"She's going to be successful, isn't she?" Jody asked.
"Very," he answered. "Beyond her wildest dreams. You will be amazed where she ends up. A happy ending for an extremely nice person."
"And the others? Why did you include the others?"
"Simply because I could, because as I was coming to see you, each of their aura’s crossed with yours. Your friends, Gretta and Andy and Susie and you, were all interwoven. So much potential without any direction. I had the opportunity to help with that direction, so I took advantage of it. And it was extremely enjoyable, watching them discover that potential inside each of them."
"They were all happy after they got back, weren't they? That was neat." She paused, looking out across the lawn, watching the full moon lighting up the sky, thinking about each of her friends, wishing them good thoughts, attempting to send positive karma their way.
"I came for you...the others were secondary." His voice was quiet, kind.
"I know...I know you did," she answered.
"So, are you ready, Jody Reed? Are you ready to go now? To start your life, your adventure? Is there anything you need to do first?"
"No. I'm good, I'm ready right now. I have nothing left to do."
"You've made the right choice, Jody. There are but a few of us, people like you and me. Our vocation is so important. We exist to keep the balance, we travelers. You're going to do fine, just fine."
"I think we better go now, I'll never be more ready," the girl said.
Neither of their lips had been moving during the conversation. The Wizard took the girl by the hand, gently pulling her along, stepping down the steps, looking into her eyes, looking into Jody's golden eyes, glowing brightly in the reflection from the full moon. As they walked across the yard, away from the Reed home, away from Radford, the fog appeared at the corner of the street, as if it was patiently awaiting the two.
"Did I ever tell you about the Romanovs, Jody? What a family that was. The Czar, now that was a man, always had a glass of peppered vodka available. One night..."
And the fog came, swallowing the two of them, the tall man with his long white hair and beard, the thin, beautiful redhead, the two travelers disappearing into the night, the two Wizards...or whatever you're comfortable calling them, it really doesn't matter to them...setting off on their voyage.
Off to balance the universe.
Coming soon…
The Circle
A novel by R.G. Lawrence.
The following in an excerpt from the thriller, The Circle, to be released soon.
The girl knew that she was walking to her grave, understood as soon as Roy had come into the bedroom for her. It hadn't been a "grab your gear and I'll drop you at the bus station" type of greeting. No words were spoken, none were needed. The look on Roy’s face told her to get ready, little girl, 'cause you're gonna go die now, a cruel, evil sneer that spoke of the horror that awaited outside the house.
She had known, deep in her gut, that they would never let her get out of there alive, not after the things she had been forced to do, degradations that no child should ever be exposed to, acts that burned her mind with shame and revulsion and pain. First they had stolen her innocence, now they would be taking the rest. The idea of dying was almost welcome if it meant that these animals would never touch her again.
She moved like a robot, one foot forward, now the next one, come on, you'll get there, she prodded herself, the presence of the huge man adding to her feeling of powerlessness, hopelessness, his hand propelling her forward with rough shoves to her back. A part of her brain told her to stay calm, the other side was screaming for her to run, at least try to escape, any chance was better than no chance.
Without thinking, moving on survival instinct, the girl suddenly darted off to her left, past the first row of trees, the half moon providing enough light to guide her while the shadows of the wooded area shrouded her from her pursuer. She was barefoot, wearing only panties and a short t-shirt, the wooded ground slicing into her feet, branches smacking her in the face and across her eyes, the youngster trying to put distance between herself and the monster crashing after her.
As she ran through the woods she wondered if she would ever reach her fifteenth birthday, ever see Disneyland, ever be able to call her parents and apologize for running away, try to explain her confusion, her foolishness. It had been a lark, her taking off, an adventure to offset the boredom that a fourteen-year-old farm girl feels at the end of the summer. Now, after a weekend of perversion and filth, there was nothing left but this death race.
She knew she couldn't keep up this pace, the muggy air sapping her strength. She ducked behind a clump of dirt and weeds long enough to catch her breath, listening for the sounds of her pursuer. It sounded like he was farther away, more in back and to her left, not as close as she had thought. There was a faint feeling of hope, maybe a way out of this hell. She felt the soles of her feet, pulled away a bloody hand, willed herself to continue. She could hear the hum of a motor off to her right, maybe a car. If she could make it to a road she might be able to flag down help before he caught her.
Forcing herself up, ignoring her bleeding body, she set off towards the sound, the noise getting louder, the woods thinning out. Suddenly she was out of the forest, her eyes darting around for the expected signs of a road, finding instead that she was standing on the edge of an isolated field. The moon coming out from behind a cloud illuminated the distinctive shape of the back-hoe, the machine dumping a load of dirt to the side of a freshly dug hole.
The scene froze the girl, the memory of a spring day back home watching the cemetery workers dig a grave for a friend’s grandma. The girl and her friends had been sobered by the view, now she was simply terrified, the implication of the scene freezing her to the spot, the will to go on seeping from her body.
