Gateway

by David C. Cassidy

  “To you, Dad,” he said, raising his wine glass. “I miss you.” He regarded the photograph of his parents on the marble end table. “I miss you both.”

  He binge-watched four recorded episodes of The Blacklist and drifted off. He woke up in blackness. The 80-inch widescreen TV had turned itself off.

  He went upstairs. The study was at the end of the hall, and like his old workspace back in New York, was the usual mess. Taking to his cozy leather chair, he slid a hand to the ancient black Underwood at the corner of his desk. Of all the expensive toys that he now enjoyed, of all the grand furnishings, all the creature comforts, only this made him smile. He had always wanted a No. 5, wanted one just like this, but he had never found the time to really look for one. It was beaten and worn and the platen was cracked; it was perfect. In its day it might have been used by a secretary to type boring business correspondence, might have inspired nothing more than an invoice. None of that mattered. For him it stood graced with time, its stories locked inside its rounded keys; it had lived a thousand lives, and could live a thousand more. It had created magic with every page. It inspired him.

  He remembered the day he received it, and considering all the things he had forgotten, he was thankful he could. He’d been up in his cramped bedroom, still living at home, still driving that wreck of a car. He was working on the first draft of Luscious, still struggling with the ending, still a year away from its first rejection. Marisa had come knocking, and when he opened the door, she smiled coyly and handed him an envelope. His short story Blinded had been accepted for publication, and though it was only a third-rate horror rag called Dark Skies, his dream had come true. Marisa then surprised him with a large and heavy gift-wrapped box, and when he saw the No. 5, he’d asked her what she would have done with it if he’d never gotten published. It was never a question of if, she’d said, kissing him.

  He ran his fingers along the spacebar, then tapped the four keys that he always did before work. L,U,C,K.

  He powered up his laptop to do some research, only to find that his web connection was down.

  That’s what you get for eight-hundred G’s. A nice place in the sticks with no Internet.

  He shut down the computer and turned off the desk lamp. He took the French doors to the deck, which ran all the way round to the master bedroom. The night air chilled him. The black sky was filled with glitter, the Milky Way a creamy glow. He brought out his 4-inch Takahashi refracting telescope for a spell, finishing up with a breathtaking view of the waning moon.

  The quiet seduced him. He had almost forgotten what it was like. New York City really was the city that never slept, certainly the noisiest—at any time of day, he had quickly discovered—and he didn’t miss it.

  There were too many of everything in the Big Apple. Too many cars, too many streets, too many restaurants.

  Too many souls.

  Too many chances to be discovered.

  Maybe that’s the real reason you came back, he thought. You thought you’d be safe.

  Safe? Like Kyle Duncan?

  God, how everything could change. All in a Torch Falls minute.

  He cocked an ear, hoping to hear the muted rush of the falls. They were too far off, miles away, but he saw them in his mind. He saw Judd leading him through the woods on that rocky trail, each of them with a small pack on his back, each clutching a rod and a reel; each of them perched on that rope bridge, grinning at the first catch of the day. Sometimes it had been the only catch, sometimes there was no catch at all, but it was always an adventure. And mostly, the happiest times of his life.

  Mostly.

  He went inside, and sleep came quickly.

  He dreamt of Marisa.

  ~ 9

  Jared woke early and made a fine breakfast of peameal back bacon and scrambled eggs. He took his tea upstairs to his study, cracked a window to take in the cool morning air, and sat at his desk. With his laptop, he examined the photographs of the colt he had uploaded from his smartphone.

  They were gruesome, and while his research typically led down dark paths like this, he had never really had the stomach for it. He could write about this nasty stuff, but watch it? It left him ill. If only his fans knew the truth. Give him a rom-com over a zombie flick any day.

  He perused the images quickly. It was the Phantom, all right. El Fantasma.

  He opened a browser window and got a connection error. A reboot did nothing. A call to a tech was its usual exercise in frustration.

  Looks like we’re kickin’ it old school, he thought.

  ~

  The Torch Falls Public Library was on the west side of town, and as Jared pulled into the parking lot at precisely ten o’clock, the music from the Land Rover’s radio cut to the local news. While there had been no mention of a Cole or Collado—the only good news—the lead story confirmed what Jared had assumed: The driver of the Buick had suffered a heart attack. Brian Kirkland, 52, was survived by his wife and three daughters. The newswoman went on to report that fifteen-year-old Kyle Duncan died at the scene.

  Jared switched off the radio. Fifteen, for Christ’s sake.

  The last time he’d seen Kyle, the boy was two feet shorter and had a mouthful of braces. His father worked at the beer store, probably still did, and Debbie, Bobby Duncan’s childhood sweetheart, had, as far as he knew, remained the stay-at-home mom.

  Fifteen. And to think he was so in love with Ricky Cowen’s daughter, Jennifer. But not just in love. The kind of love that makes a kid want to kill himself if he can’t be with her. The kind that makes him walk into the middle of the street without looking, just wanting to run to her and sweep her off her feet.

  He had wanted to go to Bobby yesterday, but he hadn’t; the last thing he wanted was to be the one to deliver the news. That was the police’s burden, and he wanted to be certain that Kyle’s name had been officially announced before extending his condolences. He would call on his old friend this afternoon.

