by Bill Myers
“Yeah?” Frank raised the glass and chugged down the rest of the soda. Brandon threw an embarrassed glance at Sarah.
“Great,” Frank said, finally coming up for air. “’Cause, if you recall, we’ve got ourselves a little vendetta to settle with the techies.” Turning to Sarah, he added, “No offense, of course.”
She didn’t respond. He turned back to Brandon. “It’s been almost a week now, and people are startin’ to talk. I figured since —”
“Not tonight, Frank.”
“No, I don’t mean tonight. But it oughta be soon. I mean, we got our reputation to keep up, right, ol’ buddy?”
Brandon said nothing.
“So you just think up somethin’ real good.” Then turning to Sarah, he explained, “Brandon here, he’s a genius at comin’ up with ideas.” He held out his index finger to Del, who took it and pulled while Frank released a giant belch.
Brandon lowered his eyes and stared at the table.
“You just let me know when,” Frank said, preparing to leave, “and I’ll grab us some brew and away we go.” Turning to Sarah, he added, “You’re welcome to come too, if you want.”
“I think I’ll pass.” Her words carried an intentional chill.
“Suit yourself, but it’s gonna be good times.”
Neither Brandon nor Sarah responded.
“Well, all right then. You kids take care.” Frank turned, gave Del a nudge, and the two of them headed for the door. “Have a good night,” he called, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” He let out a cackle of laughter and disappeared into the crowd.
An embarrassed silence fell over the table. When Sarah finally looked at Brandon, he was scowling hard at his glass.
Lewis stood on the back porch of the farmhouse, pressing himself against the wall. The kitchen window was directly beside him. It was open, and he could hear the woman washing dishes less than six feet away. She was humming to the radio — country gospel. His heart pounded. Hunger and desire throbbed all the way into his hands.
SLAUGHTER … KILL …
This was the place. The voices had told him. The impostor lived here. And, as soon as he was destroyed, Lewis could enter into his season.
SLAY … MUTILATE …
He’d parked his bug down at the end of the lane. This sort of thing wasn’t new to him; he’d done it lots of times — sneaking up to people’s homes and spying. Even climbing up on their roofs and watching when they thought no one could see. Like Mrs. Cavanaugh, the vice principal’s wife. Or some of the girls from high school. He smiled to himself. If they had only known.
The lady began to sing. His smile twisted into a contemptuous sneer. So stupid and unsuspecting. Singing as her executioner lurked so near.
He turned and eased closer to the window until he could see through the screen and inside. He caught glimpses of her head as she moved back and forth. If she looked up at the right time, she would see him. What a delightful scare that would be.
He reached down to his belt and silently unsnapped the sheath to his hunting knife. He could break through the screen in a second. He inched closer, until she was in full view. If she would only look up. His fingers danced along the knife handle. If she would only look up, then scream in terror, and he would lunge through the screen and grab her, pulling her out, kicking and screaming and —
“NO!” the voices screamed. “THE IMPOSTOR, THE IMPOSTOR …DECIMATE, MUTILATE, KILL! THE IMPOSTOR … THE IMPOSTOR!”
But where? Where was this impostor? If he couldn’t find the impostor, then taking out this lady would be next best. And it would help silence the voices, and it would —
“THE IMPOSTOR … THE IMPOSTOR … THE IMPOSTOR … THE IMPOSTOR …”
Reluctantly, Lewis removed his hand from his knife.
The back door was open, just ten feet away. He ducked below the window and silently crossed toward it. He was practically there when he noticed the shadow — a man’s shadow. It was the impostor, he was certain of it. He was sitting just on the other side of the screen door.
ANNIHILATE … SHRED … TEAR …
Lewis’s heart pounded harder. Barely able to contain his excitement, he inched along the wall.
SLICE … RIP … RAVAGE …
He was breathing heavily now — the exhilaration growing out of control as he reached the edge of the doorway.
