22
Dreaming.
Help me! Please help me!
Running. Running.
Her voice grew fainter.
Faster, or he’d be too late. The ground got spongy. Rotted leaves slipped and slithered as Joe struggled to keep on his feet. If he fell, he’d never make it.
Wake up. It’s the only way out.
It hurts! Please make him stop.
A sickly, sweet smell rose from the leaves. He knew that smell. Death, decay.
Phone ringing. Wake up. Answer.
No. Don’t answer. If you answer, you’ll die. Only safe as long as you don’t pick up the phone. She was safe.
Help! Please!
Danger. Waiting for him up there. Stay in the darkness. Phone ringing. Wouldn’t stop. If the noise didn’t go away, it would pull him up. He’d be in such danger, he’d die.
Why didn’t she answer the phone?
Help. Why won’t you help me?
Losing ground. Needed cleated shoes. Her voice was moving away, he could barely hear her now.
“I’m coming.”
His lungs were on fire, his breath coming hard. When his ankle twisted, he fell and rolled through rotted vegetation. Rolled through mud, getting it on his hands. He rubbed them against his white shirt. Bloody palm prints appeared. The blood ran and swirled and dripped red letters spelling her name.
No!
Ripping off the shirt, he flung it away and scrambled to his feet. The smell was getting worse.
Rotten leaves. That’s all it was, just rotten leaves.
The ringing was pushing against the misty darkness in his mind. Soon it would push through and there’d be no hope.
Answer the goddamn phone!
She couldn’t. Gone. Everything gone. He had nothing. Except one last thing he had to do.
The leaves got slippery, turned into black liquid. It got thicker, turned into blood. The body was just ahead.
Breath whistling in his ears, heart banging in his chest, he ran. Crouching beside the body, he turned it over. A battered and broken face grimaced with an empty smile.
* * *
The ringing shattered the dream. He groped for the phone. Receiver against his ear, he muttered, “Yes.”
“Good morning,” a voice said. “It’s seven o’clock.”
“Thanks.”
Joe hung up and scrubbed hands over the stubble on his face as he looked around and tried to remember where he was. Motel room somewhere. Motel rooms were all alike and blended together once left behind. Gray light filtered through the curtains. He was covered in sweat and knew he’d dreamed again. The same dream, over and over, tortured him every time he slept. It got so he hated to close his eyes, which left him averaging around three hours a night. He needed more, so he could function, think clearly.
Pain gripped his stomach and he folded his arms over the rage. His life was over. He was just moving an empty shell around until he could kill her. No decision yet on how he would kill her, he’d decide when he looked the place over. See how things went, figure the best way. Swinging his legs around, he planted his bare feet on the brown carpet and waited for his brain to realize his torso was upright, then stood and rummaged through his bag for a pair of jockeys. He found the Aleve bottle and shook two tablets into his palm, plodded to the bathroom, ran water in a glass, and swallowed them. He turned hot water on and stepped in the shower, washed away sweat, dirt, and fatigue.
He pulled out a clean shirt and put it on with the jeans he’d worn yesterday, then shaved, staring at a face that was familiar, yet the face of a stranger. The person behind the face he’d known all these years wouldn’t be planning the torture of another human being.