all know how wise eight-year-olds are.
Sam was startled back into wakefulness by the doorbell. As he rose, he glanced up at the clock; he had just lost two hours, two hours since he sat in that chair. I’m not just losing time, I’m losing my mind.
It was not the first time he had thought this.
He shuffled to the door and looked through the peephole to see Mr. Gonzalez, his old boss.
What’s he doing here? He opened the door. “Mr. Gonzalez, what can I do for you?”
Gonzalez gave Sam a once-over, then whistled. “You look like you’ve been to Hell and back, son.” His eyes were soft. “I know it might seem a little…strange, coming from the man that gave you your walking papers, but I wanted to let you know that I’m here for you. That wasn’t anything personal, you understand; just business.” Gonzalez spread his hands and laughed. “I have bosses too, you know.”
Sam laughed; it was a weak, wheezy sound, indicative of the weariness behind it. “I know all about that, I do. I’d invite you in, but the place is…well, let’s just say I haven’t really had time to fix it up since…”
Gonzalez shook his head. “No, no, Sam, that’s all right. I understand completely. In fact…” He glanced from side to side. “A few years back I went through some…troubles like that, you know. Grief. Depression. Thought about ending it all.”
Sam’s interest picked his chin up a bit. “What stopped you?”
Gonzalez smiled. “I found a really good counselor. Good man. Understands what we’re going through. Understands grief. He talked me down, helped me realize that I would heal, the heart heals eventually, you know? Showed me how to channel my grief into something productive, something useful.” Gonzalez fidgeted, then cleared his throat. “I could…ah…I could give you his number, if you want. You could talk to him, schedule an appointment, see if there’s anything he could help you with.”
At first, Sam was about to say No, thank you, but a shrink isn’t really going to help me cope in this world where dreams can hurt you, but then he reconsidered. Maybe a psychiatrist would know something about this. Maybe there was a rational explanation after all. Maybe…
“Sure, just let me get a pen.” Sam dove into the pockets of his robe, looking for an inkpen that he may or may not have dropped in there sometime in the last couple of weeks (he just didn’t know for sure, honestly), when his hand brushed something. It felt like a tassel.
Sam looked down at his pocket as he pulled the tassel out. An oblong shape. Laminated. He flipped it over to the white surface, where something was written.
“May God light your way when you are lost. Love, Mom.” His blood went cold, then hot.
“Sam? Sam?”
Sam did not hear his old boss; his mind was keener than it had been in weeks, as if he had slept for days and awoke prepared, ready for an important meeting, an important performance, an important something that had now arrived. He turned the bookmark over.
The archangel Gabriel, blowing his trumpet.
His trumpet!
Without a word, Sam pushed by Mr. Gonzalez and was in his car before he remembered that the keys were still inside. Mr. Gonzalez called after him. “Sam? Sam, what’s going on? Are you all right?”
“Go away.” Sam heard himself speaking as he walked through his door again to retrieve his keys. “Everything’s f
ine. I have something I need to do now.”
“But…”
Sam grabbed the keys off the shelf beside the sink. Turned around. Walked back out. Left the door open as he left. “It’s all right, Mr. Gonzalez. I’ll talk to you later.” He got back in the car. Turned the key.
“Hey, Sam! You’re scaring me…is everything okay? Really?”
Sam laughed, looked right at Gonzalez. “I said almost that same thing to my mom the last time I saw her. Nothing’s been all right since.”
He pulled out of his driveway, tires squealing as he drove off, toward the house that used to belong to his mother.
~~~
Samuel Buckland turned into the entryway to the home he had been born to. His parents had owned it outright, and he knew that when the will was settled it would be his. Not that he had ever cared before; he had his own place now, after all. Still, after what had happened, it was a sort of comfort that this place…
Sam shook his head. This house was where his parents had died, as well. No time for this, anyway. Things to do.
He leapt out of the car almost before shutting down the engine. Ducking under the police tape, Sam pulled out the pocket knife attached to his keys as he approached the door. He sliced the “Crime Scene Do Not Enter” that sealed the door and pushed it open.
The house was still a mess. Because no one lived in the place anymore, the authorities had asked Sam if they could delay sending in the cleanup crew in order to have more time with it in its “original state.” Sam had agreed, unable to deal with the idea of some stranger washing his parents’ blood from the walls and the sheets. And lo and behold, there it was, and it stopped him in his tracks.
His head turned left and he saw the couch where he had left his mother, crying over her son’s betrayal; there was something important she tried to tell him, but he had let his ego, his stubborn refusal to…not believe, not then, and not to let her believe…get in the way.
How would things have been different if I had let her say her piece? He walked toward that couch, fingers trailing over the cushions.. There were bloodstains here as well, covering the wall behind, coating the new holes in the leather. Bullet holes.