SLAY … KILL … DESTROY …
He remembered, from their encounter at the church, that the impostor was strong. He would have to surprise him. But he could take him. With the help of the voices and the knife and the adrenaline, he could —
The woman spoke, but he couldn’t hear her words. His voices were screaming, one on top of the other, writhing, shrieking, swearing. They were pulling him under, demanding complete control of his body. They could have it. In just a moment, they could have it all. Just let him taste the kill first, to experience the thrill, and then he would turn it over to them.
He reached for his knife and pulled it out.
He crouched beside the door, preparing himself, his heart pounding wildly. He took two gulps of air — and then he sprang.
He threw open the screen door and leaped inside. But he was wrong! It wasn’t the impostor! It was some old-timer in a wheelchair. Lewis dug his feet in, aborting the attack. The screen door slammed behind him. The woman screamed. A dog upstairs started barking. He could take them out, he could take them all out. But between the shrieking voices, the screaming woman, the dog, and the man, Lewis froze. Then the panic struck. He turned. He staggered back into the door, shoving it open, stumbling off the porch, and running into the night.
He ran until he reached his car. Then he was inside, firing it up and racing for home. The voices screamed louder than ever. Degrading, belittling, demanding, all-consuming. He had to stop them. He would stop them. Someone had to die. It was the only way. And it had to be soon. Very, very soon.
Sarah glanced at her watch. It was nearly eleven when Brandon pulled up to her condo. Forty minutes had passed since she’d made the crack about his wasted life. Although he’d done his best to hide it, she could tell that she’d hurt him. And the visit by his two buddies hadn’t helped any. He was distant now, aloof. Once again, he’d retreated into himself.
The car came to a stop and she turned to him. “Are you all right?”
He nodded.
She wanted to say something more, but she’d obviously done enough talking for one night. Then, to her surprise, he spoke.
“I was thinking. Maybe we should go ahead and continue that test. You know, see what’s on the other side of that Threshold thing.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, Brandon. We shouldn’t have pushed you. That was my fault, I shouldn’t have —”
“No, no. It’s not you.”
She looked at him.
“It’s me. Maybe — maybe there is something I can do.”
She watched him carefully, not sure what he meant.
“Maybe I can — you know, give you guys a hand with whatever you’re trying to find out. I mean, if you really think it could be helpful to you … and to others.” He forced a smile. “At least it would be a change from terrorizing techies.”
“Listen, Brandon, what I said back there, I didn’t mean —”
“What about tomorrow?” he interrupted. “Is that — would that be too soon?”
“Tomorrow?”
He nodded. She searched his face. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I mean, is this something you want to do?”
“Tomorrow’s okay, then?”
“We can make whatever arrangements you want, but I don’t think —”
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She hesitated. “Brandon …”
For the first time since they’d stopped, he looked at her. There was that connection again. Deep, resonating. He smiled, a little sadder this time. Her heart swelled. When she wasn’t intimidated or offended by him, she was moved by how vulnerable and sensitive he cou
ld be. The feelings were strong, stronger than anything she’d felt since Samuel. And since it was getting late, and since they were connecting so well …
“Listen,” she said, “would you like to, you know, come in for a while?”
He looked at her, and immediately she knew she’d stepped over the line. He was a preacher’s kid, for crying out loud. The same one who didn’t drink, who went to church, who as far as she could tell didn’t even swear. He may have lost his faith, but there was still something there, something innocent, almost naive. She glanced away, feeling a little embarrassed.
But his answer came without judgment. “Thanks, but I better get going.”
She nodded. What had she been thinking of? Besides, he was just a kid and a lab subject, to boot. She knew better than to get personally involved with her work. “Of course,” she said. “I understand.” She reached for her door and opened it. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
He said nothing as she climbed out. And then, just before she shut the door: “Sarah?”
She turned to him. He struggled for a moment, obviously trying to put his thoughts into words. But apparently they wouldn’t come. Instead, he settled for a simple “Thanks.”
