by S. D. Perry
The first three messages were what he’d expected—had he heard, did he see, what-would-happen-now. He sipped from his juice, considered, then added another splash of alcohol. Better. The fourth call stopped him short, the bottle of vodka still in hand.
“It’s Amanda. Call me as soon as you get this, OK?”
She sounded upset. The time stamp was just before ten last night…had she told him she was going to call? He thought perhaps so and felt a pang of guilt for having ignored the phone the night before, but there was no help for it. He only hoped that whatever she wanted, it would hold. The next call was another local, wanting to hear about the reading. Bob put the bottle back in the freezer and then finished his juice, figuring there was no way Amanda was awake this early; it wasn’t even seven. He’d call her as soon as he’d turned the paper over to his couriers; they’d be at his office at nine, ready to fold, and she’d probably be up by then.
By noon, half the people in Port Isley would be talking about whether ol’ Bob Sayers had gone off his nut. His sincere belief—and John’s, and Amanda’s—was that the other half would be stirred to action, ready to come together and talk about what was happening. They couldn’t be the only people in town who’d noticed the sudden rise in overall…strangeness, in themselves as well as in others. Silence was the enemy, people quietly losing their minds, sure that no one else was suffering—his front page was about to change that.
Bob was walking out the back door when the phone rang. He hesitated, not wanting to miss anything important…but chances were good it was another gossipmonger, eager to hash over Miranda’s public humiliation. Sometimes it seemed like half the locals had his home number. Besides, the most important thing he was going to do today, this year, maybe in his whole life was going to be getting this issue out. Never had he felt such a sense of urgency about the Port Isley Press; the story (headline: Emotional Excesses Rock Port Isley) might actually turn out to be the biggest he’d ever broken, a real honest-to-God lifesaver.
A third ring. Fuck it, maybe Amanda was up early. He left the door hanging open to the early morning light, the town as cool as it would be all day, and walked back to pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Bob? It’s Dan Turner.”
Damnit, he needed to get that caller ID. He’d heard from several people in the last month that Dan had finally caught the Jesus bug, in a big way. Bob hadn’t had the opportunity to cross paths with Dan Turner of late; with Rick Truman awaiting trial down in Seattle, Turner had been busy with the council. Two of the members had resigned since June, and Poppy Peters had dropped out of sight. The other handful of councilmen had always been content to let Rick run the show, and it seemed they were happy enough to let Dan take over now. Word had it that he could (and did) quote chapter and verse at the drop of a hat.
Swell. “Hey there, Dan, how are you?”
The councilman’s voice was rigid, high, and overly loud. “So whoever is in Christ is a new creation; the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.”
“Oh, uh-huh,” Bob said agreeably. “That’s great. Listen, I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got to get over to Angeline to pick up the paper…”
“You don’t, actually,” Turner said. “There won’t be any paper going out today.”
“What do you mean?” Bob said, struggling to keep his voice even. “Third Wednesday of the month, isn’t it? I sent a copy to your office Monday night.”
“But not the copy that ended up going to the printers,” Turner said. “Their throat is an open grave; with their tongue, they speak deceit.”
“What are you talking about?” Bob said, although he had a pretty good idea.
“You sent a lie,” Turner said. “After what you’ve been putting out lately, the council decided that it might be wise to keep a better eye on you. I went to the printer’s last night. I saw what you wrote. Your front page news.”
“It is news, if people are in trouble,” Bob said. “They have a right to know that they’re not the only ones having problems.”
“It’s God’s work being done here,” Turner said.
“Well, that may be so,” Bob said. “But this conversation we’re having, right here and now—that’s reason enough to run it,” Bob said. “People are different, Dan, you’re different, and I don’t think—”
“The Spirit of the LORD will come upon you in power, and you will prophesy with them; and you will be changed into a different person!” Turner’s anger was tinged with awe. “God is with us, now. He is offering His mercy—With your own eyes, you saw those great trials, those miraculous signs and great wonders, that’s Deuteronomy—these are the trials, that’s what’s happening right here and now! Every one of us is being given a choice, to walk with God or to turn away from Him. We are witness to a miracle, and I’m—we’re not going to let some old lush interfere!”
“So fire me, that’s about what I expected,” Bob said. “But that paper is going out if I have to pay for it myself.”
“No, it’s not,” Turner said, and if he was really trying to be a good Christian, to be pious or humble, he was missing the mark; the councilman sounded incredibly smug. “It’s already been pulped. I watched them do it myself. And I explained to them that unless they want to lose Isley’s business permanently, they’re not to print another issue without speaking to me first. Personally.”
“You think I can’t find another printer?” Bob asked, as incredulous as he was furious.
“Not for the Press. It belongs to the township, not you.”
“Jesus, Dan, I can take it to a copy center! For that matter, I can run ’em off myself!”
“Port Isley is burning with sin! The blasphemy of the Spirit will not be forgiven!”
“Can I quote you on that, Dan, or should I attribute that one to Mary?”
A strangled cry of outrage and a click. Turner had hung up.
