The Summer Man

by S. D. Perry

  Eric snorted, a mean half laugh, but Bob ignored him. “I’m sorry about Dick Calvin, I really am. You know it’s not your fault, right?”

  Amanda looked away.

  “I know how you feel,” Bob agreed. “If I’d acted sooner, or if John had gone by to check on him earlier…maybe things would be different. Maybe not. All we can do now, though, is move on from here.”

  He glanced at John, back at her. “Can you show him something? Tell him something? Think of it as practice. It’s like you’ve got a new tool, a powerful tool, but to know how best to apply it—to even know what your skill might apply to—we need to push the perimeter, a little.”

  “We?”

  “You,” Bob amended quickly. “And only if you want to. It’s your choice.”

  Amanda didn’t look convinced, but after a moment, she nodded. “OK.”

  “Try doing what you did yesterday, with Devon,” Bob said. “Only…John, come over here, sit by her. Try focusing on John specifically. Don’t pull away from whatever comes to mind, don’t let yourself be surprised out of it. Tell us everything you think, no matter how small or seemingly unimportant.”

  Bob moved out of the way so John could sit. The doc looked slightly embarrassed, but game. Eric seemed even more angry, and his expression further soured when Bob suggested that Amanda hold John’s hands.

  The teenage girl turned to face John. She took both of his hands in her own and then closed her eyes, breathing deeply. They waited, all of them watching her. After a long, silent moment, one of her hands twitched, and she started talking, her eyes still closed.

  “You were with her last night; you barely slept at all, and you’re afraid you might be in love with her, because you’re also afraid that you’re sick, that the whole town is sick, so maybe those feelings don’t mean anything,” she said. “Uh, you want to take a shower, you don’t want to be sitting so close to anyone when you haven’t showered. You’re worried that you smell like—” She cleared her throat, her face reddening slightly. “Like Sarah, to be specific. You’ve never believed in psychic ability, but you trust Bob, and with the strange, strong feelings you’ve been having about Sarah, and…Lauren? Annie, for sure. Annie’s dead but you aren’t looping anymore, whatever that means.”

  She opened her eyes but stared down at their hands. “Anyway, you think you might be wrong, about everything, but you don’t know and your brain just keeps trying to make the pieces fit, and they won’t. Also, you think you’re getting a headache because you skipped breakfast.”

  John’s eyes had widened. Bob felt a deep satisfaction, saw it mirrored in a spiteful way on Eric’s triumphant young face. John let go of Amanda’s hands and sat back a little. The expression he wore was one of deep awe and not a little embarrassment. Bob wondered faintly who the hell Sarah was.

  Amanda smiled, was transformed from pretty to beautiful in that instant. “Ka-pow,” she said. Eric laughed, but the sound was high and anxious.

  John was speechless for what seemed a long time, then he sighed and nodded and looked at Bob.

  “OK,” he said. He looked at Amanda again. “That’s some talent you got there.”

  She was pleased with herself, Bob could tell, her eyes bright with it. “It’s getting stronger,” she said. “I’ve been pretty freaked-out, overall, but I’m starting to…to get the hang of it a little better, I guess.”

  “You got all that, just now,” John said.

  She nodded. “Yup. Other stuff, too, but that’s what—that’s the biggest stuff. Like, where your head’s at. So to speak.”

  “Just out of curiosity, what other stuff?” John asked.

  “Um…something about a guy named Phillip? He’s, like, your…colleague? And I think you were wondering if there’s anything in the office for the headache…” She trailed off and frowned. “The smaller stuff isn’t as clear. There’s—”

  “What do you mean by smaller and bigger?” John interrupted. “In what way?”

  Amanda looked at John like he was a moron. “What do you think? Bigger, smaller. Uh, more important in your brain, less important.”

  “OK,” John said. “Just trying to clarify, that’s all.”

