by Gregg Bell
So what was he going to do? He couldn’t stand there forever. Loftis’ door opened and Detective Washington stepped carefully down the snowy front steps. Washington wore an overcoat and he pulled on a knit cap. Denny felt if he walked the other way it would’ve seemed he was running from the cop, and running from a cop signified guilt and in Chicago could be fatal. So he continued down the block toward Washington.
Denny wore the same parka he’d worn to the police station when Washington had interviewed him but a lot of people had similar coats. Maybe, probably, hopefully, Washington wouldn’t put two and two together. Denny kept his hood pulled down low against the ice pellets and walked on. He was practically going to bump into the guy!
Washington stopped at the intersection between Loftis’ and the main sidewalk. All Denny could see were the cop’s boots. What if he said something? Denny felt totally observed, as if a thousand eyes were on him. He gritted his teeth, kept his head down and kept walking.
And walking. Now he didn’t know if Washington was following him and he was afraid to find out, so he just kept walking, two blocks, three. He didn’t see the Crown Victoria pass him either, so Washington could be behind him cruising slowly down the street in the car. But Denny could no longer feel his feet and, heading further and further from Loftis’ and his car, he had to make a move.
So he took a knee, ostensibly to tie his shoe, and in the process he peeked down the block—nothing, nobody. He stood and surveyed the scene. The sidewalk and street were desolate, an abandoned whited-out wasteland of leafless trees bending in the wind. But Washington could be sitting in the Crown Vic in front of Loftis’ house. Denny didn’t care anymore. The alternative of walking a roundabout way to his car promised frostbite, and besides, he needed to start taking more risks. Big risks. Desperate risks. As Rashida’s killer was still out there. Let Washington be there. Let him be there and Denny would still go up the stairs to Loftis’ door.
But there was no Crown Vic and no Washington. In fact, when Denny got to Loftis’ bungalow even Washington’s footprints had been blown over by the snow as if he’d never been there. He trudged up the stairs. At the door, Denny shivered violently—could this whole crazy thing with Washington have just been in his imagination?
He banished the thought. He had to think clearly now or he was sunk. The octopus door knocker let him know he was at the right bungalow. His hand burned with cold as he pulled the door knocker back and let it drop. He dropped it three more times and after the last heard Larry’s welcome calling from inside.
The jovial woman greeted him like a stranded mountain climber who reappeared after being lost on Mt. Everest.
“Oh my goodness. Look at you, Dennis. You look like Nanook of the North.” She laughed and rubbed his arms. “Come in. Come in. I’m going to make you a nice hot cup of cocoa.”
Denny thanked her but it was weird—she was practically treating him like a member of the family. Still it was most welcome. Summer had worn him out, physically with the sex, and emotionally with what she’d said about Rashida. The snow and cold had him trembling. He needed replenishment. He’d take it wherever he could find it. “I was hoping to talk to Mr. Loftis again.”
“Hank,” she corrected him. “Yes, he’s channeling now but I’m sure he’d be willing to see you again. Have a seat and I’ll get you that cocoa.” She pointed to the living room.
“But my boots?” He lifted a foot to show the snow wedged between the tread.
“No worries.” She nodded to him. “I’ll be right back.”
Denny sat on the nearest chair, a green upholstered one, and felt guilty about the melting snow dribbling from his boots onto the carpeting.
Larry came back with a steaming mug of cocoa. “It’s instant,” she said, “but it’s hot.” She laughed and handed it to him.
“Oh...thank you.”
Denny had to work to not burn his mouth but after blowing and blowing on the cocoa—a miniature marshmallow getting pushed around like a tiny sailboat—he was finally able to get some of it down, his throat and chest warming. And he was beginning to get the feeling back in his feet. Maybe it was crazy but he was even starting to think that things were beginning to go his way.
Larry was back. “Hank’ll see you now.”
Denny handed her the mug and nodded his thanks.
“You remember how to get to the golden room? I call it the golden room.”
