CHAPTER 3

At nine o’clock the next evening, the sound of thunder ripped through Corin’s house, making him think once again they must have constructed his walls out of papier-mâché. The lamp on his workbench flickered. Welcome to late October in Colorado.

“No.” Corin shut his eyes. “I don’t need this. I want to get this piece finished.”

A second peal of thunder reverberated through the room, and the lights went out for half a second, then back on.

Corin yanked open a drawer and pulled out a flashlight.

If the power went out, it meant another delay in finishing the table and getting it on his sales floor.

He ran his hands over the top of the Top Swan carved end table. It was turning out beautiful. Researching the type of stain that had originally been used had taken days. Finding the stain took longer. In the end he had the stain custom made. But there was no point in restoring the piece to its almost-original condition. Exact was the only acceptable standard.

He plugged in his sander and fired it up. In a few minutes he’d have all the rough spots smoothed out on the final leg of the table. Corin glanced at the lights. Just give me power a little bit longer.

The lights flickered again.

Corin turned the sander on high and went to work on the leg. Three seconds later all the lights in his shop went out. Corin sighed, set his sander on his workbench, picked up the flashlight and turned to the door of his workshop. “What?” Dim light reached him from his kitchen. Oh no. The power hadn’t gone out. He’d blown a fuse.

Corin swore, closed his eyes, and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking.

Every time this happened he promised himself he’d cut a door from the outside of the garage so he could get to the fuse box without having to face the tunnel of fear that insisted on burrowing its way into his mind.

Sweat trickled down his forehead as he walked into his living room and stared at his couch. Maybe he’d sit in it for five or ten minutes—it’d give him time to work up his nerve.

Sure it would.

And at least three of the Fantastic Four were real and living in New York City.

Couldn’t he even reset a fuse without morphing into a six-foot-two mass of fear?

What had the psychiatrist told him a few years back? Think open thoughts. Close his eyes if possible and think about meadows, the ocean, mountaintops with nothing but sky surrounding him. Yeah, right.

He took a deep breath. Something about holding his breath kept the claustrophobia at bay till he let the air out. Holding his breath meant he wasn’t breathing in . . .

No. No point in going there. He relived it often enough in his nightmares.

Corin wiped the perspiration off his forehead again and shook his head.

Why couldn’t he have a simpler fear like being scared of the dark?

The lead box for that kind of kryptonite was simple. Night-lights, flashlights, spotlights.

He roamed toward the garage door and reached for the knob hating himself for the slick coat of perspiration he left on it. As he stepped into the belly of the beast, he took another deep breath.

Corin eased toward the crawl space between the back of the garage and the wall that created an extra, hidden storage area. Shouldn’t the home have been built with an easily accessed fuse box? Wasn’t it important to get to these type of things? Or did the previous owner build this wall without getting permits?

I so appreciate what you constructed, pal. Thanks a bunch.

When he reached the spot where the wall started, he rubbed the Sheetrock with the palm of his hand and muttered for the 2 millionth time, “There’s no logical reason to be afraid.” And for the 2 millionth time it didn’t help.

He clutched his knees to stop his legs from bouncing.

Why couldn’t he shake this?

Closed spaces had nothing to do with water. He puffed out a quick breath. Yes, they did. It’s why some people couldn’t scuba dive or even snorkel. It felt like the water was closing in.

Corin shook the summer of 1987 out his mind, lied to himself, and pretended the two incidents weren’t related.

He flashed his light at the opening. It was only fifteen feet to the fuse box. There was an abundance of air to breathe between here and there. And he could hold his breath long enough to get to the switch, flip it, and get back to the safety of the open garage.

He wouldn’t allow himself to pit out another one of his Crazy Shirts just because he swallowed a few lungfuls of water when he was a kid. Big deal. Get over it. Be a superhero, face the fear, and get on with life. But he couldn’t. Counseling, hypnosis, even acupuncture. Nothing had helped.

He sucked in a rapid breath and held it, closed his eyes, and imagined open fields. Why did his mind always flood the fields with water?

Go!

He turned sideways and shimmied in between the walls, almost hopping as he sidestepped toward the fuse box. In six seconds he reached it.

Flip the switch and get back.

Corin yanked the fuse down for his shop, then shoved it back up. It snapped into place.

Yes! Done.

Now to escape the confines of the crawl space before the air in his lungs forced its way out. As he reached the halfway point, his jeans caught on the head of a nail sticking out of a two-by-four. Its dull shape dug into the side of his shin sending a sliver of pain up his leg.

He swore and the air in his lungs burst out and panic rushed in.

His palms went clammy and the walls pushed in, crushing him, sucking the—No. Stay calm. The walls weren’t moving. They weren’t crushing him. If not for the nail, he would have made it in and out and been fine.

He jerked his leg forward, but the nail held and the tear in his jeans lengthened. He closed his eyes. Open spaces. Think open spaces. He opened his eyes, reached down, and yanked his jeans free of the nail, his legs shuddering. Hang on. Just a few more feet.

As he stumbled out of the crawl space, he lurched forward and fell across the hood of his car. Sweat covered the back of his shirt and his pulse must have been 140 plus.

A minute later he stood, pulled off his shirt, and trudged upstairs to the shower. When he reached the bathroom, he peeled off the rest of his clothes and turned on the water, waiting till thick steam filled the bathroom and shut out the haunted look he saw in the mirror. This shower would be long and hot. A reach for relaxation—and the smothering of his past.

After drying off and changing into sweats and a T-shirt, he sat on the front porch wishing he could talk some sense into himself.

He hated his claustrophobia. It didn’t matter that as much as 7 percent of the world fought the dread of small spaces. It made him feel weak. Helpless. Vulnerable.

Corin went back inside and grabbed a drink. As he stumbled back onto his front porch, he pushed all thoughts from his mind except the jump that weekend. A jump that would make him forget all about his scrambled, neurotic brain.

Just before heading for bed, a meteor streaked through the earth’s atmosphere.

When you wish upon objects in the sky,
Not knowing if you’ll live or die,
Heal my heart and heal my head,
And for once sweet dreams,
When I crash in bed.

Fat chance.

Corin stood and headed for his bedroom.

The amber plastic bottle that sat on his nightstand seemed to stare at him. His doctor had prescribed the pills to help him sleep, and more important, sleep with no dreams. Most nights it worked. Most.

Corin picked up the bottle and rattled the two pills left. He was only supposed to take two or three per week at the most. For the past month it’d been seven every week.

Because the dreams were getting worse.

Sleep covered him in minutes, but his pill once again decided to take the night off.