  Amanda relaxed, nodded. “OK. So. There’s also, like, this static, underneath that. Like, with an old radio? Some of the signals are totally clear, and some are coming in on different channels that aren’t so clear, and most of them don’t send out anything. Does that make sense?”

  “Sure, why not?” John asked. He looked slightly dazed. “You get this kind of…of depth off everybody?”

  “I’ve only done it on purpose twice,” she said, and her sincere smile crept back. “I think I could, though. If I tried. It’s, like…” She shook her head. “The power, or ability or whatever, is changing. Evolving.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s stronger, I’m pretty sure,” she said. “I mean, it’s getting easier to pick up people’s…I don’t know, inner dialogue?”

  John nodded. “Bob says you’ve had some precognitive experiences. Did you get anything like that just now?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t think so, anyway. But the dreams I’ve been having…a lot of the same imagery keeps repeating, and it feels real. Like the other stuff, anyway. And I don’t think it’s happened, yet.”

  John stood and walked back to his desk, picking up the notepad he’d written on earlier. “A smiling woman with blood in her hair. A big fire. A boy in a darkened house of mirrors. Gunfire. A woman bathing an infant.”

  The whole list was creepy, but that last sent a shiver down Bob’s spine. Not a scary image in itself, but considering the rest of the list…he hoped that they’d find a way to track the young mother down before she did anything…irreparable. And so far as he could see, Amanda was the only chance they had. She’d seen these people, or been them, or however it worked; she was the key.

  “How can we use this?” Bob asked, looking at John, then Amanda. He felt hungry to make it happen, to do something. Amanda was willing, and surely John could figure out how to make the most of her ability. “How can we track them down?”

  John put the notepad down, shaking his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “And I’m not sure that our primary focus should be on rescuing these people, necessarily—”

  “What the hell do you—” Bob began, and John held up one hand.

  “Not these specific people,” he said. “I mean, of course we want to help, we should help. I think our big goal should be tracking the source of…of whatever’s going on here. If we can pin down the x factor, the influence, then we’ll have everything we need to call in some real help. We can get the town evacuated, get the CDC involved, whatever government labs are applicable…we could save all of them.”

  He turned back to Amanda. Eric had finally let a few air molecules pass between them; for the first time since Bob had met the kid, Amanda’s boyfriend wasn’t glued to her side or some other part of her.

  “I’ve been considering the possibility that everything that’s been happening here is due to some chemical influence, a poison, something biological,” John said.

  “Yeah, I got that,” Amanda said. “Like, spores or something.”

  “Do you think—is there a way that you can think of, to track down something like that?”

  Amanda thought, her sharp gaze looking inward. After a moment she shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t had any feelings about places or things, only people. I think you’re right, though, about everything being connected.”

  “What if we start with a timeline?” Bob asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him. “You said you’ve been overbooked, lately—what if we try to figure out when the first, ah, cases popped up? Maybe we can trace it that way.”

  John was nodding. So was Amanda. “Yeah, that’s good,” John said.

  “Plus, like, hospital reports, and police reports, stuff like that,” Amanda said. “You guys can get those things, can’t you?”
>
  “Already on it,” Bob said. He didn’t mention that he’d been too drunk, digging through the police reports, to notice any common denominators among the recorded incidents, or even to make note of the dates. No matter, he told himself. They’d be looking through all of it again.

  John flipped through some of the loose papers on his desk. “I had a list started…there’s a social services worker in town; I thought I could ask her about anything unusual. And I was thinking we could talk to some of the local clergy, see if they can give us an idea about what their parishioners are up to…” John paged through the papers for another moment, then gave up, a look of irritation on his face. “I might have left it at home.”

  “We’ll start a new one,” Bob said. He felt good, hopeful; they had a plan, of sorts. A place to start, anyway.

  “What should I do?” Amanda asked. “I mean, I can’t exactly go around trying to read everybody in town; that’d take forever.”

