All he wanted out of life was for nothing else to happen to him. Good, bad, indifferent, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t deal with one more thing. He lived his life as invisibly as possible. He did nothing to draw attention to himself. No driver’s license, no credit cards, no checkbook. He’d even had his phone and utilities listed in the landlord’s name and paid his bills in cash. No doctors, no prescription drugs. He didn’t want his name in any computer. He just wanted to be left alone. He’d felt that way most of his life. It didn’t seem like a lot to ask.
“It doesn’t work that way, Jack,” Cathy said as he finished giving her that speech for the zillionth time. “Life’s not juvie court. It doesn’t cut you a deal everyone can live with and then lose your address if you never screw up again. Life is a serial killer. It just keeps comin’ back for more.”
“I don’t have any more to give. You can’t get blood out of an onion.”
“Turnip,” she corrected him.
“Whatever stupid vegetable. You know what I mean.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Cathy was at the sink, washing a large pot that had been the focus of her attention ever since he’d arrived.
“Let me know when you need me to leave,” he said.
“It’s okay. How many times do I have to tell you?”
He continued to stare at the yellow Formica on top of her kitchen table and traced a crack with his index finger. No matter how much she denied it, he was sure his presence was making her nervous. Otherwise she would not have declined his offer to help with the dishes.
“Is what’s-his-name coming over after work?” It probably sounded pissy, but he was too tired to care.
“His name is Ben and he’s at a friend’s deer camp in Locust Grove till next week sometime. He’ll never know you were here.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“That you’re here?”
He nodded.
She dried her hands with a dish towel and looked at him. “Jack, I wasn’t tellin’ you not to come to my house anymore. Is that what you thought?”
“We didn’t discuss the new rules.”
“Do we need to?”
“No, I get it. I’m still welcome in the kitchen.”
“So your short reign of bein’ a prince about this is over?”
“I’m still a prince. I’m just . . . a tired prince.”
“When was the last time you had a decent night’s sleep?”
“I think I was in junior high school.” He mustered a feeble smile, which she ignored. He ran a hand through his hair and stared at the blackness out the window. “I want a drink like I can’t tell you.”
“Well, if you don’t have the sense to keep your butt out of a bar . . .”
“Where should I have gone? Her hotel room?”
“So is that why you came over here? So I’ll make sure you don’t drink?”
“I haven’t needed a babysitter in a long time, thank you.” It was as icy as he’d meant it to be, although he had only himself to blame for bringing up a sore subject. He should never have even told her about the bar, but he’d been in too much of a huff when he got there to be careful.
“I just think you’ve got enough to worry about without lettin’ somebody drag you into a bar.”
“She didn’t drag me. And I hate to break it to you, but I’d want a drink right now if I’d spent the last two hours in a church.”
She turned away from him, back to the sink. He didn’t know why he was sniping at her, except that the AA crap annoyed the hell out of him. Still, the last thing he needed was to alienate the one person he could talk to.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sighing.
“Okay.” She didn’t look at him. She was about to scrub the enamel off the sides of the pot, which had never been very dirty to begin with.
“I know what you’re doin’. You’re takin’ it out on me because you’re upset about Cam.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Jack, it’s okay if you’re upset. I hated my father’s guts and I was still a wreck when he died.”
“I am not upset about Cam.” He drew the line at Good Housekeeping psychology. Especially when she was right.
“Do you have any aspirin?” The best defense being a change of subject.
“Yeah.” She didn’t make any move to get it, just stared at him to let him know she saw through the ploy.
“I would get it, but I’m too grief-stricken to move.”
“Jack, you’re right on that line.” She tossed it over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom.
He smiled. It was a bit left over from high school. In earlier days it was preceded by “You know that line where you stop charmin’ people and start pissin’ them off ?”
He wondered what she’d think if she knew what was really eating at him. Randa. Randa’s face. The fact that he couldn’t get it out of his head.
As angry as he had been to find her sitting at his desk, rummaging through his drawer, the moment she had turned around, something had stirred beneath the anger—feelings so long buried he’d forgotten they existed. He had no idea what had happened. She was certainly not the first pretty woman he’d seen in ten years, and it wasn’t like she was cover-of-Vogue gorgeous. But there was something in her face—a beauty that was straightforward and unpretentious. And those eyes. Such a deep shade of sable it was impossible to tell where the pupils began. And that mop of blond hair. Back when he had cared about such things, he’d always been a sucker for brown-eyed blondes.