He just kept nodding. Yeah, things were finally starting to go his way.
* * *
When Denny got to the top of the stairs, Hank Loftis was waiting for him in what Larry had called the golden room. Hank sat in one of the knee-to-knee-close chairs. Denny sidled into the other. “Thanks for seeing me again.”
Hank nodded.
But he seemed different somehow. Yes, he was the same pudgy guy in the same blue shirt but his eyes were different. They had a lost-in-the-clouds look, a deadness even, as if his animating life force had departed, now replaced by who knew what. Denny said, “I know it must be a surprise I’m back already.”
This new Hank smiled strangely. “It’s no surprise.”
His voice was different too. Deeper, monotone. Like a different person was inside. What had Larry said? He’d been channeling. Denny shuddered. It was involuntary. And it wasn’t the after-effects of the cold. Or from being over-tired. His body, maybe his spirit, who the hell knew, had reacted. It was from spiritual fear. “Uh, you seem different.”
Hank smiled again. “We are all different every second of every day.”
Denny felt he was sitting there with a stranger. He even had to think of why he’d come. And yeah, he was scared. This new Hank was unsettling him at a deep level. Denny resolved to ask his questions and get the hell out of there. “You...you...you were just seeing that cop. You were just seeing that police officer before I came in?”
“We are happy you are here, Dennis. We have much to teach you.”
God. He wasn’t even addressing his question. And who was this ‘we’ he was referring to? Denny took a quick look out of the room, making sure he had an escape route. “We?”
Hank smiled. “The guides, Dennis. And the guides thank you for engaging with them in this divine appointment.”
Denny inhaled deeply. Again he checked the way out. “But I wanted to talk to Hank.”
A delayed response followed. “Hank is still here. He says he’s a little nervous for you, but that he wants you to know there is nothing to worry about. The guides, us...” Another smile. “...are able to answer questions he cannot. You can trust us to take you safely up the mountain to a higher level, Dennis.”
“I’m sorry.” Denny squirmed in the chair. “But I don’t know if I’m comfortable with this.” He shot another look out of the room.
Hank pointed to his chest. “This we will show you how to access, Dennis. The heart. The divine all-knowing heart.”
Denny frowned. “Hank said I already knew what happened the night Rashida was murdered and all I had to do was remember it. How will I remember?”
The psychic laughed. “Your vibration level is so low, Dennis. And what’s that?” He turned his head to the side as if listening, then nodded. “Hank says you should trust us. That we know what we are trying to teach you, and that there are many of us who are already with you right now who will help you learn what you need to know at each stage of the climb up the mountain.”
Denny pushed back in his chair. “I don’t care about the mountain, damn it! Tell Hank to answer my question!”
The psychic smiled, nodded knowingly to his side but said nothing.
“Can’t you at least tell me what the cop said? Did you tell him about me? What happened?”
“You’re asking all the wrong questions, Dennis. You need to be asking questions of the heart. We are willing to teach you those answers. Dennis, to claim your knowledge of the truth say these words: ‘I am word. Word I am. I am here. I am here. I am here.’”
“Look, man, guides, whoeve
r you are.” Denny stood. “This isn’t working for me.”
“You are word, Dennis. Word you are. You are here. You are here. You are here.”
No, I am gone, Denny thought and he jumped up and ran from the room.
* * *
Denny was spent. He left Loftis’ bungalow and walked the two blocks to his car in the bitter, biting cold, the wind sweeping under his parka, rushing up his spine. When he got to his car and started it, he felt himself to be on the verge of shivering. He fought it but he was so tired he didn’t have much to fight with. He teetered on the edge and then...and then...the shivering took hold of him. He shuddered violently. “Oh!” He shivered and shuddered and shook for several minutes. “Oh God,” he said when it finally stopped, and his chin, still quivering, slumped to his chest. He breathed slowly, hoping he wouldn’t shiver again until the engine generated enough heat for the heater to blow warm air. For certainly, if he turned the heater on now it would blow cold air and trigger another attack. Finally, he felt it was safe and spun the knob.