  Eric watched her talk, his gaze fixed on her moving mouth. He still hadn’t touched her again, even sat away from her a little, as though afraid to touch her. Considering what she’d told John about himself, Bob thought he understood. Having a girlfriend who read minds made lying or cheating pretty much impossible, and if she was tapping into feelings…Bob didn’t know anything about the kid, but he’d been seventeen himself, once. Surely the major components of male adolescence hadn’t changed that much.

  John frowned, a thinking face, and crossed his arms. “Let’s get some facts down, times and events,” he said. “And I’ll make a few calls, see if we can get someone out here to run tests. Once we have something substantial, we can go to the police.”

  Bob thought about Stan Vincent, how he’d been at the hospital. “I don’t know that the local cops are going to be much help,” he said. “Chief Vincent seems…unreasonable.”

  “If we have evidence, though, he’ll have to listen,” John said. Bob considered pointing out that his statement was wishful thinking at best, but let it slide; if Vincent wouldn’t step up, there were the state cops. Even the feds, if it came to that.

  John turned back to Amanda. “You could go with us, try to get a read off whoever we talk to,” he said. “Until then, you should keep a journal. Write down everything you see. The police have those sketch-artist computer programs; maybe we can find some of the people you’ve been dreaming about that way.”

  “There’s the poetry night, next week,” Amanda said. “Bob said it might be a good idea to go somewhere there are a lot of people, see if I can, uh, pick up anything big…”

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to,” John said. “By then, we should have this thing figured out.”

  Bob didn’t feel as certain as John suddenly seemed, but the doc’s confidence was heartening, and contagious. If their suppositions were true, if Port Isley had been infected somehow, they’d make a case for it and get the proper authorities involved. A whole town couldn’t self-destruct without anyone from outside noticing, not in this day and age…or even people inside the town, for that matter. He’d made the connection, and if an aging, drunk reporter could see that something strange was happening, there were bound to be others.

  “We’ll figure it out,” Bob affirmed, and Amanda and John both nodded, and Eric only watched Amanda, still not touching her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Darrin Everret heard a soft tap on the door of the west studio and smiled, sure it was Kim. The sculptress usually came by well after dark to avoid being seen by Miranda or any of her minions. Ms. Greene-Moreland frowned on fucking, it seemed, by her “guests,” and since Darrin wasn’t paying, he had no real choice but to play along. In front of Miranda, anyway…although he had the feeling she’d look the other way in his case. He knew he was the retreat’s darling—he had more talent than any three of the rest of them—and he’d only just discovered a passion, a genius for long, rambling, brilliant monologues about the artistic experience. Almost every day that he worked—which was pretty much all of them, he’d never been so productive—he had an audience now, three or four of them listening to him talk about the process while he was creating. Sometimes they worked alongside him; sometimes they just sat there in awed silence, watching him put lines on paper, listening to his theories and assertions.

  He dropped his pencil in the tray, brushed off his hands, and ran them through his hair. He’d been banging the sculptress since their first week. Kim was homely but fantastically enthusiastic in the sack and wasn’t as vapid as she’d first seemed; she read a lot of books, and there was an actual sense of humor behind those myopic brown eyes. A little talent, too. Her pieces weren’t total shit, anyway, like what most of the others churned out.

  Darrin was cool with the Kim arrangement, but he also had his eye on Jane, one of the poets. Poetesses. She was boring as hell, her poetry was depressing and uninspired, but she was also much prettier than Kim, better body, face like a cheerleader’s. Jane had become a regular at his daily discourses, along with Kim and Brandon, the collage-mixed-media guy. Brandon had a big, fat hard-on for Darrin, which was funny but also pathetic. He was an ex-Mormon and still half in the closet, but so obviously attracted to Darrin that it was almost painful to watch, to see his longing gazes, his confused, blushing attempts at conversation.

  “Yeah,” Darrin called. Maybe it was Jane.

  Maybe it was Jane and Kim.