It all went beyond the way she looked, though. He loved the fact that she’d simply refused to offer any bullshit excuses for what she was doing, as if that would be beneath her dignity. In fact, everything about her implied a refreshing authenticity.
Then why did she lie about Ryland? It doesn’t fit.
I don’t know. When did I claim to have all the answers . . . any of the answers?
He’d been able to admire it all from a safe distance until she’d grabbed his arm in the bar, but then he’d felt it in every cell of his body, even though he was furious with her at the time. He wasn’t sure now whether that rage had been aimed at her or at himself for not being able to keep her out.
Well, it didn’t matter. It was over. She was probably already on her way back to LA to break the bad news to her editor. In his own life, she’d been nothing more than a signal, like the dreams and the headaches and the home movies flashing through his head. All these things were a warning that some strange tide was eating away the seawall, and it was time for some shoring up. Where he was going to get the sandbags was another question.
Cathy returned with a small bottle of aspirin and a Dixie cup full of water.
“I’m only givin’ you these if you swallow ’em like a normal human. It makes my skin crawl when you chew ’em.”
She put the cup down on the table and handed him the bottle. He shook a few pills into his palm.
“How many are you takin’?”
He looked at her. “I don’t know. How many do I have permission to take?”
“I don’t understand why you refuse to get a prescription. It couldn’t be any worse than livin’ on aspirin.”
He popped four into his mouth and made a big display of chewing them.
Cathy made a face. “Thank you.”
“Spite is my natural reaction to nagging.” He handed the bottle back to her.
“No, keep it. You might get hungry later on.”
She moved behind him and began to massage his temples, which surprised him, given the tense undercurrent since he’d walked in the door. He closed his eyes, tossing her the olive branch of letting her know it felt good.
“How did you know where it hurts?” he asked.
“I know all your headaches. The press always gets you right here.”
She was right, which was amazing, since it had been years since he’d had any problems with the press. But then, Cathy had been through the thick of it, so it probably shouldn’t surprise him that she remembered. (The day of Tallen’s execution, she had chased a reporter from the Atlanta Constitution off Lucy’s front porch with a baseball bat. Called him a “selfish, insensitive, chickenshit jackass.” It made the front page, in a sanitized form.)
He could smell her perfume. She’d always had a knack for finding cheap perfume that didn’t smell like cheap perfume. Still, hers paled in comparison to the memory of Randa’s, which had been light and crisp and—he’d bet money—French. Reminded him of the perfumes he used to smell on the women at the Ritz-Carlton—the ones who dripped Chanel. It had been off-putting then, the scent of a wall he’d never scale. But without the Chanel and the jewelry and the hair that wouldn’t move in a wind tunnel, the effect was different. French perfume on a woman wearing faded jeans and a baggy sweater was an alluring incongruity.
Cathy’s voice saved him from his thoughts. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What?”
“That Cam would kill himself. He was always the survivor.”
Jack opened his eyes. “You don’t think I’m a survivor?”
“I guess that depends on your definition of survivin’.”
Jack refused the bait. “I don’t know why he killed himself. What difference does it make?”
She shrugged. “I just always thought Cam was safe.”
“Yeah, well. Nobody’s safe.” He hadn’t told her about the liquor store thing, not wanting to endure the barrage of theories sure to follow. In fact, he’d only told her about Cam’s death at all because it would hit the local paper sooner or later, and she’d be insulted if she hadn’t heard it from him first.
She moved away, back to the sink. She leaned against it, facing him. The look on her face made him feel like he was in the crosshairs of a deer rifle.
“Was she pretty?”
Damn. How had he given himself away? He picked up the Dixie cup and drank the water slowly.
“Jack?”
He put the cup down. “Yeah, for a bloodsucking, lying, scheming, self-obsessed journalist who dragged me to a bar, I suppose she was pretty.”
He looked at the clock on the wall above the sink. It was almost midnight. “I should go home.”