Bob set his own phone back on the hook, gently, because he wanted to throw it and he was exercising some goddamn self-control, not like the booze, drink, I need a drink. He went to the refrigerator, opened the top door, took out the vodka, and walked back to the sink. He knew it was a bad idea, he knew he was fucking up but felt helpless to stop it—even felt a kind of sick self-righteousness, splashing a generous amount into his freshly washed orange juice glass. His town was falling to pieces, and he’d just been fired. What was booze for if not to ease those things? He drank it down in two long swallows, then leaned against the counter, feeling the fire hit his belly. He poured another one and then held it up, looking into the clear liquid.
Did he have free will? Did any of them, this summer? In less than two months, he’d gone from the occasional drink with dinner, the weekend nightcap, to daily drunks, the slide as easy and natural as falling down when you were tripped. John talked about not being able to think clearly anymore…the doc didn’t talk about his new lady love, but Bob thought that Sarah—Karen Haley’s sister, up for the summer with her kid—was John’s real problem. Or maybe problem wasn’t the right word…obsession, maybe.
All of us, he thought, still staring at the glass. Affected, influenced…but controlled? Did John have to go to Sarah, had Rick Truman been forced to chop up his wife? Did he have to drink, the way Amanda had to see what she saw, like it or not?
“I don’t,” he said, and poured the liquor into the sink, the smell making him wish he’d swallowed it, but he’d already had enough. For now.
No paper. No story. He’d told Dan Turner that he would find a way to get the word out himself, but suddenly that seemed foolish, like something a recently fired drunk would declare out of spite. He saw himself at a copy center, running off drafts of his big news on plain white typing paper, he saw himself standing on a corner of Water, handing them out to passersby, looking like an aging, jobless crackpot. Not that it had to be like that, but the imagery was so clear, he could see himself standing there with his stack of flyers, his eyes bloodshot with booze, pathetically dem
anding that someone, anyone pay attention; he could see the politely averted eyes of the men and women who walked past, the slight sneers. The pity.
It wasn’t even seven in the morning yet, but for Bob, the day felt over. He wanted a drink; he wanted to get shit-faced and go back to bed and sleep until it was all over, whatever “it” was. He left the bottle of Absolut on the counter next to the empty glass and sat down at the kitchen table, feeling old and useless, not sure what to do next.
Amanda was dreaming.
She saw a great fire, felt its heat. She saw a boy in a dark maze, his breath coming fast, his heart thundering in his ears. She heard shots and screams, saw a young mother who wept while her baby screamed.
As frightening, as awful as these things were, they were familiar, and she turned and fretted in her sleep but didn’t wake. There were other images and feelings, disconnected, fragmentary. Lust. Fury. A man laughing. A woman’s purse, spilled on the ground. Dark, malevolent spite. A fist, a hand, hands washing away blood.
The dream changed, and she saw a little girl in a pink dress, a faded photograph, a sense of longing as pale fingers traced the tiny, smiling face, shell, sea…and then Amanda was waking up, being touched, a hand sliding across her hip—
“Hey.”
At the sound of Eric’s soft voice she jerked awake, reflexively kicking herself up to the headboard. She clutched handfuls of the bedspread, pulling it to her chest. Eric was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at her. He had dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept.
“Hey, you.”
She stared at him, blinking at the bright slivers of morning light coming around the curtain. Why the fuck hadn’t she told Sid last night? Devon had said to tell him, but she’d decided to talk to John or Bob first, only neither of them were answering their fucking phones, and Sid had been out until late, anyway. He’d come home just after midnight with his girlfriend, and they’d opened wine and put in a movie. No way was she going to interrupt their date to tell them oh, by the way, she was a psychic, and she wasn’t sure what to do about her soon-to-be stalker boyfriend, but they should probably start keeping the doors locked all the time; fuck that shit. Sid would kick her ass out pronto, and unless she wanted to impose on the reporter or the shrink, she had nowhere else to stay. Besides, she’d ended up crying a lot after her conversation with Devon, and her face had been all swollen and gross, and she hadn’t felt like it.
She’d stayed up late writing out lists of options and reading about stalkers online, turning off the lights to smoke out of Devon’s window, trying not to jump every time a shadow moved in the yard. Her instincts were all pushing fairly strongly toward getting the fuck out of Dodge. She wanted to be a crime fighter and all—who didn’t?—but it wasn’t worth getting murdered over, and Sid’s hospitality shouldn’t have to extend to personal security. She’d fallen asleep planning her escape.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Eric said. “You’re cute when you’re scared, though.”
“What are you doing here? Did Sid let you in?”
Eric’s grin was leering. “He’s gone for the day; he left a note on the counter—said he and Carrie were going to Seattle and they won’t be back till late.”
She blinked and stared, trying to wake up. “So you just walked in? To somebody’s house?”
His grin faded. “To see you,” he said, his voice thick with feeling, his gaze eating hungrily at hers.