It had stopped snowing but now the blown snow was whipping sideways in near-white-out conditions. Afraid of triggering another shivering attack, Denny wasn’t getting out of his car to clear the snow from the windshield and instead put the heater to the defrost mode and worked the windshield wipers relentlessly. He sat there until he had a little tunnel-window of sight, then drove off slowly, two hands on the wheel, extra careful. After the melee at the firehouse, Aunt Elizabeth’s grim warning, sex with Summer and her disturbing statements about Rashida, and now Hank Loftis and ‘the guides,’ Denny was shaken in body and spirit. So yes, he had to concentrate. He half felt as if someone was going to jump out of the blowing snow in front of the car. Not only could he use a drink, he needed one. And certainly no one in their right mind would blame him for alleviating the pressure and confusion in his head.
It was only eleven-twenty p.m. and even with the bad weather the diehards would be at The Wild Bull getting some serious partying going. But did he really want to run into anyone from the firehouse? Not now anyway. Besides, it was so cold and he couldn’t risk another bout of shivering. And he was so tired. In fact, he was tempted to pull onto the shoulder and nap but was afraid if he did he’d get stuck in the snow.
Fine. He promised himself he’d drink tomorrow, in fact, that he’d get smashed tomorrow, but he’d finish out the rest of this day—there was so little of it left—sober. It was the old AA trick that had sustained his six month stretch of sobriety after his second treatment. ‘Just for today’ they’d drilled into his head. You were not drinking just for today. You could, you would, drink tomorrow. You could, you would, drink on the weekend. You could, you would, drink at your buddy’s bachelor party, on New Year’s Eve, whenever. But ‘just for today’ you wouldn’t. Yeah—he pulled up in front of his apartment building—it was AA hocus-pocus trickery but it had worked for six months and it was working today. Those AA people might be screwballs but they knew how to stay sober.
He kept the car running and psyched himself to avoid shivering again when he hit the frigid outside air. He breathed in and out in aggressive little bursts like a weightlifter about to attempt a world record. “This is it,” he blurted. He killed the engine and opened the door. When he got to the sidewalk to his building he slipped but somehow kept his balance. He made it into the front entrance but the stairwell was drafty, so he hurried up the stairs and stuck the key in his apartment door. Ah! He was in. He shut the door behind him.
Yeah, maybe his place wasn’t much but what the hell, it was home. He looked around his living room. At his futon sofa he got in case one of his buddies needed to crash, at the big blue armchair he practically lived in as he watched movies or listened to music. The bookcase full of CDs and video games. His laptop on the cocktail table. Leaving his coat, the hood up, and gloves on, he collapsed onto the chair and stared at the ceiling.
He could hardly remember all that had happened during the course of the day, let alone believe it happened. He yawned deeply. He felt if he closed his eyes, blinked just once, he’d fall asleep. In a way he was satisfied with himself because he felt he’d done his best. His mother, a quote giver, had given him one about how at the end of the day you could feel like a general or a buck private or anything in between, depending on how you’d dealt with the day’s trials and tribulations. Well, today he felt like maybe a captain. Things hadn’t gone his way (even when he thought they were) and yet he’d kept trying. He’d kept plugging away. Yeah, he’d done his best. He dragged himself from the chair, shirked his coat and gloves, drank a glass of water and got ready for bed.
He was so tired he figured he’d be out the second his head hit the pillow, but as he lay in bed, he was thinking about, or actually it felt like he was forced to think about, creepy Hank Loftis and his ‘guides.’ Or maybe he should say, whoever it was that had taken over Hank Loftis’ body. He shuddered and felt a sense of dread in his spirit.
Dealing with spirituality was difficult for him. He remembered how hard it was bringing up to Summer the way things had fallen into place with Powell saving him from Tucker’s thugs at The Wild Bull. He’d felt like a nut. And AA was all about spirituality. If he’d heard it once he’d heard it a thousand times—‘AA is a spiritual program.’
