"Mommy…?"
Julie turned, heart throbbing, fine hairs prickling at the base of her neck. A gurney stood in the aisle at the base of the altar, a body laying upon it, covered by a sheet. As she watched in horror, the body sat up. It was Kyra.
"Mom?" Kyra said, not to Julie but to the entire space. "Mom, are you here?
"Baby, is that you?" Julie gasped. "Am I dreaming?"
Kyra smiled but said nothing; Julie realized that her daughter looked as she did before death. No bruises or abrasions marred her perfect flesh; her eyes were clear and filled with light. Light glowed behind her like an aura, rendering her ethereal, serene.
"Kyra! Oh my sweet baby…" Julie cried, moving toward the gurney. As she spoke Kyra turned her head, glowing eyes searching.
"Where’s Daddy?" Kyra asked, her voice suddenly alarmed. "Mommy?"
"I’m here, baby," Julie stepped forward, her own eyes glistening. "Daddy’s at home… We both love you very much…"
Suddenly overhead there came a pealing of bells; great church bells clanging in the belfry, echoing through the rafters, followed by a great flurry of fluttering wings. Kyra’s features went childish, fearful. "Please, Mommy," she pleaded. "Please don’t tell Daddy…" Silvery tears tracked down her cheeks. "Please don’t tell Daddy I’m here…"
Julie reached out to touch her. "I won’t…" she vowed. Her hand touched Kyra’s. It was cold.
Julie gasped; as she glanced back to Kyra’s face she saw her daughter laying still on the gurney, eyes closed, purple bruises deep around her throat. As the bells peeled Julie stepped back, the rosary tumbling from her grasp…
…and she looked down to see the beads hit the floor, spattering like drops of blood.
Julie screamed as the blood ran, and her daughter’s body lay slack and dead. She screamed again, and the bells rang, and rang, and rang…
…and then she was awake, laying in the upstairs guest room bed of her parenets' modest home. The room was small and neat, done in ersatz Ethan Allen early American colonial; a small crucifix hung on the wall over the bed. Late afternoon sun filtered through chintz curtains. The telephone was ringing.
"Jesus," Julie moaned, then muttered, "Fuck me." She sat up, disoriented. The phone rang again, then stopped; a heartbeat later, there came a soft knock at the door.
"Julie, honey?" Eleanor, sounding concerned and maternal. "Telephone for you…" She opened the door, poked her head in. "I’m sorry," she said. "I didn’t know you were napping…"
"It’s okay," Julie replied, shaking it off. She sat fully upright; she was fully dressed. "Who is it?"
"I don’t know, dear -- someone named Dondi?" Eleanor looked at her, decided. "I’ll tell him to call back later."
"No," Julie said. "Just gimme a minute."
"It’s alright, dear," Eleanor told her. "You need your rest…"
"Mom, don’t," Julie said adamantly, then muttered, "not like I’m getting any, anyway." She reached for the phone as her mother watched; Julie gave her a look, and Eleanor ducked out, closing the door behind her.
Julie reached for the bedside table, rooted inside the drawer, came up with a pack of cigarettes. She hadn’t smoked for some seventeen years, since before the pregnancy. She’d picked it back up, last week. Julie lit one, took a deep drag, smoke flooding her lungs. Then picked up the receiver.
"Dondi?"
"Hi, Julie." Dondi’s voice, mock-conversational.
"Hang on…" Julie placed her hand over the phone and called out. "All right, Mother!" Over the phone, her mother’s voice, defensive.
"I’m not listening!"
"Good," Julie said. "So you won’t mind hanging up, then!" Eleanor huffed through the receiver; Julie listened until she heard the extension click and rack. She ran one hand through her hair, bracing herself for the question she wasn’t sure she wanted an answer to.
"Okay, Dondi," she said. "What’s going on?"
THIRTY-NINE
Afternoon. What was the old joke? Paul thought. Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. But Paul wasn’t laughing.
He was being followed.