  After all these years, the librarian at the front desk was still Merritt DeWitt. Merritt was a prudish snob of a woman, horn-rimmed glasses and all. She didn’t remember him—didn’t recognize him—and she directed him to one of the library computers. He searched the digital archives on the network, only to be frustrated time and again by a glitch in the database. And now, the terminal had locked up.

  He looked around for a library assistant and found one placing books on a shelf. He stood just outside the aisle.

  “Excuse me, miss,” he said. And when she turned, his heart skipped three beats.

  ~ 10

  Jared looked at Marisa Judge just as she looked at him—as if he’d seen a ghost. Her crystal blue-green eyes seemed to gloss over. That long auburn hair was tied back in that cute ponytail he’d always loved. Those perfect lips opened just a bit, as she held back whatever it was she wanted to say.

  “Marisa,” he said. “Marisa.”

  She set a large book she’d been holding on the trolley next to her. She hesitated, and in the next moment was standing before him. The natural light coming in from the windows flattered her as it always had. She was a flower in bloom.

  She said nothing, and for an instant he thought he might turn for the exit. But then there it was, those first words from that sweet, sweet voice.

  “Jared Cole,” she said, a little distant. “It is Cole, right?”

  “Yeah. But I’m still the same old Jared.”

  “Same old Jared,” she echoed. “I hope not.”

  He went to say something, paused, then started again. “I’m sorry. I never meant … I mean … you know what I mean.”

  “What’s wrong, Jared? No words? It was New York, or me. And it was always New York.” She stopped him before he could respond. “I don’t blame you, you know. I just don’t like being lied to.”

  “I never lied to you.”

  “You promised we’d be together.”

  “I meant it,” he said, and knew it the wrong thing to say. “I broke a promise, yes. But I never li
ed.”

  “Always the word man.”

  “I really am sorry, Mar.”

  “Don’t call me that, Jared. Not now.”

  “Look,” he said, apologetically. “Why don’t I walk around this aisle and we start again?”

  She crossed her arms. “Really? You might forget where I am.”

  Jared couldn’t hide the hurt as he bit back a lip.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was a cheap shot.”

  “I had it coming. It’s been a long time.”

  “It has, Jared.”

  A stilted pause hung between them, and Jared grew anxious. He switched gears and changed course. “Could you help me with the computer? It froze up on me.”

  Marisa followed him to the terminal and sat down. She reset his database application with a few keystrokes, and he was able to continue his research.

  “Thanks,” Jared said, taking the chair when she got up.

  “So you’re back,” she said. “For a book, no doubt.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Same old Jared, for sure. You never did believe in yourself.”

  “That was your job,” he said, smiling. “I mean that.”

  “I know you do. Thank you.” She regarded the terminal. “So, what’s it about? Death and more death, I imagine.”

  He laughed. “Same-old, same-old. Actually, this one might be right up your alley. I know how you love true-crime novels. It’s about this alien rancher with a thirst for a bloody good time with his victims. Sound okay?”

  “Sounds disgusting. But I’ll read it.”

  “Really?”

  Her eyes deepened. “I spent the last seven years getting over Jared Collado. But I’ve always loved his writing. I’ve read all of his books.”

  “I’m really sorry, Marisa.” He paused, his finger drumming the desk.

  “Jared … what is it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced at his finger-work. “Remember who you’re talking to. Something’s ticking in that zany brainy.”

  Zany brainy, he thought happily. She always called it that.

  Somehow he summoned the nerve to ask what he’d wanted to ask the instant he saw her. “Mar … Marisa … would you like to grab some lunch later? Cuppa joe, maybe?”

  She laughed softly. “Cuppa joe? You’ve been in New York way too long.”

  Jared shrugged. “The city rubs off on you, believe me. It has a way of getting into you. Truth be told, the people are pretty nice.” He looked her straight in the eye. “So, how about it?”

  “I should be getting back to work.”

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah. Sure.”

  Marisa regarded him soberly. “It’s been seven years, Jared. Things change. People change.”

  He nodded. “I know.”

  “Have you seen Judd?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t see the point, really.”

  She put a hand to his shoulder. “He’s all you have. That’s the point.”

  He said nothing.

  “Can I ask you something, Jared?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you come back?”

  “It was New York,” he said, after some hesitation. “The whole situation … it just wasn’t working any more. I don’t belong there.”

  “Well,” she said, “I kinda told you so.”

  “You did. I should have listened.”

  “Never your strong point.”

  “Can’t argue that. Ask my editor. Or my agent.”

  They shared a chuckle, and Ms. DeWitt cast them a disapproving glare above her glasses.

  “I really should get back to work,” Marisa said.

  “Yes. Of course. I don’t want to keep you.”

  Marisa turned to go, and Jared’s heart fell. He stood up before she got too far. “Marisa?”

  She stopped with her back to him. “Yes?”

  “It was good seeing you.”

  Marisa hesitated. “You, too, Jared.” She left him.

