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Nick stepped into a subway car on a Tuesday morning, heading downtown. As the doors hissed shut behind him the train lurched into motion. He grabbed a handhold as the train picked up speed, shrieking along the tracks, and remembered the whispers. He hadn't heard them for a couple of weeks.
The shrieks reminded him of the girl in his nightmare. Its horror lurked at the edges of his mind like a spider stalking its prey. Except for a few whispers passing through his mind the night he had the run-in with Sully at Wainright, Nick's sleep had been deep and dreamless.
With the passing weeks, the murder he dreamed and the shock of seeing the picture in the paper seemed more and more unreal, like one long non-stop nightmare.
Each day he walked by Shawmut, Nick looked for Obie. The shopping cart had remained in the same spot until this morning. Nick had a strong feeling that it wasn't Obie who claimed it. The thought bothered him. Sure, Obie was just another bum, but he was a neighborhood fixture as far back as Nick could remember.
Obie used to buy beer for Nick and his buddies when Nick was in junior high, back when his dad was still alive. He bought for the older kids too and their older brothers before them. Good Old Obie. He always came through, happy to get the change Nick and the gang could scrape together. Obie could be dead and no one would know.
The subway car shot out of the tunnel's blackness into bright sunshine and sped toward Field’s Corner station. As it slowed, Nick felt an urge to get off and see if he could find Obie at the new rescue mission.
He walked down the ramp to Geneva Ave and headed toward Town Field where he saw some of the homeless hanging out by the bleachers. Obie wasn’t among them.
Nick walked up the street to where street people hung around a storefront with the ST. AUGUSTINE'S RESCUE MISSION sign running the length of the building in freshly painted red letters, a cross at each end.
Nick studied the faces in search of Obie's, but saw only soiled, toothless, haggard men and women in ill-fitting, mismatched clothes worn to a shine. Unsavory smells of body odor and boozy bad breath long past any attempt at hygiene made him think of Mike in the mornings. The lingering stink of urine, vomit and unwashed hair threatened to overwhelm him.
Most of them grasped tickets. The writing on them was too small to read, but Nick recognized the red crosses. Getting close to chow time. He went inside. Fresh paint covered scarred, barren walls. A small platform and a pulpit sat at one end of the large room, tables at the far side. More tables took up the space in the middle of the floor. The heat felt oppressive, the air thick with the dregs of humanity.
Nick stood well inside the doorway, scanning the expectant faces of those lining the walls and sitting at the tables.
No Obie.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Shit, someone's going to hit me up for spare change, he thought as he turned, ready to voice the word "No", stopping when his gaze met the darkest blue eyes he'd ever seen.
The depth in the older man's eyes emanated a calmness that Nick thought he could get lost in; as if they had the power to swallow him.
"Can I help you, son?" The man's voice sounded soft and reassuring, with an Irish accent. His broad open face inspired trust. Thick eyebrows, salt and pepper hair and an aquiline nose made him look distinctive. He wore a black suit, matching jacket and a clerical collar. "I'm Father Derlen."
This man had it, Nick thought. What was that word? Charisma. Aside from the free chow, Nick could see why the homeless flocked to him.
"Yeah, I umm, I was looking for a friend."
A slight frown. "In here?"
"He's a homeless guy. I've known him all my life. He's disappeared. I thought he might've come here. Maybe you've seen him. His name's Obie."
Derlen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Can't say that I have. We get a lot of people in here.” Derlen held out his hands. “I try to help them all, but there's so many."
The more the priest talked, the more Nick thought he recognized his voice, but he had grown up with Irish-Catholics. Lots of people had accents like Father Derlen’s. The older man studied him, as if waiting for him to say more. Suddenly Nick felt stupid and wanted to get out of there. "Well, umm, thank you, Father. Sorry to bother you. I'm sure you're busy and I can see that Obie isn't here. Thanks for your time."
The priest smiled and patted him on the back. "Take care of yourself, son."
Nick walked out feeling perplexed. Sure is a nice guy, he thought. Not like that asshole Sully, or a selfish slob like Mike. This one's really helping people.
He walked home, puzzling over the mystery of Obie's disappearance. Without understanding why, he felt certain he would never see Obie again.
After making lunch, he spent the rest of the day cleaning house. It bothered him to see his mother work all day, then come home and have to clean. He helped whenever he could, especially since Mike moved in. The messes were bigger now and other than going to the liquor store, Mike never lifted a finger.
No sooner had Nick finished when his mom came home. A broad smile filled her face when she saw the clean house. Nick’s heart swelled when she gave him a hug and made dinner for the three of them. After eating, Nick helped her with the dishes while Mike watched the boob tube.
When they finished, Nick went to lie on his bed. His certainty that Obie had disappeared coupled with the fact that no one noticed or even cared, troubled him. If Obie were dead, the cops would never know and if they did, they wouldn't do anything. Who'd make a missing persons report about a street person? He pictured himself walking into the District Eleven station and running into Sully.
He put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and thought about it. No way Obie would leave his shopping cart like that. No way.
Eventually he drifted into a restless sleep where disjointed images flitted through his mind, finally coalescing into a strange setting.
He smelled dirt. Loamy. Felt it against him. With the exception of dim moonlight, the sky looked dark. He looked up from the bottom of a freshly dug hole and thought he heard voices. A cloud passed in front of the moon and countless arms reached over the edge of the hole, slithering toward him. Impossibly long arms. Touching him. Lifting him.
He rose out of the dirt and the hands silently grappled him, covering every part of his body. Squinting, he peered into the darkness, trying to see the owners of the hands. He saw bodies, but couldn't make out heads—they didn't have any! Adrenaline raced through him. His heart slammed in his chest. He tried to scream, but couldn't. He fought, unable to free himself. Arching his body backward, he saw a headstone. Though he looked at it upside down, he saw the name clearly.
NICK POWERS
He gasped and threw his head forward. His eyes met those of a hooded man with a gaunt, sunken stare.
The wind gusted and blew the hood off Sully’s head. He laughed. "You're mine, Powers," he said between clenched teeth.
Hands closed around his throat, cutting short his breath. Nick opened his mouth, felt his eyeballs bulging...
...and woke up trembling, his body drenched in sweat.