She nodded, not entirely understanding. “Sure.” And then she shut the door.
He dropped the truck into gear and pulled away as she pretended to head for the condo. But she’d gone only a few feet before she turned and watched the pickup head down the road. She stood there silently, not moving, until it disappeared into the night.
Brandon eased the truck into its usual spot between the house and the barn. It was eleven twenty-five when he turned off the ignition and stepped into the hot, night air. The heat wave hadn’t let up. Thirty-six days without rain, and by the looks of things it would soon be thirty-seven. He quietly closed the cab door and paused to stare up at the night sky. Sarah had awakened something in him. He could feel it. Actually it was many things. But mostly it was a type of … hope. Was it possible? Could his life really have some sort of purpose? Could it really have meaning again?
He walked across the driveway toward the house. The grass and gravel were bathed in the blue-white light of the mercury vapor lamp mounted on the barn. He was emotionally exhausted, but his thoughts spun and tumbled and churned. Not only about Sarah and the hope she offered, but also about tomorrow’s experiment — and about Jenny. After all, Jenny had been there too, coaxing him, urging him forward, encouraging him to cross Threshold.
Then he was back to Sarah. How he envied her clarity, her sense of purpose. Not like Frank or Del. Terrorizing techies. He shook his head. Truth be told, that really had been about his only reason for existence. Until now. Maybe he really could contribute something.
A moment later and he was back to Jenny. She had looked so loving and understanding. Of course, she’d always been sweet, everyone’s favorite, but could it be that she’d actually forgiven him?
Other memories tumbled in, fragments he’d never be able to forget. His speeding car, her begging him to slow down, his laughter. The oncoming headlights. Her scream. The car sliding out of control. More screaming. Then the flipping and everything flying and her screaming and the car hitting the tree and the sickening explosion of glass and crunching metal — and the sudden end of her scream. Forever.
Brandon slowed as he moved up the porch steps. He’d had no idea how tired he really was. He was surprised to see the door closed. In this heat, they kept the windows and doors open all night. He opened the screen. A large manila envelope rested against the back door, his name scrawled across it in a large, unsteady script. He bent and picked it up. Studying the writing, he pushed on the door to find that it was locked. That was odd. They never locked the doors. He glanced at the car port. The van was there; they were home. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys.
A moment later he was upstairs. After silently checking to make sure his folks were okay in bed, he entered his room, peeled off his T-shirt and waded through the obstacle course of dirty clothes, car magazines, and, of course, Drool. For whatever reason, the old animal loved to sprawl out directly in his line of traffic. Brandon collapsed onto the bed, snapped on a light, and opened the envelope.
Inside there was a large pack of papers. He pulled them out. On top was a letter written in the same handwriting as the envelope. It read:
Dear Eli:
I drew these the week of your birth.
I hope you find them helpful.
Your servant, Gerty Morrison
He recognized the name and fought back a wave of uneasiness. The memory of the fight outside the church two nights ago was still fresh in his mind. He hesitated, too exhausted to continue, too curious to stop. He pulled aside the letter to look at the first sketch.
The paper was yellowed and the pencil work smudged. Portions were faded and worn away from age. But there was no mistaking the subject. It was Brandon. Exactly as he was today, complete with long hair, T-shirt, and worn blue jeans. He glanced at the initials in the lower right-hand corner. GM. Gerty Morrison. And beside them was a date — it looked like 1976.
He hesitated. Was it possible? Had she really seen this image of him, just as he was today, way back in ’76? He frowned and slowly pulled the paper away to look at the next. It was equally yellowed and aged. It was a sketch of a younger Brandon, on his sixteenth birthday. He was grinning and standing beside a used Toyota Celica, his first car, a gift from his father. It was also the car he had killed Jenny with. His eyes shot down to the corner to see the same initials and the same date: 1976.
He swallowed and pulled the sketch aside to reveal the next. In it he was thirteen years old and holding his newborn sister.