He had meant to go to Marley Street; he hadn’t been there for over a day. Now he was worried. Paul wheeled his truck around a corner, glanced in the rear view mirror. The flow of traffic on Glendon Blvd. continued, unabated. He continued watching as he drove up the block, seeing a city bus, a Hyundai, a Chevy Camaro, one of those new little VW beetles, improbably shiny against gray December slush, a blue Suzuki Sidekick. All proceeding on, all oblivious. He was almost to the end of the block, half convinced he was imagining things, when the Taurus turned the corner.
It was late model, mud-spattered brown, utterly unremarkable in every way but one: it belonged to Detective Stephen Buscetti. Not a Glendon P.D. cruiser or unmarked sedan, but his personal car.
Or was it?
Paul reached the end of the block just as the light turned red. He sat watching as the Taurus inexplicably slowed some sixty yards behind him, hanging back. Paul could not make out the driver’s face, but he was sure it was Stevie. And if that were so, it meant Buscetti was following him, and had been all day. Paul had seen the Taurus a half-dozen times already as he ran seemingly mundane errands — the car wash to rinse away any traces of James Wells, the grocery store to buy fresh provisions for Will — with the car always in the background, like a six-cylinder Flying Dutchman, shadowing.
Paul gripped the wheel, engine rumbling, watching the cross-flow of passing traffic. In the rear-view, the Taurus crept closer, a half block behind and crawling, as if wary of closing the distance. Paul looked up: the light was still red. Behind him, the Taurus paused. The driver held something up — a map, a piece of paper — as if scoping an address. Paul couldn’t see his face.
The light was still red. Paul watched as a Dodge Neon trundled by, going with the green. Behind it, a dump truck gnashed its gears, lumbering forward. Suddenly Paul gunned it, roaring forth against the light. His truck lurched into the intersection, screeching around the corner. The dump truck driver jammed his air brakes and laid on the horn, blatting out a warning as Paul countersteered wildly, barely missing a Volvo in the oncoming lane. He glanced back to see the Taurus suddenly vault forward, tires spinning on stray ice as the Volvo hit the brakes and slid into the intersection, barely missing collision with the now stalled dumper.
Behind him the intersection was reduced to motorized bedlam: horns honking, drivers cursing, cars splayed, brakelights flaring. Paul roared off as the Taurus reached the gridlock, unable to pass. He glanced into the jiggling rearview; caught a glimpse of Steve Buscetti, cursing… or thought he did. At the next intersection Paul wrenched the wheel, executing a hard left on the yellow, heading north. The F350 took the turn hard, big wheels screaming.
And then he was gone.
~ * ~
Night. The room was dark, moon high and full through dormer windows, bathing the interior an ethereal, lunar blue. In the dream, Paul moaned as Julie moved atop him, angling her hips into long-practiced and wonderfully familiar position. They were together again, making love with ravished, animal abandon. Her breasts heaved lushly, nipples taut and full. They were together, for the first time in what felt like forever.
Paul gazed up at his wife riding him and felt time slow, go liquid, stop altogether. It felt so good. She felt so good. He dug his fingers into the deep cleft of her naked back, pulling her toward him; as the heat of impending orgasm burned in his loins Paul closed his eyes and came up, teeth grazing her neck as Julie cried out, hips furiously pumping, flesh slapping rhythmically against his straining thighs…
… when Paul stopped, felt the soft bed go hard and cruel beneath him. He reached out to touch cold, unyielding wood; Paul opened his eyes to see they were no longer in their bed in their bedroom in their house. The walls were windowless, close and claustrophobic, the ceiling low and oppressive; they were fucking on the dirty little bunk in the dirty little box in the basemen
t of Marley Street.
Julie continued in the throes of her own violent passion, oblivious. The door to the box hung ajar, slowly creaking open; as Paul watched in horror, the walls began to blister and bubble, the air filling with the bitter stench of coiling smoke.
