Gateway

by David C. Cassidy

  She stood in the grim semidarkness, sobbing. Only when the thunder struck did she wipe her tears from her skin. She went to the drawer for a fork, and as she drew it open, she stopped cold.

  Her searing eyes throbbed as something gripped her; something ancient and wicked. It swept through her body in waves, and she feared it would take her unborn child. She tried to resist, only to succumb, and at a flash of lightning, saw her reflection in the glass door of the cupboard, saw those thickening veins spread like black weeds across her face.

  “Tijera,” she whispered. She did not know this odd-sounding word, yet she knew precisely what it meant. What she needed to do. What she had to do.

  She slid her hand into the drawer and drew out her scissors. Slowly, she raised them above her head.

  “Tijera,” she repeated, waiting for the storm to guide her. A single tear slid from her eye. Something inside her screamed to save her child, that fraction of her soul not yet eaten. But then came the thunder, then came the lightning, and she did what she had to do.

  ~ 78

  Jared stirred. He opened his eyes slowly, squinting into the blinding sun beaming in through the French doors. Groggy, he rose from the hardwood floor. The side of his face was damp, his shirt as well. Most of the water on the floor had dried up, but a small pool still glimmered just inside the doors. He shut them.

  His legs nearly buckled. He steadied against the glass. His head pounded. His whole body ached, including that growing abscess. The desk clock read one-fifteen.

  One-fifteen?

  “Jesus.” He didn’t know exactly how long he’d been out this time, but it had been close to half a day.

  What the hell happened?

  He tried to remember. But what came to him made no sense.

  “Tijera,” he whispered.

  Surely he had heard something else. This was the monster thought of the crazy.

  Again the word came to his lips.

  Scissors?

  What did that mean?

  You’re the writer. You know damn well what it means. And it’s not scrapbooking.

  His mind ran wild with some of the horrible things that could happen with scissors. A criminal lawyer in his fourth book had used a pair to gouge out his left eye, trying to cure himself of what he believed was an alien infection. Virus had sold well, but he’d been blasted by some for going too far.

  Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you heard something else. The storm … the thunder … it could have been anything.

  He didn’t believe that for a second.

  He checked the clock again. It was a good thing he had woken when he did. He had less than forty-five minutes before he stepped into the lion’s den with Sonia Wheaton. He thought of calling it off, but knew that was out of the question.

  His stomach grumbled. He was hungry—starving—but he’d clean up first. In the bathroom, he stood cold when he saw himself in the mirror. He looked like shit. And that was sugar-coating it.

  So this is what the first stage of death looks like, he thought. He leaned in close to the mirror, turning his head side to side. His face, ever darker, had taken a slight amber hue. Running a finger along the veins about his left eye, they felt like hard wires beneath his skin.

  He opened his mouth. The abscess had spread. He popped it with a finger, and thick yellow pus oozed out. He pressed it a few times to drain it. There was some blood, but at least the pain had dissipated. He rinsed his mouth and washed his spit down the drain.

  Tijera.

  The word gripped him, just as it had last night. He remembered, all right, remembered all too well.

  And he remembered something else.

  Rage.

  It had surged through him. Had consumed him. As if—

  As if it were insatiable. Unstoppable.

  ~ 79

  Jared showered and shaved, then put on a fresh dress shirt and tie. He might get his legs blown off in Sonia Wheaton’s mine field, but at least he’d look his best. Also, he hoped his attire would draw Sonia’s attention more than his sorry face.

  Downstairs, he devoured two heaping bowls of Corn Flakes and some toast. He chased it all with most of a carton of orange juice. Even as he went to place the juice back in the fridge, he took another gulp. It seemed his thirst had grown with the rest of his maladies.

  Back in his study at two minutes to showtime, he set himself in his chair and booted his laptop. A launch of his web browser stirred mixed feelings when his flaky Internet ran perfectly well.