Anxiety replaced shock as she woke up more, as she grasped for the right approach. What should she say, how should she say it? She’d found a lot of websites about stalking behavior, they’d said to break it off immediately and totally with the person, to be absolutely clear—but the sites also said that before trying anything, an experienced threat management team should assess the risks, because sometimes the stalker would “escalate” if you handled it wrong. She doubted she’d find threat management in the yellow pages. She needed help, though; she was afraid to try to handle him by herself.
Run.
“Look, about yesterday,” he said, apparently mistaking her silence for irritation. “I was being a dick, I don’t know why. You still mad at me? Because I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I couldn’t sleep, thinking about it.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better,” she said slowly. They were alone in the house, and no one but Devon knew what she’d seen, and he might as well have been a million miles away. “I’ve got to pee; excuse me.”
Eric stood up so she could slide out of bed. She was wearing only panties and a tank, and she wanted to cover herself but didn’t want to do anything suspicious. She kept thinking of all those movies where someone had to lie to a bad guy, and they always twitched and stammered and as much as jumped up and down pointing at themselves, sending off signals that they were full of shit. Was she walking normally? She scooped up her skirt, crumpled by the door; did she look casual? What was she going to do in the bathroom, anyway, what magical answer was going to occur there?
Need to think, she told herself, and stepped into and across the hall from Devon’s room, flipped on the lights, and closed the door gently behind her. She resisted the strong urge to lock it, sure that he’d notice.
She actually did have to pee. She sat on the toilet and told herself that he wasn’t stalking her yet, that as long as he thought everything was OK, there was no danger…but what the hell did she know, anyway? She wondered if she could fake it long enough to get a read on him, to figure out what he was thinking, but she was afraid. What if he caught on, what if that was what triggered him?
Get out, you dipshit. The voice in her mind that scolded, that pointed out the cold, hard facts wasn’t interested in her indecision. With emotions and impulses jacked up all over town, who was to say he wasn’t ready to kill her now, today? Better paranoid than screwed because she’d hesitated.
She stood up, pulled her skirt on, and flushed, her thoughts running slapdash as she washed her hands in cold water. Distract him, get away. Distract him, get away. She needed her bag—her wallet was in it—but that and her shoes were in Devon’s room…
The window. Get him downstairs, go out the window.
There was an ivy trellis outside Devon’s window; he used it to get out when he didn’t want to go past Sid. She’d climbed it a time or ten, crashing on his floor after a night drinking or smoking pot—and on three memorable occasions, hanging out there while coming off acid. The ivy was mostly dead, so it was always full of spiders, but it was strong. Devon had reinforced the structure, double bolting it to the wall beneath the crawl of dried-up brown leaves; if she wanted to sneak out, that was the way to go, and she had a plan but it depended on acting now, right away, before she pussied out.
She opened the door, played a small smile on her face, and leaned into Devon’s room. Eric was sitting on the bed again. His expression, when he looked at her, was haunted, and she almost faltered. What if I’m wrong?
Then you’re wrong. Do it.
“Hey, I kind of need to take a shower,” she said. “You know how to make coffee?”
“Yeah,” he said, and he smiled. She could feel a kind of tension leave him because she didn’t seem mad, and she felt guilty for doing what she was about to do. Sneaking away, there was no way he was going to understand.
“Everything’s in the kitchen. There’s a grinder on the counter, beans in the freezer,” she said, and was sure that her smile looked forced now but she held onto it. She’d go to John’s office; he’d know what to do. Bob was probably busy with the paper…
Eric smiled, and she smiled back, then turned and headed back to the bathroom.
She closed the door and quickly turned on the shower.
A few seconds passed, and she strained to hear over the running water—and there, the telltale thumping of a jog down stairs; he’d be turning right at the little carpeted landing and heading away from her. The kitchen was beneath Sid’s room, other side of the house, practically. She counted slowly to ten. He
r heart was pounding; what if he couldn’t find something or decided he’d wait for her? What if she opened the door and he came jogging back up the stairs?
Tell him you forgot something. Shampoo. Toothbrush. Tampons. Go.
She opened the door slowly and stepped into the hall. Hesitated, closed the bathroom door; he’d wait longer before checking. She stepped across the hall. No time to change, and she’d climb barefoot down the trellis. She saw her bag at the foot of the bed and hurried over to it, grabbed her smokes off the dresser and threw them inside. She picked up her shoes, the high-tops, and stuffed them on top. Anything else she could come back for. Maybe with an armed guard.
She had a fleeting thought that she should leave him a note, a lie to smooth things over as much as was possible—Eric, crazy psychic mission at hand, will call you ASAP, sorry, love, etcetera—but besides the time investment, she didn’t trust the instinct. It didn’t seem wise to say anything encouraging.
I’ll be out of town before the sun sets, she promised herself, and went to the window, which overlooked the backyard. She quietly pulled the curtain to the side and unlatched the window. The sun was bright and sane as she lifted the bottom pane, wincing at the scrape of painted wood. She slung her bag over her shoulder and sat on the sill, hunched over to duck beneath the raised window. A last look at Devon’s room as she backed out, then she hooked one bare foot into the wide wooden latticework and shifted her weight down.
