Sleep Revised

by Wright, Michael

  She paused. He had her there.

  He raised his eyebrows, “Well?”

  Sam stared at him a moment longer, and then stood, her feet smacking the aged hardwood floor and creaking across the studs and beams that were so far worn and used with age that the foundation began to cry out in the aches and groans of old age against even her insignificant weight. She reached for a pile of canvases behind the couch and pulled them out. They were large canvases, and from what he could tell they were all very heavily saturated by the stiffness of them. He didn’t see an easel or any other things that would have helped in painting them in the apartment around him.

  “This.” She pulled a single image out of the stack and slapped it down heartily onto the coffee table in front of him.

  It was outlined in greenish black with a figure in the middle, vaguely shadowed but recognizable as a person. It was a portrait, with the caption “I Am Providence” written at the bottom in long, hard letters.

  “Lovecraft.” He said.

  “What?”

  “H. P. Lovecraft, he was a pulp author in the early 1900’s. One of the big names that made modern horror fiction what it is.” He stood and looked down at the image. “Jon never mentioned any interest in Lovecraft.”

  “What’s so important about that?”

  “Lovecraft wrote a lot about cults and monsters coming back to us from the other side. He set most of them in New England. Another thing he wrote a lot about was insanity, most of his stories had some kind of role where a person would go insane upon contact with the other-worldly beings on the other side.” He reached out a finger and traced along the edges of the painting, following the careful line that was drawn, seemingly randomly around the face of the figure.

  “So…?”

  “So if Jon was really researching this kind of stuff, maybe he would have to look into some of the Lovecraft lore. Maybe he was checking up to see if someone was fabricating the information as some kind of a sick game.”

  She shrugged.

  “Or perhaps he was studying the insanity. Some people think that Lovecraft himself suffered from some kind of mental illness that inspired his work.”

  “What do you think?”

  He looked to her, “I don’t have an opinion.”

  “So we very well might be taking directions from a guy who has been dead for almost a hundred years but wrote about monsters and the occult for pulp magazines? This is supposed to make me feel better about your position?”

  Clark shook his head. “No. But the word ‘Providence’ now has meaning to all three of us.” He ran a finger across another line that seemed very out of place in the painting, it didn’t outline anything or add texture to all that was on the drawing. It was simply a line that didn’t belong there. “Wait. Is this all the word means to you? Or is there something else?”

  She stared at him. “Like what?”

  “Did someone else at any time say this word to you?”

  She looked away. “No.”

  “Who did?” He set down the painting again, letting go of the line that he was tracing, another line that he had found that was totally out of space, out of the area where it belonged. “This is very important, Samantha. Who said that word to you?”

  She turned away from him, facing the dim light that slipped slowly out of the curtains. “The shooter at the coffee shop yesterday. He looked right at me when he said it, right after he shot Father Capaldi in the head.”

  Clark swore, “That makes this whole thing a lot worse, then, doesn’t it?”

  She huffed, “How is that?”

  “The man who tried to kill you was the one to deliver the message that Jon had for us the whole time. Or someone had for us, at least.”

  “Your guess as to who.”

  “I have a few guesses.”

  He looked down at the painting, taking in the edges again, trying to pick out why the lines were in there, he knew that it would be totally out of place for someone, especially someone as detail oriented as Jon, to put lines in the portrait. He tilted his head, and began to see a shape peering out of the chaos.

  The dog continued to yap down the hall, for some reason the yelling had stopped, which Clark supposed was probably a sign that someone had not in fact eaten all of the food, but just all the food that was in sight and that the other party, the woman who had been screaming at the top of her lungs moments before, was now filling her face with it.

  Sam turned back his direction. “Like what?” Her hair moved violently when she did, cascading around her face from where it had been swept back. Her hair wasn’t long, coming just to where her neck connected to her torso, but it was long enough that he noticed even without much care it looked full and lively.

  He pointed at the painting, “Whoever inspired Jon to do this.”

  She tilted her head, “What? Lovecraft?”

  “No,” he said, “the painting is not just a random portrait.” He picked it up and looked into the light with it. “It’s a map.” As he held it up the lines that were out of place met together to form the lines of a state, and the rise of the author’s face to meet the crown of his nose was marked with a peculiar black shadow. He stared at it for a moment before he turned it around so that Samantha could see it. “What we have here is something that someone wanted us to find.”

  “And Jon to draw.”

  He nodded again, “Exactly.”

  “Let me guess, the answer to the fifty million dollar question is one that we already know?”

  He set the painting back down, reaching on to the table to get a pencil and started to trace the lines out on the canvas. “This word here, part of a famous phrase ‘I am Providence’ is what Lovecraft had put on his grave, which to me kind of shows some signs of extreme narcissism, but it might also be an indicator on this portrait of what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He finished drawing the lines together, gathering them in corners like a neatly tied knot around the edges of the painting, cresting at the center of the rise in the man’s nose. “Meaning, that what’s going on, has something to do with this quote. Or rather, this area. What we have here is a map of Rhodes Island, and if I am to guess correctly, and that” he pointed at the dark spot, “is the place where we’re meant to go.”