  He positioned the webcam and called up the website for Torch Falls Today. After logging in, he waited for the JOIN CHAT icon to appear. The clock read two … then one past two. When it read five past, he stopped his nervous tapping on the desk. He waited another five minutes, then snatched up his smartphone.

  He dialed Sonia’s number. He didn’t leave a message.

  “Where the hell is she?”

  It was supposed to be today, wasn’t it? At two?

  His phone rang. Marisa.

  “Hi, Mar.”

  “Hi. Aren’t you supposed to be on right now? I logged in, but all I got was a blank screen.”

  “I know. It was today, right?”

  “Of course it was.”

  “I tried calling Sonia. No answer.”

  “That’s a little strange, don’t you think?”

  “It is,” Jared said.

  “Should I try and call her?”

  “No. If she’s screening me, she likely won’t talk to you, either.”

  “She is a bitch.”

  “I won’t debate it. But even if she decided to skip the interview, why isn’t there some message on her site?”

  “Maybe she’s running late. Or maybe she’s not feeling well.”

  “Possibly. But wouldn’t she let her followers know if she canceled?”

  “Maybe she sent them an email.”

  “I thought that as well. But why not let your guest know? Or is she just so pissed off at me she just doesn’t care?”

  “She does hold all the cards. And she is pretty pissed at you.”

  “True. But this just doesn’t feel right. Does it.”

  “… No.”

  Jared checked the website. Still nothing. “I don’t like this,” he said, closing his laptop.

  “I’ll stop by her house after I pick up Kit.”

  “No.” He knew he’d been too emphatic. “I’ll meet you at your place.”

  “Is there something I should know? We agreed you’d tell me what’s what, Jared.”

  Already he was undoing his tie. “When I get there. I promise.”

  ~ 80

  Jared’s mind was still racing when he parked the Land Rover behind Marisa’s car. Standing on her stoop with her son, she was clearly anxious, biting her lower lip. She told Kit to stay on the stoop, and she joined Jared in the SUV.

  “It’s worse, I know,” Jared said, reacting to the look she had given him.

  “Do they hurt? Your eyes, I mean.”

  “Not as bad as they look.” The truth was, they were throbbing. And his fever had kept the A/C going full tilt. He’d only turned it down when he turned onto her street.

  “You had another episode,” she said. “Didn’t you.”

  He didn’t answer. Didn’t have to.

  Marisa looked at her son worriedly. “Which means he did, too.”

  Jared nodded.

  “So what happened?” she asked.

  He told her everything. Everything but the part about the rage. She looked frightened enough.

  “Scissors?” she said, when he translated. “Are you sure?”

  Jared glanced at Kit.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t you try and tell me something bad has happened to someone with a pair of scissors.”

  He raised a brow.

  “You think it’s Sonia,” she said. When he didn’t answer, she pressed him. “Please, Jared. Tell me it’s not Sonia.”

  “I wish I could.”

  She to
ok a moment, clearly to digest; to accept. “So now what? We can’t call the police. And we—” Her mouth slipped open when Jared looked at her. “No. No.”

  “You don’t have to be involved. I’ll go myself.”

  “Are you nuts? What if—”

  Jared cut her off. “Listen. You know this has to be checked out. This is way too coincidental. You know it is.”

  ~ 81

  Jared followed the directions that Marisa had given him. She didn’t know Sonia Wheaton’s house number, but finding the tan minivan in her driveway was simple enough. He parked on the street and stared at the vehicle. It seemed perfectly normal there in the shade, but it also gave him the creeps. He was certain that Sonia was inside her home, her eye gouged out and lying there on the floor beside her lifeless body, her attacker’s bloody footprints spreading a crimson trail to the back door. And he was certain of one other thing: Whoever had killed Sonia had likely killed Artie Fisher. Tom Greenwood was still a wildcard that didn’t quite fit, but at some level he knew that whatever was going on in this town, it was all connected.