He closed his eyes. A dull ache spread through the back of his skull. He pulled the sketch away to look at the next. He was seven and holding another birthday gift: little puppy Drool.
Then the next. Age four.
Then age two.
Age one.
Until, finally, he was staring at a sketch of himself as a newborn. He was at the church, being held by his parents. They looked so young, so proud. And hovering over them, dominating the picture, was the cross. The very one that had tormented him for so many years. Brandon took a long breath and slowly let it out. His head pounded mercilessly.
He looked back down to his lap. There was one sketch left. It was different from the others, larger and folded in half. He reached for the edge of the paper and slowly pulled it back.
Near the left side of the drawing was the lantern, identical to the one Jenny had been holding, identical to the one he’d seen outside the sanctuary doors. He continued pulling, slowly revealing the picture bit by bit, until he saw an olive tree, also like the one at the doors. He faltered. For a moment he could go no further. Whatever was there, he didn’t want to see. Whatever she had drawn, he didn’t want to know.
Yet his hand continued to pull until the entire picture came into view.
It was of an older Brandon. Older than he was today. He stood in an ancient walled city. His head had been shaved, and he was wearing some sort of burlap robe.
Brandon looked at himself, nearly forgetting to breathe. The eyes were wild and intense, staring directly at the viewer. And the mouth — his mouth — it was opened in a primeval scream, so realistic that he could practically hear the sound. And out of it — out of his mouth roared flames of fire, exactly as they had in his vision outside the church.
Brandon sat paralyzed, unable to take his eyes from the sketch. The shaved head, the crazed eyes, the mouth, the flames — it was more than he could absorb. His head was ready to explode. He closed his eyes, forcing the moment to pass. But when he reopened them, everything was the same.
He needed help. He needed to talk to someone. With resolution, he threw his legs over the side of the bed. The sketches tumbled to the floor. He bent, scooped them up, and headed for the door.
A minute later, he was back in the pickup driving toward Sarah’s. He wasn�
�t sure what he was going to do when he got there, but he needed her, he needed her clarity of vision, he needed her understanding. He needed her presence.
He arrived in town and headed for Sarah’s street. He approached the corner to her condo and rounded it. That was when he saw the jogger. A woman right in his path, too close to miss. He slammed on the brakes, swerving hard, but he was going too fast. Just before impact, she spun around and he saw her face.
It was Sarah.
She raised her arm and screamed as his left front bumper caught her leg and threw her up onto the hood. She rolled and slid across the metal, her expression frozen in horror as she hit the windshield —
Brandon bolted up in bed. His face was wet and he was breathing hard. The sketches lay scattered all around him. He wanted to curl into a ball, to make it all go away. But he knew it wouldn’t. And he knew, more than ever, that he needed Sarah’s help. He threw his feet over the side of the bed and slipped on his shirt.
Downstairs in the kitchen he flipped through the phone book until he found her name. Still shaken, he reached for the wall phone and dialed her number. Was the dream a premonition? Like the factory accident? Was something going to happen to her as well? He had to talk to her, she had to be warned.
The phone rang seven times before he hung up. Where was she? He hesitated, afraid to take the next step. But this was Sarah. If anything were to happen to her …
He stormed out of the kitchen and jumped into the pickup. It started noisily. He slipped it into gear and headed down the lane. He didn’t understand the dream, didn’t know whether it was like the one at the factory or like the others that made no sense. But he had to make sure she was all right.
He sped down the road, mind whirling, driving on auto pilot. The roads were deserted and he made good time. When he arrived at the final corner, the one he’d dreamed of, he slowed down, just to be safe. Tense and nervous, he carefully negotiated the turn — and suddenly, out of the blue, a woman appeared. He slammed on his brakes, trying to avoid her, but they were too close. The bumper caught her leg, hurdling her onto the hood. She slid across it, and just before her head smashed into the windshield, she turned, and he saw Sarah’s face —