“You’ve been sayin’ that ever since you got here. Why don’t you go home?”
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to tell her, and it was getting to the point where he’d have no choice.
“Jack?”
He stared at the table. She sat down in the chair across from him.
“Jack, what is wrong?” Her voice was full of concern that he knew was genuine. He continued to rack his brain for a way to go from A to C without passing B. After a long moment, he looked at her and shook his head. “It’s crazy—”
“What?”
“The stupid dreams—” He had told her about the dreams yesterday, although not in any kind of detail. There was no way to describe them that did them justice.
“What about them?”
“They’re not just bad dreams. Not like nightmares. They’re like—” He shook his head again.
“What?”
“I don’t know.” There was no use trying to explain. He didn’t understand it himself. He might as well get the worst behind him. “Can I stay here tonight?”
She gave him a look that was about what he’d expected. “Jack . . .”
“To sleep.”
“I can’t keep you from havin’ bad dreams.”
“I know that.”
“Then what’s the point?”
He couldn’t believe she needed to ask. Maybe she just wanted to hear it out loud. Hell, he’d give her that.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
She looked at him like she was waiting for the punch line; then, realizing there wasn’t going to be one, she shifted to thinking out loud.
“All right . . .” she said, weighing it carefully. “As long as you stay on your side of the bed.”
“Scout’s honor.”
“So, Jack . . . what are we solvin’? I mean, what are you gonna do tomorrow night?”
“I don’t know. How long are they gonna be in the woods?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He smiled a little. She didn’t return it. “What’s wrong?”
She sighed, shook her head a little, finally spoke. “You never once slept here when I asked you to, you know? When I needed you.”
It landed where it was thrown. He waited a couple of respectful seconds, then decided he should at least go through the motions of defending himself.
“Look, you know—”
“Don’t, Jack. Save it for somebody who doesn’t know it by heart.” She got up and left the room.
He sat bolt upright in bed and reached for Cathy in the dark, but he was alone. He could hear the sound of the TV in the other room, and a dog howling in the distance. He took deep breaths and waited for his heartbeat to slow down.
The dream had been the same as last time, only more vivid. He could still see the hag-woman’s face. He could still feel her hands around his throat, her thumbnails piercing the skin on his neck. He could remember the putrid smell of her sour breath. He half expected to see her step out of the shadows. He looked around the room, though he didn’t know what he was looking for.
He lay back down and closed his eyes, trying to clear his head. He felt foggy and disoriented, as if he’d left reality instead of returning to it. Or like he’d come back from someplace far away—farther away than a person’s mind could travel in a dream. It didn’t make any sense, yet the feeling was strong. He felt drained by it.
The headache was throbbing. He pulled himself to his feet and went to look for the bottle of aspirin Cathy had given him. Cathy glanced up from the TV.
“What’s wrong?” He shook his head and headed for the bathroom. “Did you have a bad dream?”
“It didn’t kill me. Don’t worry about it.” He went into the bathroom and closed the door. He didn’t care if she knew he was annoyed, even if he had no right to be. To him, it had been implicit in the unspoken deal that she would go to bed when he did, to be there if he woke up. He had offered her a rare glimpse of his vulnerability, and she had opted for Jay Leno.
He popped a couple of aspirin, then turned on the cold water and splashed it on his face until he felt better. He wiped his face on a towel without bothering to take it off the towel rack, then looked in the mirror, as if to check for damage.
What the hell?
On his neck, just where he had felt her thumbnails, were small red crescents, surrounded by a cluster of purple bruises. He blinked hard, then leaned closer to the mirror. They were still there. He touched one of the crescents and could feel a slight indentation.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his back. He gasped and swung around wildly, almost knocking Cathy over. She jumped out of the way. “Jesus, Cathy!”
“I’m sorry. I thought you saw me.”
He closed his eyes and winced as a pain shot through his head, sharp and hot. He felt Cathy’s hand on his shoulder. Her skin felt cool against his. He shook his head and she pulled her hand away.
“Are you okay?”
He opened his eyes, slowly, and looked at her. “You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?”
He was surprised she hadn’t already noticed. He pointed to his neck.
“What?” she asked again.
Maybe he wasn’t pointing to the right place. He turned and looked in the mirror.