  Sam looked down at the map and then back at him. “For what?”

  He looked back up at her, “We’ll have to find that out then, won’t we?”

  2

  The diner was nearly empty. Sam sat alone at a booth facing the street. In front of her was a full cup of coffee, hot and black, unlike the drink she had with Father Capaldi which had been her favorite before the incident. She doubted that she would ever drink that again. She would never taste it without the dull hint of blood or the smell of cooking brain matter.

  She looked across the diner again, scanning the door. He had not arrived yet, which was fine with her as she took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  After they had left the apartment he had suggested they meet again the next day, she didn’t know what he expected to find in that one day, but he might have had some business with his office to attend to. She wondered if he had traced the location indicated on the painting. Did he know what was there? Was anything there or was the whole thing another wild goose chase that would lead them nowhere? It was hard to tell with all that happened.

  Sam shook her head and burrowed deeper into her coat, bracing against the over air-conditioned diner around her that was attended by a waitress who seemed only to hold the job because she was past her prime in exotic dancing. She clearly did not want to be there. Times were tough, she had to agree, but having a job was a major tip of fortune anymore.

  With a fingernail she tapped the center button on her phone, and saw that she had no messages, no missed calls. If he was running late, he didn’t seem to care too much about letting her know it. She took another look around her, checking for any other customers that might be there. Might be watching her.
She felt stupid being so paranoid, and slightly concerned that she would look like someone with ill intent herself, but under the circumstances it seemed like the smartest move. If there really was something going on involving Jon, Clark and her, it was best to play it safe than later on be sorry.

  She turned away from the phone and took another drag of her coffee. Even black it was weak. She supposed that it was possible the diner was running low on the stuff and was just brewing pot after pot. It was more likely they just sucked at making coffee.

  The window outside was empty. There was a car or two parked on the curb, dimly lit in the afternoon light as the sun wandered over the ends of buildings, casting deep shadows over the street. There wasn’t even a cat feasting on dropped crumbs or discarded half-eaten food to change the scenery. It was all dead. It was like the whole world had stopped, and not a single soul was moving about in the tiny, narrow town.

  Sam drank down another quarter cup of her coffee. Weak though it was, it was warm, and insulated her against the cold that seemed to be growing by the second as she sat there. She saw the waitress leaning against the bar and scrolling through her phone. Her blouse was unbuttoned three down, and she wore a black miniskirt. She doubted it was the standard uniform code—but far be if from her to judge—and she wondered how she could possibly be comfortable in the refrigerated room.

  The doorway was still empty.

  Where is he? She wondered, reaching over to tap her phone again, surprised that only a couple minutes had passed since she last checked. Did time just slow down and not pass as quickly as it did when you were waiting? She had always thought that as a child. Minutes were always longer when you were waiting on a person or on the bell to ring and free you from the binds of a classroom. Of course, she also counted the minutes until she could get away from home, but those didn’t seem to be as long as being trapped and listening to someone for hours.

  The grill sparked to life on the other side of the bar. She saw a man standing there, long, blond hair swept back into a topknot, and a loose visor taming back the rest from drifting toward the food he was working with. The waitress didn’t even give him a look, and Sam supposed that he was making himself a bite to eat since there weren’t any more patrons at the moment. She could smell sizzling sausage, and heard the familiar boiling pop of eggs scrambled well and set onto the hot surface.

  She wondered how long it would take for her to get a refill on her coffee.

  The door swept open on the far side of the diner, and she saw Clark walk through it. He was dressed casually, which was a surprise to her. She realized she had only ever seen him in a suit or a derivative thereof. He was wearing a loose, but fashionably cut flannel shirt, and dark jeans, whiskered around the knees and thighs, flowing into deep and well cared for blue at the bottom. He looked different to her. Normal.

  He spotted her almost instantly and waved to the cook as he passed. He had a satchel in his hands, the same one she had seen on other occasions. She assumed it was probably what he used for work. His lack of business attire told her that it probably had something else in it at the moment—something to do with the crap that was in Jon’s apartment and in the box he had sent to him.

  She wasn’t so sure she wanted to know what was inside.

  He plopped down opposite of her, sliding the satchel in quickly. “Hey, sorry I’m a little late. Traffic sucked.”

  She only nodded.

  He pointed at her cup of coffee: “You ordered?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  A shrug, “Suit yourself.” He waved over to the waitress, who saw him enter and had put away her phone, and fixed herself up a bit when he waved at her before. She pranced over as if she were in heels, but Sam knew she was just wearing a cheap pair of flats.

  The waitress stepped over to them and snapped gum in her mouth. “You know what you want, hon?”

  He nodded, “Coffee. Go ahead and go black with that, and the usual.”

  She flicked out a pad and nodded, “Steak and eggs?”

  “Yep.” He tapped his fingers on the laminate table top and gestured to Sam, “And whatever she’s having.”

  Sam shook her head, “I’m not hungry.”

  “Get her a small plate of pancakes.”

  She shot him a look.