She heard the footsteps behind her much too late to react, felt the iron grip of her executioner catching her arm, propelling her forward to the edge of the hole, the girl too terrified to cry. She could hear him breathing hard, the youngster experiencing a tiny moment of satisfaction that she had made his task more difficult than he had thought it would be.
“Sorry darlin', time to go night-night," the man whispered, the gun in his hand coming up, the girl turning, her eyes frozen to the dark hole of the barrel, whimpering now, over and over..."momma, momma, momma," a single tear running down her cheek.
She didn't hear the explosion, the back of her head beating the rest of her body to the bottom of the grave, the back-hoe operator already putting his machine in gear, the first load of dirt covering the farmer's daughter from Indiana, the little girl who would never see her parents, never visit Disneyland, never see tomorrow.
2
The antiquated high school was located in the heart of downtown, an old-fashioned red brick, three story building built before the Second World War, its sides covered in a thick ivy that hid the many decay spots in the mortar, the parking lot not sufficient to handle the motorized legions of modern-day teens, the plumbing more cantankerous than not. It was a proud old school with a storied past, one of the few parochial schools in this part of the state that still thrived despite soaring tuition, a shortage of ordained clergy, and the modern day students who viewed Catholic education as an encumbrance to their civil liberties.
The dismissal bell rang, the noise alerting the hordes of teenagers to the end of another warm spring day, the kids celebrating the clanging sound with their daily ritual of whoops and waves and high-fives. The teachers breathed a much-deserved sigh of relief, exchanging exhausted smiles with each other. Sacred Heart High School was one day closer to the end of the school year, and both sides knew they were that much nearer to summer vacation, that age-old denominator of the educator and the scholar. As the twenty-four junior and seniors from the speech-and-comp class emptied into the hallway, a bespectacled girl wearing a charcoal gray skirt and cream blouse followed them out the door, the black Nike mid-highs on her feet a common sig
ht now seven months into the school year. As the teacher, looking as young as most of her students, squeezed through the crowded logjam at the door, she tried desperately to catch the retreating figure dressed head to toe in black.
“Father Mike...hey, Mike!" she called to the man strolling down the hallway, the woman's voice competing with the sound of metal lockers banging shut, the drone of the evening's plans being discussed and altered and finalized, the chatter moving back and forth across the hallway between friends who lived only for today, every new hour of high school the most important time in their lives.
The priest turned to see the young redhead smoothly sidestepping a group of adolescent girls standing in front of their lockers, a look of determination on her pretty face. He slowed his pace, giving her a chance to catch up with him, knowing this one wouldn't give up until she nabbed him, wondering what she was up to, and how much it would cost him. The priest knew that favors for Cicely Manley did not come cheap.
She was breathing hard when she caught him. "Boy, I'm glad I caught you, Mike, can we talk for a few minutes...in your office? It won't take long, I promise."
First year English teacher Cicely Manley was a tall, thin twenty-two year old woman prone to wearing huge, black horn rim glasses that dominated her face. The vice-principal had yet to decide if Cicely really needed the glasses or if they were, as he suspected, a prop the young woman utilized to appear older. If that was the case, they didn't work. No matter how she dressed, she looked as much like a kid as any student in the school.
He had watched several times throughout the year as parents, school administrators, and students on first meeting the youthful teacher had taken her lightly, much too lightly. They invariably learned their lesson, much like the snake handler who gets too comfortable with his favorite viper, not realizing he's been bitten until he's lying on the ground drawing his last breath, wondering what happened and when exactly he had been struck.
"A total unwillingness to accept bull-shit from bull-shitters," was Father Terry, Sacred Heart’s principal, stock reply when asked to describe his newest and youngest teacher. "Now, if I can only get her to convert, we might have a pretty damn good Catholic on our hands," he would add, chuckling.
"Hey, Sis. It'll have to be quick, I've got a couple of appointments at the rectory," Father Mike called back over his shoulder.
“It'll just take a sec," Cicely replied, following the tall priest down the corridor to his office. Finally, after seven months, the South Chicago girl was beginning to feel a very real part of this school. It had been difficult, surrounded by members of a different religion, akin to nothing she had ever been exposed to in her past. The Catholic Church was a culture within a culture, and Cicely has been slow in grasping the concept of the church's continuing ritualistic existence, the layers of bureaucracy within the system.
The priest pushed open the door leading to his office, Cicely closing it behind her. Father Mike took the swivel chair behind his unorganized desk, kicking his feet up on the desk, reaching for one of the black cigars that he normally kept unlit in the corner of his mouth. Cicely sank into the chair in front of his desk, crossing her long legs primly, pulling down her skirt to cover her knees. She took her glasses off, as she often did when she was nervous or unsure of herself. Or angry, as Mike had learned over the past several months, just one of several Cicely Manley warning signals he had tucked away. Cicely watched the priest shift his bulk and get comfortable, sticking that horrible black cigar in his mouth, hoping he wasn't going to light it.
"What's up?" the priest asked, disturbing her thoughts, bringing her focus back to the present situation.
Taking a deep breath, she jumped in with both feet. "I think maybe one of my kid's has a problem, maybe a big problem...and I'm not sure how much leeway I have with it," she said, her mind back on business.