Nothing. He put his hand to his neck. “They’re gone.”
“What’s gone?” she insisted impatiently.
He looked at her. What was he supposed to say? A witch-woman tried to choke me in my dream and it left marks on my neck; they’re gone now, but you have to believe me.
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
He moved past her, trying to look annoyed, like it was her fault she didn’t see anything. He slammed the door to the bedroom—not hard, just enough to keep her from following him. He made it to the bed before his legs gave way.
What the hell was going on? Had he still been asleep when he saw the marks? Hell, no! He’d been wide awake. Then what had he seen? He must have made the marks himself. He’d somehow pressed his own hands on his neck so hard that even his bitten-down-to-the-quick nails had made the marks. And somehow they’d vanished before Cathy could see them. That had to be it. Might not hold up to a lot of scrutiny, but it was stone solid compared to the alternatives.
He lay down in hopes of calming the pain in his head. It had spread from his temples to the base of his skull, as if someone were tightening a steel band. He definitely had to do something about the damned headaches. They were getting worse, along with the dreams. He felt he was under siege. Maybe Cathy was right. Maybe it was time to break down and trek to Atlanta in search of someone with a couch and a prescription pad. Unloading the family secrets couldn’t be any worse than this. (Although he could just imagine his first visit. Let’s see. There were four brothers, three with impressive criminal records, which, by the way, includes me. One brother was executed by the state of Alabama. One supposedly drowned, although I’ve long suspected that my father killed him. My father killed himself, which was the only good thing he ever did for the world. My brother the token success story just killed himself, but first he had a nervous breakdown and killed someone else. My mother was basically psychotic and delusional by the time she died, and, oh yeah, she killed herself, too. Me, I’ve never had the guts to kill myself, but I’m working on it. I haven’t been to a therapist before now because I didn’t think I needed it.)
The lighted dial on the clock by the bed said 1:10, which meant Cathy would probably be watching the stupid television for at least another twenty minutes. He’d just have to stare at the ceiling and think. Not something he relished, but he didn’t have any other choice.
Something moved.
He raised his head and looked in the direction of the movement.
There’s something there.
In the corner, by the dresser. It wasn’t really a thing so much as a shape, but it was moving—a constant, fluid motion. Swirling. It was colorless—shades of black, somehow. The darkest parts were a vile black, like wet tar; and yet it was transparent. Looking at it was like staring through gasoline vapors.
Jack closed his eyes tightly, then opened them. It was still there. It was floating now, slowly, across the floor, still swirling within itself. For reasons that made no sense, he had the strange sensation it was watching him.
It knows who I am.
It was moving toward him, slowly but steadily. He opened his mouth to call Cathy, but the dry scream lodged in his throat, making it even harder to breathe.
And then it was gone.
Gone. It didn’t dissolve. It simply wasn’t there anymore. He turned his head enough to make sure the room was empty, although he knew without looking. The air around him was warm.
Oh, God . . . What was it? What was it?
His mind grasped furiously for an explanation. There was only one.
It didn’t happen.
Of course it happened. Why am I shaking?
You think it was there, but it wasn’t. Just like the marks on your neck.
Screw the marks on my neck! There was something in here just now! I saw it!
Right.
I’d swear on my life!
That’s just what Mom used to say.
He could feel a mist of cold sweat on his chest and his forehead. He forced himself to stand and reached for his jeans from the back of the chair. He pulled them on. His hands were trembling so, he could barely zip them up.
There was a tap on the door, then Cathy pushed it open. “Jack?”
He couldn’t look at her. He kept dressing.
“Jack, what is goin’ on?”
“Nothing,” he said quietly. He was losing his mind. It was that stark and that simple. Cathy came over and put her arms around him; kissed him on the shoulder, a gesture that was far too intimate for him in his current state. He pulled away from her.
“Sorry,” she said, under her breath. She was too used to it to be offended.
I’m losing my mind. Isn’t that just perfect?
He reached for his shirt.
“Where are you goin’?”
“Home.”
“Are you mad at me about somethin’?”
He shook his head and fumbled with the buttons.
“Then why are you goin’ home? I thought you wanted to stay here.”