  He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Also refill her coffee.”

  The waitress clicked her pen a few times and then hurried away, with the same ridiculous prance that she knew she probably thought was alluring. Sam thought it only helped her look even stupider. Clark didn’t pay the waitress any attention as he turned and dug into his bag.

  “How have you been?” He asked, not looking at her, but remaining focused on his bag.

  “Do you really want the answer to that question?” She picked up the fork folded in a napkin and began to play with the sharp tines.

  He turned to her for a second, “Not quite. But I was wondering if you’re okay.”

  “I guess.”

  “Your brother would always say that too when he didn’t want to talk about something.” He pulled a folder out of the satchel and set it to the side. “Being around you is making me think that you taught him some of those funny habits.”

  She scraped a fingertip across the end of the fork. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Not much,” He fumbled with another set of papers, “just an observation.”

  She watched him work for a moment. He had his sleeves rolled up to quarter length on his forearm, the cuffs tucked neatly behind tight folds that held them in place. He was surprisingly tanned for an egghead. She supposed that being in the south meant that you had to spend some time outside, but he didn’t strike her as the kind of person who would be hopping in the tanning bed every week, so he must have spent some time outside. The flannel pattern made him look a little more outdoorsy than she had initially thought.

  Why am I looking at him like that? She wondered.

  He placed a few more piles of papers out on the table, only two or three pages a piece, but he stacked them at different angles to keep them from getting mixed up. She wondered how much reading he had done over the past couple days. She’d had no idea that Jon had sent him so much material.

  How much did Jon have printed out on the stuff? She didn’t think her guess would even come close to the actual number.

  “What is all that?” She asked.

  “This,” Clark pointed to it, “is most of the research I found in that box that actually makes some sense to me.”

  “Does it have to do with what happened to Jon?”

  He paused, “It has to do with that and what is happening to us right now.”

  She glanced to see if the waitress was any closer to delivering the coffee, needing a refill if she was going to focus on a mountain of papers with Clark over the next however many hours it was going to take to sort through all of the crap that he had brought along with him. “Just what is that exactly?”

  He threw up a single hand, “It’s…complicated.”

  “What do you mean? Like is this some kind of weird conspiracy theory? Cause if it is, I’m afraid I’m gonna have to hit the road here….”

  “No.” He interrupted, “It’s not a conspiracy or anything. At least, not one like what you’re thinking.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s a pattern.”

  Sam looked over at the papers. She could see there were printed pictures on the pages, illustrations to go along with the articles, and what looked like old woodcutting pictures from books that were probably long gone. The one that caught her attention the most was a picture that looked like a woman with the head of a bull on top, her body wrapped in dark wings that flowed around, preserving her modesty with rich, black feathers. “A pattern for what?”

  He sat up in his chair. “That’s going to take a minute for me to explain.”

  “Here you go!” The waitress had returned. Sam failed to listen out for the ridiculous prancing
across the dull tile floor, and saw the woman throw down a mug and begin to fill it from the pot with the weak and probably burned coffee. She noticed that when she poured out the liquid, the glass pot stayed just as dark. “We got your food coming up soon. Do y’all need anything else?”

  Sam tapped the rim of her coffee mug.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, baby.” She poured a glob of it into her mug.

  She gave a sarcastic smile, “Thanks a ton, sugar.” She said, trying not to mock the accent that was so clearly put on as she said it.

  The waitress stiffened, and then pasted on her best Paula Deen smile, and skipped across the tile back to the bar.

  Clark watched the waitress for a second and turned back to Sam. “What was that all about?”

  “Nothing.”

  He paused for a moment, watching her, and then grabbed his coffee mug and drained down half of it.

  “Isn’t that hot?”

  “Not today.” He winced at the bitterness.

  Sam wrapped a hand around her mug and felt that it was, in fact, lukewarm and probably barely palatable as it was. She took a long drag from her own mug regardless and let the bitter black fluid wash down her throat. It would maybe give her a little buzz, and that was all that she really needed—something to prepare her mind.

  “What is all of this?” She grabbed one of the papers, and began to scroll her eyes down it. It was a bulleted list, aligned neatly and exactly. A list of characters, next to it was a list of months and dates. “A calendar?”

  He nodded. “That is the key to this whole mess.”

  She looked at the symbols, knowing that at least one of them looked very familiar. She searched her mind to try and remember where she had seen it before, it had been accompanied by something else, she was certain of that. “What does it mean?”

  “It’s a countdown.” Clark said, reaching into the pile of papers and pulling out another one, which was just a drawing that was done in red pencil, a drawing of the eye that she had seen all over Jon’s apartment. The drawing was done in intricate patterns, lines moving and mingling together almost endlessly around the outline and in the iris. It was incredible and intricate, she guessed it was something close to what could be called a tribal print, guys had come in constantly getting that kind of stuff in the shop, but she had never seen one so detailed. He pointed at the center, “That symbol, is a date. It’s a period of time at least. This calendar doesn’t work like normal ones.” He circled a finger around the iris. “This time frame, it started last year. However, the last section of it, started last week.”