“Who are we talking about?" Mike asked, a look of concern coming over his face, these kids his business, a business he took very serious.
"Lisa Dennis. I'm not a hundred percent sure, but I think maybe she's doing drugs. Maybe. She nods off almost every day in class, simply falls out with her head down on the desk. And when she's not nodding off, she's got this attitude, like a chip on her shoulder. She's...I don't know, different. Last semester she was more alert, more willing to participate, not much, mind you, but a little. Now, zero, zilch. Mike, that girl has everything in the world going for her, looks, money, brains, athletic ability, I can’t figure it out. I've tried to talk to her a couple of times, but it's like talking to a wall. She has no friends that I can spot, well, except for Stella Moore, but I think that's more a case of fellow pariahs migrating together, I'm not sure that classifies as friendship. I want to get involved. I like her, I like her a lot, but how far do I let myself get embroiled? I'm real unsure about this."
The priest looked at the ceiling for several moments, the past conjuring dark memories that he would rather forget. Finally he answered, wondering where this conversation was going to end up. “Lisa Dennis...what is she, a junior this year...no, a senior. She in one of your speech classes?"
“Yep, last hour. She got a B-minus first semester, but she'll be lucky to get a D this go-around. Right now she's flunking."
“She's a member of my parish, although her dad's not Catholic, you know. She converted against his wishes. I think at the time it was a rebellion thing. She doesn't practice her religion seriously," the priest said with a sigh. "Do you know her story, anything about her background?"
“Nope, I don't have any idea." Cicely crossed her legs, trying to get herself in a more comfortable position, knowing a story was coming. She realized that Mike DeAngelo had decided her problem was more important than whatever had previously been on his agenda, the knowledge pleasing her.
”She got involved with a bad crowd, let's see, in the eighth grade, twelve or thirteen years old and hanging around with some guys from the public high school, sixteen- , seventeen-year-old guys, probably older, shady characters. Hoods, bangers, whatever. They were doing drugs, drinking every night, who knows what else. We didn't know anything about it at the time, her grades didn't particularly indicate a problem although the sisters noticed some degree of discord in her personality, mood swings, that type of thing, not particularly uncommon at that age with all the hormones kicking into gear. At the time nobody pinpointed the extent of the problem. And her father, her mom's dead by the way, been dead for years, her dad, well, we have never had any type of rapport with him. He doesn't attend any church. She converted to Catholicism against his wishes, more a peer pressure thing or rebellion, although at the time...I think her sixth grade year was when she converted...we didn't realize it wasn't sincere. And, really, I'm only speculating about that. Thinking about it now, it possibly was a cry for help. Hindsight and such. Sometimes we can be idiots. Blind idiots."
“Has she always been in Catholic school?" Cicely asked.
“I think since second grade, maybe third. In fact, I bet if we checked, we'd find she started Catholic school about the time her mom died." He paused as he lit a match, started to touch it to the end of his cigar, realized he was not alone in the small office and blew the fire out, Cicely thankful for the courtesy.
"Anyway, Lisa is here for the education, not for the religious training. And maybe Abe, that's her dad, figured the nuns might have a motherly influence. And don't forget safety, mostly safety, I'd bet. The public school system is not the safest place these days to send your kids. The high schools are armed camps, complete with guards and metal detectors. Everyone has a gun: teachers, students, security."
“I know all about that crap," Cicely sighed, memories of South Chicago still fresh in her mind. “I lived it.”
"Anyway, one night towards the spring of her eighth grade year Lisa was out with this group of older kids, everybody apparently drunk, and there was an accident. Lisa was the only survivor. Five kids in her vehicle were killed at the scene, the couple in the other car died on the way to the hospita
l. Lisa was the only person in either car wearing a seat belt. The police figure that's what saved her life. Physically, she was beat up and bruised but in one piece. Mentally, she was a mess. Her dad hospitalized her in a private sanitarium and we went ahead and passed her for the year, although she missed the last month and a half of school. When she came back for the ninth grade she was a different person, completely withdrawn, moody, intense almost to a fault towards certain things, like her soccer and basketball, which she's very good at, by the way...but completely apathetic towards other things, grades, friends, authority. She's also prone to dark mood swings. She's been in and out of counseling, I think, but no help. She's a mess, but we've learned to live with it. I didn't realize she was friends with Stella Moore. She's a junior, isn't she, big girl, husky? "
“Yep, looks like a middle linebacker, acts like one, too. I don't know if I mean friends, but she's the only person I ever see Lisa in the hallway with. I don't know that they hang out together. But what about Lisa, what's the answer? Can I try to help?"
“Why, Sis? She graduates in a couple months, then she'll be gone. Everyone at this school has tried to help her at one time or the other, she's been every do-gooder's pet project for four years...to absolutely no avail, I might add. Why do you imagine you would be any different?" He was setting her up, baiting her, bracing himself for the approaching storm. Do I do this to see her wrath, he asked himself, waiting for the onslaught, knowing it was coming, biting back the smile. He wasn't disappointed.
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