Gateway

by David C. Cassidy

  ~ 62

  Jared’s heart pounded. He rose from his desk chair and hurried out to the deck. Despite the warm afternoon, the slight breeze off the river made his skin tingle. At the railing he closed his eyes, trying but failing to draw comfort from slow, deliberate breaths.

  His eyes opened when his phone rang. He rushed back into his study and felt relief when he saw the caller’s name. On the third ring, he picked up.

  “Mar,” he said, still in a panic. He sat, his finger thrumming on the desk.

  “I saw,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay. Are you at work? How did you see it?”

  “I took a late lunch,” she said. “I’m at the pizza place. Wi-Fi on my tablet.”

  “I panicked,” he said. “I … I just lost it.”

  “I know. But it’s okay. It’ll be all right.”

  “There’s gonna be so many questions. Starting with Sonia. She’s going to eat this up—”

  “Calm down. Please. We’ll get through this.”

  “What do you think she’ll do? Will she post the video? I didn’t call her back, I—”

  “Jared! Stop it.”

  He checked his tapping and drew his hand from the desk. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”

  “Listen to me,” Marisa said. “Sonia promised she wouldn’t.”

  “If I did the interview, that was. She didn’t exactly get her money’s worth. And now that Bobby called in like that? I don’t know what she’s going to do. This’ll just make her snake tail rattle more.”

  “We can’t control what she does. But I’ll talk to her again if you want.”

  “No. No. The more we protest, the more leverage she’ll have.”

  “Agreed,” Marisa said. “We’ll wait and see.”

  “And if she does show it? What about all those followers of hers?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know this. You won’t go through it alone.”

  Jared found himself trembling. “Thank you.”

  “I’m free tonight. How about dinner?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Afterward, we’ll talk with Kit.”

  Jared was silent. The truth was, he’d had enough for one day.

  “Jared?”

  “Yeah. We’ll talk with Kit. I’m still a little rattled, that’s all.”

  “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “What time for dinner?”

  “Six okay?”

  Jared glanced at his desk clock. 1:45. “Six it is. See you soon.”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  Jared set his phone down. He stirred in his seat and felt heat rush over him. Dizzy, he stepped out to the deck again. He set his hands on the railing to steady himself, but the fever took him.

  A bolt of pain shocked him, coursing through his body. His eyes burned. He cried out and fell forward, striking the railing; he nearly toppled over it. He slipped to his knees, and when he reached for the railing, his hands faltered. They throbbed, aching as if someone had crushed them with a hammer.

  No one heard him scream.

  ~ 63

  Ernie Dobbs sat at his cramped desk in his cramped shack of an office at the Torch Falls Landfill. The wall clock read 1:46. Monday was almost always a quiet day, and today it was dead. Not a soul except for the gulls. He liked it that way. He could take a few naps, take his time with the bulldozing. Jerk off if he wanted. No cars, no trucks, no people. It didn’t get better than that. Well, it did. The town paid him a decent wage, and while he could hardly stand the stench from June through September, it sure beat pogey—or worse, pumping gas at his old job back at the Conoco.

  To everyone else, the dump was just a dump. That might be so, but the way he saw it, it was his dump. He ran a clean place. It always pissed him off when people would take the time to load up their trucks and their trailers and drive all the way out here, just to toss their junk over the side like confetti. They’d leave all kinds of scraps lying around. The Sweepers were the worst. They were the careless pricks that tossed the big stuff over the side, and then just swept out the loose shit from the back of their truck. Yeah, it was just a dump, but it was his dump. He ran a clean place.

  The air-conditioned office sat on the peak of the elevated landfill. Through the large tinted windows, he could see most of the town. The water tower, the churches, the hospital, the community center. The blue Boone River that snaked through the parks. On a good day, when the air was still, he could even see a ghostly haze of Bozeman in the distance.