  He got out. Sprawling Norway maples canopied the old street. A dog barked from across the way and fell silent.

  He walked up to the driveway and took the stone walkway to the front door. He rang the bell twice. A third time.

  He knocked. Peering in through the oval window, he could barely make out the foyer and part of the living room. He waited a moment longer and rang the bell again. With still no response, he tried the door. Locked.

  The backyard was fenced, but the gate was unlocked. It squealed on its rusted hinges, and even in the bright afternoon, the grating sound unsettled him. He felt as if he were about to make a grisly discovery, and he didn’t want to lose his shit. If only Judd were here, he thought. Brains he had; brawn he didn’t.

  As quietly as he could, he closed the gate behind him. He stepped along the stone path that led to a brick patio, and cupped his hands around his eyes as he peered through one of the small square panes in the back door. The sheers on the inside hindered his view, but when his eyes adjusted, fear snared him by the throat and nearly sent him running.

  He tried the door expecting it to be unlocked, for how else had Sonia’s killer gotten in? How else, indeed, for there she was just beyond the counter, lying there lifeless, face down on the cold kitchen floor.

  But the door was locked. Panic took him as he tried it a second time. He peered in again, and it struck him: He saw only bare legs and feet. Maybe she was alive.

  Maybe she choked on some chips, he thought. Maybe slipped and hit her head. Maybe—

  He looked around to see if anyone in the houses behind Sonia’s had seen him. When he saw no one, he made a fist and smashed the pane nearest the lock. He unlocked the door and slipped inside.

  More of Sonia came into focus. The disturbing twist of her left leg, skewed the way it was. As if she’d tried to crawl.

  He dared a small step. Bit back a scream.

  The gray light revealed the full length of her legs, just a hint of her bottom; the lace of her panties.

  And blood.

  More blood than he’d ever seen. More than he’d read in any book; even more than he’d written.

  And when he saw them, saw those bloodied scissors, he lost his shit.

  ~ 82

  When he came to, Jared thought it had all been a nightmare—that he had simply dozed off behind the wheel. But then he saw the body, saw the blood, saw it all inside his racing mind.

  The fever struck him. He fumbled for his keys and started the engine. The cool air from the vents helped little, and he caved over the wheel.

  Only now did he recall his horror; the fear that had gripped him and had sent him fleeing for the door. He had run, run as fast as his giving lungs could give. The backyard gate had trapped him, sending him into a greater panic, and only a second effort at pulling the gate instead of pushing freed him. He had stumbled across the front lawn like a man possessed, had nearly been run down by a car. He must have looked like a demon, for the young woman behind the wheel had taken flight when he approached her window. How he had managed to get to his vehicle remained a mystery, locked inside the vault of his crippled memory.

  He had lost it in there; his mind had snapped like a taut rubber band. He fled, yes, but not before he knelt beside the body. Not before he turned it on its side and saw the wounds.

  Wounds.

  So many wounds.

  Sonia’s killer had stabbed her abdomen again and again and—

  —and—

  —and—

  —and when they’d finished, when they’d ripped enough flesh, when they’d spilled enough blood, they’d laughed at their handiwork, had marveled at its art, had painted their last masterful stroke, a stroke of genius, really, taking her hand and placing those crimson-stained shears in her grasp, as if that were so brilliant, so diabolically clever as to make it look like a suicide.

  Genius, he thought, and howled out loud. Pure. Fucking. Genius.

  He broke down, and wept.

  ~ 83

  Jared drove for a spell; it might have been five minutes. It might have been thirty.

  He stopped shy of the corner of Elm and pulled over. He had to get it together before he got to Marisa’s. According to his smartphone she had called twice, probably worried sick. Moreover, what he had to tell her would likely set her reeling, shoving her from that fence of denial she’d been clinging to.