Whatever. He wanted to sleep. He needed to sleep. But he couldn’t get the picture of Hank Loftis and the dead look in his eyes and the emotionless monotone voice that was someone else’s out of his mind. The dis-ease he felt was like a coating sticking to him. A spiritual coating. A spiritual slime.
And this was crazy because yeah, he should’ve been out like a light. The inability to sleep was one of the tortures of hangovers and yet here he was perfectly sober, exhausted, and wide awake. He thought he heard something. No, he did hear something. It was the sound of crying. Like a mouse or a small animal trapped in the wall. He resolved to block the sound out. Will power. Mind over matter.
But the faint crying continued. It sounded like maybe it was coming from the kitchen. It was insane. It was just insane. He was so tired but what could he do? He forced himself to get up and started for the kitchen. He walked down the hall, hearing the crying all along. But the sound wasn’t any louder in the kitchen. Was it in another room? He went to the living room. The bathroom. Same difference. The sound was there, steady, but got no louder. Could the sound just be in his head? Was he losing his mind?
He went back to bed and closed his eyes and when he did, he had the distinct sensation someone was standing next to his bed. Tingling fear rippled through his body like bugs crawling and he couldn’t stand it any longer, so he rolled to the other side of the bed and opened his eyes. But...there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of the steady faint crying.
His imagination ran wild. Could it be Rashida? Crying from the grave? What a horrible thought. Or perhaps it was the sound of ‘the guides.’ Whoever Hank Loftis had become after channeling. Maybe they’d attached themselves to him somehow.
It was in his closet, up on a shelf somewhere. He thought he still had it. A Bible. Oddly enough, it was a Protestant Bible a Catholic priest had given him when he was an altar boy. The book had given him comfort from night terrors as a child. Could it comfort him again?
Trembling, he rose and went to the closet. He plucked all kinds of stuff, a lot of which should’ve been thrown out ages ago, from the shelves. A box from a camcorder. Old cell phones. Board games. A heating pad. He took them all down, the dust flying, and he sneezed three or four times in succession. Finally, there was the Bible, red cloth cover, ‘Denny’ printed in black magic marker on its compressed pages. He took it down, blew the dust off, turned on the light in his bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
Even as he just opened the book, the sound of the crying began to diminish. He looked around. This is a joke, right? This isn’t really happening. But it was happening. He read a few things he’d underlined when he was a kid. They’d been underlined with a kid’s faith but he was no lon
ger a kid and no longer had faith. Nevertheless, he kept calming down as he continued to read and after a while the sound of the crying was gone.
He didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t believe in God. But he also couldn’t deny that what had just happened happened.
He laid the book on one of the bed pillows, lay down beside it and fell into a deep sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
In the morning Denny shook off the weird spiritual vibe of the night before. Spirit guides, oppression, unidentifiable sounds, getting out his old Bible. At the time yes, it had all seemed real. Hell, at the time what had happened with the Bible stopping the sound of the faint crying had seemed like a miracle. But he’d been exhausted, stressed out, no, he didn’t believe in any of that spiritual stuff. He had to take care of himself—no God was coming to the rescue.
But there’d been something to what the psychic Loftis had said. The pre-channeling Loftis, that is. It made sense. Unless Denny had been dead the night Rashida was murdered, his mind had perceived and recorded something. Now he just had to remember what that something was. But how to remember it? That had been the question he’d hoped Loftis would answer last night.
He dragged himself out of bed, went to the kitchen and grabbed a can of pop from the fridge. He’d gotten accustomed to getting his caffeine cold. On hangover mornings the caffeine in pop hit faster than coffee—and no having to make the coffee. He lit a cigarette and as his brain slowly came alive he closed his eyes and tried to remember. Some black ants had gotten into the kitchen lately and he peeked to check if any were around. He didn’t see any. And yeah, he’d slept but he was still on edge. He closed his eyes again and gave remembering another try.