  A bite of his ham and cheese sandwich remained when a new, but dusty Nissan Sentra made its way up the long winding road and pulled up to the weighbridge. He waved to the driver to pass on through. It wasn’t standard procedure, but this was practically family.

  He went back to his copy of Swank and finished his sandwich as the Sentra continued on to the dumping area. Chasing his meal with some good strong coffee—a little Irish—he let out a solid belch. He pulled on his Mariners baseball cap, grabbed his work gloves, and headed outside. A lingering undercurrent of rot hung in the warm spring day.

  “How’s it goin’, Red?” he said as he approached the Sentra. Artie Fisher was unloading a box of junk from the trunk. His mother called him Arthur, most everyone else called him Red. He was a squishy forty pounds overweight, and for as long as Ernie could remember, Artie couldn’t take the heat. Already, he looked like a beet.

  Ernie gave the Nissan a second look. The rear was weighed down, making the car look like it was jacked up in the front.

  Artie slipped off one of his work gloves and fingered his rounded glasses up his pudgy nose. He paused for a handshake. “Good to see ya, buddy.”

  “Jesus,” Ernie said. “How long’s it been?”

  “Three months, easy.”

  Broken bricks filled most of the trunk. There were a few lengths of two-by-four, some two-by-six. Some copper piping. Other junk.

  “You finally redo that old fireplace?” Ernie said.

  “New bathroom, too.”

  “Hope the new shitter flushes better than the old one.”

  “Hey, that was my first crack at plumbing,” Artie said. “And if you hadn’t crapped a toaster, maybe I wouldn’t have had a flood.”

  “At least I don’t crap sequoias, like some fat bastards I know.”

  They both laughed.

  Ernie slipped on his gloves. He reached into the trunk and wrestled a three-foot two-by-six loose. He tossed it into the landfill. “Kids okay? How’s Trixie?”

  “Girls are good,” Artie said. “Trix was at that accident. The one with the Duncan kid.”

  “No shit.”

  “Mucho shit. She saw the whole damn thing. Messed her up pretty good.”

  “That sucks, man.”

  “She can’t sleep as it is. Fucking migraines.” Artie tossed a couple of bricks. He was sweating bullets.

  “Slow down, bud.”

  Artie took a breather and returned to the work. They worked methodically and without words. When Artie drew the last of the copper pipe and went to toss it into the landfill, he fell to his knees in a deep groan. When the brick struck the back of his head a second time, he slumped into the dirt, dazed.

  Ernie stood over him, his hand clutched on a jagged brick. A small patch of blood stained it.

  Ernie’s eyes were burning and bloodshot. Hideous veins grew around them. A deep cold had taken hold of him, a kind of living deadness flowing through his body. He looked down at the friend he’d known since they were five, and repeated that strange word that had come to him not a moment before.

  “Enterrar,” he whispered. It sounded foreign, like Italian or Spanish, but he understood perfectly.

  He dropped the brick. Artie, his best friend in the whole wide world, begged him for help. Artie’s glasses lay in the dirt.

  Ernie bent down and placed his arms under Artie Fisher’s armpits. He struggled to pull him up, and Artie groaned as he dragged h
im to the trunk of the Nissan and stuffed him inside. Artie put up a mild struggle, and Ernie had to shove him back down when he tried to climb out. Ernie closed the trunk with a thunk, and all he could hear were the squawks of some gulls amid the muffled sounds of pounding and screaming.

  And that voice in his head.

  “Enterrar,” he said, and walked with purpose toward the Caterpillar.

  Forty-five minutes later, only the gulls knew where he had buried the Sentra. He got out of the massive bulldozer and stood dazed, wondering what the hell he was doing out here in the heat.

  The dark veins around his eyes began to fade. He rubbed his eyes. They were aching, a little blurry. And then they weren’t.

  He thought he heard something. It sounded like a very dull thud … thud … thud. The last one was weaker. He looked about, but saw no one.