  ~

  Just knowing that Marisa was only a few steps away made Jared’s head spin. The research went so poorly that after a measly ten minutes, he logged out of the library network and made a beeline for the exit.

  He didn’t realize how much he had missed Marisa Judge, in every way.

  God, he did.

  He missed those long walks at sunset along the river; sitting on a rock by the falls with their bare feet in the rushing water. The spring rodeos and summer picnics; the fall fair. Curling up by the fire on those blustery winter nights.

  But most of all, he just missed her.

  ~ 11

  At ten past one, Jared parked in front of Bobby Duncan’s house on Hill Street. Bobby’s candy-apple ’67 Camaro sat in the gravel driveway. A faded FOR SALE sign was taped inside the windshield. Slick bird droppings ruined an otherwise pristine hood.

  Bobby had inherited a pretty, well-kept home after his parents had passed. It had once boasted sculpted trees and rosebushes along the perimeter, and a perfectly lush lawn that was the envy of the street. But now? The grass was brown and dead, overrun with weeds. The once white wood siding was chipped, flaked and dingy. Even the mesh on the screen door was ripped, the left side hanging limply. One of the windows in the upstairs bedrooms was boarded up. Bobby’s old room.

  This was no longer the “home away from home” of his teenage years. He must have spent every weekend here during the summers, Ricky and Jim, too, all four of them crammed into the Duncan’s fold-out trailer out back. On clear nights, they’d stay up until the wee hours, sitting round the big rock fire pit that Bobby’s dad had made, trying to scare the shit out of each other with taller and taller tales. Being the writer even then, he usually had the best stories, but Jimbo had come up with a doozy from time to time. The four of them were as inseparable as magnets, as busy as bees, and deep down, he just knew that each of them trusted the other with their lives.

  He pressed the doorbell. Broken. He knocked. He waited and knocked again, a little louder this time. The dull beige door creaked open.

  “Hi, Bobby.”

  Jesus. He looks like death.

  “Jared Collado,” Bobby said from behind the screen door. His black hair, usually thick and styled neatly, was cropped short. He was unshaven. His eyes were cold and dark.

  “I … I’m so sorry for your loss, Bobby. I wish these were better circum—”

  Bobby’s eyes fell. He turned, but left the door open.

  Jared opened the screen door and stepped into the living room. An oscillating fan buzzed in a corner. The place was a mess.

  He extended a hand, half-expecting a guy-hug. Bobby left him hanging.

  What did you expect? he thought. The guy just lost his son. He’s still in shock.

  “Beer?” Bobby said flatly. He already had one going, next to the half-dozen empties beside it.

  “You know me,” Jared said. “Nothing this early.”

  “Same old Jared.” Bobby took a seat. He drank.

  Jared sat on the sofa. A cockroach scampered along the floor and scurried under the television stand. “You all right, man? Is there anything I can do?”

  Bobby sat very still.

  “I saw your car’s up for sale,” Jared said. Again, no response. “Is Deb here?”

  “Deb,” Bobby said. “She’s out.”

  Jared nodded. “I wish I had the words. Something reassuring, you know?”

  Bobby stirred. “You’re the writer. The word man.”

  “Yeah,” Jared said anxiously. “How is Deb? How’s she holding up?”

  “She’s out.”

  “Is she with her mom? She should—”

  “She should what.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help,” Jared said. He regarded the mess around them. “I’m worried about you guys.”

  Bobby sat forward. “What’s that look for? My place not good enough for you any more?”

  “I never said that.”

  “Didn’t have t
o.”

  “Bobby,” Jared said. “It’s me, man. I practically lived here.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby snapped. “The good old days. Remember?”

  “I remember just fine. I miss those days.”

  “Sure you do. Like ridin’ around in your old rust-bucket. Instead of that hundred-grand luxury liner out front.”

  “Look, I’m the same guy. I haven’t changed.”

  “No? When’s the last time you called? Oh, that’s right. Never.”

  “You’re right. I should have. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

  “And Marisa? Is that on you, too?”

  Jared felt smaller. “Yeah. That’s on me, too. But I can only say I’m sorry so many times.”

  “Yeah? Well say it again.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. You know, I missed you. I missed Rick and Jim, too. Everyone.”

  Bobby Duncan shook his head. “I tried calling you a few times. Talked to your agent once. Bitch hung up on me.”

  “Sorry. She does that.”

  “I emailed that address on your website. Hell, I even tried to friend you on Facebook. Nothing.”

  “I have people for that,” Jared said. “Sorry. That didn’t come out right. What I mean is—”

  “I know what you meant. The great Jared Cole’s too good for it.”

  “That’s not it. I just don’t get on it very much. My agent’s always on my case about it. Writing, promoting … it’s tough.”

  Bobby sat back and took a drink. He plunked his bottle on the table. “Tough? Look around, my friend. Look around.”

  “Bobby,” Jared said. “What happened to you?”

  “I doubt you remember that last night. Do you?”

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  “You remember what Ricky told you? How things can change?”

  Jared nodded.

  “Well,” Bobby said. “Things changed.”

  “What things? And where’s Deb?”

  “Deb, Deb, Deb. What the fuck do you care?”