  Miranda Greene-Moreland stepped into the studio, gowned in some ridiculous green muumuu, wearing oversize hoop earrings with little dolphins dangling in the middle.

  Say good-bye, hard-on.

  “There you are, Darrin,” she said. She smiled, showing her stained, unlovely teeth. “I hope I’m not breaking your concentration…?”

  “Of course not, Miranda.” He’d been about finished, anyway. The alien landscape in front of him was a forest, the perspective fish-eyed, shades of pencil and charcoal creating a sense of oppression. The crowded leaves in the forefront confused the eyes, creating a trap, pulling the viewer down to the base, primal immediacy of the hungry, fleshy trees.

  She stepped closer, peering at his strange trees. She raised a hand to the base of her throat, an oh-my expression if ever he’d seen one.

  Extraordinary, he thought.

  “Darrin, this is just…the perspective, the way the leaves crowd in…”

  Extraordinary. Amazing?

  “Astounding,” she said, and he chuckled. She wasn’t predictable, not at all.

  “No, really,” she added, as though he’d been disagreeing, and went back to gazing at the drawing. “Just extraordinary.”

  Darrin bobbed his head in acknowledgment, properly humble. He was fully aware that his work had progressed from good to fucking exceptional since he’d come to the Greene-Moreland retreat, but Miranda and her dud husband were paying the bills. He knew better than to snap at the hand that was stroking him.

  “So, what brings you out this way so late?” Darrin asked. “I thought you were an early-to-bed person.”

  Miranda smiled. “I am, usually. But I’ve been thinking about some of your ideas, and I wanted to talk about them a little more.”

  “My ideas?” Darrin’s impromptu philosophy discussions covered everything from religion to best types of pencil. Miranda had sat in once or twice, but the days had been blurring a little lately—he hadn’t been sleeping well—and he couldn’t remember what he’d talked about when she’d been there.

  “For revenge,” she said, and her smile turned slightly wicked. “For getting the crazies back.”

  Darrin stared at her for a beat. Crazies?

  “Oh, the survivalists,” he said. “The…Jessups?”

  “Cole Jessup, that’s right,” she said, and leaned against one of the dusty stools by the wedging table, where Kim and the other sculptors worked their clay. The sculptors had more room in the big studio, where the pottery wheel was, but Kim had pretty much moved all her tools and shit here, to be where he liked to work. There was dust all over the place
, and dried bits of clay always crunching underfoot. “I think Mr. Jessup and his friends could use a little lesson, after all.”

  Darrin gave a tentative smile, not wanting to appear too eager. She’d been pretty clear about her thoughts on the matter…although he’d considered carrying out some guerilla retaliation on his own, after the cat tails had been laid out behind the kiln. That shit was just asking for it. “Anything in particular you have in mind?”

  Miranda laughed. “I don’t really think along those lines. I’m not a planner like that, you know? I’m emotional. And honestly, I don’t think I should be directly involved. You know, with the details. If you’re asking me, though…something humiliating would be best, don’t you think?”

  Darrin grinned. Now she was talking. He’d get Brandon and Kim to help him, maybe Terrence; he had a decent sense of humor (what queen didn’t?). A few drinks, a midnight recon and attack…he’d always liked that kind of thing, papering trees on Halloween, unscrewing salt shakers at restaurants, although he’d thought he had outgrown most of that shit. Thinking about it now, though, considering the possibilities, knowing he had the go-ahead from his stick-up-the-ass, selfimportant patroness…

  Epic; this is gonna be epic, he thought. “When should we do it?”

  “Oh, you should wait a bit,” Miranda said. “The Event is coming up next week. I don’t want anything to, to distract our community before then.”

  He could hear her capitalize the E in event. Some dorkass open poetry night she’d scheduled for mid-July, which everyone at the retreat would be forced to endure. Waiting sucked; he didn’t want to wait that long, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. “Right, yeah. Of course.”