  He took off his cap and scratched his head. At the edge of the landfill, he kicked a small length of copper pipe and a brick over the side of the hill. He bent down and picked up a pair of dusty glasses. They looked familiar, somehow. He tossed them.

  Fucking Sweepers, he thought. It was just a dump, but it was his dump. He ran a clean place.

  Ernie Dobbs strolled back to his cramped office. He got comfortable in his chair with his Swank magazine, unzipped his fly, and began to jerk off.

  ~ 64

  Jared arrived at Marisa’s just past six. He held a fine red wine under his left arm, a bouquet of daisies in his right hand. She met him on the front porch with a kiss and a hug.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the flowers. She gave him a quick once-over. “Are you all right? You look even rougher around the edges.”

  “I had another event. Right after I hung up.”

  “What? Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. It was a little scary, but it didn’t last. At least I didn’t black out.”

  “And that’s how you see it? Like it was no big deal?”

  “No. But I’m more concerned that something really bad has happened.”

  “Well, there haven’t been any more explosions in town.”

  “I didn’t expect one.”

  “You sound so sure that whatever it is, it’s already happened.”

  “It has, Mar. I know it has. It happened around a quarter to two this afternoon.”

  “We don’t even know what it might be,” she said. “I mean, bury? That could mean anything.”

  “Come on, Mar. There’s not many things that people bury. Other than bodies.”

  “This isn’t New York City, Jared. And it isn’t a horror novel. That zany brainy is running a little rich right now. Even for you.”

  “Maybe so. But do you have any other explanation for your burn? For the Greenwoods?”

  “I’m still on the fence. I need more.”

  “There is no more. But there will be. We need to find out if anyone in town has gone missing.”

  “Are you crazy? We can’t just start asking questions like that! If anything, you should be keeping a low profile.”

  “I’m just looking for answers. Yes, I’m probably way off on this. But what if I’m not?”

  “I don’t want to think about it,” she said.

  ~

  Dinner was another zesty meal of spaghetti and meatballs. Jared was ravenous again, and he filled up with bread, limiting himself to three spicy meatballs. He wasn’t certain that Marisa’s cooking had been the source of his chest pains that first night, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Still, sitting back and sipping some wine, he kept thinking about another meatball. He grabbed a slice of bread instead.

  “You can’t still be hungry,” Marisa said.

  “He’s got a hollow leg, Mom,” Kit said. “Just like me.” He had finished two full plates himself.

  Marisa tousled his hair. “I know, kiddo. I don’t know where a little guy like you puts it all. I guess you’re too full for ice cream, though.”

  “Nope.” Kit shook his leg. “I just made room.”

  Jared almost choked on a piece of bread as he laughed. He shook his leg, too.

  “Are you kidding me?” Marisa said.

  Jared raised his brows. “What? There’s always room for ice cream.”

  “That’s Jell-O,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “I’ll have some of that, too.” He winked at Kit.

  “Me, too!” Kit laughed.

  Marisa shook her head. “Ice cream it is.”

  “You know,” Jared said, watching Marisa scoop vanilla ice cream into three bowls, “I’d like to have you over to my place for once. How about a barbecue this weekend?”

  “I’d like that,” she said. “What do you think, Kit?”

  “Awesome.”

  “Bring a bathing suit,” Jared said.

  “You have a pool?” Kit said. “Cool!”

  “You have a pool?” Marisa said, far less enthusiastically than her son.

  “Bring a bikini,” Jared said, with a hint of a leer.

  “I’ll bring a nice one-piece,” Marisa said. She shook her head, and set the bowls on the table.

  Jared scooped up some vanilla. “We could always have a midnight swim. Like the old days.” In the old days, they’d gone skinny-dipping under the falls.

  Marisa scooped up some dessert with a playful smile. “Is the pool heated?”

  ~ 65

  Jared helped with the dishes, and when he sat down on the living room sofa with a cup of tea, Marisa sat next to him, sipping from her cup.