He stopped buttoning. “You know what she told me?”
“Who?”
“Cam’s friend. She said he had some kind of breakdown . . . he lost his mind.”
Her face slowly softened as she began to understand. “Jack . . . you’re not losin’ your mind. You’re just havin’ bad dreams.”
She put her hand on his arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. He kissed her on the forehead and finished buttoning his shirt on the way out the door.
Back home he turned on the shower and let the hot water pour over his head, as if it could wash away the events of the last forty-eight hours and he could start over somehow.
What was happening to him? The onset of schizophrenia? A brain tumor? Or just a garden-variety nervous breakdown? Was that what had happened to Cam? Did things like that run in families? Would the imaginary sights and sounds turn into a sudden urge to rob a liquor store? Or was he just going to gradually disintegrate until he wound up living on a heating grate in downtown Atlanta, shouting to passersby that aliens were controlling his brain?
Out of the shower, he dried his hair with a towel and made a point of looking (really looking) at his face in the mirror. He hadn’t cared about his appearance in ten years, just so long as he looked clean-cut enough not to threaten anyone who might want him to paint their house. Now all of a sudden, in the middle of a nervous breakdown, he found himself wondering what he looked like. He didn’t look crazy. Did crazy people look crazy when they first started to go crazy?
He made his way to the bed and lay down on top of the covers. He folded the pillow and propped his head on it in an effort to keep from nodding off. He did not want to know what his subconscious had in store for him next.
He knew why he was thinking about his looks. That damned reporter woman. What was there about her that brought back thoughts that hadn’t troubled him in years? He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was going to see her again. Like they’d made some date he had every intention of keeping. What if they had made some arrangement to get together again? Where would they have met? What would they have talked about? Would she have apologized for the Ryland story and begged him to forgive her? Would he have? (He knew the answer to that one, although he’d have made her work for it.) Would he have told her that he’d been hallucinating, and, if so, would he have told her before or after he slept with her? God. What would it be like, after all this time, to sleep with a woman he was actually strongly attracted to? He was, he realized, making the gigantic assumption that she was attracted to him. It had been a very long time since he’d tried to capitalize on his looks, so he had no idea what, if anything, remained intact. (Slightly aged but formerly extremely good-looking schizophrenic wishes to hook up with beautiful, understanding single white female, preferably recently deceased brother’s ex-girlfriend.)
He suddenly realized what he was doing and winced. He told himself that it was just easier to fantasize about her than to wonder about what was happening to him. In fact, if she hadn’t hit him at a vulnerable time, he probably would never have given her a second thought.
The clock said 3:16. He should probably try to get some sleep, even if it meant risking the dreams. When he lost sleep he just got more depressed, and he needed to keep his head as clear as possible to deal with whatever the hell was going on.
He reached over to turn off the lamp and saw that the red message light was blinking on his answering machine. He thought for sure he’d checked it when he came in, but he must not have. He debated leaving it till morning, since he knew it was Rick with Monday’s work schedule. But every once in a while Rick found weekend work for him, and the idea of having something to do tomorrow appealed to him. Anything to keep his mind off his encroaching insanity. He hit the Play button.
For a few seconds there was only static, and Jack had decided it was a hang up and got up to reset the machine when he heard the voice. “ . . . Jack . . . you have to get help . . .” The line crackled for another second, then the voice returned. “She was telling you the truth . . .” Jack felt his legs give way and he collapsed onto the chair. More static, replaced by a dial tone, then the machine’s robot voice: “End of messages.” He reached for the machine. His hand was shaking so hard it was all he could do to rewind the message. He heard the static again and waited. It went on and on, long after the message should have started. The dial tone cut it off again. “End of messages.”
Jack rewound the tape again and hit the Play button. The machine beeped at him. “End of messages.”
He pulled the tape out and made sure it had rewound all the way. It had. He snapped it back into the machine and pressed the button, hard, as if that would help. “End of messages,” the machine insisted.
Nothing. There’s nothing on the damned tape!
Jack put his face in his hands and tried to breathe. His eyes were welling up and his throat had closed so tightly it made his chest hurt. The voice was still echoing in his head. He hadn’t heard it for a long time, but he knew it well.
It was Tallen.