  In the glove box, he found his “crisis Camels” stuffed beneath the owner’s manual. He was about to break the seal, but he stopped himself. He didn’t really crave a cigarette—the only grace in this wickedness—but oh how he wanted one. Needed one.

  Trust starts with a promise, he thought. If you can’t even do this, you don’t deserve her.

  He put the pack back and shut the glove box.

  Turning onto Elm, he stopped on the side of the road at 31. Marisa was alone on her stoop. She charged down the steps, his phone still ringing, and she got in beside him in a panic.

  “Jesus!” she said. “Where the hell have you been?”

  His phone rang again.

  She ended the call. “Sorry. What’s going on? What—oh my God!”

  Blood. It was all over his hands. The steering wheel. The glove box.

  “Mar,” he said, trembling. “Mar.”

  “Are you all right? My God, are you all right?”

  He nodded weakly.

  “Hang on,” she said hurriedly.

  Marisa rushed into the house and returned with several small towels. Jared sat silently as she cleaned his hands, then the glove box. The fever seemed to grow as she wiped the steering wheel.

  “Jesus,” she said, grabbing the last unspoiled cloth. She wiped the dash and the shifter clean, then set the bloodied towel with the others on the floor. “I think that’s it.”

  Jared stared blankly through the windshield. He barely felt the warmth of her hand when she took it.

  “Talk to me,” she said. Her voice was frail.

  Jared started, his lips poised. But nothing came.

  Marisa cupped a hand to her mouth. She sniffled, and tears followed. “What happened to her? Please. Please tell me it was an accident.”

  “I can’t,” he said, turning to her. “I can’t.”

  Marisa shook her head in denial. “No. No.”

  He stopped her when she put a hand on the door handle. She paused, then slipped her hand back.

  “Sonia took her own life,” he said. “Don’t ask me how. Please, Mar.”

  Her grim silence told him she understood. All of it.

  “We have to call the police,” she said. It was little more than a whisper.

  ~ 84

  Jared kept the air conditioning running while they waited for the police. When a white Dodge Durango topped with a bank of police lights pulled up behind the Land Rover, he killed the engine and got out. Marisa followed his lead.

  “Good,” she said. “It’s Wade
Kingsley.”

  “You know him?”

  The sheriff got out. He was a big man, six-two, well-rounded across the midsection. Graying hair. He adjusted his cap and approached them. “Marisa.”

  “Wade.” She looked at Jared. “He comes to the bar now and then.”

  “Not just for the brawls,” Kingsley joked. “How’s Christian?”

  “He’s okay,” Marisa said. “He’s good.”

  “School’s okay?”

  She nodded.

  “You let me know if that Parker Brooks causes him any more grief. I’ll gladly pay that boy a visit.”

  “I will, thanks. Wade, this is Jared Cole. Jared, Wade Kingsley.”

  Kingsley offered little more than an obligatory nod. Jared returned it.

  Kingsley grimaced. “I just came from the Wheaton house.”

  Jared glanced anxiously at Marisa.

  “Can I ask what you were doing there?” Kingsley said. He directed his question to Jared.

  “Torch Falls Today,” Marisa said, interjecting.

  “It’s this online show,” Jared said. “It’s—”

  “I know what it is,” Kingsley said. “My wife’s a fan. You were a guest on one of Sonia’s online chats?”

  “Yes. We were supposed to do one today. But when Ms. Wheaton didn’t show, I tried to contact her. When she didn’t answer my calls, I was concerned.”

  “I understand.” Kingsley gave Jared a look.

  Jared stopped tapping his thigh. “Sorry. Nerves, you know?”

  “Uh huh. And you said you moved the body?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I … I thought she might still be alive. I wanted to help.”

  “I see. Next time, do the right thing. Call us first.”

  “I’d hope there isn’t a next time.”

  Kingsley’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me for saying so, but you look a little ragged, Mr. Cole. You feeling all right?”

  Jared didn’t like the man’s accusatory tone. “I’m fine. Is there anything else?”