  “Are you okay with this?” he asked.

  “I’m a little anxious. I’m worried for Kit.”

  “I am, too. But we need answers.”

  She went to the stairs and called for her son. When he came down, she sat with Jared. “Kit, can you sit with us for a bit? We’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure.” He sat in the chair next to the telephone. His stockinged feet dangled above the carpet.

  “Kit,” Marisa said, “do you remember that day at the park?”

  “Sure I do. It was awesome. Except for Parker Brooks.”

  “Yeah, I don’t care much for him,” Jared said.

  “Is there anything else you remember?” Marisa said.

  Kit sat silently. His usual bubbly expression soured. He shook his head.

  Marisa looked at Jared, then back to her son. “Are you sure?”

  “Anything at all,” Jared said.

  Again Kit shook his head.

  “Do you remember the bicycles?” Jared said.

  “You remember those, Kit?”

  Kit nodded. “Yeah.”

  “What do you remember?” Marisa said.

  “I had an event.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Jared had a bad nosebleed. He fainted.”

  “I did,” Jared said. He paused, unsure. “Kit, did anything happen to you during your seizure?”

  “Like what?”

  Jared looked at Marisa, then back to Kit. “I don’t know. Was there anything different about it?”

  Kit didn’t answer.

  “Kit? It’s okay, honey.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please, baby. It’s important.”

  Kit stirred. “I remember Jared’s eyes.”

  “Me, too,” Marisa said. “They were kinda spooky.”

  Kit nodded. “Mine felt like they were burning up.”

  “I felt the same,” Jared said. “And your eyes looked just like mine did.”

  “They did? Why didn’t you tell me, Mom?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. It didn’t last long.”

  “Kit,” Jared said. “Do you … do you remember talking during your seizure?”

  Kit stiffened as he glanced at his mother. His gauzy eyes seemed to grow behind his glasses.

  “It’s all right,” Marisa said. “Jared knows you’ve done that before.”

  Kit nodded he understood. He looked at J
ared. “I remember.”

  “That’s good,” Jared said. “Do you remember what you said?”

  Again, Kit looked at his mother. She nodded it was okay.

  “It sounded funny,” Kit said. “I don’t know what it was.”

  “Was it quemar?” Jared said. He pronounced it slowly. He repeated it.

  Kit nodded.

  “It’s a Spanish word,” Jared said. “Have you ever heard it before? In school, maybe?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Jared sipped his tea. “Do you know what a premonition is, Kit?”

  “Sure.”

  “Your mom tells me that you’ve had them before. Do you remember those?”

  Kit nodded.

  “Do you know what quemar means?”

  “No. Not … not really.”

  “What do you mean?” Marisa said.

  Kit shrugged anxiously.

  Marisa stroked his hand. “It’s okay. You can tell us.”

  Kit hesitated. “I don’t know what it means. But it’s a bad word.”

  “It’s not a bad word,” Jared said. “It means burn.”

  “It’s a bad word,” Kit insisted. He looked at his mother. “I know you didn’t want to tell me, but you got that burn on your leg because of me. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, baby, it wasn’t you,” she said. “That was just a coincidence. I just wasn’t watching what I was doing.”

  “But I still said the word. It still happened. Like that time I said dog. And then Sarah got Buster.”

  “Those were always good things,” Marisa said.

  “And these are bad things,” Kit said. “Bad words.”

  “Words?” Jared said.

  “You wouldn’t be asking if it was just the one,” Kit said.

  Jared looked at Marisa; she looked at him. “You’re right, Kit. Do you remember your last event? What you said?”

  Kit didn’t reply. Only nodded.

  “It was another Spanish word,” Jared said.

  “Another Bad Word,” Kit said. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Marisa assured him. “So don’t feel bad about it, okay?”

  “… Okay.”

  “Kit,” Jared said, “do you have any friends at school who speak Spanish? Any teachers?”