"We’ve got to get out of here," he gasped. "We’ve got to get out of here now…" Julie stopped and looked at him, confused, as the fear in his eyes telegraphed to her own…
… when suddenly the walls exploded in flame, fire racing under the door to blanket the interior, swirling up and across the ceiling like a living thing, merciless and ravenous. Paul felt the heat sear his skin as he grabbed Julie and held her tight, her screams co-mingling with his own as the raging inferno rose up to consume them…
… and Paul awoke screaming, alone in the black recliner in the dark and ruined living room. The TV was dead before him, a hole punched in the grayed glass tube staring at him like a great blind eye. The house was quiet as a desecrated tomb; his own tortured breathing the only sound in his ears. Paul’s heart hammered madly in a chest constricted; for a moment he thought he might pass out cold. He put head in trembling hands; slowly, with great effort, he brought his body to some semblance of control.
"I’m all right," he told himself desperately. "I’m going to be fine." He said it again, for good measure.
But even he no longer believed it.
~ * ~
Morning. Paul rode up the sweeping drive of the cemetery, a fresh bouquet of flowers on the seat beside him. He wanted to see Kyra, to find some solace or peace, however fleeting, in the field of polished granite and earth. But there was none to be found.
As he parked he scanned the horizon, searching for signs of surveillance. There were none, but that meant little. The spiral was tightening. The cops were onto him: whether Stevie had made it official or not was but a matter of time. Dondi was distant and suspicious; indeed, the whole crew regarded him with wary concern. And there was still the little matter of his ongoing drama on Marley Street. Lies upon lies upon lies; Paul could no longer remember where the truth left off, and the constricting circle of deceptions began.
He walked up the rows of silent stone, came to Kyra’s grave. As he knelt and placed the flowers in the little holder, he spoke softly.
"Daddy’s in trouble, sweetie," he said. "I can’t really explain right now, and I didn’t want to say anything before because I didn’t want you to worry." He paused, tears welling hot against the chill air. "Whatever happens, just remember, Daddy loves you. Daddy loves you very, very m-much…"
Paul broke down then, tears flowing out to stain the mirrored surface of her memorial. It suddenly dawned on him with brute logic: Will was right. Paul could not let him go. Not now. Not ever. It had been three days since Will was last fed; whatever Paul had first intended, it had all become a terrible mistake. But he had no clue as to how to extricate himself from his own grim machinations.
Paul turned his gaze Heavenward, stared up into perfectly blue sky unblemished by cloud. "What now, God?" he asked, heart wrenching. "What am I supposed to do now?"
He stood listening, heard only silence. A bird flew by, swooping and darting through the winter air, hunting something he could not see. Suddenly a voice sounded, clear and quiet: not his, but as certain as if spoken aloud. And what it said was this:
Bury the dead.
Paul turned and looked behind him. No one was there. The voice came again, like a thing apart from him, some perverse Field of Dreams incantation… except he wasn’t Kevin Costner, this wasn’t a movie, and he knew it was only in his head. The voice sounded again.
Time to bury the dead.
Paul looked around a second time, stood trembling. He was utterly alone on the hill. Paul stared down at his daughter’s grave.
And suddenly knew what he had to do.
FORTY
Julie paced her parenets' living room, staring at the phone as if afraid it might bite her. Her folks had departed for the mall a scant hour before, Eleanor entreating her to come along, as though all of her daughter’s problems could be magically washed away by a good white sale. Julie had declined as politely as she could, playing the trump card of needing to rest.
And now she was alone, not resting at all, but pacing their tidy Stone Harbor home like a bug on a hot plate. Spock watched her, whining worriedly; even the pooch picked up on the vibe. She wanted to pick up the phone. She needed to pick it up. But she was afraid.
The dream tormented her, sending thin chills down her spine. But worse still was the news that Dondi had borne. He hadn’t said much, mostly repeated urgings that Paul was in some kind of trouble and needed her badly… but when she pressed him for answers, he didn’t want to say. He begged her to come back, for Paul’s sake. Julie had said no. She just couldn’t.
But now she wasn’t so sure.
"Oh, Paul," she murmured anxiously. "What are you doing?"
A damned good question. There was only one way to find out. Julie stopped and steeled herself, reaching for the receiver. But just as her fingers touched it, it rang.
Julie recoiled, instinctively pulling back. Her heartbeat raced as it rang again. She took a deep breath, picked up. "Hello?" she said.
"Julie." Paul, sounding anxious and surprised. "Hi…"
"Hi," she echoed. Tears immediately filled her eyes. Julie wiped them away. "Paul," she said, as firmly as she could, "I think we need to talk…"
"I know," he replied. That threw her. Before she could respond, Paul pressed on. "Julie, I’m so sorry…" he told her. "There are so many things I need to tell you…"
Julie nodded to herself, tears spilling freely now. There were things she needed to tell him, too.
"…but I want to tell you face to face," Paul continued. He paused, hesitating. "Can’t we just go somewhere for a few days? Get away from everything and everyone? I just think…" he paused again, choosing his words carefully. "I just think it would just be nice if we could figure out where we are with each other… and where we want to go…"
Julie sniffled, despite herself. She said nothing.
"I love you, Julie," Paul blurted, his voice insinuating itself through the phone line and into her heart. "I just love you so much…"
He stopped, as if afraid he’d gone too far. But Julie sighed throatily. "I love you, too," she confessed. On the other end of the line, Paul waited. The silence stretched, fragile as a gossamer thread, as Julie thought about it for a moment, then decided.
"New Hope," she said at last.
Paul stopped, stunned. "Seriously?" he asked. "I mean, are you sure?"
"Yeah." Julie said. "Let’s go."
"When?"
"Today," she told him. "Let’s just go…"
Paul was thrilled. He told her he’d come down and get her. But Julie told him no, she’d come up. Traffic on the Garden State would be with her that way, and besides, there were some things she wanted to pack. Paul understood and offered to help; Julie said okay. They chatted a bit more, and for a few, fleeting moments, things felt almost normal between them.
Then Julie rang off, explaining that she had to go if she wanted to make it in time. She glanced at her watch: two-forty-five. She would meet him at home at five. Paul agreed, hung up reluctantly, with the promise of seeing her soon. He couldn’t have been happier. His last words echoed in her mind.
"It’s gonna be okay, Julie," he told her. "Everything’s gonna be fine. I promise."
Julie nodded and said goodbye, then cradled the receiver. She wanted so badly to believe it. She felt her heart breaking open, releasing a torrent of pent-up emotion. Spock got up from his bed by the fireplace and loped over, stumpy tail wagging. He nuzzled her leg.
"No, boy," she said, scratching his head. "You stay here."
The dog hung his head dejectedly; Julie went to the kitchen counter, started writing her parents a note. With any luck, she’d be out the door before they got back; she didn’t need the added resistance of justifying herself. There were to
o many things she and her husband needed to talk about just now.
And a few things left to confess.
~ * ~
Back in Glendon, Paul hung up the phone, immediately picked it back up and called the fire house. Andy Vasquez answered.
"Rescue One," he said. "Vasquez speaking."
"Andy," Paul said. "It’s Paul…"
"Hey, Paulie, how ya hangin’?"
"Good," Paul replied. "Listen, I’m gonna take a few personal days. Kind of a family emergency."
"Yeah? " Vasquez sounded suddenly worried. "Everything okay?"
"No, no, everything’s fine," Paul insisted. "Julie and I are just gonna get away, try to work things out…"
From the other end of the line, an audible sigh of relief. "Hey, that’s great, buddy," Vasquez said. "We’re all rootin’ for ya…"
Paul winced; from his tone, it was clear, Andy had heard about Julie… which meant by extension, everyone had. Paul felt his paranoia rise, immediately beat it back. Vasquez assured him, no problem, everyone would understand. He promised to take care of covering Paul’s shifts. They wished each other well, and that was that.
Paul hung up the phone, felt a great weight shifting and lifting off his shoulders. He was giddy, unable to contain himself. Pack, he thought excitedly, I gotta pack.
He strode through the house, heading upstairs. He made his way to the bedroom, pulled their luggage from the closet, started packing. Nothing major, some casual clothes for a few laid back days, no big deal. Paul felt like a man reprieved, the prison door throwing wide to let in the bright light of day. It dawned on him, he didn’t have to do this anymore… he could just let it all go. For the first time since the beginning of the nightmare, he felt like he had a choice. He just had to let it go…
A Question of Will Page 27
